I thought I knew what it was.
I mean, what it really was.
Looking back, I see that I was a fool and that I had very little understanding of the true meaning of the word.
I was a fool to think that the pounding in my chest and the wide-eyed, deer-in-head-lights look equaled fear.
I thought that the whole numb feeling in my limbs was a sign that I was truly afraid.
Afraid, for instance, to be alone in the dark, afraid of what it meant to have a step-parent, afraid of a sub-standard test grade and what consequences were in store when I would come home from school, afraid of being found out.
At the time, it seemed legitimate.
Now I know better.
Something I read brought the visuals back to me.
Reminded me of my fear of losing him - losing either one of them.
It once was a distant thought. Just out of my reach. Something I never thought I'd have to face.
But the fact that one day, he came so close to being gone, rocks me to my core.
The words I read - words belonging to someone else - brought back the images I thought I had somehow managed to forget.
How naive and egotistical of me to think that?
How could I possibly forget?
How could I, his mother, forget that I turned my back, or that I was that stupid, that I would take such a chance with something so precious?
Why on Earth would I think, for a second, that I would be able to block out of my mind the look on his face - the fear and desperation in his eyes?
Or worse yet - what he was probably thinking, during those water-filled moments.
Things like Why is it taking so long? When will she notice that I am submerged and come over and get me?
I imagine that those moments must have felt like an eternity to him.
Is that part of our mother-son bond now?
The fact that we both now know what fear really means?
If so, it is not a glowing testament on my part, as a mother.
I wonder if that is the day my creativity, my words, got left at the side of the pool?
Because looking back, I haven't been the same since that day.
I even feel silly saying that, because I - we - were blessed with a happy ending.
But the guilt, the images, the fear just won't go away.
Writing about this makes me feel guilty.
Self-absorbed
and even throw in a dash of
self-pity.
I feel like writing it out like this, makes it sound as if it is all about me, how I feel, how I can't shake the images that repeat themselves in my mind's eye. How terrified they make me feel. Even now that it has been almost 8 months ago...It's a vicious mental cycle I am in.
Shouldn't it be about him?
I guess I just want him to know I'm better than that horrific moment in our history.
I guess I just want to know I'm better than that horrific moment in our history.
Showing posts with label days gone by. Show all posts
Showing posts with label days gone by. Show all posts
2/21/08
1/19/08
The Things They Leave Behind #2
So, this is it. The only arrowhead that I've ever found.I asked my dad, the last time I spoke to him if he "planted it" for me to find.
Which he emphatically denies.
I was quite relieved.
I mean, that would be sweet and all. But I'm glad it came to me own it's own.
The story about finding it came back to me at Christmas. My dad, Eileen, and my brothers came over on Christmas Eve....
Being adults (and I use that term loosely), Rav & I don't expect much from anyone for Christmas.
However, I know that I'm always in for it with my dad. He usually throws something emotional at me.
So, this year he hands me a box. And they specifically held this box back for me to open. Rav & I opened our Soprano's Family Cookbook, our assortment of gourmet cooking sauces and such. But this gift was held back.
We finally finished opening and the gift was handed over to me.
To be honest, I was scared.
Scared of having an emotional outburst.
I open it and inside of the box is a small shadow box.
And inside of the shadow box on batting, my dad arranged various of his artifacts from The Farm.
A handmade marble, a thimble, old buttons, pieces of pottery, various small tools - similar to arrowheads.
I was shocked and stunned.
Such a beautiful, heartfelt gift.
Probably one of the best I've ever received.
Receiving such a gift, kick-started my brain and reminded me of the arrowhead and the story, which I retold later that evening.
I probably could do this post and my dad/the gift better justice.
But the gift touched me so that I cannot find the words.
All I can say is that I look at it everyday and smile.
Just smile.
1/9/08
The Things They Leave Behind - #1
When my dad was young and living on The Farm, he would spend most of his time outdoors.
In the Fall and early Winter, he would spend time hunting.
In the Spring and Summer, he would spend time fishing and walking the fields.
For many years, my dad had built a collection of Indian Arrowheads, pipes, pieces of pottery, and the like from his time spent scouring.
There seemed to be one spot in particular that was a hot bed for lost things.
My dad's collection became quite large of these forgotten artifacts of another time.
Many exquisite arrowheads of many different colors, pieces of pottery, even teeth.
Lots of them.
(He didn't tell me about this until a month ago.)
In fact, he had found such an exquisite piece - a rather large and perfect arrowhead - he donated it to a museum in our state where it was on display until my early childhood. Where it is now, who knows.
Anyway...
Time slipped away, the young boy became a young man and an even younger father.
This hobby of his fell by the wayside.
I remember being a young girl and sitting with my dad for countless hours (willingly) examining arrowheads and other pieces of hardened, ancient earth that he had found.
He would tell me the story behind each piece and I would sit transfixed by what these were.
Small little bits of history that my dad had unearthed on The Farm.
I would very selfishly ask if I could have them.
And he told me one day, they would be mine.
As I got older, dad & I would walk the fields together.
Examining deer prints or other animal tracks.
Talking about the migratory patterns of geese and other winter-time escapees.
We would both walk and talk with our heads down.
Searching the ground for any piece that wanted to be found.
At age 11, I began getting really pissed off and utterly frustrated that I had never found anything.
As dad & I walked the fields, I said You know, all of this time you and I have been out here, looking, searching, and nothing. You have cases and cases full of arrowheads. Do you think you found them all? Do you think there are any left? I can't believe I haven't found one!
I looked down at my feet and there it was.
The one and only arrowhead that I have ever found.
In the Fall and early Winter, he would spend time hunting.
In the Spring and Summer, he would spend time fishing and walking the fields.
For many years, my dad had built a collection of Indian Arrowheads, pipes, pieces of pottery, and the like from his time spent scouring.
There seemed to be one spot in particular that was a hot bed for lost things.
My dad's collection became quite large of these forgotten artifacts of another time.
Many exquisite arrowheads of many different colors, pieces of pottery, even teeth.
Lots of them.
(He didn't tell me about this until a month ago.)
In fact, he had found such an exquisite piece - a rather large and perfect arrowhead - he donated it to a museum in our state where it was on display until my early childhood. Where it is now, who knows.
Anyway...
Time slipped away, the young boy became a young man and an even younger father.
This hobby of his fell by the wayside.
I remember being a young girl and sitting with my dad for countless hours (willingly) examining arrowheads and other pieces of hardened, ancient earth that he had found.
He would tell me the story behind each piece and I would sit transfixed by what these were.
Small little bits of history that my dad had unearthed on The Farm.
I would very selfishly ask if I could have them.
And he told me one day, they would be mine.
As I got older, dad & I would walk the fields together.
Examining deer prints or other animal tracks.
Talking about the migratory patterns of geese and other winter-time escapees.
We would both walk and talk with our heads down.
Searching the ground for any piece that wanted to be found.
At age 11, I began getting really pissed off and utterly frustrated that I had never found anything.
As dad & I walked the fields, I said You know, all of this time you and I have been out here, looking, searching, and nothing. You have cases and cases full of arrowheads. Do you think you found them all? Do you think there are any left? I can't believe I haven't found one!
I looked down at my feet and there it was.
The one and only arrowhead that I have ever found.
11/9/07
Dreams and Wishes From The Past
I had my 2nd reiki treatment last night.
The session was interesting & I can't wait to share it.
But first I had to get a few other thoughts out.
The first thing is that I wanted to share that I wrote a little card to *E's* mom.
And it was well received.
I'll leave it at that for now.
Last night before and after my treatment I met up with my stepmom for some girly talk.
And after we were finished - quite honestly we probably could have chatted all night long - I stopped in to see my dad and brothers. It wasn't a long visit. But it was enough. In a good way.
I was sharing with my dad the details of my reiki treatment and something came to him and he walked away.
He came back with a box.
And inside the box was a violin.
An old violin.
In pieces.
He began telling me how this violin was my grandfather's (his father). And he loved this violin. He thought it was "something".
My dad took it to a musician in a local city to find out about it and to inquire about getting it put back together.
Sadly (or not so sadly), the violin is "nothing" in terms of monetary value and it would cost more to put it back to rights than to buy a nice, quality new one.
As my dad was telling me about it, I began salivating.
And felt bad despite myself.
I felt like a wolf, hungry for the kill.
I felt horrible for being so overtaken with thoughts like Give it to me!! Drop it, sucker. Hand me the box and no one gets hurt!!!
I somehow managed to get ahold of myself.
See, for as long as I remember I've wanted to learn how to play the Violin. And to see this in front me of me was almost too much to handle....the thought of playing Violin - his violin - clouded any ounce of good judgement I had.
I never have understand why I wanted to play. Because my passion has always been the Saxophone (and percussion, although I've never played percussion instruments).
Something has always drawn me to the Violin.
I had no idea until last night that my grandfather used to play.
My dad finished his story about the poor, dime-store violin.
And then he said
I'm going to have a little ceremony and I'm going to burn it.
I gasped.
My eyes in wide horror.
WHY????????
He said I'm going to burn it and take it down to Dad. Maybe if we all get together on the weekend of Thanksgiving we'll burn it then since we all will be together.
My grandfather apparently had much love for this 1920s Montgomery Ward Violin - that he bought 2nd hand and thought was "something".
And my dad is doing the right thing by his Dad.
It should be with him where he rests.
I left their house a little less selfish.
Happy that it will be returned to its rightful owner
and that since I've never met my grandfather and always longed for some physical connection, content in the fact that maybe I got this desire to play from him.
The session was interesting & I can't wait to share it.
But first I had to get a few other thoughts out.
The first thing is that I wanted to share that I wrote a little card to *E's* mom.
And it was well received.
I'll leave it at that for now.
Last night before and after my treatment I met up with my stepmom for some girly talk.
And after we were finished - quite honestly we probably could have chatted all night long - I stopped in to see my dad and brothers. It wasn't a long visit. But it was enough. In a good way.
I was sharing with my dad the details of my reiki treatment and something came to him and he walked away.
He came back with a box.
And inside the box was a violin.
An old violin.
In pieces.
He began telling me how this violin was my grandfather's (his father). And he loved this violin. He thought it was "something".
My dad took it to a musician in a local city to find out about it and to inquire about getting it put back together.
Sadly (or not so sadly), the violin is "nothing" in terms of monetary value and it would cost more to put it back to rights than to buy a nice, quality new one.
As my dad was telling me about it, I began salivating.
And felt bad despite myself.
I felt like a wolf, hungry for the kill.
I felt horrible for being so overtaken with thoughts like Give it to me!! Drop it, sucker. Hand me the box and no one gets hurt!!!
I somehow managed to get ahold of myself.
