A Glimmer of Hope at the End of the Day - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

At End of Day

Contrary to early reports
the evening finds me out of sorts -
my brain feels overtaxed;
my body's not relaxed.
The notion may seem radical
but mind is on sabbatical,
it functions in low gear
although it isn't here.
Still I insist that I am fine -
I know it's better not to whine
since everything's okay
in spite of wasted day.
But none the less I'm overtired
and grateful that no thought's required -
no notions for my brain
to grasp or to retain.
Now I'm prepared to merely sit
and rest my weary bones a bit
so turn on the TV
and I'll stare mindlessly.
Once it is time for me to sleep
I'll utter prayer for slumber deep
to clear my garbled mind;
leave hopeless day behind.
Tomorrow I'll face life anew,
perhaps my problems will be few -
my morning dose of hope
will tell me I can cope.
Each new dawn finds me more content
than I am when the day is spent,
the hours go by too fast -
I wish mornings would last.
Too often come those afternoons
when optimism's gone too soon,
intentions will derail
as hopelessness prevails.
Should I not feel at end of day
that I've improved the world some way -
or just myself perhaps?
Instead - I just collapse.
Perhaps in dreams I'll solace find.
I'll wake in sync with humankind
and in the hopeful dawn
find strength to carry on
beyond the morn and afternoon,
and feel as eve'ning comes too soon,
though energy has waned
some hope is still retained.

by Sharon Flood Kasenberg  (finished October, 2014)

Consider the power of hope.

"Hope is often the only thing between man and the abyss"
 - Dale Archer, (MD, psychiatrist and author)

Most days I wake up feeling hopeful. I greet the day groggily, but gladly - fairly certain that today I'll find the answers to at least some of yesterday's conundrums. But too often things happen to derail my happy little locomotive in its uphill climb. The sky is grey, the family isn't cooperative; I feel fat. I can't find the tools I need, or the right ingredients, to make hope hover magically throughout my entire day. And so it  goes - poof - in an instant.

Heaven knows, I want hope to be magical. I wake up with all kinds of hope, looking for shiny unicorns, but it drains too quickly when the wicked witch appears instead. My anger bubbles over as I begin to listen to the ever present negative chorus in my head. Hope dissipates when I repeat all of the time wasting habits that kept me from solving yesterday's problems yesterday. Some say that's the definition of insanity, but I amend that by stating that's only the case when you honestly expect a better outcome from the same old tired routines. I'm sane enough to know better, but sometimes just too lethargic to do better. Sometimes maintaining a hopeful attitude feels like work. And so I ignore my saner instincts and go with delusion (which is almost magic - right?). Sadly it never lasts - and by end of day I feel hopelessly mired in guilt and self loathing. Another day has been wasted - nothing has improved, and riddles go unsolved. I'm hopelessly paralyzed by self doubt and not sure where to even begin fixing everything that seems messed up in my corner of the universe.

On those days I cede empowerment to hopelessness. Having cracked open my thick skull to admit the voice of delusion into the mix, I up my ante and cede my ears to the rest of the hopeless chorus. I allow myself to be serenaded by the siren songs of failure. I wallow in the abyss of hopeless misery, and when that gets old I welcome my old nemesis - anger. I rant and rave.

"Hope shapes your methods of traversing your current situation"
- Mary C. Lamia, PhD, psychologist

The last day I raged at the world -  via the ears of my long suffering spouse - he asked me a good question - one that took hold in my head.

"What one thing are you going to do differently tomorrow?"

Finally, the voice of reason could be heard over the din! One. Thing. Differently. Three words reminded me that I don't need to shake up my entire routine to be more productive. I don't need to give up my morning rituals to maintain hope a little longer the day after the meltdown. What I really need to do is make one small change. Hope is kind of like that small flickering flame on those nice fast food commercials that are aired at Christmas time. It doesn't take much to extinguish it, but it doesn't take much to keep it lit either. I don't need to open windows and invite the winds of frustration, laziness or any other rampant negativity to blow out my candle of hope.

If I can manage to keep that flicker going my days are more productive and I'm happier.

In the last of his Christmas eve sermons, Marin Luther King had every reason to abandon hope and relinquish his dream of better days to come. From all appearances, times were getting worse - racial intolerance had resulted in a church bombing in Birmingham, Alabama. Poverty in the US was continuing to climb while war raged on in Vietnam. And still he refused to stop believing in his dream, and told his listeners that they must continue to cling to hope.

"If you lose hope, somehow you lose that vitality that keeps life moving, you lose that courage to be, that quality that helps you go in spite of all. And so today I still have a dream."
-Martin Luther King

Hope springs eternal - if we let it. Will I still have bad days? I can hope not, even if I know I will. The abyss will always be present and the absence of hope will too often lure each of us to its edge. But that flicker of hope is only a match strike away from becoming a beacon to lead us away from the abyss. The voice of hope can still drown out the most negative chorus. Small stirrings of hope can still save us from those miserable days when everything seems most dismal.

