A HARD AND HAPPY CHRISTMAS EVE

Photo: "Winter 2013"
By Skitch

NOW:

Journal Entry

Tonight I saw my grand kids. I was in a store, just placing items on the counter to be rang up, and then I saw that the mom and two kids in front of me was my step-daughter and my grand children. I waited to catch one of the kiddos eyes. Knowing that my step-daughter would not meet my gaze, would not smile at me, or say hello, I focused on the little ones. When my grand daughter looked at me I smiled and said, "Merry Christmas. I love you." She looked away quickly, and she and her mom and brother, finished with their shopping now, left in a hurry. I thought perhaps she had not heard me. I called after them, "Merry Christmas. I love you!" They rushed away. I must admit it knocked my heart for a loop. I've been through it before, people that used to love me, that I still love, ignoring me. But somehow I thought these innocent and bright eyed little guys would always love me and respond to me with joy, whether their mother liked it or not. My heart was broken, but I tried to hold back the tears. The clerk looked at me oddly, no doubt wondering why I was calling, "I love you," at complete strangers in a check out line. 

I made my purchases and got outside before the first tear fell. I cried through the three parking lots I had to cross to get back to my car. At first I wondered, "Could they really have forgotten me?" No! Surely not! "What did she have to tell them to get them to ignore me?" I was suddenly so miserable that I just wanted to go home and cancel Christmas. Worse, I wanted to go home, and crawl into bed, and not sleep, and not think, and not eat, and not drink, and not breathe. But I knew, because I've been down this road before, that not breathing is not an option. I cannot ever put those that do love me through that. I cannot ever give the signal that giving up is acceptable. 

I almost called my husband, but I didn't want to bring my sorrow into his world. He is out of town, working on a car for our oldest son, giving everything he has to give (time, money, energy) to one of our children. I did not think I should share this pain with him and distract him when our son needed him. I started to call my sister, who is going through such similar pain with her own family, and then I imagined her happily spending time with our parents. I did not want to rain on that parade. My middle son was at work in a store nearby. I thought, "Maybe I'll just go talk to him." Liam is an adult now and very understanding about pain. He always says the right thing to put life into perspective. But he was working. I thought of my oldest son who also gives sage advice and manages to make me see the world at a new and better perspective. But Cozy was working on the car with my husband. No way to contact one without alarming the other, and they were busy. My best friend Mary was at work. I took a deep, painful sigh. Suddenly I felt the need to hash this out for myself. So, I went through, in my mind, what my husband might say, what my sister would likely tell me if I were to call her, what Liam, and Co, and Mary might advise. I wiped the tears from my face, and I realized that what my step-daughter may have told them did not matter, if they had forgotten me even that did not matter. What mattered was that I do not forget them, and that I survive this pain, and all pain, with every bit of strength and dignity I can muster. I knew then that I could look at this two ways: 

"My Christmas is ruined because it's painfully clear now that even my sweet, and innocent, and joyful grand kids have been turned against me."

OR

"The best gift I got for Christmas 2013 was a peek at the two kiddos dearest to my heart. I got to see my grand kids that I haven't seen but once in the last two years. What an unexpected Christmas blessing!"

I think I'll go with door number two, and I'll be grateful for those two precious children that I will love with every beat of my fierce heart, and be grateful for all those that are subject to my stubborn adoration, and for the ones that see my love as something to be sought instead of shunned (what blessings, what miracles they are!) and be grateful for those I could have called but didn't. Just think, their good advice has been there for me so many times that I can just about guess what they would say. Time after time, gift after gift, their words and encouragement have been there for me.

Merry Christmas to you and yours. I hope you are as blessed as I am.

WHY I WRITE.

Photo: "Skitch Writing"
Taken By Spousal Unit
Edited By Skitch

NOW:



     Sometimes you just have to have a good cry. Two nights ago I had one. I started thinking about how a writer is a lot like a prophet: “Truly I tell you,” he continued, “no prophet is accepted in his hometown." Luke 4:24
     
     I've always wanted others to hunger for my words, and I've long felt that they would. But, quite frankly, to those who know me best, my writing is of little interest. I used to keep my journals locked up. Now that's a bit of a joke. No one bothers to read my words, not even those secret ones I write to myself. For a while, thinking of that upset me greatly. As I confessed, I had a good cry over it. I wondered why anyone would ever read my work when those nearest and dearest to me could not muster much interest. If those who LOVED me did not hunger for my work how would anyone ever? And this is not just a person or two. This is across the board. My parents, spouse, children, sisters, best friend, cousins, etc show little interest in my writing. The only exception being my sister. She not only read my novel, she helped me edit it. But she's shown no interest in anything since, and that was many years ago. A few cousins and friends also read it but they've largely done the same. And I was hurt about that, for a time. Then I realized that when people knew me less they found me more interesting. I've published several poems and some short stories. These are the exact same poems I had to practically corner people and force into their ears, the same short stories that I received mostly criticism for when I read them to the those closest to me. A writer is not accepted in his hometown. 

     I think it has something to do with the idea that writers are arrogant. The general consensus seems to be that if you dare to write something down on paper and expect others to listen to it or read it and (God forbid) like it then you are, as my people call it, "putting on airs" or "getting above your raising". It is the same idea that made being a writer such a frightening prospect in the first place, the same thing that inspired me to hold that secret dream deep inside me like a hatching robin's egg. And yet, the fear of it kept it alive as well. I went after the adventure of writing, in part, because it's important to face your fears. Nothing scared me more than admitting to a dream that big; nothing was any more terrifying than bleeding my introverted mind out on that blank piece of paper for anyone and everyone to read. I often don't know what I'm doing or what to expect in this world, but that time I saw the good cry coming. I was right to be afraid. It is a painful, lonely world, the writers world.

     People read my writing. I know they do; I can see the stats. It's not my friends and my family usually but some stoic Russians bend over these words and try to understand the thoughts and feelings of a writer that is not from their hometown. And one day, I hope that my sons, or their children, or my great grandchildren, or one great-great-great grandchild brought to me by blood and/or a lovely adoption will take an interest in these words, in the mental meanderings of someone that loved them before they were born. And so I write. I write for the Far Reader, the Far Russian, The Far Child, and for my own peace of mind . I write to boldly face who I am, to know me. I write because I must face my fears. I write because if I don't I'm miserable. 


     Did I share these fears and this horrible writers arrogance with you because I like to whine about how my friends and family aren't interested in my work? No. Was it because I like to be afraid and I enjoy "putting on airs"? No, I share this with you because I'm a writer, because I'm miserable when I deny my fingers the pen or the keyboard. I share these words because somewhere, someday, someone will read them and say, "Yes, I must write. No matter how foolish they think I am, no matter how much they criticize my work, no matter how many good crys it has brought me, I must write!" I share this so that person will know: Those around you aren't going to give you the support you crave; you must give it to yourself. If you are a writer, if you have chosen this lonely world, or it has chosen you then write for yourself, for your far children, for the stoic Russians, to face your fears, to keep from being miserable. Find a reason -- or ten -- and write!

I WENT TO A FUNERAL LAST NIGHT: Unloved III (Dream Journal)

Photo: Skitch at a Film Funeral

NOW:

Dream Journal


    Last night, I went to a funeral. I was sitting alone and feeling the loss of a loved one, but for the sake of the gone-one, and for the sake of the living, and for the sake of goodness I was trying to keep my thoughts on the living and the suffering, specifically on my niece, Tanya. She was sitting in an isle of pews that ran in the opposite direction from the ones where I was sitting. I glanced her way now and then, wanting to offer comfort and wanting to avoid offense; it was a fine line I tried to walk. I knew the chances were good that she didn't want my comfort, but I wanted to be there if/when/the second she ever did.

