One of my mother’s favorite sayings when something was lost was, “It’s always the last place you look.”
It’s funny, I suppose. I say it myself these days.
But it’s really NOT funny when you’ve lost something and looked EVERYWHERE. This has been the case for me this past week. I lost my new glasses. I have looked everywhere.
Everywhere.
And yet my mother keeps whispering in my ear, “Keep looking. It’s always the last place you look.”
Not helpful.
This post is brought to you by Linda Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday for which the prompt was “favorite saying“.
I can’t tell you the number of rude things that have been said to me because of the number of children I have. I have eight.
“When are you going to stop?” — said to me by a woman at church when I was pregnant with #4. She later said to me after that baby was born — a daughter after three sons, “You got your girl, thank God. You can stop now.”
Another woman told me, “You have too many children.” This was when I had, I think, six. I responded by asking, “Which one should I get rid of?” I received no answer.
I haven’t gone to high school reunions, in large part because I didn’t want to spend my evening answering questions about my family size. That — plus the fact that while my classmates went on to pursue careers, I chose to be a stay-at-home mom. I didn’t really want to spend an evening at reunion answering the question, “What do you do?”
I chose to be a mom.
And it was, without a doubt, the right choice for me. It shaped me. It allowed me to be creative and loving and strong. I developed patience. I learned that I LOVE taking care of people.
So much so that I took care of my parents, too.
Did I resent doing that? Never. Not even for half a second.
Now, while my age-cohort is retiring, I’m just a few years into my first full-time job since 1984.
I have an office where I work. People stop in a lot to say hi, to talk, to complain, to suggest. I have an open door. Just the other day I was telling someone how being a mom prepared me for the constant interruptions of having an open-door policy in my office. When you’re a mom, you learn that your interruptions ARE your work. The same is true for me today.
A man stopped in my office yesterday. He often pokes his head in to say hello. He was a caregiver for his disabled wife the last few years of her life. He used to bring her to the gym and wheel her around in her wheelchair so she could have contact with other people.
Then she died.
And it turns that by coming to the gym he was building his own support system. He comes every day — not to work out so much as to visit with people. He makes the rounds, and I’m on them.
Anyway, he poked his head in, chatted about nothing, and then asked about my necklace. My youngest daughter gave it to me and I always wear it.
It has three discs: one that’s a tree, and two progressively larger ones with the names of my children around the edge. When you have a large family, you have to be creative about mother’s jewelry.
I explained the necklace to him.
“You have eight children,” he said incredulously.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Did you adopt some?”
“No.”
“Did you have twins or triplets?”
“No,” I told, “they were born one at a time.”
I turned around to grab the photo I have of them on my bulletin board.
“There’re all adults now,” I said, showing him the photo.
“You have eight children?!”
“Yes, this is them,” I said.
He was shaking his head. “You have eight children?!?!”
“Yes –”
He was backing out of the doorway. I was feeling rattled and small and angry and sad.
“You have eight children?” he said again. “I need to process this.”
“I’m still the same person you’ve been talking to for a year,” I called after him, but I don’t think he heard me.
Don’t get me started.
There are so many things that can define a person. Mistakes made while young. How they invested their life over the past four decades. What they are doing today.
I have eight children. They are amazing people and I’m so proud of them.
Really. Don’t get me started.
This overly-wordy post is my response to the Stream-of-Consciousness prompt: don’t get me started.
I fell asleep last night thinking about the word “fast” because I had seen that fast/slow was the Stream of Consciousness prompt for today. I know, I know – maybe pondering the words at bedtime makes it less true stream-of-consciousness but whatever.
Fast is such a funny word. We use it to describe abstaining from eating. That seems like the opposite of fast. No eating equals fast. Slow eating means enjoying a meal. Go figure.
Then I woke up this morning and saw the news. We’ve attacked Venezuela and captured their president. Well, that happened fast.
And it’s scary.
So I sent an email to my congressman and both senators at 5:30 AM.
Supposedly, Maduro has ties to drug cartels.
But didn’t Trump pardon a convicted drug trafficker who had been the president of Honduras?
He is inconsistent at best.
And waaaaay too impulsive.
Where are the checks and balances?
It’s moving too fast. Someone needs to slow him down.
I used to think that I liked books that wrap the story in a neat little bundle. The plot was tight and complete.
