Author Angel Ackerman

We now have a deep freezer

Angel Ackerman 1 Comment

We recently got an old, hand-me-down deep freezer.

And at the same time, the federal government shutdown and Pennsylvania state budget impasse have complicated SNAP benefits for families who have them.

I heard on the news that 1-in-8 Americans have SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition or “food stamps”). I heard one story this morning about an unemployed widow with a 15-year-old son whose soundbite suggested she sent him to school so he could eat breakfast and lunch.

I hope she’s sending him to school for an education, first and foremost.

I consider myself a fiscally-conservative Democrat who believes that education and healthcare should be attainable and fair. I would love to have a Ph.D., but I can’t afford to finish my masters and I refuse to go into debt for it. I also have a disability, and even when I am well-employed I often have to make choices about my medical care.

Right now, I have my own small business. I work a part-time job in the food service industry to provide some reliable income on a steady timeline. I am an adjunct instructor at my local community college, and if you break it down to an hourly rate, I probably make a similar wage at my fast food job (because of the fact that I did not have the money to finish my degrees). And I have freelance writing and editing jobs and a mini author’s assistant job.

And I’m always on the look out for more. Applied for another this morning.

I started my career in public relations, and ended up in print journalism, which led to a long career of lay-offs as newspapers died. I worked in non-profit communications and development, where I learned a massive amount of useful skills like grant writing but also experienced a ridiculous amount of toxic managerial behavior. Some people work in the non-profit sector because they want to make the world a better place, but at the same time, many of those people have either childhood trauma and/or personal insecurities that create some challenging environments in an already difficult field.

I mention all of this because I have experience with unemployment. I have experience with being the single mom with maybe enough resources to survive a month. I was a single mom raising a teenager who lost her job during the pandemic and did not find out if she qualified for unemployment until the weekend after she accepted a new job. I was unemployed for four months and had opened my home to one of my daughter’s friends who didn’t feel safe in her own home.

I applied for public assistance because I was volunteering at a non-profit that provides services for people exiting human trafficking situations and my “boss” suggested it. Because I had no income and I had an official dependent, I received more than $700/month in food stamps. And Medicaid. Which was a great help. Even though I only received food stamps for four months, I rationed them so they lasted almost a year.

I had accepted a job in the warehouse at Stitch Fix. I loved that job, and the company, but after three years they decided to close our warehouse. After three years at a wage where my take-home pay was the same as what I had made as the development manager for a small non-profit with a two-million-dollar annual budget (thanks to the fact that Stitch Fix offered their employees free medical benefits), I found myself laid off again.

And when my unemployment ran out, I once again applied for food stamps. I had gone on multiple interviews, built up my small business, but still struggled with the cost of my medical care– my estranged husband put me on his benefits but my medicine was $50-$100 a month and all my doctor’s appointments I had to pay out of pocket because of the high deductible. So I really hoped I would qualify for Medicaid again. And I did.

I also qualified for $525 in food stamps.

Around this same time, Trump got re-elected and the cheap refrigerator I bought started freezing the food in the refrigerator and not freezing the food in the freezer. But I couldn’t afford a new fridge– and I still can’t– so we started buying only what we could eat in a few days, or foods that could safely thaw and refreeze.

Lettuce is not one of them, if you were curious.

The point of all this is to ask: Regardless of how you feel about who uses food stamps or how the government distributes them or whether or not people try hard enough or work hard enough, why is no one asking why we have a system where 1-in-eight Americans qualifies for food stamps?

I have seen and heard so many things about the system, and I have known people who work in the branches of government that distribute these types of assistance and they are all people who want to help. I have met people afraid to work because they might lose assistance, and I have seen people who need the help lose it because they made too much money. (And, like me, it’s usually people who need medical care.)

I have about $2,300 left on my deductible this year, and I have spent almost an equal amount if you read my EOBs from the insurance company. I’m losing my hearing in one ear and I need a hearing test and a visit with the audiologist. The muscles in my one leg have been spasming 24-hours-a-day for almost a year now and I just blamed it on my cerebral palsy but my neurologist has concerns that previously noted damage to my spine (from all these years of walking crooked) may have caused nerve damage in my lower back. And my one finger has been doing crazy things for about a year.

That’s probably at least $6,000 worth of tests. Do I just try to schedule it all before the end of the year and finance the $2,000+ remaining of the deductible on a credit card? Or Able Pay? or do I wait until I am better off financially?

