We headed to Perkins for supper, got 3/4 of the way through eating, and he seized (myoclonic)! He slammed his head HARD against the rim of the table (thank God for rounded edges!!) The plates were heavy stoneware, and the glasses were full of our drinks, and all that stuff BOUNCED when his head hit the table. It rose at least an inch. He proceeded into a generalized tonic-clonic [grand mal] seizure and seized for about 3 minutes...with a mouthful of food. We managed to get him out of the booth and onto the floor, and he came out of it, blinked a few times, and chewed up and swallowed his mouthful. [no, there was no post-ictal period. He doesn’t always. And no one knows why.] Sigh....God protects us in so many ways, He's so good.

We decided we needed to go to the ER there, rather than try to make the 100 miles home and go to our own ER. A few years before, when it was just his father and I (so, before the group home) he had gone into repeated myoclonic seizures, and we’d gone to the ER. The doctor there insisted that the only treatment was Depakote. SURPRISE! ER docs don’t have much training involving seizure disorders. I explained patiently, over and over, that we had tried Depakote (an excellent drug for some patients) in the past, and it resulted in INCREASED seizures for Nate. It was clearly in his record. I offered to call his pediatrician, or his neurologist, or both, but the ER doctor was offended that I was questioning his judgment, and refused. [Doctors are only human—and this one saved my uncle’s life at one point, so do not judge too harshly—oh, WTH, judge harshly.] I actually heard the doctor and nurses whispering about “Munchausen’s.” That terrified me, as I knew that our current caseworker with the county was not reliable. [It’s also the reason that we applied for guardianship before Nate turned 18, so no doctor could overrule us. Or caseworker. Not without a legal fight.] We spent hours that day in a tiny trauma room, with Nate seizing every few seconds, then farther apart, and finally stopping after we’d been there for about 5 hours. With zero medical intervention. We went home, and our neurologist, on hearing this, wrote up a protocol that, if it should happen again, the pediatrician and neurologist would evaluate with me, and if needed, call for a helicopter to be flown straight to Hershey Medical Center (where our neurologist was at the time.) “Skip the local ER” he told me, and, “if you ever have time and energy, volunteer to teach them about seizure patients.” Of course, I was “just the mother—a walking womb—and they weren’t interested.

So we went to the Danville ER, with him fighting the whole way. Often he recovered from seizures with his usual energy, although sometimes he had post-ictal periods where he slept heavily and couldn’t be wakened. He was OVER this day, and wanted to be in his own bed at home. He was very unhappy, and a handful for the two staff and I--except for the short while he slept on my lap in the ER waiting room and had 15 little seizures (myoclonics or very short tonics.)

We were finally seen....sigh…..and at about 9 pm headed for home. Ran into construction on the way....sigh.....LONG, LONG day. I’m sure we were home by midnight. The post (on Facebook) finishes with: “He's probably fine--we're going to watch him for a couple days, but he's acting like Nate!! We're SO very grateful it wasn't far worse. He hit right on his forehead, so there was very little mark last night--there's nothing there but skin and bone to make a bruise.
Thank God that although it was a nightmare day, it was actually far better than it could have been....

Today my son is nearly 34. He’s happy, mostly healthy, and as safe as we can make him. We take him out once a week for supper and ice cream. In the summer we go to the park (as long as it’s not crowded and noisy) and in winter, often to our home, where he checks to see what we’ve changed since his childhood. His bedroom is now my office, and doubles as a guest room. Sometimes he lays on that bed, and grins at me, while I sit in my office chair. His oldest sister comes every week. His younger sister lives too far away, but she and her husband visit him whenever they’re home, and Nate loves his brother-in-law. Extended family often see Nate in the community, and stop to talk. They miss seeing him, but our big family gatherings are too much for Nate. We do our best, and most of the time, it’s enough.

It will never be enough, though. We can tell that Nate’s intellect is intact, but that whatever’s going on with his body doesn’t allow him to express it. The autism, which came out of the blue and robbed him of the child he was, social, loving, happy, talking and counting and loving life, is like a stifling jacket he wears around all the time. He’s never free of it. But somewhere, deep within, is that boy. One day we will find a way for him to “speak” and express himself, and we will be astounded at all that he is.

For more of Nate’s story, watch this space. My book, Mending Shattered Dreams, a memoir of 30 years with autism, will be out later this year, from Sunbury Press. And I’m sure (once I buy more kleenex) I will write more posts as well. Cherish every precious moment, and know, that even in the worst times of your life, God is there, and we will all get through, together.

