The wait was over.

My husband read what I planned on posting. He agreed that it should be sent, but minus to sentences that might have fueled the flames beyond control. So I posted my tirade to my son, and all of his 232 friends. Even edited, the tone and the hurt still came across pretty harsh. That was Wednesday evening.

I got a tip from a friend of his that gave me an idea where his vehicle was last seen. So Thursday morning on my way to work, I drove to where his car might be. I found it parked in a small apartment complex. It was locked, but still held all his worldly possessions. I knocked on a few doors, but came up empty. Writing down the address where the car was found, I went to work, but without knowing where he was, I was incapable of focusing, and had to leave after less than 4 hours. I drove him mentally frayed and physically exhausted. My depression was beyond control at this time, and the Fibromyalgia pain fed off my stress like a newborn to a mother's teet. My world was caving in.

Following another sleepless night, I called out of work, hoping to have enough motivation to find an answer. Any answer. It was now the Friday before the Labor Day Weekend holiday. Hoping to just find out somehow, if my son was at least alive and OK, I got a call from my husband.
Late Monday night, money had been withdrawn from our bank account. Recent security breaches at the local financial institutions resulted in my husband canceling our debit cards and filing a fraud alert. After a trip to the bank to take out cash and turn in my card so a replacement could be generated, a sad realization swept over me. Only 2 people on this planet, besides myself, know the PIN for that card. My husband, and my son.
The night my son went missing, so did $400 from our account. I did not want to believe that he was capable of hurting us further, but the facts were becoming more irrefutable at every passing moment. He had stolen from us.

I know he'll never understand this, but the money was truly the least of his infractions. Leaving his house keys, phone and a note on the counter was the greater transgression. Thinking that your only child may have left town, I can handle. He's an adult, and has the right to choose his own destiny. However, when you see textbook examples of clinical depression prior to going MIA, followed by that note; hope sinks like a lead balloon.

There are no words to describe the pain a mother feels when her child is hurting, and won't accept help. Like a roller-coaster, my mind swung violently between fear, anger, doubt and dread. The most disturbing is the sense of complete and utter helplessness. He won't even consider taking anti-depressants. Getting into a talk-therapy situation would be the best option. The question remains, as to how to convince someone who is in the depths of depression, to seek help?

But back to the rest of the story.

I spent the majority of my Friday attempting to locate the title to his vehicle. Having been co-signed by my husband and my son, meant both were liable for payments. We had requested that the title be sent from the bank to our local DMV so my husband's name could be removed. Although they notified us 2 weeks ago that it had indeed been mailed, no information as to which DMV site it had been sent. So Friday was title day. Best case scenario meant my son would turn up, the title could be transferred to his name solely, and he would then be responsible for payments. Worst case would be to remove his name, and put out a stolen vehicle report with the police. While in the process of going from DMV to DMV to find where the title to of my son's car had been sent, and swung by the apartments where I found his car the day before.

This time, the doors were open, and his guitar and duffel were missing. Despite the high heat and humidity, I opened the doors to his car, rolled down the windows, and sat in the driver's seat, hoping to draw him out of whichever apartment he was staying. It worked.

I talked to my husband to decide how to handle the situation if he did come out. We decided upon two options to offer dependent upon his intentions and rationale for his actions.

to be continued . . .

A son turns against his mother.

My son is 21, going on 22; chronologically, that is. His father was an emotional no-show all his life, which continues to this day, even almost 19 years after our divorce. So I've spent my life trying to keep my son safe; food and shelter, safe neighborhoods, good schools. I've sacrificed, put myself through school working 3 jobs, and moved from my beloved hometown of San Diego, all to support him and provide a brighter future for ourselves. I even married a man because he was a good father to my son, despite being a lousy husband. Fortunately, I rectified that mistake by finding my true soul-mate; both a wonderful husband and a great father to my son.
Sadly, continuing to make sacrifices in my life and be a good example to my son, has apparently all been for naught.

Just when I thought he'd started to mature, and face up to his responsibilities, he runs like a coward. One minor setback in his short-term goals, and all hope is lost. What used to be a kind, albeit rambunctious child, has now grown into a lying, waste of breath; mooching off friends and family to support his habit of poor choices and perceived self-victimization. The world owed him.

How did I manage to raise such an ingrate? Who knows. I could blame myself. After all, stability was not the norm in his life. I gave him freedom of choice. Freedom to make and learn by his mistakes. Perhaps too much freedom.

I sent him to stay w/ his step dad on a business trip. He blossomed. Then returned to me in hopes of moving in the right direction. Too bad his blossom was overshadowed by apathy, chronic disdain for society, and now cowardice.

