Battling Bloat

Image from http://www.formerfatguy.com/



Despite my years with Lyme, I don’t usually blog about health; but this is really important. It's about boomer bellies; yours may not be some vague middle-age thing. Mine wasn't.

In January I was doing everything the medical community advises to lose weight and feel better. I was seriously worried about my belly and bowels. My tummy felt like it was second trimester or stuffed with sandbags; my bowels would not work without laxatives or mass quantities of prune juice. When the laxatives or juice finally took effect, it was like giving birth to rocks.

This problem has been going on for almost as long as I can remember. Back when I was on staff at ad agencies in Detroit, I had to set aside one full weekend morning each week to activate and complete a bodily function most take for granted.

I can’t believe I’m talking about this stuff in public. Well, you’re not reading it unless you searched for it, in which case my story may be helpful.

I walk, kayak and do yoga. I’m vegetarian, but I do eat eggs and dairy. I was eating fruits, vegetables and whole grains. Breakfast was usually steel cut oats – lunch might be a salad or a whey protein shake with fresh fruit. I had learned to make an amazing pasta fagioli with oil, garlic, onion, tomato sauce, pecorino romano cheese, white beans and whole grain pasta. It was so delicious it had become a mainstay.

So why did I feel like shit? Why did I never feel satisfied? I don’t have health insurance, I can’t just go to the doctor and find out; I can only take care of myself, pay attention and do some research when there’s a problem.

One week I had been especially mindful about what I ate. I know the principles of Atkins, so I’ve always been wary of carbs. But one night I was STARVED so I pulled out two pieces of high fiber whole grain wheat bread, organic peanut butter – crunchy of course, creamy is for wussies - and high quality raspberry jelly. Within an hour I felt like I was going to explode; then it occurred to me. I’ve heard of this before.

I have a friend who is gluten intolerant. I sent her an email – what does it feel like when you eat wheat? She said “bloated and sluggish beyond belief.” So I researched more. If you’re gluten intolerant, you WILL bloat and you may be horribly constipated or diarrheic. (I made that word up – I think.)

If you are gluten intolerant your body isn’t absorbing the nutrition from the food; no wonder I would eat and not feel satisfied. I was eating high quality healthy foods – but they weren't good for me.

After a week at my mothers, with her pancakes, cookies and pies, my bloat was at tilt and I felt like death on a soda cracker.

I read that some people who have this disorder can develop serious problems with their small intestines. My Gram and her annoying adventist sister nearly died from intestinal problems.

I called my mom to talk about it and she vaguely implied I was as much a food zealot as my Gram; who – by the way – lived to 96.

So if I hit a wall with mom, that’s ok. Some of my best friends are nurses. I talked to one on the phone and she said absolutely, it sounded like I needed to be off gluten. And she said it reminded her that she probably should too.

One of my long and lean yoga buddies is also a nurse. We have Starbucks after class and she always gets some weird soy thing because she’s lactose intolerant. While we talked she leaned back and said “Look at my belly. I shouldn’t even be having soy but I can’t give up everything.”

Another yoga buddy suggested I looked at the blood type diet. I hadn’t really thought much about that. When I looked up my blood type – rH negative – I found my type doesn’t do well on any grains at all.

(This blood type thing is fascinating, well worth checking into.)

Eat Right 4 Your Type: The Individualized Diet Solution to Staying Healthy, Living Longer & Achieving Your Ideal Weight

That was a month ago. That peanut butter and jelly sandwich was my last gluten. I feel SO MUCH BETTER NOW. I’m satisfied after meals and my bowels are starting to work on their own.

Gluten is in grains and flours – white, whole wheat and rye.I don't feel like I had to give up that much. I gave up steel cut oats, whey protein, bread and pasta. I read labels on everything now – something I’ll have to continue doing until I’ve got the thing down.  I discovered gluten-free products in the health food aisle; the ginger snaps and animal cookies are excellent. I don’t feel like I’m missing a thing.

Food tastes better – I think because I know it’s serving as nutrition now. When I want carbs, I eat potatoes or brown rice. My yoga buddy nurse friend was worried about my protein intake so I've added humane organic chicken to my diet. DO NOT poison yourself with factory farmed meat and poultry. (Please research that.)

