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.