The task

It was supposed to be easy.  All Stan had to do was clean out the loft in the barn.  As a young teen, he frequently got assigned the “dirty” work.  Most of the time he didn’t mind, even when it meant mucking out the horses’ stalls.

So, here it was, a steaming day in July, and Stan was  going through the junk in the loft, organizing it, and getting rid of anything that was too broken to fix.

He knew what was up there for he was the one who dragged designated detritus up the steps to be stored.  Over the years, Stan had brought up a rocking chair with a cracked runner, an ancient bed frame that lacked one wheel, and at least five boxes of mismatched glassware.

How did his grandfather define too broken to fix?  He truly didn’t know, and rather than risk making a mistake, he decided to simply go for organization.

It was supposed to be easy.  That’s what Grandpa said, but he was wrong.  This place is a mess.  Where should I begin?  Stan picked a pile of junk just inside the door as a starting place.

There was a cardboard box filled with plastic hangers that no one had used since his grandmother died.  That can go.  Stan carried the box down the stairs and put it in an empty stall.  Back up the stairs again.

Next he tackled an old brown trunk whose hinges were made of leather, and the lock was so badly rusted that it would never latch again.  He lifted the lid, and found a pile of dresses.  Now what do I do with these?  Grandpa must want them, or he wouldn’t have stored them all these years.  Does he ever look at them and think of Grandma? Maybe I should leave them alone.   He gently closed the lid, lining it up as carefully as he could.

In the corner he found several broken tools.  The handsaw was badly rusted and the handle cracked.  The other tools were in equally bad shape, so Stan carried them down.

As the sun rose, the temperature in the loft soared.  It had no windows that opened, and the swamp cooler broke last summer.  Sweat poured down his face, back, and legs.

Stan moved on to Grandpa’s old chest of drawers, covered in dust.  It needed to go, as the back leg could not be repaired, but it was too heavy for Stan to move alone.  I’ll go through the drawers and see what I can get rid of.

The top drawer was filled with county fair ribbons.  Most of them were for prized horses, some for the cows, and a few were for sheep.  They spanned the years from the early 1980s to 1995, when Grandpa quit showing.  That was the year that Nightingale had died.   Grandpa was so devastated, that he almost quit living.  He went days without eating, and refused to work the ranch at all.

I think these can go.  They’re pretty old now.  Stan found a paper bag stuffed behind the dresser, and put all the ribbons in it.

The second drawer had a bunch of colorful handkerchiefs and some rope ties.  Since his grandfather hadn’t worn any of them in years, Stan added them to the bag.

The bottom drawer held photo albums.  Stan gently lifted out the top one.  Its leather cover was faded and frail.  Stan sat on the floor, and put the book in his lap.  When he turned to the first page, he smiled.  There was his grandfather as a young man, standing proudly next to his wife.  Nightingale was dressed in her white leather wedding clothes.  Her hair was braided, and piled on top of her head.  On her feet were the beaded moccasins that her sister had made.

Grandpa wore leather leggings, a buckskin jacket, and rows of beads around his neck.

This is a keeper.  No way would Grandpa ever let this go.  Stan turned a few more pages, and saw photos of Nightingale’s father, who was a chief in the tribe.  Her mother, a shaman, in a different photo.  There were pictures of horses,and people on horses, and the building of the ranch house and barn.

Stan put the album back away.  He really wanted to look at the rest of the photos, but the heat was worse and he was feeling somewhat dizzy.

I’d better go get some water before I pass out.  Stan closed and locked the loft door, then went downstairs.  When he stepped from the darkened barn into the morning sun, the brightness blinded him for a few minutes.  It didn’t matter, as he could make this walk in his sleep.

Across the drive, up the five steps onto the porch, and then through the front door.  The swamp cooler was doing its job, for the house was comfortably cool.  Stan went into the kitchen and fixed himself a tall glass of ice water.  He carried it into the front room, and settled into “his” chair.

Even though he wanted to turn on the television, he didn’t.  Grandpa had rules about when it could be on, how long it could be on, and what type of programs could be watched.  Stan had learned quite young that the risk was not worth the limited enjoyment, so he left the set off.

He was reading a Louis L’Amour book called Bendigo Shafter.  It takes place in an area of Wyoming that Stan knew.  What he liked about L’Amour’s books was that he wrote about cowboys and ranchers.  Stan identified with the author, as he also wrote poetry and short stories.

Bendigo had just met the widow Ruth Macken who was both beautiful and crafty.  Wanting to know if the hero would put aside his dreams of finding gold to settle into married life, Stan found his place and began reading.

