Signals

 Spring returns each year and I am lost
 There is no cold to punctuate each turn
 The leaves do not always fall

 Yet there are signals that the seasons are changing
 Signals that answer to a subtler call
 As the sun returns to the sky

 It is to these that I must look to find my way
 They are more attuned then I to the rhythms around us
 Where they lead I must follow

 The greater world around us speaks in quite changes
 We have only to listen to that voice
 And find peace in those quieter calls

It's time to turn off the mute button.

  This will be hard to read. But it’s time. I have been silent too long.  And now, that silence has hurt the person I care most about in this world. My husband, Edward.

  To those in my family who don’t know about this, I’m sorry you have to hear it this way. To those of you who know, you are as guilty of the injustice of this act as I am. Time has not healed it for me. The have been no repercussions.

  When I was in high school, my college age brother decided that for some reason it would be OK to have sex with his sister.  One night, when my parents weren’t home, he came into my room and into my bed.  When he first came to my door I told him to go away.  He didn’t.  

  And I didn't tell anyone what happened.

  Why tell now?  Because I should have said something 38 years ago, because I should have said something 35, 30, 25, 20, 15, 10, 5, 1 years ago.  Because I shouldn't have let my family be more important than my life, my mental health and my husband. Yes, because my silence has now put my marriage in jeopardy.  And this will be the first of many steps to save that marriage. If you think my motivations are selfish, they are in part. To say I’m sorry to the one I love for my silence. I'm sorry for letting you be the blast shield. For not standing up for you. For letting you do all the heavy lifting. For lying to myself that I could have both, that everything would be OK. For not listening to you all these years. For putting that fantasy in front of you. 

  But it’s more then that. To stay silent now, when I should have spoken up so long ago, is to just keep doing what I’ve done all along. To make no changes. To let someone else speak for me. It’s cost him dearly. The world, what’s left of my blood relatives, friends, and others may not like me after this. May not ever want to talk to me again. So be it. It's time to turn off the mute button. It’s time to make a change. If it costs me, so be it. 

  What my brother did was called digital rape. That’s what the professionals call it. I told them all the details. Yes, I’ve been to see a councilor. I will spare you those details here. I only went to counseling after Edward insisted, because he couldn’t help me any more. I fought him on this. He was right. I was wrong. All these years, I let Edward get angry for me. That has to stop. I have to get angry for myself for once and forever.   

  Before you think this is a he said/she said incident, my brother admitted he did it. To my councilor. To my parents. To his wife. To his kids, I’ve been told. But not my sister’s kids. It’s time they heard it. They should have heard it when I told my sister. She asked me not to tell them. Why? I don’t know. I tell myself now that they were minors at the time. In truth, I didn’t want to tell them either. I didn’t want to ruin their view of their uncle. I told myself I was shielding them, but I was really shielding him. My niece has a daughter of her own now. It’s time she knew.  

  I confronted my brother in 1996. He said he was sorry. Then things got worse. He said he would make reparations, a donation to a woman’s shelter, spend time helping other victims, among other things. My sister-in-law did some soul searching, found God, and forgave him. Then they decided that they couldn’t do anything as reparations. It would hurt their kids. I didn't ask for much. That’s why I don’t know if they did in fact tell them. They broke their word before, how do I know they really did tell their children, never mind what “truth" they told them if they did.

  We wrote letters, my brother and I, and some emails. We tried to work things out. Then he asked me, “Why did you let me into your bedroom?” I didn't let you in, you came in.  Why was I ever put in that position? Why the fuck was I in a position to even have to say no, go away, in the first place?  In what world is it OK to have sex with your sister?  Why did no one but Edward ever ask those questions? Perhaps because I didn't tell anyone else. Now I am. I still have that letter. 

  After that, I stopped talking to my brother. And then he cut me off from his kids. I couldn’t have a relationship with them if I didn’t have a relationship with him. So be it. I lost two of my nieces and a nephew that day.  

  “… just hit the mute button and pretend eliminating discomfort is the same as effecting actual change.”  - Edward Schlosser (June 2015)

  So what’s changed since I told my family. Nothing much. Everyone cried, everyone soul searched. Beyond that I can’t say. My parents wanted us to work it out. They didn’t want to get in the middle. They didn’t want to risk loosing touch with their grandchildren. Because he would cut them off, too. And I guess their grandchildren were more important to them than a daughter who choose not to have children.  

