What Else is There?
©Mental Dimensions Humor Ezine
by Sylvya Stone
.:Non Humor:.
Written in May, 2004 -- Published online 01/11/2006
A friend asked me: What else is there? My question back was: Are you referring to heaven or hell? He said, "I don't believe in heaven or hell. What proof is there that they exist? Hell can be on this earth," he added. I agreed. And I said, "so can heaven." He shook his head in agreement.
Hell's a hobbled horse-whose tightly clenched limb and cinched up head restricts a free-spirit. A helpless, hobbled horse is like a person bound by life's unresolved issues, internal conflicts, and daily societal battles.
Recently I witnessed a lame horse trying to walk using its dislocated rear leg. The horse was entirely helpless as three men struggled to harness the horse's tail to a barn rafter, tied his haltered head on a short lead to a post, and cinched his lame leg up behind him with block and tackle. There was no guarantee that this process was going to snap the horse's joint back into place, but the horse's future was beginning to look bleak if something wasn't done.
Hobbled many years ago by one of life's unsuspecting curve balls, the single-handed death of my husband, I might add, his own hand. Abandoned, I was thrust into single parenthood, a mother raising five children. I toughed it out by myself for better and sometimes worse. I worked, resumed a college education, ran a household, managed kids and on-again-off-again relationships with members of the opposite sex. Mr. Right was not to be found. Children were not to be managed. A household was not to be kept. College education sporadically focused on. Work lasted about as long as relationships. The only thing we could count on was monthly Social Security Survivor benefits, which covered housing, food, utilities, and clothing. Health and dental insurance premiums, car payments, repairs and car insurance, gas, maintenance of any kind, extras and miscellaneous expenditures such as trips and holidays hobbled the budget.
It's 2004. The children are grown and I am still single. I have six grandchildren that bring joy to my heart. I don't see them very often because I have moved away from home. We do keep in touch often thanks to the ever-expanding field of electronics.
The latest family event that will be bringing my family together is my youngest daughter's graduation. Chaotic laughter and hectic hoopla are in store when we will all assemble for Clarice's graduation exercise and celebration in Hayward, Wisconsin. Grandma has the longest distance to travel-Kalispell, Montana to St. Paul, Minnesota-on Amtrak. The last time I rode Amtrak was with my daughter Clarice. It was from San Antonio to St. Paul, 36 hours in coach. We got off the train weaving back and forth with every step we took. That was the same 36 hours, April 19, 1995, when Terry McVeigh drove a truck loaded with explosives into the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, ripping off the north half of the building and killing hundreds of people.
In the summer of 1997, I walked into the Wordscapes Classroom. Little did I know that that was going to be a turning point in my ever-evolving stream of life. There was no other place I wanted to be than having an outlet for my life-long passion of self-expression. A Northland College, creative writing and illustration student, nature bound, was a dream of a lifetime. Our course was held in the Sigurd F. Olson Institute in Ashland, Wisconsin. A center dedicated to the spirit of wilderness and artistic contributions of one nationally known naturalist and educator of northern Wisconsin. Wisconsin born myself, I identified with and claimed my outdoor heritage while participating in this course. After all, we were on sacred ground.
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