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Found 16 results

  1. It's been a long and crazy year. SP just left for work; we'll stay up & have a glass of Champaign when he gets home. Spent some time this week working on his house, but not as much as he would have liked. We have got a lot accomplished (I think). We made Hoppin' John for supper tonight, and there's enough for lunch tomorrow (a VERY Southern US dish for New Years that, in it's most basic form, contains rice, black eyed peas, ham and/or bacon, green bell pepper, and some cayenne pepper for a bit of heat). I'm going to attempt to make a tourtière [Quebec mixed-meat savory pie] for supper tomorrow night. Hopefully, it turns out well. Wish me luck. Our professional photographer should have our wedding pics done in the next few days; possibly as early as tomorrow. But thought I'd share this one of SP and I that my brother took [hope the link works]. We make each other very happy.
  2. Remembering Ripley I know. I wrote about him last year at this time. He's been gone for nearly two years and frankly I don’t think I'll ever really get over him. I won't do it again next year. I didn’t know him as a puppy but Michael did, of course. I’ve seen pictures of him then, more apricot than white. He was a cross breed, yes a mutt, but he was mostly poodle. I’ve been told he was a cheeky pup, loved to run around, nip (often and hard, my big giant Husband says), and was rather bossy. Ripley came into my life when I met Michael. I’d never really thought about pets. When I was young, my father had made it clear, there wouldn’t be any. After my father threw me out, well pets were the least of my worries but I did meet a few street dogs, poor skinny flea-bitten things, which had been starved and beaten, but still responded to a kind word and hand. There is a special kind of look in a dog’s eyes. It’s that love of humans that so many of us just don’t understand. What do they see in us? The street took its toll on me, on my spirit, the way I looked at things and it was hard to sort of become normal, once I was off them. When I met Michael, I was still sort of this wary, nervous wild thing. Michael saw past that and so did his dog. Ripley adopted me, gentled me, and showed me how to behave. He loved me and taught me what real love and acceptance is. He helped me love my husband better. Ripley was a character, like all dogs I think. But he loved sirens, loved to watch the fire engines and screaming police cars go by, he listened to them from the TV as well. He was a connoisseur, enjoying foreign sirens as well. He wasn’t bothered by thunderstorms or loud noises, but his hearing was fine, he could hear you open the cheese from a dead sleep. He loved to nap on my knee and could be flat out but if at my bedtime I said, want to go to bed? Ripley would be on the floor and ready to go. Ripley loved the outdoors. Being a poodle he was a natural retriever and when he was younger would bring you his ball and we’d head out to play catch or chase. He always brought the ball back and dropped it at your feet. We never taught him that, he did it naturally. Another favourite game was pine cone soccer. There are a lot of pine trees around us here and we often kicked the cones across the grass for him. He'd bring them back. And if he lost it in among the other cones, you couldn't trick him. Nope. He wanted that cone back, not the foreign one you just picked up because obviously you are much too lazy to find the right one! Wait ... why was I looking ...? We sat up with him the night before his final morning and as we waited the sun came up and I hoped the beautiful bird song brought him some comfort. Michael called the vet who agreed to come in early to put our sweet boy out of his misery. I couldn’t go, Michael and Peter, our nephew, did. Peter said he just slipped away quietly. Maybe I'm over emotional, I don't know, but I can barely still bring myself to talk about him, without getting choked up. I can barely write this…but nothing really seems to help. I'm not sure I want it to. Thanks for reading.
