Letter to my Love

My dearest love,

How do you begin a letter to someone who has become your life, your heart, and your reason for being? Someone who means so much to you, but who has left you behind? I try to block the wonderful memories, which makes the pain so gripping that it's hard to bear.

My heart still catches in my throat each time I hear the AOL "door opening" which once indicated you had logged on. And I still look at the "buddy list" hoping and praying, only to have my heart sink when I see it's not you. How do I keep my hope from automatically rising at that sound? I miss the "zing" that accompanied your responses when we chatted for hours on end. That sound was more wonderful that the songs of the birds seeking their mates.

The first time we spoke on the phone, we talked all night. Nine hours was a record for me, though I have never been one to have problems communicating. But then we broke the nine-hour record several times, didn't we? We shared the sunrise many mornings, in different time zones. I remember the first time I saw you, in the airport. You hugged me, and my knees went weak. You always said I pushed you away, I didn't. The feelings that first touch ignited were a shock, and I've never been one that was easily shocked. But our relationship and my reactions and feelings have supplied me with many "shocks" or surprises. Gosh, I was so nervous that day, and yes, you did feel the tremors during that first hug. But apparently, my nervous state didn't keep me from kissing you. I still laugh aloud when I think about that. I had NEVER kissed someone first. It was so natural and spontaneous. As I sat back and realized what I had done, there had to have been disbelief in my eyes. To this day, I still can't believe my actions. But I've never regretted it or anything about loving you. Little did I know those feelings I felt at that time were just a precursor.

The mountains in Tennessee that we didn't get to see except when your need for food overcame our need to be alone in the private world our love provided. Most people would assume I was speaking of physical pleasures, but those were always secondary, weren't they? It was the feeling of completeness and oneness that made the outside world unnecessary when we were together.

Our walk along the wilderness trail, the stolen kisses, and the passion they ignited. The beach and the beautiful sunset, my moment in time, in which the world did disappear. No two beings can ever have been as close as we were at that time. Please remember it and me with a smile and a feeling of warmth.

Yes, as you have reminded me so many times in the past, I knew the inevitabilities. We are from different cultures, though that really caused no major problems in our relationship, it's sometimes hard to accept the fact that it is your culture that bars us from being all things to one another. Yes, I always knew how it would end, because you were honest with me from the beginning. But I didn't expect to love you as I do, or need you as I came to need you, and I kept praying for a miracle. I have loved in the past, but nothing like this, and I have never experienced the type of pain I have felt since our parting.

My first trip to visit you was also filled with such joys. Sitting beside the lake and watching the breeze skim over the water. Standing under the night sky and watching the lights of the city, so cold but so warm inside from my love for you. Then the agonizing pain as I had to walk down the walkway to the plane and leave going home. No, I didn't look back, for if I had, I couldn't have left you. I would have turned around and stayed -- forever, if possible. But forever was never possible for us, was it?

I still have difficulty remembering our trip to Niagara Falls, the last time I saw you, kissed you, felt your arms encircle me and the feeling of loving you and feeling that you loved me. I cry myself to sleep, I cry in my sleep. It's so hard to keep from just giving in and giving up. It's hard to find a reason to go on at times. The pain grips me so strongly at times, and I weep. And the tears flow, but the pain does not ease. I just feel totally empty inside. I am hollow. I look for the faint light at the end of this tunnel of pain, despair and depression, but alas, there is no light, only darkness.

Yes, I have watched the sunset through the eyes of love, watched the water form crystal droplets as it rushed to crash over the rocks at the bottom of the falls. I know I will always love you as I do now and I will always believe that you were meant to be my true mate. So I wait patiently, and hope that maybe in the next life we can be together. You have my heart and my soul. And I will never have regrets. I hope you never have any regrets. All I ever wanted was your happiness, which above all else was most important.

I know you have gotten on with your life. But do you ever think of me? Do you ever miss me? Do you ever long to hold me, as I long to feel your arms around me and feel your lips on mine? Do feel anything besides friendship for me? Am I so easily forgotten? Is our love so easily dismissed?

So when will the flame of my love for you go out? When will the longing and pain end? Hopefully we will find each other in the next life and can be together then. If that is what you wish.

Always,

©Copyright 2000 SLG
All rights reserved. No further use, reproduction, or distribution in any form, including print, electronic or otherwise, may be made without the express permission of the author.