 "If you choose not to decide you still have made a choice." - Rush (Freewill)

  I am guilty as well. I let them do that. I didn’t say me or him. I didn’t say make him do something. That there should be repercussions for his acts. Maybe if they had threatened to not see his children he would have done the right thing.  Maybe if I had insisted, they would have made him keep his word to me. Maybe I would not be where I am now.  Maybe they would have still chosen him over me.  

 But I do know this. My parents and my sister and her husband, who likely doesn’t know, are all vacationing with my brother and his kids this week in North Carolina.  

  And I am twisting in the wind. The black sheep. The bad child. Ostracized form the rest of the family. Because it’s easier to talk to him and pretend everything is OK then be reminded of it by seeing me. And I have let them do it. I have let them hurt me over and over again. And worse, I have let them hurt Edward. And I have hurt Edward because of my inaction. And that may not be forgivable. 

  

  After all this time later, here I sit, still struggling with it. Every time a news story about some priest, some politician, some Christian reality TV star who assaulted someone hits the airwaves, I go back there. And then the world says, oh, he didn’t mean it. He’s sorry. He never did it again. He was young and didn’t know better. Or just plain, he didn’t do that, he never would, until the second victim comes forward. 

  My brother knew better. And so did they. And if they were truly, truly sorry and ashamed, they would have taken action before they were found out. They would have come forward themselves and started doing the things that weren’t easy, that would cost them something, anything. I didn’t ask a lot. No more then admission to Disneyworld. But that would have been taking away from his kids. 

  Oh, he went to a counselor, too, I’m told. And he was depressed about what happened, but only after the news got out. I guess that was penance enough for everyone else. On with life, chip chip, stiff upper lip and all that. God forgave him. God abandoned me, if He ever existed.

  I didn’t start this. I didn’t go into his room, he came into mine. I didn’t go to his bed, he came to mine. He is three years older then I am, and out weighed me by more then hundred pounds. Up to that point in my life, I trusted him. He was my big brother. I looked up to him.  And yet, it has become my fault that I have not gotten over it. It’s my fault that I have not forgiven him. My fault that we are a splintered family. I am the one who is paying for it. And worse, Edward is paying as well.  

  I will pay no more.  We. Will. Pay. No. More.

  I have been silent because I didn’t want to cause pain to my family.  Instead, I hurt Edward.

  That stops here.

  I have been silent because I was afraid people would blame me. I was afraid people would shun me, wouldn't like me, and believe that I was to blame, because you know, I’m female and boys will be boys. That I was somehow to blame.

  That stops here.

  I have been silent because I did not want to hurt my family. I don’t mean to hurt them here, but the truth is, I’m hurting. This isn’t about lashing out. It’s about speaking out. I have been silent too long. 

  The silence stops here.

  Guilty as charged. I have made no changes. I change that now.

  To Edward, you have been right all along. I have been a coward. This is something I should have done a long time ago.  

  He is Mark Monroe.  I am Karen Monroe Morgan.

  Why didn’t you say no? 

   I did.  You didn’t listen.

  It’s time to turn off the mute button.

  

  

  

Big Cat Rescue

Cameron

Big Cat rescue is an organization in Tampa that rescues big cats; lions, tigers, cougars, bobcats and many others, from abusive situations, from when they were taken in as pets and became too much for the owners to handle, as well as the occasional cat that can’t be released into the wild.  They are a non-profit organization that is also dedicated to educating the public about the cats and trying to encourage people not to participate in pay-to-play photo-op, circuses and other similar ventures.  They give tours as part of a way to support the cats.





  I’m not a fan of zoos, though there are some good organizations out there.  Big Cat Rescue tends to not act as much like a zoo, limiting the time that they are open to visitors to two times daily, most days of the week.

  We visited the cats on May 26th.  They have several acres and try to engage the cats with larger and varied enclosures, cardboard animals they can stalk, toys, bags of catnip and other spices and, for the larger cats, a 2.5 acre “vacation” enclosure they can roam for 2 weeks at a time, on rotation, during the year.

Sassyfrass

  These are some beautiful animals. Their stories are often heartbreaking. Many are shy of people and you won’t see them on your tour. The staff won’t parade them out, or wake them from their dens during the tour.  This is their home, the staff says.  Good for them (and much to the chagrin of one of our fellow visitors). To do that would make them no better them the organizations they are trying to shut down.

