Tag Archives: Essay

A Fool

Posted on by
Reply

            My parents wouldn’t let me attend the college of my choice. I’d applied to and been accepted at Ohio State University. My grandma had agreed to let me live with her, in exchange for light duties at her house. It would be a short bus ride, doable even in the winter.

            My parents, being what we now call “helicopter” parents, didn’t want me leaving the San Francisco Bay Area where we now live.

            That left San Francisco State, a good choice for a would-be teacher. They also disapproved of that, as they refused to allow me to live on campus or commute into the city.

            My brother and I both received State scholarships that would pay 100% of our tuition, to any college in the state. So I could have gone to SF State at no cost, but that didn’t matter.

            My brother applied for USC, down in Los Angeles. I was told I could apply there as well, and if he got in, then I could go.

            That’s how I ended up at USC, a rich-kids’ school. I was completely out of my league. My first roommate was so rich that she only wore clothing items once. She’d pile them up, then on the weekend her mother would appear with a rack, yes, an actual rack, of items still in plastic bags.

            My clothes were mostly made by my mother, although I’d learned how to sew and had made bell-bottoms and one-yard skirts, both in style with what were then called hippies.

            Academically I was fine. As a math major, as long as I stayed in my department, I aced my classes. I found Russian easy, but not any of the mandatory sciences, social studies and English courses.

            Socially, I was a misfit. A painfully shy teen with large black-framed glasses just doesn’t seem to interesting to vibrant, do-everything classmates.

            Although my brother was also socially awkward, he fit in with the engineering students who were just like him. He even got into a fraternity, composed of others like him.

            I found them endearing.

            The guys accepted me as a little sister. Every Friday night I gathered around a tiny TV and watched Star Trek with them. We drank, ate and talked about the plausibility of such things happening. It was great fun.

            One of the “brothers” took an interest in me. George was a sweet guy. He took me out to eat, to movies, and to many of the fraternity’s parties. I felt a bond with him that no teen had ever given me before.

            After a night of heavy petting, I told George that perhaps we should hold off on going any further until we were married.

            He hadn’t proposed, mind you. I just assumed he would and I was prepared to accept.

            He broke my heart that night. George was non-practicing Jewish while I was a devout Catholic. In my mind, it wouldn’t matter and my faith would be our family’s faith. George didn’t agree.

            Our relationship ended amicably.

            My brother knew I was good at languages. One of his brothers needed help with Spanish and my brother offered my services without consulting me first.

The guy was a creep. There was something about “Jim” that made me extremely uncomfortable. He’d never touched me or said much of anything to me, but I didn’t like being in the same room with him.

I agreed to tutor him.

The first time we met, I assumed we’d work in the dining room. Nope. He insisted in studying in his room, which he shared with another guy, claiming that he wanted privacy.

Nothing happened that night except for him scooting closer and closer to me as we sat on the edge of the bed.

I didn’t want to go back, but my brother insisted.

Reluctantly I agreed on a second meeting, on the condition that we’d be in the dining room.

Jim refused, taking my hand and dragging me into the bedroom. I should have left right then, but that would have caused a scene.

Throughout our session, more than once, Jim leaned so close to me that his warm breath tickled my neck. I’d moved away, but then he’d sidle over. When he grew tired of Spanish, he pulled me down on his bed.

Thankfully nothing happened. That night.

I refused to return.

What I didn’t know was that now I had a reputation of “putting out”.

I learned this from another fraternity brother, Paul. He was socially awkward like me. He was overweight like me. He was extremely smart, taking challenging classes, like me.

Paul took me to the opera and theater, my first time to ever experience a performance on a big stage.

We’d spend hours talking, sometimes until the early morning. At no time did Paul kiss me or attempt to kiss me.

I liked him, but more of as a friend. I assumed it was the same for him. Paul was the one who told me about the rumors. He said he enjoyed being with me despite what was being said.

After that I stayed away from the fraternity.

One summer I applied for an on-campus job that paid pretty well. I’d be able to stay in the Soroptimist House where I’d been living.

One afternoon I was outside on the balcony sunbathing, when a familiar voice called me. I looked over the railing, and there was Jim. He informed me that my brother had asked him to keep an eye out for me, to make sure I was safe.

I told Jim that I was fine, turned away, gathered my stuff and went inside.

Jim returned the next day and the next. I insisted I didn’t want or need his help. I told him to leave and not come back.

After that I didn’t see Jim for a long time.

One afternoon as I walked back from the Law Library,  a building that I found peaceful and still, I was smiling and enjoying the weather.

A red convertible pulled up next to me. It belonged to Jim, who was now married. I continued walking and he continued following.

He insisted he and his wife wanted to share their wedding photos. That seemed fairly safe since she would be there, so I got in the car. Big mistake.

As soon as we were in the apartment, Jim locked and bolted the door.

The sofa-bed was open with clean sheets on it, as if he’d been expecting company.

I knew something was wrong and that I should leave, but the door was locked.

As an abused child, I knew about being trapped and that there was no way out except to just go along with the scenario.

