Sisters: We Are All Whole

Sisters, I have two. No, make that three. I mean four. One whole, two halves, and one step. But, growing up, I thought I was an only child. That's because my whole avoided me at every opportunity, one of the halves thought I was her mother, I didn't meet the other half until we were in our forties, and the step was out of the house, married with children when we met.

Judy, the whole, likes me now. At least I think she does. Otherwise, why would she send me birthday and Christmas cards? Wait a minute! Did I get a Christmas card from her this year?

Lynnette, one of the halves, calls me Sissy, but she spells it M O T H E R. That's because I raised her. Don't tell my mother that, though. She hasn't been in a good mood lately, and that piece of news would not go over well.

Janet, my other half, likes both of her halves and wishes they were whole. She doesn't know my other half, and that's all I'm going to say about that.

Helen, my step, refuses to do the math. She loves every single one of us equally, and to her, we are all whole.

Cluttered Mind

Looking for a paperclip? No problem. Just look on my desk in the paperclip dispenser. An apple? In the fruit bowl. Potato? In the vegetable drawer in the frig. Need a dime? In the coin jar. Car charger for your cell phone? In the car, of course. Matches? In the bathroom next to the toilet. Anything else you need? Don't hesitate to ask because I know that rule everything has a place and everything in its place. What? They're not there. Nothing is where I say it is? Okay, then. Check the wicker basket on the kitchen counter.

I said I know the rule about everything being in its place; I didn't say I adhere to it. I want to, though. I have good intentions. I desire to live in a home that is, dare I say the word, organized. Oh, I've fantasized about how nice it would be to not dig through the dirty clothes hamper every time I want to wear my Chico mama jeans, or shimmy under the bed to hunt for a missing shoe, or dump the crumpled contents of the underwear drawer on the bed when looking for Tom's thongs, or not look in the dishwasher when I can't find one dish in the cabinet, and then, to my horror, discover that they're all still dirty. The displacement of things is giving me acid reflux, but is the pain enough to add "organization" to my New Year's resolution list? You want the truth? Probably not.

A cluttered home is a cluttered mind. I know that rule. I can't say that I believe it, though. My apples and potato may not be where they belong in the dishwasher, but my mind is not, my mind is not...uh...my mind... . I'm sorry I seem to have forgotten what I was talking about. It's my mind, you know. Not what it used to be. Excuse me. Has anyone seen my Tums?

Paragraph Fifteen

Starting with the first row, I counted each seat until I came to mine. Fifteen. Figuring each seat would take approximately thirty seconds, I calculated a total time of seven and a half minutes before disaster would strike, and my world would never be the same again. Up until now, no one knew. With my bag of tricks, I had been able to fool everyone into thinking I was just like them.

I opened the book to Chapter One and counted down to the fifteenth paragraph. That would be my paragraph. When the student in front of me finished reading paragraph fourteen and sat down, I would then stand up, and, in a room where everyone's focus was on me, I'd reveal my shameful secret. At eleven-years-old I couldn't read.

In the fifties, when I attended grade school, there were no special education teachers or safety nets for below-the-curve students, and there were no second chances. Every child was given equal opportunity to fail or succeed. I took that opportunity to fail first grade. How in the world does someone fail first grade, you ask? That is a very good question. Thank you for asking. This is how I did it. I never attended preschool or kindergarten; they didn't exist where I lived or if they did, my mother didn't think they were necessary. So one fall day in 1951, my mother told me we were going for a walk. I was confused because it wasn't Sunday, yet I had on my Sunday-going-to-church clothes. We walked for several blocks before stopping at a busy intersection. An old lady wearing a bright-colored apron walked out into the middle of traffic, held up a sign, and when all of the cars stopped, she motioned for us to cross the street. After several more blocks, Mother took my hand and led me up steep steps and into a red brick building. I asked where we were going, and she said, "School." Since I had no idea what that meant, I was fine with it, until...

