Tag Archives: Personal Essay

Defying Expectations

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            From the time I was quite small, my mother made it perfectly clear that her main goal for me was to be her caretaker later on in life. I found this odd, since she insisted that my older brother would graduate from high school and go to college.

            Why the difference? Well, for one, she believed that he was much smarter than I was.

            There was some justification behind her belief. He taught himself how to read, so when he entered first grade, he was reading above grade level. Me, on the other hand, still couldn’t identify all the letters of the alphabet by name or by sound.

            He was doing basic math, which, again, he’d taught himself. I was the dunce who didn’t understand numbers.

            He was placed in the advanced groups in elementary school, without first attending kindergarten, which wasn’t mandatory back then. I was driven to kindergarten, where I was the lowest of the low. By the time the year was over, I knew the letters by name and sound, but couldn’t formulate words. I understood how numbers worked, but still couldn’t add or subtract, and got confused with time and money.

            When I entered first grade, I was immediately assigned to the nonreaders group. These kids were odd. Weird. None had friends. In fact, they weren’t even friends with each other. You’d think odd would bond with odd, but it was more like a magnetic pull in the opposite direction.

            Back then IQ tests were given every year. My brother had scored very high in first grade. No one expected me to be anywhere near his IQ. Imagine everyone’s surprise when my IQ turned out to be high, not as high as my brother’s, but higher than many of my classmates.

            I loved those IQ tests. My favorites were any having to do with manipulation of objects in space. I could see three-dimensional objects even on a flat piece of paper. When shapes had to be flipped or turned to fit a puzzle, I never got one wrong.

            I surprise a lot of people: my teacher, my parents, my brother (who was offended that my score was close to his) and especially me.

            Imagine being six years old, having repeatedly been told how stupid you are, then to find out that all those words were a bunch of lies! My head exploded! Well, not quite, but you get the picture.

            Now that I knew I wasn’t dumb, I concentrated harder and focused on my lessons. I’d take home papers with incorrect answers, erase the mistakes, and teach my stuffed animals the lesson. Then I’d complete the work again, this time every answer correct.

            For years I did this.

            At school, things began to change in terms of where I was seated (no longer in the dunce row at the back of the room), and how my teachers treated me. Before, it was with disdain, as if I didn’t warrant the attention of a slug. Now, however, the teacher dropped by my desk on a regular basis to see how I was doing.

            My paperwork was always returned at the bottom of the pile, meaning my scores were among the lowest. After teaching myself, my papers moved to the top! I was now among the smartest in the class.

            Unfortunately, my school success did not alter my mother’s expectations for me. She made me her housekeeper: every room had to be picked up, dusted and vacuumed every day before I could study. She attempted to make me her cook, but I had no talent or interest. Even easy things, like cornbread, I messed up.

            I was assigned to be her entertainment when she was ill, which was frequent. My mom suffered from “nervous disorders” which I understood to mean she was nuts. While she lay in bed, I was expected to sit in the room with her. I wasn’t allowed to read books or study during those long afternoons. But, there was no prohibition against coloring, drawing or building model cars.

            Because my spatial awareness was quite developed, I loved gluing those tiny pieces in place, using tweezers and toothpicks to get them situated just right. I also loved to paint, applying coat after coat until the model sparkled.

            I asked if I could get a paying job so as to be able to save for college. My brother was working, so I figured I should as well. My mom permitted me to work, as long as I kept the house tidy and never needed the car when my brother had to go to work.

            I tried working in a clothing store, not understanding how commission works. When I shop, I hate it when a storekeeper follows me around. Because I was on commission, I was instructed to tail every customer and show them interesting outfits. I lasted three days.

            My next job was at a deli, an odd choice since I didn’t know how to cook. The boss gave me ten minutes of instruction, then left. Seriously! He walked out the front door just as lunch was beginning. I had no idea what I was doing, even though pictures of finished products hung over the counter.

            I screwed up order after order. When the boss returned, I quit.

            I loved the smell of KFC. They must have blowers that send the aroma into the air, enticing in customers. I applied there. I was to be the counter clerk, no cooking involved. I took orders and made change. Piece of cake.

            When strawberry season arrived, crates of berries needed to be prepared into pies. That was something I knew how to do, for I’d been helping my mom for years. I was assigned that station for the remainder of the season as I was the best! The best! Me.

            The coleslaw back then arrived in giant ceramic tubs. I had to pour in the dressing, then sink my hands deep into the tub (no gloves!) and mix and mix until the dressing was evenly distributed. While it was a simple job, requiring no mental acuity, it froze my arms to the point that they’d turn blue.

            Meanwhile, I was excelling at school. Because of my work at KFC and at home, I couldn’t open the books until after dinner. I’d stay up past midnight, reading and rereading material until I had it memorized.

            My grades, in high school, were practically perfect. Every time I brought home a report card, my parents were shocked. This was not the dumb kid who barely passed elementary school. This was not the stupid girl who wouldn’t even have made a good wife.

            I was somebody. I knew this as I walked the halls, sat in classrooms, ate by myself during lunch. I was incredibly smart, smarter than my brother. Yes, my IQ scores surpassed his.

            There was no denying it: I had the ability to go to college.

