Memory Bank (continued part 5)

I was sixteen years old the last summer we went to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. I didn’t know it then, but it would be the last official family vacation we would ever take together. I had started going there when I was twelve. I knew nothing of the ocean back then. My father announced we would be traveling to the Carolinas, South to visit friends and then on to North Carolina to the beach where we would spend the remainder of that vacation. At our friends house I was shy, awkward and I thought they talked funny, these people who I had grown up with in my hometown in Ohio. A middle son, Wesley pronounced naked as necked, separating the last syllable out as “ed”. I asked him to repeat it several times, when his older brother who had kept some of his fluent Ohioan language skills explained it for me. “Ooooh,” I said back finally understanding this foreign tongued boy. He might as well have been speaking French for all the information I was able to gather through his thick drawl. By the time we were scheduled to leave I had made friends with them again after having been apart for many years. I was not anxious to go to the beach where I feared sharks and jelly fish would certainly attack me the minute I hit the water. We drove well into the night when we finally arrived at the desolate place. My immediate reaction was to sob. I couldn’t see anything that even remotely resembled the lovely place my dad had described from an earlier visit he and my mom had taken. For him it was a sanctuary, for my twelve year old mind it was hell. It was pitch black as he had to maneuver a smaller camper onto the cement pad. There were no trees, no woods as I had always been surrounded by when we went camping. There was nothingness. I could hear the crashing waves just beyond the sand dunes and a storm was brewing off the coast. I was scared; terrified of what I could not see and things I could only hear that made my imagination go wild. I cried myself to sleep that night, only to wake up and discover we landed in Oz.
Swollen eyed and still very upset to be brought to what I was sure was some God forsaken place, I rubbed my eyes and slowly climbed down from the bunk with the small air space. Get up too quickly and I would have knocked myself unconscious. My parents had a pull out couch they made up and slept on, which the moment they got up they had to promptly put back together so we all had some place to sit. The smell of breakfast, fried eggs and bacon hung heavy in the salty sea air. The breeze blew the curtains back and forth through the windows and the sun was shining high in the sky, lighting the new world we had landed in. I walked outside and saw my dad, sitting fiddling with fishing tackle and poles. “Good morning, Weepy.” My father grinned at me, waiting for my full reaction of the place he couldn’t wait to take us to. I felt my stubbornness creep into my face, as I tried not to look as excited as I was. My instinct was to run at break neck speed toward the ocean to see it, smell it, squish the sand between my toes. Moping, I went over to a camp stool opposite my dad instead, making sure I was continuing to wear my scowl, so as not to reveal any indication that he had been right bringing me to the apocalypse. “You know,” Dad started out saying, “I know you are not nearly as unhappy now about being here as you were last night.” I squinted my eyes hard back at him trying to prove once again how wrong he was. Dad grinned ear to ear at me. “Give it up, kid. I am on to you. I know you can’t wait to go to the beach.” He was right, I was dying to give up my bratty facade and go to the beach, but I still wasn’t a hundred percent sure I was thrilled to be here, though if I had had to make an educated guess, I was fairly certain he was right. I continued to pout and went back into the camper to see my mom and avoid Dad’s gloating. After breakfast we all went to the beach with chairs, sun screen, cans of pop, a book for mom, fishing equipment for Dad and inflatable rafts for Kim and me. Dad went over all the new rules for swimming in the ocean. “This is different, it is salt water so don’t swallow it. Stay close to shore and if you get caught in a rip tide, swim with the current. Do you understand me?” We both nodded in agreement that we understood everything he had just laid out, but for me, I was so distracted by the water, the waves as they crashed into shore, the sea gulls flying over head scouring the beach for anyone foolish enough to feed them and the boys who were on surf boards, just beyond the second break. I would have agreed to almost anything at that point in order to get cut loose from my father’s current lecture hold.
By the end of our stay I was crying because we had to leave. The place that once seemed desolate, barren and isolated, as if it were cut directly from a science fiction movie was now someplace I wanted to move to and live forever. I swam in the ocean every day, my hair turning a white blonde as my skin darkened by the day from the sun. I sat on the edge of the water digging for tiny clams, so I could race them with the new friend I had met, Nancy. I kept one clam in a bucket while we were there, naming it Clamintine. She/he was my best racer. I would put in fresh sea water and kelp every day in her bucket, so she would stay alive long enough to race that afternoon. I would dig her up from the bucket’s bottom and throw her into the pool we had dug, by hand for our races. She continued her winning streak until the day we had to pack up and head out on the road. My last day, I took Miss Clamintine, the best clam in the world, and set her free in the shallow edge of the crashing waves. Come to think of it, I shed a tear over that too. Thinking back I realize now, I was kind of cry baby. Scary things made me cry, sad things made me cry, happy things made cry, sentimental things made me cry. Dad really shouldn’t have been so worried about me taking salt water. It turns out I had already gulped in my fair share.

Memory Bank (continued part 4)

My favorite times when traveling with my dad during our longer trips to the Outer Banks were when we would arrive at the campground. There were strict rules of propriety for those of us not in the driver’s seat; no one was allowed to leave the campsite until the trailer was firmly propped into place on the cement slab. My dad had to back up our comically long trailer onto a thin strip of cement surrounded by nothing but sand. The scruffy dune covered landscape offered little to those who dared bring a trailer nearly the length of the slab. One false move in either direction would lead us to a catastrophic place of being stuck in the sand. My sister, Mom, Grandma and me would get out of the car as my dad carefully used two large mirrors bolted on the side of our station wagon to maneuver his way onto the slab. He literally had to inch the trailer in sharp right angles backing up our parade float until he reached the very edge of the slab. As he made several attempts to get the trailer into position we could hear a string of swear words coming from inside the driver’s seat from my dad. Most was garbled by wind and distance but faint grumblings of the most offensive language made its way to our ears as Grandma winced at her son’s verbiage. Kim and I laughed, hiding our faces from Mom and Dad’s view, knowing we would be chastised with a deathly look if caught. It was such stereo typical family moment for us as we heard our dad yell obscenities as my mom desperately tried to direct him onto our new home for the next couple of weeks. Entire comic movies are made by such events, and I knew why even as a kid. Once the trailer was put into place, jacks had to be set up, leveling had to be acquired and the car had to be detached along with the giant side mirrors bolted to our station wagons sides, he used for driving. The check list of what we had to accomplish was long and involved and there was o leaving until all the work was done. We each had a set of jobs and we set about the work of setting up camp. The last thing that needed to be done before we could shower off the long car ride was to lower and brace the canopy over the patio area of our campsite. Once that was accomplished the unpacking portion of the trip began as chairs were moved outside in order for us to get to our bunks. Mom would head to the kitchen area and start setting up her organized station where she would have to produce meals from a miniature model of what we had at home.
My dad to his credit took our last trip there when I was 16 and my sister was 18. He was surrounded by his mother, his wife and his teenage daughters. The amount of estrogen in that small place was palpable. The only other male was the dog, who stuck to my dad, I think of fearful of all the females in close proximity. As my sister and I had grown into young women our packing became a greater ordeal than the trip itself. As small children we had been limited to beer boxes my dad had gotten from a store. These boxes had flip tops and we were told to pack only what fit into these boxes that would allow the lids to be closed tight. I didn’t need much when I was little so packing light was fine by me, but as a young woman, I had a blow drier, curling iron, make-up, hair products, multiple bathing suits and enough clothes to change outfits at least three times a day. The skill set my sister I had to acquire was to squeeze as many outfits into these small boxes as possible. I could fold clothes into tiny little packages no bigger than a can of spam. Shoes were bent and tightly shoved into the sides and I insisted on extra bags or containers for make-up and accessories. At first Dad balked at the idea of more stuff going into the already cramped quarters, but eventually he caved like a house of cards knowing the trip would be miserable if he forced us to leave all of our accoutrement at home. Nothing made my dad more miserable than having to listen to the incessant bickering, bitching and whining of teenage girls. While we had learned which buttons to push in order to maintain our femininity, my dad learned which rules to fully enforce in order to maintain his personal peace and quiet. My father having worked for an entire year just to get these two weeks off in the summer was not about to throw away his sanity on a blow drier.

Memory Bank (continued part 3)

