Author Archives: Terry Connelly

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About Terry Connelly

Terry Connelly is a retired high school English teacher. She earned her BA and Single Subject Teaching credential from California State University of the East Bay, in Hayward, California. Her short story "The Visitor" was published in the Noyo River Review after winning first place at the Mendocino Coast Writers Conference in 2019. Another short story, "Swept Sway" is in the CWC Literary Review. She taught for 18 years at Newark Memorial High School in Newark, California. She was gifted to work with both College Prep students and those with learning disabilities.

A Dose of my Own Medicine

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I don’t consider myself the mask police, but I am aware of who isn’t wearing one when I’m out hiking.  When such an individual approaches, I make sure mine is on properly, but I don’t correct their behavior. Likewise, I say nothing when I’m at a store or the gym and catch someone wearing theirs incorrectly. It seems that the most common error is not covering the nose.

Perhaps they don’t realize that we send droplets into the air with every exhalation. But, rule are rules, right?

I have reported a few individuals at the gym and have requested that staff walk the gym floor on a regular basis to ensure compliance. My health and that of others is at stake.

Now that we are fully vaccinated, we went on our first trip out of Alameda County over the weekend to visit relatives. They live in an area that resists compliance with any laws, so I was not surprised to encounter folks not wearing masks of any kind. It made me both angry and sad. It’s one thing to not care about your own health: it’s entirely another to not care about what you might inflict on others.

Coming home Tuesday we stopped for lunch at a fast food restaurant that had tables outdoors. My fingers got quite messy. When I was finished I tossed our trash and went inside to clean up. A woman, who appeared to be in line, waved her hand in a circle when she saw me. I assumed she meant she wasn’t in that line, but the one for food.

As I washed my hands, I glanced at myself in the mirror and discovered, to my embarrassment and horror, that I had not put my mask on before entering!

I made a promise to myself that I will no longer look askance at those who are not compliant. After all, they might not be aware that their mask had slipped, or like me, had simply made a mistake!

Strange Disappearance

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It’s not as much fun being invisible as I believed it would be.  In my wildest imaginings, I “saw” myself drifting through life, popping in and out of conversations, knowing everything well before everyone else, and loving every minute.  That’s not how it worked out at all.

Let me backtrack for a bit, to explain how this invisibility thing came about.

I was leafing through Weight Watcher’s Magazine, reading low calorie recipes and making plans for the upcoming week, when I spotted an ad for a new product that would make cellulite disappear.  As a walking example of the ugliness of cellulite, my eyes lit up with hope.  Imagine taking a pill three times a day, and within a relatively short period of time, those horrendous lumps would be gone, and I would look like Farah Fawcett!

I whipped out my checkbook, completed the order form, and drove to the nearest post office box.  As I dropped the envelope into the slot, I crossed my fingers and swore that I would faithfully take the pills.

Weeks passed.  Just as I began to think that I had unwittingly sent my hard-earned money to a scam operation, my package arrived.  It was wrapped in generic gray plastic, with no identifying marks on the outside.  Inside, I felt two bottles, about the size and shape of my cholesterol medications.

I dropped the package on my computer desk and went about my normal routine. I changed out of my work clothes and gathered snacks to hold me over until dinner.

Later that evening I remembered the mystery package. I tore through the dense plastic.  Inside I found not the expected medications from my medical provider, but brightly labeled bottles.  Farah herself, with trim legs and skinny tummy, was pictured as an example!

The directions were simple.  Take one pill, three times a day for the first week.  Drink plenty of water and exercise at least 30 minutes a day, three times a week.  The second week, I was supposed to increase the dosage by a pill and increase exercise by another 30 minutes.  The third week, it was three pills a day, three times a day, combined with 30 minutes of exercise five times a week.  I could do this with my eyes closed.

The first week, I felt somewhat lighter.  The scales at the gym showed that I had lost three pounds.  Awesome!

By the end of the second week, I had lost an additional six pounds!  My clothes fit better and there was a nice glow to my cheeks.

At the conclusion of the third week, another six pounds had disappeared!  That made for a total of 15 pounds. All I was doing was taking pills and exercising a bit more than usual.  At this rate, I would be thin and gorgeous in just a few months!

If three pills worked so well, why not take four?  There was nothing in the literature that indicated any dangers in moving beyond the recommended three-pill regimen, so why not give it a try?  If I began feeling weird or noticed any adverse effects, I could always drop back to three.

Oh, the joys of weight loss!  When you’ve been fat your entire life and have tried every diet known to woman and failed at them all, finding success is a truly magnificent feeling.  So it was that I walked about, imagining myself looking svelte in my rapidly shrinking body.

            I dropped another ten pounds.  My clothes no longer fit and so I got to go shopping, my true love.  Any excuse to run off to a store is a good one, but even more so when it meant buying a wardrobe for this brand-new me.  Boy, did I have fun!

If you can get inside my head, I bet you can figure out what I did next.  If four pills worked with no adverse side effects, why not five?  Yep.  I increased it to five pills, three times a day.  I added additional exercise time, bringing it up to 40 minutes, five times a week, just to be sure.