The foods I’m eating now are not the enemy.

Beer? Hello my gluten-rich frienemy. I had already learned I couldn’t drink it without getting a headache within an hour; now I know why. If I want a drink I have wine or something with rum.

So if you’re chronically bloated and constipated or diarrheic – it may be that “healthy” gluten rich food and drink you’ve been consuming.

This book looks excellent:

The Gluten Connection: How Gluten Sensitivity May Be Sabotaging Your Health--And What You Can Do to Take Control Now

Pay attention to how you feel after eating certain types of foods. I think it’s a good habit to get into.

Namaste my belly boomer friends.

The Wads of Winter

My friend Connie raises Geese in Missouri. That’s not what she intended to do with her life. She was an award winning landscape designer in Chicago - but her mother was dying alone on the family farm and her city slicker siblings would not step up.

I’m not saying Connie’s mother “was” dying because she died, but because somewhere along the line she started holding her own.

Her brother grudgingly writes checks to make the problem go away as her sister sits back and criticizes.

It’s the traditional American family.

Hospice still comes out – that’s a surprise. Connie can’t get it through her head that they are there for end of life. When death is not imminent, they go away. When hospice saw my Gram was getting better that’s what they did. I joke that they fired her after four months. She lived years past that.

But Connie needs help, she can’t even accept the thought that they might stop coming. She hates and needs them. She rages on Facebook, she doesn’t want to hear the truth about hospice nurses being there to dispense comfort, not healing. I throw my two cents in like a grenade and run for fear of fallout.

It’s not good, it’s not bad – it just is.

I don’t want to get into it with her. Nobody carries a burden as heavy as hers. Her mom has lung cancer and mild dementia and Connie is in her second winter of horrific bronchitis and migraines. She and her mother live in separate buildings on the land and she has to trudge through deep snow to keep her mother fed and medicated and make sure the furnace is working. Not to mention feeding/watering/caring for the geese and the herding dogs and ….

I would break under her burden.

Today she wrote me privately. I have to take a deep breath to open her emails because they break my heart. She explained it this way. I’m not changing one word – just the punctuation because – well, I’m a Virgo.

She wrote “Not to put pressure on you, but I just can’t deal with people right now. And I don’t consider you a person. If you know what I mean- that is a compliment. You are more like a dog.”

The compliment was significant; we both like dogs better than people.

She wrote a very long email and it seemed wads were the crux of it – the straws that broke the camel’s back.

She said she was losing it due to her mother “stuffing endless amounts of kleenex up her sleeves and then my washing her clothes only to have millions of shreds of tissue all over everything, that then falls off when I take the clothes out of the dryer and then I have to sweep the floor.....her home aid brought red washclothes for some unknown reason--- she has millions here already- and so when I washed her clothes all of her whites came out stained pink. I blew up.”

The pink thing made me snicker a little.

But the tissue up the sleeves … that brought Gram back. She did that. She wadded some of it up and stuck it in her ears too; only in the winter.

Back when she was just a dumb blonde – before the dementia started to take her away. Her ears would be full of it and you’d say something and she’d get pissy – annoyed – like “speak the hell up!” Only she would never say “hell”.
I’d point to her ears and she’d double over with laughter. She’d pull them out and I’d say “there for a second I thought you were deef!” That was one of her words.

I think she had a theory that the wads kept her ears warm. Well, maybe the cochlea. I don’t recall ever having cold cochlea. I guess it could happen.

Hats messed up her hair and made her look like “the wreck of the Hesperus” – whatever that was. She was very vain.

We were exposed to the elements more than most because we were Jehovah’s Witnesses. Gram brought out the big guns on Saturday mornings when we went door to door with the Watchtower and Awake. She used COTTON BALLS instead of tissue wads. Maybe they were her “dress” wads.

And she wore an oppressively heavy brown mouton coat with tissues tucked up the sleeves. I’m sure she felt quite elegant, but I hated that coat. One Saturday morning, she caught a heel in the hem and I turned to see her rolling around on the sidewalk struggling to break free. The thickness broke her fall, but it looked like she was being mauled by a bear.

We laughed so hard we cried.

Years passed. I grew up and got married … a few times. She got older and dementia eased in slowly. She got a little testy with people. She bought me dog grooming mits for my third wedding. I’ll never know for sure - dementia or one last lucid shot at my credibility?