See, for as long as I remember I've wanted to learn how to play the Violin. And to see this in front me of me was almost too much to handle....the thought of playing Violin - his violin - clouded any ounce of good judgement I had.
I never have understand why I wanted to play. Because my passion has always been the Saxophone (and percussion, although I've never played percussion instruments).
Something has always drawn me to the Violin.
I had no idea until last night that my grandfather used to play.
My dad finished his story about the poor, dime-store violin.
And then he said
I'm going to have a little ceremony and I'm going to burn it.
I gasped.
My eyes in wide horror.
WHY????????
He said I'm going to burn it and take it down to Dad. Maybe if we all get together on the weekend of Thanksgiving we'll burn it then since we all will be together.
My grandfather apparently had much love for this 1920s Montgomery Ward Violin - that he bought 2nd hand and thought was "something".
And my dad is doing the right thing by his Dad.
It should be with him where he rests.
I left their house a little less selfish.
Happy that it will be returned to its rightful owner
and that since I've never met my grandfather and always longed for some physical connection, content in the fact that maybe I got this desire to play from him.
10/30/07
My Nature From My Nurture
I wanted to thank all of you for your kind words and your supportive comments.
And the general tone that my post conveyed was that of an existential crisis.
I thought I would take the time to clear up my vague-ness.
The existential crisis hit me in the earlier part of my 20's - shortly after giving birth to Connor.
Giving birth allowed me to look at death with a whole new set of eyes.
It allowed me to further look into legacies and what this whole thing called life is really about.
It left me sleepless and frantic many a night as I looked over in the bassinet at my new baby boy and asked the heavens to keep me alive as long as possible so I wouldn't miss out on anything.
But that is not what I am fighting today. Oh no. In fact, I would take the whole existential bit over what is floating up to the surface right now.
The forgotten feeling I was speaking of is a feeling of emotional isolation and abandonment.
A feeling so ingrained that it has become part of my self-concept.
This was not something that was taught systematically, like teaching a child to tie his or her shoes.
This was something that was learned by non-verbals, observations, and certain choices made over a my childhood lifetime by the adults in my life.
Unfortunately, it is still there.
The thing that is of great discomfort to me right now is that I have been facing the fact that it is happening again to me with other people in my life.
I'm left feeling like the little girl asking herself What is wrong with me? Why am I not worthy?
Over the years, I have learned to shake that.
And for quite awhile I have felt my new, true self take root.
However, the ghost of my youth is back.
And her heart aches.
She's working it out.
I know she is.
It's an icky, messy, painful process.
My adult mind and body has to act as the vehicle for all of these childhood pains to pass through.
Some of you, who have been reading long enough, know the back story. I've shared as much as I can out here. There is more to the story that I simply cannot find the words for tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. I'm just not sure yet.
Joker, I want to thank you for your comment. If you had not said what you said on yesterday's post, I probably would not be doing this one. You read through exactly to what I was trying to say and I found such great comfort in it. Thank you, love. I know that I am not alone.
And the general tone that my post conveyed was that of an existential crisis.
I thought I would take the time to clear up my vague-ness.
The existential crisis hit me in the earlier part of my 20's - shortly after giving birth to Connor.
Giving birth allowed me to look at death with a whole new set of eyes.
It allowed me to further look into legacies and what this whole thing called life is really about.
It left me sleepless and frantic many a night as I looked over in the bassinet at my new baby boy and asked the heavens to keep me alive as long as possible so I wouldn't miss out on anything.
But that is not what I am fighting today. Oh no. In fact, I would take the whole existential bit over what is floating up to the surface right now.
The forgotten feeling I was speaking of is a feeling of emotional isolation and abandonment.
A feeling so ingrained that it has become part of my self-concept.
This was not something that was taught systematically, like teaching a child to tie his or her shoes.
This was something that was learned by non-verbals, observations, and certain choices made over a my childhood lifetime by the adults in my life.
Unfortunately, it is still there.
The thing that is of great discomfort to me right now is that I have been facing the fact that it is happening again to me with other people in my life.
I'm left feeling like the little girl asking herself What is wrong with me? Why am I not worthy?
Over the years, I have learned to shake that.
And for quite awhile I have felt my new, true self take root.
However, the ghost of my youth is back.
And her heart aches.
She's working it out.
I know she is.
It's an icky, messy, painful process.
My adult mind and body has to act as the vehicle for all of these childhood pains to pass through.
Some of you, who have been reading long enough, know the back story. I've shared as much as I can out here. There is more to the story that I simply cannot find the words for tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. I'm just not sure yet.
Joker, I want to thank you for your comment. If you had not said what you said on yesterday's post, I probably would not be doing this one. You read through exactly to what I was trying to say and I found such great comfort in it. Thank you, love. I know that I am not alone.
10/21/07
Sunday Morning Song of the Moment
Certain songs/albums define periods of time.
And when I hear them I am instantly transported back to that time.
Often, I can smell the smells that I associate with that moment in time,
I can recall instantly how I was feeling, the vibe of the environment around me.
I know that you guys probably have experienced this too.
Within the past week, I have heard this one song two times. And I haven't heard the song in quite awhile.
When I heard it, I was transported instantly.
I was transported to the infantile stages of my courtship with Rav.
The stage where all we had was time together and little responsibility.
Our time was our own.
And most of that time was spent in bed.
Talking for hours on end.
And that talking would, of course, lead to other things.
The constant vascilation between deep, heartfelt conversations
and an even deeper physical connection is what comes to mind when I hear the following song.
And the entire Parachutes album by Coldplay is best easily described as the soundtrack of these days.
The seeds of the famiglia de Ravioli were planted at this time and took root.
Connor was, quite possibly, made to one of the songs on this album.
Enjoy Don't Panic by Coldplay
******on a side note, one more final to go. papers have all been turned in. and i will be able to resume my normal lurking, reading, commenting activities.******
And when I hear them I am instantly transported back to that time.
Often, I can smell the smells that I associate with that moment in time,
I can recall instantly how I was feeling, the vibe of the environment around me.
I know that you guys probably have experienced this too.
Within the past week, I have heard this one song two times. And I haven't heard the song in quite awhile.
When I heard it, I was transported instantly.
I was transported to the infantile stages of my courtship with Rav.
The stage where all we had was time together and little responsibility.
Our time was our own.
And most of that time was spent in bed.
Talking for hours on end.
And that talking would, of course, lead to other things.
The constant vascilation between deep, heartfelt conversations
and an even deeper physical connection is what comes to mind when I hear the following song.
And the entire Parachutes album by Coldplay is best easily described as the soundtrack of these days.
The seeds of the famiglia de Ravioli were planted at this time and took root.
Connor was, quite possibly, made to one of the songs on this album.
Enjoy Don't Panic by Coldplay
******on a side note, one more final to go. papers have all been turned in. and i will be able to resume my normal lurking, reading, commenting activities.******
9/30/07
Sunday (Morning) Song of the Moment
** Edited**
I removed the original youtube video of this song that I had posted after I discovered that it did not contain the entire song....I added a better youtube version.
So sorry this one is a wee late. Today was spent in the delights of crisp blue skies, a quick nip on the skin from just the slightest bite of cold in the morning air.
The air smelled of possibility.
We took the kids to our favorite diner. The kids ate well.
Rav dove into some Pumpkin pancakes that were to die for.
If you were to ask me, at the age of 21, if I saw myself with two kids and a husband at 28, I probably would have wrinkled my nose,shrugged my shoulders and said
You just never know.
I try to, on a daily basis understand this world we live in.
I struggle with trying to make sense of, not necessarily for myself anymore, but for these two precious souls who are in my care.
I've been looking back lately, smiling and nodding at accomplishments and personal growth.
I sometimes cringe at the car wrecks I've found myself involved in.
I remember on more than one occasion wondering if I'd ever make it through.
And I always have.
Sure I might have a few battle scars - visible and not.
And for all that I have learned, there is still so much more to learn.
I'm itching for the journey ahead, whatever that may be.
Knowing me and the way things go
it'll be one amazing, scary, wild, and completely enjoyable ride.
I hope you enjoy the song. It's nothing newly discovered or obscure.
On The Road to Find Out ~ Cat Stevens
It just fits right into a quiet little spot in my heart and mind right now.
And I just thought I'd share.
I hope you all are enjoying this early fall, day.
I removed the original youtube video of this song that I had posted after I discovered that it did not contain the entire song....I added a better youtube version.
So sorry this one is a wee late. Today was spent in the delights of crisp blue skies, a quick nip on the skin from just the slightest bite of cold in the morning air.
The air smelled of possibility.
We took the kids to our favorite diner. The kids ate well.
Rav dove into some Pumpkin pancakes that were to die for.
If you were to ask me, at the age of 21, if I saw myself with two kids and a husband at 28, I probably would have wrinkled my nose,shrugged my shoulders and said
You just never know.
I try to, on a daily basis understand this world we live in.
I struggle with trying to make sense of, not necessarily for myself anymore, but for these two precious souls who are in my care.
I've been looking back lately, smiling and nodding at accomplishments and personal growth.
I sometimes cringe at the car wrecks I've found myself involved in.
I remember on more than one occasion wondering if I'd ever make it through.
And I always have.
Sure I might have a few battle scars - visible and not.
And for all that I have learned, there is still so much more to learn.
I'm itching for the journey ahead, whatever that may be.
Knowing me and the way things go
it'll be one amazing, scary, wild, and completely enjoyable ride.
I hope you enjoy the song. It's nothing newly discovered or obscure.
On The Road to Find Out ~ Cat Stevens
It just fits right into a quiet little spot in my heart and mind right now.
And I just thought I'd share.
I hope you all are enjoying this early fall, day.
9/13/07
Full Circle
I haven't seen Three Dog Night Dad in quite awhile.
There really is no great excuse.
Attempts have been made.
And for one reason or another, it just doesn't come to fruition.
Out of desperation, I phoned old Pop at about 4 p.m. Tuesday evening and said
Hey, Dad. It's Jess. Feel like stopping by for a bit on your way home from work?
He gobbled up the invitation.
We sat on the couch and chatted while the kids showed him every meaningless tidbit under the sun.
Meaningless as in Here, Pop-Pop! Look at this tissue!!! Here, Pop-Pop, look at this Cheerio on the floor that has been here since Connor's 6 month of life!!!
They were so excited to see him, they had to ply him with every object and object description they possibly could.
So there we are.
Father and daughter sitting on the couch.
Having a good old,long overdue talk.
All of a sudden, my dad stops listening.
His eyes avert to the right of me.
Something else has grabbed his attention.
At first I'm a tad bit alarmed thinking maybe that ginormous spider of ours has made it's way into the house.
Or worse yet, a mouse has been spotted (I'm freakishly afraid of the nasty buggers).
I look in the direction that has him so engrossed.
And it is this picture that has made it's way to the computer screen during the screen saver montage:
There really is no great excuse.
