A different kind of cabin fever

Picture this cabin a little more exposed, less rustic and on an overcast day. Also imagine that you are in a state park miles from any town and that there appears to be not one other person in the entire park except for a few employees.

Not long ago, I would have thought this would be a slice of heaven, but when Suzi and I met half way across West Virginia for a two-night stay at a very nice, clean cabin, I had to leave the next morning. It was just plain creepy. Bates Motel creepy.

Even Fiona, when I'd step outside to walk her, would run to the car as if telling me, "Let's get outta' here."

We were five miles from the deserted lodge and miles from the other also-deserted cabins. It wasn't the least bit cozy, though it was clean and as-advertised. It was unsettling, to say the least.

Is this another old-lady thing? I once thought I could live alone in the middle of nowhere, carry my water from a creek, chop my own wood. Forget that scenario. No phone, no cell phone service, no TV or radio, nobody to hear our screams, nothing but trees and a lake. Remind me, please, the next time I talk about renting a little cabin in the woods that I'm over it. Really over it.

Cast of Characters: Edith

Walter has a mother, too. I love this photo of her with Brooks and Walter in their Easter parade costumes which she made!! Mother of the year or what??? WHO makes such elaborate costumes for their two little brats? ;) Walter is, as you can see, taking this very seriously, and was probably also pretty hot with it on. Those are the kinds of creative talents Edith Pond Post Demarest excelled at until the past few years when Alzheimer's tangled with her brain.

At age 18 she left Sarasota with a degree in art/graphic design from Ringling School of Arts, one of its first graduates, and took off for New York to make a name for herself. She found a job with a wonderful handsome man who owned an advertising firm. His name was Walter L. Post, Jr. But sadly, by the time my Walter was 4 years old, he was diagnosed with schizophrenia and after fighting tooth and nail for a year to "fix" him, the doctors told her that he had to be institutionalized, and to get on with her life. So she moved back to Sarasota, dream dead, and did just that. She was raised to be the charmed daughter, but found out, she used to tell me, that "You do everything you think you're supposed to do, and then it just doesn't turn out like you think!" She never said this begrudgingly. Walter says she's been a wonderful, supportive mother through his very bad times, sooooo.....

Walt and I have just made the decision, after helping Dave, Walt's stepfather, to choose a room for her in a local Alzheimer's care home, that we are taking her to Mexico to live with us. Walt was wonderful is accepting Dad/Grandad/Peck into our home when I raced to Ohio to rescue him from that awful place, and I know just how he feels. We just can't put her in this place where everyone else is much worse than she is, and being an ENTP like I am, I just know it would be her worst nightmare. But Dave is 85 and not in the best of health. He watches and breathes by Fox News but still, he deserves to spend this winter out in the woods in his hunting trailer after caring for her well these past few years. We're taking it one step at a time....

In Mexico we can hire a young woman (or old woman) to help her, perhaps sleeping in a hammock in her room to be there in case she starts wandering or can't find the bathroom. Unlike Peck, although her personality can still shine through, she's docile and no problem at all, really. So we're going to give this a try. We want to do this, and it just feels like the decent thing to do.

Time to take the gloves off

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Maybe it's a sign my old self is coming back, but I've had it with the latest stunt from John McCain in his campaign to become president. Let's get this straight: A man who by his own admission is weak on economic issues is suddenly needed in Washington to find a solution to the "nation's biggest financial problem since the Great Depression." He's so necessary, in fact, that he just can't make it to tomorrow night's debate where he could, in fact, demonstrate to the people of this country just how indispensable his experience is in this crisis. Methinks there's something rotten in Denmark. What a bald-faced ploy to put off standing in front of the public and being caught with his pants down on the economy, among other things.

His "sound" choice for vice president isn't allowed to talk to the press. He's an "outsider" in Washington even though he's been the ultimate insider, a member of Congress for going on 30 years, a "reformer" who has stood against reforming and regulating the financial system in this country. But, wait! Mr. Maverick is going to transform himself again into the nation's savior. Do we even need to mention his mocking of "celebrity" until he helped to create his own celebrity to draw crowds to his rallies?

And here's what's sad. I used to like John McCain. He used to stand for something. He had some spine. Now he is so desperate to occupy that oval office that he will use any hat-trick available to make himself look like something he most patently is not: presidential material. Someone just make him go away -- and take that woman with the lipstick with him. Please.

The bottom of the well

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There's a reason that I haven't been on Ajax Rock much lately. I've been down at the bottom of well, figuratively speaking anyway.

It's not a pleasant place to be, but that's what happens when you "stop taking your tablets," as George's Scottish cousin Mary would say. You think you're okay, that you can handle all of the day-to-day problems of life, and then you find yourself slipping down the rabbit hole. That's what happened to me, and now I'm grabbing those rungs and trying to pull myself back up. And the pharmaceuticals, those things I love to hate, seem to be something I've come to need.

I kept asking my dad where he put the bootstraps, the ones I'm supposed to pull myself up with, and he just told me I could find them. When I think about how both Mom and Dad just faced things life threw at them and soldiered on, it reminds me that, genetically at least, I'm made of tough stuff. But sometimes not tough enough. Sometimes you just slip and fall into the well. It's dank and lonely down there, so I'm climbing back out, rung by rung.

The chickens have come home to roost

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So ever since the financial markets started to unravel, I have heard Dad's voice, summing it up perfectly, saying, "Well, it looks to me like the chickens have come home to roost."

He was wise that way, our daddy.

So it's going to cost all of us an arm and a leg to pay for the mistakes of the idiots who have been asleep at the wheel. There's the rub.

But yes, indeed, those chickens have come home to roost all right. Do you suppose the governor from Alaska has the answers to this one? I mean, she supposedly knows how to balance a budget -- or so we've been told.

Maybe we can get those chickens to roost in Wasilla.

An un-birthday

Well, somehow it doesn't feel like an occasion this year. Turning 61, I mean. My choice has been to spend it like every other day. No fanfare. No cake. No hoopla.

Maybe it's because there was no card from Momma this year. And the prelude to my September birthday was always Mom's and Dad's August birthdays.

Maybe it's because I'm at the age where I'd rather not count them any more.

For whatever reason, I'm just willing to turn the calendar page and see another day come and go. My only wish, really, is that there be fewer losses this year. Anybody want to drink to that?