The Week” May 17, 2919, carried a note that a 72-year old man has become the first person to cross the Atlantic in a barrel, propelled only by ocean currents. It took four months for the 2,930 free ride from the Canary Islands to the Dutch Caribbean island of St. Eustatius last week. Bravo and hurray! (Image not mine, unknown)
A mixed bag
All posts in the A mixed bag category
As a Retired Physician …. “🤨 This Shook Me to the Core 🤨 …. “!!
Published April 29, 2019 by Nan MykelDear God!
~~April 29, 2019~~
I’m a retired physician … this isn’t true!!HE has no bottom! There’s nothing that HE won’t say!
There’s nothing sacred, there’s no boundary HE won’t cross … this is the workings of a sick, disintegrating, senile, evil mind!!
I found a Facebook user’s response which shows extensive experiences in the reality of losing a child close to the birth.
I will quote her words below.
They are worth a read.
HortyRex©
Lou Ann Kyle
As a response to:
“The baby is born, the mother meets with the doctor. They take care of the baby. They wrap the baby beautifully. Then the doctor and mother determine whether or not they will execute the baby.”-Drumpf~
“As a NICU nurse, I served on the ‘Bereavement Team.’ We were a special team of Nurses tough enough to help new parents go through the worst day…
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The Sink Hole Sunk This Poetic Effort
Published April 28, 2019 by Nan Mykel
What’s wrong with wearing pink-tinted glasses?
Face it—it’s hard today to walk without stepping in it.
And if you slip and fall—oh my! If only our inner
compass could be depended upon, if our
creative urges could steer us thru the dark,
find the light.
Should we throw down our tinted lens and fight
the tarantulas? The booby-trapped
life jackets? Don’t give in to despair they say, but
with luck my sword will slice thin air and not be
thrust back at me. The Drama Queen sits
beside her sister in tinted glasses, waiting for the
other shoe to fall. Oh my.
VULNERABLE (in 21 words)
Published April 28, 2019 by Nan MykelWhat gets thrown,
blown,
lacking muscle or root?
A life horrible,
intolerable.
Quick, hie thee to safety
in yon sand box!
I don’t know how to connect this to the site
A LOVE LETTER TO TREES
Published April 25, 2019 by Nan MykelPerhaps my first tree w
as the one we played dog-on-wood with. It was especially useful because of its long roots which permitted you to be “safe” from your opponents.
A close second was a friendly pair of trees on the farm—a pecan tree and a fig tree nestled together and both bore yummy fruit. I don’t think I’ve tasted fresh figs since the farm.
And oh the mystery of the disappearing wild plum trees! At least in North Carolina you could walk through any patch of woods and find an abundance of wild plum trees, whose fruit was smaller than in the big stores now, but much tastier, and free! The last time I saw wild plums was in the bazaar in Istanbul. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but my own that I ate so many I got hives and required gin to numb my skin so I could sleep. But where have the trees gone?
Mimosas have always seemed magical to
me. What a fancy tree! Good for a small child climbing also, I can attest. Playing tarzan in a mimosa is a favorite memory of mine.
I’ve always been in love with weeping willows, and am in awe of ginko bilobas, even before I read how ancient their line is. I once had a pin that was really a ginko leaf that had been dipped in gold that shone. I stepped outside the other day and was overwhelmed to see that the ginko beside the O.U. Credit Union on Shaffer had shed a golden halo all around it, overnight! 
I recall as a child nibbling on long green pine needles for their tart taste, and I have in my home office a basket full of perfect pine cones. Just to have them, because they’re so perfect. I love the grain of wood also, had have a collection of both driftwood and wooden flotsam from the Ohio River. I’d love to make a collage of my collection, but am not sure how to do it artfully. The picture on the face of my computer is of a marvelous wood collage I copied from the internet. I’ve included it here, as well as a couple of family photos of special trees.
I’m reminded now of an old man who lived next to us in Charlotte who spent his days sitting in his shady front yard, whittling. I think the wood he worked on with his pen knife was cedar—at least it was red, and he made many wonderful animals out of the wood. 
I recall now a tree I drive by every couple of weeks. It is very tall and offers shade and branches for the vultures to gather, and a huge hole in its trunk. I always wonder who lives in that perfect animal home, and marvel that the tree still manages to thrive despite its roomers.
I’ve always thought I wanted a weeping cherry in my yard, but during a sale one day I purchased not the lovely tree of my dreams, but for some reason—probably the price—I took home and planted an unfortunate tree, the poor dear. It did not grow pretty, though it stands in the yard at 305 E. State, from which I have moved. The owners of the house tore down my newly hung flowery wallpaper, but have let the dear unprepossessing tree thrive in their front yard. Do 
you think trees have feelings?
