The GIFT of Christmas

    It’s almost Christmas. Even in this day of the internet, people are rushing left and right to pick up those last-minute gifts. They’re running around trying to try to get the perfect feast together. Airports are full and patience is at its wit’s end. But do you really know what Christmas is truly about?        

    I was about 8 or 9 that it hit me. We were raised Catholic and would go to Midnight Mass as a family. Then we’d come home, the adults drinking eggnog with rum or brandy or having a hot toddy (to this day I have NO IDEA what that is!) while us kids had hot cocoa. Then we opened gifts. After dinner on Christmas Eve, we were allowed to open one gift. To make it look like us kids received a lot more than we did, mom would wrap batteries needed to operate a toy. Those she would put on the mantel of the fireplace. We would sometimes open one of those, knowing that if we received batteries, then there would be a cool toy under the tree! That way, we wouldn’t open something stupid like underwear, socks or pajamas. 

  Usually, dad played Santa Claus and we spoiled children would fling open all the gifts without recognizing who they were from, just that we got stuff. Stuff that we would call our friends on Christmas Day to see what they got. There was usually just a bunch of wrapping paper in a pile in the living room, with Grandma wearing the bows. (We should have buried her in a bow!) One could smell the scent of fresh plastic straight out of the box. If you're older than 50, then you know the smell. It’s like the smell of old tubes warming up. Kids these days have no idea how long we had to wait for the TV to warm up! And when it did, we only had 4 channels! But back to the chaos that was our early Christmas morning. Actually, it would start on Christmas Eve, when “Santa”, just a local Kiwanian or Jaycee dressed up as Santa, would bring us a bag of toys around 8pm. There were no socks or underwear or pajamas in there, just TOYS! (My brother ruined Christmas for me when I was about 7. I thought Santa actually brought the toys. But Doug took me into the garage and showed me the toys in mom’s hiding place. A few days later, they were the same toys Santa brought us.) Back in the day, we wouldn’t have to worry about being ripped off. They would call mom or dad to let them know they’d be there in about 5 minutes, so dad usually took the wrapped toys and put them out front so the Santa would put them in his bag when he got there. Then he’d ring the doorbell and shout out, “Ho, ho ho! Merry Christmas!”. Yes, Santa came to our door because us kids were that special. When you’re a kid, it’s all about the toys, as it should be. 

       

    When I was about 8 or 9, coming home from Midnight Mass, it hit me. As a younger child, I never thought about the name Christmas. To me, it just meant I'd get some good stuff like a Lite Brite, Lincoln Logs or an Easy Bake Oven, all of which I had as a child. That was cutting edge stuff! One year, my younger sister, Maureen and I received walkie talkies. So did our friend, Tommy, who lived on the other side of our fence. We had so much fun talking on those and then eventually setting up an illegal radio station. We didn’t know it was illegal until a trucker on the same frequency told us. We went back to just talking. Coming home from Midnight Mass that one year, I realized what Christmas meant: it was CHRIST’S MASS. A Mass for the baby Jesus. I still didn’t understand what Jesus had to do with my Hot Wheels set, but I figured out, all on my own, despite the years of CCD, that for some reason everyone received gifts on Christ’s Mass.  

      

    Scholars say that Jesus Christ was really born in the Spring, not the Winter. But as the Holy Roman Empire grew across Europe, replacing paganism, they needed a way to make it legal to celebrate Jesus and not the earth gods that the pagans celebrated. As December 21st was the shortest day of the year, pagans celebrated Saturnalia, celebrating the days to come that would bring more sunshine every day. To discourage people from celebrating a pagan feast – Saturnalia lasted for days – December 25th, which was about the middle of the Saturnalia celebration, was chosen to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. Eventually, as people became Christianized, Saturnalia fell from the calendar and many of the traditions, such as lighting a tree, were taken from pagans and put in Christian traditions.

    But what does the birth of Jesus have to do with Christmas? The Magi, you might know them as the Three Wise Men, came from the East, possibly India, to bring gifts of Frankincense, Myrrh and Gold, to the Christ Child. What a baby would do with these things, I haven’t the slightest idea, but those were considered the top toys of the day. (I would’ve brought a binky or some nappies so Mary wouldn’t have to be washing all day!) It is Christ’s Mass, but why? What did the birth of Jesus have to do with the holiday? And where does Santa fit into all of this? 

I had to become an adult to realize all of that. 

