The Gifts My Father Gave Me

If you were to ask me who the greatest influence in my life has been, I would respond with absolute certainty – My Daddy! All of my siblings and I are like Dad in temperament; a fact I am rather proud of considering the other side of that coin, but of the four of us, I was fortunate enough to spend the most time with him.  When Margret and Dennis were growing up, Daddy was in the military and afterward worked long days in order to provide for his growing young family.  By the time I came along (Daddy was 40 when I was born) life was more settled and routine and he had time to spend with Jeffrey and me. And, at that time, mother was approaching the long, dark years of her life and Daddy knew that I needed his stabilizing influence. From the day I was born I had him wrapped around my little finger, and he owned my heart. To say that I was a daddy’s girl is something of an understatement. I adored the man! He was my whole world.

Daddy gave me a lot of gifts. I couldn’t tell you what most of the tangible ones were – I don’t remember them. I had toys, dolls, sports equipment – pretty much anything I wanted, within reason. We were not a wealthy family, but I didn’t know that.  No, the gifts he gave me that I remember most, and for which I am most grateful, are those intangible things that I carry within me, those parts of himself that he passed down to me and which have become so much of my own personality.

There is a favorite story among my family of how, at the age of eighteen months, I almost died of grief when my father was sent out of town for job training.  Daddy had recently begun a job as a civilian employee of the defense department.  His new position as a contract specialist required him to attend school for seven weeks.  I was generally a jovial baby and an energetic toddler but not long after daddy left, I became listless and lethargic and refused to eat. When forced to eat, nothing stayed down. Terrified that I had contracted some horrible disease, mother rushed me to the doctor.  Unable to find anything wrong, the doctor reasoned that more than likely I had a “bug” I would quickly get over.  But I didn’t.  Instead, I got progressively worse, losing a dangerous amount of weight and crying almost constantly.  Finally, the doctors determined that I would have to be hospitalized to save my life.  Convinced that my death was imminent, my frantic mother started placing calls to my father.  Mother was pacing the floor with me in her arms when Daddy was finally able to return the calls.  Heartbroken by my plaintive cries, daddy told mother to put the phone to my ear so he could talk to me. That was all it took.  Relieved that I had not in fact been abandoned by the one I so adored, I happily babbled to daddy for a little while then sat down in the middle of the kitchen table and ate everything I could reach.  And so, for the rest of his time in training, daddy had to make an expensive, long-distance phone call every day just so I would eat.  One of my most cherished possessions is a picture of me sitting on the kitchen table with the phone in both little hands pressed against my cheek while mother shoved scrambled eggs in my mouth.  All was again right in the world.  

Daddy sacrificed a lot of sleep, patience and hair on my account.  My childish exuberance was often more than mother could bear but daddy never seemed to mind.  I could be running around like a wild Indian (a favorite saying of his) and he would either stand by placidly watching or, if he’d had enough, he would grab me and hold me tight in one arm until I calmed myself. Unfortunately I learned early in life that the best way to survive mother was to be neither seen nor heard and I became more quiet and introverted as I got older. But those earlier times were pure magic to me. Sometimes, I’d wear him out to the point he fell asleep in the floor and other times he’d corral me into his chair and have me read to him.  I would catch him sleeping and poke him lightly to wake him.  He always said the same thing “I wasn’t sleeping. I was just resting my eyes.” Sure Daddy.

My favorite place in the world was to be curled up in his lap. Whenever I wanted or needed, I was free to climb up for some snuggle time. Whether I was sad, frightened, sleepy, sick or just wanting to be near him, he never rejected me, no matter how old I was.  Sometimes, I got a little jealous when I had to share his lap with Amanda or Kristi or Stacey but he never scolded me for being a brat. He would just make room for me too.  I fondly remember sitting in his lap in the big easy chair, me on one side and Amanda on the other, watching TV and munching on popcorn, comforted in his peaceful, happy spirit.  That was paradise.

 Whenever I was awakened at night with a bad dream, or a scary thunderstorm, it was always Daddy who came to the rescue. Admittedly, sometimes I just couldn’t sleep and I would fake a nightmare so he would come and stay with me.  Folding himself into my small bed, he would cuddle me up against his chest.  Usually he went back to sleep immediately, but I didn’t care. I would lay snuggled up against his warmth, giggling quietly over his loud snoring, happy and secure in the knowledge that he loved me like no other.  My young heart was convinced that I could face anything as long as he was beside me. To this day, I have the quiet strength that was born within the circle of his loving embrace. I carry it like a shield. It is perhaps the greatest gift he ever gave me.

