HOW I PRAY

NOW:

    On very rare nights, I fall asleep before I even begin my prayers. I try to avoid that, but occasionally my mind is trying to finish thinking something out, and the next thing I know it is morning.

    Most nights, I at least say the Lord's Prayer, as that is the prayer Jesus taught us. I learned that one by heart of my own volition when I was about twelve. It adorned the wall over the stairway at my church and the words touched my heart, so much that I tucked them away inside it.

    Usually, the Lord's Prayer is followed by my own personal prayers. If I am especially troubled, thankful, or awake, I also say a prayer that I taught myself when I was about fourteen. It is called simply, "Thank You Lord". This one I found on the wall of Edith's office. Edith was the social worker that handled my family's food stamp case. She loved me and I her. I used to draw birds for her and she encouraged my artistic pursuits with praise that seemed honest and yet a little lavish. The words from the prayer on her wall spoke to my heart so firmly that I felt I had to hold onto them, to own them, and so I memorized them and loved them from that day on.

    If I am completely exhausted and not sure I will stay awake through even the Lord's Prayer, I begin with the child's prayer: Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake. I pray the Lord my soul to take...

    Most nights I say a full prayer that goes like this:

    Our Father Who art in Heaven, 
    Hallowed be Thy name. 
    Thy kingdom come, 
    Thy will be done, 
    In Earth as it is in Heaven. 
    Give us this day, 
    Our daily bread, 
    And forgive us our debts, 
    As we forgive or debtors. 
    Lead us not, 
    Into temptation, 
    But deliver us from evil, 
    For thine is the kingdom, 
    And the Power, 
    And the Glory, 
    Forever...

    Father God, I thank You for being not only my God and my Creator, but especially for being my Father! What a mercy! What a blessing! What a gift, to be family with You!

    Thank You for Your son, Jesus, who lived, suffered, and died for me and mine! What a humbling sacrifice that we can never deserve!

    Thank You for the Holy Ghost, who is here for us in this time of separation and great need!

    Thank You for all good angels, in Heaven and in Earth. For Heaven's splendor and Earth's beauty. For all good angels encamped around the children of God. What a sweet and comforting thought!

    Thank You for all good people, in Heaven and in Earth. Please help us to realize that we, as Your children, are all family.

    Thank You for the people I love and need, for those that make life here better and help me find the strength to focus on good works in Your name.

    (As I thank God for my loved ones, I imagine their faces. I see them doing what I think they may be up to at that moment, sleeping, playing video games, brushing their teeth, reading stories to their little ones, etc.)

    I thank You so much for my husband, WadeO. For my sons Cory, Liam, and Justin. For my daughter in law,Julie, and my grand kids, Lilly, Noah, and Jackson. I thank You for the close relationship my boys have. Please help them to strengthen that, to stay each other's best friends here in this difficult place. I thank You for my step daughters, and I pray You will soften their hearts toward their dad and toward me. Thank You for their partners. Bless my adorable grandkids, please and help them to find and follow You.

    (When I am feeling strong, I list my step daughters and their partners individually, but most often it hurts too much to think that deeply of them, it brings their rejection to the surface of my strained and battered heart.)

    Thank You so much for my mommy and daddy, for Sandi, Lila, Paul, and Mary. Thank You for my nieces and nephews, great nephews and great nieces, and my great great niece.

    (Here, I usually go on to list my two sister's kids and their children individually, and I list several of my in laws: sister in laws, brother in laws, nieces, and nephews. I usually list some from my first marriage as well, imagining them all snug in their beds or kidding their children goodnight, etc. but I will leave their names out of this account this time.)

    Thank You Great God Almighty for Aunt Nancy, Barbara and Elmer, and Leona and all their kids, grand kids, and great grand kids. For all my aunties, (I have no uncle's left) for all my cousins, relatives, family, and friends.

    Thank You Father, for life, love, laughter, learning, and liberty... for health, happiness, hope, home, hearth, honor, honesty, and humbleness... for safety, salvation, and sanity... for faith, family, friends, and freedom... for Goodness and glory... for mercy and mindfulness, peace and plenty, wisdom and wonder.

    Thank You for motherhood and for the wind.

    Please forgive me, my Father, for anything I have ever said or done that offended You or goodness. I pray You forgive me all my flaws, shortcomings, and sins.

    Please help my children. Please be with them and bless them always. Teach them and guide them. Please comfort them. Help them to know they are never alone. I know they are Your children as they are mine. Don't let them forget that!

    I pray You will look down on us, Father God. Please strengthen the weak, comfort the lonely, heal the sick. Help us live as children of the King, of the Most High God.

    (Here, I pray for any current needs. Right now my friend Nancy is on that list and so are good life mates for Cory and Will.)

    Please be with my sweet friend Nancy and help her win this battle against cancer. We need more people like her on this side of Paradise, people willing to do good, willing to love. Please help her find the strength to defeat cancer and to be with us for many years to come.

    Please help Co and Will find good, God fearing women that will be helpmates for my sons, and that will allow my sons to help them as well. Please send them women that will love them, hold them, laugh with them, teach them, and learn from them. Send them women with strong character, good hearts, and that will make sweet conversations with my sons up until their old age. Please send them women that will seek goodness and that will be good mothers to my future grandchildren. And thank You so very much for Justin's Julie, who is all these marvelous things! I know that Justin and Jackson are in such good hands!

    If it can be Thy will, but in all things, always, Thy will be done.

    Thank You Lord, 
    For each new day You give to me, 
    For Earth and sky, and sand, and sea, 
    For rainbows after springtime showers, 
    Autumn leaves and summer flowers, 
    For winter snow scapes so serene, 
    Harvest fields of gold and green, 
    Stars that twinkle high above, 
    And all the people that I love!

    (And I fall asleep feeling very relaxed and very blessed!)

WHAT YOU CAN DO FOR ME NOW

    NOW:


    I have had several brushes with death in my 48 years. I fought a tough battle with meningitis. I nearly drowned. I have survived two natural births (those do still kill some women) an ectopic pregnancy, kidney stones (those I only THOUGHT were killing me!) and a few "face explosions".

    Every time I get close to death I panic, but when I was closest to death (the first face explosion when they gave me too many medications and I "bottomed out" and the near drowning) a warm and tender calm wrapped itself around me. It was almost like being high. I was fine, dude! Death was no big deal.

    Sometimes, I worry, just a little, that maybe my feelings about God and my belief are all unfounded and I will simply cease to be. I only worry a little about that though because in the time before I was born there was nothing to be afraid of or worried about. If death is just the reversal of birth, it is still nothing to fear. Usually this fear comes after a brush with death or before it. During the brush I think of you...
In the panic before the calm,  I worry about my family. I worry that my sonnies still need me, that I might yet be of some decent service to them in the future, if only I can stick around. I worry that they don't really know how much I love them. I'm concerned that, without me to remind them, they will undervalue themselves and not take good care of my sons. I fear they may lose sight of God if I am not there to remind them how much He loves them. What a hard, frightening, and lonely place I think this Earth would be without Faith!

    I worry that my husband will be lonely, that he may somehow blame himself or wish he had done something/everything differently. I worry he won't know that I knew he loved me and gave me the best of himself every day.

    I'm concerned that my family will suffer and be sad. That my parents may not be able to survive the loss of another daughter, that my sisters will feel the pain so much they will forget the pleasure we had being sisters, forget how to smile. I worry that those that rejected me: my wonderful niece/sister/daughter/friend Tanya, and my brilliant and beautiful step daughters, may feel guilty.

    I don't want to leave a legacy of pain, and grief, and guilt!

    So, I am asking you all now:
    Know that I LOVE (no 'ed' on the end of that word, now or ever) you all more than I, a practiced wordsmith, could ever express!
Know that I know you love me, or did love me, or could have loved me, or would have loved me. Know that what you gave me was enough, that I never held a grudge and would never want you to be sad or feel any guilt. Know that I went out of this world loving you, and accepting you, and praying for you every day.
Know that I want you to celebrate my life or wait in peace until you can celebrate my life.

    Know that I will see you again, or that it will cease to matter. Either option is not so bad, eh? Though I lean mightily toward the afterlife that I've studied and felt. I FEEL loved and God makes more sense to me than "the belief that there was nothing and nothing happened to nothing and then nothing exploded for no reason, creating everything, and then a bunch of everything magically rearranged itself for no reason what so ever into self-replicating bits which then turned into dinosaurs." (Yes, I stole that from the Atheist meme.) Because of my own feeling of being loved and watched all my days, because everything from nothing for no reason doesn't make much sense to me, because many things have happened to me that only the existence of God explains (angels and miracles, some might call them) because of the feeling of well being that I slipped into when closest to death, because Faith is better than Fear, because I believe there is something to the accounts from all over the world reporting such similar stories about what happens after death, because of all this and more, I lean mightily toward the idea of a loving God and an illuminating afterlife. I invite you all to study NDEs. Read Betty J. Eadie. Her account makes more sense to me than any other, though I love Danion Brinkley's story and many others as well. Keep your eye on Dr. Sam Parnia. I have a feeling that he may yet blow the lid off of the idea of death. Throw yourself into this or some other worthy project or subject. Be busy learning and loving.

    Watch The Five People You Meet in Heaven. The message is best summed up by this quote: " Life has to end, ... Love doesn't. "Marguerite also says, "Lost love is still love, Eddie. It just takes a different form, that's all. You can't hold their hand... You can't tousle their hair... But when those senses weaken another one comes to life... Memory... Memory becomes your partner. You hold it... you dance with it... Life has to end, Eddie... Love doesn't. "

    When you miss me a lot, focus on you. See a counselor, join a grief support group, take a bubble bath, or a Tylenol PM followed by a good night's rest. Take a nap or a drive. Watch your favorite movie. Read a great book. Have a good cry and pull yourself together. There is no shame in grief, but you cannot let it dissolve you.