Every small change for the better invites hope, and hope is powerful stuff. At the end of your worst days, if you have nothing but a glimmer of hope for a better day tomorrow - you have enough.

Missing: A Few Middle Aged Brain Cells! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Middle Aged Brain

A middle aged moment
is full of stark truth:
I'm not quite as sharp as
I was in my youth.
I stand in my kitchen -
hmmm - why am I here?
Just seconds ago it
seemed purpose was clear.
"Oh well - no big worry"
says middle aged brain,
"If reason's important
I'll find it again."
So middle aged body
just reaches for broom
intent on not wasting
a trip to this room,
and middle aged fingers
find paper and pen
and begin jotting notes
about what to do when.
I have to make lists now
and write myself notes,
which I find in pockets
of jackets and coats.
I list things to do and
I list things to buy -
sometimes they're obscure lists
made I don't know why.
My powers of recall
oft' put to the test,
I lose things too often.
It leaves me distressed.
It seems that I put things
in some "nice safe place" -
a secret location
mind's sure to erase.
Senility's lurking -
can things get much worse?
How many more brain cells
are bound to disperse?
Still, middle aged brain has
put pride on the shelf
and gratefully knows how
to laugh at itself.
I once told my mother,
"If you lose your mind
don't trust me to notice -
I'm not far behind!"
Oh middle aged brain, you
are not all that swift,
you concentrate badly,
and let yourself drift.
I thank you for giving
me reasons to smile.
I won't overtax you -
hang in there a while!

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, September 2014

It was another one of those days when the middle aged grey matter just wasn't up to snuff.

I had rescheduled my usual gym day in order to get my hair cut, so I got up and dressed and decided I should be productive until it was time to go. I ate breakfast, threw in some laundry and folded some clothes from the dryer. Then. as I was bringing a load of towels to the upstairs bathroom I noticed the dirty grout around the tub and remembered that I'd been meaning to give it a good scrub with the stuff that cleaned up the grout in the basement bathroom so nicely.

Back downstairs I went to get the grout cleaner so I could begin the task. Of course I couldn't just scrub grout without cleaning the window, and (of course) the dirt from the window and the grout both dripped into the tub and so I needed to clean it too. Then I noticed how slimy the shower curtain was, and pulled it off to toss into the washer. And the whole time I was scrubbing I had this niggling feeling that I was forgetting something.

As I rinsed out my sponge in the sink I caught sight of myself in the mirror and realized I hadn't even brushed my hair yet, so I headed toward the main floor powder room to grab my hairbrush - and as I pulled it through my hair I suddenly remembered that I'd scheduled a hair appointment that day - but when? I hunted down my purse to find the appointment slip, and consulted the nearest clock. Needless to say, in my attempt to not waste time before my hair cut I'd forgotten about the appointment altogether.

I felt really stupid when I called my hairdresser. Luckily she was understanding and able to re-scedule me for later in the day. We both wrote the missed appointment off as just another of those middle-aged brain freeze moments - the kind I've experienced all too often lately. One of my most humiliating had occurred about a week before.

After spending a week away as a family my first task was to clear all the dirty laundry out of our suitcases. I didn't pay any attention to the fact that there was laundry that hadn't been tackled before we'd left - an important detail in the story I'm about to relate.

A few days after we'd returned home I noticed that I couldn't find my favorite sports bra. So I dug out my old one and wore it on the treadmill. But the next day I noticed that another bra seemed to be missing. Again I figured it would show up. Two days later I hoped to head out to the gym, but realized that not only were three of my bras now missing (a big deal, since I currently have six), but two of my workout tops were missing as well!

I proceeded to hunt for my missing attire - searched all my drawers, looked under my bed and behind the washer and dryer - I even checked the laundry baskets I'd sent upstairs full of my sons' clean laundry. Finally I asked my older son if he'd seen any stray bras kicking around.

"What exactly are you accusing me of, Mom?" he deadpanned.

I explained that I was missing some bras and workout tops and he assured me they hadn't ended up in any of his drawers. I rechecked all the places I'd already looked, and feeling frustrated, called my husband at work to vent. I told him I had looked everywhere I could think of, and was getting a bit paranoid - was some lunatic sneaking into our house and making off with my underwear and workout clothes? I mean, wouldn't he be a bit freaked out if half his underwear suddenly went missing?

He agreed it seemed odd, and suggested a few places to look - all of which I'd already covered.

"I'll help you look when I get home," he told me. "Sometimes when things disappear it just takes another person who's not already frustrated to locate them."