    Once I looked and she had her son Riley sitting with her. Riley has never had the time or the chance to bond with me. He was very small the last time I was allowed to interact with him. He always treated me like a visiting relative he didn't know, which was exactly what I was at that time. No one bothered to tell him I was also his biggest fan, that I loved him to the bottom of my deep heart, and that I thought his skin felt better than anyone's in the whole wide world. No one besides me, that is, and I think he didn't believe me. Now he shows fear when he sees me, if he recognizes me. I'm sure it's fear of disappointing his parents by interacting with the "enemy", but fear it certainly is. I did see him in school once and say hello. He responded and there was no trace of fear in his face, but he didn't know who I was. He didn't even recognize me. To be unknown by those you love... it is an odd thing. Once he knew who I was the fear came into his eyes and he turned away without a word. This time he knew me and the fear was evident. I tried to smile at him but he would not meet my eyes.

    I concentrated on the service a while, and when I looked back Max was sitting with Tanya where Riley had been. Ri had moved to sit elsewhere, probably with his dad. Max is another of my great-nephews but he is Tanya's nephew, not her son. Max and Riley are nearly the same age, but Max has had four years to get to know me better, four years that Riley and I were denied. More importantly, he's had encouragement in getting to know me. Many of the people he already knows and trusts, his mom, his dad, his "Nan" have said to him in their actions, "Here is Dee Dee. She loves you. You can believe her. You can love her back. You are Family." Max loves me. He knows that I adore him to the bottom of my deep heart. He knows that I am his biggest fan. I call him "Hero" because he is just that. My Hero. He knows that I think it's marvelous that he did nothing more than scowl until he was about three years old and then he rather suddenly turned into one of the most cheerful, loving, selfless people on the planet -- just as his mother had done before him. Max has been very sick lately. He has been in and out of hospitals, in a lot of pain, unable to eat properly. His digestion is just not working as it should. I've been concerned for him. Max met my eyes, smiled back at me, and in his smile I saw an apology for all the pain, and apology for how much Tanya and Riley were breaking my heart. I was struck by the difference in my relationship with these two great nephews, dealt a blow with the realization of all the time I had lost with Riley. When last I held Ri both he and Max were unsure of me. Now Max knows and loves me. I smiled as bravely as I could at him, then bowed my head and tried to hide my tears for my lost time and memories with Ri.

    When I dared to look back, Tanya deliberately caught my eye. She pointed to the woman sitting beside her and mouthed with force and defiance, "This is my lover!" My first thought, I confess, was, "If she were inclined to, Tanya could find prettier women than that lady." I was immediately ashamed of that idea. If Tanya liked or loved her, that was all that mattered. And many years on this Earth have taught me that pretty on the outside is not as important as pretty on the inside. I mouthed back, "Good. I am happy for you." And I smiled. At that same moment, my mind was asking me, "Why is she telling you this now? At a funeral? In a crowded church? Why does she seem so defensive? Is she trying to shock you? Hurt you?" As my mind asked me these questions I watched Tanya's face register surprise and then deep uncertainty. She dropped her gaze. I did not know if the woman were her lover, probably yes, but I did know that she had chosen here and now to tell me this because she had expected it to shock and maybe hurt me. I then grasped on an optimistic thought, "Is this why she keeps such distance between us? Was she also or even mostly fearing rejection all these years? If so, would she come around now that she sees you love her regardless?"  I wanted to shout across the church. "You can love anyone you want and I will support you. I will always love you!" But I too dropped my head.

    After the sermon everyone got into cars to drive to the burial site. It was cold and everyone was dressed in coats and boggins. We were outside on a hill and trees lined the road and were peppered about in front of the church. Tanya and her friends pulled a car over beside mine, and suddenly another vehicle came sliding sideways in front of us. It passed right by the noses of our cars, picked up speed as it went down hill, hit the tree line hard, broke through several small tress, and rolled over the hill. The road was a solid sheet of ice. Tanya said, "Dee Dee, jump and roll." I looked at her face and saw that she had surprised herself. She was torn between helping me and regreting the warning she'd already given me. My car, which was in park, began to slide sideways. I jumped and rolled and it went down the hill alone, driver's side door open, and crashed near the other one. I knew Tanya's car would do the same. "Jump and roll!" I told her and all the occupants of her car, I could see Max and Ri and several other women and children, but no one moved. They seemed paralyzed with fear. I knew I could not get them out of the car in time! It started sliding as I realized that. I was between it and the bottom of the hill. I turned, ran just a bit, fell on my bottom, and slid down the hill deliberately and as fast as I could. I narrowly missed plowing into a huge tree, and immediately fought to get myself behind it. There was a dip in the ground behind it, deep. It would protect me even if the tree went over. Tanya's car hit the tree before I was completely into the hollow, and I watched as the roots shook but held. I fought my way quickly back up and around to the car and saw the occupants all seemed shook up but largely unhurt. The danger now came from another car crashing into thiers. I said, "Tanya, come here!" But she huddled in a corner away from me. Another car was sliding down the hill. One of the women in Tanya's car came toward me and allowed me to help her out and to the ground which was about three feet lower than the ground where the car's tires stood.  I unloaded a few more of the women and girls and helped them hide in the hollow behind the tree. I kept calling for Tanya, Max, and Riley but they would not move. They all huddled together in the fartherest corner of the front seat. The car that was sliding down the hill narrowly missed us and landed further down, but I could see other cars sliding our way. They would not all miss us. I kept pulling women and children from the car, but Tanya and the boys would not move. My plan was to get the other people out of the car and then go into it myself to get my family. The women in the hollow were allowing the children to fall in the hole in a frightened heap. "Help them down!" I yelled. "Help them to you as I get them from the car! Then keep everyone back as far as possible." I was wanting to both keep the passage to safety open and get the survivors further back in the hole where they would be safest. Two of the women came over and started helping others down and directing them to the back of the hole. They took the little ones I was handing down. More people were in that car than I could have ever imagined, and still I could not make a way to Tanya, Riley, and Max. They needed me and I could not yet get to them.

    I awoke and started crying.

    This morning I added to my morning ritual of prayer and rejoicing. Between "The Lord's Prayer" and "This is the day the Lord hath made, let us rejoice and be exceedingly glad in it." I cried and I asked of God, "Father I cannot get them out of that car, but You can. I cannot steer the other dangers from them, but You can. Please wrap Tanya in your loving hands, let her know that You love her always and forever, no matter what. And then please let her know I love her too, always and forever, no matter what.

    "Please wrap Riley in Your loving hands, let him know that You love him and that everything will be alright soon. Please take the spirit of fear from that child. And please let him know I love him too.

    "Please wrap my Hero in Your loving hands, remind him that You love him. Please heal his broken little body, and take away his pain. And please tell him I love him too.

    "And Father God, please delay the funerals as much as You can see fit to. I do not know who was in that casket. I do not want to know for a long long time. I thank You, and praise You, and I love  You, for what You have done for us and for what You will do..."

THE HUMAN DUTIES

Photo: Liam in the womb

   

THEN & NOW:


    When I was a child I thought I was the richest poor person in the world. I knew we didn't have money, "We are too poor for that," was often the reason I could not have something. But I thought I was rich in family and love. I decided I had the best family that had existed since Joseph had married his knocked up Mary. I had the strongest, kindest, funniest dad, the most loving and gentle mother, two sisters that were so sweet and attentive they were like extensions of my parents, and an adopted uncle that lived with us and dotted on "the girls," and especially "the baby". I thought I was wrapped in a cocoon of love and protection, and in some ways I was. In those days, I did not long remember any hard times, insults, fears, or pains, though they certainly came. Such is the way of a child almost always. Such is the way of adults sometimes. A mother, for example, remembers the joys of giving birth so much clearer than the pains.