    Many Christians don’t allow their children to sit on Santa’s lap and tell Santa their wishes. They believe that Santa is just a throwback to the pagan traditions of old. However, just as God sent His only begotten Son so that humans could finally mend the relationship with God through a figure they understood, Santa stands in for Jesus, so unbelievers might believe that there IS God, who grants us the ultimate gift – everlasting life.  

   

     Think about it. What was the best gift you ever received for Christmas? Do you still have it? Is it worth your life?     

    Santa grants the flesh tangible gifts. We receive cool stuff from Santa, Mom used to even put on the to/from tags on some of our toys that they were from Santa.

   

     The baby Jesus, would eventually die for our sins, thus fixing the connection we had lost with God because of our sins, the sins of the flesh.      

    Santa teaches us to give gifts. Jesus gave us the ultimate gift, his life, so that we may have Life Everlasting.  

    Wow!  

    

    All we need to do is to accept Him as our Lord and Savior.        

    

    Will it make our lives easier? No, it might even make it harder as Satan tries to get your soul back. But you’ll feel a JOY you didn’t know was possible. A JOY that no toy, be it an Easy Bake Oven or even the latest video game can.

    And this JOY will last eternally.  

    Merry CHRIST MASS! 

Why Mid December is Sad

    Grandma started it all.

    On Monday, December 11th in 1989, in the late afternoon, my maternal grandmother, Bernice Eloise Trimble Hopkins, born April 17, 1911, took her final breath on this earth. She had heart disease brought on by being a lifelong smoker. She smoked until she could no longer breathe. Her brand of choice was Chesterfield, unfiltered cigarettes that I believe are no longer manufactured. Interestingly enough, she also referred to a couch or sofa as a Chesterfield. As kids we thought she just loved her cigarettes. I think it was just what sofas were called in the 19 aughts and on.

    We always thought grandma was fun. She was goofy sometimes. At Grandpa's wake, she flipped off Grandpa's kin at our Aunt Beth's house in San Mateo. In the summer of 1976, she took my little sister (Maureen was actually smaller then me then as she hadn't hit puberty) and I to "The River". We'd been to The River before; mom and dad used to take us all on vacation there. The River referred to the Russian River and the town of Guervneville. Grandma always called it GERN vill, while mom referred to it as GERN EE vill. SO if you hear me pronounce the second way, you'll know why. The first day, as we always did, Maureen and I went into the dry creek to pick wild blackberries. Grandma would then make blackberry jam, blackberry pie, blackberry cobbler and anything else she could use the blackberries for. (I was spoiled and didn't even know it!) Then Maureen and I had the rest of the week to ourselves. We were swimming in the pool that had a sign up, saying "Welcome to our ool. Notice there is no P in it. Please keep it that way". But we were kids, so...

    She had her rosary in the city where she last lived alone in Woodland. The next day, we followed the white van carrying her coffin down to her cemetery plot in Colma, where grandpa is buried. After the graveside burial in the Catholic cemetery, we had a drink at the bar across the street. Okay, maybe more as we ARE Irish!

    In the fall of 1993, mom became sick and asked me to take her to the doctor in Woodland. She lived in the house we grew up in in Davis. I took her and the doctor said she was okay except it looked like her kidneys weren't working at full speed. Like grandma, mom smoked like a chimney, but her favorite cigarettes were Marlboro 100's. mom had type 2 diabetes, but because she didn't feel any differently, she refused to treat it. She had spent most of the 4 years since grandma died, on the couch, only getting up to use the commode that was placed right in front of the TV, so she didn't miss a thing. 

    One day in early November, she didn't feel well and called for an ambulance. She was in the hospital for a few days because she had a heart attack. As the doctor was getting ready to release her, she had a major stroke. She was only 60 years old, born August 16, 1933 in San Francisco. She was in the hospital for a few days until dad could find a nursing home for her, where she could smoke. We had Thanksgiving in a restaurant for the first time. Mom was moved into the nursing home the next day. My older sister, Debra, had flown in from Columbus, OH to be with us. Debra, Maureen and I were in her room while dad was signing the paperwork. Debra, who had worked in the back offices of healthcare her entire life, read mom's chart. It stated that mom was in end stage mycardial infarction. Maureen and I had no idea what that was. Debra explained to us that mom was dying from heart disease.

    On Friday, December 17, 1993 around 9pm, mom took her final breath as Maureen walked int the door of her room. Maureen called me and I headed up to Woodland from my then home in Siusun City. She also called our half brother who came with his girlfriend from Sacramento. We watched as mom's body, which looked so small without her soul in it, yellowed. I hated to remember my mother that way, but dad said it was important that we saw her. I called both Debra in OH (she had flown back for work) and mom's only sister, Judy, who lived in Maine. I realized later that night that mom outlived her mom by one week! Seems they were always in conflict with each other, and mom won. Of course it was only 4 years later and mom was 60 while grandma was 78, but details...

