I Ain't Afraid of No Daleks

It's true, what I wrote a few days back. If I were to die without warning (not that I'm planning to), no one would know. It's sobering to know this. I think it hit home to me, a little, when mum died. She died early on a Tuesday morning, and Friday morning, we were there, beside a mound of freshly dug earth, a pale blue pauper's casket, raised above the muddy earth, resting on a sheet of fake plastic grass, six of us and the local Presbyterian minister--the new one--who was gracious, but clearly uncomfortable, officiating. No one else, but the respectful workmen, manning the near nearby backhoe.

The snow had come and gone, the rain had held off. No one came to her funeral. She'd lived in that village for over 25 years, was the school secretary for several years, before I was born. She was the village's librarian for over 15 years, a member of the Presbyterian church from wence the nervous lady minister came...and no one bothered. Just two anuts, an uncle--from dad's side, mum was pretty much the last of her family, me and my slightly older sister, and the nephew I love, but rarely have seen.

There was just us, the workmen and the silent, dripping woods nearby. We stood in the deep mud, while the minister read some prayers. I read a passage, and some lame poem I'd written on the fly. No flowers. No wake in some posh funeral parlor. After, everyone got into their cars, and went to Friendly's resturant for lunch. Just another day. There is no marker for mum--I still have yet to pay for the funeral, entirely--owe about 435 dollars, yet, I think. It's just a mound of earth, atop my grandfather's grave.

For me, I know, there may not even be a proper burial--not unless I miracuously land a good-paying job, or win the lottery, and on both counts, I've a better chance of being hit by comet falling to earth. So, like mum, I've no insurance. And, with the burial of mum, there's no more room on the last family plot. So it's Potter's Field and a pauper's grave for me, as well. And few if any mourners--likely less than mum had. It's a lonely feeling,knowing that. Sad and lonely.

You start to realize, when you get to thinking like this, how really small you are, in the scheme of things. Oh, there's loads of people with big or closely knit families, or loads of friends, or who are well-respected and/or famous. Those people will long be remembered.

But people like me...we're forgotten almost instantly. A leaf that falls in the autumn woods, perhaps picked up by some passerby, pressed between the pages of a book, and then left there, unremembered. A drop of rain, falling in a pond. The circles radiate outward--then..stop. They disappear forever.

Is that me?

Probably so. No one comes here, to my place. No one much talks to me, except in passing--a conversation of the moment, soon forgotten. And that's my life, now, isn't it? This is all there is. E--mails, and PM's and letters--but very little physical human contact. I'm am truly the drop in the pond, the leaf in the forest. I will be acknowleged for that one brief moment--and then...forgotten.

I'm not really so feeling sorry for myself, when I say all this---I am merely publicly admitting to something I've known for a long time. And I accept this. It's my reality. It's just the way things are. Maybe how they've always been, and certainly very likely--unless something occurs that seems impossible now---it's very likely this is how it will always be.

MID HUDSON VALLEY, HUDSON RIVER, NEW YORK STATE

Part of the restlessness and discontent that's upon me, I think, is that I've more or less lost my place in the world. And I'm at an impasse, cast adrift on the tumbling stream of life, like a leaf caught in the current of time, lost and drifting.

Unfortunately, I'm stumped as to how to go about finding a place for myself again. I feel so incredibly lost--have done, I think, for quite some months and months now, but simply was unaware of it.

In school, I belonged to something, I was part of something. With mum, too, I belonged, I had family, a home.

Back when I was living in our little village outside the city, when I was in my teens and early 20's especially, I truly belonged. Belonged to something far larger than a school, or a family. I belonged to the land. Many people walk through the woods and fields, and they may admire the scenery..but then, they go home, and it's just another day. And that's fine. But for me, a walk though my little woods and fields...I wasn't just an observer; I was a part of the very landscape. Just by being there, I became a fixture of the ground I walked--every footstep brought me closer to the universe--to all that was around me. Wind, sky, trees, grass, birds, insects--sound, colour, movement, smells...all were absorbed into my heart. It's better than getting high, it's something intangible, something beyond the mortal heart. And it's impossible for me to accurately describe.

I've heard it called being "centred." I certainly felt that way, that's for sure. But I felt something more--so, so much more. It's like being flooded with power--your senses are heightened, you see EVERYTHING. You become are part of everything around you. In all hours and all seasons, I was out there (thunderstorms excepted), and I so dearly miss it.

But as I've said before, it's gone.

I don't know if I'll ever "belong" again. Will I ever find a place for myself? A place where I can feel secure, where I can belong to a place, a person, a group, something bigger...it seems so very doubtful and impossible and far away, right now. I just don't know the answer to that question.

SARATOGA NATIONAL HISTORICAL PARK, UPPER HUDSON VALLEY, STILLWATER, NY (Near the spot where General Simon Frazier (British Army) died.)

So, the latest scuttlebutt from the world of Whovian fans is this:

That Series Four may be delayed by as much as 2 years! Ouch! I nearly be 50 years old by then.

