Logically

The beauty of growing up as a child who desperately tried to balance the Human and Vulcan ways of life, is that you end up a rather emotionally stable adult. It also means that when you have a moment of very Human panic - real, raw panic - it is followed by an immediate, almost audible, click as the Vulcan side grabs control. Analyze the situation. Note the details. Determine the possible diagnosis and outcomes. Embrace the logic because it will prove helpful - suppress the emotion because it will make the situation worse. Of course, the downside of all this, is that you will never - ever - be the person who can shrug off all the possibilities and say "Meh, everything's going to be fine."

Last Friday morning, January 24th, at approximately 10:00 AM, my husband collapsed. He didn't just collapse, he had what appeared - to me at least - to be a seizure. He was sitting in his chair at the dining room table, and we were having a conversation. I don't remember the topic. Suddenly, mid-sentence, he went stiff, his hands and feet started to shake, and he slid out of his chair, face first onto the floor. 

I panicked. I screamed his name. I dove to the floor. 

And all at once, this is what happened in my head:

As he stopped speaking and started to shake: PANIC!PANIC!PANIC!PANIC!PANIC!

A stern voice in my head called out "STOP." Cue full stop to the panic.  The voice continued: "Emotion will not help. Not the details. Count the time - that will be important later. Is he conscious? Speak slowly. Speak clearly." 

At this point I was rational, calm, precise, logical. I had counted five seconds between the cessation of conversation and the fact of him being face down. I was acutely aware that his breathing had not changed, his limbs and trunk were not shaking - only his hands and feet. Not a convulsion then. His eyes were open. He was coherent and speaking - telling me he was fine. I determined, even before he did, that he had sustained no injuries. Not because I saw that he hadn't, but because my mind quickly replayed the events, calculated the distance to the objects around him, and concluded that nothing lay within his path. He had not hit his head, I knew, because the sound of the fall hadn't included the sound a skull makes when smacking against hardwood floor. 

The dogs were going nuts, upset, trying to get to him to lick him. He looked over at me and said "Kennel the dogs. I'm fine."

The inner war resurfaced - the human, emotional side of my mind shouting "NO! STAY!" while the Vulcan, logical side arched an eyebrow and murmured: "This is a logical request. The dogs are a hazard. Your thirty-second absence will have no impact. Kennel the dogs."

I hesitated. I jumped to my feet, yelling at the dogs to follow me, ran to the bedroom and slammed them into their kennels. 

I came back into the dining room and hovered near him as he righted himself, stood, and sat back down. I established that he was fine. Uninjured, save but for a scrape on his knee that hadn't really broken the skin, and that slightly amused, slightly confounded, incredibly pissed off look on his face of What the fuck just happened?

Hubby apologized for scaring me. I told him that was illogical.

I asked him to let me take him to the ER. He agreed, but only if I'd take him to lunch first. O.o

After lunch - and a drive through the car wash!? - we arrived at the ER. 

I won't go into that adventure, but suffice it to say, I've rarely been as annoyed. Okay, that's not true - I've been far more annoyed far more often that I'd like to recall.

They did an EEG, EKG, ECG, an ultrasound of his neck, a CT of his head, and several rounds of bloodwork. They admitted him and kept him Friday night and Saturday night. 

They have no idea what happened. There seems to be nothing wrong with him. 

They referred him back to his regular ear doctor, who has ordered a CT of his ears and neck, as well as referred him to physical therapy because apparently we all have crystals in our ears that sometimes fall out of place and can cause us to drop over, and there's a way to right them which involves physical therapy. Yes, it does indeed sound like something out of Star Trek. But I Googled it - it seems legit. 

I managed not to cry until I was driving myself home on Friday night - for all of 45 seconds. I haven't cried since, and I don't intend to.

It isn't that I hate to cry. On the contrary - I'm not one of those macho men who believe that tears somehow lessen the length and girth of my penis and make me less of a man. The beauty of having a silicone penis is, well, nothing can ever really diminish my manhood. Except perhaps a house fire. 

No, I don't hate to cry, I simply am annoyed by crying at inopportune times. I have no time to fall apart when things need to get done. Falling apart is something you do in the shower, or at 3 AM. It's not something you do in the heat of the moment. It's not something you do when everything is on the line. 

