Favorite Childhood Books


One of my favorites was The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.  This was in the late 60’s before it became so popular or was made into movies.   I remember first finding it in my grade school library.  I would peruse shelves of books, just looking at titles and covers one by one. Suddenly, I stopped.  I saw a picture of a dwarf holding a flask (older copy of book).  Hmmm.. this looks interesting…I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up as my excitement built.   I took hold of the book feeling it’s promise in my hands.   I think this is the best way to find a book — to feel it calling you.  And to find it on your own — not on a best seller list, or as a present. It seems more personal, as if it is a secret shared between you and the author.

I’d like to hear about other people’s favorite childhood books, so please write in the comment box if you feel like sharing.

Houdini’s Song


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Always Something There to Remind Me.”

 Houdini’s Song

I saw the wind blow white dandelion fluff today

and remembered you.

Running, prancing, and patrolling your yard —

Long ears flapping, plumed tail flowing.

Oh, how I miss your freckled face —

Your kind brown eyes

and velvet nose.


There will never be another dog just like you.

I sure miss a friend like Hoo.

Some Enchanted Afternoon



In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “First Sight.”

Some Enchanted Afternoon

I had just dropped my son off at the bus station.  He was off to the big city — New York City — to begin his first semester of college.  I was experiencing all the classical symptoms of empty nest syndrome.  I had cried buckets of tears after his bus drove out of view.  After calming down, I knew I’d best not go back home or I’d just have another crying jag.  My friend, Sue, and her daughter, Renee, were looking to adopt a kitten.  I decided that while they were busy this day, I could look for  a kitty for them at a pet store they hadn’t gone to  yet.  (I usually do my adopting at animal shelters but they had already gone to the local one and hadn’t found any young kittens.)   Thinking of looking at kittens was already cheering me up as I drove over to the store.  With a spring in my step I walked up to the door and opened it.   A bell jangled to announce my arrival.  As I stepped in, I looked to the back of the store and stopped.  There was a   beautiful black and white tuxedo kitten with white whiskers and a white splotch on her nose. She looked just like the neighbor’s cat from my childhood.  I was instantly in love and I was twenty feet away.  A salesman asked me if I needed any help.  In a daze, I said “yes, I see a kitten” and walked past him in a trance. It was as if I were hypnotized. When I would remember these moments afterwards, I would hear the song “Some Enchanted Evening” playing in the background.

“Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger – You may see a stranger across a crowded room… and somehow you know, you know even then, that somehow you’ll see him again and again…”

Soon I reached the cage and I couldn’t believe how cute she was.  “Hello kitty”.  I greeted her while peering through the cage bars.  She mewed back.  The saleslady said I could take her out and hold her. (Its times like this I feel how great it is to be an adult!)  I opened the cage door and carefully gathered up her tiny furry body and brought her to my chest.  She didn’t protest but cuddled against me. I explained to the salesperson that I was looking for a kitten for a friend and I thought this one was just right.  I stroked her and talked to her and looked at her in amazement that anything could be this adorable.  Reluctantly, I put her back in the cage to call my friend.  I called her cell phone number, but she didn’t answer.  I left a voice mail.  I tried calling again in five minutes — still no answer.  The salesperson had agreed to hold the kitten for me while I made the phone calls.  What was I to do?  Surely, she’d be gone by the end of the day if I couldn’t get hold of Sue.  I realized that there was only one thing to do.  I’d have to buy her and save her for Renee and her mom!  Surely, they would adore her and if they didn’t — hey, I’d take her!  Oh, I felt as if I had wings and could fly as I paid for her.  I carried her out to my car in a box with air holes.  Now she was meowing in protest.