We walked through a large door and beyond the door to the left was a room with lots of children sitting at little desks. Stopping at the threshold of the door, my mother, still holding my hand, asked a lady at the far end of the room a question. At that moment there was a sudden rush of noise as every child turned in their seats to look at us. In a split second, I decided that "school" was not for me. I turned around to leave, but mother's hand had clamped down on my fingers, and she pulled me back to the door with the staring eyes.

Later that day, after mother told Hazel the story about how I held on to the door molding, refusing to let go even as the teacher and Principal pleaded with me to release my grip, I was expecting the worst. If spilling a glass of milk was grounds for the switch, then what would happen to me for being expelled from school?  Nothing. As Mother sat crying, everyone else found the humor.

* * *

Having finished the fourteenth paragraph, the girl in front of me sat down and turned around to face me. There was a sudden rush of noise as everyone else did the same. I stood up and while all eyes in my fifth-grade class were on me, I read each word in paragraph fifteen with ease. Like I said, I had my bag of tricks and once again my secret was safe.

The Gift of Illusion

The Bible says good works alone don't guarantee admission into heaven and Mother knew that. Still, along with the ten percent of her earnings that she tithed to the church every week, she insisted on also setting aside time for the needy and less fortunate. Spreading the word, testifying to His greatness, and helping others was a natural antidepressant for my mother. During these acts of giving back, she was the picture of happiness, and the witnesses and recipients of her good deeds were none the wiser.

Shortly after we moved in with Hazel, Mother established a good-samaritan routine that lasted for seven years of Sundays. After the morning service at First Church of the Nazarene, we headed southeast to the small town of New Palestine. About the time I'd nod off and hit my head on the window, the Plymouth would turn left and wind down a long narrow gravel lane to a monster red brick building looming on the horizon. Three stories tall, with a hundred thousand rooms, it housed a million very old, sick, and crazy people who liked to grab little girls.

Hazel stayed in the car and napped or read the Bible while Mother, my sister and I made the rounds from room to room, bed to bed. It was impossible to stop at every bed, so each Sunday Mother picked a wing of the building and concentrated on twenty or thirty residents.

Mother blossomed in an environment that reeked of incontinence. Although her stage was dark, cold, and unwelcoming against a backdrop painted with despair and hopelessness, she was radiant. Moving from bed to bed, she revealed a personality that I rarely saw at home: happy, gregarious, nurturing, and a cultivator of hope. She believed these people needed her, and she was happy to accommodate. Even though I was too young to articulate my feelings or even understand their origins, I needed her too. I needed her to be all of those things for me--a daughter just beginning a life--not for an old senile stranger who had used up a life and now couldn't see or hear or comprehend the pretty lady who stopped by every week with promises for a better tomorrow.

Still, in a peculiar way, I understood why Mother had to go to the red brick building with a hundred thousand rooms. Young and attractive, with two well-behaved daughters dressed in their Sunday best, Mother brought with her an opportunity for the less fortunate to look outside their bleak reality and focus on this gift of illusion, and with the illusion came a silver of hope. I see now that the gift was as much for my mother as it was for them.


From the book Only Birds Can Fly (c) 2007 with revisions

The Rescue

She rescued Mother and her two daughters: eight-year-old Judy and me, Carol Louise, five. The events that led up to the rescue began the day I was born, which just happened to be the same day my father chose to start over with the true love and lust of his life. Mother's sister, Gracie, and her husband, Jimmy, moved us into their two bedroom, one bath duplex on Walcott Street, where for five years they took care of us. Then along came Hazel.

A self-proclaimed old maid, Hazel was a no-nonsense kind of gal. She had met Mother in church, saw that she needed to be rescued from an overbearing sister, took control of the situation, and moved us into her two bedroom, one bath duplex on New Jersey Street, where for several months she took care of us. Then along came the landlord who asked Hazel and her dependents to leave.

