Friday, February 11, 2011



Here we go.


Why I avoid sick folks and funerals...


Caution: Dark Irish humor ahead. Best read by folks with a sense of humor.


Happy birthday Thomas Edison.

Now my father is much better. Where last Friday he was at deaths door, he's now (kinda) up and flirting with the nurses. It's been a rough week for a disinherited writer.

Need humor. Stat.





The Junk Drawer O"writing from c anne ford

You'll need to read the next post inorder to make sense of this one. Otherwise this will just look like a laundry list of random poems. So you'll know, I've written under many names. Hannah Murphy, AuthorAnn, IC, Ironchassis, WriterAnn, Auntie Slacker, Intern Jack, Intern Jane, and c anne ford.

I wrote first under the nick Ironchassis and IC. Then when I needed quotes I made up the character Hannah Murphy, as my ebay blog progressed and more folks read I created a whole cast of characters including AuntieSlacker, Intern Jack, and Intern Jane. This time was about character creation and dialog. It was fun and helped in learning to create interesting voices that were unique. It's really not as easy as it sounds.

The words in bold print are from my old ebay blog 12 dogs and a blog I'm using bold print so that I don't have to put in the quotes.

And because I'm lazy.

From my ebay blog, 12dogsandablog.

the very first blog entry

Wait a minute…that’s not right…. It’s cold…. My brain was froze…it was 2AM with BioChem and NO social life …a good idea just lousy timing…time with “the guy” and “that other guy” and then “that guy” … while having fun with COBOL and mainframes… Good grades. Good at it…but…broke up with “that guy”… sigh bad idea.. needed change…vaca in NYC meet future bff, move to big city and in with bff roommate…good idea till “that guy” returns…Good idea…then first son dies…”that guy” now “busy guy”… The dogs ate it.. no wait that was law school… I flunked out of law school…(sorry mom)….went to art school..for a while…talent as sculptor…who knew… I dropped out of that….(really sorry mom but it was great!!!)….had a good excuse thought became I became a parent..(okay for that I am not going to apologize I mean I made you a grandmother and there is all that lovely karmic parenting payback)..became an at-home slacker(yeah right)……time moves… I move several times…..I become parent of teenager… teenager learns to drive….(…sorry mom NOW I get it)….become mom of melodramatic, future slacker teenaged draaaaammmaaaaah king…(parent karma curse)…..this isn’t misery enough…. oh no…. I pick up camera and decide to become photographer….gallery owner says I’m crap….. decide writing might be good fun even with that pesky grammar/spelling problem….but something is missing.. … oh yeah the 12 dogs…and the blog….oh and I really am a writer –for real…that about gets us up to date….

welcome to

12 dogs and a blog………….

I loved writing in this blog. It was a lark at first then it became a passion and finally an unpaid job. 8000 avg views a month. Everyday I would write for Gentle Reader. Sometimes Gentle Reader was a real live person and sometimes Gentle Reader was a literary device.

(psst I even had groupies.LOL)

Entry July 8, 2008.

emails and comments

To answer

Okay folks. You know that part where I say fact and fiction meet here at `12 dogs. Well this post would be a really good example. I exist. JJB exists. I am answering posts and emails. Your job to figure out which is your answer. Yes its weird. No it's not pretentious. No it's not chitin the chit either. Really isn't. Yes I was just seeing what would I could come up with. It's supposed to be random. On purpose. Bits and pieces. Hey think of it as photos in a box. Photos in a box with clippings. Something you find in the attic. The observation that you know little and only the writer knows is on the mark.

But you have a box of photos and clippings of a poem. It's raining out. The air is a live with swirls of dust and the sound of rain pounding on a tin roof. It's cold and clammy with humidity. The attic's cooled to tolerable. The heat fending off the cold air out side.

You're up in the attic. You find this box…

A letter. A poem. A song. Photos and … what's this?

Someone's hand writing appears in purple ink.

Part of a letter:

"…Dunno' . We all assume that the phrase "…you've earned your happiness…" means a good blessing. I hope so but dunno. I meant it as good but there are others who would say that "…you've earned your happiness…" would mean that one has earned their sorrow. That the happiness earned is none at all. It make the post interesting to say that each had earned their happiness portion. Full portion or not. Makes it realitive. The double take. The second look. If I were smart I'd take the interesting interpretation. To say see what a clever writer. But the person who said this? I'd look deep into their heart and say I'm not so clever. I want us all to be happy. To have home and companionship. Something to ease the way. Especially when life throws such a curve.