Sundari

I will go back to Big Cat Rescue, probably for their photo tour next time. I would be able to spend more time at any one cat and not have to listen to ignorant tourists grumble about sleeping or hidden cats, or ask the guide a question they had only moments before answered had that person been listening.  And I would go in cooler weather both for me and for the cats, when they will be a little more active and the sun isn’t near the peak of summer.


You can visit Big Cat Rescue's webpage here. And see the rest of my photos on my flickr page, Big Cat Rescue Album.

Kali

Sprinkler System Surgery

 We have a sprinkler system. In this state, you really need one if you want a green lawn through the winter and spring. That is our dry season. Without it, the lawn tends to die back until the summer rains start, and those haven’t been as regular as they once were. Over the years we’ve replaced the pump… 3 times. Added or removed, raised or moved many a sprinkler head. At least once a year we have to wander the yard, with the system running, and clear all the heads of sand, grit, and grass to give them a clear shot at their assigned watering space. 

 The other day we noticed that most of station two was sputtering and surging, and generally not spraying right. There was no obvious sign of a leak on this station. No fountaining of water by one of the heads, no stream of water running into the road. We’d added a new head to station two a number of years ago. Up until then, it seemed fine. Maybe it was time to take that head back out. So we dug around that added head and capped it off.

 No Change. Well shoot, that meant we had a larger job on our hands. 

 There were two palm trees in the front yard when we moved into the house. After Hurricane Andrew made landfall in south Florida, a landscaping company offered us $75 for one of the trees. We accepted the offer and offered them a second palm as well. Two for one. We used that money to buy four live oak trees ranging in size from 2 inches to a half inch around. Those trees are now between 2-3 feet in diameter. There in lies our problem. Oak tree roots.

 On the north side of the driveway, about 6 feet from the sidewalk, stands one of those oaks.  We planted it where one of the palm trees had stood, near the location where station two rises after passing under the concrete. In fact, when the landscaping company removed the palm they broke, then repaired, the pipe from station two. We know the pipe passes nearly under the oak, and we know the oak’s roots have been pushing the nearby sprinkler heads askew since shortly after we planted it. 

 We started with the sprinkler head between the sidewalk and the oak. It was pretty leaned over and we thought maybe there was a cracked pipe there. It would be an easier dig, if that was the problem. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on what we hoped to find, there was no sign of damage.

 On to our next suspected problem child. This head was wedged up against a large root next to the driveway. This was also the site of a repair Edward had made 8 years ago, when the same tree’s roots had cracked the pipes, sending water cascading down the driveway.

Digging around this head was complicated by an abundance of roots. We cleared the dirt immediately around the head, but saw no indication of a broken pipe. When we expanded the hole, uncovering the previous repair, we found the problem. The 3/4 inch round, flexile PVC pipe Edward had installed in 2007 was now a flattened and stretched PVC pipe, having gotten that way as the root expanded over the intervening years. What’s more, the pressure of the root had caused the joint to fail and leak, fueling the roots expansion by providing a water source directly to it. 

 Clearly, we needed to repair that piping again. Easier said then done.

 There was little clear pipe around the leaking joint and head. That meant more digging, at least until we could find pipe we could cut and glue new joints to. An hour and a half after we started, with the sun setting, we had at least found the pipes we needed. Next up: Clearing the roots securely wrapped around those pipes. 

 Before leaving work that day, I borrowed a SawzAll. I knew we were going to be dealing with some large roots and the odds of our needing to cut roots was near 100%. Previous repairs had required the use of a hand saw on wayward roots. I didn’t figure this time would be any different, and a SawZall just might make the job a whole lot easier. But that would have to wait until morning. We’d have better light and a fresh start. We covered the hole and left the mosquitoes to wonder where their free meal had gone.

 I’d bought a wood cutting blade for the saw on the way home. The first cut was a 2-inch root. The saw went through it like a knife through butter. The next two cuts were just as easy. The last cut was a 4-inch root at that was the joining of the first two, and that took a lot more sawing. I’m not convinced we could have cut that root without the SawzAll.  It took about five minutes to get through. A little more digging and we had clear spots to cut the pipes.