It wasn't that I hated Hazel. I just disliked her immensely. She took me away from the only people in my life who were predictable. Aunt Gracie never fluctuated in emotion or mood--always sensible, steady and reliable. Uncle Jimmy was my man, and I was desperate for his unique way of showing me attention and affection. The game we played involved performance (mine) and recognition (his). A dance, a head stand, a drawing, it didn't matter. Whatever it was, to Uncle Jimmy it was wonderful, fabulous, stupendous.

Hazel had always lived in a world of adults with adult issues, problems, and responsibilities. Before rescuing Mother and her little girls, she had been accustomed to looking over children's heads, missing them entirely. They were little people with under-developed brains who were loud and energetic and inquisitive and awkward and annoying.

It wasn't that Hazel was a bad person. In rescuing us, her intentions were good. I see that now with my fully-developed adult brain, but as a child, I could understand and believe only that which was presented to me by the adults in my life: If you're not a good little girl, you could spend eternity in hell with worms crawling all over your body. Jesus is coming soon. The communists are coming soon. The world is coming to an end soon. Jesus loves you. If you're not a good little girl, Santa won't bring you presents. Don't ever say "Hell" or you will end up there. Do as I say, not as I do. Jesus is coming soon. The Russians are coming soon. The world is coming to an end soon. Do good things or hell awaits you. Jesus loves all the little children. 

It wasn't that I was a bad little girl; I just thought I was. From five to twelve, I was all of those things that annoyed Hazel. I moved too fast, talked too much and asked too many questions.  If something broke, it was me whodunnit. No matter what it was, it was always my fault.

When I was seven, I single-handedly wrecked Hazel's car. How is that possible, you ask? That's a very good question. Thank you for asking. Did I strip the couch of its cushions so I could see over the steering wheel and then go on joy ride through downtown Indianapolis?  Or...while she was driving, did I jump over the seat, push her aside and commandeer the wheel? Or...Did I suddenly scream LOOK OUT! causing her to panic and drive off the road? None of the above.  Here's how the accident that I caused happened. We were driving down the road. Hazel was behind the wheel. Mother was sitting shotgun, Judy and I were in the backseat. "I have to go to the bathroom," I said. "Didn't you go before we left the house like I told you?" Hazel said. "Uh, uh, well, uh," I said. Just when I thought I couldn't hold it any longer, Hazel pulled over, I jumped out of the car and ran to the nearest restroom. While I was inside doing my business, a farmer who was moseying on down the country road on a tractor, hit Hazel's car. And whose fault was that? Carol Louise's, of course. If we hadn't stopped, the accident would never have happened. Now that I have a fully-developed adult mind, I can see the lunacy in that logic, but back then, limited by my seven-year-old brain, I accepted the blame and I disliked myself immensely for what I had done to Hazel's car.

It wasn't that Mother couldn't take care of herself and her two girls; she just thought she couldn't. As a devout christian, Mother knew she was in God's hands and he would always met her needs. When I was twelve, and living in Hazel's two bedroom, one bath house on Rawles Avenue,  God answered Mother's prayers by bringing another rescuer into her life. Hazel's reign as Supreme Ruler of the Weak and Young was about to end, her contract was up, she was no longer needed. Bye, Bye, now.

He rescued Mother, my sister and me, and moved us to a three bedroom, two bath house on Austin Drive in the suburbs. I couldn't see it then because of that under-developed brain thing, but as I look back and recall my life with the man who was dedicated to his family and who gave love and affection freely, I would not change one single event in my earlier life for fear of never having known and loved this precious man, my Dad.

The Orange Leaf

I was paralyzed by fear. He was a big man, three times my size, and he wasn't happy. As soon as he walked through the door, I knew something was very wrong. Because this big powerful man was the person in control, the voice of authority, and because I thought I was in danger, I sat motionless and stared at the orange leaf at the end of my nose. I felt I had no choice but to stay stone silent until he'd spewed out all of his anger and left.