Attempts have been made.
And for one reason or another, it just doesn't come to fruition.
Out of desperation, I phoned old Pop at about 4 p.m. Tuesday evening and said
Hey, Dad. It's Jess. Feel like stopping by for a bit on your way home from work?
He gobbled up the invitation.
We sat on the couch and chatted while the kids showed him every meaningless tidbit under the sun.
Meaningless as in Here, Pop-Pop! Look at this tissue!!! Here, Pop-Pop, look at this Cheerio on the floor that has been here since Connor's 6 month of life!!!
They were so excited to see him, they had to ply him with every object and object description they possibly could.
So there we are.
Father and daughter sitting on the couch.
Having a good old,long overdue talk.
All of a sudden, my dad stops listening.
His eyes avert to the right of me.
Something else has grabbed his attention.
At first I'm a tad bit alarmed thinking maybe that ginormous spider of ours has made it's way into the house.
Or worse yet, a mouse has been spotted (I'm freakishly afraid of the nasty buggers).
I look in the direction that has him so engrossed.
And it is this picture that has made it's way to the computer screen during the screen saver montage:
He sat there staring with the goofiest, most satisfied, longing, happy look on his face.I was speechless.
I didn't know what to say.
But as a mom, as a parent, I can only imagine what he must have been thinking.
6/22/07
Today...Four Years Ago
Today, is the day that, 4 years ago, Rav & I wed. 
I know that at times, I jam my feelings for Rav down your throat.
So, I won't this time. You all know where we stand with each other.
All I'll do today is share a little slideshow of pictures and a song that we chose during the cake-cutting/smashing portion of our wedding.
All I want to say is Happy Anniversary, Rav. It's been a great ride so far. And thank you for the message that you left for me on here.
6/21/07
The Story Behind Killer
Remember a bit back, I was reminiscing about the summer camp where Rav & I met?
And I discussed that I was given the name of Dodgeball Ninja?
Which was a name used only on the Dodgeball court or in reference to the game itself.
Some of you who commented yesterday were curious about where Killer came from.
And again, that started at camp.....
Let's see....where to begin.
Let's start with my stats. Remember, I'm only 5'1". Really, 5' 1 1/2"....but that 1/2" really just makes me sound juvenile. Although, when you grow up always being the shortest one, you'll do anything for that 1/2". Anyway.....
I can't stand to be underestimated. Yes, I suppose I must have a Napoleon complex to some degree.
Also, at that time, I was probably 110 lbs., soaking wet. I was a wee thing.
Many people think they have to handle me with care simply because I am(was) little.
Working at the YMCA, we had every kind of kid you could imagine. From every kind of home.
Now, I am of the mindset that, when working with kids (of any kind) you have to start off sort of "tough" (i.e. be firm up front, set immediate boundaries, give respect and expect respect, that sort of thing....), and then ease up once roles have been clearly defined.
Not to mention when working with the number of kids that we did at that summer camp, it is essential that there be firm expectations - for safety reasons.
Look, bottom-line, I took my job seriously.
The second week of camp, I was assigned to work with the oldest group (who were about 12-14). And leading that group? Rav.
Rav who was a "senior" counselor.
Rav who was about the cockiest, arrogant person I had ever met at that point.
Rav who helped to develop G.A.T. (the Get-Away-Theory).
Which means that you try to ditch your group as much as possible.
And he surely did.
Which totally pissed me off.
He left me, a newbie, to try to handle this group of kids who were hell-bent on doing everything they could to make my life a living hell.
I was busting my butt in the summer heat, while he was laying on picnic tables in the shade with his finger up his nose.
When he finally returned to group, I let him have what-for. I was nice. I was firm.
But he got my point.
So, between my LOUD, commanding voice (for being so small), my often hard demeanor, my take-no-crap attitude, and my handling of Rav when shirking his duties, I was crowned
Killer.
And I discussed that I was given the name of Dodgeball Ninja?
Which was a name used only on the Dodgeball court or in reference to the game itself.
Some of you who commented yesterday were curious about where Killer came from.
And again, that started at camp.....
Let's see....where to begin.
Let's start with my stats. Remember, I'm only 5'1". Really, 5' 1 1/2"....but that 1/2" really just makes me sound juvenile. Although, when you grow up always being the shortest one, you'll do anything for that 1/2". Anyway.....
I can't stand to be underestimated. Yes, I suppose I must have a Napoleon complex to some degree.
Also, at that time, I was probably 110 lbs., soaking wet. I was a wee thing.
Many people think they have to handle me with care simply because I am(was) little.
Working at the YMCA, we had every kind of kid you could imagine. From every kind of home.
Now, I am of the mindset that, when working with kids (of any kind) you have to start off sort of "tough" (i.e. be firm up front, set immediate boundaries, give respect and expect respect, that sort of thing....), and then ease up once roles have been clearly defined.
Not to mention when working with the number of kids that we did at that summer camp, it is essential that there be firm expectations - for safety reasons.
Look, bottom-line, I took my job seriously.
The second week of camp, I was assigned to work with the oldest group (who were about 12-14). And leading that group? Rav.
Rav who was a "senior" counselor.
Rav who was about the cockiest, arrogant person I had ever met at that point.
Rav who helped to develop G.A.T. (the Get-Away-Theory).
Which means that you try to ditch your group as much as possible.
And he surely did.
Which totally pissed me off.
He left me, a newbie, to try to handle this group of kids who were hell-bent on doing everything they could to make my life a living hell.
I was busting my butt in the summer heat, while he was laying on picnic tables in the shade with his finger up his nose.
When he finally returned to group, I let him have what-for. I was nice. I was firm.
But he got my point.
So, between my LOUD, commanding voice (for being so small), my often hard demeanor, my take-no-crap attitude, and my handling of Rav when shirking his duties, I was crowned
Killer.
5/27/07
Sunday Morning Song of the Moment
Today is starting out a bit rough.
We were out late last night with the kids enjoying dinner with another couple at their house.
And as I type, we are packing up to head down to one of Delaware's beaches and then stopping in to visit my Dad, Eileen, and my brothers at their beach place on our way back home for dinner.
I got thinking about all of the times as a little girl, during my summers off, that my Dad & I would jump on his Harley Superglide and ride to the beach. The feeling of closeness and freedom. The wind-blown cheeks and hair. The exhilaration. I miss riding.
So for all of you ladies (and gents) that love the feeling of the open road via the backseat of a Harley (or any other motorcycle) this one is for you.
Unknown Legend by: Neil Young
We were out late last night with the kids enjoying dinner with another couple at their house.
And as I type, we are packing up to head down to one of Delaware's beaches and then stopping in to visit my Dad, Eileen, and my brothers at their beach place on our way back home for dinner.
I got thinking about all of the times as a little girl, during my summers off, that my Dad & I would jump on his Harley Superglide and ride to the beach. The feeling of closeness and freedom. The wind-blown cheeks and hair. The exhilaration. I miss riding.
So for all of you ladies (and gents) that love the feeling of the open road via the backseat of a Harley (or any other motorcycle) this one is for you.
Unknown Legend by: Neil Young
5/6/07
Sunday Afternoon Song of the Moment
I'm a little late pulling this one together. As I have been out of the loop, with finding new music lately, I'm pulling an old one out and dusting it off.
I've talked in-depth of my love for Bob Marley & the affectionate, warm memories that the music conjures up - the fact that these songs were my lullabies, basically. My dad played Bob non-stop. And I believe I am all the better for it. We watched documentary videos about Bob that my dad had in his library. I haven't seen those videos in years.
I still listen to these songs frequently. On a daily to weekly basis. I never tire of them. They balm my soul, they make me happy, they make me think, they make me feel. These songs course through me, like my blood through my veins. That is how much they are apart of me.
When I decided to search for this song on Youtube (thinking it would not be difficult to find), I almost felt as if I were cracking open a sacred time capsule of sorts. These videos are so sacred - the fond, happy memories that are wound up and tied to them. And when I played this video, which I haven't seen in an excess of twenty years, I was all chills, on the verge of tears, and smiling like I haven't smiled before. I remember this video/song vividly. I remember thinking how serene, happy, and genuine Bob looked. I remember thinking that if I could go anywhere at that moment, I would love to be transported to that video. To be near him, to feel his smile upon me like sunshine, to giggle and laugh like I never have before. To feel the peaceful, joyful childlike, blinded love and concern that was synonymous (in my mind) to Bob. In a safe, little place where we could all feel happy and beautiful for our likes and differences. Because, well, we all are. To feel childhood. If only for three to four minutes . The childhood that I had to leave behind when my family fell apart. The childhood I had only when I was with my Dad.
These songs, these videos will always hold the nearest and dearest part of me. And the endless hours listening and enjoying with my Dad.
Oh, and besides the shots of his beautiful smile. My favorite part is the end. Where he's dancing his signature dance...and leading the children. Like the pied piper. To a better place.
I hope you enjoy today's song. Is This Love by: Bob Marley and the Wailers
I've talked in-depth of my love for Bob Marley & the affectionate, warm memories that the music conjures up - the fact that these songs were my lullabies, basically. My dad played Bob non-stop. And I believe I am all the better for it. We watched documentary videos about Bob that my dad had in his library. I haven't seen those videos in years.
I still listen to these songs frequently. On a daily to weekly basis. I never tire of them. They balm my soul, they make me happy, they make me think, they make me feel. These songs course through me, like my blood through my veins. That is how much they are apart of me.
When I decided to search for this song on Youtube (thinking it would not be difficult to find), I almost felt as if I were cracking open a sacred time capsule of sorts. These videos are so sacred - the fond, happy memories that are wound up and tied to them. And when I played this video, which I haven't seen in an excess of twenty years, I was all chills, on the verge of tears, and smiling like I haven't smiled before. I remember this video/song vividly. I remember thinking how serene, happy, and genuine Bob looked. I remember thinking that if I could go anywhere at that moment, I would love to be transported to that video. To be near him, to feel his smile upon me like sunshine, to giggle and laugh like I never have before. To feel the peaceful, joyful childlike, blinded love and concern that was synonymous (in my mind) to Bob. In a safe, little place where we could all feel happy and beautiful for our likes and differences. Because, well, we all are. To feel childhood. If only for three to four minutes . The childhood that I had to leave behind when my family fell apart. The childhood I had only when I was with my Dad.
These songs, these videos will always hold the nearest and dearest part of me. And the endless hours listening and enjoying with my Dad.
Oh, and besides the shots of his beautiful smile. My favorite part is the end. Where he's dancing his signature dance...and leading the children. Like the pied piper. To a better place.
I hope you enjoy today's song. Is This Love by: Bob Marley and the Wailers
4/24/07
Hidden Talents
As the weather (momentarily) turns warmer here in our wee state, I have become nostalgic for the times that Rav & I spent together at the summer camp where we met. It will be a sweet 6 years ago that we met in June.
