Slaying The Boogie Man

I’m staying home alone tonight.

That’s a big no no for me.

My roommate is out of town for the night . Not too big a deal, normally. But the lock on the door has decided not to work. And the basement… don’t get me started on the basement. Just don’t.

I thought about getting a room in town at a hotel with a treadmill and just taking a Me-Break, but the idea of running from my fear just doesn’t set well with me. I mean, I’m a big girl now. I need to get over this whole paranoia thing. It’s time to face this demon.

But first, I have to put curtains on the windows.

No rods. No nails. No nothing.

Improvise. Improvise.

Standing in the middle of the room, I check the time. About two hours to sundown. I got two hours til the scary thoughts come out.

Problem: No curtains. Solution: Strip the curtains off the windows in the rooms I don’t go in. Put them on the windows in the rooms I do go in.

Problem: No curtain rods. Solution: Break dowels in half and use bread twisties to make a loop. Hang those loops on a thumbtack. Now, something clip-like….

I remember seeing clothes pins somewhere. In the kitchen drawer.

The kitchen stops me in my tracks. Yikes. There’s that damn basement door.

I’m distracted for a few minutes while I wrestle the kitchen hutch in front of it.

What was I doing? Oh yes, clothes pins.

Now, clip the curtains to the dowels. Too short. Okay. We’re not going for Home Beautiful, here. Turn them sideways. Yeah, baby. Martha Stewart eat your heart out.

There is still the small detail of the front door. Problem: No lock.  Solution: No problem. Country girls can survive, right?

One hour til sundown.

Breaking the cardinal rule of paranoid agoraphobia, I go outside and drag the wood boxes inside. The crew has been diligent to fill my (cardboard) wood boxes with the wood stripped from the concrete forms, but those big strapping boys forget that old ladies aren’t as strong as they are. Right now, I’m grateful for their diligence, but I’ll just bet they never thought I’d be using them for a door stop.

Stack the big one against the inside. Good and heavy. There. That’ll do the job.

Living room. Basement stairs. No door.

Crap.

I drag the recliner across the room, propping it sideways against the opening. On the inside, I stack the other two wood boxes and step back, surveying my handiwork. It sure as heck won’t stop anyone, but the noise will announce their arrival.

Lights. Candles. Bullets.

Aw crap. The bullets are outside in the truck. The gun is under my pillow. That’s not going to work. I need for them to be in the same place at the same time, even though I’m not sure guns work on imaginary creatures.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

Wait.

I used to keep extra ammo in my satchel. The satchel that is in my closet.

BINGO.

I load the little fella in the holster and instantly feel better. Dusk is settling. Big girl panties are on. I’m ready to slay me some boogie-men.

God of Wonder

Golden discs afloat on ripples

Sparkling of purest silver

Glistening waves draw ever nearer

Lapping on the shore.

Prudent clouds drift round in aimless

Patterns on cerulean canvas

In a beauty all too shameless

For this meager shore.

Fields of green neverending

Wrap themselves around unbending

Curvatures of earth...hinting

At a distant shore.

Songbirds sing in foreign tongue

Of a time when time was young

Of a world freshly sprung

From another shore.

Sunsets scream, pine-boughs whisper

In accord with all of nature

God almighty! Great creator!

Lives forevermore!

Comes a time when all creation,

Every tribe and every nation

Bend their knee in adulation

Bowing on that shore.

Saying “You alone are only worthy!

You alone are God most Holy!

Loosen now these ties that hold me

To this mortal shore.

 Raise your heads O mountain splendor!

Clap your hands, go forth and tender

Praises for the God of Wonder

Reigns forevermore!

The Skinny

“I don’t like these. ”

“So try another pair.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But you’re going to anyway. Because that is how normal people buy clothes. Not out of a catalogue.”

The tone in Safety’s voice makes catalogue shopping sound one notch above greased pig catching.

I prevaricate a bit more. She holds fast. “We’re not leaving here without a pair of pants.”

“I have pants.”

“You have baggy, old lady pants. And I’m going to throw them away when we get home, so find something you like or you’ll be running around in your panties.”

“They aren’t that baggy.”

She arches a brow. I arch one back. We have a stare down.

Never have a stare down with a Navajo woman. They always win.

I look away first.

“Stella, you’re hiding inside sloppy clothes and baggy pants.”

