Swamp Cooler

The swamp cooler in the little house is probably forty years old. I remember it from the days the little house was a workshop. It's much bigger than the swamp cooler in the big house. It should keep this place almost frigid, but something is not working quite right. Sadly I am not of the generation of women who grew up knowing that they could do anything, so fixing it myself is out of the question. But I think I have some idea what the problem is--I think it's the fan belt. If not the fan belt, then the problem is the motor that runs the big barrel fan. I will put motor lubricating oil on my shopping list, and hope I can keep it running through July and most of August. That is the scorcher time in Salt Lake. Every day will be over a hundred degrees, and the nights will only cool into the eighties.

So, here you go Diva. There are two motors that make a swamp cooler work. The swamp part of swamp cooler is the water that's pumped from the bottom of the cooler up to the filters that line the three outside walls of the cooler. This pump sits on the bottom and sucks up water into the tubes that feed it into little troughs in the top of each side of the cooler where it trickles in a steady stream, so that the air being sucked through them is cooled. The other motor runs the big barrel fan that propels the air into the house. A swamp cooler is only effective in a very dry climate. Before my handyman retired, we had a conversation about swamp cooler versus central air-conditioning. He has both in his house, so has the option to use one or the other. He said the only time he ever uses his air-conditioning is when the humidity is above 20%. The rest of the time the swamp cooler is more effective and comfortable. It makes the cool air coming into the house slightly moist and softer seeming.

I know some man is going to read this, and laugh his ass off at my shaky grasp of the workings of a swamp cooler. But that's the best I can do.

Sad Little Saturday

Okay, it comes down to the anticlimax of daily life. I must get my sorry ass in gear, and clean this box before it kills me. Yes, vacuuming is on my list of chores. A dreary trip to the store, mainly to pick up drugs, more cantaloupe, more Jiffy cornbread mix, and smokes. (Fuck you Petro! No I will not quit! ) Today is amateur day at the grocery store. It's send the kids to do the shopping day, so you can stay home and write checks to pay bills. The kids are pissed off that they are saddled with this unpleasant chore, and take their revenge on the rest of us, by leaving their carts blocking our way while they wander off looking for something odd like baking soda. What do they know of baking soda? What the fuck is baking soda anyway? And why would anyone at their house need baking soda--nobody bakes anything anymore. You want cookies? Buy them in the tube, ready made dough. Mom's going old school in this heat? Not likely.

Then there is the heat. It's in the mid 90s in the deep shade of the gazebo. It will be in the high nineties or worse on the sea of blacktop at the store. At least I have no need to roll my windows up. I'm driving a car I could leave my keys in with the windows rolled down, and nobody in a car stealing mood would look twice at it. No self respecting car thief would be caught dead in the dog mobile.

I'm going to buy some really good brownie mix. My Administrator needs a brownie fix. It costs a fortune to send a care package next day air to San Francisco, but I would have no blog without him. And since I get his expert help for free, while others pay for his services, I'm only too happy to be his surrogate mother, and send him brownies. I'll have to wait to bake until close to midnight--let the place cool down, get the windows open.

I'm working on a righteous political rant. It's percolating. It will have to be released soon, or I will blow a gasket, and what with the infected finger and the broken toe, I can't afford any more injuries. I have a doctor appointment Monday.

Maybe I'll take a nap, and do all my work in the middle of the night. I can only use the swamp cooler for short bursts of cool air since the motor is about to die. I keep planning to do a post on swamp coolers for Divajood, since every time I mention my swamp cooler she asks, "What's a swamp cooler?" So, for now, I'll go back to my rumpled bed, and write checks to the utility companies, so I can continue to run the fan all night, continue to take cool showers. This chore will make me sleepy.

Thrills

I've had more than my share of thrills in my strange, long life. My horrid childhood sent me off, spinning like a wobbly top, into a big wide world, alone and penniless. I had one marketable asset, and I used it for all it was worth. If I had believed I could succeed and thrive, I might have done a lot of things differently. I might have married well. I might have chosen a man who was worth loving. I might have married a man with prospects, a man determined to give me a happy, secure life. I might have a grown child now. I might have been a kind and loving parent. I might have used the talents I possessed. I might have focused my drive and ambition. But I did survive. And the journey has been thrilling.

