I like wind chimes.

I have a set hanging on the still side of the wraparound porch. I put them there so that they would not constantly be chiming, as that section of the porch is next to a magnolia tree, and facing the neighbors porch.

They have a pleasant set of tones. They have the same opening notes as “Amazing Grace” – but they gently sway and sound out in a random, differing pattern of notes.

Most of the time, the wind chimes are perfectly still. I live in the South, a land of humidity and stillness.

Until it isn’t.

A cold front is moving through tonight. “Blustery”, the local weather anchors proclaim, as the temperature drops from 76° to 38° in less than 12 hours.

First came the rain, pushed by the blustering winds that usher in the cold. It’s our version of winter – long weeks of mild temperatures, interrupted occasionally by what would pass as fall winter in most of the rest of the country.

For me, my wind chimes signal change.

When they began to sway, pipes touching melodiously, I know that change is coming. A cold front. A rainstorm. Even more violent tropical occurrences throughout summer and fall.

It’s change. The chaotic, volatile, random sound of change.

This new year, I hear the chimes of change. I feel the restlessness inside me, and the storms that are on my radar are not what stir the winds.

Rather, I see my life going down a new path. More rest? Maybe. Back to college? Perhaps. Finally writing my novel?

Inevitable.

My emotions are as unsettled as the random notes in the night. My mind, though, is still.

Change is coming, indeed.

Time will tell where it takes me.

This is the first year in my memory for decades that I haven’t had a cat in the house.

Last year, I lost my cat, Toby.

It wasn’t a good ending.

Toby was 14 years old, an indoor car.

Toby Wan Kenoby, Tobias – he was a sweet little black and white cat.

We got him from a friend of my son. We had him from eight weeks to 14+ years.

He was there first.

Then came a couple of dogs – both the 5 year old lab and the Aussie pup knew that Toby was in charge.

They would play, but Toby would end it when he was done.

We had many foster dogs come through our home, both puppies and grown dogs.

There was never a problem. Toby would go upstairs and hide, and when he felt it was safe to come investigate, he would.

Then came Layla.

A 10 month old rescued German Shepherd. We were assured she did well with dogs and cats.

From the start, the hunt was on. Unfortunately, my Aussie joined in the constant pursuit and harassment of Toby.

We put a gate at the top of the stairs, and Toby got the whole upstairs to himself.

Layla would always be on the lookout for Toby.

Layla is an anxious dog, but she has been very sweet.

One day, I left both Layla and Mitzi out of their crates. Mitzi was freely roaming house for several years as of last year.

Layla was not left out often – and almost never without our supervision.

I left them out because I was gone for less than an hour. I came home, and the dogs were upstairs, barking.

I called them down, crated Layla, and got ready for work as a travel nurse.

That afternoon, our son found Toby, dead in the tub, a bloody scene in the upstairs bath.

I can’t get over it.

Initially, I wanted to give Layla away. I knew, though, that she would probably be put down.

I went and talked to my vet. A long talk. He basically said it was my call, but if she left our home, it would be a death sentence.

I don’t know Layla’s history – at ten months, she was dumped at a kill shelter.

She chases squirrels in the back yard, and when she found newborn squirrels in a nest that had fallen from our tree, she carefully brought them both to the covered back porch.

I miss my cat. I miss my kitten cat. I feel tremendous guilt. They coexisted for over two years, but we limited their time together.

We often brought Toby down and held and pet him while Layla smelled him.

I’ll never know what really happened.

I just hate that it happened. I hate it.

I have no closure.

Now I’m really feeling it. Toby loved sitting under the Christmas tree. Memories and pictures are flashing past my eyes.

It will be years before I get another cat. It can’t happen until Layla has gone over the rainbow bridge.

It hurts.

To Toby, and to my kids, I’m sorry.

Rip 2021.

It’s the eternal question…has the internet come for our good, or for our harm?

When it comes to social media – I cannot find anything that is good for us as a society.

Quite the contrary.

I know there are literally huge numbers of good, honest people doing the basic on the internet. Internet searches, and keeping in touch with friends and loved ones through email or Facebook.

They are far eclipsed by the Twitter and Tiktok, self promoting fakers, though.

It is interesting to know somebody personally, and then look at their social media.

As I read or listen to their posts, and I know that everything they say is a complete and total lie, I wonder what kind of person it takes to even expend the energy to repurpose their life in that shallow way.

The backstory is a lie. The image they present is a lie. Their carefully curated stories are just a 1/100 glimpse of their actual life, which is one of sloth and want. No career, no purpose, they spend their hours obsessing about themselves.

