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I was already abusing his hospitality, having been at his place for a whole week. By now I had learnt that the best thing to do in Russia is just to go with the flow, trust people and let them do their thing, and sure enough, despite the looks of the place, the rim was repaired and it looked very professional. We took it to a tire workshop that did not look much better to have the tire fitted again. The rim problem was finally solved, but I was a bit worried that the tire might be damaged, as I had ridden for long stretches with no air in it and on really bad roads to get back to Astrakhan. Sourcing a new tire might prove to be difficult and I was not looking forward to spending more time stuck here. Fortunately, once the tire was fitted and inflated, the guy in the workshop checked it with water and soap and it did not seem to leak anywhere. He fitted it for free, which was really nice. We took the wheel back to the car park where my bike had been for a week. Having the bike in a car park with 24 - hour surveillance might sound as a bit of a luxury for a traveler on a tight budget like me, but it only cost 20 rubles a day, which is less than what you would pay for a bottle of water. Arkan helped me fit the wheel back on the bike and when he saw that the air valve cap was missing, he took one off his own car and gave it to me. He also noticed that my chain protector was not fitted, and I explained that I had lost one of the screws due to the vibrations in Kazakhstan. While I was cleaning and greasing the chain he got Valentin on the the phone, who told me that Arkan had told him to tell me that he would take me to a shop where I could get spare screws to fix it. We got back in the car and he took me not to a shop, but to his own place, where he found a couple of screws that fit and showed me his bike, a Yamaha Fazer 1000. He explained to me that he had had a Honda Fireblade, but had crashed it into the back of a car. I noticed that he had no numberplate on the bike and he told me that it was so that the police could not fine him. Well, rather than explain that, he just made a gesture with his right hand, as if twisting the throttle wide open and said "fuck police". With the screw in my pocket, we got back into his car, and he got back on the phone. I thought he was taking me back to my host's, but then he handed me the phone again. It was Valentin, who told me that Arkan wanted to take me with him and his kids for a swim. I said I was OK with it, as long as I was back in time to meet Dasha and her friends later. We were driving to the outskirts when we hit a long queue of stopped cars. Without thinking twice, he drove down the street the wrong way and cut to the front of the queue. It turned out it was a level crossing, they are everywhere in Russia and sometimes it takes very long for trains to pass, thus the long queues. We had been waiting for a while, but no trains turned up. Arkan, probably bored of the wait, decided to show me something. He lifted the armrest and took out … a gun. With the two kids in the back seat, who did not seem to be at all surprised. I guess it was not the first time they had seen it. He removed the gun magazine, which was charged with real bullets, removed the bullet from the chamber and gave it to me. It was the first time I had ever held a gun, and I thought that for a first time, it was quite cool that it was an outlaw Russian biker's gun. I just hoped he did not kill anybody with it before I leave the country, as it now has my prints on it. We went to a beach between a railroad bridge and a dry dock with a rotting ship in it, which might not sound great, but it was much quieter, nicer and cleaner than the beach in the city center. While we were there we talked about the trip and bikes, and compared prices between bikes in Spain, Russia and Georgia, as it turned out that Arkan was not Russian, but from Georgia. Then, best as he could using gestures and drawing in the sand, he explained that he travelled to Germany quite often, apparently on some kind drug - related business, I gathered. The conversation then turned a bit, let's say uncomfortable. Using gestures and a few English words, they told that Natasha gave great blowjobs - they all seemed to have had a go at that - and then said "tonight, drugs, - Russian word for sex - Natasha" I laughed and played along for a while, but when we were leaving I told them that I was already meeting other people that night, which was true. We dropped Arkan's friends back in the shop and on the way back
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to the center he told me that he was a boxer and also practiced several other martial arts, and pointed at his nose, which had obviously been broken several times. Pointing at his kids and his wedding ring, he indicated that it was a good way to let out steam. He also told me that he used to be into illegal street racing in the past, he had owned an Impreza and an M5, but had given it up when he got married. I packed my things to get ready for departure the following morning and then took one of the Russian microbuses with crazy drivers to the center to meet Dasha, I did not feel like walking almost 7km again. We bought some beer and she took me to a smaller beach on the other side of the island where we had been last time. It was already late, and the sun was setting, it was a beautiful sight, a huge red ball of fire behind the factories on the other side of the river while I was swimming in the cool water. After the sun had set, we got back on the bridge and I discovered that the buses stop running at 9 pm, which meant a long walk back home … But then the guys said that there was no way I was leaving so early, we got a taxi and headed for the place where one of them lived, a really old wooden building dating from before the Russian Revolution. It had veranda overlooking the inner court, and we just sat there in the cool night air having a drink and playing the guitar. It made me think what an amazing experience this trip had been so far, there I was sitting with people I had just met, all of them really nice, offering me their drinks, telling me about the Russian songs they were singing. I left at midnight, as I wanted to get up early the following day for the ride back to Volgograd. It was not especially long and the roads were quite good, but I still did not know how the rim repair would hold, so I wanted to have plenty of time just in case. Dasha walked me home, we exchanged contacts and she wished me good luck with the rest of the trip. We called Arakan today, who gave us the number to the workshop so that we could ask them directly and they said that the rim would be ready on Friday "on the second half of the day". That meant that I would not be able to leave for Volgograd until Saturday. Apart from that, nothing else happened today … I was about to not write an entry, but since I have got used to writing every day, I decided to do so, even if it was a short one. Today we called Arkan, he said that the wheel is already in the repair shop and it will be ready tomorrow afternoon or Friday morning. As it was quite badly bent not just because of the road in Kazakhstan, but because the mechanic in the oil plant tried to bang it back into shape with a hammer, the result might not be perfect. Let's see if at least it holds the air well enough to allow me to continue travelling. I got news from Martin, from Uzbekistan. Hit a rock on his GS Adventure and bent the front rim as well. A trucker stopped and helped him bang it back into shape. He said it is holding the air, let's hope he has better luck than me! First of all, the bad news - Today my parents found out that it is not possible to send parcels into Russia, only documents. Fed Ex does send parcels, but with severe weight and value restrictions, and at astronomical prices. So it seemed that it was not possible to get a replacement rim sent from Spain. Plan B it was then. On Saturday, me and Lex had been looking for bikers in the center, as they are always good help, and had found a contact. A guy named Arkan, a real badass by the looks of it, the kind of big Russian guy that never smiled. We got his number and this morning I got Valentin, my host, to call him. He said he would come and have a look, and at lunchtime he turned up in his big black car. He drove us over to the car park where the bike was, barked at the guard to let him drive in and examined the wheel. He said that it could be fixed, and that he would come back the following days with the tools to remove it from the bike. I said I had the tools and could get it out in five minutes, so I did it. Later Valentin told me that they were a bit impressed, as they had thought I was some kind of amateur who had no idea what to do. He put the wheel into the boot and we went off to a really dodgy part of town to find a tire workshop to remove the tire from the rim. After a couple of stops we got it done and then we went to an even rougher part of town in search of a shop were they could repair it, as the one he knew was apparently not able to do it until Wednesday. We eventually found one, but he was not happy about the price they asked nor
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about the fact that they did not have the equipment to have the wheel balanced once the job was done. I said that I did not mind waiting a bit longer as long as it was done properly, so he took the wheel with him and said that in a couple of days he would have it fixed. So there is the good news. I hope. We woke up at sunrise, shortly after 5 in the morning, and by the time we had got the dust off all our stuff and packed the tents, it was already hot. As we were getting ready to leave, we asked the guy at the petrol station about the state of the roads, and he pointed at my route and said "problem, problem". It seems that the road was in very bad condition, and people went around for 1, 500km to avoid the 600km to Aktobe. I had talked to some bikers on the HUBB who had ridden it, and I thought I would take two days and try to make it. I felt quite sad saying goodbye to Martin, it had been three great days riding together, and I would have liked to continue having company. Maybe I should have taken the same route as him through the Stans, I would have had the chance to do the Pamir Highway and the landscape would definitely have been more varied than in Kazakhstan. In any case, it was too late now, I had no visas, so Kazakh desert it was. The road was still good for about 10km north of Dossor, and then it went back to the kind of very potholed asphalt I had found after the border. The bike was shaking so much that I could not see anything on the GPS, so I reached to hold with my left hand for a second to be able to check the distance, when to my horror the whole assembly, GPS and mount came loose and fell. I stopped to see what had happened and after removing the windscreen I discovered the problem. The windscreen is held in place by four screws, and I had replaced the two at the top for longer ones because that was where the GPS mount attached. It seemed that the vibration had made the weight of the whole assembly act as a lever and the screws had loosened and fallen. I put everything back in place, held it with some electrical wire and hoped it would hold. I rode on and after a while the road became the nightmare I had been warned about. It is relatively easy to ride on dirt or gravel roads, but the problem here is that there had been an asphalted road at some point and now it was gone, leaving just some patches here and there, then disappearing, then reappearing, and it was very hard to try and avoid hitting the rough edges. I made very slow progress, and at one point took one of the paths that trucks had made on the side of the road to avoid it. It was soft sand and in ten minutes, the bike slid at the front and I fell. I was OK, so I removed the tank bag and tried to lift it without removing the rest of luggage. It turned out it is easier on the sand than on asphalt, and I was able to do it on my own. Good thing, because there was nobody else around. I went on, on and off the main road, and about 100km from Dossor I thought I was making decent progress and I would make it to my destination for the day in decent time despite the bad road, when suddenly the bike started handling funny and I had to stop, thinking that I had got a flat tire. I checked, and I was right, the back tire was flat, so I got the compressor out, plugged it and inflated it. Once it was done I started turning it, checking for damage, but I could not see anything despite turning the tire several times. I was starting to wonder how it had gone flat when I saw it - the rim was dented. I had changed the springs on the bike in preparation for the trip, trying to make it a bit more usable off road, but this was still mostly an asphalt and dirt road bike, not a true hardcore endure machine, and the suspension lacked travel compared to a KTM or a BMW and it had bottomed out several times on the harder sections, the rim must have got damaged on one of those occasions. The tire seemed to hold the air, so I weighted my options. I could try and go on to Aktobe, but that was a two day trip on the same kind of roads or worse, and the rim clearly needed repairing or replacing, and that might be hard in Kazakhstan. It seemed that the best option was to head back to Russia, where I had a place to stay and access the internet to arrange for a replacement to be found. I thought about it under the sun for a good while, as that would mean that I could not go back and try this route again, since my Kazak visa only allowed one entry. In the end, I decided to turn back. I started making my way back slowly and carefully, and after ten minutes riding I felt that the tire was flat again. I had not panicked
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yet, since I had been able to inflate the tire and I thought I could make it back to Russia without much trouble, but when I got the compressor out, plugged it in, flicked the switched and realized to my horror that the thing would not start, I felt panic starting to build up. I was in the middle of nowhere, a hundred kilometers away from the closest city, and I had no way to inflate that tire again. Things were starting to get bad. I thought that I needed to arrange some kind of transport to get the bike to a repair shop, so I stopped a passing van to try and get some help. They were workers from an oil rig, and one of them spoke a little English. He told me that there was no recovery truck anywhere nearby, so there was nothing they could do. He then draw a rudimentary map on my notebook indicating that there was an oil rig or refinery or something like that five or six kilometers down the road and that I should try to make it there and ask for help. I got on the bike and slowly rode in first gear, trying to avoid the roughest parts of the road, but it was impossible not to hit some bad patches from time to time, event riding in first gear. Sweaty and miserable, I made it to the gates of the plant almost an hour later. I called the security guy at the door and tried to explain my problem. We spent at least half an hour with me trying to explain that I needed to get back to Astrakhan and him trying to make me understand that there was no transport to be arranged. The only thing travelling on those roads were oil tankers coming and going from the wells, and it was not possible to put the bike on one of them. Then he asked me if I had dollars, and seemed to indicate that he could fix the wheel. He made some phone calls and then gestured me to take the wheel off the bike, so I took out the tools and got down to it in the scorching heat at the entrance of the plant. Another guy came, apparently a mechanic who worked there, and took the wheel into the plant. He came half an hour later, with the tire inflated but some chunks of lip missing where he had tried to bang it back into shape. I checked it and it seemed to hold the air, so I put it back on the bike, paid them and got back on the road as soon as possible. I thought that the botch job would not hold for long, and I was already regretting having paid them when I saw a bike approaching o the road. We stopped and it turned out to be a guy called Wesley, from the UK, who was following the same route as me before I broke the rim. He complained about the state of the road (and he was riding a better bike than mine for that kind of stuff) we discovered that we both knew Stephen Stallebrass and we exchanged details. He wished me luck and we parted ways. The botch job got me all the way back to Dossor, where I got some petrol and checked the pressure. I asked several people again, but I got the same answer, no recovery truck, no way to take the bike back into Russia. Seeing that the tire was holding, I decided to try and make it there myself, especially because it was getting darker and the wind was blowing very strong, there was a sandstorm forming. I zigzagged my way out of the petrol station through the queue of huge tankers that were waiting to fill up with diesel in the last town before heading into the desert and into the storm, and started making my way back. The tire held the air well all the way to Atyrau, where I stopped to check the air pressure. It was still OK, so I pushed to the border, hoping to make it to Astrakhan before nighttime. I had avoided the sand storm in Dossor, but the sky was getting dark and there seemed to be heavy rain to my right. It was still very hot, and I did not want to waste time stopping and taking out the waterproof layer for the suit, so I decided to take the risk. About half an hour later the rain started, big drops that soaked me up quickly. Fortunately, it did not last very long, and before getting close to the border I was starting to dry up. I was starting to feel confident that I was going to make it, but then I got to the bad section before the border and hit a couple of potholes; sure enough, the tire went flat again instantly. I limped to a small group of huts by the side of the road, but they did not have a pump. Back on the road, I stopped a couple of Ukrainian tractor heads who connected a hose to the truck's air system and pumped my tire. I made it to about 10km from the border before it went flat again, and things were getting bad. The sun had set, I was exhausted and the tire did not seem to hold for more than 10km at a time. I limped the last 10 km to the border with a flat tire, and while waiting for
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the passport and bike papers to be checked, talked to another truck driver who pumped my tire. I was only about 30km from my host's apartment in Astrakhan, but the tire let go again when I arrived at the pontoon bridge on the river. Crossing it with the bike in perfect conditions was scary, doing it again with a flat tire was absolutely terrifiying. The bike slid all over the place, and more than once I was very close to losing it. Sweaty and shaking, I made it to the other side. I had only 20km to go, and I tried to stop a car to try and plug my compressor into their 12V socket, maybe it was only the socket on my bike that was not working and the compressor itself was ok, but nobody stopped. After a while I saw a petrol station and a girl who had stopped there for petrol let me try in her car. It worked, and that last charge was enough to get me to the apartment, where Lex and and Valentin were waitPosted in Stroming The World 2013, Travel | Tagged breakdown, desert, flat tire, rim | 3 Replies
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I meet amazing people to write about for this blog in the most unlikely places. The funny thing is, heroes think they're normal. Nothing special. Talking people into letting me tell their stories often takes a bit of convincing that others can benefit from their experiences, particularly the life choices that empowered them to become the successes they are today. doesn't think she's special at all, but she's a total bad ass. Due to her peer pressure, I'm training for the Bend Marathon, my first marathon ever, on Sunday, April 24. What kind of crazy people run 26. 2 miles, for cryin 'out loud? Apparently, people like me who admire and respect someone like Pauline, a 62 - year - old who has won several medals in half and full marathons, a woman nine years my senior who kicks my butt on the roads and trails. She's also the mother of three amazing adults: Sean Michael Gion, age 32, father, husband, software sales executive; Lauren Elizabeth Frances, M. D., age 30, and Katherine Rose Sylvia, age 26, wife, writer for Human Resources at Columbia University. Pauline's father, John Kelty, was illiterate. John ran away from home and enlisted in the army in his teens. As a sergeant in World War II, he was one of the last Muleskinners who saved women and children in the Swiss Alps, and he had a fabulous singing voice. Still, Pauline's oldest brother Frank came along, Geoffrey followed two years later, and Pauline Sylvia Kelty, named after her English grandmother, arrived a couple years after Geoff. Her mother continued to play tennis, and her dad worked for Boeing as a plumber. They lived in a two - bedroom house in Seattle where little Pauly slept in a crib in the same room with her brothers until she was five years old. Pauly didn't go to preschool or kindergarten. She stayed home with her stuffed animals while her mom went to work and her brothers went to school. When she got hungry, she'd knock at neighbors' doors, asking for something to eat. In the afternoons, she walked several blocks by herself and waited for her brothers to be let out of class for the day. Single motherhood, a struggling tennis career, and an abusive ex - husband ground Sylvia into deep depression, so she tried to lift her spirits by dating. If Pauly and her brothers came home to hear music playing, they knew to stay out of the house. If the music still played after her date left, they knew their mother's dark mood would isolate her for the rest of the evening. After such nights, ten - year - old Pauly would coax her mother out of bed, assemble an outfit, and help dress her for work in the morning. At age 11, Pauly found her mother running around the house with a handful of pills threatening to kill herself. Not knowing what else to do, she called the police. When the cops arrived, she and her brothers hid, and Sylvia told the police there had been a misunderstanding. After the police left, the kids crawled out of their hiding places, and Pauly tucked her mom into bed. The following morning, Pauly ran late for school, so she awakened her mother, set out Sylvia's clothes for work, and left the house. That day, Pauly got into trouble with her teacher for falling asleep in class, so she decided to go home for a nap. A priest intercepted her and broke the news that her mom was in the hospital. In a daze, Pauly walked home from school. When she wandered into the bathroom, she found bright red blood splattered on the walls, in the bathtub, and smeared on the floor. Sylvia was taken to the psych ward at the hospital. At first, people from their church took in the kids, but as days turned to weeks, Pauly and her brothers became wards of the state of Washington. Fifteen - year - old Frank went to live in an orphanage, Geoff spent time at the Griffin Home for Boys, and Pauly lived with the Lazaras family in foster care. The Lazarases had a rifle range in their basement, and they taught Pauly how to shoot. They also generously shared their horses and took her on trail rides. After two weeks, Betty Rae and Bud Gross, the Lazaras's next - door - neighbors, asked Pauly to live with them. Her mother felt there was little to live for without her children. Sylvia began to drink heavily and take amphetamines to control her weight, all while playing punishing amounts of tennis. Within months, Sylvia collapsed on the tennis court. Geoffrey, now 14, left the boys' home to take care of her. Pauline remembers her mother treating everyone with kindness. "[Mom] would say, 'You never know what is going on with people. There is always someone who has had more pain [than we have].'" Beverly and Vivian, Sylvia's older sisters from California, came to Washington to attend the funeral. Pauly danced and skipped, excited to see her aunts for the first time, hoping these new - found family members would become part of her and her brothers' lives.