The part of my life that has been most difficult and painful has been my relationships with men. That aspect of my journey has caused me a great deal of pain. It is, I think, and what my therapists have told me, a result of the dreadful relationship with both my parents. I think I chose men who were more like my mother than my father, though I so feared choosing someone like my father, that I could not have a child for fear of being like my mother, a woman who didn't even like her child, and chose men who were abusive to them both. But the drama of having a monstrous childhood is almost certain to send you off on a quest to find a way to make it all come out right. So you choose a mate with whom you can reenact your early experiences, and get a different outcome. You do it over and over, and still keep getting the same terrible outcome. And then you stop trying.

But it is certainly fertile material from which to create something compelling and real. It might not be pleasant or easy, it might scare you with it's intensity, but it's true, it's your truth. Your truth should be told. We all have so much in common. We all have these wounds from our childhoods. Tell your story. Call it "fiction." Let it protect you. Maybe it will someday be read and someone will say, "God, that's great writing. Let's publish it." And then maybe someone will read the book and say, "My god, what a compelling story. Let's make a movie of it." And who knows, it might change the outcome after all. It might touch someone else in such a way that they can then look in the mirror and say, "I'm not alone. She did it, maybe I can, too."

Crunchy Floor and Other Woes

Well, this is it, post number 200! And what a sad little post it will be. Prepare yourself for the crushing disappointment. But I think I see a bit of crepe paper and a new years horn and the sound of three hands clapping.

I'll start with the crunchy floor which might explain the broken toe, but that could be a stretch, since I have no recollection of an actual thing I stepped on with my morning bare feet, to race to the toilet to pee. I must have fallen asleep before emptying my bladder last night. So, in racing to the bathroom this morning, I broke my little toe of my left foot. Every injury to my ankle or foot has been this clumsy left foot. This is, at least, the third time I broke that damn left little toe. So the rest of the run was a hobble, accompanied by much moaning and swearing. And I keep retracing ,what I imagine, was my route through this small house--really only one big room, save for the bathroom greenhouse combo--more on that later. There are several possible toe breaking obstacles. I might take pictures to illustrate the hazards of cramming too much big furniture into a tiny space.

Then there is the situation of the recurring morning headache. (Fuck you Petro, I will not, so just shut up.) Before I can even sit all the way up I am grabbing the 800mg ibuprofen and opening my throat as wide as it will go, to swallow, with lots of stale, warm water, that first horse pill of the day. I'm beginning to think the morning migraine is a result of oxygen deprivation during the night because I have sleep apnea. And the solution to this problem is an oxygen tank in the closet. A few hits before bed, and a couple upon awaking. (Shut up you little bastard. I will not, will not, will not.) Anyway, I'm sitting on the toilet with a broken little toe and a roaring headache, and the floor is crunchy. That's for starters.

I don't remember if I told you this, but a couple of weeks ago or three, I had a sore middle finger... Ahh, it's coming back to me. I did write about it. Well, it might be karma after all. And it's definitely staph. And it's back! Same finger--left middle finger. That's the arm that you rest with your bent elbow out the open window, hand in the car. Just in case you need to flip someone off. Honestly I gave it up years ago. Oh, you have air conditioning? Well fuck me! I had no idea. My car was new in 1986. It had air conditioning then, heat too. But I digress. I'm thinking I should just go to the insta-care again, where three or four weeks ago I went to get it lanced, and where they got the culture to determine what kind of infection it was. Too convoluted for you? Well, try to keep up, please. You should have been able to tell from the title of this moan that you were in for a bit of complaining. You want artful complaining? You try it with a broken toe and a headache, and now the fucking swamp cooler is starting to overheat. I must get some small motor lube for it's two motors. Fuck me again. Maybe one of my neighbors has a bit they'll loan me. As I recall you put a bit of oil in all the little round holes in all those hard to reach places--which is why the handyman removed the entire motor prior to lubing last year, just before he told me he was retiring and stopped taking my calls. I do not remove it from is tight little space, but spray it's holes with WD 40, and listen to the growing whine. If the dog starts looking pained, I know it's starting to reach unbearably high pitch and about to burst into flame, and must be shut down for at least an hour. Well, a half hour is about all I can take today. On top of everything else it's a scorcher. Must I go on?

Vacuuming is out of the question.

