He Believed in Me

September 20, 2008 at 11:11 pm (Slice of Life Sunday)
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Slice of Life Sunday is a meme dedicated to preserving the accounts of events cut out of the lives of average people just like you and me from all over the world. And like having ice cream with your pie, there is more to this meme than meets the eye - it’s a meme a` la mode. I hope you will join me and share a Slice of your Life.

 

He Believed In Me

 

At different times in my life, I experienced the wonderful fortune of having someone believe in me and in my abilities. I have come to realize these people were sent as angels to help me overcome the many difficult times when I felt like I was not worthy of anyone’s love or faith. I am not sure I would have made it past adolescence if not for my Grandma Martha. My childhood and teen years were plagued with all forms of abuse. Grandma provided a light of hope which helped me get through a dense maze of insecurity and self-doubt. During the first three years of high school I experienced success in both my grades and in forming friendships. The relationship with my mother clouded those successes, which ultimately led me to an early marriage at age 16. I knew on my wedding day this was not what I wanted for my life, but I “made my bed and had to lie in it.” During the first nine years of my marriage, infidelity and emotional abuse stripped away the strength I had gained in high school. I was headed in a downward spiral fueled by drugs until an opportunity of a lifetime crossed my path. My father-in-law stepped forward in a leap of faith to help me seize the opportunity, against the wishes of my mother-in-law.

Throughout our marriage we lived in rented apartments or homes. In 1976, we rented a farmhouse located well off the beaten path, the perfect place for the “hippie lifestyle.” Although I rarely worked outside the home, I had taken the H&R Block training class three years before and had worked in a local office each tax season. In November that year, I received a phone call from my employer informing me of a franchise office that had come up for sale. This was a very rare occurrence. The office was located in a town forty-five minutes south of where we lived. The owner of the franchise wanted $10,000 for the business but would except a fifty percent down payment with the balance due by April 15 of the following year. My employer assured me this was definitely a good price, “the opportunity of a lifetime.” The problem was I didn’t have $5000 and the three bankers I visited laughed me out of their offices. I was told no one in their right mind would ever finance that kind of money for “a business that did not come with real estate.”

I had all but given up on the thought of owning my own tax business when we sat down for Thanksgiving dinner at my in-law’s. During the conversation which usually consisted of football and exchanging names for Christmas, I mentioned my desire to purchase an H&R Block franchise. Before I had time to give all the financial details, my mother-in-law interrupted with, “a woman’s place is in the home, not buying a business. Only men own businesses.” Not wanting to disrupt a family holiday, I dropped the subject and took my place at the sink to wash dishes. When we were ready to leave, my husband went out to warm up our car. My father-in-law walked me out carrying my son and surprised me by asking me to join him for coffee the next morning at a local restaurant. He said, “I want to hear more about your business.”

The next morning I dropped the kids off at my grandmother’s house and joined my father-in-law for coffee. We spent almost two hours going over all the financials and discussing the possible problems of owning a business so far away. Finally he said, “I know this is a business you can do. But is it something you really want to do?” I told him I had not thought about owning my own business before but I knew I could do this. And yes, it was something I really wanted to do. He looked at me for a few moments and then told me to wait about ten minutes then order us some lunch. He then left. Less than twenty minutes later he returned and handed me an envelope containing $5000 cash. He did not ask me to sign a contract. “I believe in you ‘Cricket’. Your word is worth more than any piece of paper.”

I was twenty-six years old and I became the owner of an H&R Block franchise. I honored my father-in-law’s wishes and did not disclose he was my silent partner. I drove the long trip five days every week that winter. I would leave early in the morning and return late in the evening. My husband became irritated when I was able to “come up with the money” without “his” signature at the bank and quit his job right after Christmas stating, “Someone has to stay home and take care of these kids.” I ignored his comments of my not wanting to be a “good mother” and dug “my heels” in to make my business a success. And a success it was! I earned enough to pay off both my father-in-law and the previous owner by the middle of March while making a good living for my family. Although I loved the business, a winter blizzard convinced me it was too far to drive every winter for the rest of my life. I put the business up for sale in early April and sold it by the first of May for more than twice what I paid for it. I used the money I had earned to purchase our first home – a two-story farmhouse on five acres with a barn and free gas. We lived there for six years and both of my children have many fond childhood memories of growing up on “a farm.”

Owning that business gave me confidence in myself and my abilities for business management. I was to go on to own another tax franchise and later a restaurant. Further on down the road I was to be the director of a senior center, a manager of a hotel, and a human resource manager for Lowes. At this point, I have over thirty years of management experience which all began because one person believed in me.

My father-in-law died several years ago. Through my divorce from his son, my relationship with “the family” became quite strained, except with him. He always treated me with love and respect. We attended the same church in the late 80’s and early 90’s until it became clear my ex-mother-in-law was not happy with the situation and I left the church. I have an ex-husband and an ex-mother-in-law. I never had an ex-father-in-law. I went to calling hours several hours before the announced times for viewing so not to upset his wife. I had to say good-bye to the man who believed in me enough to go against the stereotypes and the discriminations of his generation and those before him. I love you Donnie. Thank you for believing in me.

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Birds do it, Bees do it

September 6, 2008 at 1:00 pm (Slice of Life Sunday)
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Slice of Life Sunday is a meme dedicated to preserving the accounts of events cut out of the lives of average people just like you and me from all over the world. And like having ice cream with your pie, there is more to this meme than meets the eye - it’s a meme a` la mode. I hope you will join me and share a Slice of your Life.

 

 

Turning twenty-one is a very exciting time. For many, this milestone signifies entry into adulthood. Probably the greatest tradition of celebrating a 21st birthday is displaying a legitimate ID at the stroke of midnight to an accommodating bartender who acknowledges your rite of passage with a free drink. The remainder of the evening/morning is spent getting totally smashed, and with any luck at all, the best memory of your celebration will be not remembering anything at all. For me, turning twenty-one was not about becoming of legal age to drink. I had been married for five years and had more than my share of drinks through these years in the local taverns with my husband. The bartenders knew we were married and to them a marriage license was sufficient proof of my being old enough to drink. No, my 21st birthday celebration was not spent in the traditional sense, except, it did begin a time of experimentation.

 

My husband had returned home from serving his time in Vietnam in the winter of 1972. We had moved from a rented apartment to a rented house that spring. For the first time, we had a huge livingroom and a very large yard. We spent several months painting and making the house our home. Being that my birthday falls in the latter part of August, we decided to have a big party to celebrate my 21st birthday. We invited all our friends for what was to be the grand finale of a series of barbeques held that summer. We had steaks and burgers on the grill, beer and Boones Farm wine in the coolers, and an array of drugs on the kitchen table. The stereo blasted all evening with hits by Moody Blues, CSN&Y, The Eagles, Rod Stewart, and, my personal favorite, Elvis. It was the age of sex, drugs, and rock & roll. We danced, we drank, and we passed the joints freely. Couples would disappear for a few minutes and return with unembarrassed looks and wrinkled clothing. Even my husband and I made an extended visit to the bathroom. It was a wild party. I didn’t know just how wild it was going to get after the majority of our guests left.

 

I vaguely remember people leaving. I do remember putting the leftover food in the refrigerator. I was closing the refrigerator door when a couple came out of the bathroom. I was surprised to see this as they were both married, but, not to each other. I decided to handle this delicate situation by offering the unashamed couple a beer for the road. I grabbed myself another beer and a joint and headed for the livingroom. My husband came in sometime later to tell me everyone was gone but his cousin and his wife, who I will call Bob & Carol, were going to spend the night. At that point, I was lying on the floor and took a hit off a joint before I passed it on and then passed out.

 

I have no idea how much time passed before I awoke. My head was pounding and it was hard to see in the dark room. I could hear moaning sounds that seemed like they were right next to me. I propped myself up on my elbow and tried to focus my eyes. My eyes finally adjusted to the darkness and I could see the moaning sounds were coming from a couple in the midst of copulation in the middle of my livingroom floor. Then a memory made its way through my blurry brain and I realized Bob & Carol were spending the night and had obviously thought no one would wake up during their lovemaking. I was about turn over and go back to sleep when I felt John’s hands move up and down my body. But his touch didn’t feel right. His hands seemed heavier. And he was nibbling on my earlobe, which he had never done before. I was trying to make sense out of these new sensations when Bob whispered in my ear, “I thought you were never going to wake up.”

