Fighting For A Cure

This is going to be a rather special post.

You see, I have a brother-in-law named Guy. He's husband to my sister Diane. From the time I first met him I liked him. He was friendly, warm, and could really, REALLY cook ( a form of magic I never mastered). As I got to know him, and after their marriage, I truly came to regard him as my brother. I have one, but also had lots of room for another, so it was a good fit.

About four years ago, Guy had a pancreatic cancer scare. He has been monitored at Johns Hopkins ever since. This was a good thing because, this time, they found actual cancer. Surgery was scheduled, and we all picked ourselves up off the floor and were ready to soldier on. But then, they also found nodules in the lungs.

I'm a pretty good medical intuitive, but I did not pick up anything serious regarding his pulmonary system. I was wrong. The nodes are cancer. The fact that the people with M.D. after their names were also surprised does not comfort me. Needless to say, this was devastating news for Diane and Guy, and the rest of our family.

There is a new protocol which has had great results. Guy will be starting this soon, and his attitude is good. Mine you, Guy is only a year older than I. He'll be 60 in June, and was looking forward to Diane's retirement this year, selling the NJ house, and moving to their Maryland home. While he battles through this illness, normal life has been thrown into limbo.

This is Guy, and his tiny shih tzu Little Guy. (Honestly, the breeder was calling the dog that even before Di and Guy went looking for a new “fid” fuzzy kid.)

There are two other pups in the household, Ellie the shih tzu and Harry the yorkie. Ellie has medical conditions as well. To add insult to injury, poor Harry had to have emergency surgery this week. Due to surgery he had as a puppy, he had adhesions and scars and twisted intestines. He is resting comfortably at home. But talk about when it rains it pours! My poor sister has really paid her dues this week!

 

Here are the Clark sisters and their pups (this was taken before Little Guy joined the family): To the left is Jane with Georgie Girl and Gizmo, in the middle is Diane with Harry and Ellie (she's black and hard to see), and finally the Rufus and me.  This was from 2008.

 

 

Naturally, I'm asking everyone to keep a good thought and say a few prayers for Guy. But there is one more thing. Our niece, Brenna, has decided to run a marathon in Guy's honor, proceeds going to pancreatic cancer research. Below is her website:

http://teamhope.kintera.org/individual2013/brennafairfax

If you ever had to deal with cancer in your family (I survived Uterine Cancer 7 years ago), if you've been touched by the loss of someone who's had this terrible cancer, or if you love shih tzus and yorkies and can sympathize with Little Guy, Ellie and Harry's worry over their daddy, please consider supporting Brenna's run. Even a dollar or two helps her to meet her goal.

 

 

Thank you for whatever you can do spiritually and/or financially via donation.

Kat and Rufus

Erin Go Blog

Ah, Saint Patrick's Day, one of the several holidays I spend cowering under my quilt, refusing to leave the house.

On March 17^th, for some reason (probably the old “drunk Irishman” stereotype fostered by the English), Americans seem to embrace their Celtic brothers and sisters as the poster children for unbridled intoxication and copious consumption of corned beef . They then emulate this mythic construct by throwing up in the streets, stuffing themselves with cabbage, and wreaking havoc in New York City traffic.

But, is this really what we're all about? Is this what the Day is all about? What is the back story of the Patron Saint of Ireland? There seem to be as many versions of Patrick and his history as there are ginger haired children in Sligo.

Patrick has been envisioned and re-envisioned hundreds of time. You have the nicely done almost Paganistic Patrick (gently herding snakes, in this case):

 

Then there is the Rabbi Patrick:

The “it's all Greek to me” Patrick:

The black Patrick (this is NOT what we mean by “black Irish” folks!)

 

The “Who put these snakes here?” Patrick

 

and the “looks like my High School sweetheart” Patrick. (Honestly! Hair, beard...the works. )

 

However, depictions are mere fantasy. Here are a few things you may not have known:

Patrick was not Irish. Brace yourself, Bridget, but the Patron of the Emerald Isle was born in Roman Britain, most likely in or near Scotland. At 16, he was captured by pirates and sold as a slave to a landholder in Ireland. There he learned the language, the customs, and the beliefs of the land. After escaping his captivity, he studied for the priesthood, eventually returning to Ireland as a missionary.

