"I'VE ALWAYS DEPENDED ON THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS." (Journal Entry)

Beautiful, Blanchey Mary
Photo by Skitch

NOW:

  

I've Always Depended on the Kindness of Strangers


I have this fabulous friend named Mary. She's my best gal friend. (The spousal unit gets the title of best guy friend.) She's such a good friend that I (and my parents and sisters) have adopted her forever! Mary is my chosen sister, my sister from another mister, as the kids used to say. And she's cooperated with the unofficial adoption. She's all for it. She told me recently that she was stolen away from us when she was a baby. That's her story and she's sticking to it. It's a great story!


She and I were born the same year. Twins! We were born in 1967, The Summer of Love. She in August and me in May. After being the "Baby" all my life, I'm okay with being the oldest for a change. We sometimes joke that we were twins born late in June or early in July and separated at birth. Mary was stolen away to Mississippi. She was raised to be what my people call a "flatlander", and I'm a mountain girl, a hillbilly. Other than being Southern American, the same age, and female you might expect us to be pretty different, but you'd be wrong. We are sometimes amazed at how much we have in common. And our differences are just the sort that mix things up and make conversations interesting.


Mary and I met while working in a retirement community. I saw in her a kindred soul. Too many of our co-workers fussed at the seniors or treated them as though they had, or should have, no dignity, and I hated it. Mary treated the seniors like people, like adults with sometimes different needs. She didn't treat them like dreaded responsibilities or like little children that needed to be bullied. She allowed them their dose of humanity, their measure of pride. And she made them laugh, and dance, and sing. And wow, can she sing! She's got a set of pipes that make the angels a bit envious. I tell her those pipes are her super power.


It would have been hard not to hope for friendship with this wild woman, and impossible to ignore her spirit. So, I didn't. I told her we should be friends and  she went along with the crazy idea. We eventually agreed that even our sons should be friends. Unbeknownst to us the two boys were forming their own alliance as we spoke, and they too are best friends forever.


Mary is like sunshine with brown eyes. She brings laughter and love with her everywhere she goes. She's intelligent, creative, funny, beautiful, and most importantly, she's honorable. She's the type of person that won't betray you. Your husband and your wallet are safe alone in a room with her. Your secrets might go in her ears but they will not cross her lips. By now, you may be wondering if I'm lying. No one is that great, right? Wrong. She's pretty awesome, and I'm very blessed to know her, to be her adopted sister and her best gal friend. But I do agree that no one is perfect and if you want I'll tell you her secret weakness. (It's not Kryptonite.) You're never going to meet her in person, so the secret is safe with you... Right?

So the secret weakness is this: Mary doesn't quite know she's awesome. She doesn't love herself, at least not enough. She's un-good to herself in many little and not-so-little ways. For years after we met she didn't even wear her seat belt. Which honestly kind of freaked me out! She eats stuff that isn't very good for her, and she doesn't eat much of the stuff that is. She only recently began going to the doctor and the dentist with any sort of regularity. She doesn't keep up with her things and seems to think it's funny when she misplaces them, until she misplaces something really important and her world goes for a loop. The crazy thing is, I know exactly how she feels and where she's coming from. I used to do the same things, and for (I believe) the same reasons. Mary's childhood was traumatizing on more than a couple of levels. I know we never outgrow that kid inside us, but I do hope that someday Mary will outgrow the pain that kid (and that adult) went through. I think part of life's struggle is keeping the happy kid in you and making peace with the unhappy kid, letting that one go. I think that she, like a lot of us, feels angry at the world, her family, even at herself for not giving the little kid she used to be a fair shake. And I don't blame her, but, if you think about it, who really gets those fair shakes? I know I didn't get one, and I'm not sure I've ever met anyone that did. And the more pain you go through the stronger you can become, because you've got two options when that pain hits: You let it teach you and strengthen you or you let it break you. So the pain can actually be an opportunity, an opportunity to get stronger and smarter. Mary is not a breaker. She's going to come through all of the pain and walk out on the other side with her head held high. I'm not certain of when but I am certain she will. Why am I so certain? Because not so long ago I was just like her in that respect. I was on the same self esteem path that she is walking now. It is exactly like watching her cross the same stream or mountain that I crossed not so long ago. It's only a matter of time before she arrives at "Mount Face It - You're Beautiful". It's right around the bend!


For right now, Mary is in touch with the Blanche inside her. I used to be a Blanche, but now I'm more of a Stella. Remember Blanche in Tennessee William's "A Streetcar Named Desire"? She said, “I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers." Well, that's because strangers were kinder to Blanche than she was to herself. And once strangers were kinder to me than I was to myself. If I didn't take care of myself they often stepped in and did that job for me. Mary is sometimes a Blanch in that respect, just like I used to be. When it comes to trustworthiness, she's a Stella. We've both been trustworthy around your man and your money pretty much all our days. But, like Blanche, we've both leaned on the kindness of strangers when we could and should have been being kind to ourselves. Think about what a difference it would have made in Blanche's life if she had learned to be a lot more self reliant. She wouldn't have been at the mercy of strangers and people that probably should have been strangers. She would have probably been able to keep her sanity. Sure the play might have sucked but that's a small price to pay for a happy wild woman.


Back in... probably 1992.. I stopped laughing at my own forgetfulness. I lost the money I'd been planning to feed my family with and my parents and my sisters had to rescue me once again. I swore enough was enough. I came up with strategies to keep up with my appointments and my various important thingies, including dollars. I started keeping most of my money in the bank. If I took any out it was for a purpose and I didn't carry it around with me any more than I had to. I'm not saying I never misplace any thing these days (as those relatives that helped me look for my eyeglasses for 45 minutes not too long ago can surely attest) but I did learn to be less of a Blanche and more of a Stella. I am convinced that Mary can and will do the same thing in her own time. Someday. In the meantime, it's a bit uncomfortable to watch her be "mean" to my best friend. It really puts you between a rock and a hard place. It's like when your kids fight. "Will you stop hitting him?" "Will you stop teasing him until he hits you?" You get so angry at them for being mean to each other that you almost want to be mean to them, but how much sense does that make? None. And Mary is not my child, she's not anyone's child. Both her parents are dead, but even they wouldn't be justified if they hit her for hitting her, even if that ridiculous logic was logical... Which it isn't. So, all I can do is watch, and reach out, and be patient, and hope that someday soon she will love herself as much as I love her.


Why am I thinking about all this tonight? Good question.


Mary has a guy. This great tall drink of water that is her equal in so many ways. He's super smart, creative, funny, handsome, and (I think, though I've not know him as long) honorable. He is her peanut butter and she is his jelly. His name is Aric. Lately he's decided he may not be able to watch Mary be un-good to herself any longer. He sent her out of the home they shared and he's waiting, watching, hoping it will be the wake up call she needs. Maybe it will, but in a way his actions frustrate me because I'm thinking, "She made no secret of who she was when you two met, fell in love, and (not too much later) committed to being together." She's a beautiful hot mess but she never tried to pretend that she was anything else. At least, not as far as I have ever been able to tell. But on that infamous other hand, I understand where he's coming from. I feel for him. It truly is hard to watch her not love someone you love. And then we even have that third hand that we don't have, but maybe we should, I feel kind of sorry for him because I'm thinking that he may be making a huge mistake. He may wind up alone and really regret pushing her out of his life. In my humble opinion, Mary is worth the wait. Heck, she's worth the wait even if she isn't going to figure out how to be good to herself until she's 102 and she's destined to die at 101. In other words, she's lovable and worthy - just the way she is! Howard Jones told us, "Maybe love is letting people be just what they want to be" and I'm thinking, maybe Howard Jones is right. And if he isn't, the quote from the film "The Mexican" surely is: "If two people love each other, but they just can't seem to get it together, when do you get to that point of enough is enough?" ...And the answer? "Never."