 

I sat up with a joint and demanded, “What the hell do you think you’re doing!?!” It was then it finally registered that it was Bob’s foreplay that had awakened me, but, if Bob was here, then who was pounding their way to a climax a few feet away. Just as the question registered in my brain, so did the answer. “What the hell is going on here?!!!” I demanded as I struggled to stand up. “Hey, take it easy. We can have a lot fun. It is your birthday after all.” Bob said, tying to reason with me. By this time I was on my feet. “Yes, it is my birthday and I want ALL of you to get the f*ck out of my house. NOW!” With that said I stumbled my way to the bathroom and preceded the bow to the throne the rest of the day.

 

I would like to say I had enough anger and self-esteem to throw my cheating husband out after my rude awakening. But, I didn’t. At first I tried to tell myself it was all the alcohol and drugs that had led John to want to take part in such a disgusting act. He explained the next day that Bob had told him about several such encounters he and his wife had participated in. In fact, he assured me there was even an entire swingers club of couples in our area that met at a party and drew keys from a bowl to see who would be spending the night together. John spent the next several weeks trying to convince me swinging was perfectly acceptable and I was just being a prude. Unwittingly I opened the door to my dissent to the seamy side of life with the grandstand statement, “If I were to have sex with another man, you wouldn’t be able to stand it.”  John feigned a look of puzzlement and after a moment of thought said, “You may be right. But then, I guess we will never know, will we?”

 

So there it was. The challenge. In my naïve way of thinking, I convinced myself if I were to have sex with Bob then John would realize how wrong he was, how much he loved me and how much he couldn’t stand having another man touch me. I even had daydreams about how at the last moment, John would tear the Bob off me and tell me how crazy he must have been to think this is what he wanted for us and our relationship. I sure was one stupid 21-year-old!

 

We entered into our period of wife swapping. No, John did not mind at all for me to have sex with other men, in fact the more the merrier was his motto. Although I refused to join the local swinger’s club, I overcame my humiliation of my husband’s willingness to share with the help of drugs. I was to learn just how low in moral fiber he was during the next nine years of our marriage. As long as I was stoned, I could deal with the adult book stores, adult movie houses, and wife swapping with Bob and Carol. A good line of cocaine would even ease the total disgust I had when I learned that John swung both ways. I kept myself so stoned that I even convinced myself that as long as he was screwing men then I didn’t have to worry about him leaving me for another woman. He was sick, depraved and truly evil to the very core of his being. I was timid, insecure and lived on drugs. Shortly after my 30th birthday, I awoke one morning to see the reflection of my sunken eyes in a mirror. I had gotten to the point where I couldn’t even get out of bed without the help of a line of cocaine. This vision repulsed me so much that I got up and ran through the house like a mad woman gathering up our stockpile of drugs as I went. I took them all to the bathroom and flushed them down the toilet. It was over. There were no more sex parties. I never used cocaine again. I smoked one joint nine years later and none since. And it was the beginning of the end of our marriage, which would come a few years later after I learned just how immoral and loathsome my husband really was.

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Oh Yeah!?! I’ll Show You!

September 5, 2008 at 1:39 pm (Slice of Life Sunday)
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Slice of Life Sunday is a meme dedicated to preserving the accounts of events cut out of the lives of average people just like you and me from all over the world. And like having ice cream with your pie, there is more to this meme than meets the eye - it’s a meme a` la mode. I hope you will join me and share a Slice of your Life.

 

 

Oh Yeah! I’ll Show You!

 

Teenager is synonymous with the word rebellion, the years when a previously wonderful child transforms almost overnight into an unwelcome person full of sulks, bad manners, and unreasonable behavior. “Our youth now love luxury, they have bad manners, contempt for authority; they show disrespect for elders, and love to chatter in place of exercise. Children are now tyrants, not the servants of their households. They no longer rise when elders enter the room. They contradict their parents, chatter before company, gobble up their food and tyrannize their teachers.” Although this may sound like a description of today’s teenagers, amazingly it was written by Socrates, who died in 399 BC. Obviously teenage rebellion has always been a normal part of adolescence. Most often, this rebellion leads to semi-harmless acts as a matter of testing the waters, spreading wings, or expanding horizons during the growing pains of being a teenager. But sometimes rebellion manifests into destructive behaviors as a result of parents who forget they too were once a teenager.

 

I was the definition of a “good teenager” for my first three teenage years. My parents were strict and, for the most part, I did not challenge their authority. I was a good student and had a circle of friends who also followed the rules in their households. I did my assigned chores as it didn’t occur to me that I had any other choice. I began working the summer of my 12th birthday, babysitting five days a week for a family with four children under the age of six. I turned the $10.00 per week I earned over to my mother without question, or I should say, without many questions. I babysat most weekends and every summer until I turned 16, when I was of age to get a better paying job. I started working as a dishwasher in a local nursing home. I worked three hours most evenings after school and an eight-hour shift on both Saturdays and Sundays, handing my entire paycheck to mother as soon as I received it. I had been a cheerleader in junior high school but my mother would not permit me to try out in high school because of the expense and “those outfits are too short.” I was not permitted to belong to school clubs, mainly because they would interfere with my working after school. I was only allowed to date on Saturday night after I got off work at 7pm, with a curfew of 10pm. Although I was not entirely happy with these rules and the money arrangement, I went along with them. That is, until my mother bought a blue suit.  

 

For many years, my mother told friends and relatives, “Cricket was a pretty good kid until she turned 16. Then, she went wild overnight.” That is not entirely true. It was exactly five weeks after my sixteenth birthday, standing in Jean Frock’s dress shop, that I lost all respect for my mother and made the decision I was no longer going to follow her archaic rules.

 

Two weeks prior to this fateful shopping trip, I had received the honor of being voted as the Junior Class Homecoming Attendant. Each year, the Freshman, Sophomore and Junior classes could nominate girls in their perspective grades, and then a vote by each grade was held to select one girl to be that grade’s Homecoming Attendant. The Senior class would vote for the top three girls in their grade to serve on the court for the Homecoming Queen, in which the entire school would vote to select the queen. To be honest, I was surprised I was even nominated to be on the ballot for my class. I was always friendly with everyone, and I believed I was well liked, but I was not a member of the “in crowd.” I was completely shocked when Jim Harrington, a definite member of the in-crowd, came running into the lunch room to tell me, and everyone sitting at the table, that I had indeed won. Although the official announcement was not to be made until the end of the day, he was on the homecoming committee and had helped with counting the ballots. At first, I didn’t believe him as he was known for pulling cruel practical jokes. Then he said, “Yeah, we were really surprised you won. But then I figured it out. All the popular girls nominated each other so they were all on the ballot with you. Since we could only vote for one girl, our friends ended up dividing their votes between them and your friends all voted for you. You only won by two votes. But, you won.” Now what was I supposed to say to that? He had taken the most exciting thing to ever happen to me and dismissed it as a matter of mathematics. Yes, he was a jerk. But I didn’t care what he thought; I was the Junior Homecoming Attendant! At that moment, I was the happiest girl alive.

 

My excitement and happiness were short lived. A few minutes later, the lunch room monitor came to the table to tell me I was to report to the Principal’s office. I thought my summons was to give me advance notice that I had won. And, to a point it was. Principal Slutz called me into his office to advise me I had indeed won, but, unless I agreed to stop seeing my current boyfriend I would not be permitted to have the honor of representing my class. John, my boyfriend, was a hood, a “bad boy” as Mr. Slutz called him. He went on to say how surprised he was that a “good girl” such as me would lower her standards and date the likes of John.  He said that he had no control over who I dated, but he had control over who would be Junior Homecoming Attendant. He then issued the ultimatum, “It is up to you. Do you want to be the homecoming attendant or do you want to continue dating John?” Let me tell you, I got mad! How dare he try to run my life! I sat holding my heading down starring at my hands clenched together in my lap for a few minutes trying to compose myself. Just as he started to speak again, I stood up and looked him straight in the eye. “You are not my father. You can not tell me who I can or can not date. And, you better think twice about trying to take away my being the homecoming attendant. It is already all over the lunch room that I won. If my name is not announced at last period, you will hear from my family’s attorney tomorrow.” I turned and walked out of his office. On my way to my locker to get my books for the next class, I started shaking. Then I started laughing. Alice, my best friend, asked if I was alright and what was so funny. I finally replied, “I was just wondering if Perry Mason would take my case if Slutz doesn’t allow me to be the Junior Homecoming Attendant. He is the only attorney I know and he is on television.” As it turned out, I did not have to search for an attorney to cover my bluff as my name was announced during last period announcements.