    When you miss me a little, focus on me, go read the poems, and essays, and stories I left for you. You will find me there. Forgive me if you find the old me, the one full of hurt and anger. Focus on the me that was better at loving. Read my poemish thing "I Have Lived." Read "Before and After". Read "I Love You More". Read "The Next Day". Read them all if you want, or none of them, or one of them. Follow your head and your heart. It's all good!

    I hope you will help each other minimize the loss:

    Sons, band together as never before. You have always been close, be now closer. Be there for yourselves, for each other, for Julie, for Jackson, Lilly, and Noah, for your sisters and your dad, my dear, sweet husband. Take care of my sonnies and their loved ones, please! Never forget that you are worthy of love and care! Never forget you were my very breath and are my greatest Earthly delight.

    Husband, take care of you for me. Take care of my boys, my grands, and my girls - if and when they will allow it. Be productive. Be happy. Sing and play the guitar. Write. Love, Learn, and Laugh. Know that you made my life so gorgeous, that my heart is still there with you, beating inside your chest! Please, take care of my man! My split-apart, I still adore you like no other!

    Sisters, wrap your love around each other and my precious Momma and Poppa and help my family endure. Do what we have always done best: Mother. Aunt. Share. Love. I beg all three of you to take my boys under your wing more than you have ever before. You've always been great aunts, be now Super Aunts. They need a tender touch, a mom-like ear, a soft place to land, a whispered prayer in the night. Be that for my sons, and for each other, and for us all. Don't ever stop being my sisters and I will never stop being yours! Remember that in this life, you were as much a part of me as the blood in my veins.

    Nieces and nephews, my dear almost-children, be strong for me and for each other. Know that I would have taken a bullet or fought a bear for any of you. Know that I would have taken a life for you and not lost a bit of sleep over it. I considered you all worth killing or dying for. Band together. Take care of each other. Follow me into the unknown and we will laugh and love again.

    Momma and Poppa, dear sweet parents, please be strong if you can! Thank you so much for so much! You know better than anyone that I will see you again! In the meantime, please be there for the daughters you still have on this side, for the grandsons that will need you now more than ever. Pour all the love you wish you could show me into them. I will feel it. I will see it. It will make the angels sing. Take care of my sweet, lovely parents! Love my husband for me, my boys, my girls, my sisters, my kids (nieces and nephews, etc). It is all you can do for me now.


    This is what you all can do for me now: Love each other for me.

    I love you all!

    I love you more than chocolate, more than the smell of rain, or the sound of the sea. I love you more than the night sky full of bright stars, or the relief of a swimming pool on a hot summer day. I love you more than the first frost in late autumn, or silent snow flakes, or rainbows, or daisies, I love you more, more, more! Now, please love yourselves and each other more, more, more! That's my charge to you.

THE GIRLS AND THE BOYS

Gender Courage

NOW:


    My mom and dad both came from extremely poor families with ten children. My dad had two sisters and my mom had two (living) brothers. Both of my parents families lost a son while the child was still very young . Dad's oldest brother, Victor died while still a toddler, and mother's little brother, David was stillborn. She can remember the adults lying David's lifeless little body up on an ironing board after he was delivered. What a sight that would be for anyone, especially a child.

    The first "The Girls", that I was familiar with were my mother and her sisters, though I only remember them this way in stories from my mother's youth. Mother was not the oldest child and she was usually the smallest. (It did not take long for her younger sisters to outgrow her.) But she was often the fireball protector that her sisters hid behind when danger was afoot and she did her utmost to protect "The Girls". Mother's family was exposed to abuse from several males which left her all about girl power long before she had four daughters to keep up with.

    I am even more familiar with the idea of my mother and her favorite cousin, Nancy, being "The Girls". I have heard many stories of their adventures and antics as they were growing up. When they were sixteen (my auntie) and fifteen (my mother) they married brothers, thus happily ensuring that, like their childhood had been, a lot of their adult life would be spent side by side. They thought they were both sixteen when they married those brothers, but my mother found out in later life that an aunt that kept telling her she was a year younger than her cousin Nancy, was actually correct. My mother's parents had forgotten what year she was born in and incorrectly told her she was the same age as Nancy. It boggles my mind that someone could forget the their niece was a year old when their daughter was born, but I did not live their hard lives, so who knows? Maybe it could happen to many of us in like circumstances.

    After my mother and Aunt Nancy had their kids collectively they had three boys and seven girls, though one daughter had died at eleven months old. My mother had all daughters. My cousins, sisters, and I were raised nearly like siblings, especially in the earlier years, before I was born and when I was quite little. Now "The Girls" became the term used by my aunt and uncle and my parents when they referred to my sisters, my cousin/sisters and me.

    I barely remember those days when our two families were together most of the time. Many of my childhood hours were spent in total solitude, and I grew up very much like an only child. When I was seven, my sister Lila (at age seventeen) gave birth to my niece, Tanya. A son and two more daughters followed, and it was not long before "The Girls" was used for my two youngest nieces. They were close in age, pretty, petite, and feminine. The moniker worked well for them. Sometimes, as we were prone to gallivant around together, they hung the term on Tanya, my favorite cousin, Ramona, and me, but mostly, probably because the three of us might more likely be found up a tree as brow deep in a dollhouse, "The Girls" was reserved for my two little nieces.

    These days, when anyone says "The Girls" I tend to think of my five step daughters first, though they are all women now. Usually, that is who the speaker intends me to think of. It amuses, and let's be honest, please me, when someone says, "Where are the girls?" And they are actually talking about some combination of my sisters and me. I will happily be part of "The Girls" all my days. It is not an insult in my book.

    I don't remember anyone ever referring to my dad and his brothers, or my mother's brothers, as "The Boys" or even "The Guys". Unity and youth seems to be a chick thing, though my sister Lila and I did often refer to her foster sons, John, Chet, Tracey, and Shane and to my two sons, Cory and Liam, as "The Boys", both collectively and in smaller groups. She had her group of "The Boys" and I had my group of "The Boys" and together they were "The Boys." At that time, our guys did not mind the group moniker in the least. Now, I wonder if some of them might take offense if we were to call them that. As I said, unity and youth seems to be a chick thing. My husband bristles if I call him a "boy". He's a man, don't I know that?! I laugh off this wild idea and tell him I'm still a girl, a female. He's still a boy, a male, but he disagrees without fail. I have noticed that males in minority groups are similarly offended if they are called "boys." That type of thinking is apparently not a girl thing at all! I don't really understand how "boy" could be such an insult to a man when "girl" is never a bad thing to most of us females. And if you think "boy" is insulting, try calling a grown man a "girl"! (You might want to try this from a safe distance, especially if you are male yourself.) Ask yourself: Isn't it a strength to be okay with your sex at any point in your life? Shouldn't it be an acceptable thing to enjoy thinking of yourself as younger? Is is truly an insult to be compared to half the marvelous people in the world? Don't we all have a feminine side and a masculine side?

    I wish for a future that is just as receptive of "boys" as it is of "girls" and just as receptive of "girls" as it is of "boys". Wouldn't it be nice if no one raised an eyebrow at the next batch of "The Girls" that would not stop climbing trees, playing with toy vehicles, or being love with the speed and freedom they found on top of horses and bikes? Wouldn't it be nice if no one raised an eyebrow if a male (straight, or homosexual, or too young to know or care) wanted to be more in touch with his softer, feminine side? Isn't gentleness a virtue?

    When they were growing up, my sons played with dolls and painted their nails if they took a notion. I did not worry if they wanted to wear sandals, or flip flops, or the colors pink or purple. Though their dad made a big deal out of it many times. To this day, both my sons are so far from homophobic they scare the homophobic, and this just makes me proud! So far, they have only dated females, and I would be surprised, though not at all displeased, if that were to change. I want them to continue to be happy, and healthy, and kind. I don't see that what they do with their private parts is any of my business or anyone else's. As long as everything is between consenting adults, I'll keep my bedroom and you keep yours. 

    I think the shame we have long placed on being soft/feminine has long since lost it's practicality, if it ever had any, and should soon become a thing of the past. I'll give you this: Perhaps, it was necessary to squash tenderness when we had to go out and fight the saber toothed tiger for our dinner, but now that we've reached the stage where brains bring home more bacon than brawn, couldn't we let our guard down enough to stop shaming people for being sweet and kind? Couldn't we just enjoy how cuddly they are even if they are "The Boys"?

ON LUCK, BLESSINGS, AND EMMA

 

Our Blessed Blessing
Emma Rose
Easter 2015

 
NOW:


Written to my sister, Mary...


I was thinking about your grand daughter Emma recently and wanted to share some thoughts with you.

Every time I see that sweet, gorgeous child I think, "We are so LUCKY/BLESSED!" And that is VERY TRUE, but it occurred to me recently that Emma's got some decent luck too!

She has a daddy that is a lot like your daddy and like my/our daddy! She has a good momma too, one that is far superior to some mommas you and I have seen and dealt with!

And she has US!!! Emma may not grow up in a sweet, simple time, like you and I did. She may not be able to be a teen in the 80s, ROCK ON! But she will have a grandma (a Mamie, please excuse me) that is unlike anything you and I had when we were little! (What would it have been like to have a Mamie?!) She will have some great aunts (Sandi, Lila, and me) that are unlike anything any of us had. She will have "The Aunts" like the kids in Practical Magic, only (in many ways) even better! There are FOUR of us "Aunts" and a "Mamie" and we are the real deal! We are all fun loving and eccentric and we've got her back! We are all on the job to support her health and happiness, and you and I, especially, are on the job to try to assure that Emma has not only the best of what we can uncover in today's world, but also the best of what we experienced as kids, and the best of what our kids experienced when they were little!