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But Aunts Vivian and Beverly left shortly after the memorial service. Pauly didn't know if she'd ever hear from them again. A few weeks after the funeral, Aunt Beverly called and explained Frank and Geoff were too old, but 12 - year - old Pauly could come to live with her family in California. Pauly's first time on an airplane, she flew by herself to live with an aunt she scarcely knew as well as an uncle and four cousins she'd never met. Pauly kept up with her aunt's strict schedule of activities and mealtimes, but she was in pain over the loss of her mother. In her grief, she escaped by burying her nose in books every chance she got. Sylvia's oldest sister, Aunt Vivian, came to the rescue and offered Pauly a home. Aunt Vivian had a pool, and she set out the funny papers for Pauly to read at the breakfast table. With lots of swimming and reading and easy conversation, her inner - turmoil subsided. Life began to settle into a secure rhythm - until four weeks later when Aunt Vivian said she'd already raised her children and wasn't prepared to bring up another child. Pauly was sent back to Washington. She lived in two foster homes before Betty Rae and Bud Gross got licensed to be foster parents and invited her to come live with them again. She was almost 13. For the next four years, Pauly lived with them, but tensions grew in their home after the Gross's son enlisted in the army and left to fight in Vietnam. Then in tenth grade, Philip Quinn, Pauly's English teacher at Franklin High School, began to tutor her in the library with a group of other struggling kids to help them catch up in their classes. More important, he told Pauly she was smart, praising her for academic and emotional progress. Slowly, her self - image improved. In her senior year, one fateful afternoon, she got into a shouting match with Betty Rae, and Pauly ran away. Literally. Being on the cross - country team at Franklin High, she ran miles and miles. Eventually she bumped into a girl from school. Although little more than an acquaintance, the girl took Pauly home, and the girl's parents let Pauly spend the night. The next day, Pauly went to see the guidance counselor. When Mr. Quinn found out what had happened, he called his pregnant wife, and the couple agreed to take Pauly in for a while. Christopher, the Quinn's two - and - a - half - year - old son thought his daddy brought Pauly home especially for him as the two of them hit it off the moment she walked into the tiny, two - bedroom house. To this day, Pauline and the Quinns keep in touch, celebrating accomplishments, sharing in sorrows, or merely catching up. Betty Rae and Pauline have long since made amends, and the Gross family, too, remain precious friends. Sadly, Pauline's brother Geoffrey died at age 44 struggling with addiction, but Frank lives in Alaska and is the mayor in the small town where he lives with his wife. Frank and Pauline have done their best to heal from the past. They talk on the phone and visit each other whenever possible. In honor of Veteran's Day this month, I've decided to write a series of posts about some amazing people I've met in my new town in Central Oregon. They call themselves "A Band of Brothers" although women have joined the organization, too. In 2006, a few World War II Veterans started meeting weekly in Bend, Oregon, and almost ten years later, the group has grown into the hundreds. U. S. Veterans include those who served in WWII, Korea, Vietnam, the Falkland Islands, Germany in peace time (that seems like a long time ago, doesn't it?), and various conflicts in the Middle East. A few years ago, retired First Responders, our "domestic protectors," joined the organization as well. Who knew that WWII Veteran, Phil Bellefeuille's idea to get a few buddies together for coffee in the fall of 2006 would give support to so many? The original group of nine veterans who met at the Elks Club had such a great time swapping stories, they coined themselves the "Old Pharts: A Band of Brothers" and started meeting weekly at various local restaurants. The Bend Bulletin heard about those guys and published an article that included an invitation from Phil for any veteran to attend. New brother and sister veterans showed up each week. The group quickly outgrew descending upon random restaurants, so Vietnam War Veteran, Lyle Hicks, stepped up to solve the problem. Hicks owns Jake's Diner and offered to reserve the back room in his restaurant for meetings, including a reasonably priced breakfast buffet to accommodate everyone. The harmless flirtation from some of these guys has been a crack up, not to mention good for my ego. Others are complete gentlemen, such as 95 - year - old Bob Maxwell, the oldest living recipient of the Congressional Medal of Honor; Vietnam Veteran Richard Fleming, diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in 1966 but wasn't told until 2013; Captain Bill Collier who wrote his memoir, The Adventures of a Helicopter Pilot: Flying the
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H - 34 Helicopter in Vietnam for the United States Marine Corps, and many more. (Stay tuned for posts of veterans' incredible personal stories.) "Terminally unique." That's the term I learned in a 12 - step program for those of us who think we're the only ones trapped in the quicksand of someone else's addiction. Yes. My story is mine alone, but it is somewhat textbook. We grasp how to operate in relationships early, usually by observing our biological parents. From mine, I learned codependency. I also married my father. Not literally, but my husband was my dad in many respects, and he concealed the Hyde to his Jekyll in those years before we gave birth to two beautiful girls. My mother endured years of physical abuse from my drunken father before my parents divorced. I was three years old, and my sister was seven. While I was in college, at age 19, my mom died of cancer. It had formed in her chest around her heart, as if her anger toward my father and her parents literally suffocated her. She was only 48. After putting myself through college, with the help of student loans, I volunteered with AmeriCorps, a domestic form of the Peace Corps. The organization sent me to San Diego, California to train tutors who would help struggling elementary school - aged children improve their reading skills. Being a small town girl, new to the big city, I filled out a survey that arrived in my mailbox from a dating service. A few months later, Mike requested a date with me. I accepted after seeing his shy, humble demeanor in his video. He was classically handsome - resembling Patrick Swayze in the "Dirty Dancing" years. Although Mike wasn't college - educated - a "must have" on my preference list - he owned his own plumbing business, which meant to me that he was motivated and financially stable. We met the following day and instantly hit it off. By the time he took me home after a holiday party the next evening, I was off the market. I knew I had met the man who was destined to be my partner in life. We bought a home together before we married and entertained often. Then came the wedding. A year - and - a - half later, we had a baby girl. Our lives together seemed right on track. Except his drinking steadily increased, and his anger would flare. I began walking on eggshells. He raged over what he perceived to be my eyes on other men. My connection with certain friends, even my relationship with my sister set him off. When we fought, it often became physical. By then I was teaching high school, and I went to class with bruises and scratches more often than I like to remember. I lived a double - life. At work, I was a dedicated, empathetic teacher. I felt purpose in my work and strove for excellence from myself as well as my students. My friends saw me as a successful career woman, mother, and wife. I wanted nothing more than for everyone to believe that I was juggling my responsibilities with ease. But at home, Mike and I were drowning in our disease. He drank nightly, and I kept a watchful eye on how much alcohol he consumed. If his mood turned irritable, we sometimes ended up in a brawl. I always fought back. No way would a man beat me the way my father had beaten my mother. I used my fingernails as weapons to push him off me, and I slapped his face. The police were called a few times. Mike was booked for domestic violence twice. The following day I would go pick him up from the downtown jailhouse and tell the police I didn't want to press charges. After our second child was born, Mike's drinking escalated. He passed out on the couch more often than he slept in our bed. He blamed my breastfeeding our baby in the middle of the night, but I knew his beer meant more to him than sharing space with me. Sex became routine and uneventful, a chore. As our daughters grew, so did the frequency of drunken nights. Mike hid bottles of Bacardi in the garage. He drank on his drive home from work to get a beer down before I could see him. I began all the classic co - dependent manipulations to get him to stop - I threatened to leave, I pleaded, I cried, I yelled. I thought if I made his life miserable, surely he would make a change. Which he did. He spent longer days on the golf course with friends and returned home sloshed. More often than not, when he walked in the door after work at 5 o 'clock, he was already wasted. When he saw disappointment on my face, he shouted at me and called me names. Our children would cry and tell us not to fight. I would call his mom, who lived six hours north of San Diego, and plead for her to talk with him. Once, I called to talk with his mother after a fight, and I got his stepfather instead. His stepdad told me to try Al - Anon, a 12 - step program for friends and family of
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alcoholics. Desperate for help, I went to my first meeting in December 2008 with my disease at its height. I was a nervous wreck, trying to control everyone in my life. I vigilantly assessed what everyone else was doing, saying, and thinking. I couldn't socialize without being hyper self - aware, scanning others to figure out what they wanted me to say and be. Friends told me I was overbearing and pulled away from me. Everything felt like a chore. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired, and I was only 33 years old. Mike allowed me to attend weekly meetings because he saw a positive change in me. He said I had been softer and friendlier. He didn't know I was trying to practice detachment; that is, learning to keep my attention off others and on myself. This included self - care and how to avoid creating a crisis, while not trying to prevent one either. I got reacquainted with spirituality and was reminded that I had a Higher Power who I could lean on. I came to understand that the alcoholics in my life had their own Higher Power and had to walk their own paths. I learned about humility and how not to take others' choices personally because it wasn't all about me, which was a relief as well as a blow to my ego. All these things helped me to let go of trying to control all aspects of my life. It was a 180 - degree turn from what I had been taught. I got a sponsor within six months of being in Al - Anon and we worked the steps together. She was kind and gentle and loving. She didn't wince when I told her my shameful secrets. I learned to trust God and another human being. I learned to trust myself. I made amends with my father who immediately recognized the eighth step. He had also been working a program in Alcoholics Anonymous. I began to pray for a sign to show me whether I should leave my marriage. Mike's drinking was getting worse. He kept passing out on the living room floor. I took pictures of his drunkenness, so I could prove in court that he was unfit to take care of our girls if I left him. The last time I took one of those photos, he was laid out in the hallway, snoring in front our children's bathroom after a spring day of golf. The flash woke him, so I sprinted to our bedroom and locked the door. He yelled obscenities and threats and banged on the door. Then suddenly it was quiet, and when I mustered the nerve to peek outside the bedroom, I found him on the couch, sleeping off the drunk. The following morning, he was waiting for me on the other side of the door, and he attacked me. I called 9 - 1 - 1, reported the abuse and obtained a restraining order. After that day, Mike was no longer allowed in our home without a police escort. Today, our children are eight and eleven years old, and they call me on a cell phone if they believe their father has been drinking. They know their father loves them, but he has a brain that tells him to consume alcohol as a form of medicine. When our youngest was asked by her counselor whether or not she believes her father might stop drinking if she were a better - behaved child she replied, "Of course not. He has a disease that has nothing to do with me." When asked if she thought his drinking is a reflection of his lack of love for her, she adamantly disagreed. She knows her daddy loves her; he just has a problem. I realize my daughters have learned these things from me, but I can't take credit. These responses are typical of Al - Anon's teachings and healing. I would never have discovered these concepts on my own. My children will grow up with a different set of tools than I had before Al - Anon. They will know about the disease of alcoholism and how to not engage in codependent behaviors with alcoholic friends and family members. Hopefully, they will refrain from attracting this kind of relationship in their futures. In the meantime, we pray for their father daily and put him in God's hands because we have to mind our own business and take responsibility for ourselves. My childhood in St. Louis, Missouri was a happy one. My mother had seven sisters, and when they began to have children, they continued to live at home with my grandmother. Four of my first cousins and I grew up together. We were normal kids who played and got into trouble sometimes, and when we got out of hand, my grandmother was the one who punished us. The first school I remember attending was Laclede Elementary, which was in walking distance from our house. In third grade, I got suspended because I hit another student when she refused to give my cousin a piece of candy. I was afraid to tell my mother, so I left for school the next day as I normally would and walked around the neighborhood. This lady asked why I wasn't in school, so I told her what had happened. She offered to write a letter to get me back in school, and I left her
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as happy as I could be. When I got school, though, I found out she had written that she did not know me, but I had been walking around outside by myself, and she was concerned. Of course the principal called my mother and told her to come pick me up. I can't remember if I got a spanking, but I do know I was glad to return to school. I liked school, but I couldn't resist being the class clown and getting into trouble, even knowing that my mother would whip me for it. As a young child, I liked to skate, run, dance, play baseball and volleyball, and meddle with adults. Why, I don't know, but upsetting them made me laugh. At any given time, I always had a bag of something sweet, mostly candy. In fact, looking back, I realize candy was my first addiction. If my mother or someone else in the household did not give me money for candy, I would steal the change laying around the house, or I would cry and throw a fit until I got it. our family. Although he was a good person, I did not realize that until many years later. He worked hard to support us, but I wanted nothing from him. To this day, I do not know why I did not like this man, except that he and my mother moved us to the Pruitt - Igoe housing projects. I fought tooth - and - nail to stay with my grandmother, but in the end, I had to go with my mom. In time, I grew to love the projects. I met other teens who were as confused about life as I was. Around the age of 16, my friends turned me on to cough syrup with codeine and weed. I loved the way I felt like I could take on the world if I wanted to, and we could just walk into any drugstore and buy this cough syrup. Then the FDA began to require a prescription to buy it. I guess I was about 18 when this happened, and someone suggested we get some heroin because they said the high was the same as the syrup. Like a fool, I tried heroin and my life was a roller coaster from that day on. Addiction caused me to be in and out of jail until I was about 45 years old. Drugs had such a grip on me that sometimes when I got locked up, I would be relieved. I was caught in a revolving door where I would get out of prison, get a job, get a house, get my children back, and then relapse again. I wanted to be drug - free but had no idea how to make it happen. Treatment was not talked about at that time. The mindset was that addicts chose to use drugs, so they had to suffer the consequences. In my mind, I was not a bad person because I did not steal from my family. I had given myself permission to steal from stores, my rationale being that stores were insured, so no one got hurt. After going to prison for the third time, I started to look at myself, but I still had no idea that I was an addict or what I needed to do to change. When I went back to prison for the fifth and last time, I knew I had to do something different. The day I had been arrested, my family was in the process of moving on a Saturday morning. While my son and daughter, who were living with me at the time, went to get the second load of belongings to take to the new house, I decided to run downtown to Macey's. I was dope sick and could hardly help with the move, so I had planned to steal something quickly, so I could get my fix. My daughter had no job to support her two small children. When she came to see me in jail, I told her that I had violated my parole and would not be getting out. I could see the fear and hurt in her eyes. She didn't know how she and her children would survive. The pain in her eyes that day, along with my desire to escape from the revolving door, finally got me to seek the help I needed. I wanted to change and make a better life for myself. My daughter and grandkids were also a big factor as well as the prison warden. I worked in administration as the Institution Activities Clerk in the same building as the warden's office, across the street from the prison. She and I would talk about my life, my children, and my addiction to drugs. She respected me and the way I carried myself while I was doing time. We met the first time I landed in prison. She was about 5 feet tall, very intelligent, and she dressed smart. She talked to me plainly so I would understand in lay terms what she said to me. Don't get me wrong. I was not a goody - two - shoes in prison, but I kept up the appearance that I was. The last time I got high was in prison, and that is where I made the final decision not to get high again, and to this day
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I have not. I made this decision because I was on work release and close to getting my good time to get out in three years rather than seven. Then me and two other women had used heroin and crack on a Friday, and the next Tuesday I was asked to give a drug test. I prayed as hard as I could asking God not to let those drugs still be in my urine. Cocaine and heroin can clear in 72 hours if you just use them once. Well, I did not drop dirty, and I was grateful. I had told my roommate I was never going to use again when I got to the streets, but after risking four more years of incarceration, I told her I was not using again in prison either. When drugs came my way, I passed them on to another friend. Had I known what I know today about addiction, I would not have given the drugs to anyone else either. I came home October 3, 1995. My family would always welcome me back with open arms each time I got out of prison. Like so many families, they hoped I would stay away from drugs. Before this, their dreams had always been dashed when I had gotten involved with the same old people, places, and things. But they never gave up on me. They always did what they needed to do for my children. When I disappeared, they hoped and prayed that the phone call they would get would be that I was in jail and not dead. That October in 1995 began a new way of life for me, though, because I joined a support group called Let's Start which is dedicated to assisting women in transition from prison life to society. I began to find out what I needed to do to stay clean, and I learned about myself and my addiction. I finally let go of those old people, places and things. No one besides positive people and family members knew how to get in contact with me. After eighteen months of sobriety, my family gave me a birthday party. A woman in my support group had told me to stop counting the days, so I had not realized that I had been out of prison for that long. The most painful thing about getting clean was to learn that my children had suffered the most from my addiction and incarceration. My son is a heroin addict, has been to prison, and is now on probation. My daughter stayed away from drugs, but she struggled as a young single parent who could not depend on her mother for help in any way. For the first two years, I had an apartment out in the country, so none of my old influences would find me. After I felt people knew I was serious about changing my life, I moved back into the city. During that time, Let's Start taught me how to approach judges, legislators, probation officers etc. I had no idea how I was going to use any of this information at this stage in my life. I was just desperate to stay clean and out of jail. My way of life had never worked for me, so I listened and took suggestions. I'd always known the God of my understanding had a plan for my life because I survived two overdoses, so there must have been a reason for Him to keep me around. Then I was hired by the Center for Women in Transition and was given an opportunity to use my past to help other women struggling with addiction and advocate for alternatives to incarceration. I did not come out of jail with an ideal that I was going to work with other women who had been in my situation, nor that I would become a role model for them. I am so comfortable in this job. This had to be God's plan for my life. No one could have told me that I would have judges calling to ask my advice about clients, or that judges would reschedule clients' court dates to accommodate my busy schedule. The God of my understanding has blessed my life so much. I could not be here without His grace and mercy. My future goals are to live a simple life and be there for my grandchildren. I can't get back the special times and events that I missed in my children's lives, but I can give back through my grandkids. I turned 64 at the end of April and am getting close to retirement, however, I still plan to continue to help women get their lives back on track. Supporting other mothers in recovery means that fewer children will have to go through what my children experienced with me drifting in and out of their lives. My Advice: If you or a family member struggle with addiction, don't hesitate to ask for help. I don't care how well you know a person, when their addiction is active, you are not dealing with or talking to that person. You are talking to their addiction, and it won't hear you. You have to be ready to show tough love. Don't get caught up in the fear that if you put them out of the house, they will die out there. If you let them stay and they continue to use, one thing will surely happen: death, jail or another institution. Addiction affects
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the whole family, but the fact that someone in your family uses drugs has no reflection on you. We can give our children the best upbringing possible, but we have no control over the paths they choose. Tough love is not saying, "I don't love you." It is saying, "I'm here to support you in getting help, but I will not watch you DIE." Change people, places and things. You can't have a relationship with anyone who is still using. You won't get them clean. They will get you high. The links in this article provide lots of great information and resources. We'd love to hear your thoughts and welcome experiences you'd like to share. Your comment could be the tipping point in someone seeking help in dealing with a loved one or setting personal goals to recreate their own lives.
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Today, we continued another tradition. Each year we try to get the entire family together for our family Christmas. Today was the designated day. I've included the pictures but can't caption them because I can't see the pictures on my screen, only gibberish, and don't know where to add what each picture is. I do know that one of the pictures is my daughter Cyndi and her look - alike daughter, Toria. Becky is in two of the pictures, one where she is getting things set up for me in the kitchen, and another of her just resting afterwards. One picture is of Adam, he wears glasses and every says he looks like Alan. I do not see that at all. I think he looks like his other grandfather, "Doc", who is now with the Lord. The little girl showing off her dress is Ellianna. Such a pretty outfit she was wearing yesterday. We had fun, fun, fun. The children were attentive and played well together. My games went over like lead balloons, but the children got their gifts and they were happy. We also celebrated Alan's 65th birthday. Alan really seemed out of it yesterday and I think the whole birthday thing went right over his head. But he received a really nice gift, a hand - held GPS thingy to replace us taking and smothering ourselves in the front seat with his extra large laptop. We'll see if he ever uses it. It he doesn't, I will! Now the house is quiet and I'm truly enjoying the quietness of the evening. Did we have day - after - Christmas - sales when I was growing up? I don't remember that we did. I do remember one day - after - Christmas, though. I was 14 and had receive $30 for Christmas. I wanted to buy some new clothes and a get a new pair of shoes. So, the day after Christmas I headed into Philadelphia with my money prepared to get a couple of skirts, two blouses, a sweater, and a pair of shoes. Yes, you could get that much back then with $30. You can't even get a pair of shoes for $30 these days. But I digress. I got into Philly. It was closed down. Not a single store was open, and it wasn't Saturday or Sunday, it was a Thursday. I was so bummed. I mean who would have thought that the stores would all be closed the day after Christmas. Just because all the stores in Runnemede were closed, I didn't think Philly would close as well. SO, I got on a subway (Broad Street Subway) and headed south to visit with my Uncle Joe, Aunt Rita, and Joanie before I went home. Also back in those days a 14 - year - old girl could ride a bus into the city, get on a subway, and even head back home after dark, and not have to worry about being abducted or worse. I have never gone to any day - after - Christmas sales because I just don't like crowds. And after my experience in Philly when I was 14, I probably never will. ttfn One of my readers asked for detail about my first date with Alan, my husband. I don't recall our first date, isn't that awful? Who doesn't remember their first date with their spouse. I don't. I suppose the first date I remember is a banquet we went to - - a group of churches put on a banquet for all the teens in their respective churches. It was a Hawaiian Luau. Authentic Hawaiian food was served. Alan took me and paid for my food. I'm pretty sure that was our first real date. Oh we'd been together before, but not on a "date" date. We would just hang out together at church activities and everyone knew we were a couple. If the church had a skate night, Alan and I got in a car together, and skated all the skates together. One time we were sitting too close while waiting for an all - skate (during a ladies only skate) and were told to break it up - - in other words move apart. Be pure. Yikes! I hope my dad didn't find out! Anyway the Hawaiian luau was such a nice event. It was outdoors (of course), and the only thing was that the weather was cold and I was freezing. Alan took off his jacket and then he was freezing, and I was still cold. The food was delicious except for the poi. Never could get that stuff down, but the rest of the meal was very good. Of course, I've always been one who could eat almost anything. I have even eaten fried grasshoppers and chocolate covered ants - - and not on a dare. I ate them just because I wanted to try them. And since I actually enjoyed them I ate more and even bought a jar of grasshoppers for myself. So, that's a reminisce of my first date with my husband, Alan. ttfn Alan and I attended a Christmas Eve service at our old church. It's been years since I've been to a CE service and I just had to go.
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Don't know why. I recall my father dragging me to Christmas Eve service over at the Lutheran Church. Our church didn't have a service, but he always went to the one at the Lutheran Church. I guess I would have appreciated it more if I didn't wish I was out with the other kids from my own church who were partying together and caroling all over town. And I wish I was home enjoying my mom's seven fish dinner, an Italian custom I didnt 'even know about until I watched the food network. I thought it was just something my mom did. She never told me it was an Italian tradition. So, to all your Runnemede folks out there who might read this: Merry Christmas to you all. ttfn It was probably in' 59 or 1960. The snow started on Saturday morning. It was the weekend of the Army / Navy game, and it was the weekend of Youtharama for December. I loved seeing it snow, but I didn't know that it was going to ruin my weekend. It snowed at the rate of about two inches per hour, so that by 3 p. m. there was a foot of snow on the ground and I got a phone call from Uncle Bill that we weren't going to go to Youtharama. I think I must have mouthed off to him and asked in a smart - mouth way why he couldn't drive in a foot of snow. Since I had never driven I didn't realize what it was like to drive with even two inches of snow on the road. But Uncle Bill just said we weren't going and that was it. I thought about taking a bus into Philly so I could go to Youtharama, but my mom and dad wouldn't let me. So, I sat home on Saturday night and sulked. The next morning, it was still snowing, and poor daddy had to shovel the walkway from the house to the church and then the church walkways. But while dad was at church and his family was at church, nobody else came, at least not for Sunday school. By church time a few people had braved the weather and walked to church, so we did have a church service that Sunday. Nowdays, church would just be cancelled, but back then people could and did walk to church. People still live as close or as far from the church as they did back then, but they all drive to church. No one walks to church any more. Let's face it, folks just don't walk any more. I include myself in that. But then, I really can't walk any more. And boy I wish I could. So after Sunday a. m. service, dad announced (because it was still snowing) that there would be no church in the evening. The deacons had a quick meeting and helped dad decide that. I think we didn't have school the next day. Runnemede schools were open, but the high school was closed because buses couldn't get through. In Runnemede kids walked, at the high school, only Runnemede and Glendora kids walked. The others rode in buses. So that's my snow stoPosted by When I was a child there were very few Christmas movies, and since we didn't have a TV until I was 10, I didn't get addicted to them until I got old (younger than I am now, but still old). There were only two movies that I can recall seeing with my father and mother and those were: Miracle on 34th Street and It's a Wonderful Life. I can't remember the number of times I've seen those movies. Then when I was about 13 White Christmas was released for TV viewers. I don't remember how old I was when the cartoons became my Christmas fare. Was it when I was in college or when I had children? Anyway, I have seen Rudolph, Charley Brown, and Frosty too many times to count and I still enjoy watching them. This year, I'm overfed, so to speak, on Christmas movies. The Hallmark channel runs them from noon to Midnight. Lifetime has them on from 6 to midnight. And ABC Family runs them in the evenings as well. Are there any new classics? I don't know. I know that I'm still enjoying the real classics on TCM (tonight is Gone with the Wind, which I'm not watching - - it's just oo long and I'm too sleepy). Many of the TCM movies evoke those memories of my father and me watching late - night movies (11: 30 to 1: 30) including those like The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, Random Harvest and Mrs. Minnever. If I catch those titles in the movie scroll of a day, I will stop and watch, hankie in hand, no matter that I've viewed those movies dozens of times - - sort of like the new "old" movies: You've Got Mail, Sleepless in Seattle, and While you were Sleeping, all sappy chick - flicks that Alan walks away from, and I sit engrossed for as long as they take to view. Runnemede and movies - - some combination. ttfn It occurred to me today that I haven't been living in Runnemede
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for over 40 years and yet the memories I have of that town are so near and dear to me. Of course this time of year evokes so many memories - - good memories - - of those days when I was in residence in that town. As I sat wrapping oodles of gifts for my grandchildren and children today, I remarked to my husband that it now takes me so much longer to do this than it used to, regardless of the numbers increasing, it still takes me so long to wrap even just one gift. I also think of my father's perfection at gift wrapping, and mom's - - well let me just say, the gifts were surrounded with paper, most of it wrinkled from use again. She saved the paper each year and used it when she could the following year. Dad - - he always bought new paper, so I guess that's why his gifts always looked to perfect. I don't reuse paper, much to Alan's chagrin. His family used to do that too. It must have been a Depression Era thing, as well as a lack of money thing. I am thankful that God has given us enough for our needs and many or our wants, especially at this time of year. My favorite, because I love giving gifts to my family. My dad loved giving gifts to people, even if it wasn't Christmas. A person could NOT come into our home and leave empty handed. He would either give them a book or a pen or a bookmark - - something to remember their visit with him and / or our family. I like that idea and whenever my grandchildren visit they get something. I usually send something home with my cleaning crew as well. This is the season for giving, but I like what my dad did - - he gave year round. Isn't that special? ttfn We always had one. We didn't get it until just a couple of days before Christmas, although I remember mom asking dad over and over to pick one up, and everyday he'd come home from the post office WITHOUT a tree. I think he was waiting for the price to drop. I mean $5 was a lot of money back then, and he was waiting for the dollar sale. So we usually got a tree, a scraggly tree around December 22 or December 23. Tinsel was saved from year to year - - back then it was made of aluminum foil, not plastic - - and it had to be draped just so. Dad, the perfectionist, made certain of that. Me? I'd just throw it on the tree. I had no patience for draping. Do you all like my new border? It's so reminiscent of those days back in the 40s and 50s. The sleigh looks so much like the sleigh which was parked next to Santa's "house" in front of the Municipal building - - which was Santa's second home. His first home was at the fire house. There was no room for anything but his chair at that gathering place. And the reindeer? I recall so many folks having a similar chach - key in their front yard. The wreath is not unlike what you'd find on many doors in town. Ah, yes, I loved Runnemede at Christmas time. How many times have I said that? Old people tend to be repetitive, but the love of the small town, the decorations on peoples' lawns, porches, and doors, all are remembered fondly. I know I loved December for more reasons than it was the month of Christmas. I know I loved snow. I still do. I really don't mind driving in snow, I just don't like ice, and it seems that while in NJ we got snow, out here in N. KY we get ice. It's beautiful, but oh, so treacherous. I know I loved finding a gift for my mom and dad. something I hoped they would like, knowing the whole time that my 50 cents didn't go very far. However, when they opened their gift, they always oohed and aahed, and seemed to think that they got the most wonderful gift in the world. At least that's what I remember. I know I loved wrapping gifts. I have never been good at it. That is, my dad was perfect at wrapping gifts. All the corners were squared off, and the ends of the packages had even triangles taped together to hold the paper tight. My package ends never match, I rarely get the scotch tape to hit correctly on the first try, thus having to put more tape on a package than is necessary. But I love curling ribbon (I wrote about that a couple of years ago). I never liked addressing Christmas cards, and I still don't. For many years I didn't send any. Then we moved to a community where everyone sends cards to everyone else. I had to "keep up with the Joneses." This year, however, I'm cutting way back. I finally found the cards I bought last year to send out this year, so I hope to get them addressed tomorrow. I loved to watch my mom bake. I loved to watch her cut out cookies.
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I loved that she let me put some sprinkles on the sugar cookies. Mom didn't bake much because the ladies in the church always showered us with boxes and boxes of cookies, which I must say were much better than anything my mom baked. I hope to get some cookies made this weekend. I loved Christmas Eve dinner and caroling with the other teens in the church (when I finally got to be a teenager). I was so glad when my 13th Christmas had arrived, since I envied the teens the caroling events each year. All that cocoa! And, did I mention, that I loved the snow? Yes, I did, and we had snow back then. Global warming hadn't hit NJ I guess. Just a few things I remember about December. Hey I made a poem! Don't you just love this picture? It's Micki (two years ago) and Alan lovin 'on her. He just loves our visits with her. Well, folks, and some of you in Runnemede might remember her, she had a stroke on Thanksgiving Day. She's in the hospital in rehab and doing quite well. She had a knee replacement in mid - October and was going through her home - rehab, feeling really awful after the physical therapist left. Thing is: I had called her right after her visit with the therapist and she told me she wasn't feeling well, and that her leg was really numb, but we both thought it was because of the PT she had just gone through. Fortunately, after I hung up, she called her friend and told her she couldn't feel anything in her leg (the one that was supposedly fixed) who came right over and got her to the hospital. The trip was out of Baltimore. This was a first time to use this port and I have to say that for passengers with mobility problems this was the best ever. And our immobility this year was the worst ever. So that's saying a lot. They were very attentive to our needs and got us to our cabin in good time. Dumb us. We showed up two hours too early, thinking we were on a Miami boarding schedule. Not at all. But that's okay. They were still very nice about our earliness (and we weren't the only ones) and weren't put off by it at all. We had pre - ordered scooters so we would be able to get around the boat with little or no pain. Well, that worked well for three and a half days, then Alan did a back flip with his scooter - - the back wheels got caught on the ramp through one of the doors to the upper deck - - and he got the wind knocked out of him, bruised several ribs, and was in misery the remainder of the trip. Basically, he stayed in the room for the rest of the time, except for meals when after not liking the room service selection he decided he would join me for meals at the restaurants. Someday I'll write about those mis - adventures, but not today. Anyway, on Thanksgiving day, we were in Nassau, Bahamas. Now, I've walked from the ship to Nassau several times, and each time it has been a wearying, hurtful process. But I want those free bracelets and other jewelry they hand out at the various jewelry stores there. I now have enough charm bracelets for all my girls, big and small! All free! And I have necklaces for stockings, etc. I'm so excited about that. Anyway, this trip what normally took me 1 hour to get into town, took only 10 minutes on the scooter. It was so much fun and I could see so much more. Granted many of the shops didn't have ramps, so I couldn't go into them. Their loss, as I was in a spending mood, and I had saved my meager allowance for six months! I bought myself a present for Alan to give me for Christmas - - that's a tradition. I buy it, he pays for it, and wraps it up, and I enjoy it for as long as I live. Then one of my girls will enjoy it. See? Isn't that the way it's supposed to work? Alan had been complaining and saying he was sure he had shingles, and I kept checking (this was after the back flip) to see if he did have shingles, and I saw nothing, so I decided he needed to get to an ER as soon as we landed. Well, lucky for him, shingles showed themselves for the nasty things they are and now he only has to endure a trip to the doctor's office to get some anti - biotics. He has the pain meds that they gave him on the boat, and the meds he's been taking since his last shingles attack. You see, with a compromised immune system once you get shingles you never get rid of them entirely. You get rid of the rash, but the pain may lessen some, but it's still there. Sort of like fibromyalgia. And because his immune system is compromised, he can't have the vaccine that is available for singles. So at the end of the trip - - and
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I have to say we had the best wait staff ever - - I packed us up, and boy did that hurt, because I had been having to lift Alan from a chair or bed, and I was so totally sore from doing that. I packed us up. Got us all set to get off the boat which was slicker than butter this time. What a difference from other cruises. They wheeled us right up to the taxi. The cab - driver took care of transferring out luggage to our car which was had parked at the hotel in which we stayed in Baltimore, and off we went. Home again, home again, jiggety - jig!!!! I KNOW I have never written about this before. And why not? It was so much a part of my daily life in that little house on Second Avenue. These days you have what is known as a night light. Not so when I was growing up. So my dad, ingeniously, or otherwise, devised his own night light. The house had two bedrooms, separated by a bathroom room, and a short hall joining the two bedrooms. On the ceiling of the hallway there was a ceiling fixture. Into that fixture my dad put a small wattage (25 watts) light bulb, and that light was left on all night long. It was a comfort for us children because while the door to the bedroom was closed, it wasn't closed al the way. It was left open a crack, just enough light to keep the children from "dark" nightmares. And I suppose it was left on so that when mom and / or dad got up in the middle of the night (after four children, I'm sure my mom did - - it's a woman thing) the light would lighten the way to the bathroom. The switch for the hall light was on the right of the hall doorway as you were entering it from the dining room, but it wasn't close enough for mom or day to put the light off when they went to bed ir they knew it was going to be needed in the middle of the night, whether it was because of a child who had the croup or because a child had a nightmare or a parent had to use the facility. [Note: the location of the switch is murky in my mind, but I know that the thermostat was on the left side as you entered the hall, so I'm thinking the light switch was on the right.] About this time of year, it was time to give up on wearing the highschool sweater for outer - wear on the way to school. I saved and saved so I could get that sweater. Remember them? They were cardigans, but they were thick - knit and they were BIG, or at least we wore them three sizes too big. Triton's sweaters were red with blue strips on the sleeves. I never got any letters for mine, but that was okay. I liked it "plain." Oh yeah, I paid only $15 for that sweater, but that was as much as a new coat cost back then! So, it was now time to break out the winter coat and wear it unbuttoned - - because it wasn't quite cold enough for us hardy folk that walked to school in snow up to our waists, uphill, at 20 below, for six miles. My winter coat was an old pea jacket and while they are in style now, and I suppose have always been "in", I hated it. I wanted a leather jacket. I mean all my friends had leather jackets. My friends got a new coat every year. I had mine for two years and it didn't look like I would get a new one this year either. I made a deal with my mom. I would earn some money to add to her Christmas fund for my gift and she could get me a leather jacket. Somewhere I have a picture of my daughter wearing that coat. It lasted that long. And I wouldn't be surprised to find out that one of my daughters still had it in her possession. After all, it is vinitage 50s. Back to walking to school. I would leave the house at exactly 6: 50 each morning, meeting up with Marilyn Groninger and Peggy Gibson as they passed my house. We would walk away from the pike to the end of Second Avenue (where 2nd meets Clements Bridge). We'd cross Clements Bridge Road and walk up Harding which wound around to Shubert Avenue, which is where the school was. Triton Regional Highschool. We'd get there and in the doors at 7: 00 a. m. Homeroom started at 7: 10 a. m., and the day would begin. Coming home I was on my own, mainly because either Marilyn or Peggy or I had after - school activities and those activities didn't allow for us to leave school together on most days. That was okay. I knew the way home! Communion. A. K. A. The Lord's Supper. At Mt. Calvary we celebrated the Lord's Supper once a month, the last Sunday of the month. Communion was very special to me and I looked forward to those monthly "suppers.
