Chasing that feeling...

Remembering Duke. Highlights from a Memorial Day weekend parade; the Locust Blossom Festival Parade in Kendrick, Idaho. A first for both Duke and I, as neither of us had ever been in a parade, until that day. This journal entry was originally posted as a note to my Facebook page on June 5, 2015. It popped up in my Memories today. I knew I had to share it here, as well.

For years I have chased a feeling--an elusive feeling--of being one with my horse. Four feet, two hearts, one mind. Buck Brannaman talks about chasing that and reminds us it may take a very long time before we find it, but it's a good thing to chase. Pat Parelli reminds his students, "There's nothing you can't do, when the horse becomes a part of you." 

On Saturday, May 30, 2015, on a street lined with hundreds of people--some friends, most strangers--I understood the feeling the words of these two horsemen. 

We met at 8:00 am on the west side of Kendrick in the Primeland grain silo parking lot. Duke came out of the trailer with that "Where are we?" look, high headed and a wee excited. Rather than tying him next to the tack room, I tied him to the other side so he could see all the other team horses. The horses were all calm and quiet as the team members set about their tasks to get ready. Mounted and ready to roll by 9:00. Parade started at 10:00 on the east side of town, so we rode through town in the alley. This was our chance to practice and Charlene, our coach and team captain, wanted us to maintain one horse length spacing at all times. We had two walkers with us to assist if someone's horse got troubled, and Charlene reminded everyone if we had to correct our horse, to turn the horse inside toward the other horses and away from the crowd. Charlene paired Duke and I with a young rider named Nella and her, paint gelding Tonto, the only boys in the group of eight that day. Duke and Tonto got along very well. 

Duke tacked up pre-parade.

Duke remained calm, but occasionally pressed forward to close the spacing. Rather than pulling on his mouth the whole time, I used half-halts (thank you Jodi Simpson) to encourage him to slow down. Only had one tense moment behind Phil's Family Foods when Duke heard the sound--make that the roar--of the refrigerator unit fan. It was pretty loud, and he danced and jigged a bit but settled down straight away.  

And then there were the bagpipes! :) LOL. They must have been with the Kendrick Fire Company because I never saw the pipers, but the second Duke heard them playing, his head shot up, his ears pricked forward, and he looked in the direction the sound came from. What is that?!?! I had to laugh out loud and told him those are bagpipes and I'm part Scottish, so bagpipes are a good thing! He got over them immediately, and it was refreshing to hear the pipers playing the song over and over. 

While we waited for the parade to start, we practiced some maneuvers, and Charlene went over the different whistle cues to signal each maneuver. Our number in the parade was 73, and there were 74 entries, so we were at the very end. Oh, and our horse group won 2nd place!! We received the ribbon before the parade began. :) About 10:20 we started moving toward the parade route. Duke was mouthing the bit quite rapidly. As we neared the starting point, I closed my eyes, said a quick prayer and surrounded Duke and myself with white light. Over and over, I told myself to relax and sit deep in the saddle and keep my knees out of his side. Duke is a reliable horse, but he's a horse, and I truly had no idea how he would react. I've seen enough to know anything can happen. He's got shoes on now, and metal shoes can be slippery on asphalt. I'd never ridden him on the streets, or around large crowds of people. One of the walkers advised the riders the horses might spook when we passed the announcer's booth because of the sound, but Duke's had exposure to that from our team penning nights. And there's the cheering and clapping, something I've not exposed him to. Bubbles and plastic bags and hoola hoops and streamers and music and pop-up canopies...yes, got all that covered. But not clapping and cheering.  

Turns out, I needn't worry. 

Minutes before we turned on to Main Street, I took the reins up just enough to 'feel' him...make light contact with his mouth. And there I held the reins. 

Moments later, we became one. 

Duke and Tonto at the beginning of the parade route.

I always wondered what it would feel like when I crossed that bridge and felt that harmony. Walking down that parade route, I lived it. The crowd was sparse at the beginning but as we made our way closer and closer to the park the crowd grew larger and larger. Duke took it all in stride, like a seasoned pro. I was so relaxed I found myself waving and smiling at people, whether I knew them or not! And Duke was drinking it all in. He loved it!!!  

One of our maneuvers called The Tractor.

Along the route we performed several maneuvers, and everything just flowed flawlessly along. Duke maintained the spacing and didn't rush. We approached the announcer's booth without a hitch, but at the park someone either had a bubble machine or was blowing a lot of bubbles and the group got a little out of order for a second or two but quickly recovered. I had previously exposed Duke to bubbles plenty of times so we rode through the cloud of the bubbles without breaking stride. 

And it was over before I knew it. It went by so quickly! Funny thing, the only time Duke acted up was at the end, as if he was disappointed it was already over!!! LOL! What a character that boy of mine is!!! 

I really need to give him more credit.  

Photo op time, Duke and I are third from the left.

Back at the trailers it was time for more pictures and Duke copped an attitude about one of the mares and was giving her the stinky eye...to the point that she didn't want to stand next to him. But Mitzi got her to come alongside him; not sure what that was all about but the photos were taken, and we arrived back at the trailers to find ourselves pretty much blocked in by cars. Apparently, people don't realize that parking next to a horse trailer isn't a great idea. I had cars on both sides of my trailer and a very anxious horse who, for some reason, didn't want to stand still now. At first, I considered tying Duke next to the tack room so I could get everything off in a hurry, but as soon as I tied him up, Duke wedged himself between the trailer and the black pick up next to it. Got him out of there before a stirrup got hung up in a side mirror and took him back over to the other side. If he pooped on the white car, well, maybe that would be a lesson for them. 

Getting blocked in by vehicles.

Duke watching all the happenings.

Duke was more excited and "on his toes" after the parade than before. He didn't want to load up (he gets that way sometimes at the end of an event...trail ride, show, team penning, whatever...it's as if he's afraid he's going to get left behind). Interesting... Got him in the trailer and we headed home. I was so very proud of my boy, and yes, I cried on the drive home. I couldn't have asked for a more rewarding, enjoyable and validating first parade experience! Duke carried me proudly, true to his Morgan bloodlines. Brave, courageous, yet calm and levelheaded. 

We did several other parades after that: Culdesac Shebang Days, Lewiston Round Up three times, and Veteran’s Day. He always took good care of me, and never gave me cause to worry. He truly was my heart horse--my once in a lifetime horse. I feel his absence every day. Life just isn’t the same without him.  

Losing Duke reminded me even more than before, to savor every moment we live with someone. And to treasure those moments, hold them close and take time to journal about them because someday when the moment becomes a distant memory, you may want to look back and relive the feeling.

 

About Duke, part 1

 It's been almost five weeks since our last moments together. I have thought about writing this entry so many times, and yet when I sit down to write, my emotions take over and I feel overcome with so much grief, I get so bound up inside that nothing comes out. 

But I'm going to keep writing.

Where do I begin?

I had plans for this month. To celebrate his 28th year on earth on May 4, to celebrate his 15th anniversary Gotcha Day on May 17th. With him. As it turned out, I celebrated those dates without him. On April 28, I took Duke, my beloved and beautiful Morgan gelding, my first horse, my friend, confidant, teacher, and equine partner on his last trailer ride.

But, let's go back to when it all began. I don't know how old I was when this undying devotion to horses began; it seems it's always been who I am. In my younger days I met several horses, but there was one horse who holds a special place in my heart. He was a plain bay with no white grade gelding named Pee Wee. And he needed a friend. His owner, a new mom, no longer had time to devote to him as her attention turned to caring for her newborn daughter. I was a horse crazy girl, lonely and more than happy to ride my bike for the 45 minutes to spend time with him. I lived in Sepulveda, Pee Wee lived in Canoga Park. 

Even now, I recall with clarity those days, those moments and how Pee Wee greeted me when I arrived on my bike at his pasture. All I wanted was to be in his company, just watching him graze filled me with wonder and delight. Any time I would stand on his manger or a fence rail, he always came to me, offering his back and I'd hop on. No bridle, no saddle...just Pee Wee and I. He was so gentle, just calmly walking around the pasture, stopping every now and then and nibble on a weed. I was in heaven, and he never gave me cause for worry or concern about my safety. I only rode him with tack once, and that was to take him out of the pasture on a walk about through the neighborhood. Then everything changed with my parent's separation, and mom's decision to move back to her hometown a thousand miles away. I was 15 and thought about Pee Wee every day.

Fast forward 36 years later. It's May 17, 2008 and I'm standing in front of a beautiful bay, no white Morgan gelding named Duke. I felt an immediate connection with him; at the first sight of him my heart leapt. That first time I saw him in a photo, and now standing with me...in those two moments I felt like I was looking at the soul of Pee Wee. I know his owner, Keith, was hesitant to sell Duke to a first-time horse owner with zero experience owning horses, let alone caring for one with a history of laminitis. I remember everything about the day Duke came into my life, including the hug I gave Keith before we drove away with Duke in the trailer. It took 45 minutes to get Duke loaded, but he finally did with time and persuasion from Keith. Duke didn't want to leave his home, and I felt that. Yet our destinies were intertwined. Duke and I were fated to be in each other's life.

Meeting Duke and passing the sniff test.

Catching myself

Monday, September 19, 2022, came and like every year before, I let it go; but not before marking it with a few minutes spent in silent vigil remembering you.

Privately.

No post on social media announcing to everyone what Monday meant to me, mainly because very few people within my social media circle ever met you. Most everyone I know today have no idea who you were, so why should I expect them to care when there was never any connection between you and them? But mostly because on the night you left, and in the days that followed, no one reached out to comfort me. No one. From that experience I began to realize the truth in the words you always told me..."Be your own best friend, because the only person you can ever depend on, is yourself."

I always wondered why a mother would tell that to her daughter. Today I know it was because that was your reality, it is what you knew. You knew that people can only love and support others to the extent of the love and support they received in the past. You were trying to protect me from ever knowing the pain you felt. Did it work? Sometimes. But then there are the times I found myself longing for someone to be there, to catch me when I fell. Today I can tell you I have mastered the art of catching myself when I fall; but truth be told, sometimes I wish I had a safe place to land outside of myself.

There are days when I wonder. I wonder what you would think about the world today. I wonder how you would behave on social media. I wonder if you would even be on social media. I wonder if all the advice and wisdom you handed down to me during my formative years of childhood would be any different today if you had experienced more decades of your life. I wonder what your face would look like, gazing upon the face of your grandchild, or great grandchild.

It's been 44 years since you left us. Yet on days like this, it feels like only yesterday.

Of all the things you gave me mom, it is your smile I treasure the most. It is the one thing I vow no one will ever take from me.

Winter, Water, and Whisky

Isn’t it funny how sometimes the most stupid thing you’ve ever done always turns out to be a really good story?

So, after the heaviness of my last story about my uncle and my dad, I’ve been wanting to share a funny story. This one has been bugging me to get out for several months. I have a lot of stories wanting out, and when time allows and my writing muse is present, I’ll share them here, with you.

Everyone has a story. I seem to have a lot. When I think about it, sometimes I feel like I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes. And oddly enough, I’ve always taken it all in stride. It just seemed normal, to me.

