TANYA

Photo: Tanya my childhood best friend
my niece
my almost-sister
the kid I whooped many people over
& would whoop a million more 
my "Friday Night Girl"

THEN (mostly):                                       


    One of the best things that happened in my life was when my much beloved sister gave birth to a girl child and named her Tanya. As soon as I recovered from the disappointment of being an aunt instead of an uncle (which I thought could have happened if only that baby had been born a boy!) I tried to make the best of things and get to know the new person. She didn't do much, but lie around all the time. She didn't have much to say, and when she said it she said it loudly and it was completely incomprehensible. But it felt good to hold her in my seven year old arms. She was warm, and soft, and better than any doll or teddy I'd ever held. It also felt good inside my heart when she rested contentedly against me, as though I were a grown up and worthy of being responsible for something, some ONE very precious. I was far from grown up, however, and there were times over the years when I'm sure I let my sweet niece down. I didn't quite know what to do for her, especially when she was still tiny and seemed to cry for no reason at all. After she grew up some and began to talk I was able to do a better job of being her aunt, better but never great. What a cross to bear, being my plaything, but most of the time she bore it with a grace-filled spirit and a deep and tolerant love for me.

    As she got older we grew closer, and I came to love her accepting heart with every fiber of my being. She was often my brightest ray of sunshine. I've never been loved any more beautifully than she loved me, trusted any more fully, or heeded any quicker. She would have walked through fire for me, immediately and without question, and I returned that trust with a fierce protectiveness. I would have walked through fire for her as well, but the only fire I faced for her were a few unfortunate boys that thought it might prove entertaining to pull Tanya's long hair, or shoot at her with their b.b. guns. They were wrong, and I saw to it that they found out just how wrong they were! I was in so many fights with boys that I lost count, and most of them were over Tanya. It fired me up quicker than the Fourth of July for anyone to be mean to her!

    It was a rare Friday evening that didn't find her trudging up a mountain or a stairway with thirty-two steps to be with me, and me smiling, dashing out to meet her with news, and ideas, and excitement. We were together nearly every day that school was not in session and sometimes in the evenings after school. Closer than most sisters, thicker than the thievingest thieves, like peanut butter and jelly, we stuck together. I didn't make friends that would not allow her to tag along on all our adventures. I didn't waste time with boys that thought she was in the way. And if someone failed to realize that I was cooler than sliced bread they were quickly met with Tanya's complete disdain. We rarely disagreed, never argued, and either of us would have taken a beating before striking or hurting the other.

Photo: "The Trio"

    They say the best and worst things in life come in threes, and our cousin Ramona seemed to prove that theory out. She completed our trio. She fit snuggly between my age and Tanya's and perfectly into all our activities. Thanks to Tanya and Ramona I was blessed with many days that were not lonely. Once in a while, my wonderfully funny and rambunctious nephew, Johnny was along for the ride, but more often than not he was spending time with his daddy. Some days, it was just Tanya and me, occasionally just Ramona and me, but most of the time, it was the three of us against the world and all things that were not tied down. Together we proved that females could do anything they wanted. Of course, if something was boring or overly difficult, we simply didn't want to do it! We learned how to be as adventurous as only boys were (usually) encouraged to be, and as affectionate as any parent hopes their daughter might become. We climbed trees and did make-up. We played house; I was always the dad because I was the bossiest. We played cowboys and Indians but soon just played different tribes of Indians because no one wanted to be a cowboy when you could be a perfectly good wild Indian! Sometimes we specifically pretended we were Pocahontas, John Smith, and John Rolfe. Ramona, as our girly girl, was almost always Pocahontas. Sometimes we imagined we were Tom Sawyer, Huck Fin, and Jim, floating down the Mississippi. The couch or a big rock in the woods worked well as our imaginary raft. We dreamed up adventures against goblins that lived in the heating vents or crawled around under the ground, and we survived fake world wide apocalypses and battled the resulting zombies before we'd ever seen a zombie movie or even heard that term. We called them some name that I no longer remember, but was sure then that it was sufficiently foreign and formidable sounding. We rode bikes and jumped rope.  We played with b.b. guns and taught each other patty-cake games. We sang along with the radio and played the same records over and over until my sister Sandi begged for mercy. With our parents complete knowledge, and obvious humor, we smoked pipes and hand rolled cigarettes filled with "rabbit tobacco". We leg wrestled, and thumb wrestled with each other. We wrestled neighborhood boys with all our body and might. While living up on the mountain, if we were out playing in the middle of the day and decided we were hungry, we ate wild strawberries, birch bark, teaberry leaves, pawpaws, and ground cherries. We drank from the spring. We gave our jaws a work out on frozen snack cakes that my parents bought at the discount bread store and stuck in the freezer before mold could set in. We rode in the back of a pick up truck as long as the weather would allow. In the day we'd stand up and our long hair would twist in the wind until it had formed into knots that we'd have to help each other brush out. The worst ones Sandi would have to fight out of our hair before bed. We even rode in the back of the truck at night. Sometimes standing up, but usually we would spread out a blanket to lie on, then we would lie down and cover up with another blanket or a thick quilt. We'd watch the tree branches whiz by, and the stars travel along with us. The whole world was with us. I sometimes asked them to imagine what it would be like to slip up through the sky, through the atmosphere, past the moon and Mars, and travel among the brilliant stars. In those moments, and many others, I often told them stories, long imaginative tales that sometimes frightened and always entertained and delighted them. I did not know those stories had made an impact until Tanya, many years later, wrote about them for a school assignment. She sent me the paper after she received a good grade on it. How fierce and free we were! We lived childhood wild and wonderful! I sometimes imagine that Heaven is filled with eternal children in an everlasting summer. If that is true then we will fit right in. If it is true, then Tanya, Ramona, and I will be girls again together someday, and the stars and the whole universe will be with us.