So—LIBERTYCON! This was our second year, and we took three days to drive down this time (instead of two.) The top of Pennsylvania is a LONG way from the bottom of Tennessee. We have a daughter about four hours from us, and stay with them the first night—an excuse to see them and a free night’s lodging, with some excellent food as well. Day two we pushed as far as we could, so that day three would be fairly light for highway driving, and we’d have time to see the Chickamauga battlefield again, more extensively than last year. Too bad it was SO hot. But it was spectacular.

Then the Con—we saw so many people we really love, and met a whole bunch of new ones. I came away determined to make it a yearly trip, but the husband isn’t thrilled with all the driving and travel I’ve added to our schedule in the last three years. Even though I lure him in with trips to battlefields and museums. Books are no longer quite so much of a draw, as his current TBR pile will certainly outlive him. To say nothing of mine, which is much larger (but then, I’m much younger! ;) )

I only purchased 13 books this year—I have a strict limit of 15 per con, which sometimes works…I am really looking forward to diving into them, but I have to walk by my TBR pile (some of which I bought at LC 2025!) on my way to bed, and sometimes get carried away. I also owe some great writers a review for their book(s). Need to get that done.

We got home and collapsed and caught up with life at home—kind of. And I got tickets for next year’s LC, and am looking at others. Hello, my name is Debbie, and I’m an addict (to cons, and books, and writers.) We’ve considered flying to LC next year—we’ll see what happens. Onward and upward!

Currently, I’m editing for Sunbury Press; doing transcription for a potential new press; was just assigned an editor for my own book (and need to work on promos and cons for that—it’s a memoir about autism.) I need to begin writing on a new project that’s been brewing in the back of my mind for some time—or work on the several WIPs I have laid aside.

And, I’m going to start taking a freelance project now and then, to “support my habit.” I’ve vowed to watch less TV (although that’s the time I spend with the Husband in the evenings, unless I have meetings) and do more READING (and reviewing!) Plus all the ordinary life-things, including taking my elderly mother out once a week to run errands or just drive around and have fun. Ice cream always features in these trips, and winter is coming much too fast…

Life is full, and it is good, in spite of (and because of) the annoyances, pains, griefs which make up the most of it. Good friends and good books and enjoyable work, and a good family…life is good. Most of all, God is good. Every day, no matter what.

Take time to breathe, and be grateful for the good things. There are too many hard things to do otherwise. God bless you all.

I love traveling, too. Except by air. I don’t mind actually flying, as long as the plane has enough room (one memorable trip, my knees were up against the seat in front, hard, and by the time we landed I wasn’t sure if I could stand up, and was in a lot of pain. But generally, I don’t mind the flying part. It’s airports I hate.

I want to explore trains, and will probably have to, soon. Which is difficult when you live hundreds of miles from anything… Currently, my trips (to conferences and conventions, mostly) are by car, and this time we chose to take 3 days to go 600 miles (partly because youngest daughter lives along the way). My husband is beginning to get tired of the trips, and I’m taking other companions along when I can. Sometimes, for shorter 4 hours or less) trips, I go alone. I absolutely love being with “the community” and doing writer/editor/publisher (and even gamer!) things with “my tribe.” The rest of the time, though, I’m at home. Alone in my office, but for the office cats (2) and sometimes dog (he leaves if I start shouting at my computer or playing ’70s hard rock. It’s a bad sign.)

Now we’re on a road trip, by car, 3 days on the road…and the combo of unfamiliar food, lots of sitting and little walking/movement, has its effects…

When we’re alone a lot, we pick up bad habits. C’mon, I’m not the only one. And as I age, my body is less…cooperative. Grandma said it would be like that, and I thought she was exaggerating. Turns out she wasn’t.

And so, on this latest road trip, walking through parking lots and convenience stores and fast-food joints (and hotel lobbies) I am frequently embarassed by sudden loud (really loud!) sounds from my own nethers. Fortunately they’re not malodorous, as far as I can tell, but man—it’s just as much a surprise to me as you, Mr. Clerk with the nose ring and suspicious air!

I’m so glad that I’ll never see these people again. It’s not helped by the occasional fit of giggles that my husband emits. Why do older men resemble third-grade boys? I wish I found so many things amusing as he does. But not at my own expense.

**For those who will be seeing me at this event—yes, I have the pills, and will take them. And, yes, I do exaggerate. But Grandma was right. So stand in front of me, not behind. See you there! (unless you hear me first!) ;)

For You.