“So what? I’m old. I’m a grandmother.” And I’m alone. And I’m divorced. And I’m practically homeless, for heaven’s sake.

 “You don’t seem to me like the type of person to hide from things.”

Tears prick my eyes. She has no idea. No idea.

“I wasn’t always this way,” I tell her.

“You don’t have to be someone else, anymore” she says, gently taking my arm and guiding me into a store. “You can just be you, now.”

Okay, so maybe she knows more than she’s letting on.

Inside the store, I find myself drifting toward the old lady clothes. Safety heads me off at the pass. “Here,” she says, handing me a pair of blingy jeans with legs that look like spaghetti. “Try these.”

I push them away. “I couldn’t fit my arm in there. Are you kidding?”

Her look told me no.

Into the dressing room I go, burdened like a camel crossing the desert. I hate everything and I tell her so.

“Come out and let me see.”

“Stand in front of the door. I’m not parading around the store looking for you.”

Cautiously, I peer outside the dressing room. There she is. Waiting. I take one very small step outside. She motions for me to turn around.

“Better, but not exactly right. You need more...Oomph.”

Is oomph a new word for butt? I decide yes. “I have no oomph. I’m oomph-deficient.”

“You have one. It’s just hiding under the wrong clothes. Let’s go. We’ll try another store.”

And we do. Like miners in search of gold, we pan in every store in the mall before we’re through. In the fourth store, one that caters to size 00 teenagers, I find my first shiny thing: A pair of ‘curvy’ jeans that actually look okay and give my backside a little ‘oomph’. Excited, I step out of the dressing room. Safety nods approval, hands me a pair of cargos, and disappears again. A few minutes later, she returns with a pair of gorgeous black booties dangling from her fingertips.

Shoes. My weakness.

“Try these.”

I slip my feet into the black leather straps and stand in front of the mirror. Skinny black cargos encase my legs, which appear magically longer, thanks to the booties. Flapped pockets on the derriere give the illusion of oomph.

“You like?” she asks.

 “I think I do.” I turn sideways, patting my little muffin-top. “What about this?”

“We’ll work on that. C’mon, put on your baggies. We have to find tops.”

We hit the mother-lode in Aeropostole. And it’s there that Safety notices my bra.

“When’s the last time you bought a bra? And where?”

“Does Walmart count?”

She sighs. “Let’s pay for this stuff. We have one more stop to make.”

By the time we are through, Victoria has no secrets left. And I am the proud owner of a very practical beige bra...And it’s twin sister, in Hot Pink. I have no idea where I’ll ever wear such a thing, but it makes me feel feminine just to know it’s nestled in the bag.

I end up with three pair of jeans, a pair of cargos, a pair of capris and a pair of short shorts, several shirts, a few camisoles, two bras, a new perfume and those fabulous black heels.

In the car, I begin to doubt the wisdom of buying the booties. “I work six days a week. When am I ever going to wear those shoes?”

“When I take you out,” she says and slips the car into drive.

Out? Terror fills me. I don’t want to go out. I don’t want to meet people. What kind of ‘out’ is she talking about? ‘Out’ out? Or just…. Out?

I wipe away a bead of sweat. Just the thought of being around people can make me clammy. Jiminy, when did I become agoraphobic?

She laughs. “You’re getting all worked up. Chewing your lip. Stop it.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for that. For ‘out’.”

“You’re not,” she agrees. “But, in time, you will be.”

I seriously doubt it. But then, I didn’t think I’d ever own a pair of skinny jeans, either.

Soundtracks

I don't know about you, but I live my life to a soundtrack. It used to be a Contemporary Christian playlist with song titles like, ‘I Can Only Imagine’ and ‘From the East to the West’. I liked that period in my life. It was calm. It was fruitful.

Then overnight, it seemed, someone swapped out Mercy Me and Third Day for Evanescence and Nickleback. Those were the angry, stormy years of 2004-08 and the music I listened to reflected that tone.

Then came 2009 and 10. Things went from bad to worse. That’s when Rascal Flatts’ “Stand” became my theme song. When life knocks you down, you get back up and stand… and in my mind, I’d see myself doing just that, sometimes crawling, sometimes dragging myself up my fingernails, but always rising again. Because I knew if I didn’t do it in my imagination, I wouldn’t do it in real life. And I had to find a way to survive with my important parts intact.