Jim sat on the bed and patted the spot next to him. The album was on the bed. He showed a few pictures, and then he made his move.

At first it was just kissing, but then his hands went under my t shirt and then into my shorts. He pushed me backwards and fell on top of me.

I knew nothing about sex, had never seen a penis, and had little about rape, yet instinctively knew that something awful was about to happen.

Jim undressed me, then removed his shirt. He wore the most gruesome smile as he pulled down his pants. He bragged about his size and how good it would make me feel.

His fingers entered me.

Jim shot up, a look of shock on his face.

He said he didn’t know I was a virgin because of my reputation.

Things happened very quickly after that.

He got dressed, told me to get dressed.

While I was quickly putting my clothes on, he stripped the bed and then folded it back up. He then unlocked and unbolted the door and told me to leave.

His parting shot, however, was that if I ever told anyone, he would deny having stolen my virginity.

I ran to the next building and ducked into the lavatory. I slid to the floor and huddled there until someone wanted in.

For quite a while I wondered if that constituted rape. If I had seduced him, as he claimed. I understood that he had taken something precious away from me, but that if I told anyone, no one would believe me due to the reputation I had at the fraternity.

For my remainder years at USC, I kept a lookout for Jim.

I sometimes saw that red convertible, then would run down a closed-off section of campus.

One time, when back at home, my family took a trip to Napa County to visit wineries.

On the way there, my brother announced he had invited Jim and wife.

I panicked. My chest tightened and my eyes pooled with tears.

I announced that I would stay in the car. My dad, wisely said, it was too hot. True, but it meant that I had to see Jim.

Finally I told the truth, that he had raped me.

I got the response that many women, even today, get: that I must have done something to deserve it.

My mother said I was lying as no friend of my brother’s would do that.

So, as a supposed liar, I had to walk into the winery with Jim.

He gave me what I now know was a leer, a look that acknowledged what he had done and that reaffirmed that I could tell no one.

Back then I felt like a fool.

Now I know I was abused, this time not by my parents, but by Jim.

The Family Pet

Posted on by
Reply

            When you never go anywhere and you’re dirt poor and there’s no television, the idea of owning a pet doesn’t enter your mind.

            Twice a year we’d visit relatives. No one on my mother’s side had a pet. My dad’s stepfather owned a farm. He had a mule that brayed quite loudly, even from across the pasture. There were a ton of chickens, but they stayed in the barn. I was too young to question whether they were for eating or for egg-laying.

            One of my dad’s stepsisters had a horse. To me, at age five or six, the horse seemed gargantuan. My aunt did offer to ride with me, but my mother refused.

            What I remember most about that horse was that it loved to roll in the mud! One time when we were visiting, my aunt walked her horse out where we were. One half was its normal dark brown. The other side was caked in mud! I thought that was the funniest thing I’d even seen!

            Before my grandparents bought the farm, they’d lived in Dayton. I don’t remember much about the house except that you entered through a screened-in porch.

            My uncle was in the navy. While he was overseas, he’d bought a beautifully colored parrot.

            When we arrived, the bird was in a huge cage, swinging from a beam in the porch. I was amazed, not just at the colors, but at the noises it made. I’d never heard a bird so loud and so screechy.

            And then it began swearing! I knew most of the words as both my parents threw swear words around like others threw baseballs. Apparently, however, the unfamiliar words were not for me to hear, so I was quickly ushered inside the house. The door was slammed shut shortly after I was inside.

            None of those animals inspired me to want a pet.

            That changed when the local five and dime sold turtles. This was long before anyone knew they carried diseases or that they shouldn’t have been in the country.

            But, my parents let me get one. And a cute little plastic bowl, complete with a ramp so it could get out of the water.

            I was thrilled. My very own pet! It didn’t bother me that my brother had one as well and that they shared that little bowl.

            I fed it diligently. I kept it’s bowl clean of poop. Sometimes I’d let it walk on the table. I never grew tired of watching and caring for it.

            Until one afternoon, when I returned from school, both turtles were gone.

            Two people had been in the house: my mother and my younger sister. I never suspected my mother for she had approved of pet ownership.

My sister, however, was my prime suspect because we never got along. I was jealous of her freedoms that, despite being seven years older, I didn’t have. I’m not sure why she’d be jealous of me, for she had the good looks, the thin body, the nicer clothes. But she must have harbored enough venom to free my turtle.

I looked all over the front room for it. I checked in the sofa’s cushions, under tables, and finally got down on my stomach to search under the sofa.

The turtle was there, but dead. It looked more like a desiccated starfish than anything that had once been alive.

I was devastated. Sort of. The truth was that I’d grown tired of a pet that was incapable of showing love.

For the longest time, no animals lived in our house.

My mother was terrified of cats, declaring that they sucked the air out of babies’ mouths. At the time, I believed her, but much later, when I did some research, I discovered that there was no way that a cat could seal off the air.

We had frequent thunderstorms and tornado warnings. When we had advance warning, we’d gather in the crawlspace. It smelled like damp dirt and had cobwebs hanging from the rafters. It was dark, but because my dad had strung one cord down through the floor, we could listen to the radio.

