zeroto60andbeyond

Charles Dickens and Equality in Our Lifetime

2012-02-09T15:48:00.000-05:00

This week marked the 200^th anniversary of Charles Dickens birth. I've always liked Mr. Dickens. Even though he was only in Philadelphia once (I missed that one), briefly, we have a statue of him and Little Nell, plus several fan clubs.

My friend Elizabeth wrote a tribute, on her blog, to Dickens that included this familiar quote from A Tale of Two Cities:

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going directly to Heaven, we were all going the other way.”

This got me thinking on so many levels about how this relates to the times we are living in today... you know?

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”... particularly if you are a woman.

Why, in this age of instant news and information sharing do we have to ceaselessly fight for equality? Fight for the simple right of control over our own bodies? Fight for equal pay for equal work?

“It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness”...

Hilary Clinton/ Michele Bachmann... Ellen Degeneres and JC Penney/ One Million Moms.

“It was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity”...

Believing the charity you supported to obliterate breast cancer really cared about women’s health only to discover to our shock and amazement they cared more about political views, copyrights and money.

“It was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness”...

This is the election season in the States and it has shone Light on so much Darkness for women it’s frightening.

I mentioned in a previous post how domestic abuse laws have so very far to go toward treating violence as violence no matter who’s the victim. In New Hampshire the republican legislature has introduced a domestic violence law that would be worse than my experience in 1967.

“It was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair”...

The Arab spring gave the world so much hope and now we are seeing the despair of those who have no knowledge of how to create a democracy.

We see, in so many parts of the world, the total domination of women on so many levels. I believe when the women in these repressed countries can reach a modicum of equality the world will begin to see their light and we will all benefit.

“We had everything before us, we had nothing before us”...

So many times throughout history women have been euphoric over victories toward equality only to find yet another roadblock around the corner.

“We were all going to Heaven, we were all going the other way”...

If we don’t find a way to live as equals and to allow each other the freedom to be who we are this will truly come to pass.

I welcome your thoughts on this.

Politics and Right Wing Nuts

2012-02-03T14:41:00.000-05:00

I've admitted to being an optimist and it’s true. When things go wrong or something bad happens I’m always looking for the reason, the lesson, so I can move forward.

That said... there are many things that make my blood boil, raise my blood pressure, drive me nuts. It happens a lot in election years and this is one of the worst. Daily there are veins bulging and practically exploding out of my head in anger at the insanity going on in my country.

Often I can find the humor in the lunacy called political discourse, like Donald Trump endorsing Mitt Romney for example. As John Stewart pointed out on The Daily Show ‘Rich Man, Richer Man’... both love to fire people and couldn’t care less about the poor.

Romney was a moderate republican governor in Massachusetts. Health care reform that Obama pushed through was largely modeled after the plan Romney implemented there. Now Romney’s against it.

You can’t be a moderate republican anymore. Everyone is cow towing to the radical right wing... the minority who really want a theocracy instead of a democracy... the people who want to dictate who we can marry, how we use birth control, and outlaw abortion for any reason.

Here’s a short story that personally spoke to me about abortion:

My brother moved out west to live with his father when he was in high school. In the middle of his senior year he suddenly dropped out of school because his fifteen year old girlfriend was pregnant. The two kids had full intentions of getting married!

I was the first person in my entire family to graduate from high school. I had very high hopes for my brothers to follow in and exceed my footsteps. This was not part of the plan!

It reached a point where the girl’s mother demanded she get an abortion. Dave and I focused on trying to reason with my brother. We went through every scenario we could think of, beginning with the question... “How do you expect to support this family?”

He intended to move back to the little town in Michigan, that he had run from, and work at a friend’s gas station. Get a small apartment... maybe a 2^nd job... go on welfare if necessary.

The next day Dave (who worked in retail) came home with a list of necessities for an infant and the cost. We called my brother and went through the list. If I recall correctly disposable diapers for a month would exceed his earnings. He was undaunted. Love would sustain them.

Finally I reminded him of our own childhood. As bad as it got we didn’t live on welfare, which I always felt would make our bad situation much worse. Did he not want better for his own child than the life he had?

He felt abortion was killing a child. My response was, “There is more than one way to kill a child and in my opinion aborting a fetus is preferable to having the child wish someday he’d never been born.”

She had the abortion and they promptly broke up, which we knew would happen.

Let me say, I am NOT pro-abortion. I don’t know anyone who is, frankly. I thank God I never had to make that choice, but I stand for the right of every woman to have that choice.

I’ve written about gay marriage, which is another primary issue with the far right wing nuts. “It will destroy the sanctity of marriage.” Yeah? Tell that to Mr. Gingrich, who apparently has a high esteem for the institution.

The point is this... when these very personal issues become part of our politics we lose a bit of our soul. When there’s no compassion, no empathy for what others are going through what have we become? You can't know everyone's circumstances so don't judge.

Despite how these zealots like to quote the bible they seem to miss the most important lesson from that book, in my opinion, which is the golden rule. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

It helps to get this kind of thing off your chest... I feel better now. Your turn... tell me how you feel... let it out.

There is Always a Silver Lining!

2012-01-31T10:51:00.000-05:00

The entire Worst Step-father EVER series was very difficult for me to write. It was a lifetime ago and yet as I wrote it seemed like yesterday. I felt it was something I had to get out. It speaks to domestic abuse better than anything I could imagine and though I would like to believe we have learned from our mistakes over the past forty + years it seems we haven’t.

I will continue to shed light on this issue that plagues not just the United States but the World. I hope you will join me in standing up for the victims of abuse and share with me your stories and any information you would like to reveal, either here on the blog or on the facebook page.

As the tag line of this blog states, I have kept a positive attitude and sense of humor throughout my life. I’m often asked how anyone could go through some of the experiences I’ve had and stay upbeat. It’s something I’ve questioned often.

While watching Oprah’s special with the cast of Roots I was stunned by something Cicily Tyson said and how it may be the best explanation I’ve ever heard for anyone who survives adversity and thrives. I will paraphrase it for you...

“The sum total of my life experience profited more from the negative than the positive. When I was able to survive and reach another level it gave me more strength and confidence and enriched my life more.

The negative experiences helped me use it as a positive... you survive stronger, richer, fuller... more in touch with what God wants you to be in touch with.

You survive and once you survive you are on another level, because you’ve come through that storm. Storms are stimulating.”

So profound! It absolutely sang to me! This is how life works sometimes if you are able to receive the message. We are all tested. Some tests are harder than others. The big question is what have you learned from it. How has it made you stronger, richer, fuller, and more in touch with what you were put on this earth to be?

I am happy to be the guest in Daisy Hickman’s SunnyRoom Studio today speaking about being a cock-eyed optimist. I hope you will stop over there and tell me what you think. And as always I welcome your input here.

Thanks for all the sharing and tweeting! I really appreciate it. If you haven’t joined the facebook page, please do! We will keep the conversation going there.

The Worst Step-Father EVER, the END

2012-01-29T16:16:00.000-05:00

The worst was over. Mom told me she had filed the police report after the cooling off period. I felt safe at my aunt and uncle’s home.

A few weeks went by and mom drove up to my uncle’s house in the station wagon. Les’ station wagon. My heart sank.

She told me she was going to get groceries but instead she was lured into a bullshit... “I’m so sorry baby... I swear I will never hurt you again baby... please take me back and let me prove it...” rendezvous.

Sadly this is so typical. You can free your body long before you can free your mind from an abusive relationship. The mind keeps reeling you back in. You don’t want to believe he was, perhaps, trying to kill you. No one ever wants to believe anything so heinous about someone they want to love.

I freaked out. I told her I wasn’t going back and I wouldn’t let her take the kids. It was quickly pointed out I had no right to prevent her from taking the kids. I had to go to protect them.

My uncle drove back with us. He had a message for Les and it was actually fun to watch. My uncle was a big guy. Les was about 5’10” and weighed about 140lb. As Les sat in a kitchen chair with his skinny legs twisted in a knot, the conversation went something like this...

“You want a fight?”

“No sir.”

“Of course you don’t want to fight a man, you cowardly son of a bitch, you prefer to beat up on women and children!”

“No, sir I don’t.”

“But you did.”

“I lost my mind and I apologized and will never lay a hand...”

“If you EVER even think about touching anyone in this house again I will personally come here and beat you within an inch of your miserable life.”

“I swear...”

“Do you understand me?!”

“Yes sir.”

As with most reconciliation there is a very short honeymoon period. Within a week the head games were starting all over again. I alerted my uncle.

With some outside help we were able to convince mom she was living with a ticking time bomb. We finally made the permanent move.

As I mentioned in the beginning of this series, I have no degree in psychology but life has made me an expert on Battered Woman Syndrome. Ironically that term didn’t even exist in the ‘60’s.

Research shows that violence begets violence. I’m certain my grandfather was beaten as a child and raised with the mantra ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’. He, in turn, carried that tradition forward. He never laid a hand on my grandmother but the kids got severe beatings.

As a female child, being beaten by her father, mom believed it was ok to beat your kids. She also believed if you were being mistreated by a man it must be your fault.

Here are the four stages of BWS:

1) Denial. Making excuses for the abuser’s behavior.

2) Guilt. The victim blames themselves... if I try harder, etc.

3) Enlightenment. The light bulb begins to flicker... recognize it’s his fault but hope he’ll change.

4) Responsibility. Begin to take steps to leave. Realize only he can fix it.

Battered Woman Syndrome is a form of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I’m sure it’s because living in a violent home feels like living in a war zone.

It astounds me how society and the laws governing society look at this type of violence differently than someone beaten up in a bar fight.

We had an incident recently in my city of a young man leaving a bar, hailing a cab, the cab didn’t stop and he yelled an obscenity, another car came up and three men got out and beat the guy to death. A reward for tips leading to those responsible was posted immediately. The men were brought in and now will face trial.

On any given night in our fair city, or yours, a woman is beaten within a breath of her life by her significant other and then left with the onus of proving it.

Republicans in the state of New Hampshire have proposed legislation that would require a warrant be issued in domestic abuse cases unless the police officer called to the scene witnesses the act of abuse. Welcome back to 1967. I thought this post on The Frisky blog explained it in real terms.

If that law had been in place there would have been no point in me trying to call the police at 3am. No judge is getting out of bed to issue a warrant in the middle of the night for a 'domestic dispute'.

As mom and I sat in front of a police officer the morning after, stitched and patched back together, it wouldn’t have mattered because he didn’t witness anything. This proposed law is worse than having a waiting period. It destroys what little hope an abused woman has of anyone coming to her aid.

We, here in the U.S., have no solid national laws governing domestic violence so I feel we must all take a good hard look at this and bring the ugliness into the light. New Hampshire isn’t the only state out of touch with this issue. Find out where your state stands. This site may help.

I’ll explore this further in future posts and welcome your input. Thanks for all your support throughout this uncomfortable series. I truly appreciate it.

The Worst Step-Father EVER, part 4

2012-01-23T13:15:00.000-05:00

We had moved on in silence, yet again, and were preparing for the new school year, shopping for clothes and supplies, etc. I was looking forward to my senior year.

About a month before school started Les pulled another disappearing act. He worked for the newspaper, in their printing plant, and the union went on strike. There had been a lot of discussions between mom and Les about the what-ifs prior to the strike.

He mentioned several of the guys at work were going to take positions in St. Louis or Cincinnati if they could get in. He never mentioned he was thinking about leaving for work elsewhere. He just left.

After a week mom was getting very nervous about the finances. She went to the bank and discovered Les had pulled out every last dime they had.

We were in full crisis mode now. My grandparents came to stay for a while, helping with groceries, kids, and keeping mom calm, etc. Granddaddy took mom to the welfare office to see if we could get aid for dependent children and food stamps. It was the first time she’d ever had to do such a thing. She was humiliated and beaten down by the entire process. I truly felt sorry for her.

School began and Les was still gone. Mom had to go back to work. The only thing she really knew how to do was tend bar. She found a truck stop on the state line that hired her. I was babysitting again. We managed.

A few weeks after mom started her job Les came back. No warning, no fanfare, no explanation. I came home from school and there he was. I wanted to throw up.

They both looked like they’d been crying. The newspaper strike had ended and he was back at his old job. She insisted she was going to keep her job and he wasn’t thrilled about it. I knew this was going to be trouble.

