Dear President Obama, and Citimortgage,

Dear President Obama, and Citimortgage,

The Holiday season has arrived. Yesterday, I spent the afternoon decorating my home. I had Charlotte and Molly here. We played Christmas music. "Charlie Brown Christmas" actually. It is our favorite. We hung ornaments on our little tree in the kitchen. We put one up there every year. It is our "bird tree". Through the years, we have collected bird ornaments, here and there. My husband David, loves birds. From bald eagles, to hummingbirds. He has a love for them. He has a love for their ability to fly.

I even baked cookies yesterday. I tried to create a day for Charlotte and Molly that was magical. Olivia was off on a play date, and I wanted to make the day special for Charlotte. Molly, being so little, just thought each sparkling item coming out of assorted boxes was wonderful. She giggled all day. Yet, all afternoon, I was not enjoying what we were doing. I should have been, but I was angry. I had shaky hands, and heart palpitations. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry.

 David had called me, and told me that the cost of living raise he was going to be getting in the new year, would not be coming. President Obama had announced a two year freeze on raises for civilian federal employees. The raise would have been a 1.4 % increase. That's it. 1.4%. But to us, it was a lot, and we were happy about it. The President  went on to say that federal employees should make this sacrifice.

Really?

With all due respect President Obama, my family has sacrificed. We have been for quite some time now. My husband David was one of the first people to jump out of a C-17 airplane. He was a test jumper for the U.S. Army. He was a squad Sergeant with the 82nd Airborne Division. He earned the NATO Service Medal Award while stationed in Turkey. He is a brilliantly smart man, with a Masters Degree.

He worked in Land Surveying for almost 10 years after he got out of the military. The industry he worked in was completely driven by the buying and selling of houses. Thanks to the mortgage companies wreaking havoc on the real estate industry, and the market drying up, so did my husband's ability to work. He was unemployed for almost 8 months, and the only way he was lucky enough to get a job, was because I wrote a letter to our local newspaper about him, and they wrote a story about him.

During his unemployment, you know what he did all those cold, stressful days? He walked around neighborhoods, and knocked on doors, and asked people to vote for you, Mr. President. He and I both really believed that we would be helped by you.  We really thought that you got it. That you would make things better. That we would save our home, and the mortgage company would assist us in doing so. We thought that all of the men and women that we personally knew out of work, would get jobs. We thought that you were going to help us remain whole.

I cried. I laid in bed, pregnant with my little baby girl Molly, and watched you the night you won the election. I wept, tears streaming down my face uncontrollably, and David and I held each other, because we thought everything was going to be OK.

It isn't OK. It could not be worse for us. Citimortgage, in the beginning, offered us help. David's new federal job paid him far less than his previous job. They said they would help us, and enroll us in the "making homes affordable" program. They mailed us a letter, and told us that if we paid the three month "trial period" payment, they would close on the reduced mortgage and interest rate after we did so. Three months came and went. We paid, faithfully, this new reduced, affordable rate. We could pay it, because we could afford it. After paying for almost 9 months, and still not closing, we kept calling Citimortgage, asking when we could expect to close.

Citimortgage reneged. After all the months of making timely payments, they sent us paper work for a mortgage payment that was almost $100.00 dollars more than the payment we were making, before David lost his job. The help we thought we were getting, would not be coming. It was over. My home is now in foreclosure. Citimortgage will not help us. They were there, in rescue boats, throwing life rafts out to my family, and just as our finger tips grasped them, they yanked them away. They looked us all in the eye, and turned their boats around.

I am watching my family disintegrate. We have medical bills, and unpaid taxes. We have never lived above our means. We are cash only people. If we don't have the money, we don't get it. And I am not talking about luxuries. I am talking about necessities. We cannot afford to buy our girls Christmas presents let alone afford to keep food in the refrigerator at times.