I wanted to share this story because writing about things helps me think and deal with the events in my life. I wanted to share this story because there are people out there that can relate. I know a lot of you may be struggling with change. Maybe you're ready to love yourself more, ready to start being kinder to yourself, to work on being more of a Stella and less of a Blanche... Do it!


Or maybe you're about to give up on someone that's Blancheing you to death... Try to be patient. Try to find a way to make it work. Even if they don't know they are lovable, YOU know they are lovable. Try to let people be just what they want to be. Sure you don't stop encouraging them, but you can encourage Blanche without helping her be mean to herself. Otherwise, you may just be hitting her for hitting her.

(Disclaimer: If someone is being mean to you as well as themselves, we all have to admit that is a different situation. If they are being mean to your children (or setting a horrible example for those children) that is a VERY different situation. In either case, my advice would be something more like:seek help and seek sanctuary.)


And to all of you:, my general advice is: Don't give up on love, every Blanche deserves it. Oh, and go watch "The Mexican" and listen to "What is Love" by Howard Jones. And for crying out Pete's sake go watch "A Streetcar Named Desire" - again. It's always been too long since you've seen that one!


PS: Happy Easter 2013!

LITTLE RED HOWLING HOOD (artwork)

Photo: Little Red Howling Hood
By Skitch's spousal unit

THEN...

This is "Little Red Howling Hood". She was designed in 2011 and sold in 2012. Inspired, obviously, by a favored fairy tale. Hey! No one ever said Little Red was a person, and if she and the Big Bad Wolf had conversations, maybe she was a wolf cub? Here she is, in the midst of her troubles with BBW, howling for assistance! Let's hope the woodsman hears her soon!

NOW:
 
I love that fairy tale, but there are some that I like even better than "Little Red Riding Hood". They are "The Brementown Musicians" "Beauty and the Beast" "Molly Whoopie" "Like Meat Loves Salt" "The Tinderbox" "The Three Sillies" all the Jack stories my Pop tells, and one story that I haven't seen in so long that I'm not sure I remember the name... "The Gypsy Queen"? Maybe? I love fairy tales, always have, but especially since my sister Sandi used up years of her life reading them to me. We went through every fairy tale book at the local library and then sent off for more. She's worth King Kong's weight in gold!
Do you have a favorite... or several favorite, fairy tales?

GENTLE MOTHER (poem)

Mom and Dad
Thanks for making my childhood
so much better than either of yours!

THEN:

I find it rather appropriate that one of the poems I published this year was inspired by my dad and one by my mother, and both by my struggle to become comfortable in the female skin they gave me. My relationship with my father has always been smooth and strong. He would die for me. I would die for him. We both were aware of both of those facts. That relationship can be likened to a rock. With Mom things were not so simple. She suffered from the after effects of horrific child abuse. Both her parents were alcoholics and one of them was a sex abuser. My mother, when I was a child, a teen, and a young adult, seemed an enigma to me. I could not understand her or feel certain of her love no matter how hard I tried. And believe me I tried! I remember having a dream that she was a witch and was trying to kill me. I was three years old. My relationship with Mom was something more akin to a storm, beautiful, powerful, and both frightening and something you can learn to be comfortable with. It was only in the last dozen years or so that it has tapered into the gentle rain that often follows a storm. The rain that lulls us into loving it. I've come to appreciate how very much better my childhood was than hers. I ate every day, my parents were not out of their mind with booze and allowing every sot in the neighborhood to bed down in the same home with their little daughters. And she picked my dad... I don't have to tell you how much better my dad was than hers! I bet you can imagine. She's told me all my life that she very deliberately chose a good father for me, that she very deliberately made my childhood safer than hers was. And it was. So, when it came to mapping out her children's future, my mother tapped into a strength and a wisdom that I didn't respect or even see. She created for me a life that was infinitely easier and safer than the one she had struggled through. In fact, my life was much safer and better than Dad's had been too. And looking back I can see and feel her love, the love that I missed all those years. How did I not see it then? I have always know that I was madly protective of her, that I would face a firing squad to save her, but I thought that adoration could only be explained through genetics. I concluded that children were doomed to love their mother even if that love is not returned. And maybe that is true as well. I thought that my affection for her was completely one sided and hence, a little unhealthy. It is not. I now realize that my mother would kill or die for me, just as I would her. And furthermore, that she is AMAZING! She is the bravest, truest, kindest, wisest and most beautiful woman I have ever known. I'm just so sorry it took me over 30 years to figure that out. I pray I can some day be half the woman she is today.

There was some correlation between learning to love my mom and learning to love being born a female. Both evolved at the same pace. One day,when the heavy chip of being a girl was resting on my shoulder, I was pondering how God and Jesus are men, and thinking about how inferior the Bible always left me feeling because almost all of the key players were men. I used to complain of this to my mom who would point out that Mary, the one given the supreme joy of being the mother of Christ, was a woman. I would look at Momma in disbelief and say something like, "Yeah, 'cause He should have made JOSEPH carry the baby in his womb." 

Mother would reply with, "Well, he certainly could have if he wanted to!"

At that time, I had not experienced the "supreme joy" of being anyone's mother, and I could not really relate to what my mother was saying. I remained unconvinced that women were cherished by God just because He let them carry the children. I thought he was kind of restricted by His own design on that one. But after carrying and giving birth to two sons and watching my boys grow, inside of me and outside of me, after losing a third son or first daughter from my womb, I know that being a mother is the greatest miracle I have witnessed, in a lifetime filled with miracles. It is the greatest gift I was ever given. Motherhood saved and shaped my life in miraculous ways, again and again. I tell my sons that they saved my life over and over, and I mean it very literally. Motherhood saved my life repeatedly. Fatherhood is great, I am sure. But if reincarnation exists and we are allowed any say over our future lives, I know I will come back in the female form much more often than the male form. I am sure there are a few lessons you can learn only in the male form, a few experiences that females don't have. But I am now convinced that there is nothing like motherhood. I can imagine nothing except, perhaps God's love, that can compare to the joy of feeling your child stir safely inside you. I would kill or die for my parents, my sisters, my spouse. But if any of them were drowning at the same time as my sons they can say their prayers and hang it up. If I only had the time to rescue one of them, we'd likely bury my parent, my sister, or my spouse very shortly. And of them all, I think my mother would understand that reasoning best of all. When you give birth to children, or become a mother by adopting with your whole heart, then the best of you and the entire world is forever walking around in that other person. I am a peace loving hippie to my core. I step over ants on the sidewalk and rescue spiders from people that want to squash them. But it was always with a deep, satisfied glee that I swatted any mosquito trying to bite one of my children! And I don't think I would lose a night's sleep over it if I ever had to treat some human killer in a like manner. I'd squash him or her and then go, "YES!" I wouldn't feel a bit of guilt over it because that is the way God/Nature designed me. The human race is perpetuated because the older family members will usually die for the younger ones. I wouldn't kill a human for biting my sons... probably... but they wouldn't get by with much more. So, word to the wise: They are grown-assed men, but don't mess with my boys, unless you want to mess with me. It's a sure fire way to turn this hippy into a redneck. You've heard about hell and scorned women? Well, I've been a scorned woman and it did incite some fury, that's true. But in fact, Hell hath no fury like a mother running defense.

And on that reflective-heavy-chip-on-shoulder day, as I was studying maleness and femaleness, the nature of motherhood, and of God. I concluded that the closest I had ever come to loving like God does is probably in motherhood. If God is a spirit and there is no marriage in Heaven, maybe sexes don't exist there. Maybe God isn't male or female but something much better than either. That might make God both Father and Mother. And that thought led to, "Maybe it would be cool to look at the maternal side of God for a change." So, I sat down and merged my views of God, and my mother, and motherhood itself in the poem below.


