Dirt Road Heaven

Well, HELLO there Woods!

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 20:55:00 +0000

Something monumental happened last week. After ten weeks of being hooked up to the "wound vac", my doctor finally released me. No more constant pressure, no more carting the damn thing around, no more feeling weak and tired. And this week, my radiologist told me that I am now cancer free (CANCER FREE!!!!!) and she, too, released me to the care of my surgeon and oncologist. I feel like a thousand pounds has been lifted. This time last year I was in the midst of all the tests at M. D. Anderson to determine the type and stage of my breast cancer ... and here, a long year later, I am basically well.

Now I can begin to build up my strength and what better way to do that than pull on my boots and head for the woods. For months I have watched the seasons come and go without me. Today, I decided to reintroduce myself to the trees north of the house. It was cold and foggy but I didn't care. It felt so very good to be outside and be relatively strong. I walked for thirty minutes away from the house, knowing I would need another full thirty minutes to get back. I didn't want to push my luck too far, so I tried to keep to fairly level ground. No small feat on this chunk of hilly east Texas heaven!

When I got tired, I found a log to sit on. It was as still and quiet as I was supposed to be every Sunday morning on the front pew at South Aldine Baptist Church. But thanks to my new hearing aids, I could hear the few birds that were out and about. The fog dripped on my head and I wished I'd remembered my ear muffs! But it was delicious to be out of the house and by myself. Here are some photos from my first trip out. I hope you enjoy them. And they are all 'clickable' to view larger!

Some little creature's tree house.

Yaupon

Fog drop

I can't get enough of this ...

Last of the color.

The creek is running.

It's good to see water here again.

One of three buck scrapes I found.

Even the decay is pretty to my eyes.

I love these seeds. Some kind of grass, I think.

GREEN!

Tree buds!

Lighting strike pine.

The dogwoods still have a few leaves.

Winter spider house

This oak leaf was stuck in a bare beauty berry. I liked it.

The way home.

Now, wasn't that fun? And you didn't even get winded climbing back up the hill to home. :)

Entire contents © 2009-2010 Darlene Meader Riggs, David Austin Riggs & DirtRoadHeaven.com. Text nor photographs may not be duplicated, published, broadcasted, redistributed or aggregated in any form without express written permission. Tracking software will detect any disregard for this request. Thank you.

A Not-So-Bad-At-All Rainy, Cold DRH Morning

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 22:45:00 +0000

There was snow out west this morning. Considering this is Texas and this is the first week of December, having snow is rather newsworthy. We only had temps in the forties but the rain made it seem colder. I got dressed this morning and went to open the gate since it's "nurse" day in DRH. And, since the trees from my kitchen window have been teasing me the past week, I took my camera hoping to be amply rewarded for getting out in the cold and wet.

I feel so lucky to live here. I don't have a lot of the things in life that we tell ourselves would make us happier. Like the "dream house". But I do have all these beautiful trees that give me so much pleasure in every season. I have the dream forest.

The colors were outstanding even on this gray, wet, chilly morning. Oaks, hickory, walnut, elms, maple, dog wood - they are all putting on a show.

The dirt road was a little muddy ...

But I've seen it waaaay worse!

The viburnum (above and below) is a waxy, emerald green draping tree in summer. It has a cluster bloom of tiny white flowers that would suit any bridal wreath. But in fall! They surprise me with their burst of red with the first really cold temperatures.

So there you go. The not-so-bad-at-all rainy, cold morning I had here in DRH.

Adapting ... somewhat gracefully

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 16:03:00 +0000

You've seen these "prickly pear" cactus before. I wrote about my experience with them this past spring when, in my chemo-wracked condition, I made the mistake of squatting down to get a macro view of their glossy blossoms. And then couldn't get up without Dave's help. It was pretty humiliating.

You'll notice all these views are from a standing position. I didn't want to risk getting stuck, alone, on the ground, in the meadow this morning.

I know I am easily amused but I am kind of fascinated by these cactus. They look like prickly pear .. but they lack the long spines and stickers of the western variety. I am guessing that, due to the lack of predators, they lost their stickers somewhere along the way. It's an interesting adaptation.

I'm adapting, too. Adapting to the reality that I'm just not as strong as I used to be but firm in my conviction that it's a temporary condition. I may not be 35 any more but I will be the strongest 54 year old that I can be. Just three years ago I was walking 12 miles a week and feeling really good about myself. I can't say I am as excited about working myself up this week to five laps in the meadow but just two weeks ago I was only able to do three. Baby steps, Darlene, baby steps.

I'm having to remind myself to be graceful about my recovery. Being graceful is not something that comes naturally to me. It requires effort and thought and commitment.

I'd much rather just enjoy the light and shadow and early morning sunshine on the cactus. I can't tell you how many times they've been mowed down and still, with great resolve, they continue to pop up. The only time they get any true appreciation is when they bloom. Except for this morning. I enjoyed their cool, blue shadows and immature fruits. I wonder who will snack on them when they're ripe ..

Rebounding, Recovering, Receiving!

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Fri, 29 Jul 2011 14:04:00 +0000

Today marks four weeks since my second breast surgery. It hardly seems possible but a look at my healing scars confirms that, yes, time truly does fly when you're having a good time. And recovering from cancer treatment IS a good time.

When my new radiation doc told me I should be walking twenty minutes a day I realized it was time to get off the couch and get my life back. Getting started was tough. My legs don't seem to move as fluidly as they used to and walking a slow half mile to and fro in the meadow tires me more than I am willing to admit!

But there are so many things to inspire me. I've missed three whole seasons of Dirt Road Heaven wonders. The single snow we had in winter found me snug inside unwilling to make the effort to track up the white blanket with my boots or investigate all the animals who were out and about in the snowy stuff. I missed all of dogwood season, the bluebonnets in the meadow, dragonflies hatching at the pond. It all happened without me. So, you can see I have a lot of making up to do! For now, and until I can be sure I can go both downhill AND uphill, I'm sticking to the meadow walks.

