Progress Report

But First...

You who have been coming here for any length of time are already used to my frequent template changes; as one who constantly reinvents herself, I like this blog to reflect my latest incarnation. Those of you who are new, well, get used to it. This is how I've rolled since I began blogging in 2002.

Lately, I seem to be drawn to bolder, more vibrant colors, which is very different from my usual muted tones. I attribute this to my victory over depression, which I've been battling for over a decade. Ah, well. Who knows what lurks within any of us?

Since our mini-holiday at Tenkiller Ferry Lake (that entry can be read here), I'm feeling more positive, refreshed and forward-looking than I have in many, many years. I suppose that's what vacations are supposed to do to us, but it's been so long, I guess I forgot what this feels like. Here's a little rundown:

2000: Nettl and I left our blissful life in Denver, where I had a well-paying job and tons of credit, to live in Stillwater, where she was to finish her masters degree. Unable to land a job that paid what I needed to manage my financial health, I had to settle for the amount I'd made when I first started out in 1976. That's the economy here, folks. Just the two of us, we had plans for our future: to leave Stillwater and live either in Europe or California. In November, however, my mom had a stroke. She was in Denver at the time so we brought her to Stillwater to live with is, along with my son, Joel, who has Asperger's Syndrome. Doggedly positive, we set into more of a family life than we'd at first anticipated. Plans to move had to be shelved.

2001: Nettl was thrown into a bitter custody battle over her three kids, ages 7-11.

2002: Taking care of my mother began to eat at what financial reserves we had. Her health continued to decline and my depression started to raise its head. I was suddenly hit with chronic pain, probably exacerbated by having to lift my mom all day, as well as her heavy wheelchair whenever I had to take her somewhere in the car.

2003: Many trips to the hospital with my mom, who got cancer and nearly died of a staph infection that turned gangrenous. Gee, thanks, hospital, for your cleanliness ethics. Nettl got custody of her three kids in an emergency court order. Seven people in a three-bedroom house. Fun...

2004: Moved to a much larger house and began settling the kids into their new life. Mom died right before Christmas. Extreme financial issues set in and I began feeling grossly unwell.

2005: Excitement surrounding a documentary in which we were featured. Ten-day whirlwind location shoot in Vienna and Salzburg. It was hectic and wonderful. I'd never call it a vacation, though. It played hell with my failing health and nearly killed me. Literally.

2006: After experiencing sometimes daily mini-comas, I was diagnosed with advanced Hashimoto's Thyroiditis. Began the THS merry-go-round. My son, Micah, moved in with us.

2007: I don't remember anything about 2007; I was in a year-long Hashi stupor.

2008: Finances continued to plummet, I attempted to work outside the home, but soon discovered I just couldn't hold up. Began writing Beyond The Bridge in fits and starts.

2009: Realizing we needed to downsize, we moved to Bookends Cottage. All the kids (except my two sons) had moved out and the financial pressure relieved itself somewhat, although we still struggled due to the cessation of Nettl's child support income as well as my inherited annuities. Every penny had gone to basic survival.

2010: Published Book One of Beyond The Bridge. This was our worst financial year. There were days when we just didn't eat. Friends stepped in to help when they could, but the stress sent me to my bed for the next two years. All of my writing and blogging was done from there. My best friend of 40+ years, JP Deni, died. Worked on Book Two.

2011: I don't remember this year, either. I do remember living life through my bedroom window, though, wondering if I'd ever be part of it again.

2012: More of same. I did manage to publish Book Two, though! Thanks to Joel's financial contributions, I was able to go home to California for 10 days. I think this is what triggered the beginning of my slow but steady ascent out of hell. Ah, vacations!

2013: Published Books One and Two in a single edition that included extensive rewrites. Slowly, thanks to  my California trip, better awareness of my disease and finding the right medication, I began feeling better and could split my daytime hours equally between the bedroom and living room. Because I have no health insurance, I had to learn how to maintain wellness rather than treat illness. Micah finished school as a CAD engineer and immediately landed a job, helping to supplement our income.