 

Patrick did not drive the snakes out of Ireland. I hate to disappoint the icon painters and the Hallmark Card company artists, but Ireland never HAD snakes. Know what we have? Frogs, Natterjack toads, ... and newts. Smooth newts, to be exact. Not the same dramatic picture, is it? Saint Patrick, chasing a slithering of smooth newts to the sea. It's damn well cruel. Driving snakes out of Ireland was a symbol of Patrick driving Paganism from the Isle. That's not true either, mind you. In ancient times, on Beltain Eve, all fires were doused, and relit from the fire kindled by the Druid's at Tara. The story goes that the priests saw a remaining lit fire on a distant hill. When they investigated, they found Patrick and his companions. The Church says that Patrick then conquered the Druids by showing that his Christian god was stronger than the Celtic divinities. Yet, Irish records say they all sat down and discussed their different faiths. Patrick, in his preaching, did not dig out the Pagan elements of society; he incorporated them into the new Christianity. To this day, being an “Irish Catholic” means your walk of faith includes many of the old traditions in new form.

 

Patrick probably didn't give a rat's ass about shamrocks. The concept of three divinities in one person was not foreign to the Irish. Triple goddesses abounded, from the three aspects of the goddess Brigit (later Saint Bridget), to the triple war goddesses know as the Bive. The idea of Father-Son-Holy Ghost (OK, Spirit. I'm old school) was just the yang version of Maid-Mother-Crone. Holding up a shamrock while preaching would be no more meaningful than chewing on a wheat stalk while day dreaming in a field. It was only latter that the native shamrock became the symbol of the Irish Bishop.

 

The original color of the Irish wasn't green. The original color associated with Patrick was actually blue. As the green shamrock was woven more closely into the identity of Patrick, the three leaves of the shamrock and green ribbons were worn to honor the saint. Green became part of the national identity (and political identity) to such an extent that wearing green was banned by the British during the 1700's.

And now, a few facts about the celebration of the day:

 

In Ireland, March 17^th marks the date of Patrick's death. It was not celebrated like a gigantic party, but treated as a religious holiday. Folks attended Mass, and had a family meal. Lately, there have been parades and secular celebrations, but not to the extent seen in the States (Particularly NYC and Boston!)

Corned beef and cabbage is not an Irish dish. It is an Irish-American meal. When the Irish came here to work, they couldn't afford more expensive cuts of meat. Corned beef and cabbage was usually the cheapest meal on the menu. Although cabbage finds its way into many an Irish meal (such as colcannon) native Irish preferred bacon. Yummm...bacon....

There is no consumption of green beer. There IS no naturally occurring green beer. If you've stupid enough to drink green beer, you deserve what you get on the morning of March 18^th. May your family let the bright morning sun shine directly into your eyes...eegit...

Here's a little You Tube offering to sum this up a bit:

Miscellaneous Irish stuff: I didn't know they raised a statue to Oscar Wilde in Dublin. I just came upon this recently: 

 

Typical of the Irish, we need a poetic moniker for almost everything. For instance, this is a monument called Anna Livia, representing the River Liffey:

This is called “the bitch in the ditch” , “The floozie in the zacuzzi”, or “the whore (pronounced 'who-er') in the sewer”. It should come as no surprise that Oscar's statue is called “the fag on the crag”.

I also looked up family crests lately. I always knew my mother's family was a combination of Casey:

and Cassidy:

However, I finally was able to figure out the Clark crest that belongs to my family:

What does it mean? I have no idea, except I went from Irish boars and griffins to English dragon heads. So, what does that tell me...I'm a “Ravenclaw”? If anyone knows, please clue me in.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

P.S. Rufus is much better!

 

P.S.S.  Come Monday, March 18th, the production of Sherlock BBC season 3 will commence!

 

It's Always Something

I'm better now... mostly. I've recovered from all the drama of last month. Naturally, it was replaced by other stressful events, so...hey, progress! I still have anxiety and OCD, but now it's over NEW things!

I've been terribly remiss on my sacred stones for each month, so I will review not only February's but also March's gem.

