THURSDAY, MARCH 17, 2011

Dynamite comes in small packages


When I was 5 years old, I remember laying on the floor under Mama’s ironing board and watching Gun Smoke and Wagon Train while Mama ironed. I don’t remember Mama ever working outside the home, though I believe she did before my brother, Gregg, was born. Though she worked harder than any woman who had TWO full-time jobs. Around the same time I learned to ride a bike without training wheels, Mama started teaching me to spell the names of colors. She would be in the house either ironing or cooking supper as I rode my bike up and down the driveway. Each time I passed the door she would call out the name of a color and I would spell it. And grammar – well, that was drilled into us as we learned to talk. We were taught to speak in grammatically correct sentences and to write with legible penmanship. I remember a teacher asking me WHY a certain form of a verb was correct, I told her “because it sounds right.” That wasn’t the answer for which she was searching. It’s funny the strange things you remember about your childhood.

In 5th grade, I remember coming home in tears because a classmate and neighborhood girl had been making fun of my clothes. She also said something about my father. Mama told me to ignore her that she could dress in fancy, expensive clothes and act like she had money, but her father was nothing more than a college professor and they didn’t make THAT much money.

During the summer, after we had finished our chores and my younger siblings had taken a nap, Mama would take us swimming at Westhills Country Club. In 7th grade, a girl whose family was also a member of the same country club, was constantly making fun of me. One day when I had finally gotten my fill of being teased, I gave back what I was getting. This resulted in her throwing a glass of Coke on my white shorts. I followed her into the ladies’ locker room and proceeded to beat the crap out of her. Mama was standing in the door keeping everyone else out until I had “taken her down a peg or two” (Mama’s words, not mine, though that’s what I was telling Linda as she was getting her well-deserved beating).

During my sophomore year in high school, Mama made two trips to the school in my defense. She walked into the principal’s office and asked to meet with my history teacher, who was also the football coach. I had received an 0 on a homework assignment which I had actually completed (for a change) and had forgotten at home; however, the football players did not turn in that same homework and they received a 100; after all, they had football practice. Mama told the Coach that I had completed the assignment, which she had brought with her, and furthermore, I had piano lessons the day before. If I was going to receive a 0, then “by God, the football players better receive a 0 also.” I believe she went on to threaten to mop the floor with his butt if the situation was not addressed correctly, though I know Mama didn’t put it that nicely. I received credit for the homework assignment.

My Mama’s a natural redhead and lends credence to the old saying that “dynamite comes in small packages.” She taught me so many things by example growing up. She always did what was right, what was ethical and she always stood up for her beliefs. Oh, you didn’t have to ask her about her beliefs, if the subject matter came up, she would let you know in no uncertain terms exactly what she thought. She also stood up for others whom she felt were being treated unjustly. That same football coach, the one she had reprimanded for his unfair treatment of students came under fire for something which he did not do. He and the basketball coach were in jeopardy of losing their jobs. A public hearing was held and Mama (along with other parents) spoke in the coaches defense at the hearing helping to save their jobs. I learned what’s right is right and what’s wrong is wrong and there’s usually not a lot of “gray area” there.

Daddy worked as a salesman during my childhood and was usually out of town from Monday morning until Thursday night. That meant for all intents and purposes, Mama was a “single mother” four out of the seven days every week. No easy task with four of us, spaced four to five years apart. She did laundry, cooked, cleaned, while taking care of four children. She was the original “soccer Mom (though none of us played soccer. After school most days she was either taking one of us to brownies, band practice, piano lessons, and on and on. It was rare that one of us didn’t have some place we had to go after school each day.

We were yelled at, threatened, and actually sometimes (though very seldom) spanked. Mama could come up with some original threats. I remember Mama threatening my sister that she was going to “pinch off her head and flush it down the toilet.” It seems to me that she also chased Kym once with the vacuum cleaner – or maybe I dreamed it, but I can definitely see Mama doing that. She was tough with us – but fair. When I hit puberty, all hell broke loose between Mama and me. I remember Mr. Nick (who later became my father-in-law) telling me that the reason Mama and I fought so much was because we were so much alike. I heatedly denied that allegation stating with venom, “I will NEVER be like my Mama.” Thank the good Lord, I was wrong.

My sisters and I were told growing up that “You can do ANYTHING you put your mind to.” We learned that there were not too many things that men can do that women can’t, Mama showed us that growing up. So far, the only thing I’ve discovered besides not being able to lift as much weight would be that a woman CANNOT pee standing up without wetting herself. We were taught that we not only can HAVE an opinion, we can EXPRESS that opinion – and buddy, we all three do just that. We were taught, by Mama’s example, to be strong, a lesson to which I have to say has probably not only saved my life but also my sanity several times. And honestly, I now strive to be more like my Mama, because she’s one of the two best people on the face of this earth. And I thank God every day that I was fortunate enough to be her daughter. I love you Mama.

©Copyright 2011
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

P.S. This was written not long before Mama passed away. I know she's still with me, because I "channel" her all the time (I open my mouth and her words come out) but I still miss her every single day. What I wouldn't give to be able to pick up the phone to call and ask her one of the million questions that run through my mind every day.

FROM THE LAND DOWN UNDER

From where did you come and are you what you portray? I don’t know. I want so desperately to believe you. Your words allure and beguile me. Do your words hold the truth? All I am certain is that you have shown me that I do still have the capacity to love. For so many years I have guarded my heart and built walls to avoid experiencing the devastation I did the last time I allowed myself to love unconditionally.

But you have changed that. Like a dam bursting, all the feelings are now flowing freely and I have lost the ability to control or contain them. I feel like a teenager with those breathtaking feelings of giddiness, anticipation, excitement and yes, even hope for an amazing and fascinating future. It’s like butterflies, sunlight, snowflakes and passion all mixed together. At times I feel like I am once again a child feeling the anticipation with which a child awaits Christmas, or the wonder of catching snowflakes on their tongue, the warmth of sunlight on their face while spinning wildly round and round until falling dizzily to the ground in laughter. That’s what you’ve done to me.

Days ago you asked me what I had done to you. Well I guess it was mutual for I cannot stop thinking about you. Just your words have ignited a flame of passion that I have long felt had been extinguished. I want so much to see you, to be able to look into your eyes and to feel your touch; though I’m afraid your touch would light a fiery inferno.

It is usually difficult to know what someone else feels. I have but one time in my life felt I could sense what someone else was feeling. It requires an emotional and spiritual connection which is so rare that most humans never achieve that state of consciousness. That connection makes the communication between two people so powerful that a new level of existence is achieved.

You asked me for my rules and regulations, the only thing I must have is someone who understands the meaning of honesty, trust, loyalty and faithfulness. You mentioned True Companionship, I am unsure to what you are referring, but to me that would require someone with whom you share everything - life’s happiness and sorrow, struggles and successes. You told me I was your new joy, blessing and new life and that you desire to watch over me, take care of me. With the exception of my father, I have never allowed myself to totally depend or believe in someone before

You’ve told me that when you love that you do so with your entire being – body and soul. When I love, I do so with my entire being as well; my mind, body, spirit and soul. It’s called unconditional love and there are no words that can describe that type of love. I have no angel wings or magic wand; for if I did, you would be here beside me now, and that’s where you would stay.

©Copyright 2016
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


Funny story - apparently Google keeps track of the counties from which your blog is viewed. The most recent audience views have come from France, Portugal and Nigeria? Okay?

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.