Emma has also already started training for some fantastic golden years of her own, and she has a support group that, as we say here in the mountains, "can't be beat with a ten foot pole!" Not only her Aunties and Mamie, but our parents, her Gran and Pap, her cousins Amanda, and Shana, and Barb and Elmer (have they met Emma yet?)  and Isaiah and Kim, etc. etc. etc!

She's almost as lucky/BLESSED as we are when we look at her sweet face!

WHY MY KIDS WERE ALLOWED TO SKIP SCHOOL

Swinging!
Cory and Liam

THEN:

I can't speak for anyone else, but I can tell you that, on a personal level, I did allow my kids to take what our family called "Skip Days." These were days they could take off simply because they needed a break. Our rules were pretty simple: If they were crying "sick" (which they rarely did) then they went to the doctor if they had a fever or vomiting if no fever or vomiting, they stayed home all day and practiced boredom. After the doctor, when they went, they practiced boredom. Boredom is not necessarily a bad thing. I wanted my kids to hear their own thoughts sometimes, you know? We allowed no video games and very little TV time for sick kids. Books and conversation with Mom were fine. I did this because I did not want them stirred up, I thought boredom could actually be necessary now and then, and I did not want them lying about being sick just to miss school. Worked like a charm and my boys were almost never sick.

The idea for Skip Days came about when my first husband graduated high school. We were just dating at the time, and I should have graduated with him, but I had failed school twice and dropped out entirely in the 8th grade. But even at the tender age of 18, I wanted my kids to do much better in school than I did. At that graduation I was an audience member and I had a completely different view and attitude than the kids that were graduating. I noticed that the kids that were awarded for perfect attendance were the very ones I would have considered suicide risks, (especially the one given a 12 year perfect attendance award!) All these kids were miserable creatures that had dragged into class sharing their flu or virus with the whole school! I swore then and there that my kids would never worry about perfect attendance.
Couple this with the fact that I had some harrowing experiences at school: One teacher just decided she hated me (I was under 8 years old!) and she abused and tormented me emotionally and verbally for a year. One decided I was the kind of girl that needed a spanking once a week (wink wink) whether I had done anything wrong or not. This man bruised my ass 24 times in one school year, and I was an adult before I realized he was probably getting a sexual kick out of it. I was sexually harassed and bullied on a near daily basis at two of the three schools I attended and often at the other school. My parents never knew a thing about any of this! I was no tattle tale!  I was going to handle my own problems!

Although, I tried to make sure my kids knew that going to your mom with a problem from school is not being a tattle tale, I was acutely aware that we don't always know what is going on in their lives once they march off to class. And my kids were almost never sick! Thank God! So, in case they were facing the sort of stuff I had to get up to almost every morning, I created Skip Days. If my kids had not missed school due to sickness or appointments during the six weeks, if they had decent grades (Cs and above, I was not going to stress them out as long as the grades were average or better) and they just needed a break we took "Skip Days" and loved every minute of it! We sometimes just sat around watching cartoons and eating cereal with milk but sometimes we did super fun stuff, like going to the county fair or zoo. But I made sure we took the time, on those Skip Days especially, to talk about bullying and abuse. I dug into what was really going on with them, just as much as they would allow. Adults take "personal days". I did not see any reason in the world why kids should not take a personal day now and then as well. Most of my kid's teachers were fully aware that I did this and they were never negative about it. A few of them praised the idea. My parent notes were never lies. They said things like, "Please excuse Cory from class on Wednesday. We did not feel like structure was needed on 04-17-02."  or "Will did not feel like school on Friday. Please excuse his absence." Not once did they get an unexcused absence for these days, and if anyone had tried to give them 3 days punishment for it, as they seem to be doing at some schools now, heads would have rolled!!!

PS: The miserable "12 years for perfect attendance" kid that I went to school with is dead.

I'LL SHOW YOU HOW BITING GOES!

Pound River on the right and The Barncliff, or Crit's Hole on the left

THEN:


    When I was very little, they told me Crit was "family but not related," which was my parents way of saying Crit was unofficially adopted.

    There is a certain rock cliff near the banks of the Pound River that is, by a select few, called the Barncliff. This is because the people that lived down on the river, back in my dad's day, used to house their animals there to keep them out of the wind and rain. The rocks that hang near the front are pocked with holes that birds love to nest in. My family is drawn not only to the river, but to this spot. We walk along the river road and stop and admire this spot like a great painting hanging on a museum wall. Someone in the group invariably says, "There's Crits Hole," and the rest of us mummer, smile, and nod. Back in the deepest and darkest spot of the Barncliff, my father found our Crit. Crit was about seventeen years old, hovering and afraid, hungry, and probably recently beaten. My pop had known Crit from school and knew he was mistreated at home. Dad was about two years older than Crit. He took the boy home to my grandmother who stuck him in with her brood of children and loved him like one of her own to her dying day. So, he became an unofficial uncle, a friend, a family member. To those of us that were not yet born, Crit was just "Crit". He was always there. He loved us in his gentle and slightly bumbling way. Most of us outgrew his intellect at around the age of nine. Whatever bad times happened to Crit, they might have been why his mind did not seem to grow up completely. But none of that mattered; He was Crit, and he adored us, and we him.

    Crit lived with my grandparents until they had both passed away. He was a great help and a blessing to them in their old age. After my grandfather died when I was five, Crit came to live with us. My dad was his best friend and it only seemed natural that Crit be with us.

    He told on me once for playing in the creek and my mother gave me a switching none of us ever forgot. Crit never said he was sorry for ratting me out, but he never told my mother on me again as long as I lived.

    Crit was slow to think, slow to laugh, and slow to anger. He spoke with the most backwoods Appalachian drawl I had ever heard. He did not chew tobacco, he chawed backie. He did not fall backwards, he fell backards.

    I never knew how to think of him. He was more my dad's age than mine, but he called my sisters and me "Sissy." Half the time I thought of him as an uncle and half the time as a brother. I wasn't the best or most patient of little sisters. He would get in your way when you were walking through the house and bumble around trying to get out of your way. I knew I should say, "Excuse me," but mostly I said, "Crit, for crying out loud! Get out of my way!"

    Sometimes it was hard to get him to bathe and that also frustrated me to no end. Mom would ask. Sandi would hint. I would ask. Crit wanted to be agreeable just a notch less than he wanted to bathe. It usually took my dad putting his foot down and insisting before Crit would, quite literally, take the plunge and we could all breathe easily for a while. I found a trick that worked a time or two. I put a rubber band around the vegetable sprayer in the kitchen and asked Crit (quite uncharacteristically, he should have seen it coming) to get me a drink of water. He'd turn on the sprayer and it would soak his shirtfront and maybe more before he got the water turned back off. He would be annoyed for just a second or two and then say, "You little rascal you!" And snicker with me. I would finish giggling then say, "Now, Crit since you're already wet, you might as well take a good all over bath." Often he would do so, but I never knew if it was because he was "already wet" or because he figured if it meant that much to me he should just give in and take the blasted bath.

Critter Bug

    I am ashamed of my mistreatment of him now, but at the time he took it with such stride that I barely noticed I was being impatient or unkind. I wish my mother had switched me again, if that's what it took to get me to be gentle with my gentle Crit.

    Crit helped my dad with all the farming jobs, with the logging, the lawn mowing, the saw mill work, and anything and everything my father bent his back to. I read "The Raggedy Man" by James Whitcomb Riley, in a school forensic contest and dedicated it to "My Crit."

    Crit loved to spoil my mother, my sisters, and me. Mom or Dad would give Crit a little "yard sale money" now and then, and he never found anything he wanted but inevitably came back with some found treasure for one of us. He collected coins from the sidewalk and found items wherever he went. We were given watches and odd pieces of costume jewelry that his sharp eye saw glinting in the grass. Many times when I was feeling "peckish" Crit would give me a handful of coins to go get a bag of chips, or a snack cake, or a pack of "crispies" from Long John Silver's. If, for any reason, I was not feeling like a walk, he would go himself and bring me back the cheap goodie of my choosing.

    Not long ago, a distant cousin said, "I remember that old man! He used to go around bumming quarters all over town. He aggravated people to death!" And I felt a surge of unexpected resentment. After my heart cooled down, I realized it was possible that Crit bummed and we never knew it. Still, I think he would have had more quarters if that were the case. Often he was counting pennies and nickles. I think my cousin may have Crit confused with an old guy that I remember bumming quarters off everyone, even broke teens like myself.

    Crit ate apples core and all and with a spoon. You would hand him an apple and he would go dig a spoon out of the silverware drawer and dig a hole in the side of the apple. He would easy everything on the inside and throw away the empty, hollowed out peel. I once asked him why he did not eat the apple peel and he said that the peel was too tough. I told him anyone that could eat the core of an apple and the seeds could probably eat the peel too. He made a face and shook his head no. He wasn't eating the apple peels.

    Crit was the daddy of some of the best family tales. He once asked my mother, "Did you know Shiny is a'blow us?" She knew pretty quickly that "a'blow us" was "below us" but she could not figure out what "Shiny" was. He repeated himself several times and then lost some of his good nature. He stamped the floor with a bit of frustration saying, "Shiny! Shiny is a'blow us!" Finally my mother figured out that "Shiny" was "China" and Crit was releaved to be understood and agreed with. We told the story now and then and Crit would grin and say "Chiny," He would nod, "I meant Chiny."

Once Crit tried to express the idea that my sister Lila was very unique. He told my mother, "When they made that Lila Ann they throwed the mode away." At first, my mom thought he was talking about a commode not a mold and the story has been passed down with giggles and soft elbow jabs thrown Lila's way ever since.