 

I wasn’t sure how my mother would react to my news. I realize most mothers would have been excited that such an honor was given to their daughter, but my mother was not like most mothers. My older sister actually told mom before I had a chance since I had to work after school. By the time I got home, my mother was in an uproar. She was not pleased “little miss popularity” was given such an honor. “What is this going to cost me?” she demanded. I told her I would need a suit for the homecoming game and a party dress for the dance. She continued to rant and rave about “not being made of money” until I reminded her of my paycheck, which I gave her every two weeks. Dad stepped in and said she was to buy me whatever I needed. This only made mom angrier, but she compromised and said she would purchase the dress but I would need to borrow a suit from one of my friends. This proved to be a challenge since I was so small. I was finally able to borrow a suit from a friend’s sister, even though it was at least two sizes too big. But I didn’t mind. I found if I put a belt around the skirt, which was well hidden by the oversized jacket, it wouldn’t fall down. It was a small price to pay to be allowed to purchase my very first party dress. Although I had gone to two previous homecoming dances, I had worn dresses that belonged to my mother, which were altered to fit me.  To have my own party dress was a dream come true!

 

That Friday night, mom and I drove to Wooster, which was a much larger town than the one where we lived. It had several dress shops and we visited all of them. My favorite dress was red, but mom said only whores wore red, so that one was out. Our final stop was at Jean Frocks, which was located at the end of the shopping area. I found a dress I really liked but figured mom would say no to it since it had a lower neckline and was a bright fuchsia silky material overlaid with black lace. Too my surprise, mom agreed on the dress. I figured out why she was so agreeable at the checkout counter. As she paid for my dress, she also purchased a blue suit for herself. I just stood and starred at her. I knew better than to say anything if I wanted to go to all the homecoming festivities, but I was very hurt. How dare she make me wear a suit that was too big and buy herself one instead? A suit she didn’t need. She worked in a factory and wore jeans. She didn’t go to church. There was absolutely no good reason why she should buy herself a suit. Except one. Because she could.

 

I do not know the motives behind my mother’s decision to purchase a suit she did not need, but that suit represented the final straw to me. I was done with following her rules. I was done with giving her the money I earned. I was fed up with her disrespect and hostility towards me, both of which I had endured my entire life. After the homecoming was past, I announced I was keeping my own money. Yes, I received several good beatings, but I held my ground. I cashed my paycheck and hid the money in my locker at school. I did pay for all my own expenses after that and even paid the monthly telephone bill. I also cut back my work schedule to include every other weekend off. I would tell my parents I was spending the weekend at Alice’s house so I could go out with John both Friday and Saturday night. One weekend, I even went to Cleveland with him and had my first taste of alcohol. I extended my curfew to 11pm like most teenagers had. On New Year’s Eve, I reluctantly agreed to babysit for an prominent area family, but only after the mother agreed to provide all the food and alcohol for a party for all my friends (of course there was to be no drinking until after I had the kids asleep, yeah right!).

 

There were many fights between my mother and me throughout the eight months following homecoming. Regardless of how much she beat me, I stood up to her. I never hit her back, but every time she knocked me down, I got up and mouthed off, most of the time getting knocked down again. I disobeyed her and didn’t much care that she knew it. During one particularly bad fight, in which I ended up with a bloody nose and a split lip, I got in her face and screamed, “You can hit me all you want, but I will do what I want, when I want to do it. I’ll show you!”

 

Two months later I was walking down the aisle on my father’s arm to meet John, a boy I didn’t want to marry. I was almost six months pregnant. I guess I showed her. At least that is what I thought at the time. Now I realize I fell prey to teenage rebellion that was misguided well off course as a response to very poor parenting. I often wonder where my life would have taken me if I would have had a mother that had even a small clue of how to raise children and how to deal with teenage adolesence.

 

“Children begin by loving their parents. As they grow older, they judge them. Sometimes they forgive them.”

                                                         Author Unknown

 

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This Magic Moment

August 25, 2008 at 4:02 am (Slice of Life Sunday)
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Slice of Life Sunday is a meme dedicated to preserving the accounts of events cut out of the lives of average people just like you and me from all over the world. And like having ice cream with your pie, there is more to this meme than meets the eye - it’s a meme a` la mode. I hope you will join me and share a Slice of your Life.

Today is my 57th birthday. As birthdays go, this was a fairly quiet one. I had a wonderful telephone visit with my best friend which began with “Holy crap Batman, it’s your birthday!” My son and his family had a nice bbq for dad and I. I returned home shortly before 9pm feeling very nostalgic.I have enjoyed thinking back over the happy times in my life this evening while trying to select an event to write about this week. I can hardly believe it has been just over 45 years since the following event took place. As I started writing, it all came back like it was yesterday. It was definitely one of the most magical moments in my life.  

 

This Magic Moment

 

 

The summer of 1963 was a summer of discovery for me. We had moved from the country to a small town with a population of 300-400, although to me it was like moving to New York City. We rented a house that was located next door to the VFW and directly across the street from the drug store, the hardware store, and the post office, thus, giving us access to all the comings and goings of everyone in town. I had attended the local elementary school for six years so I knew all the town kids but had never interacted with them outside of the school day. Now I was able to ride my bike all over town and visit friends at their house.

 

I spent much of my time those hot summer days with my friend Loretta. Loretta lived at the far end of town and had a playhouse of sorts in the barn located behind her house. We would hang out in the barn and listen to 45’s on her record player. Loretta taught me that a scratched record could still be good to listen to by taping a nickel on the arm of the diamond head so it could play through the scratches.  Loretta also introduced me to roller skates, the silver metal ones that attached to your shoes and could be adjusted and tightened with a turn of the special “skate key.” As hard as I tried, I could not master roller skating. I didn’t do too bad if I held on to Loretta’s hand, but as soon as she let go, I fell instantly to the sidewalk, usually skinning an elbow or knee on the way down. I didn’t mind the bruises though because Loretta’s mom would bandage my wounds and make us grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup for lunch. I loved this new sandwich, and it is one of my favorites to this day. Yes, Loretta definitely broadened my horizons that summer, especially since she also introduced me to her older brother Terry.

 

Terry was one year older than us and he had gone to the junior high school the previous school year. I was a little apprehensive about going to a new school, which combined students in seventh and eighth grade from three elementary schools. Terry would come out to the barn and tell us all about junior high. Although I was interested in getting some insider information on what to do and where to go, I was more fascinated by Terry. He had black hair like Elvis. And he was quite the show off when he sang along with the Elvis records. Needless to say, I developed quite a crush on Terry and I was to soon learn he was equally attracted to me.

 

When I first moved into town, Loretta and I would meet on Saturday night at the local movie theatre. It was not important what movie was playing, regardless of what it was, we always went every Saturday night. By the middle of July, Terry came with Loretta and we would all sit together to watch the movie. I sat in the middle since it was not cool for Loretta to be seen sitting beside her brother at the movies. The second Saturday night Terry joined us, Alfred Hitchcock’s, The Birds, was playing. I was not fond of scary movies, but it was Saturday night. During the movie, Loretta whispered to me she was going to the restroom and would get us some more popcorn while she was out. I knew she didn’t like scary movies either and figured she was just using this as an excuse to escape. After she left, I whispered this information to Terry. It was about this time in the movie when the school kids are sent home and the birds start attacking them. I, along with others in the theatre, screamed. Terry grabbed my hand and I held on for dear life. At some point, he put his arm across my shoulders and I took full advantage to bury my head into his chest during the remaining scary parts of the movie. After the movie ended, we all walked outside talking about how scary the movie was. I lived just down the street and could see my house as we stood in front of the theatre. Just as we said our goodnights, with Terry and Loretta leaving in an opposite direction to their home, and I starting to cross the street in the direction of my house, I huge flock of birds flew over. Everyone and I mean everyone, regardless of age, began running and screaming. I think I ran all the way home without taking a breath. I was so scared when I got home, I didn’t think about Terry putting his arm around me and holding onto me when I jumped or when I buried my head into his chest. But, I thought about him the next day.

