It's Those Little Gifts Left on Our Path

High School for me was about fitting in, being accepted by my peers, having fun, and finding a comfortable safe place for myself out of harm's way.  It had little to do with getting an education, acquiring good grades, or preparing myself for college.  My parent's came from poverty, so to them a high school diploma was as good as it gets. When a school counselor called me into her office to discuss a curriculum that would put me on the path to college, I told her all I aspired to be in life was a secretary, a wife and a mother.  College was not for me. But as has happened so many times in my seventy years, fate put someone in front of me who unwittingly altered my plans and my future in so many positive ways.

Becky Harper was beautiful but she was not aware of it. Or, if she was, she did not let on. She wore no makeup and her black hair was naturally curly and rarely combed. She could have had any boyfriend she wanted--Mike, Bobby, Gary, Gary, and Johnny all wanted to date her--but that also didn't matter to Becky. Her focus was on education, getting straight A's, going to college, and living up to the high standards and expectations she had established for herself. Unlike so many other girls in our class, her beauty was not her sole focus, and she would never allow it to be her "free pass" to an easier life. 

It was 1960's, the decade of change. It was a time when the youth of America questioned the status quo of the established authority. They said, "Do it our way and don't ask why," but we said, "Nope! Ain't gonna do it your way because your way is wrong. Your way doesn't make any sense to us."  Actually, that was Becky who said that, not me. I was too consumed with my own self interests to concern myself about what was going on outside of my small world. I just wanted my pimples to go away. Becky wanted to save the world, to right the wrongs, to fix what was broken ; I wanted to save Mike Nickels' Juicy Fruit gum wrapper that he had left behind in Spanish class and put it in my scrapbook.

Acting silly, telling stupid jokes, always seeking fun was my way of coping with my underlying angst about my looks, and it was also the common denominator in my friendship with Becky. With the weight of the world's problems on her shoulders, letting loose and having fun was at times essential for Becky's mental stability. Enter me. I was there to accommodate that need. As it turned out, she wasn't happy about her looks either. Imagine that. She couldn't understand why any boy would be interested in her, but she spent very little time thinking about it. The world was waiting for her; it needed saving.

When people talk about the one person in school who made a difference, who changed the trajectory of their life, most of the time it's a teacher. For me, it was Becky Harper, but it took forty-three years and a death before I realized it. 

Six years ago on March 18, 2010, I received a blanket email announcing the death of my friend, a friend I had let slip away over the years.  Biliary duct cancer silently crept up on her and when it was discovered it was too late.  Within months she passed away; she was sixty-three.

It wasn't until I sat down several days later to write about my friend that I realized the part Becky played in my life. She had become my role model, my mentor. She inspired me to stretch myself beyond my comfort zone to be all that I could be. By her actions that impressed me so much, I began to follow her lead. She became an airline stewardess to earn money for college. I became an airline stewardess to find a pilot husband. She went to college, so I took one class so I could say I went to college. She earned a degree, so I took another college class and a funny thing happened: I discovered I love to learn. My college degree was twenty years away but I never gave up because Becky unwittingly taught me that if I was tenacious and worked hard to achieve something I wanted, it would come. 

It's those little gifts left on our path in life that make such a big difference, but at the time we have no clue of their importance. That's how it was back then. Becky was a gift and I had no clue.

Two Drunk Girls

I moved this from yesterday to today because yesterday was my mother's birthday and I want to write something about her on her special day.

By the standards of the day, I was a good girl. Because my parents were devout Christians, there was no consumption of alcohol or tobacco in our house, no one cursed (unless they thought they were alone), and the use of drugs (except for Valium) was unthinkable. The church would not allow us to go to movies where our minds and souls could be corrupted, and television revealed a fantasy world were father knows best and married men and women slept in twin beds. The Bible and Daily Devotions were read faithfully every day, but nothing else. Except for church functions, there was no social interchange, and travel was limited to religious revivals within fifty miles of home. My parents' agenda was family, work, church but not necessarily in that order. That was it. I was living my life in the pureness of black and white as defined by the church. There was no gray; there was no color; there was no drawing outside of the lines, and then I met Rita.

Rita Gomez lived on the street behind my house. It was my nature to keep every potential friend at arm's length away. By maintaining a safe barrier, I could protect myself from any hurt they might project my way. Closeness meant vulnerability and I wanted no part of that. But Rita was having no part of my aloofness and attempt at distance. She was going to be my friend so I had better get used to it.