Besides his strength, Daddy gave me his sense of humor. He was a naturally happy person who found joy in the smallest things, and he was wickedly funny. He was a great storyteller with a dry, sarcastic wit that was sharp as a knife and he could be a manic practical joker. I learned early on to laugh at myself, because if I didn’t he was going to. He never missed an opportunity to teach me that it was dangerous to take yourself too seriously.  I don’t remember him ever actually telling a joke, but he had a plethora of witticism that he used like ammunition. Perfect example:

Mother had a store of folk-lore wisdoms that she spouted off like a college professor giving a lecture.  She had an answer for everything. If the caterpillars were fuzzy, winter was going to be bad. If a bird flew into a window, a family member was going to die. If your nose itched, company was coming.  Those sorts of things were daily fare with her.

One day, we were driving through the country on the way to visit relatives. Mother, being in one of her better moods, was pointing out one little piece of wisdom after the other to us kids in the back seat, each point being prefaced with the phrase “do you know what it means when….”.  Suddenly, my normally quiet father spoke up, pointing at a herd of cattle lying in the field and asked me;

 “Little girl? Do you know what it means when the cows are laying down like that?”

 I answered in a reverent whisper, expecting some great jewel of knowledge to fall from his lips.

“No Daddy. What does it mean?”

“Means they’re tired!” he crowed.

Jeff and I collapsed in laughter in the back seat.

Mother didn’t speak to him for the rest of the day.

 I thought it was the funniest thing I’d ever heard. It still makes me laugh.

With that small joke, Daddy taught me that the best weapon against negative, unhappy, arrogant people is humor. I think it’s what kept him sane all those years. Even to the end of his days, despite living with my mother for sixty-three years and then suffering the indignities of Alzheimer’s, he remained a jovial being. It was simply his nature. During the latter part of his illness, I would often have to spend the night at his house to care for him and mother.  Quite often, he would awaken me in the middle of the night by peeking his head into the door and screaming “boo!”. Then he would scamper down the hall, laughing gleefully.  I would chase him down the hall and into the living room, both of us laughing at the game. After I coaxed him back into bed, I’d tuck him in and kiss his forehead as he had done me when I was a child. 

One of the best jokes he ever played on me came just a few weeks before his death.  It was a Saturday morning and mother had called me, frantic, convinced that daddy was either dying or already dead.  I rushed to their house and ran into his bedroom.  He was laying on his back, still and quiet, his hands folded across his chest.  He did indeed appear to be dead.  My heart fluttered in panic as tears sprang to my eyes.  I cautiously approached the bed, barely breathing myself. I bent close over his face, trying to discern any sign of life.  My face was mere inches from his, when suddenly his eyes sprang open. He reached up, grabbed my face and planted a big kiss on my forehead.  “Boo! I gotcha!” he cried.  I almost had a heart attack!

 I was far too relieved to be angry, so instead I collapsed onto my knees beside the bed, laid my head on his chest and laughed with him. As I knelt there, listening to the familiar comforting sound of his beating heart, he stroked my hair and babbled words I didn’t understand.  This is the nature of the thief that is Alzheimers.

 Then a miracle of sorts happened. Daddy reached a moment of lucidity where his babbling suddenly became intelligible and I heard him say “We had a lot of fun didn’t we little girl? You’re a good daughter, you know that? And you’re a good driver I don’t care what your momma says.”  Then, for the last time in my life, I heard the sweetest voice in the world say “I love you.” Another soft kiss on my forehead and the spell was broken.  And that was the most precious gift he ever gave me.

Not the words he spoke, but his love, constant and unyielding.  No matter what I might have done, how upset he might have been with me, he never gave me cause to question his love.  On the few occasions that he spanked me, he cried as much as I did.  Mother could yell, scream, curse, rage and even beat me, it only served to harden my stubborn resolve. But if daddy ever told me I disappointed him, I was reduced to repentant tears.  Nothing hurt me worse than the knowledge that I had done something to break his true and unwavering heart.

It’s been ten years now that he’s been gone.  I still miss him so much. There have been many occasions in those ten years when all I wanted was to climb into his lap, rest my head against his chest and let the steady rhythm of his heart soothe my broken one.  I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve been jarred from sleep by a nightmare and found myself screaming for him. Then one day I realized, as I had long before, that just because I couldn’t see him, or touch him, didn’t mean he had abandoned me. And on those nights when I can’t sleep, or am jarred awake with a nightmare, if I can quiet my mind enough, I can hear his voice deep in my heart.  “You’re ok little girl. It’s alright, I’m here.” 

Thank you Daddy.  Thank you for your gift of humor and light heartedness. Thank you for giving me your quiet strength and perseverance. Thank you for always being there for me. Thank you for teaching me to play basketball, to swim, to ride a bicycle, and the basics of automotive mechanics.  Thank you for eating every disgusting thing that I ever produced from my Easy Bake Oven like it was the most delicious thing you ever tasted, and gazing in awe at my artwork like it was drawn by Rembrandt himself. Thank you for cleaning my scraped and bruised knees and binding my wounds. Thank you for protecting me from scary thunder monsters and the shadows that played on my bedroom walls and in my dreams. But mostly, thank you for showing me what true love really is. Thank you for never giving up on mother, for always loving her, when most men would have left her – and me.  Thank you for never abandoning us.