    The funeral was a few days later. Mom's longtime friend, Angie, took care of those arrangements while Dad and Maureen took care of the burial arrangements. Judy said the eulogy and even put in my suggestion that God needed a 4th for a hand of Bridge, as all of mom's bridge buddies were there. The graveside service was cold, very cold. Which prompted one of mom's bridge buddies to say, "You had to pick the coldest day of the year for your funeral, didn't you, Myra!" Mom was always overheated and used to freeze her bridge buddies out when they played.Then the body of Myra Eloise Van Horne McMahan, was lowered into the ground. Dad fell on her casket because even though they couldn't live together, he was as in love with her on that cold day in December 1993 as he was when he laid eyes on her at a party in 1949.

    In December of 2011, things were finally looking up for me. Although I had been homeless for over a year, I had FINALLY landed a job in October as a store manager of an H&R Block in Vallejo. I was still going through training, learning the H&R Block way, though I never learned how to do their taxes. I was just learning how to run one of their stores. It was tough though because at the 1st of December, the homeless house I was in, had moved. And the movers had damaged my CPAP machine, so I wasn't getting the deep sleep I so craved. You know how it is when you go through life without getting the necessary amount of sleep. Everything is intensified. Your emotions, especially. That's why, when I got up to use the restroom, during training on Monday, December 11, 2011 and I checked my phone, I found out my maternal aunt had passed away at the age of 66.

    Judith Rose Hopkins Marcus was a baby boomer, born June 22, 1945. She was one of those people who had slid into Heaven, much the way a base runner slides into 2nd base. She lived her life on her own terms from the get go. She was stood up AT THE ALTAR by her longtime boyfriend, Bob. She went into the Convent in 1975 only to leave a year or so later because Mother Superior wouldn't let her keep cans of beer cold in the back of the toilet tank. She eventually met Uncle Sheryl, as we called her, and they had a long relationship by today's standards. At my sister's wedding, we were busted by my sister for smoking cannabis. (This WAS 1982, after all!) Later that year I got high with a gay priest and many other assorted individuals who were friends of hers. When I was a kid, we were playing Canasta after a big meal and I got up to make an ice cream cone. As I lifted it to my face, she smashed it into my face. Have you ever breathed through ice cream? It's not possible! She is the aunt I spoke of in my last post about having a one night stand with the man I brought to Thanksgiving.

    My half brother, Douglas Andrew Van Horne was born January 8, 1956 in Kalamazoo, Michigan to my mother and her first husband, David Van Horne. Mom had met David while he was in the Air Force and she was at a dance with active members. They moved from San Francisco to Kalamazoo, got married and had Doug. When Doug was about 18 months old, mom saw him in his stroller, with his dad David pushing him and another woman hanging off of David's shoulder. Mom and Doug were on a plane back to San Francisco within a week. A few months later, David died in a car crash. 

    Mom somehow caught up with my dad and they were married on January 17, 1960. Mom wanted a father for Doug, but it turned out not so well. Because Doug had David's curly hair and many other features, every time she looked at him, my mother thought of her deceased husband and missed him. Because Doug was spoiled, he never had a happy life. He was raised to believe that he knew everything and that he was the tops. He was a botanist without a degree. He cross bred cannabis plants to get the most THC out of them. When he was busted the first time in 1995 in Eugene, OR and lost the 10 acres and everything else he had saved his entire life for, the DEA agents were impressed with the strains he was growing. After serving his jail time and being put on probation, he moved back to Sacramento to live with his girlfriend. They got into a big fight one early morning and a neighbor called the police. They soon found out Doug was on probation and searched the house, which was full of cannabis plants and a scale. He was found in violation of his probation and did another 2 months in jail, this time in Sacramento County. He was then again put on probation and he was not allowed to grow, sell or ingest cannabis. 

