Posts from ‘Family’
Christmas…A Time for Family
She was a typical big sister. He was a typical little brother. In other words, they did not get along very well.
She thought he talked too much and she couldn’t stand it when he would follow her around when she wanted a few minutes of peace and quiet.
He was a teen when he was diagnosed with chronic issues. She researched things she had never heard of, like Asperger’s syndrome, and OCD; she felt bad for her little brother and for her parents. Other than that, she was busy, and life went on.
Time passed, a lot of it in fact. She found herself back home for a visit. It was Christmas, but didn’t feel like it, not at all. Continue Reading
You don’t know “who” you are going to meet when you wake up in the morning, walk into the kitchen or pick up the phone.
You hope for a sunnier disposition than the day before but all indications point to increased overcast judgment and cumulous clouds filled with anger. They hover over your and your house and the barometric pressure on your soul is stifling. You rain your tears in silence.
You see someone standing before you who gave birth to you, held you in her arms, caressed your sorrows and listened to your secrets, only to realize that this person escaped her body and her mind left the building a long time ago. All that remains is a ghostly shell. There is a permanent vacancy sign planted in the middle of her milky eyes. It comes with a sorcerer’s glare. Continue Reading
You always hear about love-hate relationships; those “can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without them” wayward members in your life. What if you’re finally faced with that one moment to decide which one you really want? Could you make it?
My father is a hidden shadow, disappearing after every corner. He’s interesting from the things he says to the way he walks, and I’ve never been able to help following that shadow. His moral compass is strong; for the majority of my life, he was placed on a pedestal that spanned far above Mount Olympus. Despite the hundreds of cancelled weekends, and the tears that fell to my pillow because of them, it only made me want him more. It’s funny how things can change from the time you close your eyes, to when you open them again. Continue Reading
In July of 1974, we threw a surprise birthday party for Grandma Frances. This would be a casual but large family gathering. Some second and third cousins invited were people I’d heard about, but I never actually met before. It was confusing and odd that people could be in the same family, could claim to love one another, but they still didn’t know each other except through annual Christmas cards. I looked forward to putting names with faces finally. None of the relations had ever had a reunion in recent years, but Mom said that people used to do it all the time back in the old days. There were many times when the “Old Days” seemed much nicer to live in than the “New Days”.
My parents described many people who were coming to this party, and who was connected to whom on our family tree. I always loved to hear the stories of ancestors from long ago. Old family lore was fascinating. Continue Reading
I never thought it could happen to me. I never realized that tragedies weren’t just in movies. I never understood how it would feel. I took him for granted. My selfishness caused me a lifetime of pain and regret. But what I did realize is that life is not a movie. There is no rewind button. There is no slow motion. There is no pausing time. There is only time that flies by and precious moments that turn into warm memories. I wasn’t ready for him to be a memory. It wasn’t fair. Life isn’t fair. And there is nothing I could do about it.
I was fifteen and a freshman in high school when it happened. On March 22, 2006, I was lounging around the house with my family; everyone except my dad. He had moved in an apartment across town after him and my mom split up. They weren’t divorced yet and I like to think they would have worked things out. I could tell how hard my dad was trying. He was spending extra time in church, joining as many small groups as he could, and constantly coming over and surprising us with dinner. He realized how badly he had messed up. He wanted her back, and we wanted him back as well. I had just gotten my braces taken off that day and I was ecstatic. As I was running around the house smiling in every mirror I passed, we got a phone call. It was my dad. Continue Reading
Throughout my life I have had many moments in my life where I didn’t know whether or not I would survive. I have crashed into a jet skier while going 40 mph while tubing, I have been on a plane that had the oxygen masked come down because we were suppose to crash, and I have had a severe concussion which had me in the hospital in a deep sleep for three days. All of those experiences are some of my most extreme and scary moments I have had in my life, but for some reason the most scary time of my life has come within the past four months.