Rita was sixteen, a year younger than me and very mature for her age. She was loud and outgoing and fun and adventurous and uninhibited. Her family was not bound by rules of their church so they drank, smoked, cursed, and went to movies. She knew so much more of the world than I did, and I was intrigued.

One Friday night, when Rita's parents had gone out to dinner and the movies, she invited me over to her house where she introduced me to whiskey and coke. What happened next would go down in my memory log as one of the stupidest, most potentially dangerous acts of my young life.

We got drunk on whiskey and coke. How we ended up at The Cup I don't recall. I do remember that we were sitting in a car next to two cute guys who were showing us attention. That was new to me and I liked how it felt. They were students from I.U., they said,  and they wanted to get to know us better. What about a tour of Indiana University in Bloomington, they asked. "Sure, why not," we two drunk girls said, and a plan was hatched.

Rita and I would go back home, drop off the car, and pretend to go to bed. Then sometime after eleven o'clock, with our families thinking we are sound asleep in our rooms, we would sneak out our windows and meet the two cute I.U. guys a block away, then head down to Bloomington for our tour of the campus. What remains a mystery to me today is where was two-year-old Lynnette all this time? I babysat her from 2:30 to 11:00 Monday through Friday and this was Friday night. Had Mother taken off work that day? Oh, no! Had I taken her with Rita and me to The Cup? Would I have been that stupid to put my precious baby sister at risk? Unfortunately, I think the answer is obvious considering my actions so far.

Sorry Mike, Bobby, Gary, Gary, Johnny, Ronnie, and Ricky. I'm going to I.U. with a cute guy who showed me some attention. Wait! I don't even know his name.

Rita and I met between our houses and ran in the dark down Mardyke Lane for about a block and there they were, two strangers waiting for us as planned. The cuter of the two held the door open for me--what? how could that be? ugly me with the cute one?--while Rita climbed into the backseat with his friend. 

Off into the pitch-black night we went. Rita and I were getting a tour of Indiana University campus--wherever that might be--and getting attention from handsome members of the opposite sex. Since I had no idea where Bloomington was; since I had no sense of direction; since I had no sense of danger; since I had no sense period, that Friday night in my seventeenth year could have easily ended much worse than it did.

Sometime in the wee hours of Saturday morning, I woke up in a dorm room, lying in a twin bed with a stranger, both of us fully clothed. I was no longer intoxicated and it took awhile to understand where I was and how I got there. I was no longer in the safe confines of my black and white world where saying "damn" is about as bad as it gets; I thought I was in trouble; big trouble. The stranger next to me was twice and big as me, and we were alone in his world now. He could do with me whatever he wanted.

"Oh, good. You're awake," the stranger said. "I have to get you back home before morning. We need to leave now." And with that he directed me out of his dorm through a window and escorted me to his car. "You really shouldn't drink so much," he said before leaving to get Rita--she must have been in another dorm room--and off we raced back to Indy. I crawled back into my bedroom window, climbed into bed, and fell fast asleep. 

I got lucky. My cute stranger--the guy who chose me instead of Rita--was one of the good guys. But would I learn my lesson? Nah!  Blame it on that damn under developed pre-frontal cortex. Oh, darn it. I said a bad word.

Sweet Harriett Louise

Today is Mother's ninety-fourth birthday. Today is also the same date, two years ago, that she passed away. Her three daughters, Judy, Lynnette, and I were by her side when she slipped away. At the nursing home where she spent the last two years of her life, many of her caregivers broke down when they heard the news; everyone adored sweet Harriett Louise.  At the funeral both Judy and Lynnette gave eloquent eulogies honoring the life of their mother. I spoke about regrets. Regrets for not being more understanding. Regrets for not being more tolerant. Regrets for not loving her better. I talked about the time to right the wrongs, to make amends, to avoid regrets was while your loved ones are still with you. Death is so final. Once they are gone there are no do-overs.

We are all unique, multifaceted, complicated, and imperfect. We become who we are not by our own doing. The person we eventually grow up to be is determined by three things: genetics, environment, and reality TV. With so many things affecting our outcome, is it no wonder we don't meet the high expectations some people require of us? The truth is we all do the best we can with what we have. Would anyone want to be unhappy? Would anyone choose depression?  Except for the sickos of the world, would anyone intentionally harm their loved ones? Yet, it happens and what may seem innocent and benign at the time can cause damage that lasts a lifetime.