I went for a long walk today. I couldn’t stop thinking of you.

You “got out”. It sounds like someone who’s been in prison, locked away. Why?

What’s so wrong with this place?

Why did you need to flee?

I used to think that those who left were different, somehow. That you needed different things. That you would take the chances, bravely go after what the larger world offered.

But I’ve seen your life. You live no better than we do. In many ways, it’s worse.

You traded this for a promise of an easier life that just didn’t happen.

Once upon a time, leaving meant freedom, jobs, education, a bigger life.

Not any more. You can get all those things here, if you’re willing to try.

But the lure of an “easier life” called you, and off you went.

You don’t come home.

It’s not home anymore.

And we’re not your people.

Instead, you have a “people” of faceless strangers, who walk by on the street without a glance. Crowds of people, good, bad and ugly, instead of waterfalls and trees and silence.

And family.

Why?

Is an “easier life” the one without family?

Without home?

Did you reinvent yourself in your own image, instead of being the reflection you see in the eyes of neighbors, family? Could you not bear the weight of generations, of history and the knowledge of the past and present, a predictable future?

Were we so bad that you needed to flee? To become someone else, someone without us?

I thought that those who left were young and bright and expectant, and you’d come home like others before you. Some to stay, remembering where home is. Some to visit, to long for home but tied to a job or a marriage into other people, other places.

I thought you’d come home.

The long holiday table has rearranged many times, as children grow and new are born, families shuffle…but always there is a place where you are not, like a missing tooth, familiar but aching.

You are always gone, never home.

If you return one day to be laid with the family, under the cypress on the hill, I don’t know if it will be a blessing or just another pain. Your headstone would be a silent reproach, like the dusty phone. Would I still turn to say to you, ‘Remember when….’ and blink, and sigh, and turn away?

You got out, but the shadow you left behind remains.

Decades on, we remember.

We’re still here.

He said, “Oh, I’m just an ordinary man. I had an ordinary life.” He paused, and said, “I didn’t do anything that anyone else wouldn’t have done.”

My mother’s father was a quiet man, a gentleman with careful manners and real decency. Born in a family of seven, of whom three were sons, he was the only one drafted for WWII. A young husband and father, he was only 19 when he left the quiet Pennsylvania county where he’d spent his whole life.

He’d never seen a body of water larger than a big pond before he was sent to the Navy. I can’t imagine what his first view of the ocean must have been like. He left behind his teen-aged wife and small daughter, and served for 4 years in places he only knew as names in books, if in fact he’d even heard of them.

His first ‘cruise’ was a supply run from New Jersey to London, and he was so seasick on the trip that his command planned to leave him in London until he could be taken back to New Jersey, as unfit for sea duty. He begged them not to leave him alone in this strange country, and he was allowed to continue to Brussels. When they arrived, however, the city was being shelled, and he claimed, “I wish I’d stayed in London!”

Most of his service was aboard supply ships, and he rarely spoke of those times until later in his life, and then only when prompted by curious grand- and great-grand-children. We didn’t know that he’d gotten an award as a sharpshooter on his first ‘cruise’.

One day after their 60th wedding anniversary, he told a tale which had my Grandmother astounded. When the enemy began bombing the ship, he said, he was in the hold, ironing the officer’s laundry for extra money, and had to leave to go topside. He couldn’t remember if he had secured the iron. But Grandma was focused on only one thing. “You can IRON?” she asked!

He was fascinated by his time in the Philippines and Australia, and brought home coins and souvenirs for us. He never really spoke of his time helping free prisoners of war, and bringing them home. He did tell us that he was able to “fly over the hump” to Burma (as part of the rescue) with a friend who was a pilot.

His experiences there affected him deeply, and as he aged and needed more medical care, it came to the forefront. He judged people by their character rather than race or creed. He never appeared to notice race in his neighbors. But he politely refused to be treated by an Asian doctor. He just couldn’t bring himself to be vulnerable, remembering the horrors he’d witnessed as the POWs were freed. It hurt him to feel so. He thought he should be able to forget.

Toward the end of the war, polio swept through our little town, and my mother caught it. She was taken away, eventually living for many months at a hospital far from home. My grandmother, home with an infant, was unable to visit often, but the Navy stationed my grandfather nearby, so he could. She wound up learning to walk again, with one leg paralyzed, wearing a brace to this day, but less disabled than most people I know! She learned her determined strength from her parents, or perhaps they learned some of theirs from her.

