MY HILL OF DREAMS (written in 1992)

Many adults fondly remember a childhood retreat, a place all their own – secret, special, soothing. I know such a place -- my hill of dreams.

Farmland in Wisconsin gently rolls from valleys to mounds to hills – some rather large, but always gentle, rounded on top. Just above our farmhouse was a hill wanna-be. Larger than a ground slope, it was safely accessible to a youngster and, from the top, served up fantastic views of the surrounding countryside. Huge flat rocks lined the perimeter; some stood precariously on end like Town House crackers in a bowl of guacamole dip. Leafy branches formed a sieve-like roof, peppering the grassy center with dots, streaks, and splashes of sunshine. And now, as an adult, I return there often, and when I do, immediately I am a child again.

I go to my hill when I feel sad or when joy bubbles in my heart. I escape there every chance I get. An introverted youngster, I enjoy my own company, preferring conversations in my head to actual oral exchanges with other people – even my family.

With my chores finished, I grab my diary, a pen, and a library book, and ascend into heaven – atop my hill. I position my small back against the tallest, flattest rock, stretching my legs before me. I sit quietly for several moments, drinking in the welcome privacy, the solitude. Birds and ants share this haven; I let them. There I reign as princess in my leafy tower room – my castle on the hill, waiting for Prince Bob to rescue me.

Etched with a screwdriver into the rock opposite me is a crude heart, encasing “B.S. loves B.O.”, Bonnie and Bob. Destiny speaks to me now; our names even start with the same letter of the alphabet. It is meant to be. Each time I enter this little paradise, our initials on the enduring boulder assure me that our love will remain so forever. Prince Bob won’t be riding up on a white horse. I know that – I’m not stupid. He’ll be in his father’s Chevy or Studebaker (I never could distinguish between makes of cars), and he’ll sweep me off to a farm similar to this one where I will reign eternal as his wife.

Below me, Mom works in her riotous flower garden, stooping as though preparing for a game of leapfrog. My siblings laugh and chatter somewhere beyond my consciousness. My hill becomes everything; my family and my life retreat into nothingness. I think to myself, “I shall stay here forever and be happy.” I quickly scribble in my diary my intention to never leave my hill and then I laugh aloud at my foolishness. Of course I will leave. When Prince Bob comes for me, I will be happier still.

I thumb my way through Wuthering Heights and immediately transport myself to that dark, foreboding age of the Bronte sisters, walking on the undulating moors in cold, piercing rain, my castle shimmering in the distance. I smile. There on my hill, I can do or be anything I like.

But shy, daydreaming children sometimes grow into sad, disillusioned adults. Pollyanna becomes Roseanne: reality slaps mature faces. Prince Bob was delayed. Actually, he never came at all. He became infatuated with a well-to-do “townie” with perfect teeth and hair who owned dozens of mix-and-match mohair sweaters, a genuine leather purse, and bazillions of 45 rpm records. Some time later, she lost him, too. He married someone else, etching the first deep crack in my heart. I feel it yet.

There on my hill, I was invincible. But my hill is gone, bulldozed into oblivion long ago, my rocks pulverized in the name of progress. But in my mind and memory I still go to my hill when I am sad or when I feel joy. I see it all just as it was – the initialed rock, the trees, the grass, the sun. And again I smile.

Color Me Puzzled - written 9/15/1998

In today's world of addiction to drugs, sex, money, power, cigarettes, and alcohol, I too must stand up and be counted. My name is Bonnie and I am a compulsive crossword puzzle solver.

This compulsion, I believe, was inherited. Years ago, I observed my mom sitting for hours with the squares-within-a-square in the daily paper, a cigarette in one hand, a drink and a pencil in the other. I puzzled over her puzzle-mania. The words “boring” and “having no life” came readily to mind.

I vowed never to fall into the definition void into which she had obviously descended. I was, however, like her in that I loved the English language. I read voraciously. Words and phrases fascinated me. Incorrect grammar abhorred me. Personal diaries lined my bookshelves. From the time I had youthful brain cells, I dreamed of authoring books. These factors, along with Mom, led me to believe that I was predisposed to solving crossword puzzles: the addition/compulsion was in my genes.

Without surprise then, as I grew older, I noticed that my eyes zipped uncontrollably from the daily weather forecast in the newspaper to the crossword puzzle across the way. Alarmed, I quickly zapped my peepers back to the barametric pressue foretold for this day. But alas, within a short period of time, I was doing the light stuff – word search puzzles.

Amused for awhile, I soon tired of these insipid mazes. I needed a fix that would blow my mind, not put it to sleep. So I progressed to the TV Guide crosswords. Since I bought the guide for a purpose other than solving the puzzle, I told myself it was okay. No outright purchase solely for CPS (Crossword Puzzle Solving) had taken place. Stars of defunct TV shows, famous dogs, and Lucile Ball trivia hopped me up for about a week. Then the hunger grew, gnawing at my insides.

Soon I found myself in Walmart, creeping sideways like a malfunctioning toy Slinky, toward the hard-core section of the magazine racks – the Penny Press section, a smorgasbord of available highs. I wondered if there were hidden cameras documenting suspected users. I didn’t care. I selected a Dell and a Superb. I finished a puzzle in the car before leaving the parking lot of the store. I was hooked.

I tried limiting CPS to a few minutes after dinner. But soon I was “penciling up” before work, during my lunch hour, in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep. I told myself, “It’s 3:00 a.m. You have to work tomorrow (today). Put it away!” “Just one more word and then I’ll stop.” I subscribed to Collector’s Crosswords, The Best of the New York Time’s Crosswords, and Popular Crosswords. I surreptitiously purchased four brands of crossword puzzle dictionaries and read them like novels.

