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.

A Picture that Tells a Story

In the long-lost box found in the garage attic was one of my all-time favorite pictures. It's a picture that tells a story without using any words.

Mother, Lynnette, Orville, aka "Dad"

1964

She Painted a Picture with Words

The following was written on December 18, 1997, after taking a creative writing class at IUPUI in Indianapolis. I found this story and many more in a long-lost box in the garage attic. 

Six weeks. That's all the longer it lasted. An eye blink in time. Every Tuesday night twelve students and a teacher met in the basement at the mall to share a passion for writing. Some stories were good. Some were painfully bad. Was I a perpetrator of pain? For 2 1/2 hours we shared the same glorious space in time. We cried and laughed together. I felt a camaraderie with my fellow writers, well, the good ones anyway. Secretly I'd hoped the bad ones would find themselves locked in a traffic jam on the interstate or sequestered in a last-minute teleconference at work. I didn't want to share the good stories with them. I'd waited seven days--168 hours--and I was selfish. My passion realized an outlet--a forum to be heard--and I was sharing it with those who felt exactly as I did. Was I one of the good ones? Julie was. She read her stories with a low deliberate voice that captivated all of us and when she was done, there was silence, then a chorus of sighs. She didn't know she was good and acted embarrassed by the attention. Hansel was good. A shy seventeen-year-old who insightfully regurgitated his fears and anger; he has incredible wisdom for someone so young. One dropped out which left eleven. Another gone. Ten. On the last night, there were nine. How could anything be more important than this class? Maybe they were locked in traffic or on the telephone at work. Maybe they realized they weren't good and wanted to save us from the pain. Should I have found a reason to not come too? Mike is an editor for a publishing company. His stories were good, although he didn't write more than a half page double-spaced per class. Carol read a story she wrote about having to decide to turn off life support for her father. I cried. Could I have told her story as well as she? Ruth wants to write a book about her life as an adopted child. She doesn't have the passion, though. She just wants to write a book about her life as an adopted child. Lattia has the passion, but my mind wondered. Exurciating pain wracked my head when Molly read. Was she in pain when I read? Pam follows our teacher from one semester to the next. She has the passion to write but seldom did for the class. I enjoyed the one minuscule story she wrote. I didn't write anything for the last class. No one noticed. Maybe they were thankful for the pain I spared them. Ruth read her story first, then Hansel. Mike next, then Carol. Pam, Lattia and Molly followed. No one asked why didn't I write anything tonight. I remembered the second class. During the break, someone complimented me on my good story. She said she felt close to me, like a friend who shared her secret world of pain. I was too embarrassed to respond. Julie was the last to read. Once again her voice drew us all in. She painted us a picture with words. I could see the man lying there in front of me, his head smashed flat. When she was done, there was that familiar silence, then the chorus of sighs. Embarrassment followed. She hung her head and her face grew red. How could she not know she was good? At the first class, she said she feared she was a bad writer. But after six classes of sighs with each story, did she still not know the truth? 8:45. Class over. Good bye. Happy Holidays. No! It can't end like this. We are joined together by some invisible force. We are comrades by virtue of our love for word construction. Julie must know. I had to catch her before she walked away doubting herself. Too late. She was gone.

Collection for Posterity

Starting in my twenties, I saved everything I deemed significant enough to pass on to my future children: newspapers that told of major news events; tickets stubs from concerts like the Beetles; items I thought would be collectible and valuable someday; and my writings from the mid seventies through the late nineties. Somewhere along my travels from Indiana to Florida to North Carolina,  I had lost the box that contained my collection for posterity that I was saving for the next generation.

One day a month or so ago, Tom was cleaning out the garage and found my box in the attic. I had always envisioned its discovery to unfold like that familiar scene in the movies: The old lady dies and the family gathers at her home, and while everyone is downstairs reminiscing and sharing their stories about how she positively influenced each and every one of their lives, someone--a grandchild maybe?--slips upstairs to the attic.  The light from the lone window in the attic shines a spotlight through the fog of dust and lands on... "Oh, look. A box." After brushing the years of accumulated dirt and dust off the top, the barely-legible letters reveal, "Carol Louise's Stuff." 

