Accountability 101

accountability

noun [ U ]

US  

 /əˌkaʊn.t̬əˈbɪl.ə.t̬i/ UK  

 /əˌkaʊn.təˈbɪl.ə.ti/

 

the fact of being responsible for what you do and able to give a satisfactory reason for it, or the degree to which this happens: 

There were furious demands for greater police accountability.

Accountability is important these days, and managers aren't always willing to adopt risky strategies. 

• Citizens must demand accountability from their leaders.
• The main way of ensuring public accountability is through select committees.
• The new command structure will have a higher degree of accountability.

The above definition is from the Oxford English Dictionary, of the word ; accountability.

In a group that I joined this Spring, to continue with the learning curve in my horsemanship, the term “ Accountability Thread “ was added part way through. There are certain words that are triggers for me, especially in a time of heavy social pressure and criticism from peer groups. If you read the definition of the word, you can see that the person/people running the online course are probably trying to get students involved in the process of leaving stories or videos of what is going on with their horses, so they can give the student feedback. I understand that and am usually amenable to the suggestions from the instructors. 

But this year I am not interested in being accountable to anyone about my actions, as a student or otherwise. Look at the way the word is being used in example sentences (see above). Who has to be satisfied? I do, not the instructor. Who do I have to be accountable to? My horse. They are going to give me the best feedback on my actions and overall demeanor, where I am emotionally and whether I communicated clearly enough with them. Did I leave their dignity intact while learning to relate to them, to interact with them as a partner? 

As for the last sentence in the definition, I adhere to no command structure under any circumstances. I am not in the military nor am I an employee. I am a student using online courses to teach myself. Would I like feedback from the instructor? Yes, if that is included in the course description. Will I join any “Accountability Thread” ? Aside from the fact that I am now not on social media and this group is set up only for students on FB, no. I will not be dictated to by anyone much less by someone that I paid for instruction. When I paid them I became their employer and not the other way around. In fact, they are accountable to me and any other student who paid them for their services.

You can see why I am uninterested in doing anymore than simply watching the videos and finishing that part of the course. I’m not going to name the people running the course. One is German and the other Swiss. The use of the word could simply be a language issue, a misunderstanding. I’m not interested in hurting any small business owner, especially during the present circumstances. I will almost certainly not be continuing any other courses with them though. Part of running any course is making sure you communicate clearly with your students. I will not get my full money’s worth from this course. That’s part of my learning curve. If the term “accountability thread” had been used from the beginning, I would have chosen not be a part of the class. 

Some words are triggers. For an American, “ACCOUNTABILITY” goes in one direction only. Leaders are elected and employed by me and my fellow citizens, not the other way around. That also includes local governments such as mayors, sheriffs, governors and legislatures as well as at the Federal level. And for me it includes who I pay for services rendered, in this case instruction in communication with horses. 

I will be more careful, in the future, when paying for any learning. I will sample first and, if the course does not match my expectations, I will ask for a refund. I am considering the money paid a donation to a worthy cause. I am learning the hard way this time. 

I am, ever yours, Nancy, smiling at the way things go... I will be more clear in the future both with myself and the instructor about what I am looking for in a teacher. 

THIS TOO SHALL PASS

I’m tired. The world seems to be upside down, like we’ve slipped in to Alice’s rabbit hole and fallen in to some subterranean surrealist landscape peopled with mad hatters and crazy queens who want to lop off your head if you don’t follow the current ‘rules’. And I have never followed anyone’s idea of a status quo without questioning everything. I’m an American. Last time I heard, we’re allowed to make our own way as long as we don’t steal from, injure or kill anyone. 

I have guaranteed Constitutional freedoms, by law, giving me the right to freedom of speech, freedom of religion, right to bear arms in defense of my home or country, and the right to make my own decisions about my health, my method for making a living (as long as no human or animal is abused, injured or killed). But now I am being told what to wear (masks), when I can go to church and how, if at all (I belong to no particular religion but I will always defend the right for anyone to believe what they will). Schools are closed and may not open this year. Businesses, small and large, are closing and declaring bankruptcy. Families are loosing their homes and apartments and non stop riots seem to be going on in certain cities because of a movement that has been co-opted by political factions and being used to affect an upcoming election. 

A couple of weeks ago I removed my presence from all social media platforms. Because I am an artist by trade, people expected me to be part of the ultra liberal groups. Again, I make my own choices politically as well as religiously and otherwise. I belong to no group except by my own choosing and will change my mind at any given time. Because I’ve been questioning what I read in the so called news ( most of which is lies and deeply edited to slant to the left ), refusing to wear a mask and simply going about my days in exactly the same way that I always have, I began to receive threats. 