            Imagine starting out as an idiot in the eyes of your parents, then seventeen years later being one of the smartest students in school, a scholarship recipient that would pay my entire tuition to any school in the state of California.

            Through my own hard work when I was six, I defied expectations.

            While my mother still halfheartedly said I was to be her caretaker later on in her life, she also understood my desire for a higher education.

            I loved the word grit. Grit is what I employed, grit is what helped me achieve, grit is what assisted in my defying expectations.

 The Great Divider

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From a very young age I became aware of how very different our family was to other’s.

In terms of size, we were about the same: three kids plus two parents. The oldest child was a boy, something that should have pleased our dad. Then eighteen months later, along came me, then seven years later, my younger sister.

The gap between my brother and I seemed “normal” as many of my cousins had been born one right after the other. But the seven-year difference between myself and my sister felt weird. By that time, I was somewhat aware of how babies were created, so to think of my parents doing something creeped me out. Especially after one time opening their bedroom door without knocking and seeing my dad’s naked butt moving on top of my mom, I began putting things together. But not really.

My cousins’ parents didn’t always get along, so the yelling and cursing and throwing of things wasn’t all that unusual. However, their house’s always felt more peaceful, more relaxed than mine.

My mom had all kinds of rules that didn’t make sense to me. We weren’t allowed to close our bedroom doors, for example: until my brother began hurting me, and then my mother found him doing so many years later. Now, don’t get the wrong idea. He never hurt me sexually, but brutally, enacting what he called giant squeezes on my upper arm until they were covered with bruises or kicking me in the abdomen whenever he thought no one was looking.

In a way I understood his violence because our father was violent. I never saw him hurt my mom, but he did hurt my bother and I (never our younger sister).

My mom clearly played favorites, up until the day she lost the ability to speak, which was when her mind failed.

She protected my brother from my dad, hiding any graded papers with less than stellar marks, calling my brother inside whenever my dad got a little too loud in his condemnations. She hovered over my sister, surrounding her in a shield-like protective vise, afraid that if someone, notably me, upset her, that my sister would have another petit-mal seizure. (Those stopped around age nine, just like the doctor had predicted, but it didn’t remove the shield).

Mom wouldn’t let us enter other kids’ houses and refused entry to those very same kids. On her good days, we were allowed to play with them outside, but as soon as they wanted to go inside, we had to return home. This lasted until I went away to college.

The one aspect of her parenting that I understood, in some deep-seated way, was her ability to divide us against each other.

My brother was smarter than me. True, but she didn’t have to remind me. My sister was the smartest of us all. Also true, but considering how she was allowed to waste all that brilliance when my brother and I were punished, severely, if our grades didn’t meet mom’s expectations, hurt.

My brother and I played high school sports. I, as short as I am, was on the basketball team and for a brief time, on softball as well. I was great at stealing the basketball from rival teams, but was too short to score baskets. Softball scared me. It was much bigger than a hardball, which I could throw and catch and hit with ease.

When I stood at the plate, with a confident air, I expected to send the softball well into the outfield, but time after time, it never made it even to second base. I quit when I realized I’d never make the team.

My dad had taught my brother and I to bowl when we each turned twelve. By the time we were in high school, we were quite good. Both of us tried out for and made it on the same bowling team. We played against all the high schools in our area, and generally won, depending upon how well our other two teammates did.

My sister joined her elementary track team, for one season. I attended one of her meets, in an attempt to show interest. She did pretty well. She didn’t come in first, but she was always near the top.

One thing that was the same for all three of us: our parents never came to see any of us play.

Later on, when my brother and I both had kids, my parents went to see my brother’s girls swim for their respective teams, then would brag about how well they did.

My kids swam, played baseball, soccer and softball. We lived just a few miles away from my parents, yet they couldn’t be bothered to support our kids. (My brother, for a time, lived in southern California, then moved out to San Ramon.)

One year, when it was time to return to college, my brother had bought an old convertible which he intended to drive to Los Angeles. My dad felt my brother needed his support, so took turns driving. That was the only time one of our parents visited our college, not even for graduation. (One reason, among many, why I didn’t attend the ceremony, something I still regret many years later.)

It was once grandchildren arrived that my mom resumed her Great Divider role.

My brother’s daughters were smarter, more talented, better all around, than my kids. His potty-trained faster, walked earlier, talked in complete sentences sooner, and so on. Everything they did was bigger and better.

My sister never had any kids, but her dogs were cuter, better trained, sweeter, than any of our dogs.

My brother’s many houses were in better neighborhoods than ours. True, if better meant more hoity-toity than ours. They only lived in upscale neighborhoods, on hills in reclusive areas, while we live in the flatlands.

My brother’s furniture was better than ours. Also true, for we couldn’t afford brand new. Instead, we bought slightly used or relied on hand-me-downs.

 My sister-in-law was a better decorator. True. I had no sense of style and no money to coordinate colors and designs.

My sister, now, there was the decorator in the family! When you have neo kids, you can furnish your house with white everything complimented by off-white others.

When I was ushering kids off to school or sports or events, my sister was gardening. She even spent time chasing spiders back into her neighbor’s yards. When caught, she condemned the neighbor for secretly planting spiders on her side of the fence. (My mom believed my sister!)

