Tag Archives: Essay and Thoughts

Identity Crisis

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            Who was I way back when I was growing up?

            I was baptized Teresa Louise Haack, but everyone called me Terry. My older brother went by Billy and my younger sister by Deborah (no nickname for her). The thing that annoyed me, once I understood that I was Terry, not Teresa, because my mother wanted my name to imitate my brother’s, I became angry. You see, even my nickname wasn’t my own, but rather a copy of someone else’s.

            When I did something wrong, which was often, I’d be summoned first as Terry, then Terry Lou, or if it was really, really bad, by my entire name. Since I could tell the severity of my offense by the name my mother (it was always her!) used, I knew, generally, what punishment to expect. The full three names meant a thrashing was coming when my dad arrived from work. The belt on my backside or a thorough shaking, his hands gripped tightly on my arms, whipping my body back and forth, back and forth.

            No wonder I hated my full name.

            At school, every teacher initially addressed me as Teresa. I was too shy to ask to be called Terry. Back in the fifties you just didn’t do that.

            In first grade there was a girl who called me Terry. She was kind. We played together during recess and lunch. I really liked her, but when I asked my mom to do my hair in braids, many, many braids, my parents, or at least my dad, called the school and demanded that I be kept away from the girl. That wasn’t my first awareness of my parents’ prejudice, but it was the most hurtful.

            There were two girls who lived on our street that I was sometimes allowed to play with. Their parents called me Teresa; the girls did also. I hated it. The girls were mean to me, but it took me a long time to realize it. They played fun games on one of their front lawns, until I’d come over. Whatever they’d been doing switched to wheelbarrow.

In case you don’t know what that is: One girl lies on the ground. She raises herself up on her elbows. The other girls grab the first by her ankles and life. Done correctly, it resembles a wheelbarrow. It also exposes the first girl’s bottom.

When I realized the girls were making fun of me, my face crimsoned and I begged to be let go. They refused. They pushed me around and around the yard until my arms collapsed. I never went back across the street.

            In my mind, Teresa sounds all girly and conjures a picture of someone wearing frilly dresses and Mary Jane shoes. That wasn’t me. I wore a uniform jumper to school until seventh grade. Back then we didn’t wear shorts underneath, so on a windy day, my whatevers could be seen clear across the playground. Granny panties. White or almost white. No slip.

I got teased about that! In fact, one time in fourth grade when I was called to the teacher’s desk for a poor grade (not the first or the last), a boy slid out of his seat and lay down on the floor. I froze. If I stepped around him, he could see up my jumper. But he was in the middle, making himself as large as he could. That meant I’d have to straddle his body, giving him the view.

The teacher, a nun whose name I have forgotten, clicked her wooden thing at me, waved me forward with her hand, and when I tried to explain, said something like “Teresa Lousie Haack, get up here now.”

I had no choice. The boy laughed hilariously but didn’t get in trouble. He proceeded to tell everyone that he’d seen my panties.

Teresa Louise Haack was the school’s pariah. Because of exposing my underwear, no one wanted anything to do with me.

When I transferred to the public middle school, I told my teachers that I wanted to be called Terry. They refused, saying that my legal name was Teresa and that’s what they’d call me and what I’d better put on my papers.

At home I was Terry, the tomboy. I wore t-shirts, shorts and pedal-pushers when they became popular. I skated in our garage, around and around and around. I rode my bike for miles around our house. I played baseball with the boys when my brother needed someone to practice with.

We set up a badminton net in the backyard, as well as croquet and a wiffle ball diamond. My dad found a used swing set for free, which he installed in the backyard. Yes, we had a really huge yard!

Terry was an athlete. Terry could hit a baseball further than her brother. I ran faster than him as well. I was so good at badminton that after we moved to California, Teresa played on the high school team. Yes, back to Teresa.

Terry also played basketball, better than my brother. I could throw and catch a football better than most boys. Unfortunately, girls weren’t allowed on the boys’ teams, so Teresa had to sit on the sidelines, knowing that Terry was better than almost every boy on the field.

Every college application was for Teresa, as was my scholarship and grants. Most of my professors called me Teresa, but my roommates (I had several over the years) all knew me as Terry.

By now girls could wear pants to school. No more stupid dresses or skirts for me! I made my own pants from bright, colorful patterns, none of which would be considered girlie.

Even though I seldom went home, I still heard my full name whenever I disappointed my parents. On phone calls, every week, they berated Teresa for all the ways in which she’d angered them.

At home I was still the shy, reserved, isolated Teresa, but when away at college, I was learning how to be a fun-loving Terry.

My two distinct personalities often clashed. At home sometimes I’d forget to be invisible, while at college I’d fail to ask to be called Terry.

Teresa struggled with academics: Terry did not.

Teresa sometimes got poor grades and had to drop classes: Terry got straight As even though she had to study until early morning.

Teresa joined a sorority. Terry dropped out.

After college graduation, I couldn’t find work near my college, so I had to move back home. I was back to being Teresa/Terry.

