My Last Blog Book

My lastest blog book is coming to an Amazon near you sometime in June.

Five years of stories, illustrations, and ramblings from the perspective of an aging baby boomer put into five books (I Got Out of Bed for Sesame Street is the last of the five) for the much-loved younger members of my family traveling behind me on the treadmill called "LIFE."

Dedicated to

Tom, Lynnette, Amy and Jason

One Last Thing

One last thing before I stop rambling...

I love my dog.

Oh, I'm sorry Maggie Mae.

Did I call you a dog?

Precocious Cowgirl

April, 1980

When we walked into the barn, she was at the far end of the building standing on an upside-down five-gallon bucket feeding a horse. When she saw us coming, she jumped down off the bucket and began walking toward us. She was wearing mud-covered cowboy boots, jeans tucked inside, and a dirty white T-shirt. About ten steps away, she stopped, shoved her butt out to one side, and put her hands on her hips. Uh, oh. Was someone in trouble? "Dad, did you forget to feed King?" she said. It was on his list of things to do, he told her, but right now he wanted her to meet a visitor to their farm. That would be me.

She forgot about her dad's dereliction of duty and greeted me with a quick "Hi" before running off after a couple of cats who had strolled past us during our introduction.

Little did I know, while standing in that old dilapidated barn in Greenwood, Indiana, what an impact that spunky little four-year-old who would have in my life. A forty-pound tornado was how I described her after our first meeting. She was here, there, everywhere all at one time. Just watching her made me want to go lie down somewhere and take a nap; her never-ending energy wore me out.

"Let's play," she would say once I moved to the farm. (I married her dad.) Play, play, play. She always wanted to play, have fun, explore, be adventurous. All of that was easy to do within the confines of the 160 acres that encompassed the farm. And then there were the dog, cats, horses, goats, hogs, and chickens, all avenues for more fun.

That little package of energy was jam-packed full of love, and she did not hold back one ounce of it from me. I got it all. Whenever I sat down, she was on my lap. She would curl her arms around my neck, plant kisses all over my face, and whisper secrets in my ear that no one in the world knew but her...and now me.

Here I sit all these many years later reminiscing--something I seem to do a lot of lately--about those early years on the farm. Amy loved me then--when we were a family living together on Morgantown Road--and she still loves me today with the same intensity, thirty-five years later.

Yesterday I met a precocious four-year-old cowgirl standing in an old barn,  and today I call her my daughter--well, she's Jason's sister so wouldn't that make her my daughter? I could not love her more if I'd given birth to her. All these many years, Amy continues to reach out to me and give her love abundantly, freely, and without conditions. I cherish her love. I cherish Amy.

In August, my daughter will turn forty, one day after I turn seventy.

Amy, age four, on the farm

All grown up with a cowgirl of her own

Zig Instead of Zag

The following was written on January 23, 1997.

"I hate you!" he said, and if by some slight chance I didn't believe it, he spun around and got right in my face and shouted, "I REEEEAAALLLLY HATE YOU!" He spit out the words with disgust, and the grimace on his face confirmed his feelings. After his verbal assault, he turned back around and stared out of the car window refusing to acknowledge my presence. "Leave. Me. Alone!" he muttered to the glass. Right now he wanted to be somewhere, anywhere else but with me.

So this is what it's like to be a parent.

In my twenties, I had fantasized about finding my prince charming and having his babies. He would adore me, and they would think the sun rose and set in my back pocket. Fast approaching my mid-thirties, I was about to give up on finding my future children's father, when he confidently road into my life sitting atop a big black quarter horse called King.

On April 27, 1981, the chance to love unconditionally, to nurture, to teach, to give just the right amount of discipline, to cherish, and to be cherished back was now a reality and no longer a fantasy. Three days later, it was almost ripped away from me by an Apnea episode that almost stole my long-awaited baby away. He stopped breathing multiple times in ten minutes the doctor said. The thought of losing him was devastating. I had waited thirty-five years for him and now he was leaving me. I was able to hold him so little. I told him I loved him only once. I thought I had more time. I thought I had the rest of my life with him.