Apparently, my experiences are, in a word, unique. I’ve seen and done things that for the most part people are always surprised to learn about. If life is intended to be lived to its fullest, I can honestly say that’s how I approach it.

Always. Sometimes without even knowing.

So, about those stories. Here’s a funny one. I’ve done some pretty stupid things in my life, but this one is in the top 5. I affectionately refer to it as the night I learned a lesson the hard way, about leaving the past in the past, the outcome of which was a new appreciation for drinking whisky…neat.

It was February 9, 1986. I am 28 years old, single and recently moved back to Lewiston, Idaho after spending four years living in Sacramento, California. In making that move, I walked away from a well paying position as a full-charge bookkeeper for Legal Aid of Northern California; not the smartest decision financially, but emotionally I needed to come home. It was time to put miles, a lot of miles--hundreds of them--between myself and Sacramento.

The choice to return home had its share of good and bad. The bad being that I took a 40% cut in pay. The good being that I am home with family. To make ends meet I was holding down two part-time night shift jobs, one in Moscow, Idaho as a cocktail waitress and the other working for a friend, Linda, at her family owned pizza restaurant in Pullman, Washington. On this day in February I’d been out pounding the pavement, seeking full-time work in Lewiston. It’s been a rough week and I’m heading out with Linda for some dinner. But first she needs to stop by her parents home.

Nights in this part of Idaho during February dip below the freezing level. The same holds true for the days. So I am dressed appropriately, in a three piece corduroy suit and a goose down knee length coat. I’m feeling restless that night, and second guessing my decision to return home to Idaho. My mind is preoccupied and absorbed  in several pieces of my life; I’ve been in a reflective mood of late. Burdened with the weight of worry on my shoulders, I’m feeling a distant pull and unable to focus on Linda’s conversation with Betty, her mother as we sit at the dining room table. Their talking about family matters, specifically Linda’s manic depressive brother John who she is trying to set me up with, but I’m not interested. He isn’t my type--and he’s a narcissist--the last thing I need. The two women are talking him up, but their efforts are akin to throwing a coat of the wrong color of paint on a house that isn’t even in the right neighborhood for the buyer. Doesn’t matter what color you paint it, it’s not the right house.

This kind of talk leaves me feeling jumbled up inside, and even more stressed. Unable to take any more of the hen talk, I excuse myself to step outside the back door for a cigarette. The night air is brisk and reawakens my sense of peace. I stop, close my eyes and take in a slow, deep breath before reaching into my leather shoulder bag for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

Off to my left is an in-ground swimming pool and seeing it brings back many, many fond memories. I spent most of my childhood in sunny southern California, and we had an in-ground swimming pool much like this one with a springy diving board. Cigarette in hand, I walk around the pool, ending at the deep end. Standing next to the diving board, remembering all the dives I once did. In my minds eye I see each one. Swan dives, jack knives, back flips, forward flips and a little something my sisters and I called the ‘watermelon.’

In the darkness I can see the water level is lower than normal, not quite full, and the water doesn‘t appear to be very clean. Smiling as the memories of a dozen summers flow through my mind, I step up on the diving board and look out over the pool. Lost in the moment, I took one giant step forward, reliving the same steps I took on hot summer days in that one instant. Another step this time with a little jump up…because after all, what could possibly go wrong?

Plenty, apparently.

Every diving board I have ever been on, without exception, is always attached to a stand. Always. And I fully expected this diving board to behave like every other diving board I’ve stepped onto. If you bounce a little, it bounces a little too.

Except this one.

What happened next took me completely and totally by surprise. Even today I can’t believe it happened. Instead of bouncing back, this diving board went out from under me and I landed into the freezing cold water with a very loud sudden splash.

That’s about the time panic set in.

I sank, fast. As Bob Segar would say, like a rock. At first the shock of the water immobilized my body. Except my mouth, it’s wide open and I take my first gulp of pool water. Gawd, what is that I’m tasting?  Swim, Dona, swim…dammit! I’m sinking. But before I reached the bottom, I willed myself to swim. The weight of all my clothing and the down coat kept pulling me down, I felt like I had concrete tied to my feet and I touched the bottom briefly. Then my survivor instinct kicked in. Without thinking, I squated and with one deep knee push, propelled myself toward the surface, reaching and pushing my cupped hands first frantically, then with a swimmers rhythm, through the water until I finally felt my face break the surface and the cold night air brush my skin. Short of breath, coughing and gasping for air, I desperately reached my hand out for the side of the pool. I’m freezing and when my left hand slams down on the concrete lip of the pool, I feel a sense of relief. Momentarily. The sodden weight of my clothes keeps pulling me down.

Crap! I’m going to drown out here and no one will ever know until it’s too late!

Oh, no! Hell no!

With a fighters fury, I kick my legs and reach out for the edge of the pool again, landing and this time holding on to the concrete lip with everything I have. My arms feel as if they are tied to my side and I struggle to get my entire left arm up out of the water, impeded by my down coat and the three piece suit. Now I’m second guessing my decision to not change into something more comfortable before agreeing to accompany Linda on her visit. Hanging onto the edge, I access the situation. I could lift myself out of the water, something I’ve done hundreds of times before. Not so easy this time, since the water level on the pool is at least a half foot below normal and I‘m not exactly dressed in a lightweight swimming suit. Clinging to the edge, I look around for a pool ladder. Nope. I cast a glance at the shallow end, knowing there are steps out of the pool over there. Too far. I’m too cold. I’m freezing and my fingers are starting to get numb. My only option is to lift myself up and out of the water onto the deck. It’s the only way.

I press both my feet against the wall of the pool, and PUSH! Come on Dona! You can do this! You have to. No one is here to help you now. P-U-S-H with everything you’ve got! Straining under the weight, out of breath, I thrust my left arm up and bend my elbow, then lay my arm flat on the pool deck, heaving myself up. Pushing with my legs, pulling with my arm, until my shoulders clear the pool edge. Okay. Breather…pant…pant! My leather shoulder bag is still on my shoulder, acting like a counter weight and not contributing to my plan. I pull it off my right shoulder and fling it onto the pool deck. There! That helped, immensely. Why didn’t I do that sooner?

Okay. Push! Up. Up. With one final thrust, I set my right hand down on the pool edge while wiggling and pulling my water logged body up out of the icy cold water, banging my left shin on the concrete as I kick to gain forward momentum. It takes every bit of strength I have, but finally, I’m clear. With a grunt of exhaustion I land on my stomach, panting and groaning. Water is pooling around me, my feet are dangling out over the water. But, I’m out of the pool! Safe! Thank God! I lift myself up to my hands and knees, coughing and choking from the water and filth I swallowed during those first few seconds of submersion. And now I’m shivering. I need to get inside, where it’s warm. I stagger to my feet, grab my shoulder bag and walk back toward the house.

Shit! How am I going to explain this? I ask myself, squeezing water out of my coat sleeve. I’m drenched! Water runs like a river off the fabric, down to the cuff and then drains down to the concrete. Water logged penny loafers squish with every step I take.

They’ll never believe me. Well, okay, they will when they see me. I mean, they are going to know I went swimming. I stop and turn around, taking one more look at the pool. Seeing the diving board floating upside down like a silent sentinel on the water of the deep end, I am suddenly struck by the magnitude of what could have happened. Somehow that diving board, which probably weights at least 100 pounds, missed hitting me on the head. I shutter with the thought of how this could have played out if it had…

Shaking off that thought with an affirmation of ‘Well, it didn‘t happen and you‘re okay,’ I turn back to the house. The pool water amplifies the intensity of the cold night air. I’ve reached the back door, tentatively reach out my hand and knock. I hear female voices inside, must be in the kitchen, then Linda’s voice and her foot steps.

Here we go.

There’s a phrase in use these days, I hear it all the time. It’s gained a lot of popularity recently and perfectly describes the look on Linda’s face when she opened the door and saw me standing in front of her, looking every bit like a drowned rat. For just an instant, I literally saw her trying to wrap her brain around what her eyes were seeing. Her head tilted ever so slightly to the side before she spoke.

With furrowed brows, she asked me, “What are you doing out there?” tinged with a hint of panic in her voice. “Get in here!” She widens the door and steps aside.

“But, I’m soaking wet!” I protested.

In a rush, she stepped toward me and grabbed my arm. Water gushed out of the sleeve and onto her hand before dribbling to the ground. I heard her mother’s voice in the back ground. “Who cares,” Linda scolds me. “You’ll catch the death of pneumonia out here,” she asserted as she dragged me over the threshold.

Under my squishy shoes was beautiful slate grey Italian tile, and a few feet beyond deep pile carpeting.

Her mother, Betty, appeared in the breakfast nook with a exclamation of first shock and then concern. “Oh my! What happened?” she asked.

Linda wasn’t stopping to allow any answers as she dragged me through the house, regardless of my protestations. Mom would never have allowed me to drip like this on our carpet. Okay, I’m not dripping, I’m gushing! Just around the corner was a bathroom and we reached it in a matter of seconds. Linda’s mom grabbed my purse, still filled with water, and with a look of shocked bewilderment, set it inside the sink. Linda turned on the shower and both women helped me peel the clothes off my body. Once, when I glanced up and looked in the mirror, I noticed a string of green algae hanging from my hair. Oh great! Wonder how much of that I swallowed? Bleh! Just as I was reaching up to pick the offensive green slime off my head, Linda noticed it too and deftly plucked it between her thumb and forefinger before flicking it into the trash. All the while, Linda was shaking her head and her mother was clucking her concern over the state of my being.

If I had an qualms about being naked in front of these two women, this was no time to worry about such modesty. They were far too consumed with concern about getting my body warmed back to normal. Their constant observations about my ice cold skin prompted a heightened sense of rush in their movements.

Questions hung in the air like a child’s mobile hanging from the ceiling. I’m sure they both wanted to know what happened, but that answer would have to wait. In a flurry of activity they got all my clothes off, then ordered me into the hot shower. I stepped into the steamy wonderful warmth of the hot water just as Linda’s mom scooped up my soggy clothes to deal with drying them out. I heard the bathroom door shut and all was quiet. My leg hurt where I smacked it, my fingers and toes ached from the cold, but the heated water began to bring the blood back. I turned the hot water up just a little more and parked my shivering body under comforting flow of heat. Hot water never felt so very good. I closed my eyes and let the water flow all over me before setting about to clean myself of a winters share of gunk, slime and dirty pool water.

Within minutes I had washed my hair, watching with horror as the bits of green slime dropped to my feet and then down the drain. Ugh. That’s just nasty! I finished up my shower, and dried off. Linda had left  a white terry cloth robe to wear and I wrapped it snuggly around me. About that time I started to worry if anything had fallen out of my shoulder bag while I was in the pool. Stepping over to the sink to check the contents, I noticed it was still full of water. When I grabbed the bottom to tip it over, more green slime spilled out into the sink. Gawd, it’s everywhere! My stomach started to roll. Yeah, no doubt I have plenty of that in me right now. I wrinkled my face in disgust. Ewww.

What was I thinking? Why did I do that?