We’d hunker down there until the broadcaster said it was safe to come out.

After one such storm, when my brother and I finally got approval from my mom to go outside, we decided to wash down our bikes. They’d been out in that storm, and were now covered with dirt and leaves.

I had just begun cleaning my bike when I heard an unfamiliar chirping. It was coming from the large bushes that grew along the side of the house.

I decided to find the bird.

I pushed aside a branch here, a branch there until a small green bird was revealed. I’d never seen a green bird before, so I didn’t know if it was wild or someone’s pet.

I got my brother, who didn’t believe me until he saw it for himself. He told me to stand guard, then went inside to tell our mom.

She never appeared, but handed my brother a shoebox.

It was surprisingly easy to capture the bird and put it in the box.

Later on I learned that it was a parakeet.

Mom let us keep it. It lived in the box for a couple of days while she made call after call. Eventually she found a relative who’s bird had died and was no longer interested in having any more.

When the weekend arrived, we drove well over an hour to their house. They did, indeed, have a cage, but demanded that we stay for a while and visit.

They had a daughter my age. For some reason, my mom let me go upstairs to the girl’s room. This was the first, and then the last, time that I wasn’t confined to a sofa or chair.

I was amazed at her room! She had bunkbeds, something I’d never heard of, so that a friend could sleep over. She had tons of dolls and all kinds of toys and games. We played with everything. It was the most fun I had ever had!

When we got home, the bird was put inside. In time, we got toys, a type of paper for the perches, and different kinds of seed.

The bird was friendly, could say a few words, and was easily trained to do a few things. My mom named it Petey, even though we had no clue at to its gender.

Petey moved with us to a bigger house closer to downtown Dayton.

All was well until Christmas. My brother got an erector set, which was great fun. We both enjoyed building every design that was in the pamphlet.

There was a motor that made things move. My favorite was the elevator that could climb high into the tower. My brother liked the Ferris wheel, however.

That, too was fun. We’d put small things in the little seats and watch them go around and around.

Meanwhile Petey had demonstrated how very intelligent she was, by learning how to open her cage door! She’d let herself out, fly around the kitchen, then return to the top of her cage, where she’d stay until night. Petey would put herself to bed, with a little help from someone who’d shut her door.

My brother and father decided it would be great fun to put Petey in the Ferris wheel.

She’d sit there as her chair went around and around. Petey could have flown off, but she stayed put, seeming to enjoy the ride.

Until my brother got the idea to speed it up! Petey stayed put at first, but when the wheel was spinning quite fast, Petey got spooked and flew into the kitchen, where she settled on top of the cabinets.

From then on, Petey never sat on a finger, never talked, never allowed any person to get too close.

I was furious.

My dad loved tropical fish. When we moved to Beavercreek, Ohio, he set up one tank after another. I loved watching them, but it wasn’t until we moved to California that I got my first tank.

I filled it with goldfish because they were cheap, plus I loved their pretty color.

I added more and more tanks, until I had about six. I studied different types of fish, what they ate and what types would live in harmony. By the time I moved into my first apartment, I had close to ten tanks!

I loved the burble of the filtration system and found that watching the fish swim about calmed me down. I needed calming, for my parents were still attempting to control my life.

It wasn’t too long before I bought a pair of parakeets. Their pretty chirping blended nicely with the bubbling tanks.

My “pets” brought great joy to my life.

The last family pet we had was a beagle name Lady Coco. My mom hadn’t wanted a dog, so she was furious when my dad brought it home. He intended it to be a hunting dog, so he built a doghouse which he placed at the end of our yard.

The puppy was scared and lonely, so she cried and howled until someone rescued her. My mom couldn’t stand the plaintive sounds, so she brought the dog inside, ruining her for hunting.

I loved Lady Coco. She cuddled with me, let me pet her, slept on my bed and let me walk her every day when I got home from school. When we moved to California, she rod in the family car.

By then I was well into my teen years and filled with a great deal of  anger and angst. Lady Coco let me cry into her fur. She was my sounding board, for she never judged me, no matter what I told her.

I was devastated when she died.

It wasn’t until after I married that another dog entered my life. Over the next fifteen or so years, our family adopted a variety of dogs, none of them purebred, all of them strays. Some were better behaved then others, but we loved them all and mourned their passing.

When our son was about five, he fell in love with a stray cat at church. Just like with the dogs, we were never without a cat until the past year.

I’d also brought parakeets into our marriage and four tanks of fish.

As the fish died, I didn’t replace them. Money was tight, and tropical fish had gotten more and more expensive. Plus when I returned to work, there was no time to maintain the tanks properly.

Same with the birds.

It’s funny how pets enrich your lives. They give you a reason for being. They fill your house with love and loving sounds. Some are capable of loving back, while others are simply company.

My life had been filled with a variety of pets. They were there when I needed comforting. Now, since my life is one of love and support, I no longer need the calming a pet provides or the confidant that listens to my deepest, most painful thoughts.

I can love them, care for them and simply enjoy them.

Except for when my cat jumps on my puzzle table and pushes a nearly complete puzzle onto the floor!