    Still, a time came when I left childhood and the near constant seclusion of my home and began to foray into the lives of others. As a teen, I looked around with less optimism and more angst. I wondered why my parents hadn't worked jobs that provided me with three square meals, and health insurance, and maybe even an Easy Bake Oven. I wondered why they had not encouraged me more in my studies, inspired feminine pride in my heart, given me more opportunities, encouraged or at least allowed me to participate in the extra curricular activities that interested me. I was rocked by the flaws I suddenly saw in their parenting, by the flaws I saw in my once perfect life and family, and I was angry. I thought I was angry with my parents, and especially my mother, but I know now that my anger is almost always self-directed. Possibly yours is too. I believed I was angry at my parents for not being more perfect, when in truth I would have rolled with those punches of imperfections if I'd seen them coming, one after another, from day one. What I was truly angry about was my inability to see the imperfections as a child. I was angry because I had "let them fool me" into believing everything was fine for so so long.

    I directed my anger especially at my mother. In part because she so often seemed the driving force behind my father's refusal to take a paying job (she required his presence at home) and that seemed to play a large role in our poverty. Also in part because she was rougher on me than dad was, and rougher on Dad and Sandi than they deserved. Factor in that I had learned from my father to smile at strength and to frown at weakness, and that my mother's strength was subtle, easy for a child to miss, and you may understand the full picture of my displeasure with her.

    Pop was not perfect. I watched him beat a horse nearly to death. He once told me I wanted to go see my friend Ran because I wanted him to "push me up a tree." I was indignantly thinking, "I've never had to have help climbing a tree in my life!" If my mother had not been scandalized and chastised him thoroughly I might not have known what he was implying. (Go Mom for putting him in his place that time!) Dad also spanked me when I was six months old. I caught breath in pain and did not begin breathing again until he had ran from one end of the house to the other shaking me, begging me to breathe, swearing that he'd never spank me again if I would only breathe. He kept his word. He never spanked me again. Once, though, he did not "spank me" but he hit me (not so hard, but still -- he hit me) in the head with a crutch. And yet, all of these hard times slid to the back of my young brain. They paled in the light of the attention and affection he had given me and continued to give me and in light of my assurance of him. I never wondered if he loved me, and that easily bought him forgiveness and respect, even through my most angst ridden teenage years.

    Mother though, even as a very young child I was distanced from her because of her illness. In those days, Daddy made my breakfast, Lila brushed my hair, Sandi read me a story, mother gave me a bath and told me good girls did not touch down there except for washing with a soapy washrag, which we must do even if the soap burns us so much we cry. It did not matter if my skin was tender, if I'd fallen getting into the thin metal tub and hurt myself, if I had a rash down there because of dampness, if the soap was strong and hot. That was the "dirtiest part" of me and it must, at all costs be soaped up, she said. And that was my childhood. When I was seven she told me, with venom, and for the first of several times "I despise you!" I can also remember many instances of her telling me she was going to die very soon. Whatever I was looking forward to in life, my mother reminded me she would not be there for it occurred. "I'll probably be dead," She would say, "Before Christmas/Easter/spring/next year/school starts/etc./etc./etc." I lived in a constant fear of burying her when many kids my age did not know what death really was. Over and over, I believed her. It is amazing how many times a child can hear something like that and believe it might be true "this time". She also began telling me, "When I die I want 'Dee Dee killed me' put on my tombstone." I thought her dying wish would be granted, and I would be the only LIVING person with their name accusingly branded on a tombstone. How would it feel, I wondered, to try to live knowing my name was not only on a tombstone in a graveyard, but branded there as a killer, a murderer of my own mother? When she caught Ran and me wading in the creek when we had specifically been told we could not. She whipped me with a switch until blood was running down both my legs. Ran was beaten with a thick tobacco stick as his mother dragged him across the field. I ran inside to my father who was on crutches, expecting him to rescue me from Mother. Instead he attempted to guide me into a corner to stand for punishment but his guidance whacked me a bit too hard. In short, he hit me in the head with his crutch. Then, when I was eight she went to bed and did not get up until I was grown and had moved far away. (See blog "Death Bed Vigil") For many years, I thought she got up at last because she no longer had to look at me.

    I resented her for all the doctor visits, all the hot penicillin shots, all the times I was told I could not play outside because it was too cold and I would get sick. Mother had been a sickly child. I was a sickly child. Her first daughter (the only other girl that was blond haired and blue eyed, like me) had died at eleven months old. She was now paranoid and I was malnourished and prone to ailments. It was a bad combination. I grew up anemic and prone to catching every bug coming and going. I had strep throat and tonsillitis several times a year and bladder infections until I was afraid to go pee even when I was healthy. I would refuse liquids as much as I could and hold my water like older women tended to do, telling themselves, "I'm going to finish this chore before I go," and practically bursting before they got to the bathroom. I knew what the bladder infections were like and I did not want to go pee and find out I had one. It could start burning so randomly and then it'd be off to the doctor for penicillin shots and several days of pain and fever would follow anyway, shots or no shots. No one told me that holding my water and refusing to drink when I was thirsty would make the infections more likely. They did not even know I was doing that. Mother seemed to like the attention she got when she was sick, the attention she got when I was sick, and she was paranoid about losing me. I began to feel like we went to the doctor every time I sneezed, and I had allergies too, so I sneezed a lot! In hindsight, I believe she may have suffered from Munchhausen and I by proxy.

    As a young child, I simply tried to please my mother, to soothe her fears, to fix everything in her world. After all, she was the best mother in the world. Right? When I was twelve, I began to question her rules, and logic, or lack thereof. Most of this came from religious studies. My parents were strict Christians -- Baptists, which over all was a good thing for me. If things had continued the way they were before my parents found the lost Jesus I am sure I would have had a rougher life. My father had a temper like no other (remember the beaten horse?) and tamed it only for God. My parents made many good changes in our family due to their new relationships with God. They both stopped smoking and Dad stopped drinking. They worked on adopting the "turn the other cheek" theory and they began singing these heartfelt old spiritual songs that fed my soul something I hadn't even known it was hungry for. But some of their changes and ideas were not-so-good, and much of it made no sense to me once I was old enough to look at the world with full eyes. They read their Bibles, but they also listened to the preachers and did most of what they were encouraged to do, which was often not in the Bible. Once I hit 12 years old and began to read The Good Book for myself, I began also to question many of the rules in my home. (So, it's all God's fault that I became so rebellious to my parents. Not only did He design my teenage nature but He reportedly designed the book that caused me to ask a lot of questions.) "Why can't we even walk into a store that sells alcohol if Jesus turned the water into wine?" "Why can't I wear pants, braid or cut my hair, paint my nails, and wear make up if what really matters is what is inside my heart?" "Why did God give Miriam and Aaron leprosy for rejecting Moses' Ethiopian wife if white people should never marry black people?"

    As my questions mounted so did my resentment for Mother. I saw her as a hypocrite because it became increasingly clear that she did not follow the book she said she lived by. I found it deplorable that she would say harsh things about people, things she would not (usually) have said to their face. I tried to preach forgiveness and understanding and she branded me "Peacemaker". She would spit the word at me and somehow manage to make it sound like an insult. I resented her because she was tough on Dad and Sandi, and many of my friends. Lila was spared most of the drama by then. Dad and Mom had married Li off when she was fifteen years old. I am not sure who got the worst of that situation, Lila trapped in a bad marriage or me trapped with a mother I could not understand, or despite my preaching on the subject, truly forgive. As my questions and rebellion mounted my mother's inability to deal with it raised as well. Several times when I was teen, always times when my father was not at home, my mother would lose her temper with my insistent questions that she called "back talk" and she would begin to slap me. I had a temper much like Dads, and only my love and respect for my father kept me from hitting her back. I knew he would not hear about her slapping me, but I was certain that he would hear about it if I were to hit her back, even once, even lightly, or if I were simply to draw back my hand. He would be told and he would be more than disappointed. For reasons I've never understood, I counted the blows she gave me. For reasons I do understand, I would lose the ability to count them after a while. This happened several times but my record was 17. I once kept count when she slapped me up to the 17th blow, but I have no idea how many times she hit me after that. I lost the ability to count the blows. My brain would be muddled. After my discipline for "sass" the atmosphere in the home would be diffused. Mother, who was often in an angry twist over something, often directed at Dad, would become much more mellow. Weeks would pass before she would be wound up and begin to complain angrily again. She would complain, I would ask questions that were often impertinent (though I did try to reason with her, try to gently help her see the points I was making.) We would scream and yell, she would slap me until I lost count, we would barely speak to each other the rest of the day, and the day after we would pretend nothing had happened. We would start all over again. In the back of my mind I thought I was doing the world, my family, and especially my dad a favor by sucking up my mother's anger. It became a sick game we played that neither of us fully understood and that we both lost.