My sister was the better cook, serving fancy things she’d learned from cookbooks. That’s true. I relied on the Campbell’s cookbook, in which all recipes were made from….Campbell’s soup! Basic, but edible.

My brother could BBQ better than my husband. I beg to differ on that one, for my husband is a darn good cook.

These comparisons made me dread seeing my siblings. I didn’t truly believe they were better in all ways, than I was, but deep in my soul, a part of me thought there might be a smidgin of truth. That they were, truly better than I in all the various ways in which we had been compared.

It made the requisite family gatherings painful. Because of my mom’s watchful eyes, I never got to truly know my nieces. Not when they were young, and still not today when they are in their forties.

I don’t really know my sister’s husband. The few times we were together, he seemed like a really good guy. He’s patient and forgiving. He stayed with my sister through drug and alcohol addiction and is supporting her obsession with cross training. He seems like the kind of person I’d like to know.

As my mom’s mind began to fail, she wrote things down. When I called and how long we talked. What we talked about. What I served when they came for dinner. How long they were in our house.

She never asked how our kids were doing, never attended a wedding, never gave gifts to them and never called them.

She attended all three of my brother’s daughter’s weddings, gave them gifts and called them regularly.

My sister was married three times. My mom attended all three.

When I spoke with my mom, she only spoke about my siblings. She didn’t want to hear what I was doing, what my kids were doing, what my husband was doing. I once tried telling her about what it was like to finally become a teacher, and she didn’t want to hear about it.

She told me all about my sibling’s different jobs, in great detail.

When my mom passed away, if felt as if the anchor had been removed from around my neck. I no longer had to hear about my inferiorities, my failures as wife and mother, my inability to decorate properly (when my mom was dirt poor most of her life, she learned “decorating” from women’s magazines.)

I no longer dreaded the ringing of the phone or the unexpected opening of the kitchen door.

My dad lived several years more. He married within two years of my mother’s passing to a sweet, caring woman. She was easy to be with. As an excellent listener, she was eager to hear about my family. She wasn’t a very good cook, so she loved coming to our house. She never criticized the food I put on the table.

In many ways, she was more of a mother to me than my real mom ever was.

When my dad died, all hell broke loose.

I never knew how much my siblings disliked my dad’s wife. It was way beyond dislike. They hated her, believed she had married my dad for his wealth (which was a joke as my dad only had the “mobile” home in which they lived and an old truck.)

My phone rang constantly, mostly my sister, condemning me for loving my dad’s wife. It was as if my mother had been resurrected, now in the body of my sister. All the old hates and envies and jealousies sprang forth anew, but more cutting, more vicious, more targeted toward me.

It reached a point when I refused to answer the phone.

Now the caller pops up on our television and on our phones.  If my sister’s number appeared, I wouldn’t answer.

She did post something on my daughter’s Fb, all cheery and wanting to reconnect. I disregarded the request.

My brother had gone out of his way to mend broken fences. He calls regularly. He’s been sharing photos of the ghetto in which we first lived and the houses we subsequently moved into.

He asks questions about my family and my health.

While he shares little, very private, like our mom had been, just hearing the tone of his voice feels good.

I’ve begun reminding him of things we did in our younger years. What seemed hurtful then, is now something we can chuckle over.

The Great Divider had been gone a good, long time, but the effects of her manipulations carry on.

Winter Memories

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            My family moved to Beavercreek, Ohio just before the beginning of my fourth-grade year of elementary school. We used to live in the city, but now we were out in the country, far from everything.

            In order to drive my brother and I to school, which was in Dayton, my mother had to learn how to drive. She was a nervous wreck, which I could understand considering my dad’s short fuse. But, she pushed on, despite what I assumed were many terrifying hours in the car, being yelled at by my dad. Eventually she passed the test and got her license.

            My dad purchased a beat-up Ford business coupe for her to drive. It had no back seat, no heat. When it was hot, only the two front windows opened and little air made it back to where we sat atop piles of cushions and blankets. We felt every bump, every pot hole.

            When winter came along, my mom still had to drive us to school, despite roads covered in slippery snow. She must have driven with hands tightly clenched on the steering wheel, hoping not to slide into another vehicle or off the road.

            One plus about where we now lived was that the houses were terraced: The one to our north sat slightly higher than our house, while the one to the south was a short hill below.

            Ohio can be incredibly cold in the winter. I recall one such winter when it snowed so much that our boots sank so deeply through the crust that our knees got soaked.

            The crust froze, making a slick surface perfect for running and sliding downhill. It also seemed perfect for building an igloo.

            My brother used a shovel to chop out blocks of snow. Working together, we piled them on top of each other, one by one, forming an igloo. We were incredibly proud of our accomplishment and could hardly wait to go inside.

            The next morning, before the sun could melt our construction, my brother and I got down on hands and knees and crept through the opening. Our gloves and pants were drenched, but initially we didn’t mind.

            It was quiet inside. Sunlight filtered through the upper blocks, creating a mystical glow reminiscent of fantasy stories my brother had been reading.