             Gentle Mother

Gentle Mother, wise and true,
Doth not the soft winds blow for you?
Doth not the cradle rock by will,
When day is done and night is still?
If not, dear mother, they truly ought,
Be in your web of pleasing caught,
And there like freedom in a cage,
All your battles fiercely wage.
For your soft hands hold all our dreams,
And in your eyes such passion gleams,
And all your thoughts rest wild and strong,
On how to teach us right from wrong.
Still we, your children, look away,
And with vile demons, wrongly play,
And yet you love us anyway,
So, that is why my heart must say...
Gentle Mother, wise and true,
May all the soft winds blow for you.
May every cradle rock at will,
When day is done and night is still.

I'M A GONNA' (poem)

THEN:

Also published in 2012, "I'm a Gonna'". It is a poem I wrote about the invincibleness that I inherited from my father and it is written in the Appalachian jargon he taught me. When I was growing up, Daddy was strong and he loved things and people that were strong with him. He was a farmer with four daughters and he never spoke a word about the sons he must have longed for. We were always cherished as much as any male could have been, but I remember many a neighbor or acquaintance that looked at him with pity when they found out he had all girls, pity that enraged me and sent me to unload the 100 pound sacks from the back of the truck or to go ride that horse that wasn't quite tame yet. Their archaic attitudes left two of Dad's daughters with pretty heavy chips on our shoulders for many, many years. In truth they land there briefly to this day. Dad's daughters loved him then and we adore him to this day. We would fight a bear over him or take a bullet for him. His years of real love and warm devotion, especially in the face of such prejudices, could never be repaid, but any of us would die trying. So we became strong as an answer to the hard world around us, as a result of the love Pop has for us, and as a testament to the love we have for him, strong and... well, maybe a little stubborn too. As you will surely sense... 


       I'm A Gonna'

I'm a' gonna. I'm a' gonna!
Don't you never say I ain't!
I'm a' gonna. I'm a' gonna!
Don't you dare say I can't!
I'm a' gonna. I'm a' gonna!
Do you hear me?
Understand?
Even if I am a woman.
Even if I ain't a man.
Let me tell you why that is:
'Cause my Poppa is a Mountain.
And he's mine; and I'm his.
And since I was a tadpole,
Of the possumfrog I am,
He's been saying I can do it.
And he's right because I can!
So just hush your caterwalling.
Mind your toes and step aside.
If you're feeling kinda squeamish,
Turn your eyes or run and hide.
'Cause I'm a' gonna. I'm a' gonna!
And now you know.
'Cause here I go!

COHELL (poem)

Skitch and future husband 1983

THEN:


Last year, 2012, I had three poems and a short story chosen for small local publications. I also created a design for a wolf statue that was auctioned off and sold for $500.00. I didn't make much money for any of these ventures, but for me and for most artistic souls, it's more about the love of creativity. I would make things - draw, design, photograph things that catch my eye, write stories, novels, poems, make pots and decorative ceramic art, color with (and without) little children, and on and on - even if I knew I could never share what I was making. Art is an outlet. It takes the edge off the heartache of life better than any drug I know of, and it expresses the joy that might otherwise explode inside my heart and head. Life is so full. It's full of pain and pleasure, awe, and disappointment. Only art can tell the full measure of what that is like. It is that which sets us apart from our brothers the animals. Dorothy might have completed Jerry Maguire, but it is art that completes me, and I would make love to it every day of my life even if I could share it with no other breathing soul...

Thankfully that is not the case. I love sharing, and thanks to the Internet, I can now share the fullness of life with you, dear reader, and anyone else that cares enough to click on my blog and run their eyes across these words. I am now going to share those three poems, that story, and the photo of the design with you in the next five blogs.
Thank you for looking.
Thank you for reading.
Please come back.

In the '90s I was involved in a mutually abusive and very unhealthy relationship. I was struggling with what my counselor called "Codependency",which was a nasty little game I had learned to play while growing up around someone that was clinically depressed, agoraphobic, quite likely suffering from factitious disorders (which were proxied) and taking plenty of prescription drugs. 

Sometime in 1997, I was struck by how much I could love this man before and after he mistreated me, and how much I could fear and even hate him in the slices in between... That is my side of it... I don't know how he felt. I'm sure it wasn't much better than how I felt, and although I got the short end of the stick when push came to shove, I usually started the pushing. Words are my heart. I express myself with them, and they mean so very much to me. Words from others were far too powerful in my world at that time. They could lift me so high or wound me so deeply. So, when he began with the words of hate, I knew I would rather take a beating than listen to them drop out of his mouth. I would hit him, and he would hit me, and the pain of the words would be replaced with physical pain, which I felt much more capable of handling.

During that hard time I wrote a poem I entitled "COHELL". I left out the physical abuse because I could not bear to face it even long enough to write about it. If I could have, I probably would have left much sooner than I did...

But I did leave. That's important for you to know...

I did leave.


      
          COHELL...


Eyes pure blue crystal,
Hair a deep, thick brown,
Arms strong yet tender,
Gently wrap me 'round.
Lips whisper, “I love you.”
Kiss me softly, sweet.
Oh, how much I love you.
Life seems such a treat.
Here you are – My man.
Strong yet tender,
Hold my hand.
Eyes so full of love.
A gift so great,
Sent from above.
Our day draws on...

One more six-pack,
And he'll be through.
How much he drinks,
Is up to you.
Prepare good meals,
And clean the home.
Then he'll control it,
On his own.
Our evening draws on...

Eyes so full of anger.
Bitter words to hurt and wound.
It's getting awfully late.
Midnight comes too harsh,
Too soon.
Still, he isn't tired,
And you'd best not sleep,
for then the largest anger,
Like ooze, will grow and creep.
“Where is that thing I need?
Find it ! Find it now!
Why are you trying to read?
Where did you put that?
Find it now!”
The music is so loud.
Will it wake the little ones?
“This house is a pig sty!
Why can't you clean it once?
Shut up stupid! Don't cry!”
Our night draws on...

Eyes so full of hate.
Finally, he agrees,
“Perhaps it is getting late.
Fix me something to eat.
No, I don't like that,
What you had.
Fix something I can eat.
No not that – nor that!
Find something good,
Yes, maybe that.”
Now it's 'cold'.
Now it's 'burnt'.
Now it's 'old'.
Now it's 'ruint'.
Try again.
Our morning draws on...

I lie beside him in our bed,
Ponder each cruel word he said,
Until sleep, at last, overtakes me.

Eyes pure blue and crystal,
Softly they look down,
Arms strong yet tender,
Hesitantly wrap me 'round.
Lips whisper, “I love you.”
Kiss the pain away.
This is how my world is.
How is yours today?

SPIRITS, & ANGELS, & DEMONS - OH MY!

Photo: Tanya, Bo, Ramona, & Dee Dee (AKA Skitch) Tanya is my niece, Bo my nephew, & Ramona my favorite cousin and a childhood best friend.

THEN:

 

Spirits, & Angels, & Demons - Oh My!

Have you ever studied the connection between superstition and spirituality? Or the difference between spirituality and religion? I am fascinated by these subjects. Some people consider all three terms to be synonyms. They claim it's a bunch of hogwash, the whole lot. (Well, if they're from the south that may be how they put it.) And other people, like me, draw a definite line in the sand between these ideas. I consider them not only different but very different, one being based on logic and the other two being based on the lack thereof. Yes, you can find a grain of truth in many of the superstitions, and some good points in religious ideas. Common sense, for example, might tell you to avoid walking under ladders or opening an umbrella in the house. "Do unto others," is a common belief embraced by many religions and many cultures. Both seem like great ideas to me. Most superstitions and many religious ideas (like most rumors, and stereotypes) involve a grain of truth. Even skeptics will usually admit that spirituality also contains it's share of truth. Things do happen that science, as yet, cannot explain. Anyone that says otherwise is either supremely arrogant or has been living under a rock. The difference is how someone reacts to the, as yet, unexplainable. A person of spirituality takes that grain of truth and is humbled by it, tries to understand it, tries to build upon it in order to make sense of the world around them, and in the long term admits that they don't know everything. It is the essence of "I don't know what the future holds or what is possible." It is often an admittance that they believe Someone or Something other than themselves is in charge. Superstition and religion take the same grain of truth and are frightened by it, they try to understand it, try to build upon and around it in order to make sense of the world around them, but in the long term they come to the conclusion that they understand what caused that truth, and furthermore, how to avoid or repeat it in the future. The superstitious are in essence saying, "I've got it all figured out, and I know how to bend the future to my liking. I am in charge." And the religious seem to believe, "I'm not in charge but I know exactly who is, what they want and don't want, so let's go on a crusade."