When he returned home, he resumed his job in a local factory, putting in 40 years there, and helping out family and friends in his quiet way. He loved to garden, and spoke now and then of his own grandfather, who also loved to garden. He grew gladioli and dahlias which caused strangers driving by to stop and ask to take pictures. He grew a family he could be proud of, but still, he always thought of himself as an ordinary man.

He struggled with heart problems and diabetes for decades, and beat cancer twice. He was fit and strong, at 87 still walking 3 miles a day. He endured my grandmother’s last illness, and adapted to living alone after 66 years of marriage. We were all surprised when a new form of cancer attacked his sinuses, and after a valiant battle, he chose to pass into the next life quietly and with the strength and grace that had characterized his life.

God bless the “ordinary men.”

Photo by Brett Sayles from Pexels

I stood, staring, at the tiny spot of bright yellow. It held my gaze like I was glued there. The rush of air from cars passing me suddenly came into focus as I stood beside the highway, clutching my keys in one hand. A tear splashed down beside the little flower, wetting the gravel. A horn blared, and I heard muffled laughter as another car zoomed by.

This wouldn’t happen at home, I thought. Someone would have stopped, someone would have helped. Not that I need help from these folks. Not that I’d trust anyone likely to stop and offer, in these parts.

I should have gotten the spare tire fixed. You can’t drive on three tires, Grandpa always said. He had a lot to say, in his quiet way. I could nearly hear him. “How’d you wind up in this fix, girl?”

I bent down, hesitated, then plucked the coltsfoot bloom off its hairy stem. It would die in a day or two anyway, go to seed.

I found it later when I went to do the laundry. I picked up one of Grandma’s hankies from the pile on the dryer, and wrapped it inside, folding it over. The faded, worn lace edging felt like my life. Yet another thing that didn’t belong here.

I pondered it as I sat over another cheap microwaved meal. I’d come here for a better life, a brighter future. I wanted something more out of life.

It wasn’t what I thought, though. The people were different, all rushed, and not unfriendly, but not friendly either. No one seemed to really know or care about one another. I was friendly enough with some of the people I worked with, but it was superficial.

And I was barely making ends meet. Going over my bank account and my bills didn’t even make me cry anymore. I was just too soul-deep tired for that.

When I packed my things, what little I bothered to take with me, I put the hanky with the coltsfoot carefully on top. I’d take it home with me.

**This piece was written years ago as an exercise, and came up in my memories.

Although I love, and need, to be alone a good share of the time, I also need my “tribe.” I need to be with a community of like-minded people, and I’m so fortunate to be able to do this, at this point in my life.

I have more than one tribe. Most often, you will hear me talk about writers conferences and conventions, book events and festivals. I love writerly things, of course. It’s my avocation—writing, editing, transcribing, proofreading, all of it.

But this weekend, I’m at an Autism Conference. Yes, I capitalized that—for a good reason. I’m here for my “other” tribe, the moms (and a few dads) who really “get it.” Those whose lives are subsumed by at least one beloved child who struggles far more than his neurotypical peers. Those whose love, worry, and desperate striving eat up what life they used to have, and cost them their original tribe. The friends who cannot understand, the coworkers who have no comprehension, the family, even, who just don’t get it, and whose pity and frequently well-intentioned advice creates a gulf that often cannot be spanned.

So, if/when we can, those who do understand gather together to warm ourselves at a shared fire. We share our stress, our fears, our joys and tears; and we share ideas and possibilities, programs and information. This worked for us, or didn’t. Consider this, or that, or something altogether different.

But mostly we just huddle together, glad to know that we are not alone. That is the theme of this conference (out loud, although I’m sure it’s the intention for most or all of them.) This is the one where you realize you are not alone.

What a gift. In a life where the agonies differ, but the love remains. Where the sisterhood is real, even if you are talking about how your autistic teen just got his heart broken by his first real girlfriend, and I am talking about how my adult son has no words, needs constant supervision day and night, and will not ever have a girlfriend. And the mother next to us has a toddler who smears feces and wears diapers to school; the one next to her has a child with straight As and never stops talking—but can’t bear any unstructured time or noisy environments, or walk in traffic. All across the “spectrum,” we gather.

We gather together to know we’re not alone, and to help one another; in so doing we help ourselves. We gather courage and hope to carry on. And we share our triumphs, our joys great and small, we talk about the people who have stayed in our lives, who help us and our beloved children, through this life.