            I’d just learned to read (yes, I was slow to catch on), but thanks to a kind librarian who walked me to the nonfiction section where a series of books about Indigenous tribes of North America. I read them all, thanks to the help of black-and-white illustrations, and memorized minute details about their cultures, foods, dress, ceremonies, housing and all tiny details that enriched my understanding.

            One of my favorite books was about the Eskimos, now the Inuit. I was intrigued by the seal-skin clothing they wore, their kayaks, their methods of hunting, and their igloos. I read into the descriptions, imagining families seated on furs, cooking over fires, and huddling together sharing stories.

            As my brother and I sat inside our creation, I spoke of all I’d learned. It was the first time in my life where I knew more than my older brother.

            Some winters were light on snow, but thanks to freezing nighttime temperatures, the yard was quite slippery. While I’d never seen an ice-skating rink except on television, in my mind, our yard was just as slick.

            We had an old Red Flyer sled that someone had given us. Our dad rubbed the rust off the runners until he was sure it would glide smoothly.

            My brother and I would pull the sled up the hill and well into our neighbor’s yard. We’d run together, my brother in the lead, and once we were going pretty fast, he’d jump on, leaving enough space for me behind him.

            On a good day, we’d fly down that hill, sail across our yard, then down the hill into the next. We’d do this over and over until the quality of the snow changed.

            On the last winter before we moved to California, very little snow fell despite it being incredibly cold. When I stood at the bus stop waiting for the school but to arrive, the scarf around my face became encrusted with ice, my fingers and toes burned and I shivered from head to toe.

            One night a brisk wind came up and the temperature dropped drastically. We stayed warm, thanks to many blankets and cups of hot chocolate.

            The next morning, to our surprise, icicles hung from power lines, roofs, and even door handles. Most of them were quite long, perhaps a foot or two, with sharp points. They’d break off with a resounding crack, then fall to the ground where they’d shatter into millions of pieces.

            Even though I was fourteen and supposedly knew better, I was convinced that if one struck the top of my head, it would cleave my skull in half.

            There was one very weird thing about what snow did fall: on the north side of the house it stood higher than the peak of the roof, while on the other side, dirt showed through the sparse cover.

            While I cherish these memories, I am grateful to be living in California, in a part of the state where it doesn’t snow.

Yearning to be Popular

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            My mom was an isolationist. Even though I didn’t know the term when I was little, I still felt the effects. No one was allowed inside the family home, and when I was old enough to have friends, I wasn’t permitted inside anyone else’s/

            When I was in college, I finally understood her reasoning. My family had moved while I was away at school. My dad ventured, almost daily, up and down the street, talking to anyone he found outside. This rankled my mom. She believed that the only reason people wanted to befriend either of my parents was so they’d have gossip material.

            So, back to when I was a kid. When we moved to a house in Dayton, a couple of little girls lived across the street. They played outside nearly every day, riding bikes, playing with dolls, or just sitting on the porch talking. I’d watch them through our front windows, yearning to be part of their group.

            When my mom finally grew tired of my whining, she let me go over to speak with them. The girls were hesitant to let me join in, but after they had a side conversation, they agreed. I told them I wasn’t allowed inside their house and that they couldn’t come in mine.

            They tormented me, teased me, belittled me, until after laughing about my supposedly torn shorts, I gave up on trying to be a part of their group.

            When I went to Kindergarten, I had no idea what to expect. My mom had told me I was stupid and so needed extra schooling (that my older, smarter brother didn’t need).

            It turned out she was right, for while I worked on preschool skills, my classmates were learning to sound out letters and to do basic math. When playground time came around, no one would play with me, so I made tracks in the sandbox, over and over, day after day.

            First grade my parents enrolled me in a Catholic school, a good long walk downhill in the morning, uphill in the afternoon. It didn’t take my teacher long to figure out that I was far behind my peers. My seat was changed to be in the first row, and I was assigned the lowest reading group, which was too advanced for me.

            Outside in the playground, my classmates called me all the expected names: retard, dummy, idiot and so forth. I walked the perimeter of the playground, day after day. Until one little girl joined me. We quickly became good friends. We’d walk together, and eat our lunches sitting side-by-side on a bench.

            One morning when my mom was brushing my hair, I told her I wanted braids like my friend’s. She was willing, until I explained that they were all over her head, with cute plastic barrettes at the end of each.

            The next day at school, my friend didn’t play with me. I didn’t understand what had changed, and she wouldn’t tell me. She went off to her side of the playground, leaving me to my side.

            When I got home, I cried as I told my mom what had happened. She told me she’d called the principal and told her that I was not to have a “N….” as a friend.

            I went through the next several years without a friend, my eyes following the popular girls, wishing I was included. There were many reasons, in my mind, why I stood out. My uniforms were hand-me-downs, faded and baggy. I was painfully shy and if one of them did speak to me, I couldn’t answer. I was still at the bottom of my class, in the lowest reading group, which marked me as being stupid.

            One time, I think I was in fourth grade, I really had to use the restroom during recess. When I entered, the popular girls were in there. They laughed when they saw me. Once I was inside the stall, they made comments about how I smelled of urine, that all fat people smelled, that they could smell me even in the classroom.

            I leaned over and smelled my panties, but didn’t find an odor. I didn’t understand why they’d say such lies, but it hurt my feelings. I stayed in the stall, listening to their taunts, until the bell rang.