Back to the deep freezer. A friend of the family was hoping to get a decade-plus year old freezer out of his house. We took it. We took all the stuff from our cheap refrigerator that needed better freezer conditions and piled it in. And I thought– when Trump was elected an I was worried about the future of food stamps, I didn’t have a freezer to fill. I did however invest in every non-perishable food item I could tolerate.

Dried Beans. Plain-old Rice. Canned Fruit. Canned Vegs. Nutritional Yeast. Some condiments. Canned Tuna. Spam. Canned Chicken.

My childhood traumas leave me to ruminate frequently about food scarcity, financial security and general stability. I will probably always behave as if every trip to the grocery store is the last one I can afford. And I have done my grocery shopping at the Dollar Tree and the Grocery Outlet because I only had $20 left to feed us for the week.

The Office of Vocational Rehab considers me the most severely tier of worker, whereas the federal government says I do not qualify for disability because I work so much and at so many jobs. But the federal government doesn’t take into consideration that I have to work that hard to make ends meet. And I don’t always succeed and I often hurt myself doing it. And I just work past it.

But how do you determine an equitable way to decide who deserves help? And I ask a third time: Why does 1-in-eight Americans receive food stamps? What is wrong with our society if 1-in-eight people cannot afford to feed themselves according to the criteria the government sets forth?

Food for thought.

The bee, the blues, the books and the… pizza?

Angel Ackerman 2 Comments

I will be telling parts of this story on my Substack newsletter that I plan to post tomorrow morning. I write about my publishing company, Parisian Phoenix Publishing; books, the ones we publish, books for writers and fun books to read; and writing. You can subscribe here.

I had booked a table at Books and Booze 2 at Madness Distillery in the Country Junction Plaza in Lehighton, Pa. (With a name like Madness Distillery, how could I stay away?)

I had packed the books earlier this week but left decisions about signs and other marketing materials until today, and despite sleeping decently last night, my brain would not kick in. So it took all my focus to get out the door on time.

And I had to drop Eva off at her dad’s so she could borrow his car for the afternoon.

About a mile from the house, a bee flew onto my windshield at a stoplight. I pointed him out to Eva. About four more blocks down the road, he was still sitting there. I said to Eva, “If we take him all the way to your dad’s, he’ll be more than a mile away from his hive. How will he find his way home? Will he have food? Will he be warm? How is he just sitting on that windshield?”

And then I added a final thought: “If we leave him at your dad’s, that’s like someone dropping you off in England and telling you to swim home.”

We stopped. I said my goodbyes. I waited for my daughter to cross the street. The bee had not gone. So I resumed my drive.

About 4 miles later, I got onto the highway. Little bee did not fare well as my speeds increased. He slid across the windshield (toward the top), putting one foot down and another up, trying to get his grip.

I had to speed up even more, and now we’re about 12 miles away from home. The bee is starting to curl into himself and press down into the glass. I wonder: Would it be kinder to turn on my windshield wipers and smoosh him?

I can’t stop watching him, but I have to, because I’m driving 70 miles an hour on the highway. I’m getting upset, and fighting tears as my nerves fray. I ponder exiting the road because of this bee. I call Eva. I tell her everything.

“Mom, it’s a bee.”

“He doesn’t deserve to suffer. Nothing deserves to suffer.”

“Mom, life is hard.”

I cackle. I hang up. I get one more mile, and the bee rolls into a tight marble and disappears. He was on my windshield for about 15 miles.

About this time, I realize my mother married my father 50 years ago today. My father died three years and eleven months ago. My wedding anniversary was Thursday. My husband and I married 26 years ago. We splint up six years ago. And my mother’s 71st birthday was also Thursday.

The GPS took me past the site of the dirt track where my father raced micro-stock when Eva was a toddler. Past the post office where my father got his mail. Past one road to his house. Past the diner where he ate most of his meals. Past the gas station where he bought his cigarettes. Past the other road to his house. Past the funeral home where we had his services.

My parents divorced when I was 15. But my mom always loved my dad. And I think he never got over her. So I texted her when I arrived at my destination– which was alongside the lake where my dad would drive his boat.

“You married Dad 50 years ago today. I miss him soooo much.”

I set up my table, met some of my fellow authors, and tried to shake off my nerves.

