Another day awakens

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A new day begins,

Promising calm winds

Sunny skies

A touch of clouds

That guide me through

The hectic times of my life

I stretch, drawing in

Energy to replenish

My weary soul

To revitalize desires

And strengthen interests

A healing, needed balm

The day beckons me forth

Greeted by the early

call of morning birds

Filled with bounteous joy

That fills my soul

With unbounded joy

I burst into expectant smile

The day is mine to conquer

I shall vanquish foes

Destroy doubts

Eliminate naysayers

While rising to the peak

Of my talent

Ah, the dreams of a new day

A day of joyous victory

To fill my sights.

I rejoice.

Eating Out

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I’ve always loved eating out. When I was a kid, it was something we rarely did.

Low-income families don’t have money for unnecessary expenditures. Meals were either at home or not at all. Or, if we were lucky, my mom might prepare picnic foods that could be easily transported, it would go into the car along with the dog, and off we’d go, looking for a nice park with a tad of shade.

The first time I remember eating at a counter was at a drug store in Dayton, Ohio. My mom and I had taken the bus into town in order to see an eye doctor. After finding out that I needed glasses, my mom decided to treat me.

There were colorful balloons floating above the register. The clerk asked which one I wanted. It was tough choosing. Red? Blue? Green? I don’t recall which I selected, but once I’d decided, the clerk popped the balloon. Inside was a coupon for a free banana split.

My eyes grew wide as the clerk layered ice cream and toppings on the split banana, then topped it off with tons of whupped cream and three cherries. It was the most delicious thing I’d ever had.

The following week we returned after picking up my new glasses. Balloons still floated. I still got to choose. I told the clerk I was wishing for another banana split. I crossed my fingers as she punctured the balloon.

I didn’t get that split, but instead won a milkshake! Oh, it was difficult choosing the flavor as I’d never had one of those before.

One time my family was traveling to Kansas. When it was time for dinner, my dad stopped at a large restaurant. It was so big inside and so noisy, that I was awestruck. We each got a tray, then slid it along rails, looking at the foods on the other side of a glass barrier.

My dad carefully monitored what we got. I remember jello, bread, and soup. Those weren’t all that I wanted, but I had to be satisfied.

Much later I realized it was cafeteria style, meaning that we were charged for each item.

My dad was a semi-professiional bowler who traveled all over the Midwest in order to participate in tournaments. Most of the time he went alone, but sometimes the whole family would go. We’d always bring our own food, but there was one time when we stopped at a Bob’s Big Boy.

The large statue of a boy standing on the roof imposed me so much so that every time since, when I’ve seen that same boy, I’m filled with warmth.

It’s weird that I remember those few times that my family didn’t eat a homemade meal. But when it’s special, when it’s unique, impressions are made that aren’t easily forgotten.

Once I started working and earning my own money, I did eat out a few times, usually at fast food chains. Not the healthiest choices, but they were choices I made, not ones forced upon me.

As a parent, I tried to treat my kids to meals every now and then. If I had enough money, I’d join them, but if not, I’d enjoy watching them devour burgers and fries, tacos and beans.

My husband and I love date days in which we see a movie and enjoy a lunch out. Sometimes it’s chili dogs and fries, sometimes a deli sandwich, and if we’ve got a coupon, a nice meal at a sit-down restaurant.

I don’t recall those meals, not like the ones from my childhood. What lingers is the joy, the time together, the essence of the meal.

Eating out is something that I still look forward to, something I truly enjoy.

There will come a time when I won’t be able to leave home, wherever that may be. I’ll be infirm, perhaps both mentally and physically, not able to understand or digest restaurant foods.

Meanwhile I continue to look forward to sitting at a table not at my home, eating foods prepared in a kitchen that’s not mine, shared with someone I love.

Not-so-Clear Lake

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            Prior to moving to California, vacations meant visiting family. Once a year we’d drive to Galipolis to see my mother’s relatives, many of whom lived in small houses without running water and indoor plumbing.

            Sometimes we’d visit my Aunt Lucy who lived, all alone, in a large house with backyard gardens with lush, green grass and more varieties of flowers than I’d ever seen before. There was Aunt Rachel whose home sat at the top of a hill, a wonderful, perfect slope for rolling downhill.

            My Aunt Ginny led the life of a traveler, moving from place to place. The most interesting home was up near Lake Michigan, nestled in the woods. It had no-anything. If I had to pee during the night, it meant walking into the woods to the outhouse where I imagined all kinds of creepy-crawlers. But…the lake!