Then she forgot who we were; but it seemed like she remembered she loved us. I missed her before she was gone.

Yeah, I remember wads.
Connie ended her tirade …

“I have to get my head back on to seeding the fields and paying my debts off and dealing with hospital bills and sewing curtains, getting to meetings and pretending my life isnt freaking me out of my mind.... NOT lose it over pink clothes. And tissue bits. And hypocrites. And loneliness.”

I wrote back that the days are already getting longer – spring is coming. The snow will melt, the new chicks will arrive and the cycle will begin again.

I did not write that she will get well - her mother won’t and one day she’ll miss the wads and the day the laundry went pink.

The Drafting Compass

I had a friend who wanted to move to Florida except that his parents lived in West Palm. He spread a map, took a drafting compass and drew a circle that rendered 250 miles of comfort zone.

He chose a city on the edge of that zone - far enough to discourage unannounced visits, but close enough to get there quickly in case of emergency. Brilliant.

My situation is not like his. I came to Florida first and my parents – well, they’ll probably never come at all. They’re in Northern Michigan near Lake Superior.

I would need a bigger compass.

I look at my map and there is some satisfaction in being closer to Castro than my mother. I’m about 400 miles north of Havana, 1700 miles south of mom’s.

Both dictators are getting on in years.

Mom is much younger, mid 70s. Castro – well, he has to be ninety by now. I think I’d have a better time with him, but he never calls – he never writes. He doesn’t know I exist.

My mom knows but she doesn’t care much. She had one child - a bastard – that’s me. That was her defining moment. She came home pregnant at 15 and got heat from her mom. Sure, blame the Gram for being upset because she already had her hands full raising three kids while her husband – Grandpa – was suicidal; crazy on his ass with bipolar.

Despite the hardships, Gram welcomed me with open arms. But my mom? According to her current life script, she never forgave her for coming home pregnant. Funny, I don't remember it that way. I grew up with those two and I never saw my Gram dish out anything but food, shelter, love and money.

Some years after mom married – still stalking the ever-elusive happiness - she went into therapy and came out blaming her mother for every disappointment. Her resentments started growing right around the same time Gram started slipping gears.

I told her I thought Gram was getting dementia. Mom disagreed. She said she was playing games.

So - of course - after years of steady decline Gram died of dementia. She has been gone for four years, but my mom continues to claw at her memory like a housebound cat attacks a scratching post.

I have a hard time picking up the phone to make a call. I miss my Gram; she's glad she's gone.  Sometimes I prefer email because written words don't cut as deep as spoken words. There is something powerful in a person's "tone."

I’ll bet Castro doesn’t have this kind of drama. He wouldn't permit it. He'd wave it away in a hairy knuckled cloud of smoke.

I’ll bet he embraces his bastards as living/breathing signs of macho.

He would be full of himself – like her – but he wouldn’t give me creepy, judgmental stares over a steaming mug of herbal tea.

She sits curled on the left corner of the great blanketed Collie Couch, with one or two of the great wooly beasts dozing at her feet. If she has food, they huff and puff with desire.

It annoys her that I am vegetarian; but she says she is too - well, except for the bacon. Oh yeah, and the burgers.

Castro wouldn't take my shit. He'd have his chef slap a big bloody steak on my plate and inform me it's that or nothing; at least I could go on Atkins for the duration.

Not so at mom's. She bakes cakes and pies the whole time we're there. She's an incredible cook. Maybe that's how she shows her love. At the end we waddle back out to the SUV with our bags - emotionally deflated and physically fat.

Castro would have a fully stocked bar of prime rums and brandies.  I imagine him puffing as he leans back comfortably in a heavily tufted leather chair. It might have some ash burns.

He might have a dog – or maybe even a cat. I could see him with a cat. He probably has people standing by with lint-rollers. In fact, he would have an entourage of trusted friends and cohorts.

My mother doesn’t because she is fierce.

My step-dad hides out with the remotes in his ginormous but somewhat drafty family room. The kitchen is the late-night demilitarized zone where they elbow roughly past each other, exchanging muttered “fuck you’s” in the dim light of the open fridge.

