tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7114947823723045672024-02-21T02:46:07.648-05:00Life storytelling from Tinia of Lucas Farm, a former Vegetarian Homesteader Tinia of Lucas Farm: Life told from Appalachia where I've lived with Nubian Dairy cows, Miniature Jersey cows, Wyandotte chickens, created raw milk legislation and done a lot of horse rescue
Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.comBlogger412125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-40407653651048641652023-08-16T03:32:00.002-04:002023-08-16T03:33:03.640-04:00Painkiller: It's more than a TV series<p>After 3+ years without anything published here,</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ6YVMXlpWAFZZJ4jBCTX_9u5qt-UxNlrw7PNXrBL8uNWmpGtOliZwE3pcufaFhQX7eYssRF56MvnQVK1srQ8KbCkMJEc9IpiN1iaISGPjtCW-CkuxHrTemUejXRHkO3kEK21dLdAisHTTW3-qP1LyXf2uwQ3x_KFKcJ_Pdhz6IU4g_HMgWR3EnODc0mZf/s945/CYMERA_20230816_021454.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="945" data-original-width="945" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ6YVMXlpWAFZZJ4jBCTX_9u5qt-UxNlrw7PNXrBL8uNWmpGtOliZwE3pcufaFhQX7eYssRF56MvnQVK1srQ8KbCkMJEc9IpiN1iaISGPjtCW-CkuxHrTemUejXRHkO3kEK21dLdAisHTTW3-qP1LyXf2uwQ3x_KFKcJ_Pdhz6IU4g_HMgWR3EnODc0mZf/s320/CYMERA_20230816_021454.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>I'm watching Painkiller, the Netflix short series that came out on August 10th.</p><p><br /></p><p>I'm into the third episode.</p><p><br /></p><p>Watching it brings about PTSD like feelings.</p><p><br /></p><p>Heck, why do I say "like". . . It is actual Post Traumatic Stress from growing up in the late 1990s and early 2000s here in West Virginia watching oxycontin flood this area and leave a level of destruction behind no film can accurately capture.</p><p><br /></p><p>I don't think I can number people I know who have died, been addicted, recovered from, or been hurt by, that pill.</p><p><br /></p><p>Beyond that, it's taken over two decades for some muted version of the truth about how planned this was by a part of big pharma, how intentional it all was, and I can remember being 22, with a life already on the cusp of being ravaged because of that pill and what it did to so many I cared about, and already absolutely certain about exactly what was taking place.</p><p><br /></p><p>There are doctors, pharmacists, legislative members and others in positions of influence in our state, and across the nation, who walk around scot free and played huge roles in the oxycontin epidemic, to say nothing of the creator(s), executives or anyone who profited in any manner.</p><p><br /></p><p>I talk to teachers and foster parents trying to school large numbers of children born addicted, and they don't know what to do with much success. </p><p><br /></p><p>The people who were on oxycontin and trying to get off then were moved to suboxone. . .just take the time to read about the maker of that drug and the scandal behind it.</p><p><br /></p><p>The opioid epidemic has made and continues to make billions and billions of dollars a year:</p><p><br /></p><p>oxycontin had sales from $1.1 billion in 2000 to $3 billion in 2010; suboxone had sales of 1 billion in 2018. Net sales of vivitrol were $379.5 million in 2022, compared to $343.9 million in 2021. The methadone market is estimated to reach $105.3 million by 2026. The naloxone spray market is valued at 1.05 billion for 2022 and is projected to be 3.74 billion by 2030.</p><p><br /></p><p>The names of the companies / government officials / doctors and the people they prey on change, but the story, the game remains the same.</p><p><br /></p><p>They can make 100 more films, sue these corporations 1,000 more times, and that's not likely to change the beast.</p><p><br /></p><p>I'm not sitting here in Wayne County, West Virginia with an answer of how to change this story.</p><p><br /></p><p>But I can tell you the drug company executives are still laughing all the way to the bank with their pals with new drugs for their farms of addicts across America, and those we've elected are dancing right behind them to their own banks.</p><p><br /></p><p>Imagine a system that creates addicts and makes billions, then makes even more by creating more drugs the addicts can't be without, then making billions more, and imagine sitting here watching it feeling pretty powerless.</p><p><br /></p><p>That's where we are now.</p>Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-60456355401048919662020-05-29T01:50:00.001-04:002020-05-29T02:55:17.353-04:00This is my last story here. . .<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
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This is my last story here. . .</div>
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Well, of this kind. Even as I write it. . .I want to delete saying it.</div>
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It isn't how I want to work. I just want to write snippets here and there, as I think of them. But that is easy. And it leaves a lot of nothing behind.</div>
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And as some have told me, If continued, one day, I will find the value of my story has left.</div>
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It is, I suppose, time that I put it all somewhere else - instead of retaining it in my head and then sharing randomly in posts and blogs with abandon.</div>
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I think it must be time I go back and get everything I threw out there. . . gather it in, build on it, tell the "rest" and admit how hard that will be. . .</div>
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I'm not inclined to being scared - but saying this is kind of that scary.</div>
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I say it so I cannot back out and turn out and drop it. If I say this, I will never do those things.</div>
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I've only decided to do a small number of things in my life. I have only wanted the same, so that has been easy enough to keep up with it all.</div>
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It tends folks who know me are aware that if I decide to do something, it is done for a duration of no minor span and done to the best I can do the thing, whatever it is.</div>
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Growing up with many things that never were consistent and with things that changed with wind and the day of the week, I decided early on to instill in myself a fixity of purpose.</div>
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I value the ability to find only particular things to pursue. . .and do them well and for a span of valuable time. If I wanted many things and changed the wants as the wind blew, nothing would happen. I'd be sprinkled everywhere. . . failing, strewn constantly.</div>
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I suppose that is why I think of Ecclesiastes 9:10,<br />"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest." Well, we know I think of that for other reasons, but that is for the book, isn't it?</div>
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So It is time. Who knows how long it takes, either? A year? Let's hope.</div>
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For ten years, and more so in the last five, I've heard it thousands of times, no less than that, "Tinia, write the book". I've heard it from the highest levels on to the average reader of things they simply enjoy.</div>
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Christian told me two days ago</div>
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"Seems to me, you've been given all kinds of reminders. I'd say it means you should do this now, or admit you will never do it and you fail," and he is right.</div>
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Maybe I tried to time it. . .to time it when Angel, Ben, Quentin and Daddy's birthdays had all passed, kind of. . .</div>
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Maybe I have avoided writing it because it keeps me here - being able to tell it, as it comes. Let's pretend I didn't say that.</div>
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I've lived all the things. Seems a little dramatic for someone of 38 to say it, but there is nothing new left for me. There is more, but more and new are far apart. Whatever is in front of me looks to be a "by the wayside" tale of been there and done that.</div>
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And there is nothing coming I believe I will want to write about, so it seems it is now I should do it.</div>
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In some ways, I am glad. I can't imagine how I'll put the 38 years I've had into words, leaving out particular things that cannot ever be said . . .</div>
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That is how I know the time must be now. . . .that I can't fathom telling anyone more than I have already, knowing there is so much that has to be stored and still leaving so much untold.</div>
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To feel you've been born and lived to just tell a story . . .might not suit everyone.</div>
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But I'm a storyteller, and it suits me just fine. It actually is all I would like to believe.</div>
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Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-29823520614032746912020-05-22T03:08:00.003-04:002020-05-22T03:30:49.519-04:00The Dance: I sometimes wish, knowing what I do now, that I could appreciate wonder.<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
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<span data-offset-key="72bg3-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe it IS good we don't know how it will go. Anything.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="fh0b5-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I hate to think that could be true. But it must be.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="5ovia-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Here is a momentary backstory:</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="4t9qj-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I used to read voraciously. I don't now.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="4iqas-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Most of my life, I read and read. It was consuming. But I never wanted to wonder about what would happen in the end. I would skip to the few last pages, see how it went, then I'd read the whole book. Happy to just know the end.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="60p3n-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I still wanted to experience the tale; I just wanted to know to ending before the trip.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="egqa1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Movies: I rarely watch them these days. I've always, without fail, wanted to view them with someone else who could tell me how it all ends. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="3ivrg-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I said to my mom not long ago</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="7l39n-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">(. . .when I saw a list of traits of successful people. It said you should not lose a sense of wonder)</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="ftn1n-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">"I don't feel or like "wonder,'" and it was no news to her. I mean that in all forms it presents its self. Most folks find that sad. Maybe it is. Probably.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="7mcro-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Or it's protective.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="1nr3h-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Or just who I am.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="fphak-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Wonder is surprise. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="fjfif-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">It is also curiosity. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="1gk64-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">But then, It is doubt.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2tqr7-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I either do not like or want those experiences. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="14sd6-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="1062f-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="1062f-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="1062f-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Yet, after all of that is said and meant, I am glad when I sat here at 10 years old in this photo . . .(a day I remember like moments ago, when I fail to recall so much well. . .)</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="8ij-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8ij-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="8ij-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="8trh5-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8trh5-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="8trh5-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">that I remember my mother showing my this awful striped dress and saying how I had to wear it because I needed to match Angel. I recall thinking how we never took posed photos and how we drove to Logan, I swear, to take these. Quentin was grumpy and didn't look happy. That wasn't normal. He was cheery, usually, until he could talk. Benny needed a hair cut. He looked like an orphan. He wasn't one. I did not want to wear a dress. Any dress. Times have changed. I was mean about it. It was too tight for a girl built like a linebacker.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="cr7pq-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="cr7pq-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="cr7pq-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="a6u1f-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="a6u1f-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="a6u1f-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Oh, so much I didn't know.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="2mnvq-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="2mnvq-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="2mnvq-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="7a0bj-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7a0bj-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="7a0bj-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I am sure, even then, I would have asked to know. It someone would have said, "I can skip forward, dear, 13 years, and I can tell you everything won't really want to know, but it will ruin everything for you, so should I?" And I'd have screamed over and over, "Yes, tell me everything. Dare I have to wonder!"</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="3lk92-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3lk92-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="3lk92-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="a64g1-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="a64g1-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="a64g1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I'm glad it didn't happen like that.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="9d2la-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9d2la-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="9d2la-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="bmf8t-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bmf8t-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="bmf8t-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Let's be a Garth Brooks song, The Dance, for a minute. . .</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="2b0um-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="2b0um-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="2b0um-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="5h4dj-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5h4dj-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="5h4dj-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">"And now I'm glad I didn't know,</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="bmnfd-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bmnfd-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="bmnfd-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">the way it all would end, the way it all would go. . .