Behind the orange sofa, patterned with leaves, was where I spent a lot of my time. It was a perfect hiding place from what would oftentimes be a scary and strange world. Like, for example, the day a stranger knocked on the front door of Aunt Gracie and Uncle Jimmy's duplex. When I opened the door he immediately spotted my mother ironing in the dining room and pushed past me. I ran for safety.

The man was mad but at whom and why? After a few angry minutes with my mother, my aunt came into the room and pushed the man aside. Standing between my mother and him, she pointed her finger in his face and spared him no mercy. He had some nerve, she said, coming into her home, the home that had rescued his wife and two babies from his abandonment, and making demands on her sister. The man's anger was no match for Aunt Grace. She shoved him back toward the door, pushed him out on the porch, and then kicked the door shut.

The room was eerily quiet. I crawled out from behind the sofa. A low indistinct murmur was coming from the dining room. It grew louder. I could hear my aunt talking softly, almost in a whisper. At the same moment that I saw feet sticking out from under the ironing board, the house exploded with screams. I raced back to my safe haven, curled up in a ball, and covered my ears, but I couldn't escape the terror that had clamped down on me and wouldn't let go.

After what felt like hours, but was only minutes, my aunt was tugging on me and asking that I please come out. With her arms tight around me, she held on until the vibration in my body subsided. Everything would be okay, she said. There would be no explanation for what had just happened--why a stranger angrily confronted my mother, why my aunt was so furious she threw him out of the house and kicked the door shut, why mother fell on the floor and began to scream hysterically. Later that night, when Uncle Jimmy came home from work, there was no mention of the scary and strange events that had unfolded earlier in the day. It was as if nothing happened; just another nightmare I had only imagined.

Drawing a Blank

It was three-thirty-three this morning, and I was way, way down in the delta of peaceful sleep when my bladder found me there and said, "I have to go pee-pee." Once back in bed, a voice inside my head said, "What's the name of that country music singer on The View?" 

"Oh, I know," I answered, "but I don't want to think right now. I'd like to go back to sleep. Could we discuss this later?" 

"He's married to that country music singer, Miranda, Miranda Lambsomething. Think! Think!" 

"I know, I know, but I'm sleeping right now. I know who you mean, but I don't want to think."

"Who is it? Who is it? Who is it? Who is it? Oh, come on! You know!"

I tried to ignore the nagging question but now I was wide awake. I turned over, thinking a reposition would help me find my way back to the delta.

"It starts with a 'B' and has only one syllable. Bla Bla Bla something. Oh, don't just lie there feigning sleep. You know his name!"

I did know who it was but I was drawing a blank. It's my memory. Not so good anymore.

"Who is it? Who is it? Who is it? Who is it? I know you know."

I turned over on my back and starred at the ceiling. Seeing my restlessness as an opportunity for a belly rub or a snack or a trip outdoors, Maggie walked up the full length of my body--stepping on pain pressure points as she went--until her nose was touching mine. "What's it gonna be?" she said in doggy talk. "A belly rub, a snack, the great outdoors, or am I gonna have to lick your face off?"

I love her; I really do. I think of her as a best friend, but she gets on my nerves sometimes. It's disconcerting to think that my dog is smarter than I am, has a much better memory, and has me wrapped around her fingerclaws. But at three-forty-five in the morning the last thing I wanted was to dwell on was my inferiority complex.

The little hand was on the four and the big one was pointing to twelve when Maggie and I returned from our walk. Sleep was out of the question for me, but Maggie had no trouble finding her sweet spot next to Tom. Within milliseconds she was sound asleep.

"Who is it? Who is it? Who is it? Who is it?"

It was obvious the question would nag me until I came up with the answer. I had only one choice. I had to ask a friend.

She loves me; she really does, but she doesn't like to be bothered when she's sleeping. It gets on her nerves.

"Sorry to bother you, Punkin, but I need to ask you a question." I whispered.

"Oh, for goodness sakes. It's Blake Shelton, okay? Now, can I get some sleep. Tom and I have a ball to chase later."