A few nights later I woke up to a loud banging and mom screaming. I ran out of my room and saw him beating her head against the closet door. I immediately ran to the kitchen to call the police. I didn’t have a chance to dial before he came up and grabbed the receiver from me and punched me in the stomach with it.

Mom came running in yelling at him and the next thing I knew we were both against the wall and he was beating the crap out of us. I remembered someone telling me once if a man attacks you knee him in the groin. That was impossible because he was dancing around like Ali and we were trapped.

Then, as if someone turned a switch, he stopped and walked out of the kitchen. I looked at mom. Her face was a mess. She was bleeding around her mouth and had at least one black eye. I led her to a stool at the kitchen counter.

As I stood on the opposite side of the counter looking at her I opened a drawer and saw the meat tenderizer (a metal hammer like utensil with sharp teeth on one side). I seriously considered pulling it out and whacking him over the head with it. Then a thought ran through my head... what if you miss? He would have killed me with it, I’m sure.

As I was having these thoughts he came back into the kitchen and began making coffee as if nothing had happened. I said, “Come on mom, let’s get out of here.”

He said, “Yeah, you better get out of here.” And out of my smart-ass mouth, as I reached down to retrieve a shred from my nightgown, came “Right!”

He was right on my heels and when I reached my room he spun me around and punched me square in the nose. Blood was spurting out all over me and I was sure it was broken. He turned around and walked away.

As mom and I sat there looking at each other, trying to figure out what to do he walked back in and said to mom, “I think you’d better come to bed now.”

“I can’t leave her like this.” She said.

“She’ll live.” He said.

I told her to go because I knew it would only get worse if she didn’t.

I snuck into the boys’ room and found them huddled together in one bed scared out of their minds. I tried to assure them we would be fine but I hadn’t looked at myself in the mirror yet. When I did it was obvious my appearance hadn’t reassured them!

Les was the only one who slept that night. He got up showered, had his coffee, read the paper, and left for work like nothing had happened. As soon as he was gone I called my uncle who came immediately and took us to the hospital first and police station second.

Mom had a broken jaw. They wired it back together and patched her up. My nose, thank God, wasn’t broken but they were concerned about internal bruising in my abdomen. We were given medication and left.

The trip to the police was much less helpful. We spoke to a very nice policeman who displayed as much sympathy as he could muster but ultimately couldn’t do anything. We learned our state had a 48hr. waiting period for domestic abuse cases. “In case the ‘little lady’ changes her mind”!

We went home, packed some things and moved in with my aunt and uncle until we could figure out what to do next.

I would love to tell you that the laws regarding domestic abuse have improved since 1967 but I can’t. I’ll get into this further at the end of this series.

The Worst Step-Father EVER, part 3

2012-01-18T10:51:00.002-05:00

The raw emotions everyone was left with after the baby’s death were never dealt with. After a while things seemed to be back to our cracked normal and life went on.

I was still adjusting to a step- brother who was physically my size but four years younger. The night came when we had an ugly incident and things got physical...

We had been blithely going through our day to day ignoring the elephant in the room. Step-brother knew his father fairly well. I was trying to ignore everyone, deal with school and enjoy my respite from responsibility.

One Friday night mom and Les were going out and leaving me in charge. It had been quite a while since the summer ugliness and I honestly felt mom deserved a night out.

I settled in to watch TV and step-brother changed the channel. The gauntlet was thrown. (I was 5’2” and weighed about 90lb. soaking wet, he was a bit shorter but beefy.) I told him to change it back and he said, “Make me.”

Somehow in the back of my head I had anticipated this for months. We weren’t close. In fact I don’t believe we ever had an honest one on one discussion about anything since he'd arrived.

The craziness that was July had been swept under the rug and all of us had unresolved issues. We were living the lie, as opposed to living the dream, so to speak.

With all the pent up anxiety it didn’t take long for this to turn very ugly. He punched me and it was on. I went to my room, got the heaviest belt I owned, and proceeded to show him who was in charge. I’m not proud of it but boundaries needed to be established.

To my amazement he never said a word to anyone. Somehow in a heated, physical battle between two kids trying to make sense of the insanity they were living in came understanding... even a bond. It was as if we had taken out all our frustrations on each other and came to a mutual respect. In a way we became allies in our strange world.

Shortly after school started, my junior year in high school, Les threw us another curve. Just as he had taken it upon himself to announce our move to the house we were in he decided to take it a step further.

In the middle of dinner on a night he had come in whistling, a night we were relaxed... defenses down... he announced he’d bought a house. We were moving to another state.

No one was more surprised than my mother. She asked, “Why? We’re all very happy here.”

“It was time to buy a house and you will all be happy in it.” He said. Then got up, left the table and all the gaping mouths behind him.

The next day he came home in a new station wagon. Apparently he was intending to become a true suburbanite. He took my mother up to see the new house, leaving the rest of us to wonder. She came home very excited.

“Barb, I am telling you this is the nicest house you’ve ever seen!” she said.

Somehow I knew the physical house couldn’t make the fractured souls living in it whole. Like lipstick on a pig, as they say. Within weeks we were crossing the state line and moving this train wreck.

It was, in fact, a brand new, contemporary ranch house. It had a cathedral ceiling in the living room, large eat-in kitchen, one full and one half bath with a new washer and dryer in it. There were three bedrooms on one side of the house. I had the front corner between the older boys’ room and the master bedroom. There was a small study on the other side of the house they turned into a bedroom for my baby brother who was almost two when we moved in.

Mom was in her glory! You’ve never seen a more devoted domestic diva in your life. She had a big kitchen to cook and bake in, she was washing and ironing daily, she started gardening... it was overkill.

Everyone settled into their respective schools. Life seemed calm. We had lived with the psychological abuse for over a year but the only physical abuse had been on his return from the honeymoon for one so, I think, we were lulled into a false sense of security.

One evening, as we sat having dinner together, Les seemed stranger than usual. He never seemed normal to me, but this was different. Then step-brother reached for a second pork chop and all hell broke loose.

Les jumped up, grabbed the kid by his shirt and slammed him into the wall. When he crumpled to the floor Les kicked him then dragged him into his bedroom and continued beating him. We had no idea what the hell brought it on, nor did we dare to interfere.

My little brother was clinging to the back of his chair looking completely terrified, which we all were. I disliked Les and never trusted him before that day but hadn’t physically feared him. Now the fear in that house was so palpable you had to force your way through it.

A Better Place To Be

2012-01-16T15:21:00.005-05:00

Thought we'd take a short break from the Worst Step-Father series and enjoy one of the best story tellers that ever lived, in my opinion.

I love music. All kinds of music. Well, maybe not Rap, but I don’t consider that really music. Just my opinion, don’t want to offend any Kanye or Eminem fans.

I’ve gradually gotten the iPod fully loaded with our extensive collection of cd’s so we can listen to music any time and any place. From Classical to Rock to Jazz, Country and Blues... we have a lot of choices.

Our music collection goes a long way back and sometimes you stumble on an artist or an album you’d almost forgotten about. It’s like finding gold! That is exactly what happened the other night.

One of our favorite genres is Singer/Songwriters. You know I love a good story. The compliments that resonate with me, and all writers, are about how the reader felt they were in the room with me, or they could ‘picture it’. Now put that to music!

Harry Chapin is, hands down, one of the best story tellers that ever lived. We were so fortunate to have seen him in person. I remember how shocked I was to hear of his untimely death in a car accident on the Long Island Expressway in 1981. Makes me wonder how many more amazing pictures he could have painted with his words and music if he were still with us.

‘A Better Place to Be’ is one of my favorite Harry Chapin stories. If you haven’t heard it before, take a moment... close your eyes... relax and watch this little movie unfold in your mind’s eye.

Enjoy!

Who's one of your favorite singer/songwriters?

The Worst Step-Father EVER, part 2

2012-01-12T15:25:00.000-05:00

As I’ve mentioned before... my mother couldn’t get enough of the abusive guys and treated the nice guys like dirt. It’s a common pattern of a daughter abused by her father.

She hit pay dirt with # 4! After the awkward realization (immediately after the wedding) he would come and go as he pleased, and heaven help you if you questioned it, she really had her hands full. Add to that she was pregnant and you’ve got the perfect storm.

Shortly after they married he came home and announced he’d found a nice house with more room and we would be moving the next week! No discussion, no concern about changing schools mid-year, it was done. I was relieved to learn it was a good school district since this would be my thirteenth school in nine years.

It was a ranch house in a typical suburban neighborhood with a large back yard for the kids. We were hopeful. Les had been well behaved and mom quit her job. She totally immersed herself in becoming a housewife. This was a first.

As odd as living with Les was, things started to seem normal. At least as normal as they ever got. He had a good job, which eliminated the money stress, and mom was actually staying home with her little ones and letting me out of the house once in a while to be with friends.

The illusion of calm made it easier to adapt to his moods when he came home from work. If he was whistling as he walked in the door we exhaled... if not we braced ourselves. He was occasionally MIA but we never discussed it. See? Just like ‘Father Knows Best’!

One afternoon as I walked in the door after school there was a quiet discussion going on at the kitchen table. It seemed very serious but not heated. A little while later we were having a family powwow.

Les had two sons with his first wife. This was news to me. The youngest was in a home, of some sort, in Georgia. The older boy was coming to live with us. He was ten years old and the ex-wife threatened to put him in the home if Les didn’t take him. Nice. The step-brother arrived within a week.

Over the summer my brother was diagnosed with a double hernia. He was only four so the doctor felt he would sail right through it. We scheduled the surgery for mid-July.

This was 1964 and any surgery was, on average, a five day stay. His surgery was Tuesday morning. On Tuesday afternoon my mother was rushed to a different hospital due to vaginal bleeding. They had to deliver the baby and hope for the best. She’d had three cesarean births and with this one the uterine scar was rupturing.

He was three months premature, weighed 3lb. 2oz. and lived less than 48hrs. Today that would be considered a robust preemie and I’m sure he would have survived. God truly works in mysterious ways.

The logistics of that week were mind boggling. Brother admitted Monday, surgery Tuesday morning, emergency C-section Tuesday afternoon, baby died early Thursday, brother released Friday, baby’s funeral Saturday, mom home Monday.

I didn’t visit mom and never saw the baby. Not because I didn’t want to but because it wasn’t possible. I truly felt sorry for her and sad about the loss. I wasn’t sure how she would handle it. My grandparents, aunt and uncle and I had been on a rotation staying at the hospital with my brother or taking care of the other two boys.

Unlike any other time in my life mom was desperately trying to be a good wife and mother. This was foreign to her and I appreciated her effort. She was learning how to cook and baked a cake every Friday night. Les loved chocolate cake and she wanted him happy. It seemed unfair that she lost the baby... but I do believe it was a blessing for the baby.

The day she came home Les announced, “We are not going to talk about this... ever.” That’s easier said than done when you have other children trying to understand what happened. I told them the baby had gone to Heaven and we didn’t want to upset mom by asking a lot of questions. They never mentioned it in front of her.

A month later I came home from a date to find mom sitting in the middle of the living room floor surrounded by photographs. She was sobbing uncontrollably and I immediately went to her. She just swept her arms out at the array of photographs all over the floor and looked at me like a wounded animal. They were photos of the baby and the funeral.

Apparently they had gotten into an argument and as he was walking out the door he threw the pictures at her. I was stunned. What kind of evil son of a bitch does something like that? He didn’t come home for three days.

The Worst Step-Father EVER

2012-01-09T16:19:00.000-05:00

I've told you about Scotty, the Best Step-father Ever, in previous posts. Before Scotty there was the Worst Step-father Ever.

This is Scotty... THE Best!

I have no degree in any form of psychology. I'm just an intimate observer of battered woman syndrome and this series will shed some light on that.

I don't know the reason my parents split up after a year of marriage but the fact that they were seventeen and twenty with a tenth grade education probably had a lot to do with it.

I don’t remember much about the second husband. I spent most of their two years together living with my grandparents. On their wedding night we learned he was abusive and didn’t like children. The next day he said, “The kid goes or I go.” I’m grateful my grandparents were there for me.

I was five when Al, her third husband, came into our lives and thirteen when he was banished. I had seen my mother taunt him with her behavior and cheating over the years and watched him keep coming back for more. In spite of their tumultuous relationship he was a good and loving father to his son, to me, and to her illegitimate son he gave his name to.