The drive itself took nearly 14 hours depending on the weather and the whininess of yours truly and of course the dog. The dog, when we had one to take, became the biggest issue. While my dad showed little compassion for the humans in the car, if the dog needed water, a bathroom break or some fresh air we would stop on a dime. I had to hand it to my dad, he did have a heart as big as all outdoors, you just needed to wag your tail and have kibble for dinner in order to truly see it at all times. The car rides for me were pure torture. I was a nervous, no strike that I am a nervous person, or at least that is what some people call it. I have been called anxious, energetic, boisterous, hyper, and on a very diplomatic day enthusiastic. I am all of those things, so sitting for hours doing anything for me is a real chore. The writing is different because I don’t usually have to watch the clock. I sit down and start writing and before I know it the clock shows that hours have passed. Since getting older, I only truly notice the passage of time when I go to get up and proceed to fall flat on my face because my legs have fallen asleep. I am not writing this as comedic effect, it has happened, where I have been so engrossed in the work of writing, I haven’t seen the day turn into night, and my body has decided to sleep without me. When I work at the bar, getting off the bar stool gets really interesting. Either one can hear cracking, popping and groans or a devastating “kersplat!” Which means I am lying face down on the floor as the dogs, who originally came to investigate now see this an opportune time to lick my face and sit on my back. So, yeah, sitting for me is as painful now as when I was a kid/teen person, but for different reasons.
Back in the car, I fidgeted until I heard my dad threaten to leave me at the next available stop. I popped my gum, played little games by myself, read, drew and eventually asked one hundred thousand questions of my parents about everything under the sun. “Where did you go to elementary school? Did you have more than ten friends in school? Did you go to your Grandma’s house on weekends like we do? Did you always know you wanted kids? Do you like cats? What would you do if a million cats showed up at our house and they were all starving?” I asked a lot of questions. I asked enough questions of my travel weary parents that it made them want to change their answer about always wanting kids. I made my terrible situation everybody’s terrible situation. The only defense I have is I like to share. The only time I would calm down and relax for a minute was when we would pass the most spectacular scenery. I got to view mountains, tunnels that dove under the water and went on for miles, bridges that I could not see the end of in the beginning, pastures of green grasses and fields full of corn and other vegetables. I saw hundred year old barns, massive hotels, brand new construction, and small towns that were only notable by the one blinking yellow light in the center of town. Gas stations still had soda machines with real glass bottles, diners made every meal from scratch and candy counters had candy that cost under a quarter. The further south we went, it seemed the further we were from things that had progressed into pollutants. In the south there were still so much of a time gone by. For me it was the best part of the trip, seeing how different we all are, though we live in the same country where others view as one. Accents shifted from flat under-toned inflection to a more rolling lilt, a southern twang to a full on drawl. In mere hours we would be transcended from one culture into another, all while rolling along in our station wagon with the long trailer tied behind us. The people were the most interesting thing in the world to me, how they dressed, what they said, why they said it, where they lived, if they liked where they lived. I may not have had the nerve to ask them all those questions, but I certainly had them in my head, rolling around, just waiting to see if they were answered by actions or words without being asked. There have been times when I wondered what people saw in me? You know how someone will meet you for the first time and get the entire first impression of you wrong, just by a look or word? Did people think my direct gaze was judgmental or did they see the one hundred thousand questions in my eyes? I have always wanted to ask someone who remembered meeting me for the first time, someone not from my hometown, where my reputation as a complete dork hadn’t proceeded me. I was riveted by clothing that hung in stores. Different parts of the country wore different things. It’s not to say there weren’t places where we could generic things, but there were times when clothing was geographically specific. We don’t have that now, thanks in part to the superstores that are now everywhere and the internet. But once upon a time, we were different people living in one country who liked the fact that we were different. There was a time when everything wasn’t homogenized to death diluting cultures into watery puddles to be stepped through as we make our way into the future. I have gotten disheartened over the years as we become a single type of people, mostly because cultural stories are the most interesting, the most educational, the most emotional, and the most diverse. I am not one who believes that evolution is the same as dilution. Growing smarter yes, but I like the history that hangs around our necks as an adornment of who we are becoming.
It was how different the boy looked, the easy way he smiled, how comfortable he seemed in his own skin, that caught my eye at first meeting. When he spoke I was tuned in completely. His wicked smart sarcasm had me riveted. Then he laughed, out loud bearing his brilliant smile and I melted like a fudgesicle on a hot day.

Memory Bank (continued part 2)

The boy I wrote about earlier…the boy, the boy, not quite man, not really a boy, the artist, he was the first male person to love me. I was on vacation with my parents, a teenager, a blond skinny, sinewy youth, full of piss and vinegar. I was innocent, the kind of innocence that allowed a genuine sweetness of character, a youthful, naive belief that most people were wonderful. I hadn’t yet been completely convinced of the evil that can lurk in dark corners. I had not experienced all the shocking horrors of adulthood. I still believed in love back then. I had seen things, sinister things that taught me to be careful when things became obvious, but I had not yet seen the ones who smile as they stabbed me in the heart. I still had the watery impressions of real love being the kind where couples walked along the beach holding hands, laughing at nothing but each other, telling secrets, kissing in the moonlight. The boy, the incredible dark haired boy, who had a smile that lit up an entire sky, he proved all my childish ideas to be true. Not once did he shatter my illusion. He created for me a dream state that would carry me through some of my darkest hours. He gave me the most priceless gift, the most precious part of himself, he gave me his whole heart first and then he gave me hope.
Being a teenager, a girl no less, I was allowed about 50 feet from my parents when we were at the beach. I was allowed as far away from my father as his whistle. The moment I couldn’t hear and respond immediately to his high pitched whistle, I was going to be in the kind of trouble that epic novels are based on. My father was serious. For my dad to have to wait a minute longer than he had to meant a lack of respect for him, it meant I was disrespecting his place in our family, and that was a no-no. I had done that, pushing those buttons until the veins in my father’s forehead stood out at attention, throbbing visibly in front of me. I had seen his eyes squint hard as he fought the temptation to throw me in the direction of where he wanted me to be, so there were no great excursions, or going “out”. There was only going up to the store at the front of the camp ground. Even the campground itself was far removed from any town or gathering places. It was Rodanthe, North Carolina, near Cape Hatteras. Our family had gone there every year for vacation for years. We left right after school was out in June, to bask in the sun, walk the white sand, fish off the pier, and surf in the waves and for me, scout the new talent every year in the form of teenage boys. The boys at eh beach with their tanned skin, no shirts, athletic builds, carrying surf boards, laughing, showing off for the bikini clad girls on towels who were quite literally laying in wait. Summers on the beach were the best. In the evening we would walk the beach, the moon so bright no other light was needed. Stars reflected off the waves created a double vision of sorts; everywhere you looked whether up or down you could see heaven.
We lived in a camper for the two weeks we were there. Our trailer was big, sleeping 6 with a bathroom, kitchen table and a sofa. It was a large cumbersome sheet metal house on wheels that my dad had to drag behind our station wagon through the mountains of West Virginia, down the hills of Virginia over the bridges, past the sand dunes to our vacation spot at the KOA in Rodanthe. My grandmother, the operatic genius of her time, rode in the back seat with my sister and me. Grandma was not a good singer, but she could hit high notes, when she thought my dad was driving too close to the car in front of us, that made the dog cover his ears. I would say it was comical watching all of us pile into the station wagon with the long trailer hitched to the back, but trust me, no one in that car was laughing. My mom would read from travel books she had collected over the prior decade as we passed “significant” places. My father wouldn’t stop to let us use the restroom, so stopping to sight see was absolutely out of the question. Every year my poor mom would gather her travel books, dog-earing the places she most wanted to visit. Every year she would ask my dad if he would stop just his once to allow her to see the place she had read about, and every year he said the same thing, “We’ll see…” Which of course meant no, but Mom remained hopeful right up until we hit the bridge to go over to the beach. She would be at the ready reading aloud how fascinating the world’s largest ball of string, or battle ground for under achievers was. She read about historical homes built in hopes of having a visiting president that actually showed up, or towns full of rubble of historical sites no longer in existence. Mom had legitimate tourist sites but having her read the obscure stuff, the really obtuse out of the way stuff that no one else knew of, not even the town’s people, well, that was our entertainment for the trip. “Did you know the first officer killed in the civil war had a servant that had aspired to live in this town?” Mom would ask sincere in her endeavor to educate us. We would all shake our heads in answer, as she dove, bifocals first, back into her reading material to pull out another gem. “Did you know the first glass factory used sand that came from a beach just 45 miles from here?” “Did you know that when Virginia became a state…” poor Mom would continue her reading with a question and answer period long after the rest of had fallen asleep, except for Dad who listened to the road and Mom.