A Bush By Any Other Name

I was supposed to be writing. You know, serious, real writing. After I finished, or thought I finished, The End of Love, one of the commenters wondered if I shouldn't put some meat on the bones of poor Junior. Then a new commenter, a man I'd never seen around these parts, suggested that I was awfully hard on the poor guy. Had Judith tried an intervention for Junior? Obviously one doesn't leave a dying drunk without trying everything to save him. Forget love, what about human compassion and kindness, and simple human decency. Junior? Really? Okay, let's give Junior's side of the story, or at least the early years or even just the first couple of months. That should set the stage for what comes later for Junior, right?

So I started, and it was interesting going for awhile looking at the world through Junior's eyes. But dammit, Junior doesn't really interest me that much anymore. I got over Junior pretty fast. I stepped over him on the way out the door. What got me interested again was when, in giving the back story on Junior, my focus turned to Judith, and what they hell was she thinking to leave her husband... Well, that's not hard to figure out. That's the problem with all of the Judith stories. What the hell was Judith thinking to end up with this schmuck? That's a big question for me. But I think now I know the answer. It's complicated psychological stuff. But to the outsider, it's a head smacking question. How could she end up with this guy??? Why did she do it? And then I got bored with her story, and went looking for diversion. So much for work.

I went to visit Dcup's where I'm always entertained, and challenged, or moved, and what did I find but a serious discussion of vaginas. Having had one all my life I thought I knew almost everything there was to know about the vagina, but I know so very little, it turns out. This might have been part of Judith's problem. She knew so little about her own vagina.

When I was little, it was called a twat. In my house I had heard someone refer to what I knew of the place I pee peed from as a twat. We lived in Texas. I guess that explains something, but I pronounced the word tock. So for my very early years it was my tock. As in tick tock. When I was in need of relieving my bladder it was my tock that needed attention--I knew nothing of bladders.

I think what started the interest in vaginas, as a subject at Dcups, was the revelation that there is a booming new business amongst the most famous and renowned plastic surgeons in Vaginal Reconstruction. This goes way beyond tending to the bush. This is much more than mere grooming. We're talking vaginal ideal. Think of that for a moment. VAGINAL IDEAL!!!! What does it look like, you might ask? Well it's small and pink and it's clit peeks out at you and probably winks and smiles. Open wide, but not too wide. Show pink. Like a nine year old. Apparently internet porn has made the fashionable pussy, the pussy that looks like a little girls. This creates lots of jobs. Since women of sex having age don't have little pink pussies. God for fucking bid that you've had a kid or three, it is this very motherfucking fact that creates this need for women who wax other women's twats. You need a housekeeper and a what!!? And if that wasn't bad enough, there is now the burning need for plastic surgeons to make them look virginal again. Well that's a relief. Create a need, and then the need creates a demand, and that creates the Specialists to fill the need. Capitalism at work. Isn't America a wonderful place.

P.S. Tomorrow will be my 200 post in six months of blogging. Scary, huh?

Kitchen window

Living Alone

I finally have the incredible luxury to do whatever I want. My time is my own. I have no set schedule: can stay up as late as I wish, sleep in as late as I can, eat when I'm hungry, and don't have to worry about the needs of anyone who expects me to feed them, talk to them, listen to them, or to do what they want when I don't. I consider this a luxury. Others might consider it a lonely, sad, wasted life. For a writer, time to be alone with something to say is like food for the soul. Other's might find my solitary life dull beyond belief. I luxuriate in it. I have achieved my life's ambition--to live a quiet, peaceful, solitary life with time to write.

I have friends who come to visit me, but they all know that dropping in on me is not the thing to do. I need a little warning that company is coming. My cottage is not accessible without coming through a locked gate with Roscoe in the yard. Roscoe is the big, yellow Lab you've seen in photos I post on days when I have nothing to say and still want to hear from you. Some of you have commented that Roscoe looks like the sort of sweetie who would welcome anyone--this is not the case. Roscoe is the best guard dog I have ever known. He hates all men just on general principle. If I have scheduled work on the house, and have a strange man coming over, he has to call me when he arrives out front, so I can meet him at the gate. Roscoe will be aggressive toward strange men, so it is important that a man coming into the yard listen to my instructions. I say, "Don't look at Roscoe. Talk directly to me. As long as I seem unalarmed by your presence, Roscoe will behave. He minds me, but don't try to pet him. Don't talk to him. He's a guard dog. It's his job to protect. As long as I don't seem worried about you, he won't be aggressive. Some men will not come into the yard even after I assure them that if they follow my instructions they will be safe. I'm fine with that. Better they should be afraid to enter the property, than think they can ignore my warnings about Roscoe. And if they won't take my instructions about a dog, they won't listen to what I want them to do on the house, won't take me seriously.