The afternoon sun came in through the front windows, falling across Stan’s chest and lap.  Soon he fell asleep.  In his dreams, he became the leading man.

Ruggedly handsome, he swaggered up to Ruth’s front porch.  She stood in the doorway, leaning suggestively against the frame. “Howdy, Miss.” Embarrassed by his dusty boots, he wiped the toes against the back of each leg.

“Come in and have some water.  Or would you prefer somethin’ a might stronger?”

Bendigo followed the beautiful woman inside the cabin.  Ruth’s furniture was more elegant than anything he had ever seen before.  Out here, living was rough and fancy goods were hard to come by.

He headed for a stuffed armchair near the fireplace.  It looked strong enough to hold his muscular body. 

“Don’t sit there,” she said.  “That was my husband’s favorite chair.  Come in the kitchen.” Bendigo did as told.  The kitchen was painted a bright yellow.  Sunlight filled the room, and the smell of flowers wrinkled his nose.

 

The table and chairs were store-bought, a might too fancy for Bendigo’s taste.

“Here’s some whiskey.  So what do you want?  Men never just drop in.”

“Well, I was hopin’ that you’d step out at the dance with me.  I don’t dance too good, but I have fun.  Are you gong’ with anyone yet?

“Why would I go with you?  You’re a runt, you don’t own a durn thing except for a beat-up horse and a patch of land with a might small cabin.”

Bendigo shrugged.  She was right about everything.  After downing his shot, he got up and headed for the door.

“I’ll go.”

“What?”

If you really want to take me dancin’, then I’ll go with you.”

Bendigo walked out the front door.  “Seven.  I’ll come by and escort you.”

Stan didn’t hear his grandfather’s old truck pull into the drive, or the angry voices just outside the front door.

Stan awoke, somewhat disoriented.

A shot rang out.  Stan, ran over to the rifle cabinet and pulled out his favorite gun, a Browning cynergy 28-gauge sporting rifle, with a walnut oil finish that he kept well polished.   He liked the feel of the gun, the way it nestled against his shoulder, and the lightning smooth pull of the trigger.  It made shooting easy and accurate.

After closing the cabinet, Stan hustled to the front door, afraid of what he might find.  His Grandpa was a bit of a character.  He frequently “riled” the neighbors, to use Grandpa’s term, by scheming against them in poker games, auctions, and even in drinking contests.

“Git off my land.” Grandpa stood with his hands planted firmly on his hips.

“How am I supposed to do that when you drove me here?”

Stand stepped outside, his rifle held against his chest.  “What’s going on?”

“This dang-gum liar says Rosie isn’t a Mustang.  He won’t pay more’an a hundert for her.”

Stan looked at the man, and recognized Mr. Werner, the principal of his school.  Decked out in jeans, cowboy shirt, and high-top boots.  Mr. Werner was a good guy.  He was fair and honest and liked kids.  Stan lowered his gun and quietly came down the steps.

“Put your gun down, Grandpa.”

“Nope.  Ain’t a gonna do it.  Not ‘til this here cheater is long gone.”

“I’ll take him home.”

“You don’t have a license, do you?”  Mr. Werner knew every student, so there was no use lying.

“No, sir.  I can drive on our land, though.  That’s legal.  I can take you just over the bridge and out to the highway.  From there you could walk home.  It’s only a couple of miles.”

Mr. Werner backed away from the cocked rifle.  Step by step, he slowly moved.  Stan pulled open the creaky door.  He kept an eye on his grandfather, whose arms now shook from the effort of holding the gun.  He still glowered, and Stan knew that look.  He had seen it many times when he had disappointed his only living relative.

 

Werner got inside the cab. Stan turned the ignition.  The truck, as always, didn’t catch the first time, or the second.  Thanks goodness it kicked in on the third try, as his grandfather had stalked up even with the truck and was pointing his gun right at Werner’s sweat-streaked face.

“Don’t you never come back unless you offer a fair price.  You ain’t no charity case.  You make more at that school than I do in a good year.  You got no business cheatin’ ranchers that way.  It’s disrespectful, that’s what.”

Werner sat still, staring straight ahead.  His face had a peculiar green tinge around the lips and eyes.  Stan thought the man was going to puke, right there in the cab.

After putting the truck in gear, he turned left and headed toward the bridge.  Just as they pulled into the shelter of the surrounding quaking aspens, a shot rang out.

“He’s old and cranky,” Stan said.  “He hasn’t been feeling too good lately.”