</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="76i91-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="76i91-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="76i91-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Our lives are better left to chance, I could have missed the pain,</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="ddd6q-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="ddd6q-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="ddd6q-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">But I'd have to miss the dance. . ."</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="3ou5r-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3ou5r-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="3ou5r-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="b1f9q-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="b1f9q-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="b1f9q-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">It's true.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="fog9e-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="fog9e-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="fog9e-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="ci36l-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="ci36l-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="ci36l-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">There would have been no joy in holding that baby brother who would die 13 years later. As most of them would. No way to spend time like we had forever ahead with the sister when she was 16 taking selfies before they had a name or we had cell phones. No time to . . . Well, the truth is, here is where maybe knowing would have changed things for the better, as I'd have found a way to not live odds with the middle one. Ben. I would have better something how less or more or anything else. Maybe knowing sometimes would have been best.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="keva-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="keva-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="keva-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="9h7rk-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9h7rk-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="9h7rk-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">On this day, I think I am glad I didn't know.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="19h1n-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="19h1n-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="19h1n-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="28qnd-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="28qnd-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="28qnd-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I posed here with a silly mullet and the people I've loved that has been,</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="8dian-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8dian-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="8dian-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="3jk1f-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3jk1f-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="3jk1f-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">The truth is there were thousands of days that felt happy and almost or entirely carefree because I didn't know what was coming. None have been thus since I realized the end of our story together.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="37ta5-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="37ta5-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="37ta5-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="b0fpd-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="b0fpd-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="b0fpd-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I sometimes wish, knowing what I do now, that I could appreciate wonder. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="5kck5-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5kck5-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="5kck5-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="8ec2m-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8ec2m-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="8ec2m-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I can't. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="fkkv2-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="fkkv2-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="fkkv2-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">And usually, I don't want to.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="60tb4-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="60tb4-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="60tb4-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="4n049-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="4n049-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="4n049-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">But when I ran across this photo, I am glad I didn't know. I am glad I assumed the ending was something else. I believed, without a doubt, it was beautiful.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="dgm4p-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="dgm4p-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="dgm4p-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="bbjrn" data-offset-key="a4o0e-0-0" style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="a4o0e-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="a4o0e-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe it still is. Just not like I thought it would be.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-top: 6px;">
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Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-2172251371762100652020-04-24T02:15:00.003-04:002020-04-24T02:15:27.802-04:00Why I'll never raise goats againl have loved goats for a decade.<br />
<br />
They remain the animal I care for most of all, but I no longer raise them.<br />
<br />
Early in 2019, I announced I would no longer be farming in the way I had for the last ten years.<br />
<br />
I stopped raising all livestock last year, and I made a firm, permanent choice to no longer raise goats at all.<br />
<br />
I sold, to repeat and quality buyers, the bulk of my herd, which was over 50 animals at its peak. It hurt to do it.<br />
<br />
It was hard. But it was time.<br />
<br />
I lost faith and care for raising them.<br />
<br />
Goats are hard to care for, and they are prolific.<br />
<br />
I stopped breeding them for many reasons, and it may be meaningful for you to understand why.<br />
<br />
Goats don't thrive great in this part of the USA.<br />
Goats aren't something most vets know enough about to treat well and give advice on.<br />
Goats birth 2-4 kids a year.<br />
Quality goats aren't easy to replicate.<br />
People breed them for pets, and we do not need more of anything as a pet.<br />
Parasite resistance is out of control with goats.<br />
The buyers weren't making humane, ethical breeding or reproduction decisions regarding much of anything, especially care.<br />
The market was flooded beyond comprehension.<br />
Almost no one actually milked them.<br />
<br />
I milked goats for 10 years. I bottle raised kids for almost as long. I spent all of my money and my soul on them. I'd do most of it again, except less of it. . .because my heart still hurts at how most people will never care for them properly.<br />
<br />
I got tired of it all. . .loving things too few would ever care for and use in their intended way enough. . . I gave up. I am glad it did, though.<br />
<br />
I will always love goats, but because most people turned them into a novelty, I'll never raise them again.<br />
<br />
I do still have a few that will end their days here. They deserve it.<br />
<br />
They are either some of my original herd or a daughter of a doe I've lost that meant a lot to me.<br />
<br />
But I think life is a massive lesson, and I think it because it is. . .and living through a decade of farming taught me . . .well, everything.<br />
<br />
Adapt. Let go. Be tough. Persevere when one should.<br />
<br />
Do what you can sleep with knowing you've done at night. I could not sleep with putting out more goat kids.<br />
<br />
Cows. sure. Poultry, sure.<br />
<br />
And for others, they have to decide on their own. For me and this place, this herd you see wanders around without purpose. But they don't mind.<br />
<br />
A friend of mine knew a long time ago, this is where I'd land with goats. He was right. I wish I'd realized it then.<br />
<br />
This crazy muck of a crisis in the world reminds me why I came to this little hillside farm of 23 acres ten years ago. And I'll stay here farming in my own way on my terms. I think . . .forever. I hate this mess needed to remind me of it.<br />
<br />
But those goats, they will be my buddies only. Really, that is what they always were.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDxcntl_iP9bqmH57uv5cimL4htE1B518g6FyrXtmK2aDn1C753QaE1VD6i0IvHRLiHugbBXLrrGwzX0nwOlQQupqWhkbPOzkgeLJHquCN3aCm1zlyILufxySPPp7cUwdftGPvQOt-jhgW/s1600/goats1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="598" data-original-width="900" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDxcntl_iP9bqmH57uv5cimL4htE1B518g6FyrXtmK2aDn1C753QaE1VD6i0IvHRLiHugbBXLrrGwzX0nwOlQQupqWhkbPOzkgeLJHquCN3aCm1zlyILufxySPPp7cUwdftGPvQOt-jhgW/s320/goats1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-52228716522698878802020-04-04T00:37:00.003-04:002020-04-04T00:44:48.148-04:00Fear in 2020<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxwAtUsndGIfbXcoBjqp6iFPmt33SjmXRORT2kUNhZp8SZalosIX3eeyjzqQHWoNtLFYp_wY2794kc94pvaq42jPzIvQ5Z7XhFiiiR0iL0XkiP2rdActpNyS2TqjIFGkv0SoJsVXuQeyrr/s1600/emmons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxwAtUsndGIfbXcoBjqp6iFPmt33SjmXRORT2kUNhZp8SZalosIX3eeyjzqQHWoNtLFYp_wY2794kc94pvaq42jPzIvQ5Z7XhFiiiR0iL0XkiP2rdActpNyS2TqjIFGkv0SoJsVXuQeyrr/s320/emmons.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span data-offset-key="1htoj-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: inherit;">I saved this image over a week ago. I hadn't seen the photo before then. I looked for it to say what I am saying now. It just took awhile to be able to do it. And I had to close the search early, as I had not looked for those photos before now. It seemed the right time, though.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">I've known horror that defies words, though I've spent 13 years trying to explain it.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">I will never be able to. Not ever.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">I've known fear so deep, I can pause now, if I would be willing (and I am not), and I could almost feel the weight of it over my entire being. . . after what seems like a lifetime has passed me by.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">A friend asked a fair question, for anyone who has lost a tremendous amount of life, how can a person handle what is happening now. . .when you can't bear to lose anything else.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">And I have not a single answer for anyone else. . .</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">But for me, I will never be afraid before I am standing in front of a fire that tells me everything is lost.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">I will never do it before such a moment. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">I will never live in fear. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">I will not be afraid for what is unlikely to happen. I will not live in fear even if what I do not want is likely. I will not grieve when I still have. I will not cry for what is not lost. I will not cower or worry or waste time with those I have because something may happen or even likely could happen.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">We aren't promised anything. Not a single day. Odds are that some of us will not get all of the life we hope for, and odds are all of us will know someone who gets it cut short.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">and still, I will not fear what has not clear come to me where I see no way out. Not ever.</span></span></div>
Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-7324882494680361762019-11-11T01:23:00.002-05:002019-11-11T01:23:42.451-05:00Our past matters: All of It<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7t9nq" data-offset-key="e1uo3-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span data-offset-key="e1uo3-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">When I had just barely turned 16, I married a boy I'd gone to school with since I was 13.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="5bfja-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="8l2k2-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">21 years ago, almost 22. . .</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="dknso-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="epq6p-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="epq6p-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">No one could tell me anything. Less then than now, so that may explain how desperate a fight my mother had with me at the time.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="9bobh-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="dn6ot-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I don't remember the day, but it was May and it had to be 1998. We were in Virginia, I know that.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="509m8-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7t9nq" data-offset-key="4qfnf-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="4qfnf-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="4qfnf-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Wait, I am already making this story about me.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="amt43-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5g7f1-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="5g7f1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I tend toward that, I guess.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="k4qv-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="76ch4-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="76ch4-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I found out this evening that someone I had known since I was 13, someone I ultimately married for a short while, was murdered. It happened months ago.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="fnmjr-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="ehsao-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">They only just now found his body in Tennessee. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="1r134-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="4o2ov-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">It is a long story, and it doesn't have many happy moments, and certainly, the end is worse than unhappy.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="1cs4q-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="f6s8s-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">A lot of folks don't know about that first marriage, on my end. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="dh5pe-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="a8665-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="a8665-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Why? It was embarrassing, as years went on, to me. I left it out, and I did so with intention.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="apqdn-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="9ncjr-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">What a mistake it was. In most ways, but I don't think all. As through our marriage, he met my entire family, and some of them kept a very close and helpful contact with him through the rest of his tragic life.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="1kjlk-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="cfn4m-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Back when I knew him, I was a kid, in one way, but truly, not really.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="5ln5f-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="7jp6t-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">And maybe it takes folks dying to realize we leave people behind too often and never think of them much again, and maybe we should. It isn't that we shouldn't have moved on, but human beings . . that were part of our lives at a time. . .maybe we should think on them, close open ends, say something kind. Not always, but many times.