 We decided that we would remove that sprinkler head permanently. Having a head in that location would mean continuing to fuel root growth. It’s given that sprinkler heads leak. Especially these old heads. We decided to simply pipe around the roots, still using the flexible PVC, leaving at least 3 inches, if not more, of free space between the pipe and the root. We also reinstalled the head we’d capped off two nights before, returning the number of heads on that station to 9 heads, what we had originally started with in 1992.

 Then came the moment of truth. Was this going to be the problem? Were the pipes under the oak tree cracked? If so, we were going to have to call in the pros. Station two would have to be relaid by a different route. 

 Edward turned on station two and… up came the heads, spraying much better. What’s more, the pump was no longer struggling to get water through the system. Relieving the stress on the pump will lengthen its life as well. There were no signs of any leaks on the pipes just installed. 

 We filled in the hole and crossed our fingers. We had to wait more than 48 hours until our next watering day before the system could run for full cycle. When Thursday came, station two came on as scheduled. The heads still popped up and down for a few minutes as the station fully pressurized. We may still have a leak somewhere. But at least we know the pipe is no longer constricted by the oak tree and the pump should have less trouble getting water to the remaining heads. 

 I’ve never been afraid of getting my hands dirty. I ended up doing the vast majority of the digging. And I got to play with the SawzAll. Power tools make me nervous. I didn’t get to take Shop when I was in school.  Girls didn’t do that. Given the opportunity, I would have taken it in a heartbeat. I like to make things. I like to figure out how they work, though Edward is better at it than I am.  We make a good pair.  We each have our strengths. 

 As with any job, it’s all about having the right tools. In this case, it was the SawZall borrowed from work. It made quick work of the roots we needed to cut and gave us the room we needed to work.  I even gave the wood cutting blade to work when we were done, you know, for the next person to use. In the end, it made the surgery on the sprinkler system a whole lot less traumatic for all us us.  Be it the oak tree... or the humans. 

Dirty Snow

 It happens about the same time every year.  Pollen season.  It tends to hit right around our anniversary, that is the Spring Equinox. 

  It's the time of year when the oak trees, having joined the eternal quest for procreation and bloomed their woody little hearts out, begin to drop their flowers along with the last of the old leaves.  For about four weeks, the flowers will fall from the trees, hitting the ground with tiny puffs of yellow-brown pollen. The effect is much like watching a heavy, ungraceful snowfall.  A bane of all who are allergic to it.

  March breezes, in ever changing patterns, push and pile these flowers into drifts on the driveway, filling the cracks in the sidewalk and create mounds on the roadside where passing cars grind them into a fine power.  Our neighbors, in a vane attempt to keep up with depositional deluge, sweep their driveways weekly, and sometimes daily, to rid themselves of the unsightly clumps.  

  At least once a year, you'll find me out there as well.  Usually in the week between visits by the lawn guys, I'm out there myself with broom and blower in hand.  And a shovel.  Because believe it or not the best way to bag this stuff up is to shovel it into a trash can. The trick is not to get a face full in the process.

 Unlike its northern namesake, Florida's dirty snow puffs out clouds of allergens each time it's disturbed.  And it doesn't melt.  It isn't until we get a good hard, prolonged rainfall that the season begins to abate.  Some years that can be weeks after the blooms have fallen.  Without the rain the pollen is simply resuspended in the air with each passing front and windy day.  

  I can't say which is better and which is worse.  A heavy snowfall in New England will drive people inside where they can be comfortable and warm.  It's not so different down here, where people often end up retreating from the dirty snow that falls in the spring.  The difference is it's already warm outside down here, and the comfort they seek is not from chilly weather, but an attempt to get away from the wayward accumulations of this rite of spring.

Garments of the Gods

At sunrise, Boca Ciega Bay, FL

I have many times stood on a beach and watched the sunset. Or on the way to work, driven down the long, winding road at the park on Boca Ciega Bay, and stood on the sea wall to watch the sunrise.

These days, as I watch the sun settle below, or break above, the horizon, I look behind me as well. Sometimes the show there is just as fascinating as the one facing the sun.

The ancient Greeks called it the Belt of Venus. You can see it, in a clear sky, with the sun just below the horizon. In fact, it is the earth’s shadow and the atmosphere just above it. The Belt of Venus looks like a long, dark cloud stretching from the northern horizon to the southern horizon, topped by a band of pink. The dark is the shadow, the pink, the belt itself, is the atmosphere colored by the sun. It only lasts 10-15 minutes before it either sinks below the horizon as the sun rises, or looses clarity as it spreads across the whole sky at sunset.