Photo by author Shannon Delaney, a family member of my dear friend Mitzi from Pocono Lehigh Romance Writers and Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group

I counted about 20 people who attended the event– not including anyone with the other vendors at the event. I sold three books: two hardcover copies of Larry Sceurman‘s Bookworm’s Magical Journey and one advance copy of Geraldine Donaher‘s young adult Mouth Shut Head Down, which doesn’t officially launch until January.

The distillery had a sign in the window. It read “Adult Book Fair Today.” I think what they meant was “Book Fair for Adults today” or because it was a distillery, “Book Fair today. Adults only!”

But it immediately made me think I should have brought more erotica. The only erotica title I brought was Juicy Bits. Most of the authors for Booze and Books 2 were romance authors, and it looked like the most popular offerings were romances-with-shirtless-men-on-the-cover. It looked like most vendors sold 2-4 books, though I later learned that some vendors sold none. (To be fair, tables cost $10, so no one had huge expectations of kicking off a bestselling book tour at this event.)

The event is between coal country and the Poconos, so I thought my spicy horror novels would do well. I also brought our romances, Trapped: What if Skunks Were Matchmakers? and Any Landing You Walk Away From… (the author of the latter, Dawn O’Harra, is from the Poconos). I made a Halloween section on the other side of my novels, with Hugo Yelagin‘s Lovecraftian Deadlights and Eva Parry‘s tarot journal. Any Landing served as a transiton into non-fiction, and I brought Motorhome Gypsies and Coach of the Building (as the author of Coach teaches public school in the area) and then Larry Sceurman‘s fiction to appeal to any men accompanying wives and his children’s book because many romance readers are moms. And Geraldine’s book? Not even sure why I tossed that in.

Two hours into the event, my mother returned my text. “Hadn’t even given it a thought.”

When I left the event, I was hungry and pining for pizza. The GPS took me a different way home, perhaps recognizing my emotional distress from the previous route. It took me home the route I had anticipated on the way up– it took me through Palmerton, Pa., one of my favorite places. I celebrated my 49th birthday in Palmerton. Read about that here.

As I was driving away from the venue, I thought to myself: That looks like I’m heading toward Palmerton. Maybe I can find that awesome little pizza shop in Palmerton. I looked at the GPS. It told me my next turn was onto Delaware Avenue, which, if I remembered correctly, was the main street in Palmerton. And the pizza shop was on it.

Sure enough, I entered Palmerton. Pulled up right in front of the pizza shop. Went in, ordered two slices dine in, grabbed a boxed iced tea, and paid the employee $8.64 (which is roughly the price of one Grilled Club Chick-Fil-A sandwich).

15 minutes later I was back in the car.

That little detour changed my mood. Perhaps a gentle reminder that we find our own destinies and don’t have to conform to outside expectations.

We went for a Real ID and ended up with doughuts

Angel Ackerman 3 Comments

Today, my friend Nancy and I embarked on getting her Real ID here in Pennsylvania.

We have prepared for this for weeks. We went online– at least twice– and checked the document requirements. We checked that the federal shut down wouldn’t impact state services. We reviewed the documents ourselves, provided extra ones where we could, and organized them.

Nancy has never had a Real ID, but she has had state-issued photo identification. It expires at the end of the year, and with the nature of life recently and the talk of needing certain forms of identification to enter federal buildings, Nancy thought a Real ID was smart. Nancy is blind, and should she ever have to turn up at the Social Security Office to straighten out any messes, she might need it.

With the rules in general on travel and proving one’s identity, it seems smart indeed.

I went through all the documents. We had an original birth certificate with raised seal, social security card, tax documents, marriage certificate with raised seal, utility bills for proof of address, and who knows what else we had in that envelope.

We could have gone to the local driver’s license center and had them verify our documents. If we passed their inspection, the next step would have been to apply online for the ID. Then, the state would mail a camera card for us to get the photo taken and the final product issued.

I talked Nan into going to the larger center in Whitehall because theoretically they could do everything all at once.

I was optimistic but also pragmatic.

We got there when it opened. There was three regular spaces and two handicapped spaces left open in the parking lot. I chastised Nan for not bringing her parking pass. The center had at least 10 counters open in a space that resembled a small airport terminal. The line extended out the door. We got inside within three minutes, chuckling at the guy behind us who had to answer the guy behind him about what documents he needed to renew his driver’s license.