 

All day Sunday, I couldn’t get Terry out of my thoughts. Now that my fear of the birds had subsided, a new anxiety took their place. I remembered how Terry pulled me close with one arm when I buried my head in his chest and placed his other hand on my face to shield the picture on the big screen from my eyes. I remembered how he smelled and how safe I felt in his arms. I had never been that close to a boy. I had crushes on boys before but not like the one I was feeling for Terry. I could hardly wait for Monday to come so I could visit Loretta because I knew I would also see Terry again.

 

Monday was always laundry day. I had to do my chores before I was allowed to go out to play. That seems silly to say now since play was about to take on a whole new meaning. I finished hanging the last load of clothes on the line just after lunch. Despite the heat of the day, I removed my waist-length hair from its ponytail and brushed it until it shined. I hopped on my bike and headed towards Loretta’s house. I could feel my hair flying in the wind as I pedaled as fast as I could. Once there, I went to the barn as I could hear the music playing. I walked in and saw Terry getting ready to put another stack of 45’s on the record player. Loretta was not there. I said hello and asked if Loretta was in the house. Terry shook his head no and said their mom took Loretta to get her hair cut. He said they should be back soon and I could listen to records with him while I waited for her, if I wanted to. “If I wanted to!?! Was he crazy?,” my adolescent hormones screamed in my brain while I outwardly replied, “OK, sure,” and calmly walked over to see what records he had selected.

 

We looked through the records together, with our fingers occasionally touching as we passed the records back and forth between us. “That sure was a scary movie the other night, “he said. “Yes, it scared me half to death.” I replied. “Yeah, I noticed,” he said as his eyes met mine. I started to look away in embarrassment but something inside me made my eyes return to his. “Yeah, I was pretty scared. I hope I wasn’t too much of a bother.”   “Oh no, I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind at all” he assured me. “Well, I hope my being so scared didn’t ruin the movie for you. I know boys like that kind of movie. They like being scared, but girls don’t.” I stammered. “Oh no, you didn’t ruin the movie for me. I like sitting with you at the movies. You are very pretty you know.” He replied as he set the stack of records he was holding down on the table without taking his eyes from mine. “Ummm, no, I didn’t know that. I mean I guess I am ok looking.” I stammered again. “No, you are very pretty. I think you are the prettiest girl I have ever known.” he said as he stepped closer to me.

 

At that moment I became stricken with terror as I realized he was going to kiss me. I had never been kissed by a boy before. I had seen it done in movies and wondered what it would be like. I even practiced kissing my pillow a few times. But this wasn’t my pillow. This was Terry with the black hair like Elvis. Terry who had the aroma of a summer rain. Terry who held me close to protect me when I was scared.

 

All of these thoughts were swirling in my mind as I watched his face come closer to mine. I heard the changer on the record player drop the last record and “Are You Lonesome Tonight” began to play. He put his fingers under my chin and pulled my face up to meet his. Just as his lips touched mine, he closed his eyes. I closed my eyes and felt the tenderness of his lips on mine.

 

Our “relationship” lasted a few more weeks until Terry gave me a ring he purchased at the drug store. I was so excited to be his “girlfriend” that I didn’t consider what my parents would think. My mother was not pleased and made me give the ring back. I was no longer allowed to sit with him at the movies. School started and we rode the same bus to the junior high but we did not sit together. He soon moved on to another girl and forgot all about me. Although we live in the same area today, I would be surprised if he remembers our brief encounter with young love. But, I do. The innocence and sweetness of that first kiss was a magical moment that I will never forget.

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Yes Cricket, there is a Santa Claus

August 16, 2008 at 8:12 pm (Slice of Life Sunday, Uncategorized)
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Slice of Life Sunday is a meme dedicated to preserving the accounts of events cut out of the lives of average people just like you and me from all over the world. And like having ice cream with your pie, there is more to this meme than meets the eye - it’s a meme a` la mode. I hope you will join me and share a Slice of your Life.

Sometimes doing the most mundane things triggers a memory. This slice of life is the result of such.

 

Why is it that the simplest of chores are the most irritating? You know the kind, the ones you keep putting off until there is no more putting them off. I do not know why, but cleaning out my purse is one of those chores. I allow receipts, stubs, and pocket change to build up to a point where my purse strap leaves a mark on my shoulder and I lose fifteen pounds by just not carrying a purse. Then a day finally arrives when the chore absolutely has to be done. Today was one of those days. I am always amazed to see what is in my purse and how long it has been there. I was surprised to learn I had $32.56 in change, although my all time record was $40.04. I also found receipts for Christmas present purchases I made for my grandchildren. I quick viewing of them made me glad I had $30 left over! As I reminisced about last Christmas and how much joy it brings me to watch the kids open their gifts, I thought back to a Christmas in my youth. The Christmas when I learned there was definitely a Santa Claus.

 

I was eight years old and in the third grade. Several of my classmates took it upon themselves to educate the naïve ones of us that there was no Santa Claus. I remember getting so angry at one boy in particular, Roger Smail, on the last day of school before Christmas break. Since we lived in a very small town, there was only one class for each grade, thus everyone of the same age was in the same classroom every year. I had a schoolgirl crush on Roger because he had always been very nice to me. He would come to my desk and compliment how well I colored within the lines of whatever picture we were given. His opinion meant a lot to me, so when he started talking about Santa Claus being made up and it was our parents who bought the Christmas presents, I was at first confused. Since “he” said it, it must be true. But like most children who first hear about Santa not being real, I was not ready to let go of my beliefs. How could I not believe in Santa? He brought me a nice doll every year and a new outfit of clothes. Sometimes we would get more presents, but I could always count on a doll and a dress, usually ones that I picked out in the Sears & Roebuck catalog. So after careful consideration, I decided Roger was wrong and told him so. He and the other boys laughed at me. I didn’t mind their laughing but when Roger said, “You have to be stupid to believe in Santa Claus,” I got mad. I was not stupid and I wasn’t going to let a dumb boy say I was. I told him to shut up, but he started chanting, “Stupid girls believe in Santa Claus.” He was in the middle of saying it for the fourth time when I found my hand slapping his face. I mean I really slapped him. His face had a red outline of my handprint and we were both so shocked we couldn’t move. All the other kids were shocked and everyone stood still. It seemed like forever before Mrs. Norris came over to see what was going on. After hearing both sides of our tale, she sent both Roger and I to stand in a corner as punishment. After school that day, before I got on the bus, I walked over to Roger and apologized for slapping him. I also said “there is to a Santa.” He gave me a sheepish grin and said, “I don’t know if there is a Santa Claus or not, but I do know you sure can hit for a girl.”

 

I told my mom what had happened in school when I got home. I really had no choice since my older sister was in the same class (she failed kindergarten and we ended up going through school in the same grade) and she witnessed the entire event. I ended my accounting of the event with, “There is too a Santa, isn’t there mommy.” I figured I would get a good whipping since I got in trouble at school and was surprised when I didn’t. Mom just said I was not to hit kids and left the room with tears in her eyes. My older sister, with her hands on her hip, said, “You sure are a stupid kid, just like Roger said. No, there is not a Santa Claus. Mom and dad buys our presents and puts them under the tree after we go to bed. But this year there ain’t gonna be any presents because dad got laid off from his job and they don’t have any money to be spending on Christmas presents. And now you have just made mom feel even worse about it. You really are stupid!” And, with that said, she stomped off. I sat alone in the living room looking at the Christmas tree in the corner. Now, I was confused. Was there or wasn’t there a Santa? After thinking about it for awhile, I decided I sure hoped there was one since we didn’t have any money.

