WHITEBUNNYRANCH.COM

The Slut Machine

2009-04-08T21:48:00Z

Chapter One (warning: explicit language)

With a slight tremble in my hand only others with the same affliction would recognize, I am hopelessly addicted to the pretty one standing at the end of the line. She is very unassuming and only a few of us connoisseurs recognize the perfection of her tease.

As I have done every day for an hour for the past two years, I swagger up to her confidently, hoping my bravado is not Saran-wrap transparent. I try to still the anxiety that quickly twists itself around my heart and groin while I insert the first, one hundred dollar bill into her well-worn slot. I light my first cigarette of the evening, order a glass of heavy-blood merlot and say a humble prayer for mercy.

She is a patriot; a purveyor of red, white and blue stars sprinkled with triple charms that parlay a loot of anything between twelve-hundred to eighty-thousand dollars ... the sweet stuff lies in between. That's where she's a master of promise and deception. You don't necessarily want the lowest pot and you don't dare dream of the biggest. In my humility, I desire what's in between ... over and over again.

I can't wait to begin the thrill.

My peripheral vision disappears as I bear into her heart and soul, eyes only for the constant twirling of the red, white and blue sevens as they spin randomly. Will she be gracious tonight or will she make me grovel as I push her buttons relentlessly?

Here they come. The first two rolls come up empty; the third spin lands on two double bars and a triple star. Wow! My darling seems to be cooperative tonight as I win my first jackpot of the evening ... and on my first one-hundred dollars no less. But I don't trust her because I've had experience with her fickle favors in the past.

As the attendant scurries to get my winnings, I hear the usual comments from the gallery clowns, the same lovers I see day after day in this Indian casino that hired my whore.

"What did you win?"

"Man, you're lucky. I just put $5,000 into her and nothing."

"Are you up? Are you down?"

"Nice to see you winning for a change."

I mumble the same niceties in return, all the while hoping they would all just disappear so I can focus more perfectly on my girl here. Regardless of what they tell you, gambling on slot machines takes extraordinary concentration. A break in the flow can cost you big time.

"Congratulations! That's a good start," says Mike the change guy who seems to know his stuff around here. "The next time is a big one. I know it!"

The smallest of comments looms as an omen in this place.

The deck is cleared and another hundred starts the roll again. Nothing. Nothing again. The third time is the charm but the sevens are elusive as hell.

My right foot seems to jerk in rhythm to each empty roll and my eyes glaze over like a slot junkie. This whole casino thing is an acquired experience. The lights, the sounds, the colors...it's all foreplay before the elements align in place like the planets in the dawning of Aquarius. I know it's just a matter of time. I know I will win.

Shit. There goes my whole jackpot. I'm back to my original one-hundred dollar bet. Oh well, things could be worse.

This time, I put three hundred dollars in the slot, symbolic of the Holy Trinity. Can't lose now, pal, I've got God on my side. Another three hundred dollars gone in a flash. Now I'm praying my dead father is watching over me, and enlisting the support of all the saints, to make the triple stars and red seven stop in the same fucking row.

Nothing.

Okay. Time to change tactics.

Woo the whore. C'mon baby, give it to me. Love you, babe ... yours forever. Just you and me ... give it to me! Now!

That ain't working either.

You bitch. Give it up! I've poured my whole life into you, you ungrateful whore!

My serene face offers no hint at my internal screaming. I am well-liked at this casino because of my generosity to all those around me. They have no idea of the desperation locked behind the facade.

"Hi, Jade," I exclaim to the cocktail waitress, jumping up to hug her. I've tipped her a year's salary in the throes of my winning streaks.

She asks if I need anything and this time I want, besides the progressive jackpot, another glass of merlot...Beringer's, not the house brand. I'm moving on up, spreading the wealth around like a big shot with nothing in the barrel.

"How ya doin', honey? Did my lucky chip work?" she asked.