For a while, as adults, we remained close. Tanya had two sons, Ramona had one daughter, and I had two sons. We all became so busy that we weren't physically together very often. Still, I really believed that, at any time, one of us could call the others and the other two would drop everything to be there for the one that was in need.

Ramona and I are still very close. We call, and text, and keep connected on "the world wide web" (as we old timers say.) I'm pretty sure she would be there for me if she ever got one of those "I need you" calls, and I know I'd drop everything to go to her if she reached out. For reasons I don't and may never understand, Tanya has cut me completely out of her life. As best I can wrap my brain around the events, she felt that the family was not supportive enough of her marriage. I think she believes we (rather collectively) do not like or even love her husband. Nothing could be further from the truth. I miss him nearly as much as I do Tanya and their wonderful boys, my great-nephews. Most of us have not seen or heard from her or her family in over four years. She is in contact with her brother and his family but not her mother, Sandi, Tanya's sisters, and not me. For years she didn't even see my parents but she now goes occasionally for a brief visit. If her sisters run into her in public, she hurries away, pulling their nephew or nephews along with her. I have not chanced across her, but I've written, I've called, I've contacted through social networks, only to be rejected or ignored. After years of my questioning why she would not reply to me? What did I do? What could I do to fix things? I was simply told, "Your words once meant something to me, but now you are no more than a stranger to me and to my sons." I cried for days. I have begged her to tell me why. Mutual friends tell me that she puts memes on her social network sites, from which I have been blocked, about forgiveness, and Jesus, and not judging others because you never know what battles they are fighting. I can't help wishing she would forgive me whatever she is angry at me for, that she would not judge me, that she would love me like I love her.

Photo: Tanya and Skitch

Often I think the worse part is that she won't tell me what I did to deserve her disdain, or perhaps even hatred. I have this optimistic spirit that screams if I only knew what she was angry about I could explain it, I could fix it. I can't imagine what I did. I was not even living close when the rift began. But perhaps that is it: I left my hometown when I was 18 and Tanya eleven, not long before that I had married a military man. Tanya begged me not to go. It was the first time I had ever refused her something she wanted so much that it left her in tears. Tanya was tough, and so infrequently cried that her tears would rock you. I thought my future was with that man I'd married, and I tried to explain that to her. I felt so confident that time and distance could never steal from Tanya and me what we had in our hearts, that we would always be closer than most sisters, that we would always be family. When she saw that I was determined to leave, she begged me to take her with me. I knew her mother would not allow it, and I could not imagine coming between Tanya and my sister. Again, I turned her down. I tried to gently tell her that her place, for now, was with her mommy. Thinking back, I understand that night paved the way for Tanya to, many years later, turn her back on me. Perhaps I am getting no more than I deserve, but I cannot help pointing out that I never refused to speak with her, to be her family, to love her. To this day I would give my life for this woman that will not, as the old saying goes, "piss on me if I was on fire". I did try to explain to her that I wanted more than anything to take her with me, but I could not ask that of her mom, and her mother would never allow it anyway. Later when I was communicating with her unexpected cold shoulder, I told her that, by following my own dreams of marriage and children, I now had my sons that she and I both adore. (She does still talk to my sons if she sees them. They called her "Sissy" all through their childhood.) I pointed out that she has her sons that we both adore. I don't think reason and logic have ever erased the pain of being abandoned by me when she was so young. If I had it do over, what would I do differently? What could I do differently? I don't know. I can't imagine that I would avoid marriage with my first husband. I need those very sons that I now have. They have repeatedly saved my spirit and probably my literal life by waking me up to what I should be doing. I know Lila would not have allowed Tanya to go with me, but perhaps there could have been more visits going both directions. I feel certain that, if Lila and I both knew then what we know now, we'd work it out for the better. At the time, I felt it was enough that I took her with me in my heart. Apparently, it was only enough for me. I admit, I don't know what I would do differently, but I know I would do something differently. I must have my sons, but I also need and love that dear niece of mine, and my heart is heavy knowing that I ever hurt her.