 

AMETHYST: This is my favorite stone, special to February. The name means “non-intoxicating” and was said to ward off drunkenness. That's not why I like it. (I can hear your evil minds at work!) It also brings good luck, wards off dark magic and negative forces, and aids in favorable outcomes for lawsuits. It also gives access to hidden knowledge.

This stone is a balancer; it keeps you from excesses of any kind. (Will Amethyst ward off Ebay, I wonder?) It helps you relax, sleep, and open the doors to psychic abilities. Keep one near you if you have migraines and tension headaches. I find that it also helps with my OCD. It tends to smooth out the really anxious portions of my thinking. Then again, so does my Lexapro.

 

AQUAMARINE: This is the stone of the mystic or seer. It was thought that carrying this stone on a sea voyage would assure a safe return to harbor. The name comes from “water of the sea” (THAT was simple!) It purifies its wearer, and opens the doors to mental communication. You could become the antenna for everyone's feelings and thoughts and stress, so make sure you combine it was a grounding stone such as jasper or smoky quartz.

As a healer, this stone is all about the neck and throat, but can also help with bloating. It reduces swelling, and is excellent for thyroid troubles. (Wear it as a necklace.) It's great for meditation and strengthens your aura, which is useful when tuning into others.

Next week, perhaps we'll talk about the truth of Saint Patrick, and the joys of the Vernal Equinox.

 

On a different level, I found out why poor little Rufus' behavior has altered. Even though other folks kept saying they thought he was acting normal, I know my dog. When company left, he would revert to a rag mop. He had no energy to eat, he was straining to “go”, he felt hot, and then – one day – he couldn't even get off the bed. Finally, Claude and I took him to his doctor on Monday. Long story short: he either has a bladder infection (LOTS of blood in his pee), or he has bladder cancer. The doctor told me that, if the ladder, most bladder tumors are inoperable. So far, Rufus is perking up on the antibiotics. Please think good dogie thoughts. I'm not ready to say farewell to my pup. Plus, he still has a spectacular Halloween costume to look forward too!

Before the siblings' “Grand Inquisition” took place, I did have one more Sherlock item on order. Sherlock and John bunnies! I know. I'm almost 59 and I'm spending my disability check on soft little bunnies. I will not stray again...but I'm glad I got them anyway. Here they are in one shot, and snuggled in with their other Sherlock “friends”.

They are giving out ice cream in Hell because (brace yourselves) I finally wrote and submitted my Glastonbury piece to Fate Magazine. Gee, that only took a year.

 

 

I also submitted a poem to Circle Magazine. I still owe Fate one more submission for the Fall on “Haunted New Brunswick”, and I want to do an article on Shamanism for Sage Woman (I can but try).

It's good to be writing again. I guess I owe that little poetry contest a debt of gratitude for breaking down the writer's block and helping me get on with business. No...they still didn't announce a winner. I was shocked when I saw an e-mail from them entitled “Good News!” When I opened it, however, they were just letting me know that all their teas had arrived from England and they also had Cadbury eggs. Oh. Huzzah.

That's it for now. Don't forget to “spring ahead” Saturday night so you can have one less hour of sleep, and one more hour of blurry sunlight.

 

The Rufus and I wish you a good week!

Language Barriers

Hi, everyone!  It's not quite time for me to do another post (I was going to do that over the weekend) but I came across this article today, and just had to share it.

Anyone who knows me well can tell you: I get crazy over the butchering of the English language.  How many times have I shouted "hanged!" when some TV program announced that a thief had been "hung" for his crime? You don't feel bad. Bad what? It's badly; it's an adverb.  Maybe you should have went, but I should have gone. (Mother pounded THAT one into me, having been a youthful offender.)

I come by this mega-focus honestly.  My mother's father only went to the "third book" in his schooling in Sligo, but prided himself on speaking English better than The British people who surrounded him when he worked in England. He impressed the need for clear, concise speech upon my mother.  She, in turn, passed it to me.  I have always been thankful for that.  If the English forced us to speak their language, we would out do them at their own game.  Besides, it helped us acclimate better into the American melting pot when we were forced by famine, poverty or prejudice to leave our sacred isle.

