When was the last time you took a risk (big or small), and pushed your own boundaries — socially, professionally, or otherwise? Were you satisfied with the outcome?
The last thing I did that was outside the box of what I do normally is write two books and publish them. The first book I wrote, called Dahlia, is an inspiring story. I thought it so well related to today’s living. Problems arise and we can make one of two choices. We can stand tall and break through the rocky road, or we can give up and move towards something else. This is what this book is about. I have had quite a few compliments on this book which made me feel pretty good.
The second book was written while my brother Al was going through the struggles of MSA. I finished the book soon after his death. This is full of Al’s story of his life and how we dealt with the horrible disease, which is quite rare. I wrote this book in hope that other families and caregivers would not be in such fear as they walked with their loved ones through the different stages.
Both of these books can be purchased through Create Space or at Amazon.
I am disappointed with my second book. The book is alright. It is the hope that I lost from writing the book. My hope continued to the point where I hoped to teach others through a class or have professionals want to read it. I feel like I have not carried on Al’s name by helping others.
There is so little known about this terrible illness, but the ones who are familiar with it; the ones living through it, I wanted so much to be able to help them.
“Oh yea, they say ‘life goes on’ long after the thrill of living is gone.”
This is one of my favorite Mellancamp songs, Jack and Diane leaves me pining for those long-lost summers of youth and wishing I hadn’t been in such a hurry. What does this lyric mean to you?
Take me back, way back to my teen years. Life is grand. No worries, all fun, money in our pocket. Buying new records. Staying up all night at my girlfriend’s house. Talking the night away about dreams of marriage and kids. Getting up early to go to our part-time job with no sleep. Still having time after work to go running around again. Oh these were the days.
Excitement of being asked out on a date. Knowing I was definitely not one of the original wall flowers. Experimenting with new make-up. I had to look much older than I was. Why? Who in the world knows. Hurry hurry hurry. Step right up! Be the first one to look 21 when you are only 16.
Walking out the front door of my parents home looking presentable. Before I exited my car door I had hiked up my skirt so I looked sexy. Guys really wanted to see those bare legs right? Was I inviting trouble? Maybe. Did I realize the strong message and trouble I could get into? Probably not.
Church camps and meeting that special boy. Holding hands at campfires. Promises to write every day that never held up over a week or two. The first pitter patter of the heart beating as I looked into his eyes.
Seventeen and not knowing too much about the world but dying to find out. Sneaking my boyfriend into the family home. Red cheeks, speeding heart, stirred feelings being shared between the two of us. Always an ear open to uninvited noises. A body that felt urges. Fires building up inside of us but fear keeping us always clothed.
Next I would be able to experience true love. The love that is spoken between eyes and touches. Love letters and ID bracelets showing we belonged to someone. We were spoken for. We were in love. Introductions to family members. Holidays together holding hands.
Parked cars on lover’s lane. Experimenting hidden avenues never being touched before. The rise of our breathing. Laughter that could be heard above the tabernacle. Promises to never part.
The most important questions of a girl’s life. Will you marry me? Living and loving on cloud nine. Dashing into each others arms. Passionate kisses and warm touches. Glowing face that was observed where ever I went.
Engagements, diamond rings, hopes for the future. What else could a woman dream of when she is in her late teens? While others finished college before committing to another soul, I was in a hurry.
I graduated from high school threw out all my ideas to go to college and got married. Before I was 21 I had my first child. By the time I was 26 I had my three babies. By the time I was 36 I had the first divorce decree in my hands. I felt my first real pain, my sorrow, my failure. Why had I rushed? What have I learned?
Now middle-aged I look back at Jack and Diane with a smile on my face of what used to be. I long for love and a slice of the freedom to dash into my lover’s arms. To have those days of no worries can never be the same, but I still carry hope to be holding the front door open to my home. To let my special man come into my house with no sneaking.
When someone is aching, hurting, crying, or smiling, we all want to be a part of this. It is our human nature to want to share, comfort, laugh and cry with our friends.
As most of you know, Friday was almost like the hell day of my year.
I am not usually the one who will reach out to anyone. Some of you are probably saying, no way! You always let us know your feelings, but this is new to me, an area that I had never ventured into my entire life.
While I was married to my ex who was so emotionally and sometimes physically abusive, the only one I ever confided in was my daughter. I had too much pride and didn’t want anyone to know that I could not FIX this problem. I have always looked at my self as a survivor and fixer person of life.
I could not fix my problems but I could fix others. I could not give myself a hug, but I could hug even a stranger if I saw sad eyes in on their face. I could put on the happy face if anyone came near, but as soon as they left my sight, the running tears were once again returning to their prior place.
Before I started this blog in March of this year, I had asked God so many times, what can I do with myself while I am sitting here caring for my brother? I did not get an answer for months, and then one day I was sitting talking to my best friend that lives a couple of hours away, and she suggested I write. I laughed it off, as I knew I was no near good enough to write, but she kept telling me, just write from your heart. This will let people see the real you.
Why don’t I talk to my children like this, from the heart? Maybe because I am the mother. Mommies don’t spill their guts to their children, we are the adults, and their lives are to filled with laughter and innocence, but now looking back, I wish I would have.
After having such a terrible day, my friend who lives near by came to visit. Before this visit happened, I had spilled my guts to all of you, which is becoming easier and easier. It has taught me that we all have issues going on each day, that mine are no different from yours, just different situations. It sort of made me feel like I fit in and was not such an odd ball.
Each of you gave and brought me comfort. Comfort in words, prayers, phone calls. It is like I know each of you better than I even know myself.