    When I was almost 21 and living a few hundred miles from my parents, I had my own child. Determined to be a better parent than either of mine I read every child rearing book that could follow, and I buried myself in Parents and American Baby magazines. I listened to all that advise people give you and I dissected it to see which was worth keeping. I kept the good my parents and other parents had taught me, tried to avoid anything bad, and used every drop of common sense the Good Lord had afforded me. When I moved back to my home town, it soon became apparent that my mother was offended by anything I did as a parent that was different than what she had done when I was younger. I tried to explain to her that, in my opinion, she did a better job parenting me than her parents had done with her, I would do my best to do a better job with my kids, and it was their duty, I believed, to do an even better job than I had done. It was the human condition, the duty of the race. She did not agree. To her good parenting was good parenting and bad parenting was bad parenting and she'd been a good parent, and thus I needed to be just like her! Looking back, I truly wonder if my mother remembered or yet remembers much of my childhood. The doctors had her on some strong medications and it's possible that she doesn't even remember things the way they happened. Certainly, the few things I have "thrown up in her face" have largely been denied.

    I was in my late 30s before it finally hit me. Until then I had been too young and too self absorbed to look at the big picture in my dealings with my mom. I had started out too young to know that people sometimes say things they do not mean, and by 30 something I still had not realized that if you are very broken it's hard for you to live a "normal" life and be a "normal" mother. If you have horrible examples for parenting you always feel like you're struggling to make it up as you go along and often you are! You make it up wrongly almost as often as you do correctly, even with very diligent efforts. My mother grew up in a home with two alcoholic parents. My grandfather was a danger to his own children in what I consider to be the most intimate, and therefore probably the most painful, way that an adult can be a danger to a child. My mother's oldest sister was married off to her husband at the ripe old age of 13. Her husband was one of my grandfather's drinking buddies, and he won Aunt Mae's hand in marriage in a card game, but he lost the right to sleep with her on their wedding night. My grandfather won that round and 13 year old Aunt Mae spent her wedding night giving her father sexual pleasures instead of her new, unwelcome, and much older husband. My grandfather would sell sexual pleasures from his wife as well. My mother said her mom would never have sold her body sober, but Grandfather would get her entirely drunk and then collect money from his friends and watch while they used his wife in the living room floor. My grandmother was sometimes oblivious to what was going on. She might be so drunk she was experiencing black outs or so drunk she was unconscious. But that little girl that was my mother saw and remembered all of this and more. Once she "ran away" from this only to find that the shelter she thought she had found at a neighbor's home resulted in the same thing she was running from. The neighbor that was supposed to harboring my mother molested her, and she went home the next morning, believing, I am sure, that the whole world was unsafe and wicked.

    My mother married my dad in great part for me and my sisters. She said she met him and he was so good to her that she prayed, "God, if you are ever going to let me love a man, let me love this one." She thought he would be kind to her and to her children, that he would never be the sort of father that her father was. She believed with all her soul that my dad would be a good dad. She was fifteen years old and thinking of me. I'm not sure how much of it was good fortune and how much was good judgement, but largely she was right. He was not perfect, but over all I think my pop has been a wonderful father, and in my late 30s I came to realize that I have my mother to thank for that nearly as much as my dad. My mother hurt my feelings several times, she kept me in a nervous shape a lot, she physically abused me a few times, she didn't care much if I brought home As or Fs, and she jerked me out of band, and gymnastics, and chess club so fast it made my head spin. But no one ever, for one second of one day, treated me the way she was treated every day of her childhood. She saw to it that I was spared that. She saw to it that I had a life that was light years ahead of her own, so much safer, so much more enjoyable, so much MORE that it humbles me. My parents were far from perfect, but they both did much better than their own parents had done. I tried to do an even better job with my sons, and I challenge them to do a better job than I did when my grandchildren come along. I think that's our duty as a human being.

    Once I realized how far my mother had traveled from that broken childhood, I understood that so many of the things that I'd held against her were unfair. She spent a lot of time in bed, taking nerve pills, trying to survive the echos of her past, but she needed that time to heal. She left me, but she left me in good hands, hands that she found for me. I now know that I owe my mother much more than I understood, and every resentful thought I've had toward her is a regret resting in my heart. I spent years looking at my mother's faults and remembering her insults. I'd forgotten about the gentle hands that soothed my fevers, the woman that never believed an adult over me without proof, the woman that hid her tears when I broke the last bowl that had belonged to my grandmother, and said, "It was just a thing. YOU are a person. Accidents happen." And I had never looked at the little girl that tried so hard to pick out a good daddy for me. I'd spent years pretending I was Princess Positivity and a tower of strength, but I didn't look at the positive side of my own mother, and I didn't have the strength to forgive. But like my mother before me, I had to survive and repair. I had to learn and grow. Finding the strength to forgive her finally led to the strength to forgive myself. Forgiveness brought me a new lease on life and the strength to be patient with her a little longer, to help my mother continue on along the path to a better future. So, perhaps that too, is a human duty... Forgiveness.

    Today my mother is an awesome grandmother and a fabulous great grandmother. She has worked very hard for many years to get as healthy as she can be. She is still not perfect, but no one is. These days, she laughs much more than she cries, and she has figured out a lot of things that did not always know. She is all "girl power" and "bless your heart". She cooks, and bakes, and brags on artwork, and ties shoe laces, and makes homemade and heartfelt gifts. She has a wonderful sense of humor and keeps us smiling. She encourages her grandchildren and great grandchildren in their interests and tries to talk all of them into going to college. I did not receive the first apology from her until I was in my late 30s. It showed up unexpectedly one day not long after I'd begun to understand what a miracle she was and how hard she had worked for her future and her family. It wasn't even about anything in the past or anything crucial, but you could have, as the old saying goes, pushed me over with a broom straw. I had never heard her apologize to anyone, let alone to me! Since then she has apologized to me several times and for assorted things, including being addicted to pills and sleeping through so much of my childhood. These days there is nothing to forgive. I forgave her years ago, when I managed, in my thoughts, to put myself in her shoes. Now I only love her. I love her so much! She has become my friend in so many ways, and we are closer than we have ever been, as close as any other mother and daughter I know. Momma has surprisingly become my highest role model. She is my hero, my hope for humanity, my proof that people can and do change. Not simply because she grew and recovered and changed, but because watching her do so and forcing myself to confront the little girl that was once my mother has brought about a change in me that is nearly as drastic as the change Mom has gone through. I am not the resentful person I was before. I look at others now when they are mean and I realize they are broken. I wonder what road they've traveled, and I wish them well in their recoveries. I hope they are as strong as my mom and that they find someone to help them along their journey that is as kind as my dad. I was right, when I was little: I had the strongest, kindest, funniest dad, the most loving and gentle mother, but as a child I missed their flaws, as a teen and younger adult I practically saw nothing but. Now, after years of reflection, and tears, and yes therapy, I can see my parents as the whole and incredible people they are. As a child I missed their flaws, but I also missed the kindness that my dad showered my mother in, the kindness she needed to recover. I missed my mother's cunning in choosing him for her family, and I missed the subtle strength that she had. Yes, verbally she was a wimp! But at the heart of it my mother survived something that many people would have let kill them or kill their spirit. She survived, and made an escape, and recovered. How few people could go through what she went through and only be as broken as she was. How few could work their way through all that and ask their child to forgive them! Well, she did! I certainly underestimated her. I thank God for my Momma, and that she lived long enough for me to realize what a wonder she is and always has been! I thank God for the duty of improving the human race as the generations flow along and for the duty of Forgiveness. 