It's not without some mild adventure. This morning the sandy drive was pot-marked with evidence of yesterday's fifteen minute rain shower. All the rabbit, coon, deer and coyote tracks of previous days (nights?) had been washed clean. The only visitor, it seemed, was a solitary armadillo dragging it's tail and leaving long furrows in the road. But at the end of the meadow, at the edge of the wood, there were tiny treasures .. the track of a tiny fawn. The impression of her exquisite little toes in the sand proof that life goes on, always. I think that's quite enough to get me through the rest of the day!

Borrowed

Entire contents © 2009-2012 Darlene Meader Riggs, David Austin Riggs & DirtRoadHeaven.com. Text nor photographs may not be duplicated, published, broadcasted, redistributed or aggregated in any form without express written permission. Tracking software will detect any disregard for this request. Thank you.

Going slow

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Sun, 13 Mar 2011 15:58:00 +0000

Ordinarily, I'd have packets of seed and new potatoes planted, and baby spinach leaves in my salads. There would be baby chickens in my utility room, all my pot plants cleaned out and ready for new annuals. The leaf blower and broom would be handy to keep the deck clean, the rocking chairs would be lined up and getting some use on the front porch. There would be spray paint fumes from the new coat of paint on the metal deck furniture. All the limbs of winter would be stacked and ready to burn. I would be walking the woods grateful for every red bud, adoring every dogwood, loving the smell of warmed soil and rotting leaves.

But not this year. This year is lost to all my usual loves and passions. Well. I should clarify: my OUTDOOR loves and passions. This year I must focus on healing and reserving my strength for only those things that are necessary and required of me.

This year I must focus on my INDOOR loves and passions.

Instead of grieving over the lack of green sprouts in my spring time, I must appreciate the big and little human beans who give me so much love and joy. I must thank God for Hannah who rubs my bald head with such love and compassion it makes my eyes fill with grateful tears.

Next year. There will be a garden next year.

Trilogy: An act of disobedience

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 21:39:00 +0000

Part III: Leaving innocence

It would be easier to write if this were about someone else. And, in truth, this IS about someone else. Thankfully, none of us are the person we were at fifteen

The difficulty lies not in the trauma from the event because for a dozen years I didn’t really understand what had happened to me. I took full responsibility for and act of violence that was never my fault. It was only the beginning of a lot of years of faulty thinking.

There are those who will wonder why I am sharing this. I probably don’t have an acceptable answer for those people so I won’t even try to defend myself. I will say that it has only been in recent years that I have shared this story with a handful of people who knew me when. And every telling has lightened the load, washed away a little of the guilt and diminished my regret.

So this, then, is my final installment in the trilogy about disobedience.

Darlene, 1972

December 18, 1972 started early for me. The cut I received under my chin when I was hit by a car nine years earlier had developed scar tissue. My mother and I were at the hospital, in the ER, for out-patient surgery with Doctor Thomason before dawn that morning having it removed. It was the first day of Christmas vacation my sophomore year of high school.

Later, all stitched up and with my chin bandaged, mom went to work after returning me home with instructions to finish putting up some outside Christmas decorations. So I was decorating our gas lamp in the yard with garland, red ribbon and a wreath when he drove by. He was seventeen and a school mate. I wasn’t allowed to date until I was 16 but over the previous summer I was allowed to have my first boyfriend. He and I sat on the patio and listened to record albums and waited for the day when we could go to movies and out to eat - a real date.

Of course, on this day, without my parents at home, he wasn’t allowed to be there. I wasn’t allowed to have any company when my parents weren’t home and he certainly wasn’t allowed to come inside. But, like he said, it was cold and what would be the harm in going inside and having some hot chocolate or something and just talk? I had no reason to expect that this act of disobedience would carry such lasting consequences.

After it was over, he cried. He begged me not to tell. He apologized over and over and over. He told me that he, too, was a virgin and he simply hadn’t been able to control himself. He recognized in that brief window of clarity that I had not been a willing partner. I guess he thought my attempts to fight him off had been a ruse. (Years later when I confronted him, he denied the whole thing had happened.)

But on this day, I hardly heard him for the voices in my head that were blaming me for the whole thing. It was I that broke the rules. I was so stupid and now look what had happened. I was broken and used and no good. No one would ever want me, that much was sure. I was ashamed.

So I did the only thing I thought I could do. I kept the secret. I protected him … and myself. I tied it all up with a Christmas bow and put it on a top shelf in my consciousness closet and I left it there for the longest time.

The only thing more shocking than telling you that I was raped at fifteen is to now tell you that I married him at eighteen. I thought I didn’t have a choice. I hadn't been able to "save myself for the man I married" so I had better marry the man who had taken what I hadn't had an opportunity to give. In our high school years, each time I tried to break up with him he threatened physical harm to anyone I ever tried to date. I had no reason to doubt him.

And, after all .. it was my fault the whole thing had happened. If only I hadn’t disobeyed. I had to take some responsibility. I believed all these lies and more. Marrying him was a way to fix it. And so I did. August 15, 1975 I was absolved of all my sins.

Shortly after the wedding, some of his lies started to unravel. At first it was only money related. The stereo he had bought me for graduation was not paid for, like he said it was. Neither were my extravagant engagement rings that he had insisted on. Much of my paycheck went to pay these off as well.

Six months later more lies surfaced. In a rare act of true confession (something I still don’t understand), in the dark of our newlywed bedroom he confessed that the whole time we dated and throughout our engagement he had been involved sexually with a variety of girls, some that I knew. And to add insult to injury, he hadn’t been a virgin on December 18, 1972. All lies. Every bit of it. And I had protected him. What a fool.