For the longest time, the depression over the loss of her (and others I love who also largely do not talk to me) nearly buried me. And then I realized that no one can ever take my memories from me. No one can take that little girl niece, that teenage niece, that young adult niece. I've learned to hold to those memories fiercely, and finally realized that I don't know what the future holds. Perhaps her heart will soften again. Perhaps one day she will truly love me as I once thought she did. I remind myself, it is only today that I must be strong. And for now, the memories are still mine and they are enough. I cherish those laughing eyes, the radiant brown curls, the feel of her little hand in mine, the sound of her voice asking as many questions as there are stars in the sky, the absurd sense of humor she grew into, the heart that was then so gentle, the spirit that was always bold. Nothing on this Earth can take that from me and nothing in Heaven ever would.

  

Written by Tanya

WHAT DREAMS MAY COME

Photo: "Eight Cents"
By Skitch

THEN:

Dreams are a fascinating subject for me.  Since I have a great long term memory, I put that to use and collect my dreams like many people collect stamps or postcards. (Which I also collect, by the by.) From time to time, I pour my dreams out of my head and look them over, like glass marbles in my hand. 

The earliest dream I can remember I had when I was between two and three and we were living in what we dubbed "The White House", simply because it was the only house my family ever lived in that was painted white. I was much older before I realized it was a tongue in cheek kind of saying. I told some kids at school that something happened when my family lived in The White House and they laughed good naturedly. That was when I realized that most people thought of the president's home when you said that. In this dream I thought that my mother was a witch, complete with gray skin, warts, and a nose as pointy as her hat. We must have watched The Wizard of Oz recently. I dreamed that she chased me through our house, that I managed to get a bit ahead of her, and I hid behind the bedroom door. When she came into the room she pulled the door forward and looked behind it with her evil, beady eyes. I screamed and woke up. My mother tried to comfort me but I would have none of it. I wanted my daddy and mother was offended, angry that I was saying, "You are a witch, Mommy." Daddy chastised me for hurting Mother's feelings, and I tried to wrap my young brain around the idea that what I had just dreamed was not real.