Cyrus, though huge and scary looking, is the gentlest dog I've ever known. His nine years as a shelter dog has left it's mark on him. From his behavior, I'd say he probably had some very hard times. He wears the scars of battle with other dogs. He's terrified of any sound that might be gunshot. This coming month is going to be hard on Cryus. The occasional firework is popping off almost every night now. And in Utah we have two holidays that require huge fireworks displays and they are in my vicinity. He was probably kenneled most of the time. So, for Cyrus, my small house is probably like a very luxurious kennel with company. He has three beds: one by my computer, and one on either side of my bed. He is content to hang with me. The only time he willingly leaves the house is when I get up in the morning. I fix myself my first latte of the morning, grab my smokes and out we go. He does what he needs to do and then wants to go quickly back into the house. I fix his breakfast and give him his morning meds. Then usually I sit down in front of the computer.

I get email alerts from several news sources, so the minute I touch the space bar about six emails await my perusal. I check the blog. I check my heddaspam email. If nothing's urgent there, I turn on MSNBC and check the days news stories. Usually this is a huge disappointment since Contessa Brewer or Bruster or whatever the fuck her name is, is always annoying to me. I'm not sure what it is about her--maybe it's her voice, or her long hair, or her slightly vapid way of covering a particular story--but whatever it is, I find myself saying , "Shut the fuck up!" at least a couple of times every half hour.

I take a break from this strenuous schedule mid-day for a walk with Cyrus. He doesn't want to leave the house, but he is obedient. I say, "Let's go for a walk, Cyrus." He pretends he doesn't hear me, but when I put my straw hat on, grab a couple of grocery bags and his leash, he gets up and follows me out, but he will not leave the yard unless he's on leash. He walks well with me, no pulling or resistance. He's a good dog.

So, there you have it, my small life. Oddly, it is you I find most interesting. Your interests, your lives, your passions that are most engaging to me these days. I envy some of you your skills with this technology. Dcup, at Politits, has the most beautiful site. She not only writes well, she is also a terrific photographer and graphic artist. I have the feeling she does everything well. She's a wife, mother, writer, cook, photographer, artist and working woman. If that old Helen Reddy song, I Am Woman, applied to anyone, it is Dcup:

You can bend but never break me
'cause it only serves to make me
More determined to achieve my final goal
And I come back even stronger
Not a novice any longer
'cause you've deepened the conviction in my soul

The Deck, The Porch, The Great Outdoors and Other Distractions

This is a distraction so we can talk of anything. So, time to speak up, make your indecent proposals, talk politics or books, or general complaining. knock yourself out.

Migraine Sunday

Two flies buzz around quick and darting. I'm trying to sleep away a migraine and the damned things keep lighting on my face. I pull the sheet over my face and try to go back to sleep. Cyrus snaps at one, but is not quite fast enough. It's hot in the house and finally I give up and roll out of bed. I have been too interested in blogging to clean my house for over a week. Small spaces need order. This is now no longer ordered. Must make progress. After I find a hammer and smash one of my toes so my headache isn't the focus anymore, I might start working on creating a little order and beauty. Until then I'm going to show you my dirty little house from the comfort of my bed. Arrgh. Pain.

A Bit of Domesticity

There is really nothing to say. I just wanted to bring you in to my small domestic life. These days that includes cornbread, espresso, and some concoction for dinner. Always involves a cast- iron skillet with melted butter....

Not yet a vegetarian there will be meat. I have just begun to bore you with the small details of daily life.

Soon I will get back to Judith and Junior Blue. We're not through with him yet. The man needs meat on the bone, back story so to speak. He is husband number three. I have skipped husband number one and two. Nick, the history professor, has requested an accounting of husband one and two. Someday. Maybe. If I'm feeling really brave.

Inside Looking Out

I Have Done It In Under Twenty Four Hours.

I thought I was writing it here, but like the good little student I am, I was actually writing it as a new post under Savage Stories. It's called "The End of Love." Labeled Dorothy Parker, Leonard Cohan, and Stella.