These days, I have a whole Supergirl Circle of Support playlist to get me through each day. My alarm is ‘Little Miss Do My Best’ from Sugarland. I drag myself out of bed at 4:30 to the sound of:

Little Miss Down On Love, Little Miss I Give Up, Little Miss I’ll Get Tough don’t you worry ‘bout me anymore. It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright, sometimes you gotta lose ‘til you win… it’s alright it’s alright it’s alright… and it’ll be alright again.

Every single time I turn on the radio, Sara Evans’ ‘I Get a Little Bit Stronger’ is playing, so I downloaded that for my ringtone.

And I'm done hoping that we could work it out - I'm done with how it feels, spinning my wheels, letting you drag my heart around. And, oh, I'm done thinking that you could ever change, I know my heart will never be the same. But I'm telling myself I'll be okay. Even on my weakest days…I get a little bit stronger.

My IPod is full of great stuff, but my favorite is Eli Young Band’s ‘Guinevere’ –

She carries memories around like souvenirs down in her pockets

She should have let some go by now but can't seem to drop it

Says forgiveness ain't nothing but a lifeless tire on the shoulder of her soul that never rolls

For as much as she stumbled she's runnin'

For as much as she runs she's still here

Always hoping to find something quicker than heaven

To make the damage of her days disappear

I love the words 'as much as she’s stumbled she’s runnin.' That describes the last ten years of my life perfectly.

Martina McBride’s “When God Fearing Women Get The Blues” is great inspiration on the treadmill.

When God-fearing women get the blues, there aint no slab dabbing telling what they’re gonna do… I got a Mustang, it’ll do eighty, you don’t have to be my baby, I’ve stirred my last batch of gravy, you don’t have to be my baby anymore.

Okay, so I sold the Mustang, but you get the gist.

But the song in my head, the mental music I hear when I look in the mirror every morning is “Who Are You? Who, Who, Who, Who?”

I’m empty. A blank canvas. And even though I don’t miss the stress and the fighting and the pressure, I do miss home. I miss my old life… I miss my horses and the whippoorwills and Psychobitch (my dog) barking all night. I look out the window at the mountains and the sage and I ache to feel a horse between my knees, to hear the sound of cattle bawling, see baby calves bucking and kicking in the trail ahead. I feel like while I was looking for peace and happiness, I lost myself.

I feel these four walls closing in, Face up against the glass, I'm looking out. Is this my life I'm wondering. It happened so fast. How do I turn this thing around? Is this the bed I chose to make? There's greener pastures I'm thinking about, wide open spaces far away… All I want is the wind in my hair, to face the fear but not feel scared. Wild horses, I wanna be like you. Going closer to the wind, I'll run free too. Wish I could recklessly love like I'm longing to. I wanna run with the wild horses, run with the wild horses. (Natasha Bedingfeld)

Okay. Enough of that.

But, if I’m not married, what am I? The last time I was single, LoverBoy was wearing red plastic pants singing The Kid is Hot Tonight. I had curly permed 'big' hair and thought high-waisted pants were flattering. My hair is longer now and straight. It’s darker. I wouldn't be caught dead in high-waisters, but I’ve lost enough weight that the low-rise jeans I stole from my daughter are in danger of becoming hipsters. Not a good look for someone who isn't exactly a spring chicken. The lines around my mouth and eyes spell out ‘pre-menopausal’ if you look close enough. Thanks to my grueling schedule, I now have zombie-circles under my eyes.

What is it they say …“When I am old. I shall wear purple.”

Key ominous music.

Last week, I bought a purple lace bra. Oh my God, I’m over the hill. Next thing you know, I'll be wearing a red hat.

Waiting

Pale windows stare two sightless squares

Through empty walls - stark and bare

Where shadows walk the lonely miles

Deserted halls of ghosted mind...

And I close my eyes

I close my eyes.

Hear the final hush of closing doors

Scraping back the meager store

Of memories that echo round

Haunting in their mournful sound...

Of yesterdays gone by

Yesterday’s gone by.

Fingertips on dusty panes

Reveal the path of sorrowed stain

And leave behind a plaintive sigh

Inside a long deserted mind...

Leaving it behind

Leaving it behind.