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="t90-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7t9nq" data-offset-key="c9pot-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span data-offset-key="c9pot-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">He was a just another kid, and honestly, he was that, and while we had no future, we spent years together. And when I was done, I was. . . and that was essentially the end. But you can't just pretend a person wasn't there, and I am reminded of this now. I did pretend he wasn't ever there.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="21np0-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">And while I knew him . . .West Virginia was on the cusp of the opioid crisis and he went down that road, he was harmless, meek and looking for something better - and it seems he never found it and was never able to get out of the mess that has all but drowned this state, this region.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="f7uqn-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">And it isn't a story I would have told without tragedy, as when he tagged me in this photo with a little quip in 2013, I untagged myself. . .</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="bituj-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">But no matter, It was a story, a segment and part of my life, and we can't pick and choose, in hindsight. What happened did, and people matter - bad, good, harmless and all the others.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="390le-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">It all matters,</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="5dhnn-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Lives matter.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="c87tr-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">For a short while, he and I lived with with my friend, Judy, in North Carolina. in 1998. It seems, in the end, addiction played a role in both of their lives ending far too soon.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="blg2h-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I am sorry that Mason could never see his life did matter. I am sad that a person who never intended to be unkind to anyone found little hope in his life. I wish he had. . .</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="5el48-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I've done many things I regret, but I'd do this again to allow this harmless soul to know my family, who loved him, and did so until the end. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuxuVoxgcQEx4ORv1ne6QzcS1DbwrnmLHl5DQdi6XER55Ua1ZV39VCK2hKODbWw5sf1owBTtLjqbJrNSqai7BjFDtogDHlGq5MSXklfO0k2eqYPCeWO0PCewNDJZit6ZkwQ8Ca91OQEobC/s1600/masontinia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1143" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuxuVoxgcQEx4ORv1ne6QzcS1DbwrnmLHl5DQdi6XER55Ua1ZV39VCK2hKODbWw5sf1owBTtLjqbJrNSqai7BjFDtogDHlGq5MSXklfO0k2eqYPCeWO0PCewNDJZit6ZkwQ8Ca91OQEobC/s320/masontinia.jpg" width="228" /></a></div>
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Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-71956432684945123062019-08-07T14:59:00.002-04:002019-08-07T14:59:20.775-04:00Grief, of a sudden<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
That moment where you were fine, then you're not. . .</div>
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And your body feels heavy, like all of the life has just gone from it, but you want to jump up and run out the door to absolutely no where, and you're trying to breath normally, but you fail. . . and there are tears right there, but you work hard to help keep them from going no further than the cusp -</div>
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Overwhelming sadness and missing someone and grief does that when it comes back all of a sudden. I hate it, but it does remind me of the most incredible love for a person. So there is that.</div>
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Over 12 years later. . .and day to day, I got this, but then a life long friend of her's sends me these things I've not seen before now.</div>
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Seeing photos I don't remember from the past makes it feel as if she shows up, real, for a moment, before the reality is clear again. . .</div>
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A reality I work hard to forget and move on from continually.</div>
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The thought process is, truthfully, a bit crazy, at best:</div>
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"Look at that. There, she was a real person. She wrote her name. I had forgotten how she liked to write all over things. Me, too. I had forgotten how her handwriting was like mine, but better, of course. I had almost forgotten her. I want to forget her. How can I ever forget her? How can I stand to not?"</div>
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Of all the wants of my life, though there aren't many, having my sister back is the greatest, and it is the one that is impossible above all things. And yes, I want my little brothers back, but her so much more it is shameful. And so, it is the want I stow and let be, as much as I can. As long as I can. Forever, if I can.</div>
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Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-17567151889664947772019-04-09T14:40:00.002-04:002019-04-09T14:40:32.837-04:00Beauty and the Beholder <div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
As long as the main value of a being, whether it is human or animal, is on color, size, shape or overall visual flair, we are walking in the wrong direction.</div>
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It is hard for me to see any progress in this society toward kindness. . .when we put so much emphasis on flash.</div>
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Some dump or pass by unmarked young horses at auctions because they didn't have the flash the breeder hoped to find. They could have a steady mind, be solid all around and willing, but without the right markin<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">gs, right color, their fates are sealed. It hurts in rescue because we know adopters will also want to pass those animals by when they become adoptable.</span></div>
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It is the same with dogs and cats and goats. People ignore the medium sized black dogs in kill shelters in favor of anything else, and it is true of cats. In the farming world, where conformation means longevity, spots win out over anything else that actually makes sense. It hurts in shelters when works see the same ordinary dogs waiting . . .forever.</div>
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In humans, it depends on who is looking, but appearance matters first and most. The interpretation of it varies, but the reasoning is the same:</div>
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Some decide that if you're a woman and particular pretty, you must have no other value of any kind. It never makes sense how the outside must, in the minds of so many, connect to the inside.</div>
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or they decide if you're not a certain size, you should be afforded less of everything, especially dignity. It never makes sense how we can all have been treated, at least occasionally, different than seemed fair because of our external parts and continue to play that same horrible behavior forward by doing it to someone or something else.</div>
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I always think about Lettie, a Morgan type mare without much size who was pretty sharp but plain, and she'd had an eye removed on one side. It didn't effect anything about riding her at all or present future health concerns.</div>
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She was sane, safe and sound. She was only 10 then. She was never adopted. Email after email came, but no one could stand to look at her "blind" side.</div>
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It did not bothered us. She was a heck of a nice mare, and we knew it. We knew her. She was with us for 3 years. She died with HOP in a foster home of natural causes unexpectedly (a brain aneurysm and unconnected to the eye).</div>
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I was sad, but the only thing I said when Suzanna let me know was, "I wish something better could have been for her. No matter how long she had lived, no one was ever going to offer her a home but us."</div>
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Move forward and past making real assessments about the value of life based on what your eyes first see. You will need someone to do the same for you eventually, I promise.</div>
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Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-2713330769688870282019-04-05T01:50:00.000-04:002019-04-05T01:50:00.720-04:00My First Horse: How He Helped Me Save 400 More <div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
A long time ago. . .</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
22 years, actually. . .my parents bought me a horse.</div>
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Sunshine, as he came to me named, was a grade Arabian gelding of 8 years old.</div>
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I did him no service, though he never did without food and love while I had him, to be sure.</div>
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I was unprepared, as a kid, with parents who knew nothing of horses and a well meaning, but horse trading Papaw.</div>
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I had a few years of saddle-seat lessons every other week and a lot of years in sale barns with my grandfather to add up to a lot of nothing, and when I think about that gelding, I am heartbroken.</div>
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I sometimes wonder if all this work isn't to repay a debt I never can to that fellow I've never been able to find.</div>
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Sold when I was in Florida at 18, 3 years after he came to the farm, because my family decided, fairly, I wasn't coming back very soon. . . I never knew anything else of him.</div>
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A man in Ripley, WV bought him, Papaw said. I've looked for him on and off since 2009, but I knew, I guess, I would never find him.</div>
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He would be 30 now, and the lack of knowing what happened to him has remained a weight I wish I didn't need to carry. But I will carry it and should, as I failed him.</div>
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It is why know Heart of Phoenix must be faithful to do all we can to know where our horses go, that we offer a place for adopted horses to return to and work to help owners seeking help find a resource to home their horses.</div>
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It is why I know we cannot let childhood dream rule where horses go when parents have no knowledge of what owning horses means. They deserve responsible owners, educated owners, dedicated owners.</div>
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Those are things, at 15, I could not be. . .</div>
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Life happens. I was a kid. I was not prepared to have a horse with family that didn't know better or know to "KNOW" better.</div>
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I so wish I'd done better. And these days, all I can say is I hope to make others do a better job than I did.</div>
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Over 400 horses later, the debt has not been repaid. I am pretty sure it never will be.</div>
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Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-44539600482504252482019-03-29T01:47:00.000-04:002019-03-29T02:12:39.415-04:00Redemption in Appalachia: A tale of hope, opioids and leaving it behind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Older sisters. . .<br />
<br />
I am one.<br />
<br />
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<br />
We can be a lot of dictators, can't we?<br />
<br />
Our siblings can be seen as just that: "ours."<br />
<br />
Maybe it isn't the same when you are born next, after.<br />
<br />
I remember that mine were "mine," and that meant they were obligations and friends from the first.<br />
<br />
I tried to be a mama to them from the moment they arrived. The weight and worry of them was heavy. Mine even, I thought, before they were our mother's or father's.<br />
<br />
Growing up here in rural Appalachia, children of a wealthy, mercantile baron and a dreaming, blonde gal 40 years younger than Daddy, we never saw things like the rest of folks. How could we?<br />
<br />
The five of us arrived after 9 or 10 children had already been borne to a Daddy who was already a grandfather many times over. Arrived we had, without hope of ever fitting into a family he'd already created. Dropped into a situation that would never make sense, we were a start over for our father and a first for our mother who spoiled us in some ways and wandered about looking for her purpose like gypsy in others where we trailed without a solid sense of purpose way behind.<br />
<br />
We could not be sure about anything in particular except we had one another. Daddy was ready to "go onto heaven and get out of this world," as he often told us growing up, and my mother was sure she wasn't long for West Virginia.<br />
<br />
Time and chance comes in, though. We were an interesting, pretty lot of kids. And before I knew it, three of them had flickered in and out of my life so quickly, as I sit here, I feel a time pressing on me where they are nothing but slight echos.<br />
<br />
The truth is, these days, I remember having no one more than having anyone.<br />
<br />
While I could tell you all about the youngest three before they were gone in a 2007 January fire where they huddled, trapped in an apartment kitchen under blankets holding a Bible and a kitten, who wants to remember that? Today, that is not the story. This one is not finite, like the other. It is not finished in a pile of ashes and memories.<br />
<br />
After the fire, I still had one brother left who probably needs to forget as much and more than I.<br />
<br />
That one was my shadow in a quiet, meek way when we were children. I was a boss of all sorts: Loud and overbearing. As best I can recall, which isn't as well as I wish, he never spoke to me in a way that wasn't a whisper as a little boy. He mostly called after me:<br />
<br />
"Sissy."<br />
<br />
"Sissy"<br />
<br />
"Sissy."<br />
<br />
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Where was I heading? What was I saying? What did I want, need, expect?<br />
<br />
The more finer version of me, he was, with darker hair and more striking features. . .but without my loud confidence. And I will always look back and think, If I had been less, could he have been seen more? Would that have changed things, had he not been hidden by me, my force and will?<br />
<br />
I moved away when he was still growing. . .away to do whatever teenagers do when they think something else is better. I left him behind. It was not as if I had anything to give at 18. I've found when you leave things behind in a rush, you may come to regret it.<br />
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Life was lonely and broken in the behind, though, and he was there in it. Quiet and following. . .following no one that made sense. . . or maybe no one at all.<br />
<br />
Oxycontin was there then, doing what it does. It looked like whatever it needed to, which I believe was like anything other than what was. But how do I know? I wasn't there. Regardless, he found it or it him, like it found all of the people in West Virginia then. . .while everyone sat silent and it spread and devoured.<br />
<br />
Oh, you may say, "it didn't find me!" But dear, it did. . .by finding someone you loved. It got you, too, and please do not let misguided pride beg you say otherwise.<br />
<br />
I came home some years later with a one year old son, a George Foreman rotisserie, a big TV and little else.<br />
<br />
I tried to find the brother I'd known before, and I could not. In hindsight, I ask, "Tinia, did you look hard enough?" I will ask that forever. Perhaps, if I had looked more, he'd not have slipped further away. Perhaps not matter how hard I looked, things would have been the same.<br />
<br />
The not knowing is a hard thing, isn't it?<br />
<br />