2014: Health improved significantly and steadily. No longer in bed all day! Nettl got a better job, which she loves, and finances began to improve somewhat as well. Although things were still really tight, we were eating. At least I could cook a meal once a week! Creativity returned and I began writing music again, and water painting. Started a new book. Finally, after 14 years together, Nettl and were allowed to marry. Gee, it's nice to be included in that "Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" spiel...

2015: Finances have improved (I can cook twice a week now, most weeks). Health is good as long as I take care of my body, mind, emotions, and spirit (thank you, meditation!), and my 10-year depression is gone. We're making plans for our future and are moving into our "golden years" with our optimism and hope intact. In all ways I feel better than I have since 2000. We're about to come full circle, and it only took 15 years. Oy...

Stay tuned for continuing positive progress reports!

P.S. We're returning to the lake house, with my sons, for Memorial Day weekend!

Listening Skills

Do you ever feel like you're not being heard? Like no matter what you're feeling, it just doesn't matter because no one's listening? Not being heard is one of humanity's greatest problems. It always has been. That's why everyone is so crazy. Loud car stereos, loud ring tones, yelling, shouting, bad behavior—even Twitter and Facebook. HEAR ME! I MATTER! I HURT! I'M AFRAID!

Sometimes when I sound peeved or critical, I'm really just in pain. I suppose, like most people, I subconsciously think that if I fall back onto anger or argumentativeness I'll be heard. The problem is, these never bring me the response I want, or really need.

Since Deni's death I've felt all alone in my grief. Lynette was in France when I received the call. What I needed was a friend to ask me, "How are you doing? Do you need me to come over? Do you need to talk?" Instead, I went through it all alone and, while my writing demands I have a lot of alone time, I really don't do very well alone in emotional situations. Although I act like I'm okay, I'm not handling this very well at all. Losing Deni is right up there with losing my dad and Frank. I didn't feel heard by my doctor yesterday, either, and that added to the weight that I feel crushing me from the inside. Finally, I just quit trying to be heard. I smile, I nod, I listen, I clam up. I buck up, chide myself, shake it off. It all passes and I forget.

Implosion.

In time, the dust will settle.

In the waiting room yesterday, a sick little boy shrieked and cried in a vain attempt to get his mother's attention. But no matter what he did, no matter how much he tried to physically move her hands and arms to touch him, to move her face to his to make eye contact with her, she remained glued to her cell phone. This went on for a good 10 minutes until the nurse called them in to see the doctor. Then she was cranky and dispassionate, angry that her sick toddler would need her attention and that taking him to see the doctor interfered with her texting and online time. I'm ashamed to say, I understood just how he felt.

This post is not an attempt to get attention. I'm already dealing with things in my own way, and anything anyone might do now, after the fact, would just come off as contrived anyway. I just needed to get my feelings out. To be heard.

And then, of course, the other voice in me speaks up: "Oh, grow up. Nobody feels heard. Get over it. People are going to take offense to your pathetic cry, so f***in' shut up. Whiny baby."

The real problem is that I'm a strong person and have weathered storms that would drown most people. A lot of people think that I simply don't have my weak moments. I might appear completely capable and maybe they think I'd be insulted, or embarrassed if they offered emotional support. I never ask for help, you know, so...

Anyway, I just needed to say these things. During Deni's illness (hell, for the past 20 years of her life) I couldn't say what I really felt, and now it's all crashing down around me.

Beloved Friend

Carol Denise Thatcher Hall
22 Oct. 1951-2 May 2011

Thank you for coming into my life and sticking around so long. It should have been longer, but I'm grateful for the time we had. I'll see you on the flip side, beloved friend, and there will be many more good times.

