DECORATION DAY

When I was a child growing up in Iowa, Memorial Day was called Decoration Day. Decoration Day started after the Civil War to honor those that died during that war. Somewhere along the way it became Memorial Day. On that special day, the females in the family rose at dawn to pick flowers from gardens, arrange them in jars and tin cans that had been covered with fabric, and load them into the car for the trip to the cemeteries. Then they would pack a big picnic basket of food to take with us. Everyone climbed into the car and off we'd go to every cemetery within driving distance where our ancestors were buried. And there were lots of them, on both sides of my family. At each stop, Mom or Grandma-when she was alive-would choose the appropriate flower bouquets and we'd tend each grave. Tending meant pulling any stray weeds away, tossing old dried up flowers or plants, arranging the fresh ones, then reminiscing about the people buried there. This is how I've learned most of my family history. Traveling from grave to grave, hearing stories of pioneers traveling from the east coast to Iowa to make their homes. I also heard stories about the military service of my ancestors, even back to the American Revolution. I can close my eyes right now and see myself standing amongst those graves. To me it was beautiful, and an event I looked forward to all year.

Now, Decoration Day is Memorial Day, and more than remembering and honoring those that have gone before us, it's a day to gather friends together to barbeque, drink, and celebrate the unofficial beginning of summer. I've talked with other boomers who used to visit cemeteries, but our children have little interest in doing so. Too bad we've lost that tradition.

Thank you to all those service members who have honored us all by serving in our military. 

Boomers: Choices

I drive five hundred miles alone

With the music I love feeding my soul

And I find myself again

Tucked away in a corner of my heart

For safekeeping

There I am

Curled into a ball of disappointment

Wrapped in the shell of someone I don't really know

Waiting

Choices I've made

Roads I've taken

It's too late now

But I wish I'd known

How far they were taking me from the girl I once was

Once upon a time

I was fearless

I didn't bow to anyone

Even as a tiny child

I said I'll do it myself

When did I allow someone else to take over

How do I get my life back before it's too late

I wonder

How did I come to the point

Where safe was the way to go

I vowed

I'd never be one of those

No, not me

I wouldn't give up on myself

I was far too strong

I knew it wasn't the right thing to do

And yet, here I am

Having done exactly the thing I said I wouldn't

Where do I go from here

How do I gather the strength to say

Enough, I've had enough

I'm taking my power back

If that means I'm alone, then so be it

And so, a small fire starts to burn inside

A flicker of hope

Maybe it's not too late

I may still have time

To become the person I want to be.

Mom and Me, Going to the OC

This was taken at the Buddhist Temple in La Habra Heights a year or so ago when Mom came for a visit. Tomorrow we're heading for the OC again. Mom doesn't live in the OC, but visits often. This past Wednesday, I drove 500 miles in my rented Impala. I love the drive every now and then. This time I took lots of CD's I hadn't listened to in months, maybe years, and I listened to music all the way. I stopped every 2 hours to stretch my legs, refill the coffee mug, and fill the car gas tank. I left rain in the OC and it was gone by the time I reached Harris Ranch. Blue skys, beautiful mountain views, and acres of crops all around. Gorgeous. I arrive on Wednesday in time to visit with my nephew and brothers. Thursday Mom and I drove to Chico and did a little shopping, lunch, and went to the cemetary outside of Orland to visit Dad's grave. Yes, we boomers do some grave visiting every now and then. Friday we went back to Chico to visit cousin Jennifer, then visited the Glenn Fair. Fun. I visited the animal barns until I'd had enough of cow poop, the we came home to get ready for the trip tomorrow.

It seems so peaceful and quiet here, the birds sing all day long, and I can sit on the porch and pet the stray cats that have taken up residence here. Yet, brother Larry had to go out on a call last night to report on a murder in Hamilton City, just 10 miles away. Not so different from home.

Back to the OC tomorrow. We boomers burn up the highways.

PILES AND LISTS

Yes, piles. But not the kind you immediately thought of. I know there are "those" piles that boomers can relate to, but the kind I'm talking about are the kind in the picture.