            They relocated to Tennessee, a large white house with a wraparound porch. They had chickens that laid eggs! I was excited to go to the coup and gather them every morning. It was hot and humid and they didn’t own a single fan. Instead my cousins and I spent time in the shade of the porch. Until I discovered some type of insect sticking halfway into my arm! Boy, did I make a fuss, which caused all the adults to come running.

            Once it was removed, I wanted to leave. Now.

            One time we drove all the way to Kansas to see someone my mother befriended when she was in the Army. I don’t recall the woman’s name, but I will never forget the altars dedicated to Mary all over her house.

            My dad’s parents moved often. I loved the farm where they had a donkey, a gaggle of clucking chickens and a horse that loved to roll around in dirt. But, there were also wasps, and when one stung my finger and I had trouble breathing, I never wanted to go back there.

            Shortly afterward, they sold the farm and moved to Cincinnati. It was a modern house, with air, a bar in the basement stocked with all kinds of sodas, and a pool. The summer before we moved, my grandma invited me to spend a week with her. I had a marvelous time! Until I spent too much time in the pool and got so badly sunburnt that my mom wouldn’t let me return.

            While we had family in Ohio, my dad dreamt of moving to California, and when my mother’s doctor said we should move somewhere less damp due to her severe asthma, my parents wasted no time selling everything, packing up the car and heading west.

            Once we settled in a tiny rental house in South San Francisco, we began Sunday explorations. Using a map from the car insurance company, we drove all over, from up north to the Russian River, to east out to Lake Pinecrest, and south, well past San Jose. My mom would pack a picnic lunch, and off we’d go.

            I had become a temperamental teen. I’d always been sulky, primarily due to what I perceived as my low status in the family.

My mother doted on my older brother, feeling she had to protect him from our father’s ire. While Dad was an athlete, able to confidently play almost any sport, my brother was not. My dad was good with his hands, able to tear apart car engines, fix issues with the house, and build any type of shelving my mother wanted. My brother had not aptitude or interest in those things. To put it mildly, my brother was not the son my dad wanted.

Just as I was not the daughter. I disliked girly things, preferring pants and sports. I loved being outside, no matter the weather. I didn’t read fashion magazines and paid no attention to what the cool kids wore.

My sister was completely opposite. She was emotional and moody, just like my mom. She cared little about school, preferring the dangerous kids, the ones who sold and did drugs. My mother came to her rescue many times, including getting her out of juvenile hall after she’d been caught passing drugs through the fence of her elementary school.

Moving to California, I hoped, would change my life. I’d make friends. I’d go to movies and school dances. I’d play on sports teams and have a boyfriend. I’d make money, somehow, and buy myself a radio. And, I’d go to college. Anywhere away from home.

Back to vacations.

Sometimes our Sunday trips were short drives down to Woodside Park. We’d find a semi-isolated table, unload our gear, and spend hours lounging about.

My dad heard about Clear Lake, and so one day we drove up there to check it out. I don’t recall how long it took to get there, but by the time we arrived, things were tense in the car.

My parents were fighting, once again. About how long it was taking, about wanting to turn around, about anything and everything. My brother was poking and pinching me and on the other side, my sister was kicking my legs.

When we arrived, we had to find a place to park. It was tough because the folks who knew, had staked out every table and flat piece of ground.

Eventually my dad parked and said get out.

There was a beach, shade, and someone was vacating a table. Perfect.

We changed into our swimsuits, then waded into the water. It was so cold it made it hard for me to breathe. I could almost swim, my strongest stroke being the elementary backstroke. However, when something brushed my legs, I freaked out.

My dad had to rescue me, talking me back to shore.

On a drive around the lake, my dad saw a sign for cabins. They were small, cheap, and right on the lake. He went inside the office and made a reservation.

I loved that cabin! Because the porch hung over the water, it was relatively cool inside. My dad and brother went out fishing in the mornings, meaning I could entertain myself gathering shells, throwing rocks, sitting and enjoying the sounds of the water lapping the small dock that jutted into the lake.

When my brother stayed behind, we were allowed to jump off the dock. The water was shallow, so there was no chance of drowning. We’d jump in, climb out, jump again and again and again until we were exhausted.

My dad caught lots of catfish. Every night we’d eat out on the porch, waving off the aggressive bees that wanted our food. Thankfully I never got stung, for at that time, no one knew how very allergic I was.

We returned the next summer. The lake was not clear. There was a thin veil of green algae covering the part of the lake near our cabin. This was before anyone knew of the dangers of algae bloom.

My parents still let us jump off the dock. Whichever one of us went first would tread water, using our hands to sweep away the algae. The other would jump, then we’d repeat.

By the end of each swimming outing, our suits were covered in green dots. My mom would rinse them in the kitchen sink, then hand them on the porch to dry. After lunch we’d go back, doing the same thing over and over.