Who among us, other than you, (yes, I'm talking to you) has grown up in a functional, rather than dysfunctional home? You're the only one. (Don't be smug.) The rest of us have not been as lucky as you. (Wipe that smirk off your face.)

Mother loved Judy, Lynnette, and me with every molecule in her body. She did the best she could with what she had to work with, and considering what that was--a mother who used her love and affection as a bargaining tool to get her daughter to act according to her wishes, a husband who abandoned her with two children, a church that called her a sinner for being divorced, an education that stopped at 14, a roommate who took her power away, and a deep-seated belief that she was not worthy of love--she did very well. All my mother ever wished for in her short ninety-two years was this: See me. Acknowledge me. Love me. Adore me.

If you think about it, isn’t that what we all want? Don’t each one of us have our own dog and pony show that is self-promoting? Some of us are more discreet, while others manage to constantly put themselves in the spotlight, but aren’t we all saying the same thing, “Hey, I’m here.”

Mother’s dog and pony show was beautiful, adorable, funny, entertaining, complicated, and imperfect. And before her short life was over she got her wishes…all four of them.

My Sister's Bra

Two weeks before going into my second year of high school I turned sixteen, a year older than most of my classmates. Over the summer I had fashioned a bra out of my sister's bra that she had left behind. I cut the tips off and sewed elastic to them, then stuffed them with toilet paper. I stopped wearing my glasses, except those times when I needed to see, and my face was growing bigger which made my enormous two front teeth look smaller. But I was still invisible to Mike, Bobby, Gary, Gary, and Johnny. The flame for Ronny Coal dimmed to a flicker but did not go out since he graduated and left for college.

Boobs (albeit fake) and no glasses were baby steps of progress toward "attractiveness to the opposite sex" which gave me hope that someday, just maybe, I'll have a boyfriend, too, just like all my girlfriends. But little did I know that I was four long years away from that happening.

Choose Good

At first, I was skeptical of my new dad. I kept wondering when his true agenda would reveal itself. When was his "kind and nice" going to be replaced by something more "authoritative and mean." The transformation never came. As time passed I began to soften to his gentle approach and genuine interest in his youngest step daughter. I don't know when it happened, but some time after my little sister came along, Orville became "Dad."

What I understand now that I didn't "get" back then was his need (it was a need not a desire) to share his life's experiences and lessons learned with his loved ones traveling on the path behind him in life. If we listened to him, he could save us from the potholes in our path, thereby reducing our pain and suffering in life. There were times when the two of us would sit at the kitchen table while he would go on and on about things of no interest to me. I listened some of the time, but most of the time my mind was somewhere else. His message was lost on me then, yet now, all these many years later, I can still hear him say, "Always remember when you have a choice between good and evil, choose good." At the time, I thought it was a simplistic, ridiculous thing to say. Duh! Pick good, not evil; everyone knows that. But the path in life is not simple; it's often ridiculous, and it's littered with evil, some of our own doing, which in turn causes pain and suffering. 

I grew to love my dad very much. His love for me was constant, unconditional, and sometimes even desperate. (I ran away from home once, and when he finally found me, he was crying like a baby.)  I didn't have to draw pretty pictures to get his praise. I didn't have to be beautiful to earn his admiration. I just had to be me; that was good enough for him.

His demeanor was straight forward, gentle, genuine, and simple. He was one of the best men I have ever known. If only I could sit down with him at the kitchen table one more time, I would say, "I get it now, Dad; thanks for sharing; thanks for caring enough to want to save me from the potholes in life." 

I loved that man with all my heart and I miss him terribly. 

Working with a Fully-Developed Brain

For days I waited with high anxiety for the consequences of my bad judgment to catch up with me, but it never did. My parents acted as if nothing had happened; not a word was mentioned.  Charlie and his parents never contacted me or my family; the police didn't surround the house demanding that I surrender and come out with my hands in the air. Weeks passed, then months.  This really big thing passed with no serious life-altering bad consequences. Hopefully, I had learned my lesson from this close call, and now all decisions going forward would be well-thought-out and logical.

WRONG!

