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.

Rolling Down the River (continued part 4)

Water seems to be the key point, the theme to hurricanes. It is the single biggest worry we all have living close to a coastal area. We have to buy drinking water, gather water in big containers, bathtubs, sinks, filling anything that can contain the precious liquid. People living in areas very near the coast line need to evacuate away from great crashing waves, giant torrents of energy crashing over everything in its path, lest they be swept away into the waves. And let’s not forget the flooding, oh, the flooding that takes place because our houses are built on sand. There are entire parables about not building your house on a foundation of sand, and yet we have done it here to perfection. Houston was nothing but a swamp before it was civilized, drained and built up, with looming sky scrapers, paved roads and businesses. Sometimes I think the saying “the road to hell is paved with good intentions” is based on our arrogance of building over a Mother Nature’s wetlands. In our ever expanding need to take over every square inch of prime property, and I am not totally convinced it isn’t our lack of humility where we decide to do the exact thing that many ‘moral stories’ tell us quite explicitly not to. With buildings and lives at risk, we are taught down here to run from the water and hide from the wind. Gathering water and running from it, seems to be a quandary during times of extreme weather. On one hand, water is the enemy, the powerful, great, sweeping colossus and on the other it is the single most important thing to sustain life. I, being a rather simple human being, find all this a little confusing. While I was gathering my bottled water, my bathtub water, my garbage can water, I thought back to when I was a small child and how much I loved water. For a child water is magical, the feel of it when dancing in the rain, the coolness of swimming in the lake on a hot summer day, the breathtaking beauty of it when viewed from a white sandy beach; water is the best form of entertainment, the finest sleep-aid after swimming and the most delicious beverage when coming out of a hose in the yard. A meager sprinkler running in the grass will cause a child to lose their mind when the weather is hot and humid. Should one be so fortunate to have a swimming pool, well, their life is made in popular groups all across town. As wonderful as water is when we are small, there is real danger associated to it, as well. Most of us know of someone, or at least heard of someone who has drowned, or been tragically taken in a storm, or been deathly ill from drinking tainted, dirty water. Living past the age of twelve means we have gathered shared experiences in death by water. Just falling into water from a considerable height is as if hitting concrete. I know from personal experience, hitting a lake at high speed while water skiing will make you feel as though someone had beaten you with a ball bat. I was taught to swim as a baby. My parents were adamant about making sure we had no fear of water, and could swim our way to safety if need be. My father, a boating enthusiast, had us in life jackets sitting on boats in freezing temperatures from the time we were young. I was nine years old when I became completely aware of how dangerous water can be. All the swimming lessons in the world would not have helped me on that day; my dad, as much as he prepared me all my life to survive in water, had to save the life of his youngest child.
Back in the spring of 1972, I was a precocious nine year old, a tom-boy with scraggly, fine hair that had been fashioned into a shag that looked more like I hadn’t sat still enough for the hair dresser to cut it properly, and a considerable over-bite. I was just beginning to become a real girl. Somewhat like Pinocchio, I was learning what it took to become the very thing I desired. At birth my parents had been assured I was female, but as I became more and more awkward, dressing in mismatched, often times embarrassing outfits I had painstakingly picked out myself, complete with bright red high top converse tennis shoes, one had to wonder what was going on in my head. I thought I was styling! My folks looked as though they were not quite convinced that somewhere someone hadn’t made a tragic mistake in determining what I was. My father was less concerned about my gender neutral fashion because he could rough house with me, take me fishing, and treat me as the son he never had. My dad was not big into stereotyping females against male dominated activities. He scrubbed floors and I mowed the lawn. To my dad activities were for anyone who wanted to participate or in my case his ability to make me participate. His love of boats meant that I had to become proficient at boating. Now that I am thinking about it, we all had to become proficient at boating. He was our captain and we were his skally wags.
I was easy to convince to go out on the boat, a catamaran; my father had acquired the boat to soothe his need to sail. The other women of the house would look at him as if he had three heads, when approached to go out during cold spring days. Don’t get me wrong, they too had gone out to sea with the man who insisted it was not too cold, only to discover freezing temperatures, ice cold wind and the watery spray that would freeze to your face. We had all endured his command to go forth and boat during inappropriate weather. They had just found an out on that particular day. There was simply no way on earth my mom or my sister were going out on one windy and cold day in the spring, when dad came and found me to get me to go. For years I thought “women’s suffrage” had to do with living with guys like my dad. I was thinking of the root word suffer, which if you went boating with my dad you were sure to do. When I found out it had to do with women acquiring the right to vote, my first instinct was to gather the others in the house and see if we could vote him out of power.