We have done so much in that short time together.
We have also missed some things due to the fact that shortly after meeting we would become parents.
But that summer was pretty magical - looking back.
Our daily activities for our groups at camp where rigorously scheduled.
But as camp counselors we took it upon ourselves to rearrange the schedules as we saw fit.
And when we were assigned to the older groups, that meant that we did everything we could to play dodge ball. All day.
I know, I know. It's been outlawed in many schools.
It's a mean, violent game.
But the kids begged to play.
And the ones that didn't were not made to participate.
The counselors, of course, got very competitive.
During that summer, I was given the nicknames of Killer & the Dodge Ball Ninja.
Rav called me Killer because of my intense competitiveness, no matter what the game.
I was called Dodge ball Ninja due to my stealthy skills at the game. I would hide in the back of the court, hiding a ball, and I would wait for the right time to strike. No matter how many times, I executed this plan, everyone would forget about me. Maybe it was my size, or the fact that I was a girl. I don't really know, but they paid for forgetting me. As I stood there in the back, I would pick my target. Then, when there was some other action on the court, I would begin to strike. Like a snake, I would glide forward towards the net (we played on a tennis court, with the net acting as the barrier between sides). At first I moved slowly, gradually picking up speed as I moved. I was silent, no one heard me coming. The only sound I made was the whipf whipf whipf of my mesh shorts as I came within striking distance. It is hard to describe, the sound of a red playground ball flying through the air. It almost makes a whirring sound. I'm sure to those who stared at that ball flying at them, it must have screamed. But as I said, my targets were picked well ahead of the throw. As I released that ball, usually my target was another counselor, or one of the oldest campers. You see, the surprise was my ally. Head to head with other counselors, who were mostly male, or even the older boy campers, I stood little chance. Those who were targeted knew it, almost too late. They knew that ball was meant for them as I reached the net. That look of shock and terror when that ball left my hand was a wonder to see. There is however one problem. For all my skills at stealth and camouflage, I had the worst aim ever. You see, I picked my targets. They knew it was coming. That look of surprise and terror was genuine. Unfortunately, the ball usually did not hit those who wore that look. It swerved to the left or to the right. Almost every time, I missed my intended victim. I didn't miss entirely. Oh no, I hit a target alright. That little boy or that little girl who was standing next to the bigger kids, just hoping for a little protection. Yes they were the real victims. They had no clue what was coming. And if you've never heard a red playground ball as it whirred through the air, then you've probably never heard the whoomp it makes when it strikes an innocent young face. And 9 times out of 10, that is what would happen. That ball would connect with an innocent cranium.
We have done so much in that short time together.
We have also missed some things due to the fact that shortly after meeting we would become parents.
But that summer was pretty magical - looking back.
Our daily activities for our groups at camp where rigorously scheduled.
But as camp counselors we took it upon ourselves to rearrange the schedules as we saw fit.
And when we were assigned to the older groups, that meant that we did everything we could to play dodge ball. All day.
I know, I know. It's been outlawed in many schools.
It's a mean, violent game.
But the kids begged to play.
And the ones that didn't were not made to participate.
The counselors, of course, got very competitive.
During that summer, I was given the nicknames of Killer & the Dodge Ball Ninja.
Rav called me Killer because of my intense competitiveness, no matter what the game.
I was called Dodge ball Ninja due to my stealthy skills at the game. I would hide in the back of the court, hiding a ball, and I would wait for the right time to strike. No matter how many times, I executed this plan, everyone would forget about me. Maybe it was my size, or the fact that I was a girl. I don't really know, but they paid for forgetting me. As I stood there in the back, I would pick my target. Then, when there was some other action on the court, I would begin to strike. Like a snake, I would glide forward towards the net (we played on a tennis court, with the net acting as the barrier between sides). At first I moved slowly, gradually picking up speed as I moved. I was silent, no one heard me coming. The only sound I made was the whipf whipf whipf of my mesh shorts as I came within striking distance. It is hard to describe, the sound of a red playground ball flying through the air. It almost makes a whirring sound. I'm sure to those who stared at that ball flying at them, it must have screamed. But as I said, my targets were picked well ahead of the throw. As I released that ball, usually my target was another counselor, or one of the oldest campers. You see, the surprise was my ally. Head to head with other counselors, who were mostly male, or even the older boy campers, I stood little chance. Those who were targeted knew it, almost too late. They knew that ball was meant for them as I reached the net. That look of shock and terror when that ball left my hand was a wonder to see. There is however one problem. For all my skills at stealth and camouflage, I had the worst aim ever. You see, I picked my targets. They knew it was coming. That look of surprise and terror was genuine. Unfortunately, the ball usually did not hit those who wore that look. It swerved to the left or to the right. Almost every time, I missed my intended victim. I didn't miss entirely. Oh no, I hit a target alright. That little boy or that little girl who was standing next to the bigger kids, just hoping for a little protection. Yes they were the real victims. They had no clue what was coming. And if you've never heard a red playground ball as it whirred through the air, then you've probably never heard the whoomp it makes when it strikes an innocent young face. And 9 times out of 10, that is what would happen. That ball would connect with an innocent cranium.
There are many sounds that I remember from that summer...the sound of my head striking the hard packed earth...the sonic boom caused by my Rav crash landing after a 10 foot fall, or the sound of me sliding through leaves and sticks, leaving a trail behind me like a meteor slamming into the earth. But these are tales for a different day.
4/10/07
Push, Pull
Lately, I've been thinking about things we want to do versus things we are supposed to do.
And I mean in a grand scheme. Not in terms of we want to eat ice cream, but we're supposed to eat dark greens.
This same theme has been recurring throughout different aspects of my daily life. I heard a dear blogger friend of mine refer to what career path she would have taken if she had it to do over, it has been a recurring theme on a few TV shows I've been watching, and it has been something that I long have struggled with.
I remember feeling so panic-stricken in high school because I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. And the idea of following suit with every one else freaked me out. On many levels. The idea of locking myself into something for four years & then spend the rest of my life doing it freaked me out. I had done a work study with MBNA my senior year in high school - and corporate life scared the living piss out of me. I'm sorry, but nothing - and I mean nothing is scarier than corporate America. So, I knew that sitting behind a desk for 40 years was out of the question. I was constantly plagued with what it was I should be doing, what I wanted to do, what I was supposed to be doing (i.e. my "calling").
My grand desire - my ultimate life goal would have been to become a photographer with National Geographic (hardy-har-har - like that would ever happen). So, I settled on becoming a Marine Biologist. I spoke with a teacher at my high school who had worked within the field & he basically told me that the jobs were hard to get, funding was always a problem. In other words: pick something else. And then the realization that I would have to move away from a cancer that I was dating at the time - and I can call it a cancer now because I'm not in it - stopped me from pursuing the Marine thing.
I knew that I had something itching, screaming, fighting to get out. But whether or not I was ready to handle it, or just didn't have the extra support and confidence I needed to listen to these screams that were inside of me, I don't know. I just know that I was afraid. I was hiding. I was afraid of thinking that these things I wanted could be mine. I was afraid to show people how passionate I felt about issues, I was afraid to let people see how other people & their struggles would bring me to my knees. That kind of stuff wasn't cool.
I've lived aimlessly. I've wandered with the tides, but never roaming too far. I've tried many different jobs, I've had tons of life experience, I've been in & out of college. And never knew what it was exactly that I had to offer, where I would fit, because everything (almost) lit my fire.
Here I am, approaching my third decade and trying to pick up where I left off at 17. I now feel ready to listen to what I've been hearing inside my head for years. Sometimes, it's freakishly scary. And other times, it's frighteningly exciting. I can't wait to see what the road is ahead.
But the questions begin to arise about what I want vs. what is meant for me. Am I forcing something that I want, but not necessarily what is meant to be? And how do we listen for it? How do we know when we're pushing a bunch of useless boulders uphill with no progress or we're actually moving those mountains? Why is it so hard to stop, to listen, to hear, to see what the signs are that are right smack in front of our nose?
And then the trap of all traps: measuring ourselves against others - our peers.
I wish I knew the answers to the questions. I wish I had peace of mind.
I hope it's not too late for me - or any others out there. Who do feel a push, to give in to the pull, and find where it is they should be and......get there.
And I mean in a grand scheme. Not in terms of we want to eat ice cream, but we're supposed to eat dark greens.
This same theme has been recurring throughout different aspects of my daily life. I heard a dear blogger friend of mine refer to what career path she would have taken if she had it to do over, it has been a recurring theme on a few TV shows I've been watching, and it has been something that I long have struggled with.
I remember feeling so panic-stricken in high school because I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. And the idea of following suit with every one else freaked me out. On many levels. The idea of locking myself into something for four years & then spend the rest of my life doing it freaked me out. I had done a work study with MBNA my senior year in high school - and corporate life scared the living piss out of me. I'm sorry, but nothing - and I mean nothing is scarier than corporate America. So, I knew that sitting behind a desk for 40 years was out of the question. I was constantly plagued with what it was I should be doing, what I wanted to do, what I was supposed to be doing (i.e. my "calling").
My grand desire - my ultimate life goal would have been to become a photographer with National Geographic (hardy-har-har - like that would ever happen). So, I settled on becoming a Marine Biologist. I spoke with a teacher at my high school who had worked within the field & he basically told me that the jobs were hard to get, funding was always a problem. In other words: pick something else. And then the realization that I would have to move away from a cancer that I was dating at the time - and I can call it a cancer now because I'm not in it - stopped me from pursuing the Marine thing.
I knew that I had something itching, screaming, fighting to get out. But whether or not I was ready to handle it, or just didn't have the extra support and confidence I needed to listen to these screams that were inside of me, I don't know. I just know that I was afraid. I was hiding. I was afraid of thinking that these things I wanted could be mine. I was afraid to show people how passionate I felt about issues, I was afraid to let people see how other people & their struggles would bring me to my knees. That kind of stuff wasn't cool.
I've lived aimlessly. I've wandered with the tides, but never roaming too far. I've tried many different jobs, I've had tons of life experience, I've been in & out of college. And never knew what it was exactly that I had to offer, where I would fit, because everything (almost) lit my fire.
Here I am, approaching my third decade and trying to pick up where I left off at 17. I now feel ready to listen to what I've been hearing inside my head for years. Sometimes, it's freakishly scary. And other times, it's frighteningly exciting. I can't wait to see what the road is ahead.
But the questions begin to arise about what I want vs. what is meant for me. Am I forcing something that I want, but not necessarily what is meant to be? And how do we listen for it? How do we know when we're pushing a bunch of useless boulders uphill with no progress or we're actually moving those mountains? Why is it so hard to stop, to listen, to hear, to see what the signs are that are right smack in front of our nose?
