Day: December 18, 2017

I could never handle school, at any age, in any form. I repeated classes, got poor grades, disappointed and enraged my parents, played hooky, never studied.

I lurched through life like an enraged drunk, blowing up everything around me, running from one place to another, always finding me in the mirror when I got there.

I was too smart to fail, too sick to succeed. Since I never knew what I wanted, I could never find what I wanted.

I groped and hid my way through school, and could not learn.

I dropped out of two colleges, I still can’t do long division or multiply, have no interest in perfect grammar, and have a severely impaired attention span. I hid during gym class.

I had no friends, remember nothing of any class I ever attended, had no beloved teachers to remember, and disappointed every good one that I did have. I stole things, burned things, lied about things.

I failed all of them, and all of them failed me.

Everything I know I learned away from school, I could never belong, not to anything.

Some teachers thought I showed a spark of talent as a writer, but even they were disappointed with me, I never did my homework, learned my lessons. Everyone I met labeled me someone with untapped potential, and deep troubles, including my father, who I nearly drove mad with my learning problems.

I wet my bed at home, had accidents in school, was targeted by bullies and angry boys. I gave off every alarm signal a kid could give off, and absolutely nobody heard me. My pediatrician asked me to draw stick figures of my parents once, and tsk-tsked when he saw them.

I had no friends, fit in with no group, felt misunderstood and disliked by everyone and carried my troubles into the adult world.

I stormed out of a dozen great jobs, fled from a long marriage, failed my family again and again,  and always in a rage or huff. I moved 14 times and came to hate everyplace I ever lived until I came to the country. I was very good at my work, dumbfounded by life.

I always ran away, until I finally couldn’t run any more, and was startled to find myself home.

I could always get great jobs, I could never stand to keep them, I blew up my life not once, but again and again. I was just completely out of sync with myself, my family, my work.

It’s good you are a writer, the specialist said, I see a lot of those. They seem to end up here.

Much later in life, after I broke down in my late 50’s and early 60’s, I was finally diagnosed by a specialist in New York as having some pronounced traits both of ADD and mild or “benign” autism.

My symptoms were many and varied – a frenzied mind, severe anxiety, a tendency to think in images, not words or complete thoughts, self-destructive choices, rage and much anger and disconnection.

Before, the therapists had always called it severe anxiety disorder. Finally, I was labeled in a broader way. I’m glad they didn’t know this when I was young, I hate labels.

I had a name for my inability to relate to many people, a tendency to be direct and tell people things they didn’t wish to hear, and an inability to  make friends and keep them. To make people uncomfortable. I guess I’m on the spectrum, but we never talked about that. The specialist said labels didn’t matter to him either, he said they were generally meaningless.

This new diagnosis was a great shock to me, although not to the therapists, I am sure, that I had been seeing for decades. I knew it was true the minute I heard him said it. But where to go from there?

At this point in life, my new specialist and I agreed, there was no real value to medication, treatment or drama.  I wasn’t sick, I had achieved much in my life, I just didn’t know how to be well.

There was no real reason to go back and try to learn the things people like me can learn now, or point fingers. The thing was to move forward, and do better for the remainder of my life. My remaining time was precious to me.

“Some people will always be uncomfortable around you,” the shrink told me. “Some people will really get you and appreciate you.” You are, he said, quite  valuable. Nobody has the right to make you feel badly about yourself, he said.

If someone does, get away from them and stay away from them.

He was the first person to suggest a blog to me. it was a revelation. It’s okay to apologize for something you do, but not for who you are.

It would, he said, be a healthy way for me to grow and change, and figure out who I really was.  He also suggested I take up photography, the tests he gave me, he said, showed a great disposition to images and composition.

I often suggest a blog to people who roll their eyes and think I am crazy.

I am crazy, but I know what it did for me.

And the blog was perfect for me. I could do it by myself, I didn’t need teachers or people, and I could do it my way, I could add my pictures,  I didn’t need professors or editors. And there was nobody to make uncomfortable, because there was finally nobody at all.

I just had to please me. I lived in a castle, surrounded  by a moat.

Photography, like the blog, would be healing for me, would provide a healthy outlet for my suffocating visual gifts and also my need to express my self creatively and continuously. An outlet, if you will, for my runaway energy. Now, my mind had a place to go.

I began to heal, the anxiety and anger receded – dramatically – and I calmed down and settled, like a smoking engine after a very long race.

The therapist was right on all counts. The blog and my photography helped to ground me – I had a way to express the images in my head –  and when I met Maria, who had her own disabilities and issues, we each got and appreciated – and loved – each other right away. The shrink was right about that too.