            That same year I got invited to a slumber party. I don’t know why as I wasn’t part of that group, or any group. My mom insisted I go. She drove me into downtown Dayton and bought me brand new pajamas and underwear. I knew we had little money and understood this would be a burden on the family.

            On the day of the party, I feigned illness, but my mom didn’t believe me and so made me go.

            The girls were already in the bedroom, gathered on the bed, looking at a magazine. They made me sit at the foot, far from them. They shared an article about how to tell if someone was a lesbian. I’d never heard that term before, so had no clue what they were talking about.

            One of the hints was hairy arms and legs. They examined mine and declared I was a lesbian. For the rest of the night, they treated me as if I had cuties. I begged to go home, and eventually the parent called mine. On the way home I was lectured about overreacting.

            Well, I wasn’t. The next day at school, those girls told everyone I was a lesbian. When in line, everyone gave me a wide berth. When eating lunch, no one would sit near me. I church, they’d leave a huge space in between us.

            Fortunately, I was “punished” by being sent to lunchtime detention. You’d think I would have been miserable, but sitting in the upstairs classroom with a kind sister who helped me with my schoolwork, turned out to be the medicine I needed.

            Because of her kind attention, I made slow but steady academic progress. For the rest of the school year, I climbed those stairs.

            I still kept an eye on the popular girls, dreaming of being one of them, despite knowing how cruelly they’d treated me.

            The next school year I transferred to the public middle school where I knew no one. Being thrust into this strange environment was terrifying. Just like I’d done all my life thus far, I sat by myself during recesses and lunch, worked alone even on those few times when the teacher assigned group work (no one wanted me in their group).

            I knew who the popular kids were in this school. It’s easy to spot them. They walk in groups with heads held high. They wear the nicest clothes, the most fashionable shoes and jackets, and speak and laugh loudly. They stare at the outcasts, point fingers, make rude comments and do anything that makes them feel better about themselves.

            By this time, as I entered high school, I gave up all dreams of being popular. I kept my head down, did my schoolwork, and found quiet places on the playground where no one could find me.

            Thanks to the kind sister back in the Catholic school, I was no longer behind academically. In fact, my grades were now the best in the class. When a math teacher needed someone to work a complex problem on the board, I was chosen.

            We moved to California after I completed my freshman year.

            I hoped that a new school, in a new state, would be the fresh start I needed on the road to popularity.

            It wasn’t. Nothing had changed except that I excelled academically. I completed high school with no friends.

In the play “Wicked” one of the songs is about being popular. Elphaba, who has been ostracized by her family and her classmates for being green, is assigned to share a room with the ditsy Galinda. Galinda decides to remake Elphaba in her image, guaranteeing popularity.

We know the end of the story, that it doesn’t work because nothing can change that Elphaba is green.

In my case, nothing could change the fact that I was shy, convinced that I was lacking in many ways, that despite my academic success that I was a failure. My parents reminded me of this whenever I was home from college.

As a teacher, I was well aware of how these groups form and how they close out anyone who doesn’t fit their definition of popularity. I tried to keep those divisions out of the classroom, but it takes constant monitoring which changes nothing.

We see it in our daily lives. The popular adults win elections despite not having a platform, they get the promotions even though others did the work. They are put in charge of committees and assign others to do the grunt work, but when the task is complete, they take credit.

Popular adults are invited to parties, to go to the theater, to go out for lunch, to join even more groups where their popularity is enhanced.

At my age I no longer to be one of the popular ones. I’ve learned how very shallow they are, how they value idol worship and ring-kissing about all else. How they only want sycophants around them, how they yearn for more and more accolades not caring who they hurt on the way up.

I wish there was a way to go back in time and show the little me that popularity is not a value to strive for. Imagine how different my life might have been!

Overwhelmed

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            Things keep happening that distract me from writing. Health issues are at the top.

I’m still struggling with long Covid, which makes me lethargic, makes my body ache, makes my limbs feel as if they are being sucked down into the earth. It freezes my brain, stealing written words before they can be written. Before they are even fully developed into thoughts.

There’s nothing that can be done that my doctor hasn’t tried. She’s constantly searching for new ideas, but no one really knows what to do to help people like me.

Then there’s my big toe. The nail decided to crumble, then had to be removed. Once the anesthetic wore off, the pain was incredible. Worse than before. It made sleep difficult. With a fuzzy brain, I had another excuse for not being able to write.

On to my knee. Getting out of my car, there was an audible pop, followed by intense pain. I’d partially torn my MCL and quad on my right knee. Once again, throbbing, while the big toe on the other foot still hurt.

Next came the pinkie on my left foot. It decided to swell up so much so that it couldn’t bend. Try walking when your toe won’t bend!

Once the toes settled down and the tears began to heal, the “hitch” I’d had in my right knee worsened. Whenever I want to straighten my leg, I have to hook my left foot under my calf and pull up.

There’s an audible pop, followed by pain. I’ve had this for a couple of years, but after the tears, things worsened. It’s now excruciatingly painful, so much so that I cry out.

This week I learned that the knee will have to be replaced, for a third time!

