I do not care enough about that repulsive rapist POS to write out his repulsive assault on me. I am done with it. After this I will never think of it again. The last time that pretense of a man tried to contact me was more than fifty years after he first assaulted me; and in response I wrote the following (edited) letter to his neighborhood police precinct. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... DATE: 02-26-18 TO: David Bentrud, Chief of Police 19 13th Avenue North Waite Park, MN 56387 FROM: Annmarie Throckmorton, M.A. (street address) (city, state, zip code) (telephone number) RE: If you have a database for dangerous, crazy peo

When I was twenty in the late 1960’s, my best friend from high school and I got an apartment together, and it was fun. We bought gently-used furniture and almost-antique dishes from the many thrift stores in Minneapolis-St. Paul, Minnesota at the time. Our taste in decorating was similar so we soon had a very pretty apartment. We both had steady weekday jobs, and also we shared shifts on a weekend job as restaurant hostesses at a nice hotel out on the beltway. I did not mention to my girlfriend that I had been raped the year before because I thought that I had moved far enough away from the rapist, but my grandmother told him where I was. The rapist came looking for me, and when my girlf

I had not wanted the job because working at a large hotel located on the beltway around Minneapolis-St. Paul, Minnesota had not seemed like a safe place to work. But my roommate had begged me to take the other half of her shifts as a weekend hostess in the nice restaurant situated just off of the hotel lobby. She said we would get nice meals free and the restaurant decor was very nice (which was true.) I had a weekday job, but I thought I could manage a few extra shifts on the weekends, so I agreed. The work was not difficult, and I enjoyed greeting and seating people wherever it pleased them. This was one of my first jobs in life, and everything was new to me, interacting with the cust

Here are three stories that are short because I cannot bear to think about it longer. My friend’s old husband had a pace-maker for many years, and he had stopped his lifelong hobby of cycling because of it, but then a young, pretty physical therapist put him up on a stationary bike where he rode happily, saying “This is the best ride I have had in years.” He died three days later. My old mother suffered dementia but she still had the sense to object to the bevy of young physical therapists who came to my home to exercise her legs while she sat on the couch, saying, “This is the wrong position, I shouldn’t be sitting down, it hurts.” They insisted, and she limped with a painful knee for the

Today, Facebook posted a disposable grandma diapers advertisement on my Facebook page, along with invitations to gamble. Does Facebook intend to humiliate me, or is it just that stupid? Or, is Facebook "punishing" me because I have nothing on my Facebook page except a post announcing my website, inthetide.com? I gave up on my Facebook page after my content kept "disappearing", first to go was a story about how I drove out of a tornado, the last to go was some of my portrait artwork. Now I only keep my Facebook page open to redirect to my website, and to check friends’ pages, which Facebook only allows if you have a Facebook account. Or, does Facebook hope to insult me so much that I buy i

I am not aboriginal to the North American continent, I derive of Scandinavian stock, but I have had several friends who are of Native American Indian heritage, and over the decades I observed interesting changes in their self-identification, which I have respected and accepted according to their wishes. My oldest friend, of fifty-five years, would have nothing to do with being “Indian” as it was known when we were in junior high school in the early 1960's. She confided her “Indian” heritage to me with dismay and confusion. I kept her secret for half a century, better than she kept it. Then, the last time that I saw her, she was deeply tanned and proudly a Great Plains Indian. She had to

Long, long ago and far away, my sister and the younger members of her family-of-choice (a desertion which hurt our mother) let me tag along when they went river tubing. This would have been about fifty years ago, when I used to think of myself as a playful human river otter so I was excited to go, and joined their car caravan out of St. Paul/Minneapolis, Minnesota to one of the tubing concessions along the Wisconsin/Minnesota border to rent my inner tube. Nowadays they have towable watertubes, multi-person tube chairs, tube lounges, tubes with tow hooks for booze-boxes, and all of that in every color of the rainbow. Back then the tubing concession rented out black, patched-up inner tubes

My teeth are not bad for a woman who is just shy of age seventy, nice smile, heartfelt, as white as age permits, and not too long in the tooth, not yet. Over the decades of my life, a lot of hard work and endurance went into maintaining my teeth, brushing, flossing, dental cleanings, dental work, dental surgery, all as needed even if the money had to come out of my grocery budget. Until I retired and was eligible for Medicare coverage (federal health insurance program), I almost never had dental insurance, or any other kind of medical insurance for that matter. So it is a good thing that I have eaten a lot of inexpensive rice and beans. In chili rice and beans digestively combine as comp

It has been over two years since my father passed from this life, on 01-18-16, at age 88. Yet every week I still get solicitations in his name from “charities” and other questionable organizations who still hope to garner money from him. And each week I telephone or mail to inform them that he is deceased, and to request that they cease mailing what are to me painful reminders that he is gone. Today it is Marquis Who’s Who who is “pleased to announce that you (Peter Throckmorton) are being considered for the 2018 Albert Nelson Marquis Lifetime Achievement Award and respectively (a better word choice would have been respectfully) request the verification of your biographical data, which is

In the last bit of time before my father had the stroke that put him in a nursing home, my parents got pretty flirty with each other at their dining room table while they were waiting for me to finish cooking the evening meal. This was a little embarrassing for me because I had never seen them behave in that way, but it seemed healthy for them. So, once, just for giggles, I served my parents British spotted dick for dessert. Hilarious. Neither of them could believe it when I announced what I would be serving, and they were puzzled that I seemed to be speaking so out of character. I draped a towel over my arm like a waiter in a fancy restaurant and brought in the can of Heinz Spotted Dic