Recently, I discovered both my mom and dad were diagnosed with thyroid cancer. I think why it hit me so hard was not only because my parents were both of my heroes in my life, but because ever since I was little it never occurred to me that my parents would ever grow old, or become sick, or even eventually might die, but once this news hit me I was in shock. First my mom was diagnosed and then a month later came my Dad. Through all my dad’s treatments my mom would help lead him through the tough time by telling him what to expect, what the treatments were like, what medicine to take, what diet and foods would help battle this cancer, and how to deal with this disease mentally and physically. She did this while still having the cancer herself. To my surprise not only did this help them stay positive throughout the treatments but it brought them closer together and more in love. Continue Reading
I was just a baby when my mother’s little brother, Bob, tried to take his own life. He was 18. My grandpa was the one who found him, lying unconscious in a haze of exhaust and carbon monoxide. He pulled him from the garage, saving his life.
As I grew up, my brothers and I spent a lot of time with uncle Bob. He was fun to be around. He would strum a song for us on his guitar, making the words up as he went along. He also was a gifted artist and he would draw funny pictures to keep us entertained. He married one time, but it did not last. He supported himself by painting signs for businesses, and spent his spare time drawing or singing and playing the blues on his guitar. He lived in a rat hole apartment behind a bar.
He never was much of a drinker, but he used drugs, lots of them. When I was 12, he overdosed on some pills. After that he was never the same. He would disappear for weeks, months, years. We did not know if he was dead or alive. Occasionally, one of his musician buddies would call and say they had seen him here or there, but he never stayed in one place long.
When I was 19, my mother died suddenly, leaving me and my two brothers, ages 11 and 13, sick with grief. By some miracle, we were able to find my uncle for the funeral. The pain in his face was evident as he played his guitar for her one last time. Soon after the funeral, he took off again. Continue Reading
My first recollection of my mother’s voice was her laughter—she would sing silly songs or repeat nonsense verses, then laugh out loud with a high pitched shrill voice. That voice was pleasant to me and joyful. It would make me laugh. But other times, that same voice was piercing and uncomfortable, especially when she was angry, tense or upset. I wanted to cover my ears.
As a teenager, I would often react to her voice with harsh words or try to seek seclusion from its sound. I heard that same voice again as a young mother, tired and stressed, only this time it was directed at my own children. I was shocked to hear it come, not from her mouth, but my own. I vowed it would never be heard from me again, but it did, more often than I had hoped. Continue Reading
It was a wet Sunday afternoon when my husband and I were driving his daughter, Samantha, home after our visitation. It wasn’t the most fun visit. It’s not easy to entertain a 12-year-old you only see twice a month. The things Sam enjoyed doing when she was younger, like crafts, games, and baking unusual treats, no longer appealed to her. Her days were filled with the newest music, the Internet and texting friends on her cell phone.
Sam was 7-years-old when her father and I started dating. I always thought I would be a fun step-mom. The things that excited me as a child, like cotton candy, fairs, games, sidewalk chalk and Easter baskets, still excite me as an adult. I enjoy going to amusement parks, playing Frisbee in the backyard, blowing bubbles and having water balloon fights. I looked forward to sharing these moments with Sam.
But Sam never was an ordinary child. She always came off to me as an adult stuck in a child’s body just waiting to grow up and get on with it. The only toys I ever remember her playing with were the Bratz Dolls and Game Boy and even that didn’t last very long. Shopping for gifts for her has always been difficult and trying to garner interest in activities such as fairs, miniature golf or haunted houses is even harder. Continue Reading
Since my father passed away two days ago, I have had time to think about our relationship over the years. It seems my dad and I never saw eye to eye on anything. We didn’t have the same politics, we didn’t agree on religion, and we certainly never talked about sex, except for him to tell me that I shouldn’t have any. In fact, the only thing we agreed on was that we loved to laugh and tell jokes.
One thing I am sure of, however, is that he loved me and that I loved him. He was my daddy.
I am the oldest of six. When I was little, one of the ways my dad showed my mom how much he loved her was to let her sleep late on Saturday morning. He would make breakfast. Eggs over easy, bacon and toast, with a side of hash browns with onions. I have never been able to duplicate the recipe. He could whip up French toast, sausages and pancakes with the ease and finesse of any chef and not spill a drop, not drop a dish.