I put my missing attire out of my mind and busied myself with other tasks. And when I opened my husband's closet a few hours later to put something away I noticed the basket of laundry on the floor - all of the items I hadn't bothered to wash before we went away - including thee bras and two workout tops.

When I called my husband to tell him I'd found the missing items I was laughing so hard he couldn't understand me. We were both a bit amazed by the fact that neither of us had thought of the most obvious place to look.

"Please tell me you didn't tell anyone in the office about my missing laundry!" I begged him when he got home.

"Too late" he laughed. "Now they're all calling you The Bra Hunter."

It might take me a while to live that one down - at least until my middle aged brain has another misfire.

Which means we'll all forget that incident soon enough.

Beyond the Boundaries: A Look at Ists and Isms - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

ISTS:

The pessimist sees every flaw
and therefore always doubts;
the anarchist's disdain for law
will keep him on the outs.
The optimist is so upbeat
that he tends to annoy
for he will not admit defeat
and greets each day with joy.
The realists are pragmatic
and see things as they are,
but extremists are fanatic
and take things way too far.
The elitist thinks he's better
than just the average guy,
he's an A-list jet-setter
who hopes to heaven buy.
Revisionists, those editors,
delete what lacks appeal -
and terrorists are predators
with missionary zeal.
A narcissist is self-obsessed
with love enough for one,
and a defeatist is distressed
before the day's half done.
Hedonists think that pleasure
is all we should pursue;
perfectionists are never pleased
with anything they do.
The pacifist believes that peace
should come at any cost -
the pugilist will never cease
to fight, though rounds he's lost.
Theologists keep seeking God,
believing He is there;
while atheists are under-awed
and haven't got a prayer.
I can't be an apologist
for all humanity.
I think perhaps we'd co-exist
a bit more peacefully
if we spent time emphasizing
the common traits we share -
and we practiced empathizing
and demonstrating care.
But we tout our ists and isms
and let them us define -
although they induce schisms,
you have "yours" and I "mine".
I'm aiming to be humanist
in my philosophy -
to be more strict economist
with own theosophy.
In striving for indemnity
we're learning to transcend
our ist and ism enmity;
we're learning how to bend.
And though opinions I may air 
through criticisms here,
I'm hoping you'll my viewpoint share  -
one truth, to me, seems clear.
In spite of our diversity
we really ought to find
a little equanimity
with all of humankind.

By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 30, 2014

Human beings are a mass of contradictions. We pay lip service to political correctness while our behaviors too often indicate that we are anything but tolerant. We wave our political and religious views like red flags before us, inciting the irritation and wrath of those who hold other beliefs and opinions. We actively push our philosophies in public venues in hopes of winning over those around us. We are all ridiculously wrong headed about being right.

There was a time, and not so very long ago, when it was considered bad form to discuss religion or politics in social settings. The rationale for this was that social settings provided opportunities to be sociable - to pass the time pleasantly interacting with one another. That can be difficult to do when people become aggressive about imposing their "ists and isms" on a captive audience.

I blog about a wide variety of topics. I like to share my opinions and observations with anyone who wants to read them. However, two subjects I refuse to tackle are religion and politics. My views on those subjects are my own, and not about to become part of the public domain and thus subject to the scrutiny and criticism of the masses. I don't want to be defined by theological beliefs or political leanings. In truth, I hold to a personal set of religious beliefs that are mine alone, and I've voted across the board. Age has granted me experience and opportunities to see that we are all unique individuals. We do not necessarily believe everything the person in the next pew does, even if we do sit in a common congregation. We may not join the political party of the candidate we voted for. We may not wish to define ourselves with an ist or an ism. We may not want to limit others' impressions of ourselves through broadcasting particular religious or political affiliations. Perhaps there are many others who, like myself, just want others to get to know us as individuals before first impressions are muddied by sharing more divisive opinions.

I've come to believe that the world is full of hot buttons just waiting to be pushed. A lot of those buttons can be found on Facebook. Status updates have changed a lot over the past half dozen years. What started with people sharing tidbits about their daily routines has morphed into a somewhat nasty, free-for-all forum where many rather forcefully impose their ideologies, while implying that those whose ideas do not mesh with theirs are simply too stupid to understand "the facts". And lets face it, those "facts" are in a constant state of flux. Google has become adept at tracking our online exchanges and searches, and will now offer each of us the tailor-made "evidence" of our superior intellect and discernment (just Google "filter bubble" for an education). While I can handle people sharing information about a cause that matters to them, I grow increasingly irritated by those who expect me to "like", "share", "re-post" or (worst of all) sign a petition to forward their cause. I don't like the assumption implied that I feel the same way they do - or that I would share their passion for the cause if I was as smart as they are. Furthermore, I feel that I'm being put on the spot - I'm being measured, and may ultimately be found wanting. 