My wife at the time was bewildered by my picture-taking, Maria got it right away and called me every night to talk about the photographs. I asked her about her art.

It was the birth of us.

My life had emptied out, my life is filling up.

He gave me one last bit of counseling that I have taken to heart and absorbed.

“Don’t ever apologize for who you are or what you are,” he said, “none of this was your fault. It drives people mad when they are not known, affirmed or understood, crazy people are sometimes born, they are sometimes made.” This was also good to hear, I couldn’t quite understand how he knew that I was always apologizing for my life.

Every time you apologize for who you are, he said, you are cutting off a piece of your self and giving it away, making yourself  smaller. Who you are is a precious thing, be proud of it.

It was true, I felt  guilty all the tine. For disappointing my parents, my teachers, so many friends and mentors and bosses, my family.  For wreaking so much havoc.

I did think it was all my fault, I was forever apologizing to everyone I knew for the mess I had made of things, for my errant behavior, for being so different, for finding the things that most people did so difficult.

The therapist told me my writing, my pictures, the discipline and continuity of the blog would steady me, give me a way of understanding myself, a structure for my chaotic head. I didn’t need to take any more valium, he said – I had been taking it for 30 years, I was addicted –  I didn’t need to take pills to focus my mind.

In recent years, this hard and good labor of the mind did save me, and stabilized me, and helped me give rebirth to my life, a spectacular and transformative experience. It was just what was missing in my life.

It gave me a routine and a foundation that was new to me. And good for m e.

Most of the anger is gone, it bubbles up from time to time, but is faint and fleeting.

I have no desire to move, I have made wonderful friends, I have found a community, I have learned much from the acceptance and adaptability of animals, in dogs and animals I have found a stability and steadiness and learned much about loving and patience and acceptance, three things I could not comprehend.

I also had a subject I loved to write about and that people were interested in.

The fear and panic are gone. It seems I don’t need them anymore to hide behind, finding out who you are is a great medicine. I could finally learn, it seemed. Life was the best teacher for me, she didn’t mess around and knew how to get my attention.

My relationship with Maria has taught me how to love, and also that I can be loved. And we have an unspoken rule with one another. We never apologize for who we are.

I think that must be the best advice I got, this business of not apologizing for me.

Iin some ways it is the most  important lesson I learned.

Not apologizing for myself, accepting who I am helped me learn how to stand in my truth, and be comfortable in my own shoes. And accept  myself. And when you do that, there are other people who will accept you.

And they are the ones that matter.

I will sometimes make people uncomfortable, I will sometimes make them comfortable. I yam what I am, said Popeye, and good for him. I always loved  him for that. Me too.

I no longer blame myself when someone doesn’t get me. Some people will get me, and some people won’t, and those who can’t or won’t or don’t wish to can move along and find somebody better for them.

You can’t talk other people into accepting who you are, they either will or they won’t. My life is not an argument for other people to make. I do not need to apologize for what I think and believe. Or for who I am.

And that is freeing and healing and liberating. I suppose the first step in finding acceptance is to accept yourself. I like where I am. I am happy in my life. I am in love and I am loved.  I am just where I want to be and ought to be, and it is the strangest and most wonderful.

I am sorry if I ever harmed or hurt anyone, it is never my wish to make anyone uncomfortable. Pehaps that is just the price of me.

But I am not sorry for who I am. I kind of like me these days, it is a new and very good, even beautiful,  feeling.

 

I took one load of clothes over to the Mansion today, I met with Hollyanne and Brittany, two of the very dedicated day staffers and we had a through discussion about who needed what. They know.

The clothes campaign became a little bit more complex in recent weeks, as we learned of several people who urgently needed clothes, including personal garments like underwear. This is a new twist for me and the Army Of Good and I like it, I’m figuring out how to do it effectively and economically.

Naturally, some of the residents are reluctant to talk about their personal items and needs, especially with me, so it took some time to figure everything out, and I don’t have much experience choosing women’s clothes and underwear and socks.

Learning what the residents need is an art. The staff is notoriously discreet, HIPPA privacy laws are strict and observed. I often don’t know for awhile if somebody is sick – Bill is in the hospital now, I don’t know any details – or even gone. I don’t generally even ask when I find a room empty, I’ll eventually figure it out.

There is a strange boundary around being a volunteer, and I’m comfortable with it. I’m a natural born outsider, and I like the freedom  of it. I’m a good guerrilla volunteer, I can often figure things out.

But I have to do it on my own, and I accept that, those are the rules. The staff can talk about clothes and other needs, at least to a degree. Even if I do learn of an illness, I can’t write about it unless I have the explicit permission of the resident and the approval of the staff.