 

The next day was Christmas Eve Day. I always liked Christmas Eve because we would go to grandma’s house for a big supper and then open her gifts. When we were little, grandma would make all three of us girls a ragdoll for Christmas. We also got a doll from Santa, so we would have “sister dolls” or “best friend dolls” to play with. Once we started going to school, grandma made us a knitted scarf and mittens to match instead of a ragdoll. I was surprised, and somewhat disappointed, to open my gift and find a ragdoll this year. My mittens from last year had holes in the fingertips and I really wanted a new pair. I hugged and thanked grandma anyways and secretly hoped Santa would bring me a new pair of mittens. After we opened our presents, Toupey, my older sister, told grandma I had gotten into trouble at school and had to stand in a corner for hitting a boy. Of course that led to a whole discussion about Santa Claus. I still maintained my belief in Santa but noticed mom and dad looked very sad.

 

Grandma listened to what I had said and answered my question, “There is a Santa Claus isn’t there grandma?”, with, “Yes, Cricket, there is a Santa Claus. But Santa isn’t a man in a red suit that comes down chimneys with a sack full of toys. That part about Santa is made up, like Little Red Riding Hood or the Three Little Pigs. Santa Claus is the spirit of giving that lives in everyone’s heart. Sometimes that spirit of giving can only give us presents that we need, not just what we want. It is because Santa lives in my heart that I made you this ragdoll. Your mom and dad have the spirit of Santa in their heart too. But sometimes they don’t have the money to buy all of you kids the presents their heart wants them to give you. So, whatever Santa leaves for you under the tree tonight, just know that it comes from the heart. And you shouldn’t be hitting other kids because they tease you. Did hitting that boy make him believe what you believed?” I shook my head no and grandma finished with, “No, of course it didn’t. Hitting someone is never the answer to a problem. Sometimes we just disagree with what other people believe. And it is OK to disagree. When we disagree with someone, we need to use the spirit of understanding that also lives in our heart. Instead of hitting someone when we disagree with them, we need to understand they have a right to believe what they want to believe and we have the right to believe what we want to believe.”

 

That night, as I tried to fall asleep thinking about everything grandma had said, I became even more confused. If grandma’s spirit of giving made her want to give me what I needed, then why did she make me a ragdoll instead of mittens? I really needed mittens. Mine had holes in them, which I had pointed out at Thanksgiving. Not only did my mittens not keep my fingers warm, it was embarrassing for other kids at school to see they had holes in them. I went to sleep thinking my spirit of understanding did not understand.

 

The next morning my younger sister woke everyone up with, “It’s Christmas! Santa Claus came!” We all ran down the stairs and stood in awe as we looked at all the presents under the Christmas tree. The four of us looked at one another and then attacked the presents, dividing up the gifts by the name written on the wrapped box. We each had a new coat and boots. Each of us girls had two new dresses with socks that matched and a new doll. There was one big box that had all three of our names on it. Once opened, we found a table and four chairs with a set of dishes. My younger brother also had a big box that contained a John Deere tractor. After we opened the gifts that were sitting in front of the tree, my older sister found four presents lying under the tree. There was one for each of us. We quickly opened them and found we each had a set of scarves and mittens like grandma had made the year before. Mom and dad had not said too much during all the mayhem of opening gifts. They kept looking at each other and said, “No, I didn’t” and “I don’t know what’s going on.”

 

It was many, many years later that I learned my Aunt Idie and Uncle Raymond had the spirit of Santa in their hearts too.

9 Comments

Nothing To Fear?

August 3, 2008 at 12:57 pm (Slice of Life Sunday)
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Slice of Life Sunday is a meme dedicated to preserving the accounts of events cut out of the lives of average people just like you and me from all over the world. And like having ice cream with your pie, there is more to this meme than meets the eye - it’s a meme a` la mode. I hope you will join me and share a Slice of your Life.

One of this week’s prompts is My Earliest Childhood Memory. I actually started writing this slice of my life many months ago. It has been very difficult to put into words the series of events that happened on a beautiful summer day in my early childhood that created a lifetime of confusion, pain, and heartbreak. I am so thankful for all the Contributing Writer’s of Slice of Life Sunday. Because of their strength to relive tragic times in their lives, I have gained the strength to relive mine. And through all the tears shed in writing this story, I have been cleansed of the guilt I have carried with me. It was not my fault. I did not do anything so terrible to warrant such a horrendous punishment. I even gained a bit of a sense of humor, although some may call it a warped sense of humor, after my writing was done - Stephen King could not have created a more vile location for the most horrendous act ever perpetrated upon a child.   

 

“The only thing we have to fear is fear it’self - nameless, unreasoning, unjustified, terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.”
                                            —- FDR - First Inaugural Address, March 4, 1933

 

Most people have a few minor irrational fears. Some get nervous at the thought of getting on an airplane while others jump onto the closest chair at the sight of a mouse. I read somewhere it is estimated 10% of all adults have some type of phobia. I will confess I am in that 10%. I have struggled with my phobia for most all of my life. In fact, the cause of my fear is my very first memory, an event that occurred sometime in the summer of my 4th birthday. I only know the approximate time line from discussing the event with my parents many years later. Based upon my recollections of the proceeding event which led to my traumatic experience, my mother was amazed I remembered anything because “you weren’t even four years old!” But I did remember. I remembered everything.

 

It was very hot that summer day. My older sister Toupey and I spent the afternoon on the front porch which was shaded by huge trees that blocked the house from a bank that dropped forty feet to the road below. We were playing with the ragdolls our grandmother had given us for Christmas. Mom brought our sleeping younger sister out and placed her on a blanket so she could take her nap in the coolness of the shade. We were given instructions to play quietly so not to wake Joy-Joy. It was no secret that Toupey didn’t like Joy-Joy. She had been ill much of her life with constant colds and stomach problems which demanded more of mom’s time and dad’s attention; time and attention that was taken away from Toupey. Mom had no more than gone back into the house before Toupey began to poke Joy-Joy with the bottle of milk that mom had placed beside her. After several pokes, Joy-Joy woke up. She began to whimper and Toupey quickly gave her a ragdoll. This seemed to pacifier her and she began to play with the buttons that grandma had sewn on for eyes. After a few minutes of allowing Joy-Joy to play with the doll, Toupey took the doll away and began to tease her with it by holding it in front of her but pulling it away when Joy-Joy reached for it. After a several minutes of this teasing, Toupey tossed the doll off the porch and it landed on the bottom step of the steep staircase leading up to the porch. “If you want it, go get it.” she said laughing. Joy-Joy toddled her way to the top of the steps and held onto the rail as she made her way down the steps. On the third step, she stumbled and fell the rest of the way down. She immediately began to scream and I jumped to my feet and headed for the screened door to get mom. Mom was coming through the door before I got to it. She ran down the steps and picked up Joy-Joy whose head was bleeding from striking one of the rocks that lined the path that led to the porch.

 

“What happened here? How did she get off the porch? Why didn’t one of you stop her?” Mom fired question after question without waiting for an answer as she took Joy-Joy into the kitchen to wash her wound. Once she learned Joy-Joy’s cut was minor, she rocked her back to sleep (I guess mom didn’t know about the possibility of concussions back then) and placed her in her crib. Toupey and I had been sent back to the front porch to wait until mom got Joy-Joy settled. As we waited for what was sure to be a severe whipping, Toupey tried to get me to say I was the one who threw the doll off the porch. I refused. I knew I would probably get whipped because I was there, but I also knew once mom found out what happened, the one who threw the doll would get the beating of their life. Toupey then said we would just tell mom Joy-Joy woke up and got to the steps before we knew she was awake. “If you tell on me, you will be sorry!” she threatened. I do not know what I would have done had Toupey been given the opportunity to tell her tale, but as it turned out mom was standing at the screened door when she made her threat. Mom demanded I tell her what happened. I remember being so scared. If I didn’t tell her, mom would have really whipped me. If I did tell, I didn’t know what Toupey would do, but I knew it would be bad. I can not recall any specifics, but I knew on that day I had already been at the receiving end of Toupey’s meanness many times before. I finally told mom what Toupey had done. Mom went off! “What were you thinking? If she had gotten down those steps she could have fallen down the bank and been killed!” she screamed. With that said she pulled Toupey upon her lap, turned her over her knees, pulled up her dress, and began whipping her. She whipped her for what seemed like forever. I sat in the corner of the porch and cried because I figured my turn was coming. But my turn did not come. I have always thought I didn’t get whipped that day was not because I had not done anything wrong, but more because mom was too tired after whipping the daylights out of Toupey. The look Toupey gave me after her whipping told me a beating from mom would have been less painful than what she was going to do to me to get even.