I didn’t know what to do. So I got in the car and I drove. I considered going to my parents and telling them everything. But then, I knew, I would be eighteen and divorced. Ruined and divorced .. at eighteen. It was more than I thought I could take. No one in my immediate family was divorced. How would I explain it all to friends and family? For better or for worse, I considered my marriage vows. I told myself he hadn’t been unfaithful since we married. I told myself I could forgive him. I never ever considered the fact that he didn’t deserve me or that his betrayal was absolute or that I was a prize he should have cherished.

Years went by and I tried to hold it all together. He had a terrible temper, there were random acts of violence and there were times I was afraid of him. But I was so committed to my vows that until he gave me what I thought was a legitimate reason to leave (laughable, I know) .. I stayed.

I stayed until April 21, 1979. He had stopped coming home and there were confirmed acts of infidelity.

We were divorced January 2, 1980.

It would be three more years before I realized that my fifteen year old act of disobedience was not justification for what happened to me that day in December. Remarkably, it was an episode on the Phil Donahue show shared the story of a date-rape victim and, for the first time, I realized I was a victim, not a participant. I had allowed him in my home but I hadn’t given him permission for what followed. My "no" would have stopped an honorable man.

Still, I carried the secret for a dozen more years until one day I couldn’t carry it any more. I finally told my mother. Everything. I shared with her all the things that had happened since December 18, 1972 and there were a lot of things. Somehow, since our divorce, he had always found me wherever I lived, he’d phoned me, he’d tried to see me. He hadn’t truly left me alone until sometime in 1997. By that time he had been married and divorced multiple times and was a felon. Kidnapping and assault with a deadly weapon, I think it was ..

And when that phone call came in the middle of the night, like it always did, I finally had the courage to tell him that any future contact with me would result in a phone call to his parole officer. I found my voice and in the years since then I have found peace, healing and a level of understanding about it all.

Though it is unwarranted, there is still an element of shame. I wish I had been smarter and better equipped. I wish I had loved myself enough to believe that I didn’t deserve the consequences of that single act of adolescent disobedience.

But the only thing I can do now is share the story with the faith that maybe it will help someone else to understand that they are not broken, ruined or unacceptable. That keeping secrets shouldn’t be a life sentence. And that acts of disobedience when you’re only fifteen should have a statute of limitations.

A Trilogy: Disobedience

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Sat, 19 Feb 2011 15:00:00 +0000

Part II: A barrel, two reptiles and a matchbox

Borrowed

In Texas, September pays no mind to the counting of the seasons and is fully committed to being summer. And in Buffalo, Texas, in September, you can still fry an egg on the sidewalk. (If there were sidewalks, I mean.)

September was dove season and on this hot Saturday I was exploring the fields around our deer camp. I think I was maybe eight or nine and, next to my horse, exploring was what I loved best.

It was nearly mid-day, the grasshoppers were buzzing and the goat weed (very good for dove hunting!) was better than knee high. I knew to keep my eyes on the ground, always cautious about snakes.

Eventually, I found a small barrel and began (out of sheer boredom) to roll it along in front of me. And then I saw tiny movement. I stopped. The movement stopped. I kicked the barrel once more. And then, despite their amazing camouflage and tiny, tiny size, I saw them. Two baby horned lizards.

Horned lizards (horny toads, hence after) were very familiar to me. We had them in our pasture at home and I had been known to catch them, keep them in a plastic ice cream bucket and take them to school for show and tell. After a couple of days my Daddy would convince me that they weren’t really happy there in that plastic bucket and that they would most certainly die if I didn’t release them back to where I found them. And even though I really, really wanted to keep them forever, the cruelty of killing them always outweighed my selfish desires.

But I had never seen such tiny babies before. They were hardly over an inch long. Maybe my barrel rolling had frightened them out of a nearby nest, I don’t know. But they hadn’t been hatched very long.

It’s amazing to me (and a tribute to the speed and dexterity of an eight year old) that I caught them. What a treasure! I was THRILLED beyond belief and hustled, one baby horny toad in each hand, back to camp to share my discovery.

My mother, by now long accustomed to my critter finding, admired them like they were diamonds. We found a small match box in the kitchen cupboard and emptied it. Both little babies fit inside quite neatly. A new bike, a chocolate cake or a batch of new scholastic books couldn’t have made me any happier.

That afternoon, my mother made me clean up, recombed my pony tail and told me were were going to visit relatives. I LOVED going to this branch of our family tree, my grandfather's brother's family. Aunt “M” was round, happy and called everybody “darlin”. And she meant it. Everybody was her "darlin'"! Once she had let me churn butter and pick plums from a tree, so laden with heavy, ripe fruit, that you could literally lay on the ground underneath and pick all your arms could hold.

There was a bucket of cool well water and big ladle on the front porch. The novelty of drinking well water from a big ladle never escapes an eight year old. Especially in Buffalo, Texas in September after a grueling day of horny toad catching and exploring. So, I was excited to go and see Aunt “M” and all her beautiful people.

I don’t know if all children have an eye for beauty but I did. And these people were just gorgeous to me. A mom (Aunt “M‘s daughter), two gorgeous boys about my brother's age and a beautiful, beautiful teenaged Cherokee princess. They all had black hair, high cheekbones, deep, dark eyes and beautiful complexions. I was sure the rumors about our Indian ancestry were all true .. here was living, beautiful proof. I was in awe.

In the truck, mother discovered my matchbox in my jeans pocket and made me PROMISE to leave the matchbox IN my pocket at Aunt “M’s” house. I swore I would.

I really meant to.

But they were so quiet and still.

Sitting there in the living room with all the adults and my tiny babies so terribly, terribly quiet in that matchbox in my jeans pocket. I had to look. I had to make sure they weren’t dead from a claustrophobic attack.

The next thing I know we’re moving the sofa in Aunt “M’s” living room trying to re-secure the scene and get the escaped babies back in their claustrophobic match box.

I just remember the hot, burning glare of my mother’s eyes. It was the same look I got from the choir loft if I didn’t behave in my second row pew on Sunday morning.