"I hate you!" resonated through my mind again and again as I drove toward home. He didn't simply hate me, he reeeeeaaaalllly hated me. How could he hate me? Since the moment he was born, my focus pointed to him. His health, his mental and emotional well-being, his education, his happiness, his future, his everything was primary on my list of importance.

I pulled the car into the garage and waited for him to throw open the door to make his escape. I followed him into the house and went straight to my room. I crawled under the bedcovers, curled up into a fetal position and cried. He'd told me before that he hated me, but never with so much conviction, so much passion. He meant it this time. I repulsed him. I disgusted him. I was a thorn in his side and just because I said "No" when he asked to go out on a school night, the night before semester finals.

Where did I go wrong? Isn't it my responsibility to go to his school ten times a month if that's what it takes to make a difference? Isn't it my responsibility to tell him to put on a coat if it's minus 32 degrees outside? Isn't it my job to punish him when he has done something wrong? Aren't I suppose to establish the rules? Doesn't he realize when he is grounded, I'm grounded? Doesn't he understand that after a long day at work, I'm tired and I don't want to battle when I come home? Doesn't he know that if I didn't care so much, life would be easy for him now, but hard on him later?

I hate you!" was all I could hear as I tried to keep warm under the covers. The heat needed to be turned up, but I didn't have the energy to get out of bed. I wanted to stick my head out from under the covers and shout out loud for him to hear, WELL, I DON'T LIKE YOU, EITHER. HERE, LET ME HELP YOU PACK, YOU UNAPPRECIATIVE BRAT! GO SOMEWHERE ELSE AND DRIVE SOMEONE ELSE CRAZY!"  I wanted to scream that and more, but I didn't because the truth is I love him and I don't want him to leave.

I wish I could find that elusive key that would unlock all the secrets to being a successful parent--the key that would give me the answers I so desperately need. What was that simple formula for mixing unconditional love, nurturing, teaching, cherishing and discipline I'd come up with years ago? If only it could be as easy as choosing a name. What is the recipe for producing happy, well-adjusted, productive children and then presenting them to the world? It seemed so easy back then. Let's face it. The toughest decision I faced was which color to paint the nursery.

Even the child-rearing experts disagree. One expert changed his mind after an entire generation of children was raised by parents with his book on their nightstand. No amount of apologies by this authority on children could turn back the clock and let us start over. "Oops! Never mind. I was wrong. You should have zigged when you zagged." But the truth is it's not his fault. He did his best which is what all conscientious parents are trying to do. The problem is so many of us are doing "seat-of-the-pants" parenting, and this causes anxiety and fear--fear for the future of our children.

My son is fifteen; he is a man in a ten-year-old mind. He jabs, pushes, tugs, pulls, leans, and prods. He also hugs, kisses, and loves. He's a brat and an angel. He's up and he's down. He's hot and he's cold. He's lazy and he's motivated. He's a zigger and a zagger. He's many things but one thing cannot be denied. He's my son and I love him. And so I will continue to love unconditionally, nurture, teach, and discipline. I will cherish him now like I cherished him when he was only three days old and in intensive care, and hope that someday he will realize that he is very special, that he has talents and gifts unique only to him, that he is smart and funny, that he is valued and loved.

Update: A few months ago I was at Jason's home and overheard a conversation he was having on the phone with a friend who was having difficulties with their fifteen-year-old. The advice he gave was incredible and impressive. I was overwhelmed with pride for my son. At one point in the conversation, he looked over at me and said, "Hang in there. If you only knew what I put my mother through when I was fifteen, and I turned out okay."  Yes you certainly did, Jason. You turned out better than okay.

Jason, age 15

I Remember

Did I mentioned I found a long-lost box of my "stuff" in the garage attic?  I did? Many times, in fact. So many times that you've lost track.  Okay then. Never mind. Here's something I found recently somewhere. I wrote it on November 18, 1997. It's called I Remember.

I remember.

I remember her standing in the doorway--the big jovial lady with no lips. "Do any of you students know how to play the piano?" she asked. I remember raising my hand enthusiastically without thinking, and then while my eagerness became the center of everyone's attention, my anxiety shook me back to reality. I couldn't play the piano. I just wanted out of Miss Ratcliff's science class.

