The War is Over - Nancy

 The War is Over

Richard

The signs of Christmas are everywhere. The colorful lights on all the houses, Silent Night playing on the radio, people bustling all about to buy gifts. But I lost my spirit of Christmas three years ago when I lost my son to the war. My son didn’t physically die but his soul did. Mathew was deployed to Afghanistan when he was a mere 19-year-old boy. Being 6’ 2” and 200 lbs. he came across to people as much older. Mathew had as big a heart as his body. He was always kind to people and took the time to listen to them. Because of that he always had a lot of friends. Some might have seen his kindness as a weakness and could have bullied him. But his mere size deterred any such notion. He had a natural talent for sports. He could hit a baseball out of the park with ease or throw a football 40 yrds for a winning touchdown. But yet he never took sports or himself very seriously. Mathew  was an old gentle soul who viewed the world with optimism. War changed all that.

It has been 2 years, 4 months and 3 days since I saw Mathew. But each and every of those days I have looked for him. Many times, I thought I caught sight of him only to be disappointed when I saw up close it wasn’t him. When Mathew came home from the war, he was different. The light went out of his eyes. He just couldn’t readjust to a world that didn’t see and experience what he did and not seem to care. So, he walked out of our front door and became a ghost, vanishing in to thin air. I know he is still alive. I check regularly with the police, hospitals and morgue for a Mathew Morgan. I feel certain he is not one of those zombie-like addicts living on the streets trying to find their next fix. Mathew hated drugs and rarely ever drank. No, I think he has gone to find himself, living off the land somewhere. My daily prayer to my Lord is please let me see and hug my son before I die. I call out to him from my broken heart, “Son the War is Over. Please come home”.

So today like everyday I travel the roads and the small towns along the Appalachian Trail to see if I might spot sight of him. I stop at one of the many trail heads that stocks food and supplies for the hikers. They know me by now from my many frequent visits to ask if they have seen my son. The bell on the door jingles as I enter and the warmth of the cabin store fogs up my glasses. I take a minute to wipe them when  I spot the back of a large figure of a man with long hair and an even longer beard opening up the glass refrigerator door to pull out a bottle of juice.  My heart stops. I can’t move. I feel  an immediate connection. For a few seconds I pause not daring to get my hopes up as they have been crushed so many times before. But the pull is so great I can’t help myself. I shout out “Mathew”.

Mathew

I don’t use my voice very much anymore. I’ve been living in the mountains now for over 2 years and don’t have much need to speak and have few encounters with humans. It’s not an easy life. But a life I chose after coming home from the war. War. Why did God make human beings so hateful that they want to kill each other for reasons that make no sense. I was a dutiful soldier doing what was asked of me and doing it well. I’ve never known any other way to be. But seeing the destruction and horror of soldiers who were my bunk mates and family in combat die horrible painful deaths ripped a whole in my heart that I can’t seem to repair. When I came back to the states I saw people living their lives with no cares and not a thought of what was going on in the world thousands of miles away. I wanted to shout at all of them, “Open your eyes people. Men are dying bloody deaths so you can walk around and live self-absorbed lives of indulgence.” I was angry. Angry all the time. My dad tried to understand what I was going through. But no one can understand unless you have experienced the smell of death and rot. So to be fair to everyone, I left. I walked out the door with no destination in mind. The mountains have claimed me. We speak to each other in our own way. They accept me as I am. But I do think about my dad and know my leaving hurt him badly. He probably blames himself. 

Richard Morgan was a good man and a good father. He always made time for me. He came to all my games even though he could have been doing something else. He wasn’t the kind of father that was shy about telling me that he was proud of me and that he loved me. He didn’t want me to join the army but he said I was old enough to make my own decisions and that he would support me. Now that winter approaches, I know Christmas must be near. I picture dad sitting in his favorite chair with the small tree decorated by the window and a fire in the fireplace. I know he must be lonely. Has he given up on me I wonder. Is he angry with me? Is it time for me to go home and find out?

All these thoughts go through my mind in a loop replaying itself over and over. When out of nowhere I hear my name called out. Mathew. I know that voice. I slowly turn to hear where it is coming from. I drop the bottle of juice in my hand as I see my dad standing at the door with tears streaming down his face as he stares at me. He swiftly comes towards me and without hesitation he wraps his arms around me. He tells me he loves me while not letting me go. I lift my arms to embrace him back. The warmth of a human hug even through layers of clothes kindles a fire within me.