My favorite story is about a day when my father and Crit were out possum hunting. These were lean times and the family was not opposed to a big pot of possum gravy. Our dogs ran the possum up the tree, and my dad suggested that Crit climb the tree and knock the possum out of it so that Dad could shoot the animal. Always obliging, Crit climbed up almost as high as the possum was and tried to pull the critter out of the tree by its tail. He had it envisioned right, but things did not go according to plan. What actually happened, was that he yanked the possum down on top of him and the possum bit Crit on the nose. Crit screamed, grab the possum by the scruff of the neck, and managed to get it loose from his face. He held it out and shook it, yelling, "I'll show you how biting goes." And then he bit that possum back! He bit it right on the nose! And being the reasonable descendants of justice-loving Scott's that we are, it always made good sense to us. Many of us would have been tempted to do the exact same thing! A select few probably would have bit that possum just as quickly as Crit did.

"I'll show you how biting goes!" became a battle cry for justice in our home. If someone wronged any one of us, the suggestion was often, "Well, why don't you show him how biting goes!?" And many times, we did just that!

Where the birds happily make nests

THE DAY THE PREACHER MET MY AUNT AND UNCLE

THEN:


    When my Aunt Nancy and Uncle Leslie argued the world stood still. At least for them and anyone smart enough to keep their noses out of other people's business. They argued with all the passion within them. Their arguments were as strong as their hearts and their love.

    When I was about fourteen they showed up for a visit while our pastor, Brother Frank, was sitting around having a cup of coffee with my dad. We had not seen these wonderful relatives in months. Dad and I heard our surprise visitor's voices and the slamming of the car doors. We knew right away that the argument would be in the forefront of this particular visit. I was glad to hear them, glad to see them as I peeped out the window. And I didn't mind the argument. I thought maybe it was best to get it over with and get on to the laughter and stories. My wise daddy must have had the same idea, because he too just sat back to let the argument and the visit begin to roll right over us.

    The preacher was in the middle of expressing a thought when Aunt Nancy and Uncle Leslie made it up our steps and through the front door in record time. I went out on the porch, harboring the foolish notion that I might get a moment to bid them a bright hello and distract them from their disagreement. I did not. I stepped back in before I was run over by the arguers. Daddy had not even had the time to say to the preacher, "Well, here comes my brother and his wife." Aunt and Uncle came through the front door arguing loudly, and oblivious to any occupants of the living room, they headed for the back bedroom where they always bedded down when they stayed with us.

    The preacher watched them stride through the room; his eyes were big and he stretched his neck to see them clear the kitchen, still fussin' all the way. He then turned his wide eyes toward my daddy. The preacher's brows were raised and he had a questioning look on his face. I saw Daddy hide a smile behind his coffee cup. When he lowered the cup, he chuckled in spite of himself, cleared his throat and said, by way of belated introduction, "That's my brother and his wife." His voice was calm and mundane.

    I had to leave the room, else I would've exploded with rude laughter right in the preacher's presence, besides as long as you held your tongue and stepped back a pace or to it was quite safe to go to the back room, and that's where all the excitement was anyway!

KYRIE ELEISON

Skitch and Greg

    Greg had told me that we would marry when he got back from basic training. Because I was paranoid about him finding another lover while he was gone, I told him I'd prefer to get married before he went away to basic. He said nothing. Time passed and I decided he did not care about my preference, but a few weeks later, out of the blue, he said, What about June?" That was my big proposal, and I was delighted with it! I'd never given a thought to a fancy ring and a man on his knees anyway. What was that all about?

    We set the date for June 8th.

    When we broke the news to Nina, we told her we wanted to have a church ceremony in the church I had grown up in and my pastor, Brother Frank, would marry us. We told Nina that we wanted a small and almost informal ceremony, that we were going to invite only our immediate families, his grandmothers, and a handful of close friends. Nina was beside herself with disappointment. It was very important to her that her brother and sister and all her nieces and nephews come. She wanted to invite Truman's mom and siblings and all their children as well. I explained that I was not against that, but it simply was not feasible. My family did not have the funds for a big wedding and I, foolishly, had not saved my own money up for the event. She begged us to allow her to invite whomever she wanted and she told us, "I promise they won't go away hungry. I'll help pay for all the food." We felt that she had taken away the only firm excuse to have a small ceremony and, though it made me nervous to think of all those near strangers there, people that I was not sure were "on my side", we agreed that she could invite whomever she wanted if it meant that much to her.

    Greg made it clear he was not interested in the cake, food, or decorations, so I decided our wedding colors would be blue and yellow because one of my favorite things in the world was daisies on a blue background. I did not have the money to supply any type of bride's maids dresses, so I told all my bride's maids and Lila, my matron of honor, that my colors were yellow, and blue. I asked them to wear those colors if they could, but if not anything pretty would work. Several of the girls that I'd asked to be bride's maids declined. Cindy, Michell, Jutannia, and Ramona all said they had other obligations that day. They did not even show at my wedding and I tried to not be hurt over it, but I was. Nancy accepted and she found a pretty white dress to wear. She lamented that only the bride was supposed to wear white, but I told her not to worry about that. I was just so grateful she would come and be there beside me! Tanya was definitely included and she was now big enough to wear one of my dresses, also white, though it was just a tad too large on her. Sandi found a very pretty blue floral dress, and I assured her that it did not matter that the dress was not floor length. It was much more important to me that she be there and walk with me than it was that her dress be perfect. Lila could not find a dress and also had to wear one of mine. The only formal I had left was the lavender gown that I'd worn to Greg's junior prom, so Lila, in that color, had to stick out just a bit. I told her that she was so pretty she stuck out all the time anyway, but I'm not convinced that she was consoled. Still, she walked with me and that was all I really wanted.

    Greg asked his best friend and distant cousin, Pokey (Darrel) to be his best man. Pokey tried to say there was no way he could do that because he did not have a suit and could not buy one. Greg and I convinced him to come and wear whatever he had. It was important to both of us that our families and friends show up and take places of honor beside us, no matter if they had to do it wearing trash bags.

    When she found out that I planned to pick wild daisies for my wedding bouquet (which seemed perfectly reasonable to me) Nina said that would not work. She took me to a florist and ordered a daisy bouquet, "bride" and "groom" wine glasses, though we told her the church would never allow wine at the reception. "You can drink punch in them!" She said. She also bought a pretty cake knife and server. I was very grateful if a little overwhelmed.

    She was also there when we picked out our wedding rings because Greg had not worked in ages and she was supplying those for him. I nervously chose the smallest and cheapest gold band I could find and the clerk found the matching men's ring for Greg. The total was under fifty dollars. Even in those days, that was cheap for wedding rings.

    When the big day arrived, my mother announced, "Happy is the bride the sun shines on!" She then started crying and she and my niece Shana cried most of the remainder of the day.

    I was in the church bathroom getting dressed when one of Greg's little cousins came in. She had never been very nice to me and was one of the people I had been nervous about having around on my wedding day, though I liked her siblings very much. She made small talk and contributed to my rising nervousness for a bit and then popped out with, "I hear your family is so poor that Aunt Nina had to pay for the whole wedding?"

    I looked at her in shock, swallowed, and thought about how odd it would be to go to jail for assault on your wedding day. "They did not pay for the whole wedding. Aunt Nina bought some things she thought we just had to have and she invited a lot of people we were not going to invite so she helped pay for the food."

    "Oh." She said with a smile and then sauntered out.

    I had a hard time getting my head back into the romantic game after that.

    When Dad and I walked down the isle, he was all business. My little nieces, Shana and Amanda were my flower girls. They were the most adorable people at the wedding, in the world probably! They wanted to be sure they dropped flower petals at each and ever row, on both sides, and about the same amount of petals each time. They discussed softly about whether or not there were enough flower petals in this spot and who should drop them where. They never really argued, so they were simply reaching an agreement. My father wound up shoving them up the isle and I was too amused to try to look romantically at Greg and notice if he was wowed by my simple but pretty dress.

    Dad passed me over to Greg and when we joined hands, his were sweaty and shaking. He could barely get the ring on my finger when the time came, and I wondered why anyone would be so nervous about being in front of people. It had never bothered me to be in front of a group of people. I had done dozens of talent shows and plays. The only thing that made me nervous (in regard to the wedding) were mean people, and it's hard for people to be mean to you when you are in the actual act of saying your vows. Besides, I was hoping I had already weathered the worst of that.

    The rest of the day was a whirlwind. We said vows, took photos, ate finger foods, cut cake, drank punch from wine glasses, and opened presents. I kept wiping Mom and Shana's tears and telling them it would be okay. Somehow it soothed me to sooth them.

    Greg and I got in my dad's station wagon and drove off. We didn't even have a car of our own at that point. We honeymooned for two nights at The Breaks International Park. The place was lovely, as we already knew. But Greg did not really want to go swimming very long and I blistered on the paddle boats. Mostly we sat in the room and watched television. He did buy me a stuffed toy, a replica of Gizmo from the movie Gremlins. We had some nice food in the restaurant, and I reveled in the fact that I could stay up and watch Johnny Carson and David Letterman and not worry about anyone hearing anything that would wake or offend them.

    We lived with his mom, Truman, Greg's two brothers and Truman's son for the next two months. It was an adventure in itself, figuring out how to reside in a mobile home with all those people.

    After Greg went away to basic, his mom and I had several long conversations and became so much closer than we had ever been. I spent a lot of time with my parents and Lila while waiting on the day that I could go start my home with Greg. He sent me a portion of his pay, and I foolishly spent almost every dime of it as soon as it came in. I had never had money, and now suddenly I did. I had no clue how to resist the desire to provide my family with a nice meal or go see that movie I was interested in.