The open profanity usually occurs at the dinner table when the stepdad asks her to pass something and she'll respond with something like "fuck you, get it yourself." 

It was unnerving but sort of laughable when he was stronger; now that his health is bad, it's intolerable. We've started taking her aside to tell her to calm the fuck down. Well, not me - I'm afraid. My son does it.

I'm afraid because if I get into it there's a very good chance we will  never speak to each other again. Ever. And if I have cause to get into it, I would probably be ok with that.

The dad sleeps downstairs in his own room. It WAS the prime guest room. Mom takes offense to that, but then she takes offense to most everything he does.

I remind her she has a blessed life and it's all because of him.

I sleep upstairs under a dozen glassy eye deer-heads. I get the pull out sofa with the metal rails that bite because I’m the asterisk in family visits to The Great White North. Don’t get me wrong, I like it that way – below radar, with my son, daughter in law and granddaughters out front like the marines. 

I make it up there about once a year. I drive to my son’s place in lower Michigan, then we drive another 500 miles past that. We go in my son’s great guzzlin’ SUV with sleeping kids, spilled Cheetos, farting dogs and The Little Mermaid on DVD.

My first daughter-in-law misses us. During delivery of Emma, my first granddaughter, she discovered the joy of pain meds and drugged herself right out of a perfectly beautiful family. Today she has a new family but she misses the life she had with us.

We've hooked up on Facebook and it's like old times. She asked if she could list me on as her mother and I said OK. I always loved her. She was young, she fucked up. We all fuck up sometimes.

She's sorry.

This week she sent an email asking me to tell my parents she misses them.

I understand how she feels. I miss my ex-husband's parents, they are awesome. But I knew what was going to happen.

I sent an email and my mom wrote back: "We will NEVER forgive her for what she did.”

I wrote back saying that doesn't change the fact that Becky will always be Emma’s mother. I envision my mother making some unforgiveable comment that will offend Emma for all time.

It seems like my mother has become the mother she manufactured in her head, the mother she THOUGHT she had. I half-think a person who has never met me or us will read this silly overview of our family's maternal dynamic and have more clarity.

Maybe one day I'll have that. I wish I could understand.

I'm pretty sure my Gram would have accepted Becky’s apology. I think she lived 96 years because she knew how to forgive and accept.

So I’ve got my map and I’ve got my drafting compass.

Let’s see … only 400 miles to Castro’s; 1700 miles to the mom’s. It takes a lot of gas, forgiveness and acceptance to go there.

Open Letter to Fox News

Dear Ms. Kenney:

Tonight I accidentally stopped on Fox as I was flipping through. I briefly heard that a person can still weigh in on that hate speech thing. I'm sorry to be bothering you, but if you don't know who to write, write to the top.

Do I believe the hate speech factor is valid? Absolutely. I've read up on the shooter and I have little doubt he has some form of autism. I have a friend who has Asperger's Syndrome. That person is emotionless and sometimes horrifically inappropriate; he has tremendous difficulty fitting in socially. Is he affected by the media he sees and hears? You bet - if it's in his "script." These people "script" themselves to squeak by. They can only manage one - maybe two.

The shooter had a vision of hate and death; if he needed encouragement to follow through, all he had to do was turn on the radio or TV.

We've been banging this around on Facebook since Saturday. Today someone asked "how many people would be influenced by that sort of thing?" Well, I did some research. They say approximately 20% of the adult population has mental health problems. I didn't take time to find out how many are smoking pot, drunk on their asses or strung out on Hillbilly Heroin. Let's say another 10% are strung out on drugs - liquid, prescription and otherwise.

That leaves about 70% of the adult population to watch you and your commercials in a lucid state. Well, at least half of that adult population thinks like me. Fox News is Faux News, a freakshow of hate and venom. If I knew someone was advertising on your network, I would go out of my way to NOT buy from them.

I had a friend from up north who spent a night here last year - on the heels of another guest. She came out the next morning and whispered "did you know your guest TV is set to Fox News?" Embarrassed, I said "Omigod no, I'll fix that right away."

I have unfriended friends who parrot the Fox hate rhetoric - online and in real life. I've known some of those people for 30 years.

Your network has been ugly and divisive since before the presidential election. When I think Fox I think bigots, christian fanatics and KKK. I think that evil crying clown Beck.