That was the last time we vacationed anywhere. I didn’t know a lot about finances, but I understood that my dad was unable to find steady work as a printer. No longer were papers made by moving tiny letters, which was my dad’s skill. Since he didn’t know how to work presses, his talents were no longer needed.

It’s now sixty years later and I still recall the algae, the fun jumping off the dock, the endless meals of catfish, and sharing the bed with my sister who stole the sheet every night.

Clear Lake remains, in my mind, that murky, green waters that entertained me so thoroughly back when I was a teen.

Self-Made Image

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            A song on the radio made a huge impact recently. The premise is that we remake ourselves as we grow, learn and explore. I have definitely done that.

            I was an abused child. Both of my parents beat me, humiliated me, isolated me from my peers. My older brother pinched me, kicked me and called me names. My younger sister mocked me, taunted me and regularly lied to my parents, accusing me of hurting her and then smirking as severe punishment was inflicted upon me.

            If I had been asked to measure my self-esteem, it would have been a big, fat zero. I believed myself to be not just stupid, but an idiot. I was told that I was incapable of succeeding in anything, I am believed it.

            Nevertheless, I was expected to receive the highest marks on all my work. Or be punished.

            It didn’t make sense: if I was stupid, how was I going to get those grades?

            Fear of punishment motivated me to study, study, study.

            Despite being the invisible student in the room, I somehow pleased my teachers. I couldn’t speak in a loud enough voice to be heard, but when called to go up to the board, I excelled.

            I set goals for myself at a young age, goals that my family said were impossible for me to achieve.

            The only place where I felt safe was at school. I was scared of my teachers, afraid I’d disappoint them, but I revered them so much that I yearned to be them.

In high school I tried out for badminton, bowling, basketball and softball. I was the top badminton player in the school. I was good enough to be on the best bowling team.

Despite my short stature, I was a great defender in basketball, primarily due to my sharp eyes and quick hands. Softball was the exception: I was terrified of the huge ball, and even though I could easily send a hardball soaring, I couldn’t get the softball too much beyond the pitcher’s mound.

I had begun changing my self-image from the incapable idiot to a surprisingly good athlete.

My grades were good enough to earn a state scholarship that paid 100% of tuition at any college in California.

This surprised my counselor. She had called me into her office before the scholarships were announced to tell me that I’d never graduate from college and that I should be looking for a job.

I was determined to prove her wrong. At the end of my first semester at the community college, I made an appointment with the counselor to show her my grades. I was gloating. I love watching the surprise on her face.

When I was finally allowed to leave home for college, I now had the opportunity to take charge of my life. I shared a room in the dorm, which was my only restriction. I could eat whenever and whatever I wanted.

I chose my classes and professors. I stayed up late studying. I found people like me who welcomed me.

I dated. Tried to join a sorority, but didn’t like the wealthy, stuck-up girls.

I got contacts at the university’s vision clinic. They hurt and I was terrible at sticking them in my eyes, but for the first time since I got glasses in fourth grade, I didn’t feel like a freak.

I made my skirts and pants in modern lengths and styles.

As best as I could despite being poor, I tried to look like my peers.

I went to football games, I got an on-campus jog watching the desk at a residence hall. I was in charge of others for the first time in my life.

On a walk across campus, I heard music that drew me in. It came from the Neumann Center, during a Catholic Mass. Something about the guitars, drums, piano and other instruments, plus the joyous music spoke to me. I began spending more and more time there, even going on several retreats with them. Religion took on a new meaning. It was no longer about fear and punishment, but love.

The most difficult part of my journey was when I had to return home after graduation. Once again, I was subjected to the emotional and physical abuse of parents and siblings. I was a young woman who was treated as if she was a not-very-bright child.

My goal was freedom.

First I had to get a job. That wasn’t easy. Back in the late 1970s, women were expected to work in offices, teach or be a nurse. I had no office skills and couldn’t stand being around sick people.

I wanted to teach, but had no money to pay for college. And, there was a glut of teachers looking for jobs.

I got a good job with the federal government doing something that I had no interest in and no skills at knocking on doors and demanding back taxes. But, I made a career out of it in order to first, buy my own car.

Having transportation meant that I could escape. As soon as I had enough money, I wanted to buy a car. But…I had no credit history so my dad had to cosign. He wouldn’t let me buy the car I wanted, instead insisting I get a Ford Pinto. I rebelled by choosing the ugliest one on the lot.

Next was an apartment. As I drove about as part of my job, I kept an eye out for available apartments. I visited rental offices. In time, I narrowed down my search to a nice complex in San Bruno. It was close to the freeway, a requirement so that I could drive into San Francisco for work.