    For the first time ever, I received letters from Greg. I cherished every one and carried them around with me everywhere I went. He also sent me a stuffed unicorn, a decorative gold throw pillow case. I made him care packages and sent him foodstuffs and random items I thought he might need to survive basic training. I always included the chocolate cookies with peanut butter chips that he loved so much.

    Greg called and told me he had stress fractures in both legs and was going to have to use crutches for several weeks and finish training after a hospital stay. He was not in pain now, he said, but this would delay his training significantly.

    He was off the crutches by the time he came in for Christmas and he had gained a lot of muscle, but was still trim. He looked like a million bucks in his uniform, and I sat right on top of him all the way home from the airport. I'd never used a seat belt in my life and I was not going to start now. (They were not required by law and were not even to be found in some cars.) He sang our song, "Lady" by Kenny Rogers my ear and it was the first time I had ever heard him sing. When I remarked on that, he told me the army had opened him up, that he was much less shy now. I thought, "Maybe he needed this." For the first time ever, I/we had wonderful Christmas presents to give out. I had spent a great deal of the money on gifts. Greg had bought me a stuffed white baby seal for my Christmas gift. I don't remember what I gave him.

    After he was back in Texas and almost through with his training, Greg called and told me he was going to be sent to Fort Polk, Louisiana after basic. He said it was called the armpit of the army and that the G.I's jokingly nicknamed it "Fort Puke". The town nearest the base was Leesville but it was called Sleezeville by the soldiers. I was disappointed that the place had a bad reputation. I checked out books on Louisiana and hoped we would be in a swampy, Spanish moss area, though I despaired that we could not avoid the heat. I was also upset that we would be stationed so far from home, but told myself it could have been much worse. Lots of his military friends were sent to Korea and Germany.

    In February 1986, I was sitting in the room I had shared with Sandi for the last six years. I had packed up my clothing in a couple suitcases and boxed up the contents of my hope chest for shipping. Only a few days earlier, I had been sitting on my bed, in the exact same spot as I watched, on my 13 inch black and white television, with shock and utter dismay, as the Challenger space shuttle exploded and seven of my heroes were obliterated before my very eyes. Life was precious, precarious.

    Now, I starred at the same television as John Cougar sang about pain, and I wondered about the pain I would face in my life. This was a very important crossroads for me. Would I some day look back and wish that I had never gotten off this bed and onto that plane? Should I back out and refuse to leave my safe little town, my family, everything and everyone I had ever known? I prayed silently, "Show me God. Show me what I should do." And at that moment "Kerie" by Mr. Mr. began to blast on MTV.


Kyrie eleison
Kyrie eleison
Kyrie

The wind blows hard against this mountain side
Across the sea into my soul
It reaches into where I cannot hide
Setting my feet upon the road

My heart is old, it holds my memories
My body burns a gemlike flame
Somewhere between the soul and soft machine
Is where I find myself again

Kyrie eleison, down the road that I must travel
Kyrie eleison, through the darkness of the night
Kyrie eleison, where I'm going, will you follow?
Kyrie eleison, on a highway in the light

When I was young I thought of growing old
Of what my life would mean to me
Would I have followed down my chosen road
Or only wished what I could be

Kyrie eleison, down the road that I must travel
Kyrie eleison, through the darkness of the night
Kyrie eleison, where I'm going, will you follow?
Kyrie eleison, on a highway in the light

    The lyrics spoke to me, calmed me, and set "my feet upon the road". To this day I don't think I could have gotten off that bed if that one song hadn't played when it did. At the time, I thought the lyrics said "Kyrie a laser" and meant "Carry a laser". I had no idea why I needed a laser in Louisiana, but the message was clear. "Brace yourself, but GO!" And go, I did.

    Only recently I have learned that Kýrie eléison is Greek for "Lord, have mercy". That makes even more sense. I needed the Lord to have mercy. The road ahead of me was full of pitfalls and pain, but I needed to travel it, and I needed help and mercy along the way. Looking back, I am so glad I found the courage to get up and go on my own great adventure, my own life. If I had let fear win and I had stayed, I would have missed out on the two people that have shaped me most, and for the best, and saved me repeatedly over the last two decades. I would have missed out on what I needed to get me where I am today, with the husband I have today, and those sons of mine! Yes, I walked right into a fire, but that was my fire. It had my name all over it. I was meant to survive it, to learn from it, to carry out a dragon and a wizard, and a whole lot of knowledge. When I was forced to leave Greg I called myself Lady Phoenix for a long time. I had survived a fire and emerged a new creature.

    If you are struggling through a hard time in your life, own your fire. Claim it, survive it, learn from it, carry out any good thing you can even if that's only you. Put it behind you as soon as you realize that it is fire. Then do your best to turn the pain it gave you into knowledge. Keep the lessons and the blessings and move beyond the things that pull you down. You can do it. I bet on me, and I'd surely bet on you.

GREG

Greg and Skitch at the Prom
1984

  When I was fifteen I despaired that I was an old maid. There were many reasons for this odd notion. Probably the main one was because I had been reading adult romance novels since I was a bored nine year old that had ran out of age appropriate reading material. I read both contemporary and the historical romances, and they instilled in me a longing for love before I clearly understood the meaning of romance, and not only for love, but for one that began as early as possible. My favorite romances by far were the historical romances in which the females were often as young as fourteen years old. I had been told repeatedly that I was very mature for my age. That notion coupled with books about child brides left me thinking that I was quite late in finding my true love. A few of the stories I liked best had lovers that met when they were even younger than fourteen. They grew up as childhood friends and later became more. Since I wanted, possibly more than anything, to have one love and one lover all my life, I made up my mind that a childhood love was the kind of love for me. I longed for a gentle friendship sort of love that grew into romance. This all made plenty of sense to me. After all, my sister Lila had married at fifteen and my mother at sixteen. (We later found out she was fifteen too. She had been misinformed about her own age.) My dear friend Jutannia had married at thirteen and several other acquaintances and friends were married before they were sixteen. The combination of my environment and my reading materials were a recipe for disaster.

    I had been praying for years, literally praying, on an intense and daily basis, for God to please send me my soul mate. I had named a tree in the grove near my home. I called him Tenison, and I spilled out my heart to him about how lonely I was and how much I wanted to find my soul mate. I often prayed beneath that tree. If someone had wandered by (I would have heard them tromping through the woods before they heard my whispering prayers) they might have thought I was praying to the tree, but I was not. The tree was only my confidante, my friend. I addressed my prayers, "Dear Father in Heaven" and ended them with, "In Jesus name I pray, Amen."

    I had dated this wild guy named Matthew off and on for just a bit. (He was too wild to endure long, in my opinion.) Matthew came by to see me one day and surprised me by asking my parents if I could ride to the gas station with him. They rather reluctantly allowed it. Once I walked to Matt's truck, I was surprised and annoyed to find another guy in it, and I almost went back home. I had made it a habit to never be outnumbered on any outings with a guy. Two guys and one girl spelled trouble in my book. But Matthew said it was a friend of his, Greg, and, "Come on! What are you, chicken shit to even ride to the gas station and back? This isn't going to take even fifteen minutes. How much trouble could any of us get into in fifteen minutes?"

    I made up my mind to kill both of them if they tried anything and I climbed into the truck.

    When I slid into the cab, I could smell beer very strongly and wasn't too surprised to see a beer bottle in Greg's hand. Again, I threatened to get out, but Matthew assured me that, though his friend was indeed pretty wasted, that he (the driver) had not been drinking a drop.

    I rode miserably to the gas station, promising myself that I would help my parents nix the idea if Matt ever showed up and asked them to let me go somewhere with him again.

    Every time Matthew went over a bump or hit a pothole, Greg would roll his beer bottle with the motions of the vehicle, and then congratulate himself by saying confidently, "Didn't spill a drop!" It was evident that he was truly very intoxicated, but I liked something about him that I could not quite put my finger on. He was soft spoken without being invisible. He was nice to me, and he had the most beautiful blue eyes I'd ever seen, and a great smile.

    During that short ride, I figured out that Matthew's friend Greg was my cousin DeanO's older brother, whom I had only heard of but did not remember ever meeting. Perhaps he had come once to our home when we lived up on the mountain, but I was not sure. So, that meant that Greg was my cousin too! DeanO and I were barely related. We called each other cousins due more to a great affection. By country standards we were third cousins and by legal standards we were second cousins once removed.

    Something about Greg's voice and his sense of humor drew me to him, and by the time we got back to my house, I knew that I was much more interested in seeing him again than I had ever been in seeing Matthew.

    The very next night, I ran into Matthew and Greg at the skating rink. It was not unusual for me to see Matthew there, but I had never noticed Greg before, though he swore that he went to the skating rink a lot and I was there almost every weekend. Maybe he was the invisible type, but I was certainly seeing him now.

    Greg and I spent a lot of time talking. I discovered that sober Greg was much more delightful than drunk Greg, and I hadn't really minded drunk Greg all that much. We couple skated when the lights went off and the disco ball went on. We spent most of the evening talking about music, and movies, and other things from pop culture. I felt that we had a lot in common.

    When I got home, I asked my mother if there was any reason third cousins should not date. She told me that after first or second cousins she figured we were all about as related as we were going to get. After all, we all came from the same couple, Adam and Eve, so everyone was cousins in the grand scheme of things. She even pointed out that she and my dad were distant cousin, fifth cousins they believed. I took that as a much better sign than I should have.