Let me put it this way. If you got in your car, turned the key in the ignition, and put the gear into drive, would you go anywhere if you were missing a steering wheel? You would answer, "Of course not; No one can drive a car without a steering wheel. It's the directional component of the car." And I would expect that answer from you because everyone knows how incredibly smart you are and how you always have all the right answers to all the questions. You're obviously working with a fully-developedl brain. But you're wrong. You can drive a car without a steering wheel. Just because that directional detail is missing, it doesn't mean you're stranded by the side of the curb. You may not be able to guide said above-mentioned car very well, but you can still drive it. Every teenager knows that.

Buzzing The Cup

It was Charlie Eickman's beloved 1956 Chevy.  One summer night in 1961 he drove it to the Lawrence Park Pavilion, where every Wednesday night a dance was sponsored for teenagers in the community. He wanted to show it off to his buddies, all seniors at Lawrence Central High School.

In February, at age fifteen and a half, I received my beginner's permit to drive. My stepdad was teaching me how to drive so I figured the following was true: 1) I knew everything there was to know about driving a car, and 2) a beginner's permit was the same as a driver's license.

With Lynn Stewart, one of the prettiest girls in the sophomore class, by my side I brazenly walked up to Charlie and his friends to ask him if Lynn and I and two friends could borrow his car to "buzz" a local drive-in hamburger joint. We would be gone for only a few minutes, I assured him. We would go to The Cup, then come right back. Amazingly, he said "yes." "But please be careful because the brakes act up sometimes," he warned, as we ran giggling all the way to his precious Chevy.

The warning about the brakes was long forgotten before we left the gravel parking lot.  In the car was Lynn and her friend in the backseat, Carol Lewis, shotgun, and me, the driver. Off I raced down Franklin Road to Pendleton Pike. Left on the pike and another left into the long line of cars "buzzing around" The Cup, a hamburger and fries drive in. We all rolled down our windows because being seen was the whole purpose for being there. Carol, Lynn, and her friend leaned out the windows and waved and shouted to faces recognizable in cars that were backed into parking spots. I straightened my back,  put my left arm out the window, and looked straight ahead. I was cool; we were cool. Oh, yeah.

We left The Cup and drove up Pendleton Pike to Frisch's Big Boy and repeated the same routine. Thirty minutes passed, then an hour. It was way past time to go back. The first sign of brake trouble occurred at Pendleton Pike and Franklin Road. I put my foot on the brake pedal to slow down, but nothing happened and we made the turn on two wheels. All the girls laughed because they thought I was joking by turning the corner at thirty miles an hour.

By the time we arrived back at the pavilion's parking lot, I had forgotten about the brake incident five minutes before. Once again I made the turn going way too fast. All these years later, I can still see the people jumping out of my way; hear the screams from the backseat; feel Carol Lewis at my feet pounding on the brake pedal with her hands; I can still sense my terror in those last few seconds before...

 I hit the tree.

Except for bumps, scrapes, bruises and banged up knees, there were no injuries. The police arrived and took the only occupant of the car (my friends had abandoned me) into custody. I was not under arrest, however, but I would have some explaining to do once we arrived at my parents' home.

Experts in human behavior say that some people, when under emotional distress, will react to said distress in unusual and bizarre ways, like smiling when the expected reaction would be frowning or laughing instead of crying. Say, for example, you might expect that when the police show up at a parent's house at eleven o'clock at night with their fifteen-year-old daughter to report that the daughter 1) was driving a borrowed car without a license, 2) was speeding said borrowed car through a public park endangering pedestrians and occupants of car, and then 3) driving above-mentioned said borrowed car straight into a tree, some people might show signs of being distressed. Not my mother.

When Mother answered the door to see two policeman and me standing before her, it might have seemed odd to them when a huge smile spread across her face as if we had all come for a party she was throwing. She sprang into good-hostess action, inviting the officers in, offering them a seat, asking if they would like some tea, and then creating small talk in order to avoid the reason for their visit. Avoidance was mother's way of coping with the "really big things" in life. If she didn't acknowledge them, then they didn't exist. The little everyday things, on the other hand, were a problem for Mother, but this one? This one was HUGE and Mother was just fine, thank you very much. There would be no screaming at this social event.