You see, I'm only too well aware that (for many people) sharing opinions isn't enough - they want to know others feel the same way. And sometimes they don't. These people want to convince those around them to embrace the "truth" as they see it. And most times they won't. To those people I offer three little words - get over it. I've been learning this lesson the hard way most of my life - it is a fact that nobody really needs to agree with me. Those who refuse to see things the way I do are every bit as entitled to their opinions as I am to mine They are still (mostly) good people, and we don't need to see eye to eye to care about each other.

I have grown tired of seeing people hide behind their ists and isms - tired of witnessing, and experiencing, the insularity that results when we expect to spend our days surrounded by those who echo back our own dogma. In fact, I'm pretty tired of dogma - period. I think a lot, I believe some things, but I've come to the conclusion that I really don't know much at all - and I'm fine with that. It is oddly liberating to admit to ignorance. I don't want to waste my days arguing with those of you who think you've worked out the answers to everything. I'd rather spend my time on social media being sociable. (I know that sounds like a tall order, but I believe it's possible.) And when I actually see you face to face I'd prefer to spend those precious hours focusing our conversation on what we have in common, rather than on those things about which we disagree. Whatever divisive views we may hold, we can, and should, still be able to find commonalities - we should at least be able to disagree agreeably and get along.

We really don't need to believe alike, or think alike, to love alike.

So if I'm going to be defined as an ist, let me be a pragmatist who believes it just makes more sense to accept, and even try to love, those who view the world differently. Let me be a humanist who has faith in others and their ability to find common ground, for the common good. If I must be defined by an ism - if I need to enroll in a school of thought - I'll choose optimism. Some of you would choose differently, and that's okay.

Feel free to disagree, but I think it just makes sense to maintain hope that we can move beyond the self-imposed boundaries of ist and ism.

Don't Say it With Flowers! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Don't Say It With Flowers!

My attitude's pragmatic
where romance is concerned -
I'm not a "love fanatic"
but through the years I've learned
that there's a certain sweetness
in tears and laughter shared;
a feeling of completeness
in knowing I am paired.
The rituals of dating
seemed complex in my youth,
thus I'm now educating
by sharing gems of truth:
No girl with sense supposes
when he ceases to spend
on candlelight and roses
her happiness will end.
Love isn't tabulated
in flowers that are sent.
Blossoms are over-rated
and reek of sentiment.
Affection lasts far longer
than flowers in a vase,
and love will just grow stronger
once you've embraced his flaws.
Infatuation passes,
it isn't meant to last.
You'll shed rose-coloured glasses
once that first thrill has passed.
Then you'll dispel old notions -
ignorance isn't bliss,
and negative emotions
don't vanish with a kiss.
If somehow you've concluded
your mate will always please,
then you, friend, are deluded
love has no guarantees.
Flies land in ev'ry ointment,
love isn't always grand.
There will be disappointment
when things don't go as planned.
Romance? It will come and go
like waves upon the shore -
ignore "the ebb", enjoy "the flow"
and you'll enjoy life more.
Flowers? They may come - or not.
They're pretty for a while.
But in time they'll fade and rot
and land on compost pile.
So when it comes to flowers
this moral may be learned -
cherish instead the hours
love's given and returned.

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 2014

Tomorrow is my 26th Anniversary, and I'm not expecting flowers. It isn't that I don't like flowers - because I do. I'm just happier enjoying them in my garden. It isn't that my husband is a cheapskate, because he's not.  He just knows that I'm not all that excited by floral arrangements. The scent is too cloying, the flowers fade too quickly and the pragmatic side of me has a hard time receiving expensive bouquets that are bound to end up in the trash.

I know women who brag about all of the flowers their spouses bring them. I'm not envious - in fact I think that a lot of thoughtless (or perhaps lazy) husbands use flowers as a very handy, unimaginative gift to mark every single occasion. Bring home a nice bouquet for the little woman and you're off the hook. Give your favorite flower shop all the significant dates, into their data base they go, and you, my friend, will never be in the doghouse for missing an anniversary or birthday again - right?

Well, I suppose that works fine if your wife isn't all that bright and hasn't picked up on how easy flowers are as a fallback gift - one that says, "I thought about you for the three minutes it took me to order a bouquet online from my chair today!" (Or maybe she crossed your mind for the thirty seconds that you panicked in the check out line, realizing that today was her birthday - before you spotted the grocery store solution to the dilemma.) I guess it's also okay if she really loves flowers and prefers them above any other gift you could ever give her. And while all you "romantic" guys may accuse me of being terribly unsentimental, I'm finding it hard to believe that there are many women out there who never want anything but flowers.