Then there are the pleasures.

My husband and I love going to the theater for live performances as well as to see a movie. It seems like all of our reservations popped up within the same two weeks! I’m not complaining as I got to see three amazing plays and two fantastic movies, but when I’m sitting in the theater, I’m not even thinking about writing.

Well, that’s not exactly true, but close.

Anyway, those are my excuses for falling behind on my posts!

Changes

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            Around the time our daughter turned twelve, she morphed into an angry, sullen young woman. She refused to be seen in public with me, wouldn’t let me braid her hair, and if I did take her to the mall to buy new back-to-school clothes, she’d walk behind me as if we weren’t related.

            Her new persona made the entire family miserable, but it struck me deep in my heart.

            As months passed, she distanced herself further and further away, essentially cutting the family out of her life. She hurt her father deeply and was so mean to her brothers that both were afraid to initiate conversations with her for they’d only end up in an argument that they couldn’t win.

            At that time, I was the primary cook for all three meals. I’d get up early, stoke our wood-burning stove, then prepare a hot meal. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, oatmeal: something to begin a productive school day.

            Then I’d pack their lunches, trying to put something in each that they’d like. I often also included a positive note, something upbeat to warm their hearts. I imagined that my daughter ate hers, but found out, when her younger brother caught her, that she was throwing the food away. Food we couldn’t afford to waste.

            Despite having little money, we’d gotten by. No one went hungry unless they chose not to eat (I refused to cook separate meals), no one wore rags or faded or stretched out of shape clothes, even though the majority of our clothes came from thrift stores. They had toys, which also mainly came from thrift stores, even as Christmas gifts, and they all got to play some kind of sport.

            By winter of that year, our daughter refused to eat anything I’d cooked. It felt like she thought I was trying to poison her, something I’d never do despite how obnoxious she behaved.

            Since our first child was born, I’d always included something in the meal that he would eat. By the time our third child arrived, I generally had two things they’d eat in every meal. With our daughter, however, she began screaming, “I’ve never liked…ham or pancakes or corn.” Even though that was an outright lie.

            I couldn’t keep up with what she no longer ate, what she would eat.

            On top of that, every meal was bound to turn into an argument. The only “safe” meal was a silent one. She’d claim the sky was purple if someone commented on how blue it was. Or she’d blame one of her brothers for not putting away the Lego when she was the one who had refused.

            She created a combat zone in our house. We were all miserable.

            A year in, and her health became impacted. At thirteen she should have been developing, maturing, but her body was on hold. She was frequently ill, with me getting calls at school to come pick her up, time I didn’t have.

            My husband began helping with dinner, even though it meant eating later than we preferred. He’d come home, quickly change clothes, then chop onions or form hamburger into patties.

            If our daughter saw him doing to cooking, she’d eat.

            We began “fooling” her. When she was busy in her bedroom, I’d start meal preparations. When my husband came home, he’d finish the meal, plate it and put it on the table.

            This worked for several months until she walked into the kitchen as we were making the switch.

            She became quite thin, and I was concerned that she was anorexic.

            One afternoon, I was called by her school, once again, to come pick her up. Apparently, she’d feinted during class. By this time Kaiser had opened an adolescent unit, and we were taken in shortly after arrival.

            The doctor met with our daughter first. After about thirty minutes, I was called into the room.

            The doctor told me what she’d said to our daughter. That her heart wasn’t beating regularly, that her kidneys and liver were in danger, that she’d die if she kept up her “eating” routine. I cried, shrugged, and told the doctor that I didn’t know how to change things.

            The doctor made our daughter promise to eat one full meal a day, two smaller ones as well. She told us both that unless the changes were made, our daughter would die.

            Something must have hit home.

            Beginning that night, she ate some of the dinner. She nibbled at breakfast the next day, and took the three dollars I gave her to buy something at school.

            The road to recovery continued to be rocky. We’d think we’d overcome one hurdle only for her to toss another in our faces.

            In high school she met up with several nice young men who both fell in love with her. The one she preferred was from another faith, but he seemed to make her happy. Most importantly, he’d invite her to his house for dinner.

            Of course I spoke with his mom, so she understood some of what had been happening. She offered to continue having her for dinner, so we knew she had one good meal per day.

            Several years later, during her junior year of college, they married. Something about being a wife, and very quickly a mother, change my daughter.

            I’d like to report that we still walk carefully, not wanting to upset her. But, when we talk on the phone or get to spend time together, we have lovely conversations.

            Time doesn’t heal all ills, but it can reduce the pain.

Seeing the Real Person

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            I recently saw a musical in which the teen suffers from an aging disease. It’s impacted the entire family, with the parents afraid to have another child in case he is born with the same genetic abnormality. As the character nears the end of her life, her parents decide the time has come to try again, in a way, replacing the teen.

            Toward the end, the teen sings about shucking off the ghost of the girl you wanted to really “SEE” the one before you. To appreciate their daughter for who she is, not for who she is not.

            The song struck me deep in my gut.

            I was not the daughter my parents had in mind. Even when quite young, I wanted to run and play with the boys. I was a pretty good athlete: not always on the varsity teams, but still wearing a uniform and competing.