As it turned out this really big thing disappeared in a day. I had some uncomfortable moments sitting across from two policemen in our living room while they lectured me about using good sense--little did they know about my under-developed pre-frontal cortex--and then they left. Nothing happened. It was never mentioned again in our home.  I wonder, would I be that lucky today?

No. 2 Pencil

By my freshman year at Lawrence Central High, I had developed friendships with a handful of girls from the ninth grade: Carol Lewis, Lynn Stewart, Petie Peterson, Becky Harper, Peggy Nugent, and Rita Gomez (not her real name) from my neighborhood. All of my friends had boyfriends, but that accessory would not be available to me for five more years. My only appeal to boys was my ability to make them laugh...at me.

The boy who made fun of me the most was Larry Davison. He and his posse of friends would roam the halls looking for those students who (or is it whom) he deemed worthy of insult, so I was just one of many who would be unlucky enough to cross his path in the hallways. 

After feeling the discomfort of red-face embarrassment time and time again, I came up with idea to defuse Larry and get a few laughs myself. I began to laugh along with the insults (the opposite reaction he was wanting) and then I would strike back. A little tit or tat, you might say.

Larry and his posse backed off, but for some people making fun of other students was an extra curricular activity at our school, and it was just something I would have to accept until the boobs and butt showed up, the pimples went away, the glasses disappeared, and my face grew big enough to fit my big two front teeth.

All You Have to be is Good

So then I said to my mother, "I'm not going to church anymore and you can't make me." Well, of course that was the most ridiculous thing I could have said. "Well, that is the most ridiculous thing you could have said," she said and then instructed me to get dressed for church.  Since announcing my plans to stop going to church didn't work, I came up with another plan. "I'm sick and I can't go to church today," I told her when she came back into my bedroom and found me still in bed. "We'll just see about that," she said, leaving the room long enough to retrieve a thermometer. I found a heating pad and while she was getting dressed, I put the tip of the thermometer inside the cloth covering. As soon as I heard the doorknob wiggle, I stuck the thermometer in my mouth. With a smirk on her face, she jerked it out of my mouth and brought it within inches of her doubting eyes. That's when the screaming started and continued nonstop until Orville came running into my room. He could not imagine what could have been so horrific, so terrible, so bad to solicit glass-breaking screams from his wife.

As it turned out my temperature was so exceedingly high, that the end of the thermometer had broken off. Now, you have to admit that when someone's temperature is so high it breaks the thermometer, there is some serious concern going on, right? Maybe even some screaming, right? Immediate medical help would be in order, right? Nah! After the screaming episode subsided, things were put back into their order of importance and Mother left for church, leaving me alone in my bedroom to die a horrible death all by myself.

Okay, I was faking it, but she didn't know that.

No Longer Subject to Their Rules

Mike, Bobby, Gary, Gary, Johnny, and Ronnie were shoved to the back burner of my heart when Lynnette came into my life. We all loved her, but for me, she was all consuming. I couldn't wait to see her when I got up in the morning and as soon as I arrived home from school in the afternoon. I had never experienced this kind of love before.

Judy, me, Lynnette, Orville, Mother, circa 1961

Within a year of Lynnette's birth, Judy got married and moved out of the house, which was fine with me because that meant one less person competing with me over my baby sister. One down, two remaining, but they were her parents and necessary for obvious reasons, however, Mother did get in my way more than I liked. Lynnette was Daddy's Girl and she, in turn, adored him. I was becoming very fond of him as well.

In the summer of 1961 I was closing in on sixteen and life was good at 7320 Austin Drive, until...

I realized that (1) I knew so much more than my mother and stepdad--the older I got, the less smart they became-- and (2) I was no longer subject to their rules of the house.

But I Was Right, Dammit!

The conversation in my head kept repeating itself. Same exact words over and over. She said this; I said that. She was hurt; I was angry.  I had a right to be mad. I was right; she was wrong. But isn't that how we always see things when they don't go our way? Aren't we always on the side of what's right? Why is it so hard for those who disagree with us not to see the error of their thinking?

There was that damn conversation again--repeating, repeating, repeating my harsh words, her tears turned to heavy sobs. But I was right, dammit; I was right! If there was an apology given, it would be hers. The first person to make the call would be her. I was not calling her. I was right!