It would be amazing to see you initiate some renaissance of working together across the political divide; to see Fox become part of an intelligent solution instead of the loaded gun that it is.

(Sent to Fox 4 News in Fort Myers 1/11/11)

Buddhism 101: The Four Noble Truths

(This is by special request.)
In my own irreverent words:

Truth #1 - Life always has been and always will be a pain in the ass
Truth #2 - Our suffering is caused by attachment to ego, others, clothes, jewelry, houses, cars, foods, booze, drugs, sex, experiences, etc.
Truth #3 - It is possible to rise above the suffering and find inner peace.
Truth #4 - That inner peace can be found by learning and adhering to the eight-fold path.

The eight-fold path:

1 - Right view (be real, be honest, no sugar-coating; it is what it is)
2 - Right intentions (approach others - and self - with love and acceptance)
3 - Right speech (use words to heal or strengthen - not harm or diminish)
4 - Right action (demonstrate appropriate compassion/generosity of spirit)
5 - Right livelihood (does what you do help or hurt mankind/wildlife/the planet?)
6 - Right effort (work on detaching from those things that bring you pain)
7 - Right mindfulness (be aware and fully present at all times)
8 - Right concentration (meditate; some say God speaks to us in the silence between the thoughts)

There is way more to it than this. I highly recommend "Awakening the Budha Within" by Lama Surya Das.

Happy Channukah, Merry Christmas ... namaste.

Joint Custody and Early Onset

I just got a wink from this guy. I swear to God.

He's my son's age. I should have sent a nice email explaining I wasn't interested, but then he should have had the good sense to not wink in the first place.

I like your lizards (bearded dragons?) but the next time I get attached to a man and his pets, I want legal papers granting joint custody after the inevitable breakup.

Maybe he's just looking for someone to play video games and smoke pot with ... like my last BF, Mr. Hyde.

This year's romantic journey is in it's last fiscal quarter. Like my bank account, my romantic bottom line is bleak but I have reached a point of happy acceptance. This is where I was emotionally when I met Mr. Hyde in February.

He was tall and handsome, smart and funny but I was completely ambivalent. He played cat and mouse for two months - calls/dates - no calls, no dates.

These old red flags from failed relationships have become today's instant dealbreakers. I fucking walk now; it doesn't take much.

I saved Hyde's last voicemail from March; it was him trying to be cute after a long silence, alerting me to a Monty Python marathon. As if it mattered. He was Monty Python, I was Jon Stewart. But I returned the call and the rest is history.

After two months of on/off we did two months of 24/7 and I was in heaven, TOTALLY in love. The happiest I've been in probably ten years. Then he flipped or snapped or realized I wasn't what he wanted. I still don't know. I don't think he knows. I suspect some combination of pot and prescription meds.

I do know in the past few weeks it no longer hurts to hear that voicemail; in fact, it makes me a little angry. This week I finally deleted it. That felt pretty good.

I still have his motorcycle glasses and a feather from his Cockatoo - who I miss desperately. I tamed the untamed, cuddled with the bird who wouldn't let anyone close. I still love the bird. His beautiful yellow feather is in my organizer and it tears me up every time I see it.

I need to let it go. I need to return the glasses, deposit them in his mailbox in the morning before he wakes up; like me, he stays up most of the night.

I have dated since. Men my age either bore me to death or they have accepted OLD without a fight. If my criteria included "must be able to do my 60-minute beachwalk with me" I would be screwed. OK, not screwed. Never screwed again so long as I live. Whatever. What would we do without porn.

We're not talking a stroll, we are talking walking a good pace without breaks. If I held to that criteria, I would ... well, I'd be considering the guy with the bearded dragons because 90% of guys my age can't cut it; and those who can are mostly egomaniacs who date arm candy.

Or they live like MORMON HUSBANDS with meek passive types waiting for their turn at bootie call. As Grandma would say - if she knew what a bootie call was - Pffft.

OK, one first date could have been something. It lasted six hours. In hindsight, it could have been a relationship but it definitely would have led to an annoying breakup.

He was tall and dark, smart and classy with an elegant accent. Not funny, but interesting. Ask him where he's from and he does that thing I hate ... he skirts it. "I'm from Chicago." Where before that? Well he explains, his mother was from Spain and his father was from France and he was born in Cuba.