Vacation Memories

Posted on by
Reply

            Before the software existed that allow us to import photos and add written descriptions, cataloguing vacation photos was often inconsistently done. Sometimes pictures would be sealed under a thin clear film with no words to show where there were taken or even who was in them.

            After too many page turnings, the adhesive would fail and the photos would slip out.

            The glue would yellow, leaching into the pictures, fading out faces and places alike.

            Even so, I’d hang on to the albums, for they were what connected me to that past.

            After a while, however, I’d quit looking at the albums. Work and parenting demands took center court, chewing up time that I used to spend reminiscing.

            When our kids grew up, we handed over their albums, a passing of memories, so to speak. None of them seemed overjoyed at the prospect of storing those aged tomes. I have a feeling that they all ended up in the garbage. But that’s okay.

            These days I import photos into online albums, clustering them by place and theme. I research descriptions of where I’d been, so as to ensure that my information is accurate.

            When finished, all I have to do is click a button, pay over money, and then within a few weeks a glossy keepsake arrives in the mail.

            We do pull out the first albums as they remind us of the trips we’ve been on, the places we’ve visited and the things we saw.

            Initially I only took photos of “things,” never us. But then I read somewhere that our kids and grandkids need to see us as we were then, not necessarily as we are now.

            This is especially true as my husband and I quickly approach eighty.

            The first commercially prepared album was done in our sixties. We looked very different then. Both of us carried quite a bit more weight. Our hair still had some original color to it and my husband’s covered a tad more of his scalp.

            Our clothes were looser, to cover our bellies, sort of.

            We had to ask someone to take our picture if we wanted one with the two of us. Otherwise, my husband would be in two or three, me in one. I liked taking his pictures and hated the way I looked in mine.

            As time passed, we show up together in more and more albums. We got brave enough to ask for help and got less embarrassed about how we looked.

            The photos were seldom good. They might be off-kilter or out-of-focus. They might have been in shadow or in light so bright that the sun glinted in my glasses. There might be deep shadows obliterating half our faces. The background that we’d chosen might not be visible.

            So many things can go wrong!

            But, now when I create albums, we’re there, standing next to penguins in the Falkland Islands, pretending to ride a camel in Morocco, leaning against the railing of the ship at a particularly lovely port.

            I am glad that we decided to take more pictures of us. I want our family to see us, at this age, going places and doing things. Enjoying life, to the best of our ability. Eating fine meals, getting dressed for dinner, wearing sun hats to protect our faces.

            These are the important memories, not just the ones of ancient Mesa cliff dwellings or unusual rock formations or penguins dashing into the water.

            Perhaps no one in our family will want the albums, but for now, they are a living legend of who we are, where we’ve been and what we looked like at the time of that voyage. They’ll look at those pictures and remember that we walked among penguins, saw a snake charmer in Fez, and watched glaciers cave in Alaska.

Update on the Clerk

Posted on by
Reply

            Van tells me that he is doing better in his classes, thanks to my suggestions!

            Last Sunday he had two assignments left to do, one in math and one in Macroeconomics.  When he got home from work, he planned on completing the math quiz first, as it would take about twenty minutes. He then said he’d take a short break before answering one discussion question on what we used to call Blackboard.

            Today is the first time I’ve been able to talk to him for a while.

            Van is pleased to say that he’s now passing both classes!

            He now schedules study time, interspersed with no more than five-minute breaks.

            He only has two assignments to complete today. Neither are late! He’s quite proud of the fact that he’s now turning in assignments on a timely basis.

            He also shared that his grades, in both classes, have greatly improved.

            I didn’t expect verbal thanks as that’s something that many high-functioning autistic individuals struggle with, but his pride was sufficient!

The New Clerk

Posted on by
1

            A new young man is now working the desk at my gym. There was something about the stiffness of his posture, the rhythm of his speech, even his word choices that made me smile.

            After working with special needs students for twenty-eight years, I’m pretty adept at identifying young people who might have been in my class.

            This morning when I arrived, there was a notice on the desk that the pool will be closed on the 6th. Not knowing when that is, I asked the young man. He had to walk around the desk to read the sign. He pulled out his phone and then told me today’s date.

            He smiled a somewhat stiff smile that showed no sparkle in his eyes.

            Because no one was needing help right then, I began asking him questions. First, was he a student. Using a rather stilted word pattern, I realized that my first impression was correct: he was high-functioning autistic.

            He answered every question, something more guarded young people most likely would not do.

            I found out that he graduated from high school last year and enrolled in Cal State East Bay. He struggled with the course load and ended up failing a few classes.

            He hasn’t given up on getting a degree, in Entrepreneurship, no less. When I asked him what he intended to do with that major, he seemed befuddled.

            He then told me that he’s currently taking only two courses at Chabot College, a local community college. Even with that reduced load, he’s having a hard time.

            I told him about my granddaughter, who freaks out when too many assignments are due at the same time, and how I’ve tried to encourage her to focus on one assignment at a time, get it finished, then go to the next.

            He thanked me for that advice and said he’d begin doing that. In fact, he named his current classes and identified a study schedule for each.