My father had a lot of different interests, many diverse talents and hobbies. But to me, the thing he did best of all was make mashed potatoes. Creamy and light, whipped high with Land ‘o Lakes salted butter and whole milk, it was something we had every night with dinner, seven days a week. We never tired of it. Continue Reading
The October of 1998 changed my perspective on death; it bonded us cousins, all 22 of us, forever in one memory that is revived in a solemn moment every year. Till then cousins were just fun or not fun, the family bond was not conscious to most of us…we didn’t remember we shared the same blood. We weren’t all very close, and all incredibly different, ranging in age from the wrong side of forty to the pre-teen. Muthachan (Grandfather) was then 98 and we were impatiently waiting for him to hit the century mark. He was still very active and extremely proud of his brood of grandchildren. Muthachan was well-planned for death as he had been in life. He had a notebook that recorded every number to be called when he died, an envelope holding the amount needed for the funeral, and his clothes for the last journey. He wanted all formalities connected with death to be over with the cremation. His only regret was: “So many important people will come here — I won’t be able to see any of them!” Continue Reading
Is there any human sensation more intimate or consoling than that of the caring touch of another human? Pondering this I imagined if I were blind how powerful and reassuringly connective the sensation of touch would be. Children need to feel their mother’s touch, completing the bond of connection that simple words or gestures cannot. Couples unconsciously reach for each other’s hands throughout the many moments of shared joys and abstract pains in their collective lives. As children we’re taught to never cross the street without “holding hands”, as adolescents we’re told to “shake hands” after a game or maybe after a fight with a sibling. It is the sense of touch that commits us all to one another, especially when words cannot convey the weight of our hearts.
Who hasn’t wiped a tear from a child’s cheek and in doing so offered the gentle persuasion and support of touching the child to reconnect the bond of protection and love, as if through our touch we could erase their pain? Holding my daughters soft little hand in my much bigger and stronger hand is as placating to me as I know it is to her. While her smooth little hand feels like a spring flower in mine, I know well the feeling of my much larger, coarser hand around hers, as I remember my father’s strong protective grip on mine. Continue Reading
Chapter 1
“I will do everything possible to help.” Signed: “Hillary Rodham Clinton.”
Why would Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton, as she was then, the now Secretary of State of the United States of America, be writing those words to a normal layperson, the “average Joe”, employed as a Court Reporter in Australia, born and bred as a Scouser (as they are so fondly known) in Liverpool in the United Kingdom? Why would this high-profile American female politician be promising or wanting or even needing to “do everything possible to help” a woman from Liverpool with dual nationality of Great Britain and Australia?
I can answer that question, because the woman was me. Continue Reading
This is a story about two stubborn people: two people that stayed apart for almost twenty years due to stubbborness. It’s also about insistence on way of relating – or not – because it has become a habit.
Way back when in my teens, my father and I started having difficulties relating to each other. Difficulties that were, in large part, typical of a teenager and her father. These issues were not so serious or unusual in themselves. My friends faced similar ones with their parents, to varying degrees. The difference in my case lay mostly in the vehemence with which my father and I held onto our respective points of view. I would later recognize it as a family trait, shared between my father and me.
At that point in time, I yearned for more freedom to go out, date, and come home at a reasonably late time (four a.m. sometimes). I believed that my requests were completely justified. I could, after all, articulate exactly why I needed certain changes to take place. They were to go with the changes that were occurring in me. Continue Reading
We were late again, and I was rushing to get out the door. It was fifteen minutes to my daughter’s first dental appointment and we hadn’t even left the house, much less made our way through the traffic into town. I decided there wasn’t enough time to expect a three year old to put on her own shoes, so bent down to help her. “Hold my shoulder.” I told her, so she could keep balance. Instead Jessica held the top of my head and started pulling strands of hair across my face. I pulled away and started on the next shoe. She started playing with my hair again. I was already edgy that we were late and impatiently asked her, “Why do you keep messing up my hair? I just brushed it!” She was calm in spite of my intensity and answered, “Because I love you.”
That simple line and her sweet smile stopped me in my tracks. Kneeling down and hugging her, I said, “I love you too.”
Sure enough, we arrived late at the dentist’s, and ended up having to wait on those who were on time. I started to think about all the important and timely things I had to do rather than just waiting, but caught myself this time. Jessica climbed into my lap and asked me to read with her. We went through her new reader, taking turns reading pages. Then we had fun coloring a picture together, pretending to argue over who got to color what section. Continue Reading
When you grow up with someone, it’s hard to imagine them changing, ever.