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"I have to say that I was not permitted to partake until I had been baptized, and so for 10 cognizative years I watched as the elements were passed past me on those Sundays. The church was very quiet during that part of the service, except for my father's recitation of Scripture. And after everyone (except the children) had been served one element, dad would say," This do in remembrance of Me. Eat ye all of it. "And down would go the Matza, which he had cracked into tiny pieces between a paper napkin back at the house prior to the service. He also filled all those tiny cups with just a couple of ounces of grape juice. And said:" This do in remembrance of Me. Drink ye all of it. "I recall that communion set the church had. The plates for the Matza were peuter and had a wonderful patina. The juice rack was made of wood with holes in each tier (the church had three because there were three sections in the sanctuary) for the cups which held the juice. And in the early years the cups were made of glass and mom had to wash them after each communion service. In my last few years at the church they had switched over to plastic which could be pitched and no washing was required. I don't remember mom ever complaining about having to wash all those tiny glasses. I know I did because I had to dry the things. After drying them for several years and before we changed over to plastic, I tried to convince my mom that washing them and then letting them dry on a towel was more sanitary than my drying them and touching them with my grimy fingers. I think I was about 10 or 11 years old when she finally succumbed to my logic and we would place those tiny glass recepticals on a kitchen towel, unside down, and they would air dry. Then she would carefully place them into the wooden racks for the next month's Communion service. I really should take a picture of what I'm talking about here. I woke up this a. m. and was vividly recalling a Sunday many years ago. I was five or six years old. And I was sitting in the back row of the church with my friends, Kathie Kenders, Linda Wallace, and Sue Youngblood. Mrs. Youngblood was sitting right in front of this quartet of five - seven - year - olds and so we were behaving - - mostly. I had / have a ring. It was given to me by my grandmother Drexler shortly after I was born. Of course I don't remember that particular event, and am just going on what my mom told me. Anyway, it is / was a gold ring set with a small emerald. I was only permitted to wear that ring on Sunday morning, and I had to ask permission prior to wearing it. As soon as I got home from church I had to return it to its box - - a small ring box - - which resided in of all places, mom's money drawer. That was a drawer in her dressing table in which she" safed "the weekly stash on which we lived. Well, this particular Sunday, I decided to put the ring in my mouth. No, I didn't swallow it. I did however bit on it, and not realizing that gold is soft and if thin enough it will become damaged, I dented the bottom part of the ring. I put a wrinkle in the roundness of the ring. Not wanting my mother to know what I'd done, and feeling really awful about it, I put the ring away as soon as I got home. Since the emerald side was showing and not the wrinkle I figured I was safe. But when the next Sunday came and I didn't request to wear my ring, I guess mom got suspicious. She knew that every Sunday I wanted to wear that ring. So she took it out of the box and found out what I had done. Uh - oh! No spanking, just a lecture (which was worse). Good ending to story: I was permitted to wear the ring every Sunday, I just had to promise to keep it out of my mouth. Which I did. I wonder why that Sunday is so vivid in my mind right now. Oh well. I still have the ring, and it's still bent, but it doesn't fit any of my fingers any more. ttfn If I might quote my mother as she was sliding off the bed while she was trying to sit on the side of it in the last days of her life, laughing as she sagged to the floor:" Stupid, stupid, stupid. "That's me. I forgot to give you all a Sunday saying. Well, this week's saying is" Stupid, stupid, stupid. "And I was SSS because I forgot the Sunday saying saying. The saying, was made famous by my mother and we've been using it in our family ever since that day around 20 years ago when she made that statement, and while she was laughing we all got the giggles, and unfortunately were laughing so hard we couldn't help her get back up onto the bed until we were able
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to control our laughing. (That would be Sue and I.) One more SSS moment in my life - - the day I left the brand new, expensive digital camera in the car in the parking lot, and we were getting on a boat to go to Panama when I remembered it. The walk back to the parking garage was prohibitive for me, and I was hitting myself and yelling at myself (Stupid, stupid, stupid) for days until Alan decided we should buy a cheap digital camera on board ship so we would be able to get pictures in Panama and at the Canal. I mean how many chances would I ever have to get to Panama and the Canal? This one chance. The SSS camera is now being used by grandchildren to take their various "event" pictures. I just got the outline for the activities for the 100th anniversary of the Church. It all begins on May 23, 2010, and hopefully as many Drexlers as possible will be there. It will be a great family reunion if as many of us get there as want to. The church had a Drexler attending or preaching for over 50 years, that's half of the life of the church so far! And a couple of years ago I sent to the committee a copy of many of the pictures that my mom and dad had in their albums. Most of the pictures were of vacation Bible school classes or Sunday school classes. All the Drexler children except for Mark, were married in this tiny church. Dad never took vacations and stayed at it until his health just wouldn't allow him to do the job any more. Oh, he could have preached at every meeting that required a "message", but he couldn't live on his own any more, so he had to be moved to a place where he could be taken care of. My new favorite program on mindless TV is Parking Wars. This will be very short. I saw it today for the first time and A & E was running a PW marathon. I'm hooked. My favorite part, of course, is when they write the tickets in South Philly. I love the way those people talk. Just like me! My father was very particular about our piano. He had it tuned frequently. By that I mean at least once a year. And perhaps that's what one is supposed to do when they have a piano, I don't know. At any rate, at least once a year the piano tuner came to our home. His name was Lynn Atkins. He was blind. Yes, that's correct, blind! His wife would drive him to our home, dad would meet him at the curb, and lead him into the living room, and set him on the piano bench. The man was amazing. He could take that piano apart. He could repair broken strings. He replaced felts. And he could tune the piano. I suppose that because he was blind his hearing was highly tuned and that made him a good piano tuner. Daddy liked him. Back to the piano tuner. He had a pitchfork (set at A) and he could begin going up and down the keys until the piano was tuned to perfection. I think my father must have had an ear because he could tell if there was a problem with the piano and would call Mr. Atkins if he thought there was a problem. Mr. Atkins was a very nice man who talked with us kids a lot. He never seemed to mind us running in and out and around him while he worked. He didn't live in Runnemede. I think he lived in Haddon Heights, or was it Barrington? Doesn't matter. I do remember that he and his wife came to church infrequently. Daddy was always telling him about Jesus. Mr. Atkins didn't think he needed the Lord because he lived a moral, upright life. Wasn't that enough? Of course, it wasn't. Isn't is funny that I remember this man and his name? Why? What brings this to mind? Today I'm getting this same piano tuned for the first time in years. Some repair work is needed, of course, and Mr. Blank (Bill) is beginning the tuning, and I hear the ping, ping, ping as he adjusts the strings. I wonder why it is that piano tuners hit a note three times when they are tuning it? Maybe I'll ask. This is truly a "Sunday" saying. I was a preacher's kid. I was not a sit still child. That squirmy disease children have was not lost on me. I have never been able to sit still, even now, I squirm. I know several of my family members don't feel about Halloween as I do - - now, not as I did when I was a child. That aside, I must reference my niece's BLOG for today where she talks about her children going from house to house. Her son didn't want to go out in the daylight, and so they left near sundown so he could have some time in the dark. All I wanted to say was that when I was growing up, I NEVER went out in the dark, and I was always
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angry with my mom and dad for not allowing me to do that. At least on that day I was. But at night when I was counting up the money I had collected, surveying all the great candy bars I had gotten, and looking at that apple taffy I got at Gardner's I knew my parents were the best. You see, if I had waited until dark, I would have missed out on the great candy bars, because after talking with several of my friends who only went out after dark I found out that the great candy bars were gone by dark. Same with the money places. And, ditto with Gardner's and the apple taffy. So, while I didn't like what my mom and dad insisted on, and while they were just trying to protect me, I suppose, I see that they were smarter than I thought, and because of their insistance on me going out before dark, I was able to collect the best of the best of the candy, money, and that wonderful apple taffy! Before I sign off, I have to apologize for any misspellings. Apparently Blogspot doesn't have spellcheck any more, so I may have some words wrong. So sorry. I know my mother did. The first time I recall was on Christmas Eve. I was, of course, watching through the window next to the bed looking for that sleigh and then the noise on the roof. This was about 9 p. m. Of course I was antsy, and mom came in and told me "The sooner you get to sleep, the sooner it will be morning." Well, I still think about that since I really don't sleep well at night. I keep repeating the mantra: The sooner you get to sleep, the sooner it will be morning. I know it works, but for me, now in my dotage, getting to sleep at all is the problem. Elder folks don't sleep, they nap. ttfn Who doesn't remember walking along the sidewalk or across the lawn and kicking the leaves that had fallen from the trees? I recall doing that. When that time arrived, we knew it was time to grab the rake and scoop up the leaves in the front yard into piles and push the piles into the street. This morning as I was looking out my sunporch window I noticed that my yard was covered with leaves. The trees are getting barer by the minute since we have a steady "blow" of wind at about 15 mph, and are expected gusts later today in the 40s. Can't wait. I'm watching the sliders on the porch to make sure they down bow in because of the wind like they did when Ike went through. The wind is howling - - folks that just means it's noisy - - through the area between the buildings, and i'm thankyou I don't see any shingles lifting from neighboring roofs. I guess reminiscing about kicking up the leaves as I walked to school or ran across the yard to visit a neighbor is a Runnemede thing. I sure know I wouldn't be out there kicking up leaves any more. The knees don't go that way any more. LOL I had a list of items about which I wanted to write. I lost it. Well, misplaced it. I'll find it one of these days, but not today. It's a beautiful fall day here in Northern Kentucky, the leaves are still hanging on the trees, barely. I know that after tomorrow's weather comes through all the leaves will be gone. We're supposed to have t - storms and high winds. Today, though, is a good day to get outside and enjoy the porch. Wish I was still at 116 E Second and enjoying that porch. I recall that Alan's and my first home had a wonderful front porch and the children were either babies, toddlers, or very young when we lived there, and the porch was the perfect place for them to play as long as the temperature was conducive to outdoor play. That house was NOT in Runnemede, but it was a Runnemede - type home, old, in need of some repair, not exactly a money - pit. But, I loved that house. Of all the places we've lived, I loved that house more than any other. At this point in the year, the windows on the Pike in Runnemede would have been painted by the 8th graders with Halloween pictures on the inside. The bad kids, or children whose parents didn't care, were getting their eggs ready and stashed for their mischief - night escapades. It was considered a right of passage, I supposed to go down on the pike and egg the Halloween windows, so that on Halloween, they were a mess. I never heard of toilet papering a tree until we moved out here. Do they do that back east? I never participated in the egg throwing, but I suppose my brothers did. We didn't have a car so we never suffered the egg - throwing in that way either. When I finally got a car, on mischief night I parked it out behind the house between the house and the church where no one would see it. It was safe there. Dad would light up the house
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and watch the school across the street just in case. I don't know what brought this subject to mind a few days ago, but there it was. It must have been something I was reading. I do remember Sunday drives AND Sunday drivers - - the butt of many jokes back in the slower days. First, you need to know that Sunday afternoon naps were almost a religious thing in our household. Okay, for the adults, but the children? Not so much. So, if someone in our town or a family member who owned a car offered to take a few kiddies on an afternoon drive, it was a go from the first offer. No thinking there. Most of the time mom went with us. When my youngest brother was just a little tyke, it was usually me and my sister, and maybe my little brother, as opposed to my youngest brother. All the children were younger than I, so to differentiate between brothers is difficult to describe sometimes. Anyway, someone would pick us up after dinner (leftovers from Saturday night's supper) and take us for a drive. A slow, meandering drive down country roads. There WERE such things as country roads in South Jersey back in the 50s. Looking at a map was not an option. We had no designated place we wanted to see. We didn't care if we were just driven up to Suicide Hill, given a couple of boxes to slide down on, and play at the Hill for an hour or so, then take a few twists and turns around Runnemede and Barrington before coming home.. Mom and Dad got a brief respite from the four children. I recall a couple of drives though, specifically, around South Jersey. There was a lady in our church called Miss Brown. She lived in Swedesboro, another small South Jersey town, and she would every once in a while eat dinner after Sunday morning church with the Misses Dodge, who lived down on the pike, and then pick us up for a Sunday afternoon drive. Mom ALWAYS went on those drives because she loved where we would end up - - at Miss Brown's. She lived on a creek or river, down there, I was never sure, and mom loved her garden. Miss Brown would vary the route from time to time so we didn't get to her home by the same roads, until the end, then we all knew where we were, and we all loved her yard, and yes, even her tiny little house. I think we all remember her back room, which was really an enclosed porch, but it must have been heated, because I don't recall it ever being cold out there, but then maybe we didn't visit her in the winter. Who knows? It was a long time ago. Another drive I recall was the zig - zag drive. Uncle El (Wentzel) took us for a drive in his green car, I think it was a '49 or' 50 Chevrolet, four door. Not the boxy one, but the one just before that. I could certainly look it up, since my husband collects books about old cars, but then I'd lose my chain of thought. This one Sunday, Uncle El offered to take us on a zig - zag ride. What's a zig - zag ride? Well, one of us would yell out, at his signal, "Turn right here, Uncle El!" And, he'd turn right, and we'd drive for a while, then he signal again, and the loudest person would yell out "Turn left here, Uncle El." Amazingly we never got lost. Perhaps he knew what we would say before he signaled anyway, and always knew exactly where we were. He owned a moving company and probably knew all the roads down in South Jersey, even without a map. It's flu season. A lot of people are sneezing. You'll hear "God bless you" or "geshundheit" often. But not in our house. No siree, Bob. I guess because of World War II, my father wanted to put aside all things German. Now, we still had some family sayings that came from the Pennsylvania Dutch, but in fact, dad's family all came from Bavaria - - isn't that Germany? My father, however, was always an American. Not German, not Italian, not Pennsylvania Dutch. He was an American. My mom's family was Italian - - all of them - - the whole brood. And while very few Italian sayings came down through the family line - - well, there are quite a lot actually - - one saying that my father picked up on and said anytime someone sneezed was: Dio ti benedica, (pronounced dee uh duh benna deech). I quickly learned to say that instead of "God Bless You" when someone sneezed, but apparently, I was the only one in our family that did, except for, of course, my mother. So, my sister sneezed last week, and I said, "Dio ti benedica," and she said, "Huh?" I had to explain it to her, so I guess the Italian saying didn't sink in. Now,
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there's a reason for that. Because my father was into homeopathic medicines we were rarely sick. Few sniffles and sneezes, I guess. But there had to be enough for me to pick up on the Italian "God bless you". Phil wasn't born near Runnemede, but he lived there for about three months when he was a baby. He's my oldest child. I recall one time he and I were on a bus on our way into Philadelphia. He was around four years old at the time. There was a man sitting on the bus, and my son just had to talk to him. Phil was very talkative when he was little. He went right up to that man and he said: "You sure do look like Jesus. Are you he?" Please notice the second sentence. I had been correcting him on that for a few weeks, he got it correct. So, Phil waited for the man to answer, which the man didn't; he just ignored this little pip - squeek. Then Phil said: "I don't think you are, because Jesus would never smoke, and you're smoking. Don't you know that's bad for you?" Here goes: God not only gave us our mothers, but He gave our mothers us to nurture and bring up. I was thinking about teenagers and how much they don't like their moms. I was one such person. In fact, I didn't know any teens who really liked their mothers back when I was growing up. I mean, we had curfews, we HAD to go to church on Sunday and any other time the church doors were open, we had to do our homework, had to get good grades, had to get married - - whoops! Not all of us got married. Well, not as soon as our mother's would have liked, I think. Anyway, I was thinking about the after - teenage years and how I came to appreciate my mother. And today God reminded me that even though I was a gift from Him to my mother. In return, my mother was His gift to me. And what a gift she was. Things like having only one bathroom (like they do), and how we survived four teenagers, one bathroom, and a water ban because of filling up the cesspool too fast. We didn't get sewers put into the town until the mid - to late - 50s. Before that we all had cesspools which when they got full, had to be emptied, which cost money we didn't have, so we were very limited in our water consumption. Our baths were taken in two inches of water in the tub (it was a beautiful clawfoot bath tub), Deb took her bath, I took my bath, and the boys bathed together. By the time we got the sewers put in, the boys were getting to an age where they were going to have to take baths individually as well. And, of course, our baths were on Saturday night, as I've mentioned before. And we talked about my mother and her garden and her roses. Just today, my sister brought into the living room a vase of roses which I had put in her room for her to enjoy. She placed the vase on mommy's piano. And I mentioned to her that they looked a lot like the "sterling silver" rose my mom loved so much. There's a story there: My mom wanted a sterling silver rose bush very badly. I think I was about 10 or 11. And of course it was just too expensive for her to think of spending money on something as frivolous as a rose bush, when her children needed shoes, food, clothes, etc. I mean that bush was a whole $12. Well, around May 15 she received a package from Jackson Perkins and it was a sterling silver rose bush. My dad had gotten it for her for her birthday. She was so very happy he had done that. And that rose bush flourished under her care and produced many beautiful roses of a gray / lavender hue. Smelled great, too, not like the roses today. Am I the only one who has noticed that roses don't smell like roses any more? The pictures on the piano are of me and Alan when we were little tykes. I am seated at a piano (my first piano recital) and Alan is just standing by the piano in his mom and dad's house back in 1946. My mom's piano, that is. This is the piano that sat in the very small living room in Runnemede at 116 2nd Ave. It is the piano upon which I learned to play. It's the piano from which my mistakes urged my father to remark: "Play it right, Judith!" The piano was given to my mother (by my father) when they got married on March 21, 1936. My mom was such a good piano player. She never told me where she learned to play, but I suspect it was at the boarding school she and her sister Anne attended. The name of the school escapes me, but it was a school in Western Massachusetts and it was specifically for fatherless girls. My mom played
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the piano (or organ) at our church for as long as I can remember, until she no longer could concentrate and was replaced by Jean Manduka, who was really good at the organ. Now to near - time: Alan and I moved to N. KY in June of 2001. I didn't think it would be possible to put the piano in our new home. I thought it was too small - - the home, that is, not the piano. So, I gave the piano to my son and DIL because Amy knew how to play. But now that Phil is jobless, and the great possibility that they may have to move, presented us with a problem. What to do with my mom's piano? It is a family heirloom, so to speak, and neither Amy nor I wanted it to go to the dump or leave the family if someone in the family wanted it. I decided since I was getting rid of my love seat, and replacing my sofa with a smaller one, that I would now have room for the piano and I would "store" it for someone else to have, should they want it, and could come get it. Now comes another problem: How were we going to get that piano up 18 steps? Anyone who has ever moved a piano knows how heavy they are, even small ones like my mom's. Well, God was so good about that. You all know, or should know, that we have an elevator to get us from our vestibule to the level on which we live, which is above the garage and another smaller condo directly under us. Well, they measured and guess what? The piano fit in the elevator. They were all so happy that they could get it on there - - no pushing or shoving or gasping for breath to get it upstairs to our living room. So, you can see, the piano has a home again. I have given away almost all of my music, but we have a hymn book and some sheet music, so I'll have some things to play until I get a chance to get to the music shop to get some new music. Thank you Lord for getting the piano into my home in one piece and enabling it to get upstairs on the elevator. When I talked to my sister yesterday - - she's coming to visit me this week - - she told me she has a piano bench for me. Isn't that another wonderful gift? And while we were talking she asked me if I was going to decorate the piano for Christmas. I told her: "That's the first thing I thought about when I saw the piano in its place. I've been mentally putting lights, angels (My mom always had lots of angels on the piano at home), and some greens on the top. Can't wait. The sayting for this week is: hoodgee - boodgee. I haven't a clue where it came from or what it means. I can't find anything similar in the extra large Amish / Pennsylvania Dutch dictionary. But here's the storry about hoodgee - boodgee. Dad would hide on his hands and knees behind the door way that led into the kitchen, and when we came out of the kitchen he would jump out and yell," hood - gee, bood - gee "- - haven't a clue how to spell that one. It was a game he played with us. We knew it was coming, too, but he always surprised us with it because he didn't always do that. He always scared us, made us jump, run away screaming, and laughing so hard we nearly - - well, you know what we nearly did. Fortunately the house was small and the necessary room was right in the path of our dodge of the" hoodgee - boodgee ". Run into that room and lock the door and the bad old hoodgee - boodgee couldn't touch you. What's a merry - go - round truck? It's a truck that had a very small merry go round on it. And for a nickle you could get a wonderful ride on this MGR for probably two minutes. Who knows, when you're a child somethings are longer than they seem, and some are shorter than they seem. Well, this truck would park in front of the church on Clements Bridge Road, and the line would grow. This driver was no dummy. No siree. There were a lot of kids that lived in that vicinity. Just our family and the Lutheran Church's pastor's family would give him 8 children to ride on that thing. I wish I could show you exactly what it looked like. The picture at the top seems to be a pull - behind bed with a MGR on it. Below is a truck, like the one that came by our house at least once a week in the spring, summer, and early fall. It's a pretty good replica. A nickel a ride. That was what you got back if you turned in a quart - sized soda bottle. That was 10 candy cigarettes, two Mounds bars (two came in a nickle package), one frozen Three Musketeers. A child had to have priorities even at those early ages.