            What surprised me was that he wanted to know how I realized he needed help!

            I explained that I taught Special Needs students for many years, working with them and with their teachers.

            That’s when he revealed that he was identified as being autistic when he was quite young and that he received quite a bit of help throughout his academic years.

            He also wanted to know how I deduced that. I tried to explain that his word choices and the structure of his sentences were the clues.

            I needed to go do my workout and he needed to return to the desk. We parted with me wishing him good luck in his studies. He mimicked my words, wishing me good luck with my workout.

            I am proud of him, and students like him, who don’t give up on their dreams even when it’s difficult.

            He found a job that’s perfect for him, greeting clients as they enter the gym.

            I hope he works there a good long time, as that way I’ll be able to stay in touch.

Women Who Serve Their Country

Posted on by
Reply

A lot of emphasis was placed on the #MeToo movement a few years back. Thanks to those who came forward with their stories, awareness of the sexual harassment that women face rose in prominence. Voices that previously went unheard or were pushed aside were suddenly important enough to draw the attention of politicians everywhere.            Going way back in time, the suffragette movement argued for equal rights for women, especially for the right to vote. Many years later the women’s liberation movement argued for equal treatment in terms of career and education.            The time period that impacted me the most took place during WWII when women were called to enlist. So many working-age men actively serving in the military, which left necessary jobs understaffed. In 1943 Norman Rockwell painted a poster to entice women to leave homes in order to help the United States win the war. While the painting might have been the first call for help, it was J. Howard Miller’s depiction of Rosie Riveter, wearing a red bandana and flexing her biceps accompanied by the words We Can do It! that inspired women to take on the traditionally male jobs of welding, riveting and construction.Women entered these fields in unprecedented numbers. According to history.com, more than 310,000 women worked in the aircraft industry and a comparable amount were in the munitions industry. They were needed to fill the ranks, but they encountered many problems, such as men who refused to work side-by-side with women until ordered to do so.            A sterling example of the impact of these Rosies is in Richmond, California, at the site of the former Kaiser Shipyards.  Rosies helped to produce 747 ships there in Richmond, more than any other shipyard in the United States. The women worked twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Over 90,000 employees assembled the ships, which were built in sections that were then lowered into place.Women came from all over the United States to learn welding, riveting and various construction skills. The city of Richmond grew from a population of 24,000 to over 100,000 in just a few years.             Kaiser himself was a brilliant entrepreneur. He employed his own drafts people, many of them women, to replicate the mandatory designs for Liberty and Victory ships that moved soldiers and materials all over the world. In fact, large equipment such as jeeps were disassembled into segments and then crated. Once at the site, the equipment was rebuilt. In this way the holds could be crammed with materials.He understood that these women were doing the same jobs as men, with the same level of training and under the same working conditions. Because of this, Kaiser paid the women the same wage as the men. He also understood that many of the women had children that needed a place to stay while their mothers worked. To alleviate the problem, Kaiser offered Child Care Centers at their industrial sites run by highly skilled teachers. This was a novel idea, and unfortunately still would be considered such today.             Another benefit was health care.  Kaiser understood that Americans were dying in Home Front accidents. He also knew that only healthy workers could meet his grueling demands and construction needs. The nearest clinic to the shipyards couldn’t handle the explosion in population needing services. When a worker got injured on the job, many hours of valuable time were lost. To remedy the situation, Kaiser built a field hospital at the shipyard in 1942. He also encouraged prepaid medical care at fifty cents a week. Within two years more than 92% of Kaiser employees were enrolled in the plan, the first of its kind in the nation. There were skilled medical practitioners, a prepayment plan and substantial facilities all at a moderate rate.            Another problem was housing. When new workers arrived, there were no suitable places to live. Many slept in the all-night movie theaters and a huge number shared what beds there were. Because there were three shifts to work, someone could be in the bed during the morning shift, someone in the afternoon, and a third at night. Today we would find this unacceptable.            The Rosies are slowly dying, with limited recognition of their outstanding service. A push began to earn recognition at the federal level. One of the Rosies began a letter-writing campaign. Every year, beginning during the time of  President Clinton, she wrote a letter asking for the government to commemorate the service these women gave to the country. After twelve years of writing, one of the letters arrived in Joe Biden’s mailbox while he was serving as Vice President. He arranged for several Rosies to come to the White House for a private tour. He greeted them with hugs and words that let the nation know how important their service was. During the visit, President Obama dropped in, a surprise for everyone.On a recent tour of the Richmond Museum, four of the Rosies shared their stories. They spoke of the call to serve, the desire to do something for their country. None of them had been employed before, so this was quite an adventure. Two of them became welders which meant overcoming the prejudice of the union that would not allow women to join. Without a union card, they could not work. Kaiser himself intervened and the rules changed.The welders learned to set down seams vertically, horizontally and overhead. Overhead was the most challenging physically. Another problem was that to get to the places where welding was needed, they crawled through eighteen-inch square holes dragging their equipment along. It was dark and hot, but they persevered.Another Rosie learned how to draft blueprints. She knew that if she missed something, an error in the design might occur, making it so that the ship might not be sea-worthy.Because there are so few Rosies left, we felt blessed to hear their stories.If you get a chance to visit the memorial, stop by.              