We did have a lot of fun. You were the best dad a girl could ever have. And you’re a good driver no matter what mother says. I love you.  Happy Father’s Day.

To Kiss You

To kiss you

 With velvet lips and a calmness  

that belies the urgency of my heart

The taste of your mouth thrilling

As delicate snowflakes

Chased with childlike delight from the crisp winter wind

To kiss you

With thirsty desire and a hunger

That rages and will not be satisfied

Your tongue strokes mine

With deliberate ease

Awakening within me an unrelenting need

To kiss you

With heated passion and a love

That is deeper than the darkness of my soul

Igniting a white-hot flame

That melts away

The bonds of fear that imprison me

To kiss you

With soaring ecstasy whose heights

Threaten to rob me of life’s breath

Pulling air into my lungs

Even as I pull you into my body

Reveling in the joyous sensation of your thrusting hardness

To kiss you

With sweet gentleness and a mouth

That is bruised and swollen

In the aftermath of passion

The taste of your love lingers

 On my lips, my tongue, and buries itself deep within my memory

Sleep

Sleep, elusive as a firefly on a warm summer night

Will not stop in its flight for me

Oh, to dream again of your arms around me, your lips brushing my ear

Whispering words of hot desire

Until there was you, I existed only in the realm of shadows

Awaiting your redeeming call

Lost in the fabric of time like legs entangled in silken sheets

I knew not who I was

Mesmerized by your eyes that revealed the truth of me

I awakened into life

Abdicating my throne, I tossed my crown at your feet

Vanity’s cruel symbol

Tearing the armor from my now fearless heart

I knelt naked before you

Eternally bound by the silent vows of blood

I wait

There's No Crying in Baseball

I grew up during the 60’s and 70’s, well before the computer age, when children actually went outside - or were forcibly thrown outside by exasperated mothers - to play.  It’s not that I minded going outside, in fact I love being outdoors, but the neighborhood in which I grew up had been blessed with an overabundance of boys. The only toys and instruments of outdoor fun and good times were male oriented.  Nothing but baseballs, footballs, basketballs, volleyballs and, well……..balls, as far as the eye could see.   I was, in fact, the only female on the circle for a very long time.

If I wanted companions at all, I had to learn to put aside my dolls along with my girly-girl nature, and act, think, and play like a boy. This wasn’t a real stretch for me, as my mother was not much of a girl herself, having been raised in similar circumstances. She was ill-equipped but mostly unwilling to teach me how to be female and my only sister was 17 years older and married with children of her own. My sister-in-law, Melvina, was the most girly influence I had and I loved it when she came to visit because that’s when my true girly-ness could really shine. She was just a teenager learning to be a woman herself, and she would dress me up in pretty clothes like a doll and polish my nails.  She would even attempt to tame my hair into something that resembled a cute, feminine, pixie-do instead of the no-fuss, no-muss, masculine bowl cut that my inept mother kept it in.  I shudder to think what I’d be like now without her influence; probably swinging a hammer on a construction crew somewhere, with a wardrobe consisting entirely of denim and flannel.

My father wasn’t much help either, having been a basketball coach.  Because of him, my short little self can still execute a near perfect lay-up and, before I nearly lost an eye in an unfortunate baseball accident at the age of eight, my free-throw record was stellar.  Daddy is also responsible for the passion I have for cars. I adored him and wanted to be near him as much as I could, so anytime he was out working on the cars, I was right there with him handing him tools and peering intently into the belly of the mechanical beast, learning its secrets.  We worked together like a surgeon and scrub nurse; “Screwdriver” – Slap! “Wrench” – Slap! “Hold that light steady”; he called me his tool monkey. If my aunts had not intervened when I was a blossoming pre-teen, I would likely be a master mechanic by now. But they convinced him, and me, that it was simply not proper for a young lady to be covered in grease so I was no longer permitted to be his assistant. It broke my heart and for years I sought to un-learn everything he’d taught me because it was so painful.

I did everything with Daddy, whether it was household repairs or yard work, I was right there carrying his tool belt like a squire carrying the king’s sword. Much to daddy’s chagrin, my older brother was more interested in running wild and getting high than he was in learning anything daddy had to teach, so I took his place. Daddy’s calm presence was always comforting to me and, if given the choice, I would rather be working with him than mother any day.  I would rather be working with him than playing with the rough-necks in the neighborhood too.  I’d become convinced those boys were out to kill me.