She was never long without a man in her life. Always searching for the love she'd never felt from her father. At the ripe old age of thirty mom was looking for her fourth husband.

Let’s start with a positive, shall we? It was Les, the fourth husband, who verified my instincts about people. I had him pegged the moment I laid eyes on him.

He brought her home from work and walked her to the door. She introduced us and thankfully didn’t invite him in. When he left the first words from my mouth were, “Where did you find that bum?”

She was insulted! He was so smart, so sweet and nice to her, had a great job... yada yada yada. My gut said otherwise. There was something about his icy blue eyes and sideways smirk that whispered trouble.

We had just moved into an apartment in a decent area of town. I started 9^th grade at a new high school. In nine years this was the twelfth school I’d attended. Having a broad frame of reference, I felt it was a pretty good school.

Mom was working nights which meant I had to rush home from school. A neighbor had the boys for a couple of hours but couldn’t keep them past 3pm. No after school activities for me, but I was used to that.

Within weeks Les was around a lot. He had clearly been anointed the next in succession. I could not warm up to this guy at all but knew I was doomed to this fate.

We moved to a larger apartment around Christmas time. Les was spending most of his time with us so we needed more space. I would have preferred separate States, but any extra space was welcome.

He was very attentive to the baby but barely tolerant of the four year old. As for me, I believe we had a mutual distrust that grew over time. Keeping that in mind, you can only imagine how I took the news, in early February, that they were getting married. Seems ‘Mother of the Century’ was pregnant!

They chose Valentine’s Day for a civil ceremony early in the morning. Afterward Les went to work and later that day so did mom. It was just another Friday, or so it seemed.

Les never came home. Imagine the bride’s shock when she arrived back at the apartment at 2:15am to find her hubby had never returned from work! She woke me in a panic.

“Why didn’t you call to tell me he hadn’t come home?” she screamed.

“I didn’t realize I was babysitting your husband.” I replied, as I pulled the covers over my head, hoping he had changed his mind and left town for good.

In her total hysteria she began to call some of his co-workers. No one seemed to know anything. She called the police... no accidents reported. He wasn’t in any hospital in town. He was just gone.

She called in sick on Saturday and frequently checked in with his friends hoping they’d heard from him. Nothing.

I so wanted to say, “I told you he was a worthless bum!” but she was truly pathetic. I had never seen her so distraught. I’m sure the pregnancy played into the emotional aspect. I tried to keep my distance and keep the kids out of her way.

Around 3pm Sunday afternoon Les came waltzing in the door. We were frozen in anticipation. He seemed jovial and confused as to why she was so upset. When she mentioned she’d spoken to his friends and co-workers things got very scary.

He grabbed her by her hair virtually lifting her off the floor, pulling her head back to face him, and hissed through clenched teeth, “If you EVER do anything like that again you will live to regret it! Do you understand me?!”

She tried to explain her fear that something had happened to him and he cut her off. “My comings and goings are none of your goddamned business!”

And the games began!

A New Year full of Discipline and Organization?!

2012-01-06T11:08:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year! Welcome to 2012! It is now the sixth day of this New Year and I’m still trying to decide what, if anything, I really want to say about it.

Did you know Van Gogh completed a painting A DAY??

I’ve read many blogs in the past few days espousing resolutions/ anti-resolutions, a word for the coming year, how to live your best life... wait that was Oprah wasn’t it? You get the idea.

If you’re anything like me you’ve been there, done that. There is a word that I want to get to know better this year... discipline. I’m going to need discipline to achieve what I intend to achieve this year. Discipline isn’t something I’m intimate with.

Maybe it comes from the stubborn streak I was born with but I’ve always had difficulty being disciplined. Organized is another word I need to cozy up to this year. I tend to put discipline and organized into the same category... shoulds. They make me feel like I’m being told what to do, which I always resist.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some crazy renegade flying by the seat of my pants every day or anything like that. Wait... well, maybe a little bit. I’m not proud of it, mind you. If I have a project to get done I will get it done. If there’s a job I have to do I will do it. I’m not a shirker.

There’s a lot on the horizon this year for my blog, my art, The Book, The Blogstress Network (if you aren't familiar with TBN click here)... just to name a few at the tippy top of the list.

I have put the wheels in motion to redesign this blog and incorporate my art website, which makes perfect sense. I wish I’d thought of it sooner but I've already told you I’m not terribly disciplined or organized.

The Book is always evolving. I work on it morning, noon, and night, awake and asleep. Some of the best times are the 3am’s when I can’t get back to sleep until I write. If only everything else would take care of itself that way. Did that sound lazy?

I have this on my desk to remind me to laugh... never fails!

As we enter 2012 I find myself the ‘Last Administrator Standing’ for The Blogstress Network. It’s all good. I understand Lee and Doreen have other priorities and I am grateful for their continued input and support. They will remain an integral part of the network and beloved Founding Members. It was a joint effort with nothing but the highest expectations. We'll get through changes and it will take on its own life.

Life is very different this New Year from last. My husband retired and we now peacefully co-exist after a bit of a bumpy start. My father-in-law is failing, at 93, and will require more attention, which is scary. Some friends have moved away and others are moving soon. Life goes on.

I’m not complaining about any of it. I’ve said many times... the only constant in life is change. I truly believe and find that exhilarating. Looking back on 2011, especially with its miracles, I am excited for this year. Bring it!

I’m going to need discipline and organization to accomplish everything on my agenda this year. Maybe Dave would consider being my administrative assistant. Doubtful... he knows me too well.

For several years now my mantra has been to live in the moment and looking at this post I sense possible conflict. No matter... everything will work out exactly as it is supposed to. It always does.

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest! You are the best! What's on your agenda for 2012?

Do You Believe in Miracles?

2011-12-28T17:18:00.000-05:00

Looking back over my posts at the end of 2010 I must say things have indeed improved on many fronts. In My Gratitude List for 2010 I wrote about our dog, Sydney, being in the hospital with liver failure. She became our Christmas Miracle of 2010 and continues to thrive and delight us daily.

I truly believe in miracles because I live with two of them now, Sydney and my husband Dave who was the Christmas Miracle of 2000. You can read about Dave’s story in my eBook, While You Were Sleeping, a free download, but let me just relay some of the miraculous moments during that trying time.

My husband is a true ‘play by the rules’ kinda guy. He would never question authority even when his own life was on the line. He had been sick for several months. When I dropped him at the emergency room, on that Tuesday afternoon in November, I said, “Call me when they figure out what’s wrong with you.”

Twelve hours later, at 1:30am, he called and said, “Come get me.” I had just returned from San Francisco on the Red Eye the morning before and hadn’t gotten much sleep waiting to hear what was wrong. When he got in the car I said, “So, what’s up?”

“I have a ten centimeter mass of lymphoma in my stomach,” was his reply. Being exhausted and sleep deprived I couldn’t even process this was cancer. I said, “So what did they say you should do?”

He had asked the E.R. doc, “Who would you go to if you had lymphoma?”, and he got a name and number.

At 6am I heard him leaving for work. I decided whatever lymphoma was it must have spread to his brain already. I just shook my head and went back to sleep. He returned at 10am because his staff sent him home. The man was literally grey.

The first thing I asked was, “Did you call the doctor?”

“Yep,” he said, “they can’t see me until Monday.”

“Give me the number,” I said as I yanked it from his hand.

When I got the nurse on the phone I explained what the diagnosis was, and admitted my ignorance. “I’m not completely sure what this is but ten centimeters seems rather serious to me.” Fortunately she agreed.

“Can you be here in 45 minutes?” she asked. “I can be there in 10.” I said.

The oncologist on duty that day was the head of the practice. He examined Dave and sent him directly to the surgeon to schedule the operation ASAP.

A month later he was still in CCU but improving. My son and his wife ran into the oncologist one evening at the hospital and he spoke about how I had played on his nurse’s sympathy the day of the exam. Then he said, “It was a good thing because he probably wouldn’t have lived ‘til Monday.”

The miraculous part of this story isn’t just his survival, it was also about how grateful we were that something so frightening, cancer, had entered our lives. It changed everything.

After six weeks in the hospital, twenty-two days in a coma, my faith had strengthened and Dave found his. We had a newer and brighter outlook on life, together.

While he was in the hospital I spent half of each day updating friends and family via email. This was long before social networking entered out daily lives. I received notes from people everywhere who had started prayer circles. It was a mighty force!

I couldn’t believe he was coming home on December 23^rd. I hadn’t expected they would release him in time for Christmas and began a mad dash to get a tree and decorate the house. It was clearly the most memorable Christmas of our lives on so many levels.

Dave is ten years clean now. When I think of all he would have missed in that time it truly grounds me. Weddings and Grandchildren would top the list! I can’t imagine experiencing those things without him.

Our son was at a Christmas party in Florida that fateful December and a young girl he hadn’t met came up to him and said, “How’s your father doing?” He was stunned. She said, “I prayed for him every day.”

Yes my friends, Miracles DO happen thanks to the driving force of the communal spirit.

Have you ever experienced a miracle? I hope you'll tell me about it and if you like this post please share it on your favorite social network.

One of My Very Favorite Christmases Ever

2011-12-21T13:22:00.000-05:00

Being transient during our early years together we went from rental to rental. We started in the little garden apartment in Hartsdale, NY, moved to Pittsburgh, PA into a lovely little townhouse then, when that lease was up, to an old house where we lived when our second son was born.

After Pittsburgh we went back to the NYC area and rented a garden apartment in Bogota, NJ. Next was Long Island and a duplex above the owners, Mr. andMrs. Cracchiola, before our puppy got us out of that lease and onto a nicer duplex.

From Long Island we came to Philadelphia for the first time. I fell in love with this Historic, beautiful area. We found a great townhouse to rent in the suburb of Media, PA. To this day it is one of my all-time favorite places we have ever lived!

That Christmas the kids were three and five years old which is the perfect age to enjoy Christmas, in my opinion. We had the perfect home, with a wood burning fireplace which I’d always wanted, and great friends and neighbors. Life was GOOD!

I made a fresh holly wreath for the first time (my hands bled for about a week after), we had a huge tree thanks to cathedral ceilings, and money wasn’t tight, for perhaps the first time, so the kids pretty much got what they asked for.

On Christmas Eve we couldn’t wait to tuck them in so we could prepare everything for the big reveal in the morning. We’d gotten a riding train for Greg and a puppet named Smiley Miley, which he adored so much we kept it after he’d outgrown it and last year gave it to his baby boy.

Jeff was all about cowboys that year and he got a cowboy outfit, complete with hat, plus the toy rifle he coveted. No, he didn't shoot his eye out.

As we began arranging everything Dave went and got his work boots, put them into the fireplace ashes and made footprints on the carpet. Crazy and cool touch! See this is why three and five are such perfect ages for Christmas... they suck it up hook, line and sinker!

And that, my friends, is exactly why the legend of Santa is perpetuated. If we and our children didn’t hang onto these memories that bring a big smile to our hearts we would never continue the tradition. Have you ever savored a Christmas like this with children who truly believed?

I hope you'll visit my World Vision Catalogue and find the perfect gift for a child in need. Thanks!

Our First Christmas Together

2011-12-17T08:28:00.000-05:00

Our first Christmas together in 1968 is always amusing to remember. Two broke kids desperately trying to be grown-ups. After the surprise move to New York, then the 'Surprise! You're pregnant!' we were handling everything pretty well.

Our car died shortly after we moved in. Fortunately the apartment building was across the street from a shopping center with a grocery store and other basic essentials. We were on a bus route that made it easy to get to work. Life was good.

We decided to scout out Christmas tree lots within walking distance. Of course we found the one we really wanted at the lot furthest away. It was snowing and the sidewalks were icy but we were not deterred. Dave carried the tree home on his shoulder, which may not seem like a big deal but the tree was seven feet tall. Aahhh, youth and love!

We thought it was the most beautiful tree we'd ever seen. Looking at the picture of it, well I think you can tell it wasn't 'all that'. It might not have resembled Charlie Brown's tree quite so much if we'd had more ornaments, but as I said we were broke. We were grateful for our discount at Kresge's.

I don't remember any of the gifts given that year but I will never forget the fun we had creating our very first Christmas. The warmth that filled up every corner of our little world. The anticipation of what the next Christmas would be like with a baby. New traditions, OUR traditions, began in that little garden apartment.