Recently we went on a boomer retreat, otherwise known as a golf tournament weekend. While the boomer guys (known either as Dicks or Tims) were slaying dragons on the golf course, the boomer girls (Janes and Sallys) were having a tea party while watching the royal wedding (champagne and mimosas were also included--we are boomers), going to the movies to see the one about the old guy that ran away to join the circus, and then we lunched. During our lunch, we got on the subject of piles and lists. It seems in every boomer family there's a pile maker and a list maker. You can see by the picture that I have a pile maker in my household. The pile rule is the piles must stay in certain places. The office being the main one, then a corner of the kitchen table, and perhaps part of the kitchen counter. When the piles start growing and expanding, the non-pile maker in the household must lay down the law. I know, I know, pile and list makers are very organized. One of the Jane pile makers did admit to just moving her piles around and rearranging them but never throwing anything away.

My favorite story from that enlightening lunch was one Jane told. Dick and Jane had married when they were older after both having lost their spouses. One day, Jane had to go in for a minor surgery. Dick drove her to the surgery center, dropped her off, and promised to come back for her when she was ready to go home. Though he's quite forgetful, Dick did return as promised, and when Jane got into the car she noticed a yellow post it note on the steering column. It read simply, "Pick up wife." Her name wasn't even on it. Just "wife". Jane will never let Dick forget it.

Boomers in the OC. Well, maybe this was actually Egypt. But I'm an OC Boomer!

Here I am in Egypt. The pyramids at Giza to be exact. My husband fixed me up with these two handsome fellows, but they couldn't come up with enough camels to buy me, so I got to come back to the OC.

This is one of the many things we OC boomers do. We love to travel all over the world and come back to the OC to share our tales and pictures with those that don't go with us. Usually we do so in one of the many fantastic restaurants here in the OC, and drink a bottle or two or three of wine while we're regaling all with our stories. Like when we were in Egypt, there was a church bombing in Alexandria shortly after we left, and there was a terrible bus accident involving Americans while we were there, too. We ate strange fish, and were forced to drink only Egyptian wine-when we could find that. Wine is hard to come by in a Muslim country. A revolution broke out shortly after we'd returned home. I hope we had nothing to do with it, but it seems there were protests and revolutionary activity when we were in Kenya, too. Hmmmm.

I hope you all enjoy my boomer blog. Look out boomer friends. I'm on the lookout for funny stories. None of you will escape. I may change the names to protect the innocent.

As an aside. I really like the newest Viagra commercial with the cowboy who gets his truck stuck in the mud and unloads his horses from the trailer to pull the truck out. Makes so much more sense to me than the Cialis commercial where he's in one bathtub and she's in another. I'll never get that one.

FREE BOOK: CORNFLOWER BLUE

Chapter 1

     Alone on the platform, Misty Dawn James watched the Amtrak train she’d just disembarked pull away from California’s Fullerton Station and disappear into the night. This was supposed to be the beginning of her new life, and she’d never felt so alone. 

     The train station parking lot was crowded with cars circling for spaces, and Misty found it difficult to maneuver while carrying her bags.

     “You look a bit lost. Would you like some help?”

     Misty jumped, startled. She hadn’t heard anyone approach. “I...I’m looking for a pay phone.”

     “Where are you going?”

     Misty was unable to answer for a moment. The strikingly handsome, tall young man standing in front of her caught her off guard. He had black hair, dark brown eyes, and a sparkling white smile.

     She pointed in the direction of The Old Spaghetti Factory. “The ticket clerk in the train station said there was a phone in the restaurant.”

     “You don’t want to carry those bags over there. Use my cell phone.”

     He handed her his phone, and waited patiently.

     “Are you sure? I’ll pay you.”

     The young man laughed. “You don’t need to pay me. I have no social life since I’m always either at school or work, so I have lots of minutes I never use.”

     Misty took a piece of paper from her pocket and dialed the number written on it. She listened to it ring several times and was about to give up when it was finally answered.

     “Aunt Marigold? I’m here. Can you come get me?” Misty asked.

     “Where the hell are you? Your parents are going crazy with worry.”

     “In California. I’m at the train station in Fullerton.”

     “The train? Why didn’t you fly?”

     Misty turned away so the young man wouldn’t hear her and whispered into the phone. “I wanted to see the countryside, that’s why. I’ve never been out of Iowa.”

     “Why didn’t you tell your parents where you were going? And why didn’t you give me some warning?” Marigold didn’t wait for an answer. “Never mind. I’ll be right there and you can tell me the whole story when we get you home.”

     Misty handed the cell phone back to the handsome man. “Thanks a lot. My aunt is coming to pick me up.”

     “You’re welcome. Wait over there under the light so you’ll be safe. I would wait with you but I have to go start my shift.”

     Misty felt a shiver of apprehension flood over her. “Should I be worried about being out here alone?”