And then the trap of all traps: measuring ourselves against others - our peers.
I wish I knew the answers to the questions. I wish I had peace of mind.
I hope it's not too late for me - or any others out there. Who do feel a push, to give in to the pull, and find where it is they should be and......get there.
3/20/07
Strange And Beautiful
Not to sound narcissistic, but I've reread yesterday's post quite a few times. I don't really know why.
I think I've never really felt this stuff. Until I wrote it yesterday.
I've always known it was there. I've talked about it with a select few, but I always regurgitated it as if I were telling someone else's story. I had somehow detached myself from it.
After I wrote this post yesterday, I felt like I was standing naked (post 2 children - UGH) for all the world to see. Even as Rav was reading it, I was dreading having to look him in the eye.
However, I said to him: What is interesting to me is that, from what I gather, mom wanted out. And yet she was a mess. Dad wanted this family, he wanted to make things work. And I know he was devastated. You would think my Dad would be the one who sort of went off the deep end. But he didn't. He remained strong. And I think he found solace and comfort in me. He held it together for me. And yet, the one that wanted it to be over, fell apart.
I think I've decided to end the narrative here and begin with the strong male role stuff, which is the reason I had been writing all of this in the first place.
To get there - to get to where I can explain how I held onto every bit of what my Dad said - the goofy/crazy things my Grandpop Donovan did, to pick my dad's brain incessantly about my grandfather (his dad). As much as the men that were in my life during my days with my mom were pure chaos, I had this other end of the spectrum that I held onto for dear life.
And perhaps this is where the answer was for me. If all I knew were the men that had paraded in and out of my life during these years, things would have been different.
However, I knew better. I knew that I had a strong, dependable, good man who was my dad. Thank god I learned early enough that not all men were bad.
I also would like to state here (and though any of you who are reading because you want to, will probably know this) I am not reliving this as a means to gain sympathy. Nor am I doing this to proclaim I am a victim.
That is the farthest thing from the truth.
In my mind-set, speaking from my context, these things helped shape who I have become. I don't sit here and say Because such and such happened, I haven't been able to do _______, or I have not had this happen because ________, everything bad that has ever happened is because ________.
That's no my bag.
I could have most certainly take many a different path.
And the paths I've taken haven't always been the best. But that was because of choices I have made.
However, by saying this is where I came from, this is what happened, I can say that I will choose a different path but those things have no doubt left their mark.
The only way I can make healthy decisions are to give some things their due and proper.
And then move on.
Sometimes learning things about one's past can also give you a better understanding of why they are the way they are.
If you look long enough into the window of my soul, you begin to understand why I am the way I am.
You begin to understand why being cruel, or mistreating children makes the claws come out. My children - or anybody else's.
You may even begin to understand why I have a hard time with conflict. Inside I'm yelling things aren't right, but the words just can't come out.
To this day.
OK, now that the disclaimer is over with. I could go on a bit about the ridiculous situations my mom & I were in. But that is just gluttonous at this point. I've set the stage - I believe you have an understanding of what was going on.
Something else I need to acknowledge here is that while in my mom's custody during most of the week and on her weekends, I was in my grandmother's care a lot (my mom's mom). As were my 3 younger cousins. We got on & off the school bus from my grandmothers house, we ate dinner there every night. During days off, or school vacations we were all there. We were more like siblings than cousins.
However, what set me apart is that I was the only one who either a)Knew her father or b)Had a regular, on-going relationship with her father.
The other 3 didn't.
I can't imagine what that must have been like when I would get picked up or dropped off. Every-other Friday & Sunday.
How that must have hurt them. Though it wasn't my fault.
I know it was an issue because things were said about it.
I've often felt bad that I had that support system or that I always had that upon which I could count on.
And all of that became fodder for which to cast stones.
But I didn't care.
I hung on for dear life for the weekends with my dad. This was my hope.
I'm not sure if my Dad knew what he was doing when he was doing it, but he created a place where I could really be myself. He fostered trust and discipline. He was firm and loving. I was always part of whatever process was going on. Things that ranged from first growing his beard, to his new relationship, to his marriage. I wasn't "seen and not heard". I was respected as a human being, yet I knew he was in charge. This wasn't a relationship of excess. And when I say that, I mean I'm not talking about me being the likes of Veruca Salt. I just mean that he treated me like a little girl. I was never asked to handle more than I should.
I always knew that if I needed to talk, I could go to my Dad. I knew that he would listen in a nonjudgmental way. And he would give me his honest opinion. Not just an opinion in my favor. If I did something he didn't agree with, he would tell me.
He didn't force my hand in a positive relationship with him. He held me close, yet loosely and let the rest happen organically. This is something that my mom didn't understand. She didn't understand why I "chose" my dad and not her (those are her words, not mine).
The other thing my Dad did, possibly unknowingly, was foster the feminist inside. I feel that by taking me fishing, being outdoors, going everywhere with him on our weekends (ranging from car shows, or to his side jobs fixing up old cars to riding the motorcycle with him, teaching me how to fire a shotgun and handgun (and do it well), to hunting, and other things I can't recall as I sit here typing) he set me up to believe - to know - that I can do anything. And that anything I wanted to try - if it made me happy - he was willing to let me try.
My dad taught me to appreciate the simple pleasures of our environment and wildlife. My dad talked issues with me, as well as, history. Dad introduced me to the beautiful things the world had to offer, to seek it out, to explore, to think critically, and to question. He taught me how to be insightful, thoughtful, compassionate, and fair. He did this all by example.
As time went on and I got older, my stepmother, Eileen, is the one who modeled and taught me about charity.
Of course, you know....music.
Everything my dad (and eventually stepmother) did was about enriching me, about guiding me, and modeling for me. Though they probably didn't realize it. While my weeks were filled with survival, my weekends were where I was thriving.
Those weekends spent at The Farm were (now that I look back) constant learning experiences. Grandpop Donovan who was so knowledgeable about tending his garden and gaining something from hard, physical work. Even in your 80's and 90's. You have too keep moving, be active, feel the fresh air.
Grandpop's groceries were interesting to me growing up. He ate modestly, but he wanted his fruits and vegetables to be of good quality. He was very picky. And he loved his wheat bread. He never touched sweets (god love him, I wish I could stay away from them).
What is probably going to sound funny is that Grandpop Donovan never once said my name. And that might sound harsh. But he was hard of hearing - he (being a very old man) had lost his teeth and never got dentures - so he couldn't speak well. He was afraid to try to say my name because he didn't want to mispronounce it. So he just always called me The Little Girl.
I have always been so thankful for the times dad & I were together.
And I catch myself doing things he did, without even realizing it.
Like pointing out which fields are soy beans, corn, or winter wheat to the kids.
Squealing like a nut whenever I see deer and pointing them out to the kids.
My crazy obsession with music and sharing it with the kids.
I'm certainly not a perfect parent.
My dad isn't either.
But he did pretty good by me. When we were together.
Being a dad was so important to him. Is still so important to him.
I see the way he looks at Gracie when we get to visit with him. And I know where his mind is drifting to. I've even heard him call her Jess once.
If I can be half the parent my dad was/is, I know I'll be doing OK.
I don't think this post does my dad any justice at all. And I don't know that I'm adequately describing the strong men I had in my life. I'm wrapping up this post thinking I haven't even really touched on it.
I think I've never really felt this stuff. Until I wrote it yesterday.
I've always known it was there. I've talked about it with a select few, but I always regurgitated it as if I were telling someone else's story. I had somehow detached myself from it.
After I wrote this post yesterday, I felt like I was standing naked (post 2 children - UGH) for all the world to see. Even as Rav was reading it, I was dreading having to look him in the eye.
However, I said to him: What is interesting to me is that, from what I gather, mom wanted out. And yet she was a mess. Dad wanted this family, he wanted to make things work. And I know he was devastated. You would think my Dad would be the one who sort of went off the deep end. But he didn't. He remained strong. And I think he found solace and comfort in me. He held it together for me. And yet, the one that wanted it to be over, fell apart.
I think I've decided to end the narrative here and begin with the strong male role stuff, which is the reason I had been writing all of this in the first place.
To get there - to get to where I can explain how I held onto every bit of what my Dad said - the goofy/crazy things my Grandpop Donovan did, to pick my dad's brain incessantly about my grandfather (his dad). As much as the men that were in my life during my days with my mom were pure chaos, I had this other end of the spectrum that I held onto for dear life.
And perhaps this is where the answer was for me. If all I knew were the men that had paraded in and out of my life during these years, things would have been different.
However, I knew better. I knew that I had a strong, dependable, good man who was my dad. Thank god I learned early enough that not all men were bad.
I also would like to state here (and though any of you who are reading because you want to, will probably know this) I am not reliving this as a means to gain sympathy. Nor am I doing this to proclaim I am a victim.
That is the farthest thing from the truth.
In my mind-set, speaking from my context, these things helped shape who I have become. I don't sit here and say Because such and such happened, I haven't been able to do _______, or I have not had this happen because ________, everything bad that has ever happened is because ________.
That's no my bag.
I could have most certainly take many a different path.
And the paths I've taken haven't always been the best. But that was because of choices I have made.
However, by saying this is where I came from, this is what happened, I can say that I will choose a different path but those things have no doubt left their mark.
The only way I can make healthy decisions are to give some things their due and proper.
And then move on.
Sometimes learning things about one's past can also give you a better understanding of why they are the way they are.
If you look long enough into the window of my soul, you begin to understand why I am the way I am.
You begin to understand why being cruel, or mistreating children makes the claws come out. My children - or anybody else's.
You may even begin to understand why I have a hard time with conflict. Inside I'm yelling things aren't right, but the words just can't come out.
To this day.
OK, now that the disclaimer is over with. I could go on a bit about the ridiculous situations my mom & I were in. But that is just gluttonous at this point. I've set the stage - I believe you have an understanding of what was going on.
Something else I need to acknowledge here is that while in my mom's custody during most of the week and on her weekends, I was in my grandmother's care a lot (my mom's mom). As were my 3 younger cousins. We got on & off the school bus from my grandmothers house, we ate dinner there every night. During days off, or school vacations we were all there. We were more like siblings than cousins.
However, what set me apart is that I was the only one who either a)Knew her father or b)Had a regular, on-going relationship with her father.
The other 3 didn't.
I can't imagine what that must have been like when I would get picked up or dropped off. Every-other Friday & Sunday.
How that must have hurt them. Though it wasn't my fault.
I know it was an issue because things were said about it.
I've often felt bad that I had that support system or that I always had that upon which I could count on.
And all of that became fodder for which to cast stones.
But I didn't care.
I hung on for dear life for the weekends with my dad. This was my hope.
