rambling rosemarie

Lost in thought today I found myself humming a song I learned in 7th grade. Ms Renfro taught chorus and she was an amazing woman- a renaissance hippie of sorts- way ahead of her time. She had long hair that she would grab quickly into a pony tail, twist and put up with one of those leather hair holders that had a stick run through it. The end of her pony would flop into a fan above her head. It was some twenty-five years later that I noticed women wearing their hair that way on purpose. Ms. Renfro simply wanted hers out of her way. When she put it up like that she reminded me of the NBC peacock. She was young and wore eyeliner. Until her class I had teachers who were gray haired and named Hazel Pickard and Miss Irwin. They wore my grandmother's glasses. Ms Refro wore big sun glasses pushed up on her head when she was inside. She was beautiful in an earthy sort of a way. She taught us Dona Nobis Pacem. We sang it a cappella and when we did all the parts the acoustics in the ch

Here's the thing. Sometimes, in an effort to convince myself that I am spiritually sound and full of faith, I ignore things that bother me. Do I think it's a good idea? No. Do I think that I am fooling people? Some of them, yeah I am. Do I think that God is unaware? In the moments that precede my doubting His existence I am certain of it. Today life is crashing around me. Today I have no more internal space on my hard drive to archive the emotions. They are spilling down my cheeks and calling audible plays in my sobs. I am cuss out loud miserable. No freakin' answers from me. No comforting verses. Today I don't even want a do over. I just want out. Sad part is I have no where to go. So I will shed some more tears, drink some more coffee and try to put one foot in front of the other as I pace the confines of my home and hope for reason to prevail. The trouble with being single is not having someone to tell that you're on the edge. The trouble with blogging

There are stories that when told lose something in the telling. Those same stories when written can become larger than life. I am fairly certain that Harper Lee could verbally tell a great story about growing up with Truman Capote, but her written story in To Kill a Mockingbird became much more than a few moments entertainment. It became a catalyst for social-cultural change. It grew so large and so noteworthy that she never published another novel. How could she compete with what had become the perfect novel at the perfect time to expose the imperfections of southern sensibilities? The inter-net is chock-a-block full of examples to disprove my theory. If Ivory soap is still considered 99 & 44/100% pure in a way that defines pure as good, the content of the inter-net is probably the polar opposite with 99 & 44/100% of it what is written being purely horrible. Most of it is not worth the powder it would take to blow it to hell. I cannot say that my blog is a rare exception

Families share a secret language and often use nicknames as terms of endearment. I have had several. Rosemarie is not the easiest name for children to learn and some of the more clever variations have stayed with me. Rosarie, Rockarie, Rockie, Ro, Curtis and Luigi. Ro is the one that got the best use. I know, Curtis and Luigi are a bit odd but in their context they make perfect sense. I lived in an area that at one time was used by the Oakland Raiders for summer training. My brother had a friend who played for them and he could never remember my name. One day we were all on the river enjoying a day in the sun and my brother's friend said, "You have an unusual name but I can't remember it." My response? "I know that it would be difficult for someone with a football mentality to remember. It's two whole letters. Ro. R O- take notes if you can't keep up." He laughed and said he would do his best to remember. I saw him several months later an

I miss the flying dreams of my youth. When I was young I had great flying dreams. If I could climb on something a few feet off the ground, I could push off it, stretch my arms out and be soaring. If I saw something interesting, I had to evaluate if there was something I could use to take off from again before setting down to have a look. It was exhilarating! When I went to bed I always hoped I would have a flying dream. As I got older the flying dreams became more difficult. I had to be able to jump up high enough to pull myself into a cannonball shape, arms tucked tightly around my knees. If I could do that before I began to fall, I would be encased in a clear bubble and I could stay aloft. I would be able to hover in that protection until it dissolved and then gravity would take over. I would fall to the ground softly most of the time. Sometimes I would crash land, falling into places that were scary and always far from home. I don't have flying dreams any more. Why is th