When my friend came to visit, she brought me a kit she had ordered. It was a birthday gift for me. She and I spent the afternoon cutting wires, wrapping pearl pins with floral tapes, finding the correct way to force the natural turkey feathers to spread their fingers. After she left, I put the finishing touches of red on it and placed it on my bird bench.
Now each time I walk by it, I thank each of you and my dear friend, for holding me up, and showing me that you are a friend to me, and that God will never leave me, it would be me leaving God.
I wanted to show you the finished product. It is my first time at crafting, and I am not very good, but I am proud of what I accomplished and what it represents. It is to be the Charlie Brown Christmas tree, which stands straggly, and not too pretty, but it remains strong with all of its inner beauty for all to see. God is good. He provides the perfect answer each time. Now I have to conquer the next quest of whether and I should not even use this word, but when is the correct time to place Al.
I told him that we had to go to the grocery store. I was out of my two most important items on the food list, coffee and eggs. Thanks to some advice from you, I decided to do something I had not done before. Instead of treating Al like my sick brother, I used the tough love of raising a small child. I told him that if he caused me any grief at all, other than the Parkinson’s side effects, he was in big, big trouble as soon as we got home, and I hit the table with the fly swatter to show my words were gold. When he heard the smack between the table and swatter, he made no words at all during the grocery shopping.
I hated treating him more like a child instead of an adult male, but somewhere in there, the child in him listened, and for today, it worked. Each of you tell me to take one day at a time, and so I did. I made it through today with the help of all of you, my friend near by, the emails, comments and phone calls. Tonight is better, and I will not look to tomorrow yet.
Ermilia has given me another opportunity to write for her an exercise, called Listen And Write. Thank you Emilia!
Oh my God, help me! This is what was heard as people gathered in the small, dark living room. The mama was in hard labor, in danger of losing her child and herself. She was taking the risk, the chance, to bare this child. God had gifted them this child, and she was bound to have it.
The child was born into a poor home where all adults were considered slaves, and the youth were considered new experiences for the land owners. There was no money hidden in the cookie jar, and books were scarce, only being taught and read when one could be found and stolen through the darkest nights. Shoes were bought once a year, and if they were injured in any way, the foot walked naked. Clothing was made from old cloths that were given from the mistress of the main home. How ever much material was thrown their way, this became the deciding factor in who got the new dress or slacks.
With the hard labor that was endured, the child grew up to be slow minded. The simple things of life, that are taken for granted, such as walking and talking, were hard to learn. Being spoon fed was a task that took many weeks to master, and yet the child picked it up in his own time.
There was something bright in the child’s eyes, when ever you looked into his little face. Alertness comes to mind, as you watched him take in everything that moved. He didn’t seem to miss anything, but he made very little sounds.
As the child grew older, some called him worthless, retarded, too slow for any use. Gerald, the child’s name, understood what they were saying. He knew they were making fun of him. He didn’t want to be labeled. He wanted to be what he considered normal.
At night when everyone slept, he would sneak down into the cellar, with his lit candle, and he would spend as much free time as he could get by with, reading the few books that were there. His mind took longer to digest the words, but with repeated practice, what he read, sunk in and was comprehended.
One day, he was outside playing under the shaded apple tree, and a young boy came to sit by him. Gerald found out that he was the owners son, and after some time, the two became good friends. As the two bonded, they learned many facts about each other, and they each were united in the spirit of reading. Nathan, the owners child, started sneaking books down to Gerald’s house and leaving them outside the window, close to where he slept. After all were fast asleep, Gerald would wake up with excitement in his veins, and sneak out his window, and grab the books and run quietly down to the cellar and read.
There were many different books now. Books on history, spelling, and some math. For months to come and going into years, Nathan had ended up becoming Gerald’s teacher, and together they blossomed into young men.
Nathan would talk about his college that he would be attending next year, and Gerald would feel pangs of jealousies because he also wanted to go. He had learned much about himself through out the years, and he knew he loved math. He loved everything about it. All the figures he could work with, short cuts to come up with the same answers that Nathan had. This was his love of his life, but he knew that he was labeled and he knew there were no funds for him to be able to attend a fine college.
Without asking his mother’s permission, Nathan mailed out a request for an application to the same college he was going to be attending. When it arrived, he filled it out with Gerald’s information, and on a separate piece of paper he wrote a testimony of Gerald’s life and his yearning to learn.
After several weeks went by, a white envelope addressed to Nathan arrived. Ripping it open the letter stated, that the college knew of Nathan’s attending their school, and they were familiar with his parents. They were touched that he would write on behalf of his friend, and were going to extend a welcome to Gerald and let him enter the first year of college with Nathan.
Nathan could hardly get through his chores, and when lunch finally arrived, he gobbled down every bite and excused himself for his free time. He raced down to Gerald’s home, and not hiding the envelope by the window, but flinging the front door wide opened, he motioned for Gerald to follow him. The excitement in his eyes, prompted Gerald to rise quickly from his seat and both young men ran to their favorite spot, the apple tree. As they both sat down, Nathan held out Gerald’s hands and placed the gift in them. He screamed to him, open it! open it!
Gerald opened it gently. He was not used to receiving mail for himself, so this was a special treat. As he took out the paper, and began to read it, he looked up into Nathan’s eyes, and Nathan nodded up and down. Gerald grabbed his friend around the neck so hard, they both tumbled to the ground, falling over each other hugging and laughing. They sat up and if you were standing near, you could hear all of the plans and dreams being made at that moment.
Years later, Gerald and Nathan graduated together from the same college. Nathan with honors, and Gerald with a diploma, for teaching math.
Who I am 