  

WE WENT SHOPPING LAST NIGHT: Unloved II (Dream Journal)

Artwork: "Miss My Shopper"
By Skitch

NOW: 

Dream Journal


Last Night, we went shopping again, you and I. It was summer in the south, and we were friends and family. I wore a white sun dress and you had on jeans and a billowy top. We walked through a mall that we'd been through many times. We were celebrating and mourning. We had received the news that you had been accepted to a great art school. I asked you several times if it was in Miami, but I never received a reply. I think you did not hear me. Wherever it was, you and your fellow were moving there soon. I was happy to see you successful and excited. I was sad to know that days like these would soon be gone. I imagined they would pepper my life now and then when we went to see you two and when you came to see us. I watched your face when I asked you questions. The thoughtful turn of your eyes and twist of your lips when you pondered, so familiar to a mother's heart. I marveled at the things you touched or picked up, or showed me that you would buy "if"... If you had more money. If it came in blue. If you could ever find shoes to match. I celebrated when you chose something I loved, and I celebrated when you chose something that did not suit me at all, thrilled with both our similarities and our differences. I resolved to put back money for the bike basket and the purse... little surprises, going away presents. I thought of the towels I bought you just as you went off that first year to college. What a pleasure and a promise, what an honor to assist in such a marvelous life. And what fun to go shopping with you though I don't often like shopping at all. Lots of women were having their hair done, I mentioned that maybe next time we came we would do the same. "Hmmm?" You said when I asked if the college was in Miami. You showed me a baggy shirt you liked, and I told you it looked like something your aunt would love, though I did not mention that she only likes true colors and sure fits. It was styled in a manner she likes and made of a material she wears frequently, so it was true enough. We started and ended with outside booths and a summer wind pulling at our hair the way time pulled at our lives, and I awoke to the reality that you no longer speak to me.

THE GREATEST THING I NEVER DID... TWICE!

Skitch and Sons

THEN & NOW:

    The greatest thing I ever did I didn't really do. It more honestly just happened to me, and it happened to me twice. I named the first one Cory and the second one Will.

    In 1987, I celebrated my twentieth birthday out in the hot Louisiana sun, on a sandbar near a blue lake. It was a double birthday party for me and a little guy named Troy who happened to be the son of some friends of ours. I watched Troy's mom, my friend Sharlee, with her two little boys, and I thought about how blessed she was. I had been married for two years and my young husband and I fancied ourselves ready for parenting from the get go. We had taken no precautions to avoid such a state, and yet here I was, two years later, coveting my friends sons. It occurred to me that day that I'd never actually prayed for a child. I believed in the power of prayer. I closed my eyes, listening to the laughter, feeling the wind, and still seeing that unforgiving sun through my eyelids. I prayed. I told God that I was ready to have a child, but that in this, as in all things, His will be done.

    That night, long after my husband had gone to sleep, I remained awake, staring into the darkness with my hand on my stomach. I knew. I just knew I was pregnant and my child would be a son.

    I had three days of morning sickness. On the third day I forced myself to get up, to eat, to pretend that nothing was wrong with me. I told myself repeatedly that I could choose to feel better. I focused on moving, and doing and eating, and the next day I woke up feeling fine. The positive thinking that my sister Lila and cousin Wanda had inadvertently taught me years ago worked. I cannot say this would work for everyone or anyone, but I can promise that it worked for me! The power of my mind was an awesome and beautiful thing.

    Now that the sickness was gone, I loved being pregnant. I felt I was born to be a vessel for the child inside me. As long as I held him there, I never felt alone or lonely. I talked to the babe. I read to him. I was in no hurry for him to come outside where I would have to worry about him falling and skinning a knee, or getting his heart broken, or coming down with some terrible illness. I felt I could protect him best right there, beneath my heart.

    The doctors told me the baby was due the second of February; then they said the ninth. So, I never knew if I was two or three weeks overdue. Co arrived at 10 am on a late February day. He was seven pounds and eleven ounces. I had a delivery that was quick but almost as rough as my pregnancy had been smooth. Still, I could remember none of the pain or fear when I looked into those eyes! They were bright, aware, and the clearest blue I had ever seen. His hair was startlingly red. Though I had told a few people that was going to have my own "Opie Taylor" from the Andy Griffith Show, I had never truly imagined that my baby would be born with red hair. I knew I had wished the red hair right onto his head. They laid him in my arms and I was enraptured. I thought, "My very own dragon."

    When my mother-in-law called from out of state. I told her, "He has red hair! Where the heck did that come from? I'm surprised your son hasn't accused me of something horrible already!"

    "Don't you dare take any of that," She said, "My daddy had the reddest hair I've ever seen and that baby comes by that hair honestly!"

    I was unable to rest for hours after he was born. I should have been sleeping, but I could not seem to tear my gaze from him. I could not stand to close my eyes. I looked deeply into his, knowing I would die for him, and I had a spiritual epiphany. I thought, "This is my child and I am God's child. God loves me as much as I love my son! Maybe God is capable of loving me even more than I love my son!" This thought was quickly followed by the realization that God sent his son to die for me, and hot tears rolled down my face.

    Cory grew and so did my love for him. I, who had originally wanted eight kids, was now afraid to hazard even one more. Surely I could never love another child the way I did this one? Surely I would have to pretend that I loved my second child as much as I loved my Dragon?

    As planned as Co had been, Will was just that much of a surprise. I suspected I was pregnant. I went to the doctor and found out that my suspicions were correct. I was three weeks pregnant. I cried so hard I was almost sick. I was financially unprepared, mentally unprepared, and physically unprepared. But what brought me to tears was the fear that I would never love this child as much as I did my first. I determined that no one would ever know my secret shame, that I would pretend to love my second child just as much as I did Cory. But for nine months, I carried that fear almost as surely as I carried Will. I loved this new baby within me, but I was concerned that I would never love him or her as much as I did Cory.

    This pregnancy was also smooth. I had a slight weak stomach, but no morning sickness, and I immediately loved the little guy. I loved the feel of him growing inside me. I smiled when he hiccuped, and I rubbed his little elbows and knees when they pushed against my skin. Being pregnant was still a joy. He was safe and I was helping with a miracle! I began to think it would be easier to pretend than I had thought, but I did not yet stop being convinced that I would never love this one quite as much.

    The ultrasounds could not get a clear picture of my baby, but I thought Will was a girl. At one time I had prayed that I would never have a daughter. I thought life was entirely too hard on females, and I wanted my children to have an easier go of Earth than I had experienced. I loved the idea of having two sons, but I had so many clues about the sex of this child. Strangers would walk up to me on the street and tell me I was having a girl. My family all thought I was carrying a girl. My pregnancy seemed different in so many ways that I thought I must be carrying a girl. The doctor said the heartbeat sounded like a girl. How wrong we all were!