Memory Bank

No one likes being a complete dork all the time and I am no exception. I have these moments in my life when I have, in my naivety, been a complete an utter dork, in ways that remain visceral in my memory bank. I will tell you the harder I try not to be a big dork, the more glaringly apparent it is that I will always be a big dork. You would think I would be immune to the embarrassment I cause myself. But alas it is not to be. And to add further insult to injury, I am incapable of hiding a single emotion. My face can turn approximately twelve shades of red, depending on the severity of my ignorance. I say ignorance, because with me there is never any malicious intent. My ineptitude has reached epic levels of success that others merely dream of achieving. My mother always said, “If you are going to do something, do it well.” I am not sure how proud she would be of me about this, but at least she can console herself with the fact that I took her wise words to heart.
I didn’t know squat about art, the etiquette reserved for the art world or what it all meant. I knew an artist at the time of this story. He was a lovely creature with a big heart and sharp wit. Art was his world, not mine. He did sculpture. He had tried to explain to my young and empty head the intricacies of his work, but in truth, I usually just stared off into space like a deer caught in headlights. More on him later in the chapter.
Sometime after he and I had lost contact with each other, I found myself drifting into a college art gallery. I was killing time, more than I had an innate curiosity about what the gallery contained. It was cold outside and I was waiting for a friend to come and meet me. It was dark, early evening, when I saw a glow of lights coming from a windowed building. To be honest, I really don’t remember which friend or even where I was, which college I was at. My friends were scattered all over the state, so I drove to see them whenever I could.
So there I was dressed very casually in raggedy jeans with large holes in them, a t-shirt and a jean jacket, surrounded by people who wore dress clothes, suits with ties, cocktail dresses and name tags. Evidently the show was of some importance to the artists who were exhibiting their work. Most of what was on the walls and in the gallery were abstract pieces. Not knowing anything of their world, I had little appreciation for their efforts, or the deep meaning of the pieces they had spent a considerable time creating. I walked slowly in front of each piece, some paintings, some sculptures, and distractedly gazing, wishing time would pass and my friend would hurry and come get me. In the center of the room there was a metal sculpture, a large leaning piece of metal with a patina, lacquered finish shining perfectly smooth. It caught my eye, so I went in closer to have a better look. I had never before seen a metal sculpture that wasn’t outdoors. This was the first time I had witnessed a piece of such weight and magnitude, indoors on display. It appeared warm to me, as if glowing from its own heat source. I stood before this hunk of metal that had been welded, chemically altered, shined to a perfect finish mesmerized by the scale and curve of it. It had a feminine quality to it. It had great sweeping curves, a large rounded piece at the top, almost like a head. At first, it looked reminiscent of a praying mantis. As I stood there my mind wandered to the friend who I knew did metal work also. I pictured him making something like this extraordinary thing of beauty that hovered over me. The distant hum of low toned conversation could be heard as a white noise somewhere behind me, but I was transfixed as I stood grounded to my place next this thing, this weighted, glistening thing, I could not take my eyes off of. I was completely absorbed, unaware of my surroundings as I continued to stare. Time seemed to utterly stand still for me. Without thinking, without even knowing why, I reached my hand out and touched the sculpture. As I stood with my hand gently placed on the largest curve of the melted female, I suddenly saw out of the corner of my eye some guy, some very infuriated guy storm over in my direction. As if glued to my position, I didn’t move and I didn’t remove my stray hand; I stood cemented right where I was.
In an instant he slapped my hand away, off his work and began screaming at me. “Are you some kind of idiot?” He was yelling at the top of his voice. I felt the blood fill my face. My eyes wide as tears began to build up, I stammered and stumbled backward. “Don’t you ever touch my work again!” He spat at me. I watched, horrified, mostly at my own stupidity, as the tiniest string of spittle connected both sides of his mouth. He then proceeded to pace around his piece mumbling to those around him what “fucking moron” I was. I had bumbled my way several feet from the incident when an older gentleman came over to me as I stared at the floor, realizing I no longer knew where the exit was. Once I again I was glued to my spot, but for reasons remarkably different than before. “I have been watching you” the man said. I looked just high enough at him avoiding his face but seeing his name tag that said “Dr.” something or another. Immediately my mind knew he was a professor, a faculty member of this world I was such a foreigner to. “Everybody is watching me, sir” I said directly to the ceramic floor. Not looking up, I had no idea of what his reaction was on his face or where this conversation was about to go. I envisioned myself being dragged away to art jail, for committing unspeakable crimes. I pictured myself standing before a beret wearing judge who sentences me to life, cleaning paint brushes, barring me from ever entering another gallery as long as I live. The well dressed professor, in a warm tone, then said the most amazing thing. “In view of the fact that you now know not to touch the art, your response is quite a compliment for the dickhead that created it.” Relieved and grateful for not having been arrested, I stood still for a moment as the professor took his leave. I wanted to giggle, but my fear superseded my humor. The angry dickhead came over to me again, only this time he asked leaning in, “What did he say to you? Did he mention my work? Did he say if he liked it?” Motionless, I said nothing. I found myself smiling as I made my way out, quite literally backing out of the gallery, making my exit back out into the cold. I stood on the sidewalk, breathing in the cold, trying to get my heart to stop racing. A few moments later my friend showed up. “Have you been waiting long?” “No”, I said, as the blood had finally started draining from my face. We exchanged hugs, as he said, “You know if you were cold there is a gallery right there you could have gone in. I hear there is a show tonight. A friend of mine is showing their senior work there.” We were walking away from the scene of my crime when I turned to him and asked,”What kind of art does your friend do?” I silently prayed that this anonymous friend wasn’t the dickhead sculptor. As I pleaded in my head, “Please,please,please…” I heard my friend say,”He’s a painter, oils, I think. I am not sure. I don’t know much about that stuff.” As we continued to make our way downtown, I thanked God or anyone else willing to listen that I hadn’t just embarrassed and humiliated myself, but inadvertently taken my friend with me down Alice’s rabbit hole.
Since that time, I have never and I do mean never touched another piece of art, regardless of how engrossed I became. Alert the museums, sound the alarms at the galleries, all art work is safe from the infamous art toucher.
Did you hear that? I swear it sounded like a collective sigh coming from the museum district.

The Worst Advice I Ever Got

I love my mom so much because of who she is and how she thinks. I actually, think she is brilliant, most days. There have been a few misses in her words of wisdom to me over the years. Those moments when she says something I am sure she will regret down the line, I have to tell you, are some of my favorite moments with my mom. Maybe it's my love of insanity, when completely normal, moral, thoughtful people lose their crap momentarily and say something horrendous at the exact precise moment that requires the complete opposite. I am not talking about hate speak, my mom does not have a single hateful thing about her. I am talking about word salad that makes its way into a conversation, when things are so screwed up the other person is nearly speechless, but comes up with some innocuous doozie that makes me laugh.
The doodle, a self portrait, by yours truly came from a time while I was going through my divorce living in an apartment with my kids, and my whole world was falling to pieces. I was working overtime, absolutely sleep deprived from working night shift, and finding myself embroiled in a do or die battle in the divorce proceedings. I was deep in the heart of Murphy, living his law to perfection. I was calling my mom a lot in those days, and nothing, absolutely nothing I said was hopeful, or happy or even completely sane. I would be crying one minute, angry the next, depressed five seconds later, all while my mom searched her brain for something she could say that would mean anything to me. Bless my mom's heart, with all she had heard, with everything she knew about my desperate situation, this is what came out of my loving mother's mouth,"Look, I know you are unhappy, but put a little lipstick on, fix your hair it will all be fine." Mouth agape, I hung up the phone and proceeded to laugh so hard I peed, just a little. O.K., so Ghandi she ain't, but I knew in that moment my life had gotten to be too much for mom too. She worried about what would happen to me, too. My expectations were to talk things out to her and for her to come up with some brilliant insight, which she was able to do at times, but she was also very connected to me and scared to death about what I was facing. I hadn't considered how my life falling apart was affecting her, even for a single second it had not occurred to me what it was like for her to watch the pain her child was in. Her horrible advice, which she laughs at now, was the time when I saw how ridiculous my expectations were, and the burden I put on my mom to try and stay objective. There was nothing objective about my life for my mom. Having kids who are now adults, I see exactly what she was going through. This delicious moment in time still makes me laugh. I relish these crazy idiosyncratic snippets of our relationship.
I confess, I didn't do what my mom said to do, for fear that my scribbling all over my face from pure frustration would alert some to consider having me put away, however, she wasn't all wrong. Over a period of time, I really did start taking better care of myself. I did start wearing make-up again, my crying had ebbed to a slow stream, versus the rushing rivers I had when I first separated from Danny. I really did get my hair done. Mind you it was at the salon school for half price, but I did make an effort to try and act like a normal person, once again.
Nothing happened in the immediate to change my doomed perspective on what my life had become. What I learned from my mom from the worst advice I ever got was, things did get better. I eventually became happy again. Time, although it didn't heal everything, had done a lovely job of closing my open wounds. So should you just put a little lipstick on and try to feel better? Yeah, I guess it couldn't hurt, but stay away from shaving your legs for awhile. Sharp objects for those who are going through a bad time in their life is definitely not a good idea.

Inappropriate Garnish

My mother and I were sitting outside of her house in Ohio talking when she was telling me about how a friend of hers served up a potato casserole no one would try because she had used pimento on the top of it as a garnish.
“You would eat it, wouldn’t you?” my mother asked as if it were a ridiculous notion for me not to. “No I wouldn’t,” I said defiantly, “The pimento would stop me in my tracks.”
“What are you talking about it? That’s ridiculous, you just scrape it off, the rest is fine,” my mom admonished my lack of bravery at trying pimento covered potatoes.
I gave up that argument with my mother as I so often did when I was certain she would have no appreciation for my having my own opinion. The truth is I would avoid those potatoes like the plague. I would take one look at the casserole and desperately wish the cook had not covered it in red squishy things to try and make it look like it was something other than just a potato casserole. Maybe her friend thought plain old potatoes were too boring to serve at the function. Was it a formal function that required a more distinguished dress for the food? Did the casserole complain of being cold so she felt obligated to cover them up? Whatever the circumstances that I was not made aware of, I am certain I would not have partaken of the dish due to its inappropriate garnish.
My grandmother was famous for shoving inappropriate things into Jello. Every family event Grandma would whip up some jello that outwardly looked delicious and refreshing until you took in a mouthful and found yourself chewing some sort of shredded vegetable that she had shoved into the center. It was shocking to my system every time she did it and she did it every time. You would think I would learn to avoid the Jello surprise after several attempts, only to find myself gagging and choking on roughage that had been encased by the jiggling mass. But alas it was not to be. My hopeful childlike nature refused to believe she would ruin every Jello dish with more horrifying and grossly unappetizing vegetable scraps. My feeling is simplicity is often the best garnish for any occasion. Better to serve something recognizable, than to expect one’s guest to scrape something off, or worse still, spit it out in a napkin.
I know why my mom thinks I would try things regardless of the inappropriate garnish that is used to disguise the obvious. She raised me to be polite and sneaky. She would deny the sneaky part and say it is heresy to say I was raised that way, but it is true. I was raised to take “no thank you helpings”, of food that I would never in my right mind eat even in the event of starvation. I was raised that it is better to choke something down than let the hostess know that I am deathly allergic to the main course. All my mother cares about when it comes to food, is good manners. One ambulance ride to the emergency room does not provide a reason to refuse good food that someone else has slaved over. I have had more arguments with my mother about people sticking weird things in food than I care to recount. “Why did they have to put dried mangos and pepperonis in the same salad?” I would look desperately at my mom for any kind of reasonable explanation. “Because it makes it look enticing. Now be quiet and grab a small spoonful so the hostess doesn’t feel bad.” My mom begins to put a tablespoonful on her own plate.
“If I eat that I will feel bad, how about that? Why is it O.K. for me to feel like crap? Can’t we just say I am a vegetarian?” I continue to plead. “With ribs on your plate?”Mom shakes her head at me as if I were an idiot. “I could say I am saving them for Michael”, I explain.
“He’s twelve hundred miles away in Houston Texas! Really, Kellie, it wouldn’t kill you to try something new.” Mom continues down the buffet line putting small dollops of unwanted food on her plate that she has no intention of actually eating. I watch my polite mother as she makes very obvious faces of disgust at some of the things she is “trying”, and I can’t help but wonder if we are doing the hostess any favors. Others in the same line have no problem snubbing the odd combinations that look unappealing, so why do we have to pretend to eat it? “If it’s that bad,” my mother continues, “just spit it in a napkin.” I look again at my mother and say flatly,”My napkin isn’t big enough. I have a question for you; wouldn’t it be easier and nicer to ignore the unrecognizable, so the hostess doesn’t make that mistake again? It seems kinder to quietly let her know that garbage pot pie is not an appropriate dish for any affair.” My mom looks at me with utter disdain, “Well that is just rude. Be quiet and put the salmon stuffed with pickles on your plate.”
I am a foodie, who has great appreciation for new and exciting cuisine, but I cannot reconcile myself to eat things that are far from interesting combinations and more like found table scraps blended together. My family is famous at reunions for having the best and worst dishes at the same table. One can help themselves to the most delectable treats to the disgusting treachery, all on the same paper plate. I do try and be polite, but I think my mom has gone a bit over board trying to not hurt someone’s feelings. There just has to be a middle ground between devouring the delicious and hacking up the inevitable fur ball due to the unknown. There have been buffet lines where I have literally run out of napkins to spit in. As I dive below the surface of the table, I really don’t think I am fooling anyone, as I repeatedly cough and sputter meat and vegetable shreds into an already soggy and disintegrating single ply napkin. I also think people notice that I have as many napkins on my plate as I go to throw it away as I did original food stuff. My family is smart and knows basic math. It doesn’t take a rhubarb and mozzarella pie chart for them to see I haven’t eaten what was on my plate.
My mom tries again to convince me that it is more about my genetic stubborn streak, from my father, of course, than my want to eat what is appetizing and takes a different tack. “You eat weird things all the time. Your father and I can’t eat half the stuff you make when we visit your house.” “It’s called seasoning, Mom, and it’s not weird. People have been seasoning their food since the beginning of time.” I feign interest in the ongoing bullying to eat the brown gravy covered asparagus she has plopped onto my plate. “What exactly is that?” I ask her desperately trying to understand why as a woman in my forties I still have to eat things that smell like my sons dirt covered socks. My mom looks at me and then breaks into a huge fit of giggles. “I have no idea…maybe it’s something they saw in a magazine.” “’Composting Made Easy’?” I garble out, as I double over, trying not to spill the goo covering my drooping paper plate. Both of us look at each other and lose it. Laughing hysterically, we make our way back to our table and begin the spit fest that has become our ritual of “being polite”. If there was a prize handed out for best manners in an awkward social situation, my mom would win, hands down, every year for the rest of her life. It is pure genius watching her “look” as if she has actually eaten half of what is on her plate. She should give speeches and do seminars on how to avoid bad food while maintaining the deliciousness of it, while practically starving because she hasn’t eaten enough of anything to fill the stomach of a starving child. I do know her Achilles heel, though. My mother hates Lima beans. I am not sure what horrifying event took place in her past, that has her so up in arms about the little green devils, but I know for certain she would rather die of starvation than eat a Lima bean. Sure enough I spot a Lima bean casserole on the table and elbow my mother, as I head point to the crusted edges of the dreaded baked Lima bean gunge. I notice the sprigs of parsley carefully put on top as if to hide the awful beige mess underneath. “You should try that you, know…” My mother’s face twists in horror as she says without remorse,” I will not put that on my plate. That is just wrong.”