I love when folks don't quite get the saying, or song lyric, right.  That's given rise to such cute books as "Olive, the Other Reindeer". .. or people singing "You're the tea in my coffee.." (??? It's cream, by the way).  Even my own dear, sweet Gary has fallen into the trap.  He would sing along with the car radio when our station played "Grovin" by the Lovin Spoonful. (Look them up, children):

 "Life would be ecstasy, you and me and Leslie grovin'..."

Leslie?  Who the hell was Leslie?

(The actual line is "...you and me endlessly grovin'.)  Yes, brats, I know. Grovin' - not an actual word. Complain to John Sebastian....(sigh)...look him up.

With that said, may I present:

 

Ten Commonly-Misused Expressions From British English

By Fraser McAlpine | Posted on Thursday,
February 14th, 2013



Mustard unpassed

  

Language is a liquid constant. Its only job is to communicate and, really, so long as it does this reasonably efficaciously, none of us have any reason to complain about the rights and wrongs of other people’s communication. I mean, so long as I get what you mean when you say “pacifically how many people are coming to dinner?” or “I could care less about your new jumper,” does it really matter if you’ve used the wrong term, or got a little confused with your idioms? I mean REALLY?
OK, OK it matters! Stop shouting…
For you, then, here are 10 expressions that people commonly mess up, and the reasons why they are the way they are:
1: Pass mustard
 So, first of all, the expression you’re aiming at is pass muster – a state of being where you’ve been tested and come through with flying colors. There is also the expression cut the mustard, meaning the same thing. However, there is no pass mustard. And cut the mustard is thought to be derived from a mishearing of pass muster in the first place, so this whole thing is just a mess of badly applied condiments.
2: Tow the line
Unless you’re a shire horse, pulling a barge down a canal, your opportunities to tow the line will be few and far between. However, if there’s a line that you cannot cross – real or figurative – it’s your feet that will need to be kept in check, just ask Johnny Cash. Therefore, the thing you need to do is toe the line.
3: Chomping at the bit
A frustrated or excitable horse will sometimes mouth his (or her) bit, in frustration that they can’t just get on with, y’know, running around the field or kicking a stable-boy (or girl) in the ribs (or groin). This mouthing and biting action is called champing. So the expression for someone in a state of high excitement or frustration is champing at the bit. The horse isn’t chomping at the bit, because while chomping also means biting and chewing, the inference is that the act of chomping breaks the chomped item down into bits for the purpose of swallowing. And a horse that swallows his (or her) bit is not a healthy horse.
But, given that none of us is a horse, it’s close enough to be a forgiveable error, surely?
4: Nip it in the butt
Please don’t nip things in the butt, you’ll only get a slap in the face for your trouble. If you’re nipping anything in the anywhere – ie you want to prevent situations from growing into bigger and worse situations – the correct thing to do is nip while those things are in the bud (ie, before they flower). It’s about gardening, not sexual harassment.
5: Just desserts
The idea that some idiot is about to settle down, after a hearty meal and fork a mouthful of revenge pudding into his gob may be highly appealing, but that’s not the expression, it’s just deserts. In this case, deserts means “that which a person deserves,” with just deserts being a more righteous version. Granted, there is no other context in which anyone uses the word deserts to mean that, but that is what it means.
6: Ice tea
It’s iced tea. See that rapper Ice-T? Well he’s not only got himself a curiously frou frou name for his street poetry persona, but he didn’t even get the reference right. So much for keeping it real.
7: Wait with baited breath
Another expression that requires specialist understanding of the words involved, without which, any similar-sounding and familiar will (and have been) thrown in there instead. If you’re holding your breath waiting for someone, your ability to breathe has temporarily been abated, so to wait with ‘bated breath means to forgo breathing, not to dangle maggots from your tongue.
8: Deep-seeded
Now, if a thing is buried deep, like a seed, that’s one thing. But that’s not what the expression you’re thinking of means. To have a deep-seated objection, or a deep-seated conviction of any kind, you’re describing something that is not only deep but firmly rooted. In nature, things that are firmly rooted tend not to be seeds any more, so even if the mis-heard version of the saying was correct, it’d be wrong.
9: Anchors away!
Seamen! Seawomen! Do not throw your anchors away. You will need them. But if you want to raise them from the sea bed, so that you can start your journey, your anchor will become a-weigh, meaning its full weight is clear of the bottom. This confusion is one of those things that sounds like it makes more sense when it’s wrong, but doesn’t.
10: A tough road to hoe
Any road would be tough to hoe, what with all that tarmac and concrete. But you don’t hoe roads, you hoe rows.