Moving into my tiny studio allowed me to be free! My parents no longer had any say over my life. If I did see them and they became abusive, I could leave.

I had reinvented myself as a self-supporting woman, one who was successful enough to have her own car and apartment.

From then on, my self-image morphed almost continuously.

I was a successful government employee. I oved into the teaching component, where I led studies in tax collection.

I met the most marvelous man in the San Mateo office, who is still my husband 49 years later.

I added wife and then mother to my resume. I didn’t know how to mother, and especially didn’t want to be a replica of my own mother. The local recreation department offered classes in parenting. From them, I learned how to teach my own kids, how to come up with activities, how to offer support and encouragement.

It wasn’t always easy and I made mistakes, but I tried to learn from each.

When my kids got older, I returned to college to earn an AA degree in Early Childhood Education. I loved the coursework.

Then I transferred to Holy Names College where I completed an Elementary Teaching Certificate.

When I did get hired, I put in long hours on curriculum, bulletin boards, grading. I wanted to be an excellent teacher, for my students, yes, but also to prove to myself that I could.

By the ripe old age of forty, I was an entirely different person from the shy, frightened kid that started elementary school.

I have continued to work on my self-image, even as an older woman.

I do what I want to do when I want to do it. I am in charge of my life. I have a loving, supportive husband who had encouraged me to explore a variety of interests.

I am proud of who I am today.

First Concert

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            I loved music from the time I was small.

            My dad controlled the radio, so we mostly listened to country western, as it was called in 1950s Ohio. I didn’t like the twang and nasal voices, but something about the words called to me.

            They sang about heart break, loneliness and loss, things I knew about even back then.

            Sometime when I was in high school I saved enough money to buy a small radio. It picked up very few stations, but because it was mine, I chose what to listen to. I fell in love with rock and roll.    

            The stories were happier, the music bouncy and joyous, It made me feel good inside, even on my most miserable days.

            Joining choir was not a possibility as my goal was college, and every class had to lead to getting accepted. Choir was not the elective to make that happen. Plus I’d been told by my brother and father, repeatedly, that I couldn’t sing.

            My college, USC, frequently hosted musicians. I couldn’t afford to go, plus I had no one who’d go with me. The walk across campus late at night wasn’t safe due to the neighborhood.

            When James Taylor was coming, I decided to buy two tickets, then try to find someone to buy the extra, so as to accompany me. I asked a couple of girls I knew, sort of, but they refused. There was a boy who shared a few classes with me, and since he’d been polite, I asked him.

            He thought it was a date, so he was happy to go, for free!

            James Taylor put on an excellent show. He was charismatic, comfortable, welcoming. He sang his repertoire of released songs, and a few more.

            At times he encouraged the audience to sing along.

            I had a marvelous time. My “date”, not so much as he didn’t like James Taylor. He only accepted because I had paid for the tickets.

            That one concert deeply influenced my love of stage. While it took years before I was able to go see more of my favorite groups, I have loved every concert I’ve seen.

            There’s something magical in the air as the crowd waits for the show to begin. It’s amplified when the performer takes the stage. The energy level builds, the audience sways to the beat, and when it ends, there’s a massive letting go.

            I am so glad that I saw James Taylor, even though it was with someone I barely knew. It showed me a world that I never imagined, allowed me to fall in love with it, and still love it today.

First Impressions

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            As soon as I knew we were leaving Ohio, possibly for California, I began researching what’s called The Golden State. Relying on library materials, I learned about the State and Federal Parks, Disneyland, the beaches and mountains. The endless sunshine, a relief from the frigid Midwest.

            What most excited me was the lure of the community college system, something which Ohio lacked back in 1964.

            I would be able to attend college, fulfilling a dream escape, for practically nothing. Tuition was free for residents, and by the time I graduated from  high school in 1967, I planned to enroll in the local community college. My primary costs would be books and supplies. My biggest problem would be transportation as my older brother had first dubs on the family car.

            I didn’t know all that when my parents sold our house in Beavercreek, Ohio, packed the family’s belongings in the back of the station wagon, then stuffed all five of us plus the dog inside.

            When we drove passed field after field of corn, at first I was interested, but soon grew board. I’d researched the Mississippi River, so I had a vague notion of how wide it was, I also knew it was called “muddy”, but didn’t truly understand mud until we stood along its shore. Mud and more mud, extending way out toward the center of the bridge that crossed from Tennessee into Missouri.

            I was terrified of that bridge. I’d never crossed one so high or so long and worried that it might collapse, dumping us in the rolling river, or perhaps bury us in the mud.

            I kept my fingers crossed until we were on the other side.