I hope that happiness that you said was earned is full portion. Home, companion, and someday heaven.

Not saint but because of tender mercies.

We really do have one interesting interaction.

Best to dad and mom. "

A Post card from LeMans. A photo of a racecar on one side and the following on the other:

"Thank you. Very much. Now if you could just tell this fella over here.

Come visit anytime. I love company. "

Another post card? A photo on a postcard from the? You can't quite make it out. It's from an observatory. Some nebula on one side and the following on the other:

"…From what I've observed? The oddly phrased can some times tell the "truest" truth. It shows only the glimpse or photos of life. Just the facts. Leaves the translation to the beholder.

Oh, so. Am I male or female?

Since you asked."

In smaller print to the side of the above:

Take care. When am I going to get to come watch wrasslin and drink root beer? The LLSwTCF is in reruns. All I have here is all night infomercials and poker. All though I must say I'm learning a new appreciation of sleep.

Dogs are barking. You have company. Better go see.


Oh and don't forget love.

Today is the first day of the rest of… your life.
Sleep tight.


Hannah Murphy 15 June 2008

My life is flowing past you.

What will you do if there is no more me?

What will I do if there is no more you?

We do grow older.

And life can be so unexpected.

I watch you grow older.

Your river flowing past me.

Someday a memory of things past is all I’ll have.

The ability to form new memories gone.

The ability to heal old wounds gone.

Snatched by senility or death from our hands.

Regret and loss are inadequate companions.

Talk to me again or not.

Remember me again or not.

That’s up to you.

But forget this lesson?

Of loss.

Please do not.

I wouldn’t wish regret of things unsaid on you for all the tea in China.\

Swallow your anger and pride.


Author’s note (Regret by Hannah Murphy, 15June,2008

The poem, Regret, is written to be both from the point of view of the parent and child who are estranged in the parent child relationship.

The next story is not a tribute to Kafka. It's more of an antidote to boredom.

For those who are new, how our adventure began:

We have a pet. An unexpected new member to our menagere. His name is Bob. Bob the cockroach. He’s very low maintainance. We have to be careful not to step him. And it’s really, really tough to explain when we have company that ,”Nooo.We don’t step on Bob. He’s a member of our “family”. We first noticed Bob late at night when we were on the internet. Apparently, poor Bob, had lost his way in the big, big country. We figure he was a stowaway in some cardboard box. Poor Bob. Lost. Alone. Hungry. He was creeping into the sink to get some water.

At first we tried to kill Bob.

He was wiley. We tried everything. Laying in wait to pounce, pound or spray him into bug oblivion. But no such luck. He just would not go away.

Finally, we held a family meeting. Trying to find a way, united in our efforts to smush Bob.

During the ensuing brainstorm family meeting. The youngest of us, little Patrice, spoke up in her tiny, little voice, ” But I like Bob. Why do we have to kill him?”

The room got quiet. We were so intent on ridding ourself of Bob that we never asked why we were doing so.

It was little Patrice’s quiet logic that made us think. Then little James piped up,”Yeah, Why do we have to get rid of Bob. He keeps me company and I’ve even been feeding him little bits of my sammiches.” Mom protested and then fainted leaving Dad in charge of the family meeting. There was a Braves game on. He looked at the children and quickly made and executive decision. One that will live in imfamy

A vote.

And that is how Bob, the homeless cock roach, came to have a home with us.

The End.

Stop laughing. This isn;t funny. You are laughing at our “lil’ buddy Bob”.


My son and Walking Buddy have asked me to ( well okay they demanded that I) tell everyone that this is a fiction story and is in NO WAY true to life. Oh okay. True there was a cock roach but that ONE is in cock roach heaven.

In return ,I’m gonna call it an epic fable and tell every one it’s a political metaphor for the current state of the Dem Party. Hmmph. (Please note: This story only indicates my agrivation with WalkingBuddy . It DOES NOT indicate my political views. Thanks)

Just so you know.


OH NO. We have just heard in comments that Bob has a doppleganger. Yes, there are other cock roaches who are out in the world and they’re causing trouble! As a result their faces are now found on Wanted Posters through out the land. These evil insects are not our Bob. We beg you. Before you stomp on that cock roach. Please make sure it’s not our Bob. Don’t Stomp. Look and Listen!!

How will you know?