I don't need your family tree, I just want to know where you got that accent. Isn't it just easier to say "I'm from Cuba?" I would be proud to be from a dramatic time and place.

When someone doesn't honor where they've come from, it's a red flag. Not a deal breaker, just a warning. A man who has issues with his nationality probably has lots of other issues.

I wasn't sure how I felt about him when we met at the coffee shop. There was some chemistry. He was pale with a receding hairline, good strong legs and a thick soft waist tastefully camoflaged by an expensive shirt.

He critiqued my physical attributes like he was choosing Sunday's roast off the cow graph meat chart at Kroger's.

Red flag - but I shrugged it off as Cuban.

He wanted to talk about sex. I was extremely uncomfortable, but he insisted, saying his last relationship ended because she really didn't really like sex. I'm thinking "maybe she didn't like sex with you." He said she just laid there - like call CSI, do the chalk outline and take photos.

OK. I talked about sex. That was me being open, not a green light for future phone sex. After we talked he said "don't you feel better that we have this out of the way? Now we know we are compatible. We do not have to wait two months to find out."

His lack of grammatical contractions was starting to bug me but the "two month" thing resonated.

He convinced me to go see his house so I would know more about him. He was a total gentleman. When we got back to the coffee shop he said he wanted to "do this." Try a relationship on for size. I was freaked, trying not to be freaked.

This was going too fast.

He called the next day - sounding uptight - and asked if I had been on match. ?? I said if I had, it was only to write a polite response to someone who had written.

What is this jealousy? A Cuban thing? Did not compute, I don't know guys like this. I don't know how to deal with jealous people.
He said he would call the next day to decide where we'd meet the day after that. He didn't.

Early onset alzheimers or disrespect? Both are red flags.

KABOOM - gone motherfucker. No pain, I felt empowered.

He called a few more times; I muttered fuck you under my breath and hit mute.

He dropped in at a public place he knew I'd be. I was polite, talked a bit. He looked good. One of my girlfriends was ready to put a move on him. Maybe I had been too hasty.

Then he said he'd been thinking about my sexual fantasies and he liked them.  Moving too fast guy, inappropriate topic in an inappropriate location.

That was it. Go away, there are plenty of predatory women who will happily do anything to get their manicured claws on your home and income. 

Yesterday - two weeks later - he called again. He left a message and sounded upset. Sad. He asked why I "disappeared". He asked that I call him back. He said "if you do not call I will know what that means."

I waited a few hours, then I sent him an email that I've been very busy. That was true. I also said "I've made a conscious decision; I have no desire to complicate my life with a relationship at this time."

I am the man.

I don't want to hurt people but I have these bright, shiny new boundaries and not many people earn the right to enter the front gate.

I have a date tonight. Well, not a date so much as a hangout with a sort of a friend - a guy I met on Facebook. Like me, he's from southeast Michigan and he worked most of his adult life in the auto industry. (Translation: plenty of stuff to talk about.)

Unlike me, he's allowing his joints to rust out from lack of use. He parks his electric car in handicapped. This isn't convenience, it's necessity.

He looks great but he hobbles. I have a date with a hobbler.

The doctor asked him about his activities and he responded "investing."  I tried to picture the doctor's face.

The Hobbler suggested we meet at Casa Blanca.

There is no Casa Blanca Mexican restaurant in Fort Myers.

I corrected him ... "Cabasca's?"

"Yeah" he sez, "that's it. Let's meet at Casa Blanca at 6:30."

Red flag Bogart.

Early onset ...

###

The Ancient Places We Call Home.

A sunset across the street - two miles from Punta Rassa.

Last week I caught part of an interview on local TV. A woman was talking about Lake Okeechobee - how she feels the spirits of the place and the lake must be honored and protected.

I admired her courage. Most of the time, we're afraid to talk about these things.

The first place I lived among the spirits was in Algonac, Michigan. My old victorian cottage was on the river, on a great international waterway - the St. Clair River broke into North and South Channels and smaller inlets.

There was native land across from me - and native land beneath. I felt welcome and wanted.

There was an old bar/restaurant 9 houses down from mine - also on the river. I think it was built in the 30s - maybe earlier.