            The next big adventure took place in Colorado. We stayed in a motel within site of Pike’s Peak. The owners told us there was a way to get to the top, but as soon as my dad learned there was a fee, we didn’t go. I resented that for a long time even though I intrinsically understood that we had very little money.

            In the morning we drove parallel to the Rocky Mountains. There were many tourist stops along the way, but we bypassed them all, until we can to the Royal Gorge. It was, indeed, a gorge. I had no concept of depth, but when looking down below, the train tracks seemed miniature. This was reinforced when a freight train rumbled by. It was smaller than the tiniest gauge trains my dad had collected.

            There was a pedestrian bridge to the other side. My family wanted to walk it, but I flat out refused. I was afraid of heights, and the thought of taking one step onto the bridge made me nauseous. After much pleading and threats of punishment, I stood my ground. Because my parents wouldn’t let me stay behind, no one could cross the bridge.

            On we went, traveling higher and higher into the mountains. Dark clouds formed overhead. It sprinkled, then turned into a downpour. The windshield wipers couldn’t keep up, so our vision was blurred.

            At some point we came to an abrupt halt. Several vehicles were stopped ahead of us. My dad got out to investigate: a mudslide was blocking both lanes.

            Oh, that made him angry! My dad had budgeted exactly how far we could get in a day, figured out the cheapest hotels, and even where we might get meals.

            Being stuck in the Rockies didn’t fit his plans.

            When a truck made it over the mudslide, my dad decided we could as well. He revved the engine, put the car in gear, then up we went. Until we sunk into the mud.

            We were stuck until a large tow truck arrived from the west. It pulled us through, after collecting a fee. Unfortunately, there was damage to the car. I don’t recall what, but the parts had to be ordered. So we made an unplanned stop at an airconditioned motel that had a color TV!

            Crossing the desert was another adventure. I understood hot and humid, but nothing I’d ever experienced prepared me for how very hot Arizona is.

            Our car had no AC, so it was either roast with the windows up, or die with them down. I remember that we wound them down, suffered, wound them back up and suffered some more.

            I recall practically nothing about the dessert except that someone had told my dad to buy lots of water. Good thing, as the car broke down. It was miserable waiting in the car for help, and there was no shade in which to seek relief.

            I now know that I should have seen a variety of cacti, which, if I had been older than fourteen, would have been interesting.

            The most striking memory I have is when we passed through a Reservation. The houses were either made of logs and dirt or metal Army huts. They were far from each other and I saw no power lines. I couldn’t imagine living in that heat without electricity!

            Around lunch time was came to a store/restaurant that advertised its burgers. My dad pulled off the freeway and parked. I wanted to go inside! It was supposed to have AC!

            But there were “Indians” milling about on the front porch. And the way my dad said the word, it was as if something distasteful was spewing out.

            I’d known my parents were prejudiced against African-Americans since I was small. I had no idea that their hatred also went toward Indigenous People.

            When we drove away, a range of emotions overcame me. I was disgusted with the hatred, angry at not being able to visit what was called an Outpost, and starving. Tears filled my eyes as for many miles.

            Crossing Death Valley was something else that I’d yearned to do, even though I was afraid that we might get stuck and die. I never expected the steep descent, the miles and miles of nothing but dry dirt, then the ascent on the other side.

            We were there in August, so none of the cacti were in bloom. What a shame!

            California was a huge disappointment. We stopped in Bakersfield at a small strip motel that promised AC. The room was small. We’d just begun getting ready for bed when my mother screamed, yelled, threw such a temper tantrum about something that only she had seen. Next thing we were back in the car, my dad filing a complaint in the office.

            Bugs. That’s what she’d seen. I think bedbugs, which is kind of funny since I later learned in Biology that we carry around our own, personal infestation of bugs!

            My uncle lived somewhere in Orange County. Driving north in the early morning, a dense, foul-smelling fog enveloped us. My dad turned on the radio. That’s when we learned it wasn’t fog, but smog, a phenomenon that was new to us.

            Something else unexpected happened on our arrival in California: an earthquake. My uncle’s house jerked, throwing me to the floor. It rocked and rolled, and even from down on the rug, I could see telephone poles swaying.

            It probably only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like minutes.

            We got to go to Knott’s Berry Farm (boring because we couldn’t afford any rides) and Disneyland. My favorite ride was the cars that went nowhere. I got to be the “driver”, and even though I soon figured out we were on a track, I didn’t care. The sense of being in charge, of having a bit of freedom, filled me like nothing else ever had.

            My dad had heard of work in Sacramento, so we drove up there and quickly found a house to rent. I loved the house as the bedroom I shared with my sister faced the street. I hated the house because it was not air-conditioned. I also hated being assigned the job of weeding the gardens.  