I had more energy than I’ve had in my entire life and I looked hot.  Sexy, even.  My husband oohed and aahed when he saw me in my new clothes.  Heads turned when I sashayed into the office or made my many trips to the water cooler.  Friends made comments about how wonderful I looked.  My heart flew skyward and my eyes glowed with pride.

Not wanting to push my luck, I kept the dosage at the five pills.  I sent away for a refill, intending to keep it up until I reached the recommended weight for someone as height-challenged as myself.

When I was well into the second supply, something strange happened.  I had gone to the mall and picked out some new clothes.  I got in line with all the other shoppers.  I spoke to the woman in front of me, commenting on the beautiful blouse in her hand.  She didn’t even turn a shoulder.  I shrugged it off, thinking maybe she didn’t speak to total strangers, even nice ones like myself.

When I moved to the front of the line, I sensed an eerie presence, as if someone else had stepped into my body.  It’s hard to describe that feeling.  It was as if I could touch this person, yet not, at the same time.  My skin tingled, as if a slight breeze blew the hairs on my arm, but there was no breeze.

After a customer left the register, I stepped forward.  The “presence” came with me.  The clerk did not look at me, but at something slightly to my right.  She addressed the “presence,” and accepted her goods.  She also took mine, which gave me a really spooky feeling.  The “presence” protested that my clothes were not hers, and with no further ado, they were hidden under the counter.

The clerk rang up the other’s purchase, and then called for the next customer to step forward.

I could not comprehend what had just happened!    I felt violated, as if I wasn’t worth her time or attention.  Swearing that I would never shop at this store again, I stomped out.

Similar experiences occurred at other stores.  Clerks ignored me, time and time again.

It was not until I passed a reflective glass window that I discovered that something was wrong.  Why did I not appear in the glass, while the man next to me was clearly visible?  I stood there for quite a while witnessing over and over again, that I was missing from the picture of shoppers.

I was invisible.  To test my theory, I went into a clothing store, took a blouse off the rack and went into the dressing room, unchallenged by the woman at the check-in counter.  Once I had closed the door of my cubicle, I looked in the mirror.  There was my blouse, floating strangely in the air, but no me.  Not one finger or leg or hair.

Well, this presented a whole new situation.  Think of the things that I could do!  The perverse situations that I could observe and private conversations that I could overhear.  Charged with a new sense of purpose, I flew out of the dressing room, ready to put my theory to a test.  

I saw two women over in the lingerie section, deep in conversation.  Emboldened, I walked right up to them and stood, nearly touching one woman’s back.  Neither of them noticed me, nor did their conversation alter in any way.  I listened to juicy gossip about someone named Tadzi who had gotten his so-called girlfriend pregnant and then dumped her, and about Precia, who drooled every time the boss leaned over her desk and batted his eyes at her. 

Not only did they not see me, they didn’t hear me when I added commentary to the discussion.  That was a bit disturbing.  How could I make my wishes be known if I couldn’t be heard?  Oh, dear.

A bit saddened, I left the mall, found my car, and drove home.  I drove faster than allowed, daring the police to pull me over.  I yearned to see the officer’s face when he looked inside the car and so no one.  Unfortunately, the local police must have been hanging out at the coffee shop, sipping lattes and eating macaroons.

At home, I hurried to my bedroom and stood in front of my mirror.  Nothing, just like at the store.  By now, the novelty had worn off.  It was one thing to imagine invisibility, but another to be so.  What’s the point of shedding pounds and pounds of cellulite, if no one could appreciate the loss?

I was so depressed that I pigged out on chocolate candies, tortilla chips and butter pecan ice cream.  Bring back the pounds!  Put those ugly lumps back in my thighs!  Let me be seen!

My husband came home shortly after I finished the ice cream.  He called my name, like he always did.  When he got no response, I watched in dismay as he walked right past me, without even a glance, and down the hall to change clothes.  He reappeared shortly, dressed in shorts and t-shirt, and went into the kitchen to fix a drink.  He turned on the television, and got comfy in his recliner.

When I did not “arrive” home, he fixed a dinner of leftovers, and ate alone.  He seemed so sad and so much older.  I had never before noticed the bald spot on the top of his head or the bulge of his stomach hanging over the waistband of his shorts.   I had never taken the time to see how much he loved having me home and how terribly lonely he was when I was gone.

All those conferences, all those late night meetings, all those day-long shopping trips suddenly seemed so trivial compared to the relationship with my husband.  When had my priorities changed?  When had “I” come first, and “we” had dropped off the planet?

Embarrassed and humiliated, I threw the remaining pills away. 

If I could become invisible in a few short weeks, how long would it take to become visible?

My nights and days were lonely.  I cried as I watched my husband climb into bed alone and cradle my pillow to his face.  Night after night, he sobbed.  Not silent cries, but huge, bed-shaking sobs.  I wanted so badly to touch him, to hold him tight, but my fingers lacked substance.  All I could do was get as close to him as possible, and drape my misty arm over his shaking body.