Sacrifice? How much more are we supposed to?I kept choking back tears yesterday, as I put up Christmas decorations, because I don't know where we will be next year. I don't know if we will have a home.  I don't know if our bird tree will still be part of Christmas for us. I don't know if I will have anything. And yet, a silly 1.4 % cost of living raise is now not coming. My President, the one David asked countless people to vote for, door to door, is asking us to sacrifice more. I have to watch the government bail out banks, and read about Christmas bonuses being handed out to the employees of these very companies, that are poised to throw my family out into the street. The very same companies that caused my husband to lose his job in the first place. They are double and triple dipping in my family's life, and they won't help us.

Sacrifice? How much more? I am but one, person. A mother, and a wife. I am powerless. I have a keyboard. All I can do is write, and pray someone will hear me.  I pray that someone will hear all of the countless families that are dying out here.

Citimortgage doesn't care about my beautiful family. I don't think you do either, President Obama.

We are tired of sacrificing.

I am beginning to believe that the American dream, for many of us, is out of reach.

Misplaced

Thanks to the kindness of David's co worker, we made it to East Hampton for Thanksgiving. I am happy we were able to. I am happy someone's kind heart allowed us to.

I am so stressed. I can't focus on just letting go, and enjoying time with old friends. I keep worrying about how we are going to buy Christmas presents. I couldn't sleep thinking about it.

I took a nap today here at our friends house. This is the first place David and I lived before we got married. This was our love shack. I was here with Molly alone. Everybody had gone out. I sat on the couch, holding her on my chest, under the giant picture window, that faces south. Giant squares of sun warmed us. It felt so familiar. It made me feel sad.

We napped in the sun. When I opened my eyes, it felt like we had never left here. It was like I dreamed about a life somewhere else. It was just a dream. I woke up in my old home. But it wasn't. This isn't my home anymore. The warmth of the sun tricked me. It made me want to cry.

I just can't shake this incredible sadness.

I feel like I have misplaced something.

I have this urge to keep looking around for it, but I don't know what I am looking for.

Thankful

There never seems to be a dull, stress free moment around here. And in that spirit, today began filled with anxiety. Due to a massive system failure at David's job, he did not get paid. No one did. At least I can take comfort in that. At least I am not one of those women out there who were waiting for pay day, to go to the supermarket, to get what I needed for the house full of company that is coming over tomorrow, and now unable to. My worry is that we have fifty cents in the bank, and no way to get to my parents for our turkey dinner. No gas in the car, and actually, no groceries in my fridge, as I thought we were going to be out of town for the weekend, enjoying time with old friends. And here I was, actually looking forward to this weekend, even in the mess we are in. Bad luck is our companion. Why would it take a day off.
So, I will try and count my blessings, in order to avoid having my head blow off my shoulders.

I will drive to Charlotte's school today, with what little gas I have left, and watch her recite the "Jazzy ABC's" in her "Poetry and Punch" performance.
I will be thankful that we still have a house, for now, in which to call home.
I will be thankful that it is warm inside of it. (knock on wood)
I will be thankful for my husband, and the upward climb he continues on each day.
I will be thankful for my beautiful little girls, in every way possible.
I will be thankful that my parents are still alive, and are so good to me and my family.
I am thankful that I have my friend, Nichol. Even though she lives in Germany right now, I have her in my life.
I am thankful for the warm sun that is shining in my window.
I am thankful for the gap toothed man I married, and having two kids with gap toothed smiles. That beautiful smile will live on.
I am thankful for the girls assorted dimples, and Davids.
I am thankful that we have a car.
I am thankful that someone at David's job overheard him talking to me on the phone about not getting paid, and offered to loan him money.
I am thankful for all of the kind words and good thoughts that people have sent our way.
I am thankful that we had Grandpa Joe in our life, for as long as we did.
I am thankful for no one being sick.
I am thankful for medical insurance.
I am thankful for good report cards.
I am thankful for hearing Olivia sing in the shower.
I am thankful for Molly's habit of calling out "mommy" in her sleep.
I am thankful my girls go to school with breakfast in their belly's and clean clothes on their bodies.
I am thankful to have diapers and baby wipes.
I am thankful to have good neighbors.
I am thankful that I am alive. I don't ever want to leave this party.
I am thankful to have these days of raising these beautiful little creatures. I am in awe of them.
I am thankful to have had all of this. I am thankful for these days. They are filled with stress, and at times, frighten me, but I will long for them one day.