The Kitchen Table

The Kitchen Table

After the afternoon meal on Sundays and holidays, everyone would linger around the kitchen table. Conversation could range from current events in the world to problems to what was going on in each other’s life. It evoked feelings of warmth, safety, belonging – usually with the exception of my aunt’s occasional commentaries on our appearance or our behavior (which may have contributed to my anorexia). Those times sharing stories, ideas, and opinions, all around my parents’ kitchen table made Sunday and holiday meals special. The sun shining through the kitchen window bathed those sitting around it in cheery warmth.

But on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, the kitchen table became something sinister. When I was younger, I didn’t understand, I just knew when Daddy was drinking from that funny smelling glass and he started talking funny, that when he said “come sit down, I want to talk to you” that the kitchen table looked so dark, so forbidding, so cold. I would always choose a chair at the other end of the table, only to be told, “Sit right here, I said I want to talk to you.” I would sit on the edge of the seat, hoping to be able to make a quick escape, if the opportunity arose. It never did.

“You don’t love me.” “You don’t appreciate anything I do for you, none of you do.” The “talk” always began with one of those two sentences. Until Daddy decided it was time for him to eat and go to bed, I would be held prisoner under that dark cloud over the kitchen table. I always knew what was coming next, although the order of his checking off my mistakes and faults were sometimes rearranged, I knew he was going to tell me what a bad girl I was by giving me examples of ways I was unappreciative and how I should act, though for the life of me, as a little girl, it never made sense to me. All I knew was that no matter what I did, or how hard I tried, it was never enough, I was never good enough. Although I never got into trouble with the police, I didn’t experiment with drugs, I only got into trouble twice in school (once for skipping school, once for a fight with a boy that had said something bad about my brother). I learned I could take criticism, as long as I felt it was something constructive or anything other than what I felt was a total condemnation of me as a person.

I went through two years of therapy, which helped, but still didn’t clear away all the self-doubt I had about my worth, my goodness. So I found things in which I could excel – my job at the radio station. I was good, but the pay wasn’t. After that, in college, I found if I studied and tried very hard, I could not only make good grades, but I could usually blow the average and make ranking the grades impossible for the professor – which didn’t contribute to a lot of friends in my college classes, unless they needed a tutor. At 38, I graduated second in the College of Liberal Arts, my three children cheered as I walked across the stage with the yellow sash indicating I was an Honor Student, but no one else from my family was there.

For years, I felt I had excelled at being a good mother. I know I’ve made mistakes with my kids, all parents do. But, my two oldest sons turned out well and since I was instrumental in raising them, setting what I felt was a good example for them and instilling high morals, I thought I had been a good parent. Maybe I was deceiving myself, for that too, has come into question lately.

I spent years making sure that I abided by most of the teachings about morals and standards I had received in school and church (yes, back then they could teach morals in school). At every opportunity, I did my best to help anyone whom I felt needed help. And maybe in some way, I did it to try and help myself feel better about me, but I don’t think that has ever been my main motivation. I’ve always held myself to a higher standard than those around me, I’ve always strived for near perfection in anything I attempt. I guess thinking that maybe if I did the best I could at anything I attempted; was honest in my dealings with others; and did all I could to be the best person, physically, emotionally, and morally that I could be, that maybe one day……………I don’t know, maybe I would “measure up” to others’ expectations of me, maybe they wouldn’t see all those faults I have that had been painfully pointed out to me for years.

Daddy quit drinking twenty-something years ago. And now, his criticism is a little more bearable, though recently I’ve been told several times in a round about way, that I’m going to hell for living in sin. Thankfully, I have a really good friend, probably my best friend, who sees only the best in people. He’s known me for thirty-something years, and he knows all my deep, dark, secrets, and yes, all my faults. I don’t get to talk with him as often as I would like, because he travels with his job. But at times he’s been my salvation, at the least, I know he’s helped me maintain some grasp on my sanity at those times I feel like I’m back at the kitchen table. Last night I dreamt again and again that I was back at that kitchen table. It was dark outside, I don’t remember who was taking an inventory of my faults and shortcomings, but I was overcome with the same feelings of inadequacy, but this time it was more than that. I can’t put a name to it, but the only way I could describe it is swirling black, oppression, a feeling of total hopelessness.