No - there will be no bouquets tomorrow, and I'm fine with that. We will celebrate as we do most years, with a quiet meal out at a nice restaurant - a meal I don't have to cook! (More of a thrill to my practical soul than flowers any day.) There have, of course, been years that we celebrated with more fanfare - on our tenth anniversary I got a ring and a weekend on the shores of Lake Michegan. Last year we celebrated 25 years with a trip to Europe, which I'm not looking to top any time soon. This year a meal out will be fine.

My husband has given me some great gifts over the years. One memorable Christmas when my sons were young he gave me gift certificates to a spa. It was bliss - quiet moments of pampering without a child in sight! He's also given me jewelry and clothing and lingerie - and miraculously I've liked most of it. The lingerie even fit! (I was pretty astounded by that last part, but when I marveled at that fact he shrugged it off by telling me he just looked at the sizes on the items I had.) Nice thoughtful gifts every now and then are wonderful, and I appreciate the many he's given me.

In the end, it isn't the flowers that matter. A good marriage isn't determined by how lavishly occasions were celebrated, or whatever tangible gifts were received.

The best marriages are counted in hugs and kisses and good memories of days spent together. They come wrapped up in good and bad shared experiences - laughter and tears. The best spouse is the one who is ready with a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear, an appreciative eye, and yes, even a figurative - (lest someone seize the opportunity of accusing me of promoting domestic violence!)  - foot ready to give you a kick in the pants if you need it.

Stop counting - and buying - bouquets. There are so many things that cost less, and matter more.

Prescription: Nature! - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

The Green Cure:

Along a busy street I plod
where dirt and dust have left me parched -
teased to my left with wooded lands
'til path appears 'neath branches arched.
So under leafy canopy
I follow this meand'ring trail
into the solitude of green
where urban sounds cease to prevail.
And suddenly I feel refreshed!
The forest acts as healing balm,
as scent of greenery gone wild
repaints my day in shades of calm.
Oasis in my desert, this -
a haven made of chlorophyll
where nature slakes thirst of my soul,
inviting me to drink my fill.

By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 22, 2010

In Victorian novels those of weak physical constitution were often told they needed to "take the air" in the mountains or by the seaside. When I read about these "prescriptions for nature" in my youth, I thought it was quackery - or perhaps merely a good excuse for a tired Victorian-era doctor to get a hypochondriac off his case. But I was young then, and all too often in those days a visit to the family cottage interfered with some urban based pursuit - a trip to the mall or seeing a movie with friends.

And yet, even then there were times when I needed a dose of Lake Superior - times when my spinning mind was calmed by nothing except sitting on a rock and staring across the water at Maple Island. There were also times when a solitary walk down the camp road left my lethargic teenage self feeling oddly rejuvenated.

There is something both calming and restorative about being near a body of water or a glade of trees. I've discovered that a ramble through a park or a few minutes in a flower garden can have the same effect. When I learned about colour theory in college, it came as no surprise that blue and green were calming colors. Experience had already taught me that lakes and trees had a tranquilizing effect on jangled nerves.

I used to take my sons to a playground near a tiny lake when they were toddlers. The play equipment near our co-op bored them quickly, but they seemed content for quite a while when they could count ducks or toss pebbles into Minnow Lake. (The sound of small stones hitting water is calming - I think that's why so many people like to skip stones.) Wherever we lived, we always found "nature spots" - places near water or woods. During the Lively years (yes, Lively is the name of a town we used to live in), we used to go to Meat Bird Lake to swim or visit the playground, take walks in the woods behind the public school, or pick blueberries on the ski hill.

Now the boys are grown and I usually commune with nature on my own. I'm not complaining - I enjoy a little solitary time in my flower garden or on the conservation trails near my house. Sometimes on weekends, my husband and I drive into the countryside for a "Corn and Beans Tour", stopping here and there to mosey along Main Street in one of the small towns or hamlets en route. We hope to move to one of those charming villages someday, so we can take a short stroll and be "in the country" - and live in a place where we can hear the crickets and see the stars at night.

Nature cures - I'm certain of that now. I think we'd see fewer deaths from stress-related ailments and heart attacks if doctors went back to prescribing a dose of the sea shore or a trip to the mountains. Maybe there would be less depression in our society if psychiatrists prescribed fewer tranquilizers and more tranquil stays at a cottage or farm, drove their patients past fields of corn and beans, or took them walking on a forested trail. There is something completely soul-satisfying about breathing in the scent of trees as you walk through the woods - even if  "the woods" in question is nothing but a swath of green space in the middle of a city.

Since cities are always "biggering", farmers fields and stands of trees seem to get pushed further back from our urban centers every year. People in these growing cities are becoming increasingly busy, busy;busy. They seldom get out of the city and under-utilize the parks and trails that are designated green spaces. They get stressed and cranky, honking their horns when you don't move fast enough. They sail on by with a one finger salute when you drive the speed limit. A good dose of nature could help cure so many of society's ills.