            It seemed as if spiders and a variety of ugly bugs crawled up my arms every time I snipped or pulled. It made me queasy inside.

            It was also hard to sleep. The house was near an Air Force Base, and so planes flew overhead. Large, loud, planes that I assumed carried bombs.

            Swathes of planes. Hundreds, in a nonstop flight.

            I pictured one of them falling on our house. Maybe dropping its bombs. Maybe bursting into flame.

            I was really glad when we packed up and moved to South San Francisco.

            Our rental house was tiny. My sister and I had to have bunkbeds. If I reached my hands from bed to opposite wall, I could touch both at the same time.

            Good things happened there, however. I could walk to my new high school. I loved the sense of freedom that it gave me. For the first time in my life I was not constantly under the watchful eyes of my siblings or my parents.

            I went out for sports. Never was any good, but it bought me time after school. I joined clubs. I never fit in, but when they met after school, once again, it meant I didn’t have to hurry home. My classes were incredibly easy. So easy, in fact, that I became a straight-A student! Pretty good for a kid who didn’t learn to read until fourth grade and whom my parents and teachers back in Ohio thought was stupid.

            I began dreaming of college, sending away for brochures for any that seemed promising. In my junior year I applied for scholarships. I signed up to take a test of Union symbols, thinking it would be easy. I found out I had no aptitude for memorizing every Union symbol in the US.

            I didn’t get a scholarship, but I was given a gold-leafed dictionary, a prized possession.

            Then the state of California came through, offering me a full-ride to any college in the state.

            I was so proud, so happy. I chose colleges that would allow me to move away from home, to get away from my oppressive and abusive environment.

            I wanted SF State, but my parents refused to let me live on campus. Their reasoning was that SF was a dangerous city.

            They did let me go to USC, only because my brother would be there to “protect” me.

            If only they’d know that that college was in the middle of a ghetto, they would have said no. But by the time I’d been accepted and assigned a dorm, it was too late.

            It’s interesting how first impressions are sometimes true, often not.

            The corn fields were fascinating until there weren’t. The same with the Rockies and then the desert.

            California greeted us with foul air and a good shaking, but later sent me off to college, away from my many years of being abused.

            I quickly fell in love with my new home state. There was so much to see and do, and since most parks were free at that time, we got to see quite a few.

            My impression of my state is one of joy, amazement, and definitely, love. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.

The Belt

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            As a kid, I hated the belt. I didn’t own one, but I dreaded it being slapped against my backside. And considering that I was a sulky, petulant kid, I frequently felt its sting.

            There was a good reason that I didn’t wear belts. When you are obese, the belt it the las thing you’d ever want to put on your body.

            Consider the rolls of fat that encircle the waists of overweight people. A belt would either have to fit between the rolls, creating mounds of flesh above and below, or sit on top of the stomach. Both would emphasize the amount of fat. Not a pretty picture.

            My tops were more like dresses as they had to get wider the further south they went. And dresses were actually modified tents for the same reason. In either case, belts were unnecessary.

            I never owned a pair of shorts or pants that utilized a belt. Not until I was much older, anyway.

            Consider the waistband. If it requires a belt, it most likely has no elastic. The fabric is reinforced and somewhat stiff. A belt slides through loops until it passes through the buckle.

            Now on an obese person, the waistband of pants fits, as before, between the roll of the stomach and the bulge of lower abdomen. It hurts, to say the least.

            Add a belt and buckle. Every time you bend over, the buckle presses into the stomach. The pressure of that fat bends the buckle outward, often at a twenty-five-degree angle or more. Not only is it uncomfortable, it looks ridiculous.

            While my school mates wore uniforms that had a tailored waist, I had to wear the old hand-me-down uniforms that were faded blue, which was embarrassing, but those old ones hung tent-like. Plus they were in my size while the new ones were not.

            Imagine being the fourth grader who is so fat that she has to wear someone else’s faded tent to school? I was marked as being poor and fat, a deadly combination.

            So until I became a teenager and had more control over what I was/was not eating, my only experience with a belt was as a device for punishment.

            As many teens, angst hit me full-force. The sulky child became a depressed, withdrawn teen. I spent hours in my bedroom, whenever my sister was somewhere basking in the glory of my mother’s adulation.

            I lost my appetite for anything my mom cooked, primarily because she relied on potatoes, deep fried foods, beans cooked with bacon or fats, and other such high-calorie combinations. And, emotionally I was a wreck. I hated being at home where I could end up in trouble for doing nothing or something. I seethed with unspent anger, at the parents, my brother and my sister. I had difficulty reining in my desires to lash out, so it just boiled and roiled inside.

            Food didn’t taste good and what I was forced to eat sat heavy in my stomach.