For the most part they do not bare repeating here. But the threats were very specific and violent. When our mail box was bashed, something that happens ever so often when poorly raised and unsupervised kids take it in to their heads to play “mailbox baseball”, and then we were sent messages saying it would be worse than a bashed mailbox next time, I decided that social media was poison. It adds to the gossip mills and encourages vile behaviors. I felt like I was back in junior high with lunch table ‘rules’ and all of the childish name calling that happens when groups of befuddled hormone laden pre-teens are trying to establish social dominance. Continuing with participation in those venues was enabling the worst behaviors in people. 

“Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the universe.” 
― Albert Einstein

Somewhere along the line people lost their way, became so full of fear and an inability to question what they see in the media, they began to revert to attack mode. The need to belong to the herd, to follow the crowd, overwhelmed their ability to reason or question . I became a, and I quote directly from one of the people who wrote to me, “ heretic “. How interesting. And I was told that I and my family and anyone I came in to contact with was going to die within three weeks. Of course that happened three months ago and I’m still here with no health issues. The little town I live in has no cases of COVID. The local farmers and ranchers continued to do their jobs of raising their crops and animals WITHOUT MASKS. And now rural communities are being threatened by ANTIFA as well as other factions because they are living their lives and doing their jobs of raising food to feed the world. Sounds like insanity to me. Without food and the people who grow it, the population starves. ( I was even told that the animals I care for were going to be infected and die because I will not spend my days wearing a mask. )

I refuse to spend my days down Alice’s Rabbit Hole having tea with a Mad Hatter. I am still exactly who I have always been, an independent adult who follows my inner voice. I support the Constitution, live by ideals that I’ve learned along the way.

The Girl Scout Law

I will do my best to be honest and fair, friendly and helpful, considerate and caring, courageous and strong, and responsible for what I say and do, and to respect myself and others, use resources wisely, make the world a better place.

The Four Agreements

Be impeccable with your word.

Don’t take anything personally. 

Don’t make assumptions. 

Always do your best.

• Honour thy father and thy mother.
• Thou shalt not kill.
• Thou shalt not commit adultery.
• Thou shalt not steal.

And above all I promise to be myself. I am not a clone or follower of the herd. I am an independent woman, wife, mother, grandmother, aunt, sister, artist , horse woman and small business owner. I will stand my ground and defend my right as well as my family’s right to be exactly who they are. I will love all of them as the people they are and will be. I am proud of their abilities to make their own choices and stand their ground balanced and calm, kind and willing. 

I am, ever yours and MINE, Nancy, smiling at the way things go. My Grandmother used to say, “ This too shall pass.” She was right. All of this will pass....

Questions, Questions, oh the unanswered QUESTIONS

I lead a fairly quiet life. I’m off the beaten track, location wise, and off the norm as far as career choices go. I stand in the middle on most issues politically and religiously. I belong to no particular group, although I did for many years while I used the Parelli Program to better understand my horses. I’ve always been more family oriented rather than career focused, a choice that most of my friends questioned for years. I’m not particularly competitive, feel no need to win the gold metal or to impress my views on anyone else. But these are extraordinary times calling for more attention to detail. And like any exceptional period in history you either step up or step aside.

I’m afraid and I chose, years ago, not to live my life in fear. Fear leads me to ask questions. That’s how it’s been since a rocky beginning as a child. When I ask what’s going on, of myself, it keeps me going forward. I use the classic ; What? When? Where? How? Why? . I do my research and then try to verify it or disprove it. Again, I don’t have to prove I’m right. I just want to know what’s going on so I can set up a plan to work on. As creative as I am, I do not deal well with chaos. My space gets messy while I work on a project But things always get put away afterwards. It’s way to easy for me to misplace things. 

And my questions are not being answered adequately. I’ve found experts on both sides of the equations who say the opposite with excellent arguments for their points of view. What is COVID 19? Or Coronavirus? Or SARS-CoV-2? I’ve seen images of the type of virus it is, read more articles than I can count now of what it POSSIBLY does to us. There is no doubt it is real . There is no question that it can be deadly for a small segment of the population (and I am considered to be in that category, according to my age. I am basically very healthy, taking no prescription meds and with no complaints about how my body works. ). 

I’m not surprised there is still no clear explanation for what COVID 19 is. HIV/AIDS came on the scene in 1981. There are more than 1.1 million people living with HIV and more than 700,000 died since the beginning of an epidemic that was hard to identify much less form a plan to stop it. We had less technology to help us then and communication between experts moved more slowly without an internet to keep people talking. And while it was going on OUR ECONOMY DID NOT STOP, much less an entire world economy. 