What was your first Christmas on your own like? I would love to hear about it!

Don't forget, you can help a child in need this holiday by choosing a gift from my World Vision Gift Catalogue. A small amount can make a huge difference. Thanks!

Christmas, The Good Memories

2011-12-13T14:23:00.001-05:00

While working on the next series of posts about the Worst step-father ever, which I’ve avoided for many reasons, I realized this was clearly not the time of year for anything so dark.

I’ve decided instead to post some of my favorite Christmas memories between now and December 25th and encourage all of you to share some of yours. Much brighter offering for this season, don’t you think?

When I was seven years old my world was about as stable as it had ever been or ever would be. Mom had been married to Al (#3) for two years and they were getting along more than they were fighting. Christmas that year was actually peaceful.

I wasn't seven in this shot but the red dress seemed perfect for the story.

We had started a tradition of spending Christmas Eve with Al’s family at his mother’s house. It was fun. Al had two brothers and two sisters who each had at least one child so there were lots of cousins, lots of food, lots of carrying on and laughing.

On this Christmas Eve one of the cousins had the idea of putting on a show. We, the young’uns, gathered together and decided what each of us would do. There was singing, which I participated in with two other kids, there was dancing by a budding ballerina, a rather painful accordion piece, and lots of applause from the audience.

By the time we left, around midnight, I was exhausted and crashing from a sugar high. It was only a twenty minute drive home but I was fast asleep before we got out of the driveway.

When we arrived home Al pulled me out of the back seat and carried me into the house. I couldn’t imagine why the house was so brightly lit up. I was sure we had turned out the lights when we left. This seemed curious.

As Al put me down inside the front door my grandfather came out of the kitchen with a feigned look of surprise.

“Oh my goodness Jeanie (that’s what they called me back then) I can’t believe it! We were coming over to bring your Christmas present and ran smack into Santa Claus!” he exclaimed.

I must have been standing there like a deer in headlights, mouth gaping open, agog! He continued... “Santa said you asked him for some special coloring books and crayons, so he thought you might like your own table to color on too. What do you think?”

I stood staring at a small table and two chairs with bows on them and a stack of coloring books in the middle of the table with the HUGE Crayola box, you know the one with the sharpener! I was speechless. Was it the sugar coma?

“I’m so sorry you missed him,” Granddaddy continued. “He’s a very busy guy tonight so he couldn’t wait around but he told me to tell you Merry Christmas!”

At that point my grandmother came out with a plate of cookies and some milk. “I brought these to leave for Santa but he said you should have them.” She said. My dear Mamaw... always about the food!

I forgot all about the slight stomach ache I had from gorging on sweets all night and sat down at the little table, grabbed a cookie and the Crayola box.

The grown-ups began opening their gifts and carrying on about how we had ‘just missed’ Santa. I sat at my table perusing the coloring books and savoring Mamaw’s cookies, plotting how we could get home earlier the next Christmas Eve.

Now it’s your turn. Please share one of your favorite Holiday memories.

I would also like to mention I’ve set-up my own page on the World Vision catalogue site, dedicated to my grandsons, and would love it if you’d take a look. Just click here. I chose Education (in USA) as the category for my gifts but you can choose whatever resonates with you. For as little as $20 you can make a difference in the life of a child in need. Thank You!

Does the Common Cold cause Bitchiness??

2011-12-08T15:20:00.000-05:00

I hate being sick! Had to get that off my chest. Now if I could get the elephant off my chest and feel good again. Ugh!

Yeah! Why me??

Have my hubby to thank for this miserable gift... and in the season of giving no less! He likes to say, "You can't get rid of a cold until you give it to someone else." Gee, thanks honey!

I blissfully made it through two weeks without feeling any twinges and thought for sure I'd dodged the bullet. Unfortunately no. It never seems to be exactly the same as the viral mutation moves from one person to the next.

He had a very heavy chest, aches, and hacking cough that came and went. The sullen demeanor comes with every cold he gets. Not me though... full throttle bitchiness is what you get from me.

To add insult to injury I've had laryngitis for two days now. That's exactly what was missing from this lovely 'strain' of cold virus... frustration. Have you ever had laryngitis? I hope you never do. It sucks! You've never had so much to say until no one can hear you... trust me.

Ahhh, but I have readers who can 'hear' me. Thank God for blogging and all of YOU.

I know I'm rambling and you're thinking, "Is she feverish? Do I have to finish reading this crap?" Of course you don't.

I'm just happy to have a forum to release the pent up words I can't speak loud enough to be heard without having to stomp a foot or bang a table to get some eye contact and hope you can lip read. It's hard not to use, ahem, hand gestures as I curse the gods that bore this plague.

I haven’t had a cold, let alone laryngitis, in a very long time. I haven’t missed it either. Years ago I was prone to bronchitis, which really sucks, and I’ve had pneumonia three times in my life. (bronchitis is more painful than pneumonia, in my opinion, but hope you never get either.)

I am fully aware there are innumerably worse afflictions to have than the ‘common cold’ but is there anything that’s more damned annoying? I think not.

I remember when I was a kid and my grandmother would slather my chest with Vicks Vaporub and it felt so warm and healing. Now the smell of it makes me gag.

Granddaddy was more fun. He used to bring me little bottles of Coke and a bag of peanuts that we’d insert, one by one, into the bottle and wait for the bubbles to just reach the top, then drink it down. I’m aware there is absolutely no healing power in any of that, but just the memory makes me feel better.

All right... I’m done rambling and bitching. Thanks for letting me get that off my chest because the elephant needed the room.

Oh, and feel free to add your own rant... misery loves company!

Honoring our Gifts

2011-12-02T19:01:00.000-05:00

A dear friend of mine says she’s just an accountant, but she’s really an actuary. She never gives herself the credit she’s due for the job she really does.

In fact, she’s neither. She’s an artist... an amazing artist and jewelry designer. I used to give her a lot of grief for denying the gifts God gave her. Pot...Kettle...Black!

She designed and made this necklace and earrings for me after we fell in love with Murano glass in Venice.

I denied my gifts most of my life. I never believed anything I did was praise worthy. I pooh pooh’d compliments... “It was nothing, really.” And I truly felt that way. It took little effort to paint a dog or cat, a landscape... it just appeared in front of me on a canvas.

The pastel painting I did of Hope and Molly, our neighbors dogs.

When things come easily to you it’s hard to take credit for them. It really feels like you had little to do with it. How can you take credit for something that flows freely from you

At the end of my senior year we had an art show at our high school. Our grade largely depended on the final painting which would be submitted for the show. I chose to paint an American Airlines ad I saw in Time magazine of a baby in a white christening gown.

I can't believe I found the original ad on Google! Gotta love Google!

I barely slept during the process. White on white is brutal! Think about Norman Rockwell’s ‘Freedom from Want’ painting (which boggles my mind) for reference. To make it even more difficult I was working small... a 9x12 canvas.

To this day it may be the best thing I’ve ever painted. I framed it and put it in the show, never thinking anyone would buy it. On Monday morning I was shocked to learn a classmate’s mother had purchased the painting for $20.

I begged to buy it back. She wouldn’t. I never took a picture of the painting. It was gone forever and I doubt I could do it again.

After graduation my life went in a totally different direction. Engaged... married... baby... all within a year. Not having a ‘room of my own’, so to speak, for many years I never unpacked my paints. With small children running around it’s not recommended to have things like turpentine within their reach.

Over time I satisfied my creative urges with decorating and holiday crafts. It helped. But here’s what I’ve learned... What you are born to do, the Gifts God gives you, are too easily denied. When it feels effortless you think anyone could do it. That’s totally not true.

When you deny your gifts it leads to struggle and disappointment. I love this quote by Gary Zukav: "The purpose of our journey on this precious Earth is now to align our personalities with our souls.”

When he spoke about this subject on Oprah, years ago, he likened it to following the Mother ship... that we are small vessels on the sea of life and if we follow the Mother ship we’ll have smooth sailing. However, if we choose to go in a different direction we’ll have rough seas and a tiresome journey.

Amen to that! I’m not saying I’ve had such a horrible work life, it’s had its moments, but nothing gave me the joy that painting and writing does. As I look back over my varied careers it’s easy to spot the ones that were most enjoyable because they either involved art or writing.

My friend gets lost in her art when she’s creating jewelry, as I do when I'm painting, creating or writing. She and I enjoyed creating cigar box purses together several years ago. When we do what we are meant to do... honor the Gift... life is good.

They were definitely Made in America!

I’m working on the ‘making a living’ part of it and I believe it will come. My wish for my friend is to open a little jewelry shop when she finally retires and follow her passion. It’s never too late!

Are you denying any of your Gifts? How could your life be even better if you honored your Gifts? Please share your thoughts in the comments, and if this post resonates with you please share it on your favorite social network.

Gratitude from Forgiveness

2011-11-27T19:59:00.000-05:00

When I decided to write about gratitude on Thanksgiving week I realized forgiveness had to come first. Don’t get me wrong, you don’t have to forgive someone before you can be grateful. But, forgiveness led me to embracing gratitude with my whole heart.

About fifteen years ago I read Simple Abundance by Sarah Ban Breathnach and started a Gratitude Journal. The concept is very simple... at the end of the day you write five things you're grateful for.

It’s not an easy process in the beginning. I wasn’t a particularly happy person during this time in my life. Some nights the list would include breathing and always the unconditional love of my dogs.

From this meager beginning it grew into many deeper and more meaningful things. What I noticed most was the gradual shift in my overall view of life. I started to understand the purpose of this little exercise.

When you take time to write down five things you’re grateful for it begins to shift your thinking. You are no longer dwelling on what’s wrong with your life. You are now actively looking for what’s right with it. It has been a profound catalyst, in my life, for a spiritual shift toward the goodness I had often overlooked.

Anthony Robbins talks about reframing in his books and recordings. I listened to a lot of his tapes years ago and reframing really stuck with me. The concept is pretty simple. It helps you look for the silver lining in your personal rain cloud.

As with many things I’ve read over the years it took me a while to apply what I learned. Once I did it truly brought me to gratitude. Here’s one big example of how I applied it...

After thirty-five years with a major retail corporation my husband retired. By the time he retired I hated this company so much it was palpable. We had many good years, early on with the company, but the last ten were a nightmare for me. I believed the stress of the last ten were responsible for our marriage crumbling and ultimately for Dave’s cancer.

If you’ve read my eBook, While You Were Sleeping (and if not, please do...it’s a free download!), you know we were very close to divorce when cancer stepped in and changed everything. For the better!

It was a wake-up call for both of us in so many ways. Dave discovered his spirit and we both realized how much we still loved each other. Like many survivors my husband will tell you he is grateful for having had cancer.

About a year and a half after he beat cancer Dave retired. I was so relieved, so hopeful, so thrilled to get this evil corporation out of our lives I could hardly contain myself!

His many friends, within the company, were looking forward to celebrating his career at his retirement party. All I could think about was ‘Good Riddance!’

Then one night, while I was writing in my gratitude journal, I began to reflect on all of the good things we’d experienced in thirty-five years. All the places we’d lived and friendships we’d made were truly a part of us.

My own personal and professional growth was largely due to the moves we made that led to many diverse opportunities. I started to list them. It was a major league reframe!

The guilt I had felt for moving my kids while they were in high school shifted to how that move afforded them greater opportunities than they would have experienced had they not gone through it.

The friends, lifelong friends, I can count because of all the moving around is priceless. And, it also occurred to me, how each move had brought Dave and me closer together. It was, often, us against the world.

I wrote this all out for Dave and put it in a card for his retirement. He read it to the guests at his party. I’m sure most couldn’t believe this came from me. They all knew how I hated the company. True.

I hated how it had lost sight of people and worshipped only the almighty dollar. Yet, with reflection and introspection I had to honor the good we had in our lives indirectly due to ‘the company’.

That experience taught me to look at the whole picture. The tag line at the head of this blog states: the good, the bad, the ugly, and how I’ve kept my sense of humor and a positive attitude.

With that in mind I’m seriously thinking about dedicating my memoir to my mother. She is largely responsible for my growing up so quickly... which led to learning just how strong I could be... and most importantly, how to work at my marriage and be a better parent. For that I am truly grateful.

What could you reframe to help you find more gratitude in your life?