He has what I believe to be clinical depression. It runs like a black river through my family. But despite the support of family and friends (232 per his Facebook profile) he just doesn't get the picture. Solutions have been offered, time and again. But actually following through to help himself is just too much work. Why change a bad situation, when you can whine and mope about it instead? He left Monday night while I was laid up in bed in terrible pain. When I came downstairs later than evening, my son's house keys and phone were laying on a note on the counter. All it said was "I love you and I am very sorry".

Fearing the worst, I broke down. Didn't sleep, couldn't keep it together at work, and honestly thought he might have decided to end his life. I had no means to contact him. I only knew his friends by first name, and only one had an actual residence that I could go to. (no luck there)

Today, multiple tornado watches and warnings further fueled my worry, pushing the need to find him and protect him with a mother's unconditional love. The entire time spanned only 48 hrs, but believing that your only child might be tucked away in the state morgue does more to expand time than Einstein could have ever dreamed.

After much angst, a severe migraine, and calls to any and everyone I knew, I had an epiphany. I had his phone! Which meant I also had names and numbers of people to call. After hours of sending out pleas to his friends, I got a bite. An ex-girlfriend, and still friend, opened some doors for me, and I was able to hunt him down.

His aforementioned friend, called me today tell me he had been posting to his Facebook site all day. I got online, found his Facebook, and saw numerous posts by friends I had contacted. They were conveying honest concern, and urging him to let me know his status. He didn't respond to any of their pleas. His complete lack of concern was glaringly evident.

He wasn't just okay, he was gloating. Posting to his friends, and bragging about "livin' the life". I felt betrayed, duped, used, lied to and essentially thrown aside. Over the course of 15minutes, my fear and angst turned into anger. I now wanted the world to know what this seemingly 'nice young man' put his mother through. So, I wrote a post to be viewed by every last one of his 232 friends. It was full of anger, spite and accusations about character.

A long time ago I learned that when emotional, the 'send' button should wait to be pushed until the sender has simmered down a bit. I sent the draft of my post to his step-dad. Hoping he'd agree with me and green-light the post. Still waiting for it's review, I sit here stewing over allowing him to make me suffer. Why would someone be so utterly callous to the feelings of others; knowingly causing emotional pain to his parents?

Why shouldn't I post it? Does it lower me to his level? Doesn't he deserve to be viewed for what he really is? To showcase the true nature of his behavior to all that his 232 friends?

Or is forgiveness our divine responsibility? How does one forgive without enabling bad behavior?

So I wait.

Forever Auld Lang Syne

Few Americans know the words, and fewer still know the history. Its melody survives from ancient Scot folk music, first recorded in song form in the 18th century by Robert Burns (1759-1796). The old world lyrics likely inspired by a poem by Robert Ayton (1570-1638). Yet this archaic folk tune is sung, danced to, and played in more than 25 countries , and has been woven throughout the world's cultural fabric for centuries. From New Zealand to Thailand and Brazil to Japan, it is used to usher in the New Year, as a farewell tribute, as soccer anthem, and even played to indicate a closing-time cue in restaurants and stores in Hungary .

The song is Auld Lang Syne. According to Wikipedia, "The song's .... title may be translated into English literally as 'old long since', or ... 'long ago', or 'days gone by'." Yet, two particular uses of the song have played an integral part in my life, leaving it's somewhat bittersweet impression on my psyche.

My favorite film, It’s a Wonderful Life, represents the first . Sung at the movie's end by Jimmy Stewart's George Bailey, surrounding family and friends, the twinkle of a Christmas bell, and the realization that "No man is a failure, who has friends".

The second, is the Dan Fogelberg song, "Same Auld Lang Syne", which tells the story of an unexpected Christmas Eve reunion with an old childhood flame.


Fogelberg's influence on me was significant, to say the least. The album, The Innocent Age, debuted when I was at the tender age of 15. Full of pubescent angst and melancholy, I played the vinyl disc over and over, imagining myself as a mature adult reconnecting with what would be a love long lost. An unrequited 'first love' and girlish drama kindled the fires that were fueled to inferno by Fogelberg's lilting melodies and clean vocals.

Sunday, December 16th, Dan Fogelberg succumbed to prostate cancer. He was only 56, 15 years older than myself. I am, ironically, at the age that I imagined myself to be that 'mature adult' reflecting on lost love.

I hadn't known he was ill. I had only recently added his 'best of' CD to my i-pod. I cleaned the house to his music all day Sunday, and played Auld Lang Syne 3-4 times in a row, soaking up the memories, and releasing past demons. His music was always a catharsis.

Unaware of his passing, I posted one of his lesser-known works on this blog on the night of his death. Was it just coincidence, or was something bubbling up from my past, trying to lesson the blow of the news when it did come Monday night?

The age of 15 was, without question, my most tumultuous teenage year. I had transferred from private to public school, knowing no one. I had braces, bad skin, and horrible hair. I fought constantly with my mother, even running away from home for 3 days. I got drunk for the first time. My friends were beautiful, smart and articulate. I was awkward, plain and picked upon. I even thought I was possessed, having seen an image of a demon in my own reflection. (Suppose I deserved a little picking-on.)