It was bad.

In her usual jolly fashion, Aunt “M’ laughed, assured my mother that it was not a problem. That “that darlin’ child” hadn’t done a thing to be worried about. It was “nary a cause for concern”.

Gosh I loved Aunt "M" but I was sure I’d never, ever see her or those beautiful cousins again.

I was sure I was dead.

A few hours later the tiny baby horny toads were back in the goat weed field at the deer camp and I was nearly, but not quite, forgiven.

I was really, really good for lots of Sundays in a row after that.

I'm not sure when I'll publish the third act of disobedience. It will be challenging and requires some courage to tell.

A Trilogy: Disobedience

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Fri, 18 Feb 2011 16:40:00 +0000

Part I: Asphalt in August

I was an obedient child for the most part. I think it was just my nature to be so but there are three very separate acts of childhood disobedience that brought such swift and severe repercussions that maybe it was those early life lessons that convinced me that obedience really was the path of least (painful) resistance.

The first act of disobedience involved me, the mailbox and a car. I’d been threatened, since my first steps I’m sure, with the possibility of a butt bustin’ if I so much as ventured outside the boundary of our cyclone-fenced yard. But on this particular day in August of 1963 when we had a neighbor family visiting (a mom, three boys and a little sister), and one of my brother’s friends from across the street, I had no hankering to leave the premises .. it just kind of happened.

I think my mother, glancing out the window, might have seen the mailman deliver the mail. And I’m not sure if the boy from across the street volunteered to get the mail or if he was sent. Either way, the three mailboxes together on a post on the other side of our road presented him with an issue. Which one was ours?

I stood, well within the fence and yelled instructions:

“No, not that one, the other one. No, the OTHER one.” (Geez, there were only three .. How hard could it be?) In my frustration, I distinctly remember thinking I’d had better just take on this task myself.

Then, with total disregard for The Rule, I stepped outside the gate. I don’t remember walking the distance from the gate to the end of the drive and I don’t really remember walking across the road. I do remember showing him the mailbox and him handing me a letter to carry.

I think, at this point, my mother was in the driveway (some fifty feet long) with the friends, telling them goodbye but she obviously did not know where I was.

I looked down at the letter and somehow knew (though I hadn’t started school yet and couldn’t read), that the letter was from my mother's sister in California. My aunt Theresa was this larger than life red-headed lady who lived in the same state as Disneyland and a letter from her was big news!

The boy and I stood together, by the mailboxes on the side of the road and waited as a car approached us. And waited. And waited.

I remember seeing an elderly man and an elderly lady and GOOD LORD, they were driving slow! I later learned they were both about seventy and coming from the funeral of the lady’s sister.

I was so anxious to deliver this letter (and probably to get myself back in the safety zone of my yard AND avoid that spanking) that I remember fidgeting and wishing this car would go by already.

Life was moving in slow motion. Finally, it occurred to me that this car was moving SO slow that if I made a wide arc in front of the car … I could beat them, deliver the letter and save the day. Even now, nearly forty-eight years later, this faulty thinking of mine at six is crystal clear. I really thought I could pull this off.

The next thing I remember is my mother picking me up, me saying, “Oh, my back, my back! You’re hurting my back”. A neighbor gentleman, looking out his office window, saw my pony tail flopping across the road and thought someone had hit a dog.

The other neighbors heard my mother’s scream and came running.

Because of my obvious discomfort, my mother thought my back was broken and put me down in the grass. It wasn’t, she had just been pinching me the whole time.

The next thing I remember was a sheriff’s officer with really crooked teeth standing over me. A circle of worried faces … a red and white Ford ambulance. Me on a gurney, my hand flopped over my head and the ambulance attendant saying, “she’s still holding the letter.”

I dropped it.

The next thing I remember is a tiled room and lots of people holding me down while I screamed like a banchee. I mean SCREAMED. Because it was August, I was wearing shorts. And, in Texas, in August the tar on the road was hot and melted. At impact, I was knocked and rolled across the two lanes of hot pavement burning almost every inch of my exposed skin. The doctors and nurses were squirting me with medicine that burned like fire. It was more painful than anything I had ever experienced in life and I was letting them know about it.

I think my mother was somewhere throwing up. I don’t know where my dad was, probably high-tailing it to the hospital from whatever job he was on. And I didn't know where my brother was and I was in a torture chamber with strangers.

Until I saw Doctor Thomason, the doctor who had delivered me. Finally, someone to save me. I don’t remember anything after that until I was in a hospital room with my mother all comfy and tucked into bed.

I was lucky. No broken bones, just a stitched-up cut under my chin from the (we think) license plate and lots of scabs from the asphalt burns. I think maybe they kept me overnight and I was home the next day, the recipient of lots of gifts: books, pretty silk slippers with turned up toes just like an Arabian princess .. cookies from the Vaqueras (the high school drill team for whom I was the mascot).

I got lots of attention.

My mother woke us all up for years after having that dream where she saw the impact screaming “NO!”

If I thought my boundaries were clearly marked before that day in August, what came after was nothing short of internment. I don’t think I was allowed to leave the perimeters of our front yard alone to ride my horse or bike until I was nearly a teenager. And that was mostly fine with me. For years after when I holding my mother’s hand tightly, was required to cross a street, she practically had to drag me.

And so it was that I learned fairly early that disobedience did not pay and staying inside the fence was exactly where I wanted to be.

The next act of disobedience came few years later .. and involved horny toads ...

Don't mind me ...

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Tue, 15 Feb 2011 14:24:00 +0000

I woke this morning to gray. Gray is so non-committal. So void of any passion about being white or black. Irritatingly boring.

But it fits my mood perfectly. I’m really struggling with fatigue and the ‘flatness’ of life as it is. None of the things that normally get me going are moving me anywhere. I’m rooted. Empty. Sad. Ready for a new chapter, a fresh Big Chief tablet and two sharp No. 2 pencils. I’m bored with this storyline.