There was no point in going to work.  I did try that first day after I discovered my changed state, but no one saw me.  People walked by my “empty” desk, and commented on my unexplained absence.  When my phone rang, the secretary answered before I could pick up the receiver and told my clients that I had not come in.

I left at brunch and did not go back.  I stayed safely inside my house as if I were agoraphobic.  With no job to go to, I cleaned out closets and played computer games.   I put photos in albums and sorted through papers that I had kept for one reason or another. 

I was careful about what I did, however, for fear of frightening my husband.  I left no evidence of my activities where he could find them.  Each day when it neared time for him to come home, I packed everything away as if I had not been there.  Which, in his view, I had not.

He made a lot of phone calls.  He went through our personal phone book and contacted everyone in it.  He reported my absence to the police, who politely told him that they would not look for me until forty-eight hours had passed.  When they did finally come to investigate, they found no evidence of foul play. 

Days went by, with little or no change in my condition.  By now, I was horribly depressed, and spent more and more time simply sitting and chastising myself for never being happy being me.  And eating.  I ate as if I was a starving child placed in front of a never-ending buffet.

After four weeks of this tortuous existence, I awoke one morning with a strange tingling in my left leg.  When I looked down, there was a lump under the covers the shape of a leg and foot.  Yes!  I jumped out of bed, ran to the mirror, and gaped.  There was a leg.  Attached to nothing, but it was there, in the flesh, so to speak.

That day was a day of miracles.  Every hour, I ran down the hall and stood in front of the mirror.  Body parts slowly became visible.  The other leg appeared next, followed by my left hand and arm.  Then the right one, my neck, head, and hair.  It took several hours for my stomach to show up, and another several hours for my chest.

I was no longer Farah Fawcett thin, for the ceaseless, depressed munching had added gobs of pounds.   The cellulite was back in all its glory.  The “love” handles jiggled pleasantly when I moved and the double chins reminded me of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, my favorite.

My imperfect self was gloriously beautiful.  Feeling full of life, full of air, full of joy, I skipped throughout the house.  I went out in the backyard and danced, with arms upraised and tear-filled eyes taking in the blue sky and feather-like clouds.  I sang and sang some more, enjoying the halleluiah tunes that bounced off the trees.  I was back, I was back, praise the Lord, I was back!

Suddenly my joy turned my stomach a flu-like sour.  How would I explain my absence to my husband?  If I concocted a story about a kidnapping and escape, he would expect me to report it to the police and identify the men who had taken me away.  I’m a lousy liar.  Always have been.  When I lie, my cheeks turn red and I fidget and fuss and make stupid sounds that resemble a pig grunting while giving birth to a litter of hundreds of squirming piglets.

Not knowing what else to do, I went to my computer and researched reappearances of missing persons.  The only story that seemed plausible had to do with a blow to the head that caused a concussion and resulting amnesia.  I could do that, for I had experienced two different concussions. I knew the symptoms well:  dizziness, disorientation, numbness, difficulty speaking, and uncontrolled shaking. All I had to do was act a bit ditzier than normal.  Shouldn’t be too hard, right?

Where to wait?  Should I sit at the computer?  He wouldn’t find that abnormal at all.  Should I fix dinner?  No.  He’d see through that right away, for I never cooked a thing.  Fix him a drink?  Wouldn’t do, for he knows how I feel about alcohol.  The computer, then.  I’d play solitaire until he came home.

I planted myself in front of the computer and whenever I heard a vehicle pull into our courtyard, I began a new game.  Right as the cuckoo clock struck five, my husband pulled into the driveway.  I heard his door open and shut, watched out the window as he walked toward the front door.  I smiled as he stopped and smelled one of my favorite roses, inhaling deep as if trying to remember his long-gone wife.

The key entered the lock and the front door opened.  The door closed and like always, he latched it closed.  He’d lectured me more than once about my cavalier attitude about doors.  He feared an invasion and the damage that a burglar might do to his home, his material goods, and especially to his wife.

He dropped his keys on the file cabinet near the door and then stepped around the computer desk.  That’s when he saw me.

Shock clearly registered on his face.  I watched in fascinated horror as my husband slipped through a range of emotional states.  Surprise, disbelief, terror, and even embarrassment, as if I had caught him doing something unthinkable, all passed, one after another.  He settled on elation.

Like a little boy who had lost his mother and then been found, he scuttled over to me and pulled me from my chair.  His long arms wrapped around my chest, encasing me in the tightest embrace that I had felt since our romantic days of young love.  His head fell on my shoulder, and he cried. 

“I thought I had lost you.  I thought you didn’t love me anymore.  You’re back!”

“I will always love you,” I said.

Those words triggered an unexpected reaction.  As if a nest of wasps had stung him, my husband pushed me away and took several steps backward.  “Where have you been?” he shouted.    “You never wrote or called.  I looked everywhere.  I called your friends and not a one knew where you were.”

“I don’t know where I was,” I answered in the best “confused” sounding tone that I could muster.  “I remember driving home.  I recall cleaning out the closet in the guest room.  I don’t know why, though.  I remember bringing in the step stool so as to reach things on the top shelf.  There were some old computer games up there that I never played anymore. 