So it was cold, damp, and extremely windy when my dad and I went out on our sail boat to catch a ‘hum’. The catamaran had a large sail and a trampoline in the middle. They are very cool to ride, but can be pretty slippery when wet. Our cat used to make a sound that resembled humming when the wind was strong and we really got going. The whole boat used to vibrate. It was in those times when my dad’s normally soured face would soften and he was transported back to being a kid, a young boy with the love of speed and adventure. I watched as his eyes narrowed, his jaw locked into determination and his was sailing on all cylinders. We were dressed to keep out the cold and I had a life jacket on, per my father’s insistence. Dad was always worried about boat safety. As much as he acted like a kid during our boating adventures, when it came to life jackets or his children’s safety on the water, he was all grown-up and all dad. The sky was gray that day, as it was most days in the spring, where the weather changed on a dime. There were a few boats on the water, but not many. The wind was forceful and dad had to strain at times as tacked back and forth across the water. The boom, attached to a tall mast, if you were not careful could cold cock you into oblivion, would swing wildly before snapping hard into place. The boat had begun to hum loudly, as we increased in speed. The side of the boat lifted off of the water, one pontoon nearly completely out as the boat pitched into the wind. Dad and I exchanged looks and started laughing; it was as though we were flying. We caught a sudden burst of wind and the boat’s sail caught it all. Unexpectedly the boat pitched and started to capsize leaning all the way over, the pontoon lifting up toward the sky and the mast heading fast toward the water. In an instant the boat was upside down, the mast firmly dug into the mud and my dad’s glasses had flown off his face, making it very difficult for him to see. Suddenly I was trapped under the tramline of the boat, with only a few inches of air space to catch my breath. My life jacket would normally have held my head above the water except the trampoline was pushing the top of my life jacket in a way that was causing my face to go into the water. The piece of the jacket behind my head was forcing my face directly into the lake. I struggled to find my escape, writhing under the trampoline that had me trapped. I had tried to get my life jacket off, but could not find the release. Panic started to fill me. I had begun to fight against the trampoline, my life jacket, and I was wearing myself out as I fought against the buoyancy of the jacket forcing my head down into the murky lake water. As my breathing became increasingly difficult and I was taking in water instead of air, I felt a large, strong arm grabbing at me. One swipe and he missed, another swipe and a he was closer, the last time my dad cut through the water he caught a hold of the life jacket and ripped me from under the boat. Sputtering, coughing crying, my dad pulled me close. He couldn’t really see, but he knew how to find me. There was little time for tears after we got back to shore without my dad’s beloved boat. We got in the car and drove to a friend of his, who he knew he could ask for help. They needed to get the boat out before dark. The men needed scuba equipment to free the mast that was stuck in the mud. My mom was called at the friend’s house. I sat freezing, teeth chattering as the men thought of ways to get the boat. When my mom showed up, she looked at me and hugged me tight. “What happened to your leg, Honey?” I looked down at the streams of blood running down my leg. I hadn’t even noticed I had been hurt. “I must have cut it on the boat”, I mumbled clinging to my mom for dear life. Mom and I waited for the men to get the boat, and head home. I was bathed, bandaged up and wrapped up in clean pajamas, and tucked into bed. My mom reassured me as she pulled the covers up to my chin, hugging me tightly, kissing my forehead. My dad came to check on me before the light went out for the night. “You, O.K.?” Dad asked quietly. “Yeah…” I whispered and with that I was out for the night.
The very next week my dad was preparing the boat on the trailer to be taken to the lake. I ran inside the house to find my mom. “I’m not going!” I cried as I clung to her. My dad seeing my fear came into the house, and said, “You are going! There is nothing to be afraid of. You are fine! Get ready, you are going!” he shouted at me. I cried louder, terrified of getting back on the boat. I sobbed as I got my things together, knowing I could not resist my father’s will, but I kept insisting I was scared, I didn’t want to go. I stood outside the car door, resisting getting in when my dad looked me in the eye and with a straight face said flatly, “Get in the car.” And with that I got into the back seat of the car. I sobbed all the way to the lake. I continued to cry as we pulled the boat off the trailer and into the water. For a moment I saw my mom buckle a tiny bit, and endeavor to talk to my dad, “Sam, if she really is afraid…” My father crushed my mother’s attempt to spare me getting back on the boat in an instant with nothing but a look, a glare that brought with it the intention that nothing was going to stop him from putting me back on that boat. “She cannot be afraid of the water or this boat.” My dad said in a monotone voice. I saw his face, the way it carried no emotion, the very essence of it conveyed his lack of empathy for me. “I hate you!” I spat. “I don’t care,” he continued, “get on the boat.” I was afraid of my father. I was more afraid of him than I was getting on the boat and I was completely mortified of that. I did as I was told, because back then that is what you did. No one asked how I felt. In that moment I thought no one cared about me. I was certain my parents didn’t give a damn about me. I was just something to be dealt with, tolerated, rather than cherished. I was nine years old. My experiences were limited to a tiny life from a small town. I would learn later why my dad was so cruel to his youngest child. The boat had an inner tube tied to the mast this time, so if it did indeed capsize again the mast would have a buoyant protector. We sat on the trampoline as my father tacked his way across the lake. The wind blew, the boat sailed, and no catastrophe would be had that day. I cried for most of the trip with my little fingers gripping the sides of the boat so hard my knuckles and fingertips were bright white. A few hours later, my crying had stopped, the boat was taken back out of the water and once again we were on dry land.