I guess it's thought, or so the rumour says, that the folks that make Who need a bit of a rest. Now, having worked seven days a week for over a month non-stop, having worked more than my fair share of 10 hour days in my lifetime--and, when I was in college and caring for my parents as well, 14 hour day, 7 day weeks were the norm. It's wearing, to say the least.

But two years???? That's one helluva long holiday. Mind you, most of them can probably afford it. I went more than two months looking for work, and went hungry and lost my home, among other things. Oh well.

Be advised, this is only a rumor--but, comes from, I'm told, a fairly reliable source.
So, I guess, like a lot of things in this life, perhaps as the Doctor would say, only time will tell, ey?

"SEE, IT REALLY IS THAT BIG!"

In thinking about my mum, recently, I also thought about how much she put up with, and humored my love of horses, when I was growing up.

Oh yeah, this kid got the horse bug early. Where from, I've no clue...and odder still, I was sort of afraid of horses, for pretty much most of my youth. I'm ashamed to admit this, but I'm still afraid of falling off--but for much more serious reasons, now.

And, I never was an expert on confirmation or stuff like that. But still, the adoration was there--boy, was it there. Poor mum. She bought me dolls and dresses--but, I'd always prefer my cowboys and indians, and horse books. Oh, was mum ever thrilled when I finally started bringing home books like, "Lassie Come Home," and "King Arthur and his Knights," "Johnny Tremain" and the "Hardy Boys." Granted, they weren't "girl's" books, but, they weren't horse stories, either.

I read every single horse story--and there were well over a hundred--in mum's library, and had her order more from the storage facility at the local library federation in Albany. I belonged to a kid's horse story book club, for a time, and always bought horse books at the school's book fairs...toy store? Horse books--well, that, and Britain's cowboys. Let's not forget the magazine pics--wall to wall horse photos!

For years, they had ametuer polo matches up the road from us, in the posh Albany suburb of Loundonville, which was about a mile away, roughly. On Sundays mum would take us to watche them play. This was mostly in the late 1960's. First time I ever sat a real horse (as opposed to a pony, or a mechanical ride) was at the polo match. A bay mare named "Penny's Pride."

Then there was the trail rides and riding lessons. Horse shows..oh yes, let's not forget those. After a while, mum and/or dad knew they could just drop me off and go home or go for a ride or something. Usually it was mum, but sometimes dad took me, instead. One time, a customer of his (he was a salesman at the time) was showing her horse, and dad took me to the show--there was a real cowboy there, with a big black horse that had a genine silver studded saddle, just like what cowboy stars like Roy Rogers, the Lone Ranger and such used to ride in. Seems the cowboy was a friend of dad's customer, and the girl wrangled a ride on the fancy horse and rig for me--still have the photo of me, sitting in a special frame, here in my front room. I was wearing my western shirt and straw cowboy hat that day---it was, I think, 1972, and there I am, on that great whopping big horse, proud as can be..oh, it was a moment I've always treasured--even if it did only last 5 minutes or so. I was in seventh heaven for the rest of the day. It was a bit like getting to see the inside of Doctor Who's Tardis, would be for me now, actually. I was just plain chuffed fro the rest of the summer.

Around 1976, a miracle happened--or at least, I considered so. A riding stable came to Loudnonville...within walking distance--no more depending on mum and dad for rides! And, even better, I could shovel sh...I mean manure and clean tack, in exchange for lessons! Hooray! They had this great and wonderful gelding--he was a draft-thorobred cross, named "Budwiser," or Buddy, as we all called him. He was the kindest, most patient--and intelligent horse I've ever had the pleasure of riding. And yes, I was a terrible rider. No, not putting myself down, or exaggerating. I sucked at horsemanship--but I did try really hard, and I did learn. Yours truly, besides being hefty and a tad clumsy, also, through a childhood illness, has poor coordination. But, I worked hard and gradually made some headway. English (hunt seat) wasn't really my favourite, tho', I did take lessons. The stable didn't own any western saddles, so one Christmas, my parents splurged and bought me a used--okay, very very used---western saddle. It was great! The next best thing to owning a horse, to me, is owning your own saddle. So, I began taking western lessons on Buddy. I have a photo of us, loping round the ring one winter, that mum took (in the same frame, or course, as my other photo) one time.

That year was also a great year as far as my birthday goes. Tho' my birthday is in late October, I didn't get my prezzie, really, until nearly a month later. The day of my birthday, mum surprised me with a ticket to the National Horse Show at Madison Square Garden in Manhattan (New York City). I was thrilled! I'd always wanted to go, read about it often, but never thought I'd get to see it. And it was, wonderful. I got to see the Royal Canadian Mounties do their musical ride, and world class show jumpers all in the same day. It was just...wonderful. And afterwards--mum, bless her, splurged still more (and now I know, in my elder years, that she could ill afford it, then) and got us a carriage ride through Central Park. It truly was a day worth remembering.