Having verified that all personal items belonging in the purse were in fact still in the purse, and satisfied that there was nothing left to do but face the music, I opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom. The house smelled homey, with the warmth of cinnamon and apple. I heard voices in the breakfast nook just past the foyer, and I guiltily joined Linda, her mother and her father, Gene, at their wooden table. I had met Gene many times at all three of the family owned restaurants. He was a typical middle-aged Italian man; large frame rather wide in the middle, salt and pepper hair set over a rather plump face with thick bushy eyebrows. Dark olive tone skin and dark brown eyes.

Without a word, Gene stood up, walked around me and stepped into the kitchen. I was staring at the wood grain tabletop and my hands, feeling both embarrassment and gratitude. That was a close call. I could have drowned. What would I tell them? And how did that diving board get loose?

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a rocks glass being set firmly down in front of me, followed by a large hairy masculine hand holding a fifth of Crown Royal. Another large hairy hand appears and removed the cap, then I watched the faceted glass bottle tip as it’s golden contents slowly poured into said glass.

“What’s this for,” I ask quietly.

“For you. Drink it!” a gruff voice commanded as he walked past me, recapping the bottle. “It will warm you up from the inside.”

Timidly, I looked up from the glass and into his deep set brown eyes. “Can I have a little ice and some 7-up in it?” I ask.

Crown Royal in hand, he stopped on his heels and whirled around to face me. “No! You’ll drink it just as it is. The ice will make you cold and you don’t need no 7-up!” he growled, setting the fifth heavily down on the table with a wooden THUD!

Okay, fine. He’s a big Italian guy, so I’m not going to argue with him.

I never liked straight whisky, and I always drank it over ice with either 7-up or coke. Mom once gave me a sip of her scotch when I was a teenager and the taste just didn’t agree with my palate at the time. One sip then was all I wanted. Tentatively, I brought the glass to my lips and took a small sip, half expecting the whiskey to bite me back. It didn’t. I let the golden liquor linger in my mouth, savoring the slight tang before allowing it to slide down my throat. Wow! That was pretty good. And it felt good. This isn’t so bad without the ice or 7-up after all.

Languishing in the electric buzz caused by the whisky, I felt the weight of three pairs of eyes on me. Coyly, I glanced up from the glass. I smiled slightly. I felt like I was sitting in front of an interrogation squad. Linda and her parents were seated together at one end of the oval table, and I was seated alone at the other.

About the time I was thinking I would have loved to been a fly on the wall in this room while I was in the shower, Linda broke the silence. “What happened?” she asked as she folded her hands together on the table.

Oh, this should be interesting. “Well,” I began, “I was outside smoking--”

“We know that!” her father interrupted. This emitted two narrow eyed stares from two female faces that effectively shut him up. He shrugged it off.

The women both looked at me as if to say…go on. I gathered up my courage. “I was walking around the pool, thinking back to when I had a pool.”

Three faces waited. How in the world am I going to explain this?

Gene asked, “So did you fall in?” His wife cast him a disapproving look and shook her head.

“Not exactly,” I slowly replied. Oh gawd, this is just too embarrassing.

It was Linda’s turn now. “Did you trip over something?” she asked.

I shook my head and replied meekly, “No.”

Pause.

Silence.

“Well! What the hell happened?” Gene demanded as he sat back in his chair, crossing his large hairy arms in front of his chest. His eyes were alight with an intensity that told me if I didn’t answer and soon, I would regret it.

“I was on the diving board--”

This time it was Betty who interrupted me. “Diving board?” she asked. Puzzled, she looked at her husband, then back at me. “The diving board was out there?”

This didn’t make sense…of course it’s out there. It goes with the pool. “Yes,” I confirmed. Why is she asking that? “Anyway, I was thinking back to when I used to do all kinds of dives and I stood up on the diving board. I took a couple of steps toward the end, then next thing I know I’m in the pool!"

This elicited a deep sigh from Gene, who looked his wife straight in the eye and asked, “You said John came by today and put the diving board in the garage.”

Now they’ve lost me. Diving board, in the garage? Wha---?

Seeing the bewilderment on my face, Linda chimed in. “John came by today and Dad asked him to put the diving board in the garage for the rest of the winter,” she explained. “We take it off the base every winter for safety reasons, to make sure no one gets hurt.”

Well, that was probably a great plan, until I came along.

“Oh,” I nodded. “I see. Didn’t know people did that.” Sipping the whisky, I’m running everything that happened back through my mind. They must think I’m a fool. Who else in their right mind would get up on a diving board and bounce around on it? On a cold winter night.

That would be me.

I cast a furtive glance at Gene, and I see a measure of worry on his face. He’s struggling with something, and I know what it is.

Leaning toward him, I made eye contact. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to sue you. It’s my own damn fault for what happened,” I assured him.

With that, he released a deep sigh. Oh society, you’ve made us all so leery of everything, what with all the ambulance chasers looking for any excuse to throw the burden of culpability on to the innocent rather than holding people responsible for their own choices and subsequent actions. Clearly, this was my fault. I wasn’t hurt or maimed in any way. And I had learned a very valuable lesson. Winter in Idaho is not an ideal time for outdoor swimming. And stay off the flipping diving boards.

The heaviness that followed me into the house slowly vanished and our conversation turned to lighter topics as Gene plied me with a little more whisky. Every now and then, I joked about the diving board, Gene cussed under his breath at his son’s absence of helpfulness and every one breathed a collective sigh of relief.

My clothes were soon dried, but the goose down coat was another matter and required dry cleaning. I returned to the bathroom to dry my hair, Betty loaned me a heavy coat for the drive home and we took our leave. Stepping outside Linda and I both stopped momentarily. The sodden path I had taken from the pool loomed at our feet, casting a dark reminder of what had just transpired only an hour before.

Linda broke the silence. “What were you thinking?” she asked as we walked toward her car.

Still feeling embarrassed, I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. I was just reliving some moments from my past. Thinking back to better times,” I replied with a wistful tone.

“Well, I hope you learned your lesson. Still, this never would have happened if John did what he was supposed to do. Luckily, you didn‘t get seriously hurt,” she observed.

True. Somewhat. I survived the ordeal with a little bump on my right shin, but when I slammed my left hand onto the pool edge, I injured my index finger somehow. By the next day, the finger swelled and I couldn’t bend it at all; any movement proved painful. I spent the next couple of months driving around town, with that finger extended above the steering wheel. People must have thought I was telling everyone I am number one because I couldn’t wrap that finger around the steering wheel to drive; it literally stuck straight up in the air. And when softball season started, I batted with that finger still extended straight up, which really bothered the umpires. But the rule books said nothing about a player having to have all ten fingers wrapped around the bat so I was left alone. It would take weeks of physical therapy to finally get that finger to move and bend. To this day I still can’t completely curl it down like my other fingers, too much scar tissue developed on the knuckle.

I have to admit, anytime I see a pool with a diving board, I do smile. For all the memories and dives I’ve made off those boards and into many pools…planned and otherwise. That’s the thing about life. There will be days when you dive in head first just as you planned it. And there will be days when you take a step forward only to find the solid footing beneath you disappear.

And sometimes, you just got to laugh at yourself. For those who can laugh at themselves are the ones who can give of themselves freely with an open heart and mind. There’s a true sense of freedom in that.

They understand everything, better than anyone.


8,430

Moments in memories

Went in a different direction with writing this weekend. This moment in my life wouldn't leave me alone.

I've been thinking about writing this for weeks. Another memory hidden deep, prodding me from within. Wanting out, boiling in my mind. I know what to do when words boil in my mind. Only release will ease the pressure of their presence. Never before have I shared this with anyone, until now.

Today (Aptil 19) would have been my uncle Dick’s 81st birthday. I miss the sound of his belly laugh.

The last night my father was alive on this earth, I was there with him. And so was my uncle. I shared that night with these two men…in a room filled with love. A love so great, so profound, with a depth and fierceness that neither time nor human could vanquish.

That night I drifted restlessly, floating somewhere between the threshold of alertness and the vacuity of sleep. Bitterly aware of the slipping of time, the emotional fracture of loss about to snap like a summer twig on a forest floor. Laying on a cot placed at the foot of my father's hospital bed, I spent the hours of that night, listening to my uncle’s soft melodic voice…recounting a million and one memories. A lifetime of recollections. The breath of final goodbyes.

A night I shall carry within the power of my heart forever.

From the time dad was admitted to the hospital two weeks prior, the days passed in a blur. Each day started at 5:00 am so I could be at the hospital by 6:00 am, gathered with family and friends. Around 11, I left the hospital and went to work for several hours. Work was both a needed distraction and a necessity caused by timing. Cancer doesn’t give proper notice to allow family members time to rearrange the priorities in their lives. I’d stay at work three or four hours each day, then drive back to the hospital where I remained until 10 or 11 at night. Several of us took turns spending the night with dad; between my step-mother, sisters, brother and a brother-in-law, someone was always with him. On those nights when it wasn’t my turn to stay, I’d drive home, go to bed for several hours, then get up at 5 the next day and do it all over again.

Looking back now, I don’t know how I did it. But that’s the thing about moments like this in your life when you find yourself someplace you never thought you’d be. Without thinking, without preparation, you shift yourself into drive and do what has to be done. That’s just the way it is.

And so, as it came to be that Saturday night, it was my turn to stay. By all rights, I should have been exhausted that night. But what sleep I had came in short moments of drowsy submission. Stubbornly refusing to give in, I held tight to my consciousness, not wanting to miss a single second of the interchange between these two brothers. It was the most beautiful heartbreaking passage of my life.

When everyone had gone home, I took my place at dad’s bedside, with uncle Dick standing on the other side, holding dad’s hand, and tenderly stroking the top of dad’s head. A brother’s touch. No longer lucid, his eyes dim and hollow, dad laid on this bed, unable to speak or move. I felt weary, numb, and it must have been close to midnight when I decided to lay down and convinced myself to sleep so dad and my uncle could have this time together without me hovering. When I pulled my feet from the floor and finally laid down, I felt a heaviness lifted from my shoulders as I slipped down, under the covers on the cot, slowly lulled by the sound of my uncle’s soft whispers lifting the heavy curtain of silence.

From my place at the foot of the bed, I felt the love pouring from my uncle’s heart into my father’s ear. Words so soft and sweet, they both filled my heart with joy and tore it apart, all at once. Boyhood memories flowing through every slow and tender stroke of my uncle’s fingers, recapturing minutes and hours long since passed, held tight and woven in the time and space of these two brothers. It was like listening to a song without end.

I tried to sleep that night, to give my uncle some private time. Yet every time I felt myself relax and drift off, just as I was about to surrender, the rise and fall of my uncle’s voice pulled me away, like a heartfelt violin concerto. A few times I lifted myself up from the cot just enough to see their two figures. Dick holding dad’s hand in his right, his left hand on dad’s head, sometimes gently caressing, and sometimes just cupped at the back of his head. Leaning over the bed, his lips moving in the rhythmic duty of expressing long lost words of love and family, sharing distant memories of occasions and places, and the faded fragments of time and tribulation.

Laying there, just listening, changed me. It filled me. It broke me. And it mended me.

A brother’s lullaby of love and tenderness. A lifetime captured, contained, and conveyed in a solemn night; two brothers and four walls. At times it was unbearable, and yet in those moments I felt the healing comfort of hope.