The first few times I saw it, I didn’t recognize it for what it was. After I’d seen my first picture of it, I started looking for it. Now I see it all the time. Getting a picture of it is tough. You need a clear broad view of the horizon, a nearly clear sky, and perhaps a little post processing to bring out the color.

We go through so much of our day not noticing the world around us. I sometimes feel disconnected from nature and the world, wrapped in the technology of modern life. So at those times when I can stop, look around me and see the larger picture, I am grateful. I need that time to reconnect and feel part of the larger the world. For me, it is thrilling look into the sky, to see our own shadow, however briefly, and know what it is. To stand beneath a vast clear sky and see the Garments of the Gods.

At sunset, Banner Elk, NC

Of Tires and Nails…

   Most days we go about our business not worrying about our cars, or the tires they ride on.  So it’s a real surprise when you come out of work at the end of the day and find, as you are backing out, that you have a flat tire. I mean the damage-your-rim-if-you-drive-more-then-the-10-feet-to-get-back-into-your-parking-place kind flat tire.  

  My tire was fine that morning when I parked the car. I know this because I could tell as soon as I moved the car that afternoon there was a problem.  So I had to have picked up that nail close to work.  The tire had all day to deflate.  That tire had less then 6000 miles on it, it was practically new.  The nail didn’t even have the courtesy to stay in the tire, though the mechanic knew right where to patch the tire when he had it.

  At least it was only one nail, unlike the last time.

  Several years ago, Edward and I were headed out to run some errands one evening.  As we turned a corner onto Seminole Blvd, I found myself watching a car next to me that didn’t seem to be holding his lane.  That meant I didn’t see the broken bits of the 5-gallon bucket that was lying in the middle of my lane until it was almost too late.  OK, it was too late.  I missed the bucket but not the contents of said bucket.  

  Break hard, swerve, thump…  thump, thump, thump…  pull over.  Get out…  hisssssssss from the left rear tire.  

  Crap.  Must have picked up a nail.  With that much hiss it wasn’t going very much father.  So we got out the jack, and started working on changing the tire.  Edward was able to get the tire off and put on the spare.  Then we got a look at the problem.  

  Did I say nail?  No, it wasn’t “a" nail…  it was 5 nails. All of them within a spot the size of a quarter, literally.  

  To this day I have no idea how I managed not put put nail in any other tire, especially the one directly in front of the “nailed” tire.  All I can figure is that the first tire set the nails upright for the second tire, a cluster of 5 nails at that.  

  Needless to say, that tire couldn’t be patched.  Luckily, it wasn’t new.  

  To add insult to injury, my spare, which sits on the back gate of the Rav4 hadn’t been touched since it had been put back there several years earlier.  It was nearly flat itself.  So we had to limp to a gas station that had an air pump, which as luck would have it, was not the first place we stopped.  

  This time I had AAA on the way within 15 minutes of discovering the flat.  That was after I called Edward, “Hi… um, I’m going to be a little late...” While I waited, two wonderful colleagues helped me change the tire before AAA got there.  But I already knew my spare was going to be flat, so I made sure they sent a truck with air to fill spare.  Lesson learned the first time, right?  It wasn’t a wasted trip for the AAA truck expecting to have to change a tire to get there and find it done, especially since another colleague came out while we were working on my car to find her battery dead and in need of a jump.  The AAA did that for her after getting my spare up to pressure.  She didn’t have to wait for another service call and that was a good thing.

  We stuck flat tire on the back of the Rav and I dove it to my mechanic, a Shell station that’s on the way home.  I knew their staff had gone home for the day and that only the pump attendants would be there.  So I dropped off the tire for them to repair in the morning and headed home.  They called me the next day to say it was fixed.  It took them 5 minutes to put it back on and put the spare back in its place.

  Done. Simple. Painless.  Relatively speaking, and $26 later.

  Over the next few days I heard of two other people who had flats and were repairing tires.  Seemed there was a rash of them.  I’m sure there were more than I heard about that week. Someone, somewhere, must have dropped a load of nails in street.  I and the others were picking them up, so to speak.  So for those of you who didn’t get a nail your tire, you can thank us for cleaning up the streets, for taking one for the team. 

  You’re welcome. Glad to be of service.