I honor that. It’s sometimes hard on the people out there who are writing, because people just sometimes disappear or stop responding. I can’t tell them what’s going on, even if I know. It is one of those selfless things, we do it because we want to do it, there is nothing expected or demanded on the other end.

We made a lot of progress so far, we decided where the sweaters, winter jackets, sweat pants and shirts needed to go. Almost everyone has warn winter caps and sweaters. Only two or three now in real need of clothes.

We talked about who needed what and in what sizes, what personal tastes where, the staff is very much in sync with the people who live there, I’d hold up a sweater and Hollyanne or Brittany would say “I know who would love that,” or “I know who wouldn’t.” This is a good thing to be going on Christmas week, I got a few more requests today that I need to take care of.

We left the clothes with Hollyanne and Brittany to distribute, they are best coming from them in most cases. I did visit Ruth and Ken and gave her a necklace and him a sweater. They both go outside at least once a day together.

Maria came along with me to some of the thrift shops and helped get me started, I’m cruising along now.

It’s my goal to make sure everyone in the Mansion has the clothes they need by the end of the week, and like everything else I do, there is something wonderfully selfish about it: it makes me feel good.

Let the politicians and cable gasbags and warriors of the left and the right chew one another up, perhaps they will eat one another and spare us their unpleasantness. I’m going with good.

Tomorrow, I return to the Mansion with another two bags of clothes, and we’ll see where we stand. We are almost there and thanks for your support, without which this would not be happening.

Here is a newly updated lists of Mansion residents who would appreciate hearing from you. You can write to them c/o The Mansion, 11 S. Union Avenue, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816.

Winnie, Jean, Ellen, Mary, Gerry, Sylvie, Jane, Diane, Alice, Jean, Madeline, Joan, Allan, William, John K., Helen, Bob, Alanna, Barb, Peggie, Dorothy, Timothy, Debbie, Art, Guerda, Brenda, David, Kenneth, Ruth.

You can contribute to the Mansion work by sending a donation to me c/o P.O. Box 205, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816 or via Paypal, [email protected] Please mark your check “Mansion/Refugee Fund,” or one or the other.

All donations are sent to a special account monitored by a bookkeeper and a certified accountant. Every penny goes to the people who need it, there are no administrative or office fees.

One of the Mansion residents asked me recently what I do with all of the photos I take. I said I share some on the blog, but I take some because I want the people we call The Army Of Good to see what was done with the money they sent and shared.

I remember when I first saw Summer, a stray cat who jumped out of  a car at one end of town and somehow made her way to the Mansion miles away.

She was scrawny, underfed and sick when she came. Almost all of the Mansion residents wanted to adopt her, they loved the idea of a Mansion cat, but a couple of the residents said they were allergic to cats and objected.

Summer was in limbo.

While the residents thought about it and  all of the resident’s doctors were asked for approval. They all needed to agree or she couldn’t in, as required by law.

The Mansion administrators said the residents health came first, they all made it clear that as long as any resident objected, the cat – one of the residents named her Summer – had to stay outside and go elsewhere.

While Summer’s fate was being decided, it happened that at night, Summer mysteriously appeared inside of the Mansion.

Nobody knew how she got in, or even where she slept, although there were reports she liked to go to Connie’s room or slip upstairs to one of the rooms on the upper floors. She usually chose a different room each night, it was said, but these were rumors. Nobody really knew where she went or what she did.

The overnight staff reported her sleeping curled up on one bed or another, it was suggested that the residents were hiding her and keeping her warm.

In the mornings, Summer disappeared, only to appear outside, where she could be seen hunting mice on the grounds, or hopping into some resident’s lap on the porch. Somehow, she always got in at night, the Mansion is a big place with lots of doors and windows.

Red noticed her but paid no attention, and I saw fleeting glimpses of her out on the grounds or hiding under porch chairs, where the residents could lean over and pet her.

The staff posted signs on the door saying “DO NOT LET ANY CATS INSIDE.” Bowls of nutritious cat food appeared outside as if by magic, in the back, or even on the porch. Night after night, Summer seemed to somehow get inside.  The people weren’t sure she could stay, but Summer had no doubts.

Staffers said they were looking for a home for her, and there was some interest. I wrote about her on the blog, and several people in town said they would take her. Summer legends began to grow. And she didn’t seem to be leaving.

I saw how much the residents wanted her to be there, and I said if the cat could live there, I would try to raise money for her to get her shots, be spayed, wormed, get good food,  and be checked thoroughly by a local vet.

I had a hunch this cat would make  her way inside somehow, the residents came to love her gentleness and devotion to them.