“Humph.”

“He’ll get over it, Mr. Werner.  He works hard on the ranch.  Lots of folks laugh at him, as he never finished school.  He reads some, and is pretty good at math, but he has a hard time writing.  It embarrasses him, ‘cause he feels stupid compared to the college-educated ranchers moving in.   Grandpa’s a proud man, and he does get upset when he thinks someone is cheating him.”

After crossing the bridge, Stan turned off the engine.  “This is as far as I can take you.  There’s a bottle of water in the glove compartment.  It isn’t cold, but it’s wet enough to get you home.”

“Thanks.”  Mr. Werner’s hands trembled so badly that he couldn’t open the bottle.

 

“Let me do that,” Stan said as he reached over and twisted it open.  “I’ll see you Monday.  If you want, you can call me and let me know that you got home safely.  Grandpa never answers the phone.  He says he’s too old for gadgets, yet he owns a pretty good tractor that he maintains himself.  He’s good with his hands.  Did you know that he built the house by himself?  For my grandmother.  It was his wedding gift.  She was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen.”

When Mr. Werner got out, he looked at Stan, as if for the first time.  “Thanks.  I appreciate your help.  That old man had me pretty scared.”

“Next time you want to buy something from him, don’t haggle over the price.  Folks think it’s easy to cheat him, but they’re wrong.  He’s a smart man.  Smarter than most.”

Werner nodded, and then shut the door, the rusty squeak filling the blue skies.  “I’d still like to buy that filly.  Think he’d sell her to me?”

“Give him a few days to calm down.”

Werner patted the truck door, and then stepped away.  Stan watched him amble onto the paved highway and head south, toward town.  As the man’s figure got smaller and smaller, he thought of Bendigo Shafter.  Bendigo might not win the heart of Ruth Macken, but there were lots of other women out there and lots of other battles to fight.  Like Bendigo, Grandpa Ellis was a handsome, proud man, who would pull a gun rather than be thought back down on a fight.

Stan smiled when the engine kicked in on the first try.  He smoothly turned around and headed across the bridge.  Grandpa was standing in front of the barn, with a scowl on his face.

 

“You were supposed to clean out that loft,” he said as soon as the motor died.  “It was an easy job, and you didn’t follow through.”

“It wasn’t easy at all.  You got all kinds of memories stored up there.  I was afraid to throw much of anything out.  Maybe you could help me a bit?”

“Let’s tend the horses first.  Then we’ll go take a look.”

Stan followed his grandfather into the barn.  The horses whinnied at the promise of fresh hay and oats, and maybe an apple or two.  Like Bendigo, Grandpa knew good horseflesh, and only bought and bred the best.  That part was easy for him.

 

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Raging Insanity

“Never again would they dare to call me insane,” Joe Witherspoon said as he rubbed his hands rapidly down his thighs.

“Why do you say that?” Steve’s forehead wrinkled with curiosity.

Joe slapped his hands on the table in front of them, causing their coffee mugs to rattle. “Come on. You know what really happened, don’t you?”

Steve stared into his friend’s deep blue eyes, wondering if the doctors were right about Joe’s emotional status.  “I’ve heard Sarah’s version, but never yours.”

Sighing, Joe picked up his mug and brought it carefully to his mouth, his shaky hands causing the hot liquid to spill.  Not noticing the drops falling to the table, Joe allowed the steam to caress his face as he inhaled deeply, drawing the soothing aroma into his trembling body.  “I’m not insane.  I never have been.  Sarah made up all that nonsense about me throwing that butcher knife at her.”  He sipped cautiously, staring into Steve’s eyes for confirmation.

“You admitted in court that you threw the knife.” Steve leaned forward, his eyes focused on Joe’s.

“So what?  I was drugged out and so I have little recollection of whether or not I did. It might have been you that threw it, for all I know.”  Joe placed his cup on the kitchen table, and took a minuscule bite of a freshly made chocolate chip cookie.

“Sarah was shaking like a leaf.  It took a strong sedative to calm her down.”

“She’s the nervous type,” Joe responded as he meticulously scraped crumbs into his open palm which he then poured into his mouth. He brushed his hands together, then resumed rubbing his thighs. “She’s nuts, you know.  Sarah can’t sit still for more than a few minutes and never sleeps.  And she lies.  She makes me so mad.  Sometimes I feel like strangling her.  She tells her friends that I’m nuts.  I’ve heard her.  She goes downstairs when she thinks I’m sleeping.  She calls everyone she knows and makes up stories about me.  That’s why people think I did it.  That I was trying to kill her.”  Joe stood and began pacing the floor.  Three steps to the sink, four to the back door, two to the refrigerator, one to the table, and then start all over again.  “Sisters shouldn’t do that.  Sisters shouldn’t do that.  Sisters shouldn’t do that,” he chanted.