    On the night of my due date, I went into labor. Will has always been fairly prompt. I had another quick but rough delivery. He was born at 10 am that morning, one day after his due date. Eight pounds and fourteen ounces of pure boy. The nurse rubbed his head and told me excitedly, "His hair is silver!" And it was, as silver as a wise old wizard's could ever be, and his skin was wrinkled to match. She laid him in my arms, and I looked into his beautiful, crystal blue eyes and fell instantly and irrevocably in love. My heart exploded with love and my mind exploded with ideas. I thought. "He is perfect! I love him to the depths and breadths of my soul! I will not have to pretend! I will not have to lie! My heart is boundless! Each child I have will only increase the size of my heart! Ah, my Little Wizard, what a spell you have weaved for your momma!" I finally understood what people meant when they said, "I love you as much, but differently." I finally understood how God could truly love all His children! Cory was unique and worthy of my love. Will was unique and worthy of my love. I knew that I had a heart that was a remarkable and magical thing. I know that we all do. I cried long and hard, but this time with delight and relief. What a joy. What a miracle. My second son! And oh how very much I loved and love him!

    I fell in love with two sons, and with the idea of having the big family I used to dream of. My father had gotten sick while I was in the labor and delivery room, and my mother thought it was because he had been so concerned for me. As I held my new son, named after my father, Pop told me, "No more babies for us, Little Girl!" I smiled and told him I loved him, but I had it in my mind, for the first time ever, to deliberately disobey him. I wanted eight kids! I had dreamed of eight kids more than once in my life: triplet girls, two other girls, and three boys. My husband had thrown eight cents between my legs the day after I had the first of those dreams, a nickle and three pennies. I'd been such a lonely child. I wanted a big family. I wanted those eight kids. 

    A few months later, however, reality set in. My husband was not working. We were surviving off charity from relatives and the government. I could not be one of those people that brought child after child into the world to struggle as hard as we were having to struggle. I could not be so irresponsible that I had child after child I could not take care of on my own. I cried when I made the decision. I cried when I signed the papers. I cried when I went under the knife. But I had surgery to keep me from having anymore wonderful babies. 

    Now my sons are adults. I've loved them more every day of their lives, equally, but differently. Some days, I deeply miss the sweet little boys they once were, but if I had them back again I would miss those gentle men that I have now. I would not trade who they are for anyone, not even for who they were. No mother has ever been more pleased and proud of her sons. No mother has ever been more blessed than I. Motherhood has shaped me in so many wonderful ways. It changed my life. It saved my life. Before my sons were born, I had never worn a seat belt. I ate mostly bread and potatoes. I hated orange juice and peanut butter. I was anemic and lethargic. Being pregnant flipped a switch in my head. I somehow knew that they would not do what I said; they would do what I did. And I wanted healthy babes. So, while I was pregnant, I began to force myself to eat more protein, to drink orange juice, to wear my seat belt. By the time Cory showed up I'd forced a lot of healthy food down my throat and I had developed the habit of wearing a seat belt. By the time Will came along I found that I actually enjoyed peanut butter, and orange juice, and a dozen other things that I'd never bothered to acquire a taste for before I became a mother.

    My Dragon and my Wizard are on their own now. Both my sons have good deep hearts and intelligent minds. They both have a love of laughter and spread joy wherever they go. No mother could be more proud. Cory has a fierey temper that he struggles to keep dominion over, but with it come passions that serve him well in whatever he undertakes. Will, my Liam, is slow to anger. He seems ever shrouded by magic and a smoldering common sense that is growing into wisdom. They are blessed, my blessings. These days, they don't often need me. Sometimes I suffer with that dreaded "empty nest syndrome." I have built so much of my myself and my life around my sons that I often feel adrift, lost. But I know that, just like always, they need me to blaze the trail. I am obligated to show them how to "do" 40 and how to be happy at 50. They need me to show them, if I can, how to grow old gracefully, and someday, how to die. I also realize that gifts from God are timeless. I was blessed to be their mother. My time with them was a gift that no one can ever take away from me. No one can ever rob me of the fact that I am their mother and they are my sons. So, it is good that the greatest thing I never did - twice, was not to my own credit. My deeds and accomplishments are temporal. Whatever I do shall eventually pass away. What God does shall never cease to be.

AUTUMNAL MEMORIES (journal entry)

Photo: "Spiral Leaves"
By Skitch

    


THEN & NOW:



     Autumn is one of my favorite seasons. I must admit that it is one of four favorite seasons, for they are all special in their own way, but Autumn must be my favorite among favorites, as it is the season that is always gone too soon. Winter and summer bring beautiful gifts of extremes, but I tire of these seasons before they are over. And spring leaves me beguiled... yet anxious for summer. 

    But Autumn-- I never tire of and it's magic, and it is always gone before I am finished with it. I love the bright azure skies, so blue they make you catch your breath. I like breathing in the cool crisp air. And, every fall, I lovingly pull all my old sweaters out of their summer hibernation spots. Yep, I'm a sweater chick. I hover over pots of soup, and chili, and chicken dumplings. My eyes drink in the color on the trees, and when all the bright adornments have danced to the ground I like the “naked” branches just as well, showing off their form, baring their souls for our attentions. Nude trees display character so much better than the ones that are clothed in green or even blaze orange and yellow. Their forms are lovely. I love the sound of the crickets and da dats at night late in summer and early in fall. “Forty days till frost,” Dad would speak into the darkness on our porch as we comfortably listened to their chorus all around us, and the soothing sounds of the rocker, and the porch swing. I like the harvest moon, bright and full, hovering over us all, and the night sky full of stars. I love the sound of footsteps on dry leaves. I love rainy fall days almost more than the sunny ones. I cradle cups of coffee or tea. I read good books on long autumn evenings. I bake bread, and cakes, and cookies. I like the nippy weather, and waiting for the first frost of the season, and watching for the first flurries. I remember having a cup of coffee with Dad and Sandi and staring out the picture window at the frost covered grass when I was about thirteen years old. I remember arriving home from school to find steamed up windows and the smell of homemade soup greeting my weary mind.

    When I was a kid autumn was all of this and more, it soon came to mean the beginning of school, which was usually a fine thing. I had a few teachers that tried to beat the love of learning from me, but they had no luck with that. I loved getting to see my friends again, buying new pencils and paper, and usually an outfit or two and a pair of shoes. I loved opening my “reader” and scanning the index to see how many of the stories inside looked like ones I would have to read now. 

    As an older kid fall also meant football. I remember the first game I went to. I put on a jersey with green sleeves and Lila and I walked from my house behind the Pay Lo Supermarket to the ball game at the high school. Like so many other good things, Li brought football into my world, and I loved it. I loved the excitement, the nip in the air, and the smell of hot dogs and popcorn. We screamed for our team until we could hardly talk.

    When I was about six there was a certain magical fall when Daddy, Earl, and Wanda cut down Dad's crop of sugar cane and put it into a large vat with a horse or mule walking around and around it, grinding up the cane. They did 'this' and did 'that' and-- viola! They soon had molasses. This all seemed so miraculous to me. I remember ducking under the pole that led the animal in his circular trip, playing with Wendy and Wade, and dipping homemade biscuits into the sweet molasses. What an autumnal treat!

    It was eight years old when a conversation with my mother led to her discovery that I had never played in a pile of fallen leaves. She was aghast! A child that had not played in fall leaves? She would have none of it! She drug herself from her sick bed (she slept and rested much of the time.) She marched us both out into the woods by our home, and showed me how to rake up a pile of leaves. She then told me to jump into them. This seemed like such a waste of her Spartan energy that I was reluctant to do as she asked, but with her insistence I jumped. I sailed through the air as only a child can and I landed in a cushion of gold and crimson. I was instantly surrounded by a thousand leaf fairies, dancing wildly in the air all around me. What a wonder! What fun! That day has always stood out in my mind as a day that my mother proved she wanted me to experience all the good wonders in life, even if that meant that she had to drag herself out of illness and gather up the wonder for me herself!

    Childhood autumns meant canning, and pickling, and Dad's cinnamonly sweet apple butter. I knew that one day in the fall I would come home from school to find Daddy in the hot kitchen with  a huge pan of red apple butter bubbling on the stove. He had a long stir stick that allowed him to stand a few feet back from the tub, to avoid most of the hot splatters that were inevitable. The table would be cluttered with knives, and peelers, and cinnamon candies. The trash would be full of apple cores and peals and Momma's homemade biscuits would be growing a golden brown in the oven. Even I, the admitted chocolate freak, found myself anxious for one of Mam's hot biscuits and some of Pap's fresh, warm apple butter!