    It had been less than a year that I had once again become a person with a home. I was learning to become myself again, as I had to change in order to fit my circumstances. My brother texted me and I ignored it. He was a toxic person because he was spoiled and high most of the time. He could be like a little chihuahua, biting at your feet because he wanted attention. When he texted again, I ignored it. Then he called me. I answered with an exasperated "what?" He told me that the DEA was in his house arresting him on FEDERAL charges of growing, selling and ingesting cannabis. Although he had a Medical Marijuana card, he was growing more than the dispensaries could ever sell. And he had a scale. That proved he was selling. He never sold to kids to my knowledge, but he was selling and not paying taxes on it, kind of like the charges Al Capone was busted on. He was booked on a NO BAIL warrant in Sacramento County jail. I set up a pay plan where he could call me and I could accept. Because all I had was a cell phone, it had to be that way. He'd call me every night and complain to me. He said if he paid a couple thousand dollars, one of the guys in the jail promised to get him out. I had worked as a clerk at Yolo County Superior Court in 1999-2000, writing many NO BAIL warrants on behalf of judges and they are what they say - NO BAIL. END OF STORY. I explained he was was being hustled, but because he was brought up to believe he knew EVERYTHING, he didn't believe me. Each night he was becoming more unhinged because although the state said he needed cannabis for pain, he was being held on a FEDERAL warrant, where Cannabis is still considered a Schedule 1 Narcotic, meaning it had no medicinal purpose whatsoever. I was up for 4 days after one particular night's call and my doctor put me on a night mental health medication to help me sleep. I realized that MY HEALTH was more important to me than listening to my half brother bitch at me every night, so I stopped answering his calls. I called my sister, who lives in Sacramento and told her I couldn't handle it anymore. I was the last family member that would have anything to do with him because of his behavior. I had always believed that blood was thicker than water. But my health is more important to me. She took over his care. Within a year, he had been diagnosed with cancer. He had lost over 100lbs the year before he was arrested but couldn't figure out why. Turns out, he had a cancer that had been thwarted by cannabis. Once he stopped using cannabis, the cancer cells went crazy. They finally released him, on compassionate release, dropping all charges because  expected him to die. He was sent to UC Davis Medical Center where he had radiation on his spine, which the cancer had taken over. He did survive, but because he was released to a federal government facility, he wasn't allowed to smoke his cannabis. The cancer came back. He fought it off again. This time when he was released from the hospital, he got into non federal government housing and resumed smoking cannabis. He ended up renting a room from a guy in a 2 bedroom apartment. In October of 2019, he was kicked out. By this time, he had lost his foot to infection and was in a wheelchair full time. The only place his worker could find for him was a nursing home in Elk Grove, just south of Sacramento. He was finally learning to walk there as they were doing physical therapy. But a week after that last session, he was in the hospital with pneumonia. As I had been estranged from him since May 2013, I asked God if I should go to Sacramento and say goodbye. Doug had been trying to reach me after he conquered cancer twice, but I didn't want to have anything to do with him. God said NO. An emphatic NO. This was mid December 2019, when China was denying a virus was killing people and long before the shutdowns in the USA. The hospital kept doing protocols for pneumonia, but Doug wasn't getting any better. On December 17, 2019, 26 years to the DAY our mother had passed, Douglas Andrew Van Horne passed. The hospital kept his body for almost a month because they had no idea what he died from. Finally they released the body with the following on his death certificate: Acute Hypoxic Respiratory Failure, Severe Sepsis, Aspiration Pneumonia and Possible Influenza, unknown type. My sister became terribly ill after his passing and even had to have breathing treatments. After SARS-CoV-2 (COVID 19) became news, we realized that out half brother had been one of the first deaths of this virus and that our sister had it. Because she has Rheumatoid Arthritis, she was on a drug that helped her get through COVID. Because I'm obese, have asthma and Type 2 diabetes, I would've also died or at least become seriously ill had I said goodbye.

    And that's why Mid December is so sad for me. 

    Grandma started it all.

Remembrance of Thanksgiving Past

It's 1982,and I'm a full grown adult, albeit still living in the house I grew up in, on E. 8th Street in Davis, California. I was working at the Radio Shack warehouse in Woodland (to youngens reading this, a warehouse is where merchandise is stored after manufacturing until called upon by the brick and mortar stores to be shipped to them. Back in the day, it wasn't all Chinese. Most of what we consumed in the United States was at least manufactured here, perhaps with overseas parts. Then those things would be trucked to a regional warehouse to be put with similar items. When an order came in from a brick and mortar store - we didn't yet have the internet -  people like me, called "pickers", would then walk the warehouse and pick up things on the order. It was kind of like grocery shopping. We had carts we could use for smaller orders and for larger orders we used pallets, moved around by pallet jacks. Sometimes I'd be at the packing station, those were called "packers" and no we didn't have to wear green and yellow! But we DID have to make certain that anything with a magnet,  including old fashioned batteries, not the ones that power the phone I'm writing on, but those that power my old fashioned clocks, smoke detectors and boomboxes - Google that last one - next to these big movie discs that looked like vinyl records - those I know you've seen! If they were next to each other, the magnets would "wipe" the content off of the discs, like Hilary Clinton did with her emails.) 