Maybe, I thought on that August day in 2010,  if I took a walk outside with nature's most beautiful spread of mountains, creeks and rivers laid out before me,  I could clear my head of that extremely unpleasant conversation. But there it was again. My words, her hurt. Nope! Not calling.

As I was standing on our driveway, a slideshow of our fifty years together, starting with me holding her in my arms when she was three days old, began.

I tried to turn the slideshow off. No! Not backing down. Not gonna happen. No way. I was right! Then the slideshow stopped and one single thought came to my mind: What if something bad happened to my sister during this time? What if I lost her? How important would me being "right" be then?  Nope! Still not gonna make that first call. I was right, dammit!

Then it happened. I tried to swallow, but my throat wouldn't allow it; I could not breathe. What in the world was going on? I panicked and grabbed my throat. Long scary seconds passed before I was able to breathe normal again. Then I began to cry. It wasn't a silent cry with tears streaming down my face. Oh, no. They were loud uncontrollable sobs that lasted until I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone.

Lived Another Day

Hopelessly, Madly in Love

She was born three months before I turned fifteen. I had been anticipating her arrival for months, and when she finally came into this world, my world changed. Oh, my. What to do with all this love? I hadn't known that kind of love before May 3, 1960. My focus now was narrow and all consuming.  Her name was Joyce Lynnette, but from day one, we called her by her middle name.

Mother gave birth to Lynnette, but she belonged to me. She gave me a reason to want to come home every day.

Mother and Orville (his name was Royal Orville but we called him by his middle name) both worked at two factories in town, so as soon as Mother went back to work, I was given permission to skip study hall, the last period of the day,  to babysit my precious little girl.

Look at that face. Have you ever seen anything in your life as adorable as my baby sister?  I took Lynnette everywhere with me; we were inseparable. I was hopelessly, madly in love. 

When Lynnette hurt, I hurt. For long seconds after a boo-boo, I would lose my breath; I couldn't bear to see her suffer.

And now that I think about it all these many years later, that is most likely the reason why on that August day in 2010, I suddenly lost my ability to breathe. My fifty-year-old little sister was hurting and the pain inflicted came from Sissy, the sister who was also her best friend, the first person she always called when trouble knocked at her door, the big sis who tried to guide her around painful potholes that lie in her path in life. That very sister who wanted to protect her little sister from hurting was now responsible for her pain and suffering: That sister would be me. Of course, you knew that already, didn’t you? 

I was standing in our driveway, looking out over the Little Tennessee River and the Nantahala Mountains, remembering the harsh words spoken days before; my harsh words. I wanted to cry but the tears wouldn't come; I was too angry to cry. And then my throat clamped shut and I stopped breathing.

Hard Times

The following is a story I posted on my blog on April 27, 2013, and is also in my blog book "My Kingdom for a Blue Butterfly."

Prince Charming (my stepdad) had rescued us and Happily-Ever-After was in its last trimester in our new home in the suburbs of Lawrence when Mother announced she was with child.  She liked to say, "I have a little Indian in me," and everyone would laugh.  But the laughter ended the day my new dad was laid off from his job at a local factory.

After we moved on up to the north side, Mother was happy again.  Judy, who had blossomed into a beautiful woman, had met her future husband (in church, of course) and I, at fourteen, had accumulated enough friends (enough friends for me was two at arm's length) at school and from our neighborhood that boredom and monotony were no longer the bane of me.

The new head of our household grew up in the backwoods of West Virginia and was familiar with the hardships of making do with what little his family had. If they were going to eat it, they would have to catch it or grow it.  Their house was a small shack that was little more than shelter from the outside.  It was unbearably cold in the winter and stifling hot in the summer, but he and his family did what they had to do to survive, and that is exactly what he would do now--now that he was committed to a mortgage for a new home, a wife and children.  There would be hard times, but his family would survive. He would find a way.

*  *  *

It was a beautiful, white two-story farmhouse that sat beside a stately barn on a hundred acres that at one time was bordered by farmland. With the city moving north at a fast pace, it was now surrounded by motels, restaurants, strip malls, and gas stations.  The man who owned it was a gentleman farmer, who wore a suit everyday and owned several companies, in addition to the farm.  He was a wealthy, prominent businessman in the community and was known to be a no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners, tough negotiator.