So, even though these ways of thinking have many similarities, they boil down to arrogance and humbleness, which are complete opposites. Therefore to me one of these is seen in a much more positive light.

I am a spiritualist, and by that term I mean, I follow a philosophy emphasizing the spiritual aspect of being. I believe in God because I am a spiritualist, but, for that same reason, I can admit that I don't know all the details of Who and Where God is, let alone What God wants or How I am to please him or her or it. For a spiritualist there are more questions than answers. Maybe I'm completely wrong and God is someone human beings make up so that death doesn't frighten them quite so much. I don't have all the answers, but I have found so many of the questions! I can only tell you that I "think" and "feel" that God is out there, that God loves goodness, and that God loves me. That is what I believe but my beliefs are not the only ones, and hey are not the only ones that count. I can admit that I could be wrong. Spiritualist can do that. It is the religious that seem incapable of admitting they could ever be wrong about God. Of course, most of them claim their book (full of contradictions, and atrocities, truths, and acts of love and sacrifice) cannot be wrong. And, of course, the superstitious are also loath to admit they may be wrong about anything. It isn't repeated that you should "probably" avoid black cats or that Friday the 13th "might" be an unlucky day. Any superstitious person will tell you there are things you simply should or should not do. They maintain that a bride absolutely should wear something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. And although many of them will add, "Just in case," they will surely say you "should" wear those things. A spiritualist will likely say something more akin to, "Wear whatever you want. If wearing blue, borrowed, old, and new makes you feel more connected to the brides before and after you or an any way happier then by all means wear them." My first wedding I wore the rules to placate my mother-in-law and grandmother-in-law who were both very superstitious. My second wedding was an elopement and I wore a green dress and didn't even remember the rules of blue, borrowed, old, and new.

Superstitions have one up on religion, in my opinion. They are very entertaining. We had some highly superstitious guys for neighbors when I was growing up, John, Tim, and Joe. (You may hear more about them in the future.) One of my favorite past times when I was about 14 was to ask to see their knives, open them, and refuse to close them back. Those guys all believed that to close a knife that someone else opened was asking for bad luck. I was a mean 14 year old and my father (whom I got my mean sense of humor from) would laugh until he could barely breathe when those boys begged and pleaded with me to close their knife. They eventually became so aggravated that they threatened to throw their own knives away. Dad usually gave in and closed the knives for them. I was too mean, too stubborn, and too annoyed by their idea. I wanted them to close the knife so they could learn that nothing bad would happen as a result. I know now that they would have watched for "bad luck" and every molehill would have been turned into a mountain for weeks, but at the time I really believed they could learn something from it if they would just close the stupid knife!

My favorite superstition is this one: "It is bad luck to chase someone with a broom." Well, yes, I think we can safely say they won't take it well if you chase them with a broom, especially if that someone is me! You chase me period and, unless you're joking and I'm in on the joke, I can guarantee you will someday and somehow regret it, unless you kill me with that broom, which I will not make easy for you.

And I told you all of that to tell you this: I personally believe in God because there are things I cannot explain but the existence of God could explain. I believe in God because good and evil exist in the world and a great battle is ever waging between the two. I believe in God because people wear clothes even in the summer when it's 102 degrees outside. I believe in God because babies share and because giving makes you feel so good. I believe in God because I have always felt watched and loved beyond any words. And I'm a writer. When something is beyond words to me, that's saying a lot. I like words. I like to put every thought and feeling I've ever had into words, but words cannot reveal the love I've felt around me, the effect goodness has had on my soul, the way I feel when I see a sunrise or watch a thunderstorm. And there are many other reasons that I believe in God. I believe in God because I've seen genuine miracles. Not "the preacher touched them and they fell down and laughed hysterically and said they felt healed" miracles, but the genuine "he was on the way to the hospital and had been vomiting blood from bleeding ulcers and now there are no ulcers to be found in this man's stomach" type of miracles. I believe in God because I know there is something more to me than flesh and bone. I believe in God because I've seen goodness and felt evil. I believe because I've been haunted.

When I was 12 we moved from a house my father had built on top of a mountain into a house out town. We had called the mountain home "Up on the Hill" but that was a typical hillbilly understatement, much like when it was sub zero temperatures outside and my father called it "nippy". The home I'd lived in the last four years was built from two houses that my father and my adopted uncle, Crit, had torn down. Our home had the sounds that seem to come pack and parcel with old wood. The floors creaked and groaned as the warmth of the sunlight died in pitch black nights. The tin roof would whine when branches brushed across it or clang and whistle with the wind. The home had three to six rooms. Pop would sometimes tear down and put up walls, wall in porches, and so on, so it was hard to say it had an exact number of rooms. It was not uncommon to hear a panther or a bob cat, but the only "boogers" we had ever heard were some sort of night bird, probably an owl, that country people call a "freezing booger". In the summer nights it sounded like the house was completely enveloped in layer after layer of crickets. I kind of liked most bugs and I was a pretty brave lady, but sometimes I thought running out to the outhouse in the summer night could be a bad move. What if those zillions of crickets realized they had us vastly outnumbered? We'd heard a lot of odd things there, but we'd never heard a single thing we could not explain.

The house out town had been built and then added onto. The addition, which ran all along the entire length of the house, was straight. The older section sloped  toward road, and all the wood was old. If anyone had asked us, I'm sure we would have said we expected the same sort of creaks and groans that we'd heard in our other home. But that is not what I discovered in the town home.

We'd only lived there a few months when I announced, rather ho-humly, that the house was haunted. I wasn't the least bit afraid. Legions of bugs might give me pause but sounds I was not afraid of, and I was pretty convinced these 'hauntings' were just sounds. My mother laughed it off and told me she was sure the noises I was hearing were explainable. It was the reaction I expected and the subject dropped for the time being. Several weeks later though, I had mentioned some odd noise again and my mother's voice got that edge to it. "Dee Dee, for the last time, this house is not haunted." When my mother said 'for the last time' you were on thin ice. I waited the span of a few breaths before asking in my best little-girl voice, "Well, what do you call it when you hear noises that can't be explained?"

"Just because YOU can't explain them doesn't mean they can't be explained." She now had the tone she reserved for stupid children, and I had to take more than a few breaths before I spoke again. Sometimes the pauses were for her and sometimes they were for me. Most of the people in my family had hot tempers and I was included among the "most".

"So, then will you do me a favor? Will you sit on my bed with me for 30 minutes and explain them, because if you can explain every sound we hear then I'll understand and I'll promise to never call this house haunted again."

"You'll never call this house haunted again anyway if I forbid it."

"Right." I was quick to agree, "Okay. Well then..." I delayed by taking a tiny bite of my cheese sandwich, chewing, and swallowing, all under the guise of considering the situation. Conversations with my mother were tricky. The words that threw her anger were hard to predict. With my father, I could say whatever jumped into my mind as soon as it jumped there and he would either laugh or scowl but he had never been enraged by any of the words that fell out of my mouth. He was much harder to anger, but when he was angry he was the angriest person in the world. At least the angriest I'd ever seen or heard of, even on television or in books. I'd watched him cut the bed off a truck with an ax once once and beat a horse with a 2 X 4 on another day. He had the worst temper in a family full of hot tempers, but words never seemed to set him off and even at his angriest I felt safe. Getting along with Dad was easy, 'Do what I say, as soon as I say it, or die trying' seemed to be the rule with him, and it was the sort of rule I could wrap my 12 year old head around. With mom it was "Watch what you say because you just never know what is going to make me angry," and that was a much harder rule to follow. Dad was action and mother was words.