Forgiveness and Gratitude

2011-11-21T14:07:00.000-05:00

None of us are raised by perfect people. My husband and I were not perfect parents, we weren’t raised by perfect parents and I have no expectations that my children will be perfect parents. Perfect parents do not exist.

We were trying to be perfect , before we knew that was impossible.

It’s a wonderful thing to aspire to, being a perfect parent, but we are human beings raising human beings. The margin for error is not even calculable.

I love the saying, “If everyone raised everyone else’s children we’d have nothing but perfect children in the world.” Right!

When our first son was born I was determined to be the mother I always wished mine had been. I loved my son with my whole heart and wondered if my mother had ever felt that way about me.

A lot of things I’ve experienced over the years lead me to this:

We are responsible for our own life.

Not our parents. Not our environment. Not lack of money or education. We are not defined by our circumstances.

We are responsible for the energy we bring into our lives. We are responsible for the energy we surround ourselves with. You cannot improve your life if you surround yourself with energy that brings you down.

At some point in our lives we have to let go of the past. If you are holding onto the past, harboring a grudge, it becomes a barrier that prevents you from moving forward. You are sabotaging your own happiness.

I admit that I held a lot of anger and resentment for most of my life. There are incidents from my childhood I still find impossible to understand and accept. But here’s the thing... I can’t change it! It happened! It’s over!

I realized first that I couldn’t have my mother in my life. I wasn’t aware, back then, she was bi-polar. I knew she was an alcoholic and blamed most of her behavior on that. We would go years without speaking. Blissful, peaceful years.

Then something would happen to break the silence and it started all over again. It was a destructive pattern and took its toll over time.

In my forties I began searching... for inner peace... for happiness and fulfillment... for a better way to live. I read more self-help books than you can imagine. A lot of my reading material came out of Oprah’s ‘Change Your Life TV’ segments. I also found a good therapist.

At some point I came to the realization that, for the most part, all parents do the best they can with what they know. Sociopaths aside, I don’t believe anyone has a child with the intent to harm them in any way.

Through that realization I knew I had to forgive my mother. What I didn’t know was how much lighter my heart would feel and how much richer life would be from that act.

I didn’t call or write her and say, “Mom, I forgive you for (insert any number of incidents here).” I had a quiet, solitary, meditation and released all the anger and frustration of the past into the universe, thus freeing myself of it all.

My favorite line about forgiveness is this:

Forgiveness is giving up the hope that the past could be any different.

Think about that for a moment.

You can’t change the past so why are you letting it weigh you down? It’s toxic, all that anger and resentment. It will eat you alive. Let it go!

A few years later I got a letter from mom. She went on and on about how she knew she was a horrible mother and was so sorry, etc., etc. and then the bombshell... “I need to see you”. I knew that was not going to happen.

After a good amount of time, meditation and prayer I wrote back explaining how I had forgiven her years before. I knew she did the best she could and I had released the past. I suggested she do the same.

I also told her that forgiveness was the right thing to do but having her in my life was not. (The definition of insanity applies here... doing the same thing and expecting different results). It was time to move on.

To prove my point her next letter was all about how she’d been hurt throughout her life and much of it was my fault... same old mom! I was able to shrug that off and move forward with a clean conscience.

In my next post I want to explain how forgiveness got me to gratitude... even for my mother.

Are you holding any grudges that, if forgiven, would lighten your load? If you’re holding onto them can you tell me how that helps you? Let’s talk about this. And if this helped you in some way I hope you'll share it on your favorite social network.

The Season to Savor

2011-11-16T09:24:00.000-05:00

It’s hard to believe Thanksgiving is only a week away. Then, before you know it, Christmas and Hanukah, Kwanzaa or whatever you celebrate, will be here and gone. What is it about this time of year that seems to sneak up on us so quickly then vanish in an instant leaving us wishing we’d, perhaps, slowed down a bit and savored it all more?

I used to be a shopaholic. I could devour a mall like a marathon runner and then go back for more. Always looking for a sale or deal but spending none the less. It’s an addiction that I’m happy to have overcome.

Now I still look for deals but prefer to shop on the internet rather than go near a mall. The only thing better than sitting in my kitchen shopping, (in my sweats and fuzzy slippers), is going to local shops and craft fairs.

We are fortunate to have some of the best, and most diverse, local shopping practically at our doorstep. I realize this isn’t the case for everyone but I do encourage you to search out local artisans and small businesses in your community to find the perfect (and perhaps one of a kind) holiday gifts this year.

We interrupt this post for a moment of shameless self-promotion...

If you would like to give a gift of Art, whether it is note cards or prints, you can explore my website, HammondArt, and let me know if there’s anything you’d like to order. I haven’t set-up retail yet (but I do have a paypal acct. which makes it easy) so you only need to email me your requests (by 12/5/11) and I will arrange to ship them in time for the holidays. Note cards are a great gift and very affordable.

The Market on Las Ramblas in Barcelona is a great kitchen print!

One more gift that gives back... The Duffy Chronicles, Duffy Finds His Family. This is my first children’s book (early reader) and proceeds go to PAWS to help other shelter dogs. It’s available at Amazon and I am an affiliate so you can link to it from this blog. And please let me know if you get the book, otherwise it will be months before I know.

Now back to our regularly scheduled post...

As we near Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, I’m reflecting a lot on the things I am truly grateful for. We’re celebrating it this year with our youngest son and his family in their new home. It’s like passing the torch, so to speak, and I can’t wait to share the cooking and eating and drinking and pure joy of everyone together at the table.

A few of the things I’m grateful for this year...

Our family and the pleasure it is to be together.

Having the means to create a feast and enjoy it in a warm safe place.

Finding another VW Cabrio to replace the one that was totaled last year on Thanksgiving eve so we can drive to Baltimore!

The closeness my sons have with their 93 year old grandfather and the delight that brings to his life.

The flexibility Dave and I now have working from home.

AND... I can’t possibly forget how grateful we are for Miss Sydney Lou! This time last year she was dying of liver failure and after 3 days in the hospital, dropping down to 10lb. and not given much hope, she is now healthy as can be and may have to go on a diet! I’m sure all of Buddy’s love and kisses helped her along the way! Thank you to Buddy, too.

Buddy was still a puppy in this shot, but they were an 'item' from the start.

How do you celebrate the holidays? Where do you prefer to shop? What’s the most important thing on your gratitude list? (sounds like the inquisition doesn't it? ;-0) Please share in the comments.

Herman Cain, Joe Paterno and Power

2011-11-09T16:33:00.000-05:00

Over the years I have experienced sexual advances in the work place. In my childhood I had brushes with sexual abuse. I was never raped, thank God, but by the age of twelve I’d learned more about sex than many adult women simply by living with my mother.

The parade of men through our lives was extensive and often living in close quarters I couldn’t avoid hearing things I wish I hadn’t. It hardened me in a way that, perhaps, kept me safe.

Whether as a child or as an adult woman in corporate America I knew how to take care of myself. I kept an invisible shield around me that emitted a ‘No masse’ warning. It worked most of the time. When it didn’t I found a way to put the jerk in his place and move on.

Only once did I report anyone to his boss. I was assured I would never have to work with him again, but he wasn’t fired until several years later when another woman reported him. By that time he was a Vice President of the company and the fall was a bit harder.

Why did it take so long? My conclusion is Power. He was making a lot of money for the company and was important to the bottom line. The women he offended were just collateral damage along the way.

When you fend off a predator it feels good but you can’t stop looking over your shoulder. You always wonder if you should have done more, while in the back of your mind a little voice says, “Who’s going to believe you? You’re nobody.”

Two unrelated news stories this week stirred up these memories. The sexual abuse charges against Herman Cain and the total disgrace at Penn State University.

First let me address Mr. Cain...

Based on my own experience I believe every word being said about him by these women. He is the embodiment of an egotistical power junkie who prays on any weakness.

My personal feelings about him were summed up by John Stewart recently when he said, after learning Mr. Cain was unaware that China has had nuclear capabilities for decades, “Perhaps Mr. Cain should have considered hitting on a history book instead of these women.” Amen to that!

If it takes these women coming forward, speaking out about the character of this man who wants to be President of the United States I believe we should thank them for their courage.

As for the disgrace within Penn State...

If you haven’t read or heard about it I’ll summarize. A 67 year old former assistant football coach has been accused of sexually abusing young boys for over 13 years. So respected was this man he was allowed to keep an office at the football complex, with full privileges after he retired. He went on to establish a non-profit organization for underprivileged boys. How convenient.

Joe Paterno, the almighty leader of Penn State’s football team first heard of the abuse in 2002.

It was only reported to authorities within the university. No one called the police. Finally a young man, who’d been abused by this retired coach, came forward and in 2008 a Grand Jury was investigating. It took all this time to bring this ugliness into the light.

In the case at Penn State it comes back to power in more ways than one. The president of the university, who is a family therapist by training, never stood up for the innocent children. He knew this could ruin the university’s cash cow, football.

As these things come into the light more and more victims find the strength to come out of the shadows. Now there are nine young men telling their personal stories of being abused by this man. I suspect it will reach double digits soon.

These stories make me sick. Here’s my theory on why these atrocities are swept under the rug. No one... let me repeat... NO ONE in their right mind wants to believe it.

To more than 95% of the population molesting a child is unthinkable. It makes your skin crawl. You want to believe it’s just the seedy, down and out perverts who would ever commit such a heinous crime. How could you believe a respected member of society would do such a thing?

The need to disbelieve it overpowers the possibility it could be true. If you worked closely with someone for years, respected this person, were more than mere colleagues, how could you accept that you were such a poor judge of character? Now it becomes a black mark on your very own character.

The boss who truly doesn’t want to believe the female employee’s account of sexual advances by one of his star male employees is no different than the coach who couldn’t imagine his trusted colleague would do such horrific things to a child.

Those of us among the 95% who aren’t predators on a power trip simply don’t want to believe we were that close to one of the 5%.

What are your thoughts? Don't hold back.

Rethinking the Blog

2011-11-04T17:06:00.000-04:00

I’ve been on a purging kick lately, cleaning closets, paring down on everything from cosmetics to cleaning products. The phrase ‘Outer order contributes to inner calm’ has been running through my head, thank you Gretchen Rubin.

Even my business cards are an example of, perhaps, too much going on.

I’m feeling very scatter brained lately. Please, no comments from the peanut gallery! How many of you even know what the peanut gallery is or where the expression came from? I’d tell you but then you would know I’m ancient and perhaps find me irrelevant. (gasp!)

Anyway, having just proved my point...

I am going to carry through with my purging and cleaning by closing my second blog, Petals, Palettes and Parties, and attempt to integrate it back into this one. I can't begin to tell you how much I appreciate all of you who've followed Triple P and joined the Facebook page. You deserve better than I’ve been able to give, that’s for sure.

Many of you may not know that I have an Art website. Yep, it’s only been up for ten years, but I may not have really mentioned it before. *duh!* I guess I thought it was just too much going on, which is probably true and why I am feeling a bit overwhelmed with chaos and clutter.

The oddest truth in the prior paragraph is I’ve always believed I am an artist first, writer second. I suppose all the time I’ve spent writing over the past few years has overshadowed my art but I believe I’m a better artist than writer.

I have attempted to sell my art on the website. I have attempted to create an Etsy shop. The problem is the volume and variety of products and services I have and the amount of time it takes to put it all in some semblance of order. I prefer commissions to packaging work I’ve done for retail. The reality is I need to do both.

After much research on monetizing this blog (I don’t even like that word) I’ve decided I would rather sell my own work and that of a chosen few. Quality and integrity go hand in hand, in my opinion... BUT money makes the world go round.

With the full intent of better serving, you, my readers and trying to remain sane and relevant I will spend the remainder of this year figuring out how to integrate everything in the best way possible.

It won’t be immediate, primarily because I haven’t sorted it all out yet, but by the end of the year you’ll be seeing a new and improved *all inclusive* Zero to 60 and beyond... I hope.

Would you like to help? Please share your ideas on how to make it all flow. What’s worked for you? Am I trying to put too much in one place? I welcome your input and sage advice so please leave it in the comments.

Thank you so much!

Family...as it should be.

2011-10-30T15:01:00.000-04:00

I've told you a lot about the crazy dysfunctional family I grew up in, but today I want to tell you about the wonderful family I have today.