Hours passed. I listened. A silent witness to the testimony of one man’s life. At one point I felt a soft human breeze as a nurse walked past me. This was followed by the rustling of blankets as she whispered a good morning to my uncle. My eyes were closed, and it was a moment of semi-consciousness; I felt like I was hanging somewhere between reality and dreams. The rustling stopped abruptly, I heard her say something indiscernible to my uncle. I heard footsteps, then I felt her hand lay gently on my shoulder. I was on my right side, with my back to the bed.

“Dona,” she whispered as she bent over me.

I opened my eyes. “I‘m awake.”

A brief pause, and then, “It’s time. His kidneys shut down. You need to get everyone here…now.”

Without thinking, I nodded and sat up, just as her hand left my shoulder. It was still dark outside. I glanced at my watch. A few minutes after 5. I swallowed the lump forming in my throat, set my feet on the floor and stood up.

It was time to meet this day. All the fragments of time shared between my father and uncle laid heavy in the November morning air. Shaking off the burden of our own lost time, I excused myself, stepped out of the room and walked down the short hall into the waiting room next door to make the calls to summon my family.

Minutes ticked by as I readied myself. By the time I changed out of my sleepwear into my day clothes, folded the sheets and blankets on the cot and placed it out of the way, my sisters and step-mother arrived. Somewhere in the commotion I caught a glimpse of my uncle walking toward the door to leave. I asked if he would stay. With his hand on the door, he looked up at me from across the room and slowly shook his head. Before he turned away, I looked into his eyes and felt the clouds of pain and sorrow bearing the weight of a lifetime on his heart. There was a moment between us, a brief connection of understanding, and then he stepped out into the hall.

With that I released a deep, heavy sigh. I understood. Last night carried it’s own burden, and my uncle needed to lay it down. Someplace other than here, in this room, right here, right now. I took a deep breath, and walked to my father’s bedside, taking my place among the group of four women who would help dad through his final hours of life.

Shortly after 11 that morning, dad released his final breath.

Journey of a Heart B1 C1 (con't)

~~~~~~~Journey of a Heart (JOAH)~~~~~~~ 
Book 1 Through the Music
Chapter 1 Tears of Time (continued)

That little house on Ethel Street holds many memories for me. I was an active child, and active children see their share of injuries. Whether it was running into a passing car while chasing after a ball, getting into a mess of fire ants, or stepping on a rusty nail, I kept my mother busy...sometimes with worry, sometimes frustration. She never missed the chance to tell me how she could dress both Diane and I at the same time and let us out to play. We'd be together the entire time, yet when Mom called us in for lunch hours later, I returned covered head to toe with dirt, mud, and grass stains, while Diane remained pristine and clean. Mom gave up trying to understand how that was possible. But simply stated, I played with more heart and passion, while Diane tended to supervise and boss me around. Of course she didn't get dirty, she really wasn't playing at all. Nevertheless we did everything together, including the time we contracted chicken pox and spent a week in our bedroom together, maddened with the itching and scratching of the pox. I hated it and even now I can feel my skin starting to itch with the memory.

Mom loved to tell the story of the day she got a call from the school telling her I had an "accident." Hearing the news, her heart heavy with worry, she was almost afraid to ask what happened. Yet, she sensed it wasn't terribly bad because the caller sounded calm and almost light hearted. And when the caller asked her to bring a change of underwear for me, she could only shake her head and wonder what I had done.

I remember that day very well. I was in kindergarten and we were playing Simon says. I was really enjoying the game, but then came the internal urge. I gave the teacher the signal that I needed to use the bathroom; to avoid interrupting the game the teacher instructed us ahead of time to hold up our hand with our index finger extended. I waited. And waited. And waited for the teacher to notice me as the game continued. At the precise moment she finally looked my direction, she spoke the words, "Simon says..." and she nodded her head. That was actually her telling me yes, but I along with many of my classmates thought it was part of the game. Seconds later, as the teacher was calling several of us out of the game because she didn't say the command to nod our head, I had my "accident." I couldn't help it. The game stopped, the classroom erupted with laughter, and my teacher quickly escorted me to the office. Mom showed up with the requested clothing items, but I didn't want to return to the class. She lovingly gave me one of her pep talks, and wonderful hugs. Her hugs held a power that infused in me the will to go on, to carry my head high. I returned to class, entering to another eruption of laughter, but I no longer cared what the other children did or said. Let them laugh, I was still basking in the gift of my mother's love. I just turned the page and moved on. Nothing else mattered in that space and time.

Ask anyone what they were doing on November 22, 1963 and you'll get a wide range of answers. President Kennedy's assassination is one of those moments in history that people eagerly share their personal experience when asked. I usually just respond that I was playing outside and leave it at that. I remember the day in detail, but that day is inextricably tied a memory that I can't unsee. A childhood passage, I suppose. Diane and I were sitting on the trunk of a white car (maybe mom's Chevrolet Corvair), chatting with neighbor kids, perhaps even bickering over trivial childish things. At our feet were two dogs, both poodles, that belonged to a neighbor. One was male, the other female. The female was in heat and soon Mother Nature took her course. I hadn't paid the dogs much attention until the female started yelping, loudly. The neighbor boys were laughing, in a disturbing way, and I asked why the two dogs were stuck together. This brought on more laughter and Diane quickly defended me against the boys endless teasing of my naivety. She jumped off the car and got right in their face. But the laughter suddenly stopped when my mother came running out of the house, in tears to break the news. All she said is the President had been shot. Everyone was stunned into silence by the time mom reached the car, instructed the neighbor kids to go home, then took Diane and I by the hand and led us into our house. Later that week, I remember watching the funeral procession on television, everyone gathered in the living room, blanketed in silence and grief. This was my first experience with death, which I didn't fully grasp at the time; it was just another event I saw through the innocent eyes and naive mind of a six year old child.
  
I haven't said much about my new step-father, and up to this point I really don't remember much about interacting with him. Perhaps it's because the only father I remember having at that point was my father.  Every year dad traveled down from Idaho to visit me and Diane; he always included her in everything he did. The first year he took the both of us to visit his sister somewhere in LA. She lived in an apartment with a swimming pool, which Diane and I spent the entire time enjoying. That's when I learned to dog paddle; I just hung on to the side of the pool and inched away from the steps before letting go and pushing myself back to the steps with my arms and legs in a flurry of movement. I wasn't very good, but I kept my head above water and made it safely back to the steps every time. I have two pictures from that day, one of Diane and I in the pool, and another shows Diane, with dad holding me and my new little sister Annie.

The following year during his visit, he took the both Diane and I to Pacific Ocean Park (POP as we called it). POP has long since disappeared but the day I spent there with him and Diane is vivid in my mind. I can still feel the warmth of his hand holding mine as we climbed the stairs leading up to a bubble shaped gondola that took riders 75 feet above the sea, traveling a mile out and back. I remember the slow climb up those stairs, the push of people around us, the smell of sea salt in the air and the light breeze one often feels at the ocean's shore. Once in the gondola, even with the slightest swing brought on by the breeze as we traveled out over the vast blue sea, huddled close to my father, I felt safe. Diane didn't like the ride, and complained the entire time. But I loved it.

Little did I know, that day marked the beginning of his long absence from my life.

Sometime in 1964 we moved from North Hollywood to a three bedroom ranch style home on Hayvenhurst Boulevard in Sepulveda, now known as North Hills. Mom was pregnant and a larger home for our growing family was necessary. But as our family grew in number, something else was growing as well. Resentment and jealousy took hold inside my sister Diane’s heart, and it seems the more attention my father paid to both of us, the more bitter she became of him. All because her father wanted nothing to do with her. He made no attempts to contact her, leaving her feeling betrayed and abandoned. Whatever love and devotion my father provided wasn’t enough. And then one day, she took matters into her own hands.

I believe more families are torn apart by the pressure of lies and deceit rooted in imagined jealousy any some actual event. And so it was to be with me and my father as well. Fueled by emotion, Diane took me aside in our bedroom one day and whispered lies into my naive ears. At first I didn’t believe her and we argued, but she persisted, and insisted. She was so convincing. I loved her, she always protected me, always looked out for me. That alone, brought me around to her way of thinking. Why would she want to deliberately hurt me? And once she had set her hook in me, she reeled me in and paraded me into the kitchen to make the announcement to our mother.

And like a trained bird, I parroted the words from my sister’s mouth, to my mother’s ear. My dad had molested me when I was younger. That’s all I had to say, that’s all it took. No further details were requested, no further discussion ensued. And thus I had played a role in the demise of the relationship with my own father. Not knowing what I had done, or fully understanding what it was or meant, I did what I did, like a puppet on a string.

To this day I will never understand the emotion called jealousy.

Not long after, Diane and I were taken to see a psychiatrist. I don’t remember much about the visit, other than he spoke to both of us separately. I didn’t want to talk and what little I said was about my memories of Beulah. I had nothing to say about my father, there wasn’t anything to tell, I had no memory of what Diane said about him. I didn’t want to talk about him, I wanted to talk about Beulah. The man spoke to me in a unsympathetic, harsh tone and I didn’t like him.

On the car ride home, mom and our step-father Dave got in a heated discussion about the visit. The good doctor, it seems, had informed our parents that Diane and I lied about Beulah because people didn’t do those terrible things to children. My step-father believed the doctor, and mom’s protestations of witnessing the marks on my back left by Beulah’s belt did nothing to pursuade our step-father. He sided with the doctor. There was no abuse, we imagined it all, it never happened and that was that.

Ironically, the few times my step-father chose to dole out punishment, his tool of choice was, you guessed it, a leather belt. I was terrified of the belt and he knew it. But that didn’t stop him. It only took one beating with the belt for me to learn my lesson. That is, until years later when history would repeat itself and I would be blamed and punished for something I didn’t do.

I hated leather belts and for years refused to wear one with my pants. Only recently did I start wearing them.

-------^------- 

With the move to Sepulveda, Diane was enrolled at Gledhill Elementary School, but I was enrolled in a private school called Valley Christian Baptist School, now known as Valley Charter School. Before the move, teachers at Saticoy Street School convinced my parents it was in my best interest for me to attend a private school. I was advanced for my age, having spent several years in pre-school, then starting kindergarten in the fall of 1961 at the age of four years and five months. Young by today’s standards, and that debate continues even today.

I remember the day I showed up for my first day at Valley, escorted by my mom. We sat in the office for what seemed like forever, and then a woman entered the room. She and mom exchanged pleasantries, and then she escorted me to my new class. Entering the room, I was nervous and could feel the weight of many eyes on me as my new teacher showed me to a desk and chair. Busy at some assigned task, the class was mostly quiet, with the exception of an occasional hushed whisper. I was given a sheet of printed paper and a pencil; at my side, bent in to me so as not to disturb the class, the teacher whispered this was the same test the class was taking, and as a member I needed to take it as well. She then walked away, sat down at her desk, and I took my first look at the test. It was math, and I easily made it through the first couple of problems, but stopped short of completing it. At Saticoy School second grade, I had just learned addition and subtraction, but the test in front of me contained multiplication and division problems. I was certain the addition symbol was sideways, so I raised my hand to get the teacher's attention. She arrived at my desk and I explained what I saw, which resulted in an eruption of laughter from several nearby students. Immediately I felt the heat of embarrassment rush over me, but the teacher gently touched my shoulder and explained that this was a multiplication problem. When she pointed to a division problem, asked if I knew what it was, I shook my head no, eliciting another eruption of laughter from the entire class.

This time she spun around and harshly stated, "Silence! That's enough! Get back to your work."

The class immediately obeyed. I, feeling humiliated, just wanted to be invisible. The teacher gave me the next best thing, when she picked up the paper, took my hand and led me out of the class room. We returned back to the office, where my mother waited. Delighted to see her again, I was hoping she would take me home. But the return trip to the office was merely to discuss the results of the test, in which it became clear I wasn't prepared for second grade at this school. The decision made, I was sent back to first grade so I could 'catch up.' I took it hard, and didn't understand. But in reality, I was now in a class with students my age, whereas before the students were always a year older.

Life, and my attitude, were about to change. In May 1965 our family welcomed my younger sister, Katie, to the family. On the day mom came home from the hospital with her, I impatiently waited in class. I watched the clock like a hawk; the hours, minutes and seconds seemed to drag on. And when the 3 o'clock bell rang, I sprung out of my seat and ran all the way home, stopping only long enough to wait for the red light at the corner of Nordhoff and Hayvenhurst. I burst through the front door to find mom on the couch holding Katie on her lap. And when mom asked if I wanted to hold her, I didn't hesitate. She was so tiny, and red.

It had been a difficult birth; Katie's umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck, by the time she made it through the birth canal her blood was black from lack of oxygen and she needed an immediate blood transfusion. She survived, but when she cried her face turned a deep, deep shade of magenta pink, something I'd never seen before. In the weeks that followed, the house filled with the activity of friends and family, all eager to see the new arrival. And mom took it all in stride...at least, that's what I thought.


During my second grade year I started acting out. The once silent child became very vocal, to the point where just before Thanksgiving break I learned a valuable lesson in disrupting the class. The teacher had stepped out of the class momentarily, and everyone started talking. I'm not sure what came over me, but I wanted to get everyone's attention for some reason. So I stood up on my chair and yelled "Listen to me!" just as the teacher opened the door and stepped back in. Everyone stopped talking. And I was sent home with an extra assignment for the weekend; for my punishment, I had to write the sentence, I will never stand on my chair and disrupt class again. I had to write it 100 times. 

7115

Journey of a Heart B1 C1 (con't)

It's Saturday. I have the house to myself. Sam is attending an all day class. Later today I will head to the barn to ride AJ, put some time on him or what we call, "wet saddle blanket" time, which equates to a lot of riding. Then later this evening, I'll take Duke to team penning. Only two sessions remain and I've only participated in two this season, a drastic drop from previous years. Oh well, sometimes that's how it goes.

For weeks, words float around in my head every day, but other duties take my attention; the job, the house, the horses, family, friends. It's frustrating at times, wanting so much to just sit, put some music on and write...allow the words to pour out my fingers from my mind. Writing takes forever for me, and I need to allow myself to just follow the feel of writing, and then go back and fine tune. I fine tune as I go and therein lies the problem. It takes me forever that way. And so I have my daily writing challenge.

Today, I'm going to follow the feel and see where it takes me.

Ugh! I'm already fine tuning. Began this paragraph three times and changed it, over and over. Okay...letting go of control and handing it over to the feel.

The story will continue, but in telling it I now find myself at one of many crossroads. I'm struggling with the outcome of the truth. In order to tell my story, things swept long ago under the rug of secrecy, will be uncovered. People will get upset (perhaps...perhaps not) and being who I am, I don't want to upset anyone. Which is the main reason why I have put off telling it. The more people you have in your life, and the more involved they become, the more complicated things get. Interaction leads to something, good or bad.

But I ask myself, why should I hid their secrets, when I believe the light of day is necessary?

If you've visited my Pinterest boards, then you know I love quotes. But then, I love words. Last year, I found a remarkable quote, and it got me thinking. Words to put me back on the path of following my dream. Yes, it's a big dream, and it scares me sometimes. But I can not let another day go by living with the regret of silence. Not this kind of silence, a quietude forced by fear of consequences born from the spiteful discourse of other people's thoughtless actions.

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”
― Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life

It's the simple truth.

Soon, you will see a different side to my sister, Diane. For now, she is my protector, my angel. But soon, she makes a choice that forever changes the course of my life. An emotional choice, rooted in jealousy. And it will set in motion a sequence of events that will split the lives of my father and myself in two.

Jealousy. That stupid, petty green-eyed monster that lives in every person. I have no use for it and will go to any length to avoid it. The wounds and scars left by one act of jealousy in my life run deep and taught me well.

So, back to the story. I hope these inside thoughts of the writing process don't distract readers much from the story. It's my way of bringing a behind the scenes perspective, if you will.

-------^-------