She was referring to the time she gave me an old, clay, casino chip for good luck. I stuck the chip in my hip pocket, thinking she knew her stuff. Another omen gone awry. When I lost well over ten thousand dollars in my fancy pants girl, I threw that chip over my shoulder farther than I could spit. I'm not superstitious but I'm not stupid either. I recognize the spirits in charge.

"Not bad, sweetie," I reply. "How's your family?"

I didn't give a shit about her family at this point. Please, dear God, don't have her give me another lucky charm.
I don't recall what she said as she comp'd me the drink and I returned to courting my slot machine.

The sevens rolled on. The triple stars fell in the bottom row; they landed on the top row. They cajoled me with the promise of riches and release.

I lost my stash. Time to call in my marker. Whew. Five thousand dollars I don't have to pay back for thirty days. Cheap credit.

Ding. Ding. That can only mean someone is about to win the big one. My head whipped around at the sound coming from another machine, but I didn't hear the blessed, third ding. It's my soul mate, Riley, camped out behind me. His eyes, too, have that familiar glaze but he stops a moment to speak to me.

"You've got casino ears," he says. "This bitch is ready to pop." But I know he's only dreaming. I've watched him lose thousands of dreams over the past two years.

Intelligence takes over and I decide to abandon my girl in favor of another one across the aisle. I've had a casual flirtation with this one. I only have five hundred dollars left and I sure as hell better make my wager count.

Once again, three hundred dollars in the slot. Another two. It's inarguably as good as a donation onto the church plate on a Sunday morning service, one that I'm usually too wiped out to attend. But God knows my soul. Given the opportunity, He knows I'd share my wealth.

The sevens just won't align and all the triple stars are streaking across the universe but certainly not landing in a row on my new machine. God forbid, perhaps this is not my night after all.

A newcomer walks up to my abandoned slot machine and checks her out.

"Do you mind if I try this one?" he politely asks me.

"Not at all," I reply.

He sees my jacket still draped over the back of the chair.

"Do you want your jacket?"

"That's okay," I say. "Just leave it there. May it be lucky for you."

My heart is now heavy with the realization my seed money is gone. I'm tapped out and I can't play anymore. My favorite machine is taken and my new love is uncooperative. I have no chance to win my money back, or make my new fortune.

I'm fucked. But tomorrow is another day.

I've smoked my last cigarette of the evening.

My casino ears perk up as I hear Ding, Ding, Ding. Somebody won the big one.

"God, can you believe it? Wow!" says the newcomer, firmly in love with my red, white and blue whore. His affair has just begun. "Isn't that forty thousand dollars?"

Yes, indeed, pal. Your name is George? Great...no sour grapes here, George. Wasn't meant for me. God bless you and your good fortune.

I licked my wounds for the evening. As I headed out the door, I passed by George and his new-found love.

I swear I saw her wink. Or was it just my imagination?

Or was it an omen?

Chapter Two

George dumped my girl immediately after the payoff. Apparently satiated, he disengaged himself with not so much as a backward glance, smirking all the way out of the high-limit lounge of the casino. I saw him tap his pocket, feeling for the forty-thousand dollar check folded neatly inside. That check was almost a sure thing. In any case, it was a stronger antidote to temptation than a squirming stack of hundred dollar bills squeezed together with rubber bands.

I slowly walked away with longing as my favorite slut leered at me knowingly out of the corner of her triple-star eyes. She knows I can't quit her.

Just before I got to the double exit doors close to valet parking, the premonition hit me like a wave of money-scented perfume; the allure was intoxicating. It twirled up through my nostrils and exploded inside my brain. I shook my head, took a deep breath and opened my mind to new possibilities.

"Come back," the voice whispered. "I'll be good to you."

Before my sense of survival had a chance to filter the danger, my body was turning, my legs were walking and I just followed myself back to the bitch.

With renewed hope, I began to calculate the resources I had left. Let's see, the marker's gone ... the cash is gone ... one credit card filled to the brim. On the plus side, I still had some savings left and a lone, empty credit card stashed away for just such emergencies. Bingo. I'm back in.