Richard

As the large man turns to face me, I know it is Mathew even through the long hair and beard. I can’t help myself I race toward him and hug him with all my strength. He is thinner and he smells of the outdoors. But to me he looks like an angel. Son, my sweet son Mathew, I love you I whisper in his ear. Every day I prayed that I would find you. And now I have. The war is over son. Please oh please come home.

Uncle Frand, A Good Quiet Man - Nez

 Uncle Frank, A Good Quiet Man

By Nez Nesmith

Having recently retired at 65 from Northern State Hospital, Mom’s Uncle Frank, a man of action but few words, who quickly became bored doing nothing decided he needed something to keep himself busy. He didn’t have a wife or kids, or a dog and boredom was driving him crazy. Having had many different jobs throughout his life he had the skills to do just about anything. So, Uncle Frank bought a used car, a three year old 1952 Crosley wagon. (The Crosley was an American made little subcompact vehicle. It was very small. It was so ugly it was almost cute.) Uncle Frank’s Crosley was green and white. The day he bought it he drove it to Lyman to show us. Since we didn’t own a car we didn’t dare make fun of his new one, at least not to his face. 

Asked what he wanted with that little car he said he was going to use it in his new business. What? In that clown car? Being retired he needed something to do, so he was going to be a traveling sharpener, a cutler. A what? He was going to sharpen anything and everything that needed sharpening, scissors, knives, axes, saws, scythes, lawn mowers, any kind of cutting tool. He must be crazy we thought. That’s not a business.

But that’s what he did. He put his business name, Frank’s Sharpening, and phone number on the sides of his Crosley. He had advertising leaflets made and distributed them throughout the county. He put leaflets in taverns, stores, repair shops, tailor shops, mills, union halls, churches, in barbershops and beauty shops. He put them on bulletin boards. Soon he began getting calls and started a route for his appointments. He loaded the necessary equipment and tools for sharpening most anything in the back of that Crosley wagon and hit the road. 

There weren’t many commercial calls however, and it soon became obvious that the majority of his business would be from housewives wanting knives and scissors sharpened. (Apparently most men sharpened their own tools.) But calls for appointments came in so haphazardly it was nearly impossible to establish a route. Uncle Frank was jumping all over the county from one job to the next and wasn’t making any money at his new business. He realized his new enterprise had some issues. Obvious solutions weren’t very plentiful or really helpful to his troubles. One problem was that most days he wasn’t home to answer calls coming in for appointments. He was out on a job. Also, he wasn’t getting the repeat business he thought he would. Oh, he could hire an answering service to take messages, but that was expensive. And he needed referrals because it turned out that once knives and scissors were sharp most didn’t need to be sharpened again for a couple of years. The same went for saws and lawnmower blades. 

He decided to create his route without appointments and went to a different town each day. He made calls at homes and businesses that had not previously used him. This worked much better than working strictly from appointments. Soon he added repairing pots and pans to his little enterprise. Thus, he became both a cutler and a tinker. And there wasn’t another cutler or tinker in the county. Before long his business was doing fairly well, plus his referrals were improving. Uncle Frank made a living at his little enterprise for a several years until he met and fell in love with a widow named Grace. Lovely Grace, it turned out, wanted a good husband, and Frank was her choice, but not if he was a traveling cutler and tinker. He was getting older and in her opinion it wasn’t dignified work. He was too good for that. 

So, Uncle Frank obligingly closed down his sharpening business, sold the Crosley, retired again and happily married Grace in 1963. Unfortunately, Grace just up and died in less than one year leaving Uncle Frank heart-broken. Months later he became stir-crazy again but decided against going back into the sharpening business. So, he went fishing instead. 

Epilogue: Christmas Day 1967. Uncle Frank, this good quiet man who had helped Pershing chase after Pancho Villa, while at the family Christmas dinner table took a few bites, sat back, crossed his arms, quietly sighed and died, without a word. He was 77. 

Nez Nesmith 

December 2023 

Losing My Old Friend - Nez

 Losing My Old Friend

By Nez Nesmith

Have you ever had a friend you grew up with but lost touch with and now he or she won’t even talk with you? I do. Doyle and I grew up as best friends and our houses were less than fifty yards apart. We were always friends and then my family moved to Seattle. Both of us graduated high school at the same time, me from Ballard HS in Seattle, he from Sedro-Woolley HS, my old stomping grounds. 