"Well, will you do it for me, just so I don't think of the house as haunted?"
It was also wise to end as many of your sentences as possible with question marks.

My mother stared at me, and I began to breathe again as I watched the anger slip off her face. "Okay. After supper I'll go sit on your bed and tell you what all the sounds are." She still seemed annoyed, but not angry.

I felt the tension drain out of me. Later I would decide that she had been concerned that I was afraid.

My mother was unpredictable, but she loved me.

After the meal Mom went to my room with me and we sat on my little cot. For all of about three minutes we listened to nothing other than each other breathing. Then we heard a faint tinkle as though, in the walk in closet I shared with my sister, the wire hangers were being ever so slightly disturbed. The closet had two bars hanging the considerable length of it. (I later put a bed in that closet and made a room out of it.) One of the bars I used and it was about half full with my dresses and blouses. The other one my sister used and it only had about ten or twelve items hanging on it. Sandi has never been a clothing hog. Empty hangers took up much of the rest of Sandi's bar.

Mom, cast her eyes my way. "The wind."

I started to argue that the only window in my room was closed and that, even if it had been open it would have had to be a pretty good blast of air to move the hangers deep inside that big closet. But I rethought it and just nodded, giving her that one. Chances were good that this was only the beginning, especially if I kept quiet. It seemed the quieter the room was the more often I heard the odd sounds. Mom had only whispered but I still didn't want to add to it.

Only a few seconds after she stopped talking we heard the undeniable sound of a dog's toenails on a hard floor. The sound actually traveled as though a ghost dog had walked from one side of the room to the other.

"Feisty," my mother said, but she looked less sure this time. Feisty was my sister's Chihuahua.

I took the risk to whisper, "She's outside with Sandi."

"Maybe they came back in and are in the other room?"

I very slightly shook my head and whispered, "Would have heard them come in, and the other room has carpet."

Mom looked a little shook up and I found it hard not to smile or even giggle. I dropped my eyes from hers, not wanting to annoy her and lose the chance to prove my point. The sounds didn't scare me. I actually found them interesting, but Mom looked a little scared.

It was about two seconds later that the empty hangers in the closet tinkled harder and longer. The sound went from one end of their length to the other, exactly as though someone had ran their hand across the length of every empty hanger on Sandi's bar, making them jingle together. I leaned and peered into the closet and you could even see them moving.

My mother jumped up and left the room quickly.

I followed with a smile.

In the kitchen, she sat holding her coffee cup in shaking fingers. "Okay, I won't say this house is haunted because I don't know if that is what is causing that." My heart fell a bit and I fought to keep the scowl off my forehead, "But," She took a drink of her coffee, "I won't complain if you say it anymore because I can't tell you what those sounds were."

Mark it down on your calendar. I had won one with my mother!

Some time later I woke up to the sound of my dad's voice, "Time to get up, Dee Dee." I rose, and dressed, and sat down at the kitchen table for my breakfast. Dad had fixed my food and sat my plate in front of the chair I usually sat at. I was trying hard to work up an appetite early in the morning, which had never been easy for me.

All of a sudden I had that funny feeling, like someone was watching me. I turned my head to the left and, right beside the pencil sharpener on the door frame was the face of a young girl. She was leaning around the doorway and looking at me quizzically like I was not supposed to be up so early, or not expected to be eating my breakfast. Looking at her made me feel safe and happy. It was like she emanated pure love. She looked like me but everything about her seemed exaggerated. Her chin length hair was a lighter blond, maybe even white, her eyes were bigger and a brighter shade of blue, and her lips were a deep red. I realize it sounds stereotypical, but she was wearing something that looked for all the world like a white pull-over floor-length nightgown or robe. I'd barely had a moment to absorb all that when she suddenly realized that I was looking right at her. Later I would wonder if maybe she was used to me looking through her, not at her. Her eyes registered shock instead of confusion, and then she disappeared. She didn't draw back her head from the position of leaning through the doorway; she simply disappeared.

But, I mistrusted my eyes. I convinced myself that maybe I'd blinked and she'd moved very quickly. People don't just disappear. Right? I sat there a moment, wonder if I should go into the living room and tell my dad.  I decided against it. I wasn't sure he'd believe me. I wasn't sure I believed myself, but I wanted to know if she was back there somewhere. I wanted to look at her again and feel that safe, happy feeling. I got up and searched my parents bedroom and the other rooms, none of which had a doorway outside except the one in my Mom and Dad's room and I could have seen her if she'd gone out of it. I even looked under the beds. My mother was asleep in her bed, but no bright eyed girl of happiness was under it. Nor under mine, or my sisters. She wasn't in the closet or the bathroom. I even checked in small areas because she could very easily hide in my wardrobe, or behind my mom's dresser, or a dozen other spots in those rooms. When I couldn't find her anywhere, I had to admit that she'd been something like I'd never seen before and that she had indeed just disappeared.

Eventually, I went back and finished my breakfast, got on the bus, and went to school. I missed her all day long and for several days to follow. I felt like my best friend had moved away. It took a while to tell my family about the girl. I was a very introverted person and lived all alone inside my head. I had many secrets that I didn't even know how to express. I was also a little concerned that no one would believe me, but after thinking about Mom admitting there were noises she couldn't explain I finally told them in the plainest form I could manage.

"The other morning, I was eating breakfast and a little girl leaned around the door and looked at me like she didn't understand what I was doing, and when she noticed I was looking back at her she disappeared."

After a few dozen questions the whole story came out including why I hadn't told them, but "I was afraid you wouldn't believe me" came out "I don't know." I really wasn't good at articulating my feelings yet. No one challenged me, but their eyes were swimming with doubt. I was pretty wishy washy about it all myself. I had seen her, but I had no idea who or what she was, so I felt at a loss to prove anything. But my mother had no idea who or what she was when she saw her a few months later.

That happened when my sister Sandi, my cousin Wesley, Crit, and I were playing cards at the kitchen table. My mother was in bed napping and she called out in an unsteady voice. "Dido, where are you?" (I have a lot of nicknames.)

I shrugged the tone off. She often wanted to know where I was. "I'm in here, Mom."

After a pause she asked, "What are you wearing?"

Now that, she didn't often ask. I looked at my sister with my brows up. "I've got that red and white stripped shirt on and my jeans." I too paused, hoping she would elaborate. When she didn't I added, "Why?"

"No reason..." But her voice was definitely shaky this time. I got up and went into the bedroom and asked softly, "Momma, what's wrong?"

She sighed and sat part way up in the bed. "I swear I was awake. I was awake and I saw it, and I'm not losing my mind! Surely I'm not losing my mind?!"

"You're not, Momma." When she failed to elaborate I added, "I saw something too, remember?"

She looked at me and the distrust slowly fell out of her eyes. "I was awake," She said that forcefully, "And I was listening to you'all play cards, and I was wondering if I was going to be able to go back to sleep or if I should just get up for a while." In those days my mother spent a lot of her time in bed. "Then some girl that looked so much like you that I thought it was you came out of your room and she had your brown dress on. She walked over to the mirror and I thought, 'How did she get past me without me seeing her? Did she crawl through my room? How could I miss it when she left the kitchen and went in the back room?' I wouldn't put it past you to crawl through, trying not to wake me. She twirled around and around in front of the mirror a few times, and I thought it was kinda' strange because you wear that dress all the time and probably know what you look like in it. Then as she was walking back out of the room and into your room I heard you speak in the kitchen! It gave me the hebbie jebbies!"

Mother was petrified and I was delighted! Someone else had seen her, and I found that wonderful! Now I doubted my own sanity less. And whoever or whatever she was, she looked happy and was trying on my clothes. I was glad to hear she was still out there somewhere. I smiled to think of her playing with my wardrobe and being happy. "She won't hurt you, Momma." I was surprised at my mother's reaction.