            I began to lose weight, which troubled my mom who believed that fat children had greater odds of surviving, which didn’t make sense as she was, and had always been, thin.

            When I compared myself to her, I felt a sense of betrayal and confusion. There was a double-standard there before I ever knew the term. It was fine for her to have a trim, beautiful body, but not me.

            My sister was allowed to be thin, but not me.

            It was almost as if my mother didn’t want competition from me, and so she kept me ugly on purpose.

            That’s how I felt.

            In time, I could wear clothing with belt-loops, but I still saw myself as fat. It wasn’t until I left home for college that I believed myself thin enough to walk about in short, fitting skirts with belts.

            My mother still made many of my clothes, and so I had tent-style dresses and elasticized waists, which I was force to pack when I left home. I didn’t wear them, however and my mom never knew. She wasn’t on campus to see.

            This was not my first act of rebellion, but it solidified my understanding of my own power to say no.

            No to being spanked with a belt. No to being the misunderstood middle child who’d been repeatedly told she was worthless. No to being the fat kid, the bullied kid. No to being the mindless person that my parents wanted me to be.

            I bought myself a belt as a trophy. And wore it proudly.

            Most people probably think that a belt is a fashion accessory. They most likely have no idea that it is also a weapon. A weapon of torture as well as a weapon that separates the obese from the rest of society.

            The next time you see a fat kid without a belt, don’t tsk-tsk and shake your head.

            Instead think about the reasons that child isn’t wearing one. And if you do that, your perception of that child and many others will instantly change.

            The belt may be a fashion statement in your eyes, but in the child’s it’s a source of fear and humiliation.

Grandma’s Gift

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            When I was a little girl, probably five or six years of age, someone gave me an old, cheap plastic doll. It’s arms and legs moved and I could rotate its head a bit to the right or left. Its hair was painted auburn and its lips a light shade of red. It was nothing fancy, but it was my first doll.

We were quite poor, so I appreciated the plastic doll most likely more than a rich kid would have. In fact, a rich girl would probably have tossed it in the trash.

But not me. I was proud of the doll and so carried it everywhere.

            At the time we lived in Dayton, Ohio, in a housing development that I later understood was projects reserved for the very poor. Our house was quite small. I seem to recall only two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, and a front room. There was a screened-in porch out back that held a wringer washing machine. That thing terrified me, because my mom repeatedly warned me of the dangers of getting my hand stuck in the rollers. Nevertheless, she made me feed the damp clothes into the noisily grinding machine.

            At that time my older brother was the bain of my existence. He teased me, pushed me around, took things from me and ridiculed my pudgy body. Despite my cries of protest, my parents did nothing to stop him.

As a small child, I already understood the power he held over me and the lack of stature I had within the family.

For some reason, my brother hated my doll. He frequently stole it from me, then would dangle it above my head until my cries grew so loud as to bring my mother into the scene. He was told to give it to me, which he did, but even though he repeated that same action daily, he was never told to stop.

            My mother’s parents were extremely poor. They lived in a tiny rented house in Galipolis, Ohio. Because it was such a long drive from our house, we visited them only once a year.

While we had little, they had even less. We had furnace for heat, while they had a huge coal-burning furnace in their front room. We had running water in the bathroom and kitchen, while they had an outhouse (which terrified me) and a pump in the kitchen that poured out the coldest, most refreshing water I’d ever tasted.

            After my grandmother gave me the doll, I brought it with me every time we returned for a visit. And, every time, during the car ride, my brother would take it away from me and hold it up against the window, out of my reach. I’d cry. He’d refuse to give it back, then I’d cry louder.

I never fought back physically as he was bigger and stronger.

            When we arrived at my grandparent’s house one time, after getting hugs from Grandma, I went outside on my own to play with my doll. This was not unusual. Even at home I played by myself. I enjoyed my own company, coloring, drawing, and once we lived somewhere with a swing set, swinging for hours.

My brother often followed me outside. He’d sneak up behind me, then do something to hurt me. It might be a violent push that sent me to the ground, scuffing knees and hands.

This time, he only chased me around my grandparent’s back yard. In a way, it was better than being pushed, but my legs were shorter than his and so I moved much slower. I knew I would lose eventually because I always did.

As soon he trapped me against the side of the house, he stole the doll, which I had expected. However, I didn’t think he’d ever really damage the doll as the risks to him would then become a possibility.

Well, with an evil glint, after throwing my doll on the ground, he raised his right foot and stomped on it. Over and over until the arms, legs and body were shattered pieces of plastic. I howled, long and loud.

My grandma came to investigate. She was normally so quiet that I was always surprised when I’d spot her in a room. When she did speak, it was in a whisper that only the person closest to her could hear.