    The autumn I turned ten I was so sick -- once again. My temperature was up, I had a headache, a sore throat. I had been sick so much of late that I was very sick of being sick. It was terrible being confined to bed again. The county fair was in town, but that meant little to me. I had never been to one. I'd heard all about them, but I dared not hope to go this time either. It was just interesting that it was there, just down the road 'a piece' with people laughing and playing. It was something cool to daydream about as I tossed and turned in the bed. But then suddenly I was saved from my torpor! Two angels burst into the room, pulled me from the bed, insisted that I dress and accompany them-- to the fair! My sister Lila and cousin Wanda had talked mother into allowing me to go. That night I rode one wild ride after another. Wanda's driving was nearly as exciting as the rides! She drove like driving was a pleasure, something fun, not a chore or a necessity. At the fair, I listened to the screams, and the carnival criers and the music in the fair. In the car I listened to Lila's and Wanda's hillbilly yells out the car window. I returned home a changed girl.        

    Miraculously, when we arrived back home my fever was gone! I had discovered an intrinsic truth: that attitude affects your health. I'd been given a reason to rise above the sickness and I had risen. That night I learned a lot about the power of positive thinking and how to give myself a reason to overcome. That was a truly valuable lesson that has served me well ever since, but, even more importantly, I learned that there are angels among us. Right there in my home town, in my own family, were two of the grandest angels ever! How grateful I was and am to my sister and my cousin. They sure made a sick girl feel like a million bucks that night and helped me learn something that would serve me well the rest of my days. 

    I remember snuggling under the covers with Tanya and Ramona on a cool fall night, listening to the crickets outside my window and my sister Sandi reading, reading, reading. She read books written by Louisa May Alcott, Grace Livingston Hill, Andre Norton. She read Tom Swift and fairy tale books by the dozens. If she loses her voice early I will know it is all my fault! How grateful I am for those words! What a wonderful hobby and such grand memories she gave me! Tanya and Ramona and I would listen, we'd play with my kittens. If I was wearing a gown instead of my footed pajamas, we would make “lightening” (static sparks) with our nightgowns, after Sandi had turned out the light. We'd fan the covers and wiggle. We'd whisper and we'd giggle. And all the while the autumn night grew long and cool around us.

    All Hallows Eve is such a wonderful part of fall. In fifth grade I had the world's best teacher. His name was Mr. Dotson and he believed that learning should be fun. He went above and beyond the required curriculum, and introduced subjects to me that I'd never studied before, subjects of great interest. He taught Art , Vocabulary, Current Events, Creative Writing, and Photography. I was in school-heaven. That year our grade was in a Halloween play and I got to be a witch! (I loved Samantha from Bewitched and Sabrina the Teenage Witch and Wendy the Good Witch from the comic books, so this was thrilling.) My D and our wonderful music teacher/play director, helped me with a costume and I wore it for the school Halloween costume contest. I was chosen as a finalist and I spent a joyful day feeling ahead of the game and getting to know a guy named Shane who was hidden deep inside a robot costume. What a wonderful friend he turned out to be! 

    I went trick or treating twice during my childhood. Once when I was about two or three, Momma dressed me in a bunny suit with pink ears and a poofy little tail. I remember hopping down the street between her and Daddy, holding their hands, thinking of candy and magic. I remember that night with such fondness. But my parents were uncomfortable with the whole idea of Halloween. “Is it 'Devil's Night?'” “Would someone put a razor blade in their little girl's candy apple?” So, I did not go again until I was twelve. Lila talked Momma into allowing me to go because it was the last year I was allowed to trick or treat. Our town said only 12 and under should go door to door getting candy. I dressed as a gypsy this time and walked down the streets of our small town with Li and her children. I only knocked on the doors of two or three houses before a scowling little ol' lady answered the door. She took one look at my chest and told me I was too old to trick or treat and that she should call the cops on me! Then she grudgingly tossed candy into my bag.  I didn't go to any more doors, and I was concerned about eating her candy. I just helped Li watch the kids for the rest of the evening. I watched them pretty good too, because I figured we had found a real life witch that night! That experience helped me figure out that Halloween is fun even if you don't knock on the doors. From then on I just helped with Li's kids and they were always generous with their chocolate. I didn't dress up for a long time because I didn't want to have the cops called on me, and I didn't trick or treat anymore until I was an adult and lived in an area that allowed even the adults to trick or treat. In that town, they don't care if you have boobs and are “too old” to trick or treat. 

    One Halloween Theresa K. Kinder, Momma's niece, was living with us. She was accustomed to celebrating the holiday and seemed confused by our lack of enthusiasm. So she dug up some old clothes and took me outside to make a “dummy”. I'd never made one before, but I had a lot of fun stuffing his head and shirt. We giggled, and teased, and named him “George”. George proposed to Theresa K. before the evening was over but-- she rejected him. I think he wasn't quite lively enough for her.

    I remember carving a jack-o-lantern once with Lila, at “the white house I believe”. That would make me two or three years old. I didn't engage in this activity again until I had children of my own. We have such fun making new faces on our jack-o-lanterns! I especially love small white pumpkins. I make centerpieces for my table. 

    We sometimes get to go to the corn maze in autumn. Once my sons and I were lost in the corn maze so long that the owners had to send someone out into it to rescue us at closing time. We couldn't find our way out of a paper bag but we sure had fun. We laughed and laughed. I would love to take Daddy this year and get him lost in the corn maze. I think he would laugh a lot too.
    
    This year I lit fires in the fire pit for Halloween and for Guy Fawkes Day. "Remember, remember, the fifth of November!" There is a deep abiding magic in an autumnal fire. 

    Yes, Autumn is my favorite time of year, a time full of magic and wonder. And like the last fall, and the one before it, it's slipping away too quickly. Hold onto it while you can. Visit a corn maze, start a fire in your fire pit, drink some cider, carve a pumpkin, eat a caramel apple. Squeeze all the fun you can out of this autumn and then we're off and running to WINTER! SNOW! CHRISTMAS! I'll see you there! Right now, there is a good book and a hot cup of tea calling my name!

CONFESSION #1: I LOVE MY BOOBS!

Photo: "Embarrassment"
By Skitch

THEN & NOW:



    The bane of my childhood was being female. I spent most of my first decade of life avoiding the idea that I was going to grow up into something more like my mother than my father. I could plainly see that my dad's life was much more interesting than my mothers, and I truly wanted an interesting life! Plus, I thought the world of my pop, and I wanted to have as many things in common with him as I possibly could. And, the more I was like him the more Momma would love me, I deduced, because she adored him. It would have been a win, win, win situation,I decided, if I'd been born a boy... but I had not.
   
    Even as a very young child, I knew I was a girl, honestly I did, but certain things about being female still managed to sneak up on me and surprise me. My mother shocked and repulsed me when I was about four years old and she saw me pretending I was Tarzan (not wimpy Jane.) Dad and I often watched Tarzan and Daniel Boone on television, and I liked to pretend I was both those leading men, but especially Tarzan. He was so wild and so free! And he hung out with the coolest animals! That day, I was banging on my chest with my little fists as furiously as I could, and she admonished me to stop before I hurt myself or made my boobs grow in crooked. I felt like someone had dumped ice water on me. I had to grow boobs?! Somehow I'd always thought that might be optional, or that I was going to live in an endless state of childhood. Now I knew that not only did I had to grow those things but that they might grow in lop sided! The only thing worse than having boobs would be having one big boob and one little one. I'd walk sideways for the rest of my life. And just like that, playing Tarzan was sullied for life. If I had been born son I would not have to deal with that. Life was so unfair!