            I hated dresses, but that’s what all girls wore to school in my town. At home I always wore shorts or jeans, t-shirts and sweaters. I didn’t “walk” like a girl, as my mom told me many times. I had no skills or interest in painting my nails, wearing makeup or styling my hair. I had no interest in learning to cook, something that annoyed my mother, as she claimed to have given birth to me only so I’d take over household chores. And be around to watch her when she grew older.

            I did have assigned chores. One that I hated the most was cleaning my older brother’s bedroom. Why did I have to pick up his dirty underwear? Change his sheets? Clean his bathroom?

            My mother’s excuse was that he needed to spend his time studying so as to go to college.

            I wanted to go to college as well, but that wasn’t important to her. She wanted me married as a teen and producing grandchildren, one after another.

            I wanted out: out of the house, out of her life, out of the family. The only way I could see to make that happen was by getting into college, earning a degree, and then being able to support myself.

            My brother was allowed to study from the moment he came home from school. I couldn’t study until all my chores were done. He finished his schoolwork by dinnertime: I began mine around nine o’clock, or later.

            Because I graduated from high school without a boyfriend in tow, I was a lost cause. I hated dating. All the sweaty hand-holding and sloppy kissing and front seat make-out sessions. I had been told repeatedly that I wasn’t pretty, that I was unlovable and so I couldn’t be picky,

            I was picky. If I married, I would choose a man who respected me for who I was, not who my mom wanted me to be. Therefor in college I dated a series of men. One, George, I thought I loved. Until he insisted that I change faith once we got married. End of that relationship.

            By the time I graduated from college, marriage became an actual thought. I dated a guy I met at the bowling alley, a too handsome guy who probably only took me out expecting something in return. He didn’t get it, therefor, no more dates.

            A couple of years later I walked into my new office to see a tall, smiling man who immediately warmed my heart. We worked a few cases together and had time to get to know one another.

            In time, we began dating. Then I enlisted in the Army Reserves because I wanted to go to the Monterey Institute of Languages, run by the military. I was sent to Alabama at the end of August, where the humidity was miserable and the constant drilling oppressive.

            I was only there two weeks, and was allowed only one phone call. I didn’t call home, which angered my parents. I called my beau, who met me at the airport with a hug and a kiss.

            Our relationship was sealed.

            We’ve been together 50 years. He’s always “seen” the real me. He’s never tried to make me into someone I didn’t want to be. He encouraged me to return to college to get my teaching credential, even though it was a financial strain and it meant he had to put the kids to bed.

            He’s my best friend, my partner, my fan club, my everything.

            If years ago my parents had seen the real me, I wonder if things might have been different. If our relationship would have been more amicable. If I wouldn’t have been a disappointment to them.

            Although I wasn’t the perfect parent as I made plenty of mistakes, I always tried to encourage our kids to be the person they wanted to be. As long as they kept their grades up.

            So this is a cautionary message to all soon-to-be parents out there: give your kids room to grow, to explore, to discover who they are supposed to be.

Deadlines

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            Over forty years ago a good friend taught me how to make various flowers for decorating cakes. Hers were always perfect: mine not so much. What made it special was working side-by-side as she demonstrated, then talked me through it.

            After every session I’d go home with containers of different kinds and different colors of flowers, plus tips and bags and even spare icing so I could make some more. When my kids’ birthdays arrived, I experimented with cartoon characters, truck shapes, and even a swimming pool since our older son was doing well on his swim team.

            From a distance, my flowers and vines and leaves looked pretty good. Only someone like my friend, who was quite talented, would see the flaws.

            My younger sister had been in and out of quite a few relationships. She’d married one older man, but he was looking for in-house babysitting. After a few months, that marriage ended.

            There was a second marriage to a seemingly nice guy, but apparently when no one was around he was violent and abusive. That marriage also fell apart, and for good reasons.

            By the time she married for the third time, I was pretty experienced at cake decorating. My mom volunteered my services, at no cost, of course. My family failed to tell me what flavor of cake and filling, nor what color scheme for flowers. Or even if there were to be flowers.

            The only instruction I had was to make a three-tiered cake. I thought that was interesting, as my parents had few friends and no relatives other than myself and my brother lived nearby.

            A week before the ceremony, I baked the three cake layers. Once they had cooled, I covered them and stored them in the freezer, as my friend had taught me to do.

            At that time, my kids were in elementary school, plus I was teaching part time. So, in between my real job and caring for my family, I spent evenings making flower after flower. Since I had no idea how many I’d need, I made tons.

            Two days before the wedding I removed the cakes from the freezer to thaw in the refrigerator.

            I made a buttercream frosting, white, then stored it in the fridge as well.

            The day before I covered each layer with the frosting, making sure the middle layers were thick.

            I covered the bottom layer with green vines and leaves. I stacked on the second layer and covered it with vines and leaves, then did the same with the third.

            I still had tons to do and was panicking about not finishing in time, when someone knocked on my door. I was expecting company, so I was surprised, and truthfully, annoyed, to see my pastor on the front step.

            He claimed he was dropping by for “a visit.” As he’s talking, I’m trying to listen, but mentally all I’m seeing are the ticking hands of a clock.