Teresa wasn’t allowed to drive the car unless my brother didn’t need it. Terry took her younger sister on scenic drives through the countryside and to movies. Teresa applied to jobs and was rejected over and over. Teresa was over-qualified due to her degree in Russian Languages and Literature. Terry lacked secretarial skills.

Terry wasn’t dignified enough to work in an office filing papers (my only skill!)

Teresa got hired by the federal government. I was a field worker, so Teresa was the one who knocked on doors. After a while, I found that I liked having a formal “work” identity very different from the Terry who bowled in two different leagues.

The work person went by Terry in the office, but only called that by her coworkers. The one who bought a car and rented her first apartment was Teresa.

The person who wrote checks and completed legal forms was Teresa. Terry went on her first backpacking trip (with ancient, heavy equipment that someone else had to carry up the mountain). She also went on a college ski trip, but nearly gave herself frostbite because Terry didn’t buy warm enough boots.

Teresa was the careful, cautious part of my persona: Terry was the risktaker.

Throughout my teaching career, forms were signed by Teresa but my coworkers called me Terry. Teresa led meetings and gave presentations to the faculty of the combined middle school and high school teachers. Terry took her students to the computer lab.

Teresa was the formal person, Terry the enthusiastic one.

Terry was what my husband-to-be called me, but during our wedding ceremony, the priest asked Teresa to recite her vows. That threw me off-balance for a second, but then I smiled, wanting Teresa to be the one getting married.

Even today, at my ripe old age, I carry both monikers. When querying agents for one of my books, I am Teresa. I want them to know that I am female writing about female issues. Yet when I participate in an in-person pitch session, I introduce myself as Terry.

Terry smiles and acts friendly. Terry speaks enthusiastically about her work. But my nametag at conferences always says Teresa. Oh, well.

Over the years I learned to accept my different persons, my different names. My kids know me as Terry, although they still call me Mom (they’re all over forty!)

Church friends only call me Terry. Same with my husband’s family. My brother, however, only addresses me as Teresa, no matter how many times I’ve corrected him (I think it’s a dominance thing, a power thing, for him.)

When I am forced to state my complete name, I have no choice but to say Teresa Louise Connelly. It’s the same one I use to write checks and sign credit card charges. Oh, and tax documents.

I finally got Kaiser to call me Terry. When Teresa Connelly would be summoned to the doctor’s office, my skin would prickle and I’d want to look around for my parents. Terry is a strong, independent woman, something Teresa never became.

Everyone, or almost everyone, has carried multiple versions of themselves over the extent of their lives. But I am willing to bet, that most don’t look over their shoulders, expecting a blow or a slap or a kick or a punch when their childhood name pops up.

I am Terry Connelly. No Terry Lou or Teresa Louise, jut Terry.

And I like it that way.

Something Special

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            We seldom visited my grandparents. My dad’s parents live around the Cincinnati, Ohio area. For several years they lived on a farm, complete with chickens, a mule, horses and a lane penned in by walnut trees. It was a long drive to get there from our home in either Dayton or Beavercreek.

It reminded me of the song, ‘over the river and through the woods’ as that was what we did. Along the way we passed by a horse-meat processing plant in which they made soap or lye, I don’t recall which.

We also drove near huge grass-covered mounds, shaped like miniature spaceships. Later, when I could read, I discovered that these were burial sites, called Mound City, built by the Hopewell people.

We never stopped to investigate, something I regret to this day. I was only fourteen years old when we left Ohio, to never return.

The point is, my grandparents lived so far away that we visited them at most twice a year.

My mother’s parents lived even further away, in Gallipolis, Ohio. At that time it was rural, dotted with farms and ranches. The most famous was the Jimmy Dean ranch. Back then he was known as a singer, cowboy and movie star. With his money, he invested in top caliber hogs which became the infamous Jimmy Dean sausage. His ranch was easy to spot, for a huge likeness of the man himself sat in front of a white picket fence.

My grandparents rented a small one-bedroom bungalow on the crest of a hill overlooking the Ohio River, just south of the Gallipolis Damn. They owned little. Neither could read and write beyond a first-grade level. Neither had a working knowledge of math, but my grandpa knew the value of things and knew what he owed.

Growing up my mother’s family moved frequently, following work. Most of the time Grandpa was an itinerant farmer, renting a small section of land from the owner. He learned to grow many different crops and to tend for just about any animal found on a farm.

My dad’s parents had money and dressed like it. My mom’s wore tattered and patched faded gingham dresses and overalls. Grandma Riske had expensive store-bought shoes. Grandma Williams wore worn-out boots too old for Grandpa to wear.

The Reiske’s house had all kinds of pretty things on display. Doodads on shelves and in bookcases. Some might have been valuable, but I was too young and too naïve to know.

There was nothing on display in the Willaim’s house. Not one picture on the wall, no figurines on top of flat surfaces, no silver in drawers and no lace curtains in windows.

The Rieske’s were good, kind people. They offered me unconditional love, despite never wrapping me in a hug. They must have seen the shy, scared little girl and decided to let her be. I always felt safe with them, even though words of safety had never been uttered.