In 1894 our country had the first outbreak of polio in Vermont, with 132 cases. I grew up with my Mom, an analytical chemist and teacher by profession, worried because there were children in our neighborhood and school who had contracted polio. The virus easily spreads from feces, touch, through food and direct contact. And it was deadly. I have friends who are still impacted by the polio they had as children. And I have friends who never made it out of childhood. AND THE ECONOMY DID NOT STOP. 

Both of my parents worked, everyone’s parents worked in some capacity. Babies were born, raised, went to school, traveled and had families of their own while our generation went through polio, measles, chicken pox, small pox, HIV/AIDS, bird flu, pig flu and, just in this century, HPA1, H5N1, SARS, HPAI, B viruses, A viruses, H1N1, and the infamous 1918 flu that killed more than 33 million young people in the prime of their lives. AND THE ECONOMY DID NOT STOP. People kept on going to work, raising their children, going to church or synagogue, shopping and interacting with neighbors, family and friends. And every single one of those viruses worked their way through our world and we adapted.

My parents lived through world wars, depressions, more wars, disease, crop failures, personal loss, and so did we AND THE ECONOMY DID NOT STOP, much less the world wide economy. All of us did our chores, did our work, paid our bills, went to school and dealt with what came along without complaining. AND NOT ONCE WERE ANY OF US TOLD TO STAY AT HOME, nor were we vilified for continuing to work. None of us were designated ‘essential’ or ‘non-essential’ unless people had the misfortune to be in Communist Russia, Fascist Germany, Fascist Cambodia during the Khmer Rouge or any of the other communist/socialist countries that classified citizens as essential or non-essential. AND NO ONE IS ASKING QUESTIONS ABOUT THE LOSS OF OUR CONSTITUTIONAL RIGHTS. The vast majority of people that I know either on line or in person are quietly submissive without asking WHY. 

I’ve had death threats for questioning the world wide status quo. I’m a small time artist, designer, teacher, horseman, farmer and people are so upset with the questions I ask, they are threatening me. How interesting. 

I’ve been accused of being a ‘conspiracy nut’, a ‘trouble maker’ and then there was the lovely ‘waste of air’ letter. That was fun. While all of these former friends are leveling accusations I am fermenting vegetables, planting seeds, doing chores, taking care of my little crooked farm house and my aging  herd, painting, writing, reading and seeking answers. I haven’t changed. I’m guessing that the people I thought I knew haven’t either. How interesting. 

I am also guessing that it’s fear prompting some of these surprising reactions. Panic does things to us, makes it hard to think, difficult to react without striking out. I sometimes panic too, although usually in privacy. John tells me that I come out of the corner with my fists up. He’s right. When I feel cornered I look for a way out first, then the fists come up and I set my feet. I know what it’s like to have my buttons punched too. BUT I DO NOT STOP WORKING. 

I still haven’t found adequate answers to my questions. I’m not surprised there isn’t accurate data or information on this new form of virus. Thorough research takes time, control and thoughtful communication between dedicated researchers. My main concern still remains. WHY HAVE WE ALL, on both sides of the ocean, on all continents except Antarctica, ACCEDED TO SELF IMPOSED HOUSE ARREST. Because some so called experts told us we were all going to die? News flash. We are all, every single one of us, mortal beings with a beginning and end. Not one of us will get out of this alive because NOT ONE OF US WAS EVER GOING TO LIVE FOREVER. No animals, plants, one celled organisms, people or even stars, suns or universes are infinite. It’s our limited time on this Earth that makes us unique, emotional creatures. It’s our limited lives that push us to excel, to create, to take chances, to seek out more information or to be heroes. 

SO WHY HAVE ANY OF US ALLOWED OUR FULL STOP TO HAPPEN? My inquiring mind wants to know. I am weirdly fascinated, appalled, angry, frightened by all of this. And I have no plans for stoping the process of asking questions. And no one is going to classify me to be essential or non-essential. 

I am, ever yours, Nancy, smiling and shaking my head in wonderment. 

PS. And I’ve had a cough, lost my sense of smell for a few days, got tired AND I NEVER STOPPED WORKING. Guess we’ll never know if I’ve had COVID 19 because I have no intention of being tested nor will I carry papers stating I am exposed and immune. When the rules make no sense, I refuse to follow them. My inner voice tells me we’ve all been manipulated and had. It’s never been wrong, at least not yet. 

IT IS MY BEST DAY EVER or changing the direction I approach anything from...

Today is my best day ever. 

I know. Sounds hokey, doesn’t it? But I always write the truth, at least the truth as I see it. And it really is my best day ever. 

That’s been my mantra as long as I can remember. The day my Mom died, in November of 1972, I walked outside, in to a slightly grubby parking lot outside the hospital and looked around in shock. My Mom was dead. She was never going to hug me again, tell me everything was alright, fix slightly under done or crunchy scrambled eggs, which I loved because my Mom made them. She wouldn’t be there for me to call when I felt like I was in over my head with my brand new baby. She was gone. And the world had the audacity to look and act like everything was just fine, nothing significant had changed . 