After graduation I got a job in the Navy shipyards in Bremerton, WA and Doyle was soon drafted into the Army. About eighteen months later I joined the Army and went to Fort Ord, California for basic training, then to school at Fort Devens, Massachusetts for cryptography training, and then to Vint Hill Farms Station in Virginia. By then Doyle was in Germany. So, when I went back home on leave I went to Lyman to see old friends and I saw those that were in the area, but not Doyle. 

After my four years of serving Uncle Sam my wife, Judy, and I took a six-week circuitous route from Virginia to Seattle where I went to school on the GI Bill, and she got a job at the Boeing Everett Plant (she worked on the manufacture of the first twenty-four Boeing 747 jumbo jet’s). With her job and my GI Bill, we still barely made ends meet. We had bills, an apartment, a car and school to pay for, so money was tight. Busy as we were and still newlyweds, we were really still getting to know one another, and having the time of our lives, we weren’t really paying much attention to anyone else. We were totally and literally wrapped up in ourselves, and school and work. 

Later I reached out to old friends from Lyman, and boy had things changed. With one exception all of my old buddies were now married, and some had kids. I hadn’t quite expected that. It had only been six years, but wholly cow. Anyway, we went to see Doyle and Marlene and their kids. We were surprised to see that they lived in a two bedroom single-wide mobile-home in the middle of a field. There wasn’t really a driveway, more of a wagon trail. But they had a home with heat, water, electricity, a septic system, a car and a pickup, two dogs and two wild boys. Doyle, Marlene and we talked and laughed, totally ignoring the wild hyenas. The dogs were fine. We had dinner and reminisced. Then on the way home Judy and I both agreed that when we had kids they would never be allowed to act like that, period. Not quite anyway.  

After school Judy and I moved off to Texas and raised our small family. We traded Christmas cards and Doyle and I talked occasionally. As years rolled by we kept In touch by phone and eventually Facebook. Suddenly our kids were grown, and we were middle-aged, and our parents were old. We didn’t talk as often and Doyle and I drifted further apart. 

One time I called, and Marlene said Doyle wouldn’t talk on the phone anymore, he didn’t hardly talk to people anymore, just the dogs. That was really strange. Talking was Doyle’s thing. He loved to talk and laugh. He was his best self when he was in conversation. She said he’s changed, was mostly sullen and quieter now. She couldn’t figure it out and he wouldn’t talk to anyone about it, least of all her. I called again later, and nothing had changed. I tried emailing and texting, but he didn’t respond. Marlene said she thought he might be going deaf, but he wouldn’t get it checked. I remembered his dad was that way about doctors and his hearing. There was a lot of yelling.

When it became obvious to me that my hearing was going I shared with Marlene that I was getting hearing aids. Marlene said that Doyle was now very hard of hearing and still won’t get it checked out. She said, “I think you’ve lost your old buddy.” I thought, “And, you’ve lost your husband?” before she replied, “I’m afraid I’m losing him too, at least for now.” That was about seven years ago. There’s still no change. 

Last year when hearing aids became widely available OTC I made sure that Marlene was aware. I even suggested she buy a pair, bring them home and have him try them. She did. He wouldn’t and still won’t. But I’m still hopeful. Sort of…

Nez Nesmith

December 2023

Winter Drive - Kathy

Not my best, this piece really doesn't have a purpose or focus, and clearly not a satisfying ending.   It started out as a 10 minute write last session and I tried to twist it into a winter piece.  

Winter Drive 

Snow Shoveling - Kathy

 Show Shoveling

Onomatopoeia  and winter - 10 minute write

Scrape, thud, scrape, thud…”This snow shovel sucks!” Bobby frowned, pausing to rest his arms,  looking up to the gray sky catching flakes in his eyelashes which caused him to blink and look away.  His mother’s silhouette waved a thumbs-up signal behind the living room picture window signaling him to keep going. He smiled back and  nodded pretending to be enthusiastic so as not to disappoint her.  This was going to take forever, and then he’d have to do it all over again if this snow kept up.  