The William’s were standoffish. I didn’t know that term when I was young. I just felt something off. They said few words to me, never complimented me, never engaged me in conversation. They hadn’t set boundaries, so I had no idea what was okay to touch and where it was okay to go. When with them, I felt uneasy, too afraid to say or do something wrong.

With the Reiske’s I never worried about those things. The last home of theirs I remember had a basement with a refrigerator filled with sodas, shelves with snacks of all kinds, and a swimming pool that I could use without supervision. They trusted me more than my own parents did.\

Grandpa Rieske died first, after we’d moved to California. When he had a stroke, my dad flew back, succumbing to pressure from his half-siblings. Grandpa survived but was never the same mentally. When he passed away, even my dad didn’t fly there. Grandma moved to California for a bit, but was unhappy. She missed friends. She returned to Ohio, where she died a few years later. We didn’t attend her funeral either. We also didn’t inherit anything from the Reiske’s despite there being nicknacks that might have been fun to have.

When Grandma Williams died, we attended her funeral. It was held in a small, whitewashed chapel at the top of a hill. In the distance cows lowed. It was calm and peaceful.

When Grandpa Williams died, my dad said refused to allow us to skip school. My parents went without us.

My mother came home with one small token from their lives: a homemade tool for removing the kernels from an ear of corn. She was angry that her siblings took all her mother’s quilts, even the older ones that were faded and worn. Each of those quilts held memories, for the fabric came from old shirts and dresses, Grandpa’s overalls and bits and pieces of curtains she’d made. Grandma had also taken scraps of fabric, twisted them up, and rolled them into coiled throw rugs.

My mother didn’t get one of those, either.

Many years later, as my mother’s health failed, she asked my siblings and I what things we wanted from her home. Unbeknownst to me, my siblings chose first. I wanted the rocking chair. My mom loaned it to me when our kids were small, It sat in the bedroom, or nursery. I’d rock my babies to sleep as I sang songs to calm them.

I thought she’d let me keep it as it was pretty worn out, but as soon as the last child was no longer an infant, my mother wanted the rocker returned.

It held memories. Times when I sat up all night when my child refused to sleep or was ill. Times when I was too exhausted to get down on the floor to play. Times when my heart ached. When I regretted quitting work to stay home with a fussy child. Times when I missed coworkers who never called.

The one thing I wanted was that rocker. My sister claimed it even though she’d never used it. Never had a child.

I walked around the house, trying to find something, anything that held meaning. I gave up when all those had been claimed.

Shortly after failing to claim a token of my inheritance, my mother placed something in the palm of my hand. It looked like a bottle-cap remover with a bit of leather attached. She told me that her father had designed this tool to remove kernels from an ear of corn.

The leather was stained with his sweat.  The leather had gouges from his fingernails.

The metal was rusted from lack of care.

It was now mine, the one personal artifact I have. It represents love lost, lives missed, places seen and forgotten.

It isn’t worth anything. In fact, when I die and my kids go through my things, they’ll wonder what it is and why I kept it.

I’ve told them many times, but they have forgotten.

All these years later, going on sixty now, I haven’t forgotten.

Apple Memories

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I have always loved apples. I enjoy a variety of fruits, but apples are, by far, my favorite.

We were poor. I barely recall living there, but we rented a house in what would be called ‘the projects.’ It wasn’t much to look at: a square-shaped bungalow with a porch out front.

My mom used a wringer washer to do the laundry, the type with parallel bars through which wet clothes were fed, to remove excess water. It scared me sh###.

I don’t recall being hungry, but I did yearn for things. Candy was such a rarity that it seldom came to mind. I loved apples. They were the treat I begged for when my brother asked for sweets.

Until I was fourteen, my family lived in rural Ohio, in a town called Beavercreek. We had a backyard garden in which we grew tomatoes, green beans, corn, carrots and even blackberries. But we had no fruit trees.

We were never too far from farm country, and so every now and then the family would get in the car. My dad loved to explore, so often he’d get out a paper map and devise a plan to go in search of a river or park or fishing hole.

My favorite outings were to buy fresh eggs, sacks of potatoes, or bushels of peaches and apples. In case you’re wondering, we carried home fruit in actual wooden barrels.

There seemed to be too much for immediate consumption. My mom stored potatoes in the crawl space under the back porch. Peaches were sliced, cooked and canned, saved for future use. My mom always made one peach pie that we’d have after dinner.

Considering that dessert was a rare treat, imagine biting into a piece of freshly made peach pie, topped with vanilla ice cream, if we had any.

The apples my parents bought had a variety of uses. Some were cut into chunks and then cooked with cinnamon. We’d eat those bites with our dinner.

Sometimes she made applesauce that was quite different from the canned stuff we bought at the store. My mom’s had soft chunks of apples, while the store-bought had been cooked to a mush. My mom added cinnamon, a spice the canned variety lacked.

As she was peeling and slicing the apples, my mom would give us each a slice or two. That was a real treat.

Most of the apples my parents bought were used for baking. Mom would slice them up, add sugar and other seasonings, then turn the mixture into pie shells. Sometimes she’d make my favorite, apple dumplings.