But here’s why that was one of my best days ever. I can still remember, with absolute crystal clarity, the color of the morning sky as the sun came up. I remember the slight scent of autumn leaves, wet from the rain. I picked up a rock, a small piece of gravel really, and held it. How could something as ordinary and mundane as a piece of gravel still exist when my whole life had just shifted? Wrapping my head around that at the gentle age of barely 23 was huge.

I still have that little rock. I kept it, put it in my jewelry box. I wanted to have a connection to what I thought was my worst day. Now it’s one of my best days. Why? Because I remember it, every last detail. I was tired, messy, crying and there was a tiny piece of gravel, some late mums growing in round clumps with the flowers slightly worn, a gorgeous morning sky and my hiking boots on my feet. 

John was there with me, holding me and trying to find a way to comfort me. And waiting for me, at a friend’s house, was my son. He was a part of John, a part of me, and a part of my Mom. And when I picked him up, all warm and sleepy, and he opened his eyes long enough to smile at me, to grab hold of my hair and go back to sleep, it was my best day ever.

Before it was cool or politically correct to be an optimist, I made a decision that day to tell myself that it is always my best day ever. At the beginning of the day, when light brightens the horizon and frogs sing like they are today, it is my best day ever. And when my heart is broken and my childhood has passed with my Mom, it is still my best day ever because the story isn’t over.

You’re wondering why I’m blithering. I’m not reading any social media right now. There’s a kind of twist to the world that gets magnified when millions of people get together and gossip. I don’t like gossip. It never comes to a good end. Gossip is always based in conjecture, innuendo, and thoughtless comments usually made because we want to make it someone else’s fault. No matter what we’re talking about it must be in the lap of the’ other’. THEY made it happen, not me. 

I don’t want to be a part of that group mind. It’s way to easy for me to do just exactly that, be mean hearted, thoughtless and self protective by making it someone else’s problem, fault, issue. Of course, in the process of withdrawing for a while, I am participating in the conversation by not being there. 

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

― Theodore Roosevelt

I read that quote in a book by Brene Brown. It stayed with me because it is about gossip, that critical mind that dances around in my head. None of us has the right to criticize anyone else because we aren’t walking in their shoes. We don’t know the whole story and even if we did, it would still be from our point of view. That colors it, slants the story in a way we want it to go and not in the way it honestly exists. 

This being honest stuff is tricky! It’s one of those Zen revelations, discovering the need to see things from my point of view even when it doesn’t merit it. See, I slanted that statement and didn’t do it intentionally. I can’t help myself. My eyes are the only the only pair I have to look through. 

People are frightened, working themselves in to a frenzy over things that are, mostly, out of our control. Politics, pandemics, policies, panic, pushback, punks, poop. I needed to take a breather, to get my perspective back. We’re all going to die! That idea is being pushed to generate clicks on articles, and it’s working. Stock markets are crashing. Small business owners are teetering on the brink of ruin because no one is out there living their lives. Although, between you and me, investing in Charmin and Northern looks like a good bet. People are panic buying toilet paper. WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE and people don’t want to be out of toilet paper when that happens. Now that’s funny!

Guess what? We really are all going to die. It’s part of the price of admission to walking this Earth. There’s always a beginning, middle and end. I choose not to waste my time worrying about the end. I’m too busy living the middle, for now. Today is my best day ever. 

I am living with ten master teachers : one donkey, two dogs, three horses and four cats. Every single one of them lives exactly in the moment as no one else except themself. There is no agenda except being here, now, in the best and only way that they can. And I am still learning from them. 

It is my best day ever! And ... 

I am, ever yours, Nancy, smiling because I can!

THE COOLNESS OF PHOEBE or Why I came back

Phoebe and I are back. I stopped writing here two years ago, probably because of some personal pain in my life. Most bloggers would be spilling their guts because it attracts readers. As nice as it would be to monetize here it’s really more of a journal. And the dicey stuff is in the paper, not the digital world, for me. However, that being said...

Facebook became a kind of addiction. I could write a short story, post some images or video and get immediate feedback. It began to fall in to the same brain sucking category as TV. I haven’t watched TV for more than 20 years, grew up without access to TV and did the same for my sons. Life is way too short to spend it with my forehead stuck to a glass screen.

Had a minor issue come up, physically, as it does sometimes in the world of horses. I’m sitting here packed in ice so writing wins out. Getting bored always gets my creative juices flowing. This is like jump starting my nineteen year old farm truck. I have to cuss a bit, kick a tire or two, hook up those clip thingies and step on the gas. Hang on with me. It’s going to be messy for a while. (At least I’m not leaking oil!)

