Author: barbiepc

Pop. Pop. Bang. Bang. Bang. The sounds of the Civil War have returned, only this is April 12, 2011 at 6:45am – 150 years later!

Today, the sounds of war are everywhere, especially in Charleston, SC where I hear the thundering sounds of war. If these sounds are symbolic of the noise and warnings of war in America,  the rumbling thunderous sounds give me a new appreciation of freedom.

Today within the City of Charleston, Confederate forces are at Fort Sumter, SC, all dressed symbolic to the uniforms of the Confederacy. Crowds are lining up along the Battery and other areas, dressed in jeans, Tee shirts, and fashions of the times of 2011.   Union re-enactors are at Fort Sumter, the Confederate re-enactors protect the Harbor of Charleston.   

Today a cannon will fire every 15 minutes. Undoubtedly, I will not have difficulty getting my pups to come back inside when hearing the thundering rumbling sounds of the war.  

While hearing the ‘sounds of war reenacted’ I am reminded that  Americans are blessed due to the freedoms we have. The freedom to reenact a war, the freedom to speak our minds, and the freedom to protect those we love, all to the credit of war. Today, we are at war – in Afghanistan and Iraq, although some people will say we are no longer at war in Iraq. We still have troops over there, and we still hear about soldiers who lose their lives in Iraq, so — in my opinion — the war in Iraq still exist. Today, the residents and tourists of Charleston may observe the beginning sounds of the Civil War. Listening to the thunder of the cannons, I have a new appreciation about the Civil War.

Never was I a fan of the Civil War. I remember discussing the Civil War in school, and I definitely had my opinions about it, especially from the perspective of a young feminist. I believed it resembled opinions, beliefs, and bigotry I did not believe, as a thoroughly modern woman, so I will keep my opinions about the Civil War to myself. I appreciate the history and I am hopeful that as a Nation, America has risen to the occasions, recognizing that we are all equal, not divided.

Today, I will listen to the cannons exploding at Fort Sumter, thankful that I live in a City where history is preserved. I know a few of the Civil War re-enactors and I appreciate the battles they are preserving while perspiring in their heavy uniforms. I can’t help wondering how many of them have cell phones tucked within their pockets! Wouldn’t it be interesting to see one of them texting, or answering their phones. I doubt that will happen. Most of the Civil War re-enactors are serious about their work and it is a testament to them while they fight the battles.

I admire how the women of the Civil War wear their Confederate costumes, the heavy fabrics, crinolines, bonnets, and corsets. I am so thankful those fashions have changed — significantly! Today, I will listen to the Civil War as it returns, while enjoying the sunshine outside, dressed in comfortable shorts and thoroughly modern attire!  The South has risen again. Now, just where is a glass of wine!

Living in Mt. Pleasant, SC – near the starting line of the Cooper River Bridge Run, there is an aire of excitement as the sea of runners, walkers and supporting parties, workers, volunteers, etc. etc. all come together to get the Bridge Run started.

“And they’re off…” Finally. Yawn. Stretch. Yawn. “Just where is my coffee this morning?” I listen to the music and the shouting. Years ago, I looked out my kitchen window to see cars parked up and down my road, the side road, and sometimes so near my driveway I wasn’t certain I could get out. Silly.Then I remembered, the only way I could get out to run an errand was to walk. For several years, I was a bystander for the excitement.

One day I am going to walk that bridge, I continue telling myself. Never would I run it. Asthma would shut me down!

To all who run and walk, I admire your persistence, and one day, I do plan to join you. Someday. Sometimes you might see me standing on the curb cheering you on, along with the sea of people who are there — cheering — shouting — wishing and hoping that someday they will be doing the same.

Ok, so here’s my shocking goal for 2012 — I will walk during the bridge run, but please — no cameras! I’ll have to wear a fancy hat to hide my hair and face! Next year, I am doing it! I have a year to practice. I walk 2.5 miles daily — with my three precious dogs, so next year, I will do it — without them. No one wants to get in the way of my babies! With a sea of runners, walkers, spectators, I can be only one who will not be noticed! Hopefully!