I knew some of the staff was already feeding her daily outside, and I knew they were collecting money amongst themselves to pay the four or five hundred dollars it would take to get her treated, neutered and with all of her shots. They loved her too.

This bothered me, I know what the staff is paid, and this was a lot of money for them. And it might take some time. I thought this might be a natural project for my blog.

For her part, Summer simply decided this was her home, she didn’t seem worried about it.

She liked to come and visit the cat- loving residents in their rooms at night, and she seemed to sense who they were. She liked to curl up with them, which made them very happy. Many of the residents once had cats, some were heartbroken when they had to leave them behind to come to the Mansion.

Summer decided Red was okay and would doze as he walked over her or around her. She was a smart cat who made good decisions. After a few months, all of the residents agreed to take her in, and all of their doctors approved.We just had to get her neutered and checked.

I asked for help on the blog.

The Army of Good raised the money in a couple of hours, and Summer got all of the medical treatment she needed. There was some money left over and it went into a fund for her continuing medical care for for food.

So this is a perfect Christmas story, I think, one with a happy ending. A story of love and generosity in a time of conflict and tension. This is what we are really about I think.

In the cold weather, Summer stays inside now, there are litter boxes placed in strategic places, she eats well and is brushed regularly, several of the residents volunteer to vacuum the carpets to make sure there is no loose hair around, and there are no reports of any kind of allergies.

The vet says she is healthy, of good coat and weight. She is well brushed and groomed, no cat hair anywhere.

Today, I saw her napping on one of her favorite spots, the radiators in the Mansion Great Meeting Room. Ruth and Ken were sitting nearby, they were keeping one another company.

Summer loves sitting on the warm radiator, a perfect place for a cat on single-digit days, and right under the wreaths and ribbons many of you sent to the Mansion for their Christmas party. Summer doesn’t even blink when Red strolls by, and Red is far too imperious to care.

I wanted to show  you how it all turned out this Christmas week, I wanted you to see one of the many things you have done to bolster the lives of these good people and fill the holes in their hearts.

That is one of the reasons I take so many photos, I said.

Gus has been with us for eight months now, and he is teaching me every day what small dogs are like. Small dogs are not all alike, Boston Terriers are different from other small dogs breeds, but they do tell me something about how the small dog experience is interesting and new.

In the last few years, small dogs have become increasingly popular. The Wall Street Journal reports that the three most popular dogs in America are larger, the next three most popular dogs  are small. As someone who writes about dogs, it is important that I understand what they are about. So I’m doing a series about that here on the blog.

Gus is the first puppy I have ever had that looks like he’s 10 years old. The twinkle in the eye is there, but the face is wise and imperious, not at all puppy like. Gus looked old when he was eight weeks old.

That is part of the mystery of the small dog, nature compensates for their size, of course. They don’t look old or act old, they think of themselves as being big.

The other day, Gus saw a huge lab far down the hill, and before we could move, he roared and took off like a rocket down the road to challenge the big Yellow Lab, who is about 50 times his size.

The small dog things he’s big, but the Yellow Lab often thinks he’s small. When Gus arrived indignantly, barking and demanding that the Lab get off of his road, the Lab started jumping on Gus playfully, and suddenly he became a small dog, shrieking as if he was being murdered.

The Lab, shocked, jumped back and Gus strategically turned and looked back up the road and suddenly realized how far he’d run and then rocketed back up the road to stand behind me and Maria, and bark some more. The Lab, bewildered, turned and ran.

Gus is the first dog who surpasses even the Labs in his recklessness about what he puts in his mouth. He is farm dog, a pasture dog, but has no common sense about what he eats. He will eat anything – wood chips, manure, chicken droppings, dead leaves.

He has a small digestive system which is quite sensitive and he throws up often and with enthusiasm. There are many standard dog treats that are not good for him, I’m down to Dingo Dental Chips, which he seems to handle well.

We actually are considering putting a rubber sheet over the bed when Gus is visiting there. So far, we have become adept at moving quickly when we hear him gulping, we have about 15 seconds to move.

Gus is every bit as smart as the border collies, which surprises me, and a tough more thoughtful. When you talk to him, correct him or yell at him, he tilts his head and very seriously seems to be listening and trying to figure it out.

If he is doing something he shouldn’t be doing, I can say in a slightly raised voice, “Gus, leave it,” and he will drop it and move away. He loves to leap up into my lap and shower me with kisses (sometimes not so welcome after he pasture chow-downs) but before he jumps, he stops and looks. If he sees me with a plate in my lap or a book or phone in my hands, he stops and turns away.