    Greg and I spent a lot of time on the phone after that and I grew to really love the sound of his laugh and his sweet husky voice. I wanted to be in love so much that I exaggerated every accomplishment that he had ever had. Every act of kindness or compassion that I saw or that he mentioned was blown out of proportion. I placed him so high on a pedestal that he could have won out against Mother Teresa and Gandhi and walked away with the Nobel Peace Prize if I had been the judge. I loved the idea of love so much that I ignored any red flag that flew up, red flags that had stopped me with other guys. I did not worry about the fact that we were distantly related, though this had kept me from ever considering DeanO as date material, or my favorite cousin Ramona's brothers, who were related to me on the same level. When he talked about how much he disliked his mom's boyfriend, Truman, and Truman's kids, I shrugged it off, though Greg's reasoning seemed petty. The same kind of disdain had thrown me off with other guys, even my most sought after boyfriend, Buddy. But not this guy and not now. I ignored the fact that he had been known to drink a lot and to smoke a lot of pot. I told myself Greg wasn't doing it now, and that was what really mattered. I had never knowingly dated a guy that used drugs or drank more than infrequently. My mother had teased me so many times when I was washing dishes. Ever time I got my shirt wet she would tell me, "You got your belly wet! That means you're going to marry a drunk!" I was sure she was off her rocker, and I never would marry a drunk! I was not fond of people that used pot, or booze, or any drug. I ignored the fact that Greg was very broken over his father's death. His dad Jimmy had died of a massive heart attack when Greg was only twelve and it left Greg very angry and scared. I felt only sympathy. I could imagine losing my dad would do the same to me. I ignored the fact that he resented his mother, Nina and was not very kind to her. I ignored the fact that he swore he would die before he reached the age of thirty-two, since his dad had died at forty-two and his dad's dad had died at fifty-two, both from heart attacks so massive their hearts exploded. I told myself Greg would grow out of his morose prophecy, he was still so young! And besides, thirty-two?! That was a lifetime away! Maybe he was even correct, but we would be completely different people by the time we were in our thirties. We would be old people by then! I ignored the fact that Greg had severe acne and that I hated the way he walked. To me, there was something feminine about the way his hips swayed, and yet, he did not have a girlish butt. In fact, he had no butt to speak of. He had the sunken butt that many men seemed to suffer from, the one that had dissuaded me often enough before. I told myself that I had been being too picky, too uppity, that now that I was older (and in my book more desperate) I should learn to look at people's insides not their outsides, that I would never get married if I just kept pointing out every guy's flaws. Everyone had flaws, right? I just needed to focus on the good parts of this guy and not the bad. I resolved not to look at his rear when he walked away from me and to stare into his bright blue eyes as much as possible.

    One thing that I really loved about him was the way he was with my niece Tanya. Not being good to Tanya would have been a real deal breaker, no matter how much I wanted to be in love. Tanya was seven years younger than me and she was my heart. She was my niece/sister/daughter/best friend, and I was convinced that no one would ever hurt her or be mean to her as long as I had breath in my body. Greg seemed to love Tanya, and she took to him like she had no other. He became her second best friend, right after me. My nephew and my younger nieces seemed to love Greg as well. Tanya teased us that I was Miss Piggy and he was Kermit the Frog and that one day we were going to get married and have little frogglets. I found her word combination of frogs and pigglets to be delightful. I thought about the fact that Tanya had never liked any of my other boyfriends enough to laugh and play with them, let alone to predict my upcoming marriage with them. Though I should have realized that lots of little kids make strange little predictions of the future, I did not. Her words became almost prophetic in my mind.

    On my birthday in 1983, not long after we met, Greg asked me to go steady. He joked, telling me that he had waited until it was quite late on my birthday to ask me to go steady so that he did not have to buy me a birthday present. I thought it was supposed to be funny, so I laughed it off. I wasn't very materialistic enough to care about a ring anyway.


    Greg and I spent the next two years vacillating between euphoria and fury. I shrugged this off as something that all couples went through. Greg once confessed telling me, "When I am with you no one else in the world seems to matter, but when I am at school I think about being with other girls." I did not take this as a red flag or a bad sign. I did not see it as a normal part of being a sixteen year old boy. I saw it as a cry for help, a call to arms, a demand for action. It inspired me to go back to school, to try even harder to be in his face twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week. I told everyone that I was going back to school for me, but really I was doing it because I was afraid I would lose this soul mate that I had worked so hard for if I did not stay in his face.

    Despite all my best efforts there was a lot of time apart in those dating years. I took a summer job with the Manpower program the first year we were dating. I spent a lot of time hauling rocks in a wheelbarrow, cleaning out a field for the little league, and building two outdoor toilets for the crowds that would come watch their games. One day, Greg and my dad came to pick me up and I was nearly covered in green paint. I had been told to paint a group of standing aluminum bleachers but, being unfamiliar with the process, I did not paint things in the correct order. I painted myself into a corner, so to speak, and paint dripped all over me and got on my legs when I tried to extradite myself from the green mess I had just made. Dad drove home with the windows down and stopped at a gas station and bought two gallons of gas. I had to nearly bathe in it, and my sensitive skin turned bright red. Daddy was annoyed with them for not instructing me about the process, but he and Greg were also slightly amused. Greg told me I was the cutest green lady he'd ever seen. Despite my lack of common sense, they liked me on the ball field. I mixed concrete and hauled rock with the best of them. Still, I was transferred out of that job when I fell prey to a gang of bullies. They did not beat me up but, after cracking heads with them over some frogs they were torturing to death, I went to the "boss" and told him not to be surprised if I beat those three boys up. The Manpower program then sent me to work with the adult custodians at the high school. They probably marked my file, "Does not work well with others," and I spent the rest of the summer scrubbing chewing tobacco out of the corners in the high school walls. I resolved to keep my mouth shut next time and just beat people up.

    That same year, Greg was hit by a truck as he was biking to town to see me. We lived about six miles apart and when his mother refused to let him use her truck he sometimes biked to my house. A truck was speeding and it came barreling around a corner and knocked Greg and his bike for a loop. He had cuts all over his forehead and upper lip. He lost three teeth in the long term, one and a half immediately, and he broke his arm. I was acutely aware that it could have been much worse. I was in the tub when my daddy told me through the bathroom door, "Baby, he's okay, but Greg's been in an accident and Nina is on her way to pick you up and take you to the hospital to see him, so hurry up in there." Before I left my dad warned me, "Now, don't get up there and upset that boy. If he looks bad you keep your strength, you hear? No tears." I promised I would, and I probably needed that warning. Greg did look pretty scary. To try to lighten the mood, I showed him a necklace around my neck. It was an arrowhead necklace he had given me and I wore it always. I cherished it though it had been lying around in a drawer at his house, something he never wore anymore. It was like wearing his jacket or a prelude to his class ring.

    This was a game we had played before. He glanced at the necklace, smiled a bit and said, "Where'd you get that?"

    I teased him saying,"My wonderful boyfriend gave it to me."

    "Oh, he did, did he?" Greg said. "I'll have to kick his ass."
  
    I giggled and held tightly to his good hand.

    That exchange was overheard by Greg's cousin Regina, who told her mom and Greg's mom that I was lording some ex boyfriend's gifts over Greg while the poor boy was on his deathbed. They were in an uproar! The shame! The nerve! Greg set them straight on that one pretty quickly. The one thing he was best at was taking my part against his family. I was on my own with my own family, and with our friends, and pretty much anyone else, but anytime any of his relatives set themselves against me I did not have to wonder. Greg had my back. It was as though he felt he was responsible for shielding me from his family and from other men, but no one else. At first, his mother, Nina, was very sweet to me, but when she decided that Greg and I were too serious, she began to give him grief about our relationship. He told me that she had started trying to get him to break up with me. He said that she told him my family was a bunch of lazy no goods that lived off of government money, and that I would probably be a lazy no good as well once I grew up. She took him to Angie's, his ex girlfriends house, to give Angie a chance to seduce him and hopefully end his relationship with me. Greg assured me that he pushed away from Angie, though she was wearing a see-through nighty and begging him to stay the night with her, which he said his mother would have allowed. He told me that he went and waited in the car and that his mom pretty quickly got the message that Angie wasn't going to win and so Nina joined him in the truck and took him home. (Greg said his mother and Angie's mother were having coffee in the kitchen while all this drama was going down.) Many years later in life, I would find out about multiple infidelities that started when Greg and I were dating, and I would doubt his version of this story very much, but Greg never confessed to anything different, though he confessed to many other deceptions. He never told me any other version of this story. By the time Greg and I married, I had won Nina over. She adored me and she still does to this day. I have not officially been her daughter in law for decades and yet she still introduces me as one. It's certainly fine with me. I love her very much and we will always be connected for the sake of my sons.

    Greg and I dated until one month after I turned eighteen and two months after he did. Then On June the 8th, 1985, just two months before he was supposed to ship off for basic training in Texas, we were married.

    I had begged him to not sign up for the military. He had been taking carpentry at the vocational school. He was good at it, and he enjoyed it. I had been taking food service and winning many awards. I enjoyed the creativity of the process, and eating. I really enjoyed eating. I was convinced that Greg and I could find jobs in our little town and happily settle down together and raise frogletts. He had never proposed formally, and I was never given an engagement ring, but he made statements all the time about "when we get married," so I knew it was  his plan as well as mine. I wanted to travel and vacation and see the entire world, but I had absolutely no desire to ever live anywhere other than my small Appalachian town. Before he left to talk to the various military recruiters, I told him all that. I told him I did not want to leave my town, that I did not want to be a military wife, but he came back telling me he was all signed up for four years in the Army. He said that he had to sign up then or miss out on a huge bonus that they agreed to give him. I was so hurt and so disappointed that I argued with him and went to bed angry, which was against my own personal policy. I truly and seriously considered, probably for the first and last time before my marriage, breaking up with Greg. What really stopped me from doing that was the fact that I had already had sex with him. That dream of always having one lover my entire life came to the front of my mind and made the decision for me. I was deeply a 'make your bed and lie in it' type of girl.