Well our Bob? He is sweet. When you look in his little cock roach eyes you will see his kind soul. And if you listen quietly? You’ll here his tiny little cock roach voice saying,

” Oh no. Don’t stomp on me. I’m somebodies pet!!!! ”

Remember. Don’t stomp! Look and listen!


Bob’s family.

Bob Update. June 16, 2008

mOther quote of the day:

“Crouching monkey, hidden poopers.” Mother of the Son of Ironchassis. (Please note Crouching monkey IS NOT the same as Crouching Prarie Dog. Crouching Prairie Dog is a lovely eBay blogger who is mom to Little Crouching Prairie Dog. Crouching Monkey is also a lovely eBay blogger who is mom to Son of Ironchassis. And no she’s not pooping. NO ONE is pooping. It’s all made up. Bob is not real… Sheesh. Never mind.. Resume reading.)

Now for the news.

Bad news people.

Bob tried to throw a rave in our kitchen. We are exercising tough love and have thrown Bob out. Then fumigated. Bye bye Bob.

Wha’ heck, Hang on I hear something out side.

Uh oh. There’s a film crew and PETA folks on the fromt lawn. Hang on I can lip read. Lemmie see, “This is Bob. A victu…”

Oh heck. Better go see what’s what.

Another poem. This one is - well - it's abit arogant.

Orange Skies of Mars

Thought any other way and my heart grows green

Sickly with the forced responsibility of this love.

Chained to a rock my heart. Dusty relic on the shelf.

Each rare laugh the efforts of Hercules.

The sound shatters and falls to the ground.

Shards of brittle laughter are all around me.

My body in turns hurling and creeping towards death

Towards the edge of light and shadow

My mind. banshee, howling cross oceans

Waiting for the sound that doesn't come.


Waiting and calling

Longing for the soul that long since found it's home elsewhere.

Crying for husband

Still waiting like a ghost trapped in twilight.

Banshee cries home.


Hannah Murphy 8 July, 2008

Songs of DawgAubie (not the mascot)


"Well I started to tell her, "I'm a logger." but I didn't. Instead I told her, "I'm a writer."..."

Someone with life and death in their hands asked me what I do. We were looking down the hall where not minutes before they'd run to where someone was coding. Now I don't mean coding like writing code for a computer. This was someone whose body was telling us all that it might just give it up. She was one of the people set to save them.

When someone who has that power to save people looks at you and asks, "What do you do?" It makes you think.

I'm a writer, Honest. I have poems, stories, and part of a book written. You might not could tell from this blog. The typos, misspelled words, and fragmented sentences might have you thinking, "Writer? Yeah sure." but it's true.

So I thought that I'd rummage through the "junk drawer o'writting" so that you could see that I really, really, do write. Then I'll go back to writing this nonsense.


And so that you'll know. My dad is alert, coherent, and fighting. He's no longer in the land of death's door and is now just plain vanilla sick.


Now a story

Here’s his story.

“When I was a young man, I ran away from home to work on a big freighter. It was all so romantic. When the ship reached the dock in Cuba, I was ready. Here this country boy stood on the shores of Hemingway’s home. Pocket full of money and ready for the ladies I had heard so much about on the freighter. It didn’t take long to find them. There off a side street was a tropical paradise. A small courtyard bar with “ladies” in colors that dazzled my eye. Hey! I was young. I was ready to find love among the “flowers” and to prove to the fellas I was a man. To knock the dirt of my home and my father’s ways off my shoes. One particular lady caught my eye. Dark hair, dark eyes, and what I recognize now as a very “dark” look. What I thought was ‘hunger” for love that look was not. But in my young and stupid mind it only took me a second to know that she loved me. And love me she did! Days of love! Nights of love! She was a delight in my inexperienced hands. With every move, she exclaimed more that I was truly the only love she had known. I thanked her with drinks and gifts. Round of drinks I bought for her and for her many, many friends. So the big spender. For her love, I was spending with abandon.

Till the day that came time to pay the bill.

A shipmate came to find me hung over and broke. When he saw me, the look on his face. Humilation. But I would prove him wrong just like my running away was proving my dad wrong. She loved me. She’d lend me the money to pay the bill. I knew it. She’d told me so. Or my new friends, they would perhaps pitch in. It was then I learned a hard truth. As the fellas, my friends, at the bar watched? A bear of a bartender beat the heck outta me. No one lended a hand to stop it. At least not until it looked like he might actually kill me then at that point, my shipmate stopped him and paid the tab.