I remember sitting on the front step of my porch one hot summer night, sobbing. "Fluffy, please, oh please, come home." I pictured him smashed, turned inside out on the highway. My mother's silhouette filled the opening in the door as she--for the third time--suggested I come to bed and continue my search tomorrow. How cold hearted. How uncaring. How could I possibly go to sleep knowing my best friend--my beloved cat--was out there somewhere possibly lost or injured or...
I remember the excitement, the giddiness, the tears as Fluffy emerged from the darkness strutting his usual strut, tail high with that confident little curve at the end, and I remember how oblivious and indifferent he acted when I scooped him up and buried my face in his soft wonderful belly. I remember going to sleep that night with an irritated cat held tightly to my chest while I experienced for the first time appreciation.

I remember the breakdown. Was it number three or four? I forget. I remember having an out-of-body experience. It wasn't really me there, watching. I remember thinking, "This is bad. I don't like this feeling." As she lie moaning and writhing the floor, I wanted to run--run as far away from her as I could. I wanted to escape this madness.

I remember the hard pew and the insistent urge to fall asleep. Then the music started. I remember seeing people coming my way and praying they weren't coming for me. I remember my relief when they stopped to pray for another lost soul as I fought to hold back the tears during the final verses of "Just as I am."

I remember the spacious backseat in the '49 Plymouth. Every Sunday night after church I would curl up and fall asleep for the thirty minute drive home. I loved sleeping in the back seat of that car. I could hear the low hum of voices in the front seat, feel the pattern of the road, and hear the steady rhythm of the engine. I never wanted it to end. I always dreaded the last seconds of my peaceful journey. I remember the moment the car began to slow down, the clicking of the turn signal, the slight acceleration up and over the sidewalk, and then the slow motion down the drive and the gravel crunching under the wheel. Yet I ignored all the signs and maintained my fetal position. I remember the open door, the blinding overhead light, the cold, the stillness, the coaxing, and most of all I remember the long agonizing walk from the backseat of that car to my bed.

The Appearance of Old

I'm up. Not that I intended to get up at 7:01, but I stretched myself into a leg cramp that forced me to jump out of bed and walk around the bedroom until the pain subsided and my leg untwisted itself. Tom has been up since 5:30 because he said there are trout waiting for him in the rivers, and he doesn't want to be late. I hobbled past him on the way to the bathroom with a grimace of pain on my face and he said, "You stretched again, didn't you?"

My late aunt, Gracie, used to say, "Growing old is not for the weak," but I never thought about her statement until this past decade.  Now I hear her words all the time. I heard them this morning, "Growing old is not for the weak. Growing old is not for the weak. Growing old is not for the weak."

Here's the thing about pain that I don't like; it hurts.  Pain must have been what my aunt was referring to when she didn't recommend it for the weak. But we weaklings must endure the pain because our options are limited.

The pain is one reason why growing old is not for me, but there is something else I don't care for either.  The appearance of old is not going to work for me. I may appear to look sixty-nine, but I'm really thirty-five. I cannot envision myself old. I need more time to adjust to the changes to my body like the loss of bone and muscle mass, sagging skin, turkey-wattle neck, stomach pouch...just to name a few alterations not to my liking. It all happened so fast. Blink, I'm young. Blink, I'm old. Well, not old but the appearance of old.

I'm up. Not that I intended to stay up, but when I went back to bed after the leg cramp, I heard a ringing noise that sounded like an alarm clock. But since I don't have an alarm clock, I could only assume it was my tinnitus acting up again. There is medicine for ear ringing, but I can't fit another pill into my daily regimen of meds.

I stood in the kitchen and stared at the unfocused pill containers lined up on the counter.  The first pill of day must be taken thirty minutes before eating and one hour before the second set of meds, so I waited patiently for my eyes to focus--they don't like to work first thing in the morning--all the while trying to answer that nagging question, "Have I taken this pill already?" 

Let me just say here that there is nothing wrong with growing old. People do it all the time. It's an acceptable practice, and some old people even appear to be enjoying their geriatric experience.  But not this old lady. Not me. Nope! No way, Jose. I'm not buying it. I'm not down with it. It ain't cool, dude.