Meanwhile, the real world spins on.

I’m gonna show my age, but Tiktok is the worst.

While I find a very tiny portion of clips shared my way to be funny in the hundreds of thousands posted by the popular “influencers“, what I see from those I know it is complete fiction. From the fake image, to the faked singsong dialogue, to the carefully scripted stories, I can only pity those who have enough time to put their desperation on display. Especially knowing that it’s not seen by even a milifraction of humans on the web.

We are a society of instant fame. Fame is all consuming in the Gen Y and younger set. Trained to not see an honest days work and serving others as things to aspire to, they place their narcissist illness on the internet. Their self adoration reaches heights of self flagellation for an unseeing public. A click ticked off on the views category gives them a Sally Fields rush of “They like me! They really like me”.

Au contraire.

While the vast majority of good people work full time and then some, taking care of others, and worrying about the future of our society, the self absorbed are in a rabid circle of blasting through the daily offerings, trading likes like hits of a substance whose rush lasts only a moment.

Like a drug addict, they look for the latest thing to see or post. To one up the others in their sad circle of despair.

It’s a sad state of affairs out there. 

I hope the pendulum will swing away from this, and soon.

It’s distorted reality for much too long.

I miss the West.

I lived in Utah for over 10 years, and it’s where my soul is at peace.

I recently went to the movie theater and watched a popular western movie, and it was a visceral experience for me. The wide lens opened up a space in me that has lain empty since I left.

I could smell the sagebrush. I closed my eyes and felt the dry heat on my face, arms. I lingered in the memories of clear bright sunny days – that sepia filtered brightness born of the high desert.

When I go to my happy place, the Wasatch Front is the backdrop.

Walking along the Ogden river. Driving the canyon. Cruising the ‘Vard, with ridiculously beautiful Mount Ben Lomond smiling in the distance.

The summer shedding of the Cottonwood, with the fluffs of white floating past the budding rose bushes.

The fickle weather that can change by 50 degrees in a matter of hours. 

Oh, and winter! I miss winter. The blue white of fresh snow, silent and smooth, glistening in the moonlight, undisturbed. This memory, especially, brings peace to my mind when I am unsettled.

I live on a coast now, and I love the ocean. When it’s not summer, with its suffocating heat and humidity, I will walk the edge between sand and sea, listening to my breathing and heart rate become one with the cadence of the waves.

I love it.

My heart, however, always longs for my mountain home.

About a month ago, I had “the talk” with our youngest child.

He’s adopted. In his early 20’s now, I became his bonus mom over 14 years ago.

He’s also autistic, with a side of mild Tourette’s.

I have a rapport with him. I understand him. I see him as he is – and love him where he is.

So I said the word that needed to be said …

“So I hear you have heard you are autistic”.

Silence. As he digested my frank statement from the seat next to me, I chewed on the fact that allegedly his father had said it, and he had overheard it. However he had finally heard it, it was time to bring it into the light, and take the onus off of it.

I knew the rumor was impossible, because his father doesn’t talk about him when he is anywhere around. We are sensitive to his emotionality, and didn’t want him to hear about it like this.

“Yes” he responded.

“Do you know what that means?” I said.

More silence.

We then had a long talk about autism. About the neuropsychologist his father and I took him to when he was in middle school. How we knew he was autistic then, and how we wanted him to get help, to be the most he could be.

And why that didn’t happen.

He processed all that. He doesn’t work, doesn’t go to school, doesn’t drive and probably never will, and hasn’t been able to begin to reach the potential inside.

A lot of this is because his biggest advocate was a nurse who happened to be his stepmother. Not wicked, but right – and isn’t that just as bad?

I’ve got appointments for him with a neurologist. Finally -FINALLY! – he will get the evaluation so long overdue. He’s an adult now, and wants to understand why he is different.

He knows he is loved – and he is loving in return.

I’m glad I can facilitate getting the help he should’ve gotten so long ago.

Hopefully, together, we can help him have a better life.

At first she thought it was litter on the sides of the road.

Consistently inconsistent, it flashed white on the red clay shoulders of the two lane country road.

Rounding a curve, she saw rows and rows of muddy brown, dried out crops adorned with snowy white caps.

It was cotton, not litter.

The trucks that transported the crops from fields to processing undoubtedly sent stray tufts of cotton flying, landing on the roadsides like discarded gum wrappers.

The sky was severe clear – blue as far as the eye could see, bringing the pure white of the cotton into brighter relief.