So when she stormed out of her screened porch and marched up to where I stood wailing, I was shocked. And even more so when Grandma asked what had happened, then listened as I told her the tale.

Then, to my even greater surprise, she chastised my brother and told him to go sit on the porch. She took me by the hand, walked me inside and proceeded to wipe off my face. Gave me a cup of cold water. And held me close, brushing my hair off my reddened face.

When we left that night, of course there was no doll to take home. I cried all the way home.

Months passed. In time I forgot about my doll as I had moved on to other things. I colored obsessively, filling page after page of coloring books that relatives gave me, getting better at staying within the lines.

A full year passed with nothing changing in my life. My brother still teased, pushed, pulled, pinched and ridiculed. My parents still did little to stop the abuse.

When summer came, we returned to my grandparent’s house. As always, Grandma greeted me at the door with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. But then a most magical thing happened. Slowly, ever so slowly, she pulled something from behind her back.

Imagine my surprise to see my doll, fully restored.

To be precise, only the doll’s head was intact. My grandma had created a hand sewn body made of beige cloth. It had sewn lines to indicate fingers and toes. Better yet, it now had clothes where before it was naked!

She’d made underpants, a slip and a dress.

It was beautiful!

I hugged it, tears in my eyes. I whispered thanks, then sat in an old rocker, my doll cradled in my arms.

What happened next surprised me. Grandma turned to my brother and in a firm voice, told him that he had better, never take that doll from me or he’d have to answer to her, and she would not be gentle.

My grandma had given me a precious gift. It was more than doll and clothes.

She made me feel special. But most importantly, loved.

I still have that doll. It is now more than 68 years old. It occupies a place of honor in my house. Whenever I see it, it speaks to me of the first person who loved me as I am.

           A Grain of Sand

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Nothing more than a grain of sand

one among a cast of millions

arose and accepted the burdensome

yoke of humanity, the drudgery of life,

the pains, torments, tears, and fears

until love entered his heart.

Nothing but a tiny grain of sand

now filled with a woman’s love

beaming broader than the sun,

wider than the Milky Way

standing tall, strong, proud, and fearless

with her vision in his mind.

Nothing but a proud grain of sand

knelt by her side, making his

wishes known, the dreams of his soul,

the secrets of his heart,

the projects, plans, ideas, and thoughts

searing his vision.

Nothing but an exultant grain of sand

stood with his love at the altar

pledging faithful love, devotion,

a lifetime of togetherness,

trials, tribulation, joys, tears

traveling the path of marriage.

Nothing but two grains of sand

forged through the world

casting aside the millions to

focus on the other, the others that

they create, the little ones, children,

loins of our loins and loves of our love,

for now and forever. Amen.

Forgiveness

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            Being raised Catholic, I carried a load of guilt around for many years. There were the times I’d yelled back at my parents, fought with my siblings, talked back to my high school Spanish teacher.

            I disliked my family so much that I hated being around them. Even phone calls were painful.

            After years of physical and emotional abuse, I began to fight back, openly defying their orders.

            This was hard to do when you’ve been raised to be obedient to your elders. Granted my brother was only a year and a half older, but in our family, he was in a position of authority over me. What never made sense was why, since my sister was seven years younger, she could boss me around, blame me for her actions and make my life miserable.

            I went to confession regularly and offered up my sins of disobedience. I said my prayers of penance, then went right back to disobeying and arguing.

            Time didn’t lessen my guilt. I fought against my parents’ dislike of everything I had accomplished, their demeaning comments, their constantly comparing me negatively to my siblings.

            Despite graduating from college with honors, earning several teaching certificates and credentials, landing an important position of authority, I was a failure in their eyes.

            Despite having a gently loving husband and three wonderful children, I failed as wife and mother.

            My house wasn’t clean enough, my meals not good enough, my sewing clothes for myself and my kids not good enough.

            I didn’t call often enough, didn’t visit often enough, didn’t allow the kids to visit often enough.

            For many years I carried that guilt, so heavy that I imagined it bending my back in half.

            No matter that I begged God to forgive my sinfulness, to make my family love me, those prayers were never answered.

            Until I started listening to my husband.

            His love taught me that I was lovable. He showed me that I was an intelligent, capable wife and mother. He encouraged me to return to college, year after year, slowly completing coursework that qualified me to teach Special Needs students.

            I learned that I wasn’t responsible for how my family saw me, treated me. That I couldn’t stop their hate, their dismissal of my accomplishments.

            Most importantly, I understood that they would never apologize. And if they couldn’t do that, then I didn’t have to forgive them ever again.

            Forgiveness freed me to become who I am today.

            What a powerful lesson!