Today, the disease manifests itself in other ways. I listen to news broadcasts and think of appropriate synonyms. A friend mentions a needle and I immediately think of “etui” – needle case. I’m waiting for “Dies Irae” to come up in conversation. I’m aware of a note in Guido’s scale – “ela.” I know Slaughter in Cooperstown is “Enos.” Arete is a mountain crest. But what good is all this trivia? Proficiency in one category on the game show, Jeopardy?

The ravages of this compulsion also are evident; bags under my eyes, thicker glasses, shakes and headaches when I abstain. I see my future before me. A portly, redheaded crone sits in a nursing home refusing to eat, to go to the bathroom, to shower. Puzzle books, dictionaries, thesauruses surround her. Three or four #2 pencils with erasers worn down to nubs protrude from her matted hair. She screams in a shrill voice, “What’s the word for needle case?” Pitiful, isn’t it?

I plan to form a support group known as CPAA (Crossword Puzzle Addicts Anonymous). We’ll sit in a circle, join hands, and share the degrading symptoms of our disease. We’ll cry and hug and try not to ask each other the word for Henri’s squeeze (“amie”). We’ll burn our favorite CPS pencils in a cleansing rite. We’ll boycott Penny Press. We’ll smoke cigars, play poker, or pick pockets to keep our hands occupied.

In the meantime, I pray that researchers find a cure (healing, remedy, fix, succor, restoration, therapy, antidote………..) Oh, God!

What God Has Joined Together...

……let no man put asunder.” What lovely words – an admonition from our Lord.

Several years ago, I flew to Wisconsin to attend the wedding of my youngest daughter, my “baby,” my Bethany Ann. The wedding was beautiful, the bride and groom glowed with love for each other, and God was present all around.

In this day of co-habitation, there seems to be a belief that “a piece of paper” won’t make the relationship more significant. God begs to differ, as do I.

This union of two people in love, committing themselves to each other in marriage is a union blessed by God, the way the Lord intended.

As I watched Bethany walk up the aisle to meet her fiancée, I saw her as a little curly-headed blonde toddler, an apprehensive 5-year-old struggling up the school bus steps for the first time. I cried for days past, and with joy for her new life ahead of her.I praised the Lord as I watched my lovely grown-up daughter tearfully say her wedding vows, gracefully walk to the altar with her almost-husband to light the unity candle, making them one but still preserving their individuality. When they, as man and wife, turned to face the congregation, their faces aglow, their hands entwined, the Lord’s presence shone down on them and He was pleased.

I whispered, “Thank you, dear Lord. Be always present in this union; bring them happiness as they put You first in their marriage. Bless them both as they go forth into this new and challenging relationship. Keep my daughter and her new husband always in Your care, in Your love, under Your protection.”

I was so blessed to be a part of this holy ceremony. And I was a proud as a mama hen could be!

“Therefore, what God has joined together, let man not separate.” Matthew 19:6

Surgery -- of a Sort!

Picture this…a small room, sterile gloves in wait, antiseptic ready, surgical syringe disinfecting in a sterile glass, a bowl of ice cubes nearby (yes, I said ice cubes), cotton, toilet paper, and Pabst Blue Ribbon bar napkins in readiness should there be blood (besides pain, my greatest fear).

Yes, I’m the patient seated in a chair, knees weak, heart pounding, throat dry as the cotton balls I see before me.“Anesthesiologist” hovers over me (my mom), “surgeon” (her friend) ready to begin. Enough suspense?

The “operating room,” the women’s bathroom of the American Legion Club and I’m having my ears pierced.

After weeks of indecision, I have reluctantly given my consent. I’m assured that mine are the 46th set of ear lobes to be pierced this way in this very room and none (as yet) have developed gangrene. I am still scared.

I give the nod and with my head held firmly against my Mommy’s side (I resort back to childhood at times like these), the “piercer” is ready to proceed. Ear lobes swabbed with alcohol, ice cubes encased in a plastic sterile glove held against my left ear, supposedly preventing me from feeling any pain.

I am asked how it feels and I answer “cold.” “Numb enough to begin?” “Heavens, no, it needs to be much colder!” I say as I eye the 3-inch long surgical needle soaking in alcohol. Wish I could faint at will; then it would be over when I came around.

The ice cubes are almost entirely water by now, so I tell this nice lady who is going to hurt me to get it over with. She says, “Take a deep breath,” and I feel the needle go through my ear lobe. Didn’t hurt too much but then she leaves it impaled in my flesh! Something is dripping on my shoulder and I yell, “Mother, am I bleeding?” Calmly she tells me it is just alcohol—no blood. “But there’s a needle in my ear, it must be blood!

The “surgeon” rolls her eyes skyward and I figure I’d better shut up or she’ll walk out and leave this needle in my ear for life. I’d be too chicken to pull it out.

Out comes the needle, more ice applied, in goes the earring—almost. For some reason, it won’t come out the back. Fat ear lobes, she says. What does she want from me? I have to put my ear lobes on a diet to get these ding-busted earrings in? I ask her if I have time to take a fluid pill. She doesn’t answer. She’s too busy grunting and prodding the earring into a mysteriously closed-up needle hole. She swears this has never happened before. Ha! A likely story! And I still have another ear to go!

I’m suddenly nauseous.The numbness is wearing off and I feel pain. Who wouldn’t with a sharp object halfway through an obese ear lobe? More ice applied, push, poke, a crunch, and thank heavens, it’s through!

I’m shaking now from sheer relief.The other ear is a snap and finally I am standing (under my own power!) before the mirror admiring my newly pierced, gold-studded earlobes (the left definitely fatter than the right.)

I did it! Barring gangrene, I think the patient will pull through. Ah, the miracle of modern-day medicine—rest-room do-it-yourself style! Yup, unconventional, that’s me!