No other cars were on the road. Half of the fields she passed in a blur were already plowed – probably peanuts, pulled and harvested in time for the festival week celebrations.

That’s not where she was headed.

A cheap hotel. A night of work. Next day, returning down the same country road.

In the quiet, she took in the bright days.

Soon enough she would return to her life.

The expectations. The unmet hopes. The air heavy with disappointment.

For now, she savored the peace.

I moved to the Gulf Coast in 2000.

Fleeing a sociopath, I landed on the edge of the Gulf of Mexico.

I didn’t want to be here. I’m a mountain girl! I hate hot weather – and cockroaches, and humidity…and hurricanes.

My first serious brush with The Weather Channel happened in 1985. I had moved to the Gulf Coast with my newborn son. Three days later, we evacuated north, escaping a forecasted hurricane that was headed directly toward our town.

I knew nothing about hurricanes. I had lived in tornado alley, and resided in states where feet of snow fell overnight. I had seen hailstorms knock the heads off every tulip in the yard.

Hurricanes are another monster all together.

In that summer of 1985, we fled without my USAF pilot father. Daddy had to stay and fly planes to safety.

From the next state up, I’d wake in the middle of the night, tiptoeing into the living room to check the latest update. I didn’t really understand anything about hurricanes – I just was very concerned for my dad.

After a couple of days we returned home, to a safe Daddy, and to minimal storm damage.

By the end of hurricane season that year, we had evacuated two more times.

When I came back in 2000, I never left. My family of origin was here, and my growing children settled here. I had to adapt.

I started following the National Hurricane Center. I monitored local and European spaghetti models, watching satellite images for signs of the eye forming – or more ominously, becoming tight and compact. I watched the barometric pressure, becoming lackadaisical about any storm less than a category 3. The tropical storms and cat 1-3 were “rode out”. I knew the west side was the best side – so storms that turned east made me relax.

Even with all technology, though, you can’t trust the storm once it gets into the warm, open waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

It’s 0300 and I’ve got the National Weather Service site up. I’m following each update, looking at the central pressure, and zooming in on the most current projected path.

My husband, elderly parents, children, and grandchildren are not in the “cone of uncertainty” – that delineated area that is most likely to have a direct landfall.

They are close to it, though. as I sit at my desk at work as a travel nurse on night shift, I’m uneasy.

Gas lines are already long back home, and gas stations are running out of fuel. The cavalier locals are preparing to have their hurricane parties.

I just want my family to be safe – knowing that even as I wish the rapidly strengthening storm to continue to head away from them, I know it will wreak certain havoc on others – dear friends who are directly in the current path.

I’m not a fan of hurricanes. I’m grateful for the technology I can follow – but I’d still rather be somewhere far from the Gulf Coast, surrounded by my family in cooler – and safer – climes.

My head is hurting. My heart is heavy.

Tonight it’s not as hot and humid, and the noseeums and mosquitos are not biting, so I’m on the porch.

The spicy leaves of the geranium waft their distinct smell at me as I sit next to them, slumping down in the wicker chair.

The fern and rose of Sharon in front of me almost touch, making a screen for me to hide behind.

I’m in my emotions.

It’s soothing here, listening to the distinct sounds of summer. Crickets. Cicadas. The occasional frog. It’s the constant background noise, from spring until winter in Florida.

I wish they hadn’t put in that street lamp. Just to my right, it pervasively shines into my self imposed solitude. I want to be anonymous. Disappear.

The light won’t let me.

So I close my eyes. Humming insects and my regular breathing are all I hear in my quiet neighborhood.

My husband joins me, and we talk softly about the things troubling my heart.

It’s been a hard day.

We don’t come up with an answer, but at least I get a chance to cry a little bit, and talk to the one person who understands my breaking heart.

I never thought being the parent of adult children would be so difficult.

To me, it’s the hardest thing I’ve yet to do.

The carefree days of their youth have long since passed.

All the love, all the concern – and you just have to release the pain. Release the expectations.

A little frog nearby starts it’s trill, and I can focus on the night again.

For now, it’s ferns and frogs…and a heart that got broken a little more today.

I breathe the geraniums peppery scent as I brush past them on the way back inside, back to reality, and perhaps some sleep.

I’m sighing as I walk through the hospital doors.

I smile with my eyes at the random people I pass.

The hospital staff, though – that’s another matter all together.

I pass room after room of Covid patients, PPE in boxes and bags outside the flagged, closed doors.