And then that person loudly proclaimed, “I can’t stand here in line; I have to get to work.”

Then, why did you even show up if you don’t have the documents you need and you don’t have time. I literally cleared my whole day, just in case the wait was long. I had snacks, too.

We progress toward the end of the rug that lines the floor in front of the door. The man in front of us steps off the rug. A security card tersely tells him to get back on the rug.

The first stop is what might be reception desk where you are issued a number based on what you need to do. Nan states her purpose.

The gatekeeper, like a troll guarding a bridge, asked for her state-issued ID.

Boom.

He follows up with a request for her birth certificate.

Boom.

He then asks for social security card.

Boom.

Next, marriage license. Now, if we ace this, we only have proof of address left. I am nervous about the marriage license because all the married and especially divorced women I know have had problems with this step. Nan is nervous about address because she has moved since her state identification was issued.

The gatekeeper unfolds the paper. The one I studied so carefully because it had a raised seal.

“This is just a church certificate,” he said.

“What else would it be?” Nan asked.

As my heart fell, he said what I expected. “It needs to be the marriage license from the county courthouse. You should be able to walk in and pick it up.”

So we didn’t get to proof of address.

And I felt terrible because I knew they were picky, but I don’t know what the county-issued document looks like. I don’t believe they hand those out. I think the officiant files them and you have to request a copy in order to get one.

On the way home, Nan was apologetic and annoyed. I was upset with myself because I knew better.

But then we both got pissed.

Nan got pissed because this feels like another attempt to further impoverish people. If you have a disability or if you have a certain background that makes paper record-keeping difficult, or if you can’t drive or don’t have a car or reliable public transportation, how do you collect these documents and transport them to a formal government office like this? Especially when such places are typically crowded and require patience and waiting; and they are typically open at hours like 8 a.m. to 4:15 p.m. Monday through Thursday when normal people are also working.

I got pissed because look what document tripped us up–

The Marriage License.

Have you ever heard of a man being denied something because of a “discrepancy” with his name? (Actually, yes, I have. Men are much more prone to carry the name of a father or grandfather which can cause problems.)

In this case, Nan was denied a Real ID because we don’t have a county marriage license proving she married and changed her name.

But… Nancy has paid her taxes for 30 years with that name.

She has bank accounts in that name, and you can’t open a bank account without proving you are who you say you are.

Nancy receives her social security disability payments in the name of Nancy Scott.

And you know another thing that ALL THOSE OFFICIAL items have in common? The use her social security number as the factor that connects her to everything.

So what does her marital history have to do with anything? This does NOT have to be part of the process. At first I thought it made sense, because obviously you have to explain the name change. But if you have a track record of DECADES of use of the same name in association with your social security number, I don’t see its necessity.

We went back to her house and she did not have a county-issued document recording her marriage. And trust me, if someone had given Nan such a paper, she would have it.

We could have stopped by the courthouse but we opted to call first and went for a doughnut instead– trying the new shop Bill & Siobhan’s No BS Doughnut Shop.

On writing, living and working (with a disability)

Angel Ackerman 1 Comment

I pride myself on being able to write just about anything at any time with no fear of writers block.

But lately, I haven’t been keeping this blog up-to-date. I think it’s because I’m doing so much that I don’t have enough stillness to think, reflect and write. I still have the thoughts, but I don’t have the time to germinate themes and record them and so I lose the moment.

Last night, I was a guest speaker at the Behind Our Eyes writing group for writers with disabilities. Nan has been a part of that group probably for most of its 19+ year existence, but I am a relative newcomer. I joined because I read Nan’s email and work so closely with her as a writer that I already knew most of the members in the creepy troll way.

Nan pointed out to the group that I was a gifted cook and bargain hunter, and that she hopes I commit more time to my disability memoir because I have some insights that the world needs to hear. And maybe they are things I also need to remember.

I overdid it last week. The last few weeks have been insane. I haven’t been eating right, or sleeping well, or giving myself any breathing room. I saw my cardiologist last week, and I mentioned to her that I don’t know if my blood pressure medications are the most efficient way to stabilize my heart rate.

The backstory

So, in March 2023, I had two bad falls down stairs in close proximity– 2 weeks apart. Neither were traditional mechanical falls of the type I am used to, those from lack of proper muscle control due to cerebral palsy. The first occurred as I was hurriedly leaving work to go to the chiropractor. I dove down the cement stairs and ended up severely spraining my pinky. Most dumb injury ever, and my pinky is still bent.