Now, I’ve made the commitment to walk the bridge in 2012. Just where are my Shapeups! I need a new pair now since mine are scuffed to a smooth surface. Humph! Perhaps that is the justification to buy a new pair. They work great for walking — but if you should buy a pair, they have the tendency to rock — and — so do I!

             On March 30, 2011, my husband awoke to severe pain in the neck. Knowing he is a heart patient who suffered a TIA in December 2008, Phil phoned his primary care doctor at Ralph H. Johnson VA Hospital. For those who are not aware, a transient ischemic attack (TIA) is a mini-stroke. A TIA is considered a warning sign that a true stroke may be about to happen. Time is crucial to receive medical care. Phil phoned the TAPS line to make an appointment to see his primary care doctor. When the nurse at the VA hospital returned his call, he listened to the symptoms, telling my husband he would receive a return call from the doctor within twenty-four hours. “Twenty-four hours,” I replied. “If you are having a TIA there may not be 24 hours We’re going to E-R!”

            Arriving at E-R of the VA Hospital, I noticed a sign, “No cell phones permitted in this area.” I turned my cell phone off. We entered the emergency area, standing in line awaiting a simple nod from someone acknowledging our presence. We watched the employee answer the telephone, hang it up, answer another telephone, while placing it on the desk to answer her personal cell phone. Upon answering her personal cell, she motioned that she wasn’t assisting with patients and walked away. We crossed over to the other line, now filled with two people who arrived after we did. Finally we were serviced and my husband told them he was a heart patient and had a TIA in 2008. His neck was causing excruciating pain and he wanted to make certain he wasn’t having a stroke. Almost immediately, my husband’s vitals were checked. Within 30 minutes he was moved back to the E-R area, examination room 10.

            For two-and-a- half hours we sat in the room. No one came to check on his condition. In the corridor my husband listened to the nurses and assistants chattering away about their lives, partying, marriage, while answering their cell phones and surfing on the Internet. My husband is a Vietnam Veteran with PTSD so patience isn’t something he tolerates well. After waiting for such a long time, I approached these people, greeting them diplomatically. “Could you please give me an estimate of how much longer it will be before my husband sees a doctor?”

            Hannah, the young, attractive blonde dressed in orange scrubs glanced up from her laptop screen. “We have a lot of patients. Many are sicker than your husband, so we don’t know how long it will be.”

            “You do realize my husband could be having another TIA. I am certain when the doctor arrives he will recommend an X-ray, and then we’ll have to continue the wait. Strokes demand a quick response.”

             The nurse shrugged her shoulders. “We looked at his records, but I don’t know how much longer it will be.”

            “Why is it always such a long waiting game every time we come here?” I asked. “My husband could be having a stroke.”

            Recognizing I was getting nowhere, I turned back to my husband’s examination room. The nurse replied, “You can always go somewhere else…”

            I spun on my heel, approached the blonde again and replied… “That is the wrong thing to say to someone, especially a Veteran. When the USA needed them, they did not say they could go somewhere else to avoid war…How dare you say that to a veteran. Perhaps you should go somewhere else to work…”

            Arriving back at my husband’s room, I was so angry I was shaking. Within two minutes a doctor entered the room, introducing himself as Dr. Edward O’Bryan.” He examined my husband, testing his balance, doing all the necessary tests to determine he was not having a stroke. The diagnosis was neck strain. A shot was given, prescriptions written and a request for an X-ray was completed. While speaking with the doctor, I demanded to know the blonde nurse’s name. “Hannah,” was the reply. Dr. O’Bryan was 100% professional with a great bedside manner. I explained my concerns to him, along with the words expressed by the nurse. He apologized. I let him know I was taking notes, would write a letter to my Congressional Representative, and would write additional stories about this experience. He nodded. Later, I spoke with a nursing supervisor who reassured me that the nurse in question had been reprimanded.