Phoebe is my Muse today. She’s ancient in the world of farm cats, at least eighteen . I had to guess at her age because she came to us seventeen years ago and was old enough to be pregnant, so at least a year old then. It was hard to tell. She was skinny, hungry, terrified, dehydrated and dirty. Dirty for a young cat is serious stuff. Cats always groom themselves until they’re in such pain they can’t. She was near her end times. 

But Phoebe is one of those never give up kinds of cat. She’d pulled herself up in to the cedar in front of the house, high enough I had to climb to get to her. And she yelled for help so loud I went out to find her. I could hear her over the ancient, rattling dishwasher and the wind blowing in through the cracks around the doors, whistling and moaning. We sit more than a quarter mile back from the road too, so where ever she had come from it wasn’t an easy journey. “ SOMEBODY HELP ME! HELP ME NOW! “ Pride had nothing to do with it. She was yelling to save her life.

And there she was this morning, laying next to Apple, with her purloined tennis ball. If any of you reading this has a Golden Retriever, you know how precious tennis balls are. Apple collects tennis balls, hiding them in the bottom of a basket. Phoebe steals them. Apple tries to tempt the ball away from Phoebe with pieces of kibble (note the two pieces in front of Apple) and Phoebe ignores Apple. It’s part of their morning games. All ten pounds of Phoebe even growls at eighty five pound Apple if Apple gets too close, at least until Phoebe decides the game is done. No wonder I laugh so much! 

Phoebe is the epitome of badass coolness. Of course she’s my Muse! Her hips sometimes bother her but she can jump to the back of the sofa and dominates the bed at night. And she still hunts, bringing her trophy in to the house and depositing it in the middle of the kitchen table. Sometimes I find just body parts (yes, on top of the table) and Phoebe sleeping on the top of the sofa in her power spot where she can open one eye and keep track of her kill. How could I not love and admire my little short, round farm cat. Heck, I want to be her when I get around to growing up. Age and the minor issues that come with it are no impediment to Phoebe.

This morning I was getting in to being ‘Nancy, the Whiner’ , really wallering in self pity. I do not like being sidelined with sore muscles, bumps and bruises that are entirely my fault. My body will heal but in the meantime I get grumpy. Wah, wah, wah... And here comes Phoebe, trailing an anxious Apple, rolling her stolen goods and depositing them at my feet. “ Hey, Nancy, giiiirrrlll friend, steal a tennis ball. Always makes me feel better! “ So here we are, Phoebe napping in a sunbeam and me with my companion ice bags, in the moment, laughing at the way things go!

You go Phoebe! Between you and me, I hope I live to 150. There are so many things to learn, and so many wonderful Badass Phoebe moments to live.

I am, ever yours, Nancy, smiling because I can

BAD GUYS AND KAVANAUGH, and the cards they all play...

"Aren't you afraid of being out here by yourself? How would you defend yourself? What about, well, you know!? " A friend of mine said that to me the first time she came to visit. She was genuinely concerned. Her first thought wasn't about the beautiful place I live in or my slightly crooked, eccentric 'used to be a barn' house or even my gardens that I had sweated over so she would be impressed. She was worried about the BAD GUYS. 

I'm the first person to tell you that, yes, there are bad guys in the world. I had my share of terrible blind dates, guys who tried to pick me up, men who followed me, hooted at me. I was pretty good at leveling the playing field, literally walking away. 

There was the Frat party, one of the blind dates. I watched the boys, over at a table, pouring things in to glasses of orange juice. When my 'date' brought me one of those glasses, I smiled and took it. I was polite too. " Thank you. I am thirsty and I love orange juice. " When he turned away to snicker at his buddies, I poured the whole glass in to a potted plant and put the glass to my mouth and said, " Aaaahhh. That was good. " Of course he offered to fix me another glass. I said fine.

He brought me another and another, getting increasingly drunk while I killed a potted plant with orange juice and vodka. He was staggering after four glasses, looking kind of peaked after five. " Geeezzshh.. why aren't you falling off the chair?" I smiled, waited until he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. I dumped that glass in to the potted plant too. Then he leaned over and barfed. Nasty! While he was loosing it, I turned around and walked out of the french windows, only a foot off the ground, and walked home. I've always wondered if he lived through that night. He was trying to out drink me. I never had a drop. 

But was he a bad guy? I don't think so. He was a stupid boy who, granted, had nefarious ideas that he made himself thoroughly sick with. His problem, his rodeo, not mine. I've always had pretty good situational awareness. It was a skill honed from a challenging childhood. 