I seldom eat at my kitchen table, although experts suggest that families sit down to eat at least one meal a day together at the kitchen table. I never understood why I had such an aversion to eating at the table; until last night, and my dream.

©Copyright 2009
SLG
All rights reserved. No further use, reproduction, or distribution in any form, including print, electronic or otherwise, may be made without the express permission of the author.

Post script: To be sure everyone understands, I do NOT blame my father for any of my problems. Yes, it was tough when he was drinking but as I stated above, he quit drinking in 1985 and he was a totally different person when under the influence of alcohol. My father is the most generous, loving, wonderful man God put on this earth. Like everyone - he has his faults but compared to most of us, they are non-existent.

Perfect Pair of Shoes

Metaphorically speaking, I guess I am trying on shoes. I know perfection in anything is a fallacy; however, there must be a perfect pair for me. At least that is what I have been led to believe. So I have gone through my adult life trying on shoes in my quest to find "my perfect shoes." The shoes for which I search must be classy but comfortable and suitable in the boardroom, the ballroom or on the playground playing with kids. They must be appropriate for walking on the beach, hiking a mountain trail or frolicking in a meadow with tall grasses. They must be able to endure hardship and maintain their style and refinement, though a few scratches and scrapes are acceptable and expected. I promise to take good care of my shoes, giving them an abundance of love and attention. I don't expect these shoes to complete my ensemble but they must compliment any attire required in any given situation.


I have mistakenly believed I had found the perfect shoes in the past, only to get them home and realize that the manufacturer’s promise and pledge was nothing more than false advertisement. And there have been a couple of instances where I knew the pair I had chosen was not what I needed or knowing that the manufacturer’s promise was false. But I invested in the chosen shoes convincing myself that they would suffice; only to discover I suffered from “buyer’s remorse.” I found the perfect pair once, but they were not available to me. You see, they were in an exclusive store that catered to a specific type of elite shoppers. Though I feel most of us fall into some category of elite; of this particular type of elite, I was not one.


I recall as a child, the pure joy of going barefooted. Running through the grass, dirt and sand. Of course, occasionally encountering a "sticker" or stones, and sometimes walking across asphalt or rocks could be a little uncomfortable or painful. I felt such delight in being totally unencumbered. But then society's ideas made me feel I needed those shoes; I must have those shoes to be normal, to fit their definition of acceptable. And I must admit, having shoes can sometimes be so very comforting and reassuring and even a lot of fun at times. Now the question; do I shun society's ideas and forgo the comfort, reassurance and occasional joy and revert to that child who loved running through the soft grass unfettered and barefooted?

©Copyright 2010
SLG
All rights reserved. No further use,
reproduction, or distribution in any form,
including print, electronic or otherwise, may be
made without the express permission of the author.

New Year's Day

Growing up in South Mississippi, New Year’s Day was traditionally a pretty laid back holiday. Maybe that was because we were all tired from the Christmas celebration that of course was followed closely by shooting fireworks late into the night on New Year’s Eve. As kids we would watch the parades on TV while the adults were cooking the “traditional” New Year’s Day fare. I was well into adulthood when I realized not everyone in the United States ate black-eyed peas, rice and turnip greens (or some type of greens) on the first of January every year. We always had some type of meat (usually pork chops) along with what we kids called the “bad stuff.” The worst part was – we had to eat some of everything to insure the New Year would be prosperous, happy, and productive.

The greens signified greenbacks – or money. As a kid, I swear, eating actual money would have been a better treat to the culinary palette. If I recall correctly, the peas represented change – I always thought Mama meant quarters, nickels and dimes, but common sense now tells me it must have be change in fortune or direction in life. The rice, (which was usually eaten with the black-eyed peas) well it was supposed to be for luck. As I was staring at my plate, I remember most years thinking, “Yeah, I need the luck to get this yucky food down.”

After lunch we would usually watch football games and scream for our favorite teams with the enthusiasm of someone who had actually attended the colleges represented in the bowl games. I always contributed the lack of lethargy that usually followed the other usual holiday meals to the football games and the horrible food. I certainly didn’t realize that we ate less than at Thanksgiving or Christmas and the carbohydrate-rich foods we consumed on those holidays were responsible for the lethargic feeling after eating. (Yes, the traditional turkey contains tryptophan, that when taken on an empty stomach without any other food will cause drowsiness, but it’s the carbohydrates that are actually the culprit). Despite the food, New Year’s Day was always special and I now realize it was because it was a family day.