            Isn’t it a shame that sometimes it takes a bit of assertiveness to get the necessary care at a VA Hospital. When our veterans went to war the expression, “Hurry up and wait,” became a cliché. In 2011, it is not just a cliché, but appears to be a standard operating procedure at Ralph H. Johnson VA Hospital. It is a pity that veterans are treated in such a way. Whatever happened to the promises made? Our veterans fight wars to protect our freedom. I find it inconceivable that when they need a little TLC and examinations they are told to “Go somewhere else.” Our Veterans deserve better treatment and medical care. They made our country proud, not a disgrace!

As a child, I was described as ‘feisty’ — ;never a Southern Belle.’ After my father died, I read some of his collection of diaries, reading about his description of me at the age of two. Paraphrasing here, “Although only two-years-of-age, Barbara likes to be the center of attention. Tonight at a Parent Teachers meeting for her oldest sister, Dolores, Barbara truly took over the conversation…she enjoys the looks of others and loves to dramatize things…”

Humph! Haven’t a clue what I did, but my Dad truly nailed me! I have always been described as “not a Southern Belle…” I suppose I am more of a “Steel Magnolia” than a Southern Belle, especially if the definition of steel magnolia is a woman who is strong, independent, feminine, but fights for the rights to be a feminist.

Yep. That is me! To those who really know me, they understand why I am a feminist…and so proud to be a feminist. I am married to a true Male Chauvinistic Pig…Mr. Macho Man. For too many years he has demanded me to ‘sit and be quiet. Don’t make a spectacle of yourself. A wife should be seen and not heard.’ This, from a man who fought a war and who has seen me fight for the rights of children, especially abused children…fight for the rights of animals…fight to end domestic abuse, and most especially, fight for the rights of women. There have been many times in my life when I have seen a man hit a woman, or a woman slap at a man, and there I go — interrupting and telling them to stop the domestic abuse to one another.

I suppose you could say I became a feminist at five-years-old. My family and I lived in the Projects of Joel Chandler Homes, Atlanta, GA. My mother was outside, “gossiping with the women,” when my dad walked outside, angry at my mother — again. He demanded her to come inside. When she refused, he knocked her to the ground. She cut her head on the concrete curb. The gossipy women watched in horror, refusing to say anything, while I ran after my dad, grabbing his pant leg, telling him to ‘stop beating my mama…You’re mean, Daddy. You’re a mean man.”

On that afternoon, I became a feminist, and I haven’t stopped. I will always stand up and shout to end domestic abuse, even when my husband rolls his eyes, shakes his head and mumbles, “Damn. There she goes again!” While I recognize I embarrass him at times, I will stand up to be heard, just like my father told me years ago…I will not hide my head in the sand. I will not look the other way…I will not hush! When I see someone doing something they should not do, I will stand up to fight back, with diplomacy, and I will stand tall so other women get the rights they deserve. In my corporate years, I experienced how women were not paid what they should be paid, simply because ‘she’s a woman…’  On one occasion, when I questioned why a man got a raise when I was doing the same retail management job as he was, I was told if I made any noise, I would be terminated. Less than a month later, I was “Terminated…”

And so, my journey continues. I am proud to be a woman. While I enjoy the looks of men, and I enjoy being ‘totally feminine’ — I am the first to open and hold the door — for a man, and I do not expect a man to give up his seat for me. Nor do I expect a man to buy me a drink, or to pick up the tab! My husband and I share this responsibility, and I love to drive — especially on long trips! I enjoy being a Steel Magnolia and Feminist. After all, “I am woman — hear me roar!”

This has been a sad week for news, especially related to news of significant women, considered icons. First, we lost the stunning beauty and advocate, Elizabeth Taylor. Today, we learn about the loss of Geraldine Ferraro.

Geraldine Ferraro was iconic because she was the first woman to be nominated as the running mate for the position of Vice President, back in 1984, running with Walter Mondale. Although I was a bit of a novice regarding politics, at the time, I was thrilled and suddenly extremely proud to be a woman since society was finally recognizing the power and strength of women in our modern worlds. Growing up during the “women’s movement” I stood my ground, speaking up and the more I listened to these powerful and strong women, the more I wanted to be more than a ‘homemaker.’