Was I worried about my friends, also there with dates or blind dates? Yes. I found all of them during the evening and asked if they wanted to leave with me, go to a movie or somewhere to eat. Nope. Not one wanted to leave, even after I pointed out the orange juice was more than orange juice. They told me they were having fun. I left without them. 

I guess I was an odd duck. I was a hippie chic artist with long hair and a mini skirt who wasn't interested in getting drunk or getting laid. 


So here's the other side of the story. I remember exactly what time of the year it was (September, 1969), where it was (Frat on Tennessee Street), and what I was wearing too (a pretty mini skirt in soft beige orange colors and a silk blouse, my favorite wedge shoes). My hair was longer than my skirt and I was still taking dance classes so I was very straight and strong. Dance helped with my big feet and otherwise, slightly clumsy and unbalanced self. And he started out the evening being very nice, even kind of shy. Alcohol changed his behavior, no surprise there. And, luckily, the other guys there were falling down drunk too. This was not my idea of fun. It was pretty easy to slip away. The walk home was several miles in the dark. I didn't mind. I wasn't even disappointed. It was getting pretty smelly in that Frat house.

Truth is I was more afraid of some big, bullish women who cornered me in a public bathroom a few years later when John and I went to London. There was no sham of politeness there. They meant business and I have no doubt they would have seriously hurt me in ways I would rather not think about. When they cornered me, I reacted instinctively. I kicked one of them between the legs as hard as I could (I was wearing hiking boots too, the steal toed kind) and shoved the other one over in to a sink when she turned to help her friend. She hit her head and went down, hard. I stepped over them and walked out. I was lucky. I still had dancer's muscles and had been taking self defense lessons from John. He'd learned them in the Army. 

My point is that there are bad people on both sides of the line, men and women. I know the rhetoric is about the 'evil privileged white guy' . It's the flavor of the week, or even of the year. And I am exhausted with the whole thing. If the press isn't pulling out the race card, they're using the evil privileged white guy card or the evil rich, corporate executive or guys taking a knee at football games or making noise about the evils of men in general. Sorry. I just don't walk that line folks.

I raised sons. I've been married to my best friend for 46 years and I've known him for 48 years. As terrible as my own father was, as many things as he did to me and my brothers, I refuse to let that part of my past color my present. I know my sons are good men. They have friends, good jobs, work hard, have families and are decent people. I am guessing John and I had something to do with that but I would like to think they would have turned out good guys even if we had somehow not been in their lives. I really do think that the vast majority of people are good at heart. We're easily frightened by a press on the net that has to make sure the headlines bleed. That's how they sell their advertising. 

What do I think about the Kavanaugh hearings? Mheh. It's a three ring circus carefully timed to affect the upcoming mid term elections. Do I like him for a Supreme Court Judge? No. He's a big baby. He has no center, no stability. He's extremely partisan and incapable of, I think, being an impartial observer on any court much less the Court of Big Kahunas. His personal agenda will never be left at the door when he takes a seat on any bench. He's a carefully chosen looser who was easily bought and just as easily manipulated.

Because I am an Independent voter I am getting solicitations from both sides of the aisle, asking me to contribute because their side is the right side. They want money so Kavanaugh will be placed in a group of nine people who have lifetime appointments. (and who came up with THAT shit? Why lifetime? Way too much power in my opinion.) The real insult is that anyone is asking for money to further the agenda of a supposedly impartial court and who is placed in to that seat of way too much power. Shame on us! 

The point, in my long ramble today, is that we all need to take a breath. Step back away from the hypnotic phones and pads, take a walk, clean the house, pay attention to your life. Do your job, donate some of your time to a cause you believe in, play catch with your kids after school, ride a bike, read a real book with pages that you turn, help your neighbor. There's history being made but then there's ALWAYS history being made. Just standing up and breathing is making history. Vote in November but do your homework first. Read up about the people running for office in your neck of the woods. Make an independent decision instead of walking a preordained party line. Think creatively. And BE KIND.

If I have one request it's that you stop making assumptions about people based on gender, color or even where they fall on the income/class scale. Think for yourself. Be more aware of your life, your surroundings, your ideas and abilities. Make mistakes and learn from them. And GET UP, and get it done. Get on with the process of being alive. And stop watching the slop on the Net. A little irony here since I am telling you to stop reading this and move.

If you're still here, I'm glad you stopped by. I am, ever yours, Nancy, smiling at you

REPORTS OF MY DEMISE, or how I was resurrected! (Best title yet!)

"The reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated."  Mark Twain

In June of this year my husband began to receive condolence letters from Social Security Administration, our banks, credit cards, Medicare and just about any other entity we are officially connected to in this hyper connected world we live in. His first reaction, and mine, was to grab me and hug me so hard my ribs hurt. According to all of the sources that identify an American, I was in the Walking Dead category. They all wanted the last piece of paper necessary to complete the process of registering a death, the Death Certificate. I was, on the internet and in computer files in our home country, finito, a goner, a Zombie, passed on, croaked, kicked the bucket, DEAD. I no longer existed on this plain even though I was sitting at my creaky kitchen table reading it. I did not exist . 