Through these halls a current winds

Twisting, turning down through time

Tilling up the river floor

In silt that settles on the shore

Childish voices stream and bubble

Along the years filled with trouble

Overflow in shady pools

Of absent absent womanhood

Passing through my mind

Leaving it behind.

Paths that led me once astray

So clearly now define the way

From innocence to something less

Lifetime spent with nothing left

Now standing in this vacant place

So desolate without a trace

Of He who walked along those years

I swallow back abandoned fears

He wouldn’t leave me here...

God?

You wouldn’t leave me...here?

A hollowed heart utters hollow prayers

A clutching soul clutches empty air

And blind eyes squeeze closed ‘gainst the light

While longing, longing for the sight

Of You

God...

Where are you?

I sense your presence - feel your being

See, but yet - I am not seeing

Straining hard against the bondage

Of an ever pressing silence

Of abandonment

Of a vacant mind

An answerless request

I guess

It’s true

You’ve left me...here.

Despondent.  God, and so discouraged

Doubts once quenched now over-flourish

Overwhelming, overcoming, Lord...I quit...

I’m over running.

Over, Lord.

I’m over, through...

I’ll sit and wait

I’ll wait for You.

Movin' on up...

I rented a house.

It’s in an old mining town, or it used to be, anyway. It’s kind of quirky, but it has three bedrooms, a cute little yard and a porch for flowers. It sits on a hill and the front opens up into the mountain and the back overlooks a ghost town filled with little mining shacks. There are only about 400 people in the valley and most of them are miners.

There’s gold in them there hills, or so they say. And yes, they do say that.

There aren’t any restaurants. No movie theatres. No grocery stores or shoe stores. No walmarts. No cute little coffee shops. Just two gas stations and an ATM. That’s it. The storefronts on Main Street are all boarded up.

I asked Safety how she felt about it. She just shrugged. “Like living on the Rez,” was all she’d say.

The only drawback is it has a basement. That’s not good for me. Basements are like spiders. They’re creepy.

But it’s fully furnished, all utilities paid, ten minutes from work and my half of the rent will only be about $425 a month. If another girl is hired on, we might loop her in and cut the rent into thirds. And heck, I’m only home on Sundays anyway.

I’ve never ‘roomed’ before. I’m a loner. I like being alone.  It’s my comfort zone.

On the other hand, I don’t think I want to live alone in a ghost town. Not yet, anyway.

Baby steps, I tell myself. Take baby steps.

First item on the agenda: Buy a Keurig.

Dreams

I have vivid dreams. The kind that are like a M.Night Shamayalan flick. I always wake up thinking, I need to write this stuff down. Seriously.

Last night was different: I had one I didn’t want to write down. I don’t even want to remember it.

But I will. Forever.

I am standing in an abandoned homesite. It’s my home, but not habitable. The buildings are skeletal, the corrals a tangle of wire and memory. I can’t remember why I’m here. I can’t remember where ‘here’ is.

I am wearing a white nightgown with a square neck and small buttons and a narrow ruffle at the hem that flutters around my ankles. I am barefoot. The ground beneath my toes is jaundiced clay, its surface cracked and peeling with feathery tufts of sage and tumbleweeds sprouting from the cracks.  The sky seems a long way off.

Someone else is present but I don’t know who it is. They have a question. I can’t speak so I walk to a desk covered in cobwebs and dust. I pick up a pencil. I can’t remember what I was going to say. I turn. My nightgown flutters in the breeze. I take one step. Then another.

The sky is darker now.

The earth moves and my stomach feels strange, like it does when I’m standing outside an elevator shaft. I take another step. I need to run, but I don’t know which way to go. I turn in circles. The ground buckles beneath my feet. I take flight. A grave opens up beneath me and I fall headlong, my body twisting, the nightgown wrapping itself into a shroud. I land on my back and dirt floods over me. Soil. Good soil. Rich soil. Soft and pungent and moist. It will grow many things. It is life-giving and life-taking at the same time.

I reach for the sky, but too late. The hole closes in over me. Soil packs tight around my body. My arms are frozen in that position, as I reach upward. I close my eyes. I am buried alive. I don’t scream or fight. It won’t matter. I will die here. I’m uncertain, but I’m not scared. I think: I wasn’t ready to die.

I wasn’t ready.