I didn’t know it at the time, but my eating habits had flooded my system with salt when I misbehaved, and then when I suddenly returned to my normal diet and drank the massive amounts of water I had always consumed, well, I washed all the sodium from my body, causing low blood pressure and dizziness (orthostatic hypotension).

With cerebral palsy impacting my gait, and allergies/congestion also challenging my balance, a sudden drop in blood pressure may have caused the fall. (I suggest this because I did almost pass out in the moments after the incident.)

Almost two weeks later, I was carrying a cup of tea upstairs when I had a nothing fall triggered by my head and not my legs. My daughter watched it happen. I plummeted out and down and into an air conditioner that was on the floor. I split open my chin directly under my lip. I definitely needed stitches so we headed to the emergency room.

I told the doctor that I knew mechanical falls and these weren’t from my legs, and he gave me some options:

  1. He could stitch me up and send me home in a matter of minutes.
  2. He could order every test and I’d be there all night.

I asked if there was an option in the middle, and he suggested starting with some bloodwork. But they also noticed my blood pressure hadn’t come down so they put me on a heart monitor and very quickly noticed that I was in Afib with OVR.

So it looked like I would be there all night anyway.

They eventually labeled the whole incident as idiopathic and put me on a low-dose beta blocker to make sure I stayed in rhythm. I invested in an AppleWatch to try and get information about what my heart was doing.

Fast forward to present-day

I have had no incidents of Afib since that initial one. But each fall, my blood pressure has risen in the autumn. Is it allergies causing stress on my body? Is it the stress of the end of the year and all the obligations of adulthood like taxes and paying for fuel oil? Is it just the looming presence of Christmas? Or is it the change in the seasons and the shorter days? Or a figment of my imagination?

In the autumn, I struggle more with anxiety. My primary care physician has talked with me several times about the impact of stress and anxiety on heart health. I have been in and out of psychotherapy for 15 years showing symptoms of depression and generalized anxiety disorder.

So I asked my primary care doctor, my cardiologist, and my psychologist if I might need an anti-anxiety med instead of the combination of other meds for high blood pressure. Because typically my diastolic pressure is typically good, and high in response to stress, but it’s not uncommon for my systolic pressure to stay high even when my heart is at rest, sometimes elevated for days even with a now higher dose of the beta blocker.

I take a muscle relaxer for spasticity several times a day and some anti-anxiety meds can also treat this, allowing me to reduce the amount of medications I am taking. A standard low-dose beta blocker and muscle relaxer for maintenance and on days that I am anxious, an anti-anxiety med instead. So now I’m on the hunt for a psychiatrist to get an evaluation.

Which brings me back to last week

Last week was brutal. I was booked every day from 8 a.m. to at least 10 p.m. And Saturday I attended Collingswood Book Festival as an author with Pennwriters Area 6. I met with clients everyday, taught my college class, went to WDIY to talk about advertising my business (and hopefully make some new friends)…

And I still worked part-time. I don’t talk much about the job I have in a local fast-food restaurant, a job I took last January because after a year of relying on Parisian Phoenix Publishing for my income, the realities of first quarter in the business world were making me nervous. And since royalties pay out three months after sales, I know how much money is coming and when.

And 90% of the time, the evening fast food job suits me perfectly and feeds me. The general manager was an English teacher until this year and understands my business and my frequent time off requests.

But last week I had two long shifts back to back where I was assigned jobs that were physically challenging for me. And I haven’t been in that much pain and discomfort in a long time.

And so even though I still have more work than time, and business can be as stressful as it is rewarding, I will try to go easier on myself. I only have two fast food shifts this week, and they are both on the longer side… but my days aren’t packed nearly as tight.

A cane, a popcorn machine and a compost heap

Angel Ackerman Leave a comment

I realized yesterday, after working for at least four hours on a political profile for Armchair Lehigh Valley on the upcoming Easton (Pa.) City Council race, that I currently spend about ten hours a week on political journalism for that publication, about ten hours a week teaching college and another twenty hours working my evening fast food job.

That’s 40 hours a week, before we consider the 30-plus hours a week I devote to my book publishing business, Parisian Phoenix (parisianphoenix.com). I thought I had everything perfectly balanced– but toward the end of the week, my sleep was starting to suffer.