I realize now that the gut-punch stories are the ones that stick with me:
The Yearling by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings — my father gave me this book for Christmas when I was in 7th grade. I looked at the thickness of the book and thought, No way. Then I read it. And loved it. I cried and cried. How can I love something that makes me cry — but I do.
The Big Sky by A.B. Guthrie — I still get a knot in my stomach when I think about it. “It’s all sp’iled…” The fact that I still remember that line and can picture the scene speaks to the power of the book.
A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean — Is it the nature and the water that make this comforting, and cause it to stick with me? Or is it the family conflict? Or is it the beauty and messiness of life all rolled into one.
This morning, I read that Dick van Dyke, who recently turned 100, had written a memoir called, “Keep Moving.” I think that IS the plot for life.
The neat tight plot isn’t real. Sad things occur. Mistakes are made. People disappoint.
And yet, the world is still a beautiful place.
My goal/theme for 2026 will be “Keep Moving.”
It’s going to be a great year.
This is my submission for Stream of Consciousness Saturday (SoCS). This week’s word was “plot.“
Karen used to come to our table to take our order.
“How about you?” she would say when it was my turn. “The usual?”
The usual, for me, was a turkey reuben with sweet potato fries. It was something I always enjoyed and one less decision that I needed to make when I was at the restaurant with my father.
We ate at the Doubleday every Thursday night during the last few years of my father’s life. It’s like the bar Cheers from the old television show. Good pub food. Everybody knows your name.
Karen was our waitress. The night that my father died, some of my children went to the Doubleday to tell Karen. She was practically part of the family. She knew that what my father needed even more than the burger he often ordered was a hug when he arrived and when he left. And she delivered, with a kiss on the cheek.
The Doubleday is still my favorite restaurant in town. Karen is still the waitress who usually serves us. However, I don’t order the turkey reuben often. Now I have the luxury of looking at the menu or choosing from the specials.
This is my submission to Linda Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday. The word was “usual.” I read it and knew exactly what to write about.
I’m struggling to write these days though. Can you tell?
Hey, look! You’re full I’m holding my arm up high You put that gas in and I pull Up to the “F” — up to the sky
Okay — I’m not there anymore You drove a bit, the gas level is down But hey! That’s what I’m for! So you don’t hit empty driving ’round!
’tis such a simple task that I perform Positioning myself in such a way From “F” to “E” – yes, I inform How many miles you can go today
This is my response to this week’s SoCS challenge: use full/empty in a post.
The idea was very stream-of-consciousness, but I confess, I didn’t write the post without any edits. Rhyming poems take an edit or two.
This is also my response to this week’s W3post which challenged us to write a poem with a subject that “must be an unimportant, non-emotive object that carries no nostalgia, metaphorical uplift, or symbolic gravitas. It simply is.” I’d say the gas gauge on my car fits the bill.
I’ll admit — it’s a semi-irrational fear that I have of getting a fishhook stuck through my skin.
It may date back to the days when my father’s office was just off the Emergency Room. HIPAA hadn’t been born yet. I would cut through the Emergency Room to get to his office.
Which was a trailer.
Yes, it’s what you picture — the kind of structure that fills trailer parks.
When I got into the trailer, his office was on the left, opposite his secretary’s desk. Sometimes she was transcribing his dictated notes and would let me listen to his voice on the transcription machine as he said things like, “The patient was a white female, age 47, who presented with…”
Clearly another HIPAA violation. But HIPAA wasn’t a thing then. And I wasn’t paying attention to the words as much as his voice.
True story: These days I recognize people by their voices. More than once I would have walked right past my high school boyfriend had he not greeted me by name.
The other day, another person that I knew years ago walked past me and said, “Hey, Sal!”
The words got my attention, but the voice identified the speaker. I immediately knew him.
I mean, seriously, most men over the age of 70 look remarkably similar to me: gray hair or balding, scruffy beard, blue jeans, etc. Add a baseball cap and I’m sunk — until I hear their voice.
But I digress. I guess that’s how it is with stream-of-consciousness writing.
So, as a kid, I would cut through the Emergency Room on a daily basis. My pattern was to swim at the gym after school and walk to the hospital for my ride home. I would wait for my father to finish his day and we would walk together to his vehicle which was ALWAYS parked in the farthest spot available.
“It’s good exercise,” he would say as I complained about walking to the car.