I grew up with very emotional parents. My father could get angry over anything, and my mother would cry at the drop of a hat. I found it - disturbing. Not just because the emotions were overwhelming, but because they interfered. Yes, your situation is quite tragic and I'm certain you're very upset, but I'm six years old and hungry and can't reach the kitchen counter - be a dear and make me a sandwich before you fall apart, okay? Yes, yes - you're angry - we all get that. But do me a favor and drive us home safely, so I don't have to fear for my life because some guy cut you off in line at the bank. 

Everything they could react to, they did. Largely. Loudly. Excessively. Often.  

Imagine my delight when I first met Mr. Spock. 

In any event, Hubby is basically on house arrest - he can't drive anywhere by himself, at least until we get the results of the newest round of testing. Which means I'm driving him around.

Understand, I learned to drive when I was a teenager from a teenager. My parents had no desire to teach me to drive. Mother claimed the "water in the ditches is too high" and she was convinced I'd somehow drive off the road, crash into a ditch, and we'd drown. Mind you, the ditches weren't as wide as any cars, so in the midst of driving off the road I'd have to somehow perform an impressive feat of vehicular acrobatics, wherein I lodged the car in the ditch on its side. Of course, it should be noted that the ditches weren't even four feet deep - I could stand in them. So even if I did somehow pull that magic trick off, the odds of us actually drowning were slim to none. 

I was taught to drive by one of my best friends. Her idea of teaching me to drive was pulling in my driveway, declaring she had a migraine and telling me to drive. In hindsight, not incredibly smart on either of our parts, but it worked out. She had a Chevrolet something - I think it was a Cavalier, and I recall it being blue, but it could've been another color. I do remember that it fit me perfectly to drive in, and I loved it. I didn't love it as much as the Dodge Omni my other friend owned - but then who didn't love a Dodge Omni? I did, however, get to drive it more than I drove the Omni - which was all of once. 

Am I the world's best driver? Of course I am. What - did you think I was going to say "no?" Don't be silly. I'm a great driver. 

Hubby is also a great driver. Especially from the passenger's side. O.O

Sending out an S.O.S

I was just outside with my dogs, and I looked up at the sky. I look up at the sky every time I take the kids out at night, because I love the stars. I always have. Tonight, I was looking up, thinking about how, as a child, my night skies had more stars than the night skies do now. I know, of course, it's due to environmental pollutants and what have you, but it made my heart hurt to think, just for a second, that it might be because the stars were dying out. One more species of shiny things our human existence has extinguished.

In any event, I stood there thinking about the night skies of my childhood, and I recalled something.

I was around nine when my father started molesting me. That makes little difference to this recollection, other than the awareness of how young I was.

I loved the stars back then, as I do now. Maybe more. Back then they held the hope of freedom for me. Shortly after everything started, I would go out into my front yard at night with a flashlight, and I would turn it on and point it at the sky. The beam seemed to go on and on forever, and I was certain that Captain Kirk would see it. He'd come investigate of course. He'd have to - something like a strange beam into space wouldn't go unnoticed. He'd investigate, and I'd tell him what was happening, and he'd believe me, and he'd take me away to somewhere safe, where no one would hurt me anymore.

But night after night, no ship came. I got it into my head that I needed to learn Morse Code. You see, I'd surmised that the reason Captain Kirk never responded to my distress call must be because he didn't know it *was* a distress call. If I could learn Morse Code, it would be crystal clear.

I'd forgotten all about that, until tonight. I never did learn Morse Code.

Your Truth vs The Real Truth

I'm somewhat of a photographer. Not professional, obviously, but I've won a couple awards and sold a few prints.

Somebody asked me today, after looking through some of my portfolio, why I don't do "people" photos - why do I only do nature?

The easy answer here is that nature is infinitely beautiful and far more of a challenge. You can't exactly ask Mr. Blue Jay to please hold that pose.

But the truthful answer is "because of how I grew up."

If you look at photographs of my childhood, you will see what you interpret as a happy child. Always smiling. What you're really seeing, is a talented actor - a chameleon, able to size up a situation and change attitude and demeanor in order to be safe, in order to play by the rules.

No one was supposed to know we lived in squalor, that my mother was a manic-depressive hoarder, that my father was an alcoholic who frequently tore our house apart in fits of rage, that he was physically and sexually abusing his child, or that, for many years of my life, we had no plumbing in the bathroom other than a five-gallon bucket. It was a secret that he drank up his paychecks - that my mother and I frequently went to bed hungry. These were shameful things that needed to be hidden.