Once, when I was living independently, I tried replicating her dumplings. I followed her instructions for the dough. I was pleased when it in the correct consistency and smiled bigger when it was the right thickness after I rolled it into sheets. Using a sharp knife, I then made dough squares.

I cut up the apples, added seasonings, them carefully layered them in the squares. I pulled the edges up and over each mound of apples, then pinched the tops together to seal the dumpling.

The syrup to be poured over the dumplings was the last step of the process. I followed her recipe; it seemed to be the right consistency and smelled like sweetened syrup. Before putting the dumplings in the oven, a generous amount of syrup was poured over the dumplings.

This step was repeated several times as the dumplings cooked.

My finished product smelled like what my mom used to make. As they cooled, I got fidgety, waiting to see if I had successfully recreated her masterpiece.

They were edible, but not nearly as good.

The problem? Like many older cooks, the recipe was in my mom’s head, and when she wrote it down, she must have forgotten a key ingredient or an important step.

After that I tried a version in my cookbook, but it wasn’t right either.

I gave up trying.

No matter. While I fail at pie baking or dumpling making, there’s nothing that matches the taste of a fresh, crisp apple.

As long as my teeth hold up, I plan on eating an apple every single day.

After I Pass On

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            We attended a family gathering over Thanksgiving to honor the life of a member who recently passed. Over thirty people came, all family or adopted family. The overall tenor was calm, relaxed, gentle, peaceful. A few tempers arose but were quickly settled.

            There was food to share, games to play, a slide show to watch and caroling. My grandkids entertained us playing Christmas songs, not all in tune. It made no difference as they were sharing.

             Mass was held during which the chorister invited two of my grandchildren, one playing the viola, the other the trumpet, to accompany him. I got to sing as well as another of my grandchildren.

            The mood was solemn, respectful as we sat out on the deck in 69 degree temperatures! Much warmer than at home.

            At the conclusion of the service, my SIL invited everyone to share a good memory they had of her husband. The comments ranged from teaching kids to be safe on the water, his enthusiasm for nature, and his love of his wife. I shared that his ability to recall and discuss practically everything he read, was amazing.

            When my turn comes, I might like something similar. A gathering of friends and family who come together to share food, games, music and stories. A Mass would be center. And I’d love it if some of my choir members would sing my favorite church hymns.

            I don’t want anything huge or ornate. A simple ceremony would suffice.

I’m not planning on leaving soon. I wouldn’t have undergone surgery if I expected to die right away. But you never know. A bus could ram into my car on the way to the gym. A sudden stroke could fell me in my sleep (I like the idea of dying in my sleep!)

That doesn’t mean that I can’t think about how I’d like the gathering to be. The one I just attended would be a great beginning.

How would you like to be memorialized?

A Halloween Memory

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            The only part of Halloween that I ever liked was the endless pursuit of free candy. From the time my brother and I were in middle school in rural Ohio, we roamed miles from home. We walked on streets whose names I never knew, knocking on the doors of anyone with lights still on. It took us hours, and at times our pillow case sacks were so heavy that we had no option but to go home, empty them out, then head out again.

            I hated wearing costumes. Perhaps because I wore glasses, masks blocked my sight. I detested makeup and most of all, despised trying to come up with something to wear that could become a costume. My fallback was that of a hobo as all I had to do to play the part was put on my well-worn overalls.

            When I was thirteen my middle school decided that for Halloween, all students had to dress in costume. I immediately panicked. It was bad enough to traverse my neighborhood under cover of darkness, but now I would have to parade about campus under the horrific glare of fluorescent lights.

            I stewed over this for days.

I was a painfully shy, the girl who never raised her hand to ask or answer questions. I slithered down in my desk seat, my nose skimming the top of my desk, believing that if I couldn’t see the teacher, she couldn’t see me.

Dressing up at school had the potential to sink me even lower on the social scale, especially if I appeared in an unpopular or outmoded costume.

            When the day arrived, the only thing I could come up with was my mother’s WAC (Women’s Army Corp) uniform from World War II. It fit a bit snug, but I figured I could tolerate anything for the length of the festivities.

            In the morning I squeezed into the uniform, then trudged off to the bus stop. I was used to belittling looks, so the shrugs and smirks had little impact.

However, what seemed like a good idea in the morning, quickly became a terrifying experience at school.

            My teacher, thrilled to see the old uniform, made me stand in front of the class and share my mother’s story. Unfortunately, I knew little about her service.

I did know that she enlisted because her family was poor. She chose the WACs because her older brother was in the Army. Because of the few black-and-white photos she shared, she was stationed in Florida where she learned to work on trucks.

            I figured that when my presentation time was done, I could return to my desk. Not so. My teacher was so excited about the old uniform that she sent me up and down the hall, into every single classroom, upstairs and down.

I was so terrified that I squeaked out only a few words and wouldn’t have even got them out if it weren’t for the prompting of every teacher, in every classroom.

As the day progressed, the uniform got tighter, And the heavy wool brought out as much sweat as a humid summer day. Perspiration pooled under my arms and down my face. It soaked the collar and the waistband of the skirt.