Since I did this in such a short time, it probably needs editing. All writers need editors. I am my only editor. This is not ideal. If you want to help, jump right in there with the comments. If I misspelled something, despite the functioning spellcheck, feel free to point it out, but please be specific. Randal is a perfectionist in his own writing. He trusts himself, or else his wife is his editor. I need a good editor. And an agent, and a publisher who would provide the sorely needed editor.

"Big Blond"

This is the first time I've read Dorothy Parker's brilliant short story Big Blond. As I was reading it I kept think of the many versions of Big Blond I could write. Not just my own, but those of women I've known.

I think I've written a short version of the failed suicide attempt and the pain of finding yourself alive that comes after in Maggy. The chapter is called Crazy. It is for me, always the back story that I need. I want the map of how you got to be "Big Blond." How did I? It's a crazy childhood and a strange culture that gets a woman to that location. I have model friends in their early fifties by now who have gone MIA. Maybe into their Big Blond faze. I hope not, but fear it. Now I am again inspired to write more short stories. It was husband number three's metier, sacred territory for him. It took me twenty years after leaving him to dare to try. Still Life was my first attempt. I'm getting braver all the time. I'm itching to kick my drunken ex while he's in a drunken coma after pissing the bed. I'm wearing high heeled boots. My name is Judith Blue. His is Junior. We live in Springfield, Missouri, which I pronounce misery. It's in the works.

Honeysuckle Summer Evening

Mint and white roses with aspen and a wall of creeping Jenny in the background on the fence. The familiar garden path from the cottage to the maim house. And two panes out of three of the greenhouse--one pane with a trellis leaning and covered with honeysuckle, and reflected in the glass the incredible invisible woman. This is a very peaceful place.

There is a tangle of honeysuckle covering the open bathroom window and when the breeze blows, the scent of honeysuckle fills the room. The glass needs cleaning, the vines pulled some from behind the trellis and the grill over the bathroom window.

The weeds need to be pulled from the spaces between the stones. But I am lazy, and it will wait.



Anyone care to take bets on who gets the job of hosting Meet the Press? We've had the week long wake. It's a fair question to ask. Let's get on with it.

Can the Funeral End Now?

I'm going into a little seclusion, staying in, reading Dorothy Parker, hoping the long deification of Tim Russert will finally end soon, so we can get on with the business of electing a President to clean up the mess left by the eight years of Republican rule. Notice I didn't say governance?

Tim must have been a swell guy, but honestly I can't ever remember anything lasting this long in the way of State Funerals. So goodbye Tim. Now it's time to move off the stage, and let the living get on with living.

It's getting hot here. Swamp cooler weather. (This is the kind of thing I need a man for). I can appreciate a man's many talents, like writing poetry and such, but if he can't hook up the swamp cooler and hang the hammock, well... Not so much. My one big love could play any musical instrument, well even, could compose and write songs, could, in fact, do anything, and do it well, and was smart, too, but... I need to live alone. Short visits are fine, so long as my guest is willing to sleep in the hammock alone, or get a hotel room. And in the hottest of weather, it's almost always cool in the deep shade of the gazebo. Then, late in the evening, the breeze that blows down Emigration Canyon, brings the scent of honeysuckle into the house through open windows.

My Love Tells Me

My love tells me I snore
Make sounds like a Tuva singer and the sonar sound of mating dolphin
At odd intervals of no breathing, counted fourteen seconds
Total silence, no intake or exhalation of air, no breathing then
A lung shattering, vibrating, long, tuval gasp
Then the otherworldly dolphin squeal
This seems to emanate from the back of my nose so
It would be called nasal
He has tape recorded this sound
He isn’t exaggerating
My love tells me
It’s a deal killer.

Just One Damn Thing After Another

I've had a series of computing problems that would stump the skilled among you, but stopped me in my tracks. I was posting the final chapters of the novel Maggy and the chapter part of my layout vanished along with all the thirty something chapters already linked. For most of you this might not be a big deal, for me it requires a visit with my charming, talented, handsome (I'm sure from his voice) Administrator, Phillip, who lives in San Francisco and manages companies' computer problems for a living. We have become unlikely friends, I, the computer illiterate, and he, the umber mensch of computer wizardry. He hates politics and political writing, he hates a lot of what I write about, and yet he loves my writing. Well, sometimes he loves my writing. But he is a patient and kind teacher and so generous with his time. When I told him I lost my chapters element from my novel blog he came over and restored it. Somehow, somewhere he found the list of chapters I'd linked so far and set me up to restore the list. Then off he went to watch basketball and drink beer. I linked almost thirty chapters and then decided to stop to fix myself something to eat. Then a brief walk for Cyrus and me. When I got home I watched a few minutes of TV and during those few minutes, for a brief few seconds I had a power outage. Alarmed, I went to my computer and it started up again. I signed in and tried to restore what I'd been working on and could not activate any of my functions. No Ichat, no Camino, no Utah Savage, no chapters. Phillip was not available and so I went to bed and sucked my thumb. No, not quite, I watched old reruns of Lawn Order, which is a version of thumb sucking for me.