I met a lot of people while working there as we were hired in September for the Christmas season. One guy I really liked was named Phil. He was from Australia,  which, being part of the United Kingdom, doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving. Back then, we didn't think of the Natives that were displaced, just as Australia didn't think of the Aborigines they displaced. But back to Phil.

He had no place to go for the holiday, so I invited him to my home. Actually, my MOM'S home as she used to remind us every day. Poor Phil didn't know what he'd gotten himself into.

The word DYSFUNCTIONAL wasn't around then, but my family was the certain definition of the word. Our mom was undiagnosed Bipolar, then called Manic depressive, and ya just didn't know who you'd get at any given moment. Our half brother, who grew up with us, had mental illness on both sides of his family. His dad committed suicide when he was a toddler, allowing my dad, who'd fallen in love with our crazy mom when she was 16, to marry her. I believe he even divorced his first wife, Jackie, just to be with my mom. He ALWAYS fell for the crazy ones. (He was married 3 times.) Our older sister had just married a wonderful man that June - and they're STILL together  - and lived in San Francisco. I was the middle child still living at home, as was our brother and my younger sister as she was still in high school. Add in a narcissistic maternal grandmother, a drunk uncle - we literally had to hide the hard booze when he came over - and our dad, whom our mom had kicked out 3 years prior as well as our single maternal aunt and, well to put it nicely,  Freud would've considered it a Christmas present!

Mom was cooking, cutting something up with a butcher knife when she told me to put earrings on, so I'd look nice. All 3 of us girls had our ears pierced at 13, a sign of coming into the adult world. Because I hadn't consistently worn earrings,  the holes had closed up and I told her so. The rage that came across her face was frightening as she took the knife and chased me around the house, saying she'd give me new holes! At some point, I think dad stepped in. Despite the court order she had taken out 3 years earlier to have him removed from the premises, she still loved him.

My sister and I set the table and we all sat down for the big meal, with Phil next to me and my single aunt on the other side. After someone said the Catholic grace that starts, "Bless us our Lord...", we dug in to eat.

At some point mom got mad at dad and since both were seated at the end of the table, mom threw a roll at him. It almost turned into a dood fight! Poor Phil was trying to wrap his head around everything. After we ate our fill, my sister and I cleared away the dishes for dad to clean. It was always his role to clean up as it was mom's role to cook, even though he was a guest in the house.

We had pie and coffee for dessert then retreated to the living room to watch TV. Yes, we had a console television and we had gotten a color TV a few months earlier. We grew up watching TV in black and white. To this day I could show you what color grey Mr. Green Jean's pants were!

After some TV watching, it was time for the guests to leave. Our drunk uncle or our half brother took grandma home to her apartment in Woodland while my single aunt assured me, she'd make certain that Phil got home okay. Dad stayed to wash the dishes then drove the 6 blocks to his apartment. 

Phil didn't know what he'd gotten into, all right. Because as I found out years later from my then married aunt, Phil had gotten into her pants that night! 

Ah yes, Thanksgiving 50 years ago. 

And I can recall it just as if it happened today.

I hope YOU had a wonderful Thanksgiving. 

Dad's Final Father's Day

A few days after Dad's 76th birthday of April 20, 2005, he suffered a massive stroke. After three days in the hospital,  the doctor met with his wife (my stepmother) and myself to let us know there was nothing more they could do for him. Dad was diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes when he was in his 40's and in the previous few years, his kidneys had shut down. He was on the maximum dialysis available, three times a week. That allowed him to live a pretty normal life. The day before his massive stroke he worked the Lion's Club annual golf tournament, stopped by my radio station's broadcast from a credit union (why weren't you there, he later asked. I told him it wasn't my time in rotation), went home, took a nap, then had dinner and went to a play with his wife. His last day walking he made use of his legs. Of course he didn't know it was going to be his last day walking.

The hospital made arrangements to have him moved to a nursing home to live out his remaining days.  They even let him have chocolate ice cream that night because doctors figured it wasn't going to hurt him, as he didn't have too many days ahead. My younger sister, Maureen, had flown in from wherever she was troubleshooting a Johnny Rockets restaurant, to be by dad's side. She spent the night with him, sleeping in the other bed in his room. She didn't want him dying alone. That's why he supposedly got married, but that woman was at his home, deciding whom should receive his belongings.