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Did we want shleck, (junk food) or did we want to ride the Merry - Go - Round? I usually opted for the MGR, as did my sister and brothers, and apparently a lot of other neighborhood kids. I wonder what ever happened to my MGR riding mates: Janet and Butchie Britton, David and Linda Wallace, Eddie Hopkins. I found his sister Faye, who was my sister's best friend. Phil Musimeci, Sue and Donna Youngblood, Linda, Barbara, Weezi (Mary Louise) Lott - - the list goes one. I miss those days, but I don't dwell on them. They were good, happy times, and I once again, thank God that he blessed me early in my life by settling me in that small town in South Jersey and surrounded me with a wonderful family and many, many friends. The trees are turning so fast. I wrote about the leaves turning in September, and I couldn't believe it. Well, they are turning so fast now. I must get a picture to post to show you. But that's here in Northern Kentucky. In Runnemede, I don't know, and since all my early pictures of my favorite town are in black and white, I won't be able to post a Runnemede - in - the - fall picture. Bummer. I heard from Bill T. again. October is his favorite month. And I can understand why. The weather is at its best if you don't like hot or cold. I mean it might get up to 60 degrees today, which for a woman who still gets hot flashes (and I know that's more information that you need) 60 degrees is just about right. Which reminds me that I pushed the thermostat back to 65 and Alan was freezing so he put it back up to 74, and then I pushed it back to 68 where it sits right now. Back to Bill T. He mentions the beautiful colors of the leaves, and I do recall the vividness of the colors on the trees. Out here, the leaves are not the beautiful oranges or pinkish reds that the leaves in Runnemede had. I know the tree brands are the same, and maybe it's because we are warmer here, I don't know. I miss the beautiful hues of the trees I enjoyed as a child. Remember gathering leaves and then pressing the best of the best between two sheets of wax paper with an iron to make a place mat for the table? My mom had us do that almost every fall, and those place mats would sit on our table for at least a week before they got all rumpled by us rowdy kids. My sister and I would carefully cut a scalloped edge to our placemats, while my brothers just yawned, did the ironing, and went off to play. Bill reminded me that the new models of cars came out in October. He mentioned to me that every male went to see these new cars. Hey, Bill, so did a lot of females. I always walked down to Campbell Chevrolet to see the new cars. Baseball? I'll have to leave that to my brother who still collects baseball cards at the young age of 61. And I see that we all went to the same places to get our treats on Halloween. Gardners being the prime place. But I remember that you had to get there early or all those candy apples would be gone. Gardners was always the first place I went. Then I would do a figure 8 around town hitting the houses I knew either gave out money or gave out nickel candy bars. And we used to gather the leaves and burn them in the incinerator we had in our back yard. Burning trash was acceptable back in those days of the 40s and 50s. Who knew that we were killing future Americans with all that smoke we were putting into the air. Seems that my age group is getting older, so I guess we didn't inhale as much as the eco - friendly people thought we did. Again, I have to thank Bill for reminding me what I loved about Runnemede. For those of you on Facebook, there is a page entitled: Good Ole Runnemede and the folks who talk on that thread talk about Runnemede back when. Just search Facebook for Runnemede NJ and the link to Good Ole Runnemede. Most of the family love this story. Yeah, they can laugh and enjoy it. They weren't part of the awfulness of having their father grab hold tight of their tiny hand, and pretend he was blind in the middle of downtown Philadelphia, as he started singing, "Abide with me." It all started on one of my early visits to Philadelphia with my father. We were heading over to 15th and Chestnut to see Dr. Feldman, a chirpractor. My father was a big chripractor supporter. To get there, we got off a bus which we picked up in Runnemede (# 21 or # 31) at 12th and Market and started to walk toward City Hall, in Philly. After we got off the bus, of course, I took my dad's hand. He had with him an umbrella. He never went to Philly without his umbrella. All of a sudden I noticed that he had gripped my hand
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more tightly. I looked up at him, and he smiled and said, "I feel my blindness coming on." Huh? What did that mean. I was about to find out. Dad started to sing "Abide with me", he took off his hat and held it in front of him using his umbrella (with the same hand) as a cane, pretending he was blind. This was not, to me, a funny tease, since there were several beggars who really had problems on the street near where my father's "blindness" hit him. Did I learn my lesson? No. The next time we went to visit Dr. Feldman and he took me with him, he did it again! Am I stupid or what? It seems to me that daddy must have pulled that trick four or five times before I finally learned not to hold on to his hand on Market Street in Philadelphia. If I wasn't attached to him I could pretend I didn't know him, making his "blindness" all his own, and not involving me in his little "joke." It's always nice when someone other than family and the three friends I have that read my BLOG and then actually tell me about it. I received an e - mail from a man (he was a boy back when I was in Runnemede) who knew my sister. I'm going to just paste what he had to say about Runnemede on this particular page. I'll let you know when I start the paste. I will edit out personal stuff. I have to say that my sister and I talked today and we both agreed with this former resident of "our fair town" that we were all so blessed to grow up in this small town, located on the main thoroughfare from Philadelphia to the shore communities in South Jersey. Runnemede has changed so little, when you think about it. Oh, some of the stores have changed hands, the library is at least 10, 000 times bigger than the little 10 x 10 room that housed it when I was growing up. The schools are the same, at least on the outside. I know what is taught is a lot different than when I attended - - art was a crayon and a piece of no - line paper, music was learning a song in the classroom. There were no TVs in school, no computers, not even a movie projector. I think the school had one slide projector. Overhead projectors were the gleam in a teacher's eye back then. And there was not a library to be had in the schools. There are still three churches (Mt. Calvary, Evangelical Lutheran, and St. Theresa's). I say there are three because I heard that St. Maria Goretti which opened in the early 60s, closed recently, or is in the process of closing. That may be in error, in which case there are more churches in the town. And lest someone decides to Google St. Maria Goretti, it's still on the Runnemede Website. I came across your Runnemede Remembered blog because of Google Earth. I was looking at Runnemede, because I grew up there, and Google Earth actually labels "Suicide Hill." So I searched Suicide Hill and your blog came up. Apparently you had mentioned it in a posting. And then I got to reading. I can't tell you how pleased I am to find another person who treasures memories of growing up in Runnemede in the fifties. You're four years older than I am, but your sister is around my age, and I remember her. I can't imagine how you ended up living in KY, but I'm even farther away. For 10 years now I've been living in California, the Sierra foothills at present. Apparently you're near Cincinnati, which I always found to be almost more like Philadelphia than Philadelphia. My tenure in Runnemede was basically first to ninth grade. Unlike you I was not much connected to the community at large. We were Catholic, and of Irish heritage, so the church was our community. You, and others like you were those Protestant kids, all doomed to hell, of course! We heard unspeakable stories of things that went on in those public schools. But they couldn't keep me entirely out of the community. Scott (last name withheld by me) was my best friend. We were in the Boy Scouts together, and Jim Mutchler was the Scout Leader. My mother was horrified that I was in Troop 117, but St. Teresa's didn't have a troop so she allowed it. Reading your blog is a real treat. The fourth of July activities I remember so well - - especially the decorated bicycles in the A & P parking lot. I also remember the Christmas events at the fire hall - - yep, the old one on the Pike. Those guys were great with all they did for the kids in the town. I still remember Santa riding through the streets on a fire truck tossing boxes of candy to the kids. And I don't recall you mentioning it, but someone sponsored a live Santa on the corner of Third and the Pike - - across from the jewelry shop. You could stop by and tell him what you
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wanted without going over the Gimbels in Phila! And I'll bet you were a kid who had an ice cream cone at Joe's Sweet Shop once in a while! I went to school with Joe, the son of the owner. Obviously, we both have lots of memories. Do you ever get back there to visit or to see the place? I was there two years ago when I went back for my Dad's funeral. My Mom lives over in Deptford now; so does my sister. And I have a brother in Westville. In a lot of ways the town seems very different today, but the old foundation is still there. At least I hope it is. A few years earlier I had come across a book, "The History of Runnemede, NJ, 1626 - 1976" by William Leap. You may remember Mr. Leap as he was in business painting most of the signs around town. Well, two years ago he was still around, and I was lucky enough to spend a few hours with him talking about the town. He lives in that big house on the corner of Washington and Lindsay, and I think he lived there most of his life. I also took some pictures around town when I was back there, and if you'd like to see them, I'd be happy to share. I wonder if you share the feeling I have that we owe a great debt to the community that was Runnemede in the fifties? Growing up there now feels like it was a wonderful gift. We were allowed the innocence of childhood. There was virtually no violence. The adults all shared a sense of responsibilities for all the children, and they took care of us. Surely not a completely realistic picture, but it makes me sad to think that most kids today cannot even conceive of such an experience. Well, I'll keep reading your blog. If you talk with your sister, please tell her I said hello although I'm sure she won't remember me. Please do ask her if she remembers Scott or Bobby. NOTE TO WRITER: She remembers. And yes, I'd love to see any pictures you have taken. Thanks, Bill, for the lovely e - mail. I'm glad your memories are as good as mine. We were blessed, weren't we? Once again I've been thinking about my mom's kitchen. I watch a lot of HGTV and the kitchens they have on those programs are, well, let me be frank here, wonderful. But who has kitchens like those? Now, I have a wonderful kitchen. I love my kitchen, but it will never be featured on HGTV. My mom's kitchen was small. It was what is billed as an "eat - in" kitchen. We had a table in the middle. Nowdays, it would be an island, albeit a small one. And that magic "work" triangle? It did not exist in my mom's kitchen unless you removed the table. If the table was gone, you could say you had that triangle. Who ever heard of a "work triangle" in a kitchen back in those years? I first heard of it when I was taking a course in interior decorating in college in 1970 - - it was, I thought, an easy elective. But the "work triangle" was something only decorators were thinking about and putting into text books which would produce decorators that made those types of kitchens ten years later. The "work triangle" was not a necessary item for my mom. She cooked well without that old triangle, and I learned to cook without it. I guess God knew I wouldn't have a "triangle" in my life for many, many years, and he was preparing me to make do, as my mom did. In every apartment or house in which we lived, there was never that magical triangle, until we moved to where we now reside. I managed, just as my mom managed, although I think my mom did it better than I did. I recall when I was first married and experimenting with a different dish every day, I came up with some really good eats. But then I had children. Children who only wanted hot dogs and macaroni and cheese! When my girls got to be teens, that changed, and we three were able to start with the experimenting again. Oh, happy day! It's Saturday. It's 1: 30 p. m. I'm 16 years old. I'm just not getting out of bed. Yes, folks, on Saturday, I slept in. And every Saturday I woke up with a headace. Not enough oxygen in the past 12 hours? I don't know. All I know is that I woke up with a headache. And no, I lived in a tea - totling household, so it wasn't a hangover. Living in the attic with my sister was great because no one bothered me, or woke me up. And Saturday was the day I slept. All the other days of the week I had to be up by 6: 30 a. m. or earlier, depending on what I hadn't set out the night before, such as clothes. Decisions by girls (namely
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me and my sister) who had few clothes, had to be given great thought. I mean one had to think whether their peers would remember that I had worn that same outfit two days ago. So, unless I just wanted to grab something out of my closet (which was a few nails hammered into the wall, upon which my clothing was hung) and hope I hadn't worn the same thing two days ago, so I could get out of bed at 6: 30 instead of say, 6: 00 a. m., I had to set out the clothing the night before. And back when I was 16 no one would ever been seen in public with just washed hair. Oh, no, never, never, never. Even if we had gym 6th period (that was the last period of the day), we would not get our hair wet in the shower. It just wasn't done. So I had to figure on whether I was washing my hair in the morning or the night before. There were advantages to both. Washing the night before, of course, the advantage was obvious. I could sleep in until 6: 30 a. m., and just comb my hair out. The disadvantage to that was that I had to sleep on those huge rollers so that my hair wouldn't be one big, curly, frizz ball in the morning. Washing my hair in the morning had no advantages that I can think of, except that I would smell like fresh shampoo, and at that time I didn't know that was something boys liked. Or did they? And washing my hair in the a. m. meant that I had to set my hair in the big rollers and then hope that the hair dryer would get those big curls dried enough so that when I combed out my hair, it wouldn't spring back into a big, curly, frizz ball. Those were the decisions of my life when I was 16. However, on Saturday, I didn't have to make any such decisions. In fact, the more I hid in my room working on non - existent homework, I could get out of dusting, vacuuming, cooking dinner, going to the grocery store, etc. The love of going to the grocery story wore off when I was about 12. Every since, it's been very low on my list of things I love to do. There were certain things I absolutely had to do on Saturday, though. I had to clean up my room, which included changing my sheets and pillow case. And since to me, cleaning the floor meant moving the furniture, almost every Saturday I rearranged my room. I know that nuts, but I did. And mainly I kept my room clean because I never knew when the fire inspectors were going to surprise us, and I didn't want to be the cause of us failing the fire inspection or being labeled a fire hazard. I'd show up downstairs, ready to go to Youtharama, or some other church activity, which followed dinner. So, when I smelled food being made, I knew it was safe to head downstairs and offer to help mom with something. I usually ended up just setting the table. Okay, folks, most of this is a work of fiction. I rarely slept until 1: 30 p. m., although on the rare occasions when I did, I certainly did have a whopper of a headache, which I figured was because when you sleep you take in less oxygen, and therefore, I was suffering from oxygen deprivation. And the fire inspection thing? They always let us know in advance when they were coming and mom would be in "whirlwind clean" mode, so we all knew to get our rooms spiffied up. The things about the hair is mostly true - - at least the part about my hair looking like a big, curly, frizz ball. But my hair looking like that most of the time any way, no matter what I did to it. Last: I apologize for misspellings. Apparently Blogspot has deleted their spell check icon, at least I can't find it, and therefore, I can't spell check my BLOGs any more. And, I am NOT a spell checker. I have never been able to find my own mistakes. I loved the drive out to the church, which was substantially larger than ours. I know you want to know why. The drive to that church took us past some beautiful, large, tudor - style homes, and I would gaze at those homes, with, I have to admit, covetousness in my heart. I knew I'd never, ever see the inside of one of those homes, but I could dream, right? I recall that I and the others that were being baptized the day - - one of them my friend Kathy Kenders - - had to attend several classes on why our church baptized by "dunking" and did not baptize anyone who didn't know and understand that being baptized was telling the world (i. e., those in attendance and anyone who ever asked) that we were followers of Christ, that Jesus was our savior, having lived, died, and rose from the dead, to
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be taken up in the clouds to sit next to the father, and that he was the mediator between us and the Father. Heavy words, and I could break down the larger words if you want, just ask me. Anyway, as I was watching my grandson, Dan, being baptized yesterday (that's his picture), I recalled that day so many years ago, over 50 years ago, and I also remembered some things about all the baptisms I attended at Woodbury Baptist Church. First, I told my husband as Daniel was being pushed under the water, that it seemed to me that my father, who was performing the baptisms, held me under just a little longer than others, just to remind me to remember what I had done and why. We always sang one of the verses from the hymn "Trust and Obey" as each person came up out of the water, and after all were baptized, we sang "Great is Thy Faithfulness." I have to say, I know the day on which I was baptized was a coolish spring day, and it was sunny because I recall the sunlight coming through those huge windows in that church on that afternoon as my father was giving a lesson on baptism to those guests in attendance, and once again to those of us who would be entering the water. I am so thankful for my father. He and my mom led me to Christ, raised me with the truth, and it is so ingrained in me that I guess I'm at an age that so many things I see outside my window remind me of God's faithfulness, His mercy, and His love. I wish I was the type of writer who could really say what is in my heart and mind about how much my Lord and Savior means to me. Words just cannot express that. I must close with these words: Jesus is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. What a wonderful savior. My new look, I mean. I just love that picture of my part of the front porch at 116 E. Second. How I wish I could just sit on that porch and watch the cars go by. Back when I was growing up, there were few cars on the street. Now, as then, it's a cut - off from Clements Bridge Road to The Pike, and if people know about it, they use it. It cuts off the main traffic intersection of The Pike and CB Road, which has always been a bottleneck for those using CB Road. The traffic has often backed up the block and a half to the church - - and that block is really two blocks long. But, I've been thinking of all those nice - weather days - - and not - so - nice - weather - days - - I spent out there, either reading, or stitiching, or crocheting, or knitting, or just watching, and this picture says it all. COMFORT!!!!! Do you like my new look? This picture (the header picture) was taken outside my Runnemede home a couple of years ago. It's not the entire house, just a shot of part of the front porch. MY SIDE OF THE FRONT PORCH! I hope you like the look. I was certain that Christmas, this particular year (1960) was going to be a real bummer. We didn't use words like bummer back then, we would have said "pukey". But I was sure it was going to be a dismal Christmas. The love of my life, Alan, was off in Kenya, 8, 000 miles and eight time zones away. I had a horrible time getting a gift to him that year. I think I sent it via his Aunt Virginia. It was a scrapbook and I had started it for him with a few pictures. We have a picture of him looking at that scrapbook, and that picture even appear in his senior yearbook at Rift Valley Academy. Once again, I digress. Alan had left me in August. I didn't date. Well, I did once, but the guy that took me out told me he knew I was pining away for Alan and he wanted me to be able to go to some sort of area church teen banquet with a date. A sympathy date, you might say. We had a decent time, but I was still "pining" as he put it. I guess I should address the picture I posted. This is the first picture I received of Alan after he went back to Kenya. Shortly after the family arrived in Kenya this picture was taken, or maybe it was taken just before they left for Kenya, but the picture didn't get developed until they were in Kenya, I'm not certain, all I know is that at Christmas time in 1960 this picture was sent on a prayer card for the Hahn family to all their missionary supporters. I looked at Alan and I thought how much he had changed from the boy that had left in August. I mean physically changed. He seemed to have grown some and he had lost a lot of weight. That's him on the right. I had also decided that year that I was going to open my gifts on Christmas Eve at midnight
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. I figured Alan would be opening his presents at 8 a. m. his time, which was midnight my time. Well, I was wrong. I found out a few weeks later when I got a letter from Alan that they always opened their gifts on Christmas Eve (around midnight), which was 4 p. m. our time. So, I guess the joke was on me. I also recall that there was a full moon or close to it Posted by Today is labor day. We're supposed, I suppose, to be working, or is it not working, but working to honor those who are working or who aren't working. I don't know. I think labor day is a stupid holiday - - especially if you're a woman and have really had at least one "labor" day! If I have the idea of this day correct, we're not honoring all the women who have had an actual "labor" day on this day. That being said, however, I have always enjoyed having the first Monday in September off from labor, and as I have never had a child born on September 1, I really have had a labor free labor day. Now to the "jobs" I never saw my mother do. I have recalled how every Saturday night, after dinner and after the dishes were clean, she would get out her bucket, her scrub brush, put some Pine Sol in the water, and get down on her hands and knees and scrub the kitchen floor. Then she'd go into the bathroom with that Pine Sol filled bucket of water, and as soon as we all had finished with our weekly bath, she'd scrub the bathroom floor, then dump the dirty water from the bucket down the toilet. She'd then fill the bucket with clean water and go back into the kitchen and get down on her hands and knees and wipe up the Pine Sol residue with a clean cloth. Every Saturday night, she'd do this. But as I became a homemaker myself there were jobs that I had to do over the years that I never saw my mom work on. Things such as: cleaning the exterior of the kitchen cabinets - - because they get greasy; cleaning out the silverware drawer because of the dirt that accumulates in the corner of those dividers, emptying the refrigerator to clean it (she did that periodically with the freezer, but there wasn't automatic defrost back then); wax the wood floors. There were, on the other hand some jobs that my mom did, that I rarely, if ever did: one that comes to mind is take a spray bottle, or a sprinkler bottler, and lightly spray or sprinkle the basement floor and then broom the floor. The light spray of water was to keep the dust down. I always usePosted by My husband and I were married 43 years ago on August 27. The day came and went. We had planned to go out to a fancy restaurant, but neither of us felt well enough. Seems like some sort of flu bug has been plaguing us since late last week. It comes and goes. Well, on the 27th it came, so we didn't go (to the restaurant). I had chosen Prima Vista, which is a restaurant in Price Hill, Cincinnati, Ohio, which has a fantastic view of the city, and the food is absolutely wonderful. We'll go there someday soon. But coming up is our 50th anniversary - - of when we met. I found Alan's high school picture from that year. He looks so very, very young. He doesn't even look like a teenager, does he? As I mentioned last month, we had about 6 months of enjoying each other's company before he and his family got on a boat and headed back to Kenya. The boat was scheduled to leave on August 4, but got delayed, so I was able to get one more day with him, because his folks had to come back down to the Philadelphia area to spend the night. Then they headed back to NY City on August 5 and sailed on the Robin Gray, a freighter. The trip took them through the eastern Caribbean over to the southern coast of Africa, then up the east coast of Africa to Mombasa, Kenya. Well, after three years of letter writing, he returned to the USA, again in August, and we picked up where we left off. He had about a month to try to find some work so he'd have some cash for college. He found a job working for a contractor who was installing heaters in some HUD housing in Audubon Park, NJ. He came home (not to my house, but to the place where he was staying) each evening and was filthy from crawling in the crawl - space under each unit to get the heating ducts and units installed. But each evening, after dinner, we would take a walk or just sit on the porch talking, until he had to get back to where he was staying. Around September 10 he headed off to Rutgers and that began three years of treks to New Brunswick. His first semester I had no car, and he had no car, Posted by
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JavaScript is currently disabled. Obsidian Portal has a lot of really cool features that use JavaScript. You should check them out. We think you'll have a much more enjoyable experience. << With our friends we went to the house of the Titan. We already reported about him some nights ago. Legion wanted to claim for the weapons and equipment that the Titan promised us. And the rest of our clutch was agree with this solution. >> << Yes, we know. But we will disappointed you. We have waited long time to the gate of the Shahram's family house, speaking with the guards and trying to convince them that we are good friend of the Titan. Saryel and Sarghon are very good in such kind of stuff. After a while the Titan's son, Melehr Shahram, appeared. He was very sorry and worried, since his father is sick and he couldn't receive us at that moment. Everyone was a bit suspicious about it, but Alina felt that his concerning was genuine. In any case, we didn't get the new equipment promised. >> << No. After this useless visit we saw the fat guy of last night trying to catch our attention. Shivrin Halfblood looked worried at that moment and without guards. He told us that he had decided to help, and lured us in a narrow alley. And then, betrayal! An arrow from nowhere came and hit Sariel on the shoulder. The Halfblood tried also to kill us, but Legion were faster than him. Even do we forgot how strong could remain a old gladiator after years of inactivities. Quick as a snake he wriggled and tried to run away from us, when another arrow came. We dodged it, but not the second one that entered deeply in our shoulder … It was very painly but not enough to stop Legion that were ready to run after the fat traitor. However we couldn't succeed, because a force shook us off our feet! The two - heads panther, our old enemy, appeared to finish the work of last night. But, at that moment, the situation was different and with our friends we easily surrounded the beast, that feeling in cage and in trouble with another flash of energy disappeared from our sight. Fortunately there is someone between us that doesn't need eyes to see. Alina with an agile jump reached the upper floor of the surrounding building in which the panther tried to hide itself and using her strongest technique easily defeated the beast. The honor of Legion was save and the way to Shivrin free. Suddenly we tried to go to catch him when another arrow, a magic arrow, exploded between our clutch. We were very worried for them, especially for our friend, Corrin. >> << Finally we saw him. An eladrin with a long arc was going not only to kill us, but also Halfblood. The fat bastard was crying and praying for his life when he saw us behind him. Sarghon screamed to keep him alive since we could need him and the information in his head. Because of this we also blocked with our body another arrow directed to him. Then the eladrin re - addressed his attention to fellows running toward him. Alina received another injury from him and we couldn't understand how she could run after him when he decided to escape through the roofs of Tyr. Our friend told us that was a long and tiring pursuit that took them on an old building in which the killer disappeared. Meanwhile Sargon, with our help, was questioning the fat gladiator. He was sincerely scared from us because he didn't believe that someone able to kill the two - heads panther could exist. But more than this he was worried for his life. He said that he was forced by Aitekki, the leader of Toothcutters to betray us. Shivrin told us also that he engaged The Nameless One, the eladrin killer that we fought to keep our mounth close forever. At the end we saved Halfblood life, with the promise of a new and a better equipment for us. >> After the long night before, I was looking forward to a long night's sleep, resting my body and processing the events of the past days. The troubles of Tyr are many, and many people are eager to use this situation we are in for their own benefit. It is truly troublesome times, but I was convinced that we were on the right path of rebuilding Tyr and helping its people. But as I closed my eyes and fell asleep, old memories came back and began to trouble my mind. I slept, but it was shallow, and I couldn't help thinking about what I'd seen in the dreams. But my thoughts were cut short, as faint movements in my isolated living quarters alerted me. I made out a dagger in the dark, ready to strike; I clearly saw its sharp edges revealed as a silhouette against the soft light from the morning sunrise through the windows. I lost my chance to divert the dagger from its target, and awoke quickly as it plunged into my shoulder. Quickly, I got up but could already feel the poison from the dagger flowing through my veins, weakening my body. I was puzzled at first and tried to grasp the situation, trying to fend of my adversary as thoughts went quickly through my mind. Soon
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realized that I had no chance to survive under these conditions, and I grasped into the deep mind of my opponent and filled it with distracting images, meant to disorient him long enough for me to escape outside. While running for the door, I became worried of the two sisters that I had taken pity upon and taken under my protection in the aftermath of the rebellion. Their house was just across the big empty place where the area's water well is positioned, and I worried that the same fate had fallen upon them and the others of the group. As I came closer to the door, my fears were realized as I heard the soft thumps of bone and wood meeting in fierce battles. I quickly became tired as the poison flowed deeper into my vessel; I felt heavier, slower. Limping through the yard, I tried to get closer to Aryenne and Alina, who were fending off attacks from what appeared to be guards in the morning light. What are the guards doing here attacking the girls? Thoughts ran through my head, nothing made sense anymore. I tried to get closer to see better, but my steps got heavier as my body's energy was depleted by the poison. My cowardly attacker quickly caught up with me, I could see his elvish distasteful face now in the light. Between dodging feeble attempts of attacks by this rogue elf, I could also see Corrin and Legion fighting of a strange, black, two - headed Panther. What monstrosity was this? I was only hoping I was having a terrible dream, and it would soon be over. But while looking over my shoulder to see how the others were doing, my adversary took his chance and thrust his spear deep into my shoulder. The pain was excruciating, so intense, I had never felt any pain like it before. The disgusting elf raised his spear for a finishing blow, but just as he was thrusting it into my heart he halted his movement as I heared a sharped high - pitched whistle. All the enemies quickly ran away, shortly after followed also by the panther who seemed eager to stay and finish the job. My adversary stopped in his steps to deliver a message: "This is a lesson from Aitekki to leave us alone". Aitekki? This elvish name certainly makes one wonder. But the message left by the elf echoed in my mind, I began to doubt whether we were really going down the right path. Soon after I understood the reason they left, as a group of heavily armored soldiers passed by the square shortly after the abominable band of scums left us, and they were walking towards the golden tower. What was going on here? Too tired to care, I tried to regain my consciousness as began people pouring out of their houses to see what had happened. Obviously these people were afraid of the fighting and did not dare to interfere. They aided us to get inside to recover from the battle and there we were able to get back home for some rest. But we didn't get more than a few hours to rest, as we were waked up by loud voices outside accompanied by storms of footsteps. After going out to see what was going on, we understood that something was happening by the arena, as hordes of people were gathering towards this old entertainment spot. We all were tired still after the long day, but decided to go look for what was causing all this commotion. There I recognized several old acquaintances, but went up to talk to the especially familiar face of Davith Vordon, one of the wealthiest merchants in Tyr. He was surrounded by bodyguards dressed in heavy armors and big swords, but remembered my face and allowed me to join him. A place was made ready for me, and with a little wine I tried extracting some information from him. He had clearly enjoyed a big rise in income from the current events in Tyr, as he had grown even fatter than when we last met. But our discussions were cut short by Ortlo the Lunatic, previous member of the legendary Crimson Companions, entering the arena floor. People cheered as she walked onto the center of the arena and dumped someone who'd apparently gotten a serious beating; the man could barely stand. Soon after Shamash entered and the crowd cheered, if possible, even louder. He explained that the man, a traitor Templar named Harsu Handar, has been working with the enemy state of Urik, who's armies recently occupied the iron mines of the north, and are now marching towards Tyr as we speak. He was guilty of treason and would pay with his life for this. Harsu Handar sat on his knees in the sand of the arena and shouted how the true king is coming, but his words were cut short as Shamash thrust his sword into his heart. It was silent for just a heartbeat before the crowd roared once again and Shamash exited the arena. Spooked by the news, I excused myself Davith Vordon and joined up with my group once again. As we left the arena I spotted Nori Silktongue staring at me, and shortly after he began walking towards us. He informed us of the Titan's absence, but refused to answer us on his conditions or the reasons to this sudden absence. He also informed us how his old rival had walked down one of
