Beautiful Mt. Katahdin

Mt. Katahdin from the top of South Turner Mountain

A long weekend in the Maine woods is a certain way to “take a load off”, as we say here in Maine.  It has the stress release equivalent of a total body massage, incorporating all of the senses and leaves you feeling refreshed in mind and body.

The water in the numerous streams is crystal clear and ice cold.  It lacks the metallic mineral smell that most brooks seem to have, maybe because the water rushes so fast down numerous waterfalls to reach the river.  Warning signs to boil the water before drinking dissuade hikers from drinking the water that looks so harmless in its clarity.

Over a number of years, former Governor of Maine, Percival Baxter purchased and then gave thousands of acres to the residents of Maine in the form of a State Park. His desire was that the forests remain in a natural and wild state for all of the people who visit, and they have.  There are very few roads in the park (less than five roads in 200,000 acres), but over 75 miles of hiking trails leading to the most remote areas in Maine. The Appalachian Trail, which begin in Georgia, ends at the peak of Mt. Katahdin, Baxter State Parks most recognized wild jewel.   At just shy of one mile high, Mt. Katahdin is a feather in any mountain climber’s hat.

A section of the West Branch of the Penobscot River runs just south of Baxter State Park and offers some of the finest rapids in the country for white water rafters.  There are several adventure companies that offer white water rafting trips down the river, something I have always wanted to do but have never had the courage to try.  The river is also renowned for the natural salmon that lurk in the dark pools behind huge granite boulders and sunken logs. This river used to be used to transport logs down the river to Bangor where they would be cut or shipped to other parts of the country and reminders of this are present today with boom chains obvious here and there on the river.

My doctor prescribed Ambien a couple of years ago when I complained to him that I couldn’t get to sleep at night because I couldn’t shut my mind off.  I’d already tried my husband’s Ambien so I knew it worked well for me. After the doctor got done giving me a lecture on how dangerous it is to take other people’s meds, he gave me a prescription of my very own.  Blessed sleep came within twenty minutes–deep, dreamless sleep.

I noticed about a year ago that I was waking up in the morning with my heart pounding and when I mentioned it to my doctor, he increased my Atenelol that I take for rapid heartbeat (after taking Seldane D for too many years).  It didn’t seem to help and it took me almost a year to realize that I was waking up with panic attacks.  I figured it was because of stress, as I am my mother’s caretaker and she is going downhill in her battle with Alzheimers.  Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and made a doctor’s appointment.

I told the doctor what was going on with me and told him that I felt the Ambien was somehow to blame, and he agreed.  I told him I wanted to get off the Ambien train but I knew that I was really dependant (just the thought of trying to sleep without it after the years of being on it was giving me anxiety) on it, both physically and mentally.  After much thought, he put me on Zyprexa for transitioning off the Ambien.

I took a half an Ambien before bed along with the Zyprexa for the first three nights, then stopped the Ambien.  I was so surprised that I was actually able to fall asleep without the Ambien and I have slept like I used to, except for the dreams.  The dreams are awful.  I wake up scared, but it’s not a panic attack; it’s just a nightmare.  I narrowed that down this morning–I was also taking melatonin. Tonight it’s cold turkey, baby. I took only Atenelol and Zyprexa tonight, but after trying to fall asleep and failing after an hour, I got up for awhile. 

It’s so easy to become dependant on sleep medications, and most of them are only meant to be taken for ten days.  Psychologically speaking, I think my mind was telling me that I couldn’t sleep without the Ambien.

I am pleased overall with how the transition is going.  I wake up quickly, instead of being all groggy and foggy for the first hour or so after awakening, which added an hour of free time to my schedule, but the bigger changes are that my mind is so much clearer and that I no longer need a nap to get through the day. I think the Ambien had built up in my system and was making me tired all the time.  Without my nap, I’ve added another two hours to my day!  I have much more energy, although with fibromyalgia I can still only do so much. 

I hope the need for Zyprexa goes away quickly because I am so fed up with taking pills for this and pills for that.  I’m taking a more natural approach and choosing to eat better and exercise and I want to add daily yoga, all of which help fibromyalgia, as well as overall better health.

I hope I never have to go this route again.

I own my own home. I am healthy and have money in the bank. Enough to retire if we wished, but it’s too soon. We own our cars, have four healthy children (not one of them is in jail!) and five and a half grandchildren.  We go to the Church of our choice on Sunday and pray anytime we want to, no matter who is watching.  How blessed we are, yet how often we complain. Okay, I’m now going to the main topic…

We have a friend that owns a camp on a remote shore of Moosehead Lake in Northern Maine.  He gladly lends it out to any friend who wants to enjoy it.  I have had the pleasure of taking some of my granddaughters there to swim, play, roll around in the dirt and eat s’mores by campfire’s edge. It gives him great pleasure to know that this simple camp gives others pleasure.