It was always my goal, as a child, to have the kind of family we watched on TV. Ahhh to be June Cleaver! To be Donna Reed! To be Harriet Nelson... ok, I am truly dating myself now.

Their worlds were so alien to me I can’t even tell you. I think we always want what we think we can’t have but, being the stubborn female that I am, I was determined to have it.

Shortly after Dave and I began dating he took me home to meet his parents. This wasn’t just a short drive, it was a plane ride to Boston. My first glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean was flying into Logan airport. I was filled with excitement and anticipation mixed with a bit of dread.

We arrived at their lovely little house, a clapboard Cape Cod nestled on a hill, in a town on the Freedom Trail. I love American History and they were right in the middle of my favorite area. I couldn’t believe I was there.

As I entered their home it felt like I had walked onto the set of Leave it to Beaver. Oh dear God how badly I wanted this life! It reminded me a bit of the home I stayed in when I was 5 years old. So civilized! So warm and inviting! So completely opposite of what I had known.

Having married a mere six months after that introduction to graciousness I set out to emulate my mother in law. We were struggling to make ends meet. Dave had just started his career and we were only kids ourselves who discovered right away we were having one.

Our wedding picture

Little by little we created our nest. I think this is when I began devouring decorating magazines... an addiction that continues to this day. It was so important to me, and still is, to have a warm and inviting home.

I discovered my talent for painting in high school (thank you Mrs. Ellis!) and began applying my sense of art and design to our humble little garden apartment.

Jeff and Greg circa 1972

Over the years as we moved forward we bought our first home, a cute little townhouse in suburban Philadelphia. As I expanded my sense of design Dave learned he had quite a knack for building things. It began with adding a deck, then a custom wall unit... I can’t count the projects he’s taken on since then. He’s now passing that knowledge along to our sons, both married with wonderful families of their own, who are renovating their homes now.

From the townhouse we moved to suburban Boston and bought our own little Cape Cod house. We had endless possibilities there to stretch our creativity and make it truly a home. Even though I didn’t love New England and pined for Philadelphia it must have been hidden deep inside because my kids now say they never knew it.

Their memories of our eight years there amaze me. To this day they rhapsodize over their idyllic childhood in Massachusetts. I guess I did manage to follow in my mother-in-law’s footsteps a little bit.

After New England we moved to Pittsburgh, PA. The kids were in high school and we worried a lot about how the move would impact them at such a critical time in their life. They adapted faster than we did! Even though they loved their former little town it was time for them to expand their horizons.

One of my favorite pictures with my handsome boys. Mid '90's Christmas party at our house.

As with all teenagers they tried to stretch their limits but it never got out of hand. Oh, there are stories but I won’t divulge them on this blog. Suffice it to say that my sons are two of my very best friends today.

Mom with Dave Sept. '69

I believe my mother-in-law would be very proud of them and I know she’s proud of the family we’ve created. Thanks Mom! You were such an inspiration.

Dining Adventures with Dad

2011-10-22T17:27:00.000-04:00

My husband and I went out to dinner with my 93 year old father-in-law this week. Having raised two children it struck me how eating out with dad brings back those memories. It's an adventure.

This is Dad with our son Greg last month.

Dad is still very self-sufficient and even drives occasionally, although not very far. This concerns us quite a bit but you can’t tell him not to. There really should be a mandatory driving test for anyone over 75. I’m grateful he has limited himself.

Anyway... back to dinner. One of dad’s favorite things to do is dine at a nice restaurant. The man doesn’t splurge on much, but a nice dinner out he'll jump at the chance. This was his treat for our anniversary and we couldn’t refuse.

Dad has an apartment on the 2^nd floor of our house. We chose a little bistro that was two blocks away so it would be a short walk. There are a few other nice restaurants within walking distance but we decided to give the newest one a shot.

Not a good idea. Dad doesn’t have an adventurous palate and we weren’t sure of the menu which we discovered was very organic and a bit off beat. Frankly I wasn’t wowed by the choices and I knew he was lost. Then our waitress mentioned specials. He perked right up hoping it would be something he’d recognize.

She mentioned a salmon dish and he was excited. He loves salmon. He didn’t listen to the ‘special’ description though. It was cured salmon in a type of salad on toast points. He said, “That’ll be fine but can I get my salmon grilled?” Ahh, no.

I tried to explain it to him and then gave up. I said, “Dad, it’s cold and you won’t like it.” The waitress said, “I’ll give you a few more minutes,” and walked away.

They had a lamb burger with cabbage and radicchio slaw and a side of roasted potatoes. My husband said, “You like lamb Dad.” Ok, the lamb burger would do.

While waiting for our meals we try to chat. I say try because it’s very trying sometimes to have a conversation with dad. He did have his hearing aids in. We had established they were turned on, which isn’t always the case, but you still have to look him in the eye to be ‘heard’. This makes it difficult with three people and he’s in the middle.

When dinner arrived his first words were, “I can’t eat all of that!” OK. I took it off the bun for him. He picked at maybe a third of the burger and ate a few small bites of the slaw. All the while talking about how his appetite has diminished and he’s losing weight.

It’s true. He has lost weight. He could afford to. If he was half as healthy mentally as he is physically I would worry less about him. I believe he’s eating too much junk food... microwave meals... snacks and cookies...and not enough healthy food.

I love to cook and have offered to bring him meals a few times a week. His response was, “As long as I can do for myself I would rather.” Can’t fault the independent spirit, but putting ketchup on spaghetti isn’t my idea of a decent meal. He's admitted to doing this.

Back to dinner...

At this point we were ready to get out of there. When the waitress came to clear the plates my husband said, “I think the check would be fine now.” Then dad chimes in with, “Do you have desserts?”

Of course they do! He got an apple crumble, which he thought was pie but since it came with ice cream he didn't care. We ordered more wine.

The waitress brought his dessert and two extra spoons for sharing. We never got the chance. He scarfed that down like he hadn’t eaten in days. Never offered a taste, never even looked up until it was completely gone.

My kids would have been happy to eat out more if they could have gotten away with this. But... you can’t tell dad no.

Pretend you're Inside the Actor's Studio with James Lipton

2011-10-17T14:25:00.000-04:00

Have you ever watched Inside the Actor's Studio with James Lipton? Always interesting and often amusing because he asks some off beat questions.

My friend Catherine, aka Jotter Girl, offered up a challenge that she found an interesting exercise... answer the 10 questions he asks each guest at the end of the show, share the link in the comments and pass it on.

Here goes!

1) What's your favorite word? Family

I had a very disjointed family growing up and my number one priority as an adult was to have a close and loving family. For me family goes beyond genes. I have a wonderful family and extended family.

I love the saying: The best time in life is when your family become friends and your friends become family.

2) Least favorite word?

Bigotry in any word form.

3) What turns you on creatively, spiritually, emotionally?

I love brainstorming with people on any subject. Other than that I’d say salt air.

4) What turns you off?

Bigotry

5) Favorite curse word?

Shit

6) What sound or noise do you love?

The roar of the ocean.

7) What noise do you hate?

My loud mouthed neighbor at 4am.

8) What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

I've sampled a wide variety of professions in my life and wouldn’t trade any of them for what I do now.

9) What profession would you not like to do?

Anything involving blood or gore. I made it through 2 weeks as a nurse’s aid in a high school co-op class and ran for my life!

10) If you believe Heaven exists what would you like to hear God say when you arrive?

“Welcome! You did good! Now you can relax... catch up with the loved ones you've missed and play with all your dogs!"

Now it's your turn. Are you up for the challenge? Just answer the questions and post your link in the comments. I can't wait to see your answers!

My Brother/ My Son...the end, for now

2011-10-14T16:28:00.005-04:00

If you’re new here you will probably want to read the other posts in this series. In the interest of time and to avoid confusion I will give you this synopsis:

I became the primary care giver for my infant brother when I was ten. I ran away with him when I was twelve to stay with his aunt and uncle in a small town in the country. Four months later my mother got a court order and came to get us. She took us to our grandparent’s home. After a few days she took my brother to stay with her in a tiny apt. she’d rented and claimed her landlady would babysit while she worked in the evenings.

When my Uncle James and I went to check out the situation we found my brother alone in the apt. crying and dirty. He was less than three years old. We took him back to my uncle’s home where we devised a plan to go back to the country.

There were lots of phone conversations when we returned with the baby. Al, my brother’s dad, was the first call. He had contacted his sister about getting us back to their house. They lived in a small town where everyone knew everyone... including the sheriff. The plan was set.

When Uncle James dropped us at my grandparents the next morning I could see how upset they were about this new development. Clearly she had crossed the line this time. Somehow I held them accountable for helping her get the court order.

After breakfast we watched a little TV then I told my grandmother I was taking my brother for a walk. We had decided it was best to keep them out of the plan.

I packed what we needed in the diaper bag and put it in the stroller. We walked to my uncle’s house and made a phone call. Twenty minutes later we were on our way back to the little house on the river.

At this point there were a lot of things going on that I wasn’t privy to. I knew we would probably have to stay with the sheriff’s family until all the details were worked out. Mom still had a valid court order. No one knew what she might do while they were trying to have it revoked.

I didn’t mind staying there. They were very nice people and I knew their daughter from school. The visit only lasted five days. No one expected it to end as it did.

Al still loved my mother. They separated three times before finally divorcing. As was her way, she couldn’t get enough of the guys who abused her and she walked all over the ones who adored her. Typical pattern in abused children.

I couldn’t understand how Al could still want her after the way she had behaved toward him and, more importantly, her children. In this case I was grateful for his tenacity.

Mom knew when to turn on the charm to save her hide. Al was a sitting duck. She also knew she'd never get custody again... unless... Al took her back. It was her perfect storm.

He loved his son and he loved me very much. I’m not sure what you would call his feelings toward my mother. They were based in hope, history, a misguided sense of family and lust. It didn’t matter to her.

He not only took her back he gave her unborn son his name. There were just a few who knew it wasn’t his child and it stayed that way for fifteen years.

They bought a little house and we went off to live happily ever after... for almost a year.

My Brother/ My son... part 3

2011-10-10T12:32:00.000-04:00

There were tears and rejoicing from mom when we got back to my grandparents’ house. She kept repeating, “I forgive you.” Words I couldn’t imagine coming from my lips. I was furious.

As we settled in at my grandparents’ house I asked mom where she was sleeping. To get the court order allowing her to take us she had to prove she had a safe place for us to live. She lied because she wasn’t living there. She had gotten a one room apt. with a shared bath that was close to the dive bar where she worked. Not the nicest area of town.

The first few days went by with her coming to visit during the day acting all gaga over her baby boy and giving me wide berth. Then she announced her landlady (whom none of us had ever met) had agreed to babysit while she was working. One little hitch... the apartment was only big enough for her to add a crib for my brother so I would be staying with the grandparents.

My gut told me this was not a good idea but I was powerless to stop her from leaving with the baby. I remember my grandmother saying, “Now you know how much your mother loves you. She’s changed now and you have to accept it.” I believed neither comment.

My uncle James, who’s only eleven years older, was like a big brother to me. He and his wife were always there for us when we needed them, providing they knew where we were. They lived about a mile from my grandparents. I wanted to talk to them about this new development so I walked over to their house.

James suggested he go to mom’s new apt. while she was working to see how the new babysitter was working out. I made him take me. It was worse than I even anticipated.

The area had been a very wealthy neighborhood many years before. Large stately homes had become run down rooming houses over the years. If you squinted you could see the former majesty. Wide stone steps leading to a double door that was, no doubt, mahogany under multiple layers of chipped paint. Inside a foyer with what was once a grand staircase now had cheap paneling and multiple doors along the hallway. We knocked on the door with ‘MGR’ on it.

A disheveled old lady opened the door. She was clearly drunk. I was cursing my gut for being right. My uncle asked if she was babysitting his nephew. She looked at him quizzically before it dawned on her sotted brain what he was referring to.

“Oh, sure! Sweet kid. Sleeps all the time.” She said. We pushed our way in and she said, “Oh, he’s not here. He’s in his own crib. He likes it there.”

I thought my uncle was going to choke her but he stopped himself. He knew it wasn’t this old lady he wanted to choke, it was his sister. I thought he had better get to her before I did!

She took us down the hall to mom’s lovely apartment. I heard him crying before she opened the door. Then I started to cry.