He seems to grasp quite a few words and is instantly responsive to most commands, except for those he doesn’t like. He will not ever be an obedience trial dog.

Gus is as affectionate and demonstrative as any dog I have had. When I was sick last week, he crawled up on the chair I was dozing in, curled up in a ball on my shoulder, and slept with me for hours. That was kind of sweet, and not to many dogs can do that.

He made grunting noises in my ear, which was somehow comforting.

I’ve been busy, and am about to be busier. And I couldn’t feel better about it. But I took the photo above because I want you to see what you have done. The Army Of Good is a powerful army, it turns out.

I’m focusing somewhat – not exclusively – on the Mansion residents and the RISSE soccer team over the next couple of weeks, as well as life on the farm and my life. At the Mansion, my expanded clothing drive continues later today, when I rush some nice winter clothes over to the residence during this cold wave.

The more you get to know people, the more you see they might need, and these are small and inexpensive things that really make a difference.

Our sleigh ride has been re-scheduled for December 26, the day after Christmas, we will ride down Main Street, the Country Girls Cafe has offered to serve hot chocolate when we get there. The residents are buzzing about this ride, and they will get to parade through town. Red and I hope to be on board.

On Wednesday, January 3, we’ll have a New Year’s Pizza and Hot Fudge Sunday Celebration at the Mansion with the residents and the RISSE soccer team, the first coming together of these two favorite elements of the Army of Good, our way of staying grounded and doing good (and feeling good). (The RISSE winter clothing drive here is still on and thanks, it’s already a cold winter and the needs is great.)

The soccer kids will sit and have lunch with the residents, and talk with them insofar as they can. Then the kids will get to make their own hot fudge sundaes. It is so valuable for the residents to talk to the young, they so miss having children in their lives.

On December 27, the RISSE soccer team – now known as the Bedlam Farm Warriors – will meet a refugee soccer team originally from Burma, now living in Rochester, N.Y.

Weather permitting, they’ll play against each other. If it’s too messy or cold they’ll just meet at Pompanuck Farms and hang out together.

Everybody is very excited about it.

On January 8, I’ll meet at the Mansion with a wonderful gardener, Bliss McIntosh, the driving force behind our town’s Community Garden, she will help me to set up a Geranium Garden for the residents to tend over the winter, and which will hopefully yield some beautiful flowers for their rooms. (Color is much appreciated at the Mansion).

The project will bring living things to nurture into the Mansion, always important.

Bliss is donating Geranium cuttings, and I’ve ordered growing trays, nursery pots, Rooting Hormone, and soilless soil from various garden centers.

We’re setting up the garden on the back side of the Great Room where there is plenty of light.

The residents who volunteer will tend the plants and make sure they are watered. So will I.

We’re also supporting some holiday activities for the refugee kids who are out of school for a week-and-a-half. These include indoor soccer tournaments, pizza lunches, birthday parties,  ice-skating, other trips.

I woke up at 3 a.m. with this flash – I have to get the soccer kids to “Star Wars” which opened this week. I called Ali and he was happy about it, but i realized he has never heard of “Star Wars,” I told him to Google it and mention it to the team and he called me right back.

That will also be on December 26.  “They are wildly excited,” he said. He was shocked to learn once more that a trip like that to the movies with soda and popcorn for 12 or 14 kids will cost close to $300 (he first learned this when he and the kids saw “Spiderman.”

I told him I will get the money.

In the short run, I feel some urgency to make sure all of the residents who need some clothes, especially winter clothes, get them in the next day or so. Various robes, leggings, sweaters and socks are coming over the next few days.

I got the clothes above over the weekend at  favored Thrift Shop.

I am fussy about the clothes I get, I don’t want them to be worn and shabby, and I got some nice stuff. The next step is matching them up with the right people. The idea is to be  warm and but also feel pride and dignity.

The magazine is for Bob, a former builder, we got a subscription for him, but it keeps coming here. On the left are two nice pairs of warm and flexible pants for a resident who has none.  I love the sweater in the middle, and I think I know where the two vests – one fleece, one down – are going. The aides know exactly what everyone needs.

I’ll consult with the staff about  who needs what, and make sure the people in the greatest need get them first. And I got that funky plastic necklace for $4. The clothing campaign has turned out to be more extensive (and expensive) than I first thought, but we will get everybody in good shape this week.

If anybody wishes to support these enterprises (small donations really add up), that would be great. You can donate by writing your checks to me c/o P.O. Box 205, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816, or donating via Paypal.

The Mansion/Refugee Fund now stands at $700, and thanks. I wish all of you as good and meaningful a holiday as I am having, you are such a big part of that.