ice on pond

Originally uploaded by jayfherron

This week coming would be best if it was this week going-gone!

It is such turmoil there is no easy spot to begin-although to make sure that the cold weather is not missed…it is freezing! I am beginning to realize my age and broken body cannot take this lifestyle too much more. I broke my collar bone many years back-it never was repaired and sticks out as if to point out some celestial scene and damned if it does’nt point out the drop in temps too. It is’nt alone! My right thumb was severed in 1997 while I was trucking-I have always regreted that it was sewn back on-and it is’nt alone,my right middle finger (the gesture finger) was crushed in a semi-truck rim…and whenever these digits are cold they throb and throb. It is very painful. I had a stroke in 1998 which goofed up my left hand-I can’t type with but one…my right hand-and now that it is morning and 18 F out on the steps and further on, my left shoudler (from the collar bone) is pounding and my right hand is throbbing numb,my left hand is totally useless.

I have tried to hibernate in a sense…avoiding any entry to outside-to try to heat this palace is a drag-a costly drag on my electric bill,and it still ain’t warm,just tolorable in certain areas. Fawk muh…in certain areas meaning the small hallway between the bedroom and the kitchen-a distance of maybe five feet. The kitchen is the warmest (and most expensive spot) because there is a window unit A/C that puts out heat too…puts it out every crevase and open air places that are still pushing cold air in.

But-Thank You God for at least I am not standing in he open with no where to go.

I even feel guilt to want to complain. My grandson Jared will be going into hospital this week-this stay is anticipated to be four weeks. He is having his third surgery in his little life-not even six months old and my little chap is having open heart surgery. And I am taking time to gripe about the cold-freeze?

But yet…the journalist are coming this week too. The two ladies that are filming a documentery about MST (military sexual trauma) who came earlier in the fall…the weather was less brutal then,and now they are returning to film around the hospital and capture what is going on with little Jared.

There will be nowhere for them to be if they came to visit here-as cold as it is. My living space during these fridgid months is less than a jail cell in this room-and the kitchen offers little yet,the rest of the house is closed off because it is unheatable and very open air.

I did try the woodstove-but it is that open air! Not a passing grade.

So I will visiting these ladies in the confines of Shands-although this time around the need to sit vigal with a little premature tiny baby is different because his mother will be in attendence 24 hours everyday until he is strong enough to come home. The need to be there is not as critical as before. And I am not looking forward to having to be in the building at any length-but it will really be the only comfortable place to be!

If you look at little Jared today you would never believe he once looked like a broiler hen-he was that tiny when born. He is a plump little guy and seems to be growing-he sure is’nt as easy to hold as he was in his first days,I think he is making up for the confinement of the incubater box he started out in.

There is some crazy dream in my head. It started on the river trip I went on last September. There was something about floating along at such a slow pace in the open spaces of the St.Johns River. I sometimes wonder about our cells and genes and how we are made up of the same DNA that passes back through our family chains. What else is passed down other than DNA? What is in my genes and family background that opens up my eyes in recognition of certain things-and places?

There was this feeling of ‘this is home’ while the boat we traveled on skimmed along. The reeds and the canna lilies and the sky and the scene of how it all blended together was so familier and so comfortable-there was nobody for miles…anywhere,and for some reason the solitude was familier too. It was as if my view of what I was seeing was recognized by the view of one of my ancesters-perhaps even my grandmother (who grew up on the Mississipi River in Louisiana). It was as if I had seen it before-and since returning I want to see it more often.

All I know-the peace and quiet of it has been calling at me since this last trip and I am dreaming up the idea that my ‘hut boat’ will open that dream a little more towards reality. You’ll have to learn how to fly to find me.

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