My Life In Pee

I had been asked to write for the 24 Hour Bully Stake-Out. “Wow”, I thought, what a compliment to be included. Then, at that very moment my writing froze. I was completely stumped about what to write. I read other articles, listened to videos, watched others step up and tell their stories of inspired courage. I sat in front of my computer screen day after day waiting to be inspired, myself, and write the story I knew I had to tell. I could not for the life of me get started. I could not begin with the first word, first sentence in talking about something I had always thought would maybe relate to anybody being bullied now, or who had been altered by bullies earlier in their life.
My friend, Ron, had introduced me as a humorist. Again, I thought of what a giant compliment that was. Then, I thought, “How in the world do I make Bullying funny?” What I ultimately figured out as the dead line loomed in front of me is that I couldn’t do it, knowing my own history.
“When I was a child, I thought like a child, acted as a child, but when I became a man, I put away those childish things.” That is the quote I use on my kids all the time. That and, “You can’t un-ring a bell.” The reason those quotes mean so very much to me is because they are the very quotes that helped me decide just exactly who I was. Years ago I had to decide what kind of person I was. I had to make big changes in my life or I was certain I would become someone I didn’t recognize.
Back before there was fire, growing up, I was a bed wetter. I wrote it in my book, but I didn’t go into detail about what that meant for me as a child. Evidently, the devil really is in the details. Being a bed wetter meant I had the opportunity to get my butt kicked by anybody who viewed me as weaker, less “cool”, weird, queer or unwanted. Being a child whose life was dictated by pee meant I was all of those things, especially to my tormentors, who ironically lived right down the street from me. This family of thugs felt as if they had the right to determine who I was to them, to others and ultimately to myself. Everywhere I went, and as a child the places I went were all close to home, there they were laying in wait to push me around, kick me, punch me, throw my belongings down the gutter, call me names, and generally abuse me. My mom sometimes dropped me off early to school, when few people were there. Quiet and eerie, I walked the halls, went to the gym and wandered off in my own thoughts until I would hear the sounds of the thugs bounding in the door, just looking for an opportunity to start a fight. I spent a great deal of my childhood, elementary school, praying to escape, what I was certain was inevitable. I spent years being treated as if I had a giant “less than” sign in front of my face. In my head it looked like this…Everybody else=>….Kellie=<. I had made the mistake of explaining my dilemma of being ruled by pee by telling my childhood comrades about my kidney problems, which lead to the bed wetting, several surgeries, drinking

gallons of water during the day, medication that I had to take and many visits to my specialist. I found out all that did was make things worse for me. Another lesson learned the hard way; there is no sympathy on the playground.
I could spend this paragraph telling you all the gruesome details about how I was physically hurt, mentally tortured and even spit on. I could write an entire book about how diminished I felt. How I had cursed God for cursing me. I could tell you about the kids, who were not technically my tormentors, who pretended to be my friend, only so they could join in the fun of abusing me in the privacy of their “parties”. I went because I thought I was being included, but the truth is, I was invited, so they had someone they thought was more pathetic than they were. You get the picture; I am sure by now, you understand how most of this went down. Who amongst us hasn’t seen or heard it in our life time? What I want to tell you is how it almost altered who I would become. Being bullied almost changed who I was as a person, and who I would become as an adult.
I could change a bed, the sheets, blanket and bedspread in commercial time back in the 1970’s. Now, kids, let’s remember that back then commercials were only 30 seconds to a minute long. Be impressed, because it was an impressive talent to have. I was able to do this by the time I was seven years old. I was also able to leap IV poles in a single bound, race wheel chairs when the nurses weren’t looking, and even get green colored, pine tasting jello to stick to a wall for over a minute. These were my childhood talents. Being hospitalized regularly, I had acquired my own unique gifts. I treasured the moments, being with my people. Many of these kids were sicker than I was. Many were there when I arrived, and there when I was discharged. They had faced all the abject cruelty of healthy kids who picked on the weaker ones. I was one of the lucky ones, able to come in and out, drifting between the medical world and the healthy world. I just didn’t feel lucky at the time. I viewed my plight as a plague, a lifelong member of the broken club.
After years of being hurt on every level, I made the decision to not care about me anymore. I decided, if the world thought I was broken, useless, stupid, ugly and unlovable, then so be it. I was 15 years old when the heart in me gave up on loving the “pee girl”. I became self destructive, using drugs, hiding from accomplishment, hating everyone I came in contact with. I stopped taking my medication abruptly, against my doctor’s wishes. I sneered at my parents, and began loathing anyone who had ever hurt me. I actively hated, turning my heart to stone, numbing my feelings, and using my intelligence to turn on anyone who dared say anything mean to me, about me and around me. I became the very thing that had once broken me. I didn’t bully anybody else, but I did become a hate speaking, verbal vomiting, and self loathing caricature, of the innocent, loving joy seeking child I had once known myself to be. I set about destroying myself, one horrible mistake at a time. By the time I was in high school, I dated only those who would join in and hurt me. I made sure I had key players in the “Deconstruction of Kellie”. I kept a few friends who still cared, but I was well on my way to insuring my demise. These thugs, these bullies, who had spent years of my life making absolutely sure I felt like a worthless piece of sh*t had won. I couldn’t beat them, so I joined them. If I was to be looked at as the waste of space, then I would make certain that I held that title with pride. I kept up this behavior just waiting until something would happen that was bad enough to kill me, then we could all call it a day. I made the active decision to do nothing to stop the avalanche of abuse by them and I, destroying what was left of me. It was a slow suicide, a punishment to me for being the nasty piece of crap that I was.
The following year, I had grown tired of running. Adults were suspicious of my self destruction and it was becoming harder and harder to keep up the hate. I was very much alive and not seeming to go anywhere but to jail if I didn’t change. Dying I was OK with, but jail was another story. Even in the depths of my self- hatred, I knew I wouldn’t fair well with actual criminals. I was out to destroy me, but they were out to destroy everybody else. I cleaned up my act, got good grades, stopped dressing like a hoodlum, and pretended that I was well on my way to a total recovery. Even when the boys barked at me in hallway, or someone would threaten to kick my *ss after school, I pretended that all was well. Secretly, I still gravitated to men who would physically hurt me. Like a magnet, I would find the boy who liked to punch, hit, push and torment. Eventually, it was that boy I would pick as my boyfriend. The adults around me talked of their pride in who I was becoming. They congratulated me on accomplishments, my talents and my effort, but I knew the truth. I knew that I was no different than the skanky little garbage heap that had existed in my body before.
I kept my little secret, that the bullies had instilled me, that I was a fraud, a useless, ugly, worthless pig. I could dress up, act polite, stay sober, learn new things, all while harboring the largest lesson I learned from the thugs. I never told anyone about all the days when I had to run for my life from the thugs. I never once, sat down with my mom and told her how I felt. I never confided in a teacher, a minister or a friend about the excruciating fear I had faced day after day that had literally altered who I was.
Something happened my senior year, making me stop in my tracks and defend myself. I had a teacher, who hated me. I mean, she disliked everything about me, picking on my clothes, my intelligence, and my ability to learn, even my musical ability, which had nothing to do with her. Somewhere from the depths of my belly a gnawing had begun, I felt my face grow hot, and tears filled my eyes as she berated me publicly for the umpteenth time. I felt sick inside,