            He finally got to the real point of his visit. I’d half-heartedly applied to be on the new-to-be-formed Parish Council. I really didn’t want the position, but church friends thought I was a good candidate.

            He said that I wasn’t a “good candidate” and that I wasn’t approved. I thanked him, then stood and headed toward the front door. Of course he followed, talking all the way, piling on one excuse after another.

            Truth be told, I was relieved even though it hurt to be rejected.

The most important thing, at the point in my day, was to get him out of the house so I could finish the cake before I had to pick up my kids from school.

I might have been a bit rude, but he’d made his point. It should have been obvious that I had an unfinished cake on the dining room table. How could you miss a three-layer cake?

I was up against a deadline.

As soon as he stepped out of the door, I told him goodbye, shut and locked the door, then returned to work.

It wasn’t until after dinner that the cake was complete. To me, it looked pretty good. I had used the best flowers which I arranged in a pleasing design. A happy couple was imbedded in the top layer.

It wasn’t my responsibility to get it to the reception, which was important as I had no intention of going.

The most important details were complete: a finished cake sat on the table, and despite my fears, it looked beautiful.

I never heard from my sister if she was pleased, but that’s another story.

An Old Friend Reappears

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            I was sitting outside a friend’s house, too early to meet her. I didn’t mind the wait.

            The weather was pleasant, so it wasn’t hot in my car, plus I was listening to an engrossing novel through my radio.

            An unexpected car turned onto the street, a somewhat familiar gray-haired woman driving. I watched her through the side mirror park a bit down the road, so I assumed she was visiting that house, not my friend’s.

            About that time my friend Carol appeared, standing near the rear of her car.

            That was my cue to turn off my engine and meet her. As I approached, I asked her who the woman was. Carol’s face lit up as soon as she recognized Izzy, someone neither of us had seen in years.

            As soon as Izzy got near, she spoke and her voice took me back to the pre-COVID pandemic years, the last time the three of us had been together.

            As Carol drove to another friend’s house, the three of us caught up. It was wonderful to hear Izzy’s voice, to know that she was okay, and that she was still the kind, soft-spoken person I’d met years ago.

            During lunch, she sat at the far end of the table, next to another friend she hadn’t seen for years.

            Because I was at the opposite end, I shared stories with the three women closest to me.

            On the drive back to Carol’s house, Izzy was overjoyed at being with our group once again. I asked if she would join us next month, and her face lit up as she firmly stated, “Yes.”

            Not all old acquaintances are ones we want to see again, but in this case, I think all of us were pleased.

Missing Gift

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            We didn’t have a lot of money when our family was growing up. We’d skimp and save in order to replace a broken washer, or purchase off-brand foods that were usually bits and pieces of canned fruit, broken noodles, dented cans. We only bought what was essential and always, always on sale.

            When our oldest son was about to graduate from eighth grade, we thought he should have a reliable watch to see him through high school. I checked every ad, looking for the best deal on a good watch.

            I finally found one during the pre-Christmas sales. It wasn’t too expensive, it was a well-known brand, and better yet, it was on sale at a price we could afford.

            My husband entertained the kids while I supposedly went out shopping. In actuality, I snuck around the side of the house, past a large sliding glass door, then crawled in through a window in our bedroom. I had to stay completely silent, so no radio blaring, and keeping the cutting of wrapping paper and the application of scotch tape as quiet as possible.

            We heated the house with a wood-burning stove in the family room instead of using the furnace, so it was quite cold in the bedroom. I wore a heavy coat, stocking cap, and long-sleeved sweatshirts.

            At the end of a specified period of time, I’d hide the gifts in our closets, climb out through the window, slink around the side of the house and open the garage door. I’d always have packages to carry in, items I’d left in the trunk of the car for just that purpose.

            After the kids had fallen asleep, my husband and I carried all the wrapped gifts out from our bedroom and place them under the tree.

            According to tradition, the kids couldn’t get out of bed until my husband went into the front room, turned on all the lights and pronounced that Santa had been there.

            With a great amount of shrieking and laughter, we gathered around our tree and opened gifts, one-by-one. Mounds of wrapping paper were soon all over the floor, accompanied by ribbons and bows, all of which we’d recycle for next year.

            I kept track, and all gifts but one were accounted for: the watch.

            As the kids built Lego structures or played with new toys, I scoured the house, searching through all my usual hiding spots. The watch was nowhere to be found.

            There was one possible place left, one that I didn’t cherish searching: the large garbage can outside.

            This event took place before formal state-wide recycling took place, which meant that everything would be in the can! Food scraps, greasy food coverings, tin cans, crumpled aluminum foil, newspapers, and even lawn cuttings.

            I put on a pair of my husband’s yard gloves and began sorting, moving things one way, then the other, alternating sides, digging deeper and deeper into the much.

            My heart was pounding, harder and harder, as disappointment took over. I wasn’t going to find the watch, our son wouldn’t have a nice gift to take him into the future.

            Imagine my relief when the rectangular box finally appeared!

            And it was unsoiled, a true miracle.

            I tucked it under my sweatshirt and carried it inside and down the hall. I hastily wrapped it, then hid it behind the tree when no one was looking.

            When our son discovered it, unwrapped it, opened the box, his face lit up!