The Cowboy

The Cowboy

He struck a pose, not that he meant to. Vanity was not his game. His friend, standing next to him in the elevator was vain, but he didn't look nearly as good as he did. Maybe it was the western suit that fit his slender six foot two frame so well, the leather boots with the silver toe tips, and the cowboy hat, or the blue eyes that stared out from under the Stetson that drew attention his way, especially from the women. All that combined with an aloof coolness that just came natural.

The elevator doors opened and the cowboy and his friend entered a dark cavernous room crowded with people of all sizes, shapes, and colors who appeared to be wandering aimlessly to and fro. As far as you could see in every direction, there were refrigerator-size machines that seemed to beckon some of the aimless people toward them with their blinking, spinning, musical, colorful, alluring imagery.

The cowboy stopped at a machine, fed it one dollar, pulled a lever, and stood back with his hands in his pockets and calmly watched with no emotion as the bells, whistles, and alarms announced his $100 hit. But his game wasn't the slot machines. He hadn't come all the way to Caesar's Palace to win hundred dollar jackpots. He was there for the big money.

She was on her honeymoon and she was spending it poolside at Caesar's Palace. Her new husband picked Las Vegas because he had never been there and wanted to see what all the fuss was about.  So while he explored the strip, she lathered baby oil all over her sheet-white body and worked on her tan.

A very simple explanation for the way the game works is: multiple players stand around the table and bet against the casino. Players take turns rolling two dice and whoever is throwing the dice is called the "shooter". Players can bet on the various options by placing chips in the appropriate sections of the board. That is were the simple part ends; it gets more complicated, and it can create high stress and anxiety for the players who have a lot of money on the table. Stress and anxiety apparently for everyone except the cowboy, at least that's what his friend said. Without any reaction to his $5000 win, he strolled away from the craps table with a total win of $5100 in just one day at the casino.

She stood naked at the bathroom mirror and admired her tan. Two strips of white on her boobs and butt, but the rest of her body was a nice shade of copper, the result of spending the entire day at the pool. Her husband was still out there somewhere seeing what all the fuss was about, and she was getting lonely. She thought about the handsome cowboy with whom she shared the elevator earlier that day. As quickly as the highly seductive thoughts entered her mind, she dismissed them.

Day two at the casino did not produce the same results as Day One. In an effort to continue the winning streak, some money was lost, but if the cowboy was concerned, he didn't show it. What he wanted had nothing to do with gambling. What he desired now was some afternoon delight. He thought about the blonde in the elevator and how her focus was only on him, not his friend. He also knew her room number and was fully aware that she might say "no", but then again, he might get lucky.

The end of another full day at the pool found her restless and looking for companionship. She had tried to stop fantasizing about the cowboy but the harder she pushed him from her mind, the more aggressive the imagery became.

He left his friend at the black jack table, assuring him he would be back shortly. "Good" his friend said, "because I feel a lucky streak comin' on." "So do I," the cowboy responded over his shoulder as he headed for the elevator.

The water was blanketed in big white bubbles when she stepped into the tub. Still too hot to sit down, she took turns standing on one leg, then the other until the temperature was just under scalding, just the way she liked it. Slowly, she immersed herself in what felt to her like hot, wet silk. She closed her eyes and let out a long sigh when she heard the doorknob turn. "Do not disturb, please," she said thinking the housekeeper wanted in the room to turn down the sheets and deposit a chocolate treat on the pillow. But the housekeeper must not have heard her because she knocked lightly. "Do not disturb, please!," she said again, only louder. But the housekeeper was insistent and this time she knocked with more assertion. Not blaming the deaf housekeeper for only trying to do her job, she stepped out of the tub, spilling water and bubbles all over the floor. No need for a towel she reasoned since she would open the door without exposing herself, tell the housekeeper she wasn't needed, and then hurry back to the tub and the hot, wet silk.

He knew she was in the room because he could hear the television. He turned the knob but the door was locked. He heard her dismissal thinking he was the housekeeper, but he had only one thing on his mind and he was, after all, feeling lucky. He knocked lightly; same dismissal only louder. He had come this far and he wasn't giving up now. KNOCK! KNOCK!