The next day, dad awoke, had a little breakfast and then the doctor came by. Jokingly, the doctor said, "Have any plans for the day?" Dad though for a second and said, "It's Friday, so I'm going to dialysis." The doctor was taken aback. Dad had admitted, when they were moving him, that he'd had a good life. So when the doctor asked the question, he was surprised. Thing is, he didn't know Dad. Dad didn't just give up. Dad fought. And he was in for the fight of his life.

April turned to May and May to June. I tried to be with him at least three times a week. I worked about 30 miles away and lived 40 miles away, but he was my dad and even if he was just sleeping, he knew I was there for him as he'd been for me many times growing up.

My older sister Debra, lives 3,000 miles away, so she'd call at least once a week, while Maureen visited when she could. I figured this was probably going to be Dad's last Father's Day, so I asked Maureen to make him a pineapple upside down cake, the dessert he used to make for us as kids. I told her that we were going to have a party in his room on Father's Day. I even told Dad that we were going to celebrate Father's Day at the nursing home, bringing him treats and gifts. I had read somewhere that if someone who is dying has something to look forward to, they are more likely going to hang on. Dad had a speech therapist and a physical therapist to help him repair the damage that his stroke caused. He was making progress too. We were all so happy for him. Until the heatwave.

The nursing home he had chosen didn't have air conditioning. Which is no big thing if you're in San Francisco or Alaska. But Dad was in Woodland, CA. Temperatures get over 100 degrees Fahrenheit in the summer and June 2005 was no exception. They had swamp coolers, but it only got the temperature down into the low 90's. Because Dad was on a catheter, he got a bladder infection. They gave him oral antibiotics, but his body could only fight one thing at a time. They sent him to the hospital and after being on IV antibiotics for a few days, he was fine. Just in time for Father's Day.

Dad grew up in Oakland and was a big fan of the Oakland Oaks baseball team. It was prior to the Kansas City Athletics moving there. When the A's took the scene from the Oaks, dad became a fan of theirs. He and my older sister Debra were HUGE fans and went to games together back in the early 1970's when they were champs three years in a row. I think Debra even got to hold Reggie Jackson's beer while he was signing autographs.

I knew just what I was going to get Dad for his last Father's Day. I bough a jersey at Walmart and had a local T-shirt print shop put McMahan on the back, then #1 Dad under that. I also bought him an A's hat as he needed to wear a hat every time we took him outside for some fresh air. Maureen brought the cake and I'm kicking myself now because she gave him something else but I can't remember. But I do recall it was very sentimental. We all enjoyed the cake and think we sang to him as well. He was so happy, he was crying, although I've been told that ppl who have strokes are emotional.

Dad passed away about a month later. He got another bladder infection and began hallucinating, even hitting me because I wouldn't do a story on the "drug dealers" there.

I called his wife, since she was the only one who could make the decision. She decided that he would no longer go to dialysis and the people at the nursing home would make him comfortable. Dad fought with every ounce he had, it just wasn't enough. When his wife explained to him what was going to happen,  he accepted his fate, saying he'd lived a great life and had the three best daughters anyone could want. On his final day on this earth, he was in a coma, the nursing home said that he was non-responsive. I stayed with him while my sisters went out to get some lunch. They brought back a six pack of Dad's favorite beer - Sudwerks. We clanked our bottles together over his bed, toasting him. Then Maureen got one of those sponge things on a stick and poured some of her beer on it and lifted it up to Dad's Irish Hook nose (that's what mom always called Dad's large proboscis) and a funny thing happened. Dad, who was non-responsive just that morning, opened his mouth! Maureen gently put the beer soaked sponge in his mouth, while dad slurped it dry! He opened his mouth for another sip and Maureen gave it to him.

We were blessed to have one last beer with Dad on his last day on earth.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Housing Crisis Must End

            If you live within 100 miles of San Francisco or San Jose, California and rent, you are well aware of the housing crisis going on. But it’s much worse if you’re like me and on Section 8 Housing Assistance. The federal Fair Housing Act of 1968 and the federal Fair Housing Act Amendments Act of 1988 prohibit discrimination on the basis of the following criteria (called “protected categories”): race or color; religion; national origin; familial status or age—includes families with children under the age of 18 and pregnant women; disability or handicap, or sexual orientation. (Nolo) Yet it’s somehow okay to NOT rent to those who are poor and receive housing assistance from the federal government. How do renters get away with this obvious discrimination?