I will cry when they are over.

I am thankful to be loved.

Room

In 4th grade, there was a rite of passage, in my Elementary School. It was a week long trip to Fire Island. It was the trip. The one you waited for since you entered Wing Street Elementary School. It was in the Fall, just as the season ends, and the raw Winter weather pushes in. All of your fundraising efforts were for this trip. It was legend. My older sister went. Everyone who grew up in the "T" section, my Levitt neighborhood, lived for this moment. I laid in bed dreaming of it since 2nd grade. The thought of going was too much to even think about at times. The level of excitement rivaled Christmas.

Fire Island is a barrier Island off Long Island. No cars are on Fire Island. It is miles long, and I don't even think a half mile wide. It is a giant sand bar. One side of the Island is on the Great South Bay, and the other is the Atlantic Ocean. The land in the middle is a magical world. Mostly sand dunes. And an amazing "Sunken Forest". A boardwalk goes through the entire forest. It is long, and twisty. Strange trees and plants abound.

When the fourth graders go to Fire Island, they stay in Ranger housing. Barracks really. The cafeteria is ocean side, and a bit of a walk from where you sleep. The "classroom" is at the Ranger station. There were amazing items laid out there, for you to touch. Razor clam shells, and horseshoe crabs. All sorts of seaweed, and birds nests. Shells, and tree bark. There was a great big fire place. At night, we gathered around it, and Mr. Raso, clearly an alcoholic, and chain smoker, read "The Tell Tale Heart" to us. We ate s'mores, and held each other. He told us of the legend of Whistling Sam, a pirate who, along with other pirates, had buried treasure, somewhere in the Sunken Forest. His greedy partners wanted more of a share  in the loot, so they tied him to a tree, and let the tide come up, and drown him. It is said he whistled, as his last attempt for help, and at night, you can hear that whistle in the wind. You could, and it was the scariest thing I had ever heard.

We spent our days in waders, standing in the bay, and looking at underwater life through these great big floating microscopes. We caught things in nets, and dissected sea creatures. We dug, and diagrammed everything. I even tasted sarsaparilla.

Before dinner at night, we played football on the ocean. It was cold and gray. I remember how ominous the sea looked to me. Yet, it was exhilarating. My hair smelled like salt water, and fresh air all week. It was magic. Pure magic.

My mother and I were very close when I was in 4th grade. She packed my bag for me, and in it, she put four envelopes, with a letter for each night I was there. She said to read one, privately, before bed. I did. I looked forward to each one. I would bring them in the bathroom, because I didn't want my girlfriends, who I was rooming with, to make fun of me. In each letter, she told me how beautiful I was, and how smart I was. She told me how proud she was of me. She told me that there was something different about me. That I was special, and I was a gift to her, and my father. I remember how happy those letters made me. They made me feel like I was a gift. They made me love my mother so much.

When I returned that Friday from my week away, my room was clean, and organized. My mother had even cleaned out my hairbrush. She made my favorite dinner, and listened intently to my long, drawn out adventures of being on the beach. She seemed so happy. When she tucked me in that night, my sheets were all freshly laundered, and smelled so good. It was such a happy, safe feeling. We said our goodnight prayers. She told me she had spent a lot of time in my room, all week. This really surprised me. I remember, asking her why. She said that my room was her favorite room in the house. I couldn't believe this. She had a family room, and a big living room, with a fireplace. She had a pretty bedroom. My room was nothing compared to those rooms. It was filled with my stuff, and things looked a little messy. My sense of style, and decorating, not yet  fully formed. Yet, this was her favorite room? She said that it made her happy to be in it. She could smell me, and feel my smile. She liked to sit on my bed, in the afternoon, when the sun came through the window, and shined through the rainbow sticker I had on the window. I liked that time of day too. The room turned all different colors. She said she liked to look at the things I had on my dresser, and she liked the way all my stuffed friends had their own spots on the bed.

I never understood her love of my room, and honestly thought she was just being kind to me. Funny how, now, when I feel overwhelmed, or a need for some calm, I wander in my girls rooms. I can feel them. I can feel the safe, loving place we created.

It wraps it's loving arms around you.