I'm not sure if my Dad knew what he was doing when he was doing it, but he created a place where I could really be myself. He fostered trust and discipline. He was firm and loving. I was always part of whatever process was going on. Things that ranged from first growing his beard, to his new relationship, to his marriage. I wasn't "seen and not heard". I was respected as a human being, yet I knew he was in charge. This wasn't a relationship of excess. And when I say that, I mean I'm not talking about me being the likes of Veruca Salt. I just mean that he treated me like a little girl. I was never asked to handle more than I should.
I always knew that if I needed to talk, I could go to my Dad. I knew that he would listen in a nonjudgmental way. And he would give me his honest opinion. Not just an opinion in my favor. If I did something he didn't agree with, he would tell me.
He didn't force my hand in a positive relationship with him. He held me close, yet loosely and let the rest happen organically. This is something that my mom didn't understand. She didn't understand why I "chose" my dad and not her (those are her words, not mine).
The other thing my Dad did, possibly unknowingly, was foster the feminist inside. I feel that by taking me fishing, being outdoors, going everywhere with him on our weekends (ranging from car shows, or to his side jobs fixing up old cars to riding the motorcycle with him, teaching me how to fire a shotgun and handgun (and do it well), to hunting, and other things I can't recall as I sit here typing) he set me up to believe - to know - that I can do anything. And that anything I wanted to try - if it made me happy - he was willing to let me try.
My dad taught me to appreciate the simple pleasures of our environment and wildlife. My dad talked issues with me, as well as, history. Dad introduced me to the beautiful things the world had to offer, to seek it out, to explore, to think critically, and to question. He taught me how to be insightful, thoughtful, compassionate, and fair. He did this all by example.
As time went on and I got older, my stepmother, Eileen, is the one who modeled and taught me about charity.
Of course, you know....music.
Everything my dad (and eventually stepmother) did was about enriching me, about guiding me, and modeling for me. Though they probably didn't realize it. While my weeks were filled with survival, my weekends were where I was thriving.
Those weekends spent at The Farm were (now that I look back) constant learning experiences. Grandpop Donovan who was so knowledgeable about tending his garden and gaining something from hard, physical work. Even in your 80's and 90's. You have too keep moving, be active, feel the fresh air.
Grandpop's groceries were interesting to me growing up. He ate modestly, but he wanted his fruits and vegetables to be of good quality. He was very picky. And he loved his wheat bread. He never touched sweets (god love him, I wish I could stay away from them).
What is probably going to sound funny is that Grandpop Donovan never once said my name. And that might sound harsh. But he was hard of hearing - he (being a very old man) had lost his teeth and never got dentures - so he couldn't speak well. He was afraid to try to say my name because he didn't want to mispronounce it. So he just always called me The Little Girl.
I have always been so thankful for the times dad & I were together.
And I catch myself doing things he did, without even realizing it.
Like pointing out which fields are soy beans, corn, or winter wheat to the kids.
Squealing like a nut whenever I see deer and pointing them out to the kids.
My crazy obsession with music and sharing it with the kids.
I'm certainly not a perfect parent.
My dad isn't either.
But he did pretty good by me. When we were together.
Being a dad was so important to him. Is still so important to him.
I see the way he looks at Gracie when we get to visit with him. And I know where his mind is drifting to. I've even heard him call her Jess once.
If I can be half the parent my dad was/is, I know I'll be doing OK.
I don't think this post does my dad any justice at all. And I don't know that I'm adequately describing the strong men I had in my life. I'm wrapping up this post thinking I haven't even really touched on it.
3/19/07
Overexposed and Other Worlds
Continuing from here, here and here..........
I don't remember much about the 7-11 incident. I remember the look of panic and despair on my dad's face. I think, I remember being placed in my mother's arms in the parking lot. And I do remember that feeling of failing and betraying my dad was intensified by this whole scene. I once again, was screaming on the inside to let me stay with my dad, but absolutely no words came out.
The thing that I find so interesting when I reflect back on this is that up to that point, I had no real "reason" for wanting my dad over my mom. The worst was yet to come, though I couldn't know that. But nothing had happened yet to make a 4-5 year-old want to stay with one parent over the other. It wasn't something that had evidence behind it. I guess you could just call it a premonition.
I don't really know where to go from here. I don't really remember finishing kindergarten, though I know I did. I don't even really know what time of year it was when all of this was going on. I suppose it must have been Spring/Summer when I was actually 5. Some time had passed, but the memories, for me are compressed into one big lump.
The only thing I know for sure is that 1st grade was crazy. And where I'm about to go is a little disturbing. You'll know it when you read it.
When my mom & I moved into our one-bedroom efficiency apartment, she had a boyfriend, B. (I later figured it out & pieced together that B. was what happened to my family. Or I should say, B & my mom were what happened to my family).
B. would spend the night a lot. And when he did, mom & B. would sleep in the bedroom & I would sleep on the fold-out couch. One night, B. was over & it was bed time. I don't know why I had to go in my mom's room (I'm assuming to ask a question). When I walked in, B. looked me dead in the eye, he pulled back the blankets and exposed himself to me. I remember thinking This is weird. But I made no reaction. I completely ignored him. I walked over to my mom & asked her my question - or whatever I was in there doing. And left. It didn't come out until a couple of days later, that this had happened.
I know that they broke up & I'm assuming that by a smart-a** comment he made to me when my mom was giving him the boot that it was because of this incident.
Whatever, good riddance a**hole.
The next guy to join us a short-time later (still during 1st grade) was D. D was a raging alcoholic and drug addict. I really, really didn't like D. D lived just down the road a bit from mom & I. And he had a niece that was in my 1st grade class. I remember being at D's apartment - with a bunch of adults around (including my mom). There were 3 kids there - including me. They shuffled us kids into a bedroom, where we were supposed to stay and play. But me, ever aware that situations were screwy & wanting to do something about them, but not really having an understanding of what was going on, walked in on a circle of drug use.
I believe a large fight began, because I remember being under the apartment stairs, hiding while my mom & him raged on.
Another flash of memory and a short-time after that, we had to go pick up a wasted D somewhere. As I'm sure he was too wasted to drive (if he even had a license). He got in the car and about as soon as he sat down on the passenger seat, a fight started. I know I was retreating into myself - I don't remember what I was hearing. All I knew is what I saw. His face all red and crazy. Fists flying quickly back and forth....then bloody. From a scuffle with the dashboard of my mom's car.
And the next thing I know, we deposited him in a random parking lot.
That's the last I really remember of him, though I think he was around for a little while longer.
Though I remember it being a school night, rather late in the evening. And driving to this bar with my mom. We pulled in the parking lot & I remember thinking that I knew I wasn't allowed inside. And even if I was, I wasn't going in there. And surely I didn't.
Mom walked in before I even knew what was happening. And all I knew was I was inside our car, by myself in the parking lot of this scary place. She's taking a long time. When are we going home? What are we doing here?
Being ever resourceful and knowing that things aren't right, I began to honk the horn like it was my job. After a few minutes, she came out. I'm sure she had some words for me, but by then I had already retreated again. I had shut down. And when I did that, I heard nothing. I only saw.
During this time, my dad had moved in with my grandmother at The Farm.
This is where I spent every-other-weekend feeling normal and safe. This is where Dad & I would explore the farm. This is where Dad & I would drive around the country looking for ducks in the marshes, we would talk about the abundant life going on in the marshes and estuaries - even though you couldn't necessarily see it. Dad & I would fish together. We would talk about anything and everything. We would take motorcycle rides down to the beach or downstate to my Uncle & Aunt's house.
The Farm became my island. My dad became my strength. I felt that as long as I were there or with him, that I was OK.
When he would pick me up, and I would sit in the cab of his old pick-up truck, I felt like I was in a whole other world. A world where I was loved, safe, and treasured. I knew that being in the truck meant that I was being carried away to somewhere better. Even if it was only for 2 days. It meant that the only thing I had to worry about was how to get a slimy fish off of a hook, if I was going to find any arrowheads or cool pieces of broken pottery in the fields of The Farm, what songs my dad was going to play on the radio, what cool dessert my grandmother had made, what Saturday morning cartoons I was going to watch.
I never had to worry about being shut-up in a room while a bunch of grown-ups got high. I never had to worry about feeling scared.
And yet as wonderful as the two weekends a month felt, I couldn't reconcile in my now 5-6 year-old brain, why I felt so conflicted and confused all of the time. I couldn't reconcile why I wanted things to be different during the week and the other two weekends. I couldn't reconcile why I was so angry when I would come home. I couldn't reconcile the dread.
I don't remember much about the 7-11 incident. I remember the look of panic and despair on my dad's face. I think, I remember being placed in my mother's arms in the parking lot. And I do remember that feeling of failing and betraying my dad was intensified by this whole scene. I once again, was screaming on the inside to let me stay with my dad, but absolutely no words came out.
The thing that I find so interesting when I reflect back on this is that up to that point, I had no real "reason" for wanting my dad over my mom. The worst was yet to come, though I couldn't know that. But nothing had happened yet to make a 4-5 year-old want to stay with one parent over the other. It wasn't something that had evidence behind it. I guess you could just call it a premonition.
I don't really know where to go from here. I don't really remember finishing kindergarten, though I know I did. I don't even really know what time of year it was when all of this was going on. I suppose it must have been Spring/Summer when I was actually 5. Some time had passed, but the memories, for me are compressed into one big lump.
The only thing I know for sure is that 1st grade was crazy. And where I'm about to go is a little disturbing. You'll know it when you read it.
When my mom & I moved into our one-bedroom efficiency apartment, she had a boyfriend, B. (I later figured it out & pieced together that B. was what happened to my family. Or I should say, B & my mom were what happened to my family).
B. would spend the night a lot. And when he did, mom & B. would sleep in the bedroom & I would sleep on the fold-out couch. One night, B. was over & it was bed time. I don't know why I had to go in my mom's room (I'm assuming to ask a question). When I walked in, B. looked me dead in the eye, he pulled back the blankets and exposed himself to me. I remember thinking This is weird. But I made no reaction. I completely ignored him. I walked over to my mom & asked her my question - or whatever I was in there doing. And left. It didn't come out until a couple of days later, that this had happened.
I know that they broke up & I'm assuming that by a smart-a** comment he made to me when my mom was giving him the boot that it was because of this incident.
Whatever, good riddance a**hole.
The next guy to join us a short-time later (still during 1st grade) was D. D was a raging alcoholic and drug addict. I really, really didn't like D. D lived just down the road a bit from mom & I. And he had a niece that was in my 1st grade class. I remember being at D's apartment - with a bunch of adults around (including my mom). There were 3 kids there - including me. They shuffled us kids into a bedroom, where we were supposed to stay and play. But me, ever aware that situations were screwy & wanting to do something about them, but not really having an understanding of what was going on, walked in on a circle of drug use.