I’m old enough now to know that every life has its griefs. Every family has pain. Some are worse than mine—I live in terror that my child will die, because I have held the hands of those who have lived that. I do not fear that my children will shun me, though I know those who have. Or those who have walked their children through failed marriages, addictions—the list of agony in this life is long.

But I’m also old enough to know that we must cherish the joys. Even when they float through our lives on tears, we must celebrate the good things. And love. I never knew I could love so deeply until my child was so broken by autism that I didn’t know how we would go on. (My son has acquired autism, I will tell that story another day.)

That love carries on—not just to my son, who needs it so much, but to his sisters, and everyone else who merits a place in my life. I have more compassion, more empathy, and yes, more love—and appreciation—for everyone who has touched our lives for good, than I could have believed one heart could hold. Tomorrow, when I rise, I will carry that love forward, and help my sisters, the autism moms, know that they are not alone.

[with thanks to the Autism Caring Center.]

Just so you’ll know? You’re not who I’m talking about. You may be who I’m talking TO, or possibly not.

The ones I’m talking TO are the ones who chortle online about their “tisms” and celebrate their “specialness” and don’t quite hide that they feel superior to the “normies.” They also absolutely refuse, in many cases, to admit that there’s a darker side to autism. A DISABLED side.

Autism IS a disability. If it isn’t for you—if you’re not disabled—go get your own term. Don’t steal my son’s. Because he’s VERY disabled. His life is hard, not quirky and fun.

And no, you do not get to tell me it’s all my fault, or that I’m wrong, or that if I had just been different…nope. Don’t go away mad, just go away.

I do understand the very real disabilities that higher-functioning individuals with autism have. I feel for them. I advocate for them.

I don’t advocate for the “autism is super coollll and fun and you just wish YOU could have it” crowd. GTFO.

For the 25–30% of those with a legitimate diagnosis who are like my boy, I will do whatever it takes to help. And right now, it’s talking back to those who are trying to make it cool.

It’s not cool. It’s not genetic, and it’s not inborn. My son has “acquired autism” meaning he had normal development, was typically functioning, and then lost it all to a BRAIN INJURY. No, I can’t prove what happened, but I have enough documentation to prove that he was neuro-typical, and then was not.

And the epidemic? Is NOT because of better or wider diagnosis. If it were, we’d have a disproportionate number of higher-functioning (those who “masked” or “passed”—I hate those words!) BUT WE DO NOT.

THE INCIDENCE OF PROFOUND AUTISM HAS INCREASED RIGHT ALONG WITH THE REST. IT’S STILL 25–30% OF THE DIAGNOSED POPULATION. (No, I’m not counting the self-diagnosed, self-obsessed wannabes on the internet, and neither is anyone else but themselves.)

We need to find out why our kids are so badly disabled over the past couple of generations. WHY, and HOW TO HELP those already suffering, but most of all: HOW TO STOP IT FROM EVER HAPPENING AGAIN.

How to stop destroying families, lives, and quite frankly? Costing the taxpayers untold billions. Because while we all shy away from the discussion of what it takes to provide for EACH profoundly disabled adult (well into the six-figures yearly FOR EACH) we also never, ever, ever discuss the costs that the stress and anguish and inability to survive that the caregivers, families, parents, siblings suffer…not even the lost futures for those of us who stayed home (and saved the government all that money—and our children the horrors of gov’t care [which does happen, but not always, but is much worse for children!] and gov’t oversight—there’s a heavy word!) Let me tell you a little about that.

Lost wages—the parents who are unable to work (or work lesser jobs) have no savings (well, you can’t, if you want the gov’t to help—you can’t even provide for your other children!) and…NO RETIREMENT. NO SOCIAL SECURITY. NO BENEFITS.
IF one parent is unable to bear the strain (divorce occurs in families of children with autism at incredible rates. From what I understand, only the death of a child is more likely to destroy a marriage) and leaves—the entire situation is much worse. The caregivers suffer incredible stress, chronic illnesses and disabilities of their own which are often DIRECTLY CAUSED by their caregiving.

Because, see, the government will do whatever they can to not spend money, ridiculously, beyond any intelligent planning, they will KILL caregivers to avoid having to give us ANYTHING at all. They will destroy families and cause early deaths and misery—until the family is used up and destroyed. Then the floodgates open and the money is there.

They never think about the amount they could save by supporting caregivers and keeping disabled (the same is true for the elderly) in their homes.