I sauntered up to the cashier's cage and plopped down my magic card. It only took them about five minutes to verify the cash advance and pay out my stake, but to me it felt like an eternity. My left palm was itching, another good sign.

"Hey, thought you were leaving?" greeted Carl as I walked back into the winners' circle. He's the other change guy on shift tonight, the one who's usually lucky for me. My optimism grew.

"Nah, just taking a break," I said with panache, hoping no one witnessed my near exodus, thereby exposing me as a liar to boot. I can't afford any more vices.

"Did you leave like I told you to last night? Man, you just kept hittin' 'em. What was that last one, twelve thousand?"

"Can you believe it?" My heart started to purr just thinking about last night's roll. I didn't elaborate more about my balance sheet. Like false advertising, I only talk about my winnings, never my losses.

Pleasantries said and quickly set aside, I head towards my red, white and blue whore. I almost sat down, thrilled to continue the chase. Before I could pop some money into her, something caught my eye; some peculiar force pulled my attention the other way.

My eyes follow the space between the two rows of slot machines where I usually play and I see a new, solitary harlot standing there in all of her glory ... right in the center of the room. Funny, I never noticed her before.

A strange glow swirls around the top of her head in some kind of hazy, green light. Just beneath the light, a plaque reads the progressive jackpot amount. It's $3,333,333.33.

That can't be. I shake my head imperceptibly, close my eyes for a second and refocus. There it is it again. Three million, three hundred and thirty-three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three dollars and thirty-three cents.

My hands start to get clammy as my memory takes a stroll on the interior contours of my skull. I remember my dad as he lay dying, hovering in the temporary space between his living family and the spirits beyond.

After a fitful night, when I knew he finally recognized the futility of his struggle, my dad woke peacefully. He was so calm. I was at his side when he looked up towards the skylight in my family room and said, "Look, thirty-three horses and thirty-three wagons are coming to get me."

That comment has haunted me for the last two years. I've spent months trying to decipher his last words, hoping beyond hope they were a sign, a hint of where he was going. At times, I think it was only the morphine and yet, there's a corner of my soul that insists it was a message.

Whenever I look at a clock and it reads 3:33, or when the gas pump stops at exactly $33.33, I know it's my dad talking to me.

Play this one, daughter. Right here. Right now. It's time. So, that's what he was talking about. Wow. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude. This one's for you, Daddy-o.

With reverence, I twist the chair around, ready to embrace my destiny when I notice an old woman playing the machine. How the hell did she get there so fast? I looked closer and struggled to breathe.

It was my mother - my frail, white-haired, eighty-year old mother, dressed in black from head to toe.

That was impossible. She doesn't drive; my dad drove her around for fifty-five years, the entire time they were married. I looked around for my sister. Maybe she drove her here but no, my mom was completely alone. She played that slot machine with a fervor matched only by her incessant smoking and drinking. She downed more wine in those few seconds than I could have done in a whole evening.

Wait a minute. Just wait one hell minute there, buddy. That's not my mom. She doesn't gamble ... or smoke ... or drink. Son of a bitch. I must be hallucinating.

What on God's green earth is she doing here? And why doesn't she see me?

I slowly get up from my chair and as I begin to walk towards her, the outline of her bent form starts to get fuzzy. I scrunch up my eyes and rub them with my fingers, swearing at the quality of my contact lenses. They're always going out of focus, and always when I need them most.

It's not my contact lenses this time as I watch the density of my mother go lighter, lighter, then translucent and then ... she just disappeared.

Something's wrong. There's something very wrong going on here. Maybe I'm losing my friggin' mind.

For the second time this evening, I prepare to leave the casino. Even the promise of a few, extra thousand dollars isn't worth a trip to the loony bin. Well, on second thought ... no, time to get out of here.

"What's your hurry, hon?" asks Carl. "You haven't played your machine at all. In fact, you haven't moved a muscle. Is everything all right?"

I can't tell him I just saw my little, old mother banging away at that machine in the center of the aisle. He'd call security in a flash and I'll never play in this place again.