Driving home, I thought about my husband, Manny, seeing her.  He loved cats and adored the one we had — Abby.  “Wait till he sees you!” I spoke back to the mewing box.  “I bet you’ll cheer him right up.”  Manny was often down lately because he had lost most of his hearing and the hearing aids only helped a little.  I got home and unlocked the front door while my dog, Hoo,  barked and jumped upon me.  “Shhh — you’ll scare the kitty” I cautioned him.  Manuel was in the bedroom and so I placed the box upon the bed and told him to come and see. Then, I opened up the top of the box a little bit and out popped a wee head with tiny ears and tiny white whiskers.  As I opened it wider, I babbled on excitedly about picking up the kitten for Sue and Renee and how I didn’t even look at any of the other kittens.  Manny’s face was beaming as the kitten hopped out of the box and began walking upon the bed.  He petted  her and said “we’ll have to figure out a name for her”.  Suddenly, I realized that he thought I had brought her home for us!  He hadn’t heard me say that she was for our friends.  What was I to do?   He hadn’t looked this happy in months.  Well…it wasn’t as if Sue or Renee had seen the kitten yet and well… wasn’t I just in love with it?  And Manny would be so disappointed…And so, we named her.  My husband was from Mexico so I wanted her name to sound Spanish.  This was the first pet we had gotten together.  We quickly settled on the name Pepita and claimed her as our own.  As for my friends, they finally found their own kitten to love and were able to forgive me for taking Pepita!

Some humour that made me giggle….. gotta laugh when you can :)


Healing From Complex Trauma & PTSD/CPTSD

Since going on a combo of meds over the last 3 years, to help manage my severe PTSD/Complex PTSD symptoms….I’ve put on weight. Two of the meds were ones most people gain weight with, and since being medication free for about 9 months now…… I still haven’t lost the weight. I would like to lose about 5 kilo’s, but it won’t shift. And now I have physical health issues and pain, hindering exercise.

So this amused me…. 🙂

With some things, it is a appropriate to find a little humour. And I do 🙂


View original post

Where the Ponies Run


Somewhere the ponies run —

And I can ride, I can ride

Somewhere the ponies run

 past all the memories I fear.

Across the fields, under the sun —

We will ride, we will ride

Across the fields, under the sun

Into fair  meadows of cheer.

Sad thoughts — there will be none —

And we will dance, we will dance

Bad dreams — they will be gone —

 Our eyes will have no tears.

Somewhere the ponies run

And joy is somewhere near.

Shadows of Betrayal (Part 8)


This will probably be the hardest post I’ll ever write. Its about my father.  My father whom I loved and trusted.  The voice in the attic had been warning me, preparing me. “Good daddies don’t do that” it had said.  Then the flashbacks started.  First it was just my father walking into my darkened bedroom wearing his untied rubber-soled shoes.  The sliding and clumping sounds they made were ominous.  The next flashbacks  were of him saying my pet name in the dark “Sander, Sander” as if to see if I was awake. But I wasn’t yet ready for more memories to surface.  I wasn’t even telling my therapist about my visits to the attic or the strange flash backs.  In the midst of this, I continued writing in my journal.  This had become strange.  Often I would access memories from the rapes when I would sit down to write and of the remarks they would say to me before and after raping me.  “You should be used to this by now” is one I remember now.  I cannot recall more now and I certainly won’t try.                                I hesitate to keep typing.  I’ll just take it one sentence at a time.  I need to tell, if only for the reason that more children will be believed…if you believe me.  I sat in a cranberry-colored velveteen recliner that afternoon.  It had become my safe place.  The pressure had been building within me for the past hour.  This pressure that was relieved by my writing in my growing number of notebooks. I picked up my pen and book and found the next clean pages.   I began writing, the words flowing out onto the page without any preceding thoughts.  It was almost as if I was taking dictation.  “It won’t be like it was with those boys”.  It was my father’s voice.  “They were bad and rough.  I will be gentle. You’ll be daddy’s special girl.  It’ll be our secret though.”  Suddenly, I threw the book from my lap and came out of this seemingly hypnotic state that was like a trance.  I became aware of my breathing and the sound of the cicadas outside the window.  I looked around me as if surprised at my surroundings and seeing them for the first time.  The hard wood floors reflecting the sunlight, the electric piano against the wall, the bookcase at my elbow all stood out in sharp relief as if I could feel them without touching them. I was relieved to be there.  The clock chimed three times.   It was nearly time to walk to the bus stop and pick up my son.  I took a deep breath and stiffly got up out of the chair.  For now, it was time to return to the present.