Hoodwinked

Posted on by
Reply

            Neither my husband nor myself can sleep on planes, even on very long flights. When we arrived in Santiago recently, we weren’t thinking clearly. We’d prepaid a ride from the airport to our hotel, so all we were doing was getting luggage, then get out to where the ride would be. We failed to stop at a currency exchange, which turned out to be a huge mistake.

            As we walked past the line a drivers holding cards, we didn’t see one with our name. A nicely dressed man stood at the end, offering help. We both thought he looked somewhat official, so we handed him our confirmation paper. He claimed to have seen the driver, then went outside. Came back, reported that there was no driver. Then he called the number, we think. He spoke to someone, handed my husband the phone, who then was told that the driver had broken down on the freeway and we’d have to find alternate transportation.

            Of course, the nicely dressed man could do that! We’re stuck, right? So we agreed. He called someone. Next thing we’re being ushered out to the parking garage where the ride awaited.

            The car was an immaculate SUV with leather upholstery. The driver spoke no English, so the nicely dressed man rode with us.

            You’d think that by now we’d be a bit suspicious. Well, we were, but we needed to get to our hotel.

            Anyway, we took off down the highway. We have no idea if these guys are taking us to the hotel or out to a deserted place to kill us, but we’re stuck, zooming down the freeway.

            After about thirty minutes, the guy tells us they’re going to pull off the freeway to an ATM they know.

            It was a decrepit gas station in the middle of an extremely poor area. Homeless people were standing around. It didn’t feel safe.

            The driver got out a card-reading device and swiped one of our credit cards. It was declined. He swiped it several times, declined over and over. We don’t know why, but we’re both getting worried. Would these guys dump us here? Throw out our luggage and leave us stranded?

            Mike handed the guy his debit card. It was declined. Repeatedly. Then I made a huge mistake: I gave Mike my credit card!

            Fortunately I stayed in the car as the men took Mike to the ATM. All our cards were tried there as well, and all declined.

            The men conferred, decided to drive into Santiago to a major bank. At least it was in a good neighborhood! Again, all our cards failed.

            The me decided they’d take $40 US dollars. They dropped us off in the street in front of our hotel, not at the door, which was a bit of a walk.

            At least we got there safely!

            The hotel wanted a card as a deposit in case we drank the expensive water in the fridge. Our cards were all declined, as before. I tried calling the bank, but all I got was a prerecorded message in Spanish, which I couldn’t understand.

            The hotel clerk also called, got the same message, which was that our cards were declined.

            We needed money to get to the port the next day. Only Chilean pesos would do. Mike did have some cash, which we could exchange.

            After allowing us to check in, we walked several blocks to a shopping center that had an exchange. We got there, no problems, but no one that I approached at the mall spoke English! We kept wandering, from one floor to another, eventually stumbling into the exchange!

            No one there spoke English! Fortunately a nice customer offered to translate, so we ended up with enough pesos to pay for transport and to buy a little something to eat.

            McDonald’s was expensive! So all we got was four thumb-nail sized nuggets for me and a small cheeseburger for Mike.

            Back at the hotel, we arranged transport, but we had no money for dinner and no working credit card. I called our son Tim who is fluent in Spanish.

            He put together a three-way call to our bank. Our cards had been frozen due to suspicious activity. That was the good news.

            The bank gave us twenty minutes to get to an ATM and withdraw pesos. Tim somehow found an ATM around the corner from our hotel! The bank also agreed to keep my card active until we got home.

            What a relief! We had enough pesos to buy a little dinner and to get me a sweatshirt in Punto Arenas. We had credit to purchase excursions to see the penguins in the Falklands and to go to a ranch in Buenas Aires, which would also take us to the airport.

            After that experience, we now know to get money before leaving the airport. We know not to trust a nicely-dressed man at the end of the line, but to look for an actual taxi.

And we also know that our bank caught the attempts to steal our money!

We were hoodwinked, yes, but we survived to live to share our story.

A Time for Hope

Posted on by
Reply

The holiday season is upon us. For many of us, it’s a time to enjoy family, share good food and a few laughs, decorate the house and give gifts to people we love.

Unfortunately, not everyone is so blessed. They live in shelters, broken-down RVs, or with an abuser who keeps tabs on everything they do. Too many have no money in the bank, no way to plan or save for a better life. Food is scarce, but thanks to pantries and kitchens that pop up this time of year, they can get a nice, warm meal. Perhaps the only thing that gives them hope.

            All too often we forget to say thanks to all those who have helped us over the years. They might have paid your college tuition, bought you a used, functioning car, took you shopping at a grocery store or at a well-known thrift store to but winter clothes.

They buy pet food so that your dog or cat can eat.

They donate clean, washed clothes to charities.

They offer rides to church and then sit and pray with you. They take you to doctor’s appointments when you’re too ill to drive yourself. They cook meals, clean your residence and look after your children when you are at whatever job you’ve been able to find.