Although Ferraro did not become Vice President, she stood her ground, refusing to allow men or her actions to weaken her, or intimidate who, and what, she became.

We, the women of America, will miss Geraldine Ferraro. It is unfortunate that the big “C” word has taken another victim. Just when will they find a cure to end Cancer — for Every One! Although I was never permitted the privilege to meet her, I admired the courage, determination and strength she held, not just for women, but for the US of A. Rest in peace, Geraldine. We mourn your passing.

Today the world grieves an icon, a legendary actress who stood her ground, even when the chips were against her. Elizabeth Taylor, a beauty, a legend and a woman of stunning magnitude, even in her ‘senior years,’ died today around the comforts and love of her family.

I remember how much my mother admired her, speaking often about her beauty. Yes, she lived a full life, with many marriages under her belt; nevertheless, she was an advocate for many charities. The world will miss her, along with her generosity to the AIDS charities and so many more organizations.

No one will probably ever equal her stunning beauty. Today, we grieve. Rest in peace, Elizabeth Taylor. The world aches now that you are resting.

Today has been a sad day for me, one I haven’t experienced since 1999. Today, I visited a close friend at Hospice.  If you have never visited a Hospice, be thankful. It is an eerie site as you enter.

Entering the pleasant, appealing facility, I signed in and started walking along the wide, open corridors, peering into a room here and there, seeing people of all types and ages. Not wanting to invade their privacy, I continued my journey. Finding my friend’s room, I knocked, entered, seeing that she was asleep. I sat next to her bed, touching her ever so lightly on the arm. She opened her eyes, smiled and said, “Hello.”

The TV was on, so I sat quietly, listening to “The View.” Never have I watched that program and although I listened, I could not quote one word discussed. I did note Barbara Walters looked well, but this program could be a re-run.  Don’t even ask me who else was on the show, with exception of Whoopie Goldberg.  While my friend dozed, I sat by her side, still listening to the chattering TV and noticing people as they walked along the corridor.

Hospice interiors leave me chilled. I’m not exactly the type of personality to sit and watch TV while one sleeps but my friend is ill and today I felt the need to be there for her, not for myself.

The room was decorated nicely, I suppose, for a Hospice. A framed picture of Church Street, Downtown Charleston hangs on the wall. On a shelf are several books, untouched, perhaps dusty, although I didn’t reach high enough to check. The top shelf contained books of some of my favorite authors — Danielle Steele, Pat Conroy and other authors I cannot recall. Because I am not exactly a tall person, I could not stretch high enough to reach them and really wasn’t interested in scanning any of them. Today, I was visiting my friend, not doing something that interests me. On another shelf sat a framed picture of my friend’s daughter and her grandchildren. Such a beautiful family smiled back at me. Today, their smiles are a bit hard to bear, knowing the mother and grandmother is in a Hospice, fighting for her life.  Today, life has changed significantly for all of them. Tomorrow will be another day, bright with sunshine. Birds will still chirp and fly away. The skyline will fill the earth will warmth and the promise of more days to come. Tomorrow holds a promise of laughter, hopes and dreams for the future while my friend battles to see tomorrow as the clock of time fades away.  Today I was able to kiss her gently on the cheek, whisper words of assurance and love and walk outside to enjoy the warm spring sunshine while my friend battles to see another day.  Today, I am thankful for being her friend, and tomorrow I will reach out to see her again.

So, here I go again — free writing. Much too exhausted to think, and I need to work on upcoming projects, research, newsletters and such, but — I’m too tired. Last night, I awoke at 3am — the usual time. I fought to go back to sleep, afraid that if I fell into a deep sleep I might not awaken at 7am to care for my puppy. Our precious little Maltese is getting her teeth cleaned today, along with having a few extractions. She is such a tiny little love bug, I hated to put her through the procedure, but the Vet assured me she will be fine. It is now 1:35pm. In less than two hours I will have been awake for 12+ hours.  Little Princess’ procedure was scheduled for 11:40am. Suppose I am being a worry wart, but I really wish the phone would ring, just to reassure me that all is well. Isn’t there a cliche somewhere about ‘no news is good news?’