She swallowed and rested back on her pillow. "No. I don't guess she will. She felt like a good good girl. Didn't she?"

I never doubted that she was love and light and all things good. Not even when something else tried to frighten the life right out of me. It never occurred to me that it could have been her. Not for a minute. I only know that others may wonder because they've asked when I told the story, "Do you think that might have been the same little girl?" The answer is a strong and resounding, "No." If you had seen the joyful, sweet face I saw. If you could feel the peace and love she emanated you would never imagine that this might have been her.

But the next thing that happened, other than the daily odd little noises, wasn't petrifying, it was annoying. I was sleeping in my sister's bed, which I did nearly as often as I slept in my own bed, when I was awakened by ice cold water hitting me right at the hairline of my forehead and pouring down my skull. I woke with a start and my sister jumped up and got a towel for me. The glass of ice water that my dad had brought me at bedtime (a nightly ritual of ours) was lying on it's side on the combination headboard and bookshelf of the bed we called a 'Hollywood bed', directly above my wet pillow. Sandi asked me if I had knocked the glass over reaching to get a drink? I told her I had been sound asleep and she scowled. She knew that I slept as still a stone. No tossing or kicking. Often I kept the same position all night long, but if I turned over I usually woke up and turned over, slowly and deliberately. I was famous in our home for sleeping so still that my bed looked undisturbed when I got up the next morning. I still do that, and I still blame it on Sandi for training me to "Hold still!" and "Stay on your own side of the bed, will you?" She looked at me unhappily for a moment or two and then grasped at the only obvious straw, "Did you knock your water off the headboard while you were asleep?"

I gave her the 'get real' look. "You know I don't do that stuff. You quarrel at me if I wiggle. And besides, my arms won't reach the headboard when I'm lying down here. I flopped down and thrashed my arms deliberately, showing my sister that my arms would not reach the glass above me. "I'd have to sit up and pour that glass over my own head."

She scowled a bit more and said she was going to go to the bathroom. With my icy head wrapped in a towel I complained, "I don't see how you can. I think all the water in the whole world just went right through my hair!"

Another night, I was again lying in her bed only this time I wasn't asleep yet. I was trying to go to sleep. I've had insomnia most of my life, and that night, like many nights, I wasn't having much luck with the sandman. Sandi had fallen asleep telling me a story and I didn't want to wake her by crawling over her, which was often the case, so I stayed in her bed. I was against the wall, and the lamp on Sandi's nightstand was still on. I'd turned my face to the wall so that when I closed my eyes it was darker, hoping I could sleep soon. I liked the dark and was annoyed by the lamp. I didn't understand how Sandi could sleep with it on when I had so much trouble sleeping with it off. I was daydreaming; telling myself a story to lull myself, when a feeling of dread pulled me out of my thoughts. A moment later, I heard a hard footstep on the threshold of our bedroom and then heavy breathing. The closest I can come to explaining how I felt then was that it was the exact opposite of how I felt in the presence of the little girl. It was as though a fog of fear and evil spread across the room and settled over me. I sucked in my breath and stayed very still. Suddenly, I was too afraid to turn around. No one in my family was the 'I'll spook you' type, so it didn't even occur to me that it might be my Dad, or Mom, or Crit. They'd all gone to great lengths to raise me to be as courageous as I could be. Whatever or whoever it was stood there breathing heavily for a couple of moments, long enough for me to start praying. Then it walked with it's heavy tread across the room. It was practically stomping. I was afraid for myself, afraid for my sister. I was praying she'd stay asleep and whatever it was would go away because it occurred to me that all it really wanted was to see someone terrified. Otherwise, why would it exaggerate it's breathing and it's footsteps? I tried to withhold my terror from it. If I didn't respond, pretended to sleep, and Sandi slept through the heavy breathing, maybe it would just go away in defeat? The sounds didn't bother me, but that feeling of evil and hatred, that was what had me shook up. Whatever it was stopped right beside my sister and the breathing grew louder and louder. The sound seemed to lean in and hang in the air over my sister's body, less than a couple of feet from me. I closed my eyes tightly and prayed harder. "Lord, please don't let it hurt Sandi! Lord, please don't let it hurt me!" Then the cord to the lamp which stretched around the headboard of the bed and plugged into the wall right in front of my face suddenly erupted in a fit of violent shaking. I broke. I gasped, yelped my sister's name, and turned over as quickly as I could, which was very quickly. And no one was there. Sandi woke up grumpy, which was her usual state when startled awake. But she talked calmly to me after realizing I was petrified out of my mind. After I'd calmed enough to think she might not die if she put her feet on the floor, she got up and looked under the bed because I was afraid that whatever it was had ducked under the bed. Where else had it had time to go? But of course, there was nothing there. That was one night that I slept in my sister's bed very deliberately, and one night that she stayed awake until I was asleep.

When my Aunt Nancy and Uncle Leslie came to visit, my mother told my auntie about the strange goings on. Aunt Nancy seemed especially interested in the dress the little girl was wearing from my wardrobe. She suggested to my mother that maybe the little girl was somehow attached to the dress, maybe it had been the little spirit-girls' dress at one time. It was a used garment, after all. My mother agreed that I'd gotten the dress about the same time the odd noises started. My dress eventually disappeared, to my great dismay as it was my absolute favorite dress, and the noises did lessen, though they never went completely away.

There is a photo from about the same time, showing my cousin, my niece and nephew, and myself at my twelfth birthday party. This was before I cut my long hair. In the background, framed in the window of a door, you can see a child that looks just like me. Perhaps it is just a double exposure, but on that day I was all smiles and the figure looks so solemn. The family calls it the "ghost picture."

I lived in that same home many of my years. I was there from age 12 to 18 and moved back in again years later when my sons were little. I lived there again, much of my years from the age of 25 until I was almost 33, and my parents lived there all the years between age 18 and 25.

I didn't tell the boys the story of the girl or the scary whatever-it-was until they were almost grown and the house was long gone. I raised my boys by the same rule of, 'Don't petrify your kids or they may grow up to be jumpy' standards that my parents had used when raising me. If it ain't broke don't fix it, right? But when we were living there, we did hear things sometimes that could not be explained. And one morning, one of my sons told me that he'd seen a "little monster" looking at him. I didn't dare tell him he hadn't seen it, but I did suggest that maybe he was still asleep when it saw it and it was a dream. He denies that possibility to this day and still remembers what the little monster looked like.

Once when my boys were snug in their beds and my friend Julie was staying the night she saw something that I couldn't see. I don't recall ever telling her the stories of the little girl and the evil thing, but she saw her own unexplainable thing there. There were only the boys beds and mine, so Julie was bunking with me while my husband and her boyfriend were off driving tractor trailers. If we sat up talking very late she would just stay the night so she could get to work quicker the next day and therefore get a bit more sleep. We were in my room, pretending we were trying to go to sleep but mostly we were laughing and acting like "girls" when suddenly she said, "Oh! What is that?"

I didn't see anything at all and told her as much. She suddenly freaked out and started swatting at something in the air that apparently she could see and I could not. She dug under my pillow, practically hid herself behind me, and then peeked out a few minutes later. I didn't see anything so I thought she was pretending and I laughed at her. She told me that she wasn't kidding, she could see a light bobbing toward her, and that it kept getting closer and closer. As I recall, Julie didn't spend another night in that house.

One evening when my first husband Greg was home from his trucking job, we were hanging out in the living room, just talking. He got up to go get a drink and a balloon that one of the boys had left hanging in the living room began to move. It traveled, bumping against the ceiling about every foot or so, until the long string hanging from it rested across my foot. I thought little of it myself, but I thought Greg might find it freaky if he would believe me. I looked up and he was standing in the doorway with wide eyes.