~~~~~Journey of a Heart (JOAH)~~~~~

Book one: Through the music

Chapter one: Tears of Time (continued)

It didn't take long for us to move again, as the apartment proved to be too small for the four of us. In 1962, a small two bedroom house in North Hollywood with acreage soon became our home, and it was there that my deep love for horses first took hold of me, and never let go. There was a lot of land behind the house, filled with empty outbuildings, trees and bamboo. Bamboo grew everywhere! The street had plenty of children to play with and Saticoy Street Elementary School was only a block away.

Next door lived an older couple who leased horses to motion picture companies and television shows. For a time, I lived next to the white horse rode by James Drury in the tv show, The Virginian; I spent countless hours at the fence between their property and ours watching all the horses. They would always come to see me when I did, and sometimes I'd just sit on the ground, listening to the patterns of their breathing, their movements and the persistent buzzing of the ever present flies.

With all the land, we soon had animals of our own. We had two German shepherds we named Eva and Zsa Zsa, after the Gabor sisters, because they were very much like them. Eva always carried one of her ears off to the side, giving her a silly look but she was so lovable and cuddly; while Zsa Zsa was prim, proper and very reserved. Unfortunately both dogs had a bad habit of getting into the neighbors yard and killing their chickens, so we ended up rehoming both with a local seeing eye dog service for the blind.

And then there were the cats. I have many memories in that house, but one that stands out is the time our cat decided to have her litter of kittens in my bed, on my back, while I was asleep. It was the middle of the night, everyone was asleep and I had to go potty. But I felt this heavy weight on my back and a lot of movement. When I lifted myself up to see what it was, I heard a thud when something hit the floor. I began calling out to mom, which woke Diane, who promptly told me from her bed on the other side of the room to go back to sleep. Well, I couldn't really, because there was the matter of using the bathroom. And the litter of newborn kittens on my back. At that point, annoyed with me and my late night disturbance, Diane rolled over with a huff of consternation and put her back to me. Worried about whatever it was that fell to the floor, and the burden on my back, I announced the situation to Diane, point blank. She didn't believe me. But something convinced her to turn around, look over at my bed, and then get out of her bed. In her haste, she almost stepped on a kitten, the one that free-fell from my back to the floor. She whirled around, running out of the room and calling for our mother. Seconds later the dark room was flooded with light, mom and Diane were cooing over the babies, while I, still laying on my stomach, did my best to contain the internal urge. To no avail. Finally, with tears welling in my eyes, I hastily asked for the removal of my furry burden so that I could relieve myself. This was done, post haste and none too soon. I hiked up the long skirt of my pajamas and high tailed it to the bathroom, just in the nick of time.


For as long as I can remember, animals were always a part of our family. When it was just mom, Diane and I, we had a collie named Laddie, a parakeet named Jimmy, a skunk (de-sacked), a raccoon, and plenty of cats. Not all at the same time, mind you. Laddie was hit by a car and didn't survive. The parakeet, well I'm told my Aunt Joan wasn't a fan of the bird, and convinced me one day that cats and birds loved to play together, then suggested I put the bird in a box with our cat. So I did. If nothing else, I was an obedient child. Mom never forgave my aunt for that one. As for the skunk and raccoon, I don't know what happened to either of them. My only memory of those two was helping mom give them a bath, feeling something warm and gushy on my hand, and pulling it out of the bath water to find one of them had pooped on me. Mom deftly thrust my soiled hand back into the wash water and removed the offensive mess. Oh, and I know you can't lock a raccoon in a bathroom with a full roll of toilet paper. If you do, they will spend hours tearing the entire roll into tiny, tiny pieces, one sheet at a time. It makes a huge mess.

6294

Journey of a Heart B1 Intro/C1

Author's note: I wrote this in late December 2014, on a restless, sleepless night. The words kept boiling in my mind, for days; I've learned when words are boiling in my mind I need to release them. So I did. It just took me another month to have the courage to post them here.

1/29/2015: Addition to Chapter one
1/31/2015: Addition to Chapter one
02/21/2015: Addition to Chapter one
02/22/2015: Addition to Chapter one
03/01/2015: Addition to Chapter one

~~~~~Journey of a Heart (JOAH)~~~~~
Book one: Through the music
Introduction to a monster (Final draft…may be edited/revised)

As a very young child I believed in monsters. Of their existence I was certain. Face to face, on a daily basis, I lived with one.

The monster of my childhood did not hide out in my closet, nor did she rest under my bed at night. But hide she did. She was good at hiding things, especially the truth. Like a spider hides in a home spun web, she wove a tangle of threads that by all outward appearances looked beautiful and delicate…welcoming. And like a spider in its web she created a home for herself and her young, beckoning, anticipating the hapless circumstances that would deliver to her clutch her next victim.

The monster of my childhood had a name.

Beulah.

Even today the sound of that name brings a chill to my soul…and a tightness in my chest. I feel the heavy pounding beat of my heart increase, my arms and fingertips ache and throb with the memory of her. I remember her, but I wish I could forget.

-------------------

Funny things can trigger a memory; things we hear, smell, taste, see and touch. The human mind in all it’s complexities has puzzled humanity all through the ages. No one truly understands how the mind works. If it’s true we only use 2 percent of our brain, then it seems to me we know very little about this fragile organ that rules and governs every moment of our lives. And of all the senses linked to my mind and the memories it holds, it is the sense of touch that awakens the memories left by Beulah.

I thought I had put those memories to rest, years ago. I wrote about them, putting words onto paper in a tangible form. Pages and pages poured out of the printer, just before I ceremoniously set fire to those memories, casting them out of me and into the universe. Watching them burn I uttered a peaceful prayer of protection for myself and the world, lest the evil and darkness contained in the ashes find its way into another life. Placing that last sheet of paper on the fire, as the embers slowly faded I felt…uplifted. As if I was floating on air with those ashes. And I smiled. With an exhaled hum of satisfaction I turned, walked away and never looked back.

Until the day the slightest touch of a soft breeze on my cheek triggered a single memory of my mother. And with that single memory, the remnants of my past awakened, filling my life with the memories again.

Very few people read the first copy of the book I always wanted to write, the one I burned so long ago. And I wonder. Perhaps in keeping it all to myself, and not putting it out there before I burned the words, I blocked the power of that ceremony. The healing I desired and needed proved short-lived. By not sharing my experience, by keeping it to myself and hidden from the eyes of the world, I diminished the power to release it all through ceremony.

And so now I find myself at a crossroad with a purpose. I can no longer deny the need I feel to tell my story. Like Beulah hid the evidence of her evil acts from the eyes of my innocent mother, I have been hiding a horrible piece of my past.

This serves no purpose, for me or anyone else.

It is time. The story must be told, released from the caverns of darkness within my heart and spirit. And with the telling, the light will shine. I will be free.

It is not my burden to carry anymore. I only pray I have the strength to relive it all again, the time to put it into words, and the grace to be satisfied with the effort.
 