In my usual fashion of taking everything apart to figure out how I got here, I’m trying to find God’s purpose in making me a bald, sad, grumpy couch potato. I know that in His infinite wisdom there must be some good reason for all this but danged if I understand it.

I feel as empty and abandoned as an old house that once was filled with love and laughter and now my screen door is hanging by one rusty hinge and my shutters are all falling off and the roof leaks.

But soon there will be jonquils.

Tiny little solar-collectors buried since last spring who wait patiently a whole year to tunnel their way through the chilly soil determined to make my gray day sunny. Like all my friends and family who faithfully pray me through this, they are committed to the cause and refuse to let me dwell on gray days.

Someday I won’t feel so dilapidated or homely. My taste buds will work again and my feet will take me to the creek and my hair will get in my eyes and I will be so excited to see the bluebirds.

This is my prayer on gray days when nothing tastes good and the jonquils have yet to bloom.

Winter

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 16:28:00 +0000

It makes me sad to think I haven't posted here in almost a month. I started chemotherapy on January 5th and while I am fortunate that I have not experienced most of the negative side effects associated with it, I am suffering "DBS" - deflated balloon syndrome.

I haven't been outside, apart from one Sunday, for more time that it takes to feed & water the chickens (Dave does most of it), go from the car to the house or open and close the gate when we're coming and going. I don't even have the desire to walk the distance of the meadow.

I've lost my hair .. or rather was losing it and got tired of the messiness so I asked Dave to shave my head last Sunday. I wish I could tell you that it didn't affect my mood but the truth is I was lower than a snake's belly for a few days.

Everyone keeps telling me (and I know that it's true) that hair doesn't define me, this is temporary, hair loss just means the chemo is working .. I know, I know. And I am appalled at how vain I am. Who knew .. I really never thought of myself that way.

I've always been introspective but I don't like being self-absorbed. All the gratitude I used to feel for DRH has been turned, full focus, on me, my cancer, my treatment, my experience .. me, me, me! It's rather nauseating!

Even today's much bally-hooed snow doesn't excite me terribly. Ordinarily, I'd have been up at dawn tromping in the woods. This morning the most I could muster was to stand on the doorstep and throw birdseed on the balcony.

I'm just empty. Tired. Sad. Wishing for spring. Hair. Health.

On the other hand:

Every Wednesday when I go for treatment and I am sitting in those waiting rooms watching people come and go, silently praying for those who look so ill while all I can complain about are cold ears, I am so filled with gratitude.

Many have traveled across oceans to be sharing this place and it's wonderful treatment. My journey is only six hours, round trip, with Dave singing along to the radio while I nap.

I see elderly couples who should be enjoying a cup of coffee on a porch somewhere struggling to push their spouses in a wheelchair down the labyrinth of hallways and I am so grateful that I am young enough and still healthy enough to walk from one appointment to the next.

Sometimes I see a young man with the same balding head as mine, the only sign that he, too is suffering from cancer. He looks to be about the same age as my Jared. Thank you, God, that my children are healthy.

Most everyone has a companion. A spouse, a grown child, a parent. But there are the unfortunate few who appear to be alone. I know that I couldn't do this without Dave. I know how blessed I am to have him to drive me, to "hear" for me, to wipe my tears, tuck in my toes, help me dress. Love me. If love could cure cancer .. there wouldn't be any. Not for me, anyway because I have showered with so much love and prayed over by countless whispering lips. People I don't even know are petitioning God on my behalf. That is so humbling! And I am so grateful.

Where I go for chemo is a long waiting room that looks out onto a eighth floor balcony. There, also waiting for spring, are a series of beautiful landscaped patios filled with teak furniture and picnic tables. Last week I sat quietly, waiting for my appointment and watched a little bird, through the windows, feed in the freezing cold eight stories up among the leafless trees.

And I was grateful that he was there, darting in and out of the branches, finding something good to eat. I was grateful for the leafless trees and the teak furniture. I thought about the effort it took to landscape an eighth floor balcony with river rock and crepe myrtles. And I was grateful to those who thought it might be appreciated. It is.

Later that day I got some really good news. After only five chemo sessions my tumor has softened, shrunk and is obviously responding to the weekly shot of toxins. I still have seven more weekly treatments and then another twelve week round of once every three weeks. But we're making progress, even at this early stage in the game. Makes it all a lot more acceptable.

So, yes, it's winter and my ears are chilly but this too shall pass. And one day soon the red buds will bloom followed by the dogwoods and I will walk in the woods and feel the wind in hair.

Nothing lasts forever.

Home

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Fri, 07 Jan 2011 01:16:00 +0000

Dave and I have spent more time away from home in the last few weeks than we have in the last six years. My appreciation for what "home" means has deepened significantly.

The peace and quiet is sweeter.

The comfort of my own bed is delicious.

Dave's coffee is right up there with Starbucks.

Even though my chickens are mad at me .. I still enjoy their hateful clucks.

Did I mention how much I love my bed. (It's Dave's bed, too, but he will tell you that most of it is Darlene territory.)

And then, there's .... this:

This is home. I'm so glad to be here.

Buckle up, Baby ..

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Wed, 05 Jan 2011 15:00:00 +0000

This is a picture of Jared on his first river adventure with his mama. In my life, he's been the biggest adventure of all. A white knuckle, stomach dropping, giddy joy, screaming maniac of an adventure. Twenty eight years ago today he changed my life in ways I am still discovering. He made me a mama. I can distinctly remember looking at his little prizefighter face and trying to remember what my life had been without him just hours before. I couldn't!

And I can't.

He is my crazy, wild child. My risk-taker, the one I shake my head over. But he will forever be my baby boy.

And now he has a baby of his own. And she is fearless, too! Paybacks are hell.

Happy Birthday Jared! Here's to life's adventures!