High Anxiety (Part 7)


The visits to the attic continued.  As did the anxiety attacks.  I would hide in the powder room from my son and my husband.  I hid from my son to protect him.  I hid from my husband so he would not see me so weak.  The previous owners of the house had put an ugly beige wallpaper on the walls.  It had vertical lines and horizontal lines in  dark brown upon it.  I’d lay my hot face against the cool walls trying to calm myself.  This brought no relief.  I felt like I was going crazy.  As the anxiety intensified till I was filled with fear I would run my fingers up and down the vertical lines on the ugly walls.  And pray.  Pray not to end up crazy.  The attacks seemed to go on forever but probably lasted a half an hour.  I would emerge from the bathroom exhausted but with my mommy face in place for my son.  I had practiced smiling and imagining seeing his face before I left the room.  Within moments he would greet me enthusiastically having missed me.

“Heh, Sweetie.” I heard myself say to my child, my dream come true.

“Hi Mom-mom.  I made you a picture of a dinosaur.”  he said as he held up his latest creation.

“You did!  Lucky me, let me see.”

While I looked at his stegosaurus and he pointed out details he wanted me to notice I would think about how much I loved him.  How I wanted to be a good mom — not a crazy one.  I didn’t know then that I was going to be both for a long time.

Basket Lane (Part 6)


It looks idyllic at 7 Basket Lane.  The birch tree limbs gracefully bend in the wind, the leaves rustling gently.  Fragrant roses climb the trellis by the front door seeming to welcome visitors in to experience the comforts of home.  The scent of  freshly  mown grass reminds one of the pleasures of suburbia.  Tiger lilies and purple irises rise out of the carefully thought out garden landscape.

But the people who live there are nuts.

Their children call this Basket Case Lane.  A very apt description of the residents.

There is Josie — the mom;  Frank — the dad and Barb and Sandy — the daughters.

Frank is a mild-mannered shoe salesman who takes pride in being a white-collar worker.  Josie is a stay-at-home with a bit of an edge.  If she finds out it is your dog that has been pooping in her carefully manicured yard you will find said poop in the front seat of your car.  Barb is  a very social teenager who tortures herself wearing  hair curlers.  Sandy is in grade school and has a best friend with the same first name and same birthday.  They hide messages and small toys or gifts for each other in the roots of a bush in the second Sandy’s yard.

I am Sandy. I like to talk about myself in both the first person and third person and sometimes using a plural pronoun.

The family goes to a Catholic Church every week, sometimes Sunday and sometimes Saturday night.  The girls go to religious instruction during the week.  Their parents have an unread Bible in the house, though they do enjoy reading about the lives of Saints. And they  watch  the movie, King of Kings, every Easter season.

As a matter of fact, every holiday is thoroughly celebrated – from Valentine’s Day to Halloween. Vinyl  window clings adorn the windows for each  and sometimes Josie even paints decorations upon the windows.  The decorating is not a family affair though (with the children helping) because everything must be perfect. The Christmas tree is decorated only by Josie who rants and raves and curses like a sailor  throughout the festooning of said tree.  Woe to anyone who moves too quickly by the Christmas tree and causes the tinsel to lie crooked; there will be a weeping and gnashing of teeth by mom and perhaps a quick, sharp kick to the offender’s behind.

So far, you think, only Mom’s sanity  is starting to look a bit questionable or she at least has anger and control issues. Ah,  but  we are just getting started.