I used to love going there because my grandfather hung out there before I was born. He fished with the natives on Walpole, went duck hunting with friends and probably got peeks at the earliest Chris Crafts that came out of the local factory.  I could imagine him swapping tall tales at that very bar.

Henry's was a wonderful old place that had never been remodeled - only added onto. The walls seemed to speak.

The new owner renamed it, but she left it as it was. One night she told me she thought Henry (long since deceased) was still hanging out. It was nearly midnight and she asked if I wanted to see what she was talking about; I did. Despite the fact that some of her employees were afraid of the place after dark.

She took me back through the kitchen. The stainless of the stoves gleamed, but the floor was uneven with age.

In a dark hallway she opened the door of a big storage closet and asked if I felt anything. I didn't.  She dared me to go inside; I did and she turned off the light. Alone in the darkness with paper towels and tomato paste - I started feeling stupid.

We walked out into the back portion of a dining area - she only opened that when she had big crowds. That hadn't happened in a while. I walked towards the big glass windows closest to the river. There was some natural light from the moon over the river.

Still nothing. She walked back towards an interior wall and said "try this way."

As I approached I could feel electricity tingle up my fingertips, into my fingers, up my arms and shoulders to the top of my scalp - which positively crawled. I received a visual impression of a native warrior, feet towards the river. I received the emotional impression of a warrior priest.  This was a sacred space.

It was like he was still very much alive; he was a potent psychic force. My scalp crawls just describing it.

I told my friend "it's not Henry you're feeling." Then I told her what I saw. 

Later other customers told her the old-timers talked about "hearing horses" and "seeing an Indian."


I started sneaking off to light a candle when I was there on quiet nights.

I told a knowledgeable native man from Walpole's cultural center about the experience and he said I'd had a vision many full blooded natives spent a lifetime in sweat lodges trying to achieve. He asked if I had native blood and I said my family thinks we do.

He said I needed to find out who from, which tribe. He wanted me to abandon Buddhism to explore native spirituality, but I saw no reason why I couldn't do both.  Truth is truth.

That space in the back room of that darkened restaurant was sacred. My home had a connection to the spirits. I expected I would be taken out the day I died.

But it didn't happen that way. I lost my home along with everything else due to Lyme Disease. I remember gathering the last of my things and kissing my doorway goodbye; I cried all the way to my boyfriend's house.

Fast forward five years.

Somehow I wound up in this quirky little area of Florida. This condo fairly leaped out at me from the ads. It's the only one I clicked with, the only one I saw.

Oddly enough, I have that same sense of peace and protection I had in Algonac. I always wondered about that. I am one mile from the Caloosahatchee River, three miles from Bunche Beach and five miles from Fort Myers Beach. Of course these were all native land at one time - but I had no idea to what degree.

The Sanibel Causeway meets the mainland in a place known as Punta Rassa. It's walking distance.
I'm broke, I have something like six watchable channels left. Last night I happened on a local history program and learned how important this area was to the natives and those who came after.

The Calusa Indians used this area as a central location for tribe members who lived on Estero and those who lived up the Caloosahatchee River.

Pirates docked at Punta Rassa. Cubans came in the winter to fish for Mullet for lent. Crackers came with cattle for Cuba; they were paid in Spanish dubloons and celebrated payday ... here.

Union troops - including two colored divisions - set up camp here. There was even a fort, which was totally washed away in the Hurricane of 1840 (?).  Historical fiction author Bob Macomber is an expert on local Civil War history. He says back then the people gathered at Punta Rassa couldn't understand each other. Soldiers included ex-slaves from the south, some from Georgia, white troops from New York - and Crackers.

I don't think they ever had any battles here. An acquaintance lives on the Caloosahatchee on the site of another fort; he said there were little skirmishes, but nothing serious.

Some ancient places have a horrible vibe. I did not do well in Sedona (I believe the new agers are pissing off the spirits) and I could not wait to leave the Coloseum in Rome; you can still feel the violence.

But here ... this land feels good. It was nice to catch the program and know why.  Once again, I live in an area that was home to ancient native peoples.

(I believe it was WGCU Program 122 on Punta Rassa; I'm going to buy it when I get a chance:-)