12.27.1983

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Mon, 27 Dec 2010 15:00:00 +0000

Ashley, 1989

Twenty-seven years ago today Miss Ashley Belinda was born and my ribs were so grateful to be rid of her kicking and stretching. Even before she arrived I knew she would be a force to be reckoned with.

And she was. And is. And I wouldn't change a thing about her.

Happy birthday, baby girl. Thanks for being mine.

My baby and her babies

Leaving Heaven

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Mon, 20 Dec 2010 14:23:00 +0000

I'm trying to think about this as an adventure. I remember how excited I used to be to get all my river gear out, check and repair things, organize and pack for a trip and I am trying to imagine that this will be just like that .. without the river.

Much of my joy of canoeing and river rafting came from the camaraderie of those I shared it with. Like spirits whose eyes and souls drank up the beauty of remote canyons and star-filled nights like an intoxicating elixir of renewal and peace.

And, like then, I am surrounded now with the comfort that I am sharing this with all of you. I hope that I haven't been a burden. I hope that I won't become a burden. And I hope that you know just how much your support has kept me laughing and loving in the face of Herschel's demise.

So. Here we go. I can't ask a thing of you .. you've already given so much. Yes, you! And you. And you. Just knowing that I have a circle of Herschel warriors armed with prayers and love and support will get me thru.

But I will count the days until I'm back on the dirt road .. and in the company of chickens and dogwoods. I'll be in touch as things unfold.

Thank you, dear hermit, for riding shotgun with me.

Counting Blessings

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Thu, 16 Dec 2010 14:40:00 +0000

There are no photos to accompany this post. I have really lost my mojo when it comes to getting outside and taking pictures. Guess I have been a little preoccupied of late. And very self-absorbed. It's not my nature to be so consumed with me!, me!, me! (At least that's my personal observation and I highly respect my opinion.) Giggle.

Seriously, I hope that, at some point in the very near future, my full focus is returned to the fascinating reproductive life of stick insects, the beauty of a fallen leaf on the iron ore road or simply the kaleidoscope of colors to be found in the pupil of a chicken's eye.

Lately, all I can think of is the invasion of the boobie snatchers. But the interesting thing about the squatting of Herschel is that he has brought some amazing gifts into my life. I found out that I have an awesome group of people in my life who not only "get" me -- they DIG me! So many people trudge through this life being misunderstood, unloved and overlooked by the tooth fairy. It's quite a gift to learn you're appreciated despite your quirks, kinks and warts.

I hope, once this episode of self absorption is over, I can always remember how you all made me feel. I hope that I will be worthy of your affection. I hope I get my mojo back.

Meanwhile, (and this sounds flimsy and lame but I don't know any other words!) Thank You. Thank you for your cards, your emails, your prayers, your gifts, your love, your cold hard cash! Thank you for your shared stories, your kindness, your chocolate. Thank you for letting me be whiney and pathetic and self centered.

I don't know why this has happened. But I can honestly say that I'm kind of happy that it did.

Unless something really fabulous and newsworthy happens in the next few days, you might not hear from me. Dave and I (and Mom, etc.) are gearing up for our Big Adventure. My first appointment with M. D. Anderson is Tuesday. I have no doubt that countless funny stories will come from this experience so hang in there and a full report will follow. (All specific Herschel related news will be under the Herschel tab at the top.)

Meanwhile, I hope you all have the Merriest of Christmases and that 2011 is a banner year for laughter, love and good health. Here's our digital Christmas card. (I hate licking stamps.)

Lessons from Herschel

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 14:37:00 +0000

This picture could be me. It's not though. It's Hannah striking out on her own, over a year ago. I'm smitten with the symbolism (and that long braided pony tail.) I love her courage and her spunk. Meeting life (and the dirt road) head on.

As a child, like most children, I longed for the day when I would be "grown up" and enjoy all the perks of adulthood. No one to tell me what to do, when to do, how to do or not to do. I thought there was this magical age when you suddenly knew all you needed to know and the rest of your life you spent telling your kids what to do, when to do, how to do and not to do. Piece of cake.

Of course, now I know how sadly mistaken I was and that there is no magic age of wisdom. Never a time in life when someone isn't deciding your "to do" list and no perfect score on life's equation.

I got that part.

And I got the part from God about His "not to do list". I'm all down with that.

I know that life isn't fair and the good, they die young and a second on the lips, forever on the hips.

I try to live my life being kind but not a doormat (anymore, anyway.) I always strive to do unto others as I would have them do unto me.

I've learned not to have too many expectations .. it's just a set up for disappointment.

All in all, I think I am a pretty smart cookie.

So, then .. along comes Herschel. My immediate reaction to Herschel was five minutes of tears. Not pretty, roll down the cheek soap opera tears. These were those ugly, raw, from the bottom of your feet sobs you wish you could have a re-do on. Thankfully, this episode occurred in the privacy of my car in a parking lot at the hospital to my dearest and best friend and someone who has seen me many times at my absolute worst and loves me anyway. Still .. I wouldn't mind a re-do.

My second reaction was the decision that with great determination I was going to be graceful about what life had just handed me. Graceful. It conjures up light and poise and pearly auras and "C'est la vie", "Que Sera Sera" composure.

I thought being graceful meant a stoic, take it on the chin, keep smilin' kind of attitude. A conviction that God is in control, don't worry, be happy, and don't sweat the small stuff. Or the medium stuff. Or even the big assed stuff. Just don't sweat it.

Nope. Eeeeeght. WRONG.

Being graceful means dropping all pretense of "I've got it." It means taking off your shirt with the big "S" and packing it away. (By the way .. that big S doesn't stand for Superwoman. It stands for "Got My Shit Together".)

It means living day to day with the knowledge that all your decisions in life have brought you to this place. The place where you are forced to admit the fact that you need some help. Somebody shoot me now.

It means looking in the eyes of someone you have known since you were 14 and taking their offering of money to buy ammo for Herschel.