And so I hid them, because to do otherwise risked my very life.

So you see a picture of a man laughing with his family, and I see a picture of a man who could very well be a monster. That's the first place my mind goes - the first thing I ask myself: "Yeah, but what is he liked behind closed doors?"

Mr. Blue Jay isn't going to return to his nest, eat all the food, beat his wife, and molest his child.

Nature is truth. Nature is honesty. Nature...is safe.

How Star Trek Saved My Life

I started writing this post a few months ago, and finished it then. For some reason, I just couldn't press the "Publish" button. Eh... I say "for some reason," but I know very well the reason: you're all going to think I'm nuts.

Anyhow.

I should warn you, this is going to be an incredibly long post. Incredibly. Long. (I'll pause here for the "that's what she said" jokes). I've written and re-written this about a dozen times, and I simply can't condense it down. So I've...given up on trying. You've been warned. When you get to the end, no whining about how long it took to read - after all, you're the one who stuck around.

I've never been secretive about my childhood and the things I went through. I've talked candidly about the emotional, mental, and sexual abuse. I've never held my tongue about my attempted suicide. I've always thought that if everyone would just open up and admit their feelings and what they were going through, the world would be a better place. We'd learn we weren't as alone as we often feel. Being public with things like that spurs a lot of questions - people want to understand the thought processes, the emotions, the actions. I've had people ask what it was like to contemplate suicide - what was it like making the decision, how had I planned to do it, why had I chosen that method, etc. I have, of course, answered them. For the most part, I'll answer anything.

But there's one question I've been asked over and over, which I've steadfastly refused to answer, and that's the question of "how did you cope with what happened to you, when it was happening on a daily basis?" How did I deal with the emotional, physical, and sexual abuse dolled out by my parents?

I've never answered that question.

Part of my reasoning is that I'm not sure anyone would really take the answer seriously. The other part - the larger part - is because for years that coping mechanism was my shield. It was the one thing that protected my mind and my heart, the one thing that kept me sane.

I've kept my closely guarded secret - clutched it close for all these years. But now, it's time to talk about it.

Why?

Well, for one, everyone who knows me is aware of my motto of "If you can help, you should. If you can and you don't, you're part of the problem." I can, maybe. Maybe someone will read my story and pass it along, and it will help someone else.

And two... I owe two people a long, long overdue "thank you," though those words hardly seem enough in the face of what I have to be thankful for. I'm bound and determined to find some way to let them know.

William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy saved my heart, my sanity, and my soul - they saved my life.

I lost my father when I was eighteen. Now, I know you're confused about that, because if you know me at all, you're thinking "Wait a sec, you were well into your twenties!" And you'd be right - my *biological* father died in... Hell, I don't even remember what year he died. But I'm not talking about him. I'm talking about the man who claimed my heart the first time I saw him. I'm talking about Captain James T. Kirk.

Now, I know what you're thinking. But quit rolling your eyes at me and don't stop reading. Just, please, bear with me. I promise, I'll make it all make sense.

I remember the first episode of "Star Trek" I ever saw - "The Devil in the Dark." For those not in the know, that's the one where they discover the Horta - the alien that can move through rock. Anyhow, I was hooked. Not just on the show concept, but specifically I was hooked on Kirk. The more episodes I watched, the more I became convinced that the people I knew as "men" in my life, the people who claimed to be "men", couldn't hold a candle to this character. He was strong, passionate, caring, gentle, kind, handsome, loyal - everything I wanted in a father. Everything my father wasn't.

Captain Kirk never would've hurt me, never would've reveled in my tears. I was captivated. Hook. Line. Sinker.

So... and here comes the part where you'll question my sanity... I created this fantasy in my head where I was Captain Kirk's daughter.

In real life, I learned to raise my left eyebrow. I went around saying "fascinating." I tried my hardest to suppress my emotions - to try and not let people get to me, to not let them get a rise out of me. I failed at that a LOT.

When my father would come home and get drunk and trash the house, screaming and yelling at my mother and I, I'd retreat into that fantasy. I'd listen to the voices in my head, rather than his. It didn't matter what happened in real life - in that fantasy world, things would always be okay. My "dad" and "uncle" would always swoop in and save the day. I could go there anytime, and I would be accepted and loved. The things that made me less than worthy in the real world - being sick, being - later on - queer - wouldn't matter at all to my "real" family.