If they do there must be a lot of them proud all over town this season. I can’t help oohs and ahhs at the sight of the celebrating trees. It’s good to see many neighbors enjoying the flush of cherry blossoms during their season.
There’s something mythical about stalwart trees. Once long ago lightning struck a big tree in our neighborhood, and I was moved to trek to it with my children and recover a small blackened portion of its remnants. It was a primitive feeling, that the heavens had selected that one to touch.
1989 Trip Visiting Au Pair Daughter in Munich
Published April 21, 2019 by Nan Mykel
(Just discovered small journal entries from my trip)
I began dreaming and planning a trip to Europe again after 30 years, when her father and I had camped Europe as students…I got my passport photos and my passport…I ordered my plane ticket and began thinking about videotaping abroad. And then I played m old trick again of being disorganized and losing my ticket reservation because of failure to pay for it within 30 days of the trip. That fault in myself cost me some $. Hopefully the money will be worth the lesson.
Dec. 12, 1989: For awhile this morning my passport was missing–but Manono and Mandy found where Mandy had laid it–in my home office–while I held the phone at work.
Dec. 13, 1989: I understand Stone & Co. is selling pieces of the Berlin wall for $10 apiece. I wonder what it will run in Munich, if available. The person I talked to at Hocking Correctional doubted it was genuine.
Dec. 14, 1989: Waiting in Atlanta International Airport. My daughter requested American comic books but I failed to find any. Going back through I left my airplane ticket and fortunately it was found and turned in before I got too excited…I am flying with American Express checks but not even a dollar in cash. Flight is 8 hours 9 minutes. We cover 4519 nautical miles. Movie is “Uncle Buck.” Dinner and breakfast served. About 54 degrees in Munich is tomorrow’s forecast…Here we go!
Dec. 15, 1989: We arrive in Munich in less than an hour! The only excitement during the night was a woman in red who was lying on he floor being ministered to for some reason but got over the spell in about a half hour…
Dec. 16, 1989: Took a 2 1/2 hour sightseeing tour to the Nymphenberg Palace. Got inside shots of the painting and of the swans on the lake outside. That night we went to a concert in the St. Johan der Baptist Church, founded in 808 A.D.
Dec. 17, 1989: Sunday. Quaker Meeting, Monthly Meeting and Quaker Christmas party in my daughter’s livingroom…(They have a rental agreement). I videotaped the carol singing and lighting of candles in the tree. Then to a Christmas concert at a large Protestant church–string ensemble, harpsichord, flute, organ, horns and excellent choir. Then “the control” got my daughter for transporting her bike on the subway. Got a ticket. IN THE SUBWAY I saw a man going through the pockets of the coat he was wearing –and a wallet in the coat–as though he was seeing the contents for the first time–which I’m sure he was. There was the photo of a girl on a card that looked like an Ohio driver’s license, but could have been some other kind of I.D. I had just pointed him out to my daughter when we all got off. I turned to look back at him and he was getting back on the subway with a duffel bag I’m sure he didn’t have before. We went to hell and back to attend the monthly meeting of the Munich American Peace Group–mostly a group of intelligent older women who all seemed somehow familiar. Home about 10:50 p.m., my daughter led me in yoga and then to bed.
12-18-89: On my own this morning, getting directions mixed up, confusing the U and S stations. Got Odeonplatz and Ostbanhauf mixed up. Dreamed about us weathering a tornado. For awhile I was worried that the killing of a US serviceman in Panama might precipitate war, but no further news to indicate this. Tea with a couple of my au pair daughter’s “families” who were very gracious. Then attended a Bach concert in the Munich Cultural Center . There was an art exhibit there and dead trees instead of a Christmas tree commemorating environmental destruction. (to be continued another day)…
12-19-89: Went to Dachau today. Stayed three hours. Did much taping of photos in the museum, the crematorium, towers, memorials, the moat, gas chamber and a barrack. My daughter had bought a bouquet of flowers for me to lay on the memorial of those cremated at Dachau. I didn’t get a headache or too depressed, fortunately. While there I looked at the trees and wondered if they had been alive to observe the atrocities years ago. I thought so. When I returned to Munchen I went to Marienplatz and taped the carolers in the town tower. Saw jubilant draftees who were getting out and St. Nicholas walking through the crowd.
Thursday, Dec. 20, 1989 continued another day…
Dr. Rex and Jill Dennison Spice Their Blogs….
Published April 18, 2019 by Nan Mykel
with happy music or photos or cartoons or jokes, sprinkled in between the gloom and doom overtaking us. I wish I could, I wish I would, I think I can…splat!