After that, I have no memory, until today, when I found myself in the backyard where the sun was shining and the sky was blue.  It was if I had been born again.  Like I had been lost and then found, like in the song.  So I came inside and walked around, touching everything.  And then sat here to wait for you.”

I waited anxiously for his reaction.  Would he accept such a cockamamie explanation as fact?  Would he welcome me back without further ado?  Most importantly, could our relationship heal?

The answer is yes, yes, and yes.  He had found the step stool in the bedroom and had put it away.  The computer games were in a box on one of the beds.  He put them there, thinking that I was going to play them.  So, he believed every word of my lie.

That night we reveled in each other’s presence, like newlyweds.  Even though all we did was watch television, eat popcorn and go to bed after the weather report finished, it was the best night of our marriage.  We had each other, with all our imperfections, and that’s all we needed.

So, did I ever go on another diet?  Sure.  What woman doesn’t dream of a better-looking body?  My diets, however, were with sanctioned, medically approved plans.  No more strange pills for me.  I was done with that phase of my life.  If I never lost another pound, I didn’t really care, as long as I had my husband.

And my job?  Well, I did lose it.  When I supposedly failed to return to work, the agency hired a replacement.   That’s what my friend Sally told me.

I did find a new job fairly quickly.  The local school district needed an aide to work with special needs children.  My salary was one third of what I made in my high-powered previous position, but my satisfaction level was off the roof.

These kids were normally the invisible ones on campus.  They looked a little different, acted kind of weird, and couldn’t carry on a real conversation.  High school students don’t like to be seen with odd-looking characters, for at that age, you are whom you are with.

With time, I helped my students make friends.  With time, they lost their invisibility. With time, they became some of the most popular kids.

Being invisible is traumatic.  It hurts the heart more surely than a bullet or a knife, for from those injuries one can heal.  Invisibility only goes away when another person discovers the true person buried under the cloak.

I had been lost, and now I was found, and found I would stay.

One Lucky Lady

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They say that cats have nine lives.  Through some quirk of nature, I must have some “link” to those lives, for I’ve gone through four already.  That’s about as lucky as a person can get, I suppose. 

Sure, I’d love to win the lottery, but that requires buying a ticket.  I could go to Las Vegas, Nevada and throw money at the slot machines, or go to the horse races at Golden Gate Fields and bet on a long shot, but those things seem unnecessarily wasteful.

I don’t play Bingo, Scrabble, or cards, so you’ll never see me entered in a competition.  Pool is not my game either.  The only contests I enter are for authors who love to throw good money away on entrance fees.

 Some things are worth much more than money.  Family, love, satisfaction, shelter, food, friends, and employment rank right in the top ten.  Simply having the good fortune to still be walking on this earth is about the luckiest that anyone could possibly be.

It’s equivalent to finding the golden ticket in the chocolate bar, or watching the long-shot horse cross the finish line well ahead of the others.  Every morning that I arise is my lucky day.  Every evening when I’m able to climb under the covers is another opportunity to count my blessings.

Once you’ve faced Death and emerged victorious, nothing can compare.  Four times I’ve walked away, knowing that Death had called my name and I had had the fortitude to stare him in the face and say, “Heck, no.”

About ten years ago a common cold moved in to my lungs.  It had the nerve to take up residence, and stubbornly refused to leave.  The sniffles turned into a full-blown, fever-induced hallucinogenic excursion into the netherworld.  Weakened by its ravaging forces, I was unable to motivate my combat troops to erect a formidable defense. 

Night after night I coughed my way through the lonely hours.  Food refused to stay down, and fluids ran right through, stopping only long enough to gather random reinforcements along the way.  Awareness took a temporary vacation, leaving me in an imbecilic state.

Eventually the battle reached a critical point.  As I pretended to sleep, each gasp was like playing a “cat and mouse” game. That’s when something bizarre occurred.  I floated.  Yes, I literally floated above my reclining body.

Looking down, I knew that I was dead.  My chest did not rise and fall.  No fluttering of eyelids or twitching of fingers.  A coldness drifted upwards as a pallor overcame what I thought of as simply, “my body.”

My husband slept peacefully next to my corpse, unaware that I was no longer there.  My heart broke, thinking of the devastation that this would cause him, and I cried, “No!” 

I fought to break free from my insubstantial self, screaming silently that my time had not yet come.  I closed my eyes and literally willed myself back into my body, one part at a time.  Fingers.  Toes.  Legs.  Arms.  Chest.  Head.

My eyes opened, and I was back.  Joy flooded my thoughts, and I knew, then, that I was victorious.

Much later someone told me about out-of-body experiences, and that it was possible for someone to defy death.  That was life number one.

Life number two was taken five years ago when a chronic asthma attack landed me in the hospital for eight days.  Every breath was a fight.  My lungs gurgled, and the feeling was much like that of drowning.  The specialists gathered about my bedside throughout the day argued as to what to try next.  Nothing worked. I weakened by the hour.