Neither one of us knew how to react to this bizarre news. Our first thought was that, somehow, my identity had been stolen. When we checked it was obvious that no one was using my credit card or bank card or making any claims. So that idea was checked off the list first. Good thing too. I've been through that before. I am hyper vigilant about how I order anything now, keep email, written and printed out records and never order from any company I haven't already ordered from before. 

It was a weekend so we sat down together to plan out the next steps that needed to be taken. In the meantime I was completely cut off from being able to purchase anything unless I had cash (which I did). Thankfully I am still enough of a Boomer that I keep cash on hand. It's too easy to be manipulated by plastic and computers. This was going to be the ultimate 'test' of my theories on how to exist off grid. I was, according to all records, as off the grid as it gets. I no longer existed, at least on 'paper'. As much of a movie-o-phil and book reader/story teller that I am, it should have been kind of exciting, my opportunity to be my own 007. The truth is I was creeped out! Somehow, although I was perfectly healthy and present, I NO LONGER EXISTED. 

I lost sleep that weekend. I think we both did. It's hard enough to get to the far side of fifty without having this kind of stark reality hitting you between the eyes. I still had chores to do, laundry and dishes, gardens to weed, horses to care for, dogs and cats, and a bathroom to clean. I'm laying there in the dark that first night, listening to my husband toss and turn, and I started to laugh. I mean, sheesh, I couldn't get out of cleaning litter boxes or my bathroom even when all of the so-called official entities in the world had me on record as dead! I had a new status. I was a ZOMBIE. I was now a real life member of an exclusive club that very few people ever have the opportunity to be a part of unless they are a celebrity worthy of click bait news. 

I could not stop laughing! I sat up and started hiccuping; what I usually do when I get hysterical. John sat up with me and held me, patting me on the back. " Honey, HONEY! What is going on? Are you OK?" I was worrying him, I knew. But it struck me as weirdly profound and funny at the same time. As easy as that I no longer was 'among the living', even though I was. When I was able to catch my breath, I looked at him and said, " You may address me as Your Majesty Zombie Queen of Kansas, thank you very much. I am one of a kind and therefore worth noting and treating with respect. " And then we both dissolved in giggles again. Ah me, how I love a really good belly laugh. Of course I needed a tiara, but that would be something for the next morning. For now he had a chance to sleep with a Zombie. How kinky!

That Monday was going to be the beginning of a surreal process of trying to convince people I was still here, still alive, that I existed on this level and not the next. My first visit was to the Social Security Administration. The one in our home town wasn't all that bad a place, as bureaucracies go. Someone at some point in the recent past had, for reasons unknown to me, run in to the corner of the office with a vehicle. It was cordoned off, walls cracked and broken, window cracked and taped together with crime scene tape around it. Have to admit that sent me off in to paroxysms of laughter again. Maybe there were more Zombies around than I was aware of.

When I calmed myself down (I had assumed that going in to an office like that giggling hysterically probably wasn't going to endear me to any of the people working there. And I certainly didn't want anyone to call the police and have them check on their computers and see that I was not alive!), I went in and took my number, a bit like the kind you used to see in bakeries when people waited in line to buy their bread and pastries. I sat there holding my little piece of paper, wondering if it had any validity since I was a Zombie. Are Zombies subject to the law? Do we have to be polite and wait our turn? Couldn't I just start shambling around and acting like I wanted to eat people's brains? I needed to rein in that kind of thinking. I was already hiccuping again, trying to keep from laughing! 

The incredibly bored looking man called my number and said, "Next!" . And the naughty Nancy almost escaped again. You have no idea how hard it was to be adult about all of this. The theatrical side of me wanted to start drooling and snapping my teeth together! I harrumped to myself, remembering that I could literally end up being put in handcuffs while they tried to classify me. I did not want John to have to bail me out of jail for not existing. So many possibilities I was passing up! And then reality hit again. It took hours for me to convince those paper sodden people that I was alive! 

I had taken in every single piece of paper identification I could think of with me. I had a birth certificate, insurance papers, four different drivers licenses that I had kept over the past twenty years (because I like to torture myself with awful pictures of myself, I suppose), wedding license, credit cards (which had been put on hold because I was a Zombie), bank card (same) and my phone with images in it of me that John had sent so I could use them. I am not one for taking selfies (probably because I had kept all of those old driver's license cards). I told the guy what had happened, showed him the letters sent by SSA and other places. He looked at them and droned at me, " These prove that you are dead." Oh my. Stop it Naughty Nancy. Don't start snapping your teeth and mumbling about eating brains. 

