Little Boo Boo Walks--the Effects of Methamphetamine Addiction

     This coming Saturday, I'll read original poetry at the local Spofest--Celebration of the Spoken Word. I've decided to read a poem, that I haven't read for about a year. The poem below, "Little Boo Boo Walks," is about the effects of methamphetamine addiction not only on the addict, but on the children and surrounding family members. It is to be included in a textbook, that will be published this fall, written by sociologist, George Hendricks, Ph.D., of Methodist University, Fayetteville, N.C.

     Addiction doesn't only effect the user, but has far reaching tentacles. Missouri is, once again, the number one state in the nation for meth lab incidents--"little Boo Boo" is real. She is my granddaughter. Although, the end of this poem hasn't become a reality for her, a family member is a user and she is effected by the fallout. She is safe for now, but misses being with the father she loves. Her sorrow is our family's sorrow, as we watch the decent of someone we love walk into the abyss of darkness. Many other children haven't been as lucky as Boo Boo, but have perished in meth lab explosions or have been badly burned. And, many children are neglected and abused. 

     For those families who may need information or help with a loved one addicted to meth, The Sedalia, Missouri Chapter of Mother's against Meth-amphetamine (MAMa) has a new Executive Director, Claudia Kays. She can be contacted on Facebook at: Mother's against Meth-amphetamine Mo. Chapter, or by calling 660-202-9619.

     The national MAMa website, http://www.mamasite.net, provides additional resources can direct anyone needing information to state chapters for help with this devastating drug.

Little Boo Boo Walks

Boo Boo walks, little toes bare through the morning grass,

no one knows she's flown the coop.

Everyone just lets her pass.

Dew collects on her small bare feet, 

but Boo Boo doesn't mind she's free to walk through the Easter grass

and smiling butter flowers.

She stops to etch her toes in the gravelly gravel, 

making fun designs,

smelling the fresh morning breeze,

chubby rose checks flushing with the freedom of the winding road,

eyes blue as pastel robin's eggs,

seeing deeper than anyone thinks.

Little Boo Boo walks through the grass for close to a mile,

no one sees Boo Boo pass,

she's so small, 

a chubby cherub dressed in clothes from the thrift-store mall. 

She pads through the puddles of newly fallen rain,

and walks along the storm drain,

blonde curls creeping around her moistened face,

chubby hands pushing them out of place.

Until she reaches the city street, buzzing with cars and trucks,

and big yellow school buses all busy to get someplace.

Now little Boo Boo stands at the intersection of her life,

she pauses and lifts a pensive finger to her lips,

blue eyes scanning the busy scene,

taking in the surge of life, little Boo Boo standing sight unseen,

in the world of big adults she's not noticed in her pink thrift suit.

Back at home the house is abuzz, 

with the frantic activity of it's members, 

measuring and stirring and talking and tweaking and moving and calculating money in their heads.

(Everyone's been awake for weeks, moving endlessly in a crystal daze.)

Frantic, not of the missing Boo Boo, but of scoring the next sell and the next fix

the next never coming down off the ultimate high,

seeing visions, never eating, building a tower and tearing it down.

Boo Boo's daddy, that lusty pirate, whose ship crashed in the chemical sea,

laughs real hearty with his-comrades-in-arms,

"This batch is the best ever, just wait and see!"

Tattooed with skulls and death,

he lefts his fist to heaven saluting the demon gods of ice and flames.

But who is this lusty pirate?  Someone's son who lost his way...

A boy who set sail way to soon, one that used to play baseball, and skate on the lagoon.

The boy who sang the strains of Ava Maria, but replaced it with a death metal growl.

He loved to help in mama's kitchen, but now cooks his own speedy stew, 

it's worth money too. 

Boo Boo was his life's blood,

his special angel, the savior of his soul,

the one that would help him escape the demon dungeon,

 he'd built as his fate, 

 and when she was born he vowed to never let her down,

but that crystal sea came calling, wooing with it's lust,

His will power was lost,

so into it's deceiving light he drew,

leaving Boo Boo as an after thought,

the only one who could guide him through.