Six days in, I begged my husband to call our children.  I wanted to hear their voices one last time before I died.  Yes, I said that, for I believed that my end had come. 

One by one the calls came.  I was so weak that all I was capable of doing was whispering, “I love you.”  That night, at peace, I readied myself to die.

When morning came and I was still there, I cried.  Another day of fighting for every breath, of coughing so hard that my ribs were sore, did not appeal to me in the least. 

When the crew of doctors gathered this time, one of them suggested antibiotics.  After the first injection, my fever broke.  Within hours air began to fill my lungs, the coughing subsided, and Optimism walked into my room. 

Two days later I went home, grateful to be alive. 

Within five months I returned to the hospital with another chronic asthma attack.  Because the specialists knew what was happening, they began the antibiotics immediately.  Once again, I cheated Death.

My fourth life disappeared when the car I was riding in slid off a snow-covered Interstate 80, thirty miles west of Salt Lake City.  Normally the road is crowded with huge semis traveling at seventy-five miles an hour.  For some bizarre reason, none were near us as the car swerved in and out of lanes. 

Time stood still as we drifted to the right, heading for a ditch.  The car seemed to float off the road, down the hill, and over the clumps of weeds.  When we stopped, we were right side up, perpendicular to the interstate.  My daughter, the driver, and my granddaughter, riding in the back seat, were unharmed.

Within minutes rescuers arrived.  One was so kind as to drive the car out of the ditch.  Shaken, we returned to the highway, knowing that we would exit at the first safe-looking ramp.

On our journey home, we passed two similar accidents.  Both vehicles had flipped over as they slid off the road.  Both had landed upside down in icy water.  Both had fatalities.

So, while I have never won a grand monetary prize, I have won my life four times.  For me, that is luck enough for any one person.

To be Yours

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God came to me today

In the form of a tiny child

Whose fragile hands

Reached up to mine

Crying

Love me

Care for me

As if I were your own

Mary walked with me today

As a lowly washer woman

Whose wrinkled hands

Caressed my soul

Weeping

Help me

Touch me

Stay with me

As if I were your own

Jesus spoke to me today

Through the eyes of a blind man

Whose stumbling walk

Came near to me

Calling

Guide me

Trust me

Worship me

As if I were your own

Take time to see

To truly see

The Spirit deep inside

Of every man and woman

Walking by your side

For Jesus Christ may

Come to you today

The Story of Spring

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Blessed Sun awakened, stretched,

and flew high into the sky.

Looking down on Mother Earth,

He smiled, spreading His golden

sunshine across Her mountains

with a brilliant golden hue.

Mother Earth smiled, reveling

in the spring-like warmth

that penetrated to the depths

of Her glorious soul.

To show Her gladness, She

ordered a rainbow of tulips

to burst through Her crust,

to open their buds in a

burst of color.

Blessed Sun bowed in thanks,

appreciation for the gift,

then slept behind a blanket

of darkening clouds.

Snow fell, a late-arrival,

covering Mother Earth’s gifts

.

She called to Blessed Sun,

her friend, saying, “Arise!”

And He did, looking once

again at His lover.

All was well in the world.

Balance restored.

Mother Earth returned to work

creating new life,

while Blessed Sun came each

day to keep her company.

The cycle is unbroken.

My Hero

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My hero rode in on fiery “steed,”

perfectly timed in my hour of need.

His welcoming smile offered relief.

This man became my personal chief.

He unsheathed his sword with knightly poise,

bowed deeply to the riotous noise

of my pounding heart and whispered gasp,

then quickly my two hands he did clasp.

“My darling love, to you I do bow

and offer all the law will allow.

If you agree to wed me some day,

on both my knees I will fall today.”

He swept me up and held me so tight,

then embraced throughout the starlit night.

When morn arrived with the rising sun,

I knew he was my awaited one.

For thirty-three years he’s loved me so.

We’re not done yet: there’s still room to grow.

My personal Valentine stands strong,

Together we will always belong.

Love

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Isn’t love marvelous?

Isn’t love grand?

Isn’t love walking

hand in hand?

Holding each other

night time and day.

Listening carefully,

avoiding most fray.

Isn’t love special?

Isn’t love fine?

Isn’t love sharing

quality time?

Graciously giving

with nary a thought.

Remembering days

and gifts to be bought.

Isn’t love wonderful?

Isn’t love great?

Isn’t love stronger than

anger and hate?

Keeping no secrets.

Holding no ire.

Kissing and hugging.

Hearts on fire.

Isn’t love brilliant?

Isn’t love fair?

Isn’t love brighter

and lighter than air?

Come to me, darling.

Arms around me tight.

I’ll kiss your sweet lips

long into the night.

Opening My Eyes

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When you have very little, even the smallest thing can change your life. It often doesn’t matter what it is, it’s the ownership that allows us to see ourselves in a different light.

For most of my growing up years living with my family I felt inferior to my siblings. My brother Bill, who was a little more that a year older, seemed to bask in my mother’s attention. I understood that my father didn’t often see the good in my brother, no matter how hard he tried to gain approval.