Downstairs the news of the discovery brings everything to a halt. "What? You found what? A box containing her stuff!? Really?" The box is carefully carried downstairs--carefully because it's so old that it could fall apart and dump its precious cargo-- and placed on the dining room table. Everyone gathers around to see what treasures lie within.

***

No! You can't have some of what I'm smoking. I know. I know. I was living in a fantasy world. It's going to go down much different than I had envisioned.  I suspect Goodwill and a landfill with be part of the story, but can't an old lady dream?

My Muses

Where have my muses gone? I haven't heard from them since my last post Prince Charming Hits the Dirt. They hang out in my shower and on those days when I bathe, they great me with much excitement and enthusiasm. Sometimes they say things like, "Where have you been? Have you been digging in the dirt again?" But they never judge me. They know what their job is, and they are always ready to accommodate me with the title and first sentence for my next story. I'm pretty sure I've taken a shower since the 11th,  but I can't be certain of that. It's my memory; not so good anymore.

A Muse

A muse is one of nine mythological sisters--

 daughters of Dr. Suess and his wife, Minisu--

who originally came from Greek and Roman fables.

These goddesses provide inspiration, creative influence,

and stimuli to jump start an artist who needs a little push.

                                                             --Mikidikipedia

Without my muses' push and input, there would be no stories, no blog, and no elder perspective sprinkled with little tidbits on "how to navigate your way through life" for the younger members of my family. Without my muses, the pages of my life would be blank.

I'll just sit here at my computer and wait for the sisters to inspire me with the following story:

I'm going to take a shower now.

Prince Charming Hits the Dirt

July, 1976

He got out of the car and walked to the water's edge. He carried an air of arrogance or was it just self-confidence? Whatever it was, I didn't like it. He was too forward, too familiar, too soon. "Good afternoon. How's the water?" was what he said, but what I heard was, "Hi there. I'm here to pick up a chick, so which one of you lucky ladies is it gonna be?" I turned my head away from him and willed him to go away.

It was July, 1976, and I had just moved out of my parents' home and into an apartment with my friend, Lisa. I had recently returned from a backpack trip to Europe where I'd gone to run away from a broken heart. It didn't work, because everywhere I went, there I was. I couldn't outrun myself.

"Perfect day for getting some rays," he said to Lisa because I had slipped my arms down under my raft, and I was ever-so-slowly paddling away from the intrusion into my peaceful float on our apartment's lake. The man and Lisa talked for about fifteen minutes, and at one point I turned my raft around and with my head pointed in one direction but my eyes (under my sunglasses) pointed in another, I got a good look at the stranger.

He was a good-looking man: Dark brown curly hair, big brown eyes, tanned skin, and slender. He reminded me of the comedian Billy Crystal with his animation, energy, fast talking, and attempts to entertain us (Lisa) with humor. His laughter carried across the lake to where I had paddled away and he annoyed me. Who did he think he was just coming up to us like that? The man I left behind in southern Indiana--the only man I could ever love in this lifetime--would never, ever do that. The stark comparison between the two men made me long for my fiancé, I mean ex-fiancé, even more.

"Just go away," I mumbled to myself and paddled to the middle of the lake.

July, 1996   Twenty Years Later

Prince Charming fell off his white stallion and hit the dirt, and I was now officially done with men.  It was the summer of 1996 when I discovered that the man I had been dating for four years was unfaithful and had been continuously for four years. From the beginning of our relationship to the very end, he had been doing the nasty-nasty with other women.

"That's it!" I cried on the phone to my sister, Lynnette. "I'm done!" She was the first person I always called whenever "the prince at the moment" stumbled and fell, showing me that once again I was wrong about my man. She would say things like "He'll be sorry. He'll never find anyone as wonderful as you." and "You were too good for him; he's a loser," and "He's out there. Your prince is waiting for you; don't give up hope."

I wanted to believe my sister. My prince was out there looking for me, but how many frogs dressed up like princes did I have to kiss before finding him? What was I doing wrong? Whatever it was, I kept doing it over and over again. Six times now. Six attempts to find happily-ever-after and all ended with a broken heart: mine.

Back to July, 1976. for a minute or however long it takes you to read the following three paragraphs.