And last night I fell. Not once, but twice. And not at home. Or even on the street. But at my fast food job. Both of the falls were trips. Both were quickly forgotten.

But when I got home, and when I woke up this morning, my body was struggling. And when I caught my right foot “catching” on my left ankle and almost causing a fall on the way to the restroom, I went and got my cane out of the car.

(And because I often have a lot of 21-year-olds in my house– Eva, her romantic interest, and one of her friends from high school staying with us– they thought my snake head cane was badass. They also encouraged me to change my outfit to match it as I am currently in sweatpants.)

After finishing my lesson planning for my class at Northampton Community College this week, I started the new Superman movie as I am a Superman fan. Since the movie includes Krypto the Superdog as a significant character, I restarted the movie an hour in so I could watch it with Eva.

When Eva left for work, I cleaned the cupboards and collected all the open and stale food items that were more than a couple weeks old. I also admitted what items I would never eat and I took these out to the compost heap. A lot of crackers including a box of Triscuit thins I treated myself to and forgot about.

This is really hard for me. I have experienced food insecurity and have gone mildly hungry, so I have a tendency to not waste food to an excessive degree.

I used to garden when Eva was little, and our neighborhood has terrible clay soil so I keep a compost heap under my porch. And believe-it-or-not, the regular digging and turning of the heap provides a great deal of emotional relief for me. Resuming care of the compost heap has given me some renewed vibrancy. And a lot of mosquito bites.

And if you haven’t cared for your own soil, it’s amazing to see the soil change and grow richer.

In addition to the maintenance of the compost, I also cleaned my popcorn machine. I’m hoping maybe the 21-year-olds might want to have a movie night with popcorn sometime.

All those memories of pizza and popcorn from Target Café.

End of Summer Update

Angel Ackerman 1 Comment

More than a month has passed again. Since I last blogged, I have taught three classes at Northampton Community College in their creative writing program. Well, it’s one class and I’ve taught for three weeks. I am the instructor for their publishing class, “Paths to Publication for the Aspiring Author.”

My falls have been minor. A little too frequent, but they typically classify as trips and I have managed not to significantly hurt myself when I go down. Though I hate that they are happening about every other week.

I had two of my four annual doctor visits– gynecologist yesterday and primary care provider today. I even got my pneumonia vaccine, since the recommendations have changed from age 65 to age 50. Shingles will be next.

I have officially lost ten pounds during the last year. It’s not as much progress as I would like to see, but it was enough to please my doctor. He says my efforts in weight, nutrition, rest and exercise will have a huge impact on my life in ten or twenty years.

Though I am still a big fall risk.

I did finally get some medication issues straightened out between CVS and my insurance company. The insurance company kept refusing to pay for my pills until my neurologist changed the dosage of the individual pills from 5 to 10 mg. If I need five, I need to cut them in half– but at least they are paid for!

Ruminations on a fall

Angel Ackerman 1 Comment

It’s been a month this time– since my last entry and since my last fall. I wasn’t going to share this fall. I wanted to keep it to myself because it’s circumstances were mortifying enough. No need to share with the world.

But then a friend fell down the stairs. And I sent my regards, asked how she was feeling, and we had a conversation about the mental toll falls take.

I fall a lot.

Before my fall in July, I was thinking to myself, “It’s been about six months.” And I felt smug. And just now I went to my phone where my watch records hard falls and I manually enter the smaller one and I realized… for most of 2025, I have had a fall worthy of noting just about every month. And that “six months” I had in my mind– it was two months.

It felt like a lifetime.

Here’s the thing…

When something happens and a person falls, that person knows why it happened, brushes themselves off, and goes about their business. But when a scary fall happens… Well, maybe you just misjudged or your balance was off or your body didn’t do what you expected it to do… It’s not about injury. It’s about your body failing you.

It’s a special mind game when you can no longer trust your body.

Most people will experience this type of fall in their lifetime, and most of us will have more than one instance. Falls can often be the first sign that something is off.

It could be as simple as being tired, the kind that comes from not sleeping well or working too hard.

It could be blood pressure fluctuations or allergies impacting the sinuses.

It could be the failure of a certain muscle or neurological dysfunction.

And sometimes it could be a simple trip because your body couldn’t compensate as quickly as it needed to. (Or your eyesight failed and you didn’t see something you should have.)

