Keep it moving. Move on...

Creating open endedness in which time for healing from a catastrophic event is something we moderns are learning to stand in support of. The after math of disasters from around the globe, in the opening decade of our brand new millineum, have given us exposure to millions of stories. Events that change everything that was familiar. The stories that help us to be better, stonger, kinder, more resourceful.
The harvest from our Mother's vast sphere of influence, over eight decades, has been a life time devotion to healthy independence. An original humanist; teach others how to utilize their talents and resources toward living well and how to share the benifits of what they've learned. That goes along with Live and Let Live; code for "hands off!".
Learning to recieve help and the generosity of others may be her last sharp learning curve. And remembering once again how to share her life. Class 'aint over till the bell rings.
After Mom's injury and the subsequent gathering of her far-flung off spring, I decided my time was probably most available for helping her out. Kids are raised, husband newly retired, carreer homestead, stable.
Not having been away from Alaska for more than a couple of weeks in over thirty five years, it's been one hell of a season to plop in.
I'm brand new to the 21st century informational and entertainment advances but I'm finding my way around. Sister Mic has provided the household with a vintage iBook, browsing the Internet with Safari and an XM radio.
The house is always wide open to combat the heat. I stay close and kinda quiet; most of Mom's time is in bed reading and sleeping, but this externally imposed hiatus from my own life has given me an uninterupted crash course environment in which to learn all manner of things. About the world and myself. The last few weeks I've been on a trip with out leaving the farm.
By Sat. Sept.6, I was worn thin; Alaska's underbelly had gotten further washed ashore. It's a good thing. Exposure. But one wants to be with their own kind during times like these. Like when the lesser relatives have gone and done something terribly foolish (such as thinking they're worthy of accepting a nomination for the vice presidency of the United States) and immediately everybody finds out what the distant family member is really made of and shame is brought onto the entire house. There's hope for the compassionate of heart who are left with the aftermath of such a disaster. I'm rowing towards that little island.
By the weekend my boat was dragging bottom.
So I got up Saturday and decided it was time to soothe my parched sense of humor. Starting with Michael Feldman's brand of sweet, smart, sarcasam, backed by a grand installment of This American Life with Ira Glass and solidarity was reinstalled.
While waiting for Garrison Keillor's hoped for soul salve, I discovered the motherlode: From The Desk Of G.K.
Reading all afternoon via this kitchen wizard machine, and listening to all of the recorded and live performances of Sept.6 was a grand slam. Beautiful resources; seriously valuable additions to my Alaskan'08 Wilderness Survival Kit. But I sure miss home.