Before I turned to the horrible life task of working on my late father’s lawsuit for nursing home loss of leg due to neglect, I played in Twitter for a while. I joined Twitter in 2015, but I just started tweeting this year, so the interactions are novel to me. So far I have made nine tweets. In the nineteenth century I never imagined that I would be communicating to the ENTIRE on-line world in this way. Thrilling, no matter how much Twitter is mocked as plebian, I know that it is thrilling for millions of participants, including me. Wonder what will be next, will I live long enough to see it? Well, no, I suppose I will only get to see a little bit more. 1. Ivanka Trump’s humorous twee

Margaret Cat's habit is to doze on my pillow. After I fall asleep she goes to lay down on the rug by one of the doors, and monitors the sounds and scents of wildlife moving by outside in the night. Sometimes she quarrels with outdoor cats who taunt her through the picture window, which wakes me. I rescued Margaret Cat ten years ago from the We-Kill-Them-In-Ten-Days dog pound, which worked out well for both of us. It is amusing to be attended until I fall asleep. Heartwarming. Caption: Margaret Cat's Habit Is To Doze On My Pillow by Annmarie Throckmorton 2018

My life is a push-button. It feels like all I do is sit at my devices and push buttons. Tower computer, laptop, tablet, smart phone, stupid phone, kitchen appliances, laundry equipment, tools, whatnot: I am tired of pushing buttons. This pushes my button. “A push-button or simply button is a simple switch mechanism for controlling some aspect of a machine or a process. Buttons are typically made out of hard material, usually plastic or metal. The surface is usually flat or shaped to accommodate the human finger or hand, so as to be easily depressed or pushed. Buttons are most often biased switches, although many un-biased buttons still require a spring to return to their un-pushed state.

All necessary translations have been made .... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... The spaceship landing was pro forma, in a semi-rural area, amongst mid-level to low-level locals, in other words, among the most vulnerable. To celebrate a soft landing here on Earth, the alien crew shook hands in the old-fashioned human way, tight grip, prolonged stare into the eyes, discrete hand wipe on the pants leg, then sat down to exchange unpleasantries, and plan their attack. “My vision apparatus is a little unsteady in this corporal manifestation.” Attaché Rubidiumo complained as he poked at his headset with one prong. “It’s misaligned.” Not my job, no-nose, thought Diplomatic Lead Tantalusa s

When I bought my house in 2007, it had a lot that I had wanted for a very, very long time, including a row of 15’ lilac bushes along the back fence. These lilacs were not only long longed for but were essential in hiding a neighbor’s half-century old, neglected fence. The lilacs were old-growth, they probably went in soon after the fence, but old growth in lilacs is not necessarily good growth. These scraggly, neglected lilacs were oddly shaped with broken branches, infested with mildew, and did not bloom much the first June that I owned the property. The lilacs covered too large an area for me to spray, and anyway the efficacy of chemical treatment is questionable. So I trimmed the lila

I rarely used to dream, for the first fifty years of my life my nights were quiet. My moods were steady, not always joyous, of course not, no one but the well-cared-for imbecile who is oblivious to harsh reality is that lucky, I am just saying that life unrolled at an even pace for me. Not so now in old age. Now I have too many moods, too many ideas, too many intentions. And, not enough time left to fulfill them. Caption: Too Many Moods by Annmarie Throckmorton 2018

When I created this ten-panel screen for my home, to shelter my meditation and prayer alcove, the art class instructor brought the program director in to see my work. They sat and watched me work for a while, whispering and smiling to themselves. Then they told me not to mention it to anyone, but I could come to any and all art classes at the Columbus Ohio Armory, tuition-free. I took several art classes there, before life moved me away. Caption: Pond Turtles And Dragonflies 10 panel screen by Annmarie Throckmorton 1990 (It sheltered my meditation and prayer alcove.) Caption: Annmarie Throckmorton creating Pond Turtles And Dragonflies 1990 Caption: Turtle study for Pond Turtles And Dra

I often visited my parents when they lived in Plain City, Ohio, which was about an hour drive from my home in Columbus, Ohio into the farmland in the northwest. I would vary the route from the interstate highway that bisects Columbus, to sometimes take the scenic Olentangy River Road, that ran along the Olentangy River, which is adjoined by nicely wooded land with ponds and wildlife visible from the road. One day I saw a kind of sloppy sign tacked up to a tree, “Canoe Lessons”, so I took the next exit to find out who, what, where, and how soon. Over the years I kept trying to get closer to my mother with daughterly sorts of interactions, but she was a tough nut to crack. With rare excepti

ABC News “Hawaii facing new volcano fissures that opened overnight”, published 05-13-18. (comments) AdroitWaterBear | 3 hours ago Why does no one ask why Hawaiian officials approved residential development on these known lava flow areas? That's dereliction of duty to protect the public. Or what about the unethical housing contractors who took money to build homes where homeowners are at risk of lava flows?" nandansho | 2 hours ago (edited) AdroitWaterBear. It's White home Owners..Fuck em. 🖕 AdroitWaterBear | 5 sec ago nandansho. Your attitude is like my own personal experience when I visited America's 50th state. Hawaiians were not welcoming, some even seemed to hope that I would come to h

I prepared this blog entry early because in previous years I have been too saddened on Mother’s Day to write anything. In the last years of Mother’s dementia she grew quite companionable, eager to socialize and happy to be with me. It was then that I saw the mother that I would have had if not for whatever it was that ailed her and prevented normal human relationships. When the dementia first began to take her mind, my mother pitifully said to me, “I cannot even think, I should put an end to...(herself).” I immediately said, “Oh no, Mother, I’ll help you.” And she knew that I would and she stayed in the world for her entire natural lifespan. I moved her into my home with me soon after