    When I was seven years old my first niece, my near-sister, and future best friend was born in one fragile and perfect little bundle. She was cute enough, but I confessed to my family that I sure wish she had been a boy because I would much rather be an uncle than an aunt! The family got a nice laugh out of the idea before they explained that I would have still been an aunt even if my sister had brought home a boy baby. So, I was stuck being an aunt and could never be an uncle. Wow! You just couldn't win in this girly world! Oh, how I wanted to be a boy!

    I was nine years old when someone gave me another reminder about the upcoming boob tragedy, and this time I broke down. I went out into the woods all alone, found a rock to pray against, like I'd seen in the paintings of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, and I knelt against that rock and prayed with all my heart, "God, please, please let this cup pass from me!" I prayed and I cried, but I was not as noble and good as Jesus. I could not end my prayer with "Nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will." This was too important to me! I wasn't convinced that being crucified was worse than growing boobs and being a lop sided ol' girl. Why couldn't I have been born a boy?! My family would be happier. I would be happier. Life would be better. Life would be fair. Life would make more sense. But I was a rotten ol' girl, and I knew that, barring divine intervention, sooner or later I would truly have to face it!

    "Sooner" came when I began to develop breasts a year later. I'd always been super modest, so it wasn't like I suddenly had to put clothes on. That's what happened to my favorite cousin, Ramona. She had grown up naked most of the time when she was at home and suddenly she was growing boobs and they made her start wearing clothing. She was distraught and appalled. Punished! But I didn't need clothing to be punished by my boobs. They hurt, and they looked ridiculous, and people noticed, and - worst of all - talked about them. I wore my largest shirts, pulling them out as loosely as I could in the front, but it was like putting a sheet over a hippo that was following you around. I wasn't hiding much. It felt like I was growing two walnuts inside my skin and playing Tarzan was now a bad idea not because I didn't want crooked boobs, but because just bumping into things very lightly, like my own, hurt a lot, pounding on my new proof of girlness would have been very painful.

    I was suddenly even more modest than I had been. I had spent my life not noticing when my mother or sisters came in the room where I was bathing, but suddenly I did not want a single soul in the room where I was naked. I felt certain that I would burst into tears if they even glanced at my chest. It hurt my mother's feelings that I inexplicably kicked her out of my bathing ritual, but I lacked the vocabulary and the emotional understanding to explain myself. I only knew that I didn't want anyone looking at my chest as long as I lived, with or without my shirt on! And yet, the crazy thing was, people looked at my chest more than ever. Boys seemed to have forgotten that I had eyes. Suddenly, they all talked to my chest. As much as I hated boobs they seemed to love them! So much so, that it made me re-think my desire to be a male. Would I really be so obsessive and so ridiculously wrapped up in those annoying little bumps if I were a boy? Surely not! I did not know it then but I didn't really want to be a guy. I was not the least bit attracted to females. I sometimes recognized that they were beautiful in the same sexless way that a sunset or a horse is beautiful. After I grew more accustomed to being female I would see a beautiful woman and wish that I looked more like her. But I've never seen one and been fascinated with her boobs. I guess what I really wanted to be back then was a gay man, but I didn't even know gay men existed, so I couldn't explain that desire to myself, let alone to anyone else. 

     I read the book, "Are You There God, It's me Margaret." I liked the book a lot, but I wondered what the heck was wrong with that chick! Who WANTS to get their nasty, painful period?! And then I got mine. I sulked around all weekend like I had The Black Plague instead of menses. My mother suggested that I go with Dad as he headed out on some chore that pulled him up the mountain and across our strip job. He said that was a fine idea, so I bundled up and went along, happily getting the point that I could still traipse along behind my daddy even if I was officially a nasty old girl now. As we walked, I made up a song and sang it lightly to myself. I called it, "The World Owes me a Weekend." Daddy caught some of the lyrics and asked me why the world owed me a weekend. I suddenly realized I had practically invited someone to ask me about something I did not want to talk about. I said, "Oh it doesn't. It's just a song I made up." I was very relieved when he did not press with more questions. As we walked along in silence, I realized the world was never giving that weekend back to me. In fact, it would take more and more carefree and bloodless days away from me as time wore on. I don't know if any eleven year old had ever been more depressed over being female. I thought about it long and hard that evening and, in the end, I decided if my mother and sisters could survive it, then I could too!

    Over the years, I grew accustomed to my period and learned how to do most everything during it that I did when I was period free. I also grew more comfortable with the worthless lumps on my chest and the fascination that men had with them. I learned to say, "Hey, I'm up here," when I needed to get someone's attention and to ignore the dazed look on their faces if it didn't really matter. The boobs stopped being constantly painful and started hurting much less and much less often. After they grew in, they still seemed in my way a lot, but they only hurt during my period. I played with the power they brought me and decided maybe there was one small compensation for being saddled with them. It was almost entertaining how alluring they seemed to be to most guys. But it still wasn't enough to make it feel like I'd gotten anything other than the raw end of a deal. I remained convinced: Boys had it made compared to girls. 

     I got married and I was glad my husband thought I was pretty, lumps and all. I still did not personally like those worthless things... And then... I had a baby. My son drew everything he needed from those boobs, and finally I knew why they were there! I knew why that cup had not passed from me. God really did know best! I would not give up motherhood for anything, not even for the treasure of being a male. Fatherhood looked sublime from where I was sitting, but motherhood topped even that! And breastfeeding only made motherhood better! I had friends that were bottle feeding their babies and they talked about the store being out of the brand of formula their baby was used to, and the stomach aches it caused to switch brands. They talked about colic and gas. They mentioned some mothers in an area where a natural disaster had hit, mothers that could not get any formula for their babies. They talked of stocking up on that precious milk and lining it up beside their bottled water and canned food, just in case. As they wrung their hands and knitted their brows, I realized that, as long as I could find water and food to put in my own stomach, my son would eat the best milk he could possibly have. Sure, baby clothes are nice and diapers are very convenient, but in a worse case situation, I could snuggle my son under my own clothes up against my breast, and he would have food and warmth in one package. He would be just fine! Absolutely everything he needed my boobs could supply. I was not prepared for the joy of breast feeding, for the peace of mind it gave me, for the fact that I felt the same way when my son pulled the nourishment he needed from me as I did when I was praying. 

     I nursed and weaned that baby, then had another, and the boobs kept on giving. They nurtured my second son in the same way. As my sons grew they would fall asleep on the soft lumps and their faces would be lax and peaceful. They would listen to my heartbeat and grow still, and sleep in my arms, against those soft, warm boobs. My sons found my arms, and my heartbeat, and my beasts to be a sanctuary from anything that frightened or hurt them. And I grew to love the boobs that fed them, comforted them, softened their world while they slept. I finally realized that it is not always about me, not even with my own body. I might not have needed them or seen their purpose, but some people in the future, very important people indeed, needed them, and those girly boobs had a very wonderful purpose in the world.

    And that's why, after years of hating them, I can confess: I love my boobs!

IN THE GLOAMING (poem)

Photo: "Gloaming"
By Skitch

NOW:

This is a poem I wrote that was recently published in a small local compilation:

In The Gloaming

The most beautiful time of day is in the gloaming

When the day's hours are done

And the sun falls to grace

Painting the heavens with glory

And the world holds it's breath

Waiting for the stars to come alive

And all is peace and love

In the gloaming

The most beautiful time of year is in the gloaming

When the summer's days are done

And the leaves fall to grace

Adorning the land with brilliance

And the Earth holds it's breath

Waiting for winter to come alive

And all is peace and love

In the gloaming

The most beautiful time of life must be in the gloaming

When your days are done

And your body falls to grace

Bathing the world in the radiance of your love

And the multi-verse holds it's breath

Waiting for you to come alive

And all is peace and love

In the gloaming

Written:

May 26, 2006