I understand. 

Strong

The weekend was full of highs and lows. Money stress eats away at everything. Your relationship's with friends. Your relationship with your children, and your ability to be a good parent. How you move about during the day is helped or hindered by constant, gnawing, thoughts. Your very freedom is dictated by how much money you have, or have not. A love hate relationship. Constantly. It is simply, at times, maddening, and truly exhausting.

My marriage has not been immune to this constant stress. It has chipped and pecked, slowly at the foundation of it. It has done it very quietly. I think all is well, and suddenly, I step on a weak plank, and one whole part of the floor shifts, and avoids caving in by mere millimeters. Many close calls. Too many to count.

I can see how some marriages cannot continue to stand on such shaky ground. I used to think that they probably never had a firm ground to begin with. They built there life on swamp land, and it was only a matter of time before it all sunk, and was swallowed up by the muck of it all. A ticking time bomb.

I don't think that is true anymore. Constant, palpable worry, will weaken even the strongest of foundations. The weakening of it takes a little bit longer. Bit. by bit. Pebble by pebble. Sometimes, just tiny grains are carried away. But eventually, worry's evil excavation will wreak havoc. No one is immune.

But this is the only foundation that I want to stand on. This ground is soft, and in a warm place. I looked for so long to find the perfect plot, in which to build it, and found the best partner, to do it with. So we will continue to get out the mortar. We will patch, and repair. We will shore up the weakest points. Some days all we have is duct tape. The fix is temporary.

Yesterday, we had boulders. And we moved them into place. The ground is still so shaky beneath us. There are quite a few areas I don't trust to walk on yet.

But when the dust settles, it will still be standing.
I know this, for certain.

Wince

"Look at me......I'm a weeping willow".....


He has his arms stretched out and he is clearly making fun of me.

I feel foolish.


I get it.

You are supposed to be the person who doesn't do that to me.

You are supposed to take care of me.

You told me I was your queen and you would always be on my side.





And now I am a joke to you.

Cross section

 Tree's amaze me. The sheer variety of them are astounding to me. The climate's they grow in, and how they adapt to those places, just to survive, I find incredible. Broad leaf tree's and conifers. Trees like Redwoods, and their massive size, and age. Fig trees...an ecosystem unto themselves. They grow, tall and solo, providing animals, bugs, birds, bats, and the forest floor with a bounty. Their seeds carried in the bellies of many. Yet solely dependant on a wasp for pollination. Trees that grow in the desert. Unbearable heat and no water. Yet somehow, they find what they need to survive, and thrive. Palm trees. Oh how I envy them. Shallow roots, abundant moisture, and glorious sun. The elite trees.

Trees provide shade, and fruit. They are homes to thousands of species. We harvest sap from them to pour on our pancakes, and cut them down to build homes. Paper products and medicine. Furniture, and pencils. Their uses are endless. Yet they go, virtually unnoticed. We pay no attention to them. They are a part of our landscape, and fade into the back round. They provide us with what we need to breathe, but they are not given a thought, mostly.
Some trees, like the Sugar Maple, develop tricks to get moisture. Their roots will stretch hundreds of feet, and grow another set of smaller roots around the peat moss of a plant, surrounding the root ball, and stealing all of it's water. Anything it can, just to survive.

The cross section of a piece of wood tells not only it's age, but it's story. You can see lighter areas between it's age rings, that are the summer season. Sap flowed freely to the tree, and growth was quick. The darker color is the winter. It is a layer that builds up to protect the fresh summer growth. In the Fall, the tree will pull most of it's sap from it's upper reaches, to keep it from freezing. To keep itself alive.

When you look at the growth rings of a tree, you can also see when something traumatic has happened to the tree. There will be a distortion, or an unusual ripple, signifying that the tree suffered in some way. Maybe a drought. Maybe a terribly dry, burning summer. It changes the rings, altering it, like tossing a pebble in a brook. It reverberates. The tree will recover, but the wound is etched into it's long memory.

On the outside, it appears tough, from years of growth, and a coat of bark.
It remains silent. Never speaking of the ripple within itself.

Only when it withers and dies, will someone see it's story.