  3. Today I attended the first funeral I've ever gone to. It was for my sister's father-in-law, who died after a two-year battle with liver cancer at the age of 55. It was a pretty surreal experience, seeing someone I'd talk to lying in a casket, dressed up like he was in life, and made to look like he was just sleeping. That's the first time I've ever gotten that close to a dead body, and man...something about that was just really strange. The memorial service was pretty beautiful, and the slideshow they showed of his life pretty much had me bailing, as well as when his brother and sister went up to talk, especially when the sister, "I'd never thought I'd be standing here so soon." It killed me when they talked about my sister Christine, and how her father-in-law loved her, and treated her as if she were her own. My sister started dating their son about seven years ago, and I just remember how easily and readily they have accepted her into their family, and for many years, my sister finally had the father figure that she didn't get to have growing up. I was grateful to him for proving my sister that. He and his wife were together for a total of 38 years- ever since meeting at University of Delaware party way back when, and you could just feel the tight bond he and his wife had together whenever we met with them. The whole day was long and sad, but I also felt privilieged to be there, celebrating the life of a genial, simple man who led a life full of love, which will be carried within their hearts of his wife, his children, and his grand-children. The best part of the speech was when the speaker joked about how my sister and her husband will have a baby boy someday, and name him after the father. (My sister does plan on giving her future son the middle name of her father-in-law.) Funerals, I've heard, are a day for reflection upon the life of those who have passed, and a day of reflection for your own life. It made me think about how and what I want to remembered for, when it comes for my time to go. I don't think I want to be buried, because I don't think I want my body six feet under, waxed up and made to resemble what I looked like alive. I want to be cremated, and I want my ashes to be spread over the Atlantic, because I think there's nothing that ever made me happier than laughing and dancing around the waves on a warm summer day. (And one cold fall day, back when I was 16.) Instead of a burial, I want a tree to be planted in my memory at a state park, with a plaque stating, "Jeremy Richard Smith. 1985- (Year of Death). Historian, Party Kid, Family Guy, Basketcase, and Good Friend, all rolled into one. We wouldn't have had him any other way." I want lots of laughing and dancing when people remember me. I don't want any crying- I want people to boogying down on the dance floor to songs I'd always loved to dance to, like "(Apache) Jump On It' and "Flashlight" by Parliament. I want silly, crazy stories told by family about the crazy, precocious toddler I was. And I want my high school and college budies to tell the funny, crazy stuff I did as a teenager and a twentysomething, always with a goofy grin on his face. I want to be remembered as a good guy, who was nice and had a big heart. Maybe a bit of an annoying pain-in-the-ass sometimes, but someone you knew had your back if and when you needed it. I want to be remembered as a guy who loved to laugh, who loved to do the Molly Ringwald Breakfast Club dance to 80's music, and who loved the color of the fall leaves and the way the sunset looked over the beach and Atlantic Ocean. Most of all, I just want to be remembered as someone that had a positive impact on you, and someone you were better for having known. I think that's the most any of us can ask for, and that's something I try and work on by doing what I can to treat people how I want to be treated, and just...caring. So those are my thoughts after a funeral. Anyone wanna share theirs?
  4. I got the heebie jeebies the other day when I was playing the game Farmville yesterday, and I got a notification that B.P. had done something to help my farm. B.P. died back around August, an apparent suicide. He was only 22. After that, his father took over the page, giving us updates on stuff like the funeral. Then he started sending us stories about Brian. Now he's apparently using his son's facebook page regularly enough that he's playing Farmville under the name of his dead son. I understand the father is grieving, and maybe this is his way of dealing with it, but god, this just creeps me out so much. Am I wrong for feeling like there's something wrong about this? It'd be one thing if the father just left the page up as a memorial, but I've gotten a birthday notification, status updates, and now Farmville help from B.P., who died back during the summer, and it's really unsettling. I'm thinking about deleting him from my profile, but I don't know if that would be a nice thing to do. Still, I just feel really uncomfortable about this. UPDATE: I wound up deleting the profile from my friends page in October. When it had reached over a year, I just couldn't take the weirdness of it anymore. It's not my friend Brian's page anymore- it's his dad's.
  5. Death As a child you had always hoped to grow plants and flowers, but no matter what you did they died. Today you were brought to the main education center to be tested for your natural talent. As you walk you hear people being told they are heroes, muses, a god of the forests, and even demigods. You test quickly before you are even mentally prepared you’re informed of your new career. Congratulations on being chosen as an Angel of Death. What’s your next step?
  6. Michael Clarke is dead... some may remember him as a voice actor in Kung Fu Panda.... Or as Kingpin in the Daredevil Movie. Or in Armageddon, and half the other movies the big man played in Here's the yahoo news. http://movies.yahoo.com/news/actor-michael-clarke-duncan-dead-54-214440462.html
  7. scotty94

    Fear

    FEAR ITSELF IS ONE THING BUT DEATH IS SO MUCH WORSE As I write this tears stream from my eyes, the memory burns so painfully in my head. That bright spark, that role model that number one gone like a flash. seven years of hate how I regret it that much, not being there and disbelieving. Now death has come and taken all that away, the death of a loved one is something, but the death of two loved one in a matter of second is something else. My grandma the only person I could call a role model vanished one minute she said remember the next silence. REMEMBER, REMEMBER, REMEMBER that word twisting, turning and moving through my head I try and forget I try and think of the good times, but all I see is blackness, my grandfather clutching on to life by his fingernails gone, one minute he was there the next minute vanished, now in not one to make a fuss bereavement is one thing but continuing with life comes hand in hand. I try and forget try and not believe but when the pain arrives and the tears wont stop falling all you can do is cry, death is hard and death is even harder when rough patches in that relationship will never become smooth. I hate myself and I hate the world, my grandma and grandfather wont know how much I care because there gone I can cry and protest as much as possible but in the end all that hate, frustration, pain and lies are still a burning vision of the people who I loved gone who will never know how much I loved them.