Delightful!

What can I say? RUE BRITANNIA!!!

Puppy Love

                                                                 Hello.

My namer is Rufus. My Mama is in snow shock. Well, that's what she says. We didn't get all THAT much last night, but she still goes through anxiety. That's because she suffers from “piles”...piles of snow here, piles of snow there...and all the bad memories of shoveling out the driveway, the steps, a poop path in the back yard (a shih tzu has to do what a shih tzu has to do), and the sidewalk at our old house. Oh gods. The sidewalk.

She would take forever doing the front, using the shovel as a cane as well as a snow removal tool, sweating under her wool coat with sinuses running free, until the walk was perfect. She would come in grasping, dragging clods of snow on her pant legs (loved those!) and collapsing on the rocker. She would close her eyes, and breathe easier...until a revolving yellow light reflected off our picture window and we heard a scraping sound. She'd jump up, look out the door, and wail as the township plow covered her work with ice floes dug up from the road. (One year, she finished the walkway and turned back to the house, only to see the plow at the corner just waiting until she went inside. She whipped out her cell phone, took her shovel to the middle of the street, and called the Works Department. “I'm on Laurel Place, starring down one of your plows. I just finished my sidewalk. I'm not doing it twice. Tell your man to back off 'cause if he moves, I move with my industrial shovel, and I'll take out the headlights and windscreen before I'm through.” She hung up and, minutes later, watched the plow back down the street.)

Mama doesn't have to shovel anymore. We live in a senior village now. We have a downstairs co-op, so we don't have to worry about ice dams either, nor does she have to drive to work. Doesn't matter. Snow is still the enemy.

So, with weather stress, and articles to write, and a house to clean, I decided I would do her blog as an early Valentine Day present. I mean, why not. She always says I never give her anything except pee in the bathroom and poo in the hall (along with 9 years of stolen and shredded tissues, paper towels, documents, bills). But, what about unconditional love? What about loyalty? Who ELSE goes with her to the bathroom and guards her underwear every... single... time?

And – ya know – it's not easy being this chick's puppy. I'm scooped up and flung on my back for belly kisses, she's constantly picking eye buggers out of the corners of my lids, and she's manic about dirty hineys. And, by the way, if you don't want toys all over the place STOP BUYING THEM. Hey, I lived almost a year with my groomer with only a buffalo, a rubber cat and a grunting raccoon. I can handle it.

 

You know, she is always taking photos of me.  Now, she's even trying for naked art shots when I'm asleep.  This has to be illegal in some states, no?

 

Then, there are the costumes. I mean, when did I sign up for this? Every Samhain, since I was 6 months old, there has been a costume. The first one was a bumble bee. I don't really remember that one, but oh...I remember all the others.

The next year she dressed me as a DAISY. Hello! Just because you had my doctor do that thing with my junk doesn't mean I am now a girl.

 

Next came the lobster. Really? Do I look that comfortable to you? Just boil me already.

 

Then came the worse – the dinosaur. OK. This was partly my fault. I kept pawing at the picture of the costume in the sale catalog. Mama wanted me to be a pumpkin. I'm a BOY! I want to be something cool! So, she bought it saying, “You'll be sorry.” I was. How do you pee in that thing? Mama ended up writing a story about it, illustrated by her artist friend Robin Ator.

So, the following year, I had to give in. I was a pumpkin. Oh joy. Oh rapture. (Not raptor; that was the year before).

 

I don't even understand the next year's costume. Am I fish food? Jonah and the Whale? I couldn't even walk in this get-up.

 

The last year for costumes was 2011, a few months before Mama got sick. I was a hot dog. FINALLY! Something I understood! Right after the photo, I flung it off and tried to hide it in the back yard.

I know she had plans for this October. She was sitting at the computer at 3am muttering “costumes...costumes...” and then gasped, “Oh my god...PERFECT!” As Dorothy Parker said, “What fresh hell is this?” (Yes. Dorothy Parker. I'm a writer's dog; ya pick up things.) It's enough to make a shih tzu go voodoo.