Now Boo Boo's standing at the intersection of her life,

she takes a step into the traffic seeking the other side,

where the flowers are blooming and a puppy barks

where the side walk travels on up the grassy knoll.

And as her pensive blue eyes look toward the horizon,

all the cars have come to a complete stop,

shock written across each occupant's face, 

each sits motionless as a tiny, 

curly haired, welfare angel toddles across the asphalt,

bare footed, her pink outfit wet from the morning dew. 

Then as Boo Boo reaches mid-stride,

a terrific explosion lights up the morning sky,

flames and smoke lap the spring air,

devouring the home that Boo Boo shared  

with that lusty pirate, the apple of her eye,

the tattooed daddy who loved her once,

 before the ice froze him to a flame. 

Little Boo Boo walks across the now quiet street

to the distant wail of fire trucks and police,

placing each foot step into a new destiny,

a homeless child, 

looking for her daddy,

will she ever know the man he was supposed to be?  

We all need Roots

         We all need roots to survive. A place to belong. Family from which we spring from--it's so obvious, without roots we can't survive. In some families their tree sprouts and grows strong through the generations leaving behind a legacy of tradition, culture and customs.

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     For others it's not so easy. They are born alone, live alone and die alone. Although they have roots somewhere, they are unaware of them or believe them unimportant. What roots they have, are small and stunted trying so hard to absorb the moisture of life, only to find their sense of belonging isn't strong enough to help them to survive.
     Recently, my little granddaughter, age four, brought me two weeds she'd plucked up that day. It was so sweet, the weeds looked like small palm trees.
     I said, "Wow, thank you, they look like palm trees!"
     She said, "They have roots too!"
     She's learned at an early age that even flowers and weeds need roots to live. She had previously brought wild flowers to me and asked why they didn't live longer in the water. I explained to her that once they are cut off, and are without their roots, they only live for a short time. I guess she took this to heart.

My granddaughter's flower--with roots! 

     My mother and dad are both gone, and I was my mother's only child. Not many relatives are left on either side for me, so feeling rather rootless, I began to search out my genealogy earlier this year. What I found was so rich. I wasn't rootless-- I had a heritage. I found relatives that had fought and died in the Revolutionary and Civil War, a three times great grandmother in eastern Missouri listed as a witch (she made the history book in Missouri!), a great grandfather who was a prominent rancher in Colorado, relatives that had married Native Americans when our country was new and some Knights and blue bloods in England! My mother came from very humble beginnings and further back in her tree there were Barons, Lords and Ladies! I was amazed!

     Biological roots aren't always possible, for those that are adopted. But even though these roots spring from a different source they give solidarity and purpose. One great grandmother was adopted by a officer and family at Ft. Garland and was a pioneer resident to Colorado--she bore 11 children and was the first post mistress at St. Mary's in Colorado.

My father Leonard Benson and Mother Lucille and me as a baby 1961.

     
     These relatives bring color and drama into our lives, stories and legends. They help us belong to humanity, to nationalities and tribes and languages. They are our stories and our life, the ground we were born over. Without roots, we have no meaning, I'm so glad to have found mine!

Fear of Flying

     I'm an outdoor and nature photographer, among other things, and one challenge I've always wanted to take on was aerial photography. This may not seem strange to others, but since I've always had a fear of flying, aerial photography was something I wanted to accomplish. It's all about facing one's fears!
     Usually when I travel, it's on the ground. I didn't fly anywhere until sometime in my 40's. I remember one time, after 9/11, that I was sitting on a United flight waiting for take-off in the throes of a panic attack. My heart started racing, I felt like I couldn't breath, I began to sweat and I was hanging onto the armrests with claw-like hands. I guess my eyes were as big as a summer melon. After the plane took off, I settled down, but still clung the the armrests--just in case. If we crashed, I'd hang on to my chair at least!
     Every time I got ready to fly I just knew the plane would crash. I could imagine it in my mind. Once a friend said, "Don't jinx yourself! Think positive thoughts!" Eventually I learned to do just that. To push aside the fear, and enjoy the ride.

Clouds shot with a Nikon D200 from plane window--at about 30,000-feet.