When lunch came, I was allowed to change clothes.

            It was such a horrible experience that I did not go out trick-or-treating that night and for several years after.

Falling in Love

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            Our beloved dog had recently passed. The house felt lonely without four paws running around the dining room. The kids begged for another dog, so when a good friend was in searching for a dog, I rode along.

             We visited many shelters in the local area. She found a rottweiler that interested her. Nothing sparked my interest until we saw a female with three tiny puppies, brown, black and white. She said they were Border Collie mixed with something that gave them curled tails.

            We put in a request for the one brown one. I didn’t really want a male, disliking the way they have to pee on everything, but there was something about this tiny puppy that tore at my heartstrings.

            The pound confirmed that we were first on the list, so most likely we’d get the dog.

            My kids were so excited, that we returned to the pound, day after day, to sit outside the cage. We decided to name him MacTavish.

            Because the puppies had yet to be weaned, we had to wait and wait. We were also told their history. A neighbor had phoned in, complaining about whining coming from the house next door. The officers discovered that the house was empty, but they could see moving shadows inside.

            Police knocked down the door.

            The female (yes, the proper term in bitch, but it sounds offensive to me) was tied to a banister. At her feet were five tiny puppies. The SPCA didn’t know there were puppies as all they saw were moving mounds, collapsed on the floor.

            Yes, they were covered in fleas! So dense that no visible signs of life could be seen.

            One of the pups was dead, the others barely clinging to life since the female was unable to nurse them due to a lack of food and water.

            The Animal Officers fed the mom, gave her water, then relocated them all to the shelter.

            It isn’t recommended to use flea treatment on such young dogs, but there was no other safe way to rid them of the pests.

            Another pup had died before we arrived. Three were walking, but weakly.

            None could be adopted until they were stronger.

            Meanwhile we bought toys and constructed a small fenced-in area in the backyard.

            When we finally brought Mac home, we were excited, but at the same time nervous as neither my husband nor I had ever held such a tiny pup.

            Mac couldn’t walk. His legs gave out, not due to disability, but due to being malnourished. We gave him puppy food, but he couldn’t eat it. Or maybe he refused, but the outcome was the same.

            My friend came to the rescue! She had me buy oatmeal, honey, and other things to construct a watery gruel. She sent me to the dentist to beg for syringes. (They didn’t want to give them to me at first. Once I explained what they were for, they gave me several.)

            Time worked miracles. And prayer. And lots of attention. Mac grew stronger, but not bigger. His body needed to recover before his legs could get longer.

            Mac lived a good, long life. He wasn’t the smartest dog we’d had, but perhaps the most fun. Shouting “squirrel” had him begging to get outside. He’d charge the plum tree, barking all the way. The squirrels would move just out of his reach and chitter at him until Mac gave up.

            My husband built a shed at the far end of the yard. He’d call, “To the shed,” and Mac would bound, like an antelope, to the shed door. He’d wait for my husband to arrive, tail wagging, eyes bright.

            Like many Border Collies, he was quirky. Normally we’d feed our dogs in the kitchen, on a special mat. That wasn’t okay with Mac. Sometimes he’d want to eat by the sliding glass door. Sometimes in front of the stove or the birdcage.

            I’d carry his bowl around the house, setting it down in different places until I found the right one.

            We tried obedience training with him. He got kicked out when he refused to stay until called.

            He didn’t understand how walking on a leash worked until I got a choke chain. I didn’t like using it, but it taught him to stay calm and walk by my side. Eventually I was able to use a soft collar and harness.

            Mac thought he was a tiny dog. Despite growing to over forty pounds, in his mind he was a lapdog. It was hilarious. With Mac in my lap, I couldn’t see the TV.

            We used to let him sleep in the garage, with the side door open. That worked fine during the day when we were at work and at school, but not at night.

            When the moon was full, Mac howled and howled. I’d lock him in the garage. Then he discovered that he could move the fence boards, allowing him to escape. I’d find him sleeping on the front porch in the morning.

            My husband and I nailed boards in place, one after another as Mac found new boards to move. When he had no way to escape, Mac chewed the boards until he’d made holed big enough to pass through.

            I worried about splinters in his mouth. I couldn’t sleep. I’d stay awake, listening for sounds of chewing. In the morning, I couldn’t function, made errors at work, got sleepy teaching my classes.

            We locked him in the garage at night. I kept him safe, allowed me to sleep.

            My husband retired when Mac still had enough energy to bound into the backyard. They became best buddies. Everywhere my husband went, Mac was with him. Until his muzzle turned gray and his joints ached.

            When it hurt so bad that Mac struggled to potty outside, we made the difficult decision to end his life. Neither of us could watch an animal suffer just to please ourselves.

            Saying goodbye was one of the hardest things I’d done. There’d been other dogs, other cats, but none of them bonded with us like Mac had.

            It’s been many year since Mac was alive, but he lives on in our hearts and minds.

Surprise!

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            My best friend wanted to add a dog to her kennel. I rode along, as company, not intending to bring one home. However, as we drove from one rescue shelter to another, the craving inside me grew and grew.