My dad came to me days later. He walked in my room, sitting on the edge of my bed and asked in a soft voice, “Do you know why I made you get back on the boat?” In an act of defiance I turned my head away from dad and said quite staunchly, “No, maybe because you are so mean and don’t care about me. I don’t know why you hate me so much.” Dad laughed. “No, Kellie, I didn’t do it because I don’t care about you and I certainly don’t hate you. I did it so you wouldn’t be afraid of water for the rest of your life. I didn’t want this to scar you so badly you would never get over it. Now do you understand? I made you get right back on the horse.” I sat silent, still very angry at my father for making me face my fear. I was certain this feeling would never go away. With my face still turned away from him, I heard him walk out of my bedroom and close the door. Tears slid down my face as I continued to believe my father was the cruelest human being to have ever existed. As a nine year old, I felt certain he had no idea of my pain. He made me get back on that boat every week for years after that. He made me get on that boat so much I eventually forgot that he was a horrible human being and that I was completely terrified.
My dad’s caustic parenting style has forced me to face things I find terrifying. Even now, I think in terms of him coming down to Texas to kick my ass in an attempt to make me do something in the spirit of “getting back on the horse”. With Ike headed our way, I knew for the sake of my family I would once again have to saddle up.
At the stores I helped elderly couples pile cases of water into their carts and offered to carry it all out to their cars. I saw people helping each other, showing more patience, trying their level best to be kind. Store clerks went the extra mile to help those of us who were staying. The phrase that was most heard was, “Hunker down”. We would all be hunkering down, because the storm was only about a day away by this point. I had put fresh batteries into the boom box stereo so we had contact with the outside world. I felt pretty certain we would not have electricity for at least a couple of days. It was the only certainty I held then.
We were as ready as we were ever going to be. We watched and waited as the radar showed the continually growing Ike head directly for the coast of Galveston. I put a Bill Cosby comedy CD in the stereo for when the electricity went out. The silence of no reassurances from the news broadcasters was deafening when it happened. When Rita blew in, we felt like we were on a strange island, isolated from the herd. This time I knew what to expect to some degree. I was trying my best to breathe in as deeply as I could. As the storm crept closer I noticed how bent over I was becoming. My body posture was slowly cutting off my air flow. I have no doubt that it was a self defense mechanism for me as I handled the stress of the unknown. I tried to put on a brave face for my kids. “It will be fine”, I said. I said it over and over hoping to convince myself as much as convince the kids. I have been afraid of large storms all of my life. When it comes to booming thunder and flashing lightening, I am reduced to a shaking, nervous wreck. As a child I used to sleep during storms. It was my coping mechanism. Fascinated, I would listen, asking questions, as others told how they sought out ways to experience big storms, sitting outside, watching it from windows. Not me, I wanted no part of Mother Nature’s wrath. Just thinking about the giant storm about to hit us head on made me shake like a scared Chihuahua. The sun was slowly setting in the sky. I forced myself to breathe deeper, filling my lungs completely, expanding my chest, trying desperately to relax. In a few hours the storm would be hitting land. Flash lights and candles were prepared for the moment when everything would go dark, all would go silent and the only thing we would hear was the raging storm just outside our wood encased windows. We gathered in the main room of the house, our den and waited, with the television droning the latest news in the background. We were trying our best to act as if it were all fine. Not one of us believed it. The kids, Tom and Betty, created makeshift beds in the center of the room. They were talking, giggling and poking at each other. The dogs had cozied-up to them, crawling inside their blankets, snuggling next to them, unaware of what was happening. I watched my children, so sweet in this moment. Tom looked at me for a moment and I saw the fear. I mouthed the words, “It’s going to be fine.” The hurricane would be hitting in the middle of the night. Rita had done the same, coming in the pitch black. I found that odd, these storms blowing in off the Gulf at the time of day we are our most vulnerable. It seemed like unnecessary cruelty.
(to be continued)