     My last flying trip was to New Orleans last summer. It was a great flight, my friend let me sit by the window and the clouds were amazing! I shot several cloud scenes through the plane window, enhancing them in Photoshop later. It's unreal how brave I am with my camera in tow. Shooting clouds through a window can be done, easily, if you position the camera where there's no interior reflection. Because it's usually bright when photographing clouds, hand holding isn't a problem. I shot the images at an ISO of 200 at 1/500 a second at f-11. After getting home I was able to refine them, making them a little more saturated and adjusting the contrast.
     Although I'm still a little timid about flying, I completed my first aerial photo assignment earlier this year. I flew in a small Cessna for over two hours with just enough room for the pilot and me. Flying in a small plane is a quite different experience than soaring in a jet. We were skimming along between 1000 to 3000-feet and it felt like I was the one flying. Of course the pilot was very good at his job or I might have another story to tell.

Winter landscape in Kansas shot from a small Cessna at about 1500-feet.

Face your fears--touch the clouds!

     To get the assigned shots we had to open my window and allow the wind current to keep the flap open. Sometimes the pilot reached over and propped it open with his arm-as he was flying the craft. Most of the photos were taken at ISO-800, at 1/1600 second at f-9. Some were taken with a AF-S Nikkor 70-300 mm VR ED (vibration reduction and extra-low dispersion glass) lens while others were take with a AF-S Nikkor 18-70mm lens.

     This assignment allowed me to come full circle--face my fears, and believe in myself and get some great shots! We are often faced with challenges, whether it be on the job or in life, if we allow our fears to get the best of us, they will become phobias and we might just miss out on wonderful adventure. Life is short, dance while you can and fly too--touch the clouds!

Rhoda's Restaurant

     When my children were young, we used to check out "Rhoda's Restaurant," by Robert Tallon, from the library.  It was one of many favorites--such as "Cowboy Sam," and "Chilly Billy" (the little man in the fridge who turns on the light.)
     I decided to look up some of these memorable children's books and found that "Chilly Billy," by Peter Mayle is a collectible selling new for $449 on Amazon.com--seven used "Chilly Billy's" only cost $129 each. "Rhoda's Restaurant," also a collectable, on the other hand, only costs $39.95 new and $29.95 used. Goodness! I should have bought these books back in the 80's!
     My kids used to "play" Rhoda's Restaurant too. Getting out my pots and pans and canned goods, plates and forks and even some non-perishable foods. I even got into the mode by playing Rhoda herself as I cooked supper. Well this tradition has trickled down to the grandkids.

     On Monday, three of them were spending the day with me. So we played Scrabble, and Legos and then ShiAnn, the oldest, decided to play restaurant. Well, of course we needed a name for this establishment--so I suggested Rhoda's--a family tradition to say the least!
     Out came the pots and pans, plastic cookie tubs (recycled as our version of prestigious Tupperware), utensils, fancy paper plates, the tea kettle, pan spray, cheese grater and an odd assortment of other kitchen doodads. Soon we were cooking up pretend spaghetti, pizza, hot tea, biscuits and gravy and all kinds of yummy restaurant fare--Rhoda would have been proud!
     But of course, what's a restaurant without some music. ShiAnn asked me what type of music should we play--I suggested soft and elegant. On goes the T.V.-- switched to the music channel and our restaurant becomes refined. She soon got tired of elegant, and switched to a childrens's music station. Now we are listening to "This Old Man," blue grass style with banjo's and fiddles. Then "Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah, strumming on the ole banjo." Amazing! We've decided this must be a dancing restaurant. Dinah blends into the "Yellow Submarine," so now we are floating around in the living room and dining room.
      Then ShiAnn ups the ante by changing to the Salsa station. "Yellow Submarine" to "La Maldaosa" by Joe Veras! No more floating, the music has become a hurricane of motion--what fun!! All this time little Merci, the preschool dancing queen has been patiently washing utensils for our "restaurant." Beeboping her curled head to the booming sounds.

     I really must purchase "Rhoda's Restaurant," we need to have that book on hand. I wonder when Robert Tallon penned that simple children's book if he ever thougth it could bring such joy. I'm sure he hoped it would!