 

That evening, we had company for supper. My Uncle Jim, my dad’s older brother, had stopped by to see if dad could help him make hay after dinner. Dad agreed and after eating a piece of peach pie for dessert they left to go to grandpa’s farm. Uncle John, my mom’s brother, had also stopped in and was planning to stay overnight. I remember sitting in the living room that evening listening to the radio with Uncle John. Toupey came in and sat down to listen to the music. I had been walking a wide path around her since her whipping. We were listening to a song about cherries being pink and apples being white and laughed because we knew both were really red. We laughed so hard that I not only forgot about being scared of what Toupey was going to do to get even, but it made me need to make a trip to the outhouse to pee. Mom would normally take me to the outhouse because it was located a distance from the house. She was rocking Joy-Joy so she told Toupeyto go with me. We were still laughing about the mis-colored fruit in the song as we made our way to the outhouse. Once there, we were both able to go in because it was a two-seater. Toupey finished first and went outside to wait on me. I was pulling up my panties when Toupey slammed the door shut and turned the wooden block so I couldn’t get the door open from the inside. I pounded on the door and begged her to let me out. It was getting dark outside and with the door shut it was very dark inside the outhouse. Despite my pleadings of being afraid, I could hear Toupy’s laughter fade away as she made her way back to the house. I continued to pound on the door. I continued to cry for help but no one came. At some point, I sat down on the floor and in the midst of my tears and the nauseating smells of the outhouse I fell asleep. Although I didn’t know it at the time, the worst was yet to come.

 

I do not know how long I slept. I learned fourteen years later the chain of events that occurred which permitted what came next. Mom had made her evening trip to the outhouse before settling in to rock Joy-Joy to sleep. While Toupey and I made our trip to the outhouse, mom asked Uncle John to send us to bed when we returned. She was going to let Joy-Joy sleep with her and dad that night and was going to go on up to bed. Mom said she remembered being very tired that night from being so worried about Joy-Joy and her fall. Dad didn’t remember the night at all but said he probably would have come in and washed up in the kitchen and went on up to bed if no one else was up. My older sister doesn’t remember the night either and flatly denies ever locking me in the outhouse. I do know from what occurred later in the outhouse that Toupey had a conversation with Uncle John after returning from locking me in the outhouse. I know Toupey told him the whole story about how she had been whipped and I was not. I also know she told him she locked me in the outhouse. Uncle John was very lazy and would not have walked so far to relieve himself. He would have urinated off the back porch as he always did or would have used the white porcelain pot with a lid that was kept on the back porch for emergency use or so we didn’t have to make the long walk after dark. I also know Toupey went to bed before Uncle John came to get me.

 

I awoke to a flashlight shining in my eyes and Uncle John running his fingers through my hair. “It’s about time my pretty little girl woke up.” he said. “I hear you and Toupey were very bad girls today. Toupey got whipped but you didn’t. Now, that isn’t fair is it? I know your mom is planning to whip you tomorrow, but how about I do it tonight. I won’t whip you as hard as she does.” Still groggy from being waken from a deep sleep, I was having a hard time figuring out where I was. Uncle John pulled me up from where I was laying and I saw the flashlight was sitting on the corner beside one of the seats. I also saw he did not have his pants on and had this funny looking long thing hanging from his body. He sat down on the space between the seats and said, “We need to get you ready for your spanking.” He took off my dress and my panties and laid me across his lap.

 

I do not know how long the molestation lasted. I do not remember leaving the outhouse or even going to bed. I do know that wasn’t the last time I was to feel Uncle John’s hands on my body. Throughout the next six years, he would use different approaches but the result was always the same. My grandmother figured out he was molesting me and put a stop to the abuse. Four years later, he raped me. He never touched me again after that.

 

Needless to say, a childhood of sexual abuse has created a life plagued with depression, low self-esteem, and an array of many side-affects. How that abuse began has also created a phobia of small, enclosed places that I have dealt with all of my life. I am particularly wary of entering an elevator in general, and will absolutely not enter one if I am by myself and only one man is already in it. If I am in an elevator by myself and it stops at a floor and only one man enters the elevator, I will step out and wait for another one. Psychologists say phobias are irrational and imaginary. I disagree.

 

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Learning the Hard Way

July 30, 2008 at 8:52 pm (Slice of Life Sunday)
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Slice of Life Sunday is a meme dedicated to preserving the accounts of events cut out of the lives of average people just like you and me from all over the world. And like having ice cream with your pie, there is more to this meme than meets the eye - it’s a meme a` la mode. I hope you will join me and share a Slice of your Life.

 

As I reflect on my life, I remember many times where my will to accomplish a goal far exceeded plain common sense. My maternal grandmother warned me on several occasions, “Cricket, that Myers stubbornness is going to be the death of you!” I will have to say my commitment and diligence to a project have been one of my greater strengths for much of my life. But, depending on the quest at hand, that strength can become a weakness – something I learned at a very early age.

 

I was fortunate to have Grandma Wilson in my life. She was a kind and loving grandmother. I spent the biggest part of every summer with her during school break. She was not the type of grandmother who would sit and play games as she was much too busy. Being a farmer’s wife, the chores were never done. Her mornings began before the chickens would crow. I would wake up to the aroma of fresh ground coffee perking and homemade bread coming out of the oven from the wood-burning stove. After breakfast, we would head to the barn to help with milking and feeding the animals. I didn’t mind helping with the chores. I loved all the animals, which were more like pets than farm animals. I really liked gathering eggs. It was like finding little surprises left behind when the chickens would leave their nests to go outside to eat the grain I threw on the ground. Sometimes the hens would not leave their nest, which meant there would be baby chicks soon. Of all the baby animals, I loved the baby chicks the most. It was more than just how cute and fuzzy they were that caught my attention, but more because I wasn’t allowed to hold them. I had been permitted to hold the baby pigs and pet the baby calves and I didn’t understand why I couldn’t hold the baby chicks. Telling a six year old they could not do something they really wanted to do was like lowering the green flag at the Indy 500, the race was on!

 

I was sitting under the apple tree that fateful summer day, snapping beans while grandma was in the back yard hanging clothes on the line. The mother hen and her parade of chicks came walking by, within only a few feet from where I was sitting. I watched as they walked past and noticed one baby chick was slow to keep up with the rest. When it finally walked to within a few feet of me, and I could see the mother hen was further up the yard, I tossed an end piece from the bean I was snapping to the baby chick. It immediately pecked at it, so I threw another piece, but this time having it land closer to me. The third piece of bean brought the baby chick to within a foot of me. As it was pecking at the bean, I looked to see where the mother hen was and knew this was my chance. I quickly picked up the chick and began to pet it as it began to chirp loudly. I didn’t see the mother hen. It was if she came out of no where. But I felt her! She jumped on me and began pecking me; my arms, my chest, and even my face. I began to scream and tried to get up, but the pan of beans was on my lap and I didn’t want to let go of the chick. Grandma also came out of no where. She pulled the mother hen off of me and yelled at me to put the chick down, which I did. The chick went running and grandma put the mother hen down, who went running after her chick. Just when I thought I was out of danger, I noticed grandma’s eyes. I began to wish for the mother hen to come back.

 

My grandmother was very good at holding her temper, something that took me quite a few years to master. But one would only need to look into her eyes to know when she was angry. And, she was very angry now. In a way too calm voice she said, “Cricket, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a dozen times to leave those baby chicks alone.”  With my lower lip quivering, tears streaming down my face, and in my most pathetic voice, I chose to make a bad situation worse. “But grandma, I was just sitting here and snapping the beans like you wanted me to. The baby chick came up to me. It wanted me to hold it.”

Now her eyes began to twitch. I had never seen them do that before, but my instincts told me it was not a good thing.

 

Grandma took me into the kitchen where she washed my scraps with soap and water, then dotted red ointment on each of the peck marks, never saying a word as she nursed my wounds. Her silent treatment was making me nervous. When she finished, I went to the sink to look into grandpa’s mirror he kept there for shaving. I began to laugh at the small red dots on my face and thought I could get grandma in a better mood by saying, “Look grandma, I have chicken pox!” Grandma didn’t laugh. Instead, she told me to come over to the table and sit down.