~~~~~Journey of a Heart (JOAH)~~~~~
Book one: Through the music
Chapter one: Tears of time (Draft…work in progress and will be edited)

I struggled with where to start. The logical place is at the beginning, the place where my memory starts. But this is not a logical journey, it is one of the heart. So I’ll start with the soft breeze that brushed my cheek and brought it all back to me.

I am sitting in my mother’s lap, she is bundled in a coat with her arms wrapped around me. Slowly rocking back and forth. She is crying. A soft breeze is blowing as the rail car we ride climbs slowly up the grade. Angels Flight. We are on Angels Flight in Los Angeles. I am three years old, my sister Diane is six, and our mother is a single 23 year old with two young daughters, living alone in the big city.

Leaning against my mother’s warm body, I lift my head enough to peer out the window. The breeze lifts the peach fuzz on my cheek like a soft caress, just as one of mom’s warm tears slides down her cheek and lands on mine.

We three are silent. There are no words to share between us as the rail car rattles and shakes. Only emotions. Fear, betrayal, pain, and loss.

When I think back to the memory of my mother holding me on her lap that day, and the feelings she carried within, for all that I knew what I had been through, I can not begin to imagine what she was going through. Hell. Surely it must have been hell.

Angels Flight, October 1960,  just as it was back then.

Days earlier she and Diane were standing by my bedside at the hospital. Doctors and nurses surrounded them, with accusing voices and stares. My mother is in shock, stunned by their accusations. Stern faces with narrowed eyes and stiff backs bore into my mother’s heart as she struggled with the news they delivered moments before. Words fly back and forth between them and her…her voice is frantic and afraid. She didn’t know, she tells them with tear filled eyes.

Mom then turns to Diane, asking who? Who did this to Dona?

But before Diane can speak, I sit up, screaming…”No! No! Nooooo!” in fearful desperation. Everyone’s attention is now on me. I see nurses moving in the background, mom and Diane stare  in disbelief. "Don’t tell! Please…n-o-o-o!" She swore she’d kill us if we told. She swore to God! I remember crying with agitation, until several hands take my arms, and push me down to the mattress. I resist, until I feel a prick in my arm, then a funny feeling. And everything goes fuzzy and dark.

The darkness doesn’t mask the hushed voices. Then more hands take me and turn me on my side, pulling back my gown to reveal what had been hidden from my mother’s eyes. I hear her gasp, then her uncontrollable sobbing. My mother’s voice, filled with compassionate guilt, calls out my name over and over.

What my mother has just learned is a painful lesson in trust, only it is I who paid the price.

A single mother has to place trust in many people. In 1960, mom had limited financial resources and options. When mom discovered a room to rent in a large two story tudor style home, a room that came with a built in babysitter to watch Diane and I while she worked as a skating car hop at Bob’s Big Boy Drive-In, my mother saw it as an answer to her prayers.

In reality, it would be a nightmare for Diane and I. But mainly, for me. Hell is for children, as Pat Benatar says in her song. I know exactly what she means.

Mom always told me about the way I cried when I was young. She said it was a low mournful cry. A cry she had never heard before, not loud and forceful seeking attention. She called it heart breaking, a cry for comfort. I remember the nights waiting for her to return home from work. Nights filled in a dark room, waiting with my tears. And the life I felt in my heart when the door would open, revealing her soft figure to me. Arms outreached, taking me and holding me. I loved her hugs. Hugs made everything better. Her hugs eased my fears, and silenced my tears. Hugs were a magical medicine, and in them I found peace.

Back in the hospital bed, later that night I awakened. The room is dark, save for the light from the corridor illuminating the frame of the hospital room door. I've been hospitalized for a bladder infection, caused by the punishment put on me by my so-called caretaker, Beulah. In this room, I am not alone.

Lying in a bed next to me is a young girl, about the same age as Diane. She is crying but her cry is one filled with pain. Constant and intense pain. I know why she cries, because Mom told me is was burned playing with matches. Her cries fill me with a need to comfort her. Slowly and quietly I get out of bed, and talk to her. "It's okay," I tell her. That's what Mom always says. "There...there. Don't cry. I'm here."

Unresponsive to my voice, her crying continues. I know what she needs.

A hug. Hugs make everything better.

I walk over to her bed, climb on the mattress, lean down and begin to press my body close to her. But I am unprepared for what happens next. I don't get far when her body goes stiff and the silence is pierced with her screams of pain. Frightened I slide off the bed as she glares at me.

"You hurt me!" she screams with hot, tear filled eyes.

Stunned, I don't know what to do. I hear voices coming, and I've done something wrong. Now I'll be punished. The door flies open and female bodies dressed in white rush to the girls bed side. Whispering to her, to each other. Frozen where I stand, unable to move, I remain motionless until one nurse turns to me, pointing a finger of accusation.

"What did you do to her?" she demands. Her face reminds me of Beulah, thick with anger and bitterness.

I jump from her words, but I can't speak. She steps toward me, but is stopped by another nurse. I feel a soothing presence in this nurse, who places her hand on the back of the angry one and points to the door. I am no longer frightened. The nurse sits in a chair between the two beds and offers me her gentle hand. I take it and she lifts me up and sets me in her lap, wrapping her two arms around me. Feeling guilty for the trouble I caused, I hang my head down and away from her face.

"Can you tell me what happened?" she asks me as she carefully tucks strands of my hair behind my ear. "It's okay, you're safe. You can tell me."

"I just gave her a hug."

"Ah," she says with a nod. "Well, honey, I know hugs are wonderful and you did not mean to hurt her." I shake my head. "But," she continues, "you can't hug her. You can't even touch her."

"Why not?" I ask timidly. I turn and look into her gentle eyes.

"Because dear heart," she explains. "She hurts all over, all the time."

Our attention is momentarily turned to the bed, with several nurses hovering over the girl. Her cries now stopped, the air of rushed excitement and urgency is gone as the nurses work together in ordered movements.

"Why?"

She smiles and reaches in her pocket, pulling out a small cardboard object, folded in half. She opens it, exposing several long thin match sticks topped with bright red points...that stink. "You see this?" she asks as I nod my head. "I want you to promise me something." I nod some more. "Promise me that you will never play with these. If you ever see them, leave them alone. Do not touch these, please.  Okay?"

Her tone is one of importance and deep compassion. I hesitate momentarily.

She touches my cheek with the back of her index finger. "Dona, promise me. You will never play with these. Never." She holds the matches in front of me, perhaps to ensure that I get a good long look, to forever hold this moment to memory. "Promise me, now."

Looking into her eyes, dark brown against her soft white skin, I nod my head. "Promise."

"Good. Please remember this," she reiterates as she stands up and gently places me back in my bed. "Now, it's sleepy time. Close your eyes. You did nothing wrong," she explains, pulling the blanket up and over me. "You just can't touch her because it hurts her if you do."

I feel terrible for causing the girl pain. The nurse smiles, then gives me a light kiss on the forehead. "Sweet dreams, gentle one." Then she turns away, but not before blowing me one last kiss. "Good night."

And with that, she steps out of the room guiding the two remaining nurses out through the doorway just before slowly easing the door almost shut.

The room is dark again. And quiet.

But I have to break the silence. "I'm sorry," I whisper.

No response.

I sit up, leaning on my elbows. "I'm sorry," a little louder. I want to make amends.

"Leave me alone," she moans, turning her head away.

Like a slap across my face, her words strike hard sinking into my troubled heart. Resigned by her rejection, I lay back down on the mattress, letting out a deep ragged sigh.

I can do no more. The damage is done.

---------------

Acceptance. That's all any of us want. It seems such an easy thing to be. For some, it flows. For others, it rarely comes.

Broken. I've felt that way most of my life. All because of actions not of my choosing. I wasn't accepted. So I thought.

Many times I have read and heard how important a child's self-image is during the early childhood development years, between birth and five years of age. These years create the foundation for the child to accomplish key developmental advances in mind and body. These years determine how they will interact with the world around them, now and in the future.

The events that took place somewhere within my second and third year, while horrific, taught me a lot. From these experiences I learned many things. I gained skills that I truly needed later in life. And tools that I would later use to propel me forward in situations that required forward movement. But it was a double edged sword, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. I learned to take the blame for things I didn't do. I learned love and pain are one and the same. But, I also learned to believe in angels.

Mom always believed I had an angel watching over me. And once she saw what Beulah had done to me, maybe that's what caused her to take Diane and I on that ride up Angels Flight. Maybe she just wanted to get us as close to the grace of angels as she could. To begin the healing.

I don't recall how long we lived with Beulah. Whatever the span of time, it was long enough. Long enough for her to leave a profound impression that burned the memory of her deep within my mind's eye. Memories that return without warning, and play out in my head with deep clarity, as if it happened yesterday.

We are in the kitchen. I, in a high chair, Diane seated at the dining table to my right. I see two other children sitting on the opposite side of the table away from Diane, a boy and a girl. The boy is older than Diane, the girl about the same age. They are giggling and jesting with one another. Diane and I sit in silence. On the tray in front of me is a sandwich, but I'm not hungry. I don't want food.

Suddenly, I hear Beulah's loud voice, booming through the kitchen.

"Who broke my coffee cup?" she growls. With her back to us, she is a massive figure, a large woman. She is standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes. Dressed in a simple dark print dress, with a small apron tied at her waist, and I watch the end of the ties float in the air as she spins around and turns her attention from the sink, to face us.

I stiffen, knowing full well what is about to happen. Chaos is coming.

The boy responds, gleefully. "Dona did it! She broke it!" He and the girl are both glaring at me, as the girl begins to chant my name, over and over. "Dona did it. Dona did it. Dona did it."

"No!" Diane breaks in. "She didn't do it. Dona didn't do it!"

I feel paralyzed, unable to move. Fear is vibrating inside me. I can't breathe. I can't move. I feel an energy so forceful I know I'm about to be swept away as Beulah steps toward me. She's behind me in a flash, seconds later I feel momentarily free, until she wraps her large fingers around my arms and lifts me out of my chair and throws me over her shoulder.

Diane is out of her seat. "No, please," she begs. Beulah pushes the high chair out of her way. We leave the kitchen to the sounds of laughter coming from the other side of the dining table. Diane follows, still pleading. "Please, she didn't do it!"

Through the living room, I watch Diane begging and pleading from my perch on Beulah's shoulder. Beulah stops at a door, and opens it. Diane disappears from my view as Beulah whirls around to face her, grabbing Diane's small arm as she leans down. "Not one word. Don't you dare tell! If you say anything, I swear to God I will kill you both!"

Air flows past my face as Beulah turns back to the door. I catch a momentary glimpse of Diane, left standing alone in the hall, tears streaming down her face.