In so many ways, people reach out and offer hope to the hopeless, joy to the joyless and kindness to those who have only been shown hate.

I am grateful to everyone who has blessed my life, who helped me work toward a career that I loved, who babysat my kids and who brought over homemade cookies and fudge.

I am lucky to have friends, both long-lasting and casual, who smile when they see me.

My husband and children have filled me with joy so many times that it’s impossible to count.

My wish for you is that you also feel the joy.

Grandma’s House

Posted on by
Reply

            My Grandmother Williams lived in southeastern Ohio near the town of Gallipolis. She grew up poor, with her parents and later her husband working as poor tenant farmers. She was uneducated in terms of schooling, but knew a lot about cooking and working on the land. She and my grandfather together raised seven children, only one of which attended high school. Most of the others made it through eighth grade, which was a one-room schoolhouse at the time.

My grandfather borrowed a mule and wagon from a local farmer. Every morning he hitched them together and rode out along dirt roads to a hunk of land that he leased. There he grew corn and beans, staples of the family’s diet all year long. As they became more prosperous, my grandparents bought a house on a hill overlooking the Ohio River. That is the home that I knew, the place where we would come annually for a visit.

It was not a fancy house. Out back was a pit toilet that I despised. Not only did it smell atrocious, but it contained numerous spider webs dangling from the roof and swarms of flies buzzing around the “seat”. Heat was from a coal-burning stove that took up a sizable chunk of the front room. The roaring flames terrified me. When the door was opened to shovel in more fuel, I thought for sure that I was looking into the depths of hell.

My grandmother cooked on a wood-burning stove. How she created such marvelous meals with such primitive tools, I never knew. Even as a child I recognized that her task was not an easy one. On top of that, she set aside fruits and vegetables grown in her garden for consumption later on in the year. This was the time of year that we came for a visit: so that my mother could help with the grueling task of canning all that my grandparents had harvested. I did not have to help except for the shucking of corn and the snapping of beans, thank goodness, but I was expected to stay in the boiling hot kitchen until the task was complete.

The outcome was shelves full of glistening jars of a variety of tasty treats. No matter when we came to visit, there was always a something special to be opened and food to be shared.

            At home my mother carried on the tradition. Out in the backyard was my mother’s garden. She grew tomatoes, strawberries, corn, green beans and many other vegetables. A neighbor had fruit trees, and so we picked apples, peaches and pears from her yard. It all meant work. Almost every day throughout spring, summer and fall there was something to be canned. As a young child, just as at my grandmother’s, I participated minimally, but when I became a teenager, my mother expected me to stand at her side and work as an equal. I hated it.

            The work was hard. It meant endless hours of standing, peeling, pinching, pulling, plucking. My fingers ached. My feet and back complained. Perspiration streamed down my face and neck. There was endless washing of jars and sorting of lids. Standing over a hot stove, stirring whatever the product was at that time. Eventually it was poured into jars and the lids screwed on.

            The next step was the most challenging. The jars were gently placed into a pot of boiling water. Then we waited for the water to return to a boil and for the sealing to take place. There could be no talking, no music, no noise of any kind. One by one the lids would “pop”, signaling that the seal was complete. If six jars went into the pot, then we waited for six “pops”. Sometimes there were only five or four. Then my mom had to test each jar until she found the ones that refused to seal. Back into the pot they went, this time with new lids. The entire process lasted not just for hours, but for days, until every last piece of fruit was canned. Every day was the same: working, stirring, waiting for water to boil.

            I grew up thinking that this was a woman’s duty, albeit a tedious one. The rewards were obvious. As fall turned into winter and the snows fell turning the world into a crystal palace, all we had to do was walk into the garage and bring in a jar of treasure. Summer would blossom forth once again as sweet strawberry jam covered out toast or tasty green beans filled out plates. My mother’s efforts were welcomed and appreciated.

            When I became a stay-at-home mom, I accepted that the tradition was now mine to embrace. I decided to can so that we would have jams and fruits all year long, just as I had from my childhood. I got out a cookbook and found the directions for canning.  I went through all the preparation steps as carefully as I could. Each piece of fruit was peeled and cut. If I was making jam, then the fruit went into a giant kettle for cooking. I stood over the pot, stirring continuously to keep it from burning. When the pectin thickened the mixture, it was poured into jars. Lids were carefully applied.

            The jars went into the pot of boiling water. And I waited. And waited. Sometimes I would hear a pop, but most times I didn’t. I re-boiled the errant jars. And waited and waited. Some days it felt as if all I was doing was waiting for the water to boil.

            While I did not can as much food as my mother or grandmother, I did put aside applesauce, strawberry jam, pickles, tomatoes, peaches, and apricots. The problem was that I didn’t trust the safety of my work. What if the water wasn’t hot enough? What if I had become distracted by a good book and didn’t hear enough pops?

            All that waiting for water to boil, for what? Uncertain products and the possibility of poisoning my family. Nevertheless, I canned for several seasons in a row. At no point did I feel that my results were as good as those of my grandmother or mother. Nothing reminded me of home and nothing seemed worth the effort.