I dreamed once after the younger brothers and sister died that we had all made a silly error! They could easily come back to life, after all. How silly we all had been. Their batteries just needed to be replaced! In this dream, I ran around looking until, in the old house, I found new sets. I replaced them. The kids were all restored. I fell down when they spoke to me again, in tears, saying how sorry I was that I had not realized our mistake. We could have saved so much agony and time, if we had known. I had to wake up to realize that batteries would not bring them back. They were gone from here forever. And recently, I think of how, after this dream, with my remaining brother wandering around lost, I still didn't look for new batteries or an answer for him because it seems, then, so hopeless.<br />
<br />
Early on and for many years, I could not understand or, better yet, withstand what addiction meant or was. Addiction can kill and destroy everyone around it, and way back in 2003, I had no concept of where to even begin such a fight.<br />
<br />
16 years ago. If we tell the truth, how could anyone have known what type of savage decimation was in store for this region, though? If we had known, what might we have tried?<br />
<br />
The not knowing. . .is a hard thing, isn't it?<br />
<br />
We parted ways when I could not bear all that weight or risk any longer. Could not, as I remember it. He probably remembers it another way. He felt gone to me, but in a few years, I was going to really learn what being gone forever really means. How it really feels.<br />
<br />
Two long and short years passed, and a fire came. I remember, in the hours after flames had been put out by rain, in my mamaw's kitchen with a group of well meaning friends and family I did not want there, I said, on someone's random shoulder that I have never looked to since, "Oh, Why. . .why wasn't it John or me? Not them. Never them." Because it felt as if I'd lost him a long time before, and the loss of them was too new, too raw. Let the one my heart already buried go on.<br />
<br />
For almost 12 years in the aftermath of a nightmare that never ends, this brother's existence was awash in rumors, tales, arrests, mug shots and a slow fade.<br />
<br />
For the most part, I could not do anything but pretend he was as gone as all of the others. But he was not. . .quite gone.<br />
<br />
That was, at times, harder than the finality of the others. Their fates here on Earth were settled. His was left open.<br />
<br />
The not knowing. . .still.<br />
<br />
A few times, I let him stay with me awhile. He always left the moment a chance came about, but hee stayed long enough to remind me of the somebody I used to know.<br />
<br />
I never dared believe and hope for much when I saw him. What I know now is people need someone to believe they will, even when they will not. Believing gives hope, and without hope, people perish.<br />
<br />
Hope was too painful for me for so many years. I'd lost all I could, and I had, I admit, already let him go except this tendril of a thread.<br />
<br />
Open a door, try new batteries?<br />
<br />
So much death was already behind me, but I finally had to say, "Tinia, there is still life."<br />
<br />
Because broken as it was, It was still.<br />
<br />
This last summer, He sent me a message that read:<br />
<br />
"I need someone to help me and I have no one... I am drowning. I am on the verge of collapsing in every form and just don't know what to do. I have been outside for two days<br />
I have no where to go," he said to me in a Facebook message.<br />
<br />
I somewhere grabbed something I thought had burnt out, which wasn't quite hope, but something and said, "Do you want me to come to get you?'<br />
<br />
He said, "Yes."<br />
<br />
After almost twenty years of addiction, lies, deception and sadness, on my drive to get him, I knew something was different. The why was neither here nor there.<br />
<br />
He asked me to come to help him. He had never before reached out to ask for help. He'd asked for things, but not just help and for me to come.<br />
<br />
Before heading to him, I turned to my oldest son:<br />
<br />
"Would you have me bring him home? It will be hard and our little house isn't made for more people, especially someone detoxing from this type of drug addiction. You need to think this is right because you live there, too."<br />
<br />
"Go get him," Christian responded, "If it were one of my brothers, I would go."<br />
<br />
Down the winding, pothole covered roads of Route 10 into Lincoln County, WV, my oldest and I went several days later. My only remaining "real" brother in the world was on the roadside next to a little convenience store, his sternum broken in half from a catastrophic car accident as a passenger, his lungs were mostly collapsed with pneumonia and he was in withdrawals from decades of addiction. Christian and I took the 160 lb, 6' 2'' frame an hour drive back to the ER.<br />
<br />
Huntington - the epicenter of the opioid crisis. It felt like the wrong place to bring him, but that is where I am. I could do nothing else.<br />
<br />
The staff came in. One of the women looked at him and said, "You realize he shouldn't be alive? A grown man of his size taking an impact sufficient to completely break his sternum into should have made his organs rupture."<br />
<br />
"Well," I thought but didn't say out loud," he's lived through worse, honestly."<br />
<br />
What I did say was rather like, "Well, since he lived, I reckon he will have to do better."<br />
<br />
That night, because they could not give him, as an addict, much for pain, and because he had not had anything to combat the withdrawals in too long, we did not sleep. Not him. Not me.<br />
<br />
I wondered the whole night what in God's name I had done. How could this ever be okay? How could he? How could this have been the right thing? How could I hope? What if the kids woke up? No one should have to see or live like or through this.<br />
<br />
Not him. Or Me. Not anyone.<br />
<br />
This story, in some ways, is not mine to tell, but he is mine. My brother. His story and life are woven together, even though we both went in opposite directions for most of our time. And what his life has done to me, and what things we could not control have done to us both, make it "Our" story.<br />
<br />
He never asked for me to take him back to where I'd picked him up from in the months that followed.<br />
<br />
Days went on. Little by little, that thing I felt in the beginning turned to hope. Not just mine, but his. I know it had to be. Why now? I have no idea. We had both already been crushed in trillions of piece with years of disappointment, failures and hopelessness, so why believe and try now?<br />
<br />
And a girl he'd met along the stumbling he'd been doing through life decided he was trying to turn his life around and gave him one more shot.<br />
<br />
And who knows the why, but felt like we all were believing this time.<br />
<br />
So she wanted to believe, too. Things can happen when people all believe, don't they? When no one believes. . .I've seen what takes place then.<br />
<br />
A few months ago, he messaged me to ask where we were, and I said we were having dinner at a local restaurant. He said he was going to stop by. He came in, ordered and as we all finished up, the bill came. He put the amount of money his meal and tip would be on the table from job he found on his own.<br />
<br />
It seems a small thing. But it was not. It was when my hope turned to confidence.<br />
<br />
And confidence is a game changer for a life like nothing else.<br />
<br />
I thought about my Daddy, my littlest brothers and my sister, and I wanted to tell him what they never knew for sure. . ."He will be okay."<br />
<br />
I have to explain how afraid I have been to write this until now. . .because at the core of my soul, there was fear. . . the part I keep tucked away because it can only take so many sad things. I have been far too scared to just say I believe my brother will make it now and beat the past. Whatever the future brings, even if it brings failures, the darkest part is over.<br />
<br />
I do not think until this year, I realized what a weight pulling so much through death and destruction around has been to me.<br />
<br />
I have lost almost all of the people I loved as a child, and lost them in ways that eclipse all words, though we know how I try to share it, and while I cannot get those back, the feelings when one you thought was gone forever actually comes back, very much alive. . .well, folks, that is a once in a lifetime thing.<br />
<br />
I have been working on writing this for so many, many weeks, and in the end, it said much less than I intended and much more, in other ways.<br />
<br />
It seems fitting I find a way to tie it up and let it out there on his Birthday, so Happy 35th Birthday.<br />
<br />
Go do all the things I believed you would do when we were kids and things were new. They can still be new, brother John.<br />
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<br />Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-77470238966482002072019-03-18T16:27:00.002-04:002019-03-18T16:27:55.842-04:00That is a broken record that will continue to play forever.<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Happy Birthday. . .My darling sister.</div>
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But this isn't just any birthday. It is the 30th.</div>
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I have now missed the end of your teens and all of your twenties.</div>
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That is a broken record that will continue to play forever.</div>
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I've missed you at such a measure, all my babbling cannot ever explain it. All I can do is try.</div>
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There is a numbness that comes after losing someone like you were to me that makes all achievements,high moments and happy days less.</div>
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I've now lived so long without you, you are just a made up character, and the knowing of this, after all these years, may be what feels most painful of all.</div>
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I told the kids it was your birthday today, but what does that matter to people who did not know you?</div>
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A friend you met from a long time ago for just a few weeks recently stopped by your mausoleum on the way from Florida to Ohio, though, going hours out of his way. I think that reminded me that even if our memories become a bit of fiction as time goes on, at least I am not alone in having them. More importantly, I am not alone in believing you were something more than us all. A once in a lifetime in a sea of regular people. . .</div>
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I'd like to have you back, but since I cannot, I'll continue, as I have for so long, putting as many worthwhile things as possible into this life, always trying to fill a void that will always be unfillable at every single turn.</div>
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Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-6775673020218560872019-03-04T11:31:00.000-05:002019-03-04T11:32:02.264-05:00Persisting in Appalachia: Opposition and Opportunities, Part Two<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="di2ig" data-offset-key="383ca-0-0" style="background-color: white;">
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">PART TWO
My early life was comprised of Bill Monroe’s voice, hard concrete floors where Daddy worked, trying to stay warm under electric blankets in winter and routing mountain water down through pipes that fed into an old whiskey barrel down to the single wide.
There were also memories of hundreds, maybe thousands, of muddled voices coming to ask “Tiny” for a just one more loan, a few extras dollars and groceries for their kids, probing, begging, asking. . .with him always relenting, serving, aiding, helping.
And more than all of those voices, which sound like one big mass, there were four that were distinct: those were from little brothers and a sister. None like me, and I was glad for it. Daddy somehow, but just barely, heard ours above the masses.
He loved babies. . . of all kinds, actually. His, chicks, goslings, kittens, perhaps just youth and vigor, which had long left him when I came into being.
Life had never been kind to him, but he had persisted. He had done more than that, though, as he had been a helper, led a life worth living, demanded life be exactly how he wanted. It never was. Now, I know it must have felt like a long journey wanted to turn away from, but he walked it anyway and did the best he understood to do.
I could never forget his stories, seldom shared and frantically held onto within me. No account of mine would be complete without his, and really, maybe I never want them to be. I can't see independence from him and a life I never really experienced before my time. . . I twist it all together until it runs along side mine whether it makes sense or otherwise.
So on we go, don't we, he and I?
On a hillside in the heart of Appalachia near the end of March in 1929, it was probably still penetratingly cold. I know it is here today on March 4th, 2019. The landscape would have been stark: the trees barren, the sky grey and the hills brown. I've seen enough winter here to know that much. I can look out my own window now to see a hillside that I am certain looked much like the one that day.
No doubt within the little dwellings scattered in the hills, the homesteading families were looking forward to spring more than I am now. It would have been, after all, just around the corner, and they would have been nearly out of their winter provisions. Life should have been looking up. The worst of winter would have been behind them with any luck, of which they rarely had any.
But around this particular time in Lincoln county, West Virginia, on top of what would become known as 14-Mile Mountain, a tired, middle-aged woman opened the front door of her one room cabin with a dirt floor to meet two men holding her husband's severed body. The men claimed they has found him on the nearby railroad tracks. Little “Tiny,” one of the youngest of the dead man’s sons, looked around to see his daddy's mangled figure, and he recalled this account eighty years later to me, a daughter of his old age.
They buried the man in ground that would have still been hard, frozen, and impossible to manage. And the woman never remarried. It was a murder, it probably involved moonshine or a bad game of cards. Later, my aunt Peep would find the truth out. But Daddy would never talk of that.
My grandfather left behind 9 children. Their youngest, eventually to be called "Peep" was only 9 days old at the time. He left not only many children, but his invalid, blind mother, as well. The woman would tell her sons and a daughters in the years to follow, "Some people are born to a death," and so her husband had been, she was sure.
He knew it was coming for him, else why had he sat on their corn husk bed a short time before and warned her that should he die, she must not give their children away.
This man, Win, had written poetry and has been a gambler. . . and born to death.
As soon as he was buried, people began to show up at the door, my Daddy said, for women without husbands did not keep 9 children alone in the mountains of West Virginia in 1929. They told her she must let some of them go.
They knocked day in and day out, offering to take this one and that one. My aunt Peep has said how hard she fought to keep them from taking the children away. They would offer to take them in pairs or singles. It was just what was done, she said. Folks wished to take them to work on their homesteads, in lieu of children they couldn't bear or for any reason one might imagine and some we would prefer to not.
She became a washer woman. She spent her days walking far away to wash for other people, and the little boy who peered around to see his daddy's body ran into the hills to cry for her to come home morning after morning for he loved her most of all. He would never go to school because he wanted only to be with his mother. And she loved him most of all, I heard. His sisters will his schooling deficit some time later before he went into the service in WWII.
My grandmother, someone I never laid eyes on, as she died the over thirty years before my birth, never gave away any of her children. Some she buried in boxes behind the cabin, as nothing about Appalachia in the 1920's and 30's proved easy, but she never let anyone show up to make off with them. When she died, Daddy had made it a long way from that impoverish beginning. He buried his mother in a solid copper coffin next to the body of Win. And whether she'd have wanted to be, that we will never know.