"I just lost the feeling. You know how it goes. Catch you tomorrow, Carl."

Dazed, I walk through the casino towards the exit doors once again. I look like a loser from the outside, but inside, I'm worried. Maybe there's something wrong with my mother; maybe she needs help and can't get to the phone. Maybe her apparition was an omen.

My dread at losing my sanity competes with my fear of losing my mother and I continue to stumble like a drunken sailor towards the door. The lure of all the minor whores on slot boulevard doesn't detract me this time. But just as I am ready to bolt through the doors, like a bad curse, I spot 'ole George, the guy with a forty -thousand dollar check in his pocket. He was standing next to a machine that was lit up like a firecracker in the fourth of July sky.

He sees me and starts waving wildly. "Hey, you! Can you believe this? I'm on fire!"

Dismayed that my curiosity over-powered my self-disgust, I walk towards him to see the amount of his win. When I get there, I see triple ... literally. He just landed triple stars straight across her pretty, little face, making it a progressive hit for eighty-thousand dollars. Lady luck certainly did French-kiss this guy tonight.

"So, how'd you do on that new machine?" lucky George asks.

"What machine?" I reply cautiously.

"You know, that one in the middle. The one with all those green lights and all."

"I wasn't playing that machine, George." I'm thinking all that green stuff has gotten to his brain.

"Hey, lady, I saw you with my own, two eyes. That was you pushing those buttons."

Then he licked his lips and I noticed the tip of his little, forked tongue.

Dreams About Dad

2009-04-08T18:09:00Z

When my Dad died, I saw him in my dreams...

About two days after my dad’s death, everyone was gone except my sister, who stayed with me for a week, and my mom, who has been with me since. It was about seven in the morning. I had just made a fresh pot of coffee and the three of us were cuddled up
on the two couches in my family room, the same room my dad had died in.

Autumn’s early morning light was filtering through my windows and I was wrapped up in my blanket, the one my daughter-in-law made for me last Christmas. It was warm and I was comforted with my mom and sister there beside me.

We were drinking coffee, talking about dad and reminiscing. It was quiet and the hum of their voices must have lulled me to sleep for a split second. But no one was aware of this, not even me.

I had this strange dream in this short span of time…so short that our conversation seemed to just continue. But I must have been dreaming because I certainly couldn’t have been awake. My father and I were in the foyer of our church. My father had two suitcases with him. And as the doors opened to the body of the church, my dad turned to me and said, “Will you help me carry my suitcases in?”

And I woke up.

When I told my sister and mom about my dream, they said, “When did you dream? When were you asleep? You were right here talking with us.” It was a split second in time. I know it was dad touching me.

Another one….

Immediately after my dad died, I had a terrifying dream. I was in an elevator and the elevator started falling slowly. It then picked up speed….it picked up so much speed that I couldn’t keep my feet on the ground. It went faster and faster until I was off the ground and up towards the ceiling of the elevator. The force of the elevator dropping propelled me out of the top of the elevator and now completely in the shaft, I grabbed a pipe that was sticking out of the wall. As the elevator fell down way beyond my sight, I remained suspended in the space of that desolate shaft, hanging on to that pipe with no where to go…no one to save me. And I felt the most terrifying feeling of finality.

I’ve only had three dreams of my father since he died. The last dream was about a month ago. We were having a party in my house and my dad came to me with two of my white, lawn chairs in his hand. He was about 50 years old…he looked young and vibrant and so happy. He said to me, “Come on, Scarlett, let’s take these chairs out in the back and just sit and talk for awhile.” And I woke up. I started crying because I know I will never talk with him ever again.

Just a Bump in the Road

2009-04-08T17:56:00Z

...the perils of drinking and driving

Hell found me. I wasn't looking for it, that black night, but Hell with bat wings scanned the universe, the earth, the state, the city, the street and finally honed in on me. Heaven must have blinked away a tear and, in that miniscule fragment that hovered in time, Hell found me and changed my life.