     “Your eyes are as big as saucers. You look scared out of your wits.”

     Misty swallowed hard before speaking. “I’ve never been in a big city. I kind of grew up sheltered. Is it dangerous here?”

     “Not really. Fullerton is safe, but you kind of stand out.”

     “What do you mean by that?”

     “Actually, you look innocent and kinda vulnerable with all your suitcases and bags piled around.” He touched her shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “Look, if your aunt doesn’t show or anything, come and get me. Just ask for Esteban. I’m sorry I have to go.”

     Misty watched him jog across the parking lot towards The Old Spaghetti Factory. When she couldn’t see him any longer, she lugged her bags back to the sidewalk under the light to wait for her aunt.

If you would like to read more, visit my website at www.kathypratt.org and send me your contact information. The first 25 people to respond will be sent a free copy of Cornflower Blue.

THE DASHING YOUNG MAN ON THE FLYING TRAPEZE

     One evening I arrived at work, walked onto the ward, and was greeted by the sight of Mr. Sims swinging himself by both arms while hanging from the trapeze bar over his bed. I looked towards the nurse's station and saw that the RN, Mrs. Brown, was on the phone. I hoped she was calling the doctor to help Mr. Sims.

     Mr. Sims was a tanned, wiry little man who lived in the Imperial Valley in California, close to the Mexican border. He was a farmer and grew alfalfa, barley and cotton on his acres. He'd been involved in an accident with farm equipment and lost both of his legs just above the knees. He was admitted to our unit to be fitted with artificial legs, rehabilitated, and ultimately sent back home to his farm. Mr. Sims was a humble man, quiet, and very polite. What we didn't know about him was he was also a closet alcoholic. He'd kept that little tidbit of information from us during his admission interview. Him swinging naked from the trapeze was our first clue he might be having DT's.

     Mrs. Brown called his family in Brawley and they confirmed that Mr. Sims was indeed a drinker and had been without alcohol since coming to our hospital three days earlier. Perfect timing for withdrawal. Mrs. Brown then called the doctor on call and received orders to give the patient Paraldehyde injections. Now there are much better medications, but in 1968, this was all we had. Paraldehyde was a thick, viscous solution, that smelled to high heaven of a strong chemical with a little vinegar mixed in. The odor is very distinctive and can be smelled on the breath of anyone who takes it. It had to be drawn out of the vial using large bore needles, and then injected slowly into a large muscle. Guess who got that job?

     I drew the medication dose up in two syringes, enlisted the help of several nurse aides, and went to Mr. Sims bedside. There was no reasoning with Mr. Sims, so we had to pry his hands free from the trapeze bar and get him back onto the mattress. This was no small feat. Mr. Sims was little, but he was powerful from all his years of farm work. We finally got him down and turned onto his stomach so I could inject each syringe fully into the large muscle on his backside. He screamed like a banshee throughout the whole procedure, but eventually settled down and went to sleep. Within a couple of days he was back to being his normal, polite and kind self. We couldn't resist teasing him a bit about his flying trapeze act, though. He did recover, get two new prosthetics for legs, and went back to Brawley to his farm. I hope he didn't start drinking again, but life experience tells me he most likely did.

AMAZON KINDLE AND STUFF

I've just published Miss Dairy Queen on Amazon Kindle as an ebook. I've decided to become my own publishing company. Me and Amazon are doing this together. And I'm going to sell every book I write for 99 cents! 99 CENTS! Doesn't get any better than that. Miss Dairy Queen was formerly titled Cornflower Blue, so if you bought it, don't buy this one unless you really like the cool cover. I love those calves! I'm also selling Medicinal Remedies and Bless us Father for 99 CENTS. I'm working on a sequel to Miss Dairy Queen, California Gals, and it should be finished this summer.

Here's the scoop on Amazon Kindle books. In order to buy and read them on a device, you must be a registered Amazon user, register your reading device, and you must download the Kindle application onto your reading device. Following is a list of reading devices in addition to the KINDLE itself:

iPad

iPhone

iPod touch

PC

MAC

Blackberry

Android-based devices.

When I got my iPad I gave Mom my Kindle. My husband registered his iPad on my Amazon account, and I also registered my Verizon Droid on Amazon. We all share books that way. I buy one book and can download it onto all 4 devices.

And yes, I DO read books on my Droid. I always have it with me and have been stuck in waiting rooms many times and am grateful to have a book to read. Okay, I know I'm an addict. But hey, there are worse addictions.

Please, please, please buy and read my books!