(Eventually be be continued)</span></span></div>
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Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-41459619838683207692019-02-26T16:01:00.005-05:002019-02-26T16:01:53.471-05:00Persisting in Appalachia: Opposition and Opportunities: Part ONE<br />
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<b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Persisting
in Appalachia: Opposition and Opportunities<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Part ONE<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Born in 1982 during an April snow, I was. My Daddy, a
self-made millionaire from World War II who made his shoes last longer through
the sensible use of duct tape was nearly 60 years old by then. He has lived in
a dilapidated trailer off the side of a county road known as “10” for some
years before my arrival. He would live there for many after. My mother, barely
out of her teens, persisted there with him, for a season, but not forever.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Five children came after me, the last born when Daddy was
eighty. The upbringing was sparse and full, all at once. As a sister, I found
some way to be mother, even though my nature isn’t motherly at all. I found a
way to be a friend, even though I always wanted center stage. I ended up a
tyrant, and that part I’ve tried to correct all this time later. The unique
life we led through and with the unusual people who raised us was something we
embraced and enjoyed and spurned. </div>
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But this is a story at odds from the start,
isn’t it? <o:p></o:p></div>
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My father was a man married 6 times with children far older
than my mother. He was a man of the Great Depression with a head of untamed
white hair kept too long (though we would dare say that to him), large glasses
and decided views on the use of salt and jokes. He frowned on my wants and big
personality, and still he was all but God come to Earth in my view. My mother
was a woman you cannot un-see once you’ve laid eyes on her, and she stayed up
all night watching me perform plays and allowed me to push my way onto trips
she took to anywhere, just because I said so, but somehow that didn’t construct
the obsession my father did within me for a person. She was taller and blonder
than average, eyes bluer than everyone else’s, bones and spaces all elegant and
symmetrical and perfection. She had dreams too big to ever come true in my
mind, and she had a husband telling her, at least once a day, “Eyes not
satisfied with seeing, ears not satisfied with hearing.” </div>
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I believed him first. He
was not one for dreaming, you see. I didn't want to be, either.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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To be heard, to be seen between these two enormous
personalities was never easy. I tried. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somehow, I did it. A Kentucky Colonel,
hard-shell Baptist, former underground miner, a man with thousands of small
bill booklets left unpaid in his store because local people were in poverty, as
he would see no one go hungry. How oddly paired, he was, to a small town beauty
queen with a love of making spaces baroque and odd, always on a quest to spread
Jesus and a life story across a nation. They both blazed trails and carved out
lives of interest and value in directions that bore no similarities to one
another . . .some could say in spite of, though I wonder if not because of
lives in a rather isolated area of Appalachia. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-28825776118034432832019-02-26T15:57:00.003-05:002019-02-26T15:57:58.009-05:00Know what your failings are, else you will never do better than your weakest part<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
I'd suppose if I try hard to do anything, it is to recognize my own personal failures and abilities, and then to figure out what values they have in teaching some type of life lesson through the course of things.</div>
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It is sad how we can know we should not do a thing or should do a thing, and yet, we will sit by and decide to very clearly to do or not do the opposite of whatever it is.</div>
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For instance, I am good at a fair number of things. I am glad for it. One of the things is writing in particular way that is my own, that people enjoy reading and that resonates.</div>
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Thankful for that, I am.</div>
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However, I am bad at a large number of things, too. While I am aware, changing the bad things. . .well, that is tough. I put all things off. . .and off. and never get all needed information.</div>
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I was made aware of a particular essay contest for the region of Appalachia at least 8 months ago. I reviewed the deadline. I was firmly of the belief I could place or win the contest. I skimmed the requirements, noting mostly that the piece needed to be about Appalachia (check) and the due date (check.)</div>
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A person so inclined to use so many words herself simply skim (can all my HOP people give me an AMEN? I thought so)? Being firmly sure I could win, you'd think I'd have read it better, but no.</div>
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Writing comes easy, so I was sure it would.</div>
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So I waited. I could have worked on it for months. I did not.</div>
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I put it off.</div>
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I wrote lots of other things, you be sure.</div>
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I let the date get nearly upon me, within a few days, actually, and I realized the requirements for the piece were rather specific. Wouldn't have hurt me to read them sooner, would it?</div>
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It was so specific, I knew then I should not enter anything. It wouldn't be fair to the piece. I could have done it with weeks, not a few days.</div>
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I said, "I should not enter anything, as it will not be good."</div>
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The hour came to submit it, and I literally typed away to meet the word count, and I knew half way through, it was a random, an all over the place mess. . .no direction at all, pointless (so I thought).</div>
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Somewhere along the words, they went awry and failed.</div>
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I knew it. I said it aloud. This isn't good. I should not send it.</div>
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So I opened my email, copied and pasted the email from the contact page, and I sent it.</div>
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No sooner was it done, I was horrified. I closed WORD. I did not open it again to ever once even read the mess.</div>
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This doesn't end well. You may be thinking it does.</div>
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Yesterday, I received the feedback -</div>
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Win? Heavens, no. And I didn't want feedback on what I'd done. I wanted to forget it. Don't we all when we do a stupid thing or series of things?</div>
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But no, I had to read it. It was my choice to waste their time and make a group of people read it.</div>
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And there were spelled out all the things I had known before clicking send. Started really strong, ended a mess without a place to go. That was a summery. There was a bit more, but that is the gist.</div>
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I needed to be reminded that even when you're very good at a thing, if you allow your weak parts to do so, they will destroy your talent and intention and ability.</div>
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Someone else needs to know that, too.</div>
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Know what your failings are, else you will never do better than your weakest part.</div>
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And that story, it did start well, so I'll take that and do something with it.</div>
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Better this time.</div>
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Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-82207224106716158592019-01-22T15:44:00.002-05:002019-01-22T16:19:08.067-05:00I Hate Seasons: My farming journey has, by and large, come to an end.<br />
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My farming journey has, by and large, come to an end.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I hate seasons.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Not the kind that bring winter, fall, spring, summer (though
I'd not mind if winter found somewhere else to go), but the kind that re-route
the direction of your life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I hate surprises. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Not the things that mean presents and friends, but the kind
that you failed to see coming, either because you could or would not see it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I hate letting go.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I've never been good at releasing a grip on anything at all,
even when I know I should. I am even worse at letting go when I am not certain
it is for the best.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Change is hard, perhaps because I have never sought it out,
or perhaps because when it has come to me, it has always been brutal in what it
revolutionized and how it left things behind.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I wrote a blog some years ago that reached millions of
readers. I am sure many of you remember it, and in hindsight, I am glad not
because of how it impacted others, but because of how much more relevant it is
to me now.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“If I Never Farm Another Day: What 'Sometimes'<o:p></o:p></div>
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Farming has Given Me. . .”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Fortitude<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hope<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sadness<o:p></o:p></div>
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Perspective<o:p></o:p></div>
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Skill<o:p></o:p></div>
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Community<o:p></o:p></div>
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Connection<o:p></o:p></div>
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Strength<o:p></o:p></div>
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Family <o:p></o:p></div>
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I did not think, ten years ago when this adventure started,
the time would be so long and short to get here. . . to the end of it, but isn’t
that life summarized in every single portion?<o:p></o:p></div>
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I imagined I would be older, more ready, better prepared if
that time came, but we never know, do we?<o:p></o:p></div>
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I looked through my own words from that ever popular nearly
4 year old writing of mine, and I find so much truth in what was typed. I find
I can copy and paste them here now, and they still ring true - truer than I
ever knew they would:<o:p></o:p></div>
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"In a world where so little is real, where almost no
work is required and the spirit is left void and wanting. . . even producing or
nurturing one thing that, in turn, feeds you or otherwise nourishes you is of
more value than I ever expected years ago when I began a 'Sometimes' farm that
required work all of the time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The idea of walking away leaves me feeling blank and
desolate, even though there isn't a lot of tangible reason as to why.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But one day, if I find myself without cows, chickens and
goats in my yard, the lessons I've learned, the values and skills my children
will have, will always make every single moment worth it. I've finally become
very sure."<o:p></o:p></div>
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When you begin a journey, you cannot know what life has
ahead, so you may intend to stay a course that is actually entirely impossible.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And though I hate to say it, that can
mean letting go.<o:p></o:p></div>
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For me, a life of farmstead dairy, helping new farmers find
good livestock, raising the best animals I possibly could with some amount of
preservation in mind, being part of this family's food system and growing
something real was of great value, but life and mission took me into a nonprofit
world to help horses, and while the truth has always been that I enjoyed goats
and hillside farming more, where I was needed was somewhere else. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Today, it is easy to look around and see continuing to hold
onto a dream everyone else let go of a long time ago here, does not make sense.
And, though I’ve been known to dress up as Wonder Woman now and again, I am not
her, so trying to change the face of horse welfare across Appalachia while
desperately dragged a whole farm behind is impossible, though it seemed like I
could pull it off for a long, long time. I cannot do it. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Time. I don't have enough of it. Farming doesn't wait for unexpected horse rescue trips, and I've tried to make it. It will not. Farming also doesn't wait when the others farming with you jump off the ship, sadly.</span></div>
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The silence here for months, the lack of photos and stories
told the story to you long before I did, I am sure.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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Let go, but only when you have to. Hold on, but only when
you should. It is a fine line, and it is one I do not have figured out.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilInO-_wvEW-N-czJCHcMal0KgoHnXgfCKPH96gNk55QcXJ3A4bo03QypadZR2X7C2H4Dvm05xaHr0ps7i7xN7IzgZb2RI-ss2BfTisUWCzeDsBMSzTdDyQVsce0nwdzBs9VEgSYNKKjtl/s1600/farm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilInO-_wvEW-N-czJCHcMal0KgoHnXgfCKPH96gNk55QcXJ3A4bo03QypadZR2X7C2H4Dvm05xaHr0ps7i7xN7IzgZb2RI-ss2BfTisUWCzeDsBMSzTdDyQVsce0nwdzBs9VEgSYNKKjtl/s1600/farm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilInO-_wvEW-N-czJCHcMal0KgoHnXgfCKPH96gNk55QcXJ3A4bo03QypadZR2X7C2H4Dvm05xaHr0ps7i7xN7IzgZb2RI-ss2BfTisUWCzeDsBMSzTdDyQVsce0nwdzBs9VEgSYNKKjtl/s1600/farm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilInO-_wvEW-N-czJCHcMal0KgoHnXgfCKPH96gNk55QcXJ3A4bo03QypadZR2X7C2H4Dvm05xaHr0ps7i7xN7IzgZb2RI-ss2BfTisUWCzeDsBMSzTdDyQVsce0nwdzBs9VEgSYNKKjtl/s1600/farm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilInO-_wvEW-N-czJCHcMal0KgoHnXgfCKPH96gNk55QcXJ3A4bo03QypadZR2X7C2H4Dvm05xaHr0ps7i7xN7IzgZb2RI-ss2BfTisUWCzeDsBMSzTdDyQVsce0nwdzBs9VEgSYNKKjtl/s1600/farm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilInO-_wvEW-N-czJCHcMal0KgoHnXgfCKPH96gNk55QcXJ3A4bo03QypadZR2X7C2H4Dvm05xaHr0ps7i7xN7IzgZb2RI-ss2BfTisUWCzeDsBMSzTdDyQVsce0nwdzBs9VEgSYNKKjtl/s1600/farm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a>The hillside and my stories aren’t going anywhere, though,
folks, and on it and in them will remain my favorite now “pet” goats, two
horses, speckles of Wyandotte chickens, a barren-old cow and Clemmie (where I
still hope to find a few months a year to milk share with her calf, so we can
remember butter and real milk). It won’t really be a farm, but it will still
be, for now, mine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-3128761399572003102018-12-21T13:53:00.001-05:002018-12-21T13:53:20.265-05:00People ARE willing to follow a good example far more often than ignore it.<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="4gkfc-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="4gkfc-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="4gkfc-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Wherever you live, odds are, if you're on the road half as much as I am, you will find folks standing on corners of roadways and business centers asking for money for food.</span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="3f8li-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span data-offset-key="3f8li-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="20sro-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="20sro-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="20sro-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">We wonder. . ."is it food they are really looking for?" I know we do.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="5r546-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="fj7cj-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="fj7cj-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="fj7cj-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Sure, we know sometimes the story is a ruse, and sometimes the person out there has a great "business" going with a hard luck story they made up.</span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="73ekm-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span data-offset-key="73ekm-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="6qufl-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes.</span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="eooui-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="eooui-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="eooui-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="bvil7-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bvil7-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="bvil7-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Then again, sometimes they are veteran of a war they didn't create with mental illness they never received help for, too.</span></div>