The laughter in the kitchen is the last thing I hear before Beulah slams the door shut. And locks it.

We are in her bedroom now. A large expansive room, with a bed, dresser, chair and small throw rugs on the hardwood floor. I'm not going down without a fight. I know what's coming, as Beulah opens a closet door and removes a belt. I push against her shoulder, twisting, squirming and kicking in a desperate attempt to get free. Two more steps and she sets me down next to her bed as she plants her large frame on the mattress.

With one hand, she holds my two wrists together and with the other, begins to undress me. I desperately dig my tiny fingers into her flesh to free myself from her grip. "The more you fight, the worse you make it," she warns in her deep, gruff voice,

"No!" It's all I can say. "No," I repeat over and over, pulling away, planting my feet firmly down and leaning as far away from her as I can. No. No. No.

My struggle has exhausted her by the time she removes the final article of clothing from my body. I now stand naked in front of her. She picks up the belt. And I continue to fight against her and what she is about to deliver.

"I warned you," she threatens, lifting the belt high above her shoulder.

The metal of the buckle meets my backside with an awful thrap! I feel the stinging pain of solid hits, and near misses as I bend and twist to avoid each blow. My struggles enrage her more. The tears come next, nothing can stop them now, and I cry out "No. No. No." over and over, begging for mercy. Each blow is delivered with more thrust than the last.

Until I crumble into a lifeless heap on the floor at her feet. My mind and body shut down, the pain of abuse too intense for me to consciously endure. And as I fade away to black, the sound of metal and leather hitting my flesh continues. Then slowly fades away. Into silence in the darkness.

I don't know how much longer she continued to hit me after I blacked out. I suppose the blacking out was my mind's defense mechanism to protect me from feeling each and every blow. I do know this wasn't the first, and it likely was not the last time this scene played out under her roof.

People will wonder how my mother could have missed all this. How could she not have known? Well, one can't see what is kept hidden from the eyes. Knowing my mother was desperate for help, Beulah stepped in and offered to bath, dress and feed Diane and I. Mom didn't need to worry about a thing, so she could focus on working. She played on my mother's weakness and used it to her advantage. Until I was hospitalized. Not only did Beulah beat me, at the pleasure of her two children, at night she would fill me up with liquid before she put me to bed. And when I got up to use the bath room, I got another beating. The cycle of abuse left many, many damaging cracks in my life.

Over the years, I wondered why, in that high chair I couldn't move. Why did I feel so immobilized? The answer came while visiting my sister a couple of years ago. We were talking about our childhood, and some of the places we lived. She was showing me the list of addresses and on-line images, when I asked if she remembered Beulah. She did. And it was then I learned the reason I couldn't move, wasn't because I felt paralyzed with fear. It was because Beulah bound and tied me to the chair. I was trapped, caught in another of her many webs.

  

Back in Beulah's room, it was the warmth of another body, enfolding me completely in their arms, that I now feel. When I open my eyes, still moist from the tears, I see the hazy angelic face of Diane looking down at me. She is crying, rocking me slowly in her arms, and saying, "I'm sorry" over and over. I feel the wetness of her tears touching down on my cheek, and they blend together with mine, just before sliding into a pool on the hardwood floor. I lean into her. Seeking her comfort, and peace, I bury my face against her chest.  It's just the two of us.

As a very small child, I believed in monsters. I knew they were real.

But more importantly, I also believed in angels. They are always there, and of their existence I am certain. I lived with one, everyday. They are real. And always among us. They will never leave, unless you ask them to leave. All they want, all they need, is to be there. Giving us sanctuary.

And love.

Love's divine. 

5,772

The memory of that hardwood floor, with our tears pooling together beneath our silent huddled bodies, lives inside me. A slo-mo fragment of time, lingering, intense and clear. As clear as the tears we shared. I remember the feel of Diane's tears softly falling on my skin. I remember the feel of each one when it blended together with mine. Watching, with downward cast eyes, I remember the tickle of each tear sliding down my face, and I remember wondering why the first tear I saw was so small, while the next appeared so much larger.

I never returned to Beulah's after my hospital stay. My mother may have been alone, but she had friends. And one friend, Phoebe, a young Jewish mother with two young daughters of her own, took us in. She was a feisty woman, I remember that about her. A take charge kind of woman, just what my mother needed. I have no doubt, the instant Phoebe heard what Beulah did, she personally marched into that house with plenty of male back-up to assist with the removal of all our possessions, but not before giving Beulah a piece of her mind...and perhaps more.

  

And I remember playing on the floor in Phoebe's dining room with her children while mom and Phoebe sat at the table, drinking coffee, chatting, and smoking cigarettes. We were playing with a spinning top, or what I thought was a top. But Phoebe's youngest daughter kept calling it a dreidel. We argued back and forth a bit, until Phoebe gently pointed out the difference to me. It looked like a spinning top, it spun like a top, and yet to them it was not a top.

And so I learned. About differences, in things, and people.

Eventually mom found a place for the three of us. It was a bungalow perched atop a small hill and the only way to reach it was up a long flight of concrete stairs lined on either side with ivy. That's all I remember about that place, is those stairs and the ivy. I think it was painted white or a pale yellow. Not that it makes any difference. I just remember that. And mom finally landed a day job as a secretary, no more nights without her. She placed Diane and I in pre-school, and while Diane had no trouble fitting in, I did.

I spent many years living in a world of silence. A world many children, and grown ups, did not understand. Children can be cruel, and from that cruelty I withdrew. It had more to do with tones, than actual words. It wasn't what they said, it was the way they said it. I'm sure they meant no real harm, they just didn't know any better. Stirred by the memories, when spoken to in that familiar tone and attitude of contempt, I felt deep in my tender heart the bitter remnants of one boy and one girl, and I shut the door on anyone who behaved that way. I learned many lessons under the roof of Beulah's house. I felt many things inside those rooms. It was a pattern that would follow me throughout my childhood, and adulthood. A pattern I never could understand, mired in behaviors exhibited by others that I found to be foreign and obtuse. And my withdrawal from their behavior made me a target…for criticism and ill placed negativity.

But I didn't care. I wasn't going to let anyone like that in, ever again. Lesson learned. I moved on without them. During creative or learning sessions I thrived in pre-school, it was a time to work alone and I quickly adapted. Sure I enjoyed the play time, but I really preferred making things or expressing myself in non-verbal ways. But somehow I contracted an awful case of pneumonia, and through this turn of events, I took my first airplane ride from Los Angeles, California to Portland, Oregon.

Alone.

It's February 1961. As the pneumonia worsens, staff at the pre-school refused to take me, informing my mother that I am too ill for them to care for and I should be left home until I recuperate.  Mom stays home with me for a week, but my condition does not improve.  She must return to work or she'll lose her job, so she contacts her mother in Washington, and my father as well, and explains the situation.  Arrangements are made for me to fly from Los Angeles to Portland, Oregon, where my father will pick me up. From Portland, he will drive back to his home in Lewiston, Idaho; there I will remain until the end of August.

To this day I remember seeing, for the very first time, the big silver bird at the airport. I remember holding my mother and sisters hands as we walked through two large glass doors toward the bird. The sun was out but the air was cool and a breeze tickled my warm cheeks as Mom led us across the tarmac toward a group of people standing beside a set of metal stairs leading up into the bird.

At the bottom of the stairs, Mom began to speak to a woman dressed in a dark, heavy coat. The sight of her set me at unease. I didn't like her. She reminded me of Beulah; her hair, her frame, her face, and even her voice. It wasn't Beulah, just a chaperone hired by the airline to accompany me on my flight.

I didn't want to leave my mother and I didn't feel very good. I was tired, and cranky, and cold. Mom kneeled down to my level. She told me I needed to go with the lady in the heavy coat. The woman held out her hand for me, but I resisted, preferring to bury my face into my mother's arms while clinging to the security of her warm body.

With her gentle, caring tone, Mom convinced me not to be afraid, that everything would be all right. Slowly, I pulled my face away from her body. She looked deep into my eyes, and softly stroked my cheek. I felt safe just then, no longer frightened. Then she persuaded me to release my grip from her clothing and to take the hand of this stranger and follow her up the metal stairs into the belly of the giant silver bird.

No doubt it was the hardest thing she ever had to do. Filled with worry and guilt, without a plan for the future and little resources...and now this. Turning me over to the care of another stranger, when the wounds from the last stranger had barely healed, and were still fresh on our minds.

Someone took my picture, and I still have it. Somewhere. You'll not see a smiling face in that memory. I didn't want to take any of those steps that led up. But I did.

I did what my mother told me to do. Reluctantly, I stepped away from my mother, and took the hand of the waiting stranger, who led me up the stairs. Clutching a doll, my legs just barely long enough to reach the top of the first step, I put one foot in front of the other and followed the stranger with a painfully familiar face into an unfamiliar place with more unfamiliar faces. Into the belly of that giant flying bird. I wanted to look back at my mother, but the height of each step forced me to concentrate my attention on bringing my short legs up high enough to reach every step. If I stopped moving, even momentarily, the stranger tugged my armed, reminding me verbally that "They were waiting for us." Only when we reached the top, just before we stepped inside, did I finally have the opportunity to turn around for another look at my mother and sister. They seemed so small and far away, standing there waving at me.  I didn't want to leave them there, but I believed my mother's words. Mom was always right.

I followed the woman down the aisle to our seats and she let me sit by the window.  From my seat I watched my mother and sister walk slowly toward the glass doors of the terminal. Soon, the giant silver bird roared to life, then it began to move. Through the window I watched the scenery pass by. I asked the woman when I would see my mommy again, and she replied she didn't know, but I needed to take a nap. I was tired and didn't feel good, but I refused to sleep. This woman wasn't my mommy and I didn't have to do what she said.

Within a few minutes, I felt a lurch as the giant bird launched into the air, but I never took my eyes off the window. Just then I saw the most beautiful thing ever, through the glass. It sparkled and twinkled in the sunlight. Quickly I leaned in toward the window to get a better view, completely in awe of the deep blanket below me. Through the window, the Pacific Ocean stretched out, forever. Never ending, it was everywhere. It was beautiful. Capitivating. With my tiny index finger pressed to the window, I asked my escort what color it was.

"Blue," she replied. "Don't point." Her hand came up, covered my hand and pushed it down away from the window.

Blue. It even sounded beautiful. Blue. It was the same color as my eyes. I no longer felt sad. I no longer missed my mommy or my sister. I no longer felt tired, or afraid. I felt...happy. I liked this color. I felt good looking at this color. I leaned toward the glass, and with my tiny nose pressed against the window, I sat entranced, captivated by the magic of blue. It was so relaxing, so perfect...so right.

Suddenly, little puffs of clouds streaked by the window, then I lost my view of the big blue glittery blanket as the bird climbed higher and higher, immersing itself in fluffy clouds. I was still trying to get another look at the ocean below, when we reached the top of the clouds and I saw the pale sky. It too, was everywhere. This blue was the same color as my mommy's eyes. I sat back in my seat, never taking my eyes off the window. I asked my companion if that was blue, too.  With a quick nod of her head, she confirmed it was.