  8. It is necessary to see death. It is necessary to see death, stark naked, lurid and wild, Death as it pisses in the dark alleyways drunk and ecstatic on the jumps of drugs that are hard to name and harder to pronounce, it is still necessary to see death face to face. In a breach of society sanctioned lucidity hardwired in our brain, It is still very necessary to see death, To see the violent vandalism of civilization, Of ashes and nuclear death of atoms and atom bombs, Billions of flashlights burning up the sky, Smell of rotten carcass evaporating in sterile perfume of laboratory engineered poisons, Gases and liquids and solid whites of the eyes of the dead and the suffering of millions upon millions of innocence of ruthless greed of narcissist wankers. It is necessary to see death as it is, for the spring of flowers is nearly over and now we make war. 02/09/2013 ©asamvav111
  9. On Monday, July 22nd, my cat died. Gareth was 9 years old. We don't really know what happened and probably never will. What we do know is that for some reason he was out on my parents' deck and either fell or jumped. He broke his back. I pray he died quickly but if it was otherwise, I don't want to know. That little cat was my everything and it's fucking breaking my heart. Gareth came into my life when he was six months old. When I broke up with the man I thought I'd be with for the rest of my life, Gareth would climb into my lap and bump me with his head. He'd beep his strange, half-meows and remind me that I had better things to do than feel sorry for myself, namely feeding him. Even cats have their priorities. I couldn't sleep last night. I even through my backpack on the bed to simulate the extra weight by my feet even though Gareth would sprawl across my ankles. Today I face taking apart the cat tree and litter box and putting away his toys. There's also a petco order due to arrive, things I'd gotten for sending out to my new home. It's only my home now for there's no one to share it with. Gareth won't meet me at the door and loudly tell me about his day. He won't lay on my keyboard or beg to share my dinner. He won't be sprawled on the back of the sofa, his tail whapping me as I grade papers. I know the pain will fade eventually. With him I didn't feel alone. He gave me strength because if he could plot to take over the world then I could surely follow my dreams. Please God let Gareth chase lots of mice and eat as much as he wants now that he doesn't have to watch his weight. Gareth was the inspiration behind Rick's cat (from The One I Want) and there's a picture in my albums somewhere. I'm painstakingly typing this on my phone, so I haven't figured out how to do links. That little cat was such a huge part of my life from the first moment he leaped into my arms. I haven't cried this much in years and I don't want to go to Chevak without him. He may have been only a cat but he was my friend and I loved him with all my heart.
  10. i’m angry and hurt, and need to get this off my chest. People will tell you that death is a part of life, it’s all part of the circle of life. Well, they’re full of crap. Death is death. And it sucks. Doesn’t matter who it is, if you lose someone you love, it sucks. Like Great Aunt Betty, the one who would sneak you that candy you loved at the family reunion—it’s a loss and it hurts. A nephew with leukemia—hurts like a punch to the gut. A nephew was hit by a car, while he was in the crosswalk? Almost unbearable pain. Very recently, a few people i know here lost family members. It was hard for them. They were both sudden. Not that having advanced warning for an impending death, makes it any easier. i mean, we all know those stories; Uncle Frank diagnosed with whatever, so everyone starts “preparing” that he’ll pass soon. Nope, doesn’t help to have that time to what, wrap your mind around it? No, don’t think so. Loss is hard, nothing really makes it easier. i have had two losses in as many weeks. My family is shattered. My brother and sister both have lost sons. One niece has lost her big brother, another niece and nephew have lost a cousin and a brother. my own youngest son will have to attend his third memorial for a peer. A peer, someone his own age, not for an elderly relative, but a person in their prime. Of my sister’s step son, someone said, “He’s in a better place.” Hell, he was in a pretty good place! Good job, a beautiful wife, and the most adorable 3-year-old son. They said similar things about my brother’s son. He died in an accident on his very first day at university. His. Very. First. Day. He was 19. He was in a very good place already. i’m angry, hurt, all of those things. Grief is very different for everyone, and that’s ok. Right now, i’m stuck in anger and hurt. i need to work past this, a little anyway, since i’m going to have to be the big sister, the oldest child, next week and do all the social niceties. Go hug someone and let them know you love them. thanks @Mikiesboy you are the best
  11. So we have made it to the end of another week. Hopefully, it was a good one for you. Are you ready for the weekend? Are you writing a new story? Perhaps, just maybe, you need something to get you inspired? Well, help is here. Here are two new prompts to get you set to write. Prompt 746 – Creative Tag – Death As a child you had always hoped to grow plants and flowers, but no matter what you did they died. Today you were brought to the main education center to be tested for your natural talent. As you walk you hear people being told they are heroes, muses, a god of the forests, and even demigods. You test quickly before you are even mentally prepared you’re informed of your new career. Congratulations on being chosen as an Angel of Death. What’s your next step? Prompt 747 – Creative Tag – First Line The smell of perfume was so strong you could taste it, but the headache it was causing was even worse as you dragged the body from the room. If you wrote a story based on the prompts, feel free to share the connection for the story below. Remember, small entries like prompts should be part of a collection. Please read, write, and comment. Enjoy all!