A visit to the mountains would perhaps cure narcissistic tendencies. (See those little bitty things waaay down there? Those are houses filled with people - like you.  Mountain - Big. You? Not so much.) Claustrophobic? How about a trip to the desert or a secluded bit of coastline? Lonely or depressed? Perhaps you need to visit a petting zoo. Stressed out? I suggest sitting near a babbling brook or waterfall - or doing some birdwatching or even stopping to smell the flowers from time to time. Exhausted? You need a cabin near a small lake, preferably with a dock to sit on and a tin roof to make even rainy days relaxing.

I don't know if I've convinced you to write yourself a prescription for nature yet, but I'm tired of sitting here typing, sooo -

I'm off to "take the air".

Am I A Little Bit Country?

 The "Battle of the Bands" actually originated in my family's living room sometime in the late sixties.

My parents were raised on a steady diet of Country Music, and generally seemed to think that anything written after 1960, or by anyone not wearing a cowboy hat, was punishment for the eardrums. Their children had different ideas, from the oldest daughters who were hooked the first time they watched The Beatles on Ed Sullivan, to the youngest son who grooved on hair metal and arena rock. We all loved to listen to music, but much to their chagrin our tastes didn't reflect theirs.

"Turn that racket down!" was my parents' usual response to whatever their kids played on the family stereo. Much eye-rolling, snickering and scattering to bedrooms ensued when our parents hiked up their tunes.

They remained ever hopeful that we'd acquire a taste for their music and exposed us to it frequently. This felt like a unique form of torture, akin to my mother's insistence that someday we'd thank her for using onions so liberally.  I remember them forcing us to sit and watch Lawrence Welk ("an'a one, an'a two..."), Hee Haw and the Tommy Hunter Show. They must've thought they'd turned a corner when my second oldest sister bought a John Denver album in 1975, but the next week she bought an album by Alice Cooper and they sunk back into despair.

"See - That's good music!" my father would state clearly and emphatically, when Tommy sang about wanting to ramble. (I suspect he thought we were all slightly brain-addled from all the rock music we'd listened to.) "It's not like that garbage you guys blare."

I was always slightly offended that my "garbage" was lumped in alongside everyone else's. I wasn't the one who listened to Bob Dylan or Rush, for goodness sake! Voices that could scrape paint just didn't cut it for me, no matter how poetic the lyrics. In truth, we siblings all had different musical tastes too, and only stood as a united front in our mutual disdain for the "Country and Western" music our parents adored. I once had an eerily deja vu moment when my oldest sister told me to turn down my Moody Blues album, which she referred to as "that crap", while she was on the phone. Mind you, she was talking to her boyfriend, so her judgment may have been temporarily impaired.

I have to admit that I enjoyed the experience of being what I'll call an occasional country music "tourist" - I got a kick out of attending family functions where bands played songs that I'd never heard of, let alone actually heard, anywhere else. Thus I have fond memories of tunes like "Won't You Come Home Bill Bailey?" and "I'm Proud to Be An Okie From Muskogee". Not everyone from my generation could make that claim. But obviously not everyone from my generation grew up hearing their off-tune father belt out "The Wabash Cannonball" on a regular basis.

A lot of the country music popular in the 70's tickled my funny bone - there was so much melodrama in those songs. Inevitably somebody had "done somebody wrong", but morals abounded and lessons were learned. Heck, Tammy Wynette endlessly whined about how important it was to "Stand By Your Man" until her D-I-V-O-R-C-E become final. Loretta warned all those wicked women off her Doo in tunes like "Woman of the World" (leave my world alone!) and "You Ain't Woman Enough" (to take my man!) It was the kind of music I loved to hate. (Or maybe hated to love - it's hard to distinguish between the two. If you've never listened to square dance music played on the wrong speed, you're really missing something.) For a while I had a morbid fascination with Tom T. Hall's "I Like Beer", which I first heard when I was going through some break-up angst.  I suspect I was happy enough to drown my sorrows vicariously through good ole Tom.  I still catch myself singing it from time to time, in spite of the fact that I remain a complete abstainer. (Well, it is a catchy little number.)

As reluctant as I am to admit it, I've always kind of admired the way country artists put it all out there - from that first euphoric glimpse of love, to the betrayal, then finally the movin' on. I'm sure Taylor Swift got her inspiration for tattle tale songs about past relationships from these people, but their songs were a lot more fun. I get a kick out the antics they sing about - catching the cheater in the act, getting even, maybe even offing the truly offensive jerk like in the Dixie Chicks "Good-bye Earl", which proves that as silly as most of these songs are, this is a genre that isn't afraid to be just a wee bit dark at times.