I believe a large fight began, because I remember being under the apartment stairs, hiding while my mom & him raged on.
Another flash of memory and a short-time after that, we had to go pick up a wasted D somewhere. As I'm sure he was too wasted to drive (if he even had a license). He got in the car and about as soon as he sat down on the passenger seat, a fight started. I know I was retreating into myself - I don't remember what I was hearing. All I knew is what I saw. His face all red and crazy. Fists flying quickly back and forth....then bloody. From a scuffle with the dashboard of my mom's car.
And the next thing I know, we deposited him in a random parking lot.
That's the last I really remember of him, though I think he was around for a little while longer.
Though I remember it being a school night, rather late in the evening. And driving to this bar with my mom. We pulled in the parking lot & I remember thinking that I knew I wasn't allowed inside. And even if I was, I wasn't going in there. And surely I didn't.
Mom walked in before I even knew what was happening. And all I knew was I was inside our car, by myself in the parking lot of this scary place. She's taking a long time. When are we going home? What are we doing here?
Being ever resourceful and knowing that things aren't right, I began to honk the horn like it was my job. After a few minutes, she came out. I'm sure she had some words for me, but by then I had already retreated again. I had shut down. And when I did that, I heard nothing. I only saw.
During this time, my dad had moved in with my grandmother at The Farm.
This is where I spent every-other-weekend feeling normal and safe. This is where Dad & I would explore the farm. This is where Dad & I would drive around the country looking for ducks in the marshes, we would talk about the abundant life going on in the marshes and estuaries - even though you couldn't necessarily see it. Dad & I would fish together. We would talk about anything and everything. We would take motorcycle rides down to the beach or downstate to my Uncle & Aunt's house.
The Farm became my island. My dad became my strength. I felt that as long as I were there or with him, that I was OK.
When he would pick me up, and I would sit in the cab of his old pick-up truck, I felt like I was in a whole other world. A world where I was loved, safe, and treasured. I knew that being in the truck meant that I was being carried away to somewhere better. Even if it was only for 2 days. It meant that the only thing I had to worry about was how to get a slimy fish off of a hook, if I was going to find any arrowheads or cool pieces of broken pottery in the fields of The Farm, what songs my dad was going to play on the radio, what cool dessert my grandmother had made, what Saturday morning cartoons I was going to watch.
I never had to worry about being shut-up in a room while a bunch of grown-ups got high. I never had to worry about feeling scared.
And yet as wonderful as the two weekends a month felt, I couldn't reconcile in my now 5-6 year-old brain, why I felt so conflicted and confused all of the time. I couldn't reconcile why I wanted things to be different during the week and the other two weekends. I couldn't reconcile why I was so angry when I would come home. I couldn't reconcile the dread.
3/15/07
Flashes Of Memory
Before I start getting into the meat of this next post, I want to say that what is to follow is my heart and soul. It is seriously like ripping open my brain and exposing my beating heart to the harsh, refreshing open air. These are things I've shared with my old therapist and my husband. Possibly with my BFF. But not many beyond that. They are things that flow right below the surface. You can't always see them, but if I were to be scratched they would spill out all over the place.
When we moved to our house there are memories that go from seemingly good, straight to bad in a matter of milliseconds - to my 4 year-old memory, anyway. These images, these memories flash through my mind almost as if in a montage. They appear as if in a tunnel where the background is pitch black, but the image itself is in a bright spotlight.
When we moved to our house there are memories that go from seemingly good, straight to bad in a matter of milliseconds - to my 4 year-old memory, anyway. These images, these memories flash through my mind almost as if in a montage. They appear as if in a tunnel where the background is pitch black, but the image itself is in a bright spotlight.
Our House
The times spent in that house were my only recollection of being a "family". My dad continued to work days, my mom nights. This is where I fell in love with music. These are my earliest memories of music. This house - in the living room - is where I first heard Carly Simon on the radio singing "Jessie". Whereupon I said to my parents, "Jess. I like that name Jess. Just call me Jess." And they did.
And still do.
The three loves of my dad's life in '82I remember sitting in the front seat of our Volare (or however you spell it), with the windows down, singing to the songs on the radio.
I remember swinging on the tire swing in our backyard.
I remember having a Christmas party at our house. My mom and I baked cookies. My dad had the wood stove going in the little addition/porch off the front of our house. Our house became full of people.
My dad & I in our front yard during our first winter at the new house.
(and the yellow is not in the snow, but a spot on the picture from age)
Like smoke that wafts up from an extinguished match, this was soon all gone.
I remember one day being home with my dad and I don't know what the precursor was, but he punched a hole in the wall. In front of me. I wasn't scared. I was sad that something made my dad that angry. Still to this day I don't know what it was all about. Probably just a stupid fight that escalated into something more.
I do know that at that very moment I realized that something was horribly wrong.
And I know I retreated.
I distinctly recall sitting on my bed, in my little girl room and looking around. I remember thinking to myself What if all of this isn't happening right now? What if all of this is just a memory? And really, I'm 16 sitting on this bed, in this room and this is just all a memory?
I also remember retreating to the spare room in our house while an argument raged on and someone was sitting with me. But no one else was there. Mom & Dad were in the other room raging, I was in the spare room....but there was a figure sitting next to me. It has always been one of the scariest, comforting memories that I have.
The memory that, to this day haunts me above all others though, is when it was all over. I don't remember what happened leading up to it. I don't remember anything after. All I remember is being loaded up in the car with my mom. Driving away from our house.
I turned around and looked out the rear window. And there standing in the driveway, all alone
was my dad.
The fear, the dread, the shame, the guilt washed over me in ways I still feel as I type this right now. I remember thinking inside This is wrong. I need to go back.
I couldn't say a damned thing. My voice may as well have been laying like a lump of glistening saliva on the driveway next to my dad's feet. I was limp. I had no words, no sounds. I had become momentarily mute.
I'm pretty sure that's the day I stopped being a little girl. That's the day the carefree attitude of a happy, well-adjusted little girl were lost and gone forever. That's the day I became so heavy.
I know that with that, there were battles in court to be lost or won.
Mom won.
I knew that was a mistake. But I had no way to say that. No one asked. And there was no one to listen.
After that, the two parties convened at my grandmother's house (my mom's mom). Another flash of memory and my dad is walking briskly - with me in his arms. We end up at the 7-11 near my grandmother's house. I think we get a soda or something. I look to my left, out the huge glass doors and there are more police cars in that one small parking lot than I had ever seen in my life.
And they were there for me.
The Beginning of the End
So here they were, high school graduates with an 8-month-old baby. And the following month, in July, they were married at the Justice of the Peace. Not only that, their last year of high school they were living on their own in a tiny apartment - while they both went to school and worked.
My earliest memories were when I was 2, living in a different apartment. My dad worked during the day and my mom worked at night. So, my dad & I spent a lot of time, just the two of us. For whatever reason, dinner-time is a vivid memory at that time.
As you can imagine, money was tight and my dad, at the ripe old age of 19, was taking care of his 2-year-old little girl. That entails making dinner. I don't remember the "main courses" that he would prepare, but I remember quite clearly we must have had 5 million cans of these mixed vegetables. Because he made them every night.
And I hated them.
I refused to eat them.
And every night it was the same.
He would send me to my room if I didn't eat my vegetables.
I still refused.
And he still sent me to my room.
I know this went on for some time.
One of us eventually gave up. I'm assuming we must have run out of those horrible, nasty vegetables. Because the other thing I vividly remember is sitting on my dad's lap, in the evenings before I went to bed, watching M*A*S*H.
Klinger fascinated me. I remember having a lengthy discussion with my dad over why Klinger dressed like a woman. My dad told me that where they were in Korea, there was a war going on and Klinger wanted to go home. And the only way Klinger thought he would get to go home was if he dressed like a girl. I believe he (my dad) chuckled when I said, "It didn't work!" His explanation was simple and sweet, but I still didn't understand - being only 2 years old & all. But I do know that's when I fell in love with Hawkeye & Pierce.
They kept my 2 year old curiosity peaked.
At some point around when I was 3 or 4, we moved into a house. And this is where it gets messy, ugly and scary. There are things I remember, memories I recall that I have been trying to work through for years. This is where at 4 and 1/2 I knew things would never be the same. I knew that my future as a young girl, living with her mom, was bleak. This is where I felt I betrayed my dad. Even though I was only 4 and had no say, no control. This is where I became acutely aware of wanting to save everyone, feeling responsible for everyone and feeling the weight of the world on my 4 year old back. That weight (to this day) has never been lifted. It has just grown to feeling everything for everyone.
And lastly this is where in the course of a month, I would lead two distinctly different lives, with two distinctly different parents. The life I would lead during the week was drastically different than the life I would lead every-other-weekend.
When I got to see my dad....
3/14/07
Beginnings
I've been thinking a lot lately about legacies. This has been punctuated by the fact that my dad's birthday was a few weeks ago & I've been thinking of him. I haven't seen him since the beginning of December. We still haven't all seen each other for Christmas.
Jen got the ball rolling for me about the strong men in my life - this is something I've been wanting to write about but have not been mentally up to the challenge.
If you've read my blog for any length of time, you know that my Dad is it. He is referred to in certain circles as Three Dog Night Dad.
Let me just say here, before I begin that this may be an ongoing writing project on here. I don't think I can aptly say what I'd like in just one post.
To get started about the strong men, I need to go back as far as I possibly can - to where I think this began.
My grandfather (my dad's dad) was one of eight children. And their mother, Orna, died when my grandfather was very young of a massive infection. I believe that was the catalyst for this example - this strong male role - in my family.
My grandfather had an older brother Jacob - they were the 2 youngest children. And they were very close. It turns out my grandfather, Herbert married my grandmother Jeannette and Jacob married my grandmother's sister, Marie. The two couples were very close and growing up, my dad & uncle were very close to their double-first cousins (who were Jake & Marie's children).
Jen got the ball rolling for me about the strong men in my life - this is something I've been wanting to write about but have not been mentally up to the challenge.
If you've read my blog for any length of time, you know that my Dad is it. He is referred to in certain circles as Three Dog Night Dad.
Let me just say here, before I begin that this may be an ongoing writing project on here. I don't think I can aptly say what I'd like in just one post.
To get started about the strong men, I need to go back as far as I possibly can - to where I think this began.
My grandfather (my dad's dad) was one of eight children. And their mother, Orna, died when my grandfather was very young of a massive infection. I believe that was the catalyst for this example - this strong male role - in my family.
My grandfather had an older brother Jacob - they were the 2 youngest children. And they were very close. It turns out my grandfather, Herbert married my grandmother Jeannette and Jacob married my grandmother's sister, Marie. The two couples were very close and growing up, my dad & uncle were very close to their double-first cousins (who were Jake & Marie's children).