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the streets, Shivrin Halfblood, who he claimed to be associated with the Toothcutters. Legion picked up Nori Silktongue and we ran through the streets to catch up with this man. He was not hard to spot, surrounded by four bodyguards that only with their appearance cleared the path ahead of them. We were able to convince the man to give us audience for a discussion in a secluded place over some fine wine, and sent away Silktongue with words that we should meet again soon. We found a nice secluded drinking place, and ordered in some wine. Shivrin Halfblood emptied bottle after bottle and became more and more talkative, revealing more information as more bottles were emptied. It seems the intelligence of Nori Silktongue was true, as Shivrin Halfblood confirmed how he works with the Nori Silktongue. Once again the name Aitekki came up, as their leader. Happy with the information we've gathered, and happy to survive last night's assault, although barely, we went back home to return to our beds. But for a while I could do nothing but stare at the roof with my mind filled with thoughts of day's events. Who was this Aitekki, what are devilish two - headed panther - creatures doing in his service, should we join the army's march to oppose the marching forces from Urik, what about the toothcutters? Many questions, but the biggest one was the hardest to fully grasp the extent of, and answer; have we joined the right side of this fight? I felt we were at a big crossroad, and we had no idea where neither of these would take us. A dark, terrifying crossroad filled with choices. We were in the catacombs of Under - Tyr that we had found under Crodlus shop. There was a strange boy with us, called Erdlu after the lizard, who we had just saved from the Toothcutters. Our strong and powerful group was on a mission, given by Salabus the merchant. He wanted us to scare Crodlu the sculptor to stop smuggling his dangerous goods into the city. Erdlu said to all of us that the Mother was coming. He said she had seen Legion before. "Even rock cannot stop her!" Legion replied that he has never been there and didn't know what she was talking about. At this moment, the earth started to shake and from a big hole in the ground, the Mother appeared. A wyrm, strong, big and dangerous, ready to kill and eat everyone around it. She looked at Legion, and he bended double next to me and started to mutter of pain and surprise. I could almost sense her mind myself, but she seemed to be targeting the Thri - Kreen specifically. She was screaming and showing her hungry tongue. The small wyrms in their cages also started to scream in excitement. Everyone know that the underground wyrms are tricky and awful creatures. Immediately thereafter, the Mother snapped with her head, and my sister fell to the ground, bleeding badly from a bite in her side. To make matters worse, the disgusting Erdlu opened the cages and all the creatures came to help their mother. Upset by this, Sarghon hit him with one of his psionic powers, and instantly, the big wyrm sensed the blood and swallowed the little boy whole! "Run!", Aryenne called out, and Sarghon and Legion decided to do as she said. I, however, felt the pain of my sister, and wanted revenge. Even blinded, I could not avoid sensing the fear of my companions. "I will throw away this rubbish!", I yelled, and started a furious assault upon the mother and its wyrmlings. I stepped over the tail of one of the wyrmlings, lifted the creature up in the air with a kick and tossed it with all my force in the ground, aiming the splashy spider web towards the head of the Mother. The great wyrm made a furious scream, her offspring's web blinding her temporarily, and the others dived in to take advantage of her confusion. Sarghon unleashed his mighty powers, Aryenne's spirit attacked relentlessly and Legion swung at her again and again with his sword. I was back on her, with punches able to crack stone. Suddenly, Legion caught fire using whatever forces he is in alliance with, and with mighty slashes fried the flesh of the Mother. All of this happened because of my initiative, but I still had the image of my wounded sister in mind, and gave it a last kick which cracked the skull open of the giant wyrm. Before the death of the Mother, everyone saw an image in their head. The image was of angry sisters and the wyrm brood, suddenly aware of introducers in the underground that belonged to them. They were coming at us, ready to kill … We checked the barrels in the smugglers cave, which Salabus had promised contained treasures and artifacts. Unfortunately, they were empty, and with the enemies closing in on us, we had no time to search further. We rushed out of the caves, up to Crodlus shop, and entered just in time to see him smash the head of an intruder we did not recognize. He did not seem surprised to see us ascend from the ladder to the catacombs, and asked if we also were men of Salabus. We saw no
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reason to lie about this, and quickly overpowered him. The sculptor pleaded for his life, unaware that we never had the intention of taking it. However, when Legion asked him of his relation to his son, or why the beast Erdlu had called his mother had swallowed him, he could offer no good explanations. The wyrms were the friends of his son, and he could not say much else. We were heading back to the Quarters when suddenly an old friend of Legion, the famous ex - gladiator Nori Silktongue, intercepted us to warn us that the Toothcutters were out for our blood. It appears that Crodlu's business was run by the Toothcutters, and that they would be quite upset for losing their ability to smuggle things through the Under - Tyr. The Silktongue invited us to meet with Mulmehr Shahram, or the Titan as he is called on the streets. He was an enormous man, almost as tall as Legion and twice as broad - shouldered. The Titan had his own dispute with the gang, and offered riches if we could help him against the Toothcutters. No harm in helping such a rich and generous man as him, I think, and Legion could vouch for Noris honesty from their fighting in the arena in past. He also told us that Salabus is our enemy, not a friend. Apparently, Salabus was the leader of the whole gang! This didn't make any sense to us, as he was the one who had told us to go to Crodlu in the first place, but we held our tongues. As a final hint, he mentioned that he believed his old companion, Shivri Halfblood, was a member of the group, and that he thought this was a good place to start asking around. We accepted his words, bade farewell, and went home. I fell asleep the second I hit the bed, and I am sure my sister did the same. According to the human's calendar, it is the 11th day after the Festival of the Soaring Sun in the Year of the Priest's Defiance. It's also the day after we fought The Veiled that almost killed the blind girl and her sister. Alina seems to hit harder than we first thought - especially after that great artistic attack that killed the two veiled people. That attack cracked the chest of the woman and it was way easier to open. How much I like the taste of fresh human hearts! (Droplets of blood can be found here) However, Alina's still hurt badly and needs some time to recover. It's Legion's turn to look after her. Aryenne isn't happy with that - not at all, I can tell! During the morning hours we're sitting around in the yard. We're just telling Sariel about the events of yesterday, about Musa Dyan, about Salabus, about that one - legged boy and The Veiled. Sariel tells us about that Templar meeting. The Tyrian Guard lost the Iron Mines to Kalaks Templars, and rumors say that they had Urukian help! People say that the Maid of the Golden Tower isn't doing her tasks well enough and some also talk about spies inside Tyr. Some minutes ago, a boy that seemed to be in really bad shape approached us. He must be handled quite badly - he has a black eye, two front teeth are missing. He can't speak well and is hard to understand. The boy bows to Sariel and says his name's "Fpaydeuvw". What a horrible name to give someone who can't speak well. He wants to bring us to Salabus - at least I guess that is the one he wants to bring us to. Sariel says we follow him, so we do. We arrived at the Sculpturers' Square. Nice place; I've never been here before. It looks like the people here are less poor - but not particularly rich either. Once we arrived, we are approached by Salabus indeed. He tells us about Crodlu, his rival businessman. For my taste, he says far too often that works for an "honest businessman". He wants us to hinder Crodlu's business. For the time being we tell Salabus that we'll do our best. We also learn that the boy's name's "Spider". That's one hard word to pronounce if you can't speak well. Crodlu; a strange name for a man. I've fought several Crodlus in the arena, but something tells me that this one won't be defeated that easily. We decide to first ask around about that Crodlu. Sarghon will go to the backyards, Aryenne will look around for other half - elves, Sariel will go to another store and I'll wait in front of Crodlu's store for someone to come out. Crodlu has nice sculptures to offer; no wonder Salabus doesn't like him. After I've waited in front of Crodlu's store for some minutes a guy came out. He told me that it's possible to get EVERYTHING in that store; we just have to have the coins for it. He said the sculptures of Crodlu are crap, but he has no taste! We agreed to meet at the center of Sculpturers' Square and that's where I'm sitting now. Aryenne came back fast from her round - with no new info about
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Crodlu, just a story about a half - elf she did upset. I barely listened. Sariel, who was second to arrive, told us that the other shop - owners do think it's not just sculptures he is offering. They guess you might even get iron and wood there. Wood - what beautiful pictures come to my mind when I think about wood - it is home to me. Algor is far better than this desert with its desert - like cities. Finally, also Sarghon came back. He asked a boy in the backyards who told him that people disappear at night. After a short discussion we decide to go to Crodlu and talk to him. Sarghon will do the talking while we shall have a look around. That gives me a chance to have a closer look to these sculptures. Now we know why Crodlu's called Crodlu; he quite looks like a crodlu - human mixture. Sarghon did order something from Crodlu, but I wasn't really paying attention to that. We are supposed to come back in a week or so. I'd this nice sculpture in my hands, a Choker climbing a tree. It reminded me of home and I swirled in memories. Suddenly, I awakened from them, when I realized that I'd dropped the sculpture. Now it was all pieces and Crodlu didn't look happy. I didn't know what to say, but Sarghon said something that calmed Crodlu down. We went to another square full of people. Now Sarghon talks to this man. He seems to trade chit - chat with him. Something about a dragon; how much I'd like to taste a dragon one day! The night came faster than we expected. Suddenly it dawned and we went back to the Sculpturers' Square. When we arrived it was almost pitch - black. I hid in front of Crodlu's store and watched two people walk in that store. None went out though. After an hour more of waiting we decided to go in ourselves. I opened the back door and immediately felt a breeze. That breeze came from the pottery - making thing. There also was a snoring from above and a ladder leading upstairs. We moved that pottery - making thing to the side and found a trap - door below it. Carefully, we climbed down. Here's a big labyrinth of caves. Probably that's part of the older city - state of Tyr. There's torchlight coming from one of the tunnels and we'll follow it. We came to a widening. There we heard a boy talking to lizards or something similar. After a careful look, we approached him. He told us his name's Erdlu. He seems interested in feeding upon us - or at least feed us to his lizards - creatures. He is going on about a mother that's coming. Some minutes later, 4 creatures came from where we came. They were gang people from the Tooth Cutters. When they came into the light Aryenne recognized one of them as the half - elf she talked to, at Sculpturers' Square. They attacked us! Sarghon tried to pursue Erdlu to fight with us, but the boy was just looking. He liked what he saw - I assume he was pretty hungry. I thought that he'll get some food soon; either these elves or us. The fight was tuff. One of the elves was a very agile guy, very hard to hit. We killed two of them and they already started to retreat. The agile one ran off, but we managed to kill the other elf. We attempted to run after the last one, but it was impossible to catch him - he's simply too fast. Now we are sitting here with Erdlu who looks happier than ever. This boy is strange. He keeps on saying that Mother's coming. We hear a scream that must have come from the elf and a deep rumble that gets louder and louder. I'm not looking forward to Mother's arrival … We finally had a quiet day. Sariel was attending a Templar meeting in the Golden Tower so there was nothing to do, no stupid errands to run and no riots to fight. I sat in the shadows in the courtyard and watched my group waste their energy as usual; my sister Alina was practicing her monk skills, the Halfling Corrin fought with the insect Legion and Sarghon, the large blue skinned man, was telling them what they should do to improve themselves, except no one really listened. All this practicing every free minute is really like watering a flower in the desert, a total waste of effort. And water! Suddenly, a man entered the courtyard and asked for Sariel. He called himself Salabus, and said he was representing an "honest businessman", but it was clear to everyone that this might not be an entirely correct statement. The man did not want to tell us his business, which made my sister very suspicious. He could for some reason only trust it with Sariel. He said he knew things that might be interesting for us to know, but it was completely impossible to get anything useful out of him. He seemed very interested in talking to us though. Legion was curious as well and started to investigate the man more closely with his antennae. As is usually the case when people
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living in the city see Corrin and Legion, they start talking about their stupid gladiator fights. It turned out that this man was a big fan of the duo. In my opinion, there must be better things to do than killing animals and each other just for fun. And all those people spending money to watch the slaughter … that is nothing but stupid! The chat was interrupted by Musa Dyan, one of the more respected Templars in the city. And he had picked us to help him! It seems like we are making us a name. Musa Dyan told us there was a riot going on in the city, and we could see smoke over the rooftops. Legion and Corrin were eager to fight and I was happy to get out for a while. Also, everyone knows that when a Templar asks you for something, you do not refuse. That would be like looking into the eyes of an Id Fiend. On the way, we were told that the riot started as an attack against the Veiled Alliance, a group of fanatics who are against defilers and who have swept over the lands as a swarm of locusts, causing bloodshed and turmoil. Some of the Veiled escaped the unrest, but were wounded and weak. Forget about the riot, this was the perfect time to destroy the Veiled in Tyr. We were going down a street in the city when we suddenly were surrounded by an angry mob. Their leader told us to step away from the Templar so that they could kill him. He was stupid as a half giant, that one. Sarghon tried to reason with him and asked what wrongs Musa Dyan had done. The human had, not very surprisingly, no answer to that question. In the meantime, Legion investigated this new human thoroughly. Of course we stayed by the Templar's side and the mob attacked. After a short fight the mob was either dead or fleeing for their lives. All but one. He was badly hurt, but my sister Alina pitied him and saw to his wounds. He was interrogated by Sarghon but didn't have anything to say except that all Templars are evil. Sarghon persuaded him to see things differently. During this delay, Musa Dyan became very impatient and looked absentminded multiple times, like he was looking at something at a great distance. Then he said "They are getting away" and hurried along the street. We left the converted human with his new insights and went after the Templar. We arrived in front of a house and Musa Dyan told us to attack from the back door, while he would take care of the front. In the backyard, a small boy with only one leg was sitting on a barrel. Sarghon and Alina gave him some bread and sweets and he started to talk. He seemed to know things! He knew that we were searching for the People Without Faces, and he knew that we were one member short. He said that the people inside the house would disappear through the other door to the Dark World if we tried to attack. Before we got a chance to interrogate him any further, he suddenly disappeared into thin air, like a drop of water spilled onto the ground. Our party walked further into the backyard with my brave Spirit Lion in the front. The yard was deserted and empty, as a city street when the sun is at its highest point. All doors to the surrounding houses were barred except the one leading to the house Musa Dyan had pointed out. Legion kicked the door in with broken wood and splinters as the result. The Spirit entered the empty room with confident steps and bared teeth, enough to scare anyone away. Suddenly a veiled man and a gravely wounded woman appeared. They ran past the Spirit and tried to force their way out, escaping from the alarm coming from inside. A fight started where we all fought bravely while fireballs swirled through the air. Me and my sister were knocked down for a brief moment and the veiled man grabbed the unconscious Alina and threatened to kill her if they didn't get to go free. The party agreed to save Alina, but Sarghon had other plans. He used his psionics to confuse them, and suddenly Alina was back on her feet and ripped them apart, efficiently putting an end to the fight. When we met the Templar, he was pleased to hear what we had done, offering us his help if we ever got into trouble in the city. What a fortune! I have in less than a week, managed to earn favors among not only one Templar, but two! Maybe there are some rain clouds at the horizon after all! In many of the old stories, the coming of heroes and their fantastic adventures are foretold in mysterious prophecies and cryptic riddles. In reality, things are never so clear, and nothing can be predicted except the coming and going of the relentless sun over the sky. Most stories just happen, such as the tale that will now be told. This will not be a story of damsels in distress or noble princes. This will be a story of pain and blood and death, and of six heroes that would forever change the world. Living in Athas is a continuous struggle for survival, and for our heroes, things were no exceptions. Aryenne Duneborn and Alina Tiger, sisters
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in blood, had lost their brother and father and were sold as slaves to a ruthless noble of Tyr. Legion the Thri - Kreen and Corrin Trelorindarzin were gladiator - slaves in the arena for the better part of a year, literally fighting for their survival every day. Haunted by nightmares and faint memories of a time since long gone, Sarghon Mindstalker was finding it a rough task indeed to endure the political struggles of a corrupted city. Finally, Sariel, Templar of Tyr was searching for a legend that could not be found, knowing that every day brought her own world and people a little step closer to annihilation. Such were things when Kalak the Tyrant - King was killed in his own arena, and the city of Tyr erupted in chaos and rebellion. This was the opportunity that Sariel so patiently had waited for. During the following days, luck, or fate, brought the heroes together, united by a struggle to survive and a leader with a zealous dedication to her quest to save her people.
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This is an inspirational blog. I believe that God is involved in the everyday events of our lives, no matter how seemingly small. Sometimes He allows us to catch glimpses of what He's been doing all along. We moved to the tiny little community of North Rome in Northeast Pennsylvania right after Larry graduated from seminary. He accepted the call to youth pastor there, sight unseen. There was nothing there except the church and a little country store that belonged to the Warfle family They didn't sell much, only a couple shelves of Kellogg's Corn Flakes and some cans of sardines. I don't even remember them selling the basics like milk, eggs and bread. If they did, I've long forgotten it. There was the dad, Leroy. He was tall with a big stomach, dark - rimmed glasses and a brush cut. His wife Sandy, short and blond with big teeth, appeared to be several years younger than her husband. She must have been the second wife because the four older siblings were too old to be hers. They all lived in the little house attached to the store. There was Leroy Jr., Bill, Vern and their sister Gloria. The two younger ones were Laramie and Cherokee, but they went by Tucker and Squaw. In fact, they all had nicknames. The only other one I remember is Bill's, and they called him Pickles. We moved to North Rome in June of that year, and shortly after we arrived the Warfles set up an outdoor kitchen in their back yard. It had four legs with a roof of corrugated steal to protect them from the rain. They hauled out an old wood stove with burners to cook on and a sink that they kept filled for the dirty dishes. I quickly realized that this was not your usual family. Besides the store, they had a furniture refinishing business. I'm not sure how much business they did, but it was obviously enough to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. I didn't see the older boys working all that much, but if there was ever anything out of the ordinary happening in our little community, they'd be out their front door to check it out. I don't think they were lazy, just laid back. Extremely laid back. They did get Larry out of a serious jam one time, however. He was doing three courses by correspondence our first winter there. Long before personal computers, everything had to be typed or written out. After completing several lessons, he put them in three white envelopes and into his coat pocket to mail. That winter of 1977 was like something they hadn't seen in years. It never stopped snowing, and it was Larry's job as assistant pastor to keep the parking lot cleared. He decided to run the plow before mailing out his assignments so he could get to the mailbox. When he finally reached into his pocket it was empty. He looked at the huge piles of snow around the perimeter of the parking lot. He panicked, realizing that he had no idea where to even begin looking. And then he thought of the Warfles. And they, feeling a bit sorry for him, began to go through those enormous snowbanks, looking for three white envelopes buried somewhere in that winter wonderland. Amazingly, they found his hours of work and three slightly damp envelopes were soon on their way to Indiana Wesleyan University. He was never so grateful to anyone in his life. Even though the older siblings were in their late teens and early twenties, they were like children. At Christmas time they could hardly contain their excitement. Unable to wait for Christmas day, they would always open their gifts several days early. One time we were heading out to see family but first stopped to wish them a Merry Christmas. When we told them where we were going, they were curious about how far that might be. After explaining that it was a three - hour trip, Leroy Jr. said he couldn't imagine traveling so far to see anybody. As we pulled away, I could see the three brothers shaking their heads in pity. The Warfles were not church going folk, but I did what I could to live Christ in front of them. One year right before Christmas, I set out all the goodies I had baked and invited them over for the afternoon. Except for Leroy Sr. they all came, filled up their plates and we visited. I played some songs on the piano and I remember Sandy asking if I would play "White Christmas" for her. I don't think they stayed more than an hour. Even though the Warfles had never shown any interest in Christianity or the church while we knew them, a critical time in their lives changed that. Sandy suffered a pretty bad stroke, the church was there, and they were ready. She and her husband became believers. I'd like to think that maybe some of what we lived had a part in that. The store and the house are gone now and the Warfles have moved on. But the memories associated with that family will always make me smile. I mean, how many boys do you know named Pickles? I visited a friend this week whose home is beautifully decorated for Christmas. Her tree is exquisite
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and holiday music fills the house. We talked as she set out a platter of sugar cookies to enjoy with our tea. We jumped from one topic to the next when suddenly the conversation turned serious. Her eyes filled with tears as she told me how difficult this time of year is for her, how much she dreads it. She lost her husband several years ago; but she still feels his absence, and never is that more pronounced than during the holidays. But to see her festive surroundings, one would hardly suspect the loneliness she still carries. I have another friend, considerably younger, who experienced the devastating loss of her mother a few months ago. Now she is going through those "firsts." You know what I mean. She just barely gets through her first Thanksgiving without mom when Father Christmas comes pounding on her door. And rather than relieve the pain, those "holly, jolly" days of Christmas simply make it all the more acute. She's having an especially difficult time right now. Emotions are raw, the loneliness and longing for her loved one at times overwhelming. I'll be honest. There have been times over the years that I've resented the holidays. Life in the pastorate can be especially demanding during Christmas, and because my gifts are in the areas of music and performance, I find myself taking on extra responsibilities. More often than not it has been a privilege, not a burden. But other times I wanted nothing more than to simply retreat and let the world celebrate without me. I was simply weary of the whole thing. I believe there are many who are weary right now. Some, who like my young friend are grieving the loss of someone dear, will survive, move on and "find joy in the mornings" of those Christmases yet to come. The pain will be temporal and I am glad for them. But there are others for whom that pain remains a constant. There is little or no hope of a better tomorrow, no promise of good things to come and loneliness and despair are their constant companions. And Christmas does little for them. If anything, the loneliness becomes more overwhelming and the despair only gets deeper. I think God has allowed me to carry a small part of that pain this Christmas. I am lonely for my children, so many miles away. I will not be with any of them this year, the first time in over 30 years. So I now understand in small part the longing that separation brings. I am also grieving for one of my own, an adult - child who sees no promise of a better tomorrow. The pain is not my own, it is his. But I carry it. God says, "There is a world full of people who don't know me. There are many in pain and without hope. And I carry that pain because I love them." Christmas was meant to be joyous. When the angels appeared to shepherds announcing the arrival of the Christ Child, they brought a message of hope that incited those men to seek out the baby and share the wonderful news with others. "Fear not," the angel said. "I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior which is Christ the Lord".... And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, "Glory to God in the highest and peace on Earth, good will toward men." There's no doubt that I have every reason to joy in the season. I am celebrating God Incarnate, Him in the flesh among us. Wow! What isn't there to rejoice in? But I also carry those "tidings of great joy" within me as a child of the Living God. And with that comes the obligation to let the hurting, the grieving, the needy, and the despairing know that there is a Hope in the person of Jesus Christ. And if I need to know a little bit of pain to catch a tiny glimpse of God's love for a broken world, then I welcome it. I can't think of a better Christmas than that. It was Christmas Eve, 1985. I had been living in Costa Rica for four months. It was a big change, leaving our small rural church in Pennsylvania and moving to a new country with our three young children for a year of language study. Costa Rica is an exciting place to live, a beautiful and diverse country. So even in the midst of studies we were living wonderful days of adventure and discovery. One can travel from the Atlantic to Pacific in just hours, and we visited both coasts several times. We saw our first volcanoes, traveled high mountain road with breath - taking views and rode trains that carried us through valleys of green and up steep inclines. We spent endless hours on busses and explored canals by boat. We watched artisans at work and walked through churches and basilicas. There were times, however, when I longed for home and friends. Sundays were especially hard for me as I missed our church in Pennsylvania and the people there. And now Christmas was upon us as well. This would be our
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first time away from all that we knew, all that was familiar. It helped that my sister Dawn had flown in to be with us. But there was still a feeling of disconnect, that Christmas wouldn't be the same. We never quite figured out how, but we were able to get WGN out of Chicago on our little black and white television each day. It was a lifeline for me, getting stateside news and watching Cubs games. And then in the evening, without warning, the signal would change over to HBO. Someone in the area obviously had a satellite and we were reaping the benefits of that signal. It was late Christmas Eve, the kids were sleeping and the little black and white had already switched over for the evening. A Christmas movie was coming on so I stretched out on the couch to see what was playing. It was new, one I'd never seen. It was a magical tale about a boy in Indiana who conspires to have Santa bring him an official Red Ryder Carbine - action Two - Hundred - shot range model air rifle for Christmas. I was riveted to the set, never moving but laughing more than I had laughed for a very long time. I laughed through every scene: From Ralphie's father fighting the irrepressible furnace to obsessing over the long - legged table lamp, the infamous stick your tongue to the flagpole scene, Christmas morning with Ralphie in the pink bunny suit to the neighborhood dogs eating the family turkey and finally culminating with dinner in a Chinese restaurant eating duck. And as the film ends with Ralphie and his younger brother Randy snuggled in for the night, their parents settled comfortably on their couch with tree lights glowing and snow falling, I cried. I'm still not sure why it affected me as it did, but it met a special need on that Christmas Eve night 25 years ago. Somehow I felt different afterwards, happy to be where I was, spending the holidays in Costa Rica with my family. And as I continue the tradition of watching "Christmas Story" again this year, I will remember that place and time, laughing during the same scenes and feeling that catch in my throat as the closing credits come across the screen. Right after Christmas last year I was browsing through the ornaments at an area Hallmark store and was delighted to find a spectacled Ralphie in a pink bunny suit. I carried my treasure home and packed it away with the other Christmas stuff. So naturally as I began pulling out the ornaments this year, I laughed out loud when I found him among the decorations. I had forgotten about this special find and couldn't wait to put him in a place of honor. And that's where he hangs, top and center on the tree, reminding me of that night when I needed to laugh. We're told in Proverbs that a cheerful heart is good medicine. I'm so glad God created me with the ability to laugh. Even the spasmodic dysphonia, the voice disorder that at times prevents me from talking or singing, that loves to stop the words and music from leaving my throat, can not stifle my laughter. When I am especially discouraged or frustrated over my condition, laughter not only frees my voice, but it does something in my spirit. After all, what is more healing, more cleansing than a laugh that comes from the belly? Mark Twain said "Humor is mankind's greatest blessing." He may have been on to something. I don't know if it's the greatest, but it's definitely a gift. And one that I am most grateful for. Posted by I decorated two Christmas trees this year. The taller, more elegant of the two stands in the corner of the parsonage living room. It shimmers in mostly golds and reds with only a few of the ornaments that adorned our trees when the children were still at home. It's lovely, and everyone will say so, especially when the lights are lit. The other tree stands in the vestibule of the church next door. It stands a mere six feet and isn't terribly striking. I bought it at Big Lots for twenty - nine dollars, so that's to be expected I suppose. But of the two trees, I suspect the lesser one will be the favorite. For hiding among its boughs are kiddie cars, tonka toys and little metal lunch pails. Charlie Brown and Snoopy are hanging with Winnie the Pooh and his buds, Piglet and Tigger. The Warner Brothers gang are there with the likes of Bugs Bunny, Sylvester the Cat and Tweetie Bird. And there are the assorted Disney characters including the timeless Mickey and Minnie with their dog Pluto. Bambi and his mother are nestled there, and our favorite Little Mermaid shares a special place with Aladdin's big blue Genie. Scooby Doo and Shaggy are in close proximity to the more cultured Jo, Beth, Amy and Meg of Little Women fame. Little Toot and Madeline represent the children's classics along with the Cat in the Hat, that despicable but lovable Grinch and Sam with his green eggs and ham. And there are Santas and toys and toboggans and sleds and children peering into Christmas shop windows. These are the things that my children loved and I loved before them. There is another tree set up in the church. It
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sits at the front of the sanctuary midst the greenery, red ribbons and wreathes which adorn walls and windows. It is decorated with lovely balls of red and gold and silver stars. The garland sits perfectly on this tree, all in perfect rows. But no gifts will lie under its branches. Special gifts for children in need go under the "lesser" tree, and somehow it seems fitting that it should have the honor. For this tree brings delight Marcy Burke Mario lives in a cha r. He got polio when he was seventeen, and he travels the roads of his hometown in that cha r. I've had no contact with him for 10 years or more, but I see and hear him as if it were yesterd y. First there is his remarkable smile, big teeth gleaming white against black fa e. And then there is his distinctive voice, baritone deep and stro g. It's as though the strength no longer occupying his shriveled legs chose to take up residence in his vocal cor s. It was never a surprise when Mario was coming to pay a visit as we could hear him a good distance before his arriv l. And it wasn't his talking that broke the sound barrier, though his voice carried very we l. It was his singi g. Mario would sing as he made his way through the stree Did I mention that Mario is from Honduras? He lives in a barrio called La Julia, one of the poorest in the city of La Ceiba. I walked La Julia many times while living in Central America. Dirt roads with deep ruts are the norm there, and after a rain they are especially difficult to travel. Mario lives on the second floor of a very humble home. His arms are incredibly strong, and he uses them to pull himself up the steps. This is how he lives. Did I mention that he has a wonderful smile? And did I tell you he sings? In two days we will celebrate Thanksgiving. I've been meditating a lot on gratitude. I pulled out my Bible Saturday night and read all the verses listed in the concordance under the word thanks. There are a lot of them, and I'll bet if I pulled one of Larry's big concordances off his book shelf I'd find lots more. I think God puts a pretty high priority on gratitude. So I've been asking myself how can I better express how grateful I am, especially to Him. I learn a lot by example. I watch other people, and I learn from them. People like Mario for example. He gets polio when he's teenager, he lives in a poor neighborhood in a very poor country with little or no amenities. And what does he do? He smiles and he sings, genuinely grateful. People like Mario inspire us. They remind us that no matter the circumstances of ones life, it's possible to live with appreciation and gratitude. And hopefully, their examples challenge us to do the same, allowing us the opportunity to impact others as they have us. On that last trip to Honduras we asked a group of young people what or who most impacted them during their visit. I'll bet you already know the answer. The overwhelming response was, yep, you guessed it. Mario. Mario in 2000 At this time of my life I am not overly enthused about having animals to care for. Let's face it, pets are expensive. It costs to buy cat food and litter that clumps. The money spent over the years on flea medication and heart worm pills could have been used to buy a condo at the beach or at the least, a cruise to Alaska. For years I didn't have to worry about cleaning out the kitty box. Our twin cats, or "the boys" as we call them, were perfectly content to do their business outside while living down south. Even though they preferred nap time inside their Alabama home, everything else took place outside. That meant hunting, exploring and pooping were activities that took place somewhere far removed from the house. They were pleased to oblige, and I was naturally pleased that they saw it my way. The boys went through quite an adjustment in South Carolina. Where as they had been of the "indoor - outdoor" variety for their first 10 years or so, they suddenly found themselves unwelcome in the inner sanctum. It wasn't us. We invited them to join us, but it was clear they wanted nothing to do with this new place. It wasn't the town; it wasn't even the house. It was the strange three felines that came with us from Alabama who didn't even know what the outdoors was. They belonged to our daughter Angela and had been "apartment" cats. Now they were "house" cats, and the boys wanted nothing to do with them. On the few occasions they ventured in, the hissing and flying hair sent them scurrying back out the door. Their water and food dishes sat on the front porch, and they found warmth in the garage on the coldest of days. But there was a hanging swing on that porch where I often sat to read or work on crossword puzzles. One or sometimes both would crawl onto my lap eager for human contact again.