I am an honorable man. I am a loyal friend, a loving son and a protective brother. I am my sister's knight, my mother's blessing and my father's hope. I am the life of the party and the antidote to anyone's depression. I am a drunk-in-training.

That night in December, the gears of fate cranked into position. All the possible, unsuccessful combinations locked in and paved the path when I left the party. Someone should have stopped me. Well, they did try to stop me but of course, liquor, like delirious happiness, is unstoppable.

I drove slowly with the windows open to release the loaded fumes of my breath. The scent of mints played with Jack Daniels and Coke on the inside of my mouth. Focus on the road. Only two more miles to go. I'm in the neighborhood. No other cars on the road. Piece of cake.

The muscles in my face twitched with the intensity of my focus. False bravado made me look normal. Yeah. I'm cool.

I was two blocks away from my apartment when I felt the bump in the road. Nothing dramatic, just a bit of a thump, and then a subdued dragging sound that I still hear in the silence before I fall asleep.

Someone must have thrown a garbage bag out in the street. On a pristine avenue in an upper-scale neighborhood, people were dumping garbage out on New Year's Eve. Right. Alcohol reigns as the monarch of a ridiculous kingdom, but it was enough to keep me going. I didn't stop. Somewhere between Jack and a plea to God, I muttered a few prayers under my booze-laden breath and snuck home. In my heart, which was still somewhat intact, I instinctively knew the lump was trouble.

My choice was simple at the time: a driving-while-intoxicated charge, complete with jail, numerous fines and a loss of face...or a dead bag of garbage buried in the anonymous graveyard of my own memory. The choice was easy.

I felt blessed when I hit my warm bed, thinking God the Merciful had recognized the goodness in my heart and spared me. My life would continue as it was, after all. Just a bump in the road.

Somewhere between six and seven the next morning, the pounding assaulted my head, causing it to splinter in a few different directions. There's nothing worse than waking up to a normal day, taking that first breath of consciousness and then remembering a reality with dread, hoping beyond all hope that what you are about to remember is, in fact, nothing more than a dream. Unfortunately, the pounding on my front door was beyond a dream.

Still groggy from all of the booze even hours later, I got out of bed and staggered to open the door. Two policemen greeted me and threw questions at me before I could get my bearings. To this day I don't remember their exact words but I do remember recoiling in horror inwardly at the thrust of their interrogation. Every single, solitary hair from my scalp to my groin and down the front of my legs strained in an effort to fly off my body and disintegrate somewhere in the morning air.

It wasn't a bag of garbage after all. And even worse, it wasn't a neighborhood dog. The police were looking for the person who hit and killed someone's seventeen-year-old son on the road on New Year's Eve.

The mind is a silly thing at times, and at that moment I remembered an old friend of mine who used to cheat on his wife on a regular basis. His words of advice, or a cheater's hymn, were to deny, deny and deny some more. I followed suit that morning and denied all of the allegations the police suggested.

They politely asked me to step outside to take a look at the front of my car. I agreed hesitantly, knowing I had no other choice if I were truly innocent. My t-shirt was billowing in and out with the pumping of my heart and I knew the guilt I was wearing was apparent in the motion.

What are the odds of finding the car that killed the boy who walked the streets on the New Year's Eve when the Devil was waiting? As in a game of spades, Satan pulled the trump card.

There on my license plate, eye-level with a human being on his knees, was the splatter of dried blood and brain matter, smeared in a macabre landscape of a young man's life.

It didn't matter much to me, months later at my trial, when the autopsy revealed drugs in the boy's system. As they restructured the scene, authorities surmised the young victim, on foot, apparently lost consciousness on the road and only woke up for the second or two that it took for me to smash right into his upturned face.

It didn't matter to me that the lawyers jawed on and on about the fact that the young man would have died from an overdose in any case. I had to face the twin set of parents doubled over in grief at my trial...my parents and his parents, each caught up in the loss of a son.

Just a bump in the road and Hell found me.