We Are Water

JP Deni when we first met

Being close, best friends with someone for 43 years must count as some kind of a marriage. I met Deni in the summer of 1968 when she walked into the music store where I worked. I was immediately struck by her appearance, because she looked like a female John Lennon. Tall and somewhat lanky, she had shoulder-length hair that parted in the middle, and she wore wire-rimmed glasses. She carried herself with an assurance and confidence I’d never before encountered in someone my age.

She handed me a cheap acoustic guitar that needed new strings, I think, or maybe she just wanted someone to tune it, I don’t remember. Whatever it was, I did it as we spoke a little about music and who our favorite songwriters were. Like me, she was a confirmed folkie, our favorite folk artist being Bob Dylan. We also loved the Beatles, although they weren't folk. Our only musical difference was that where she liked Arlo Guthrie, I liked Donovan. Doesn't even count.

A few weeks later, on the first day of school, as I stood outside Russian class waiting for the teacher to open the door, Deni rushed up to me all smiles and exuberance, asking if I remembered her. Of course I did and as we talked, we discovered we’d both signed up to study Russian. What are the chances? It was a small class and a huge student body.

As we talked, more similarities revealed themselves. We were both newly transplanted from small towns, and we knew no one. Our musical backgrounds were similar, and the houses we lived in, just around the corner from each other, had the same floor plan. And in that floor plan, we had the same bedroom. We were both Libras, I a September and she an October, and she had an edge I respected, while I had a gentleness she admired. It was all kind of spooky, but in a cool, cosmic way.

I really didn’t want to make friends with anyone. I was very happy to be out of the small town environment I’d just left and I was ready to float through my senior year as a solitary, mysterious folksinger, free of the complications of friendship and invisible in the crowd. When this charismatic, intensely brilliant girl accosted me outside the classroom, I wasn’t sure I wanted to pursue any kind of friendship with her.

The next thing I knew, she was standing at my door in bell bottom Navy dungarees and a crocheted poncho, beads hanging around her neck and her guitar in hand. I was slightly miffed that she'd hunted me down like that, but I invited her back to my room. It didn’t take her long to win me over. She knew songs by Peter, Paul & Mary, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen and, better, she loved my music.

With your fist thrust in the air,

And your John Lennon hair;

And your circled glasses,

That’s how I best remember you…

How many evenings did we sit in each other’s bedrooms sipping Constant Comment tea and playing songs, both together and for each other, while incense cones sent ghostly shadows up the wall? How many weekends found us in coffeehouses and at folk concerts? How many chords did we teach each other, and how many tea bags did we go through?

With Deni’s advent into my life, everything changed. I’d met a fellow folkie who encouraged me to nurture that side of my creativity (everyone else wanted me to be a pop singer). My songs changed, growing deeper and more introspective. I began writing about art museums and beaches, and wooden stiles by the windswept Highway 1 that curved and climbed along the Bug Sur coastline.

When she began attending classes at a local college after graduation, I tagged along in my suede fringe and paisley, and we became active in protests and rallies. We marched in the national Vietnam Moratorium together. I brought my guitar and we led many choruses of I Shall Be Released and Come Together that day.

Not long after, I decided to hitch-hike to Haight-Ashbury and it was Deni who dropped me off at the Ventura Freeway entrance. As I got out of her VW bug she asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

God! How many times have I wondered how my life would have turned out had I said, “No, let’s go back to your house for a cuppa and a ciggie.” It was a major crossroads in my life and I can’t say I made the correct decision, but what the hell? What’s done is done and that was a long time ago.

We’ve been through a whole lot of life both together and apart, and we've surmounted some of life’s cruelest attacks. She helped me through widowhood at the age of 18 with a 2 week-old baby and I helped her when her 18 year-old daughter died of preeclampsia in the final weeks of her pregnancy in 1991. Deni was at my house for the weekend when her husband called to say he’d found Nicki dead on the bathroom floor.