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Two years went by and another move. This time they found themselves up north in a little house on the corner of a fairly quiet street. They were naturally wary during those first days in another new place. But it didn't take long to settle in, especially with "the others" no longer posing a threat. They became more confident about venturing outside though they rarely stayed for long. And when winter came, it was only occasionally they would go to the door, and that was just to peer out for a moment. Not interested, they would return to their sleeping pI complained a bit earlier about the cost of having pets. And then there is the constant cleaning of the litter box that the boys have come to prefer. After all, the yard is tiny in comparison to the fields they had all around them in the South land. Yet when I settle onto my couch for the evening to read or watch a little television, there is always one of the boys ready to climb up and keep me company. He prefers to lie as close to my heart as he can, and his body seems to vibrate right through me. Sometimes his brother joins us, and I feel a bit overwhelmed at all the attention. So I guess I'm grateful for these identical cats that share what little space we have, sitting politely at the foot of the dinner table side by side, hoping and silently pleading for leftovers to enjoy. But I'm especially glad for the reminder they bring of times past with children still at home, calling for them to share their beds. Yes, they connect me to those times, place and people that at times seem so distant. And as the boys nestle close, they are like the memories, never far away. I spent a good part of my growing up years wondering who my father was. There weren't as many questions concerning my mother, and perhaps that's because as the years have gone by, I have become her. But that topic is for another time. Today I want to reflect on my dad. His name was Charles, but he never went by that. He used his middle name, Keith. I love that name, and I gave it to my son for his middle name, and he has given it to his. He was learning to become a meat cutter when the war broke, requiring him to take a sabbatical of three years, two months and nine days. In fact, when the recruiter asked him what he wanted to do, he told him he'd like to cut meat. He ended up as a gunner instead. After the war he worked on a drilling rig for awhile, but meat was in his blood. One day he answered an ad in the newspaper for a meat cutting position, and that is what he did until he retired 40 some years later. I remember as a little girl visiting my dad while he was working and seeing the large sides of beef hanging from the hooks in the cooler. It was nothing for him to lift those heavy slabs by himself and lay them across the butcher blocks of the meat room. He wore this thing that looked a bit like a garter belt around his waist to help his back, and I wondered if it was hard for him to pick up such heavy stuff. I think it was, because I remember him being in the hospital quite a few times for hernia surgeries. I knew his back hurt him because of the war. But there was so little I knew about his time in Europe with the 82nd. I did find out that he flew in gliders and that one time he hurt his back pretty bad when they crashed. That was all he'd say. It was years later, after the fiftieth anniversary of the Invasion of Normandy, D - Day, the stories that had been bottled up all those years began to come out. The crash had occurred while flying over enemy lines into Normandy. After spending several weeks in a hospital in England he would be sent back to his unit, only to fly once again, this time into Holland. He described that particular flight to me in detail years later. There were three gliders that took off together that day. They hit twenty miles of flak after which the gliders on either side of him went down. Shrapnel came through the front and went under the flak pad where the pilot and copilot sat. As they came in for a landing, this was how he described it, "So we came in, landed, and tore out some barbed wire fences. The pilot jumped over a cement watering trough, went through a ditch and tore off the wheels. There were skids on the bottom of the glider so that you can drop the wheels before you ever land, and you land on the skids. But they stop you so quick that the tail pops up and you ride along on those skids on the nose. Anyway, we had a pretty good landing." Umm, pretty good landing? After Holland he would go on to the Battle of the Bulge and then would eventually be a part of the occupation forces in Berlin. Years later, long after he had retired, it would be discovered that not only had he injured his back in Normandy, he
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had most likely broken it. Cancer eventually took residence in that part of his spine, and he would travel to the Veterans Hospital in Buffalo for infusions to strengthen his back. I felt like I finally knew my dad, a man of great courage and inner strength. I knew that he discovered what he liked to do, did it well and kept at it even though pain was his constant companion. I knew him as a patriot and a lover of his country. And I knew him as a father who loved his wife and children. I would ask him years later why he kept those things to himself all those years. "I wanted to protect you," he said. "So many of those I trained and fought with never made it home." I wanted to know, I told him. Even as a child, I wanted to know. And perhaps that's why one day he piled us into the station wagon and took us to a movie. It was a black and white called "D - Day." I didn't understand very much of it then, but years later I would. And long after sitting in that darkened theater with my dad and brothers, I understood that he must have known. He just couldn't say the words. "There's a little story that goes with our Company commander. His name was Captain Mentlick, a newspaper man from New York City. He was a man if there ever was one. He gave us every break we had coming. On the morning that we jumped off for Normandy, with tears in his eyes, he said something like this. 'Well men, this is it. Let's hope that we can all come back. God bless all of us.' Don't believe that any of the fellows have ever forogtten that little speech." In the same way, I will never forget the words my dad spoke to me as we sat at that little kitchen table back in 1999. God bless you Dad. God bless all of us. Posted by I decided to spend a few hours with my father this afternoon. Today is Veterans Day, and I always called my dad on this date every year. I wanted to say thank you for his service, for the sacrifices he made for his country and for our family. Then I would end the call by telling him how proud I felt to be his daughter. He's been gone for awhile now, almost seven years. He would have been 88 this year, and more often than not I don't even think about his birthday as it comes and goes. But when Veterans Day comes around, I miss him terribly. Back in 1999 I flew from Alabama to New York to spend a week with him. I bought a couple of blank cassettes, found a recorder and we sat down at the kitchen table. For two days we talked about his experiences during the war as part of the 82nd's 325th Glider Infantry Regiment. It was probably the most intimate time I ever had with him. This was a part of my father I never knew, and I felt like he was allowing me to see through a window into a part of his soul. I felt both privileged and humbled. After returning home, I began the task of transcribing my father's words to paper. Because he was such a soft - spoken man, I spent hours replaying sections that weren't clear, or where strange sounding towns and cities in France and Holland and Belgium needed to be deciphered. I would call him time and again to question him or ask him to proof sections I was unsure of. Finally the day came when I took the disc to the printer and asked for 30 copies of my father's memoirs. A few weeks later I sent the first copy to him. The others went to family and a few close friends. So back to today. I put on the tea kettle, sat back and reread the words he spoke those ten plus years ago. Then I climbed the stairs to the attic, retrieved his old canvas army bag and reread several of the letters written home from those faraway places as a young man in his early twenties. I spent some time with my dad today. It was as if I were thanking him all over again for his service and sacrifice. And somehow I belMarcy Burke Life sometimes hands us surprises in way we don't anticipate. I guess that's what a surprise is, something unexpected. I think the best kind of surprise is the kind that no one plans, like something that happened several years ago while we were living in Honduras. We were traveling across the country from La Ceiba in the north to Tegucigalpa in the south. It would be a long trip, so Larry had made up a scavenger hunt pitting the guys against the girls. One of the items on the list was a dead animal, not terribly uncommon in Honduras. Well, we were barely out of La Ceiba when Joel sighted a decomposing cow lying on the side of the road. Excited at the find, he and his dad began to cross that and other items off their list. On the other team, we girls were doing equally well except for one glaring item. There were no more dead animals to be
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found, and Fawn was taking it especially hard. Fawn always took things hard, especially if they weren't going her way. She continued to whine for many miles convinced the game was lost. At some point we picked up a young American Peace Corps worker needing a ride. There were six of us already filling the front and back seats, so he climbed into the back of the truck. The trip was going along smoothly until we came to a tiny community that sat close to the highway. As we were traveling this particular section of road, I heard a noise. Suddenly up over the bank came a squealing pig running for his life. At the moment he crossed the road, the front of our truck hit him square on and he went flying through the air. I could see faces on both sides of the road peering at the pig and at our truck. "Keep going, keep going!" shouted the passenger from his perch in the back knowing full well that we would probably pay dearly if we stopped. Suddenly Fawn jumped up from her seat beside me, pumping her arms up and down in absolute glee. "We've got our dead animal! We've got our dead animal!" Never mind that someone had lost their valuable pig or that our bumper was now sporting a nice blood - If we had found a common carcass on the side of the road, we would have been somewhat satisfied but not surprised. No one ever suspected when we set out that day that we would hit a pig. Granted, it was unforunate for the little fellow, but the surprise that we encountered with that unexpected little porker continues to bring laughter and memories of a trip taken long ago. Posted by I recently came across a terrific story about an extraordinary man who just happens to work in a post office. His name is Mike Herr, and he is the face of the U. S. postal service for 40, 000 students at State College, Pennsylvania. I'd like to tell you a bit about him. He works in a one - man post office at Penn State University, and he is probably the most popular guy on campus. I mean, if you show up wearing a cool pair of sneakers, he stops what he's doing, rings a bell he keeps close at hand and holds up a sign that says "Nice Sneakers." One girl is quoted as saying she will wait in line for one stamp, wearing her special sneakers just to have him hold up the sign. He has a rubber stamp that the students will request for belated birthday cards. It says, "I Sent This Last Week." One wall in his office is covered with pictures of former students. For those who can't wrap a package, he holds special wrapping classes on Tuesdays at the strange hour of 6: 03 a. m. They come, probably as much for the fresh sticky buns he feeds them. He's abviously a favorite with the students, and since he is partial to cookies, the students keep him in good supply which he then turns around and shares with them. There is even a "Cookie - of - the - month" list on the wall. The article went on to say that he enjoys challenges, like the time someone brought in a cococut. He carved in the address, secured the postage and marked it fragile. It arrived at its destination without a hitch. And he loves a good prank, like when he walked into the back with a package marked "fragile," then picked up a box filled with loose metal and let it drop. My favorite part of this wonderful story is when a new postmaster showed up and ordered all the paraphenalia that wasn't regulation taken down. The next day there was a crowd of protestors and University President Graham Spanier, the son of a former postmaster, sent a strong letter to the proper authorities. In no time at all, Mike's office was restored to its former glory or as the article described it, "former chaos." I've been thinking quite a bit about Mike the Mailman and the way he connects with the young people on that campus. At one point they brought in a vending machine. But they ended up removing it, because it wasn't being used. I wonder why. Isn't it somethiBy the way, if you'd like to read the entire article about Mike Herr, it was written by Dennis B. Roddy of the Associated Press. It's worth the read. Posted by A Valentine for Frances Several adults with special needs attend our church. Tim is one of my favorites. After you read his story, I think you'll see why.... A Valentine for Frances Several adults with special needs attend our church. Tim is one of my favorites. After you read his story, I think you'll see why....
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"Wonderful, Honest, and Heartbreaking. Yet it offers practical information on miraculous new forms of healing. I do hope it will find its way into the hands of parents and all people who are longing for insights and knowledge of how to transform ourselves and our world. Yet it is also for those of us who long for insights and practical knowledge of how to transform ourselves and our world. The author's piercing honesty and drive to know pulls the reader along with astonishing detail. Her friendly style is easy to read while emotionally revealing. In The Elusive Gift of Tragedy, author Regina Murphy provides parents with an impressive arsenal of tools to guide their children through today's perilous minefield of childhood to healthy, productive adulthood. First, she and her son, John, experienced years of consequences resulting from a primitive treatment her son experienced at birth, a practice now thankfully abandoned. Regina discovers tangible tools and incredible modalities that allow us to remove negative energy and remap the subconscious mind. Next the book explores the pre - existence of the soul and the beauty of pre - life planning. Then we learn that John's soul has a huge mission that spans many lifetimes - the search for, and the expression of, the purity of unconditional love. His failure to isolate that purity in his most recent lifetime opened him up to the frustration and the self - destructive behaviors prevalent in today's teenagers. Add to that society's demand for instant gratification and a materialistic mentality, and we have a perfect storm of cultural disintegration. Regina then leads into a new modality of her own - Emotional Sound Technique - that involves the use of tuning forks placed on a specific quartz crystal applied directly to key emotionally related meridian points on the body. To be honest, this therapy is not new; we used it long ago in many ancient cultures. And to top it all, Regina has discovered that she can photograph the life force energy changes when using these modalities as well as many dimensions of reality in every camera she owns. This book provides pointers to resources by which you can become an expert practitioner for yourself and your kids … and who knows, maybe even save their lives. Will some readers find this book a stretch? Undoubtedly, but as Albert Einstein said," No problem can be solved at the same level at which it was created. "Today's parents are faced with momentous challenges regarding their children. In order to meet these challenges, parents must transcend them, and The Elusive Gift of Tragedy provides a wide range of tools to do just that. Oh, and the final gift? Proof of survival of death. This book implodes the concept of death as the cessation of being. In its pages we meet John, still the same vibrant, dynamic being he was in a physical body, only now he has the wisdom of Solomon and absolute dedication to the welfare of today's youth. The pregnancy and birth were brutal on me and his father's resentment of me grew stronger by the day. When John was born via C - section, his liver function was a problem. He was taken away from me at birth and put into an incubator, tied down so a sun lamp would cover all his body and he was blindfolded to protect his eyes. He was kept in this inhumane position for twelve days. No eye contact, limited touch. When I tried to nurse him, he wouldn't eat so the nurses fed him formula in my absence. (As the research about the importance of touch and eye contact became more mainstream, such brutal procedures were phased out.) I had been released from the hospital three days after the C - section and had to drive myself back and forth to the hospital several times a day to try to feed him. In addition to John Sr.'s anger and the effects of his severe Tourette Syndrome, I was suffering from exhaustion, fatigue and depression, and am sure our son absorbed all those emotions from us. 2 We had a real rough start and baby John was getting hit from every direction - genetics, birth trauma, a depressed mother, and a father who, I thought, wished his son didn't exist. How much more damage could a newborn have taken? In John's early years, he was much loved and nurtured, and his sisters and grandparents were always there for him, as were both of his parents. He was so cute it was hard not to spoil him. By the time he was four, he started showing signs of being a little too spoiled. Also, I realized there was something very different about him compared with his sisters. One of the things that stuck out in my mind was that he was exceptionally uncontrollable on trips. The relevance of this to his birth trauma was discovered only after I did research after his death. I knew Tourette Syndrome symptoms start to show up around the age of four and this condition is mostly passed down from father to son, so my focus was on that, and only that. At that time, I believed the only answer for these behavioral problems was prescription drugs such as Ritalin, Catapress and Zoloft. The best doctors in the field of medical genetics were treating him, and by the time he was six, he was on at least three medications. My
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life revolved around little John's behavior, and I became a recluse because I hated taking him anywhere in public due to his inability to control himself. He would have temper tantrums in public and throw himself on the floor. It wasn't long after John started Junior High that I began receiving calls from the school because of his outbursts and truancy, which resulted in many parent - teacher conferences. John had become very hard to handle and was expelled from school. He had to attend what is called "Opportunity School," which is a school for students who are expelled from the regular school system for behavioral problems and truancy. John Sr. decided he could do a better job than me of parenting and wanted to try. We were all at a loss as to how to help John, who was in desperate need for any kind of attention from his dad, so he moved into his father's house. I saw him often during that time he stayed at his father's house, but on September 19, 1998, I got a call all mother's dread. "John has been hit by a car." I freaked out before I heard the words, "but he's okay." John Sr. and I both rushed to the hospital, to learn that John's knee was severely damaged. He'd been hit by a car while walking in a crosswalk to get to the school bus. It was before 7 a. m., around sunrise, and the bright early morning sun had blinded the driver. The spring came in with new hopes and challenges as the teen years were getting into full swing. I had just worked at a spiritual fair, giving free demonstrations of Reiki. At this fair, I worked with a woman, Julie, who told me of a modality developed by a Dr. Kenneth Fabian that she believed helped her stay alive and survive after her diagnosis of being bipolar. She piqued my interest and spent days teaching me so I could use this technique with my son. It is called "Deep Feeling Contact" or "Bonding". It seemed too simple to work but I was going to try it anyway. The process involves using your left eye to look intently into the left eye of the "unbonded person," as the website calls "the subject," with an intense emotion of sadness. (This was also known as "Soul Contact" and Steve Rother teaches this technique in one of his seminars.) The process works by activating the emotions to begin the maturation process. This should occur naturally during the initial bonding process between mother and child in the first few days after birth. Of course, in John's case, I didn't get to hold him until twelve days after his birth and he was blindfolded, so the time for the natural bonding process was over. Dr. Kenneth Fabian now has great success using this process exclusively with children with autism. John's outbursts were getting worse by the day and his humiliation after his episodes was destroying his self - esteem. Clearly he did not want to behave that way and felt extremely bad whenever he did, so Fabian's therapy was worth the try. My plan was a "five - dollar bribe" for a "one - minute experiment." Since it was the long Easter weekend, money was an easy bribe. The experiment was planned for Holy Thursday and Julie was going to witness the technique to be sure I was doing it properly. The day arrived and everything went according to plan. John was "Bonded" and out the door he went to hang out with his friends. John's 15 - year - old cousin was spending the weekend with us because her mother was out of town on business. She told me she would be interested in the experiment if she could also have the same "five - dollar" financial reward. Her birth had been even more traumatic than John's and her emotional development seemed stunted as well. I didn't see any harm in "Bonding" her as well, so I did the same process with her and then forgot about it. The next day was Good Friday and all the kids were out of school. I had a one o 'clock massage and was in my healing room. (Since I didn't charge for my massages, I worked out of my home.) John told me that he and his friends were going to the mall and the niece who I'd "Bonded" said she'd be close by in the neighborhood, visiting friends. Just as I was finishing the massage, John burst into the massage room screaming that my niece was in the middle of the street unconscious and that a neighbor had called an ambulance. Apparently, she'd been drinking vodka and was almost dead of alcohol poisoning. I was naive about how much drinking and drugs were being used at that time by all of the kids in the neighborhood. Within a month of this incident, a warning appeared on the website NOT to use this procedure with teenagers. The website had only previously warned to keep a close eye on them. I didn't realize the danger I'd put my son and niece in. On the positive side, after we'd all recovered from the trauma of that weekend, John was able to control
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his emotions enough for us to live a more normal life. We could finally go out in public without the fear of a scene, and I never received another bad conduct report from school again. As a matter of fact, he actually got an "A" in conduct after that. To go from 64 parent / teacher conferences in one year to an "A" in conduct the next is no small miracle. We were also finally able to go out to eat together as a family and take vacations without fear of his behavior problems. We even scheduled a trip to Disneyland in Florida for his next birthday. He was still an argumentative spirit, and always loved to make a point, sometimes too loudly. The difference was that now he could control himself. He was choosing to do that instead of acting without control. He was pleased about this, and no longer felt ashamed after an outburst. I have used this procedure of "Bonding" many times since with incredible results but I avoid "Bonding" anyone in the teenage years because of what happened to my niece. I still highly recommend that clients learn more about this procedure. In those days, Energy Medicine and its exponential power were still a long way from my comprehension, but my using this simple procedure did not go unnoticed. Dr. Kenneth Fabian gave me a beautiful gift in Bonding that became a foundation I could build upon. I am forever grateful to him and to Julie, who introduced me to his work. On the surface, all was well. I enrolled John in an on - line school where he could take academic classes from home using his computer. That took a great deal of stress off of me. Getting John to school each day was always the hardest part of my day. For John going to school was like putting him in boiling water every day. I would drive him to school and watch him enter the building. At lunchtime, he would leave the school premises and go hang out with his friends. I did not know where he would hang out and that always weighed heavily on my mind. Facing the opposition from John Sr. about computer learning from home took a great deal of courage on my part because he felt John would play his guitar instead of concentrating on his schoolwork. Of course, he was right and I knew this, but I also knew that John's passion was to play his guitar. John liked to learn on the computer and always got good marks if I could get him to actually do the work. My life was busy taking full - time care of my friend with Parkinson's who lived in our home 24 / 7, volunteering at the St. Therese Center doing massage and taking aura photos. I was also having some health challenges that had begun in February. Basically, it was that my menstrual period never ended. All tests showed negative for cancer but nothing could stop my bleeding, not even strong doses of progesterone. Also, the family was in extreme turmoil over the merger of J & R Flooring with a company owned by someone who seemed to me to be "less than reputable." I had relinquished my shares of the company to my children in hopes the company would live on for generations to come. Although I now had no legal or financial interest in the company, the emotional shock to my children over the merger was severe. I had no choice but to "stuff" those emotions and pretend this merger didn't bother me. Many of us have no idea what else to do with painful emotions except to "stuff" them as we have all been taught. As usual, another fabulous distraction was about to occur to take my mind off the merger. My niece, Jen, had a major roll in a play called No Mother to Guide Her in a little theater in Tribecca, New York. Closing night was Monday, September 10, 2001, and John, David and I had tickets for that night. We were to arrive on September 10th, check into the Marriott World Trade Center, watch the play and leave the following day - Tuesday, September 11th. Except for some really scary dreams I was having about that trip, I was looking forward to it, and focused on the positive things in my life. Another life - altering moment was about to occur. My daughter Michelle blessed us with a rare visit to our house. Michelle and I were sitting on the couch when John came out of his room and boldly announced, in no uncertain terms, "I'm not going to New York." I quickly asked, "Why?" Michelle didn't wait for his answer and said, "I'll take his place." And it was done. A minor complication surfaced in that Michelle's stepson, Gino, would be turning seven on Sunday September 9, and she had planned a birthday party for Gino on that day. Michelle asked, "Could we change all the reservations, mom so I can have the party for him Sunday?" She asked this casually, as if it was no big deal, but for me it was huge. First, the airlines are a pain in the you - know - what when you're using frequent flyer miles to book a flight. Second, the theater was
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so tiny that it would take a miracle to get new tickets for the last Friday night performance. Miraculously everything was changed and this new schedule was actually going to work out better for Jen because on the last night of a play, there is a cast party and we would not have been able to spend any time with her. This was no small miracle; in fact, it was "A Really Big Miracle," but we didn't know that then. Michelle and I arrived at the hotel in the Marriott World Trade Center on Friday, September 7th, along with my sister Diane and brother - in law Danny, Jen's parents. Danny worked for Blue Cross and his office was on the 27th floor of the World Trade Center (WTC). As I walked into the building, I began to hemorrhage heavily. In fact, very heavily. I headed to the nearest restrooms that were only a few feet away in the Tall Ships Bar. (The exit in this bar became the main exit through which thousands of people would flee the tower only four days later. So much debris was blocking the other exits that people were diverted through this doorway in order to get out of the building, despite falling bodies and chunks of concrete.) Once we left the building for lunch and a tour of the area, I felt better. Back then, I never took photographs, but that day, I bought a throwaway camera and photographed many sites of and near the twin towers. I even took one in the subway when we were approaching the terminal at the World Trade Center. When we arrived at the theater that night, I had the strangest uneasy feeling during the entire time I was inside. I was trying to concentrate on the play so I could discuss it later with Jen but the strange, foreboding feeling was overwhelming. (The next play that would be performed in the theater would be months later, and it would be The Guys, the story about the FDNY firemen who died on 9 / 11 helping others starring Sigourney Weaver and Bill Murray and was written by Anne Nelson.) Finally, September 24 arrived, the day of my appointment at the Nevada Clinic. I especially hate doctor appointments but knew this one was necessary. I arrived at 9 a. m. and a nurse gave me a series of tests. The Heart Rate Variability test and then a Voll machine test confirmed that things were not good. Dr. Royal himself, the founder, entered the room and explained that his son - in - law, with whom my appointment originally was, had to leave and so I was placed in his hands. He re - did the Voll test, and joked, "I'm retesting because I don't trust women." Actually, I think he re - tested me because my test results were so bad that he had personally taken over my case. (After the session was over, Dr. Royal disclosed to me that the life force reading on the Heart Rate Variability test was a "16" and anything below a "20" is considered a near - death number). Then he asked me to trust him and do whatever he instructed. Under normal circumstances, those words from a doctor would be a big red flag but he was the kind of man I found easy to trust. He began asking weird questions and did not seem impressed by my brilliant theories about the oil and medicines from the AIDS patients affecting my hormones and causing me to bleed. He asked about my childhood, my first marriage and if I'd ever almost bled to death. I found that question unusual and told him several times during the session, "Absolutely not." (Of course in the car on the way home David reminded me that I had almost died when Jamie was born because they couldn't stop the bleeding following placenta separation. How our memories work or don't work. They are so incredibly unreliable.) Next came the really weird stuff. He would ask me to think of how I felt about something. He had me rate the level of my intensity feeling about it from one to ten and then he started tapping on certain acupressure points on my face, under my arm, under my collarbone and on my hands. He would keep checking the intensity of the emotion and keep tapping until the intense feeling was down to a one or was gone. He had me think about both of my parents to see if there were any emotional scars still affecting my life. He asked me to think about the sorrow of my dad's death. When he asked about my first marriage, I began crying uncontrollably and could barely breathe. He re - tested me on the Voll machine, and I could see he had a "back to the drawing board" look on his face. Then he said, "I want you rub on this spot under your left shoulder and say three times," I deeply and completely accept myself even if I don't want to get better. "My reaction to this strange request was clear. I thought, you're nuts and I'm not going to say anything so stupid, especially when it isn't true. If I'm spending $700 for the appointment, it's because I DO want to get better. When