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<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bof4o-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="bof4o-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="6alkc-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="6alkc-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="6alkc-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">and sometimes she was molested by a family member, and perhaps it turned into rape where she ended up pregnant. Maybe she then ran away and found the only way to make it was selling herself, and that became her normal.</span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="f3pje-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f3pje-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="f3pje-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="6h2tc-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span data-offset-key="6h2tc-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">We don't know, because we rarely ask.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="eas2d-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="9i7js-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span data-offset-key="9i7js-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">We assume. We assume because that is what we too everyone else do.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="7omnq-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="6hpgo-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span data-offset-key="6hpgo-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">And we don't assume on the side of compassion too often. We aren't seeing enough of that.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="bo25k-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="7be4d-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7be4d-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="7be4d-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">There are always stories, aren't there?</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="6ull1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="5674h-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5674h-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="5674h-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">We all have them, don't we? We care so much about our own "hard luck" tale, what time do we have to worry about others' pasts?</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="20ei5-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="20ei5-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="20ei5-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="8uvet-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8uvet-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="8uvet-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Oh, we could have the time, though. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="7dm2c-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7dm2c-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="7dm2c-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="91qs2-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="91qs2-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="91qs2-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">What I know is when you're standing on a corner in cold weather by a busy intersection in a torrential downpour, we usually drive on by, yet some compelling reason beyond a "quick buck" is driving that person to stand there with a sign.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="7oinl-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7oinl-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="7oinl-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="bvk2j-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bvk2j-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="bvk2j-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Some story worth caring about is probably right there without anyone to hear it.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="4jg6d-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="4jg6d-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="4jg6d-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="1em65-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="1em65-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="1em65-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Yesterday I was turning to head to the rescue farm. . . you know, where we fix broken horses - offer a second chance - love them. . .get pats on the back for "saving horses" and so forth. . .</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="cdh1l-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="cdh1l-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="cdh1l-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="7ofa2-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7ofa2-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="7ofa2-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">And an old man was standing in weather no one without a shattered past was likely to stand in. . with a limp I don't think he exaggerated entirely.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="b7thm-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="b7thm-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="b7thm-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="3o3gj-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3o3gj-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="3o3gj-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I was so far back that I didn't think, even though I felt compelled, I could safely give him anything, as I was a red light at such a busy crossing with rush hour (if we have that here) traffic behind me. I probably wasn't inclined to an example of kindness at that moment and risk holding all the others in their dry, warm cars up. . .</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="a45up-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="a45up-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="a45up-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="76meq-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="76meq-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="76meq-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Then the most amazing thing happened. . .</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="1rapd-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="1rapd-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="1rapd-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="6vfq4-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="6vfq4-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="6vfq4-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">The first car rolled the window down and gave him something, then the light turned green.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="d5s7l-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d5s7l-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="d5s7l-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="4snc2-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="4snc2-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="4snc2-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">The second car slowed down enough to do the same as she pulled on out. . . instead of driving on through quickly.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="9jaap-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9jaap-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="9jaap-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="f4hqf-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4hqf-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="f4hqf-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">And the next and the next, and it made it all the way back to me, then cars behind, so that as I drove slowly by, I was able to give him a protein bar and a dollar. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="5dr2h-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5dr2h-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="5dr2h-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="fvl2q-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="fvl2q-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="fvl2q-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I mean, It was what I had with me.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="6h7j-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="6h7j-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="6h7j-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="4nb8n-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="4nb8n-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="4nb8n-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I don't know how many behind me did the same, but only one or two cars in front of me failed to follow the example set by the first car.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="6scni-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="6scni-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="6scni-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="bvlcv-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bvlcv-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="bvlcv-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">And no one honked and yelled we were holding everyone up, and it was done safely.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="5ettq-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5ettq-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="5ettq-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="6rm78-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="6rm78-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="6rm78-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">And it was like Christmas happened that day.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="dpbk7-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="dpbk7-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="dpbk7-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="f2kee-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f2kee-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="f2kee-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I know it is supposed to be this coming Tuesday, but I am rather sure nothing will happen that better speaks to peace and kindness and love for all kind. . .than that moment at about 3:30 yesterday afternoon.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="5ka4g-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5ka4g-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="5ka4g-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="9npma-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9npma-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="9npma-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">More than that, I thought of The Domino Effect. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="3n2nl-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3n2nl-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="3n2nl-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
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<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="fphsn-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR2vJNcvBO4dd2tYvxzqCMm-LlfeNN_XnTAPB1AC2WHVHMNrbwEQfOJPnapfk_W2NAM3jyw6BTW3aQPaKIPIpfBS8TX8BpoAeLqgRX8qkqRjYE4TuVzNP7xCQkSgkKggSNUBXyocItohsi/s1600/domino.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="198" data-original-width="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR2vJNcvBO4dd2tYvxzqCMm-LlfeNN_XnTAPB1AC2WHVHMNrbwEQfOJPnapfk_W2NAM3jyw6BTW3aQPaKIPIpfBS8TX8BpoAeLqgRX8qkqRjYE4TuVzNP7xCQkSgkKggSNUBXyocItohsi/s1600/domino.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="fphsn-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="fphsn-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">People ARE willing to follow a good example far more often than ignore it.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="4nv4n-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="4nv4n-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="4nv4n-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="c7vas-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="c7vas-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="c7vas-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">So think about that, friends. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="46jbp-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="46jbp-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="46jbp-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="d6tmi" data-offset-key="7knug-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7knug-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="7knug-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Your actions absolutely impact the world. </span></div>
</div>
Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-66007845900604981202018-11-09T04:19:00.001-05:002018-11-09T04:19:51.801-05:00Expectations <div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Recently, I told someone the only thing I'd wanted that someone else had was a better story of bringing children into the world than I. . .</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Mine were born with risk, surgeries, medications, long hospital stays. . . and uncertainty.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I wanted something else. Didn't get it.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
The natural process. Home, family, to do it all my way. So when I hear of beautiful birth stories with midwives and no real intervention, I occasionally wish that had been my story. That doesn't sound much like jealousy. It was the best I could come up with. . .that ever so slightly, every now and again, I've thought, "Wish I could have had that work out."</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Nah. That isn't really it.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
There is something else far, far deeper and more cutting that exists, and I knew it as soon as I said it.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Saying the real things are too hard.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
You can't say everything all of the time. I give it a good go, and I am sure people who know me even marginally can attest to my tries. . .on the surface.</div>
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The most real things are carried and stowed. . .not spoken easily, often or without a lot of hurt. We say the skim of the top of the truth, as it is easy.</div>
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Sometimes easy is better, I suppose.</div>
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The above relayed tidbit has some humor, is light-hearted and can easily be shared. It is really more a figment for the sake of a story.</div>
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So it cannot be the real answer, can it?</div>
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It isn't.</div>
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The fact is usually when. . .<br />I see or hear of<br />large family gatherings,<br />of nieces and nephews being born,<br />being a sister's maid of honor,<br />being there during a birth of a sibling's new child,<br />Photos of cousins growing together,<br />sharing in news, in holidays, in traditions and photos with those who have known you best from the first of life. . .<br />there is no way to not be reminded I spent over 26 years with the expectation of all of those things in my future.</div>
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Not just in my future, but actually filling it . . .making it whole and all of the things.</div>
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It is a future I was sure I would have. . . being sure doesn't matter, as I've learned. As we all do.</div>
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Nothing hurts, possibly, as much as expectation met with disappointment. It is a selfish truth. No reason to say otherwise.</div>
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Maybe as years have laboriously went on, I have grown to miss or want the thing I never had but expected. . .maybe more than what I actual held, loved and knew and lost. . .sometimes it seems so.</div>
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I expected to be an aunt to children born to my brothers and sister. I expected mine would have cousins to grow up with, sleep overs, fights and lifetime friends. I expects Christmas to meant 37 people sprawled all over the place. I thought things would be another way than they are, and while I have went on, I cannot forget.</div>
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So it is. . .when I see the beauty and the dysfunction of huge, together families, brothers, sisters, fathers and new children and adventures and stories and fights and meals. . . I wish they were mine. . . . or something like that.</div>
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I never expected to hear my son say, "Wouldn't it have been great to have one of those kinds of families? We just really have us[' . . ."</div>
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Us isn't all I wanted.</div>
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It was the grand. Yes, it was great. And "us" it beautiful, too, but it was not my plan.</div>
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So much for plans.</div>
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And sure, you work to make new family. And you make friends family because . . .you know. . .the obvious. . . but you realize that those that have the originals can't understand what that feels like.</div>
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How strange it sounds. . . a new family.</div>
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Many new people to replace (what a word) the original people because some losses are so massive, so consuming, you will spend a lifetime trying to fill voids left behind, and so it has been, will be, always. . .replacing big blocks with 20 small ones of different colors and shapes.</div>
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The silver lining has been the new .. .different. . .family, which means literal and figurative. . .family.</div>
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But I cannot forget the originals or my tremendous (but actually, the rather simple, plain) expectations.</div>
Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-89337510629927140882018-08-07T13:56:00.000-04:002018-08-07T13:56:00.005-04:00The story of a friend: I will always remember her as what she was to me. . .and that was a beautiful friend when I needed one so many years ago.<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
When I was a little girl growing up in Lincoln County, West Virginia, I was everything that was uncool.</div>
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I was built a bit like a large boy, taller than most kids and had a gravely voice I've grown to rather love as years have passed. I never wore current clothes, and I talked too much about history and pets and horses.</div>
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I moved from one county to another age age six when going into first grade.</div>
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Most of the children went many steps beyond ignoring me - most were extremely cruel to me.</div>
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While I did not mind not having friends, I was aware of it, nonetheless. I didn't feel sorry for myself or feel bullied, but I did know what was happening.</div>
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Going into second grade, a wispy, tall blonde girl befriended me.</div>