My dad was a natural athlete: my brother was not. Bill signed up for Little League. He wasn’t good enough to get on a team. My dad was so angry that he lashed out at league officials, but no matter how obnoxious my dad was, Bill didn’t get placed on a team. My dad found out that he could pick up all the boys (yes, only boys could play back then!) that had been rejected and set up practice times with them.

My dad got busy, spending night after night making calls. When he had called every boy and got enough to make a team, practices began. I was allowed to tag along. Every time a ball went wild, it was my responsibility to retrieve it. Because theses boys had terrible skills, I spent almost the entire practice time, day after day, wading through thigh-high weeds gathering all the stray balls.

 I ended up with a such a severe case of poison ivy that I couldn’t bend my legs without being in pain. It did not deter me.

After weeks of practice, my dad arranged preseason games with organized, uniformed teams. His boys did not lose every game. When they did lose, it was not by the huge margin that the other coaches expected.

My brother was not the best player nor the worst, but he had an unusual style for running the bases. He never slid, but always arrived bent over with his butt facing the crowd. People snickered. My mom and I laughed.  My dad was embarrassed. He tried to teach my brother how “normal” boys ran the bases, but it didn’t change a thing.

What was important was that my dad took a group of players that no one wanted and made them into something valuable. In fact, two of his players made it onto the all-star team at the end of the season.

About the same time doctor shows were popular on television. Every doctor appeared in the typical “doctor” shirt, a white, short-sleeved button-up the shoulder shirt.

On a shopping trip to the nearest five-and-dime, I saw a display of doctor-shirts on a rack just inside the door. To my surprise, they had one in my size. Something I did not expect due to being quite overweight. It was marked down, but still too expensive, so my mom wouldn’t buy it for me. When my mom registered my dismay, she agreed that I could earn the money to buy one.

I set to work pulling weeds in the vegetable garden, picking blackberries along the border between our house and the woods, which gave me an outbreak of poison ivy, and cleaning my brother’s room which meant picking up dirty underwear off the floor.

As the days passed, I kept my fingers crossed that the shirt would still be there.

When I finally had enough saved, on the next trip into town, I was allowed to accompany my mother. With money safely stored in a little pouch tucked in y shorts pocket, I prayed for the entire thirty-minute trip.

I was so anxious that I could hardly breathe as we opened the doors to the store and walked in. The rack was still there. The shirt in my size was still there, now marked down even more. With joy I pulled it off the rack and carried it through the store, cradled against my chest. I refused to put it in the cart no matter how much my mom insisted.

As soon as I got home, I tried on the shirt. It was perfect! It fit just right. It made me look like the television doctors. It was a tad thin. This was before I started wearing bras, so my nipples showed through.

After washing I hung the shirt in my closet and saved it for special occasions. I took it off it food was involved. When school began several weeks later it was the first thing I wore. Picture me getting out of our car and striding across the playground. See my squared shoulders and confident step. Watch me as I approach classmates, expecting glowing comments about my wonderful shirt.

Now erase all that from your mind. The shirt was so out-of-style that everyone laughed. It was an awakening to me. The shirts were on the clearance rack for a reason: no one wanted them. Add to that my humiliation when I was teased about not wearing a bra.

That was the last time I wore the shirt.

I share the two different stories for an important reason: growing up means not just physical growth. Our bodies change, yes, but so must we change our awareness of ourselves in the world.

My brother might not have been a great baseball player, but later in life he discovered a love of swimming. He enjoyed it so much that he put in a backyard pool so he could swim every day. He taught his daughters how to swim and supported them through lessons and team practices. Like Bill, they were all excellent swimmers. At one time the girls were featured on the cover of a magazine as Olympic potentials. None of them did make it on a Olympic team, but they did swim for their respective colleges.

My shirt did not win me the admiration and acceptance of my peers, but it did teach me that theme-related items have a shelf-life. As a parent I never made the mistake of dressing my kids in no-longer-popular cartoon characters or out-of-favor styled clothing. As a mother I couldn’t afford the latest styles for myself but I could sew something similar.

As a child my clothes were usually hand-me-downs that were often stained. My kids never wore stained or torn clothes. My teenage clothes were sometimes too tight or too long or made from the wrong fabrics or designs. While my kids’ clothes might have come from thrift stores, they dressed like everyone else their age.

We learn a lot of things growing up if we keep our eyes and ears open. Chasing baseballs taught me the element of the game, something I still appreciate today. Watching my dad coach taught me what it takes to teach a sport, something I carried with me when I became a soccer coach.

Listening to my teachers exposed me to the good and bad of education. I admired and respected the teachers who saw me as the awkward, insecure child that I was masking the intelligent capable student who could go on to college and excel. They showed me what good teachers do, skills that I took into my own classrooms.

Throughout my adult life I have tried to keep my eyes open. Each time I experienced something for the first time, I lodged it in my mind, sorted by what worked and what didn’t. Those things that worked, I tried to repeat; the ones that didn’t I put away.

Imagine what kind of world we would have if everyone opened their eyes to what’s happening around them. Imagine the difference it would make in people’s lives.