The Line

2009-04-08T16:50:00Z

...my mother's miracle in World War II

I was a young girl of fourteen, standing in the execution line. The Nazis hadn't even raised their rifles yet when I felt the warm urine drip down the inside of my thighs. Weeks of starvation prevented my body from releasing anything more. Terror replaced the embarrassment.

I couldn't see my father or brother. They were all I had left. We were separated miles back when captured by a small company of German soldiers. They thought we were guerrilla fighters - part of the Resistance. In truth, we were just a small band of pathetic, weary peasants trying to leave our country on foot. We were all sick of the war.

Everything was lost: our cows, sheep, corn, wheat, land. My older sister was killed only months before by soldiers from another village, not the Nazis this time. Our land was filled with enemies from within and without - the king's men from the south, Nazis from the north, and Communists everywhere. Each party tempted the people of this miserable time with their own propaganda for a better life, yet everywhere around me, death leered from its empty skull, whitened into eternity by the dead souls before us.

Gone were the toys and animals of my childhood, replaced with the routine, frantic scrambling up to the hills and forests behind our home. Whenever the shooting sounded too close, we grabbed whatever food was on the table, whatever amounts of water we could carry, and we ran, like deer, for cover. Sometimes we spent days up there, praying we wouldn't freeze to death with just the clothes on our backs.

One day, up in those hills, nestled among our beloved trees and on ground covered with only pine needles for a mattress, my mother died. I think her heart simply broke. I was glad she wasn't here to see me on this day.

The soldiers were getting into position. I knew all of the people in the execution line. They were neighbors and friends, comfortable faces I grew up with.

Like most of the girls of my time, the girls who learned to milk cows before they learned to read, I looked older. I looked like a woman. Yet, the child I really was sobbed uncontrollably in fear.

It was quiet, except for my horrible screams and pathetic baying. But I didn't care. I was too young to be proud. Not understanding God's nature, nor seeking His miracle, I cried out to my dead mother instead, beseeching her to part the clouds and carry me away in her arms, far away from this place. Mama, please save me.

The captain of the German squad sauntered up to direct his chosen murderers to begin the slaughter. Ice flowed in my veins.

I darted wildly out of the line. The young are brave in their ignorance. Falling at the captain's feet and grabbing his legs like a crazed animal, I screamed and begged for my life. I didn't understand German, nor he my language, but the world stood still for a moment in time. Perhaps he was a father...an uncle...a brother. Whatever his inspiration was for compassion that day, I'll never know.

He lifted me to my feet and walked me away from the execution line. A minute later, the shots rang out. My life was spared for another day. From that moment forward, I learned to walk with Hope and Death, hand in hand.

Musings from my journal...

2009-04-03T04:40:00Z

One evening of frivolous musings, surely a case of the impermeable romantic...

Ah, finally. The moon is out, the dog is fed, the gates are closed and I can ramble alone with my thoughts. I've got to get out of this place. The pump won't work because the vandals took the handles. I know where love lives. You can keep your mountains of gold, buddy, because I know where love lives. Don't look back, jump forward into the glorious future. Promises of Spain and warm days in the sun and long, velvety nights under the stars and under the sheets. Catch the passion now. Catch a falling star. See the shooting star. Ride upon a star. Hang your hat on a star; carry moonbeams home in a jar. Whatever.

"I think about you all the time," you say. "From now on, we are 'we'. Don't look back because it will make you dizzy. Trust me. Trust me now. Tomorrow will never come if you don't accept today. Today is me. Tomorrow is me. You are me. You are mine. Please, listen to the words and you will hear me," you say.

"But," I say, "where have you been for so long? I've been waiting for you to save me and you never came. Was that you on that white horse when I was locked up in that tower? When you rode up closer, I didn't realize it was you and so I continued to wait. I think I'm still waiting, but I'm not so sure anymore."

You say, "it really was me on that white horse," but I say, "there have been herds of white horses and legions of knights and now I'm not sure if it's really you...again." I don't know if it matters because the dragons aren't that tough anymore and perhaps all the knights are standing in the unemployment line, or in the wax museum. And for sure, the moat is now filled with alligators.