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I can't remember the details, but perhaps her mom felt keeping her back in that grade was best for her, but she was repeating the class, and I was joining it. I was ever so glad it worked out that way.</div>
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She and I couldn't have been further apart in socio-economic status, but the fact I had quite a lot of privilege and she did not made me no more popular and her any less so. Judy was well liked with teachers and all students. She wasn't part of the "cool" crowd, but they liked her. And she was friends with the least of class, too.</div>
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While her ability to get along with everyone did not help make me more accepted, she became my very best friend. . .</div>
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The only friend I ever had as a child.</div>
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She stayed with us often, and before long, her mother and many younger siblings began attending the church two seats down from my house.</div>
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Most every single milestone in my early life revolves around some event where my friend, Judy, was there.</div>
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She loved little kids, and my siblings all grew up being carried by her when she was staying over with us. I am sure they actually liked her more than me for a time. I remember how many babies and toddlers called her "Sissy" at Toney Christian Fellowship because she was a bit of a baby sitter at services and enjoyed it.</div>
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Time does what it does, though, and by the time I was 17, we never saw each other anymore. I tried once to get her to move away when I was 16 and she was 18 or so. She did for a bit, but she wanted to come back to what was home for her.</div>
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I have never stopped worrying about her, though because<br />Life in Lincoln county is hard, and to stay there and thrive, even back then. . .was unlikely. As years passed and the opioid crisis took over everything, including my own brother, I worried more and more. . . about this person who saw value in me when no one else did. . .and hoped a tide would turn.</div>
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The person who loved me before I learned to harness my wit and charm, before I grew into being me in a way that made me a bit of a force to be reckoned with. . .</div>
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You never forget those people - how rare. . . the truth is many never even meet someone like that.</div>
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But I left that desolate place. She stayed behind. And it consumed her, like so many others I attended school with, like so many others in my family. . .</div>
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With addiction, those without enough consideration for human beings and without enough humanity, often want to say those swallowed by this unspeakable crisis are somehow less than those who avoid it.</div>
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How can that be when she proved her character and value to me a million times before?</div>
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Today, they take Judy, my only friend as a young girl, off life support.</div>
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I won't write about regrets on this occasion, but I will say that there is more than I could ever share of the kindness she always gave to me. . .</div>
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And I will always remember her as what she was to me. . .and that was a beautiful friend when I needed one so many years ago.</div>
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There isn't much more any of us could ever hope to be, when it is all said and done.</div>
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Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-24343388784620947912018-06-15T13:34:00.002-04:002018-06-15T13:34:18.317-04:00"1,200 Good Days Are Not Always Enough"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Some could say Opie is the worst dog in the world.</div>
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If someone said it, I'd probably agree.</div>
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Heck, I've said it myself.</div>
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I brought him here near Christmas of 2014.</div>
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Right away, I feared I had made a grave error. He ran from everyone in the household. Galloped, really. Hid. It took real effort to catch this emaciated 6 pound creature for any purpose in this tiny house.</div>
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He enjoyed nothing.</div>
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He would not eat if you stayed with him. At the same time, he was so afraid to be alone, he was too concerned to eat when left.</div>
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He was petrified of his crate. He would cry and bark for hours on end if put inside, then when allowed out, he was too afraid to not cower in every corner.</div>
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If he was held, he shook violently. If he was sat down, he was in a fetal position and fell over.</div>
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He did not know how to be with other dogs.</div>
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He marked. And Marked. And Marked. Everything. Twelve times a day. Long after being neutered.</div>
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While he wanted to be away from people, when left, even for a few minutes, he would destroy everything in his path from the anxiety his loneliness caused. Remember, crates were so traumatic, we did not even try after the initial start.</div>
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He ate books, shoes, belts, movies, toys, jeans, jackets, buttons, wood, paper, wrapped gifts, walls, trim, the couch. . .that was just in one day. It didn't stop.</div>
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He barked, he cried, he destroyed, he cowered, he hid, he made the house a bathroom, he ran away. . .and then begged for company. He killed the chicks we hatched out inside when one made the mistake of flying out of the little brooder when it was still too cold to move them outside.</div>
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If you're still with me, you have probably gathered that in the grand scheme of bad, there were few, if any, areas Opie hadn't covered and mastered.</div>
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So Bad. . .</div>
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You know, Bad can mean "not such as to be hoped for or desired," and that is what he was: "Not" what was hoped for or desired.</div>
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I began to feel he was hopeless; life was so bad for him, so hard to endure. . .we were reaching a cross-roads where I did not know how this could be considered reasonable, anymore, for his sake and our's.</div>
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Make no mistake. . . it is true that damage can run so deep that enough repair isn't possible. I was not sure with this little fellow. I kept hoping.</div>
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You might have guessed that isn't where his / our/ my story ends.</div>
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Opie has taught me more about what the past does than even my own tragic experiences, and frankly, more than any other rescued animal, and certainly more than people.</div>
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Let me go back a bit to tell you about Opie before us. It changes perceptions when you know about before. . .with anything.</div>
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I saw a photo of this skeletal, tiny canine standing on a wet, concrete floor in a poor County in a West Virginian pound online. In the second photo, I saw a litter of purebred puppies. His. This pound is in one of the poorest counties in America. No real funding, a high Euthanasia rate and conditions that we would never want our personal pets to endure.</div>
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He had been turned in by a backyard breeder that day with the litter. Something was wrong with the pups. They brought the mother in, but the breeder explained she was keeping her to continue breeding. . .but the puppies and the father of were being dumped. Someone's problem now, they were. . .not her's.</div>
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That is what we KNOW. Here is what common sense and a life of animal rescue tells me beyond that confirmed story. . .</div>
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Opie was a product of decades of shoddy backyard breeding. He lived in a crate where he slept, ate a little poor quality food and eliminated. He was never handled except when pulled out to breed a female. I imagine the people who had him were addicts, I imagine they screamed and raved and never acted like humans should. He barked constantly and was harmed often because it was annoying. His joints, from lack of walking and poor breeding, made the already questionable front legs we see in this breed greatly exacerbated to where you have to note the severe crooked angle when you see him and know that may not even hold up as years pass. He never saw outside. He was isolated and unable to touch others but able to see them from his crate, able to look into their crates and long for friendship, as all dogs will.</div>
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When you hear his back story, what I told you at first. . .how you feel about it changes. I am sure of it.</div>
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He was about three years old when turned in. For about 1,100 days, all he knew was horror.</div>
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And over 1,200 good days with us hasn't been enough to overcome it all. It IS enough to see change, but it is not for him to forget.</div>
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I encourage you to stop and consider how this applies to not only to animals, but to the people you meet daily and to those you think you know so well.</div>
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"Just get over it," sounds super ideal, but even for a little dog, that has proven insurmountable.</div>
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And you know, many beings walk paths without love or joy and stay positive: dogs and people. They are super tough.</div>
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But some cannot. Some aren't.</div>
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The path to better understanding mankind is to look outside of ourselves. . .</div>
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So just remember we aren't all made out of the same stuff: some of us are fragile and need more. Some folks don't really heal. How we handled a thing and how another handles it will never be the same. It cannot be. Will not ever be.</div>
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1,200 consecutive days where a hand only brought a scratch and food isn't always going to be enough believe that something bad isn't coming next because 1,201 days ago, there was nothing good.</div>
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I sure wish the mistreated children and horses and dogs could ALWAYS turned around and believe in only the good things, but Opie has shown me it isn't always going to be.</div>
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These days are okay for the little Dachshund. He sleeps with the rest of the dogs and his chosen person, Christian. He scratches to be let into his "room" with his boy at night to go to bed. Sometimes he will trot away when he knows he will be picked up, but sometimes, he stands there like a champ and just allows it, and it may not seem brave others, but it is brave to us.</div>
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He likes to go outside and lay in the sun and chase Lita, his best dog friend. He will eat with an audience or without, and he will raise hell to be fed on time. He will take a treat if you catch him on a good day. And lastly, he will, if he thinks you're not going to touch him or look right at him, whine and jump up and down until he climbs up to sleep by one's foot in the living room.</div>
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And about 6 months ago, he stopped destroying every single thing in his path.</div>
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So time works some wonders. . . but some is the key word, isn't it?</div>
Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-40532062898819765002018-03-22T01:46:00.000-04:002018-03-22T01:47:33.870-04:00How to Properly Disbud a Goat kid and why you should do itThe HOW TO:<br />
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Do not confuse disbudding with dehorning!<br />
Disbudding is done before a horn grows. It is super quick. Dehorning in a brutal process done on a horn grown in.<br />
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Disbudding varies breed to breed.<br />
Swiss breeds like Saanens and Alpines need disbudded sooner, between 3-7 days. The bucks need double rings to prevent very bad scurs or full horns / scurs on a ridge they have that only Swiss breeds grow.<br />
Nubians can usually wait until 7-14 days. The Nubian bucks do not need the double ring to achieve good results.<br />
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Nigerians are more like Nubians, as are Lamanchas.<br />
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I NEVER recommend a beginner disbud. Find an experience goat breeder to do this your first year, as even most vets do a poor job, sometimes even killing the kids. Make sure you see their goats have nice disbudding jobs before you let them do your goat kids. I have never cause an death or illness or long term issue from disbudding. I've done hundreds.<br />
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Watch exactly what they do for a few years.<br />
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You will see them shave the head around the buds first, and the iron will be tested first and used somewhere between (varies with sex and breed) 10 and 15 seconds of steady rocking around the bud. After, they will pop the cap of the horn bud off. It will be applied a second time to swiss bucks to the ridge you will see and feel in the inside of the buds coming out toward the center of the head. You will never use the iron as long on does as bucks.<br />
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DO NOT freak out and pull the iron off too soon! This leaves a mess - it will not yet be cauterized and you will end up with horns or large scurs.<br />
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WAIT for the iron to fully re-heat between each side you do and each kid you do. Do not get in a rush.<br />
Many bucks will have small scurs no matter what, but you do not want large scurs on bucks or ANY scurs on does.<br />
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I have used the X30 iron for many years. I use a wire brush to clean it between each use. I have the X50 now.<br />
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DO NOT get confused and buy the one with the pymgy tip. It isn't useful. USE the X30 with the goat tip or make sure if you get the X50, you get the goat tip added. I like the X50 best if you make sure you have the right tip.<br />
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YOU CANNOT use the calf size one. You will kill your kids. I'VE KNOWN VET TO DO THIS.<br />
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There are countless youtube videos to refer to, and please do so.<br />
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As soon as it is over, the kids hop up here and get a bottle and go on about their business. I personally give a small IM shot of banamine after, but they really are fine without it. I have worked with such knowledgeable breeders, I have also sedated, and this is risky business with goats. I've not had an issue, but I don't recommend most people try it, and usually, you will not be able to get the sedative from a vet. Without sedation, they never act like they have missed a beat. If they do, something is wrong. Get treatment right away.<br />
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Some folks use a disbudding box, but ours scream more over being the box than anything. I have my husband hold them on his lap firmly. This works best for us.<br />
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<a href="http://www.caprinesupply.com/products/kid-raising/disbudding/rhinehart-x50-disbudding-iron.html" target="_blank">THIS IS AN ORDER LINK</a><br />
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NOTE: This isn't a debate thread. This is FOR THOSE WHO know or think they wish to disbud goat kids. I have heard all of the stories about how folks love their dairy goats with horns. I'm glad you like them. This is not about hearing the pros and cons. This is a simple Why we do it, always will and how to MAKE sure you do it, it is done correctly, if you plan to :)<br />
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Now, the Why of Disbudding:<br />
One of the things we hear questions about most concerning goats is disbudding.<br />
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Many people aren't sure how, when or why.<br />
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Here on the farm, we have primarily disbudded dairy goats.<br />
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In order to show in ADGA, AGS or 4H/Fair shows, your dairy goats must be disbudded.<br />
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I personally do not prefer horned dairy goats, but a few were purchased by us in the years past with horns, and the removal process on adult goats isn't humane in my view.<br />
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We have had many bruises, caught heads, injured kids, a lot of pain in the rear moments on the milk stand, during hoof trimming, injections, etc. within the herd by those with horns. In our large herd, those with horns use them ruthlessly to their advantage, as well. I've had injured udders, side injuries and the like various times.<br />
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Generally, your buyer base is much smaller for horned dairy goats, and with horns being generally undesirable to most people, those kids sold are more likely to end up sold to unsavory homes or end up at auction. Think about the goats you see online for cheap and often in poor condition or being given away: Horned, usually.<br />
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So for show, milking, peace in your herd, sales, sometimes for both their and my safety, almost a decade in dairy goats has shown me, I prefer disbudded goats, always will and will always (ALWAYS) disbud goat kids, unless we are talking meat kids who will processed in the fall.<br />