    For the first year that we dated, all Greg and I did sexually were first and second base things. When his junior prom rolled around, l decided that it was now or never. We had dated a year and I either needed to commit totally or move on to another guy. I did not want to move on to another guy when I  felt sure I loved this one. I told Greg that we would go all the way on prom night. I chose prom night because I wanted the event to be a memory that he and I could both cherish forever. It is a memory. I remember discomfort, blood, pain, and embarrassment. I remember shame. If you gave it up for the first time in the back seat of someone's dad's Escort, you're probably doing just as well as I did with the prom and a nice bed.

    We did not make it to his senior prom at all. I had a food service competition and Greg actually talked my overly protective parents into allowing me to go to Richmond to compete. I had won a blue ribbon, a blue rosette for best in class, and a trophy for best in show at the regional contest. Greg talked about how proud he was of my accomplishments and how he was willing to miss his senior prom in order to let me see what I could do at the state level. I told him later that I did not want him to miss his senior prom, that I did not want to miss his senior prom, that it was more important to me than the food service competition. But Greg said junior prom had been a joke anyway, and he had no desire to go to his senior prom. I thought about pain and embarrassment and looked away. So much for making a memory we would both cherish forever. I'm pretty sure Greg was drunk on the river bank with a group of teenagers and had his hands all over another girl while I took second place at state.

YIN YANG LOVE

    

"Yin Yang Love"
By: Skitch

    Usually in life I save the best, the easiest, the most fun things for last, but as I stare at the subject for my last (planned) chapter on my childhood, I realize I've set myself up for a hard ending. Writing about the guy I married and had two wonderful sons with wouldn't be so bad, if it weren't so complicated. How do I explain to others why I was in such a hurry to settle down? Better yet, how do I explain to others the blessing and the curse that was and is my first husband, Greg?

    Imagine for a moment that you are sitting in a room with high hopes that something or someone fabulous will be coming through the door at any moment. In walks a nice looking guy carrying four very intricate and detailed boxes. He comes over to you and is very sweet to you, giving you compliments, making you laugh. telling you that you matter, that you are special. Then, just when you relax and begin to think that things are going to be wonderful all over, he raises his voice, he yells insults and obscenities, he slaps you, he punches you, he pulls your hair, he chokes you and it seems to never end. For a crazy moment or twenty, you think, "This is it. I'm going to die." But he loosens his hold just as you are on the verge of giving up. You catch your breath and order him out of the room, out of your sight, out of your life. He says, "If you want to go, you go." And you make for the door. Just before you leave though, he says, "Here. Take this." And he hands you the four boxes that he carried in with him. You are too rattled to think of arguing, so you take the boxes and you leave. You are free! But still shook up, still petrified. For a while you look behind you almost constantly. You look backward more than forward. It takes a long time for you to believe that you are truly free, that you can be happy again, that you are not going to die at that man's hands. Then you begin to look ahead and you remember the boxes you are still holding. You open them one at a time and you cannot believe your eyes! Inside the first two are treasures so priceless and beautiful that you never even imagined such grand things existed, let alone that you would be able to see, to touch, to enjoy such blessings. These treasures will change your life, they will make your life, they will save your life again and again and you know it. You open the third and it is a treasure too, but as soon as you go to lift it from the box, it disappears. Your heart is broken by the loss, it was unique and wondrous, but you look back at the other two treasures, equally unique and wondrous, and you remember that you will be okay. You open the fourth box and inside it is a small book. It is bound in silk and handwritten with a delicate stroke, easy to read and stunning to look at. It too is a treasure, only a different kind. You read the book and inside you find lessons, ideas, hope, experience, and words that shape you into a better person, words that will help you take care of yourself and your treasures. words to help you overcome the pain of the past and to live your life to the fullest.

    That is the blessing and the curse that is my first husband.

    I have my sons, Co and Liam. Great and priceless treasures that I could not even imagine before. They have changed my life, made my life, saved my life again and again. And if not for Greg they would not be in my life.

    I have the memories of the mere idea of my lost babe and the hope that I may someday know if my dear Jamie is a boy or girl, if he or she knew and knows how much I loved them before they were even fully formed, and if my love is returned.

    I have lessons upon lessons, thoughts upon thoughts. I have been toughened, and softened, and shaped by the experiences I shared with Greg. They have played no small role in making me who I am, brought me where I am today. And with all my heart I love my life and I love me. This is not an endorsement for abuse. If you are being abused, please seek help. Please get out! If you are abusing someone, please do the same. Believe me, you've experienced enough pain. Life will give you all the pain you ever need, even if you take the best care of yourself. Pain is inevitable. This is simply a couple of questions: How could I hate the pain that shaped me and still love the person I have become? How could I curse the road of heartache that brought me through to joy, to my own little Paradise?

FRIENDS FOREVER

    

Friends Forever

THEN:


    My very first friend was a cousin named Becky. She was a year or so older than me, and was very sweet and pretty, perhaps too sweet and pretty, because I could not talk her into playing in the sand under my porch or riding her tricycle like a wild thing. She was much more interested in boring ol' baby dolls. I carried a couple of dolls around sometimes, but my dollies rode horses, or went to sea, or went on adventures with fairies. Her dollies laid there until she declared they were crying for a bottle. Becky would then "feed" them delightedly while I sat there wanting to chuck her dollies out the window. I was more into dirt and speed. She had a little sister named Ramona, but Ramona was like Becky's dolls; She laid there until she wanted a bottle and then she cried. I did not want to chuck Ramona out the window. She was fascinatingly alive and I had an intrinsic and deep respect for Life. Sometimes they let me hold my baby cousin on my lap while I sat very still. Ramona felt nice. She was warm, she smelled like milk, and was much too heavy to throw out a window anyway.

    Years later, my family moved to a mobile home. Our next door neighbors, Ruth and Dennis, had a son named Randal that was two years younger than me. Ran loved animals, dirt, and speed. It was a match made in Heaven and soon we were like the proverbial peas and carrots. He was the same age as Becky's little sister Ramona, whom I had not seen in a few years. When they came back to visit, I was delighted to find out that Ramona was a precocious kid now instead of a crying, heavy baby. When her family visited, we left Becky with the grown ups and her dolls while we climbed tress and waded in the creek. Becky left when their parents did, but Ramona often stayed and played with me. She liked to run and jump and was no stranger to dirt. My sister Lila was pregnant and was suffering from pica, though we did not know the name of her condition at the time. What we knew was that Lila craved ice and gave into those cravings. She ate it all day long. Lila and I were largely anemic and craving ice is a symptom of an iron deficiency. I did not crave it like she did, but I wanted to be like Lila so much that I insisted on eating it with her whenever she was around. While Ramona was there, she ate the ice too. Once, she was holding a cube of ice tight in her chubby little hand and water was dripping furiously from her fist.

    "Ramona?" I asked, "Why aren't you eating your ice? Don't you like it?"

    "I like it just fine," She told me in her little kid voice, "But it's too cold. I'm waiting for it to warm up."

    Ramona taught me to sing a jaunty little song that said, "Here comes (insert any name) floating down the Delaware, chewing on her underwear. Must have been a dirty pair. Ten days later, bitten by a polar bear, and that was the end of it!" We tormented everyone we could with that song and with "He's got the whole world in His hands," because we would sing that one using ever item we could see or think of, "He's got all the hound dogs/old trucks/rainbows/merry go 'rounds/etc in His hands." He really did have the whole world in His hands when we were through singing that song!

    Lila gave birth to my niece Tanya when I was seven and Ramona was five. Now a trio was born. It seemed like I turned around a few times and Tanya was up from infancy and following Ramona and me everywhere. Tanya and Ramona were my best and most constant childhood friends. Their faces were woven into so many of my favorite memories. Their best interest so quickly become more important to me than my own, along with Tanya's brother and two other sisters that were all younger than her. I adored them all, but only Tanya tagged after me, insisting that she be a deep part of the fabric in my quilt of my friendships. My sisters were ten and twelve years older than me, more like extra mothers in many ways. Becky preferred to play with other little girls that loved crying dollies and ruffled dresses. I moved away from Ran and hardly saw him afterwards. But Ramona and Tanya became my pseudo siblings. They filled so many of my days with joy and drove away the lonesome feelings I sometimes dealt with.

    In first grade, I became friends with Camillia Michelle Rose. She was a quite little dark haired child, as sweet as sugar. I loved her pretty name and her calm ways. At different times in our kidhood, she went by Michelle and by Camillia. I thought she could not lose as both the names were as sweet and pretty as she was.

    In second grade, Camillia was in another room, but we still played together at recess. I also played with Annette and Tauna (pronounced Tonya, just like my niece's name was pronounced.) And I played a lot with a distant cousin named Earl. Annette loved that she had the same name as my mother. She found a way to talk to my mom almost every time my parents came to pick me up. Tauna was quiet and willowy. Both girls were blond and very pretty. I remember running across the playground holding each of their hands and wondering why boys did not like each other well enough to hold hands. In second grade it was already frowned upon for males to show physical affection. Earl was not affectionate and he was far from quiet. He was obnoxious and loud, but I loved him very much.

    In the third grade, I met Jutannia and Angie and we became a common trio around the school. I played mostly with them but sometimes also with Rosalee and Betty. That year I learned the trick of keeping out of a fight that I should not be part of. Jutannia and Angie would get angry with each other and, for a while, they would both come to me and ask me to take their side. I don't know where I got the idea to refuse. Maybe I simply and honestly could not tell who was in the right, but I quickly made a habit of refusing to take sides. If they got obsessed with the argument, I would withdraw from both of them and hang out with Rosalee and Betty, or Camillia Michelle. If they were not being too crazy with their feud and they were nice to me I would play with whichever one asked me first, usually this was Jutannia as she seemed to value a friendship with me more than Angie did. But I loved it best when all three of us were friendly. Many times my insistence that I would not take a side and my encouragement that they get along brought about their happy reconciliation. And so it was that, quickly and at a very young age, I became a peacemaker.