Remember the man standing at the edge of the water back in 1976? His name was Tom. I wanted Tom to get back in his car and go away. He did get back in his car, but he didn't go away. He lived in an apartment across the lake from me, and wherever I went, there he was: Pool? Yep! Jogging? Yep! Working? He even showed up unexpectedly at my office to take me to lunch. My boss didn't like him: too forward, too familiar, too soon.

Tom didn't fit the profile I had in mind for my Prince Charming. He wasn't reserved or aloof or distant or controlling or mysterious. But he was easy going and funny and smart and honest and real. There were no mysteries about him; what you saw was exactly what you got. There was no place inside my fantasy world for Tom--a place I had lived since childhood where men had been appointed supreme rulers of their fiefdoms. The man would chose a woman and, if that woman worked hard to earn his love and if he deemed her worthy, he would protect her and love her forever.

Tom was not interested in being the ruler of a fiefdom. He didn't want to control me or change me. He liked me just as I was, and we became good friends. I didn't have to work hard to earn his respect and affection, so therefore he was no challenge; he wasn't the man for me. But we did see each other on and off for two years before he got a job in Florida and moved away in 1978. After he left, I continued my search for a prince.

Fast forward again to July, 1996

Tom was calling from Florida.  "I'm done with men!" I told him. "Another prince has hit the dirt." He wanted to know if I would consider reconsidering my position on that and invited me to come see him in Ft. Lauderdale. I did accept his invitation and...

2015

Nineteen years later, I am with the man I needed and not the man I wanted. The question I had asked myself years before "What was I doing wrong?" has been, years later, answered. What I wanted was not good for me. What I needed was. What I was doing wrong was believing the lies. My fantasy world--the one that began with the fairy tales my aunt read to me as a child--influenced my thinking and dictated my actions. Like a tape stuck on the same song and playing over and over, I could only see myself as a demure helpless maiden waiting to be rescued by a prince sitting on a big white stallion. Without him I had no worth, no value. Yet, in reality, I had a college degree, a good job, I owned a home, and I was not only capable of taking care of myself but, as a single parent, my child as well.

As I sit here typing this post, I think about how many times I thought about breaking up with Tom after we reconnected in 1996. He was 100% into me. There was no challenge, and because of that, I wasn't sure he was the man for me. He wasn't reserved or aloof or distant or controlling or mysterious. For years I had worked so hard to earn the love of my "prince at the moment," but with Tom I didn't have to earn his love. He gave it to me freely and without conditions. I was free to be me. I have to say that again and in all caps because that is so important...FREE TO BE ME!

On June 3rd Tom and I will celebrate thirteen years of marriage. I am so, so glad I broke free of the lies, the fantasies, the illusions about what love is. Tom is not a prince or a knight in shining armor. He is simply a very good man with integrity and intelligence and good character and a great sense of humor and best of all he adores me. Love can't get much better than that.

Grandchildren to Consider

If you've been keeping up with my blog over the years, then you know the reason why I started this Internet journal in the first place: I felt the much-loved younger members of my family needed some wise elder perspective on their journeys through life. How can they possibly navigate their way around Planet Earth without help from someone who's made the trip before them?

On January 1, 2010, I sat down with pen and paper and began writing. After a few minutes, my hand began to cramp, so I opened a document in Word on my computer and started typing. Then it hit me: Why don't I just share what I've learned these past six plus decades through a blog? Everyone has a computer these days. How easy would it be for my intended audience to click on The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer to read my life stories, to witness the mistakes I've made, to learn where the potholes in life are, to circumvent self-inflicted pain and suffering, or to see that a lot of the time I have no wisdom or advice to share--just a little silliness. As it turns out, not easy. Not easy at all. Very difficult in fact. They're not reading my blog. They're going through each day without any input from me. Imagine that.

But I'm still gonna keep on rambling. There's grandchildren to consider.

Next post: Prince Charming Hits the Dirt

Happy Birthday, Tom

When I got up this morning at 2:30 to go to the bathroom, I ran into the wall. I have vertigo. My doctor calls it age-related vertigo (old-age vertigo). Over the years, I have found that if I walk with my head parallel to the ground (90 degrees sideways from my body) with my left ear facing down, I can function without running into the wall or falling down.  So this birthday wish for my husband will be short. My neck is starting to ache.