These falls are terrifying. The mental anguish is more confusing and painful that the bruises or lacerations. The embarrassment, especially if you fall doing something simple, is so crushing.

My recent fall?

It barely left a mark on me. But, if I’m honest, it still reverberates through me even today, five days later.

Now, if you are reading this you probably know me or you’ve read some of my stuff before. I have a lot of eclectic interests so I’m not going to assume you’re here for or familiar with my disability content. But if you don’t know, I have diplegia spastic cerebral palsy, and I spend a good deal of my life as a fall risk.

I run a small publishing company putting out 10-12 books a year. I help freelance clients with their own book projects. I cover my county for a local political newsletter run by former staffers of our local daily newspaper. I write horror novels. And as of this fall, I am teaching a three-credit class at Northampton Community College.

But sometimes that’s not enough to pay the bills. So I have a part-time job in the evening.

And I fell at that job on Friday night.

In front of a LOT of people. But not one of my co-workers or supervisors saw, so that made me feel super vulnerable and invisible. On top of mortified.

And my daughter is livid, ranting about how I shouldn’t have been in a position alone where that could happen.

I’ve been under some stress, and my blood pressure has been all over the place with no logic. Allergies have been terrible. Some weeks I sleep decently, but last week I did not.

I walked about 3,000 steps in the 90 minutes before I fell, about 3.75 hours into a 4.5 hour shift. So I was certainly tired.

And even though I know and understand that I have falls, it still shakes me to the core when I have one. So, I can only imagine what it feels like when it’s not something that happens to you.

In other news, I may need to do a cat update soon. Our 14-year-old tripod cancer survivor is scheduled for euthasia Tuesday. This is the second cat I have lost in two months.

A visit to Boonton, N.J.

Angel Ackerman 1 Comment

Almost two months.

I sat down a few times to write a post and never finished.

In the last two months:

  • I celebrated my 50th birthday.
  • My personal cat of five years died suddenly.
  • My daughter turned 21 years old.
  • I spit out part of a tooth, one that I originally damaged during my big fall 15 years ago.

Even though we have other animals, and even other cats, in the house, the loss of Fog has troubled me. That’s been hard. It creates a special loneliness to have other pets around but none of them are truly mine. Now the bird would beg to differ, she would say that she is the ultimate companion and that I should have no other beasts before her. And perhaps that makes me her pet. For larger birds are even worse than cats for acting like they are the most superior of species.

Yesterday, my dear friend (and Parisian Phoenix art director) Gayle and I went to Boonton, N.J., to see if we could find the remnants of their portion of the Morris Canal.

We failed. And while I was there (specifically somewhere around point 10 on the map), I spent a few minutes studying the map to make our visit more successful, but the summer sun perhaps made it more difficult to interpret the map. I may have to return and try again.

So, Why Boonton?

I wanted to visit Boonton for several reasons. I had been discussing and researching the Morris Canal as part of my work with Maryann Ignatz, the fourth-generation proprietor of Steve’s Café/ Historic Morris House on South Main Street in Phillipsburg, N.J. Her family’s business abutted the Morris Canal and canal workers would stop for food and drink along the way.

Reason 1. I have a fascination with canals and the Industrial Revolution in the United States. The coal regions in Pennsylvania were so instrumental in feeding the cities from Philadelphia to New York. Think of all the petroleum reliance we have today– and in this era as electricity was just coming onto the scene the indsutrial sector used coal to produce steam to provide energy for travel and manufacturing.

Reason 2. I was born in Boonton and some of my family used to live there.

How the visit went

Parking is super easy and plentiful with a $1 fee to park all day. If you use ParkMobile, the fee is $1.30 and gets you exactly 24 hours.

I fell before we got fully out of the parking lot.

(But it was my first fall since April! And it didn’t register on my watch which means it wasn’t a hard fall. The impact was relatively gentle.)

Loved the Van Gogh paint job

The downtown had at least four coffee shops, some art galleries, several gyms/pilates/yooga studios, a record store, an alternative clothing shop, a bookstore (which is only open Friday, Saturday and Sunday), pizza places, convenience stores, a crystal store, a Mexican restaurant in what appears to be a classic diner, and other businesses and restaurants.

We meandered along the Rockaway River and found a couple of the spots listed on the map, but somehow completely missed that we should have explored Plane Street.