Early December snows rarely fell this far south, but this Oklahoma storm roared in from Colorado dumping over 6 inches overnight and seemed determined to keep at it all day.  If the driveway wasn’t shoveled, their car would become trapped in the garage locking them in for perhaps days.  Oklahoma City was poorly prepared to clear snow packed roads, especially in the suburbs. This snow was heavy, making shoveling necessary and exhausting. 

Scrape, thud, scrape, thud… Bobby began once again the unending work of shoveling. His shovel scraped along the concrete until it could hold no more, and then he’d dump the load on the side leaving a chunky pile along both sides of the drive.  Seventeen steps, scraping, then thud, a new pile added to the growing hills.  

Billy finished the last row and a grin snuck its way to his frozen face.  He wiggled his numb fingers and toes, stretched his back and looked back at the smooth finish in front of him.  

“Billy…Billy!” He heard his mom call from the front door.  “Come in for some hot chocolate and cookies!”

Billy dropped the shovel by the door with a clang, knowing he’d be repeating the job soon and headed in to warm up and enjoy some hot chocolate and his mom’s famous raisin oatmeal cookies. 

Christmas Homecoming - Nancy

It all started one sunny May day when the Bobcats were playing their arch rival the Trojans in

a double header. My tomboy Jessie was playing second base when a hard grounder that took a

bad hop and hit her in the leg. It was unlike her to miss a ball. But this one came fast and

didn’t stay on course. As she went down and I jumped up and shouted “ Jessie, are you

alright? “ She slowly got up and shook it off. But the hit left her with a lump on her leg that

was every shade of black, blue, red and yellow. My Jessie wasn’t one to cry or whine. It wasn’t

like she hadn’t had injuries before, either from falling out of trees, or off her bicycle while

trying to do wheelies. She was a tough little girl, all 12 years of her. But this smack to the leg

didn’t seem to want to heal and kept her limping for weeks.

We had a doctor’s appointment the next week to test her for some allergies and while we

were there the doctor commented on the ugly looking welt on her leg. He said very calmly, I

think we should take a closer look at this little booger. And so he took some blood samples.

The results of those simple little blood samples would change our lives forever.

Jessie had leukemia. That word was like a sharp dagger to my heart that pulsated a deep pain

with every breath. Jessie took the news a lot better than I did. For some reason she remained

in high spirits even though the doctor explained what lied ahead. She’d need chemotherapy.

The kind where she would lose her beautiful long wavy red hair. We’d need to search for a

donor for a bone marrow transplant. My little tough cookie was the one who kept telling me,

“Mom it’s going to be OK, just watch and see” as she tried on every kind of goofy wig, settling

on a curly blonde one who she thought made her look like Taylor Swift”. She made friends

with every nurse and always had a joke for the newest doctor that would treat her.

I tried to be strong for her. But I wasn’t very good at hiding my distress. Jessie was my world.

My sweet angel. My friend. My hope. God’s blessing to me when I didn’t deserve it. God and I

had a lot of late-night talks once Jessie was asleep. I cried to him asking “Why would you do

this to a sweet little girl who believes only goodness in people and the world is beautiful?”

Give her pain to me I would cry out. I am more deserving of it and it would not be a loss. But

she has everything it takes to become something great in life.” God was having none of it.

Jessie’s strong body was withering. When she didn’t have her wig on her tiny little bald head

made her look like she was 6 or 7 not the now pre teen of 13 years old.

It was now fall the following year. All her friends were heading back to school. Jessie was not.

She missed most of last year’s school year because of all the treatments and recovery process.

So many of her friends had moved on to doing what 13 year olds are suppose to do, living

carefree lives. The doctors had told us that nothing more could be done and that the cancer

had progressed. I knew in my heart there was not many more tomorrows. I left my job so I

could sit by her side to listen to her tell me “Mom it’s going to be alright”.

Before that awful rainy day, in November, November 10 th to be exact, Jessie asked me to look

her in the eye because she had something important to tell me. I did as she said and look into

those beautiful, innocent emerald eyes. She spoke to me as someone with authority not the

little dying girl that she was. She said,” Mom I don’t want you to be mad at God. He and I have

been talking.” At that I about fell out of my chair. But I kept my eyes intent on her to hear

what she would tell me about their conversation. She went on, “God has a special job for me

to do. That is why is taking me away from you. But He said he will let me watch over you when

I am gone until you are stronger and able to live without me. So, talk to me when I’m gone

mom and I will hear you.” I couldn’t contain the tears as they rolled down my cheeks and

hugged my sweet baby for the last time.