You say you think of me all the time, since that day when I walked into your life by accident. What's all the time anyway? When you brush your teeth in the morning? When you say your last prayer in the evening? And all time in between? When is it that you think of me all the time? That's a long time, don't you think?" I don't want to think anymore. I coast. I roll. I'm waiting to crash on the shore.

Why on God's green earth do you want to save me? My blue eyes, maybe? Can you see inside of me? Hello! Am I home? I don't think so. I left a long time ago. Lonely Rita, meter maid, where would I be without you?

"I want to be a woman," I say. "But you are a woman," you say, "and I'm a man." (I can see that, really. I can.) "I want to lock the doors for you at night. I want to bolt the windows for you. I want to protect you from invaders," you say.

And I say, "Where have you been all those years when I was locking my own doors and bolting my own windows and bravely protecting myself from invaders?" Actually, when I think about it, I've always left milk and cookies out for any intruder who dared. "I think it's too late," I say.

But you won't quit. You tell me it's not too late. "I see you cooking breakfast. I'm messing up your hair. I want to make you laugh. Laughter is you. Love is you," you implore.

I'm exhausted with possibilities. I tell you, "I'm not sure I want to cook you breakfast or have you mess up my hair. I'm. Not. Sure. Of course you don't take no for an answer and what I really think is that you want to ride this roller coaster and dive into these eyes that you think you recognize but you don't because others have tried and failed, and even I have given up the quest to understand the black and white behind the baby blues. Good luck, my friend.

My mother told me to wait for the right man but for the life of me, I'm not sure I understand the fantasy anymore. Was it the white castle with the black knight on the wrong horse? Oh, Alice, we should have been friends...into the looking glass we go.

The land of the white bunnies...

2009-04-03T03:49:00Z

Have you ever tried to describe your home or how you live? Well, my son did that for me...he once told me I lived in the “land of the white bunnies”...and no, not because I was ever delirious on drugs, but rather because I’ve always tried to be disgustingly happy about life and the people in it. Sometimes it doesn’t work, but more often than not, I find the part of that old adage most true…”smile and the world smiles with you.” You only cry alone if you haven’t taken the time to cultivate friends. Or cement your family ties, whatever they may be.

I am the consummate Sagittarian. My world is colored by independence, enthusiasm, loyalty and passion. My son nicknamed my modest little spread, “The White Bunny Ranch,” not because I raise rabbits, but because I, more often than not, see the good in every person, recognize the silver lining in every cloud and see the sparkle behind every tear. While the sign hanging from atop my entryway warns everyone to “Leave your drama at the door,” most everyone ignores it. They end up sharing their joys and fears, which I generally embrace as my own, and we spend some time reminding ourselves that no one gets out of this alive anyway. We may as well enjoy the journey with all of its subsequent smiles and grimaces. A little laughter, a lot of wine and 2 Advils go a long way! I am blessed with family and good friends.

Write your own eulogy...

2009-04-03T03:32:00Z

I had nothing else to do today besides feed this headache with Advil. So, I got to thinking about getting sick, and then death, and then one thought just led to the other like a domino effect...and before I knew it, I was writing my own eulogy. Try it sometime...and then try living with the kind of qualities you’d like people to remember you by!

Scarlett's Eulogy...She died of an enlarged heart.

In medical terms, they say you can die from an enlarged heart. What a way to go!
After all the romantic dreams and illusions throughout a lifetime, this completely enlarged heart can now blow up with as much passion as it can muster to scatter the particles of its love wide into the expanse of the universe. That's what I have to share with you today...thank you, dear ones, for my life...the joy was far greater than the pain. Eternally grateful to the gods in charge for the complex dreams of this heart...no regrets, no sorry-ass laments. This wild bird can now fly home, content in the completion of its fantasy. After an eternity of seeking, I have found my castle where all of you, my loved ones, will polish the stones of my memory long after I have flown away. I love you...simply and sincerely. And if I come to roost upon you occasionally, it is not with the haunting longings of a discontent heart...it is with the joy of my love for you. Besides, I always have to have the last word, remember?