After 1968, we added birthday cake as an afternoon snack. My baby sister chose New Year’s Day to make her arrival in this world, bless her heart. Had she known what we were force-fed on that day, I KNOW she would have gestated another day. Back when we were kids, only convenient stores were open on New Year’s Day, so there was no option of fast food for a special treat for her birthday. Heck, there were very few fast food places when I was a kid.

Unfortunately, this year, both my father and my baby sister were sick, so I cheated a bit on the menu and cooked red beans and rice and the only greens I could find were mustard greens. Funny, maybe it’s the economy, but I didn’t have to force my two kids that were here to eat the greens. And my baby sister, well, because she was sick, she was able to skip the traditional New Year’s Day meal. Miserable way to spend your birthday! Anyway – Happy Birthday, baby sister. I love you!

©Copyright 2010
SLG
All rights reserved. No further use,
reproduction, or distribution in any form,
including print, electronic or otherwise, may be
made without the express permission of the author.

Trophy Wife

Sitting in the Wards in Picayune, Mississippi last week, I happened to glance over at the next table. An attractive young woman, probably in her early to mid twenties and her 4 or 5 year old son were sitting there enjoying their lunch. It must be some instinctive thing that mother’s have, but since becoming a mother at age twenty, anytime a child is in the vicinity, my eyes somehow seem to zero in on that child.

I love watching people, but my favorite subject(s) to observe would have to be children; savoring their joy, love for life and most importantly their innocence. On this occasion, the young mother was trying to coax her son to eat his French fries so they could get ice cream and then go home so he could watch the cartoon network.

I looked over at his mother and happened to notice she was wearing a t-shirt that proudly proclaimed “Trophy Wife.” I can honestly say, I’ve NEVER seen that phrase written on a t-shirt, let alone someone wearing a t-shirt with that phrase. Trophy Wife? I looked closely at the young woman; yes she was fairly attractive. Now maybe I’m confused about the definition of a trophy wife, but I always picture a drop-dead gorgeous woman, who lacks intellect and has only one function in her husband’s life, being an adornment.

I think at that age, I was as attractive as this young woman, but I dare say, none of my ex-husbands would have had the courage to refer to me as a “trophy wife” unless perhaps they were suicidal. Don’t get me wrong; I didn’t mind being told I was attractive (though I never believed it) but for someone to insinuate that I was no more than an ornament – BIG MISTAKE! I could have seen Joey giving me something like that as a “gag” gift, but he would have stood on the other side of the room when I opened it.

Now I don’t know if this young woman’s husband had bought her the t-shirt or whether she had bought it herself. Obviously, this young woman was a “stay-at-home” mother. So she has a function other than an ornament, though from the interaction I observed, like most young women her age nowadays, she needed a course in parenting.

As I sat there eating my lunch listening to her tell her son to hurry so she could go home and play on the computer while he watched cartoons, I came to the conclusion that yes, she must be a trophy wife. Although I didn’t know the young woman, she apparently didn’t have the wisdom or astuteness to realize exactly what her t-shirt was proclaiming to the world. By the way, if anyone sees me wearing something that declares a similar sentiment, please notify the authorities, because I have completely lost my mind and need to be committed!
©Copyright 2009
SLG
All rights reserved. No further use,
reproduction, or distribution in any form,
including print, electronic or otherwise, may be
made without the express permission of the author.

Times they are a changin'

This was posted on my "G" rated blog entitled "Life as a Southern Woman in the 21st Century" and even though it isn't my usual "writing" posted here - I decided to post it anyway, including the introduction which accompanied it. As usual, all comments, negative and positive are welcome (as long as you don't decide to be a tattletale and call my Daddy ...lol).