I kept my attention on him as I said, "You are never going to believe this, but the minute you left the room that balloon bumped it's way across the ceiling until it was hanging right over my feet."

His eyes were still wide as he glanced away from the ceiling and at me for a second, "Oh yes I do believe it because it's going right back where it came from."

I looked up and sure enough the balloon was bumping it's way back across the ceiling. I grinned and Greg sat down beside me. We watched together as the balloon traveled back and came to rest, exactly where it had been when he left the room a few moments before.

Greg looked at me and said a phrase that starts with holy and ends with feces... so it isn't holy at all.

In the years that followed those initial incidents, I've pondered long and hard about what the little girl I saw and felt and the presence and heard and felt might have been. It would have felt good to have an answer. I've always been inquisitive. I've told many a person that I want to know everything in the world that there is to know, so the uncertainty tormented me for years. I like answers! But I eventually decided that I just needed to get comfortable with the fact that I can't, right now and right here, know everything I'd like to know. And that there is a possibility that I will never know. I have lots of guesses. Maybe they were spirits, or ghosts if you will. Maybe they were aliens, or visitors from another time. Maybe they were something I'll never understand or even be able to consider. The girl in particular, has intrigued me. I've wondered, in turns, if she were my sister Patricia that died as a baby, or myself in some sort of place or time (though I certainly don't remember hiding from me after I watched me eat breakfast) or, along that same line, if it had been my niece Shana. She too was a petite blonde. But the idea that sits down and makes itself comfortable, the idea that makes the most sense to me is that the noises might have been spirits, but that the girl and the scary presence were most likely an angel and a demon. That seems to explain them and the feelings they carried with them quite a bit better. So, if angels and demons exist, probably God does too... Don't you figure?

I TOO WAS BORNED A COAL MINER'S DAUGHTER...

"Daddy Miner" By Skitch

My dad tells a story about me that's even more unbelievable than the one my mother tells of me "reading" when I was yet too small to even sit up. I said I'd write about that story next and so I will. I like to keep promises...




THEN:                      
                       
I Too Was Borned a Coal Miner's Daughter


My father can beat a moat around the proverbial bush when he wants to, but lying has never been his thing. Even before he started going the church and became a preacher, he wasn't much of a liar. The only "lies" I've ever caught him in were before he became religious; they were temporary and "kind". And I didn't "catch" him, actually; he told on himself sooner or later. My first horse, for instance, "ran away with the wild horses". (He didn't fall over a cliff and die because he was completely blind.) Dad couldn't look into a two year old's eyes and tell her that her horsie was dead. So, that horse ran away with the wild horses. It was twelve years and a dozen horses later when he told me the truth.

After Dad became religious he stuck to beating around the bush, and I was usually let in on the bush beating. It was like I was being trained on how to tell the truth but no more than the truth, on how to take things very literally. Dad would make an excellent witness in the courtroom. "Yes" and "No" are two of his favorite answers. Too bad he's never had to testify.

Pop worked in the coal mines when I was a baby. This was in the days when there were no regulations and most miners sold their youth and their health to the company store for just enough to eek out a poor living for their families. Big Money Man had swooped into Southwest Virginia, conned the locals out of their piece of the hard mountain, and then put their sons to work underneath it. Big Money Man paid very little for the land and then he paid those sons next to nothing and endangered them as well, but that was not enough for him. He then tied those sons to the company store making it nearly impossible for them to get out of mining and do any other kind of work. This is the heritage that so many of my relatives are "proud of".

"You dang right my grandpappy was a greedy fool that sold my heritage for next to nothing and ruined my part of the world! Dang right we're still making Big Money Man rich while continuing to ruin what should have been our inheritance but is now his kids' inheritance! Dang right we're destroying the community and possibly the entire world in the bargain! Go mining!"

Don't get me wrong, I love my miners, especially my daddy! But it's high time this generation woke up and smelled the carbide. Mining is something that someone should be paid a lot more for than our miners are paid or have ever been paid. It's also something that should be regulated heavily so that our children can have some of those cool things in nature like we did, you know - like oxygen. Today's miners are risking their lives, not for wealth of their own or to save the world. They are risking their lives to make someone else rich and to destroy the land for their own grandchildren. They need to insist on better pay and they desperately need to embrace the same regulations that brought miners a little safety and the ability to stop "owing their soul to the company store," as Merle Travis said. They need to support other forms of energy because coal is going to die out, it has to.. or we will. But instead many of them perk their ears up when the current Big Money Man talks. Big Money doesn't want to give up even a portion of his millions or even billions to follow some common sense regulations that his greedy butt should have been following in the first place, so he drums up a lot of votes for the un-eco friendly politicians, the ones that put their priorities where Big Money does, making the rich man richer whatever the cost. He drums up these votes by saying the regulations are "putting him out of business" and "costing the miners their jobs". If anything is costing the miners their jobs (and their health and sometimes their lives) it's Big Money Man's GREED! You don't have to look hard to find evidence of it. It's in the ugly strip jobs that dapple our once majestic Appalachian Mountains. It's in the grandfathers and fathers struggling with black lung or other conditions that suck the air right out of them. You don't even have to look at the miners that were killed in unsafe conditions... But you should.

Mining is rough work, hard and dangerous, even today with the regulations the mine owners SOMETIMES follow, but in the days when my daddy slaved away at it, mining was even tougher. There were no protective regulations for either the miner or his community. There was none of that sissy standing up and using a mattock in big powerful swings that they show in the movies. Dad saved those swings for chopping wood for warmth and cooking. They did not have big machines and electricity down there, and they didn't do much walking around. He was mostly down on his knees, crawling through water, dirt, coal, and mud with a carbide lantern on his head, following a little slice of light. They used mules to pull out some of the coal but a great deal of it came out of the mountain by the miner's own steam. Dad got up before daylight, took his dinner bucket, forded a river that was sometimes skimmed over with ice, walked to work, worked in tough conditions, walked home fording the same river that evening. Sometimes he put bread bags on his feet to try to keep some of the ice cold water from getting into his skin. His feet cracked and his knees were cut and bruised. He missed the sunlight most days unless he had the opportunity to sit outside while eating his lunch. This is what many miners endured. Daddy did all this in poor health. He had ulcers that blocked the exit from his stomach. He would eat and not too long afterward he would lose everything he'd eaten. He vomited every day of his life, often more than once a day, for many years of his life. He lost all his teeth and he stayed painfully thin because his body wasn't given much time to absorb nutrition from the food he put in it. His stomach hurt so much and so often that he felt like staying doubled over. He once told me that mining was the perfect job for someone that couldn't stand up straight without a lot of pain. This is what my Pop endured in order to feed his family.

On the day the unbelievable happened my dad and his friend Arvil were alone working in the pitch black mountain. Other miners were off in another section, but right there, it was just the two of them. They finished what they could do alone and decided to turn off their lights while waiting on the other men to show up. They wanted to save the carbide for later and figured they didn't need to see how to rest. They'd figured that one out a long time ago. So, there they sat in a darkness so thick you could almost slice it, listening to each other breathe, resting. Then, my father says, he saw a light coming toward him. He sat up a bit more, but was too shocked to speak. The light got closer and he could see that it was me, crawling toward him. I was glowing. At home, I had just learned how to crawl and how to give big, fat, open-mouthed baby kisses. He used to call me "PossumFrog" and tell me, "You needn't growl. You can't bite. You have no teeth." But then I grew teeth, bit him, and he had to stop telling me that. He says that on that day, his PossumFrog crawled over to him in the dank belly of that mine, kissed him on the cheek, sadly, as though she were saying goodbye. Dad says I immediately disappeared. Cold chills ran up and down his spine and his stomach felt extra ill. He spoke to Arvil, telling him they had to get out of there. Arvil growled but he followed Dad out, if nothing else so he could be heard while he was complaining. They made it out in the sunlight and dad felt the sick in his stomach begin to abate some. They made their way up a hill and sat under a tree not far from the mouth of the mine. It was a hot day and the light was nearly blinding to two men that had spent so much time in pitch darkness. Arvil was raking my father over the coals about dragging him outside when they both heard a rumble deep under the ground, like Mother Earth was having her own stomach ache. Arvil hushed his complaining. Then they heard a loud crash and, after a long moment,  dirt and coal dust billowed from the mouth of the mine. Later, they explored the area and found that the very spot my dad and Arvil had been working had fallen in on itself. There would have been no pulling their bodies out for a funeral if Arvil and Dad had been there when it happened. Arvil didn't growl another grow about Dad and his crazy ideas. To this day, Dad says I saved his life, and I believe he is not lying and not beating around any bush. For all my forty-odd years the story has not changed. When he says I saved his life, I usually give him the same reply, "Well... I needed you." Because I did and do. I'd give my life for that man, a thousand times over, and if it is humanly (or spiritly) possible to send your soul to warn someone, I'd warn my daddy. I trust my daddy, and he has told me repeatedly that this actually happened. So, I believe in the unbelievable, and I thank God (who some find equally unbelievable) for whatever crazy thing happened in that mine that day. I was blessed. I was given a chance to know and love a very impressive and wonderful man.
Go tell it on the Mountain!