He was standing in his crib with a filthy diaper dragging down past his knees that most likely hadn’t been changed since morning. His little face was red and swollen from crying for God only knows how long. He reached up for me and I just crumpled.

How the hell could ANYone do this to an innocent child? How could ANY court system give this person custody?! My tears turned to rage. I wanted to kill her. I saw the same look in my uncle’s eyes. We just stared at each other for a moment then he said, “Grab the baby and let’s go.”

We figured out our plan on the way to his house, where we spent the night.

My Brother/ My Son... part 2

2011-10-05T15:00:00.000-04:00

As I wrote about my initial experience of becoming the primary care giver for my brother I thought about how natural the sense of responsibility came to me. I think that’s supposed to happen when you give birth not at ten years old.

I thought about that and realized I had been the adult in the relationship with my mother for as long as I could remember. It was just instinctual. By the age of ten I knew that maternal instinct isn’t given to you just because you gave birth.

Creation is done by all species and if you watch Animal Planet you’ll see that even in the wild there are mothers who reject their young. The problem is the child always thinks it’s their fault. The innocent have to deal with the guilt. That must be why the first part of therapy usually begins... “Tell me about your mother.”

I’ve written about running away with my brother when I was twelve years old. Some people thought it was brave. Perhaps. For me it was simply the only option. I knew at twelve years old that my mother was unstable, narcissistic and irresponsible.

I never thought about why I always insured my brother had what he needed and she didn’t. I just did it. The problem is when you take over someone’s responsibilities they come to expect it. There’s no turning back.

I was smart enough to know I didn’t have the means to mother this child alone. I sought help from adults who were in a position to help me. I never thought about risk or recall any fear. What I remember was a determination to get away from an awful situation to someplace safe. Staying was the risk that scared me to death.

During the four months we were living with my brother’s aunt and uncle there were many trips to court. Those who knew the circumstances were trying to prove my mother unfit. Seemed a no brainer to me, but the kid never gets taken seriously. Even today. We lost.

On Memorial Day weekend the aunt and uncle were having a big family barbeque. From the street their house looked like a ranch style, but on either side were steps down and around to the back. There was a large room in what essentially was the basement that had a regular door. The yard was a huge field that went way back to the river.

I left the party and went upstairs to watch TV. All comfy on the couch until I looked out the front window and saw a police car. Then I saw the car behind it and panicked. It was my mother.

She’d gotten a court order and came to take us...where? I didn’t know and didn’t care. I ran like hell down the stairs screaming, “My mom’s here with the cops!” I grabbed my brother and locked myself in the basement room.

It took a very long time to talk me out. I realized I had to go but would live to fight another day. As I walked up the stairs along the side of the house she stood at the top triumphant. I looked at her and immediately knew she was pregnant. Four months pregnant to be exact.

The Power of Words

2011-10-03T11:37:00.000-04:00

Note: This post was inspired by a writing prompt on Write On Edge/ The Red Dress Club. Conjure.

Words pierced with anger, indicting... why? No words accused or impugned this person. What lit this flame? What fanned it to the point of virtually slapping another in the face publicly?

So many words could spew back. To what end? The angry words exposed the spirit of this person.

“Trust your gut... move on.”

Even the right decisions can evoke sadness but what is the choice? Leave a door open for future pain or close the window? The risk of feeling this pain and sadness again aren’t worth it.

My Brother/ My Son

2011-09-21T10:51:00.000-04:00

I was an only child for nine years. My brother was born in October, 1959 three months after my 9^th birthday. He was two months early.

The last summer of being an only child. That's me in the center... in the goofy glasses with my cousins from Georgia.

My mother’s third husband, Al, and I hit it off instantly. Some people are just inherently good with kids and he was one of those people. He always made me feel wanted.

My mother is one of those who are gaga over babies. I always thought that was odd because she doesn’t have a maternal bone in her body… she just loves babies. They had been trying to get pregnant for four years.

The big day came suddenly. Mom was rushed to the hospital. There were complications and it was best to deliver the baby. She had me cesarean and he would come into the world the same way.

I had never seen anyone that tiny. My grandmother bought doll clothes for him to wear. He seemed so frail I was afraid to touch him. That didn’t last long because mom insisted I learn how to change diapers.

Despite getting an early start in life my brother developed quite normally. He was sitting up at five months old and crawling at seven. My mother’s enchantment with the baby started to wane shortly after he became mobile. Now he was more of a chore and the chores were coming my way…. the household chores and caring for my brother when I wasn’t in school.

We moved to a small ranch house in a nice neighborhood in the spring. The front door opened into the living room, which had a large picture window and beige shag carpet, a small hallway to the right led to two bedrooms and a bath. The kitchen was in the back with a door that led to a huge yard.

Al built a brick barbecue back there and a picnic table next to it. I remember many family barbecues that summer with aunts and uncles and always my grandparents. I loved that house. I loved having family around and didn’t even mind taking care of the baby.

Shortly after school started that year Al lost his job. My mother had stopped working when the baby was born but unemployment benefits weren’t going to pay the rent so she had to get a job.

The factory, where she and Al met, wasn’t hiring and she had little experience other than working on an assembly line. She was twenty seven years old, petite and cute so she learned to use her looks.

Mom and Al belonged to a bowling league and I loved hanging out there listening to the grown-ups talk. I rarely played with the kids, partly because I had to watch the baby and mostly because I preferred being with the grown-ups.

The bar in the bowling alley happened to be looking for a cocktail waitress. What luck! She got the job instantly. I couldn’t remember seeing her so happy. Al was not. He had a jealous side we’d never seen before.

After a week or two he started going to the bar after I went to bed around 9pm. He would just sit and watch her. Then they would come home and fight until the wee hours.

I knew I was alone in the house with a baby and sometimes I had trouble sleeping. One night I heard a strange noise and thought someone was in the house. I grabbed my brother and wrapped him in a blanket, jumped into my shoes, ran out the front door and over to the neighbors house.

Our next door neighbor happened to be my Girl Scout leader, Mrs. Baker. She was very surprised to see me standing in her doorway at 11pm on a school night with the baby in my arms. She immediately brought us in while I explained to her there was a strange sound in the house and I didn’t know where else to go.

She left us there for a moment to go take a look, see if it was safe to go home. The front door had locked and I had no key. I felt foolish because it was probably just my imagination and now we were imposing on a neighbor. I also knew it would be very late before anyone would be home.

She called the bar and they tracked Al down. Mrs. Baker was calm and polite on the phone. She assured me he would be home right away.

I didn’t expect to see my mother with him, but there she was with fire shooting out of her eyes. She apologized for her stupid kid keeping the neighbors up over something so silly, grabbed the baby and marched me home.

Our little house that I loved so much became a shameful place after that. I had embarrassed them and they weren’t going to let me forget it. Never mind they left a ten year old alone with an infant and no instruction… I had shamed them by letting the neighbors in on their sordid little life.

This was the first little adventure I had with my brother. There are more to come. If you like this post please share it and if you haven’t joined the Zero to 60 and beyond facebook page please do!

Thanks!

by special request: Life on the Streets

2011-09-15T17:09:00.000-04:00

Today's post is a special request. We had a little going away happy hour for my dear friends Michele and Fabrizio last night. They're moving a bit too far away to join us on Wednesday evenings when those who are able gather to reconnect and raise a glass. This little Wednesday tradition is now 12 years old.

One of my all time favorite pictures of Michele and Fabrizio

That is amazing to me. That is longer than my husband and I have ever lived in one place... even longer than any of my mother's marriages! The group has ebbed and flowed over time, but the core has remained the same... until now.

As I mentioned in my last post there are a lot of changes going on around me. It makes me sad and yet there's a sense of anticipation. What will be the next big thing? Will I be better for it? The saying, "This too shall pass" goes for both the good and the bad.

As for my dear friends who are moving up the turnpike I wish them love and happiness in their new home. They have looked forward to this for well over a year and they most certainly deserve to be happy.

Last night Michele and I were talking about our dogs, past and present, and she brought up Brando. She had Brando when I first met her. He was a stray she found on the street. He liked to play the tough guy at times, but he was a pussy cat.

This is a painting I did of Brando years ago. Yes... his tongue really was that long!

When she found the love of her life, Fabrizio, (who by the way is like another son to us) Brando accepted him instantly. Yes, he may have been a bit jealous but he hid it well. The entire scene inspired me to write a poem about Brando. Michele asked me to post it because she loves it. I couldn't say no to my friend.

Life on the Street

Life on the street

That’s what I knew

Scrounging and fighting

Just wanting to play

I knocked around town

Looking for handouts

Scraps In the trash

I was Top Dog.

Life on the street

Makes you act mean

Only you know

You’re not what you seem

I wanted a home

Deep in my soul

But who can you trust

Disappointments I know.

Life on the street

Starts to get old

I just needed

Someone to hold me

I can be sweet

Don’t buy the act

I have a great smile

When I’m happy.

Then one day

Things changed

I found someone

She thinks she found me

We shared all our stories

So much in common

Me fighting dogs

Her fights with boys.

Life on the street

It’s over for me

I have someone

To care for at last.

The cats are ok

And so’s Mr. Right

She’s mine and I’m hers

We sleep good at night.

B. Hammond

Do you have any rescue stories to share? I love a good rescue story. Do tell!

And if you're new here, Welcome! I hope you will join the blog and facebook page. You'll find all the buttons to do that on the right side.

As Forrest Gump said, "Life is like a box of chocolates..."

2011-09-08T16:16:00.000-04:00

I’m writing this post on a rainy, chilly, very drearyday at the beach. Dreary would describemy mood today, as well.

The day began with an ugly disagreement with Comcast,the cable service that has a monopoly in this town. It’s next to impossible to win an argumentwith a monopoly.

The bill was paid but went to an old account. Comcast still got the money, but it wasn’tapplied to the correct account so they decided to turn off our service.

After spending over an hour on the phone with them theyconceded the problem was as much their fault as mine. Big of them. Even though they’re generous enough to share the blame they claim they can’tturn the service back on for approximately five days.

That is absurd. They can flip a switch, just as theydid to turn it off. After practicallyhaving an aneurysm pointing out how ridiculous that was they agreed to let mespeak to yet another supervisor providing I could hold for another 15 minutes.

I explained to them that would involve my headexploding and they surely don’t want that on their conscience. But wait… they have no conscience! I settled for hanging up and having them callme back within 15 minutes. That was 3 hours ago and I’m still waiting.

I like to think I’ve mellowed with age. I’ve certainly spent enough years working ontaming my type-A personality and going with the flow. The virtue that is patience wasn’t given tome at birth and I’ve learned the hard way how much smoother things go when I’mopen and patient.

I believe, whether my family does or not, I’ve gottenmuch better at taking things as they come… not trying to move mountains andforce things to go as I expect they should. I guess I still have a lot more work to do.

As I’ve impatiently awaited Comcast’s call for the past3 hours it occurred to me they are the perfect target for all the anxiety andfrustration I’ve been experiencing for the past few weeks. Anxiety I haven’t found a release for.

We never quite know what life has in store just aroundthe corner, do we?

Since I wrote Blog World or Bust, which was my plan forVolkswagen to sponsor a cross-country trip to LA, a lot has changed. Not the least of which was my husband beingforced into early retirement.

We were gearing up for that to happen in about 2years. Now it’s here and I’m not exactlymentally prepared, let alone dealing with the financial reality. We will survive. We always do. It just takes a toll on me emotionally, as I try to wrap my head aroundplan B.

I must say my husband seems to be dealing with it betterthan I, but then he’s not as open about his feelings. He ‘compartmentalizes’ his feelings. It’snot the healthiest way to deal, and that concerns me.

Then there’s being together 24/7 which takes a lot ofgetting used to!

We will be selling our city house, which involvesrelocating my 93 year old father-in-law. In truth, this is a good thing because he needs to be in assisted livingand without a big push he would never do it. I’m looking at that aspect as the silver lining.

As for Blog World… My friend Annabel Candy informed methey are already lining up sponsors for NEXT year, so it probably wouldn’t haveworked out anyway. That’s ok, a fullyear to prepare will make it even more successful.

And we never know what is just around the corner.

Oh by the way, it has now been 5 hours and I’mstill waiting for that call from Comcast!

What curve balls has life thrown your way lately? Any nasty Comcast stories? Come on... misery loves company. ;P

Happy 'World Blogstress Day'!