because this was no thug, this was an adult, who was bullying me. This person was paid to be a role model in school. She was at least paid to do her job and not actively pick on a kid. At first, I agreed with her, keeping the thugs lessons alive and well in my life. But one day, and I am not exactly sure why or where or how, but something inside of me snapped. It was one thing to have a kid pushing me around, or a boyfriend knock me into submission, but an adult? Why this dynamic is what changed my course, I have no idea. Maybe it was because I had seen good teachers all my life, and this one stuck way out, being the exception and not the rule. Whatever it was it caused a chain reaction in me. I began to fight for the little girl in pee. I started to defend myself from the posse I had surrounded myself with in order to keep the abuse going.
It took years to unravel the damage the thugs had inflicted on my child side. It took an abusive husband, four beautiful children and best friends who stuck by me encouraging me to be the person I was born to be. It took hard conversations with my parents, telling them about my ugly, terrifying past, tears running down both our faces at the price we had paid due to my silence. I had been too afraid to speak, my mom speechless herself at this moment, wishes she had seen more, done more, but I had been certain there was nothing for her to do.
I was wrong.
My fear paralyzed my voice, but I had people to talk to. I had doctors, family, family friends, counselors, all waiting for me to come out of hiding. I cannot change all the years it took for me to rid myself of the scars of the thugs, but I can tell you that there is hope. It doesn’t have to take 20 years of your life to figure out that if someone is bullying you, hurting you in any way, IT IS WRONG!!! Find anyone you can talk to, your parents, your friends’ parents, teachers, principals, the authorities, anybody who can lend you their strength until you can garner some of your own. Keep talking until you get the help you need.
I wake up happy every day. I know what you are thinking, every day? Yep, every day, I wake up just happy that I lived long enough to see all the good things that happen, just because I am me. I have managed to build lifelong friendships with people who adore all my quirky, dorky personality traits. They find me very loveable, adorable and mostly huggable. Had I had my way years ago I would have missed out on this. And by this I mean the pure love, joy and happiness I have to wake up to every day. I am still the girl in pee. I don’t wet the bed anymore, but if I have enough ice tea at night, I still think it might happen. My husband just laughs and tells me he will sleep in scuba gear if necessary, just so we can be together.
I was never alone, even when I thought I deserved to be. You are not alone either. We are all here, when you need us.

The "F" Word (conclusion)

When I was a single mother and attempting to date, I was more puckered than ever. I was already behind the eight ball with having four kids to raise. One of my very first dates, I was seeing a guy, also in his early thirties, who had never been married or had kids. I spoke of my kids, but I didn’t like talking about them much until I could see if the guy was worth my time and effort. We were at our first dinner date, when it was time for the check. Fumbling around my giant purse for my wallet, I gave a sigh of despair and emptied the contents of my purse on the table. Most women my then age carried small purses when they were out, its insides consisting of lipsticks, credit cards, tissues, condoms, car keys, grown-up stuff. My purse was G-rated with sing-a-long tapes, diaper wipes, a ripped plastic baggie that had once contained Cheerios that were all now floating around in my purse becoming crumbs. I found the baby’s giant plastic, multi colored keys, an old lip balm with no cap, and my wallet whose change compartment carried Chucky Cheese coins. My hair had fallen in my face and I looked up to see the guy smiling broadly at me. He suggested that the waiter, who had not been very attentive that night, deserved the Chucky Cheese coins as a tip. I dated that guy for about two months when my life became way too complicated for him. Seeing as how difficult it was for me to find dinner companions, I knew I had to keep the rest of my humanity under wraps. Gas leaks are after all, very dangerous.
The kids and I had each other. We were comfortable with just the five of us. I got lonely sometimes, missing the company, the romance of a man. I tried not to think about it, covering up my loneliness with soccer and band practice for the kids. By my thirty-fifth birthday, my nurse friends and I had decided to go out on the town. We were headed to the Flats, a hopping section of town, to have some drinks, have some laughs and dance the night away. We had found a bar that served body shots. I had a designated driver, so I was 100% in. The kids were with their aunt, I was out for the first time in ages and it was my birthday after all. I remember test tubes filled to the brim with brightly colored liquors. There was this guy… … a cute, well built, great smile guy. As it turned out, it was the cute guys’ birthday, too. Being a little tipsy, I insisted I had never met anyone with my birthday before. We started doing body shots, the perfectly legal ones off each other’s neck and arms. Let’s remember, I am the girl who can’t say “fart” so being a total tramp in a bar is not my thing, flirty and fun, yes, but trampy? Uh…no.
By the end of the night I found out the guy was an ex-military, marine guy. He asked for my number, promised to call and he did. We dated for a few weeks when he asked to come over. The kids were at home, so I was really hesitant. Marine guy was only twenty-three. I could not imagine him being anything but fling, a dalliance, a way to feel female again. Marine Guy was pretty insistent about coming to see me saying we could take the kids out for ice-cream. Our house was right down the street from The Dairy View, a soft serve ice cream place. I told him to come on over, but he couldn’t stay long, because I was always a mother first. Soon Marine guy was at my front door. I was nervous wondering what the kids would think of this considerably younger man coming to our house. I looked over at Christy first. Then I saw it, the look of absolute disdain. “How old is this guy?”Christy looked more like my mother than my kid. “He’s twenty-three, don’t worry, I promise not to marry him.” I tried to get her to loosen up so we could go out for some fun. “He’s practically young enough for me to marry him,” She retorted. I gave my sternest Mom look and encouraged everybody out the door, so we could get a move on. We all walked down the street holding hands, well, everybody except Christine, resident scorned parent in training. It was during this time when Marine Guy and my oldest son Dan struck up a conversation. It all started out innocent enough, until Dan decide to “out” me in front of the cute marine. What came out of that boy’s mouth in that moment was nothing short of betrayal. Benedict Arnold couldn’t have ratted me out better. Marine Guy and I were holding hands walking slowly as Dan faced us walking backwards when this is what he said, ”One time my mom got so mad at me, she was yelling so loud and shaking her finger at me, her face got all red and she farted.” My eyes popped out of my head like a cartoon character. Floored, I momentarily stopped as Marine Guy laughed out loud. I had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, we were in the middle of the sidewalk. If I denied it, the kids would staunchly defend the story, so I stood saying nothing, turning redder and redder and redder in the face, the arms the neck. Blood rose from the ground to fill my body making me look as though I were about to have a stroke. Instantly, Marine Guy diffused the extremely painful and awkward situation by bending down to Dan and saying, “Well, somebody doesn’t have good manners, does she?” And with that the topic was gone, never to be spoken of again. Shortly after the ice cream trip, Marine Guy and I broke up. He was fine with everything, but I never fully recovered. I would always know that he knew I was so mad at Dan, I… well, you know.
When I was single I had single girl behavior. I was able to be utterly and completely myself in every way. I could dance naked in my bedroom, after the kids went to sleep, mind you, if that is what I wanted. I never took advantage of that practice, but I could have done it. When I was tired I spent entire days in my pajamas. I did sing and dance with the kids to loud music in the living room. I spent hours getting ready for dates, wearing curlers in my hair, cream on my face walking around with little spongy things between my freshly painted toes, all because I could. There were many times as a single mom I had privileges that married moms didn’t have. I think most people know how hard it is being a single a mom, but there are lots of benefits, too. Some nights when the kids went to bed, I would take a hot bath soaking for hours, not thinking about anything. My time when I had some, was truly my own. If I didn’t feel like cooking, I didn’t. If the laundry backed up, no one was around to remind me to do it. In as much as things were tough sometimes, making decisions about the kids without the benefit of their dad’s advice, or having to mow the lawn, cook dinner and grocery shop all after work, there were wonderful times of self care, self indulgence that married women don’t often have. When Michael and I got married I had to learn to be a married person all over again. He had never been married, so that in itself was an obstacle at times. I lost most of my personal time. Being happy to be with him, most of the time I was completely content not have my single life. I realized once we were under one roof, that my ability to let go in my digestive system had gone the way of the Do-do. I was back to being uncomfortable after meals. I was guarded during after dinner walks for fear my body might betray me, much as my son had done while getting ice-cream. Michael had no problem adjusting at all. He said “oopsy” every day with thought or apology. I just couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t let go. It was too embarrassing for me to just relax all the way in front of him. My neurotic sensibility prevented me from just being a human. Until…one day while Michael and I were working on our master bedroom, we had moved the furniture toward the center so we could wall paper the walls. We had been surrounded by really bad 1980’s wallpaper which I promptly took down. Our bedroom was our safe place, our haven, so it was time to decorate in something more soothing,neutral away from the wear zone of kid attacks. I was standing next to the bathroom door when Mike said he needed to go to the garage for some tools. My stomach was really acting up, gurgling loudly, causing pressure on my abdominal walls. I was starting to look as though I were bloated like a starving child. It was bad; the feelings were explosive. I did what I always did and held everything in tight. I forced myself to think of anything else. I am sure anybody in their right mind would have just done "it". Not me, my puckered butt, just couldn’t even consider the idea. When Mike said he was leaving the room to get something from the garage, I hatched a plan, so to speak. I waited until I didn’t see him and let it all go. No holds bar, I allowed my intestinal tract to reign free…when up from the behind the dresser Michael’s head popped up with the most surprised look. Again, I froze. Laughing hysterically, he said breathless, “So this is what happens when I am not in the room.” For all intent and purposes, that was last time that ever happened. I dread getting older when I am no longer able to control my body and force my will, like I do now. I know the day is coming when I will have no choice in the matter. Eventually we all become the old person who walks, detonating personal gas attacks at the same time. My oldest recently said, “I don’t understand how saying ‘passing gas’ is any better than some of the other words and phrases out there being used. It’s like we sitting around the dinner table and someone asks to pass the mash potatoes, and by the way, here is some gas for you too. Who would want that?” I know for a fact that I would not.