 

I tried bribing Mama not to do this any more. Didn't work. Perhaps I shouldn't have taken the money from her Vera Bradley purse in the first place. (If they don't want puppies to get into their wallets they should make the zippers harder to undo.)

 

When I stop and think about it, life isn't SO bad. I have lots of playthings, fresh water, good food, my own bed and the OK to lie on the sofa and sleep in Mama's bed. It's fun to cuddle and then sleep back to back. Nice and warm...And I have family and friends who love me. I just wish Mama would stop watching those miserable ASPCA commercials. Every time they show a pup with the caption “Why do they beat me?” she cries, grabs me and sobs in my ear “How can anyone DO that?'

I don't KNOW, Ma! For the love of Isis, change the channel and unhand me! I had a good scratch going!

Me and Aunt Claude

All in all, I do love my Mama. She's not the sanest owner in the world, but I run around the coffee table in circles until I'm dizzy, and bark at imaginary enemies under the dryer. What do I know?

Happy Valentine's Day, Mama, and to all of you.

Your friend, Rufus

As The Wheel Turns

 

Ah, February. Another turning of the wheel. We are on the verge of Imbolc (or Imbolg), otherwise known as La Fheile Bride in Irish (the Feast of Brighid, or Brighid's Day. Name variations include Brigid, Bridget, Brigit, Brid and Bridgit). Any Pagan or Wiccan can tell you, this is one of the four cross-quarter points on the wheel of the year. It celebrates the coming of the ewes into milk, the lambing season (Imbolc means “in the belly”), the germination of seeds, and the goddess (or saint) who represents fire, smithcraft, and poetry. (Poetry was considered a “fire in the head”.)

 

It is a time of celebrating the Feminine principle in the season of the God, just as Lammas celebrates the Masculine principle in the Goddess season. It also marks the beginning of longer days, and the sun's obvious return and gathering strength. Several monolithic monuments are aligned so that the rising sun on Imbolc illuminates their inner chambers.

Mound of the Hostages, Hill of Tara, Ireland

Brigit Crosses were woven at this time as a symbol of the turning of the wheel. They were often put in the roof beams of the house as a protection against fire.

 

Typical rush cross

 

 

By Irish tradition, a “bed” was fashioned for Brigit before the family hearth, and a doll representing her (the Brideog) was carried from house to house as a blessing. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two types of Brideog, and a "bed" made from a basket

 

Food offerings were left by the fire, and articles of clothing placed outside so that she may bless them as she passed by. One related belief specifies that a length of white cloth should be hung out the window on the eve of the feast, so that it can catch the morning's dew. This cloth can then be tied around the head, the jaw, or an injured limb, as it removes pain.

When the new religion gained power, Brigit was too ingrained in the minds of the common folk to banish her. In actuality, much that was part of Pagan Ireland was merely absorbed by the Church. Brigit's feast day, power and traditions were now ascribed to Saint Brighid the “Mary of the Gael”. Even her sacred fire, once tended by her priestesses, is today maintained by nuns in Kildare.

The Feast of Brigit, or Imbolc, also corresponds with Candlemas on Fen 2^nd. This is the Church's fire ceremony when candles are blessed for the coming liturgical year. It is another shadow of the power of the Goddess and her element of fire. Imbolc was a day of weather prediction, so it is not surprising that Groundhog Day occurs on this date as well. The old legend is that Brigit – in the guise of a crone – goes out on this morning to collect wood for the rest of Winter. If  the day was sunny and bright, she could see to gather enough wood for another 6 weeks. If the weather was cloudy or foul, she would only gather a small amount. That would mean  Spring would have to come early. (BTW: PA isn't the only state with a weather rodent. New Jersey has its own!)

Milltown Mel!!!

It's still a tradition is make Brigit's Crosses. I looked for some easy videos to show you how it is done. The best was the following, demonstrated by a child in Ireland. You can make the cross out of rushes, wheat stalks (soak them first!), even pipe cleaners. Have fun!

 

                                 

 

 

 

Imbolc Blessings to you all!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Glass Darkly

I was going to do a blog about the meaning of Imbolg. I will probably make that the second part of this entry (posted in a few days). But first, I want to share a story.