My new dad was a quiet, shy man.  The little nuances in conversation that can promote your cause or derail it were unknown to him.  His words were simple and direct.  His intentions were sincere and honest.  And on the day that he stood on the front porch of the beautiful white house and nervously rang the doorbell, he knew the odds were against him.  When the man in the suit opened the front door to his beautiful estate and saw an unsmiling, dark-skinned stranger standing before him, he was not impressed, at first.

We survived.  My dad shoveled manure, baled hay, painted fences, repaired tractors, and so much more, until the day the factory called him back to work, but something very special and unlikely happened during that time on the farm.  The quiet, shy factory worker became close friends with the take-no-prisoners businessman, and that friendship remained strong until the last day in the life of our Prince Charming.

A Little Indian and a Pink Slip

One day in October, 1959, Mother announced, "I have a little Indian in me," which was her way of saying she was pregnant. Judy and I were shocked, to say the least, considering her advanced age: thirty-eight. But we were also ecstatic. Our new family was having a baby.

Then seven months later, there I was standing at the big picture window at Community Hospital's nursery looking at the most beautiful baby girl I had ever seen. Mother was right. She did have a little Indian in her.

But the good news was short lived because shortly after my little sister was born, my stepdad, who had a new family, a new home with a big mortgage, and a new baby, was laid off from his factory job. 

Oh, no! Would we have to go back to that little house on Rawles Avenue and live with Hazel??

When Love Loves in Overdrive

For most of my middle school and high school years, Mike Nickels owned my heart. But love loves to love and when love loves in overdrive, there's going to be some detours now and then. My heart wanted Mike, but it also yearned for Johnny Yount and Gary Perkins and Gary Estes and Bobby Ellis. Those were my five main love interests who took turns being my spoon pillow.

It was all innocent enough; I wasn't looking to stray. It just happened. I was standing outside one of my eighth grade classrooms, when the most handsome and popular senior boy walked by me with his cheerleader girlfriend and an entourage of about five other seniors. Since the high school was attached to the middle school, it wasn't unusual to see upper classmates strut their stuff through our hallways.

It was love at first sight. "Sorry Mike, Johnny, Gary, Gary, Bobby. Ronnie Coal is my spoon pillow now."

My fantasy love affair with the most sought-after, popular senior prom king lasted only one school year. He graduated and I never saw him again. "So I'm back Mike, Johnny, Gary, Gary, Bobby. I'll change the pillow case." 

This is a drawing of me at my vanity writing my future name: Carol Coal, Mrs. Ronald Coal, Mrs. Coal. Carol Louise Coal. It has such a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Speaking of "ring," he did buy me an engagement ring fifteen years later, but that's another story for another time. I lied about never seeing him again.

Mystery Father

He was watching from a'near. He wanted to be with me, but for some reason that my four-year-old brain couldn't understand, he wasn't. He was my mystery father--a man who Mother knew, a man who my older sister knew, a man who even Hazel knew, but I didn't get the pleasure because he left the day I was born.

"But he loves me," I rationalized. "He would be with me if he could; he just can't." With that thinking process going on in my little head, I came up with a plan that just might work for him. He was forbidden, for some unknown reason, to be with his beloved daughter, so he would do the next best thing. He would watch her from a'near. That's it! Brilliant plan! If you can't be with the one you love, stalk them. Wait a minute! That doesn't sound right. Let's try that plan again. If you can't be with the one you love, admire them from a distance of close proximity. But don't get caught because your intentions might be misunderstood and you might go to jail. Stalking is illegal, ya know.

The entire time I was growing up, my dad watched me from a'near. At least, that's what I wanted to believe. And since he was out there somewhere--behind a tree or peeking in a window--I had to be the best at whatever I was doing. He couldn't be there, but he could be proud.

In the ninth grade, our school installed a rope that hung 30' from the gymnasium ceiling. The challenge was put out to all students--boys and girls. "Who will be the first boy, the first girl to climb the rope all the way to the ceiling?"

Guess who was the first girl? Why don't you ask my father? He was there, peeking in the window. What? You can't ask him because he's been arrested for being a "peeping Tom." Oh, my. I feel bad about that, but I didn't know the man, so I guess I don't feel that bad.

Guess who was the fastest girl runner in the ninth grade...for one race?  Why don't you ask my father? He was there, peeking around a tree. Okay, never mind. You can't ask him; he's in jail.

On my eighteenth birthday I met my father for the first time. That story later.