Just Another Dream

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            I wasn’t the kind of kid who played with dolls. At least not in the usual way. Like most girls I had been given a few dolls as gifts, but none of them piqued my interest. I never gave them names, never changed their clothes, never pretended to feed or diaper them.

            Mostly they resided on my pillow, a line-up of meaningless plastic constructions that my parents thought I should have. Several of the dolls were still enclosed in boxes. I had been forbidden from opening them, and since I really didn’t care, I never so much as broke the seal.

            Those dolls were beautiful, too beautiful for a “little girl” as I had been told by my mom. They had glossy pretend hair. I recall that one’s was black, one was blonde and another had long wavy brown hair. I had seen what other girls did to their dolls’ hair, turned it into unruly tangles, and I understood that I was not supposed to ruin my dolls in the same way.

            Since I didn’t care, threats were meaningless.

            Dolls were also pretty boring back then. Their arms and legs might move, maybe even the heads might rotate, but they weren’t cuddly and did nothing that imitated life.

            Christmas was nearing, the year I turned eight. We did have a television then, a small black and white model that carried maybe three stations. One evening an advertisement appeared that called my name. A walking doll! Can you imagine such a thing? A doll that would follow you around. A doll that could be your best friend, something I dearly needed.

            I begged for that doll. When it was time to visit Santa, the only thing I wanted was that doll. When I went to bed, pictures of me playing with the doll, happy and laughing and having the best time of my life filled my thoughts.

            I was young enough to still believe in Santa, but old enough to understand that my family had very little money. No worry: Santa would bring me the doll.

            Our family attended Mass and then ate breakfast before we opened the colorfully packaged gifts under the tree. Because it had snowed heavily, we couldn’t drive the miles into Dayton to attend church, so we gathered around my dad who read the entire Mass. My mind was not on prayer, not on the service, but on the gifts under the tree. Would there be a doll for me? I prayed and prayed for the doll.

            Breakfast was oatmeal. No surprise there. Almost all of our breakfasts were oatmeal. Never cold cereal. That wasn’t allowed until we moved to California. Never bacon and eggs. Sometimes the despised Cream of Wheat.

            We didn’t add anything to the oatmeal. No brown sugar, no raisins, no honey. Nothing to make it interesting or more palatable. I was a picky eater and because I hated oatmeal, it usually took me forever to get down one bowl. But that morning, that Christmas, I gobbled mine down in record time.

            After breakfast we’d gather around the tree. My brother and I would sit on the floor, my parents on chairs. My dad was the only one allowed to touch the gifts, so we had to wait patiently while he picked up one, read its tag, then delivered it to the recipient. Gifts could not be opened until each of us held one in our laps.

            When our dad sat and gave the signal, we carefully removed bows and ribbons, so that they could be reused next year, then ran our thumbs under the tape binding the wrapping paper. Once free. We had to smooth out the paper, fold it along its lines, then stack it neatly beside us.

            If the gift was in a box we again had to open it carefully so as to not bend it or crease it in any way. If the gift was in its own box so that the contents were revealed with the unwrapping, we were forbidden to open the box until after lunch Christmas Day.

            I don’t remember anything I opened except that none of them were the doll. When there was nothing left under the tree, my eyes filled with tears. Santa had disappointed me.

            We helped Mom sort ribbons, bows and paper into neat stacks. When the job was complete, we were set free to play. My brother was older and therefore determined what toys we played with, what games we chose. Most likely we played with his green Army men. He loved lining them up in formations and sending them to attack the meager Army I was given. My men never won. Instead they “died” gruesome deaths of his choosing.

There was something satisfying in watching my men die that day. Their misery was a metaphor for my own. Those plastic men had wishes and dreams that would never come true: my one wish had also not come true. Each death mirrored the death of my dreams. In some perverse way, it was comforting.

            Before we could move on to another activity, the Army had to be cleaned up and put away. Because I was lower on the pecking order, cleanup was always left up to me. My brother had most likely moved on to another of his preferred activities, abandoning me to place the Army in the storage box in which they lived.

            Lunch must have been served. Most likely bologna sandwiches with a slice of pretend American cheese. No chips. No soda. Maybe, if we were lucky, homemade applesauce that Mom had canned in the summer.

            Free to play with the new toys, we were set free. I wish I remembered the things I had received, but I don’t. I was having trouble learning to read and tell time, so there might have been something related to that. Most likely not. We owned no picture books. No books of any kind except for an old bible that we weren’t allowed to read.

            I did have coloring books and crayons, but no plastic dishes with which to set up house. I hadn’t wanted plastic dishes, so I didn’t miss them at all.

            My dad and brother were into trains, so I bet there was track and at least one train car or engine. My dad was trying to turn my brother into the skilled athlete that he was, so there might have been a new glove or baseball. I would have loved my own glove! Girls didn’t play ball back then, so there’s no way a glove would have been under the tree for me.

            We did play board games. Because we were often trapped at home during snowy Ohio days, my brother and I spent hours playing games. I love getting new games. Each presented a new challenge, a new experience. Until my brother dominated my pieces. He won every time.