The story is about a woman I knew in collage. I've mentioned her before, years ago. While at Douglass College (Rutger's University) I fell into a grand group of women who were part of the commuter community (OK, we had a few resident students in the mix, but that's not important). We started being called “Animal Corner” because we sat in the commuter lounge, between classes, at a huge round table that was our second home. We were typical brainy geeks: Star Trek fiends, into the metaphysical as well as sciences. It was a good time for me, one I think of fondly.

One of our members was doing a Bachelors in Space Science; quite a pioneer. I loved her: She was quick-witted, friendly, bright, even tempered. We even traveled to Europe together, along with another long time friend. After graduation, she worked in Princeton and, eventually, because a NASA engineer. It was then that contact between us faded. I would write long, personal letters and received, in return, mass produced “updates” - like those annoying “Xmas Letters” some people send. Eventually I wrote and told her that if she didn't have time to correspond, that was fine. I would rather hear from a friend once or twice a year  than receive mailings as though I was part of her fan club.

When my first book was published, I sent her a copy. When the shuttle Columbia burnt up over Texas, I sent her my sympathies. I knew she had friends aboard. At that point, I did hear back from her, saying she was receiving an award from our college, and would I like to meet up? We did. I spent a weekend driving her around, taking her shopping or back to my house for a meal. I arranged for another old college chum to visit.

None of it mattered. She only wanted to discuss her achievements, her awards, her glowing endorsements. I was a published author and our other friend was a scientist with Lockheed Martin. No matter. We spent hours politely looking at pictures of her fencing club, hearing about people we didn't know. For all that, we learned nothing of her everyday life. It was all posture and pose. We were cast as her receptive audience – like it or not.

When I took her back to her lodgings, the evening before the award ceremony (to which I hadn't been invited), she took her leave of me. After the ceremony, she was heading back to Texas. I e-mailed her a few days later to say how nice it was to see her again, but she never replied. Apparently my usefulness was at an end.

I have seen a few things about her in the past several years. In July 2011, CNN did an article about her. The photo that went along with it showed her in a space suit. That struck me hard. She was never an astronaut – washed out due to height and vision – but the implication was there. When she addressed another group, they billed her as an engineer and an astronaut. I never saw a correction. All this rankled me. What had happened to my bright, cleaver, loving friend from college? She seemed to have turned into a self-promotion machine. She called herself a Renaissance woman, a dynamic speaker and motivator.

It made me sad that there was so much “her” in her head there was no room for old friends.

The other day, before I closed down the computer, I did a random look up on Google for people I use to know. One of the names I checked was my old friend. I was shocked to find a series of videos. In several, she looked much older, defeated. She was talking about bullying – how it had effected her in High School, and how it had re-occurred at NASA. She was now on disability, hadn't worked for 2 years, and was suffering from stress. Some videos pleaded for help – there was even a fireside chat to the President about sitting in the dark because the electric bill could not be paid.

There were a series of tragedies: she went on disability and had to take in borders. She ended up sleeping on a mattress in her computer room. Her sister died. The house was eventually foreclosed, and she was living in a rental. She had broken her hand, as well as her 1995 Ford, and had so little money she couldn't afford cat litter for her 4 cats.

I was/ am completely floored! My first thought, after my heart broke, was how much could I afford to send her for food and kitty litter? Then I realized: I'm also on disability, and have bills to pay. There is still no resolution to my medical coverage problems, although it is getting fixed. Until then, all expenses are out-of-pocket. I can't afford anything but sympathy. I'm not sure if the bullying was simply due to NASA being a man's game (and military at that) and she didn't have thick enough skin, or if it was imagined. It hardly matters. Did that megalomaniacal bend to her personality cost her a job, friends and security? Possibly. There is always Karma with which to contend.

The lesson I learned is this: you just never know. People walk this Earth wearing a skin that may be all facade, but internally things could be crumbling to dust. You have to walk away from the unpleasant and reserve judgment. Also, you have to remember where you started, and be kind to people who shared your past. Treat others as you would be treated and, if you are making ends meet in this world – however humbly – be thankful.

I take no pleasure in this woman's situation. It does, however, make me take a deeper look at myself.