            Fortunately for me, my husband did not expect me to can. He realized that I was a better mother than a cook. On top of that, it was so much easier to blanch vegetables and then put them in the freezer. It required much less work, was safer all around. And no waiting for water to boil was involved.

Being Alone

Posted on by
Reply

            I loved being alone.

            Whenever my father was home, someone was being punished: my mother, most likely, myself, but also my brother. He never yelled at my sister.

            I never understood why he didn’t slap her about or smack her with his belt or lecture her on her many faults. Granted she was seven years younger than me and had petit mal seizures, but since he didn’t go after her, she’d become a brat.

            I felt sorry for my brother. He was exceptionally bright, a model student, but he had zero athletic skills. He tried to be an athlete, joining one baseball team after another where he never got to play because his lack of skills would have been detrimental to the team. He joined a football team in middle school, but the only purpose he served was to be pounded by the other team’s offensive line.

            He took out his frustrations on me. When our mom wasn’t looking, he’d pinch, kick or slap me until he left marks where they couldn’t be seen.

            It wasn’t until college that the torture stopped, probably because we were both out of the house, alone, no longer under the critical eyes of our parents.

            He was the only son and so he never had to share a room. Me, on the other hand, only had one-half of a room once my sister was out of the crib.

            The lack of privacy bothered me. Sometimes, if my sister was out and about (she had friends whereas I did not) I could hide in my room and listen to my favorite music on my little transistor radio. When I was alone, I imagined it always being that way, that I wasn’t sharing a room, had never shared a room, would never share one in the future.

            I knew it was only my imagination, but it released the pressure in me that built during the times in between.

            College dorm rooms provided no privacy at all. So tiny that only two steps separated my half of the room from my roommates, I was aware of everything she did. I overheard every phone conversation, had to step over her mess, and when her many friends came over, I even lost the privacy of my bed.

            And when I returned home during breaks, I felt unwelcome in the room which now completely belonged to my sister. She had taken over the master bedroom so as to have her own bathroom. There was a bed for me, but she had filled the closet and every drawer with her things.

            After college graduation I set two goals for myself: to buy a car then to rent an apartment.

            I needed the car so as to find a job. My brother had priority using the family car, my mother second. If I needed to go to an interview, my brother drove me if it was on his way, my mother drove as well, but often applied for the same position, at the same time, or my dad would take me. When my dad drove, he’d go inside the business, and if he didn’t like what he saw, he’d grab my arm and pull me out.

            I don’t recall how it happened, but I got a job at a chain furniture store. Someone must have driven me there for the interview, then driven me to and from work. Because I was not told to pay rent at home, I was able to save money for a down payment on a car.

            Even then, I wasn’t permitted to choose the one I really wanted. I was twenty-one, but apparently not smart enough to pick out a reliable car. I ended up with the ugliest Ford Pinto imaginable, only because that was the car my dad approved.

            I now had wheels of my own. When I wasn’t working, I’d take off for the morning. We lived not too far from a reservoir, a forested lake with a paved road that traversed one side. I’d pack myself a lunch, then set off, listening to the radio to my choice of music. I’d sing along, loving the solitude, the ability to do what I wanted, when I wanted.

            Being alone was beautiful.

            Once I’d saved up more money, I found a studio apartment that I could afford. My parents let me take one of the twin beds and a chest of drawers. Using my discount at the furniture store, I sought the damaged goods that weren’t so damaged that they were unusable.

            I didn’t mind the scuffs and dents. What I loved was being alone.

            I ate what and when I wanted, watched whatever I wanted on my tiny TV, went to bed when I wanted. For the first time in my life, I was completely in charge of my life. Of my decisions.

            It drove my mother nuts.

            She thought she could come over without being invited, without permission. Sometimes I pretended to not be home when she rang the bell downstairs. I could feel my blood pressure rising every time this happened: if she discovered I was there and not letting her in, I would have been in big trouble.

            It wasn’t too long after gaining my independence that I got a new job at the IRS. And then only about two years before I transferred to the local IRS office where I met my soon-to-be husband.

            Granted, for the past 48 years I’ve never technically been alone. In our early years my husband did spend some time at other offices where he’d have to live in hotels, but once we had kids, he never went away again.

            My husband is not demanding, no clingy, not possessive. I’ve never had to ask permission to travel on my own, to attend conferences in far off cities, or to take off across the country to visit family and friends.

            Even when we’re both home, there’s no expectation that I be in the same room with him. I can be alone in the front room which serves as my office while he’s in the family room watching TV. We can see each other, talk to each other, yet still be apart.

            The most powerful company I’ve had with me throughout my entire life is God. With Him I am never truly alone.

            He’s walked with me in my darkest days, He’s been with me during my happiest times and He’s guided me when my mind was awash with turmoil.

            It wasn’t until recently, however, that I realized that I am never alone.

            At all times I carry the memories of family and friends, the places I’ve been and the things I’ve done. More than anything, I carry His love.

            Being alone is wonderful, but so is knowing that my shoulders are laden with the wonderful things I’ve done and the people I know.