One time, I saw one of my classmates in the ER. He had stabbed a pitchfork through his foot. Actually, through his work boot, and his foot, and out the other side. He was crying and cursing, obviously not having a good day.
I remember his name — but I won’t say it here. HIPAA and all that, you know.
The fishhook thing must date from those days. I think I saw someone in the ER with a fishhook in their cheek.
My father said, “They’ll just push it through and cut the barb.”
He made it sound easy.
But then, he didn’t have a fishhook in his cheek.
I remember my father explaining to me how the manure pitchfork through the foot presented a particular problem because of the risk of infection. Should they just pull it out? Cut the tip and pull it out? I think that’s what they did.
At the beginning Of my journey into conservative Christianity I heard this sermon:
“If Christians were rounded up and put on trial, would there be enough evidence to convict you?”
And I thought, Of course there would be. I know my Bible. I pray. I have memorized countless verses.
But then, at the beginning of the AIDS crisis, when Christians were condemning homosexuals and saying this disease was proof of God’s judgment on their immoral lifestyle, my brother, a Presbyterian minister, honored people with AIDS and their caregivers by having a dinner for them at his church. I thought about that action for years. Now there’s a conviction.
In the middle Of my thirty years of homeschooling I heard a homeschool convention speaker say:
“Ninety percent of homeschoolers vote in national elections when they are old enough to vote. That fact alone should have politicians shaking in their boots.”
And I thought, That’s a pretty remarkable fact. That’s a lot of power. Dear God, may they use it wisely.
But then, I watched my own homeschool convention heroes fall one by one. Joshua Harris renounced his faith. Cheryl Lindsey was excommunicated. Doug Phillips had an affair. They all are, after all, very human. And that voting power is a little scary.
And now, I watch “Christians” Wielding a sword and showing no love.
Dear God, I pray, convict me of compassion. May there be evidence of that in my life. Not power. Not judgment. Just kindness.
This is my submission to SoCS where the challenge was to write a stream-of-consciousness post using the words, “at the beginning.“
It’s also a response to the W3 Challenge this week in which the poet of the week challenged us to use one or both of the following images and write Prosimetrum or Versiprose: both forms combine alternating passages of prose and verse.
My youngest daughter is faced with a challenging decision. She and her current roommate are moving into a new apartment. It’s two bedroom, two bath, but one of the bedrooms has a bath attached while the other bedroom would use the common bathroom.
“The one with the private bath is clearly the better one,” she told me. “How do we choose who gets it?”
One of her sisters suggested they each bid on the room. How much more would they be willing to pay for the room with the private bath? Later, though, she said that would kill their friendship. Both girls would feel resentful — one for the privacy, the other for the money.
I asked dilemma-daughter again the other day. “Did you figure it out?”
“No,” she said sadly. “This is so hard!”
And yet I think we both know that if this is the hardest decision she has to make in her life, her life will have been pretty easy.
It’s less about making the right decision, and more about being able to sit with whatever decision is made. She will have another hard decision next week, next month, next year. Another opportunity to move on and not second-guess.
I think that’s called living.
This is my post for Stream of Consciousness Saturday, where the prompt was “Straw.”
It’s been a while since I’ve participated in this weekly prompt, but I’m trying to get those creative juices flowing again.
Earlier today, I had had a conversation with someone who remarked how he still remembered and leaned on that rule.
“Kind of weird,” I said.
He didn’t get it.
Weird is such a great word — and it’s weird that it doesn’t follow the rule, even when the rhyme is completed — “or when sounded ay as in neighbor and weigh.” We don’t pronounce it wayrd. Weird.
I looked the rule up to make sure I was saying it right. There is funny stuff out in internetland.
How about this one: “I before E unless you leisurely deceive eight overweight heirs to forfeit their sovereign conceits.”
Weird, right?
Ooh, ooh! Here’s another: “I before E except when your foreign neighbors Keith and Heidi receive eight counterfeit beigh sleighs from feisty caffeinated weightlifters. Weird.”
I had to look up the word beigh: a provincial governor in the Ottoman empire. I suppose an alternate spelling to Bey.
Or maybe they meant beige.
Or maybe I misread it — I am, after all, trying to do stream-of-consciousness writing, not look-up-funny-things-and-copy-them writing.
Good golly, there are a lot of them. They refer to overweight reindeer and beige sleighs involved in heists.
I kind of stream-of-consciously wrote this last night and meant to post it, but I fell asleep.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 