Dear Tom,

Thank you for giving me the best of you every single day. Because of the man you are and the life you live, you make me want to be better person. I don't know how I got so lucky to have you walk into my life just at the right time, but I did and I'm so, so grateful for that. Thank you for accepting and loving me just as I am. I have won the "Best Mate Lotto."

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart

Special Person

After discovering a box full of memorabilia that was hidden away for years, I found long-lost treasures. The following treasure is what my fifteen-year-old sister wrote in 1975 after she came to visit me in Evansville. Today is my little sister's birthday.

Special Person

Most people have a special

 person in their life,

like a husband or a wife.

And with a small child, 

usually it's a mother.

And a young boy,

it's his older brother.

But some don't have

a wife or a brother,

so they settle for another,

And mine is as special 

as one can be

for I know she really 

does love me.

To me she is the best.

I could forget about the rest.

I love her so much

words can't say

I love my sister

in every way.

                                                           --Lynnette (1975)

Lynnette at fifteen (1975)

Lynnette at fifty-five (2015)

Lynnette standing out in a crowd

Here Sits the Unicorn

When I was in my twenties, Anne Morrow Lindbergh was the woman I aspired to be: kind and humble and thoughtful and grateful and genuine and introspective and inquisitive and above reproach. I had read her first book Bring Me a Unicorn that told about her life as a very young woman. Little did I know at the time--because I hadn't read her subsequent books--that things were not as they seemed. Her life with a certain man named Charles did not turn out as she had fantasied it would. I can only speculate about why she wrote this poem and what it meant to her, but I know exactly what it meant to me.

Here sits the Unicorn 

Here sits the Unicorn

In captivity

His bright invulnerability

Captive at last

Here sits the Unicorn

In captivity

Yet free

He could leap the corral

If he rose

To his full height

He could splinter the fencing light

With three blows

Of his porcelain hoofs in flight 

If he chose.

He could shatter his prison wall

Could escape them all 

If he rose

If he chose

Here sits the Unicorn

The wounds in his side

Still bleeding

Dream wounds, dream ties

Do not bind him there

In a kingdom where

He is unaware

Of his wounds, of his snare

Here sits the Unicorn

Leashed by a chain of gold

To the pomegranate tree

So light a chain to hold

So fierce a beast

Delicate as a cross at rest

On a maiden's breast

He could snap the golden chain

With one toss of his mane

If he chose to move

If he chose to prove

His liberty

But he does not choose

What choice would lose

He stays, the Unicorn

In captivity

Yet look again 

His horn is free

Rising above chain, fence, and tree

Free hymn of love; His horn

Bursts from his tranquil brow

Like a comet born

Cleaves like a galley's prow

Into seas untorn

Springs like a lily, white

From the Earth below

Spirals, a bird in flight

To a longed-for height

Or a fountain bright

Spurting to light

Of early morn 

O luminous horn

Here sits the Unicorn 

In captivity?

In repose

Forgotten the strife

Now the need to kill

Has died like fire

And the need to love

Has replaced desire

Quiet, the Unicorn

In contemplation stilled

With acceptance filled

Quiet, save for his horn

Alive in his horn

Horizontally

In captivity

Perpendicularly

Free.

                                                          --Anne Morrow Lindbergh

                            1955

The Swing

The box was covered in dust and found in the rafters in the garage. Inside were journals dating back to 1975, pictures, newspaper stories I thought important enough to safe for posterity, and there were keepsakes to pass on to my children after I'm gone. I've decided to not wait until I kick the bucket to share what I've found.

My most-recent blog postings--about a broken heart and a trip to Europe in an attempt to escape the pain--came from a journal found in the bottom of the box. Today's post is a poem I also found in the box. I wrote it in October, 1975, after my fifteen-year-old sister, Lynnette, came to visit me at the farmhouse I was renting in Evansville during the time I was engaged to be married.

The Swing

Embracing moments of sweet caress

when you came to see me, my little sis.

Through the crisp cool air you soared on my swing,

while spurts of youthful memories shot through my veins.

Frolicking laughter echoed among the shredding trees,

then joined the wind to tussle the raining leaves.

Fancy dancesteps pranced on autumn's crimson floor,

crushing and cackling musically as you tore.

Sun-streaked strands of chestnut skipped about your face,

then fell exhausted as you slowed the pace.