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<br />Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-21086807507116671972018-03-18T22:53:00.000-04:002018-03-18T22:53:31.463-04:00I just wish I could remember one with her instead of that once again it comes without her.<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
I never forget, but sometimes I am late. . .</div>
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Oh, who am I kidding. In basic life, those who know me can attest, I am late and forget most things daily.</div>
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When it comes to her, though, I do not forget. I am sometimes late.</div>
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So at 1pm today, I was at the gym alone. I am neither a downtrodden sort or a crier. At all.</div>
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And I could not understand why I kept feeling quite on the brink of tears. Not a few, but millions. . .I mean, yep. . . I seemed to be working against that many. Work against them, I did. I left thinking. . .Mercy, I need coffee and food or a nap.</div>
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A bit ago, I realized it was the 18th.</div>
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My mind took longer to remember what my soul doesn't show up late to or forget, it seems.</div>
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A Catastrophic event can eclipse the past in such a way that things behind it are broken, shambled and ruined. And you can try but never recover the things before it.</div>
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I wish I could tell you it is not like that for me, but I do not think of her outside of or apart from fire. Our history before is ashes. Mine with her and Ben and Quentin.</div>
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Her birthday. . .today. . .she would be 29.</div>
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I have tried to explain it, but it is not easy.</div>
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When I think of my Daddy, when I think of my Papaw, it is so easy to remember our histories rich in stories and life. Life. So much life. I don't usually even think of their deaths. I know. . .they are gone, but it is hardly the same. I remember their lives with ease and happiness.</div>
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I can vividly remember trips to the Kentucky Derby and papaw flirting with college girls. I can easily recall how daddy called me each day and started it with, "This is your papa." I know exactly how they moved, spoke. . .I think of them as they were. Not how they left. Never that, really. When I hear their names, I immediatly think of a multitude of tales about their lives and my life with them.</div>
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But catastrophe is different when it has been through, in that it can take everything and leave you nothing. . . Figuratively, to say nothing of literally.</div>
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When I see photos with her or the boys, I think of screams, fire and death.</div>
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When I hear their names, I can only ever think of their absences.</div>
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So my mind has caught up with my heart on her birthday.</div>
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I don't forget it.</div>
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I just wish I could remember one with her instead of that once again it comes without her.</div>
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Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-5378295316589448942018-01-15T23:55:00.003-05:002018-01-15T23:55:46.097-05:00Hatching Chicks in an Incubator <div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
I have hatched thousands of chicks over my lifetime.</div>
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I actually grew up with a daddy who called himself an "Ol Mother Hen" due to his love of poultry and how often he incubated chicks, ducks, geese and guinea fowl.</div>
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Daddy was so talented, he set the eggs in our gas oven with a pilot light only in a cast iron skillet and towel, and with hand turning, he would have an incredible hatch rate.</div>
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That said, most of us, including myself, aren't of the talent of my daddy, so we will and must not use our gas stoves to hatch our chicks.</div>
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I have tried about six different incubators over the years.</div>
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I have found nothing with a success rate comparable to the Brinsea. Now and again, my H<a href="http://www.gqfmfg.com/12-volt-hova-bator/0720-hova-bator-incubator-with-automatic-turner/" target="_blank">ova Bator 1588</a> will have a similar hatch rate, but nothing is as consistent every single time as the Brinsea (I have the October 20 with the turner, and I've used it for 8 years or more).</div>
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I personally dry incubate and add watch on lock down.</div>
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For me, lock down is three days before eggs are due to hatch.</div>
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For full size chicken eggs, this is at the end of Day 18 after you set the eggs.</div>
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Bantam eggs hatch quicker, so lock down on day 16. I know nothing of waterfowl and so forth.</div>
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I do NOT open the incubator during lock down. I also rare open the bater once chicks start to hatch until I MUST. . . which is when so many chicks are hatched and drying, they might interfere with the ones still pipping. The less you open the bator, the better, and the quicker to do it, the better.</div>
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Chicks go under a heat lamp (I only take them out of the bator once almost 100% dry), though I love the brooders, if one has them. . .over the lamps.</div>
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They do not make the Brinsea I have, anymore, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Brinsea-Products-USAF36C-automatic-incubator/dp/B01NAV1JMW/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&qid=1516077484&sr=8-6&keywords=brinsea+incubator" target="_blank">but this is the newer version</a></div>
Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-36229041571708018452018-01-01T15:00:00.000-05:002018-01-01T15:11:09.556-05:00A year ago today, I wrote the most defining set of words of my life, I reckon. . .<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
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A year ago today, I wrote the most defining set of words of my life, I reckon.</div>
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Interestingly enough, when I wrote it, I know I did not mean it. But thankfully, I wrote it, anyway.</div>
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When you put words out there in the universe, there is some value in that action. Maybe you kind of understand you're bound to your words, and you remember them when it is and isn't convenient.</div>
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When a catastrophic event takes places, you can start to let "it" define who you are. You can do lots of positive things with that, of course. It can be very motivating. You can easily do a lot of bad. You can mix it up a little, to keep things interesting . . .and do a LOT of both.</div>
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When you decide to be tough, that is great, but no matter how tough you are, let me tell you. . .sadness is incredibly hard to shake. And, shockingly to some, you can easily grow attached to sadness. Love without a place to go is a hard thing to work out. While you're trying to work it out, you might cling onto any crazy thing. Like being sad. It is familiar, after all.</div>
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You can be strong and still drag the cloud around, folks. You can drag it and drag it. . .and do good things, built new things, change for the better and never really enjoy any of those things because you either knowingly or unknowingly. . .keep that cloud right there. It is consistent like that. You are afraid to love new things and have joy in them because, listen to me. . .you know how quickly they can be taken away. You are afraid, fact is. . .and one thing you know about sadness. . .it sure won't leave you without you forcing it out.</div>
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At the start of 2017, there had been ten long years since a fire that changed my life. I was, even when I wrote this 1/1/17 blog, still pretty proud of myself for never bothering anyone in all those years in the wake of what had happened. Not a soul. Never leaning on another person. Never sharing what it all really meant. Never in the losses that came after those, either. Never having a moment. Never crying. Never saying anything. Never publicly feeling sorry for myself (though inside, sure I did). Never. Nothing.</div>
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That all seems great, except the nothing can get you, eventually.</div>
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In all that time, I would say how much I had changed for the better, and while it was true, I had lost all of my joy. I slowly stopped doing anything I had once loved to do. I loved reading novels, writing interesting pieces of fiction, watching period pieces, dreamed of riding horses, of learning how to do new things, and so many things I shall not bother to say today. I knowingly did this, though. I cannot look back over the last decade and remember being happy. And you know, along with the father, brothers and sister I cannot have back. . .I cannot have those ten years back, either. I know I wittingly stopped any chance at joy at many points. I did that. No one did that to me.</div>
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So when I wrote this blog on this day last year, I admit, I was so attached to the sadness, I did not even want to let it go. It was more a writing of things I knew needed to be said. Being "steady" and unhappy had defined who I was for so long, with all the changes and losses, mercy, I really will say. . .I wasn't sure anymore change could even be part of my life. But I wrote it. Out there it was.</div>
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An expectation. Something I have been sure not to have in a long, long time . . about anything.</div>
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And here we are, and I ended 2017 knowing I really have let a LOT of the brokenness go, so there are power in words. I remember thinking of the blog as the year zipped past often. I somehow bound myself to it without even meaning to.</div>
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So. . .Say what needs to be even when you're not sure you believe it can be at the time.</div>
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I think 2017 had little snippets of joy or. . .at least things working toward joy, and I really do intend that 2018 will be a year where I find I've left that sadness entirely behind.</div>
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I think that stands as a fairly solid resolution.</div>
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Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-89371069298011623502017-12-07T16:21:00.002-05:002017-12-07T19:34:45.867-05:00"Christmas Puppies for Kids"<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
While gifting puppies or kittens can bring joy filled memories to children that are priceless (lasting a lifetime), it can also generate pets which are given away, discarded in shelters and ultimately euthanized across the USA post holiday if done willy-nilly.</div>
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All rescuers know how this works. We see it post Christmas (puppies, kittens and sometimes adult cats and dogs) and then post Easter (bunnies, chicks and ducks).</div>
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The issue isn't when a responsible adult decides to add a member to the family and picks a holiday to create an awesome surprise, but it happens when adults actually look at living beings as casual "toys" and do not consider the weight of the gift of a living animal.</div>
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Folks, pets aren't toys. They are responsibilities, and they are YOUR (the adult) responsibility, not little Bobby's or Sue's.</div>
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When your child decides taking the puppy out for a walk or feeding her or cleaning up poop isn't her thing, you, as the adult, are still obligated to see through your decision to purchase a living creature and bring her into the house as part of the family. This is true when it comes time to pay medical costs, too.</div>
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That is part of the package of responsible pet ownership. Animals are excellent ways to help children learn responsibility, but they should never be the sole responsibility of a child, and the decision to bring one into a home should never be based on whether the child follows through with care.</div>
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Frankly, if a child doesn't follow through, then neither does the adult, I guess we can see where the child gets it from, right? Except children have an excuse that is valid. . .they are kids. You, as the parent, should know better.</div>
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Last year, we gave two little pug mixes to our boys.</div>
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The joy has lasted the year. They have destroyed most of the things in the house. One sometimes will pee on the couch, too.</div>
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From the time they opened the gift bags until today when this photo was taken while one of the boys was napping with them, these little pups have been a wild adventure, and they will continue to be for years to come because we knew what we were getting into, and this parent (yours truly) knew most of the work would fall on me. . .the parent.</div>
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That is cool.</div>
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Proper planning prevents piss poor performance the Marine Corps says, and it is true.</div>
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As we approach Christmas, think long and hard about the long term commitment a pet of any kind is, and once you're sure that - hell or high water - you are dedicated to being a caregiver when the cute and new wears off, consider a dog or cat in a shelter or re-homing situation first, and regardless of where the pet comes from <span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">(These pups weren't from the shelter, though most all of our dogs are rescued)</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">, make sure you mean to treat him/her as a family member once he arrives.</span></div>
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Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-711494782372304567.post-86740712360296611292017-12-06T23:47:00.001-05:002017-12-06T23:49:24.088-05:00West Virginia. Not Wonderful. Not Almost Heaven. Not for Children.<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Our Child Protection system is so grossly broken in West Virginia: Wild and Wonderful (anything but, it seems, for children who need help).</div>
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A family member had a short relationship with a woman. Over 2 years later, he learned a child had been born, and from the photos, it was obvious the child was his.</div>
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This woman is a hardcore drug addict who has had all rights terminated on all of her previous children.</div>
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This little toddler was recently removed from her care due to gross neglect and the mother's continual drug habit.</div>
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Paternity was established, and he does belong to my family member.</div>
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His (the father's) mother has been the foster for the little boy during the months since he was removed from the mother.</div>
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Today there was a hearing where the judge said if she just doesn't do drugs (the mother) until January, she can have him back. . .</div>
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The drug screening, which I know as a former CASA, are a joke, and people generally keep up the drug habit, as they know when the testing is, skirt around the system by missing screening, as they will not usually used against the parent as a "dirty" screening in that case.</div>
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This is just another failure of our system in West Virginia. I believe our greatest failure, actually. We fail children so gruesomely over and over.</div>
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What hope does tomorrow have when this is how we act?</div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">We know we can do better, but in Charleston, I have sat in a meeting with suggested legislative changes in early 2017 . . .and the powers that be have said they aren't failing. They are fine.</span><br />
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But indeed, they are failing. They are anything but fine.</div>
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This little boy has a chance . . .had a chance. They took it away today in West Virginia.</div>
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Of course, the family members likely will sue apart from the Child Protection System for custody for the father, and maybe they will get it, but not likely before our cruel, heartless and broken system may return this little child to a woman who already destroyed her other children.</div>
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What kind of system offers up children as sacrifices for a parent's (or parents') whim(s) as if they are inanimate property over and over until they are all but or actually dead?</div>
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Our's. . .right here in West Virginia.<br />
Not Wonderful.<br />
Not Almost Heaven.</div>
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If you're an attorney that would consider helping in this case, it is in Southern West Virginia. Please just PM me. If you're a media source that would cover the story in any manner, please let me know.</div>
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If we remain silent, we ARE the problem in this state.<br />
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Tiniahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09170584185719402507noreply@blogger.com0