With total fascination, I sat back, gazing out the window at the blue sky, thinking of the ocean and the billowy soft clouds just below me. Through that window, everything was beautiful, everything sparkled, everything was right. That day, just before I fell asleep inside the belly of the giant silver bird, I fell in love with the color blue.

That day, I fell in love with clouds, too.

-----

My parents never married. I grew up with that knowledge, although when asked my mother always avoided the topic of their relationship. For years she told me it was because she didn’t want to marry him. I accepted it. Pushing for more information brought about an agitation and it became clear it was a sore subject for her. I let it be. Many years later, when I asked my father, he answered the question with complete and total honesty. Moments after telling me the story, he handed me a keepsake of that particular day in their short lived relationship. Finally, I knew and saw the truth.

I don’t remember meeting my father and his new wife in Portland, or the six hours plus car ride to Lewiston. Dad told me I slept the entire time.

What I do remember, is the first night at Dad’s home. I had my very own room, decorated the way a little girls room is decorated…in pinks and soft pastels. There was a beautiful four poster bed in the corner under a window, nothing like the Murphy bed I once shared with Mom and Diane back in Los Angeles. I was enchanted and charmed by it all. All this, for me. It was magical.

Sometime after I was put to bed for the night, I awoke with an intense urge to use the bath room. I slipped out from under the sheets and blankets and padded quietly over to the door, which had been shut. I stood there for the longest time, staring at the door knob. On the other side I heard the sound of the television. I knew they were awake.

But, I could not bring myself to touch the door knob and open the door.

Filled with fear, I stepped back and returned to the bed. I didn’t want to be punished. I had no way of knowing neither Dad, nor his wife Roberta would even think of laying a hand to me because I was up. That thought never occurred to me. Beulah’s actions left more than a myriad of bruises and welts on my body. Through her repeated conditioning of my behavior, she convinced me that if I ever opened the door after it was closed, I would be severely punished, no matter where I was. No matter who sat on the other side of the door. Punishment and pain would come.

But I had to go. Several times I walked to the door, staring at the knob. I walked back to the bed. Thinking.

I had to relieve myself. I felt the pressure building, and a pain in my side. I couldn’t hold it much longer.

Then I looked up at the window. I stood up, pulled the soft pink curtain back and unlatched the window. Slowly, I pushed the glass frame sideways on the track, feeling the cold blast of winter air cooling my face and hands. With one look back at the door, I climbed up into the window, sat on the ledge, looked down and jumped.

Quickly I pulled the long skirt of my night gown up, and my panties down. Then squatted in the dirt next to the house. With the relief of an empty bladder now accomplished, the pain and pressure in my side subsided.

Standing up, I looked up at the window. Way up high. Too high for me to reach. I tried jumping up, to no avail. It was just too far up. I was getting cold. My fingers hurt, and feet ached from the cold damp ground. It was then and there, that I decided to just sit down and stay put. I was tired, not feeling well at all, and feeling a bit weak. Sliding down the exterior wall of the house, I pulled my knees up to my chest, pulled the night gown over them and tucked my feet under the hem. Then I pulled my hands inside my sleeves and wrapped my arms around my legs.

Just before I feel asleep, outside on the cold, cold winter night, I looked up at the star filled sky. It was beautiful. Peaceful. Relaxing. No clouds, just endless dark sky filled with twinkling lights.

And so, I drifted off to sleep…

When I awakened the next morning, the sun was out, casting a beautiful light on a sight that filled me with absolute and total joy. A child’s swing set stood tall and glorious in the morning light. Without a second thought, I remember leaping up and running with delight toward the swing. Immersed in the sheer joy of play, I completely forgot about last night, being sick or anything else. I was happy.

Years later, I asked Dad if he remembered that morning. He did, and I had to smile when he recalled seeing me outside playing on the swing and how, when he went to open the sliding glass door in the dining room to call me inside, he noticed it was locked. Bewildered, he could not figure out how in the world I let myself outside and managed to lock the door behind me. Then they found the open window in the bedroom.

I must have been a very precocious child.

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Control. I've heard it said control is just an illusion. Perhaps. After all, in our daily lives what do we truly control? Ourselves? Maybe, but it seems not always. Do we control the car we drive? Yes, to an extent but do we have total control over the possibility of a blowout, or breakdown? No, none of us do. Truth be told, we have no control of other drivers on the road, the weather, or time. Time has a way of getting away from us, and of showing us just how very little control we may believe we have. Then, perhaps, time is an illusion as well.

Or is it?

During the next six months, my father and maternal grandmother shared the duties of my visitation. I have fleeting memories of my time with Dad. I remember him teaching me Roberta's nickname, Bobbi. We were in their bed room, on the bed which had a white chenille bedspread and there were bobbi pins on the bed in front of me. Bobbi was fixing her hair with the pins, and pregnant with their first child. I remember picking up the bobbi pins and saying her name, which brought a chuckle of delight to my father. I suspect because I was still living in the world of silence, he was determined to get me to talk.

Neither he nor Bobbi knew about the abuse. Although I'm certain, at first, my behavior struck them as a little odd.

I fondly remember Dad teaching me how to wink, or trying to anyway. And his laughter at my attempts. His laugh filled me with delight, just something about the way he laughed, and the sound. It was a good sound, not a bad sound like the laughter I remember from the dining room table at Beulah's. A truly happy, uplifting laugh, and I felt the love behind it. He also tried to teach me to whistle, unsuccessfully. Either I was too young or little to grasp the skills needed to whistle, because I remember all I could do was blow air out my mouth. It would be a couple more years before I could actually whistle. But Dad kept trying, every chance he got.

By the time I celebrated my fourth birthday, the pneumonia was gone. But for the rest of my life, any cold or sniffle would go straight to my lungs and within days I would become very sick. For years doctors diagnosed and treated my condition as bronchitis, or asthma. And every year, at least twice, I got sick and stayed sick for at least a month. I missed a lot of school during those periods of time. It wasn't until my teenage years that a doctor accurately diagnosed my condition as 'walking pneumonia' and treated it as such. With proper treatment, I improved and gradually the bouts with the disease diminished. These days I must exercise caution and avoid contact with anyone who has an infectious cold. I'm not keen on the frequent use of antibiotics; I've read too much about long term effects of antibiotic treatment. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. More, actually.

The only memory I have of the time with my grandmother is that of my return trip home. We traveled by bus, the only transportation she would take; in all her years on this earth she refused to set foot on an airplane. I remember her always saying, "If God intended man to fly, he would have given him wings." Sometime during the trip, the bus broke down and we had to spend the night in Salt Lake City, Utah. I remember looking out the hotel window that night, filled with sadness and fearful I would never see my mother again. The trip seemed to last forever.  Fortunately, by the next morning, Greyhound Bus Lines placed another bus into service to finish the trip. I happily returned to the arms of my waiting mother and sister.

Reunited with mom and Diane, life would soon take a different turn.

One day, I played in the kitchen while mom cooked and I heard a knock at the front door. With exuberance, I jumped up and ran to open it. When the door opened, the framework filled completely with the shape of a man. I remember thinking it was a playmate come to play, and then casting my eyes up and up once I realized it was an adult outside. He filled the entire doorway and I stepped back at the sight of him, just as my mother joined my side. He was an imposing figure, outfitted in Marine Corps dress blues. With a sweeping gesture, he removed his cap and bent down to face me as my mother introduced us. He was joining us for dinner, and little did I know at the time he would soon play a very large role in my life.

On November 22, 1961, he married my mother at a small wedding ceremony in Los Angeles. Phoebe stood as matron of honor, mom was dressed in a beautiful turquoise blue taffeta dress while Diane and I watched from the pew with our new grandparents; that day we gained a new grandmother, who opened her heart to us and welcomed us into the fold of her family without hesitation. I remember her sitting next to me, and the feeling of closeness and comfort her presence gave me. In the years that would follow, she became a integral component of my fondest childhood memories. 

With the marriage came a move, from Los Angeles to the San Fernando valley; a move necessitated by the need for my new step father to be closer to his parents Plexiglas business on Tujunga Boulevard, where he worked. We found a small apartment in North Hollywood, but wouldn't stay there long. During the short time there, two memories live within me; a memory filled with music, and another filled with fear. 

So far reaching was Beulah's effect on me, that on one occasion when Diane and I were walking to Sunday school, I stopped in my tracks and refused to take another step. We were walking on a busy four lane street, (Lankershim Boulevard, maybe) and hadn't gone very far from the apartment. Reluctant to take another step, I stopped and bowed my head, filled with a deep need to go back home. Diane was several steps away before she realized I was no longer at her side. Several times she commanded me to come along, but I refused, shaking my head fiercely from side to side. When she grabbed my hand, I grabbed the nearest tree, a small yet stout young tree just small enough for me to wrap my free arm and a leg around it. Anchored to the earth, I told her no, repeatedly. The tears came to me quickly. 

With confusion Diane released her grip and stepped back, asking "What's wrong with you?"

"Beulah," was all I could say, wrapping my other arm around the trunk of my silent, but steadfast supporter.

With frustration, Diane explained, "She's not there! Come on, we'll be late!"

"No."

She took a step toward me. "She can't hurt you anymore."

Maybe not, but it was the words I feared in that moment. The words, the promise Beulah used against us. It twisted my thoughts, mixing things up with my emotions and playing a wicked trick on my mind. "God is there," I said.

Her face lit up. "Yes, he is. And he loves you."

I shook my head, "No. Beulah said he would kill us, remember?"

With a sigh of frustrated resignation, Diane looked me squarely in the eye. Heated with anger, she stated quite clearly, "No he won't! Beulah lied. He would never do that!"

Maybe it was her anger, and the wave of emotion that swept through me then and there that caused me to release my grip from that tree. I took a step, and shifted the weight of my body and my soul, releasing my fear of the known and unknown to the power of faith. I believed her and I didn't want her upset or angry with me.  

"He won't?" I asked, tenatively.

"No," she replied with assurance. "Never. He loves us. You'll see. Come on." She offered her outstretched hand. 

I took it. In that moment, the confusion I held deep in my heart, disappeared. Hand in hand, together, we continued on our morning journey to Sunday school.

Then there was the music. As a child growing up in the 60s, American Bandstand was one of my favorite shows. For one hour every Saturday, mom had the perfect babysitter for me. I was captivated by the show, and for that one hour I wouldn't move. Except the times I would get up and toddle over to the back of the television set, looking for the dancers inside. Inquisitively I peered through the pressboard cover marked with small holes to allow the heat emitted from the cathode ray tubes to escape. Never saw the dancers, just the bright glow from the tubes. Disappointed, I returned to the front of the television, moving only when mom would pick me up and set me back a little bit farther away from the set. I'd wait until she returned to the kitchen or whatever task she was on, then crawl back to the tv, stopping only inches from the screen. It was magical. Music was, and still is, the rhythm of life.

I still remember sitting there, wiggling around on my bottom to the rhythms and beats. I could not take my eyes off the dancers. I so wanted to be like them.

Music has always been a significant influence in my life. Music can heal. Music makes everything beautiful. Music can inspire. In many ways, it was music that helped me keep many things in balance throughout my life, especially my early childhood. It kept me from going over the edge, and perhaps contributed to my inner strength. 

It was always there, playing somewhere. Lifting me, filling me, supporting me...touching me.

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