The “F” Word

When I was a small child I was taught to never, I mean NEVER utter the “f” word. My parents never said that word in mixed company or any other company. It was considered one of the most vulgar words any person anywhere could say. Now before anyone thinks I am referring to the “f” word used in the common vernacular of today, let me assure you, they didn’t say that one either, but that isn’t what I am talking about. I am talking about the word…fart. Even today it’s hard for me to even type the word. As a child, I didn’t say that word, I didn’t think that word and I definitely didn’t do that word in front of people, well at least I almost never did. There was one incident, one very embarrassing, humiliating moment when things happened. I was taught to keep things to myself, never letting anyone know that kind of behavior was even possible for me. I think back to all the agonizing times, when I had to hold in the gurgling mass of air from squeaking out at the most inopportune moments. As a girl, it was unacceptable to let others know I was capable of such atrocities.
I was about twelve years old, I think, when all hell broke loose for me, right in front of a group of family friends. My parents had a couple they were close to who also had kids, three kids to be exact. The one boy was about my age, the others were younger. The adults would come over to play cards, have cocktails and hang out. We kids were then expected to act like we were lifelong friends and interact in kind. The kids and I were all sitting downstairs in our basement family room watching television. We didn’t talk, we didn’t look at each other, and we just sat and watched T.V. for what felt like hours. I was lying on the couch, dazed over by the droning of the television, I completely forgot myself. I literally forgot there were other people in the room with me. I was in my house, doing what I always did, so for me it was like it was any other time when I was alone in my basement. I was dozing off, half awake and half asleep. My head was foggy and I was no longer in control of my senses. Zoned in to the show on the tube, I lay forgetting I had company when I let go and let out a sound even our dog jumped at. Suddenly I realized I was not alone, and they were all staring at me. I mean, their heads snapped to attention in my direction, eyes bugging, mouths agape, they zeroed in my very red face and gawked. I lay very still for a time, not moving, not breathing, not blinking, and just being very, very still. My hope at that point was that they might think I had died right there on the couch. I am quite certain the smell now emanating from the couch would lead to that assumption. No one spoke; you could hear a pin drop. The staring kids never veered from their head cocked positions, either. There we all were in suspended animation. Minutes passed like hours until the little girl broke the silence left by my deafening bomb I had dropped, and asked in the sweetest, most caring voice, ”Are you alright?” I slowly nodded my head and disappeared into my room for the rest of night until they eventually went home. My mother admonished me for leaving our guests by themselves, saying I was rude. I took my punishment and never told her what had happened. I figured if she knew why I left them in a lurch, she would have been more miffed at my behavior prior to my disappearance.
After the incident, I was more careful about my bodily functions. For years my face would light up beet red, just thinking about what I had done. You would have thought I had strangled someone. I guess in some ways, asphyxiating them probably wasn’t much better, but at least it was accidental. It is hard for me to imagine what it must be like for people, like my husband who are so comfortable with their bodies. Michael is not just comfortable, he is often fascinated by all the sounds his body can produce. It must be boy thing, for sure. I have met lots of women who insist they have never done it. I am more gifted now at concealing my leaky air flow. I won’t say I never do it, but I am able to go for years without doing it in front of anyone, except the dogs. We have a special bond, my dogs and I. They leak out all their bad stuff and I am accepted for all my bad stuff. Michael first showed me how comfortable he was when we were dating early on after college. He had come up to the island where my parents had a boat and camper. We had wandered off down the road for some privacy away from the glaring eyes of my parental units. We were in the initial stages of dating. I was still flipping my hair, giggling innocently, while he maintained his manly coolness. We were sitting outside in a park on a picnic table. There we were just laughing and talking, touching each other’s hands the way you do when you want the physical connection without going in for the kiss. There was first class flirting that day in the warm sun, surrounded by blue skies and puffy clouds. Michael said something really funny, as he always does, when all of sudden it was he who had the unfortunate incident. Where I had experienced a near panic attack with my situation, he just laughed even harder and said, “Oopsy!” I looked at him completely stunned. “Is that it, oopsy?”I asked incredulous. He laughed so hard he couldn’t talk anymore. He didn’t think about it again, except when I would bring it up to see if he was capable of embarrassment. He, to this day still thinks it’s hilarious.
Men are unapologetic when it comes to gas. They have made it their art form, a game of sorts, and if you are really unlucky you may have married the Dutch oven guy. I had broken off relationships due to my puckered feelings about gas. I dated one guy who thought it was perfectly acceptable behavior to let it all hang out in any situation. I was completely grossed out. He might as well have been the guy who didn’t brush his teeth, as far as I was concerned.
(To be continued)

Rolling Down the River (conclusion)