And my twelve-string guitar,

Planning to take me far;

With all the years before us,

Do you really think we ever knew…

Deni never recovered from Nicki’s death and in a very real way I lost my friend that day. Still, we remained close. As I watched her slowly lose the will to live, which resulted in two decades of illness, I already knew that I’d never get my old friend back. I stood beside her though, even when it was difficult. Why? Because I knew she’d do the same thing for me if the tables were turned. That’s what friendship does. I never judged her, never told her to pull herself together, and I never said the most hurtful words of all, “Life goes on, get over it.” For her, life may have gone on, but it was a life she just couldn’t seem to grapple with. The young woman who’d so tirelessly thrust her fist into the air against war and inequality was defeated. The gifted mind that wrote, directed, and acted in plays got lost in the television. Drapes were never opened, dust and cat hair collected on retired volumes of literature and philosophy. Her guitar sat unused, the strings brittle from lack of resonance.

In January she was diagnosed with cancer of the liver and as I write this, she is making her journey to the other side; she is not expected to make it through the next 24 hours. In my heart I know that she will soon be reunited with Nicki, and I receive comfort knowing that the emotional and physical torture she’s been through the last 20 years will be turned into joy, but you know how it is for those of us to must remain a while longer. However, ours is one of those friendships that, no matter how many years pass between our visits, we always pick up right where we left off. I have absolutely no doubt that we’re going to have a wondrous reunion the next time we see each other.

We are water,

And the river keeps on flowing,

We are water,

And the love, it keeps on growing.

We are water,

We are water.

_____
UPDATE: Deni passed at around 11:30 am PST.

We Are Water © SK Waller 1983

You Are the Music

JP Deni has been diagnosed with 4th stage liver cancer.

We've been friends since we were 16 (that's 43 years ago, folks), and while I believe we've shared many other lifetimes and will remain friends through many more, that doesn't make it any easier. Not really. This news is what has made it so difficult for me to blog this week; I only reveal it now because she has done so, publicly. Deni is the kind of person who cannot hurt anyone or anything; it must have been terribly hard for her to lay this on her family and friends. I can't even imagine what she's going through right now.

I've said to Deni that 40-plus years of constant, interactive, hands-on friendship must certainly be a marriage of some kind (neither of us have ever been married that long). I'm pissed as hell and, for the first time in my pacifist existence, I want (as Arlo Guthrie said in his song, Alice's Restaurant) "to kee-ill". I want to kill cancer. I want to kill the fucker until it's the metastasized, cowardly, stress-feeding piece of fuck that it is. I could go on indefinitely, but words mean nothing at a time like this and stupid fucking blog entries mean even fucking less.

So here's some music, the thing that has been the magnificent connection between Deni and me all these years. This clip takes me back to when we were 17 year-olds and we glued ourselves to The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour every week because, a) we both loved and played folk music and, b) we both possessed social conscience. It was folk music that brought us together, in fact. What's cool about this particular clip is that it so perfectly depicts our musical tastes. She loved Peter, Paul & Mary, I loved Donovan, and we met right in the middle with our love for Tom and Dick Smothers.

I hope this makes you smile, Deni. It's been umpteen years since I've seen this, and yet, it's so fresh in my memory!

No Blue Meanies Allowed

Yesterday I was surprised when the postman delivered a package from my lifelong friend, Deni. I was expecting some essential oils she'd made, but I was NOT expecting this awesomely fab teapot cosy that she knitted for me. I was so jazzed!

When we painted our kitchen a light apple green I wasn't so sure I liked the color. Let's face it, I'm more a sage and ivory kitchen person. But when I had Nettl print this out for me, I put it on the wall beside the range, and it occurred to me that the wall color would be the perfect backdrop for a sort of Pepperland kitchen. Not too kitschy, but an understated mod cool. The tea cosy is a perfect fit! And Deni didn't even know my kitchen plans. How cool is that? Jeez. After all these years, I'm back to collecting Beatle stuff...