Not long after that, and at the same home, I dreamed that Daddy and I were outside our house when people ran up and started telling Dad that a monster was out; that it was looking for people to eat. They ran away in a panic. Dad took a ketchup bottle and said, "We'll put this on us and that old monster will think we're already dead and no good to eat. He'll pass us up and go on looking for someone he can kill." It sounded like a fabulous plan to me. Then Daddy squirted the ketchup all over his stomach, but when he started to put some on me the bottle was empty. He grabbed a mustard bottle and squirted that on my stomach instead. As I sometimes did as a little girl, I was not even wearing a shirt. Just underpants or shorts, I don't recall which. I was upset with the mustard. I was not convinced that would work as well, but Dad said it would. We heard the monster coming and Daddy told me to lie down, close my eyes, and not to move or even breathe. The monster was gigantic! Taller than our house! As best I can recall this monster looked a lot like the Abominable Snowman from the Rudolph cartoon. Through barely slitted eyes my dream-self watched him look over my father, sniff him, and pass him by. I was so relieved that my daddy did not get eaten, but now I was worried for myself. The monster came to me and I could feel his hot breath on my bare skin. He sniffed me and instead of walking on, he picked me up in his big clawed hands and sniffed my stomach again. He began to lick the mustard from me, and I struggled to remain silent and unmoving. I knew that at any moment he could take a huge bite out of my stomach. I lost my courage and I woke up screaming. I had been asleep in "the back bedroom" of our home. It was evening and dark but not yet bedtime. I knew this because all the adults were yet milling around the house. The window in the room I was sleeping in had been left open to lessen the sweltering summer heat. My mother came when I cried and picked me up. She carried me from the spooky nightmare room to the warm yellow light of the kitchen, and suddenly I was surrounded by many of the comforting adults that filled my days. Daddy was there, and one of my sisters, though I can't recall which. They made the comforting sounds that adults make for crying children. I was babbling about a monster eating the mustard and they said things, too lightly, like: "She must have had a nightmare, poor thing." I could hear humor in their voices and though it infuriated me a bit, it wasn't at all funny that I was about to be eaten by a mustard loving giant monster, it also calmed me. They would not laugh if I were in any real danger. I knew that. Momma said to my father, "Honey look! No wonder she was having nightmares; she's covered in mosquito bites!" My skin was tight and itchy and I was bathed in a film of sweat. Mom wiped me down with a cool cloth and put medicine on the bug bites. She admonished me not to scratch. Dad or my sister brought me something to drink. I told my father about my dream and he said. "Dee Dee, it was just a bad dream. There are no monsters, but if there was and we only had a little bit of ketchup I'd put it on you first and I'd try the mustard on me. Don't you know that?" I drank the cold orange kool-aid, listened to the crickets outside, and thought about dreams, and life, and my family.

The next dream I remember having was at "The Trailer" and I was six or seven. We had two horses that I claimed as my own and no one ever disagreed with me. Lila had named them before she got married at the ripe old age of 15, when I was five. She named the tall skinny one Gideon, and the shorter but stouter one Goliath. We also had two black cats that she had named Midnight and Tar Baby. I thought that Lila gave animals the best names. That night I dreamed that mom, dad, and I were having a picnic in our yard. This is not something I'd ever done but in the dream it seemed perfectly normal. It was a beautiful day, and I was playing nearby as we'd finished eating. Mom and Dad were talking and smiling at one another. Gideon was tied to the hitching post nearby and suddenly he began to grow, and grow, and grow. As he grew, his breathing became louder and louder. As he breathed louder I could breathe less. I remember thinking, "He's sucking all the air out of the world!" I tried to scream but couldn't draw a full breath of air. I startled awake, sucking in a large amount of air through my mouth, and discovered that my nose was so stuffed up from a head cold that I could not breath through it. That was when I first discovered the connection between what is going on in the real world and what goes on in your dreams.

At about the same time and in that home, I had my first hypinc jerk. I dreamed that my best friend Randall (Ran) and I were riding our horses and being chased by "Indians". By this time in my life, I'd spent some time watching Daniel Boone and The Lone Ranger with my daddy and Ran and I played cowboys and Indians all the time. In this dream, I was shot in the side by an Indian arrow, and as I fell from my horse I jolted awake. I knew instantly that I'd only been asleep for a second or two and I marveled at how quickly we dream.

When I was about nine or ten and living "Up on the Hill" (which was actually a mountain) I dreamed a horrible dream about a pig. I thought it was chasing me through our home, and I knew it wanted to eat me, or something even worse. I crawled up on top of things but it was so big it could knock furnishings over and that is just what it did. Everything I climbed it knocked over. In desperation I ran outside, thinking I could get on top of the hen house and it could not knock that down. The pig caught me before I made it to the hen house though. It knocked me down in the dirt yard. It sat on me and began to chant and sway. Before my eyes it turned into a fat foreign man. (Perhaps it was Buddha?) I knew it was the devil or some agent for the devil. I knew it was trying to destroy me body and soul. I woke up more frightened than I had ever been from any dream. At that time in my life, my mother had warned me about devil worshipers that she had heard were kidnapping young blond little girls and sacrificing them. There was also some talk in church about The Mark of the Beast. I knew even then that those two things had played into that dream but it still terrified me for years afterward. 


Dreams That (in part) Came True:

In my teens, while living "Behind the Paylo" (Supermarket) I dreamed a few dreams that had portions that later came true. I dreamed that I was in a cave and a young boy was brandishing a broom at me like a weapon. The next day Lila brought her nephew Dexter over and he picked up a broom and tried to hit me with it. I took it from him easily enough but could not shake the cold sweat that crawled over my skin when I remembered the same incident in the dream of the night before. I told Sandi and Lila but they shook it off as coincidental. I was not so sure. No, I was not in a cave, no he wasn't the exact same person, but the fierce look in his eyes, the stance, even the angle of the broom, all had been identical to the dream.