But scariest of all, I had a gift. My dreams were filled with things to come, things I would then see come to fruition. Sometimes the next day, sometimes not for weeks, but I always knew ahead of time that something I dreamt would actually happen. Uncertainty and self-loathing prevailed in my young mind, and I felt strange, not gifted. But I had Dan Fogelberg. I cried at the end of "Same Auld Lang Syne" every single time I played it. Maturity and the hands of time left those days far behind me, with only an occasional lump in my throat as a reminder.

Monday night, that all changed. I was no longer the confident, attractive 41 year old woman I had become. I was 15 again. And again, I was reminded that I had a gift. Pushed back by years of rational thought, it forced itself through my hardened shell of adult logic. But it's brief return was only to foreshadow a loss. Perhaps deep down in my heart, I felt his passing; and my soul needed to hear those songs again. His songs. My songs. I was reminded of a time when anything was possible. A long time gone. An 'old long since'. Loss of the age of innocence.

"For just a moment I was back at school/And felt that old familiar pain" .

Although we had no snow that night, I turned the corner on my way back home, and indeed, it began to rain.

Godspeed and fair seas.

Daniel Grayling Fogelberg.
8/13/1951 - 12/16/2007

Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne?

Don't Chase My Blues Away!!!

We are Birders. Not birdwatchers. We have evolved waaay past the birdwatching moniker. Once more than $500 is spent on birding paraphernalia, you pretty much have to start calling yourself a birder. BTW, we have exceeded the $500 many times over on such necessary birding accessories as feeder systems, binoculars (of which we have a lot), hiking boots, walking sticks, books, cameras, Tilley hats, bird whistles, and little stuffed birds that mimic the sound of the species w/ a push of the belly. Oh, did I mention we had our humble backyard designated a Natural Habitat? Metal sign and all. Add another $25 to the pot for that one. And then there's the cost of specialty seed, and of course, live meal worms.

Which leads me into the meat of this post, Worm Wars! We follow our feathered friends from season to season; watching the migrating species come through in the Spring and Fall; then, observing the late Spring mating, nesting, brooding, hatching and fledging birds. Come Winter, all the usual winter species settle in and pick an acceptable roosting spot nearby our food and water supply. As the cold weather settles in, all our backyard friends start looking for my appearance onto the back deck to add yummy morsels of live meal worms to the bird buffet already in place.

Unfortunately, these little high-protein snacks are highly prized, and fiercely fought over. Fighting is kept to a minimum due to the pecking order courtesy of all the partakers of the worms, with the exception of the mockingbirds.

Now, according to Truman Capote's secretary, we should not kill a mockingbird. Although I now understand why someone would want to! Very territorial, and prone to bullying, these loudmouth mimickers of the avian world really pushed my buttons this morning.

We live in the Southeast, but still get some pretty darn cold weather. The colder the weather, the hungrier the birdies get. A recent low pressure system escaping from the devastation it left in the Mid-West and now the Northeast has taken over, and immediate action was required. At least on the bird front.

So I bundled up, stepping out on the back porch, and scooped the fresh, refrigerated meal worms into the 'dinner bell'. Chickadees, Wrens, Titmice, Warblers, Nuthatches and our beloved Blue Birds were waiting in our now leafless River Birch for brunch. The early bird may get the worm in the wild, but the patient, backyard bird waits until I get my lazy butt up. It's now brunch. I return inside to shut the glass storm door, and watch and wait for the feeding frenzy.

When what to my not-so-surprised-eyes did I see? A mockingbird chasing my blues away!! So, how does one remedy this? After all, it was the Eastern Blue Bird that started this whole crazy birding adventure. I was not about to let a couple of obnoxious Mocks chase away MY birds!! I opened the back door quickly, yelling "SHOO" loudly at the Mocks. They fly to the roof to evade the danger, then resume the harassing.

I counter attack by grabbing the worms back out of the fridge, and running outside to fill an empty dish feeder closer to the blue bird box, hoping to confuse the bully birds.

Alas, the assault continued. Mocks chasing away the Blue Birds whenever they tried to sneak a worm out of the dish. There I was, in my jammy top, yoga pants, fleece vest and slippers; standing with a Rubbermaid container of live worms in the middle of my backyard on a Saturday morning, waving a large serving spoon at the air. Without thought, I raised my voice and spoon, and proceeded to shout into what must have looked like thin air to the neighbors, "Damn it stupid birds! Don't chase my blues away!"

Realizing the irony in my statement, I cringed, prancing over little piles of doggy poop in an attempt to return to the safety of my house without one of the neighbors calling the cops. I can hear the call now.