I have always loved this picture of my grandparents.
When my grandfather & grandmother were first married, they were living abroad in Korea, Japan and then the Philippines, as my grandfather was in the military. My grandmother, I know, looks at these years as the happiest of her life. If I'm not mistaken, my uncle was born in the Philippines and then the young family moved back to the States shortly thereafter.
My grandparents entertaining. He is at the head and my
grandmother is opposite at the far-end.
My grandfather was very involved with his boys. Teaching them to fish, spending time outdoors, raising cattle on the farm, hunting, Boy Scouts, etc. He was very hands-on, from what I understand. I know that my Dad and Uncle still light up when reminiscing of the short time they spent with their father and the mark he left upon them forever.Health issues are abundant in that family line - diabetes, heart problems, high blood pressure, etc. My grandfather died in his early forties of a heart attack on or right before Thanksgiving, as I've said before on here, when my dad was 9.
I believe at that point, Uncle Jake was a point of contact as a male figure, as well as my Grandpop Donovan.
My mom says that she doesn't remember very much about Uncle Jake, but when I was an infant, my dad and mom took me down to Uncle Jake & Aunt Marie's. Uncle Jake held me right away, and in his Southern accent said, "Bless her little bones". My mom says that has stuck with her to this day. I think back to what it must have been like for my dad, to momentarily have the closest thing to his father holding his newborn baby girl. Uncle Jake died just a few short months after that and I believe he had to have a leg amputated at some point before his passing.
My grandmother, who was left to take care of The Farm that her & my grandfather bought, had rented out the marsh area to hunters. My grandmother was always very good at finding the right people for whatever need she faced in her personal and business life. She became friends with a Mr. Robinson (who got my dad into hunting and Young Waterfowlers). I know that my dad looks at that time spent with Mr. Robinson as a very positive experience. I know that Mr. Robinson died some years back, but I'm not sure about his wife.
Although there was a great support system in place and my grandmother did all she could to make sure there were great men family friends around for her boys, I know my dad was broken. He wanted something of his own. He always felt overshadowed by his round-peg, everything goes as planned, older brother. My dad always had long hair and a rebellious spirit that went against my grandmother's grain. But he always knew who he was and he was never going to change.
In high school, he met my mom and they had me in their Junior year. My dad was ecstatic about having a baby - and having a daughter. Though the road was rough, having a kid while you're still in high school, I think my dad felt like he finally had his family.
And that is where this story begins....
3/7/07
Of Dead Cadillacs and Golden Engines
Lately I've been thinking about my great-grandfather. He was the father of my paternal grandmother. He passed away in 1999, I think. At the ripe old age of 98 - give or take a year. It was quite possible he was born in 1899, but we think most likely, 1900-01.
What's somewhat interesting is that he sort of took the place of my grandfather. My dad's dad died when my dad was 9. So, in essence, he was the only "grandfather" I've ever known on that side of the family.
When I was 10, my great-grandfather came to live with my grandmother on The Farm. He became very sick from pneumonia and given his age and other "circumstances" it was best for him to live with her.
The "circumstances" are the things I've been thinking about.
My great-grandfather - or Grandpop Donovan as we all called him - was a character. I remember being a little girl, driving south to the beaches my fair state boasts of, and we would stop to "visit" Grandpop Donovan. He lived in this old, falling-down house that was right on the main highway that cuts down to the beaches. It had no electricity, no running water, no heat - nothing.
And we were never allowed inside.
In all the years we stopped by to see Grandpop, I had never set foot inside of his home.
But from what I saw of the front yard, which served as the living room on our visits, I was not all that interested in going in.
The only glimpse I got of the house was the front porch. Which was piled from floor to ceiling with newspapers, trash and what-not.
Yes, he was one of those people.
His yard was easy to spot.
It was littered. And I mean littered with the sad, sad rusting out, abandoned carcasses of once driven and loved Cadillacs.
Old, big, land yacht Cadillacs.
These were his babies.
It was as if he were tending to a garden of Cadillacs.
A garden destined to never live, or thrive, but it would inevitably grow. It would grow by him adding another deceased vehicle to the collection over the years.
He was so proud of these relics.
I remember my Dad sharing goofy stories about Grandpop Donovan (because as I've said, he was a character). And one in particular is monumental.
Dad told me on one of their trips to the beach as young boys, my dad, uncle and grandmother were traveling to the beach and da da da daaaa, they stopped in to see Grandpop.
He had recently purchased a near-death Cadillac.
However, he decided it needed some TLC.
And he was proud to show off his work to my pre-pubescent Dad and my 17 year old Uncle.
He was practically jumping out of his baby blue polyester pants to show them this car.
He says to them with his hand shaking, eyes welling up with tears (which they often did) "Looky here. This is what I did of a mornin'. Look inside that car. It has a TV in it!"
My dad & uncle peer inside.
And my dad says it was all he could do not to fall to the ground in fits of laughter.
There on the back seat was plopped and old 13" TV set....rabbit ears and all.
And as if that were not enough, he says "Looky here. I bet you'll never see an engine like this!" He pops the hood and again fits of stifled laughter ensue.
Under that hood was a shiny (spray painted gold) engine.
All my dad and uncle could muster up was Yeah, we've never seen anything quite like that, Grandpop!!!
Don't misunderstand me. I'm not trying to poke fun at the deceased. I loved my Grandpop Donovan very much. And he was a character. There are so many of these wacky, crazy stories that I could share. But that one just always comes to mind when I need a little chuckle. To me, it is endearing.
My Grandpop Donovan saw things in his long lifetime that I could only read about now. But listening to him talk, when he was around, was an experience. Granted that I would have to glean the truth out of the whoppers.
He was such a healthy man up until his death. He worked around The Farm almost up until the end. He loved caring for his garden, flower beds, and the yard.
He always ate well, kept up with current events, and shared his stories.
He could be a handful. What my poor grandmother had to put up with caring for her father. Oy.
He couldn't hear very well. And he would talk on and on and on. It was hard to break away from him when he trapped you during a story-telling session.
I wish sometimes that I had taken better advantage of the times when he was here. To find out what he thought about certain politicians, certain historic events that took place during his lifetime. I'm certain that his memory contained things that would've blown me away.
I grew up wanting so much to meet my "real" grandfather. And there will always be that void for all of us left behind. I can't imagine my dad & uncle losing their father. My grandmother for losing her husband and her best friend. Leaving her behind to raise 2 boys, look after and pay for The Farm, as well as, the business he had started. Leaving behind, eventually, grandchildren to make up a mythical grandfather to fill the empty spaces.
But in his place - which is a huge space to fill - I had this alternative grandfather. Grandpop Donovan. Who was wacky and quite frankly, maybe a little crazy. But he was full of so much history, so many stories and laughter that I can draw on now.
What's somewhat interesting is that he sort of took the place of my grandfather. My dad's dad died when my dad was 9. So, in essence, he was the only "grandfather" I've ever known on that side of the family.
When I was 10, my great-grandfather came to live with my grandmother on The Farm. He became very sick from pneumonia and given his age and other "circumstances" it was best for him to live with her.
The "circumstances" are the things I've been thinking about.
My great-grandfather - or Grandpop Donovan as we all called him - was a character. I remember being a little girl, driving south to the beaches my fair state boasts of, and we would stop to "visit" Grandpop Donovan. He lived in this old, falling-down house that was right on the main highway that cuts down to the beaches. It had no electricity, no running water, no heat - nothing.
And we were never allowed inside.
In all the years we stopped by to see Grandpop, I had never set foot inside of his home.
But from what I saw of the front yard, which served as the living room on our visits, I was not all that interested in going in.
The only glimpse I got of the house was the front porch. Which was piled from floor to ceiling with newspapers, trash and what-not.
Yes, he was one of those people.
His yard was easy to spot.
It was littered. And I mean littered with the sad, sad rusting out, abandoned carcasses of once driven and loved Cadillacs.
Old, big, land yacht Cadillacs.
These were his babies.
It was as if he were tending to a garden of Cadillacs.
A garden destined to never live, or thrive, but it would inevitably grow. It would grow by him adding another deceased vehicle to the collection over the years.
He was so proud of these relics.
I remember my Dad sharing goofy stories about Grandpop Donovan (because as I've said, he was a character). And one in particular is monumental.
Dad told me on one of their trips to the beach as young boys, my dad, uncle and grandmother were traveling to the beach and da da da daaaa, they stopped in to see Grandpop.
He had recently purchased a near-death Cadillac.
However, he decided it needed some TLC.
And he was proud to show off his work to my pre-pubescent Dad and my 17 year old Uncle.
He was practically jumping out of his baby blue polyester pants to show them this car.
He says to them with his hand shaking, eyes welling up with tears (which they often did) "Looky here. This is what I did of a mornin'. Look inside that car. It has a TV in it!"
My dad & uncle peer inside.
And my dad says it was all he could do not to fall to the ground in fits of laughter.
There on the back seat was plopped and old 13" TV set....rabbit ears and all.
And as if that were not enough, he says "Looky here. I bet you'll never see an engine like this!" He pops the hood and again fits of stifled laughter ensue.
Under that hood was a shiny (spray painted gold) engine.
All my dad and uncle could muster up was Yeah, we've never seen anything quite like that, Grandpop!!!
Don't misunderstand me. I'm not trying to poke fun at the deceased. I loved my Grandpop Donovan very much. And he was a character. There are so many of these wacky, crazy stories that I could share. But that one just always comes to mind when I need a little chuckle. To me, it is endearing.
My Grandpop Donovan saw things in his long lifetime that I could only read about now. But listening to him talk, when he was around, was an experience. Granted that I would have to glean the truth out of the whoppers.
He was such a healthy man up until his death. He worked around The Farm almost up until the end. He loved caring for his garden, flower beds, and the yard.
He always ate well, kept up with current events, and shared his stories.
He could be a handful. What my poor grandmother had to put up with caring for her father. Oy.
He couldn't hear very well. And he would talk on and on and on. It was hard to break away from him when he trapped you during a story-telling session.
I wish sometimes that I had taken better advantage of the times when he was here. To find out what he thought about certain politicians, certain historic events that took place during his lifetime. I'm certain that his memory contained things that would've blown me away.
I grew up wanting so much to meet my "real" grandfather. And there will always be that void for all of us left behind. I can't imagine my dad & uncle losing their father. My grandmother for losing her husband and her best friend. Leaving her behind to raise 2 boys, look after and pay for The Farm, as well as, the business he had started. Leaving behind, eventually, grandchildren to make up a mythical grandfather to fill the empty spaces.
But in his place - which is a huge space to fill - I had this alternative grandfather. Grandpop Donovan. Who was wacky and quite frankly, maybe a little crazy. But he was full of so much history, so many stories and laughter that I can draw on now.
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