Now I can unabashedly enjoy almost all kinds of music. Once my husband and I listened to a whole disc that our older son left laying around, by some band called Swordsmen of Bagels, or something like that. I wanted to be a cool parent and tell him that I totally enjoyed it, but I really didn't. So I can't say I've reached the summit of musical tolerance, but I'm trying. (For a while - years back - I even used to exercise in the mornings to CMT, but not until after the rest of the family had departed for work and school. I didn't want my menfolk to worry.) I routinely listen to music that is on the verge of "country" - or at least "New Country", and at this point I don't care who knows it. Sometimes I even feel reminiscent and get a hankering to hear the stuff  my parents loved. (I listened to Hank Snow's "Wreck of the Old '97" just before I sat down to wrote this post. My father would have approved.)

Even as a youth I'd listen to those good 'ole "hurtin' songs" and think how much fun it would be to write one. (Don't we all have a "s/he done me wrong" story to tell?) However, it took me a whole lot of years to act on the impulse.

It was after hearing Toby Keith's "How Do You Like Me Now?", a song that resonated with the cranky, crabby "here's to spittin' in yore eye" attitude that often prevails in me, that I sat down and finally attempted my own version of a dose of country heartbreak. Obviously "The Dawg Gone Blues" is not autobiographical. (Regardless of what those Facebook quizzes tell me, I am a woman.) But I could clearly envision the big ole lunk-head who'd have exactly this sort of story to tell. (I think maybe Toby could do it justice.)

The morals in this song are three-fold:
1) Make sure the woman of your dreams likes your dog
2) Buy a new mattress before you burn the old one
3) Get a pre-nup before you visit the judge and move her into your trailer!

So here goes - my first (and best) of two attempts to write about the cheatin' heart-breakers who inspire so much country music. (No dogs will be injured in the making of the music video : )

The Dawg Gone Blues  

I woke up one morning
alone in our big bed -
don't know why but suddenly
I felt a sense of dread.
I showered and ate breakfast
then whistled for old Fred -
and found out to my horror
my faithful friend was dead.

Chorus:
Why'd you hafta break my heart
and leave me on my own?
Picture how upset I got
that you had up and flown.
You was quite a looker -
wish you had a kinder clone!
I wish that when you left me,
you'd left my dawg alone!

You emptied out my wallet
and bankrupted my heart,
then you went and shot my dawg
with a poisoned dart.
And killin' this man's best friend -
that was the cruelest part.
Now I'm mighty glad yore gone
'cause yore a mean ole tart.

Chorus

The first day I was busy -
yore letters I did shred,
and then I put myself to work
and dug a hole for Fred.
I finished burning up yore stuff,
but was still seeing red -
and I knew what I had to do
was fumigate the bed.

Chorus

The mattress was a sizzlin'
when I let out a groan -
Now I'd be sleepin' bedless,
as well as all alone.
You dynamited this ole heart -
replaced it with a stone,
because you was the Queen bee
and I was just a drone.

Chorus

Looking back I see it now,
I wasn't very smart.
You used me and abused me
and trashed my trustin' heart.
I think I've wisened up some
since we've been apart -
ain't never signed a pre-nup yet
but I'm about to start!

Chorus

By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, February 2006

If anyone happens to run into Toby, tell him I have a song that has his name all over it, and he can record it and pay me big royalties -

 - As long as my name is all under it!

Let's Talk About the Things I Hate (But Only For A While)

Let's Talk About the Things I Hate ( But Only For A While)

Let's talk about the things I hate -
the little things that aggravate,
those items that stick in my craw
and at my innards gnaw and gnaw.
I don't like snow that falls in spring
or early birds that loudly sing
or ANY birds that swoop or poop
or build their nests near my front stoop.
All bees or bugs that sting or bite
elicit in me no delight.
On drivers I have much to say -
those who don't cede the right of way
to people who pedestriate,
but make those self-same people wait -
those drivers should be made to pay
by walking an entire day!
I hate to wait within long lines,
I can't abide a child who whines,
I can't stand grimy floors or dirt
or girls who gossip, tease or flirt.
I don't much care to cough and choke
when others share their toxic smoke,
or make loud noise when I'm abed -
that kind of thing makes me see red!
I think sausage disgusting stuff -
of sappy songs I've had enough;
I'm likewise sick of guts and gore
and nauseating vampire lore.
I don't like vermin, rust or mould,
and all leftovers leave me cold.
I'm sick of people who are rude
and those who think that I'm a prude.
And while I speak of things that tire,
to pen this verse I've lost desire -
too many things leave me annoyed;
My time could be better employed!