She opened the door but just a crack. She didn't need much space to kindly send the housekeeper on her way. But it wasn't the housekeeper. It was the cowboy. He was standing in the doorway looking so handsome in his western suit that fit his slender six foot two frame so well, the leather boots with the silver toe tips, the cowboy hat, and those sexy blue eyes that stared out from under the Stetson. "Hey," he said, "I forgot my key."


In December, 1980, my then husband and I spent our honeymoon in Las Vegas, Nevada. He brought a friend along and they both left Vegas with a bundle of money. As for me, I left with a very nice tan. 

A Twas Story

Well, I did it. I survived another Christmas. Death by Christmas was not something I feared as I was reluctantly herded--like sheep to a shearing--into the 2013 holiday season. Oh, no. I felt pretty confident that I'd be living through it, just like I lived through it last year and the year before that and the year before that and the year, well, you get my point.  My fear was about maintaining my mental equilibrium and my ability to avoid the frenzied hordes of holiday shoppers who are out of touch with the real reason for the season. My fear was about keeping melancholy at bay because my family lives hundred of miles way and my holding it together until the jolly fat man and his reindeer were safe and sound back at the North Pole.

I don't hate Christmas. I just dislike it immensely. Christmas hasn't always been on my bucket list of things I DON'T want to do. When I was a little girl I loved Christmas. That was a wonderful time. The coming together of family and friends, the celebration of Jesus Christ's birthday, a twenty-four hour grace period when the words "love thy neighbor as thyself" had real meaning.  It was also a time when all of the adults in my life lied about who had really put my presents under the tree. It was magical, glorious, enchanting until ...

"THERE AIN'T NO SANTA CLAUS!!"

I was nine-years-old and curled up under my favorite blanket on the couch. Ten-year-old Tommy was on the floor in front of me, and we were watching cartoons after school at our babysitter's house. Without provocation, he jumped up, sat down on top of me, pulled my thumb out of my mouth, and spit in my face as he yelled, "THERE AIN'T NO SANTA CLAUS!!"

"There ain't no Santa Claus?" I cried. "But, but, but, all of the adults in my life said there was. They wouldn't lie to me." Tommy was the liar. He had to be. Every member of my family was a devout Christian and everyone knows that Christians don't lie. So I continued to believe until...

"There ain't no Santa Claus!!" I said to my mother after Tommy, once again, denied his existence. This time, I thought there was a possibility he could be right. I mean, really? A miniature sleigh, eight tinny reindeer and one big fat man? Besides, we didn't have a fireplace.

"Well, of course, there isn't," she said, matter of fact.

"But, but, but, you told me there was and I believed you."

"Carol Louise, you're ten. Surely, somebody has told you by now that Santa Claus isn't real."

And that was that. End of discussion. Myth busted. You're a big girl now, so get over it. (That same harsh dose of reality--the real truth vs. the fake truth--happened again two years later when I discovered, much to my horror, that my mother had also lied about where babies came from, and it had nothing to do with flying storks. But that's another story for another time.)

Here's a Twas story that I wrote recently while waiting in a two-hour long return line at Walmart.

Twas four months before Christmas,

 when all through the land,

not a merchant was idle, 

not even the club called Sam's.

The stockings from Christmas prior

 that were hung by my chimney with care

were barely put away in the sock drawer

 when over the loud speaker at Lowes I hear,

 "Merry Christmas ya'll, register 5 is clear."

Away from the store I ran in horror,

tore open my car door,

and threw up on the floor.

When out in the lawn center

there arose such a clatter.

I spring from the floorboard

to see what was the matter.

The Christmas trees were nestled
 all snug in a bunch,

while workers left them there
 and headed out for lunch.

That's all I have. The return line went faster than I expected. I'm not a poet and I know it. In fact, I dislike poems almost as much as Christmas. Ba Hum Bug, ya'll.