2011-08-31T17:07:00.000-04:00

As you may know, I'm one of the founders of The Blogstress Network. It began when three neighbors, Lee Romano Sequiera, Doreen Naughton Creede and I met and discovered we all had blogs. The conversation that evening was amazing and we couldn't wait to get together again. Finally someone to talk to that understood SEO and Followers and Stats... without looking at you like a deer in headlights.

Blogstress Network logo, our motto is: Leave Your Mark on the World!

The move from that first meeting to launching a new network for bloggers took less than two weeks. We all wanted every blogger to experience the added benefit of sitting face-to-face with others who can relate to what you do. It has really taken off!

We now have chapters of Blogstresses preparing to launch in several other places across the U.S. and perhaps worldwide. That is why we've decided to make August 31st World Blogstress Day. A day for all who blog to share five blogs they really enjoy and explain why.

I'm a firm believer in this fact... Great comments create Great community. When you read a post you really like, or that moves you in some way, and you leave a comment that explains how you feel, others will read your comment and leave one... OR even better, they may comment on your comment directly.

The best example of this at work is on The Sales Lion's blog. You just need to read his post that got over 400 comments. I couldn't make that up. The even greater benefit is when the people who visit your blog because of the comment you made on someone else's blog subscribe!

So in honor of World Blogstress Day I am recommending the following five blogs:

Counting Ducks is a fairly new blog by an Englishman named Peter Wells. I was hooked with the first post I read. His prose are beautiful and the message is usually amazing as well. Always makes me think. I like that!

My friend Elizabeth at Mirth and Motivation introduced me to Counting Ducks through her comments. She has been a dear blog buddy from very early on and her words and pictures always inspire!

My next 'Must Read' is, A Certain Simplicity. I can't remember how I found Diana Strinati Bauer's blog but since then I've recommended it to everyone... and now that is official. Being someone who dreams of spending months at a stretch in Italy and would love to visit beautiful little B and B's along the way this blog makes me swoon. She's a potter, Inn Keeper, ex-Pat and amazing writer.

Because we all need a good food blog to read, and Ree Drummond doesn't really need any new subscribers, I want to recommend The Bicycle Chef because she's got great recipes, nutrition advice and I love her.

My final recommendation is for all of you aspiring authors. My friend Sonia at Gutsy Living, who is one of the Blogstresses recommendations today, is wonderful about sharing information for writers. She introduced me to The Book Designer. Joel has great advice and insights. He also shares links once a week that will introduce you to amazing resources, such as agents blogs, how to self-publish, tech advice... the list goes on!

So there you have it... LOTS of great reading. I hope you'll click on all the blog links I've given here, including The Blogstress Network to see the links we recommended there, and leave a comment, so they can find YOU.

I would love for you to tell me at least one blog that you MUST read. Thanks!

Mother Nature's Busy Week

2011-08-29T17:29:00.000-04:00

There used to be a commercial with a tag line, "It's not nice to fool Mother Nature!" Apparently Mother Nature, or as I refer to her... Big Mama, likes to fool us, however.

Photo: Sodahead.com

It has been quite a week here on the east coast. Our first serious earthquake since 1875 kicked things off last Tuesday. I was doing what I’m doing now… writing a blog post… and felt a vibration. The house sometimes shimmies a bit when the washer goes into spin cycle. Then I realized I wasn’t doing laundry.

In the kitchen glasses and dishes were rattling a bit and it felt odd. I went outside to find neighbors wondering, as I was, what the hell just happened. “Earthquake??” “We don’t get those here.” Well, yes we did. It was 5.8 on the Richter scale and happened about 250 miles southwest of us.

Washington D.C. Aug. 23rd, 2011

I had the, ahem, pleasure of experiencing the 7.9 quake in California in 1989. We were driving from Los Angeles to San Francisco along the scenic Pacific Coast Highway and while stopped in San Luis Obispo, about 300 miles south of the epicenter, we knew there was an earthquake.

As you probably know, the severity goes up exponentially between 5.8/ 7.9 on the Richter scale. The difference between our quake last week and the one in California in 1989 is best described as damage vs. devastation.

San Francisco 1989

While last week’s earthquake was the top news story for a day or so a bigger story was developing… Hurricane Irene was trying to decide exactly who she would visit on her trip up the east coast. After causing much damage in the Caribbean.

At her peak she was the size of Texas and headed straight for, what appeared to me, our front porch. I couldn’t take it personally because there were 65 million people feeling the same way. You never know when or where definitively with hurricanes.

In fact Big Mama is very unpredictable. I know meteorologists have state of the art technology and brilliant scientific minds, but Big Mama don’t care. She’s fickle and LOVES surprises. So how do you deal with that?

If we learned anything from Hurricane Katrina it’s that you HAVE to prepare for the worst and hope for the best. The governor had announced mandatory evacuation for all shore towns in New Jersey. Many people balked at that.

Finally he said, “Get the hell off the beach, you’ve maxed out your tan!” Which is the funniest thing he’s ever said and he was right. New Jersey is the most densely populated state in the country and with tourists in August even more so.

I had no doubt he was right and we complied. We sealed up the house as best we could, said a prayer on the way out of town and hoped for the best. Millions did the same.

Ironically, the damage was much worse inland. So much for the fancy Doppler radar and brilliant science… Big Mama had her own plan.

She started in North Carolina causing major damage. Then dipped her big toe back in the Atlantic and moseyed up to Delaware Bay wreaking havoc in Delaware and New Jersey. It was the wee hours of Sunday morning when she passed over us in Philadelphia.

After a fitful sleep I woke Sunday morning to a few downed branches and heavy rain. We had come through relatively unscathed but as the day progressed the flooding got much worse up and down the coast. From minor streams to major rivers everything was flooding.

Irene left Philly as a tropical storm and continued up the coast. Sparing NYC the worst but wiping out an entire town in upstate New York. Big Mama was enjoying her trip so much she decided she’d keep going all the way to Quebec!

The result of Big Mama’s excursion up the Eastern U.S.: 24 people killed; millions without power, possibly for another week or more; billions of dollars in flood damage; and thousands homeless.

For those who felt it was over hyped let me say, you should be grateful you’re alive to criticize.

Have you survived any of Big Mama’s major events? I hope you’ll share your story.

Blog World or Bust!!

2011-08-23T23:45:00.001-04:00

This is a very exciting day here at Zero to 60 and beyond! It's my day to be the featured blogger on SITs! Welcome all SITstah's!

I suppose I’ve always been a risk taker. Even I look back at some of the things I did as a child and shake my head at how risky they were. Back then I just trusted my gut… oblivious to risk.

As an adult that trait has served me well. I’ve worked in sales, ventured into my own business a few times and risk never deterred me. Perhaps it should have once or twice, but it didn’t. I’ve never regretted those choices.

No one wants to hear “No” as often as those in sales do, but it comes with the territory. Nothing ventured, nothing gained is the thought process, or one of my favorites… “The worst case scenario…they say ‘NO’.”

I recently had the honor of interviewing the ‘take no prisoners’ risk taker and blogger, Annabel Candy, for The Blogstress Network. Annabel and I go back a long way… which in blog years would be slightly over one year.

When Annabel was determined to go to Blog World in Las Vegas last year, (she lives in Australia) she needed help and wasn’t afraid to ask for it. She even asked her readers to donate money. I was shocked! I’m all about taking a risk but asking for donations from readers?? Puhleez.

I was fairly new to blogging and my community was just building. I didn’t know all of you that well then. But Annabel knew her readers intimately. She knew they loved and trusted her and damned if she wasn’t right… they ponied up for her trip! I was wrong… she was right.

Don’t panic… I’m not hitting you all up for money!

But Annabel has inspired me to ask Volkswagen to sponsor my trip to Blog World in Los Angeles this year. The plan is really exciting and fun, if I say so myself.

They provide a vehicle for me and a few other bloggers to drive cross-country from Philadelphia to Los Angeles. They will wrap the vehicle (the way they wrap buses and such) with the Blogstress Network logo… a lip print… and it will say…

“Volkswagen, Zero to 60 and beyond, and the Blogstress Network… Leaving Our Mark on the World!”

Once VW is on board getting the other sponsors needed should be much easier. They’ll probably be contacting me. We’ll need, lodging along the way, gas, food, and our tickets for Blog World.

Here’s my vision:

We will leave Philly with much fanfare… local news will cover it and then we’ll send them updates during the trip.

We’ll do 300-500 miles a day and stop at local VW dealerships along the way for promo ops and to get the name of their favorite local children’s charity (more on that later).

We will pull into the hotel that sponsors us and video out front and then write about the experience the next day.

Imagine the exposure of having 4 bloggers documenting all of this and all those reading about it SHARING it over social media!

The fun and excitement will build and by the time we reach Blog World it will truly be an event!

About the children’s charity…

We will ask our readers to donate an amount per mile… doesn’t even have to be a dollar… at a penny per mile it would be approximately $30. That could truly add up!

By the time we return it will be close to the Holiday Season. The whole world is in difficult financial times right now and none of us want to see children missing out on gifts.

We will collect the money from those who donate per mile and purchase gift cards to present to all the local VW dealerships who will then buy toys for the kids.

Tell me what you think about my plan. Have you ever reached out to your readers for support? How did it go? I will take your responses to VW to reinforce my view of what a great promotion this could be. Thanks for stopping by and thanks in advance for your help with this idea of mine.

A love letter to my dear friend James F. Penland

2011-08-19T17:53:00.002-04:00

This post is a love letter to my dear friend and mentor James F. Penland...

This was Jim at our Wedding Renewal in 2002... The invitation said Beach Formal... he never disappointed!

Dear Jim,

I could never thank you enough for the love and kindness you showed me during our 12 years of friendship. You gave me so much more than I could ever possibly have repaid you, but then there are countless others who would say the same thing.

I will never forget the day I happened upon the store front on Asbury Avenue with the hand painted sign saying, “Ocean City Fine Arts League”. It was your newest venture to expand the arts in town. You were the first to greet me and show me around while exuding your love for the Arts and all who create it.

I was just coming out of a 25 year hiatus from my art. I denied that amazing gift from God for too long and he gave me YOU to bring it out again. A gift I will cherish for the rest of my life.

You encouraged me to bring in some of my work and I couldn’t think of anything worthy. I was in awe. You wouldn’t take no for an answer. You always had a way of knowing what was just beneath the surface and you saw something in me I never saw in myself.

I explained to you that I’d had no formal art training, unless you counted high school. Yet, you made me feel like the Arts League wouldn’t be complete without my work there. I’d never felt so exalted.

You made me feel worthy, talented and wanted within this group of amazing artists you’d brought together. It was a high I’d never experienced. I knew I had to find a way to justify your faith in me.

Over the years we had many fun experiences together…

Creating the first Art Expo for Ocean City was quite a challenge, but you were there cheering us on to bring it to fruition, never a doubt. How could anyone ever let you down? It was quite successful!

The Ocean City Music Pier was the venue

Featuring my art at the gallery and putting my Tango painting in the window blew me away.

The fun we had creating the first Bal Masque and the painting you coached me through for the auction… and it SOLD! One of only 2 and the other was Joe Kardonne's! That was incredibly exciting… I was so proud! I had never considered pastels on black sandpaper and you assured me it would be exactly as we’d planned. You were never wrong.

You always found the best in everyone you touched, whether as artists or human beings. It made all of us better because you believed we were.

When I watched you paint 'Gillian's Fun Deck' I told you that was the first Ferris Wheel my kids had ever been on. You later presented us with one of my most cherished gifts... the 1st artists proof of that painting, dedicated to us and signed by you. It will always be proudly displayed in my home!

But the most cherished memories, for me, were the days you would come and paint with me on my porch. I’d make lunch or dinner… we’d take the dogs for walks and you would show me, as only you could, how to find art in everything around us.

No one but you could begin to wax poetic about the beauty of water and sewer meter valve covers and fire hydrants. I found it funny, but you were serious. Oh how I wish everyone could see the world as you did. We’d all be in a better place.

And now you are in a better place, my friend. I’m sure you are arranging an exhibit at this very moment and gathering together those who never felt they had any art ability until they met you. They’ll thank you for it, I know.

As I said when I heard the news, “The World will be a lot less colorful without Jim Penland.” But I can’t wait to see how you’ve festooned your newest venue when we meet again.

Till then my dear friend,
Barbara