“Settle down, Joe.  You’re making me nervous with all that walking,” Steve said.

“Can’t do it.  Once my feet get moving, I can’t stop them.”

“Did you take your meds this morning?”

“Don’t need ‘em.  Doc says I’m cured, remember?”  Joe’s speed picked up to a trot.  His hands twisted into knots, then untwisted, then twisted again, in time to his steps.

Steve quietly stood and then walking backwards, moved toward the kitchen door, never turning his back on his friend.

“I never did it,” Joe intoned.  “I never threw that knife, but I wanted to, I tell you.  She makes me so mad.  So mad.  I hate her!  I hate that lying woman!”  Now pounding his forehead as intensely as splitting logs, he moaned with each blow of his hands.

Steve tiptoed out of the room, barely breathing for fear of distracting the crazed man.  Joe dialed 911.  When the operator answered, he explained the situation.  When told to leave the house immediately, he complied.

Standing out in the freezing Seattle rain, Steve watched as the police arrived, followed shortly thereafter by an ambulance.  After knocking at the door and receiving no response, the officers entered the house, guns drawn.  Within minutes, one of the officers stood at the door.  He signaled the waiting paramedics, who grabbed their medical kits, clipboards, and the gurney before going inside.

Steve felt sorry for Joe.  Joe had struggled with mental illness since his teenage years and had been hospitalized several times.  When on the proper medications, Joe seemed like any other guy.  Without the drugs, he went ballistic, with superman strength and fearsome rages.

Within minutes the paramedics guided the gurney out the front door toward the waiting ambulance.  One had his hand on Joe’s right arm, patting him as one would a dog.

“Don’t call me insane,” Joe whispered. “Don’t ever call me insane again.  I swore that no one would ever dare to call me insane again.”

Tears ran down Steve’s face.  He knew that Joe couldn’t control the obsessive rages, but it scared him.  Sarah, too.  After Joe threw that butcher knife at her, she packed her bags and moved to New York, swearing to never return.  Shaking his head, Steve walked back into the home and tidied the table and counters.  He rubbed and rubbed and rubbed some more, trying to erase the remnants of Joe’s craziness.

 

 

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Commitment

the story of a marriage

is one of

trials

and

tribulations

forgiveness

and

letting go

of errors made

love

and

anger

compromise

and

patience

walking together

through life

sharing times

good

and

bad

most of all

reveling

in each other’s

company

until death

do us part

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My Legacy

When I am gone what do I expect?

Do I want people to miss me? You bet.

But not for long.

I want them to think fondly

Of whatever good I might have done

To recall interesting experiences we shared,

But then I want them to move on,

Forging their lives as the independent people

I hope they are.

My legacy is formed by my writing,

My singing, my service to church,

My work as a teacher

Being mother, wife, friend.

That’s enough for one person,

Don’t you think?

I pray that I won’t leave behind

Too many memories of mistakes I made,

Too many thoughts of things I said

That hurt feelings

The times I wasn’t empathetic enough

The times when I was so self-focused

That I failed to see the worry in those around me.

That’s not the legacy I hope to leave behind.

I don’t hope for fame after I am gone,

Which is good as there will be none.

I am an ordinary person who lived an ordinary life.

That’s my legacy and that’s enough for me.

 

 

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Being Me

For the longest time, I really didn’t like myself. I knew, intrinsically, that somehow I was not the child that my parents wanted. That’s a hard cross to bear.

I was not pretty. I was not talented in any way. I took a long time to learn things. My memory was not the best, so I repeated the same mistakes over and over.

I was not girly. I wore dresses only because that’s what my mother gave me to wear. I wanted to wear pants and shorts and t-shirts because that’s what my brother wore.

I hated long hair. It took too much time to brush it, and then what I got older, it was difficult to style it because I had no skill in that area. I wanted short hair cut in a “boy” style. When I finally did get it sheared off at shoulder length, it angered my father so much that he called me foul names.

In terms of academics I was not my brilliant brother. He excelled in science. I excelled in nothing. No, there was one thing that I could do better than him! I could write beautiful cursive.