By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 2012

Sadly, the poem doesn't provide anything close to a comprehensive list of things that annoy me. I gripe about politics, lawlessness, ignorance and downright stupidity on a daily basis. Not a week goes by without complaints about garden pests, weeds, bad cooking (usually my own), bratty kids, misbehaving technology, cell phones or lousy service of one kind or another. Occasionally I vary my usual repertoire of complaints by carping about something like uncooperative weather or a  bothersome task I have to complete. (You don't want to be around me if I have any sewing or mending to do!)

I hate to admit it, but I'm a crank. If there was a support group called "Crankaholics Anonymous", I'd join it, but I'm sure I'd whine endlessly about all of those steps, and making restitution to all of the victims of my grumbling tongue would would be a time-consuming exercise. I wish I could blame my tendency to complain on menopause or age, but I honestly can't. I've always been a bit cantankerous. I have strong opinions on a whole lot of subjects, and little tolerance for those who can't see the logic in feeling the way I do.

I come by it honestly - my father was a world class grumbler. That's no excuse really, but it can't be denied that what I've coined "the Flood disposition" isn't always pretty - and sadly every one of my siblings inherited the crabby gene to some extent. However, I feel compelled to make the admission that I seem to be the one most plagued by the ability to find things to complain about.

As a keen observer of humanity, and a somewhat sensitive soul who thinks deeply about what I see in the world around me, I'm prone to let everything affect me too much. Sometimes the beauty in nature makes me weep, and being witness to small acts of kindness thrills me to the core. But far too often I find myself angry, frustrated and completely befuddled by the ridiculous behaviors that seem so rampant in humanity. I ruminate on the selfishness and thoughtlessness I see, and I complain. And then I think of all the times I've misbehaved or handled situations badly and I feel crankier than ever.

I spend way too much time complaining about stupidity, and not nearly enough time utilizing my brain cells to make the world a more enlightened and intelligent, love-filled place.

I spend too much time griping about the injustices that exist, and not enough time thinking about how to make society fairer.

I spend too much time carping on about my lengthy list of pet peeves, and not nearly enough time tabulating the wonders of the world around me, the beauty, safety and peace I enjoy, and the love that surrounds me daily. I don't make enough effort to look for everything that works, satisfies, or is right.

Today I saw a posted challenge on Facebook - to go twenty-four hours without complaining. The first thing I thought was, "Wow - would that ever be hard!" Even the thought of not complaining gives me cause to gripe!

I honestly believe that there's a time and a place to complain. If I get bad service I should (as kindly as I possibly can) draw attention to the problem. Nothing can get fixed if people are unaware of the negative issues. When in a position of responsibility, I should correct those for whom I have responsibility - my job is to teach and instruct. Sometimes criticism of a behavior needs to be accompanied by a complaint to someone, about someone else. I can gripe with the best of  the crabs out there, but criticism is hard.

I don't like doing that hard part. Complaining comes easily, but I fear I've never mastered the constructive part of criticism. I never liked having to tell my kids they were misbehaving or putting on my stern face for kids I babysat, but I did it anyhow. I feel envious of those who have mastered the art of complaining nicely, and know how to offer constructive criticism so kindly that it always sounds like a compliment on whomever it's bestowed. Then again, because I make myself do the hard kind of complaining - the corrective parenting type for example, even though I don't think I'm good at it - my threshold of patience for those who don't offer what I view as necessary complaints or criticisms is further lowered.

Thus I constantly need to remind myself that it isn't my job to tell the rest of the world what they should or shouldn't be doing. I tell myself to grow a thicker skin and not let myself be so infuriatingly bothered by what others are saying or doing - or not saying or doing.

I'm trying harder these days to focus on the things I love and enjoy, and when faced with too many unappealing scenarios on any given day, to attend to those things that I can control.

I need to accept that there are things that all the complaining in the world can't change. I need to find courage to act, rather than just grumbling about those things that I can and should be trying to change. And above all I need to find the wisdom to know the difference between the two and stop myself from being cranky about things I can't (or won't) do anything to change.

Grumbling really doesn't make me feel better most of the time. Instead of getting those complaints off my chest, I often feel as though I'm wearing one of those weighted vests. Sometimes my hands hurt from being clenched so often. My brow wears permanent furrows. I irritate my long suffering spouse and watch my kids roll their eyes way too often. I know I need to learn how to "let it go" - but acknowledge the OCD-ish part of my personality that makes that challenging. I know I would be more peaceful and serene if I zipped my lip more often - did a whole lot less mindless grumbling and a whole lot more mindful thinking about how to cure some of the ills I see.

To recap:
- Accept that I can't change everything
- Be brave enough to try to change something
- Be wise enough to know what merits a complaint
- Be kind enough to my fellowmen to stop the futile grumbling.

Twenty-four hours is a long time.  But perhaps if I chose a sunshiny, low stress kind of day I could pull it off? (I wonder if I'd go into complaint withdrawal?)

If I ever manage to make it that long I'll let you know.