"911, what is your emergency?"
"There is a crazy lady in our neighbors' yard. She's dressed like a homeless person, and shouting into the air, and waving a large spoon! Better send a mental health worker out, too. She's talking to herself. Something about 'chasing the blues away'. I think she's depressed, or bi-polar, off her meds, or something. Who doesn't want to chase their blues away?"
"Thank you, we'll send someone right over."

Well, it's been about two hours, and no cops yet. Good thing I ran back into the house so quickly! Back into the safety of my warm home. Back to the security of my dog and six cats. Headline: Crazy lady shouts in suburban back yard. Returns inside to house full of cats!

Mom, Dad, if you're reading this, I'm OK, really. I haven't crossed-over into the realm of the unstable. I just like birds , and dogs, and cats. Really!!

Just don't even think about chasing away my blues!

The Unnecessary Words

For the sake of my husband's sanity, I am composing this post entirely in the nude. (See prior post)

Having said that, I'd like to say a few words about the extra words we use.

Where do we take out money? The ATM. What secret code do we enter to do this? A PIN. Confused? Then back up and read the sentence again. (It's been spell and grammar checked, so hopefully it should be clearer the second time around.)

ATM = Automated Teller Machine and PIN = Personal Identification Number

Clear? Good. Now, let's discuss, shall we?

The Dilemma: You need to know the closest place to withdraw some of your hard-earned cash, so you can buy that completely useless thing you saw at Restoration Hardware that you just have to have right now, but want a little extra cash leftover for a 5000 calorie double-mocha caramel latte to celebrate your new purchase.

The Resolution: You ask the lady standing near the collection of oddly shaped drawer pulls if she knows where an ATM might be. She then turns to her husband, who's eyes are glued to the tramp-stamp on the 19 year old sales person who is bending over to find 18 more pewter twig-shaped pulls from the overstock drawer.

She turns and asks him the question, uttering the phrase, "Do you know where the closest ATM machine is?"

And then it happens. Your skin grows clammy, your pupils dilate, and you swallow hard, but quietly, pushing down the sudden rush of bile forming in your throat.

Pulling his attention away from the sales persons ass, the husband turns and says, "Huh?' At which time the woman repeats her question. But this time the only words that come rolling off the woman's tongue, do so in a slow, purposeful manner, as if to intentionally inflict a deeper grammatical wound on your highly tuned ears.

"ATM machine. Where's the closest ATM machine?"

The husband answers, but you've stopped caring about the money. In fact, you stopped caring about most things, including the double-mocha caramel latte. The world grinds to a halt. Shoppers cease to be heard above the burning sound in your ears. The mall musak stops. Even the cries of tired and irritated children fade into the distance.

"ATM machine". Like the sound of bullets entering the bloody waters on the beaches of Normandy, it echoes in your brain. And then the aural insult becomes too much to bear in silence. And words begin to force their way from the back of your throat, crossing the tongue and parting the lips.

The Explanation: “You know” you say, in your most polite tone, “that’s redundant?”

And it is done.

“Excuse me?” the woman retorts.

“Redundant. It’s redundant.” You fight the urge but the words just keeps coming. “ATM machine. It’s redundant”. Too late, it’s out. You have officially corrected the grammar of a perfect stranger. Someone who was kind enough to stop from her life long search for 20 matching pewter twig shaped drawer pulls, and to even ask her gawking husband, in order to provide you with the answer to your question.

The Back-peddle: Searching soulfully for a glimmer of humor in your reply, but coming up empty, you proceed. “ATM machine. It means Automated Teller Machine machine.” You know what you meant. But the unsuspecting victim of your condescending statement does not see the obvious, only the insult. She looks at her husband with disdain at his silence, then back to you.

Ugh. “You see, when you say ATM machine, it’s like saying, PIN number. The M in ATM already stands for machine, like the N in PIN stands for number. "

The husband briskly replies, “There’s an ATM machine in the food court”.

The Escape: You form a smile, painfully, and kindly say, “Thank you”. Alas, good words falling on deaf ears. English lesson over, you quickly turn, find your way into the safe anonymity of the madding crowd, and flee. And the thought arises.

Perhaps the coffee shop will take my debit card if I make it a Grande double-mocha caramel latte, and add a 3000-calorie chocolate chip muffin. Sigh.

We rant and rave about ‘foreigners’ and illegal aliens; phone books in Spanish and “They’re in America, why don’t they just learn English?” We complain about the education system not teaching our children the basics. Yet the words ain’t and irregardless are now staples in Webster’s Dictionary. People are being “axed” a question, instead of ‘asked’. We continue to say ATM machine and PIN number. And yes, dear reader, some of us are forced into the life of being a grammar hero, correcting the grammatical errors of perfect strangers; whether they want to be corrected or not.

No tip of your hat, no hearty "Hi-Ho Silver, Away!", and definitely no "Who was that nice lady?"