ONLY THE NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED

"Eye See You"
Photo by Skitch

THEN & NOW:

Only The Names Have Been Changed 

"Ladies and gentlemen: the story you are about to hear is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent." And if you recognize that quote, you're likely not as innocent as you were when you settled down in front of that show (you know which show) many years ago, but you are not alone in that, and you are very welcome here. Please, settle down in front of my blog. Sit a spell. (That's Appalachian for "stay a while.")



I've been told by some friends and acquaintances that I should write a blog. Basically, I've been told that until I caved, so here I am, writing a blog. I hope they are very happy. Three of these people were a niece, a cousin, and a step-daughter.

It is worth noting that all these people are related to me (Can we say biased, boys and girls?) ... aaaand they are crazy...

It is also worth noting that I sometimes type like Captain Kirk talks. Get used to it or go read another blog. I know several good ones that are written by people that don't type like Captain Kirk talks, so shoot me a message if you need a referral.

There were a few things that made me think writing a blog might not be the best move in the world for me.

1.) Do I really want people that don't know me (and people that do know me) reading about my life, and thoughts, and struggles? Though I certainly know how to be loud and obnoxious when I want to, I am actually a very private introvert at heart.

2.) Where the heck do you start when your life has been one crazy roller coaster ride after another that could maybe support a dozen blogs?

And

3.) Do you write under your own name or use a pen name?

Since people keep bringing up the blog idea, I've pondered these questions off and on, and I finally came to these conclusions:

A.) The names will be changed to protect the innocent. "A Skitch by any other name," as they say. I have a load of nicknames (Skitch, & Dee Dee, & Dido, & Possumfrog, & more) I will go by those. Other people's names may be changed if and when I deem it needful. I don't really expect that no one will figure out who I 'really' am. I don't mind if my friends and family know. (As a matter of fact, you can bet your boobies I'll be emailing these blogs to some of the people that kept telling me I should write one! "Here, see what you did! I hope you're happy now!") And since family and friends are the ones that it would be very hard to remain anonymous with, I guess I'm not too worried about my secret identity. Which makes me one up on every superhero in comic book history except that nervy "Iron Man" guy.

B.) Today is as good a time as any.

And..

C.) See first answer ^

So, in this introductory blog let me see if I can sum up who and what I am just a little. I am:
Earthling
Human
Female

American
Appalachian

Virginian
40 something
Indigo Alpha
Spiritual (Lean toward Christian but without all the Crusade/Iraq War crap. Make love not war! Maybe I'm a hippy Christian?!)
Creative (author, potter, artist, photographer, and more)
Experienced (Have experience at being: a daughter, a sister, a cousin, a niece, an aunt, a friend, a wife and (best of all) a mother. I have two grown sons that are the absolute apples of my eye. Motherhood saved my life and possibly my soul.) I have six step-children that I also adore with all my broken heart.
Inquisitive
Open minded
Currently a call center worker
Pet owner (one dog, part Staffordshire Bull Terrier/part Black Lab named Sophie, and one cat (Her Divine Empress Never to be Disobeyed) part Siamese/part who-knows-which-cat-met-the-Siamese-under-the-shrubs, named Ghita)
Gardener
Cook
Crafter

A few (hopefully) interesting facts about me:
* I created and ran a newspaper advice column when I was 15 years old.

* I have been diagnosed with Dyslexia, Dyscalculia, and Dysthymia. The psychiatrist also claimed I had Mixed Dominance and a poor attention span, but I think both of those last two are likely just offshoots of the Dyslexia. Even doctors don't know everything, right?

* I have also struggled with Dissociative identity disorder (DID), commonly known as multiple personality disorder (MPD). Which has been around a lot longer than "Sybil," though most people don't realize that.

* I have endured a lot of painful conditions and accidents: second and third degree burns, kidney stones, shingles, knee surgery, arthritis, an ectopic pregnancy, two spinal taps, and lots of migraine headaches (though I haven't had one in years, thank God!)

* I smoked a pipe now and then from the time I was three years old until I was about twelve.

 * When I was a baby, before I could even sit up on my own, my mother says she would prop me up with pillows, prop a book in front of me (she swears, no pictures) and I would sit contentedly while she cooked or washed dishes. She says I would run my finger along the page like I was reading and babble in goofy baby talk. And if you're calling me a liar now, brace yourself if you come back. My dad tells a story about me that's even more unbelievable than that one, and we'll try get into it next time. My parents are now 80 & 75. I thank the Creator for all my loved ones every day, and I know I am extra blessed to have two living parents.


NOW:
March 6, 2013/Colder than Blue Blazes
Today I was off work for the third day in a row. I work four ten hour shifts in a call center. Not the greatest job in the world for a creative, outdoorsy type, but it pays the bills and provides benefits for me and mine. I've got my eye peeled for something I would enjoy more and still be able to do things like eat and buy bars of bath soap. Maybe someday I will even be able to quit my day job but tomorrow is not that day.:( Still, I work with some good people and I only have to work four days and then I can enjoy another stretch of three days off. 

It was snowing today and I'm usually a big fan of winter. I love watching the snow, cooking a pot of soup, baking homemade bread, reading a book snuggled under a quilt my mother made, drinking tea or coffee. Winter rocks! But I am over it at this point because this winter has been cold but not pretty. I like rain more than the average Joe... Okay, I like rain a LOT. I love thunderstorms in the summer, drizzly days in the spring, and those days in the autumn when the leaves are dancing in the wind and rain; those are my absolute favorites. In the winter I prefer snow. Snow is pretty, poetically silent, and it brushes off my coat before I go inside. Also, we usually get lots of rainy days in the other seasons, but winter is the only time we have to enjoy the snow. So, bring on the snow! But it's rained too much this winter. We've only had two snows that actually amounted to much and a couple of ice storms that I would have enjoyed more if I could've stayed indoors, but I could not. Had to go to work.

So, I went outside and scattered potting soil over the snow in the flower bed, whether it liked it or not. Whether the cold likes it or not, I'm ready for spring. I'm ready to garden. My seed catalogs arrived in the mailbox today, so I'm assuming the postman agrees. It's time for spring!

I also, wrote an essay about a haunting experience I had as a young girl. Wanna read it? 'Cause if you keep coming back you just may be asked to. There, I gave you fair warning. 

I spent a lot of the day trying to avoid the drama some of my family and friends have stirred up on Facebook... Do you have to do that? ... Please say, "Yes"! I'd hate to think we're the only ones!

And I wrote this crazy blog thing that people keep harping about. There, I hope you like it...

Thanks for reading.
Catch You Next Time Maybe,
Skitch

Photo by Skitch"Spring Thaw" 2013