OK that’s enough for today. It’s a hard topic, and I’m often bitter and angry and desperately sad. Especially when I talk to other families who are drowning.

We’ve made it work, at long last, for us. I haven’t given up hope for some way to improve my son’s quality of life. I will never. But I can see the progress we have made, and rejoice in the positives.

Right up until someone tells me that “the ‘tism is a superpower!”

But why do people say, “he had a good life” or “a good run” or “well, he outlived so many” or things of that nature? I know why, of course. We all look for something to say, anything, in the face of someone else’s grief. Of course we do.

And there’s truth in it. Dad didn’t live as long as his own parents—Grandpa was 99 1/2; Grandma managed to beat him and was just over 100. Neither of them was “themself” for some years before the end. I’m glad Dad was spared most of that, although he’d been slipping for some years, more than we realized at the time.

We are people of great faith, and I know where Dad is. That’s a comfort. I don’t know how to live any other way. Still, I told God honestly that I was not ready. Even the last day. I’m still not, and it’s been 16 months.

But the point was, people seem to imply that because he lived to a great age, it should somehow mitigate the loss. That because we had had him so many years, we had so many memories, we had such a gift and it should somehow be better. Easier.

I have lost people far too young, and I understand the shock and pain and the loss of “expectations”. There’s a poignancy to that grief.

Let me say, too, that every loss is different and each is painful in its own unique way. It’s hard, nearly impossible, to compare two losses. And everyone should be allowed to grieve in their own way, on their own timeline, and never, ever, ever be told that they’re “doing it wrong.”

I guess I just wanted to say that 60+ years of knowing my Dad, all the memories, good and bad, the sheer length of time to love someone does, in a way, make it harder. Not harder than anyone else’s loss, just harder than I thought it would be. It is hard.

When someone tells me he had a long life, maybe I’ll be able to swallow the lump in my throat and smile, and tell them, “yes. All the memories and all the years, what a gift, what a blessing. I miss him so.” To lean into the gratitude and the joy, and let the grief run by, everflowing.

Miss you, Daddy. Thanks for everything. Always. Until I see you again.

I am rather a kaleidoscope of things (as I suspect everyone is, to some extent), and I will be posting about all the things which make up my life. Some will be of interest to a reader, others to a different reader. Read those you like, or not, and go forward and live your own wild kaleidoscope.

I will be posting on these things (and more) as life allows:

Autism/Epilepsy/other disabilities—including advocacy.

Writing—I am a writer, and my first book, a memoir on 30 years of life with a child who has profound autism will be out this year. I also write fiction, because I can make it up.

Editing—I work for Pennsylvania’s largest independent publisher, Sunbury Press. I edit many types of books for them, largely Pennsylvania history, folklore, and regional books, as I largely work with our Catamount Press imprint. I also, when time allows, do freelance editing.

Reading, books, conventions and conferences—I am an addict to these things, and I’m not sorry. I travel for work to cons and conferences and festivals and etc., every excuse I can make. I will also probably post book reviews—once I have posted a review on sites where readers can buy the book, as that helps the author most. POST REVIEWS, folks, it’s the single best thing you can do for an author, and a simple “GREAT book” is often enough. If they require 15 words, just repeat that over and over. ;)

Marriage—I have been married to a man I do not understand, who is very different from myself, for nearly 40 years. We dated for six years before marrying. You’d think I’d have a clue.

Family—I have a huge extended family, and was blessed to have all four of my grandparents into my 40s, active and strong and helping to raise me, my siblings, and our kids!

Elder care, advocacy for the elderly, and death—I have sat “deathwatch” six times for family, and been present in those last moments for two. It’s a difficult and beautiful thing. I also help my widowed mother who is still strong and vigorous, but no longer drives, and relies on family and friends for many things. She is a blessing every moment.

Nature—I live in a very wild, rural area. I have (almost) never lived in a municipality. No garbage collection, no city water, or sewer. I can see, I believe, less than a dozen houses from the highest point of my own. That’s about a dozen too many. From my parents’ home farm, I think they can see four.

Christianity—I am a devout believer, and this will flavor many, if not all, of my posts. It’s the bedrock of my life. However, I doubt I will put up much in the way of sermons or lectures—that’s not my style. I’m happy to talk about anything related, any time, but have found that one-on-one discussions are most pleasant. Feel free to message me.

Other things as they pop up!

Deb

PS—if you have any tips for substack (like how to add pictures??) also feel free to message me!