            Not for the big dogs or the ones that barked and growled. Not for the Sherpa who looked dangerous. Not for tiny things that might break if we stepped on it accidentally.

            It was the medium sized dogs that called to me.

            The cocker spaniels and terriers and mixed-somethings that promised to stay relatively small spoke my name. I resisted, over and over.

            Until we entered the shelter in my home town.

            In one cage was a female and three pups; My friend said they were border collies plus something that she couldn’t identify.

            Two of the pups were the traditional black and white that one expects for that breed. It was the brown and white one that stood out. Not because of size, as they were all small. Not because it looked at me with its brown eyes. I couldn’t say why, but I HAD to have that dog.

            There was a waiting list for the black puppies, but none for the one I wished for. However, they were too young to separate from their mama. And, we were told, all suffered from flea infestation.

            The shelter employee shared their sad story. The owners moved, leaving the female tied to a banister inside the house. They left no food or water. It was quite warm. Neighbors heard cries, loud, desperate cries and called.

            Police broke down the door. They found the mom and five puppies. One was already dead. They took the survivors to the pound. They bathed the mom, but the puppies were too young.

            Another died in their care.

            We put in an application for the one we wanted. The kids could hardly wait! We visited the pound almost every day. We sat on the floor outside the bars and talked to the dogs. We got to pet the female. When the puppies were walking, we touched them as well.

            Meanwhile we searched for the right name. When we came upon MacTavish, it felt right. We could call him Mac or Mackie, or when he misbehaved, the whole MacTavish.

            We were so excited when the call came to retrieve our dog.

            Mike had built an enclosure in the backyard out of metal fencing. Shortly after we got home, we took Mackie outside. He took a few steps and fell down. We watched, but he couldn’t seem to be able to walk.

            We fed him puppy food and water, but he refused food.

            The shelter had given us coupons for services, including tow different vets. My mother-in-law used one of them, so I made an appointment. The vet wanted to do a complete blood transfusion. He had treated one of the other puppies, but he couldn’t tell me what was wrong.

            We didn’t have that kind of money. This was a pound-puppy, not a purebred. His treatment would have cost more than taking one of our kids to the pediatrician.

            However, we could leave Mac there for the day and they’d keep an eye on him.

            I don’t remember how many dollars it cost, but since we were going to see the Oakland Athletics play, Mac would be safer there than at home alone.

            We retrieved Mac later that afternoon. He hadn’t eaten anything, but had consumed a little bit of water. No, he still couldn’t walk. They had done little more than nothing.

            My friend knew dogs. She’s been raising and showing dogs for many years. She told me what to buy. Then she arrived. Mixed up a gruel. Using a syringe which I had gotten from our dentist, she forced-fed Mac.

            We fed him that way for days and days. Eventually he was able to walk a few steps before collapsing.

            Around that same time, we went camping. We brought the gruel mixture and syringe. But, we also had summer sausage. Mac’s tiny ears came alert when we sliced into the sausage. We knew it wasn’t proper food for a dog, but we gave him a tiny bite. Then another and another.

            This was the first solid food Mac had eaten on his own!

            We had a small collar and a leash. When we went for a walk, Mac walked. Until we came to a tiny, tiny stream. He refused to cross over. Our oldest son picked up Mackie and carried him the rest of the way.

            That trip solidified that we were doing the right things and mac would live.

            When he grew bigger, Mac began playing catch. His version wasn’t really catch. He got the retrieving part, the bringing it close to the thrower, but not the dropping part. Over and over we tried to teach him, but Mac never learned.

            He developed a love of all sizes and shapes of balls. His favorite, though, were soccer balls. He’d use both front paws to surround the ball, then pick it up in his mouth. With sharp claws and teeth, the ball didn’t stand a chance.

            When he was a freshman in high school, our oldest made it on the JV team. One night when it was time to pick up our son, I decided to take Mac. He loved riding in cars. Oh, my, would he get excited!

            He loved cars so much that sometimes he’d get in the car as we were unloading groceries and wouldn’t get out until he went for a ride.

            I was running late, so I didn’t bring a leash. Mac was pretty obedient, so I wasn’t too concerned.

            Our small car had a hatchback. Our son was still playing when we arrived and it was too warm to stay in the car. I figured I could open the hatch and sit here, my hand gripping Mac’s collar.

            All went well until Mac saw the soccer ball. He got away from me and stormed onto the field, bringing the game to a halt. I ran over (yes, I could run back then), in time to see our son chasing Mac and the ball.

            Thank goodness Mac’s claws didn’t puncture the ball, as high school teams use the expensive models!

            After my son grabbed Mac and returned him to me, I tugged him back to the car, put down the hatch and stayed there until the game ended.

            My son wasn’t angry, but his coach was upset.

            The story of Mackie running onto the soccer field, disrupting a high school game, was one that was retold often.

            Our kids are grown up and out of the house and Mac’s been dead many years, but just thinking about him still makes me smile.