I'm so good at giving love. I really suck at receiving love.

But, for me, the lesson in living gracefully right now, at this time in my life, means that I have to accept love, gifts, kindness, prayers, shoulders, ears and hearts of those who love me.

And I'm trying! Please know that every act of kindness

(Belinda gave me clothes from her closet to wear to doctor's appointments!)

has not gone unnoticed

(A dear sweet lady in Georgia whom I have never met made me a pink quartz pendant with a breast cancer symbol and a pink satin high heel to stomp the life out of Herschel!)

and I am filled with gratitude

(more than a few of you have sent donations for Herschel's demise!)

for the love-fest I am experiencing.

So today's lesson, dear hermits? Living gracefully: It's not for sissies.

My Little Town & A Visit From Grampa

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Fri, 10 Dec 2010 13:26:00 +0000

There are lots of things I love about my little town. I like that there are two feed stores but no grocery stores. I like that there is a railroad that runs thru town and, at Christmas time, the little greenbelt is decorated with lots of lights and Christmas figures. I like that the nativity scene, though mixed with the usual holiday characters, is prominently displayed.

I especially like that last year, I saw the guy from the city, who drives the camo painted truck, using a tractor with a bucket to put up the Christmas lights on the light poles in town.

I like that we don't have a single typical fast food joint. Except for Subway. Does that count? No burgers, no malts .. no .. in my book, Subway does not count.

Eating out in Grapeland is not a major culinary experience, however, we do have a very good Mexican restaurant. It's become my new favorite Mexican restaurant. In Houston county, that is.

Last week one day, Dave treated me to lunch at our little Mexican restaurant. Their salsa is to die for and everything tastes just made and is seasoned perfectly. At lunch, folks file in from the few little businesses in town. They all know each other, everyone waves and speaks. It's cool. I don't even mind being a newcomer that knows but a few people. Maybe I even prefer it that way, but I enjoy seeing them meet and greet one another.

On this day, there were two gentlemen, one young, one old, in the booth behind Dave. I didn't notice them at all until they stood to leave. Then my heart took a major leap and tears started to fill my eyes from way down deep.

He stood there with his back to me. Boots, fresh pressed Levi's, pearl snap cowboy shirt, handsome western belt with silver conchos. His grey sideburns were kind of fuzzy and stuck out from under his matching grey felt hat with a not-too-big-a-brim.

He was probably in his late seventies and had a slight stooped posture that spoke of years of back breaking work. He was fiddling with his wallet, counting out a tip on the table.

Dave, watching my face fill with emotion, said, "What?" But I couldn't speak.

It was the perfect glimpse of my Daddy .. in the body of a complete stranger. I resisted the powerful urge to jump up and throw my arms around him. And it took every ounce of will to push those tears back to their holding tank.

I know it was rude to stare, but I couldn't help it. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. After he'd counted out his tip, he walked up to the counter to pay his bill and then turned to face me as he walked to the door. Still I stared and smiled as he walked past me. He took notice of me and dipped his head in country gentleman fashion. I wanted to run after him and tell him what a gift he'd just given me, but I was afraid I wouldn't be able to make him understand. I looked at Dave, who had just watched him walk past to the door. And I saw in his eyes that he understood because the resemblance was uncanny.

Tomorrow marks six years that we've been without Daddy but in some ways, it seems much longer. There are so many things I've longed to share with him: our new babies, Jared's graduation, Ashley's travels, their happy lives as grown ups. I give God messages all the time to pass on so I know he knows. They say that when you get to Heaven all the people you loved are there to meet you. I sure hope so. But for now, I'm just grateful that somewhere, in my little town, there is an old gentleman rancher who reminded my eyes just how very much I miss him.

There's A Eerie Glow ....

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Wed, 08 Dec 2010 01:11:00 +0000

... on the horizon. Anyone driving up the hill at night would surely wonder what that is.

And for those of us who lived through the "War of The Worlds", "Close Encounters" and "E. T." generation .. the first thought might be that we're being visited by extraterrestrials!

But the inhabits of this spaceship are definitely of this earth. It's just the girls (and Frizzly) all tucked in their coops with their heat lamps on for a cold winter's evening.

They look pretty cozy, don't they? As soon as I learn to knit I'm making them little overcoats .. just to be on the safe side.

Dear Dogwood

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Mon, 06 Dec 2010 19:21:00 +0000

In the springtime you delight me with your flowers that transforms DRH into a fairyland of snowflake trees.

Then you leaf out in the freshest of spring green while other trees are still deep in their winter nap.

In summer your deck yourself out in bright red berries that make me think of Christmas Holly and cooler days.

And in the fall, you put on your finest Christmas reds to let me know that my favorite holiday is just around the corner.

I think, perhaps of all the trees I love, I love you best.

Comfort + Joy = Me.

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Sun, 05 Dec 2010 14:37:00 +0000

God rest ye merry, gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay
Remember, Christ, our Saviour
Was born on Christmas day
To save us all from Satan's power
When we were gone astray
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy

It's started, you know. Waking with music in my head is fairly standard .. but now, of course, my cerebral station is playing Christmas Carols. And this one has always been a favorite of mine.

So, one minute I'm sleeping (and singing Christmas Carols) and the next my eyes pop open to this:.

This was the view from my soft, comfy, warm bed this morning. Now you see why I sleep with my blinds open totally disregarding all Dave's warnings about Bigfoot watching me while I sleep. Let him. If it means I can open my eyes to see the colors of Heaven .. let him.

I said I wouldn't talk about Herschel much here and I won't now, except to say that Herschel's brought some incredible gifts into my life. I'm sure that wasn't his intention but what was it Newton said? "To every action there is always an equal and opposite reaction." (You have to be impressed that I am discussing Physics, right?)

The equal and opposite reaction of Herschel in my life (and my left boob) is that whatever negativity created his presence is manifesting in this outpouring of love from friends, family, my precious children, Dave. And I am basking in it.