Departing teardrops crept from your sad, sweet eyes,

trickling steadily downward with the final goodbyes.

Silent now is the parchment ground that winter brings,

listening only to the whistling wind as it teases the swing...

...its only playmate

now that you're gone

                                                    --carol gardner 1975

Old Laubscher Farmhouse in Evansville, Indiana

I Got Out of Bed for Sesame Street

This is a continuation in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe (and back) in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" go to March 27, 2015, "I'll Never Find Love Again").

I came within two days of marrying Prince Charming, but my intuition told me it was the wrong thing to do. For ten days before my marriage, I was out of my mind with confusion. Should I? Shouldn't I? Three times my VW bug and I headed out of town leaving a message behind that I could not go through with the wedding.

At twenty-nine I had no close friends. There was no one on the sidelines of my life that I could turn to for advice. Jack had been my life for nearly ten years--the only close person I thought I needed. He instructed me on what to do, how to think, what to eat until one day I said, "Stop telling me what to do, Jack. I have a brain, you know."

Then I met and fell in love with someone else. My Cinderella Complex took me from one controlling man to another. They weren't bad men--well, one of them wasn't. They just wanted to choreograph my life, and I was willing to do the dance--whatever it took to keep my man. There was just one itty bitty problem.

I wanted a knight in shinning armor to rescue me, but I didn't want him or his horse to get in my way when there was some thing I was determined to do. Like, for example, go to college or have a career outside of the home or have platonic men friends or wear a bikini or build a rip-roaring fire in the fireplace--all things my husband-soon-to-be didn't want me to do.

"Check your brain at the altar," I kept repeating to myself (referring to the wedding altar) as I drove out of town on my last escape from impending incarceration.  Only two days to go before I would be required to check my brain at the altar, check my brain at the altar, check my brain at the altar.

I stopped the wedding. Incredibly, he didn't break up with me. I said I needed more time and he gave it to me. I moved to Evansville and rented a farmhouse around the corner from his apartment. Living on what little savings I had, I decided (at first) to not get a job because once we were married, I would be a stay-at-home wife. Domestic duties (cleaning house and cooking) became my purpose for getting out of bed each day, so with that to look forward to, I oftentimes slept late. The highlight of my days was Sesame Street. All housework stopped when this show created for children came on the television. I grew especially fond of Bert and Ernie whose off-the-wall, silly humor was aligned with mine. It was those few moments of laugh-out-loud comic relief that I looked forward to everyday. I got out of bed for Sesame Street.

In short order I became lethargic and dull and unmotivated. I stopped wearing makeup and fixing myself up for my future husband. I began to dislike myself more than I already did. I thought I was lazy and worthless. Why wasn't I happy and more excited about spending the rest of my life with a man who was going to take care of me. All I  had to do was be a good wife and mother ...and...and... give up control because as the leader of our household my man would decide what is best for me.

As it turned out, he didn't know what was best for me. I admire women who have dedicated their lives to being housewives and mothers. Raising children is the most important job in the world, because how our children turn out determines the success or failure of everyone's future. But if there is one thing I am not, it's a perfect keeper of the house. Dust doesn't bother me; it sits around minding its own business, hurting no one. Dishes in the sink? That's the best place for them; easy access--rinse and ready to go again. Laundry? I wear the same jeans and T-shirt everyday, so laundry is a bi-weekly thing and only when I run out of underwear. Oh, and about that cooking thing. If it involves chocolate, I'll turn on the oven for you. Other than that, I have no reason to go into the kitchen...except to retrieve a dish out of the sink.

Forty years ago, I did not know who I was or what I wanted in life. I had no direction or purpose of my own; I gave away my options. I gave away decisions and choices that I should have been making on my own. I was smart; I was capable; but I was imprisoned inside a belief that I was not able to take care of myself; I needed rescued. I was trapped, yet I didn't know at the time that all along I was the prison guard who held the key.

Breaking free and running away from my wedding was the first step in the right direction, but I didn't realize it then. I came back to the entrapment--need a rescuer, need a rescuer--several more times before I broke free for good decades later.



Just for Fun...to watch vintage Bert & Ernie go to You Tube and type in: Bert & Ernie - Cookies in Bed (vintage Sesame Street)