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I refused to say it, he was sweet and patient with me but insisted I needed to trust him on this if I was to get better. So even though I didn't have my heart in it, I said what he asked me to say. He re - tested me on the Voll machine again and said my meridians were back in alignment. He told me I would be fine, gave me two homeopathic remedies and sent me on my merry way. I was quite upset because I didn't believe he'd actually helped me. I took my aura camera (a special camera that can photograph electromagnetic fields) to the class so I could see if this therapy really worked. After I took the class, I was blown away by what the aura camera showed and by the science that was behind this therapy. I began tapping on everyone who would sit still, but I must admit that tapping on people is not an easy "sell." People cannot grasp that something so simple can have such amazing effects, and even fewer people ever realize the full impact of a tapping session. They don't see their improvement as a result of rubbing on the thoracic duct or sore spot, as everyone in the field refers to it, and saying such things as: "I deeply and completely accept myself even if _________ (name the problem, say, I'm angry at my mother)." When we do this, we are collapsing a subconscious belief. Even fewer realize the full implications of a program embedded in the subconscious. (It took over a year after my session with Dr. Royal to remember that I had named myself after St. Rose of Lima as a confirmation name. She wore a crown of thorns under her habit so she would slowly bleed to death. I used to study the lives of the saints and be so upset because you couldn't be a saint anymore or die a martyr. If I could have become one, as a child I would have applied. I was obsessed with being a nun and had my sights set on being a saint. The bleeding from which I almost died twice was a big clue to me about my subconscious martyr syndrome.) I might have wanted to die in the twin towers to fulfill my childhood wish of being a martyr. I became obsessed with this tapping technique because, with my aura camera, I could see the energy shift in people with the use of this modality. All negative emotion is a disruption in the energy field. The aura photos, which are able to reflect these energy shifts, gave some validation to the clients who came to me for sessions. I began studying every modality linked to the entire field of Energy Psychology. I took classes directly with many of the founders of each of these modalities, and couldn't get enough education or practice in the field. I just knew I could help John with this so my heart was in it all the way. Of course, getting John to let me help him was going to be the hard part. The next memorable time I worked with John stemmed from an outright threat on my part. It was before a trip to Michigan to see my niece, Amy, play an Indian in Peter Pan at the community theater in the Kalamazoo Civic Theater. My reservations were made but not John's because he would never commit to fly. This was due to his severe phobia of flying. When he finally decided to go, I only had enough points for a coach seat for him so we would not be sitting together on the flights. Him sitting alone did not bother me because his behavior was always at its worst at airports and while he was flying. The day before the planned trip, at his sister's birthday party, I noticed his anxiety level getting high. When we returned home from the party, I told him, "If you don't let me tap on you, you can't come with me." I'd never forced a treatment on him before but I knew he was getting crazy because of his anxiety over flying. He seemed relieved that I forced him into it because, this way, he didn't have to ask mom for help. After we tapped on the flying anxiety, I could see his whole demeanor change. If we tapped out anxiety, we needed to fill the space with a new positive program. You can think of it like deleting an old version of a program in the computer and installing a new version. He told me he wanted to fly first class with me. Being an optimist, I said, "Okay, let's do it!" He envisioned sitting next to me in first class on all six flights, three in each direction between Las Vegas and Kalamazoo. We tapped it in and I was curious to see how he would do. He was in an exceptionally good mood preparing for the trip, and I kept teasing him about what he'd done with the "Real John." At the airport, Delta Airlines informed us there was NO WAY they could upgrade a ticket purchased with points. John didn't get upset, saying, "See, it didn't work." He remained in a good mood and just took it in stride. I, of course, checked again
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with the agent at the gate for an upgrade ticket and received the exact same response. On the plane, John went to his seat in coach and I went to mine in first class feeling really guilty. Just as they brought me my wine (to ease the guilt), the agent walked up to me and said, "There's no reason your son should not sit next to you since we have an empty seat." When I went back to coach and told John, he had a huge smile on his face that set the tone for the most magical weekend. I know this is hard to believe but the same thing happened on all six flights! Now the Irish will never let the truth stand in the way of a good story, but this is the truth. John had resigned himself to not going away to school that fall and decided to buy a truck. Because of the high rate of teenage accidents, I suggested John get an old truck for a year and then he could have any car or truck he wanted. He willingly agreed to this and bought an old Ford Bronco. About two weeks after he got his license, he got up on Sunday morning and told us, "I'm going to pick up Derek, a friend, and drive him home." If the guys in the neighborhood were partying on a Saturday night, they would crash wherever they were that night and find a way home the next morning. John was excited to do this. Two minutes after he left the house, the phone rang. He had hit a light post and needed me to come right away. By the time I got there, traffic was backed up because the Bronco had caught on fire and then finally became engulfed in flames. Four fire trucks were on hand, putting out the fire, and no traffic was moving because of a police barricade around the entire area. The column of smoke seemed to be a mile high in the sky. The first thought David and I had was that John had gone back into the truck for his CDs just before it became consumed in flames and that he'd been killed. David told me to get out of the car and run to the scene because we couldn't drive through the police line. As I left David in the car, I could see him make the sign of the cross. Of course, in the back of my mind was the prediction that John wouldn't see his twentieth birthday. Finally as I approached the scene, I couldn't even recognize what had once been a Ford Bronco. A police officer saw the panic on my face and asked if I was "Mom." The police officer pointed over to the grass and I spotted John sitting there safely about a hundred feet away. He was immensely relieved to see me. John later explained, "After I hit the post, the truck spiraled out of control and Derek didn't have his seatbelt on. The passenger door flew open and Derek held onto the door through the open window as he swung outside the truck. The back wheel came off and the truck almost overturned onto Derek. As soon as the truck stopped, we got out but the sparks from the wheel that came off started the fire and then the truck became a fireball." John realized how close he came to killing his friend. The truck would have crushed Derek if it had flipped onto its side. Apparently, John had looked down to change the song on the CD player and wasn't paying attention. When he looked up and saw the light post, he tried to turn but the side of Bronco bounced off the light post. When I was teaching him to drive, I must have yelled at him a thousand times for changing a CD and not watching the road. This close call reminded me of the astrologer's awful prediction about his early exit and I was constantly holding my breath about that. However, John did become a much more careful driver after that. The next purchase was a brand new truck and it wasn't long before his next accident, which wasn't his fault. He was rear - ended by a police officer because John slowed down for an ambulance to pass and the policeman did not. John suffered a severe neck injury, which took three months to heal enough for the doctor to release him for work. On July Fourth, the day before he was to return to work, John dove into the swimming pool and hit his head hard on the bottom. His head wound was streaming with blood and he re - injured his neck. He went back to the same chiropractor who took x - rays and the doctor told John he had a concussion and more damage to his neck, so he couldn't go back to work for at least two weeks. Not only did this news receive no sympathy from John Sr. but it also was the straw that broke the camel's back. John Sr. unloaded like never before about what a disappointment John was and basically told John he never wanted to see him again. This was the worst fight the two of them had ever had, and John stayed in his room for three days. I was starting to worry, but got him out of his room by convincing him to go to the beach with
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his friends. This prospect cheered him up, and he started to plan the trip. In fact, John became famous for his trips to the beach. Christmas 2004 was over and it had been a good one. Two really wonderful things happened that season. First, I was invited for the first time since 1993 to the J and R Flooring Christmas party. My daughter Jamie now solely owned the company, and my children really wanted me there. Being the ex - wife, I was obviously not welcome at prior year's parties while John Sr. owned the company. That had now changed, so I got to see them play and it was a huge thrill for me. No one could have dreamed that it would be the last time this would ever happen. What a wonderful gift that was for me. Another wonderful gift was that John, David and I adopted one of the local charities and gave them a fabulous holiday. I was working with the social workers for the State of Nevada in my sound research. One charity I worked with was the Oasis Center, a residential program for children with emotional problems that made it hard to place them in foster homes. Working with individuals with emotional problems was right at the heart of what I loved to do. After one of the sessions with a housemother, I asked what Christmas was like at the center. To my horror, she described a very sad tale. Because of a state law, the employees cannot solicit funds or donations for the center. The state provides a gift certificate of $50 per child each year and that's all the children receive. I knew that Las Vegas was an extremely generous community and other Las Vegas charities receive large donations at Christmas, but these poor kids had slipped through the cracks. For example, Child Haven, a more temporary shelter for abused and abandoned children, gets a great deal of attention and donations thanks to tennis star Andre Agassi and many other generous patrons. Child Haven always gets publicity during the holidays from all the local TV stations. I asked one of the housemothers to get a "wish list" from each of the children. Together, John, David and I, along with all of David's generous associates and Susan Erling, a very generous friend of mine, raised enough money to more than fill their "wish list." We bought brand new computers, new carpet (donated by my daughter Jamie), plenty of "impossible to get" X - boxes, and truckloads of gently used clothes and toys. The Oasis Center had a fabulous Christmas. We also gave them gift certificates for various stores near the center that lasted through half the following year. We received the names of each child at the center and John had a special gift for each of them. He put $40 in each envelope, sat with each of them, looked into their eyes, hugged them and wished them a Merry Christmas. This experience had a huge impact on him and he cried in the car on the way home, for he wanted to do much more for them than just give them money. I talked about him giving them guitar lessons and how much they would love that because they loved the karaoke machine we had given to them. He said, "I don't think I'm a good enough teacher." Soon Valentine's Day came and Oasis Center invited us to a thank - you party in appreciation of the Christmas we'd given them. The kids went all out to show their thanks, each writing a thank - you note for the individual gift they had received. Also, they made a large 3 x 5 foot poster for all the group gifts we'd given the center. Before we even knew about the thank - you party, John had mentioned he wanted to do something special again for the center. I told him, "I'll pick up hearts filled with chocolate and cards for you." He insisted, "Go to 'Sees Candy' in the mall. I want them to have the best chocolates available. And can you get enough cash for another cash gift for each child." As I mentioned before, I hate the mall but of course I did what he asked, complaining all the while I stood in the two - hour line. I could have bought the chocolate hearts at Target in five minutes (I guess there are still remnants of my martyr program). John insisted, "If I'm going to give them something, it's not going to be crummy chocolate." Again he was so moved by the way these children were growing up without parents and he couldn't get over it. John had connected with one young man at Christmas, and asked why he wasn't there. He was told, "He wasn't allowed to come to the party because he's being punished." This was incomprehensible to John because he was never really punished as a child and felt that just living at the center was punishment enough for anything the young man had done. I explained, "With so many children, the rules and discipline have to be enforced to keep any kind of order. These house mothers do not have the same luxury of spoiling the children that other people do." For the first time in his life
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, John realized just how lucky he had been his whole life and how easy his life was in comparison to theirs. He even saw his relationship with his father from a whole different perspective. He began to see things, not as a spoiled child with a knee problem, but from the perspective of one who had much to contribute to this world. He became grateful for everything good in his life and started saying, "Thank you" constantly. He always said, "I love you, Mom," but the added flavor of gratitude was especially nice. I was proud of him and who he had become. The next morning, John called and told me he had in fact almost been arrested the previous day. Most of his friends hung out in front of his friend Brian's house, which served as the neighborhood stop off. We had lived next door to Brian for several years and everyone knew everyone in the neighborhood. John had driven to Brian's house and as he got out of his truck, three police cars had pulled up. He was handcuffed and held at gunpoint. They told him there was a report of a terrorist with a shotgun in the neighborhood, and John fit his description. John told the police he had a good job, owned his own house and had no record of any kind. The police were angry and treated him rough; doing everything they could to make him give them a reason to arrest him. They called him names, searched his truck and became even angrier at not finding anything to at least ticket him. (After Cattel told me he might get arrested, I'd warned John to make sure he didn't even have a pipe or rolling paper in his truck, let alone pills or alcohol.) John and his truck were both squeaky clean, which angered the police even more. Just then, a female friend who lived in the neighborhood drove up to see what was happening and they searched her car. She was not so lucky, and the police handcuffed her and gave her a ticket. The parents on the block came out and assured the police they'd known John since he was a child and that they obviously had the wrong person, which again made the police even more furious. Finally, after what seemed like hours to John, they let him go. However, even as they did so, they called him "a piece of shit." He couldn't believe that they not only didn't apologize, but also foul - mouthed him. He was so horrified at what the police could get away with that he planned to write his next song about it. For the first time in his life, he realized what life must be like for a person in a minority. John was not nearly as upset about this incident with the police as I thought he would be. He took it as a great learning experience and felt there was a purpose in it. He was much more concerned about what he could do for the people in Louisiana affected by hurricane Katrina. He wanted to start a drive at J & R Flooring for the victims, and planned to talk to his brother - in - law, who was his boss, about it at lunch. John believed that it's a songwriter's responsibility to teach through music, and his songs show this. One of my favorite songs he wrote is called Jesus Never Said You're Not Worthy, about the fact that the Catholic religion teaches us that we are not worthy but that is simply not true. Nowhere in the Bible does Jesus say that. John wrote this song as a gift to me because he knew much of my work is dealing with the issues of unworthiness and self - hatred. We went to lunch and discussed his future life. He was evaluating some short - term options, such as quitting his job and going to work as a volunteer for the Red Cross. He was also thinking of moving to Houston to be near Dominique because he missed her so much. He was looking into music schools in Houston. He was also thinking of going to Austin, Texas to visit Joe, a musician friend of his dad's who flew to Las Vegas every year to play keyboards at the J & R Flooring Christmas party. Joe respected John as a musician and felt John could make a living running a music recording studio, which was the same work Joe did. But for right now, John's focus was on moving back in with David and me. I told him that David and I were getting ready to go to Sedona for a couple of days and we would be back on Friday, September 23. On Tuesday September 20, John called me in Sedona to tell me he was worried about Dominique's safety because a hurricane was headed directly for Houston. It was still three days away from Houston so I told him to get Dominique on a plane to Las Vegas right away. I added, "Listen to me for the first time in your life. Do not wait another minute." My ulterior motive was that I just had a feeling this would be a good thing for him. She could help him pack and get out of his house and back home to me, so I was overly pushy about it. He told me I was
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overreacting and that Dominique would never leave her family. Later that day, while David and I were still in Sedona, we received a call from a neighbor because our overhead garage door was open. This is never a good thing to hear when you're out of town so I asked John to check out the house and close the overhead garage door. He called back and said, "The only other thing that's unusual is that the boat cover is off." We knew we'd closed the garage door and securely tied down the boat cover when we'd left the house. My mind started working overtime. I asked John, "Which address did you give the police when they handcuffed you?" He said, "Yours. I never changed my driver's license address from your house to mine." I was really concerned that the police were actually looking for drugs and that the story they gave John about a terrorist was just a cover for a drug bust. I was sure the police had searched our house and the boat for drugs. My mind was racing out of control as I could feel in my heart he was in danger. I called him back. "Listen, John, get all the drugs out of your house NOW." Monday morning, John showed up at the house on some kind of pills, and I couldn't stand to even look at him with that look in his eyes. I made him breakfast and told him to come back tomorrow when he was "clean." He felt really bad that I was so hard on him, but to my surprise he showed up on Tuesday morning clean. His eyes were clear and so was his head. He said, "I'll come every day for a session with you until I move back in on Sunday. I want to go to Houston as soon as the planes are flying again after the hurricane." Then he talked again about joining the Red Cross, and about colleges in Texas. Also, he had severely injured his knee again. He had forgotten to wear his knee brace and his knee had given way. As a result, he'd fallen down the stairs and hit his head so hard that his head literally had gone through the wall. He added, "My head is okay, but I'm more worried about the cost of fixing the wall." I told him I would help him find a good contractor to repair it. I told him about a new therapy called "Prolo Therapy" that might work without surgery. It strengthens ligaments with injections. It actually deliberately re - injures the knee to allow the body to repair itself. I had researched this therapy and was really impressed with its results. He asked, "Can you make an appointment right away because my knee is killing me, but I am absolutely not going to have surgery again." In the back of my mind, I was thinking, if he did have surgery again, I would take care of him at my house again. He could completely detox and I would know where he was every minute. That might be a miracle in itself. I also love taking care of people when they are sick and he was my favorite patient. I was very good at making the best of a bad situation. He kissed me goodbye and thanked me for being there for him. He said, "I'll come before lunch tomorrow for the session. I want to take you out to lunch at the Macaroni Grill." Our session on Wednesday was very productive. In the BodyTalk System, a system of Energy Medicine, which I always use to begin a session, I was instructed to treat John's, breathing. John admitted, "I'm having trouble breathing since I hit my head when I fell down the stairs." I did treat the breathing and after the session his breathing was greatly improved. We were both thrilled that he felt immediate relief. He said, "I don't want a long session today because I'm hungry. I'll be back every day, so let's go eat." Over lunch, he told me, "You really hurt my feelings by sending Glen up to the house to tell me to get rid of any drugs. Everybody at work already thinks badly about me, and that only made it worse." It's true. The office staff at J & R Flooring is all family members, related either to his dad or to Glen, Jamie's husband. John was very sensitive about what they might think about him and knew this "possible drug bust" put him in a bad light. That's the kind of gossip that the family makes a big deal about. He said, "I'm not mad at you but wanted you to know how hurt I felt that you did that." I was totally ashamed of myself. He was so sincere and calm, and my heart broke because I could imagine how bad I made him feel by doing this. I had only wanted to protect him from further problems. He knew I was worried about him so he dropped the subject right away. After lunch, as we pulled into the garage, he said, "Mom, this is the first time we had lunch and didn't
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fight about something. "It wasn't that we would really fight. He would just get easily annoyed at something I would say or do. He left, saying quickly," I'll see you tomorrow. "The next day, I was thrilled to see how clear his eyes were but I could tell he was having a bad day. As soon as he climbed up on the massage table for the session, he started talking about his money. He told me," I want to put it all in your name so I won't have access to it anymore. I don't trust myself and want to get money only through you. "I said," I think you're being very responsible and I'm sure you don't need to do that. Let's talk more about it after the session. "(I found out long after he died that a couple of people were really pressuring him to lend them money.) He told me his knee was still hurting a lot. I always use the BodyTalk System so I couldn't work on his knee yet. Through kinesiology, I asked his body what to do first and was instructed to first use tuning forks on his neck. I turned and saw Jack, John's best friend and his mother, crying and running towards us through the gate of the backyard. The instant I saw them, I knew the moment I'd dreaded since that astrology reading was here. Jack was screaming," I'm sorry. It's all my fault. "I asked as calm as I have ever spoken," Is he dead? "After Jack said," Yes, "I asked," How? "and held my breath. I needed to know above all else that John didn't suffer. The answer to this question was more important than anything else to me. Jack fell to his knees and then sat on the step with his head in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Between sobs, he said," John didn't wake up, and it's my fault. "I hugged him and told him," It's not your fault, no matter what happened. John and I both knew he was going to die and it was only a matter of how. What ever happened was not your fault. "Jack's mother was crying and David was sitting on the boat with his head in his hands not yet able to move. It took a long time for Jack to stop crying so I could do what I knew had to be done. Finally, Jack was able to explain why he felt it was his fault." I took Alex to John's house with me from a concert last night. I knew Alex was using oxy, and he begged John to buy him five oxy to hold him for a while. Another reason it's my fault is because John asked me to let another friend, Sharon, come over to spend the night to help him stay off drugs until he made it to your house. I objected to Sharon coming over because she and I had had a falling out and I told John I didn't want her around. "So I asked," Where is John now? "Jack led me to believe that the police had already been to the house and John's body had already been removed. My first call was to the morgue, and I learned they had no record of him. My sister Teresa is a good friend of the Coroner, so she was my next call. I told her," John has died from an overdose but we can't find his body, so could you start calling? I'm going to John's grandparents' house to tell them what happened and get John Sr.'s phone number so I can let him know what happened. "In all of this, I had not yet cried a tear. I just needed to take care of telling John's father and sisters, and find my baby. I needed to find my baby. The terror of seeing his body kept me from breaking down. I was paralyzed in fear. Nothing scared me more than what I was about to face. I knew it would fall to me to identify his body. I had done it my dream and was terrified. I had just finished reading the book about the life of St. Francis and Living with Soul, the book by Tony Stubbs. These books reminded me of what I needed to know in my heart to get through the next few days. There would be no blame. I did not even blame myself at this point. (There would be plenty of time for that later.) Each of us could trace back to something we should have done, or not done, that would have changed what had just happened. I knew Mother Mary had John safe in her arms and he would never cry again in pain. A priest, Father Joseph O 'Brian, director of the St. Therese Center for HIV and AIDS where I had volunteered as a massage therapist for many years, would be able to say the funeral Mass at the Shrine of The Most Holy Redeemer Church across from the Luxor Hotel. I knew the power of this Sacrament for helping the soul pass through the stages of ascension into the higher
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levels of light. Although I do not agree with what most religions do, I am aware of the sacredness of the Holy Sacraments, Mass and Holy Communion being two of the most powerful. I was thrilled that I could have a funeral Mass said for John. Friday was the first day available at the church and I took it. Wednesday was a private viewing for immediate family only, so no one but the family knew about it. I was glad I could have some time with my son before all of his and our friends and business associates would be there. I was exceptionally frightened about seeing his body for the first time. Sheer panic took over. In my heart, I thought I might die from sadness by just looking at him. This was more frightening for me than anything I could imagine. I have never been afraid of anything more than one of my children dying and now I had to face that one of them actually had. This was the thing I had dreaded and tried so hard to prevent. Had the warning that this could have happen been a blessing or a curse for me? What if it was a self - fulfilling prophecy? Could I have brought this upon him because I believed the original prediction? The ride to the funeral home was like going to my own execution, with everything in extra slow motion. John was in the largest chapel, so even the walk to his coffin took forever. David and I arrived early in case I went completely nuts and he had to get me out of there. Finally I was beside the coffin and getting ready to kneel before it. I was calm and still breathing. Even in death, John was beautiful and I loved him so. I wondered how it would it feel to touch my child's cold hand. Would I die then? I felt he was still there. There were only two members of my family I could even mention this to. My daughter Michelle and my niece Jen … and they both had the exact same feeling. We knew everyone else would think we were crazy, so we just spoke about these things when we were alone. On Thursday morning, the day of the public viewing and the Rosary, I was supposed to have been in the advanced training of Steve Rother's Spiritual Psychology class. Steve was going to do the channel at the retreat house in Mt. Charleston, and invited me to get the Group's perspective on John's death. The channeling was early in the morning so we would still have plenty of time to get to the funeral parlor by one o 'clock. I invited Dominique, Jack and Brian, another close friend of John's, to come with David and me. On the way up to the retreat house, we started to listen to John's original music to choose which songs to play at the service that night. There were hundreds of songs to sort through. I knew Jen and John Sr. were going to sing. I had requested Tears in Heaven by Eric Clapton, the song he wrote after his five year old son passed away. Jamie had asked her father to sing that song at her sixteenth birthday party. The video we have of that song at the birthday party showed both John and his father through the whole song. John was only six then and was singing it along with his dad. I couldn't believe he would now sing it at his son's funeral. Each day you wake up, you feel as if you're in the middle of a swimming pool. You're out of your depth, can't swim and can barely see the sides. You panic and realize you're alone. It doesn't matter how many hands are trying to reach out and help you. These are the things you go through alone when you wake up in the morning and realize your trauma was not a dream. It was real. Your life has changed forever. You wonder if the pain of waking up will ever lessen. You wonder why you even wake up if it is true. It would be easier to never wake up again, but you do wake up again and again, only to realize you now must learn to swim to the edge of that pool or you'll sink into a depression from which you will never recover. Each day, you decide if you'll learn to swim or just allow yourself to sink to the bottom and die. Days come and go, and yet you still wake up in the center of that pool and must decide again to try to swim or just give up? You ask yourself, what matters? What really matters? The answer to that question is going to determine if you swim or sink. Something has to matter. If you cannot find something to matter, you may not find the determination to learn to swim again. The other option is to stay alive only out of the fear of dying, but that is not living. This is like the movie The Night of the Living Dead. You never engage again in life. You simply go through the mechanics of functioning as a human being. Other people do not notice that you're not really there anymore, because you can "act out life" very well. The true essence of you begins to disappear behind the walls of