    In fourth grade, I was all about Paul S. He was a farm boy and I was a farm girl. We lived too far apart to play together, but I watched him get off and on the bus every day and we often sat together. Our teacher seemed to hate both of us, but made the mistake of assigning our seats alphabetically. This put us together and near the back of the room. Paul and I huddled over comics and magazines and whispered about things we found more fascinating than our spelling words.

    In fifth grade I was back with Jutannia and Angie. We spent a lot of time trading white elephants, though we did not know then to call our trinkets that. To us, it was a game where we took anything we did not want anymore, or our family did not want anymore, and traded those items at school for something we wanted or imagined someone else might want. Or game became pretty serious to us. The trinkets were used as serious currency that might buy you extra french fries at lunch or an awesome new pencil. A few kids brought things their family most assuredly was not willing to trade away, and that became the end of the game. I would never have stolen anything from my family. If they wanted something, did not give me permission to trade it, I would not have dreamed of carting that something off. I was largely about gifts. Much of what I traded for was to make my family happy. I would not steal from them and make them unhappy. That was the opposite of what I hoped to do. Most notably I "bought" my mother a Christmas tree broach for Christmas. It was simple costume jewelry, silver, and had different colored faux jewels in it. One of them was missing, and I had this big idea that I could find another jewel to fit in the slot and glue it in there. That never happened, but my mother wore that costume jewelry with much pride and delight through several Christmas seasons anyway.

    In the second year of fifth grade (I failed that grade twice) I hung out with Jill, who was a very pretty curly haired girl with a lot of attitude. I loved how spunky she was. I also hung out just a little with Rose, a very poor girl that spoke with a deep country accent, and I made friends with a girl named Andrea. Andrea was also spunky and she had a great sense of humor. This is probably when I began to value friends that could make me laugh. My family finally had a telephone and Andrea was the first friend I spent time talking with on the phone. I knew where she lived. She and another nice girl named Debbie got off the bus near the second sharp bend coming up the Camp Creek road, about four or five miles from our home. I had watched her get on and off the bus many times. The fact that I could sit in my home and she could sit in her home and we could talk to each other and hear each other instantly fascinated me. I tried many times to get my sister Sandi, who I thought knew everything, to explain this magic to me, but either she did not understand it well herself or I could not follow her explanation. My home had no running water, but we had electricity and a telephone. We were almost normal in my book. We had a party line and Andrea and I used to drop silent whenever anyone picked up the phone and, without listening for a dial tone, began to dial. When they stopped dialing, Andrea would say, "Hello?" and try to pretend to be "Aunt Alice" or whomever the caller was asking for. She didn't get by with it for very long but it did not take much to greatly amuse us.

    The electric range in our kitchen, like most everything else, had been purchased second hand. It had a timer that no one could figure out how to turn off or reset. At random times during the day that timer would go off. It was much louder than you would ever expect an oven timer to be and, the only way to get it to stop buzzing, that we had chanced upon, was to jar it -- hard. This meant a lot of vibration. So, the timer would go off and everyone in the house would stand up, race to the kitchen, and begin jumping up and down. Being on the phone did not render you exempt from your stove jarring duties, so Andrea became accustomed to these interruptions. I don't know if it was due to frustration or simply because it was fun, but most of us would begin not only to jump but to yell. We turned into the Looney Tunes characters every time that timer buzzed.

    My mother would raise her voice to a higher pitch and start screaming something akin to, "Come on, you dad blamed stove! Shut the heck up! I'm trying to cook around here!" She often resorted to baby talk and that, coupled with the high pitch and her penchant for yellow, left me seeing her favorite Looney Tunes character, Tweety Bird hopping lightfootedly around the kitchen.

    Sandi would hop too, chiming in simultaneously with, "Pipe down you crazy hunk of metal before we take you to the junk yard and sell you for scrap iron!" She seemed more genuinely angry than Mother did and my mind's eye likened her to a frustrated Sylvester or sometimes Daffy Duck.

    Daddy would sometimes jump quietly and sometimes shout out a random song that had been hanging around in his head. He'd sing loudly, "Hey, good lookin'! Whatcha' got cookin' How's about cookin' something up with me?!"  His jumping was always joyful! 'Foghorn Leghorn, at your service' it seemed to say.

    My adopted uncle, Crit and my Uncle Junior would use mild swear words in their declarations of stove timer resistance. My mother would usually let the mild curse words slide without a dressing down. They would yell, "You *+^%#@ stove! Shut the *&&^$# up," while jumping mightily all over the kitchen. Crit with his shaggy hair and fierce but lovable scowl might as well be yelling, "Bracken Fracken!" He was Yosemite Sam in my eyes. Uncle Junior, thin, and lanky, and full of hard luck tales, could be Wile E. Coyote on a good day.

    I usually helped my daddy sing while I bounced, imagining myself as Witch Hazel or the Tazmanian Devil. Sometimes I was Speedy Gonzales yelling to the top of my lungs, "Arriba! Arriba! Andale! Andale!" Sometimes I was laughing too hard to shout anything at all.

    Usually the stove stopped buzzing and no one noticed because of the immense racket we were making. After the commotion calmed down, I would breathlessly pick the phone back up and Andrea would say, "Can I please trade families with you?"

    The other common interruption to our phone calls was when someone sneezed. My mother and both my sisters have always sneezed very loudly, unbelievably loudly. I grew up around them and was soon immune, but those sneezes startled other people a lot! Andrea made a game out of trying to guess who she heard sneezing in the background at my home. She was rarely ever correct, but she was dogged in her determination to identify my mother and sisters by their sneezes. I thought it was funny when she guessed wrong, and extra funny when she got the dogs and the humans mixed up. We had two Chihuahuas, Feisty and Pumpkin, that had barks much bigger than their bites. Sometimes one of them would yip a single sound or perhaps two in succession and Andrea would say, "Was that your mom sneezing that time?"

    On the road that traveled directly above our road we had some very good friends and fellow church members. Brother Manny Wayne and Sister Bea had two kids named David and Robin. I did not get to see them often, but I loved playing with them when I could. Robin was a pretty big tomboy, like me, and David loved motorcycles. I loved watching David love his motorcycles, but I never admitted that I had a crush on him. I was still very shy about boys at that time. On my twelfth birthday, Robin told me that my parents were buying me a rabbit from her mother. We were on the bus and the noise was drowning out part of what she was saying. "Don't tell them I told you though," She yelled my way, "It's supposed to be a secret." I got my hopes up for a beautiful rabbit for my birthday when in reality it was a rabbit cake. I had missed a crucial word in the secret. I had a large and beautiful Bugs Bunny cake that Sister Bea baked and decorated. I loved Bugs Bunny and that remains the prettiest cake I have ever had for any birthday.

    Once I switched schools Nancy and Michelle became my best school friends and I had found a new trio. One or the other of them was in my homeroom every year while I was at that school and we all three hung out together before and after classes, on the playground, at lunch, music, library, and gym. We were together at sock hops and any school functions that allowed just a little mingling. We mingled toward one another like magnets. Once high school reared its head, Nancy and I struggled to arrange our schedules to be together as much as possible. Pitifully, it turned out that Home Economics would be our only class together and I had no classes with Michelle. It helped that Nancy and I shared lockers, but I still missed her most of the rest of the day and this added to my high school blues. There were other friends that moved into and out of our happenings. I thought of them as our bigger group or "gang". They were Tammy, Rhonda, Shan, Stephanie, Jill, Brenda, Rita, Sherry, and April. All of us were friends but Nancy and Michelle were the ones I hung out with most often. As far as the guys went, Jimmy was my most constant guy friend, but I also loved to hang out with Buddy, with my cousin DeanO. In class, I spent a lot of time fighting the urge to whisper with the wonderfully sweet Stuart. Shane H. was the only guy I knew that I thought was as good, as kind, as loyal as Stuart. And there were two tough little guys named Joey B. and Clint R. that never failed to defend me if a bully was around. Possibly that was because I would tolerate no lip about either of them, but who knows which is the chicken and which is the egg? Though we did not hang out much, Joey, Clint and I shared a mutual respect that ran very deep.

    When I was in the sixth grade, I found Cindy D. and we spent many a fun hour together rocking the 80s. We had a lot in common and had similar tough spirits, though I did not know any of that when I first saw her on the bus, wearing a fancy rabbit coat and sporting perfect blond hair, her eyes sparkling like blue diamonds. It would have been easy to simply be envious. I am very glad I took the time to get to know the sweet, tough girl beneath the facade I saw as weak and spoiled.

    In eight grade, which was held in the high school, since I was not in as many classes with Nancy as I would have liked, I fell into a friendship with a girl named Dreama. I loved her name and she seemed so much older than most of the girls in my classes. She had a serious boyfriend that worked in the local garage, and she was about as disillusioned with school as I was. Dreama taught me the best and easiest ways to skip classes and how to shoplift much more, and much bigger items, than I had ever imagined. Once I realized I had to stop shoplifting, I found a way to hang out more with Nancy and less with people that encouraged the wild child under my skin. I had discovered that maybe you aren't what you eat, but if you aren't vigilant, you sure lean toward being a lot like whomever you hang out with. To this day though, I wish Dreama, and all my wonderful friends many blessings and fine things. I am grateful for all they taught me and all the fond memories they helped me make.