 

“Cricket, I am not going to punish you for holding the baby chick, even though I have told you many times not to pick them up. I think the mother hen has taught you better than I why you should leave the babies alone. I am very unhappy with you, not only because you disobeyed me, but also because you lied about disobeying me. And, you did lie, didn’t you?”

 

For the second time that day, I saw a look in grandma’s eyes I had never seen before. This time it was not anger. It was a look of disappointment in me. A look I never wanted to see again. I confessed to how I coaxed the baby chick to come closer to me with the beans and I said I was sorry for lying about it. My punishment for lying was getting my mouth washed out with soap, which was basically holding a wet bar of homemade soap in my mouth for a few seconds, just long enough to get a good taste of it. After helping me rinse the soap out of my mouth, grandma explained, “Cricket, when you tell a lie to cover up something you have done wrong, you just make the whole matter worse. I made you put that nasty soap in your mouth because I wanted you to remember the next time you think about lying to me that telling a lie will leave a nasty taste in your mouth and it will leave a nasty taste on my heart.” I never lied to my grandma again.

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The Case of Unfulfilled Dreams

July 26, 2008 at 6:59 pm (Slice of Life Sunday)
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Slice of Life Sunday is a meme dedicated to preserving the accounts of events cut out of the lives of average people just like you and me from all over the world. And like having ice cream with your pie, there is more to this meme than meets the eye - it’s a meme a` la mode. I hope you will join me and share a Slice of your Life.

I have spent most of the week painting, yes, again. I can hardly believe it is Saturday. I have another week or two, and then I should have more time to devote to visiting everyone’s blogs or a more frequent basis.

 

A jury consists of twelve persons chosen to decide who has the better lawyer.

                                                                               Robert Frost

 

 

Sitting in front of our television screens in the 50’s and 60’s, our world was opened to many dreams of fame and fortune. The Dick Clark Show allowed some to dream of being the next rock and roll singer while Dragnet ensured an exciting career in law enforcement. Lost in Space created visions of being an astronaut and That Girl gave ideas of freedom and excitement if we moved from our small rural towns to big cities. I was most influenced by Perry Mason. He not only saved his innocent clients from a certain conviction, but did so through honesty and fairness. I was confident I could be the absolute best female lawyer and enrolled in college prep courses as soon as I entered high school. Three years later my dreams of college and becoming a defense attorney ended with an unplanned pregnancy and an unwanted marriage. Little did I know at the time that the courtroom would play a significant role in my life and change my views on the integrity of lawyers.   

 

My first encounter with the court system came in my late 20’s when I received a notice I was selected to serve on a jury. For many years I heard friends and relatives complain about jury duty. They believed if someone was arrested and put in jail then they must be guilty, so why waste their time sitting through a long trial. But I had watched many Perry Mason episodes and knew sometimes people were innocent. And I believed a trial by jury was the best way to prove innocence or quilt. After all, the court system was all about getting to the truth of any given case. Right?. . . Wrong! I was to learn I was as naïve about the justice system being about truth as I was about marriage being about fidelity.

 

I was a member of a twelve person jury selected to decide the guilt or innocence of a man accused of molesting and raping the eleven-year-old daughter of his girlfriend. Given my past of molestation and rape in my youth, I should have disqualified myself from this trial, but I kept silent. I have often thought the reason I decided to go forward was because I wanted to help one girl who had endured the same torment and fear as I many years before she was ever born. What I was not prepared for was how my integrity would not permit me to levy my need for vengeance against this defendant, who I truly believed was guilty of the crimes he was charged.

 

I was stunned to learn that not all attorneys lived by the same code of seeking truth as my hero Perry Mason. A technicality of the law in the late 70’s required in cases of molestation and/or rape the exact time of the offense must be proven by the prosecutor. The combination of a frightened little girl, an unprepared prosecutor, an unscrupulous defense attorney, and the directives from a judge to the jurors that exact time of the alleged offences must be proven beyond a reasonable doubt resulted in this child molester being found innocent. I was the lone holdout for several hours of deliberation, refusing to vote for an acquittal. I knew in my heart this man raped this little girl. I also knew the prosecution did not even come close to proving the times of the offenses. The defense attorney tore the little girl apart on the witness stand and created confusion in her mind on the days and times over a one year period in which she was molested and raped. Her testimony ended in tears stating she didn’t know when, she just knew he did it. After four hours of deliberation, our jury foreman sent a note to the judge stating we were a hung jury. The judge refused to accept this and sent a letter back stating we were not to only focus our verdict on whether the defendant molested and raped this girl, but “did he molest and rape her on the dates and times listed in each of the seven counts.” I finally had to come to terms with the fact the dates and times were not proven. One of the hardest things I have ever done is sign my name to the Not Guilty verdict.

 

I left the courthouse that day and tore up the check I was given for payment for my time to set a guilty man free. My respect for our judicial system would be further reduced fourteen years later during another trial, which is a Slice of Life story in its own right. I am very disillusioned with our justice system. At times, I find myself reflecting on my childhood dream to be an attorney and like to believe I would have been honest and fair, seeking the truth in any case I defended or prosecuted. A reading of the local newspaper or watching the evening news covering high profile trial cases is evidence the vast majority of attorneys do not hold the same code of ethics as portrayed by Perry Mason.  I believe money and power, especially in politics, changes a person from good intentions of what they wanted to be into what they allow themselves to become. The lessons I learned during my encounters with the American judicial system taught me one of God’s greatest gifts is unfulfilled dreams.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Slice of Life - Splendour in the Grass

July 19, 2008 at 7:39 pm (Slice of Life Sunday)
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Slice of Life Sunday is a meme dedicated to preserving the accounts of events cut out of the lives of average people just like you and me from all over the world. And like having ice cream with your pie, there is more to this meme than meets the eye - it’s a meme a` la mode. I hope you will join me and share a Slice of your Life.

I have spent most of the week painting, again. Our property is really coming along but I have many more weeks of painting until I am done. I was inspired on Friday evening to write another post for the Slice of Life prompt: Losing my virginity.

Splendour in the Grass

 

 

One of life’s more memorable events, sometimes good and sometimes not so good, is losing one’s virginity. Today’s society often mocks those who make the decision to remain a virgin until their wedding night. To be a virgin is to be a nerd at the very least. Only the human race can take the symbol of strength and independence – as a virgin was a goddess who remained unaffected by the temptations of  Dionysus, the Greek god of seduction – and over the centuries turn it into the butt of a joke. All forms of media, especially television and motion pictures, portray the sexual experience an essential part of everyday living. Peer pressure in school leads many young girls to forfeit her power of virginity to seek love in all the wrong places, usually in the backseat of a car, or in my case, on the bank of a creek. Although technically my virginity was taken from me at age fourteen by an uncle who raped me, I like to remember “losing my virginity” as an event that occurred two years later when I voluntarily succumbed  to the temptations created by teenage raging hormones.

 

High School in the mid-60’s in rural Holmes County, Ohio was much different than the schools of today. We had strict rules for dress – boys wore “dress pants” not jeans with a collared shirt tucked in and girls wore dresses or skirts which came well below the knees. Only students who had a job after school drove a car, accept for some from very wealthy families, with rest of us riding the bus. Students were divided in social classes – the brains, the popular “in crowd”, the jocks, the farmers, the hoods, and the good girls. I was considered a “good girl”. This meant I did not have a “reputation” for being an exchangeable slip cover for the backseat of any given number of cars. I had a steady boyfriend all through my freshman year, who was kind of a nerd, but we never had a car date. We would meet at the local movie theatre every Saturday night and sit in the back row so we could hold hands and exchange a few kisses. On one of these dates our kisses became more intense and Danny’s hands found their way under my sweater. We were both immediately stunned and pulled apart quickly. The following Monday he broke up with me in a note which said, “We need to break up now. You are a good girl and I need to see other girls for a little while. We can get back together in a few months.”  At first I was very hurt and then I became very angry. How dare he say he was going to date other girls and then come back to me! I did not understand the twisted male logic of those days which dictated a “good boy” who was ready to explore his sexual desires did so with a girl with a reputation. It was an honor code of sorts to keep “good girls” pure for marriage and was meant as a sign of respect. Of course there were boys who did not honor this code - they were the hoods.