I've always known that I was loved. Just like I know that, if I pay my bill and the wind is not blowing, if I flip the light switch, the light should come on. But on the darkest night when the moon is at rest and you hear a thump at the window, ("Bigfoot, is that you?"), that light is a huge source of comfort.

Love is like that. It dispels the demons, causes the monsters of the dark to flee and warms the soul. Love illuminates the vast, dark unknown. (Dang! That was good!)

Flip somebody's switch today. Give a little love. You can't possibly know how much it might mean.

Thanks to all of you who are loving me so GOOD right now. God rest ye merry gentle people. Let nothing you dismay.

J O Y !

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 16:44:00 +0000

It's that time of year again when we all work so hard at Christmas.

There's the shopping.

And the decking of the halls.

Gift wrapping.

Photos by Papa Dave
11.27.10

Baking, entertaining, parties to attend.

In the midst of that, don't forget the first place you should decorate is your heart.

Give yourself some joy.

I know I just did!

Communing with Crows

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Mon, 29 Nov 2010 15:19:00 +0000

Heading to the gate

For about a week now we have noticed the crows gathering in the tree tops of the Dirt Road Woods. Mother has seen hundreds of them on the ground in fields on the way to town. I'm fascinated by their numbers and curious about their behavior.

Saturday morning, I walked to the gate and I could seem them flying in and out of the tree tops to the east. The further I walked, dozens of them lifted out of the woods to the north. When you can't hear birdsong any more, even the rambunctious noise of crows is nearly symphonic.

I stood there and marveled at how many there were and watched them lift and fly ...

... lift and fly, more and more of them joined the column of turkey vultures already spiraling above me.

Their glossy black feathers and beaks glinted in the sun making them particularly handsome against a crystal blue sky.

I think they knew I was admiring them. Several of them circled round and came back to look at me. Maybe they were mocking my feet so firmly rooted to the ground. Perhaps they were reading my mind and were waiting for me to sprout wings to join them.

More and more of them flew over. Tens of dozens of them and this didn't seem to be flight to get from point A to point B. This was flight for the pure joy of it. And who could blame them? A cool, clear day in November with the trees dressed in their best colors? A sky that rivals the purest ocean blue? I tried to imagine their crow's-eye-view.

I fly in my dreams but always as myself. I simply assume a superman posture with both arms lifted above my head, point myself in the direction I wish to go and *whoosh*, away I go. And always to the amazement and wonder of those I left on the ground. (I can even fly in reverse but it's just to show off.)

I have never flown with birds in my dreams. I try to imagine the thrill of dipping and soaring with the wind ruffling feathers and the sound of my kind making joyful noise as we skim treetops and pine-covered ridges.

I think the crows knew I was thinking all this as I watched them fly over.

I have no idea what the crows are doing when they congregate in the fall. Dave says it's political. A gathering of the elders to decide who goes where now that the year's babies are adults and need territories of their own. It could be that.

But I tend to think it's like that huge gathering of motorcycle riders in Sturgis, South Dakota. A congregation of like spirits. Flashy, loud, look-at-me types. "Don't you wish you were me? Aren't I handsome? Watch this!"

And I stand and I watch and I wish. And I wait for sleep so I can dream of flying with the crows.

Dusting off an old one ..

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 22:06:00 +0000

Looking out of my office
God's box of 64 colors!

I admit it. I've been slacking. I know you all feel neglected and for that I apologize. Doctor's visits and the usual holiday rush to keep Zunispirits.com a vibrant, interesting place for holiday shoppers has just zapped my extra time and energy.

But it doesn't mean I don't think about you. And I promise to make more of an effort to keep you appraised of all the exciting happenings here on the dirt road. Meanwhile, here's entry from this time last year.

Do You Think Of Me?

I remain, your thankful Hermit Queen. Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!

The Art of Being Belinda

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 14:22:00 +0000

Belinda & Darlene
April, 1992

I have a best friend. I'm blessed with lots of friends who accept me with all my cracks, warts and creative imperfections. But I have one best friend. And she's been my best friend since high school. We have shared so many bumps, bruises, belly laughs and adventures and I'm so grateful.

She was the first person I called when I heard that Herschel was real and not a figment of my imagination. And she's steadfast and supportive, in good times and in bad. And there have been some bad times. I'm pretty sure that it was she who saved me once from drowning in sorrow so deep I couldn't touch bottom. There have also been just as many times that she's made me laugh so hard that beverages came out my nose. And you know how awesome that can be!

For my thirty-fifth birthday (just last year, ahem ..) I cajoled, pleaded, begged and whined for her to come with me on a river trip to Big Bend. Now she's outdoorsy .. but she (at the time) was big on hot rollers and shoulder pads. (This was the DYNASTY ERA of fashion.) I forbid (forbade?) her to bring shoulder pads so every top she brought had them built in. She did manage to leave the hot rollers at home. I was so proud!

Darlene, Santa Elena Canyon
Rio Grande, 1992

We had such a good time. It was Easter and we dressed up in rainbow colored Afro wigs (with hairnets so as not to disturb the delicate desert environment.) For reasons that escape me now, we also thought it would be funny to wear knee high hose rolled down, old lady style, with our river shoes. I don't think anybody got that but us .. but we didn't care.

Yesterday I found these photos and more with a card from her in my mailbox.

Dance Position!
All you former Vaqueras will appreciate this one.

She just wanted to remind me of our good times spent and all that we have yet to share.

And I just can't wait. I love you, B!

Behind Every Cloud

noreply@blogger.com (Darlene) — Sat, 13 Nov 2010 14:32:00 +0000

There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm.
- Willa Cather

Clouds on the horizon call me to watch. It's nearly dusk and the world is bathed in shades of blue. Crows fly to roost and oak trees rattle their leaves in response to the west wind. The smell of rain is thick. Seductive. I stay until the colors fade and raindrops mingle with tears.