Immediately we all noticed the same thing, the weather. After the torrential downpour of Ike, what was left was blue skies, low humidity and perfect fall weather. We don’t have fall in Houston. I had a client who used to call September “the bitchy season” due to the extreme heat, and humidity. September is my least favorite month of living in the south. Up north where I was raised, September began the slow cooling of the earth, the changing of the leaves, a chance at Indian summer, very temperate climate changes. In Houston, September was the extra month of summer’s endless heat, scorched earth, profuse sweating and humidity that would curl your toes let alone your hair. It seemed as though Ike had swept all our unfavorable weather away. The kids and I cleaned the yard as Mike had to head back t work. Though none of us had power, he was slated to work in a bunker provided for by his company. It turned out the airline waited for no storm. Downtown where the offices normally were, windows were busted out, glass covering the streets, the power remained out and the city had just began to assess the damage as we all had started doing. Our mayor must not have slept the entire we were going through this. He had constant press conferences at all times of day and night. At one point just before the storm he had gone out to get people who didn’t speak English to evacuate their apartment building. The thing that really impressed me was how he didn’t leave himself. He stayed and took of his people. He had also just a few years earlier got buses together for the victims of Katrina, sending them over to New Orleans to gather everyone he could to put them in a safe shelter away from the chaos. Our mayor, Bill White did an outstanding job, staying present with the people of Houston, organizing everything down to the last detail. He had help with Judge Ed Emmett, as they together got us through. If not for their constant leadership, I fear we too, would have been trapped in chaos. When FEMA showed up with PODs (points of distribution trailers) they insisted they maintain control over where and when things got done. The last thing we needed was to have out-of-towners take over an already in progress operation. We trusted our mayor and Judge Emmett, we did not trust many others.
We knew we would be without power for a few days, but none of us knew the extent of the damage, so there was no way for us to predict the amount of days we would be isolated from the rest of the world. The news did a single day of real coverage, but the very next day the economic crisis happened, so we were literally ‘yesterday’s news’, leaving us to fend for ourselves. We became a blurb on the national news, with little or no attention, leaving most of the days broadcasts for the economy. I won’t lie, I was more than a little pissed about it. There we were without power, roads were blocked from getting help immediately and no one out in the world seemed to have any idea just how bad it was because no one was covering the story except our local news people. We had in so many ways been forgotten. In spite of this, the people of Texas got very busy very fast, finding shut-ins who needed food and water, carrying it on personal trucks, rescues were done daily by ordinary citizens, as they gathered what supplies were left and what help they could find out on the street. We weren’t waiting on anybody; we knew what we had to do.
Since the weather was conducive for all the work, we all helped each other dig out of the mess left behind by Ike. Like I said, our area was not damaged extensively, but other areas in our town were. Downtown was the first to get power, so when Mike went to work he got gas and anything we might need from the few places that were open. The first week without power we used a camp stove and an open fire to cook on. Tom and I had cleared large tree branches that outweighed both of us, raked up the rest and found ourselves somewhat bored as we waited to go back out in tot the world. There it was the isolation I spoke of earlier. Not delivery trucks could get in, no places were open to buy anything from and no power meant no refrigeration, no anything with a plug. I had frozen great blocks of ice and used our refrigerator as an old fashioned ice box. We listened to the radio and played cards during the daylight hours. Tom and I dug a fire pit for the evenings, so we could sit outside and pretend we were camping. I told my mom our house was the best vacation cabin I had ever had. There was a story that flew through town of the two boys who armed with four wheelers and chainsaws had cleared our main road. They were hailed as heroes by all of us. They did what was necessary without having anybody else out to help. They are the future of this country. I feel pretty confident we are in good hands.
We had a week’s worth of food in our “ice box”. We had canned food, but try living on canned food for any length of time. Really, it’s just gross. We were running out of milk, bread and meat. Our perishables were perishing. Days after the hurricane we trekked out to the store to see what was happening. Freezers stood empty, refrigerators were empty as well, and there were only a couple of cash registers that worked on generator power. The staff did their best trying to help those who foraging for food, but without power or deliveries they were in the same predicament we were. I only drove to the store and back since the gas stations were closed as well. The few stations that got to open on generators had lines for miles, and people waited for hours just for the opportunity to try and get a few gallons of gas. I stayed very close to home. We walked around our neighborhood seeing what still remained intact. I wouldn’t go driving out to the areas in our town hardest by the hurricane. It seemed cruel to gawk at those less fortunate. This was not a time to be voyeuristic. If there was help needed, we helped, otherwise we stayed put out the way so others could do what was necessary.
We were days into our electricity exile when Jerry had called to see how we were faring. The truth was we were just fine. I had figured out how make pizza on the grill, we had camp fires every night, and Mike was able to get back and forth to his job. We were running out of food, but I thought surely the power would be back on in no time, since it had already been a week. Others were getting power, so I was certain we would be getting our very soon. As I held the phone to my ear talking to my friend, I saw Tom build our nightly campfire. The fire pit had been lined on the outside with river rock. He had ht embers burning brightly when all of a sudden I hear d yelling and Michael was running for the hose. I threw the phone down and ran to the kids. Some of the river rock had slipped in the fire pit and had begun exploding sending hot embers at the heads of my kids. Loud popping like the sound of a gun being discharges came from the pit as red hot river rock split, exploded and flew into the air. I really didn’t know what was going on. Mike got the hose and quickly extinguished the fire. I got back on the phone and told Jerry what had just happened. “Geeze, Kel, you can’t have river rock by a fire, it’s like having petrified popcorn!” Everyone was safe and no one got hurt. We all laughed, spitting and puttering about how the rocks were flying into the air like missiles. Tom had a hard hat he went and put on his head, wearing it every time we had a fire after that.
Day 7- I asked if Mike knew if any of our friends had gotten the power back on. “Yeah, Lo does I think.” “We need to ask if she can freeze some blocks for us so the food in the fridge doesn’t spoil. I am all out of ice.” Our friend, Lo, was more than happy to do it and Mike could stop by after work. The stores still didn’t have milk, meat or bread.
Day 8- With our food situation growing more and direr, and having lived without power for over a week, the kids and I were starting to feel desperate, separate and alone. Mike and I decided to go looking for a generator when there was rumor some had been shipped in. We went on the hunt and found a line at the home improvement store. I sat in line as Mike went back to the car to go out further and see what he could find. I sat there for about an hour talking to other folks who had weathered the storm. We had exchanged stories about eh night Ike hit, the tragedies we had heard about, and always asked if anybody needed anything. Mike drove up and told me to get in, but not before telling the group he had found generators for reasonable prices at another place. We didn’t use our generator that night because there was no gas to be found, but mike said he knew of a gas station downtown he could get gas from the next day.
Day 9- Mike brought home gas in the afternoon for the generator. We parked it far from the house and started it up. With a loud rumble it started right up and ran until bedtime. We knew we could only run it for twelve hours since gasoline prices had raised steeply due to the hurricane. We watched television for the first time in days. I watched the national news and it was in that moment I knew we were on our own. With the economic meltdown, no one paid any attention to us. My heart sank. I was not looking for pity, but I knew our story would not get told. Being a story teller by nature, my want is that the heroes, the victims, the isolation, despair and ultimately the rising of the people out of the debris would be heard beyond our immediate area. I knew, though, that was not going to happen and we would have to be happy with what we knew for ourselves.
Day 10- Storied of impatience started to grow. People were getting frustrated, especially about the gas situation. The local news announced who had gas and how much they had, but tempers were starting to flare. Generators needed gas in order to run and even though the weather was decent and no air conditioning was required, many of us had all electric appliances that were looking more like museum pieces than useful equipment. There was an altercation at one gas station where a man began to lose it and got shot by a policeman. Police were stationed at all the gas stations due to the rationing of fuel. Every day Mike went to work, buying gas down town and dragging it all the way back home so we could have some sense of normalcy, but we were all getting worn down. The stores were empty that day too. It felt as though we might never feel like we were normal again. The isolation was shrouding us and our town more and more. We were all storm weary, feeling alone, abandoned, not by Texans but certainly by everyone else.
Day 11- With the comfort of having a refrigerator, I trekked back out to the store to see if a truck had made it through. Tom went with me to keep me company and find his way out the house. We saw the refrigeration units were plugged in. The freezers were up and running. We ran back to the store to the bread isle first. There was bread! Grabbing two loaves we ran to the milk fridge. There was milk! There was meat and fresh produce and a newly stocked dairy case. Tom and hugged and danced right in the center of the isle. Laughing and singing made up songs about milk bread and meat we skipped to the front of the store. “Mom”, Tom said breathless from our ridiculous behavior, “It really is going to be O.K. I promise.” Tears filled my eyes as my son reassured me this time. Those were the exact words I had said to him after his father passed away. It was the phrase I had used over and over to let them know we would survive.
Day 12-We had heard rumors, because that is all the news that existed for us that our electricity might come on. Others had full power now and we were still waiting. Some had power for over a week, but our power station was in the back so we assumed we would probably be last. Many of the neighbors had left after not having power for a few days. In the beginning we had been warned that it would take some time, so many people left to wait it out in comfort. All I could think was, “Thank God I know how to camp!” My ability to camp and improvise turned what could have been an awful situation into a bearable one, minus the exploding rocks, that is. It was Tom’s birthday and there were no presents, no birthday cake, just parents and a sister who really loved him. I promised I would make it up to him. Rita had been around his birthday too, so he said, “It’s OK, Mom. I am just hoping to go back to my room and sleep tonight. Getting electricity would be the best present ever!” We waited hopeful all day, but nothing happened. The sky was getting dark and we had almost given up for the day when suddenly the lights came on! We ran around the house to check if it was a fluke. We danced in the living room yelling, “We have lights!” Tom ran to his room and opened the window yelling to anyone who could hear him, “We have electricity!” He came back down and began packing up his bedding and head back up stairs when he looked over his shoulder, “Best birthday ever!”
It took years for all of us to get completely back to normal. People are still waiting as I write this to get money they are due from their insurance companies to fix their houses. A friend of ours just got his new roof.
Ike really was a bastard; I see why Tina took off and left him.

Rolling Down the River (continued part 5)

Mike was sleeping in his closet as the hurricane approached. He had cleared a small space where he could shut out the noise and keep safe from any possible flying debris. His closet was an “inside room" with no windows. He stayed in his cocoon while the kids and I stayed out in the den. The outer bands of the hurricane hit us slightly after midnight. That is when the electricity went off. The hurricane itself made landfall at 2:10 A.M. slamming into Galveston as a strong category 2, with a category 5 equivalent storm surge. As the winds picked up we began to hear the howling of the blasting air. Loud banging on the wood that covered our windows prevented Tom and I from sleeping. Just when we would doze off, something would crash into the wood, waking us suddenly. I decided it was time for Bill Cosby to try and get us through. When the boys were in high school, trying to adjust to their new environment I had found old Bill Cosby comedy I had bought on CD. I played his stand up for them and we laughed so hard we fell off our couch. Even though so much of his material was written when I was a small child, it was still relevant. I had listened to these very bits when I was young going through my own adjustment period with a friend. Her dad had Bill Cosby albums that we played so often they had permanent grooves in the vinyl. I had decided to show my sons how to laugh when things got tough. Trying to distract us from the fear, the loud banging, and the ever increasing noise created by the gale force winds, I pushed the on button for Tom and I to have a laugh. We sat there; my son and I listening to Bill make fun of himself, his brother and his dad. As the hurricane got closer and closer we sat in the candle light giggling at the innocent silliness of Bill referring to himself as Jesus Christ. When one CD had finished and we were still awake I reached for another one. Tom and I sat in the dark, huddled together listening as the others slept. Occasionally we would jump at an unexpected tree limb crashing into the house. For hours the wind tore at our trees and our surroundings. We could not see out, but I really don’t think either one of us wanted to see what was going on outside. Tom, lying on his temporary bed, closed his eyes and out of exhaustion fell into a fitful sleep. I remained awake, scared and shaking as the sound of the hurricane continued just outside our house. My eyes had just started to close when I bolted awake, sitting upright on the couch. I listened intently for sounds of the storm. It was completely still. The silence was deafening. All I heard was the soft breathing of my children sleeping next to me. I grabbed the radio and tuned into the news. The eye of the hurricane was directly over us. I grabbed the dogs and headed for the kitchen door, to get them outside to go pee while I could. I only had about an hour to survey what had transpired so far with the deadly Ike. It was still dark outside and I could barely see anything. I looked around while encouraging the dogs to go, still listening to the radio. People were reporting damage, reporting deaths, reporting what it was they saw and experienced. I heard a woman forty minutes North West of us was killed while she slept, when a tree hit her house slicing right through it. She had been alone, in her bed waiting for the storm to pass. I was afraid of our trees, these tall monsters that were living in sand. The root systems were shallow and deadly if uprooted. I stood in my kitchen doorway grateful we had a two story house, giving us some protection from the possibility of trees falling directly on top of us. The dogs were hesitant to go outside, but we only had minutes before the second half of the storm came barreling down on us, so I ran outside yelling at them to go. Each dog found a spot near the house to do what they had to and I stood looking at the dark sky. The radio news said the eye was moving north. I felt the wind pick up, and Tom had woken, coming to the door to see what was going on. I looked at my son, my beautiful boy, and asked, “Couldn’t sleep?” Tom wiped his eyes, bloodshot and weary and shook his head. The dogs did their thing and headed in right away while Tom and I lingered for a while longer, knowing we would soon be locked in again for hours. We just stood there by the house staring out our yard, listening to the nothingness. I was just about to say, “Maybe we should go in”, when the wind picked up gusting so much that it nearly sucked the two of us out into the middle of the yard. Fighting against the incredible air force we fought our way to the door, climbing in as the wind slammed it behind us. Round two had begun. The back side of Hurricane Ike was under way. It would be several hours, in full day light before we would be able to go out again. Once more we hunkered down inside our house as more crashing sounds, more creaking from trees, more howling sounds and more terror came in from the outstretched bands of the storm.
Everything was pitch black, the sky covered in a cloak of thick, dark storm clouds. There wasn’t much to see even when I was outside. With the electricity gone, the streets were black, houses were dark and no sounds except the battering storm could be heard. Feeling exhausted I lay down on our couch, closed my eyes, said a small prayer and went to sleep. The last thing I remember was hearing the radio say was there was a fire in Galveston. The hurricane had ripped through there leaving utter devastation. As I drifted off, I prayed for everyone still there. I prayed that if they must die, they die without suffering. I prayed that we make it safely to the other side of Ike.
I had only slept for a few hours when once again I bolted straight up from my prone position to hear absolutely nothing. Silence had fallen on our storm weary home. I jumped to my feet to look outside the door, opening it carefully, bracing myself for whatever might have transpired just beyond our threshold. The sun was up as the band s of rain poured from the sky. The wind had died down to almost nothing. The first thing I saw was our fence was down. I looked across the bayou and saw everybody’s fence was down. Having a bayou directly behind our house created a sort of wind tunnel for the strong bands of air from the hurricane. I had noticed that with Rita too. I believe it spared us from more damage, this alley-way of least resistance for the hurricanes to blow through.
Mike had gotten up and we went out to see what had happened as we had waited inside, barricaded in from the elements. The back yard had debris, leaves, pine needles, some small tree limbs downed, and our fence that now leaned heavy against the broken posts. We looked around outside our gate so see almost every fence blown down, but no other heavy damage. Mike and I looked at each other stunned. With all we heard, with all the reports that had coming pouring in over the radio, we hadn’t seen any real damage to houses or structures, yet.
Mike went first walking toward the front of the house. I was hesitant; walking very slowly, afraid of what might be in store for us. In our front yard were two rather large branches eight to ten inches in diameter laying on the grass near the house. I looked at the proximity to our home. I felt like we had had a close call. The neighbors had begun to venture out also, the few that were still there. We waved as people surveyed their property for damage. Somewhere in the distance we heard a generator start up, rumbling loudly as it provided power to a single house, surrounded the rest of the now still homes on our block. “Lucky”, I thought wishing we had one also. Down the street we saw where one of the houses had a big tree lying sideways on their garage roof. Other trees were down, but houses were spared. “How is that the trees were up rooted and didn’t land on the houses?” I asked Michael in awe. Mike just shook his head. “I don’t know, baby. Maybe we were just lucky.”
Our land line phone still worked. Our cell phones were all jammed, many towers crushed to the ground. We could still text at times but had to wait hours for a response. I called my parents to tell them we had survived, nearly unscathed. Mike called his parents too. We just wanted people to know we were going to be alright. We were optimistic but still unsure of some things. Even though we had not been devastated by the direct hit, we knew others in our own area had not been as lucky. Standing outside we had already heard that the front area of our town had been ripped apart. There was another neighborhood only a couple of miles away that had also been hit very hard by Ike. Our neighborhood had been lucky, that is all it was, just being in the right place at eh right time; or as I like to call it a divine intervention. The air was cooler as we walked around seeing how the trees had been pulled from the ground as if a giant were weeding out the neighborhood. These several ton giants lay on their side felled by the howling winds of the previous night. More and more people came out into the daylight stunned by what they saw, surprised that no one around us was hurt, grateful that we had each other to help with the inevitable clean up.