Oh, my. Look at the time. It's 10:00. Time for my morning nap. I'm going back to bed.

Love is Not Supposed to Hurt

Six. That's how many times I failed at romantic love before I finally got it right. But the good news is, I did get it right. Five. That's how many decades it took before I discovered what true love feels like. Love is not supposed to hurt. If there's pain involved, then it's not love; it's indifference, neglect or abuse.

He left the day I was born. The birth of his daughter meant nothing to him. And he never looked back, except for that one day in August, 1963, when I turned eighteen--the day he was finally free of child support. He boldly walked up the sidewalk and knocked on the door of the stranger's house. When I opened the door, he asked if I was Carol Louise, and when I said I was, he threw back his shoulders, smiled broadly, and boasted "I'm your father and here is your last support check." Then he turned abruptly and walked back down the sidewalk, climbed into his car, and drove away.

With his $10.00 check in my hand, I closed the door and walked over to the couch and sat down. What had just happened? At first I was in disbelief and stunned. Since I had been a little girl, I had looked for my father everywhere I went. For a reason I didn't understand, he was distant, aloof, and mysterious, but he loved me from afar. He was standing back in the crowd when I hit that home run; he was on the sidelines when my team--I was the fastest runner--won the track meet, he was sitting in the bleachers at my high school graduation. Because he was there watching me, I worked harder than anyone else. I had to make him proud of me. I couldn't let him down.

None of it was true. He never was standing back watching his daughter. He knew nothing about me. He even had to ask if I was Carol Louise. He didn't even know what I looked like. Sadness overwhelmed me and I fell back on to the couch and sobbed uncontrollably.

When I sat back up I was angry--angry at my father but now all men* were guilty by association. Beware of men; they are dangerous purveyors of pain.

Up until this point in my life, I had been groomed to be "sugar and spice and everything nice." Little boys like sweet nice girls, I was reminded over and over. There was no place for anger in my persona.  If I felt it, I couldn't express it; I had to suppress it. Feel one way; act another. This was my mother's way, and this would be passed down to all three of her daughters: Judy, Carol Louise, and Lynnette. But there was something else, something more sinister than sugar and spice, that mother passed down to my sisters and me: women cannot survive without a man to take care of them.

At age twenty, when I fell in love for the first time, I believed two things: 1) men are purveyors of pain, and 2) I must find a man to take care of me.

Enter Jack. Jack had a plan but I wasn't privy to that plan; it was a secret plan, so therefore, since it was secret, I didn't know there was even a plan. But let's just say that plan involved control, manipulation, game playing, and doing the nasty-nasty with my best friend. But since I knew two things: I needed a man to care for me and love comes with pain, I stayed with Jack, until...

Enter Evansville. Another man who wanted 100% control over things that he believed were in my best interest in life and, of course, there was the pain. But this pain was self-inflicted, and you can read all about that in my prior posts about my escape to Europe to deal with, well, that pain.

Enter the cowboy. Let me just use one word here to describe this relationship that resulted in a bad marriage but produced an absolutely wonderful son: indifference.

Enter the mechanic. Two-timing, low-down, scum of the pond, lying, cheating jerk...but I'm not angry.

Enter co-worker: If a person is emotionally unstable with a personality disorder and quite possibly bipolar, I don't think it's nice to say bad things about them.

Enter the photographer: He wanted to be faithful. No, really he did.

Let me stop right here to recap. Indifference, neglect, and physical abuse are easy to see in any relationship, whether it be parents, siblings, friends, or mates. Emotional abuse is harder to define but its damage is real, long-lasting, and painful.  Emotional abuse comes under a shroud of deception, so the innocents are not aware of the damage being done to them. They feel the pain, but they can't interpret it or understand it. All they know is that love hurts.

The common thread that wove through all six relationships--including my father--was one of or a mixture of the following: indifference, neglect, and abuse.

Note to my grandchildren: If love hurts, it's not love. Love is adoration, respect, support, caring, kindness, unconditional, and wanting what is best for you in life. Which, by the way, brings me back to the beginning of this post: I discovered what true love feels like. 

Enter Tom



*Two exceptions: My step-father, aka "Dad," and my uncle Jimmy.