My husband and I were there for four blessed days last week, and had unusually wonderful weather accompanying us.  Although the weather had been cool and rainy for weeks, the lake was warm and welcoming. Blueberries were plentiful and we brought home 10 quarts in ziplock bags.  We, well, I slept in every morning and arose to the smell of coffee, bacon and blueberry muffins.  My incredible husband brought be coffee in bed every single morning. He often does this at home too, which is one of the reasons he is to be called incredible. 

We fed black ducks bread scraps off the end of the dock, watched glorious sunsets, witnessed torrential thunderstorms on the west side of the lake, saw two bear cubs and canoed into Lobster Lake one day.  We went to bed early and listened to the loons cry into the night as we snuggled under the old quilts that someone, thoughtfully, had left at camp. 

There is no electrical power at camp-only gas lights, stove and refrigerator, although a solar panel allows for power for the hot water heater. We could have taken hot showers if we wanted, but with the water so warm in the lake, it just didn’t seem right.  There is just nothing like a morning dip in the lake with Ivory soap, sans bathing suit.  I told you it was remote!

Whenever I let my mind drift to a carefree mindset, it automatically goes “to camp”.  We don’t own it or have a pay a cent for its use, although we usually send a check to cover our use of the gas.  We make sure the lawn gets mowed while we’re there, and that the camp is left spotless when we leave.

How blessed are we that we can go here virtually anytime we wish?

My 2650 is almost six years old and has seen more words than any laptop should be subject to.  I’ve written two novels, numerous articles, journal pages, poems and haiku on it.  I’ve played so many games of Bookworm, Scrabble, Bejeweled and Canasta that I should be champions in all, but in reality, I guess I pretty much suck.

It was time for the old 2650 to be retired.  The CD drawer hasn’t worked in almost a year, you have to hold your mouth just right to get the power cord to stay attached, and the A key wobbles more than a baby learning to walk.  When I bought it, it was close to the top of the line, but not so much now. It’s tired and needs to be retired.

My new laptop is “espresso” brown, sleek, fast and pretty as a new Mustang.  Although this old laptop has been a good friend (and knows ALL my secrets), it’s time to move on. I thought about “moving on” to the flamingo pink model, but I’m 52; who would I be fooling?  Brown is so much more elegant and sophisticated, like me. (That was humor).

Today, they had already tied Rudy down on an anthill and put honey on him, blown up several frogs with firecrackers stuffed in places they had no business being, and I was keeping a very low profile.  I had slipped out the back door to go for a quiet walk and had asked Gram not to tell the boys.

I was probably eight that summer, which meant my brothers were certainly old enough to know better than to do the mean things they did. The oldest two were well into high school, but I guess living in the country with no one else around just brings out the trouble in the minds. It never seemed to take them very long to find it.

I wandered up the dirt road, keeping an alert ear to any indication that my brothers had realized I wasn’t close enough to grab.  It was a hot day and I could smell the sweet scent of freshly cut hay as I walked up to a small field; I waved to my uncle who was working on his old Farm-all tractor, and he waved back, a large wrench in his greasy hand. He wiped his brow with an old stained bandana and put the wrench back to work.

I began to slow my pace once I realized that I could no longer hear my brothers, and wished I had thought to bring a jar of water.  Suddenly, I knew where I would go; I had almost forgotten a spot that I had discovered last summer and I longed to go there.  My steps quickened again as I turned down a connecting dirt road, past the goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace and into a shady, much cooler space.  On one side of the road was a swamp, which was almost dry.  It had an odd smell, but not unpleasant.  We’d always been scared of the swamp; as kids we’d been told that the swamp had no bottom and that it would suck you down and you would drown instantly.  I gave it a wide berth as I walked by, both frightened and fascinated by its muddy water and dead cattails.

The road led me up a small hill and back into the heat of the sun.  My throat was parched, but I knew the brook was not far away.  The dirt under my feet was so dry that puffs of dust kicked up behind my dirty bare feet as I walked by a corn field.  The corn was as tall as I was, but I wasn’t afraid.  At times, my brothers and I would run through the corn playing hide and seek; somehow I was always the seeker and they were the hiders. Being a little sister, and the only girl, sometimes just plain rotted. I had often wondered what it would be like to be the oldest, or the only, or a boy.

I turned down a path that bordered the cornfield and scared a crow off of its perch. Scared me quite a bit too!  I could smell the heat rising off the dirt and the corn and I had to try and keep my bare feet to the patches of cooler grass as I closed in on my destination.

And just like that, the air suddenly felt and smelled cooler. I could hear the splashing of the cold brook water as it tumbled over the rocks. I had arrived at my special place!  I quickly found a spot that I could lean down and take a long drink of the icy water and drank sloppily, not caring that my hair had fallen into the water. I put my whole face in and it felt glorious!

I sat on my knees and surveyed my surroundings as I took a deep breath. I loved the smell of a brook on a hot summer day, and I was right in my glory.  I washed off my grubby hands and wiped them on my overalls, and then stuck my feet into the water. It was shockingly cold, but a delicious sensation.

Lying back, my feet dangling in the water, I listened. A chick-a-dee was calling from a small branch above me and in the distance I could hear a frog, but otherwise, it was silent.  I closed my eyes, leaned my head back and relaxed, taking it all in.