OK - before you read this - rather than a Post script I'll put this up front. This is written "tongue in cheek" and if you decide you wish to read it and then call my Daddy and tell him the contents, shame on you. He's already aware of everything here - well, ALMOST everything here - and please refer to earlier writing titled "Self Expression" written Sept. 9, 2009. It's on my My Space Page. Now without further ado:

It's hard to believe it's been over two years since I've written anything on my G rated blog which was when Peyton started walking. Gosh - so much has changed. Alex got Peyton back in August 2008. She, Peyton and Chris lived in an apartment here in Slidell until December 2008. She and Peyton moved in with me then to prepare for her departure for bootcamp in April 2009. Since June 2007, I have gone from no grandchildren to four and two halves.....Alex and Amy are expecting again - so it will be six early next year. Looks like maybe three boys and three girls. I am indeed blessed. (Grandchildren are God's reward for not killing your own teenage children.)

December 2008, I was laid off from my position as a paralegal in New Orleans. I had been having difficulty with my eyes (inflammation caused by an infection in my eyes) which made it almost impossible to be as efficient or accurate in drafting, editing, proofing and finalizing legal documents - the crux of my job. Ironic, because in my 30s I returned to college so that I could obtain a better paying position so I could support myself and my children without having to depend on anyone else; incurring student loans out the wazoo, only to find I cannot perform that job any longer. On the bright side - I hated working for attorneys anyway.

I have been working as a substitute teacher and paraprofessional as often as possible. Usually at the alternative school or with the behavior disorder kids. Funny, I'd rather work with "bad kids" than "good attorneys" (good attorney, honest attorney - both are definitely oxymorons). June of this year, I took the course required to become "certified" as a paraprofessional so that maybe I can obtain a full-time position as SOMETHING working with these kids with special needs.

I quit smoking the first of April. Haven't had a cigarette since then, and haven't killed anyone yet either - close call a couple of times, but so far, I'm not a homicidal maniac. And now if the weather will cooperate so I can exercise more, maybe the tension and calories will be eliminated more efficiently and I won't have to buy larger clothes. Cleaning house isn't exactly "weight reduction" exercise, and as far as other indoor exercise, please see paragraphs #6 and #7.(OK - now to the "Puritans" who might be reading this - that was a joke, sorry if it offended, wait, no I'm not - if you're offended, you should already know better than reading my writings...).

Brian made it to high school. He is attending his older brothers' (and wonderful sister-in-law's) Alma mater, Salmen. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that he applies himself and does well. He doesn't realize it yet, but he may just be the next Einstein, if I could just get him to focus and do what he should. You know, the way my kids end(ed) up is actually my Mama's fault. I recall as a teenager when Mama would get frustrated she would tell me, "I hope you have one [a child] just like you." Well, I have four - each one has a different aspect of what must have been an undesirable characteristic of mine. Gosh, Mama, I'm so sorry - it took four kids to cover all of my "bad habits and characteristics." How did you remain sane? Obviously, my parents are both saints.

My relationship with Tom fell apart in 2008 and 2009 - on again, off again - many broken promises of change (him, not me). I allowed him to stay here for months as a "roommate" because he had no place else to go - and like Mama tells me - I'm too nice for my own good. But when my son became aware of the drinking, staying out all night - those types of activities in which Tom was participating, I issued an ultimatum - stop or move out. Two more broken promises/rules later - I packed his belongings and had them ready one morning when he finally stumbled home after a night of drinking and hoeing (as Brian called it) One slap (him to me), one 911 call (me to STPSO) and a hasty exit (him)later, I was, as Gilbert O'Sullivan sang, "alone again, naturally."

I have dated on and off since then; a couple of people I dated for several months (not at the same time), but I'm taking my time. I'd thought about coming up with a psychological test to give prospective "dates," but I decided to try and steer clear of "certain types." For example, those who tend to drink in excess; who think they are rocket scientist and aren't (I have actually met one rocket scientist); those from whom small children and animals flee (usually a good indicator that person's evil); those who proclaim they avoid drama (first, define drama, no one likes excessive drama, and I try to avoid it, but get a grip - life is full of drama - if it's not, you're either a priest or nun - oops, on second thought - you must be a nun - some priests tend to CAUSE drama); those people will be immediately eliminated from my "short list" (like I have a "long list"....lol....I WISH). So in other words, ANYONE whom I would have dated or with whom I would have become seriously involved in the past is to be avoided like the plague. But seriously, right now I'm not worried about "dating" - I'm concentrating on Brian and finding a job - the order of those two priorities differs from day to day.

