Category: Holidays

I had a dream about my mother, just before Samhain (SOW-en). For those of you who don’t know what that is, on the Celtic calendar, it is the celebration of the autumn equinox–the time of the final harvest, when the land lies fallow, until spring. On the Christian calendar, it’s somewhere near Halloween. Among other lore attached to that time of year, the veil between this world and the next is thinnest. That part is important, so remember it.

I digress.

I had a dream about my mother. My mother passed to the other side of the veil four years ago, the past June, and I haven’t dreamed about her, until now. We were sitting at the kitchen table, in the house where I grew up, drinking coffee and talking, as we often did. She suddenly looked at me, and said in a tone that I had come to recognize as her “don’t give me any crap” voice, “Reba Lynn, clean up your mess!” With those words ringing in my ears, I woke up.

I took this to mean that I was to get on with my life, instead of floundering about helplessly, as I had been. I am a strong woman from a family of strong women. We pull ourselves up by our boot-straps (garters?) and go on.  It’s just what we do. After all, I am a Furgason (long story, but Ferguson is misspelled, I know) and a Gibbons. With lineage like that, I can’t be anything other than what I am, right? Right!? Right.

In a week and a little more, I will be 41 (or as I PREFER to look at it, 21 with 20 years experience). Having clearly lost what little of my sanity is left, I have signed up as a full time student in the AA transfer program at my local community college. I intend to study history. I am quite lucky, as I have some very supportive friends, and understanding children. I am profoundly impressed with my own audacity. I also refuse to think about how many opportunities I have wasted, in my younger years. But like many priviliged (read: spoiled-rotten) children, I fail to appreciate anything until I have to work for it. My parents paid for the first go at University, which I failed at. I will be paying for this one, and failure is not an option– Because I proved to myself what I am capable of, when I really want something, and I want this more than I want air. I can be frightfully single-minded when need-be.

I have moved back to my hometown, and am finally settling into my new home, at least for now. I miss the sunrises and sunsets and the wonderful people out on my hill, but things will be more convenient, as I am working and going to school here. And amazingly enough, the sun still rises and sets here, too. And I am reconnecting with old friends whom I haven’t seen in years. Life is coming together.

I am cleaning up my mess, mama.



This coming Monday, the US celebrates Memorial Day. In honor of this, I am replacing my regularly scheduled blog post with the text of one of my favorite poems:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead.
Short days ago We lived,
felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved,
and now we lie, In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

–Lt. Col. John McCrae

Thank you to the men and women who have fought to preserve our freedom, and a special salute to those who have given their lives in the service of our country. You are not forgotten.

A soldier is some one who has written a check to his or her nation for an amount “up to, and including, my life”. If you haven’t thanked one, today, or stopped to remember one who died in combat, do so. Its a respect thing.


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