Help from on High

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            The only prayer I knew before first grade was; “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

            Pretty dismal. Imagine being three or four and thinking about dying in bed. I was terrified to close my eyes and drift off, certain that I’d be dead before sunrise. In my mind, God was not a friend and not someone I wanted in my life.

            To enroll my brother in the Catholic elementary in Dayton, Ohio, we had to prove that we attended Mass and gave money to the church. We drove into town, sat through a boring service conducted in Latin, a language I didn’t know, then hurried home to watch football or bowling.

            The next year I enrolled in the same school. Now my days began with prayer, ended with prayer, included instruction in religion, and had prayer time all day long. Lots of praise God and Alleluia. Threats of eternal damnation and black spots on your soul. Displeasing God so badly that he’d turn his back on us.

            At home I had to get on my knees every night and pray next to my brother. I’d learned new prayers: Our Father and Hail Mary. At least now I didn’t go to bed thinking about my death. But I had new things to worry about.

            Did I talk back to my mother? Did I have awful thoughts about my brother or sister? Did I hate my teacher? Classmates? Did I waste food that could feed kids in China?

            God took, terrified me, and shook His finger. He offered nothing positive. No hope. No escape from my dysfunctional family.

            While part of me didn’t believe God cared about me, I prayed to Him anyway. I prayed for relief from the constant torment from my siblings, from the anger directed toward me from both parents, from the overwhelming sense of despair that surrounded me.

            Even as young as eight, I hoped, prayed, that God would lift me out of my living situation and drop me into a happier one. By twelve I was planning on running away. By fourteen, when we moved to California, I studied so as to go to college, another escape. In fact, it was the only way out, other than marriage, something I was opposed to given the poor relationship between my parents.

            Considering years of prayer, with little change, I thought about giving up. Why pray if no one was listening? It seemed like a fruitless activity.

            But when things worsen, when life becomes unbearable, you must do something. I was too young to move out plus I had no means of supporting myself. No relatives lived nearby, so I couldn’t change residences. The one hope; having good enough grades to earn a scholarship.

I prayed constantly. In between classes? A prayer. Eating lunch? Pray. Riding the school bus? Another opportunity to pray.

I refused to give up, to think that God had abandoned me when I hadn’t done anything seriously wrong.

Toward the end my junior year of high school, a letter came addressed to me. I was a recipient of a scholarship from the State of California! It could be applied to any college, whether public or private. I had done my research and knew what colleges were at the top of my list.

San Francisco State University and College of the Redwoods had excellent teacher education programs. SF State was also strong in math, my top subject. My parents wouldn’t let me go to either. They laughed at the idea of me being a teacher. Good, old, shy me. The girl who could sit among others and say nothing.

I prayed.

I applied to the University of Southern California, in the math department. I got accepted! My scholarship would cover the tuition. I borrowed to pay room and board.

It wasn’t at the top of my list, but because my brother has been accepted there, my parents let me go, only after telling him to keep an eye on me.

I thanked God.

While at college, I was walking back to my dorm when I heard this amazing music coming from a one-story white brick building. I stuck my head in, to discover Mass with drums, guitar, tambourine, and folk music that I knew and loved.

That discovery led me back to God. Not the fire and brimstone version in my younger life, but a God who loved me and cared for me. I went on a retreat with the Neumann Center. When I got off the bus somewhere in the mountains, and smelled the pine needles, walked among the debris on the forest floor, touched the bark of a redwood and looked up, up, up so high that it hurt my neck, I knew there was a god.

That experience changed me. Things still went wrong when I had to go home. After all, my parents were the same, my siblings were the same, so why would I expect something new?

I’d like to think I grew a spine, thanks to Divine Intervention. God infused my soul with grit. He empowered me to take risks, to stand up for myself. To create goals that I wanted to accomplish and strive toward them.

That was fifty-four years ago. God is still in my life. I believe He watches over me, helps me make decisions and guides me in many, many ways.

Sometimes we need a little help.

Walking in the Snow

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            I was born in Dayton, Ohio. Our first residence was a tiny house that was once owned by Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. Looking back at old photos, I now realize we lived in the “projects.” Every house looked the same. They marched down the street, like soldiers.

            We did have running water and electricity, but the only washing machine was an old-fashioned wringer type. I had to catch the clothes as they emerged, with a caution that I’d lose my hands if I wasn’t careful.

            I was an imaginative child. Every night, I dreamt of a hand being smashed between those rollers.

            Our next house was in a nicer neighborhood. It was two-story, with the upstairs unfinished. At some point my mom let me move upstairs, probably to get away from my younger sister.

            My brother and I often played outside in the snow. We weren’t allowed out of our yard, so our activities were reduced to building snowmen and throwing snowballs.

            Just before my fourth-grade year of school, we moved to Beavercreek, Ohio. It was a large subdivision bordering a forest owned by the Air Force. Nothing could be built there as it was part of the runway.

            The upper part of the subdivision was fairly flat. As the streets headed south and east, hills came into play. Our house sat on one of those hills. The house to our north sat a tad higher than ours, while the one on the south was a bit lower.

            No fences on any of our properties.