The snow was falling like it always does in December in Colorado. It was Christmas eve and I

had a fire in the fireplace. Not a Christmas decoration could be found in my house. The house

was blank of anything hopeful, just like my soul. I stood at the sink staring out to nowhere lost

in my thoughts when I heard a persistent ting. I washed out the coffee cup I use every morning

and heard the ting again. Oh no I thought what is it in the house that is making that sound that

is in need of repair I groaned. Now the ting grew louder and faster. Dear Lord what is that I

mumbled. I walked over by the window looking out over the mountains and there was a

female cardinal sitting on the sill outside tapping on the window. Well, hello I said. She tapped

again and looked at me like she was saying hello back. I asked her “are you all alone? Where is

your mate sweet birdie.?” She cocked her head like she was confused. Those little eyes of her

looked at me like they were looking through my soul. I then asked her “Jessie is that you?” She

tapped the window as if she was giving me her reply. I felt in my heart for he first time since

Nov. 10 th that just like Jessie said, I will watch over you mom and everything is going to be

alright.

The Invasion - Nancy

 The Invasion

The sun begins to rise over the mountains bringing with it the dry heat that will bake the land starved for water.  Arthur is already sitting at the kitchen table working on his second cup of coffee. The black coffee steaming from his cup is much like his thoughts as he stares out the parted window blinds. His Browning 9mm lays on the table next to his coffee. The semi-automatic never leaves his side. His shotgun leans against the wall in his bedroom. And a Glock is in the nightstand next to his wife’s side of the bed. In his truck you will find both a Rutger 357 Magnum in the console and a Colt 45 under the seat. He has taught both his children how to shoot dead on target with all his guns. They respect the weapons but understand that they are necessary. When you live 40 miles from the border of the Rio Grande you must be prepared for anything.

Arthur has lived in Carrizo Springs Texas all his life. His grandfather bought this fertile land of 9,000 acres in the early 1900’s. Arthur is now the 3rd generation to raise cattle here. It use to be that the only thing one would worry about was what the price of cattle was going for or if the coming days would bring rain to fill your tanks. Everyone knew each other throughout the county and would regularly see each other at the local hardware store where discussions of Friday night football games or the price of feed going up were the topics of the day. Their kids were all in 4H. And the county fair was the big event of the year. 

Today Arthur and his fellow ranchers live a very different life. His kids are not allowed to walk  to the bus stop down at the end of the driveway without an adult along side them. Echoes of children’s laughter in the yard playing are like ghosts that haunt. Now doors are locked and the shutters are closed. Arthur is not a rich man. But in order for him to make his wife feel safe when he is gone he spent cash he doesn’t have on cameras, alarms and a drone.

How did it get this way he asks himself with no answer coming to him that will satisfy. We are prisoners on our own land he sadly murmurs to no one. Well, no sense thinking about what can’t be done but rather get up and do what you can. He gently sets his coffee cup in the sink and he and Gus his loyal 100 lb Rottweiler quietly eases out of the house not to wake his wife and kids. It’s Sat. so let them sleep in. He makes sure all the doors are locked and the alarm set. He unlocks the barn while holding out his Browning shotgun as he surveys all the dark corners for any intruders. He fires up the ATV and heads out down the dusty road, gravel spitting out beneath the tires.

 He will inspect the property perimeter for where he is certain there will be fences cut and the remains of trespasser’s littering his land. It’s a daily chore that must be done. Otherwise, it is a danger to his cattle from eating these unknown substances or worse yet get free and wander off. Loosing heads of cattle would devastate their financial state. He calls to his loyal ranch hands Diego and Raul from the hand-held radio. He knows they will be out feeding the cattle. “Found a break through on the southeast hillside” he calls out. They know exactly what he means and what needs done.

Arthur continues on his trek about the land when Gus makes an alert. His rifle is cocked and pointed at the moving shrubs. Sal Ahora! Sal Ahora! Come out now, he shouts with authority. Slowly four men crawl out from the brush hands up. Sentar. No te muevas. Sit. Don’t move. Arthur commands. Although the men appear to not be armed, he does not lower his aim on them with his rifle. He knows there is a reason they didn’t surrender themselves at the border. He looks them over and realizes they are not Mexicans. De donde eres Where are you from he ask knowing they probably don’t speak Spanish. One of the men softly speaks up in broken English, Yemen. Yemen he says again. And then barely audible he says “dead” as he points toward the brush. Arthur looks closer and he sees a body lying on the ground. He no longer is surprised by encounters like this. When you have seen on too many occasions small children dumped and alone and trafficked for sex  your heart becomes immune to what once would have been shocking. 