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a fortress within, and you don't care. If you're lucky, after any of these things, there will be people who are relying on you for something. It could be family, relatives or just friends. If you are needed, you will have a better chance to recover. If you have children who need you, or people at work who are counting on you, or a spouse depending on you, or even a dog to care for, this can help. The only real difference will be if you can find a dream for your life that still pulls at your heartstrings. A dream that can light the pilot light again in your heart. These are the things that can get you to learn to swim through the first year of a life - changing event. Nothing is easy about the adjustment period to a life that will never be the same. The most important thing for me was to be and feel productive. I knew I could still make a difference. The biggest difference I could make in this human form was to radiate thoughts of love. Even if we cannot speak or move a muscle, we can make a difference by radiating thoughts of love. Many souls who come in and seemingly have nothing to live for are here to emit love just by being where they are. They are human love amplifiers. We have much to learn from these highly vibrating beings of light. If your whole world falls apart and you just begin to think loving thoughts, your world will be a brighter place. It is possible to train your mind to repeat a highly vibrating thought hundreds of times per day to lift you up. Something as simple as "Glory to God in the Highest," or, "My Gaze is only on God," or the phase, "I Love You, Jesus." This is not to be confused with stuffing emotions and living in denial. I read that many of the prisoners in Nazi Germany would raise their hands and bless the tormentors in the death camps. They figured out that this blessing they sent out lifted their own pain and suffering. The intention was only to send love to their executioners but they found the blessing ran through them as an added gift. It is only about choice of focus. No one can take away the power to focus our thoughts. It is always better to process the nagging thoughts so you can be sure the negative thoughts are not festering in your physical body. Hurt feelings, thoughts of self - judgment and blame are sometimes the most difficult to process and it takes determination. Most of us would throw out the sour milk in the refrigerator if we noticed it. The concept is the same: Being vigilant of repetitive negative thoughts and taking full responsibility for them requires courage. I began to talk to him out loud asking, "Why do I have to send an e - mail at three in the morning?" He said something like, "Because I say so. Ha, Ha." About a week before my nephew's wedding, I was again on the boat, alone and crying. The boat had become my sanctuary to grieve for John. The last time I held my son was at my wedding in May when we danced to the song: You Are the Sunshine of My Life. I was worried I would break down and cry when my nephew danced with his mom at his upcoming wedding, bringing back this memory of my last dance with John. I decided to think about the upcoming event and just cry it out so I would be fine and not cry at the wedding. In fact, I was making myself sick over it, and was obsessed with the thought of breaking down at my nephew's wedding. Every chance I got, I'd go to the boat and play a song that would make me cry. On a gloomy day just before the wedding, I was on the boat crying and I heard John's voice as clear as day, saying very loudly, "WILL YOU JUST TAP." I heard this with my human ears and the sheer volume startled me. Of course, I teach people to tap but never even thought of using it for my situation. I am the queen of denial but decided to give it a try. I began with, "I deeply and completely accept myself even if I am afraid I will cry it at the wedding when Diane dances with her son." Instantly the pain was gone and I was absolutely fine. What a surprise! That must mean this tapping works for me, too, I thought. What do you know? I will never stop being amazed at how much we humans love pain and suffering. I teach tapping every day and yet I can't even remember to do it for myself. Don't I feel like the drama queen now? When I was alone in the afternoons after a day of seeing clients, I would often think about John, put on a video of the funeral and just cry. One particular day, I had some filing to do in my office, so I decided to combine crying and mourning with filing. I poured a glass of wine and pulled out all the DVDs of John that brought on the tears, but not a single DVD would work. I began to get
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really frustrated as one DVD after another failed to play. Finally, I got to the last DVD, which covered the last year of his life and it included a clip of a practice session with his sister for an audition for the Suncoast Casino and Hotel. They hated it when I filmed them and told me, "Don't you dare." I said fine and went upstairs. At the top of the stairs, I lay on the floor and filmed through the banister. I was sure I was well hidden but John saw me and yelled in his angry booming Italian voice, "TURN THE F * * * ING THING OFF," which I promptly did. I put this last DVD into the computer and for no reason, it began playing at exactly the spot when he yelled: "TURN THE F * * * ING THING OFF." I restarted the DVD but the same thing happened. After the fourth time of the same command, I cracked up laughing. I realized John was controlling the computer and was telling me to turn it off. He didn't want me to watch anything that made me sad and was letting me know I was addicted to crying, mourning and grieving. I understood instantly how we become addicted to a vibration of an emotion. Grief was like candy for me and I knew it, so this insight was the biggest "Aha" I'd had in a long time about a vibration. I realized we become addicted to such vibrations as blame, anger, sadness, fear and self - loathing. My addiction was grief and he was teaching me this through the computer. I put on some happy music and filed away. However I did finish the wine and did it in joy and not in sadness. This realization helped me a great deal in my sessions with Emotional Freedom Techniques. "Even if I am addicted to blame, fear or whatever" was always added whenever I sensed the vibration was an actual addiction. Blame often pops up, especially when the program of being a victim is deeply embedded in the subconscious. For a quick five minute demonstration of exactly how this works, you can just go to my website and click on the bar that says, "Learn emotional tapping techniques." On October 25, 2007, I went to bed as usual except I took my favorite picture of John and lit a candle next to it to look at while I went to sleep. Again at three o 'clock in the morning, (obviously their favorite time to play on the other side), John woke me up and told me to photograph the moon. By now I use two digital cameras that capture things unseen by the naked eye. Intuitively I knew to use my new 10 megapixel digital camera. I love the moon over the lake with the mountains in the background so I was eager to fulfill his request. The moon was huge, almost full, and getting ready to set over the mountain range. As I began to take the pictures, I could see some energy in the camera and a very noticeable pink ball of light. I checked to see if I could see this ball of light when not looking through the camera viewfinder. It was not there. I took a number of photos and realized that I could, with my intention, move the pink ball of light. First, it was next to the moon. After taking several shots, I realized it was moving with the camera. As long as the moon was in the viewfinder screen, the pink ball was there. I could move it from right next to the moon to inside the lake area. I then aligned it perfectly between the moon and the moon's reflection on the lake. It was a beautiful picture. 1 I was beside myself at having discovered this new interactive aspect of the camera. I didn't know what I should do about this at three in the morning so I just took another bath and went back to bed. I knew that the next day I would look at the photos more closely on the computer. The next day, as I was looking at these photographs of the pink ball of light on the computer and explaining to David what happened, Susan called with her usual opening line, "I had a dream about you and John last night." By now I just said, "Go" and she starts, always as excited as I am about whatever adventure John takes us on. She told me he came to her last night in a huge pink ball of light above a burning candle. It had not occurred to me until then that the pink ball of light could be John. I was thinking maybe it was an angel or some type of energy. She said his face was clear and he was speaking softly so she could barely hear him. She was so excited to be able to see him that she didn't really care what he was saying. We were both so excited about this that we were not coherent. That evening, when the moon came out, I was thrilled to discover that the pink ball of light was still visible in the camera and could be seen by others. I could still photograph it and it was now also appearing in my other camera. As I was photographing, I asked David to
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come outside so I could get him in the picture. After taking a few more pictures, I decided to blend the pink ball of light with David. I directed the camera so that the pink ball of light would blend with his image. As I took the picture, I thought I'd broken the camera because David's image in the picture came out blurry; almost like a "see through" image. Also, I felt a terrible sadness that I couldn't figure out. The sadness was intense and washed over me or ran through me. Later that evening when I took my bath, I put my favorite picture of John where I could see him above the bathtub and lit a candle. I took a picture of them and to my complete surprise the pink ball of light was again in the camera viewer and I could move it around in the camera viewfinder. I looked into the flame and could see John's face, so I asked him what had happened when I blended the pink light with the image of David. I heard him say (in my head, not my human ears), "I was so sad because David didn't know I touched him." Wow, I thought. They must miss human touch on the other side of the veil. John: We would give advice to you and to anyone involved with this project in anyway. REMEMBER, EACH CHILD IS A VERY, VERY UNIQUE EXPRESSION OF DIVINE SPIRIT, and you cannot pigeonhole them according to what anyone else has done. It is important to keep the light of the uniqueness alive in each child, for that is the essence of spirit they are bringing in more brightly than those of the older generations. It is not an easy time to be a parent because we have both of the opposites fully active right now. When we have both of the opposites fully active, it is a constant balancing act. We would, however, say to EVERY parent: "Do not be afraid to do the right thing. Do not to be afraid to stand by your principles. Don't be afraid your child is not going to like you. You are the parent; that is the role you play. Sometimes as a parent, you see your children making wrong choices, choosing things that are going to hurt them, and you know this. If they decide they are going to hate you for the rest of their lives, at least they have the rest of their lives. They will have more time to work it out. And we assure you, they will not hate you for the rest of their lives. DO NOT LET THE CONFLICT FRIGHTEN YOU! When light comes into the dark. there does not have to be conflict, but if there is resistance, there will be. Since that is how we have set it up here at the moment, that's OK. Do not be afraid to wear the warrior guise. As I began to research the number of accidental deaths due to overdoses in this country I was shocked and horrified. The total population of the United States is 303, 109, 527 and the population of Clark County, Nevada is 1, 777, 539 (or about 0. 6% of the total US population). The total deaths by accidental overdose were 19, 838 in the US and 401 in Clark County, Nevada, which is 2. 0% of the US total deaths). So, in Clark County, the rate of death by overdose rate is 350% higher than the national average. (From the Clark County Coroners office or found on the Internet.) Aside from the overwhelming numbers, two things were totally unexpected. The first was that Las Vegans have a 350% higher overdose rate than the national average. The second was that the victims are not only teenagers and young adults. I was amazed to see the problem in all age brackets, including many senior citizens. These numbers horrified us, and worse, the numbers are increasing annually. (I remember feeling the same way when I first read how willingly the Jews walked into the gas chambers in WWII.) We may as well put handguns and grenades into our medicine cabinets for our families to play with. I have always felt I was my son's first drug pusher for putting him on so many drugs before the age of seven. I feel guilty for looking the other way when it came to beer and pot but the truth is, most of us self - medicate and are all brainwashed into thinking we need a pill to solve all of our problems. It wouldn't surprise me if Americans line up for a pill that whitens your teeth with a list of side effects a mile long. I am not advocating to stay away from all medications but most of the prescriptions Americans take are either supposedly preventative or are for things that could be handled with some self - responsibility in diet, exercise or nutrition, not to mention Vibrational Medicine. In the mid - 1990s, Gary Craig created EFT as a simplification of and improvement over Dr. Roger Callahan's TFT (see Appendix B). Craig trained with Dr. Callahan in the early 1990s, and was the first person Dr. Callahan trained in Voice Technology. Craig soon discovered that the sequence of tapping points did not matter and
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that Dr. Callahan's proprietary diagnostics were unnecessary, so he did away with them. In lieu of individual algorithms for specific problems, he came up with a comprehensive "one size fits all" sequence for all problems. This avoids the need for diagnosis or muscle testing. One EFT practitioner claims, "You can use it for everything from the common cold to cancer." The basic EFT technique involves holding a disturbing emotion or traumatic memory in the mind while simultaneously using the fingers to tap on a series of 12 specific points on the body that correspond to the body's meridians. The principle is that negative emotions are caused by disturbances in the body's energy field and that tapping on the meridians while thinking of a negative emotion changes the body's energy field, bringing it back into balance. EFT removes the negative responses to future situations by eliminating the negative emotion and by restoring the energy field's balance. Most talk therapies stop at dealing with the negative emotions, and can take months or years to work, but EFT goes further by restoring the energy balance, often in two or three sessions. I have found it often to be instantaneous. So EFT is basically an emotional version of acupuncture without the needles. Instead, you use your fingertips to tap on energy meridian points on the body. Gary Craig's sequence is easy to learn and remember, and you can do it anywhere. The two mantras of EFT are: Devised by the author, EST is a modality that combines phrases from Emotional Self - Management, Dr. Callahan / Gary Craig's tapping points, and the use of tuning forks. Instead of tapping on points, I apply specific frequency forks to them and can also run the sound through a rose quartz crystal on the points. I have found the benefits of this to be: EST is a noninvasive protocol using the OM frequency (136. 10 Hz). The fork is applied directly to acupressure points, trigger points, points of pain and charkas to open the energy pathways in the body. Adding the crystal clarifies, filters and amplifies the sound creating a deeper level of healing. Although great benefit is derived from tapping, a more specific emotional outcome can be achieved by applying a sound that sedates, for instance in cases with trauma, anger or anxiety. A tonifying sound might be used when working with sadness or the desired energy of joy. A more neutral sound might be chosen as a way to gently prepare the body for the other sounds. Sound can affect the receptors on our cells faster than any drug. The crystals have specific vibrations also, making the proper combination very powerful. The basic set for families of an OHM fork and a rose quartz is designed to be safe, simple and very effective for emotional and physical pain. As always more advanced uses are available for training to therapists. The sounds of our own voices are healing tools that we are only now recognizing. EST also incorporates voice into Energy Psychology. This works especially well with children.
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Add Comments Please add your comments, whether it be about the story, your opinions, Liverpool, memories.... anything... And please keep reading! Thanks! Jack has turned out to be my bezzy mate in loads of ways (well, not forgetting Regal of course!) You wouldn't believe he was only five. He's dead funny, and makes me laugh even when I'm feeling sad. I hate it when me ma doesn't come home from the boozer, or there's nothing for Jack to eat in the cupboard, 'cause I'm terrified that social services will come and take him into care and leave me on my own. Or even worse than that, I'm afraid they'll put me into care instead, and leave Jack with Binny and me ma - who'd take care of him then? I never did hand Jack into the cop shop! How could I be the one who put him in foster care? The poor kid would probably end up like me - I don't want to be responsible for that! So we had an agreement; me and me ma …. She'd be around for him in the daytime while I was at school, and I'd look after him at night while she went the boozer. Binny was around sometimes, but was always slagging off Jack's ma for being put in the slammer for robbing frozen chickens from Iceland (the shop, not the country!). Me ma told me that Jack's ma was caught with a chicken in each bra cup, and only got found out because one of the frozen chickens dropped out as she left the shop and broke three of her toes (so she couldn't leg it from security!). All I could think about was how big her knockers must have been to have a full chicken in each bra cup! Wish I'd been there! Me and Jack, we've got dead close in the past few months.. he's like my brother. Now the weather's getting better I take him fishing down the dock, and we share pie and chips at our chippy. Every Saturday I still work on The Butty Van with Pete at Greaty Market … Jack comes too. Pete's dead sound and lets Jack use his mobile phone to play games on while I'm serving hot dogs with extra onions and cups of tea. Then Pete gives me and Jack some top scran which we stuff in until our bellies nearly burst. Jack keeps asking me about the Liverbirds on top of the Liverbuildings, and why they don't fly away … so I make up loads of stories about them. They say that Liverpool would fall into the sea if the Liverbirds flew away …. so I tell Jack stories about the time when the Liverbirds flew away and the city collapsed into the Mersey. He cried for hours when I told him about how everyone in Liverpool nearly drowned. I felt so guilty that I told him that the Liverbirds had flown to every country and city around the world, but had come home to Liverpool because they couldn't find anywhere better. So everybody in Liverpool was saved, and didn't drown - and they all lived happily ever after. That made Jack dry his tears and smile again. Yep …. everything's going good! That might be' cause I turned fifteen the other day - and my luck's changing … no prezzies though. Penny Salerno has started looking at me again, even smiling sometimes! She's still not letting me walk her home from school yet though, but I'm working on it. Anthony and Susan still have me round for my tea twice a week, and they let Jack come too! And me and Jack go to Ray's house every Sunday and take my dog Regal for a dead long walk. Ray says Regal crashes out for about 24 hours after I've walked him on Sundays …. He's a card that dog! And today the sun was shining (a bit) … A good feeling! I'm happy ….. me and Jack and the people of Liverpool are happy, 'cause the Liverbirds are sitting pretty on top of the Liverbuildings, watching over us all! Me ma did come home … eventually. She was half cut and had a job to climb the stairs to bed. I'd been listening out for her most of the night, so eased myself off the floor with my bad ribs when I heard the door go. It was nearly five in the morning, but that was nothing new for me ma. Jack (the kid) was sleeping like a log so I caught me ma on the landing as she staggered to her bedroom. Her eyes couldn't focus on me properly, but she opened them wider as if she suddenly knew what I was on about,' Oh, the kid! 'She pushed passed me to her bedroom, slurring back to me …' Binny's …. it's Binny's'. This tiny kid, fast asleep on my bed … How could he be Binny's kid? I was so mad with me ma and Binny that I didn't go back to sleep.. I just sat there watching Jack sleeping. Next morning me and Jack were up and out by nine o 'clock … I had
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it in my head that I'd take him down the cop shop and hand him in; I can't let the poor little get be dragged up by a piss head like Binny! But Jack was so excited when he saw the wheel again by the Echo Arena, I just had to give him a go. As we went round and round on the Wheel looking over the city (three times), I watched his dirty little face light up as we looked down at the tiny people on the ground. I suddenly felt sick and sad all at the same time …. It was me I could see in this kid; this kid was ME when I was his age … And I'd never wish that on anyone. After the scran I took the kid for a walk down by the dock. He'd started talking, and he'd said his name was Jack and he was five. He didn't look five, so I don't know if he was telling the truth, or whether he was too young to know how old he was. We sat by the Mersey and looked out at the lights. I made sure Jack sat further back so he wouldn't fall in. I'd forgotten how much I loved the docks, especially at night. I used to come here every day but hadn't been here for months. I love this city as much as I love Penny Salerno … and I felt I was losing both. Jack seemed much happier now, in fact he wouldn't shut up about the lights and the reflections in the water. But I knew exactly where he was coming from … I felt the same way about it. No matter how much shite this world throws at you, just sitting on that dock staring out over the River Mersey makes you forget about it …. I can't explain why, but it does. The house was still cold and dark when we got back at nine o 'clock, so I let Jack look at the pics in my National Geographic mags. He fell asleep on the bed about five minutes later. I put a blanket over him and then took some painkillers the hozzy had given me before lying on my back on the floor (couldn't lie any other way' cause of my ribs … they were in bulk). Three Days I was lying in that hospital bed … Three days! And it was the best three days I've had in ages! Nurses giving me dinner, helping me out of the bed to go for a waz, and all the tele I could watch on a screen above the bed. You were supposed to pay for the tele, but as they couldn't get hold of me ma for three days they clubbed to together and paid for the service. I could even press a button which made the bed go up and down … People slag off the National Health Service, but I couldn't fault it! It was a million times better than being at home. The Bizzies came round to ask about the attack. I decided to tell them that I didn't know who the lads were who I got a beating from, and that I didn't see their faces, and I couldn't tell their ages. I made that decision 'cause I knew the lads were something to do with Penny Salerno's cousins, and thought it might be best to deal with them myself. I'd been in Whiston hospital for three nights when me ma turned up. I wasn't pleased to see her, and she was well put out that she had to get the bus up to the hozzy. She came in the ward all crying and giving me cuddles, saying she'd been dead worried about me. But as soon as the nurse wasn't looking she was in my face telling me I'm a selfish little bastard, and if it wasn't for social services on her back she'd have left me there longer' cause she's a busy woman, and she'll lose money over this. I don't know what money she's on about, 'cause she doesn't even work. In front of the nurses me ma gave me a plazzy bag with clothes in, saying she'd brought me fresh clothes to go home in. I emptied the bag on the bed.. it was a pair of my dirty jeans, a teeshirt and a pair of undies. The teeshirt wasn't mine, and the undies defo weren't mine, but at least they were clean. Favourite? I haven't got a favourite.. she doesn't bleedin' cook! Then I realised what she was up to.. this posh looking woman was from social services. She asked me how my home life was, and if I was being looked after properly. At first I wanted to say that my homelife was shite, and that if a cold, dark house, with no food in the cupboards, and a mother who takes root in the pub is being looked after properly, then I'm doing just great. But I knew that if I told the truth I'd be back in care again.. and I hated that even more than having to look after myself at home. And who'd look out for me ma if I wasn't around? I'm sure she'd
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be dead by now if I didn't check up on her. So I said everything's fine. The hozzy said to me ma that they wouldn't let me go unless I was going in a car or a taxi, 'cause I was still in a lot of pain with my ribs, and my eyes looked like I'd made an enemy of Tyson. Me ma told them that we were getting a taxi. She lied. We walked down to the bus stop and I had to stand in pain as I waited for the bus. She was well pissed off that she had to pay the busfare for me, but I was popping pills the hozzy had given me to ease the pain in my ribs, so I just kept quiet. When I got home I had to go and lie down' cause my ribs were in bulk and I was hoping I'd sleep so it would ease the pain. After about an hour of drifting in and out of sleep, and hallucinating about Penny Salerno kissing my swollen face (and then heading down towards my painful ribs), I woke up 'cause I could hear crying. I eased myself off the bed and went onto the landing. At first I thought I was still dreaming - maybe the painkillers were too strong. But there, sitting on the stairs was a kid. He couldn't have been more than three. He was staring at the front door and quietly crying for his dad. I walked down the stairs and stood in front of him - he stopped crying when he saw me.' Hello! Who are you? 'I said dead gently. The kid had dirty trails down his face from the tears, and looked suspicious of me. I checked the house, but there was no sign of anyone. I went up to my room, took some stash from my secret savings (which I got for Chrimbo off Anthony), and I put my hand out for the kid to take hold of. This was an emergency and so I could use my stash. The kid held my hand tightly and didn't say a word as I lead him out of the house and down the road to the sit - in chippy. We sat in there with a minced beef pie and chips each, and two cokes, and the kid scoffed the lot without speaking a word. I didn't have a clue who this kid was, but it warmed my heart to see him scoffing like that. I have to say, my pie and chips tasted so good, I treated myself to a pickled egg and one for the kid (the kid didn't want one, so I had two). Tell me this, right? If you were walking passed someone who was getting beaten to a pulp by two Italian mafiosos, one with a knife … what would you do?? Would you stop and jump in there to help, or would you pretend that you didn't see it, and walk on by? I ask the question' cause I'm lying in this hospital bed with a broken nose and five broken ribs wondering how the f & ck can people walk straight passed something like that in broad daylight, and pretend nothing's happening. Life and the people in it surprise me everyday … Rate this: Happy New Year - I'm not dead yet! Just want to say to all you lot out there …. Happy New Year to yez all! As Mr. Butcher, our Religious Education teacher always says.. what doesn't kill you makes you stronger! (He's dead boss for an R. E. teacher - he tells jokes and everything!) Can't believe Chrimbo's just days away. It's a whole year since I robbed that Chrimbo tree from someone's garden and put it in our living room! Can't believe it's already time to go and rob another one. Our house has got no Chrimbo decos; me ma celebrates Chrimbo by drinking double what she usually does, and staying out for even longer than normal. So it's my job to make the house look brighter and Christmasy. It's dark when I leave school now, so the day before yesterday I went walking down the posh street where I robbed that dead nice tree from last year. They put loads of Chrimbo lights outside their houses and it looks dead boss. One house had a little steam train made of coloured lights on their garden - I really wished we could have that outside ours. But next to the steam train was a small, fat Chrimbo tree in a pot - just perfect for our living room. I noticed the house still had their curtains open, so I had to be careful when I bunked into their garden. The lights from the steam train made it hard for me to hide, but there were loads of bushes for me to stoop behind. The only problem with nicking Chrimbo trees out of gardens is that they always have lights on them! Have you tried to untangle those lights? It's not easy you know! Anyway, I could see there were people wandering around the living room inside the house, so I really had to be extra careful. I stooped by the side of the tree and started to pull the lights off, but they weren't budging. So then
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I had the bright idea of getting my flicky out (which I've started carrying for when Zani's lads come and kick my head in) and started cutting the wire to the lights so I could just carry the whole tree away in the pot with the lights still attached (it's less hassle than untangling them!). As I cut the wire, the lights went out and the tree was dark - but I wasn't expecting such a dramatic impact from light to dark in the garden - somehow it made the steam train lights go out too, and all the other Chrimbo lights in the garden. This was VERY noticable! I saw a face of a woman in the window.. she was staring out onto the garden but I don't think she could see anything with it being so dark. Then the light came on in the hall, and the door opened. I don't mind telling you that I nearly shit myself! Some fella came out onto the path from the house and stared into the garden.. he stood there for a life time (I reckon), and I hid at the back of the small tree, not even breathing. I was dead made up when he turned and started walking back into the house shouting 'Must be the fuse'. He shut the door behind him as he went in. I thought I've only got seconds to carry the tree away before he's back out wondering what else is causing the blackout, so I picked up the tree in the pot (it was like a lead weight) and staggered across the garden onto the pavement. It was then I saw the kid in the window … he was about four, and was sitting on the back of the settee staring at the dark garden. I stopped and put the heavy pot down. I could see his bottom lip going as he looked out at the blackness. Tears rolled down his face as he started sobbing; I could even hear him from the other side of the window. It broke my heart … How could I take his Chrimbo tree away? Call me stupid, but I had to put it back. So I staggered back into the garden with the tree in the pot. I was just putting it back where I found it when the outside light came on and the front door flung open. There was I, caught red - handed; bending over the Chrimbo tree. I couldn't move …. I just stared at the fella in the doorway (I didn't know what else to do). He stared back. There's only one thing for it.. I'm going have to do the decent thing and pay for a tree off Greaty Market this year … I can't have a crying kid on my conscience! I've had two weeks of Zani's heavies' giving me the evils across the bacon butties at Greaty Market. Last week one of the dickheads was even hard - faced enough to buy a coffee from me! I tried to make out like I didn't know who he was, but he was staring at me the whole time, and he could see I was shitting myself. I was hoping he'd look away so I could gob in his black coffee, but he was watching me like a hawk. It's been a few weeks and still they haven't pounced yet … but they're there every Saturday, staring at me near the stall opposite. I don't know what their game is but I know it's not tiddlywinks! I've started clearing up with Pete at the end of the day, and shutting up the van with him.. that way he feels like he has to offer me a lift home, even though it's in the other direction from where he's going. I did such a boss job on The Butty Van (that's what the burger van in Greaty Market is called), Pete, the owner, asked if I wanted a job! Every Saturday I'm working from ten till four on the van. He gives me forty nicker in my hand. If the bizzies turn up and I haven't ducked in time, then I have to say Pete is my uncle, and I'm just helping him out for free. Sorted! 🙂 NOW I've finally got the money to take Penny Salerno out, but she won't talk to me ever since I accidentally gave her cousin Zani a scouse kiss! I've knocked at her house twice, and tried to talk to her at school, but she just said I'm not the lad she thought I was. I've tried to explain that Zani had robbed my sales, and that I hadn't meant to headbutt him; my head had just met with the bit between his eyes that's all. But Penny won't have none of it, she just says she doesn't even want to look at me. She says I broke his nose! I tried to explain that I didn't mean to (even if he did deserve it!). I've been wondering why I haven't had a knock on the door from the bizzies for assault. Then, on Saturday while I was doling out a bacon and egg roll with mushrooms to a customer on The Butty Van, I noticed two fellas
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in their twenties giving me the evils near the stall opposite. They stood there for about five minutes before whistling over to me. When I looked up one of them pretended to slice his throat with his hand before they walked away. I don't mind telling you, I wasn't feeling too good when I walked home off the van, especially now it's getting darker earlier. But there was no sign of anyone on my way home. I'd never seen the fellas before, but I bet you a burger and chips that they were Mafioso related to Zani, and I don't want to be waking up with a horse's head in my bed! (I've seen The Godfather!)
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