So, here I am just free writing with a blank mind. According to writing experts, free writing is a way of inspiration and good training for writing. Not today! My brain is clogged. It needs to download, but I don’t have a smart card to download it to — nothing is computing.

‘Get some sleep’  friends say. Easier said than done. Gees, it is a day for cliches, isn’t it!

To heck with free writing today. Think I’ll click the remote to my Ipod and play some rocking music. I could use some exercise, but I’m just so tired!

How long does it take to clean a precious pup’s teeth?

I have a special friend who is slowly leaving our special group of friends. The situation she is in is truly breaking my heart. All of this came to a reality shocker after the holidays.

As a group, the twelve to sometimes twenty of us, have grown extremely close. Our blending is interesting. Let me see, we have widows, widowers, divorcees, singles and of course the rarest of sorts — my husband and I. I say we are the rarest because Phil and I are — shall we say — interesting. He is 1,000% my opposite.

Back to scene — and the reason for this blog today.  On New Year’s Eve, most of the group got together to ring in the new year quietly. After we all were gathered, several of us noticed how quiet our ‘friend’ Elizabeth was — note here –Elizabeth is not her real name. Elizabeth appeared a bit distant. Most of us thought she was annoyed with us, or simply wanted to be alone, as I do many times. Nevertheless, we continued to joke and tease never recognizing something was wrong. Eight days later the phone rang late at night. When I took the call, tears filled my eyes.

“Elizabeth is in the hospital,” another friend said. My heart pounded as I realized my suspicions were correct; however, never did I realize how correct I was.

Now, it is March. Elizabeth is at home now, resting and living the last of her days. Ever so slowly, I am recognizing how precious life is, and how quickly this precious gift called life can change. In the blink of an eye, something can happen to change things. I visit with Elizabeth at least once weekly now. Originally, I wanted to visit every other day, but with each visit, I see something slipping away. A vacant stare. Inability to walk around without the danger and chance of her falling. Silence.  Although I try to carry a conversation with her, I cannot. Elizabeth looks at me and I can visualize the wheels of her mind attempting to download information — like a computer downloading something, only to lock up and freeze. These are the actions of Elizabeth now.

With each visit, I strive to build the puzzle for Elizabeth. The foundation  of the puzzle, the framework, is there, but the pieces of the puzzle are not fitting or interlocking like I pray for them to blend together. With each visit, I tell myself to pray harder for a miracle, and when I get home, I find myself wanting to scream. “God, are you listening? Elizabeth needs you. I need you. Our group needs you to grant us a miracle. Her precious grandchildren need you, along with her family. We need a miracle, God. We can’t let go! Please give us a miracle.”

For two weeks, I cooked dinner on some evenings for the family, hoping to do something to let them know how much I care and how precious my friends are to me. Phil and I dropped the meals over and left, not wanting to interrupt the normalcy of their lives. Of course, these are not ‘normal times’ for them. The sunroom has been redecorated with hospital beds, carts and a wheel chair and a monitor. Gone is the four poster king size bed.

Pictures of the children, collages of life when kids were small, life, love and marriage were so demanding and busy. Memories — now framed within beautiful 8×10’s; 4×6’s, preserved forever — such happy, smiling faces glaring back as we admire. If only we could reach out and make those memories our lives again.

Most of the times, the blinds in the sun room are closed. The room is a bit darker than I remember.  How I want to see the sunshine beaming inside the sun room again. I want to hear laughter, to share a simple cup of fresh coffee again.

I keep thinking there must be something else I can do, only I cannot find an answer. And so, another distant friend shared a good piece of advice one day. “You need to write about Elizabeth,” she said. “Just get it down. Cry. Write. Perhaps that is the gift you can share with all.”