After exploring parks and looking for historical markers for about 1.5 miles, we visited Catfight Coffee– chosen for its name of course. It offered Goth-inspired decor and music from the dark end of the 1990s. ‘

The final thing we noticed was The Dog Days of Summer project. Various dog sculptures lined the downtown.

Mother’s Day morning & a pretty perfect Saturday

Angel Ackerman 2 Comments

This morning I found something truly beautiful on my desk.

Eva had picked roses from our rose bush and left them with a sweet card. And she used a novelty chicken watering can as a vase.

This week, and the weekend, has been a mix of refreshing and infuriating. The car battery died on Friday which threw that day off-kilter. And Saturday was very busy– Phillipsburg comic con with the Echo City duo, where I also picked up a copy of Hustler that features Ralph Greco’s article on female porn stars that host successful podcasts.

On the way home, Eva and I stopped at Pie + Tart to grab some refreshment and said hello to Parisian Phoenix author Hugo Yelagin and grabbed this delicious lamb & chickpea stew. I didn’t mean to eat the whole quart and burn my mouth, but I did. No regrets.

Then, I attended an event launching Poetry Rocks! at Northampton Community College— where artist-in-residence Anne Sipos debuted her installation along the college’s poetry walk. You can learn more about that here: Poetry walk.

Then, I had a three-hour shift at my part-time job. We were very busy and my body was not very able to keep up, so that was not a fun three hours, but it also was not the worst. Unexpectedly, my supervisors gave me an early birthday card and a $10 gift certificate that I could apply to just about any entity. So that was nice. And four of my supervisors even took the time to write personalized messages on the card.

Some days go off the rails (or weird reasons why I didn’t get my work done)

Angel Ackerman 1 Comment

Whether you’re a small business owner like me or a homemaker or someone who works a corporate 9 to 5 or whatever, it often feels impossible to make a dent in life’s responsibilities.

I think as I get older, and as one friend keeps reminding me I have a significant birthday coming up in May, I realize it doesn’t matter. Stuff eventually gets done or it doesn’t and the important/necessary stuff rises to the top.

Or maybe that’s just because I’m good at prioritizing and fairly awesome at time management.

The last week or so has been exhausting and/or exciting depending on your point of view. I’ve scheduled a storytelling/written word workshop with Larry Sceurman at Hellertown Library at the end of May. I’m strategizing a memoir workshop this summer in the suburbs of Philadelphia. I helped with and sold books at a storytelling event at Bethlehem’s Ice House (hosted by Patchwork Storytelling Guild). I sold books and talked with poets at the third annual Poet Palooza 3 at Book & Puppet Company in downtown Easton.

I received word that Lehigh Valley Community Foundation approved my application for a Pennsylvania Creative Entrepreneurship grant, which I will use for national and local advertising. I performed my duties as president at Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group and heard a fantastic presentation by Jill Peters.

And book orders have picked up. Still not to the level as last year, but enough to give me hope. I am finishing my local candidate profiles for Armchair Lehigh Valley.

Yesterday I went to the eye doctor and spent more than $500 for exam and glasses (at which point I was told, before being given the price, that they knocked 30% off everything because my insurance was crap). I tried on every pair of Parisian Phoenix pink glasses.

That got me thinking– as everything often does– that with glasses normally being updated every two years I pay about $30/month for eyesight.

And walking home from the eye doctor, I fell. So that sucked. But I’m fine, so yeah!

I received a call from my life insurance company today that I scheduled last week to convert my term life insurance into something more permanent. The bad news is, it’s probably going to cost triple my current policy. But that’s an conversation for me and another agent next week. Sigh. The insurance person kept me on the phone for 45 minutes and we may be continuing the conversation this weekend as she has an idea for a book.

In other news, my blind friend Nan received a print poetry book from a small press recently. We had ordered a braille one, and so I tracked down their email and reached out to see if there had been a mistake. Turns out they made an error so Nan will be getting her book. It felt good to resolve that and get her the book. And I wanted the small press to know there is a real need for these braille books.

Also today I applied for and received a business American Express. I’ve had a personal AmEx for quite some time but now the business is established enough that it can have and should have its own card. No more Ingram bills on my personal card. Yay! (And yes, I do have business banking, but the business account doesn’t always have the assets for large print orders.)

Finally, let me offer you this photo of Eva’s dog wearing Gayle’s sticker from Jury Duty.