I was so slow to learn that I spent most lunches in a tutoring room, supervised by a strict nun who offered no support. I hated the room in the summer as it was sweltering. In the winter, however, it was shelter from the cold.

In high school I discovered that I was good at math and languages. I was still awkward. I was still not pretty. I was still not girly. I was now able to wear shorts and jeans at home, but had to wear dresses to school and church. I felt fat and dumpy. When I sat, the width of a single one of my thighs matched the width of both of anyone else’s combined.

I discovered that I had a talent for bowling and badminton, so played on my high school teams. I was not the best, but I held my own. This gave me something to crow about. I held my head higher and walked prouder.

When a young man asked me out, I felt desired. Not at first, but as he continued to date me, I accepted his amorous fumblings with positive regard. Because of him I began to understand that beauty is not defined by what you see on television or in magazines, but what others see when you walk by.

Once I was in college I realized that my skills in math and languages were appreciated by my professors. My heart swelled with pride.

When contacts came on the market, I entered a trial program on my campus to wear them. Without my glasses I didn’t feel as old-fashioned or as clumsy. I dated several men at the same time! Wow! Imagine how it felt to be popular for the first time!

I smiled when I walked about campus. I greeted casual acquaintances and sat with people I barely knew. I worked in the bookstore and found myself a valued employee. I was a good roommate and a good friend.

As my circle of friends grew, so did my self-esteem. By the time I graduated, I must have had at least fifteen friends! A record number for me.

After college I had no choice but to return home, back to the environment in which I was less-than my siblings. I was subjected to cooking lessons which I never mastered. I was forced to clean house every day, including my sibling’s rooms which I felt was grossly unfair. I was little more than a servant.

To make matters worse, I could not find employment. I applied wherever I could. I was rejected over and over because potential employers didn’t like that I was a college graduate with no office skills. I wasn’t even hired to distribute cards from store to store! What skills would that require?

The longer unemployment went on, the lower my self-esteem plummeted. At home I was that unhappy, unfeminine little girl. I was worthless because I lacked domestic skills and had no desire to learn. My activities were monitored, so I was not allowed to be social. I could only go out when my activities were chaperoned by an adult.

I was an adult! I was twenty-one. I could drive and vote and drink legally.

When I finally got hired at a now defunct furniture store, I was out of the house forty hours a week. I bought a car. I rented a studio apartment. I was free! And once again I began to like myself.

From there I slowly became who I am today. It was not an easy road. I spent hours alone, but I also went skiing, saw movies, ate out with colleagues. I saw Joan Baez in concert. I went camping in the Santa Cruz mountains. I took a class in hiking and went with the group. It was tough! My backpack was canvas on a metal frame. By the time it was packed and on my shoulders, I feel over backwards! But I went.

The rest of my story, my story of learning to like myself, was like climbing a ladder. Each rung up taught me that I could do things, that I could succeed, that I had value.

When I look back and I realize how long I struggled to overcome those early restrictive years, it’s amazing that I emerged as me. I wish I could spare all girls the struggle. What I can offer is my life as example.

No matter where you are in life, never give up on yourself. Fight against whatever forces hold you back. Find something that you do well. Anything. It doesn’t have to be academics. It doesn’t have to lead to career, but it could.

Believe in yourself. No matter how others treat you, no matter those who try to hold you back, know that in you, there is value. You have much to offer the world.

Like yourself. Be you.

 

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Conquering Loneliness

When I was a little kid I didn’t feel loved at all. I was a shy, miserable child. A loner who yearned to be held, caressed, even though I didn’t yet know the meaning of the term.  I wanted to be held in the same regard as my brother, who, in my mother’s eyes, could do no wrong.

I played alone most of the time, preferring my own company to the tension-filled interactions with my family. I knew that I was often the cause of much yelling even though I don’t recall hearing my name being uttered as the cause. Little kids just know these things.

Recently I saw some old home movies that were taken when I was a child. In all the scenes in which I appeared there were two brief moments when a tiny smile creased my lips. In one I was running toward my grandpa, in the other I was in his arms.

It was a great consolation to see that there were, indeed, periods of happiness.

When I went to school I understood that I was going not because I was smart, but because I was dumb. This was reinforced daily when my mother, who learned how to drive so she could get me to a school, reminded me of what she was giving up, the sacrifices she was making to enroll me in the school.

Later on when I went to elementary school I knew my place in the hierarchy of students. I was the dumb one, the girl who never knew the answers when the teacher called on me. I was the one who never got Valentine’s Day cards and who was never invited to play dates and parties.