I slept for a long time. When I awoke, my feet were blue with cold and the late afternoon shadows told me that it was time to head home before Gram began to worry.  In the fog that always follows a long nap; I decided that this would not be the last time I would escape here this August. I just needed to keep my brothers from discovering my retreat. 

My weapon of choice is salt.  Because slugs are mostly water, an ample sprinkle of salt turns them to gel in a matter of seconds.  I go out several times a day to wage my attacks, often arming my 3-year old granddaughter with a salt shaker as well.  In one trip around my yard I can easily find and destroy fifty or more slugs, and I do this at least three times a day.

Yet I still have not gained the upper hand in this all out war. I found one this morning in the middle of my deck, which is wooden and five feet in the air. I hate to admit that they have the power to bring out this rage in me, yet I am unable to get past the idea of all the money and work I spent putting in annuals only for them to eat them.  I am not waving the white flag; I will continue my attacks, lest they take over my house! So far, they haven’t found the plethora of house plants I have (sh-h!)

I can say with certainty that I will not invest a lot of money in annuals next year, unless it is to make colorful planters that hang. I will spend the money on more salt.

I guess I should say that I am a fundamental Baptist and that I believe that the Rapture of Christians will happen soon; the Israel/Iran conflict is like a banner waving “THE END IS COMING!”  The Book of Revelations is so clear on this; I honestly believe that the end is upon us. 

I’m sure that there are MANY people, some family members and some close friends, who disagree with this assumption based upon their disbelief of the Bible. I believe that the Bible is as relevant today as it was thousands of years ago and it has proven time and time again to have no mistakes. My heart breaks for those who don’t believe that faith and belief in Jesus Christ will save them; I will miss them in heaven.  The door is narrow, but the only barrier is faith.  I ask you to consider the following: if you are scared to death of what is happening in the middle east today; scared that it is going to lead to the end of the earth; consult with someone who knows the truth.  You wouldn’t go to a ballet teacher to learn to waltz; you wouldn’t go to an astronomer to learn about how to treat dandruff; why on earth would you go to a “palm-reader” to learn what the Bible (God’s Holy Word) to learn about the end times and what you must do to get to heaven?

I don’t have a problem with ending the war; I wish we could pull all of our soldiers out and head them  home right now.  I personally know several of them, one of which is my nephew and I really wish he were home in Massachusetts with his wife and new baby right now.  I honestly believe that if we pulled our forces out now we would only be opening the doors from the Muslims, who openly believe in Jihad (killing those who are not Muslim), to come here on our own grounds, the United States, to attack us. I certainly would rather fight them on their lands, not ours.  Does the end of the war mean we wipe them all out?  I don’t think we can; I don’t think there is an end to this war, other than the end of the world (rapture).

I don’t like the choices for President in 2008.  McCain lacks the charisma to rally people, just like “dub-ya”, which means nothing will get done.  Hillary?  Just a few more molecules of testosterone and her balls would hang beneath her skirt.  Obama?  No way.

Just my opinion.

I bought a new notebook the other day; to a writer, there is no such thing as “too many” when it comes to those wonderful spiral-bound books of crisp white paper.  After giving some thought to what this notebook should hold, I decided to entitle it “Things Worth it”; it is a daily record of the lessons I have learned during the course of just living out my normal life. 

My first entry was about yesterday’s encounter with my one of my three-year old granddaughters, Olivia, and the life’s lesson for yesterday is that a three year old who gets her hands on a vibrator will eventually find a good place for it.  Let me explain.

My daughter, Erika, and I went shopping yesterday, at a local department store.  Olivia is great to take along; she stays fairly closely and looks at things we are looking at.  Erika and I were looking at the fabulous selection of summer tops they have and I looked out of the corner of my eye to see Olivia walking towards me with what looked like half of a nubby ball.

“Look, Nana!” she said as she held it up and pressed a button on the flat bottom. It was a massager type of thing that whenever you pushed it down it vibrated. My daughter, who is beginning the long process of a divorce, grinned at me when I told her I’d get her one for her upcoming birthday.  We went about our shopping.

“Nana, try this!” Olivia said and I turned to look at her; she held it up to my back and it felt wonderful.  I held it to hers for a moment and then she decided to take off her shoes and see if it tickled her feet. She tried it on her hands, her arms, and her head as we shopped.  We eventually went to the shoe department and Olivia alternated trying on shoes with her mother and massaging various parts of her body.

I looked down to check on her and she was now sitting directly on the half-ball as it vibrated loudly. I elbowed Erika and we tried to contain our laughter. Of course it was only natural for her to try it there; it’s just another body part to her, but it presented a bit of a quandary for us: what do we do now?  Let her continue and hope she lost interest?  She didn’t look like she was going to lose interest any time soon, so Erika asked casually, “Does it feel good there, Olivia?”

Olivia looked up at us with innocent eyes and proclaimed, “not yet, mama”.

Lesson learned: if you see a 3 year old with a massaging ball, distract her, guick!