            For the longest time, ever since I began on Section 8 in 2013, I just took it for granted that it was okay that I was being discriminated against. In fact, up until this morning, I figured it was fair to allow each renter to decide whether or not they wanted to accept renters who are on Federal Assistance because they can decide who they want to rent to anyway. Then I realized they can’t pick and choose whom they rent to. That’s illegal, as stated in the above paragraph. So then why is it still legal for them to discriminate against someone just because they happen to be on Public Assistance?

            If a renter allows Section 8 renters, they are guaranteed most of the rent, paid on the 1^st, by the federal government. My rent is currently $1000 for a 350 square foot apartment with no garbage disposal, no dishwasher, no air conditioning, no ceiling fan in the bedroom, no patio, no laundry services or machines, plenty of cockroaches, beetles, moths, spiders and plenty of crime. But because I pay more for healthcare monthly than I do for rent, my rent is only $294. However, the Property Manager still gets the remaining $704 from the federal government every month on the first, but I can’t pay my portion until my Social Security comes through on the 3^rd. But the Property Manager still receives $1000/month. Why don’t all renters participate in this program?

            I had been on a waiting list for a 2 bedroom apartment in another part of town. I got on the list in January 2017. I called every month around the 1^st to see if anyone was vacating a 2 bedroom, downstairs unit (I’m disabled and have a very hard time walking up stairs). About March 2017, a male answered and told me that I was on the list so I needed to stop calling. I called back in May and was assured I was still on the list. I called and left a message every other month after that, just to stay on their radar. But since I was getting voicemail only, I pressed star 67 so they didn’t know who was calling. I finally got a hold of a person in February 2018. She told me I wasn’t on the list. I told her about the male who answered the year before and she said no males worked in the office. I asked to be put back on the list, but she said her assistant, who had just purged a bunch of names needed to call me first. It’s April 10^th and I’ve yet to hear from said assistant.

            I really want to move back to Village Green Apartments because in addition to central heating and air, dishwasher, patio, they now have washer/dryer units in each apartment! I’d love a 2 bedroom so I could set up my office in the 2^nd bedroom, an also have a place for friends to crash. If I had an office set up, I could begin working from home. That would help me tremendously. But for now it’s a pipe dream because Village Green won’t accept Section 8 Housing and the other place that does, won’t put me on the waiting list again.

            So I’ll go home again with the bugs, lack of dishwasher, air conditioner, ceiling fan, garbage disposal and crime.

            Because it’s still legal to discriminate against poor people.

Christmas Letter 2016

           Yes, it’s that time again. Can you believe Christmas is only a week away? Or as my cats would say Catmas is less than a week away and you better get us good stuff. All Simba wants is to play with Oreo. All Oreo wants to for Simba to go out with the trash. But she’s a vampire cat, so what do you expect?

            My January began with promise. When we last spoke, I had only one cat, Oreo, whom I had adopted at the age of 9 (her, not me) on the first of October because I missed having a cat around, after Ming passed away in September. A friend had been trying to rehome Oreo because she was afraid of dogs and my friend rescues dogs. So Oreo came to live with me. She’s what most people who don’t like cats think ALL cats are like: standoffish, biting scratching machines. Turns out that Oreo just has anxiety issues. We have more in common than I’d like! But the fun part is trying to get her to take her medication. Because she has arthritis in her back (told ya we had too much in common!) I put Cosequin in her food. Because she knows I put medicine in her food, she will eat a little of it, then wait until Simba is done with his food and eat his before going back to eat hers. Even when I don’t put anything in it, she does this. I’ve even put the medication in his food and she’s eaten it. Thing is, when he eats her anti anxiety meds, he bounces off the walls. He’s already an energetic kitty.

 

            I got Simba from a cat rescue group out of San Francisco called Give Me Shelter Cat Rescue. Cats that are adoptable but are looking at being euthanized because of their age (everyone wants kittens) are given to Give Me Shelter to rehome. After they are deemed adoptable and given a clean bill of health, Give Me Shelter has 3 days to find a home for them or they may be killed. I was looking for a lap cat and my experience with neutered males has been that they are blobs. There was a male tabby named Jake that I was looking at getting, but he went to another home. Then Simba came up for adoption. He’s a handsome boy who was 7 years old. He was chipped, that’s how they knew his name. He was left inside a zipped canvas bag and thrown into a parking lot in San Francisco. I can’t believe the cruelty of some people. Hope Krampus visits those people this Christmas. I drove down to San Francisco and adopted him from the PetCo in the Mission District, where Give Me Shelter holds adoption fairs every week. Because I’m on a limited income, they waived the $100 fee. So if you want to give me something for Christmas, send whatever money you would spend on me to http://www.givemesheltersf.org/ in my name. They do great work and it’s all volunteer.