When I heard my father's footsteps in the dead of night, approaching my bedroom door, I'd retreat into that fantasy. I'd imagine myself waking up in my room on the Enterprise, and Captain Kirk would be there, telling me it was all a bad dream - that I was safe, and to just close my eyes and go back to sleep.
When I couldn't get to sleep for worrying about what might happen after I closed my eyes, I'd lay there an imagine my "Uncle" Bones reading me a story, or my "Aunt" Uhura softly singing me to sleep.

And when the all too real touch of reality brushed me, I'd ask myself "What would Kirk do? What would Spock do?"

Kirk would rally till his last breath. Never giving up, he would make his enemy take what they wanted - he'd give nothing freely, never surrender, never make it easy.

When I lacked that kind of strength, either emotionally or physically, I'd ask myself "What would Spock do?"

Spock would examine the logic of the situation. Would his resistance matter, or would the torture ensue regardless? Would it make more sense to expend energy in struggle, or save it - take the punishment with quiet dignity, understanding that he was not the sum of the situation?

There were many times when I took that route. Many times, indeed.

The older I got, the more I realized just exactly how different I was - bisexual and (at one point) transgender - the more I identified with my "uncle" Spock. Neither of us fully accepted by either of the societies to which we belonged (he Vulcan and Human, myself straight and queer - the bisexual hate I encountered was overwhelming at times) - but both of us unconditionally accepted by Kirk and the crew. At least, I thought I would be. I knew I'd fit in on that ship. I just...knew it.

Along the way somewhere, my parents must've noticed my obsession, because I stared getting bombarded with "it's just a show" and at one point my father broke my television with his bare fists because he was angry over always hearing about television. (It should be noted here, that I lived an hour from town by car, and was allowed no friends and no social life. I'm not sure exactly what he expected me to do, other than watch TV.)

Of course, I always knew it was a fantasy. I never actually thought I was someone else's daughter. I'm the spitting image of my father - something my mother was always far too happy to pound into my head. I knew I'd never board the Enterprise, never play 3-D chess with my Uncle Spock. Hell, I can barely get through a game of regular chess! But I kept my security blanket with me in my mind.

When I was eighteen, "Generations" came out on VHS - or as I refer to it "The Movie That Shall Not Be Named."  I eagerly watched it, but toward the end, the plot became clear. Kirk...was going to die. (I knew the initial scene with his "death" couldn't be real, because he couldn't go out that easily, so, though worried, I kept watching and waiting for him to reappear.) But when I finally realized what they meant to do... I remember turning the VCR off in a frenzy. I sat there, starting at that blank screen, unable to move, unable to breathe. He was going to die. The single most influential man in my life was about to die right in front of my eyes and I was powerless. This wasn't like when my Spock had died, and I'd just grabbed the next movie and *poof* there he was. This...was final.

Insane? Crazy? Childish? Probably, on all counts.

For a week I avoided the movie. I avoided the TV in general. I wouldn't go near it. I began to feel guilty, though. This man had been there with me through so much, I'd drawn on his strength so many times. Didn't I owe him mine? Shouldn't I be by his side for those final minutes, shouldn't I bare witness to that?

Yeah, I know. Very melodramatic.

I resumed the movie where I'd left off. I cried and cried. I bawled my eyes out. I had no idea how the movie actually ended. I was too focused on my loss. How would life be in the next few minutes? In the coming hours, days, weeks, months, years? What would I do without that guidance, that strength? I sat there well after the credits had ended, still crying. Bereft. Like being in a rowboat tossed on an ocean in the middle of a hurricane, with no way to find land.

::nods:: Uh-huh. I know it's all ridiculous. Dead or alive, a character is a character. A make believe person who doesn't really exist. Try to remember, though, I was still a kid, really. A kid who'd never had any support, a kid who'd been tortured. Literally. Tortured. A kid who'd been forced to grow up too fast, who tried to put up a bravado, but underneath it all, I was still just a scared kid.

To this day, I can't watch that movie.

To this day, I still stop and ask myself, "What would Kirk do?" and then "What would Spock do?"

Sometimes, I still fall woefully short of living up to *either* of them.

And to this day, when someone says something on the order of "it's just a show," I feel the angry desperation of that little kid I used to be. For me, it's not just a show - it never was, and it never will be. 