This morning I emailed Phillip, but he was busy. The Unconventional Conventionist emailed me offering to help. Then the crucial question, mac or not mac? Brand new Imac, I proudly said. "Too bad, no can help." It really is the thought that counts. Just the offer when you're in distress is helpful. Thanks UC, I will forever think of you as a gentleman. Chivalrous and kind. Generous and good hearted.

Phillip called me in the afternoon walking to one of his clients to see what what my problem was. Said he'd call as soon as he got home. Longer story a little shorter, after hours of work restoring my functions and bidding me good night, all is well again and the book is finished. The charming Unconventional one performed a solo piece on the piano with rolling lyrics for the chapter Body Warmth. I need Phillips help to link that. There are more pictures for the book--I will add them slowly. I need to unlink some things and link others, but basically the book is done. The last chapter, The End Of Life As We Know It, is huge and probably should be published in it's own location as a novella.

I'm now hoping a literary agent will read and like it. If you know anyone who fits that description, let me know.

June Sunday

Father's Day

"Kid's see through you," he said. ( Mother or father, you should know this--kid's see through you.) I have heard this said about Tim Russert, in the shocking aftermath of his sudden death Friday. Tim Russert will be remembered by so many of his colleagues as a man who encouraged them to be good fathers, good mother's, since it is that job that matters most. That job that will have the most lasting legacy, that will change the world, that will pass love into the future. That job is the one that will change a life, and then the lives that flow out from that life.

I am frightened about what the loss of Tim Russert might mean for the political season to come. Could one man matter so much? How will we know?

But what moves me most right now, are the stories his colleagues tell of Tim Russert the son, and Tim Russert the father. And it is this aspect of Tim Russert, the man, both father and son, that has moved me most.


Father's Day was always a difficult day for me. I had not one bad father, but two. Abandoned by both. With never a backward look as far as I knew. No birthday gift, or card, or call for an abandoned daughter. A silence so profound for me, it was deafening. It made me sad, and lonely at first. It made me feel unloved. And finally it made me angry. It wounded me, and so profoundly, it damaged every relationship with every man to come later in my life. The little girl who got left by her daddies, left every man to come after. I became the woman who leaves.

I left my first love, just when I knew I loved him. I married men I didn't love and left them, too. I made love without loving. What did I know of love? What did I know of men? That no matter how much you loved them, they'd leave you? I knew that no matter how much you needed them, they would leave and never look back. And this is the woman I became.

I got pregnant once in my mid twenties. Pregnant by a man I feared. How can you love a man you fear? A better question might be, how can you make love to a man you fear? But that's a longer story. For now, I'll simply say, I knew I did not want this man to be my child's father. I did not want to be tied to this man for the rest of my life, trying to force him to be a good father. What did I know of good fathers? And I worried that I would not be able to protect a child of mine from the wound that broke and hardened my heart. And so (pre Roe v Wade), I chose to have an abortion. I can't really say I regretted the choice I made. Because, late in life, grown up daughters have found me.

Now one of my daughters is having nightmares that there are tanks in the streets, a knock at the door, a gun to her head. Apocalyptic nightmares, recurring. And in the last few days she said in passing, that her father has been calling her. Her father, the man who walked out on her and her little brother when they were small, leaving her mother to raise them alone. He fathered other children. Left them, too. Now that she is almost thirty, this fatally flawed father wants to talk to his daughter. There is desperation in his plea. She does not answer the phone. She does not return the calls. He texts her, he pleads. He wants to bring her back to God, he says. She listens but doesn't hear. And now I believe I understand the nature of her dreams. The unwanted invader at the door, forcing in his way. The gun in the face.

A father's abandonment leaves a wound that might not heal. It might leave you childless, alone. It might hold you hostage a lifetime. Fathers, your kids see through you.

Tim Russert Dies Today at 58