            By this time it would have been late afternoon, early evening. At some point I probably sank into one of the two chairs in the living room, crossed my arms over my chest and let the tears fall.

            Crying for me was normal. I cried every day, sometimes all day long. I cried when my brother hurt me, beat me at a game, hit me with a ball, stole my share of the Army men. I sobbed when I was punished for being me, for not knowing my colors, my alphabet, money and time. I was a miserable child: not the kind of girl that people want to cherish, to hold, to nurture.

            At some point my dad entered the room carrying a large, colorfully wrapped box. I knew that it wasn’t for me. There was no way I’d get something that large. No way that a gift for me had been overlooked.

            My brother, on the other hand, would have been given a surprise gift. He would have been the one that my dad would set the box in front of, the one who would get to open a gift while I watched.

            Imagine my shock when the gift landed at my feet! When I stood, the box was nearly as tall as I was. Could it be? Was it possible?

            When told to do so, I gingerly removed ribbon and bow. Ran my fingers along the edge of the paper. As I did so the contents were revealed: it was the doll from the televison.

            She was beautiful. Her golden hair fell to her shoulders. It gleamed in the Christmas tree lights. Her plastic arms were pearly and smooth. She was wearing a blue fitted dress that had eyelet trim along the edge of the sleeves and the bottom of the hem. On her feet were black Maryjane shoes like the ones I wore to church.

            My dad opened the box while I waited, holding my breath. This doll would change my life. There was something about her, something so special that I knew, I understood, that I would never be the same weeping girl. I would be as special as this doll. She would become my best friend, my only friend, as she followed me around the house.

            Once the doll was set free, I yearned to see her walk. But I couldn’t. No batteries came in the box. We had no batteries at home. Because the roads were covered in snow, no batteries could be purchased until the snow melted. All I could do was push her about. You see, on the soles of her shoes were rollers. Tiny black rollers. Four on each shoe.

            In a way, that was somewhat satisfying. I’d never had a doll with rollers. Never had a doll whose eyes opened and closed. Hers did just that. I’d never had a doll that was close to my size. There was so much about her that pleased me, that I didn’t mind, much, that I couldn’t watch her walk.

            Because I couldn’t turn the doll on, my mom insisted that she be returned to her box until batteries could be purchased. I was disappointed, but also relieved. With her in the box, her hair would not be mussed, her dress could not be torn, her legs and arms could not be broken. I also couldn’t sleep with her, but her plastic body was so hard, so dense, that there was no comfort in touching her. The box was hidden in my mom’s closet.

            I don’t remember how many days passed, how many days I had to wait to see the doll walk. But one day, after I’d nearly forgotten that the doll was in safekeeping, my dad returned home from work with batteries.

            After dinner the doll was brought out. I watched, eagerly, as my dad inserted the batteries. I stood over the doll and waited, holding my breath, while my dad flipped the switch.

            A grinding sound began. It sounded like metal on metal as the doll’s right foot slowly, almost imperceptibly moved forward a few inches. The left followed at snail’s pace. Then the right. The left. Ever so slowly she moved, the rollers allowing her to go forward to the horrible grinding sound. Then she died.

            Just like that. She moved a few inches, then died. The batteries only lasted for a few minutes. End of story. The doll was repackaged and returned to the closet.

            Sometime later, when I had definitely forgotten the doll, more batteries appeared. By now I had lost interest. This doll, this longed-for treasure, the one thing that would change my life, was just another huge disappointment in a long list of disappointments.

            I watched the doll move because I was expected to. Once again her feet moved minuscule bits to the grinding sound. Once again the batteries died.

            At this point I was given the option of keeping the doll in my room. I could play with her as long as I was careful not to muss her hair or ruin her clothes. The doll’s thrill had ended on Christmas Day when I saw how little she could do.

            Her eyes did not open or close. Her head did not turn and her arms did not move. She could not sit or bend. She was not cuddly, and since standing or lying down were the only things she could do, I no longer wanted her. She was just a cold, hard, rigid body. An image of me. Or at least what I thought people saw when they looked at me.

            My mom put the doll in her box and took her somewhere. I didn’t care. Never asked about her. Never missed her.

            When I got older I realized that the doll represented my status in the family. Like the doll, I was a disappointment. My mom had wanted a girly-girl but I was a tomboy. I hated dresses and stiff shoes. I loved being outdoors, playing on the swing, imagining great adventures as I flew back and forth.

             I never became the girl she dreamt of. And when I went away to college, like the doll, I was out of sight, out of mind. The doll’s disappearance hinted at what was to become of me.

            I thought I had gotten over the doll, but obviously not. I came to accept that the things we yearn for do not always turn out to be what we really want. Desire is just an elusive feeling that is easily subdued, easily conquered.  

            As we grow older we put away childhood toys and games. We outgrow clothes, change our hair styles, pierce our ears. We fill our hearts and minds with other, more immediate joys. We pretend that we’ve pushed aside those things that let us down, but they lie buried, deep, deep inside.