It's My Birthday!

Deni posted this on Facebook and I just had to share it with you on this, of all days. Enjoy!

From Me To You

What a Cool Dream!

I dreamed that my friend Deni was married to Kris Kristofferson and I was at their house. I asked if I could use their phone book and Kris asked why. I told them that I wanted to find a liquor store that sold absinthe and he said, "Why do you wanna go an' mess with that shit for? That shit messes with yer head."

He even sounded like him—that raspy voice of his. I replied that all three of us had done worse things to our heads in the 1960s and 70s and that I just wanted to try it for a writing session. He told me to wait a bit and he'd go find me a phone book. So Deni and I sat and talked and 20 minutes or so passed. Just as I was standing up to leave, Kris came in through the door carrying a bottle of absinthe, which he handed to me.

"I had a feeling you were out getting some," I said, laughing.
"I wanna to read what you write," he teased. "And it better be good."

We all hugged goodbye and I left.

I took a sleeping pill last night and slept 10 hours without interruption, which was great, but when I woke up I realized I didn't have the absinthe after all. Or that Deni wasn't married to Kris Kristofferson.

Damn.

Because JP Deni is Super Groovy

And because her link to this is hidden in the comments of my last post and you just have to see it! I haven't laughed so hard in a long, long time.

Folk Fantasy

In May of 1982 I drove up California's Central Valley to Turlock, where my friend Deni was attending CSUS (California State University at Stanislaus). She and her daughter Nicki shared a big old Craftsman house with some other students and had invited me up for a weekend.

On the Friday night the house filled up with various students and friends, many of whom played guitar. Our friend Dee was there as well and she brought her guitar with her, just as I had.

After a dinner of Polish spring vegetable soup and crusty bread, we sat back with jugs of wine and the occasional joint. Then the guitars came out. Some of us took our turn at leading the group in a song as we played together, singing harmonies. There was an African-American girl who had a great voice and a Latino guy who played Spanish classical guitar. Dee played her "hits" and I sang mine, while one guy who was in a Medieval reenactment group sat in a rocking chair putting his chainmaille together for an upcoming event. When I later fell asleep on the living room couch, I did so feeling completely in sync with folk artists like Arlo Guthrie, John Hartford and Bob Dylan, and when I woke up the next day I was inspired to write two songs in the space of about 30 minutes.

It's one of my favorite memories; I miss that kind of evening. I miss sharing a living room
with a bunch of musicians, especially other acoustic guitarists. It was a great way to share new compositions and get honest, well-meaning critiques. I wonder if this kind of get-together is now something of my past. I hope not. If I could spend this evening any way I want, this is what I'd choose.

Too Busy to Blog

Just to tell you that I'm in the heat of my wine book and haven't time to blog today.

On another note, keep my friend Deni in your thoughts today. She'll be undergoing more surgery this afternoon (in about one hour, actually). I spoke with her on the phone last night and her spirits are up, and that's a good sign!



DENI UPDATE:
8:18pm - Just got a call from her husband, Jim, who told me that everything went well and that she was joking with the doctor in recovery. YAY!

For JP Deni

The quality is bad, but you'll know what I'm saying.

...To Be Used As Evidence Against Us.*

(*From Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant”)

With conversation in my previous entry’s comments turning to Deni and me, I thought I’d post some pictures that were taken in our senior year. (Say it proudly: 1969!)

Deni at my house

(dig the hip 60s divider in the background)

Deni holding all 95 pounds of me hostage

(Love the bells, Deni!)