Rolling Down the River (continued part 5)

Mike was sleeping in his closet as the hurricane approached. He had cleared a small space where he could shut out the noise and keep safe from any possible flying debris. His closet was an “inside room" with no windows. He stayed in his cocoon while the kids and I stayed out in the den. The outer bands of the hurricane hit us slightly after midnight. That is when the electricity went off. The hurricane itself made landfall at 2:10 A.M. slamming into Galveston as a strong category 2, with a category 5 equivalent storm surge. As the winds picked up we began to hear the howling of the blasting air. Loud banging on the wood that covered our windows prevented Tom and I from sleeping. Just when we would doze off, something would crash into the wood, waking us suddenly. I decided it was time for Bill Cosby to try and get us through. When the boys were in high school, trying to adjust to their new environment I had found old Bill Cosby comedy I had bought on CD. I played his stand up for them and we laughed so hard we fell off our couch. Even though so much of his material was written when I was a small child, it was still relevant. I had listened to these very bits when I was young going through my own adjustment period with a friend. Her dad had Bill Cosby albums that we played so often they had permanent grooves in the vinyl. I had decided to show my sons how to laugh when things got tough. Trying to distract us from the fear, the loud banging, and the ever increasing noise created by the gale force winds, I pushed the on button for Tom and I to have a laugh. We sat there; my son and I listening to Bill make fun of himself, his brother and his dad. As the hurricane got closer and closer we sat in the candle light giggling at the innocent silliness of Bill referring to himself as Jesus Christ. When one CD had finished and we were still awake I reached for another one. Tom and I sat in the dark, huddled together listening as the others slept. Occasionally we would jump at an unexpected tree limb crashing into the house. For hours the wind tore at our trees and our surroundings. We could not see out, but I really don’t think either one of us wanted to see what was going on outside. Tom, lying on his temporary bed, closed his eyes and out of exhaustion fell into a fitful sleep. I remained awake, scared and shaking as the sound of the hurricane continued just outside our house. My eyes had just started to close when I bolted awake, sitting upright on the couch. I listened intently for sounds of the storm. It was completely still. The silence was deafening. All I heard was the soft breathing of my children sleeping next to me. I grabbed the radio and tuned into the news. The eye of the hurricane was directly over us. I grabbed the dogs and headed for the kitchen door, to get them outside to go pee while I could. I only had about an hour to survey what had transpired so far with the deadly Ike. It was still dark outside and I could barely see anything. I looked around while encouraging the dogs to go, still listening to the radio. People were reporting damage, reporting deaths, reporting what it was they saw and experienced. I heard a woman forty minutes North West of us was killed while she slept, when a tree hit her house slicing right through it. She had been alone, in her bed waiting for the storm to pass. I was afraid of our trees, these tall monsters that were living in sand. The root systems were shallow and deadly if uprooted. I stood in my kitchen doorway grateful we had a two story house, giving us some protection from the possibility of trees falling directly on top of us. The dogs were hesitant to go outside, but we only had minutes before the second half of the storm came barreling down on us, so I ran outside yelling at them to go. Each dog found a spot near the house to do what they had to and I stood looking at the dark sky. The radio news said the eye was moving north. I felt the wind pick up, and Tom had woken, coming to the door to see what was going on. I looked at my son, my beautiful boy, and asked, “Couldn’t sleep?” Tom wiped his eyes, bloodshot and weary and shook his head. The dogs did their thing and headed in right away while Tom and I lingered for a while longer, knowing we would soon be locked in again for hours. We just stood there by the house staring out our yard, listening to the nothingness. I was just about to say, “Maybe we should go in”, when the wind picked up gusting so much that it nearly sucked the two of us out into the middle of the yard. Fighting against the incredible air force we fought our way to the door, climbing in as the wind slammed it behind us. Round two had begun. The back side of Hurricane Ike was under way. It would be several hours, in full day light before we would be able to go out again. Once more we hunkered down inside our house as more crashing sounds, more creaking from trees, more howling sounds and more terror came in from the outstretched bands of the storm.
Everything was pitch black, the sky covered in a cloak of thick, dark storm clouds. There wasn’t much to see even when I was outside. With the electricity gone, the streets were black, houses were dark and no sounds except the battering storm could be heard. Feeling exhausted I lay down on our couch, closed my eyes, said a small prayer and went to sleep. The last thing I remember was hearing the radio say was there was a fire in Galveston. The hurricane had ripped through there leaving utter devastation. As I drifted off, I prayed for everyone still there. I prayed that if they must die, they die without suffering. I prayed that we make it safely to the other side of Ike.
I had only slept for a few hours when once again I bolted straight up from my prone position to hear absolutely nothing. Silence had fallen on our storm weary home. I jumped to my feet to look outside the door, opening it carefully, bracing myself for whatever might have transpired just beyond our threshold. The sun was up as the band s of rain poured from the sky. The wind had died down to almost nothing. The first thing I saw was our fence was down. I looked across the bayou and saw everybody’s fence was down. Having a bayou directly behind our house created a sort of wind tunnel for the strong bands of air from the hurricane. I had noticed that with Rita too. I believe it spared us from more damage, this alley-way of least resistance for the hurricanes to blow through.
Mike had gotten up and we went out to see what had happened as we had waited inside, barricaded in from the elements. The back yard had debris, leaves, pine needles, some small tree limbs downed, and our fence that now leaned heavy against the broken posts. We looked around outside our gate so see almost every fence blown down, but no other heavy damage. Mike and I looked at each other stunned. With all we heard, with all the reports that had coming pouring in over the radio, we hadn’t seen any real damage to houses or structures, yet.
Mike went first walking toward the front of the house. I was hesitant; walking very slowly, afraid of what might be in store for us. In our front yard were two rather large branches eight to ten inches in diameter laying on the grass near the house. I looked at the proximity to our home. I felt like we had had a close call. The neighbors had begun to venture out also, the few that were still there. We waved as people surveyed their property for damage. Somewhere in the distance we heard a generator start up, rumbling loudly as it provided power to a single house, surrounded the rest of the now still homes on our block. “Lucky”, I thought wishing we had one also. Down the street we saw where one of the houses had a big tree lying sideways on their garage roof. Other trees were down, but houses were spared. “How is that the trees were up rooted and didn’t land on the houses?” I asked Michael in awe. Mike just shook his head. “I don’t know, baby. Maybe we were just lucky.”
Our land line phone still worked. Our cell phones were all jammed, many towers crushed to the ground. We could still text at times but had to wait hours for a response. I called my parents to tell them we had survived, nearly unscathed. Mike called his parents too. We just wanted people to know we were going to be alright. We were optimistic but still unsure of some things. Even though we had not been devastated by the direct hit, we knew others in our own area had not been as lucky. Standing outside we had already heard that the front area of our town had been ripped apart. There was another neighborhood only a couple of miles away that had also been hit very hard by Ike. Our neighborhood had been lucky, that is all it was, just being in the right place at eh right time; or as I like to call it a divine intervention. The air was cooler as we walked around seeing how the trees had been pulled from the ground as if a giant were weeding out the neighborhood. These several ton giants lay on their side felled by the howling winds of the previous night. More and more people came out into the daylight stunned by what they saw, surprised that no one around us was hurt, grateful that we had each other to help with the inevitable clean up.