But there you have it. My coping strategy, in a nutshell. Of course, none of the characters nor the people who played them were perfect. I never thought they were. Everyone is flawed. But they were supremely less flawed than what I had to work with.

I mourned Gene Roddenberry's passing in 1991 (just two days after my birthday) keenly because he had given me my family - not just my imaginary "dad" and "uncle", but all my "aunts" and "uncles". I loved every last one of them as if they were my own kin. Oddly, Gene Roddenberry was kind of like a God to me. Not "GOD" (don't go all "blasphemer!!!!" on me now), but in a way... he really kinda was, if you think about it. And it really kinda makes sense for a kid growing up the way I did to deify him. Which is *really* ironic, considering his views on religion in general.

I once wrote a letter to Gene Roddenberry, thanking him for making Star Trek, and telling him how important it was to me, and gave it to my mom to mail. I was around 10. I don't even know if that letter went into the mail or the kitchen trash can, and even if it did go zinging off to Hollywood, I've no doubt it ended up with an incomprehensibly large heap of others, which never had any hope of being read by any normal human being.

When the word lost DeForest Kelley in 1999, and then James Doohan in 2005...God Lord. Don't even get me started on how much I cried...for days and days. They'd passed before I'd been able to tell them what a difference they and Star Trek had been in my life.

And even now, my gratitude will probably never reach its destination. I plan on attending some conventions, but let's face it - time with actors is limited, and Leonard Nimoy no longer attends them. I could Tweet this to them - maybe I will. Odds of it being seen are pretty low, though.

But, to the point of writing this whole thing, even if it's never seen, here goes:

I'd like to say thank you. They're two of the simplest words, but they're all I have, and I hope the emotion behind them comes through.

Without Star Trek, I'd surely have lost my grip, however tentative it sometimes was, on reality. Without that shield, the abuse would've overtaken me, claimed my heart, soul, and mind as it often did my body. I haven't done many monumental things in my life, but the things I've done I've enjoyed and cherished, and that's all because of Star Trek.

So to Mr. Shatner and Mr. Nimoy - you saved my life. You will never truly know the impact you had on me. You will never know how your presence - fictional though it was - made the cold, dark nights bearable, and made the long, endless days of fear something I found the courage to live through. You will never know how that terrified little kid I was looked up to the characters you portrayed. You will never know the joy I felt sitting and watching the one bright thing I had in my life. You will never know how my heart skips a beat even now when I see Kirk or Spock. You will never know how it hurts when people insult Trek.

I know stories of people who became engineers because of Scotty, or doctors because of McCoy. I didn't do anything as grand as that, but I am who I am, however flawed, because of Star Trek.

Collections

I admit it - I'm a collector.

From a young age, I enjoyed finding and collecting treasures. I suppose the reason behind it is twofold. There's sentiment, of course. I'm the kind of person who remembers the circumstances of every purchase. Consequently, there's a memory attached to every item I own.

The other part is a feeling of permanence. For some reason, collections symbolize to me that a person is serious about their life and location. Collecting symbolizes roots, somehow. I always worried about my friends who didn't collect things. They could be in and out of their homes within hours, while moving would take me weeks. They had no commitment to their places, and that bothered me.

It started in my childhood with elephants. I'd save up my small allowance and buy them at garage sales and thrift stores. I rarely got brand new ones. By the time I moved up to NY in 2001, I had over 1,000.

I ended up getting rid of a bunch of them for the move. Of the ones I kept, probably half were damaged or destroyed in shipping. Over the years I've paired them down more and more, but the ones I still have are among my prize possessions.

I've learned control and reality from collecting. There's always that initial urge to buy *every single one* of something - even if it's the same design in a different color. "Oh, but I don't have a *blue* one!!!" I've learned to be more picky. To chose carefully, and to factor in reasoning and logic. What do I have room for? What is this item made out of? Is it really that different than what I already have? Do I love it more than something I already own? What am I willing to get rid of in order to have this?

I've also learned to collect things that reflect myself and my life. I've blogged before about my salt and pepper shaker collection, and the meaning behind it (check that out here). That post got me to thinking about the other things I collect, and the reasons why.

One of the things I collect now is Asian art. I think the reason behind this is that, growing up, my father hated anything that he didn't deem "American." Anything Asian fell under the category of stuff I wasn't allowed to have. Despite that fact, I desperately loved Asian art. I found the details and colors amazing. So now, I have a small collection. It's mostly pottery and things like that. I did have some wall art at one time, but most of that had to be paired down once we bought our house - there just wasn't room.

