A desperate Woman… Sherlock Holmes !!


In Middle School, which we called Jr. High School in the 1970s, there was a teacher. The lights came on when I was in Jr. High School. Peer pressure was as two giant wedges clamping in on me.

This teacher woke me up from the dreadful shadow world of bell bottoms and grunge looking guys. The crush I had on Mark Baily was overwhelming and he had the original grunge look down.

Yet in all of this chaos, hormones, the smell of hate-and peer pressure… this mighty teacher woke me up.

“Excellent! I cried. “Elementary.” Said He.

The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes (1893)
Watson and Holmes in “The Crooked Man” (Doubleday p. 412)

In an English course as an elective by mistake Teacher had us read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I experienced feelings more powerful than crushes on boys and the hate of peer pressure. It all fell by the side.

The wit and intelligence of a detective moved me. My only regret is not taking it on as a profession myself.

Also never thanking her, the teacher that turned on the light; if only for a few months.

Thank you my dear lady !!


Charlotte is happy !!

Don’t they make it look so sexy and loving… something that adds to the moment…?

Walking home from Jr. High School, or at the drive in as a teenager; I smoked a few cigarettes. They started out wild and forbidden but always turned me green before I threw-up. I remember hanging my clothes outside on the clothes line after going to punk rock shows during the 70s and 80s. I hated the smell of cigarettes, goating anyone I knew that smoked. I became anal about it. The tobacco industry is a death corporation of the highest degree; knowing this country is founded on the tobacco industry, thoroughly disgusted me. Then about 5 years ago I flipped my position on this. My mom came down with lung cancer. She was not a smoker.

One evening while walking around the neighborhood I saw a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. The pack was near a neighbor’s home that had a sound studio in the back of their garage. I knew it must have been theirs. Part of my religiosity is to practice the medicine wheel. Native American Indians offer tobacco to the north, east, south and west. In regards to my mom, I would start to make such an offering via the tobacco smoke. Symbolizing the smoke travels up to the spiritual realms bringing a response from my medicine allies. I stared my ritual with this pack.

“A prayer for mom,” I thought.

I like how it tasted. It ironically took away the grief, sadness and hopelessness I was feeling. I started to buy more packs. I only smoked in secret and occasionally at a pub, or at a show. It became a secret routine that my kids found out about. They did not like it.

“I will stop when I am ready.” I told them.

They would find a pack and throw it away. I would just buy another.

I had a crush on the experience of cigarettes. I could not get them out of my mind. I would drive around town listening to loud music while smoking cigarettes, and for a time It made me feel bad, nasty and rebellious. I was a wild punk again !!

After mom passed away, I lost my desire for cigarettes. I continued to try different kinds. Nat Sherman Cigarettes were fun to smoke. I missed the craving crush I had for them. Then I started to get sick smoking and I stopped. The crush was gone. I occasionally take one out and smoke it; two puffs are all it takes to make me feel as sick as a dog. I am over my affair with Cigarettes! In all the entire affair lasted about two years.

Some times you got to fight fire with fire…I believe it served some sort of purpose in my life.