Granted, it was probably my fault. I was a sullen, sulky kid who wandered the playground aimlessly, interacting with no one. I remember seeing in a magazine ad how to make tornadoes in a jar. Every recess I carried my jar, twirling it, setting the miniature tornado in motion, finding limited solace in watching my creation. Imagine what the other kids thought when they saw this strange girl roaming the playground with a glass jar in her hands. No wonder I was alone.

There was one girl who became my friend in fifth grade. She was new and so didn’t know my status. One weekend she invited me to spend the night. It was a revelation to me. At the dinner table her parents conversed without yelling. There was no name calling or bickering. Everyone had smiles on their faces.

I fell in love with that family. I wanted to live with them, for them to adopt me. I cried when my mother came to take me home.

In eighth grade an odd-looking boy invited me to go roller skating. I went because it was a date, my first one, and he was a nice kid. At the rink we skated side-by-side. The music was too loud to talk, which suited us both. After a while he held my hand. His was damp but I didn’t care.

In ninth grade he invited me to my first school dance. My mom made me a powder blue dress for the occasion. He arrived in a suit, bearing a corsage.

Neither of us knew how to dance, so we spent a lot of time standing on the outskirts of the floor, leaning against walls or, if possible, sitting on folding metal chairs. I thought he was nice because he was kind.

We moved to California that summer. I brought the addresses of neighbors that I had thought were friends. I sent them letters every week. None of them wrote back. I cried.

Because I was still shy, I made no friends that first year. My Algebra teacher was the closest thing to a friend that I had only because he smiled when I got the right answers.

Across the street from us was an older young man who showed an interest in me. He looked like every glasses-wearing boy of the sixties. Black haired combed to the side, black-rimmed glasses, and button up the front plaid shirts. We went bowling, to movies and hung out at his duplex listening to music. He wanted more.

Sometimes as our date was ending he’s park in an isolated spot and we’d make out until my lips hurt. I was terrified that the police would find us, arrest us, and then I’d be in trouble with both my parents and the law. But no cruiser ever found us.

He moved his love-making to the couch in his house. He told me how much he loved me. I believed him but I never said the same to him. My parents were thrilled. The daughter that they felt was unlovable had someone declaring true love.

When I transferred to USC I joined a group of lonely looking people who sat at the same table meal after meal. They welcomed me. We spoke about a variety of things, many of them intellectual in nature. For the first time I had a group in which I felt an equal. I don’t know what they felt when they saw me, but I was always treated with respect. I dated two of the guys. They were really nice.

And then the boyfriend showed up and took me to Disneyland. We had a good time, but all the while I knew that I was going to break up with him. He loved me, but during our separation I understood that I liked him, but did not love him. He cried when I told him. I did too.

At that point in my life I realized how much I had changed. I was no longer the lonely kindergarten kid but a part of a social group that did things together. That treated each other as equals. That valued intellect over money and appearance.

We did crazy things together, like drive across town just to buy chili burgers. We went to the beach even when it was raining. We studied together in the lobby of our residence hall. We were inseparable.

I still have my lonely days but I don’t let them drag me down. I know that they are only a blip in what are normally busy times with friends and family. I have a husband who likes to be with me, who respects me and encourages me to do all the different things that I love to do.

Being lonely as a kid is a terrible thing. You see other kids running around in groups that are ever changing, but you stand alone. There is no one to help you navigate the social circles, to teach you how to fit in. But there are glimmers of hope.

For me it was the girl who invited me over to her house, the boy who took me roller skating, the young man who said he loved me and all the college friends who respected me. Because of them I entered the world of work prepared to interact with those who showed signs of openness.

For the sake of all the lonely people in the world, be open. That will help them overcome loneliness. Be kind.

 

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Reliability

Am I reliable?

I certainly hope so.

If I say I’m going to do something,

I do it unless something prevents me.

I value reliability in others.

People who blow with the wind

Annoy me.

When they invite me to join them,

I question whether or not to commit

For they are unpredictable.

They may be decent, upright people,

But they cannot be counted on

To9 follow through on the most basic

Of pledges.

It

S not that they are corrupt,

but because of the shifting nature of their whims,

they are not trustworthy.

When I look back, I wonder how often

I let someone down.

I’m positive that my grown kids

Would be able to list my many offenses.

For all of them, I am sorry.

I wish that I could redo all my mistakes,

All the ways that I have not modeled

The very reliability

That I cherish in others.

So

While I cannot alter what has been done,

I can be reliable

From here on out.

For that is how I want to be seen:

Reliable.

 

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