Death Can't Steal Love

2009-04-03T01:55:00Z

My father died alone, surrounded by all of us who loved him. His beloved breath was labored for the last, long, eight hours of his life while we hung on every whisper of air that kept him alive. In the living room, my mother, brother, sister and I talked quietly about the past and a future without him. I'd known him all of my life. He was as familiar to me as my own face in the mirror each morning. His impending death was incomprehensible, even to a Christian soul. Funny, we intellectually expect the arrival of death someday, but emotionally we're never prepared. I didn't know how it would feel to lose anyone I loved. My dad was the first.

In the early hours of that Sunday morning, before the light had a chance to illuminate the room, my father took his last breath. Gently. He just left and for the first time in my life, he didn't take me with him. I touched his face, but his eyes didn't open. I remembered his scent like a cubby bear when I used to crawl into my parents' bed as a child, instinctively lumbering to the side he slept on. It smelled like comfort, like strength. I remembered when he taught me to drive a car. I remembered how his mustache smiled when I showed him my first business card with my name on it. I remembered those treasured Saturday mornings. We all slept in while my dad drove to get freshly baked donuts, dripped in sweetness and still warm from the bakery. As kids, we'd gobble them up and sit and talk for hours around that kitchen table, safe and happy like little chicks in a nest. Now I saw him motionless on the bed we'd prepared lovingly so he wouldn't suspect he was dying.

In the old European fashion, my brother, the only son, washed and prepared my father's body for the final journey. I removed the satin pillow from my dad's head so he could lie straight and proud, the way he lived his life. My mother spoke to him softly about their long life together, their love, and their long-past youth. My tears flowed when she told him how proud he should be of his children who honored him even through death. I hope he heard her.

The wind chime in the backyard was a little church bell. Throughout the last four days of my dad's life, the breeze gently kissed those chimes and they played a melody that will forever surround my home. Whenever we get together now for holidays or family dinners, we hear that melody and we like to think our father is reminding us that he never really left. I suppose we never die as long as someone remembers us.
Someone called the hospice nurse at the end. I don't remember which one of us called or when, but she appeared divinely at the door. I knew she was there before she rang the doorbell. She was so kind. As a family fiercely proud of taking care of its own, we were unable to enter the crevices she filled for us, leaving us with pride intact. Yet, we didn't always think she was an angel. When we first met her, we thought she was a Nazi, dictating realities when we wanted only a new fantasy. Our hearts couldn't comprehend her approach to death; we'd never been here before.

Initially, the nurse refused to lie to my dad about his imminent death, even though my mother could wear down the devil himself with her logic. My mother was adamant about protecting her husband from the truth. She said he inherently knew he was dying; why proclaim it loudly to remove the space in time he, alone, made for his soul. My mother is a dragon who would kill to save you. It only took an hour for her to convince Mary Jo, the nurse, to lie to my father. Mary Jo was God's ambassador. She spared us the coroner and the police, but not the angel of death.

I will always hate the white hearse that drove slowly up the driveway to take my father away forever. As long as he was lying there, even breathless, among us, where our eyes could see him and our hands could touch him, he was just sleeping. The big, white hearse told us exactly what fools we were.
I stayed with my mother when they took my dad away, but my brother and sister escorted that merciless, white crane right up to the backdoor of the mortuary. The processing dock, they call it, where they polish the shell that once held the pearl. I don't envy them their trip that day. The hierarchy of siblings is that the oldest paves the way and the younger ones mop up.

My dad said something to me before he slipped into a coma, something that will always stay with me. He was looking up at the skylight in my ceiling where the light was coming through. He said, "It's so beautiful. I'd like to get up. Look, thirty-three horses and wagons are coming to take me."

My beautiful father. I know God agrees.

Welcome

2009-04-01T02:49:42Z

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