Just being silly

Me with another friend, Cathy

(I told you I looked like a Beatle)

Singing Her Praises

Let’s hear it for my friend, Deni. She’s been working all week on the new blog for me, and I mean indefatigably, brilliantly, selflessly. How do you thank someone you’ve known 90% of your life? She wouldn’t take money if I had it to give and, although she’ll say “You’re welcome,” her attitude will be “Aw, shucks.” While I’m deciding what I’m going to do for her, I decided to write my own words to a song by her favorite music artist. (Sing these words to the tune of Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds):

Picture yourself on the Net with a weblog,

with no PHP and no CSS;

Somebody out there tells you that Dreamweaver

and Microsoft FrontPage are just a big mess.

Fields and widgets and themes and plug-ins muddling up your head,

You need some help or you’ll lose your mind—here she comes!

Deni on the Web with WordPress!

Deni on the Web with WordPress!

Deni on the Web with WordPress!

JP Deni

Being friends with someone for 37 years must count as some kind of marriage, shouldn’t it? Back in the summer of 1968 I met Deni when she and her mom came into the music store in Camarillo, California where I worked. Deni had a little acoustic guitar that needed new strings I think, or maybe she just needed it tuned, I don’t remember. Whatever it needed, I did it and when her mom paid me she taught me how to count back change. I was 16 and it was my first job.

A few weeks later, on the first day of school as I stood outside Russian class waiting for the teacher to open the door, Deni rushed up to me, all smiles and exuberance, asking if I remembered her. I did, and as we talked we discovered we’d both signed up to study Russian. What are the chances? But more similarities would reveal themselves. We were both newly transplanted from smaller towns in California, and we knew no one. Our family background was similar and the houses we lived in were the same floor plan. In fact, we lived in the same neighborhood, only a block away from each other. We are both Libras, I a September Libra and she an October Libra. She had the Lennon edge I wanted, and I had the Donovan gentleness. We were inseparable. As a believer in reincarnation, it’s easy for me to see that we’d somewhere planned to meet in this fashion. As far as I’m concerned it was meant to be. End of story.

To tell the truth, I didn’t really want to make friends with anyone. I was very happy to be out of the Santa Ynez Valley (yeah, I grew up where Michael Jackson’s Neverland Ranch is now located), even if it meant I was alone in a high school that was literally ten times larger than the one I was used to. I was ready to enjoy my senior year as a solitary, mysterious folksinger/songwriter, free of the the complications of friendship, so when this tall, lanky, charismatic, intensely brilliant blond “accosted” me outside of Russian class, talking my ear off, I wasn’t sure I wanted to pursue any kind of relationship with her. The next thing I knew, Deni was coming to my door in bell bottom dungarees and poncho and beads, guitar in hand. It didn’t take her long to win me over. She knew songs by Peter, Paul & Mary, Bob Dylan, the Beatles, and better, she compared my personality to Arlo Guthrie’s. Flattery will get you everywhere.

How many evenings did we sit in our bedrooms together, posters on the walls, incense burning, sipping Constant Comment tea and playing songs both together and for each other. I was writing a lot of songs at that time and Deni believed in me. She was even with me when I bought my first 12-string guitar.

When she went to Moorpark College after graduation I tagged along in my suede fringe and paisley and we marched in the national Vietnam Moratorium together. I brought my guitar and we sang many choruses of “I Shall Be Released” and “Come Together". Not long after that I hitch-hiked to Haight-Ashbury, and it was Deni who dropped me off at the 101 freeway entrance. As I got out of her navy blue VW bug she asked me, “Are you sure you want to do this?” God! How many times have I wondered how my life would have turned out had I said, “No, let’s go back to your house for a cuppa.” That was a major turning point in my young life and I can’t say I made the correct decision, but what the hell? What’s done is done.

Since then we have been through a whole lot of life both as friends and individuals, and we each have surmounted some of life’s cruelest attacks, but man, we’re still here! Ours is one of those friendships that no matter how many years there are between our visits, we always pick up right where we left off. On Monday she called me and we were on the phone for over three hours — no mean feat considering my intense loathing for the telephone. Hopefully, we’ll be getting together soon. I hope we’ll each have our guitars. I want to jam!