  12. Brother [M] called at 1:44am this morning. Dad -- who would have turned 100 on Oct. 7th -- had been sliding a bit but not rapidly. We expected something soon - but not this soon. He was hurting quite a bit last night so Hospice gave him what M called "a very tiny amount" of morphine just to knock the edge off the pain. Before he left they said his vital signs were really good. He hadn't been sleeping that well. The morphine allowed him to relax enough to go into a deep sleep and...just didn't wake up. Much worse ways to go (like watching mom linger for four days), and he had a long life. He'd outlived everyone except my brother and I -- all of his siblings, all of his friends. And we know he was ready to go. He's made that statement for some time. So, a lot of conflicting emotions at the moment.
  13. Mikiesboy

    Doors

    ******* WARNING ******* Do not read if you are offended or triggered by references to suicide. I know I am dreaming as I lay in this fog. Sounds fade in and out, echoing as I drift away to other places and lands. I know also time is fleeting and there is very little future ahead of me. This I know to be true. Some truths are self-evident. This is one of those truths. We can deny it, pretend otherwise, wish, rail, scream and beg, but time does not wait. It marches forward and we can think we slow it, but that’s a fool’s errand. Life. We say each is worth living. But is that a truth? No. For many it is not. For too many, life is a slog, a drag to live in poverty and misery. Or if not, perhaps in the hell only mental illness can make. It can be a place of such horror and pain, suicide is a welcoming door. That door has tempted me in the past and still does today. Doctors offer treatment in the form of pills and talk. Often it works for short periods. But lately … lately the pull of that door has become stronger. Lately, I’ve found my hand upon the doorknob. The desire to turn it and step over the threshold is strong and getting stronger. I don’t feel this always. There are times when life is good. Where I see worth in the day and in others. There are projects to finish and to start. But I wonder why? Why do this? What does it matter? The sands of time will cover all and my time here will mean nothing. Sooner than later there will be nothing left of me and those who knew me will disappear also. And yet we strive. I can only suppose it keeps us from thinking about what is to come. While I appreciate you deciding to read this, but there is no need to comment on it.
  14. Today, I had to tell Georgie George had died. I wonder if he understands what that means. Perhaps to him, it just means the ginger cat won't be here to compete with him anymore. A triumphant story of the undercat, or it seems. Georgie had overseen the death of two cats. One is my own cat. When Georgie came along, my father shifted the affection toward Georgie and my own cat died slowly out of depression (and he just quietly sit on my lap the day before, and finally accepted my affection). Then George came along. My father once again, liked the newer cat, and Georgie suffered the same injury my own cat endured because of his aid. And now George is put to death by his legal owner (our cross door neighbor), I wonder how Georgie would feel. He had been both the mistress which accelerated the death my own cat, and through the act of karma, he was also the bullied. Except this time, he outlived his bully. Is he really happier to be a survivor? Isn't that a twist of fate? Both cats who died were remarkably beautiful cats. That also makes me wonder if being beautiful really has any effect on our final destination. After all, life is fragile, an anomaly. My cat suffered through depression (no matter how much I loved him, he just couldn't overlook that my father preferred Georgie), and George happily meowed and leaped into his legal owner's hands, into his death. No matter which way, depressed or happy, they are both beautiful goners. The plain Georgie outlived them both. Be gracious we are still alive, because we'll never know how the fate could turn on a whim. I still don't have the heart to tell my parents that the cross door neighbor took him to vet to get a vaccine is really a euphemism to have him euthanized (how could she lied to my mom and then told me what she was about to do, and told me not to tell my mom?). At the same time I have to endure the terrible secret in me. I know if I don't tell my parents eventually, it will kill me to see two bowls of kitty kibbles being filled every morning, but only one bowl will be bothered.
  15. I'd been to many interments, each of them a different experience of loss and grief, but never before had I been asked to shovel dirt onto a friend's casket. They are all looking at me, expectantly, a shovel held out towards my hands. Can I do this? Can I really do this?
  16. Ben Bova, one of the grandfathers of modern science fiction, died November 29th from, "COVID-19 related pneumonia and a stroke". 😢💔
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