So as I try to re-discover myself; well, I was always here, just hiding at times (God, now I sound like I'm in need of a psychological test) and try to find another job, I have come to the realization that the philosophical ideas by which I have directed my life are better than most: Be yourself; treat the earth and other living things with respect; be respectful to your elders (whether they deserve it or not); be kind to animals, children and your elders; always be honest but tactful; laugh as often as you can; and love totally and unconditionally. I may get hurt and others may take advantage of me, but when my time is up, I will have no regrets. Because, like the title of Jim Morrison's biography, "No one here gets out alive."

Confederate Flag - Heritage NOT Hate!

IS THE AMERICAN FLAG A SYMBOL OF HATE? The first American flag was designed in 1776 to represent the original 13 states in their struggle for independence against Great Britain. The Confederate Flag was a flag designed to represent the Confederate States in their struggle for independence against the "Union." Of course, the ignorant, think the Civil War was fought to preserve slavery. The Civil War was fought over states rights and economics, though most history books emphasize the slavery aspect of the war.
South Carolina adopted an ordinance declaring its secession from the Union shortly after Lincoln was elected president in 1860, by February 1861, six more Southern states had adopted ordinances of secession. All federal forts in these southern states (with the exception of four) had been seized by the state in which it was located. Ft. Sumter in Charleston, South Carolina was one of those 4 forts. At 3:20 a.m., April 12, 1861, the Confederates informed Anderson (who was in charge of the federal troops at Ft. Sumter) that they would open fire in one hour. At 4:30 a.m., a single mortar round fired from Fort Johnson exploded over Fort Sumter, making the start of the bombardment from 43 guns and mortars at Fort Moultrie, Fort Johnson. The official "first flag" of the Confederacy had a single palmetto leaf - which represented the state of South Carolina. It can still be seen encased in the musuem at Ft. Moultrie. Since the palmetto leaf is a South Carolina symbol, once the other states had unified against the "Union" - once President Lincoln declared war on the South (yep, it wasn't the SOUTH that declared war - it was the NORTH), the confederate flag as we know it was designed to represent all the Confederate States. Lincoln issued the first Emancipation Proclamation on September 22, 1862, which declared the freedom of all slaves in any state of the Confederate States of America that did not return to Union control by January 1, 1863. So if the "slaves were not freed" until 17 months AFTER LINCOLN DECLARED WAR ON THE SOUTHERN STATES - how the hell do people think the South was fighting over the slaves being freed? YES - the Civil Was was fought over economics - hell - the North was buying the raw materials (cotton, tobacco, etc.) for pennies - taking the raw materials to Northern manufacturing plants to make finished goods - which they then sold BACK to the south for a hefty profit. France wanted to buy the raw materials and pay 10 times what the northern states were paying - BUT the federal government passed legislation which prohibited the South from exporting these raw materials without paying a VERY HIGH TARIFF (taxes) - which meant they would end up with less money than the North was willing to pay for the goods (ARE YOU FOLLOWING ME ON THIS?). The only way to prevent this was to withdraw from the Union. The Federal Government told the South they could not do that. Well - any TRUE SOUTHERNER knows - it's not a good idea to tell us that we are forbidden to do something which is in our best interest.
OK - now YES - most Southern Plantations owned slaves - but hey, guess what - they didn't own slave ships - those belonged to the NORTH! Who went to various places, bought Africans who were sold into slavery by their own people, transported them to the United States, and then sold them (and yes, many in the South owned slaves - but so did MANY people in the North. Now, don't get me wrong, SLAVERY IS WRONG - in any way shape form or fashion. BUT HELL - MY PEOPLE - THE CELTS - WERE ENSLAVED LONG BEFORE ANYONE KNEW WHERE THE HELL AFRICA WAS!!! So, I'm sorry - I am not telling the Queen of England or the chicken sh#t French that they OWE ME something because my ancestors were once sold into slavery or that they have to change their flag.
The Confederate Flag is a sign of PRIDE IN HERITAGE - NOT HATE. If you think it's hate - you a product of revisionist history - and you need to get educated. My motto is 'AMERICAN BY BIRTH - SOUTHERN BY THE GRACE OF GOD!" And those raised in the SOUTH - know exactly what it means - the South is the greatest place on this Earth. But you Northerners just stay where you are...lol. We like our South just like it is!