WOOLGATHERING
I’d like to get some drawings on here. It’s difficult because I shake from essential tremor, not parkinson’s. I tried the pencil modem and an app on my tablet but I couldn’t get it right. Now I’m gonna try scanning a drawing and trying to get that on–(my doctor prescribes music but that part of my brain is filled with something else) :
But I do collage when I get too antsy. Other people’s art and photos from magazines, so kind of illicit (illegal?).
This is part of a collage I was going to have for my book Fallout, but I decided it would be too much trouble to run all the sources down.
Well, I see a problem here. This material isn’t jokey or sweet music….Sigh.
One day I won’t wake up
or hear the birds
or feel the sun…
The Caution Against Living in the Past:
Hope, trust, wonder, snuggling…It’s okay to live in the past if the past harbors…In my earlier verse I failed to tell you what I really meant. Feelings, like tubes of dry paint…They say don’t live in the past, but that’s only if you have a future. No one dare take the farm from my memory’s treasured vault with my grandmother, on her lap and the reassuring sound at night of coal settling in the grate.
Gather, Ye Children, and You Shall Hear: We are like frogs, being limited in what we see. The world is only what our perception allows us.
Three separate tributaries feed into the unconscious we can never know. Repression is not one of them, nor denial.
The first is prenatal and natal memories. The second is the adaptive unconscious which can never be directly accessed, though it can effect motivation and orchestrate behavior. The third is via subliminal perception. I wonder who is overseeing the subliminal messages being sent out over the internet daily? They aren’t illegal, but I wonder who they’re telling us to vote for?
What kind of flowers are these?
A HUMBLING WAY TO LOOK INTO YOUR HEART
Published April 12, 2019 by Nan MykelWhile lying in bed this morning I thought how it would be if instead of remembering all the hurtful things from the past I reviewed all the loving memories that came to me of each of the important people in my life. I won’t say more, but at some point you may want to compare the lists.
Big Bad Drump
Published April 11, 2019 by Nan MykelRead Samantha Michaels’ piece on Trump and Prison Reform in Mother Jones 4/11/19. Like he did during that early gun control meeting, he’s taking credit for endorsing prison reform and then sabotaging it.
Original Flash Fiction: Encounter
Published April 11, 2019 by Nan MykelENCOUNTER
He is a big man, sitting stirring his coffee. Francine, in apron behind the counter, regards him. Her gaze does not waver. Looking up, he is startled. He looks away first, sipping his coffee. “Do I know you,” she asks.
“Do you?” He seems disinterested.
“If so it isn’t a happy memory.”
He throws his hands up and shrugs. “Not guilty.”
“You did something.”
He holds the cup to his mouth with both hands now. “A lot of things.”
Francine speaks to a co-worker and comes out from behind the counter to sit beside him. “Why did you come back?” She studies Roger’s expressionless face.
“I never left.” They are both silent. He sighs. “I drive long distance trucks all across the country. I’m just passing through.”
“You did too leave, and broke Mama’s heart. And took Jenny with you! Mama’s still waiting for you both to return.”
Francine looks around. “Where’s Jenny?”
Roger sighs again. “Can you take a break and step outside for a minute?”
He tosses change on the counter, leads the way outside to a long-haul van and opens the passenger door. “Afraid to get in the cab with me?”
“Of course not,” she replies as he helps her up into the cab and closes the door.
Once inside, Roger speaks immediately. “I hear Dad died of a heart attack ten years ago, soon after I left.”
“You mean after you and Jenny left. Neither one of you came to the funeral.”
As Francine looks on, Roger’s eyes close in a wince which he holds for several seconds. “Francie, Jenny’s in the ground under what used to be our bulb flower bed.” He pauses and blows his nose, looking away from Francine. “You had all gone to church, and I stayed home with strep throat. I watched from my attic bedroom window.”
Francine makes an unintelligible sound and says, “Who!”
Roger’s face knots again. “You know. I don’t want to say his name.”
She sits, uncomprehending, then says, “Dad?!” Her voice is tight.
Roger does not answer at once, then says, “You may not have known it, but he had been molesting Jenny for months. I think she finally threatened to tell, and he couldn’t afford that.”
Francine, speechless, stares at her brother.
Roger continues, “I was a coward. I knew he would see it reflected in my eyes, and I was afraid. But I couldn’t destroy Mom. Or even turn my own father in. I left the house immediately, grabbing my medicine and a few things at random and hitched a ride south.
“But I never left, 
Francie. My whole life has been anchored to you and Mom. I couldn’t destroy Mom, and I couldn’t transfer my burden onto you.” He pauses a minute. “Or see my dad rot away forever behind bars, or worse.
“I’ve always missed Jenny, too.”
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