Another thing I collect is antique bottles, and there's no more meaning behind that than wanting to show my kids that life didn't always come in plastic.

I collect monks. I honestly have no idea why. Maybe because I've always been fascinated by their lifestyle and devotion to their religion?

I collect mice, simply because they're cute and misunderstood most of the time. I find a lot of beauty in the things most people shun.

  

I also collect animal bones. Yes, animal bones. I've found most of them on my mother-in-law's property. She lives out in the country and all sorts of little animals have ended up in my collection - mice, deer, kittens. Yes, kittens. Her barn cat has kittens every year, but unfortunately there are coyotes to contend with, and every now and then a kitten doesn't make it. I think, for me, the reasoning is that I will respect and honor their remains. As many of you know, I work for a veterinary clinic. Nothing makes me angrier than when an owner opts for group cremation for their "beloved" pet. The thought of animals being lumped together in a pile and burned together, with no respect for who they were, just kills me. So, I bring home the bones I find, bleach them, and put them on display in my house. This picture just shows a small portion. I have a whole cauldron full of deer bones I collected over several years. I haven't found the right spot for the cauldron yet, so it's in a bag in my basement. But every time I go down there, I walk over to it and pat the bag, and whisper hello to the bones, so they know they're not forgotten.

::shrugs:: Maybe I'm just a complete nut case. :-)

Reclaiming My Childhood...Through My Kitchen

Most of you who know me know I had a pretty shitty childhood. For those of you who don't - I lived through years and years of physical, mental, and sexual abuse at the hands of my parents.

Suffice it to say, I didn't have a good childhood.

Yet, even in the worst times, there's always little slivers of light, isn't there?

I thought about that long and hard when I bought my house last year. I wanted to remember the things I did manage to find joy in.

A lot of those things weren't things in my home - they were things in my grandmother's home. Now, you have to realize, my grandmother's home wasn't all that nice. Infested with roaches, the house had a certain odor that just about turned your stomach when you entered, and I always left there sick with either my Asthma or my allergies. Even still, her house was my sanctuary, because my parent's wouldn't dare be mean to me in front of her. I only went there once a week - on Sundays - but I looked forward to it all week.

Grandma had toys for all us grandkids to play with, which were actually toys from her kids' childhoods. Things like metal toy trucks. I remember one in particular that I liked the best - the cement mixer. I liked it because it had a lever to "dump" the cement, and a wheely knob you could use to "mix" the cement. I never did put anything in it, but I liked whizzing it around the spare bedroom.

There was also a set of wooden blocks I loved to play with. Sometimes, I made buildings with them. Sometimes, I pretended they were foods, and I "cooked" with them.

Grandma also fed my addiction for other toys which my parents wouldn't buy me: Care Bears, My Little Ponies, and Barbie Dolls. Although I usually paired Ken with Ken and Barbie with Barbie, which raised more than a few eyebrows. LOL She even went out of her way to find me a Ken doll with real hair.

As I remembered all these things, I started wishing I still had all of them. I did have some Care Bears and My Little Ponies, but the trucks  and Barbies are all long gone.

Then I remembered something: A year or so ago, I had an absolute melt down when I found a box of those same blocks at a rummage sale up here, and I had to have them. I stuck them in a plastic shoebox and they went to live up in the storage room - forgotten about.

 That "Ah-Ha!" moment led me to another  one  - there was no reason why I couldn't just buy some of this stuff all over again, and there was equally no reason why I couldn't display it in my new home. (My husband has long been resigned to my eclectic decorating taste.)

I went on a mad spree, raiding my upstairs storage for all the toys I could find. My Little Ponies and Care Bears resurfaced, along with an Elsie the Cow toy. What I lacked, I went on eBay to find. I gathered everything together, and set out to decorate my kitchen. 

As sort of a tribute to my Grandmother, I included these tiny little porcelain birds. She collected porcelain birds, and I remember going to her house, carefully taking them off the shelves, dusting and cleaning each and every one, and putting them back exactly like she had them. I loved those birds!

I'm really happy with the results! What do you think?

My Little Ponies on the shelf of the liquor cabinet

Care Bears above the door

Wooden blocks above the other door.

Birdies above door #3

Close up of a couple of the birdies