Originally posted by Jean February 25, 2007

Any burden of
my being
should rest with
me alone.
Not add to
other's sighing
when the weight of
their life pulls.
Expect no gifts
or service
be handed
without price.
The life I make,
the path I choose,
is my own sweat
and soul.

originally posted by Jean March 20, 2010

dreams that will never
be haunt me in the daylight
break my heart at night

originally posted by Jean February 05, 2007

I love men,
for the most part,
at least one part,
yes, I do.
OK, two of their parts
are good parts.

Of the ones who have good hearts,
they have three parts
that are good parts.
And, those with functioning brain parts
have four parts
that make good parts.

Let's not forget twinkling eye parts
and add to that nice butt parts.
So, now we're up to five parts
that make the whole part good.

I've mentioned before their hand parts
being one of my favorite good parts.
A sweet smile makes my own parts
get warm, and that's always good.

Well, I guess it's time to say this part,
I can't think of a part that's not good!

'course, being a woman, I could change my mind tomorrow.

published by Jean Friday June 23, 2006 ... welcome back Jean.

Robert Franklin Climes was only 69 years old when he died in December 1990.

Much too young. His eyes were a clear, light blue that crinkled at the corners and reflected his smile. I remember seeing those blue eyes cry only three times.

The first time I saw him shed tears was at his mother's funeral. He was wearing a dark gray suit. I was twelve years old. I watched him walk up to her open casket after the service at the funeral home. He stood with his hands folded, looking down at her thin, frail form for what seemed like a long time. I saw him lean slowly towards her and kiss her cold lips lightly. When he straightened up and turned to walk away, I saw the tears running down his face. I remember the shocking realization that he was saying good-bye to his mother, which was much worse somehow, than my losing my grandmother. We drove to the cemetery for the graveside service, and since it was November in Ohio, stood in the cold, wind and snow as her casket was lowered into her grave.

The second time I saw my father cry was a few years later. We had an old sable and white collie named Clipper. Dad built a dog house, on stilts, with a ramp that led to the opening. It was winter again and the snow had drifted to the bottom of Clipper's house. The snowbanks were packed solid around the dog house because old Clipper would lay on top of them in the sun. All of us in the family would try to convince Dad to bring the dog in from the cold during many winter nights. On the rare occasion that he agreed, he would only allow poor Clipper to stay in for a few minutes before he would tell us that he had to go back out. His reasoning was that the dog would get used to being inside and make him less tolerant of the cold. We never agreed, but Dad always won.

One day that winter, I was looking out the kitchen door, watching Clipper lying on top of a snow bank, when I noticed a red stain on the snow under him. I called to Dad, saying that I thought Clipper was bleeding. Dad came to the door and said, "Yes, he has a tumor and is probably trying to relieve the pressure." I became furious and demanded to know why Dad didn't take him to the vet. I ranted for several minutes about how the dog was suffering and it wasn't right to just let him go on like that. Dad never said a word. He got his coat and hat from the closet. Then I saw him get his shotgun. He walked out the door, unhooked Clipper's chain from the dog house and began to lead him through the back yard, across the field behind the house and into the woods at the back of our farm. I silently watched them disappear in the trees. Then I heard the loud BOOM. Several minutes later, I saw Dad walking slowly, head bent, alone. When he opened the back door, I saw the tears on his face. He still didn't say a word, but put the gun away and took off his coat and hat. I was speechless. I felt responsible. We never talked about that day or the dog again.

The third and last time I saw my father cry I was eighteen years old. I was going to college. Dad wanted me to commute to classes at the university. It was only twenty-five miles from home, and he was still working as a machinist for Goodyear, in Akron, the same city in which the college was located. He said I could arrange my classes so that I could ride in with him every morning and he would pick me up at the end of the day to bring me home. I balked. I wanted to live in one of the dorms. I wanted to experience all of college, not just, as it seemed to me, bits and pieces.

I used every piece of logic and practicality I could come up with to win my case … my classes wouldn't always jive with his work schedule …… what if I needed to use the library……how would I ever make any friends……and on and on. He told me that his main concern was that I was still naive and gullible. I trusted people too much. I would let people influence me. I was appalled. I'd been told my entire life how "mature" I was for my age, and now I was hearing my father say I was naive.

I actually had the gumption to threaten not to go to school at all if I couldn't live in the dorm. Dad said he wanted me to go to college so I wouldn't spend my life working in a factory, like he did. I stubbornly refused any compromise. To my surprise, he relented.

The day came when I was to leave home for Freshman Orientation. It was a family affair. The station wagon was loaded with my suitcases, both of my brothers, both of my sisters, Mom, Dad and me. After a quiet half hour drive, we arrived at Spanton Hall and began unloading the car. We found my room on the fourth floor and met my roommate. We began saying happy good-byes……after all, I would probably go home most weekends, and Mom had already told me I would be picked up for church even on the weekends I didn't make it home.

My roommate had politely left the room when my family started leaving. They all headed towards the elevator in the hall, but I didn't see Dad with them. I turned and saw my dad behind me, still in my new room, looking around. Then he turned and looked at me and I saw his chin quivering slightly and his eyes filling with tears. He gave me a long, crushing hug. A kiss on the cheek. No words. He walked out of my room and got on the elevator.

That first night in the dorm, I missed them all. Only twenty-five miles away. And I missed my dad the most that night. I never did tell him he was right. I was naive. And I never forgot his tears.

A post from Jean; originally published 8/23 on "Pondering" (see Jean's site)
Y'all do check out her web site as well as NAD, don't you?

There is only one first time.

Mine was in college when I was 21.

It began at a frat party. No doubt drinking was involved.
Back then I was an even cheaper drunk than I am now.
One bottle of Stroh's got me a nice buzz. Second bottle
got me drunk-ish. If there was a third bottle, I needed help
getting back to my dorm room to find the bathroom.
'Cuz I was gonna puke.

aaanyway…lots of the details are missing from memory but
here is the gist:

Somehow, he and I ended up at his apartment off-campus.
Foreplay? What's that?
I don't remember clothes coming off but they did, somehow.
I honestly had no idea what was going to happen.

It happened quickly. It was disappointing because the only thing
I felt was a sharp pain. Cherry popped.
When he was done he said, "You are taking the pill, right?"
When I stuttered, "uh, no." His eyes got very large and he said,
"I'll walk you back to your dorm."
I had trouble keeping up because he was walking so fast.
I never saw him again.

The next "encounter" I had was much nicer. That man knew what
he was doing and helped me learn the right way. Believe it or not,
the nice man and I are still friends 50+ years later.

To Storm Murray, if you're still out there, I hope you got better with practice.

I know I did.