 

John was a member of the hoods. He rolled the short sleeves up a couple of notches and kept the top three buttons on his shirt unbuttoned. He smoked cigarettes and had even been expelled from school for three days when he was caught in the boy’s restroom. It was rumored he drank beer and played pool in the local tavern. And, he dated Shorty - who had a reputation for seeing more back seats than a rear view mirror. In early March of my sophomore year, John and Shorty broke up. She was pregnant by a “man” who was out of school. She dropped out of school and got married. For the next two months, John and I seemed to make eye contact at least once every day as we passed each other in the halls while changing classes. He began to wink at me during these encounters and my knees would go weak. Then the fateful day of our first conversation came in early May. I left my books with the apple I brought for lunch sitting on top on a chair in the student lounge area while I went to the restroom. When I returned, John was sitting in an adjoining chair holding my apple. As I approached him, he gave me a big smile and with a wink of his “Kris Kristofferson eyes” said, “This is very nice of you to bring me an apple for lunch.”  After a few minutes of my protesting the apple was for my lunch, John finally offered a compromise, “If you sit on my lap, I will give you your apple.” Had I known the story of Eve’s fall from grace over an apple I may have picked up my books and walked away. But, I hadn’t heard the story, and to be honest, there had been a silent building of sexual tension between us for several months, and I was ripe for the picking.

 

The next few weeks passed quickly. John and I would meet in the lounge several days a week and share lunch. It was the end of the school year for the Class of 1967 and much ado was being made about the newest fashion trend – the mini skirt. I had saved money from washing cars and babysitting and had purchased one despite my mother’s objections and threats to return it. During one of our lunch meetings, I told John about my mini skirt. He and his friends didn’t believe “Miss Goody Two-Shoes” had a mini skirt. Well, I was going to show them and said I would wear it on the last day of school. This news spread through school by the end of the day. It seemed everyone wanted to know if I was really going to wear a mini skirt to school. Not only was the length of the skirt against the school dress code, but I was a “good girl” and this was not what was expected of me. Looking back on it now, I know I mainly wanted to impress John and not necessarily be a trend setter or a rule breaker. John and I were polar opposites, at least on the social standing level. He was wild and free; I was timid and uptight. If it was wrong, he did it. If it was right, I did it. I was very insecure and felt I needed to prove I was worthy of his attention. On the last day of school, I wore my mini skirt, which was three inches above my knees. It was quite the event for a small rural school. By third period, the school principal tracked me down and said I would have to go home at lunch period and change or be expelled. John was the only person I knew who drove to school and he offered to take me home to change clothes. We laughed and talked on the way to and from my home. This was the first time we had been alone together. When we arrived back at school, he pulled me close to him and kissed me. It was not the kind of kiss I had ever had before. I had only kissed three other boys at that point, and I am quite sure they had all been virgins at the time. No, this kiss was definitely different. This was a kiss of a boy who had already come-of-age and who knew where a kiss could lead . . . and I was ready to follow.

 

Since my birthday wasn’t until August, and I was only fifteen, I was not permitted to car date. All through June and July, I protested to my parents that I was the youngest in my class because of a late summer birthday and all my friends were car-dating. But my parents would not budge on their rule of no car dating until I was sixteen. John and I would meet at the local swimming pool in the evenings because he worked during the day. We also met at the movie theatre on Saturday nights, where we would sit in the back row and make out. A few times, with the aide of my best friend, I was able to meet him and go for a ride which usually ended at a “parking location” out in the country. One evening in mid-August, just before my sixteenth birthday, we met at the swimming pool as usual. After swimming for about half an hour, John suggested we go for a walk over to the creek, which was also part of our no-car-dating ritual. There was a metal pole that straddled the creek which I often walked across as a short-cut to get home. We would cross the pole and then walk several yards down the bank of the creek. John would spread our towels on the ground and we sit down to talk and eventually begin to kiss, which would lead to some very heavy petting. That evening we talked for a few minutes and then began kissing. For the first time, I allowed him to untie my bikini top. On that warm summer evening, I learned where his kisses could take me.

 

Several years later, I saw the movie, Splendor in the Grass. I was struck by so many similarities between the love-struck teenagers, Deanie and Bud, and John and myself. Although there were many dissimilarities, including the fact the movie teenagers did not consummate their passions and went on to live separate lives while John and I married the next summer due to my becoming pregnant, the essence of the movie spoke to me and, I am sure, many other teenagers who struggled with the awakening sensuality of their youth. John and I were married for over twenty years, most of which causes very painful memories. But, when I think back on that summer evening, these words always come to mind;

 

 

What through radiance which was once so bright

be now forever taken from my sight,

though nothing can bring back the hour

of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.

 

                                                                                     William Wordsworth

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Slice of Life - A Necessay Evil

July 12, 2008 at 11:09 pm (Slice of Life Sunday)
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Slice of Life Sunday is a meme dedicated to preserving the accounts of events cut out of the lives of average people just like you and me from all over the world. And like having ice cream with your pie, there is more to this meme than meets the eye - it’s a meme a` la mode. I hope you will join me and share a Slice of your Life.

 

 

If I were asked to describe myself in one word, that word would have to be accommodating. I like to think of myself as one who enjoys helping others with most anything they need done as well as one who gives the red-carpet- treatment to visitors to my home. Although I am quick to come to the aide of others, I am reluctant to ask for help on my own projects. I assume this comes from developing a sense of self-reliance over the years. I also believe it is due to childhood brainwashing. My maternal grandmother is well remembered for a phrase she used on a daily basis, “If something needs done, just do it and get it over with.” She often referred to those things we really dislike to do but have to be done nevertheless as “necessary evils.”  For her, doing dishes was a necessary evil. She called this chore evil because it was constant and never ending. Although I would rather have a dishwasher, and I really dislike grocery shopping, the one thing I truly detest doing and have always considered a necessary evil is painting.

 

I realize the value of painting, both for protection of items as well as for the decorative look it provides. I have always admired others who are so creative in coordinating colors. I will admit one reason I think of painting as a necessary evil is due to the fact I am not very good at it. I tend to use too much paint on my paintbrush which inevitably ends up on me. I learned many years ago to have painting clothes. The standard comment I receive while in the mist of a painting project is, “Did you get any paint on the wall?” As messy as painting is for me, I think the main reason it is a necessary evil is because it is never ending. I recently painted my porch furniture and the shutters and window sashes. Once these items were all new looking, I needed to paint all the trim on the porch which led to painting the entire front of my home. And the worst part is, this painting evil all began because I need to paint my picket fence, which isn’t even started yet!

 

My distaste for painting led to something I absolutely love – wallpaper. I purchased my first home in 1977. It was a huge century 12-room farmhouse, with  original unpainted oak woodwork including a beautiful open staircase. All the walls in every room was wallpapered – many times over! My Uncle Jake fell in love with the house and offered to teach me how to wallpaper over the protests of my husband who just wanted to “throw some paint on the walls.” After stripping off all the wallpaper, sometimes up to six layers, I ended up wallpapering every room. My love of wallpapering led to my being offered a position in the paint department at Lowe’s Home Improvement many years later while I was in college. When asked during the interview if I knew much about painting, I responded, “Enough to know it is a necessary evil.” Once we both stopped laughing, I explained my love of wallpapering and was immediately hired because the store was down on its sales budget for the wallpaper section of the Paint Department. Within six weeks, wallpaper sales had more than tripled and I was promoted to the Assistant Department Manager position.

 

While working in the paint department I learned several painting techniques commonly referred to as faux finishes. And even though these finishes are very attractive on other people’s walls, it is still painting to me. I believe I am the only person in the entire world who can not sponge paint correctly. My granddaughter had to correct what I doing when I helped her repaint her bedroom a few years back - she was eight years old! I decided then and there to stick with regular painting.

 

I hope to be finished with the front of my house tomorrow. Of course this means I will need to re-hang the shutters and do some touchup painting on the windows because I got house paint on the window trim paint. Oh well, I’ll just do it and get it over with!

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