 

            Since I couldn’t rename the cats, they both got new middle names. Since she looks like the cartoon cat Sylvester, that’s Oreo’s middle name. And because I swear he embodies the spirit of the Egyptian Cat goddess Bastet, that’s his middle name. I know, gender and all, but no biggie. They’re both fixed. They don’t know what gender they are. They just know they have a momma who loves them.

            As far as health, the UTI’s continued with ferocity. Although I enrolled in a weight loss class in April, I was unable to make most of the classes because I just couldn’t shake the UTI. I’m scheduled to see a urologist at the end of the month to see if there is a bodily reason why I keep getting them. I asked the person who ran the classes if I could just come to the classes I missed as I paid $200 for the classes, but she said I had to pay another $200 and begin again. Don’tcha just love HMO’s?

            I petsat for my friend in March and made enough money to purchase an adult tricycle. But I was only able to ride it a few times before it was stolen. I called the company that made the lock and told them they were going to replace the lock with their top of the line model. And what do you know, they did! I sent the pieces of the cable lock that the thieves left and they sent me a U-lock. Friends rallied around and I came up with enough money by my birthday at the end of April to purchase another trike, now with the U-Lock on it. It has a quick release seat, so that’s inside the apartment as it’s tough to ride without one. I plan on riding it more in the New Year, when I’m not sick with a UTI or a cold as I have now.

            I lost my driving privileges with the beginning of May. Turns out I missed a court date for a fix it ticket back in 2014. It was for expired registration. I had paid all of the fees, but didn’t have an extra $300 laying around to get the check engine light to go out so it would pass smog. For those of you who don’t live in Eco Freak California, we have to have our cars pass a smog test every 2 years to make certain our air is cleaner than it has ever been. I’m surprised they don’t make us all go around with pure oxygen around our necks. Anyway, I was given a ticket, but because I had just moved and the local post office has its head so far up its ass it’s coming out its head, they never delivered the summons court date. I had registered my car two times during that time and nothing was said. Not until I got the notice to renew my driver’s license. I’m now part of a class action lawsuit against Solano County Superior Court for giving fix it tickets to poor people and taking away their driver’s licenses if they can’t afford to comply. They target people with older cars, knowing we don’t have the money to fight them. I never thought I’d be working with the ACLU, but thank God they are there. It shouldn’t be illegal to be poor.

            I was able to do some community service hours helping Heather House Homeless Shelter raise some much needed funds. I will continue to help them. Because I’ve been there, done that, and know it’s tough. I finally got my driver’s license in the mail 4 days ago.

            In addition to being sick most of the year, my next door neighbor Chris, who I used to give my recycling to and he would keep the carport clean, decided to start using meth again. And decided that no one was going to sleep past 4am in the summer as he collected bottles from the local businesses and banged them under my window. In September, I had finally had enough of it and called police on him. Then he began threatening to kill me and called me fat names every time I would leave my apartment. I would say nothing to him, and he would come out of his apartment and start yelling at me, saying things like he’s going to kill me but have to find a piano box to bury me in because I’m so fat. Gee, I though Middle School ended in the 1970’s for me. I called police and they said they could do nothing that it was a problem between me, Chris and the property manager. So every time Chris did this, I texted the property manager. I also alerted housing, since he’s on Section 8 housing as well. They said there was nothing they could do. Then Chris began blaring his stereo, turning up a woofer a friend bought him, knowing it bothers me. He knows this because when he was human, I would walk over to his place and ask him to turn it down. He apologized and said it’s hard to tell with the woofer. I told him since he lives in an apartment, he doesn’t need a woofer. I was literally losing my mind. I complained on Facebook and got some great advice, to get a restraining order, which I am pursuing. I go to the hearing tomorrow and I pray the judge grants it. Even though he is supposed to be gone by the end of February – the property manager finally got off his ass and refused to renew Chris’ lease – I plan on finding a new place this year and don’t want to ever see his face again. Meth is bad. People who take it are worse.

            That’s where my life is a week before Catmas. I’m petsitting again and am getting my laundry done as well. My goals for this year are to find a better place to live, and get healthy. I hope your New Year brings you everything your heart desires.