“And why didn’t I think of that?” I said.

Last Saturday my husband and I dropped by to visit with Elizabeth. Sitting next to her, I was lost for words, unable to share much, so we sat, watching TV, occasionally playing with the kitten and making small talk. It seems that small talk is all we can share now.

Isn’t it amazing how quickly life can slip away? One moment you are giddy with a special friend, sharing girl talk, laughter and special moments — not to mention the secrets. You blink your eyes, and things change. Suddenly a light begins to fade, from brightness, to brilliance, and slowly dissolving — fading away into darkness.

Still, I pray for a miracle. Friends are so special in my life and when I define someone as a friend, I truly mean he or she has become a special portion of family to me. Elizabeth is a true friend, someone I will remember and cherish for the rest of my life. Still, I pray for that miracle and I do all I can to show God how much I believe in miracles. And if a miracle is not granted — I pray that life will be better for Elizabeth in the future, and I hope she will know how precious and dear she is to me and how much she has meant in my life. For years, I drove by Elizabeth’s house, waving to her whenever I saw her outside. I didn’t have the time to stop to get to know her better. Later, I said. Our paths crossed and we knew one another, but we didn’t become close friends until later. How silly and foolish I have been. Always too busy to stop to make the time for a friend. I shall never forgive myself for making that mistake and I have vowed to share friendship now.

I am thankful that I took the time to drop by just last November. Phil and I had a horrible fight and I was ready to throw in the towel again. Just how many times have I thought about doing that? TOO MANY! Instead, I phoned Elizabeth. We played telephone tag for about two hours and finally connected. I need company and advice, I said. She laughed that delicious laughter she always has. “Come on over,” she teased. “Just what has Phil done this time!”

For two hours I filled her ears full of the life and times of my life with Phil. She listened, never telling me what to do. So like her just to sit and listen without criticizing or telling me to leave. She knows me well and recognized that I was simply blowing steam so I could go home and act like a real lady should. Elizabeth is that type of friend — a rare, refined lady who knows how to listen without distracting your life, or making you feel like a total idiot for working so hard to make marriage work. I miss those special visits so much.

Perhaps I will share more about Elizabeth in future editions of this blog. For now, I find it most difficult to simply ‘open that vein and bleed’ as one writer described years ago in a writing conference. The pain is too fresh and I have to find more creative ways to show Elizabeth how much I care.

Today has been a ‘typical’ Monday, starting off with the phone ringing — shall I say — almost continuously, along with the doorbell. Apparently a service company I shall not name forgot to tell me during a phone conversation that they were scheduling the service for early Monday morning. Since I was not exactly dressed for the day — still sipping my morning coffee and relaxing while working in my shorty p.j.’s, I refused to answer the door. Ring. Ring. Ring, goes the telephone. I chose to allow the answering machine to do its magic. Now, I ask you — why must I be interrupted by the silly telephone when I have better things to do.

And so, starts the week. To quote an old cliché — “Calgon, take me away.” What I should say — is — where is the Chardonnay, or White Zinfandel?” Ok, it’s just a bit early to be sipping a glass of wine, but this day has put me to the test.

Have you ever had a day where everything is planned? Things to Do list is ready to be checked off. #1 – Write the notes for the newsletter I am working on. #2 – Finish the notes for the Ladies Auxiliary meeting. #3 – Work on notes for “Chattahoochee Child.”

The only check mark I have accomplished is #1. Notes for the newsletter. Suddenly I realize just where my time goes. Answering the door bell. Answering the phone, and attempting to care for three dogs who seem to want outside more than inside, only to come back inside again, to scratch at the back door to say — “Hey Mom, I want outside again.” Glancing at my Things to Do I realize, I am much too busy doing non-profit volunteer work than I am working on my writing career. Perhaps that is because I am a bit burned out from writing, and I need to get a life!

Oops. Interrupted again! Shamus is whining at the back door. Silly guy. He wants inside.  And now, I hear my husband driving up. So much for a productive day today! Suppose I’ll close this and work on — NOTHING!