I see an exhausted housekeeper coming out of a tagged room, and I look at her with sympathy, saying “thank you so much for what you do!” I’m sincere. The housekeeping staff is working so hard, day after day. She says “thank you, ma’am” even as she’s hauling a red bag off to the soiled utility room.

A nurse and respiratory therapist run by, glancing into my eyes for a minute – a knowing glance, and I say a prayer as they whisk past me.

Soon after, a code blue is called.

A resident leans against a wall, eyes closed, shoulders down, dejected. In another time I’d reach out and grab her hand – but that time has passed into what seems is a distant memory. “She looks at me suddenly, the weight of the world in her gaze. “Hang in there,” I say softly. She drops her head and walks away.

I’m weary.

Oh, I’ve worked long days before in my 24 year career as a registered nurse – days where I measured life by the minute, for hours at a time.

Those days were here and there – anomalies. there were victories, too, and they gave me energy and hope.

No more.

Every day, life and death are playing out behind closed doors…and more often than not, death is the victor.

I keep the TV off.

When you are working the front lines, nothing anyone says about it means a damn thing. Not in the face of loss after loss after loss.

I tell my patients to stay out of the halls. I tell loved ones to keep on their masks, wash their hands, and leave out the side door.

That is, when the family is allowed to be with their loved one.

Most of all, I stress, stay away from the ER.

I look up. A helicopter crew walks by.

They are oblivious to the rain they walked though to get inside, and are grim as they pass the nurses station.

Weary.

Every day, the doctors spend all their precious time between patients trying to find higher levels of care for those who are walking the fine line between life and death.

Every bed full.

Every morgue full.

Weary.

Even as I help bring life into the world, I’m breathing through an N-95 mask. I try to express care through my eyes and tone. My gloves hands and hidden face – will they be enough for the faces looking at me, pleading for help?

I know I can pick up and work any day. Any hour. Anywhere.

Everywhere I go, they are desperate for help.

But I’m weary.

Last year was bad, but it turns out it was just a pallid harbinger of things to come.

This year is fierce, relentless, and is going after the young.

I’m not going to fight about it.

Not with what I have to see in the faces of those who are fighting at the front lines of uncertainty. 

The decay was a slow progression, viewed from the outside in.

It started with the landscaping.

In the gated, golf course community, where each yard has its own private service, and lawn equipment is running most daylight hours, this lawn went uncut. The landscaping of flowering bushes went from trimmed and even, to branches reaching up in every direction, unkempt and out of control.

The high end sedan sat on the curved drive day after day, slowly decomposing in the sun. Walking past the house, there seemed to be no signs of life – no kids playing, no humming of lawn mowers, no one splashing in the pool behind the house.

The roof aged, growing moldy, even as the pool turned greener from disuse.

People speculated on what was happening. Illness? Cancer? Death? For surely something had brought blight upon this formerly beautiful home, a perfect example of the American dream.

One day a hand scrawled “for sale by owner” sign appeared. Small and yellow, it was barely noticeable next to the large brick mailbox.

In this market, though, the house was snapped up quickly – “as is, no contingencies”. In a matter of a couple of days, it was sold, cash money, despite how worn down and depressed it looked.

A few days later, an “estate sale” sign was in the yard, again hand written almost apologetically, leaning against the slant of the steep drive.

We pulled in, ready to buy any fine furniture that was to be had, and then we saw that death had come to the house from the inside out.

The owner was scarcely past middle age. The house was frozen in time, as if the stilled grandfather clock marked the moment the internal loss began.

Pictures of high school kids, frozen in their 90’s fashions, hung askew on dated wallpaper. All around were signs of family – quotes about family, a farm style dining room that undoubtedly held many family meals, holiday decorations, and a decidedly feminine touch that had left fading memories in its wake.

Alone, the owner was quickly parted with everything he owned. His face was red, his eyes kind but bloodshot. The tops of his hands were purple. My nursing assessment grew concerned for him, and I met his eyes in honest sympathy. I reached out and told him I’d been praying for him – and I had.

Seeing the obvious loss he had been through, I wished him better.

I asked him where he was going next – he said he didn’t know. He said maybe a camper. The words were spoken matter of fact, but his sudden downward gaze and clipped silence betrayed his attempts to be nonchalant about the inevitability of what was happening.

From a gated community to a camper.

My mind flashed briefly to the times I was barely hanging on financially, living hand to mouth. It certainly wasn’t in a two storied home with dormers.

I gave him cash for the few things I purchased, and felt the heaviness of the house in mourning close in around me.

Days later, the signs were gone from the lawn, and the sedan sat empty against the curb.