I just left my neighbor’s cozy house and entered the cold and sparkling world of untouched snow and the full moon in cancer in a crystal clear sky of pure and inky black. The perfectly dry burgandy wine and the warming amber whiskey I drank made me long for something un-named, more deep than the desire of most of mankind… I could cry.

Then I reached my door, reluctant to leave the wondrous night outside. My dog greeted me with a smile at the door, so happy to see me, wriggling against my legs and there were five 16 year old boys at the dining room table playing Dungeons and Dragons, empty popcorn bowl on the table, sleeping bags spread out on the floor, the warmth of a gas furnace… emails and texts of love on my phone.

Isn’t life awesome…

Ten days eating grapes makes watermelon magical.

I’ve always been a watermelon eater. As a kid, grandma had cold watermelon in the fridge all summer long. We’d eat a whole, giant watermelon, just the two of us, in an afternoon, sitting in her garden with the birds and honeybees and a shaker of salt.

These watermelons were not the wussy watermelons we eat today. These were the size of a two-year old child, dotted with big black fertile seeds. I’d spit them in the grass, I’d spit them in the garden, and some I’d plant among the zinnias.

We didn’t bother with plates and forks and spoons. Grandma would cut thick slices, I mean 2 inches thick, then she’d cut them into half moons.

I’d start by taking big, juicy bites, juice running down my bare chest, up to my elbows and dripping onto my legs. As I ate deeper and deeper, the rind would reach my ears, leaving my cheeks wet and sticky, until I’d eaten all the red and pink right down to the white part.

It was a good thing Grandma would have the rotating sprinkler on that kept her weedless grass green and her flower-laden garden blooming all summer long. And it was a good thing I was in my cotton panties… in later years, of course, I was in my bathing suit.

Grandma and me were serious watermelon eaters, but we’d laugh until we were crying. While we’d eat until our stomachs were bulging, she’d tell me the story of how when she was a kid, her and her brothers and sisters would eat the watermelon growing out under the fences along the road in rural Kentucky.

No wonder I loved my grandma so much. She’d peel me oranges ’til I had my fill, too. But that’s a different story.

I can’t eat watermelon without thinking of the best grandma that ever lived.

Postscript: So, this post is going up without photographs because I’m tired of waiting on myself to add them. I have a very good reason to publish it, which soon you will discover. Read this and you will uncover some deep “truths” about me if you care to dig.

(Written July 2016)

Where does my ego flee when wounded by intellectuals… to lick my wounds. It runs to that dark cave where lives a monster whose name is imposter. It lies in wait to further disembowel what is already dying.

My cries for help to one on the road passing by:

“Feeling kind of… Uh huh. Mmm mmmm. Yep. Nope. ‘Cause I know nothin’ ’bout sports, less ’bout music, even less ’bout movies and TV, zip about Judaism, Islam, Catholicism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Occultism, Activism, zero ’bout philosophy, geography, photography, cartography, biography, cardiology, musicology or any other -ology or cracy or sophy or ism… or so it feels to me tonight.”

I just want to be quiet.

My cries are heard. To this fellow traveler:

“My challenger thinks I’m hallucinating.
But one knows how one feels.

Was it my monster insecurities raising ugly multiple sepentine heads to eat the blood of my dying, intellectual road-kill ego? Yes! It always is and your crystal clear words of wisdom soothing and healing what’s left of my ailing heart where the wounds from its teeth bit deep. I will make it, since I embarked on this steep climb of my choosing. Battered and torn with my ego nearly dead but my heart still beating, I will arrive but better, much better for it.”

I escape the cave and walk on…

Laying on your beating heart~
My breath like silver thread.
Time, though short, til we depart~
Still lies for us ahead.

Electric fingers play on nerves,
Through the fabric of my jeans.
Strum melodies from mysterious dank dreams.
Bring back from the swamp,
That not heard from, returns.

Laying on your beating heart,

My breath a silver thread,

Time, though short, ’til we depart,

Still lies for us ahead.

The night when souls wander freely is fast approaching. The sky is clear and in this chill morning I can even read the constellations. Lights in sickly orange and violet glow eerily from rustling bushes and the withered, brittle leaves falling sound like footsteps following stealthily and close behind. A black cat steals silently across my path, but I am not startled;  I look behind to see if I am still alone in the black stillness. My gaze reaches out for the lone street light still beyond my rapid shuffle through the dark street. Was the crack in the wall always there or is it just now opening for me. Finally. .. the bus.  “Good morning, how are you?” “Great”, I say, as if nothing has happened.

Mr Bushke was the drug dealer/addict that collided with my Kristi’s car just two years ago. I’m not over it. I don’t think I will ever be. The family attended the sentencing at the Clackamas County courthouse and we were each given an opportunity to say something to him. This is what I said:

Mr. Buschke,

There is no amount of time; no level of punishment that you might suffer that could help you to understand the amount of suffering that you have caused this family. That’s why I don’t really care what sentence is handed down to you. But I need to tell you that you have immeasurably devastated this large family.

Kristi was my little sister. I would have done anything to protect her from anyone or anything that might hurt her. I never could have imagined that her life would end in such a needless and tragic way. She was sweet, funny, hilarious even, caring, devoted and kind.

Every day and every night I cry for her. I cry because you hurt her, you killed her by your negligence. But even more than that, I cry because I don’t have her anymore. I counted on her in so many ways. We were as close as any two human beings can be. We would talk for hours on the phone. She listened to me and offered me her advice. We spent every chance we had to be together. We traveled together. She was my best friend. We shared a past that no one else did and now she is gone and I have to figure out how to live without her.

I would hate to be you. It must be horrible.

Woman killed, 3-year-old granddaughter hurt in Hwy 211 head-on crash

Posted: Oct 15, 2014 9:20 PM PST Updated: Nov 12, 2014 9:29 PM PDT

By Jeff Kirsch

MOLALLA, OR (KPTV) – A 64-year-old woman was killed and her granddaughter hospitalized after a head on crash on Highway 211 east of Molalla.

Oregon State Police say a Ford Mustang being driven by 33-year-old Sean Buschke of Colton was headed westbound on Highway 211 near South Vaughan Road when it crossed the center line and struck an eastbound Honda Accord. It happened at 2:35 p.m. Wednesday.

The woman driving the Accord was taken to Oregon Health & Science University but later died. She was identified Thursday as Kristi Anderson of Molalla.

Her 3-year-old granddaughter was taken to OHSU with non-life threatening injuries. The girl was using a child safety seat.

Buschke was also taken to OHSU for treatment of injuries described as non-life threatening. He was wearing a seat belt.

Police said the use of a seat belt by Anderson is pending confirmation.

The investigation is continuing. No charges have been filed as of now.

Investigators urge any witnesses to the crash to call the OSP Northern Command Center dispatch at 503-731-3030.

The highway was shut down for more than four hours Wednesday.

Copyright 2014 KPTV-KPDX Broadcasting Corporation. All rights reserved.