Several times, I dreamed of faces and later saw them in passing. Sandi said it was a twist on dé javu. I saw the face today and filled it into the dream memory, convincing myself that I had seen the same face in the dream the night before. I was not convinced. Why would I do that? But I did not deem it worthy of an argument with my wonderful sister. 

Twice I dreamed of having eight kids, five girls and three boys. In the first dream I was having babies but so were several other young women. I had a daughter then had to jump up and let the attending women ( possibly midwives) help the next girl with her delivery, and so on,  around and around in a line until I had eight children of my own, laid out on a dirty mattress. I had five girls and three boys. I looked at them all with a heart filled with love, and more than a little fear. The next day, Greg, my boyfriend and future husband, tossed coins at me playfully when I would not get up off my bed and come see what he wanted to show me. They landed, as he intended I am sure, between my legs. I picked them up and counted one nickel and three pennies. I was reminded of my dream and told him about it. He laughed it off. "If you have eight kids," he said, "It will not be with me! I want two kids: one boy and one girl. No more." 

In the second dream of eight kids my husband and I were readying to take them somewhere. We were trying to put them all in a truck. Car seats at that time were very new, but I was insisting that all my babies be in car seats so they would be safe. My husband and I were strapping car seats into the truck bench, into the floor, and hanging from the door of the truck. I had three little daughters in frilly blue dresses that had identical little faces and heads simply full of brown curls. I had two other younger daughters, and three sons, all of varying ages except for the triplets. They were all beautiful, all sweet. I remember being so proud of them as I scooped them each up and strapped them safely into their seats. Nothing untoward happened the next day, so I only remembered the dream because it had been pleasant and had reminded me of the other dream. Years later, after having two sons with Greg, I met and married a man that had triplet daughters, two more daughters, and one son. I now have eight beautiful children that I face with a heart filled with love and more than a little fear. I am very proud of each and every one of them. They are capable of great kindness and selflessness. They are intelligent and beautiful, and they can be so humorous, so witty. It is hard being a step-parent under the best of conditions and our conditions are far from ideal, but I would give my life for any one of them, and I'm so glad they are part of my family!


Recurring Dreams:

As an adult I've had a few dreams or themes that recur. I used to dream of finding the same frightening face staring back at me from a hiding spot in my home when I was checking to make sure everything was safe. This one troubled me a lot for a time, as I have had faces that seemed to come out of my dreams and settle into my reality. After I time, I did not dream his face up anymore and eventually the fear left me, but I still remember that face. Part of me thinks that I may yet stumble upon him, but he has waited too long if I do. I no longer fear him. I have much to live for. I am sure to win.

I have had nightmares in which I lose my teeth, usually the front ones. I have had dreams of falling from a great height in which I startle awake. I've dreamed of being caught in a tight spot, usually under a house. None of these dreams trouble me anymore but did for ages while I was re-visited by them. I have not had any of these in over a decade. 

On a happier note, I've dreamed of my favorite actor, Kevin Costner, multiple times. Now, now! Usually they are quite mundane even boring dreams in which we are walking together, or having lunch, talking and laughing.

The dream that visits me repeatedly these days is my favorite. I dream of moving into a home so huge I'm quickly lost in it. I can't figure out how to get from one area to another, but I'm having fun trying. Usually in these dreams the kids are younger and are going through picking out bedrooms. We are together, happy, and filled with hope for the future. It is a very good dream. 

Possibly the oddest dream I've ever had was one about a pig, not a big, mean pig this time, but a sweet, little, pink piggy that, in my dream, I loved very much. The dream was so real to me that I missed him all day after I awoke. I mourned for a pig I'd never really known. How crazy is that?

I have dreams in which I am myself and dreams in which I am others. I've dreamed, more than once, of being a man, more than once of being black, and I always dream in color. I've dreamed of bright yellow dresses, red blood, and fields of blue flowers. Most of my dreams are complete stories. My husband says I dream movies in my head. Many of my favorite novel ideas have come from my dreams. I've toyed with the idea that some of the dreams are from past lives or from some psychic connection with other people, living or dead. Who knows? Who has all the answers in this life? Certainly not me! But I am truly enjoying the quest that the questions provoke. I'm truly enjoying my life. I hope you are too!

Sweet Dreams to you and yours!