He shakes his head and thinks, how and why is he left to defend his land and family from far away nations.  My country has abandoned me. I am on my own. Gus never moves a muscle as he continues his low growl ready at command to attack as trained. Arthur calls Border Patrol to inform them he has a dead body on his land along with several illegal young men from Yemen trespassing. He knows they are overwhelmed and won’t be able to respond for over an hour. And so he and Gus sit and wait, never loosing focus on the threat. This he thinks is my new life. Land no longer of any value. A citizen no longer with the right to be safe on their own land. He would cry if he would ever be allowed to let his guard down. But the menacing invasion seems never ending.

The American Flag - Nancy

 The American Flag

The American Flag. Red, White and Blue. The Stars & Stripes. Old Glory. 

A symbol? A mantra? A creed?

Patriot. Antifa. Capitalist. Socialist.

Illegals want to live under it. Others threaten to leave it.

Divisive? Uniting? 

Pledge to it. Stand for it. Kneel at it. Salute it. Burn it. Sing about it.

 Worth fighting for? Worth Protesting over? Worth dying for? 

A caskets cover. A fallen hero’s memory. An enemy’s hatred.

My country ‘tis of thee. Sweet Land of Liberty. Let Freedom ring.

Worn Out Friend - Ralph

 Worn Out Friend

Ralph Heim

I’ve been around this home 30 years,

as long as their marriage, almost.

My entire body is now fringed around the border,

shredded limbs dangling from being slowly worn down

Like I was an old pair of jeans, ripped at the bottom.

Then there is the damn places on the top of my head!

Worn down from all their shivering 

Over the thickest part of me 

Now, my body’s pocked down like hard pan 

I don’t heal anymore from their grinding.  

As for them, I’ve covered their ass more times than I care to remember,

Yes, I’ve been in their hair, wrapped around their hearts, 

Yet they’ve walked all over me at times,

And pressed me to cover their messes.

They don’t even let me out of my small room anymore,

when they’ve got company.

They’re the only ones that know I’m alive.

Deep down, I fear they are ashamed of me.

But when they want my comfort and familiarity,

they let me out of my spot.

Suddenly I might just be the reason

that they sing a little louder in the bath

while I’m tossed over the top

of their glassed in showers.

First VIsit to a Dead Friend - Ralph

 First Visit to a Dead Best Friend

Gravel spitting under the tires of a cemetery road.   Thick windbreaks of trees, branches weaved together to create a thorny wall from the dead and the skeletal cornfield stalks.   Walking down grassy aisles with double headstones for husbands and wives, some spousal deaths on hold for years. 

 My first dead friend visit.  Cheated out of the bereavement airline fare because we didn’t have the same last name.  And after all my rehearsing of what I’d tell him when he couldn’t talk back, I was speechless.  

Finally I pushed out something we both could agree on.  “I wish we were young and telling lies again.” “I never imagined that our hundred or so phone calls the past 6 months wouldn’t cure you”.  Smiling at your last line to me on your death bed, “What’s your mother’s name again? “ (He often threatened the last few months that he’d look up my mother in the afterlife and he’d tell her all the things I had done) 

“Yea my life, just like this empty cemetery in the dusk.  A lot of people around but no one I’d want to talk to.    I’m so angry with you.  I’m all alone just like I’m alone in this farmer’s cemetery.   And our inside jokes?    They’re just “Inside me” jokes now, and they aren’t real fulfilling. I mean, I thought visiting graves was a sport reserved for hopelessly over-weight retired people.  Leaning over headstones and groaning from the effort of rotating seasonal flowers, or pulling weeds while leaking tears.  Christ, I’m only 41.

“I mean, I’m no good at this grieving thing”.  3 visits with a pale, bearded male, HMO approved therapist that gave me a book to read and a workbook to fill out, like some substitute teacher giving me busy work.  My heart is throbbing like a needed root canal, and all that damn shrink wants, is to book the next 3 sessions.