You still envision your mother as the person who made you peanut butter and jelly sandwiches when you were little, or yelled at you when you were a teenager, or sent you care-packages in college.
But my mother recently revealed a side of herself that none of us ever suspected.
My mother is a butterfly.
You wouldn’t think it to look at her. She’s five feet tall on tip-toe, and as long as I have known her, my mother has struggled with her weight.
When my dad pursued a job in Texas, far from all our friends and family, my mom suffered from depression and isolation, and hardly anyone noticed it. She didn’t want to worry anyone, so she never brought it up.
But I worried anyway. I could see her slowing down, growing older before my eyes. It scared me. I was worried that my kids, her only grandchildren, might not get to know their Gigi before she blew away like smoke. Continue Reading
During my early teen years, my relationship with my father was not a very good one. I was a typical young person, feeling that my dad was too far from my personal life to understand or know anything about me. I was the fifth of six children and while growing up, often felt lost in the shuffle when it came to quality time with him. By the time I got older, it didn’t really matter to me anymore.
My mother home schooled all of us children; therefore I saw a whole lot more of her. I respected the time she put in every day to teaching, cooking, cleaning and the myriad of other motherly duties she performed daily without complaint.
However, my contact with my father consisted of little more than a monosyllabic response to his daily, “How was your day?” each evening when he returned home from work. He was always gone by the time I woke up in the morning. Although he attempted to build a closer bond with me from time to time, offering to teach me chess or help me with my math homework, my reaction was often one of disinterest or familiarity. Continue Reading
“Don’t touch the dishwasher!” It was a family joke about my grandmother. She had a ‘system’ for doing the dishes in the dishwasher, and no one could ever get it right.
My mother just rinsed her dishes and put them in the sink, rather than risk a run-in with her mother-in-law. My father put the dishes in the dishwasher willy-nilly, knowing his mother would rearrange them. A few of us grandkids and cousins attempted to get it right, and invariably failed.
But none of us ever asked Grandma to teach us her system, and in that, I think we failed even more. It was a small thing, but you could tell it was important to her. So why didn’t we ask? Continue Reading
Upon first glance, most people would consider my dad a member of the lowest socioeconomic class and your typical Southern redneck. Although the latter definitely fits his real description, there is a lot more to my daddy than meets the eye—underneath the greased pants, messy hair, torn shirts, and scarred hands is the most amazing man I know.
When I was a child, my dad worked long hours in his shop, frequently coming in completely exhausted with bloodshot eyes. Not only did he hold a full-time job during the week, but he spent his weekends laboring away in what I later realized was his oasis. It wasn’t until I reached adulthood that I truly understood my daddy for the person he is—an amazing, inspiring human being with a heart of gold.
An unfortunate event took place in my dad’s life that would rob any normal person of all pride and confidence—one wrong step shattered his back and left him permanently on the disabled list. Instantly, I saw his heart fall to the floor and it was during this time that I first saw a tear fall from my dad’s bloodshot eyes, enough tears that could have filled a small fish bowl. After coming to terms with his disability, he insisted upon continuing to work in his shop daily, even if it meant merely sitting on a grease-covered chair plotting his next move—a move that would have to wait until he could handle the pain and discomfort of simply walking. Continue Reading
“Carl Howard! March yourself down here right now!”
Most kids, when they hear a parent use their middle name, would either run and hide, or quickly do what they are told. Not the case with my brother. After carefully thinking over mom’s words, Carl seemed to take forever coming down the stairs. He then imitated a toy soldier’s march, turned, and saluted my mother!
“Carl! Did you eat the head off of Barbie’s Easter bunny?”, mom asked in a stern voice. Carl just shrugged his shoulders and gave mom a look of “guess you’ll never know”. To which I responded to with a shriek and said, “Mommy, I watched him do it! I ate the tail and one of the ears. He took my bunny and ate the head!”
How does one kid born from a crack addict mom and another kid born from a well to do family eventually become sisters and inseparable?
Arriving home with their newest family member, Ron and Grace gathered the family around. Looking lovingly at her youngest daughter, Grace said, “Annie, meet your sister Shamile Liliet.” “E-ett? E-ett?” cried out Annie as she hugged Liliet, her roommate from the healthcare facility.
Flip the calendar back to 1985…the beginning of Annie and Liliet’s story.
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