            Ohio can be incredibly cold and snowy. One winter it snowed so much that it came up to my ten-year-old knees. Often after a snow, it warms slightly, then chills at night, turning everything to ice.

            My brother got the idea to build an igloo. We thought we knew how to build one as we’d read many stories about indigenous peoples. I wasn’t allowed to use the saw, so he did all the cutting. I was the porter and the builder. He cut a block of ice; I carried it to the site and layered one block on top of another.

            When the wall was too high, he had to finish off the igloo.

            Somehow, we succeeded! There was a hole as a door. The walls curved inward, creating a dome at the top.

            Crawling in was fun, except for when the ice melted. Then our mittens and knees of our pants got soaked. Once inside, though, it was surprisingly warm. We’d pack lunches, crawl through, and no matter the temperature outside, eat in comfort.

            I’d just learned how to read thanks to a children’s librarian who showed me a collection of easy-to-read nonfiction books on Indigenous people. My mom insisted her great-great-great grandmother was “Native.” She claimed her tan skin was evidence, as well as her love of bread and gardening.

            I wanted to know more about that relative, and so read every book the library had. When it wasn’t too cold, I’d take a book into the igloo and spend precious time reading. Alone. Out of the maelstrom of my life.

            The following winter very little snow fell, but thanks to freezing nighttime temperatures, there was plenty of ice.

            My brother and I would pull our sled uphill into the neighbor’s yard. With a good running start, and a timely jump, we’d fly down that hill, sail across our yard, downhill into the next, ending midway into that neighbor’s yard.

            It was great fun. We also never got hurt.

            On our last winter in Beavercreek before moving to California, once again, little snow fell. It was cold, though, so cold that huge icicles hung from our gutters and every powerline. The combined weight of icicles pulled the powerlines down, down, down. We lost electricity several times, the popping and snapping terrifying me. It was not until crews came out and removed the ice that our electricity was returned.

            The wind was fierce. It howled like a banshee, a truly scary sound. We’d huddle inside, not daring to go out in that storm. When morning came, we went outside to discover roof-high piles of snow on the north side of our house.

            Huge icicles hung everywhere. When the sun lit them up, the sparkling light amazed me.

            We broke off the tips from some, licking them as if they were popsicles. They were flavorless, but in our minds, they were as good as the best thing we’d ever had.

            Those were good memories. While I think fondly back on those times, I am grateful to live in the San Francisco Bay Area where it never snows.

Ebb and Flow of Life

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            Just as the sun rises and sets, things in our lives ebb and flow as well.

            When I was young, I had become painfully aware of my mom’s constantly changing emotional state. She might get up happy, but an hour later be yelling and threatening physical punishment. Without provocation on my part.

            I never knew what would set her off. It could be a blouse I’d put on after school or shorts that were too short. I might not be allowed the blouse on a Monday, but it was fine Friday. If I mentioned I needed new shorts, my mom might agree and plan a shopping trip. Or she might chastise me for being indecent.

            When I went away to college and got out from under my mother’s irrational behaviors. For a time. When I returned in the summer, she resumed her on again, off again ranting. I tried to stay away from home. I had daytime jobs that kept me away for much of the day, but at night, I was under here watchful eye.

            It was a huge relief when, after I’d graduated, I was hired by the federal government, making enough money to first buy my own car, then rent a studio apartment. The relief of being able to go wherever and whenever I wanted was immeasurable. Sitting around my apartment listening to MY music filled my soul. When I bought a small television, I could now watch anything that I desired.

            Being wife takes mastery of that ebb and flow. Excitement when we went camping, boring when I had to fix dinner and clean up after. Laundry. Ironing. Driving kids to doctors’ appointments was boring, but coaching the soccer teams was exciting. Keeping score during little league baseball games, exciting. Folding laundry. Boring.

            As an older adult nothing has changed. Book club meetings? Exciting, unless it’s a book I didn’t like. Writer’s club? Exciting when we do our monthly write-ins and when we meet for a meal. The monthly membership meetings are usually boring as the same individuals say the same things every time.

            My writing critique group? Exciting. I learn so much from my friends as they help me improve my writing.

            Writing prompts? Boring. Writing personal essays like this one? In-between.

            After my first bout with COVID I developed long Covid. I had no energy to do anything. Brain Fog stole my ability to process words, making it impossible to write and to read novels.

            I forced myself to maintain my routines, going to the gym when I was too weak to stretch rubber bands. I stopped using the elliptical because it required too much effort.

            I have a fantastic doctor. She listened to my concerns, believed that I was indeed suffering, then put me on the one medication I have since learned offers some relief.

            Last week I was able to focus on my writing for several hours each day. This was exciting! I accomplished so much and felt quite happy with myself.

            I increased activity at the gym, returning to the elliptical. I use more weight machines and have joined a kickbox aerobic class. And I swim one day a week.

            And then the ebb hit. After being so productive for almost a week, my body collapsed. I couldn’t do anything except sit on the couch. Reading was, once again, impossible.

            I can hardly wait for the flow to return!

            Today it dawned on me that all of life is one big ebb and flow. I just have to be patient and wait for this to pass.