I took another deep breath and repeated myself. "Sir, I am not dead. I am, as you can see, standing in front of you upright, breathing. You could even listen to my heartbeat if you want too, as final proof of life." I had, on impulse, taken the stethoscope out of the med box in the barn and brought it with me. Naughty Nancy was definitely trying to take over here. I pushed the stethoscope across the counter at him. He stood there, blinking at me, looked at it like there was something gross on it. " This is most irregular. " Oh god. I was having such a hard time not laughing again. I just could not help myself. " No shit Shylock! "

He took everything except for the suspect stethoscope and went to an advisor. They stood there for quite a while, waving their collective arms around. And then the two of them went to an office in the back and knocked on the door. It opened and they were ushered in, the door was left open. And then there were three bureaucrats standing there waving their arms around, looking at papers and ID of various sorts, turning to look at me (and I smiled and waved at them too), and went back to pacing around and making calls. 

I should stop here and tell you that I had called an 800 number at the SSA that morning and was told that my demise had been called in on my birthday and that the so-called date was on my Mother's birthday! It was someone who had enough personal information on me that called it in. I had an idea of who it was but no proof so I had said nothing about the call. I was absolutely positive it was not my children or husband who did that. It was a prank call that was going to cause us a lot of problems for months. There was nothing funny about it. My laughter was part of a defense mechanism that I've used for most of my life to manage the hard parts. I turn things around and try to see the humor in them, the positive side. It doesn't always work but that didn't stop me from wanting to start shambling around, drooling and snapping my teeth. I used to play a Zombie at Halloween. She was my favorite character. And here it was, my moment of truth!

Shape up Nancy! Be good. Resist the opportunity to be a complete clown and get down to business. Deep breath. 

" Ma'am, it appears that you might be live. " OK. I could not help myself. I started to laugh and just could not contain myself. That is probably the weirdest thing anyone had ever said to me. I wiped my streaming eyes, and made myself stand up, shoulders back and back straight. " I'm so glad you've come to that conclusion. It would have complicated my day to find out otherwise. But look at it this way. I'm probably the first Zombie you've had a chance to talk to. " This poor guy had very little sense of humor, but I did manage to coax a smile out of him with that. 

"So what next? What do I need to do to complete the process of my resurrection?" His jaw dropped. I had probably stepped over some religious line with that one but it was all just so silly! From my perspective I was just fine. It was their computers that were wrong and they were just machines. How complicated was this going to be? I was here, right in front of the guy, prepared to let him listen to my heart and lungs just to prove I was alive. And I was even going to pass up the past time of trying to eat his brains! I thought I was being very nice about the whole thing considering it wasn't my fault.

I signed paper after paper, had my picture taken, and they copied all of my identifying papers too. It was stamped each time I signed .... scribble, scribble, stamp! I was actually kind of sad that I was giving up my new found Zombie status. Turned out I wasn't. It was going to take weeks of tracking down every entity that had been notified by the SSA that I was dead, and a lot of them had to be convinced on phone too. Ask me if THAT isn't an awful process. If it was difficult to do in person, doing that over the phone was worse. It's a world of hackers and frauds. Everyone had an official notice from the SSA that I was a Zombie. It seems that paper is more important than I realized. 

The financial side of all of this will take at least another month to untangle. We've been able to pay our bills, no worries there. But things have been skinned down to the bone here without my additional retirement income. And the complicated math of it all is so tangled we still don't know how much we've really lost. Frankly I'm kind of tired of my Zombie status now. I really don't care. Just get me back on to all of the so-called books as a living entity so I can get on with my life!

But here's the upside to this whole bizarre affair. My outlook on life has taken a complete 180. I am busy cleaning out closets and drawers of all kinds of flotsam and jetsam. Every day I get up, walk out on to our slanted, cement overpass of a deck, look off at the hills and fields around me, the sky, and listen to the birds singing. It's one of the hottest Summers on record since the years of the Depression more than eighty years ago, gardens are struggling, and it's been August weather since April and I'M ALIVE! It's not like I wasn't before but now the colors seem brighter, the possibilities bolder. I am still in the process of relinquishing my Zombie status but if I can do that, I can do anything!

Lucky still greets me at the gate, Apache steals my gloves and Stony still nickers, very quietly. Willow was in one of her moods this morning and offered to bite me. I laughed and told her she needed to be more cautious, I still have some of my Zombie Queen status. I might develop a hankering for donkey ears. You can't tell! It could happen!

People, anything is possible! I am, ever yours, Nancy, Zombie Queen of the Prairies, smiling at you because I ... AM ... ALIVE!