With tears in my eyes, as my friend helped me to my feet, I heard the words that even now I hear clear in my head.

“You said that you loved me!”, through my tears I said.

And here in daughter is the lesson I want you to learn without heartache. Why I sent that young man away. Because I remember that pain that you will be spared.

Her answer? This “beautiful flower of love” told me?


Oh my dear stupid boy. In this place?

Business is business and love is bullsh*t!”

That was the painless lesson my father taught me. No loss not dating that musician I can tell you.


It would sound as if my father was a cynic. That the beating he’d gotten both mentally and physically had made him hard against love. No. And I’m not saying that because of a daughter’s blindness to her father’s faults. The man has hard edges because of his life. You aren’t the only one with the hard life or the life lessons. No. The difference is that my father not to many years later married the woman that he still after years and years really does still love. As she loves him.

He wants me to know that. So he told me this story in order that I shouldn’t trivialize the word. That I should know the difference. You remind me of my father. All cynic and hard won edges. However I suspect, because the punch was thrown gently that under hard edges is a kind nature. Maybe not.

That’s what I’m trying to find out.

Go find a copy of the Sara Bareilles song “Love Song”. Listen to the song but read the words too. She said the words with dignity and honesty. When she was asked a love song that she just didn’t want to write she wrote “love song”.

No “wheel of cheese” needed.

Then if that doesn’t do it, I’ll give you a few glimpses at my own hardships

That’s it for today.

Exit is this way

Hope you have a great day!

c anne ford june 7, 2008


Tuesday, February 8, 2011

The Lessons of Dawg Awbie....


Brothers and sisters.

If you'll turn to hymn 23.

Let us sing...

The Lessons of Dawg Awbie


It's been a good day. The sun is shining. My dad's eyes are open. Everyday he gets better in leaps and bounds. I'm looking forward to seeing him up and around.

If I'm not here? I'm @GoatHerderBoy on Twitter.




Monday, February 7, 2011

It's been a good day.


Well that's a relief.



Night watch.


For some reason it seemed like a very good idea to rub dad's head and wish he'd wake up. I'm a 50 year old preschooler and I'm demanding that he wake up. We've got things to do.


One of the things that become clear in the ICU is that you aren't alone. There are people who have it alot worse.


Sunday, February 6, 2011

Watching Airplanes and complainin'


I thought we were going to see the boat.

Mom and I talked on the phone.

"We're so proud." she'd said.

But we didn't.

Now you are sleeping.

I don't dare wake you up.

So peaceful.

I'm leaving you this note instead.

Dear Dad...



My dad opened his eyes this morning. My mom was there.

He's alive.

His room is very nice.

All kinds of high tech designed to make a person well.

The ICU folks are nice.

I was so worried that I'd get on their nerves.

All those tubes have names and the mean something.

All those somethings keep my dad alive so I listen.

There are things that I know and things I don't.

You can see them adjusting the words for understanding.

48 hours he might die.
24 hours we're optimistic
12 hours his eyes open

This is alot to process.



The job of the ICU nurse is never done...


One Kind Word

How they do it.
20 beds filled with people so very ill.
40 ears that may not hear what's being said.

One kind voice.


Sunday services...


The bells ring and the doors open.
The congregation moves like a wave though the doors.
Each one dips their hand in the well to wash away the sins of the world
Then one by one they find their pew
They kneel
They pray.
To each God or not as to their custom
The prayers are the same.
"Please let them live."
"Please let them die."
Depending on the situation.
For one hour.
They pray.

Then the deacons call for the closing him.

"Visiting hours are over."

Silently the congregation files rises to their feet and file out of the pews.

They dip there hand into the well again

Say a silent good bye

And are on their way.

poem entitled Visiting Hours in the ICU

c anne ford
6 Feb 2011

I should have written it down this morning. This version is clunky.

Let me see if I can remember.

They come through the doors like a wave.
Nope can't use that because of the image.


Visiting Hours @ the ICU V 2.o
Through the doors they come.
Dip their hands in the water.
Wash the sins of the world away.
All kinds.
One by one
One by one.
They fill the pews.
On their knees they pray.
"Please let them live."
"Please don't let them suffer."
"Please don't let them die."
The lessons of life and death are taught.
Then it's over with the words,
"Visiting hours are over."

c anne ford

6 February, 2011

This is closer to what I was thinking this morning. But still wordy.

I should have written it down but there were things to do.