 None of the boys on the block had sisters at the time, so none of them had been taught that girls were different. They took no caution with me, never treated me like the delicate, gentle creature I was designed to be. They never made allowances for my small stature or lack of natural strength either.  If I didn’t want to get left behind, I had to learn to endure – run faster, pedal harder, climb higher; keep up or go home. Home – with my crazy, abusive, schizophrenic mother - was simply not an option. So I learned to keep up. What I couldn’t do physically, I made up for in wit. 

I was also a source of great amusement for them, and not in a good way.  I was the butt of many jokes and the target of some elaborate, psychologically damaging and physically harmful pranks. They knocked me off tree-limbs and stuck a leg out to make me wreck my bike. They held me underwater in the pool to see how long it took for me to stop struggling. They put worms and rolly-pollys in my Easy Bake Oven cake mixes and made me eat them. They put tadpoles in my Kool-Aid. They took the luminescent bodies off lightening bugs and told me it was candy. They used me as a target for William Tell inspired archery contests. It’s a miracle that, I not only survived, but came away with only a few scars and no broken bones. I didn’t mind the physical trauma as much as I minded the pranks. In that realm, these little boys were pretty twisted. Stephen King could learn a thing or two from them.

 One Halloween, my brother and I were making the rounds of the neighbor’s homes, gathering our annual sugar-infused tribute. I should have realized something was amiss when Jeffrey insisted on escorting me alone. Normally, he made every effort to escape my presence. As we went from house to house, the throng of boys behind us grew. I was still blissfully unaware of the fate that awaited me when we came to the house at the bottom of the hill.  It was one of the nicest houses in the neighborhood with a huge picture window that you passed under on the way to the elegantly framed front door.  It was also the home of the first boy I probably ever had a little crush on.  At the time he was about thirteen or fourteen and had grown from playing with the smaller boys to tormenting them. This time, however, I was the target of his evil scheme and the other boys were all in on it.

I scampered happily up the driveway in my Tweety-Bird costume, excited because Glenn’s mother had a reputation for always having the best treats on the block. This was back when you got real treats for Halloween. Gooey, wonderful, homemade treats like popcorn balls, fudge, brownies or fried fruit tarts sprinkled with confectioner's sugar.

There was a huge, gruesome looking jack-o-lantern sitting in the big picture window and they had hung a black light over it so it really shone against the stark-white curtains. I shiver a little even now thinking about it. As I passed underneath the window, dreaming about the heavenly confection that would soon be mine, the jack-o-lantern rose up and the ghostly white sheet underneath it grew gnarled hands that blindly grasped for me. I screamed in absolute terror, kicking and clawing wildly, as those awful hands found me and lifted me up. I hate to admit it, but I was so scared that I wet my pants and nearly fainted. I was screaming for my brother to save me from the terrible monster but he was doubled over in laughter, rolling on the lawn.  Seeing the puddle spreading underneath my dangling feet, Glenn realized the prank had gone too far and he gently set me down and took the pumpkin off his head, showing me it was just a costume. Every inch of my little 50 pound, seven year old, body shook with rage and shame and I ran home and threw myself, sobbing, into my father’s arms.

 Daddy let me cry a few minutes, as mother screamed and ranted about the nervous breakdown those “awful hooligans” were going to give her with their shenanigans – she was always so helpful that way. He then took me to the bathroom to clean me up. As he was washing my tear-stained face he told me, rather sternly, “You’ve got to toughen up little girl. If you’re going to play with the big boys, you can’t act like a baby. Never let them see you cry” My dad was the eighth child in a family of 10 siblings and was the runt of the litter to boot.  He knew a thing or two about the abuses siblings and peers can inflict.  After that fateful night, I determined that was the last time the boys would see me cry. I did as my father suggested and toughened up. And I began to retaliate.

We had a pine tree in our yard that was so tall you needed a ladder to reach the lowest branches.  We loved to climb that tree and sit, twenty or so feet off the ground, in the swaying upper branches. Jeffrey liked to sit up there and smoke pot because he thought no one could smell it up there. One day he and his friend Jimmy got out the ladder and climbed up into the branches for an afternoon of getting high, on high.  I dutifully followed like the annoying little sister I was. ( It’s in the job description, look it up.) I got halfway up the ladder, when the boys started shouting for me to get lost and pummeled me with pine cones.  I sat at the base of the tree sulking and hurling insults at them for a few minutes when a plan began forming in my brain. I’d teach them a thing or two.

 I grabbed the rope attached to the top rung of the ladder and yanked hard. The ladder pulled away from the tree trunk as I had expected and fell to the ground with a crash.  Not having a good working knowledge of physics at the time, I failed to correctly calculate the distance I needed to be away from the tree against the rate of velocity with which the ladder fell, and so the upper foot of the ladder caught me square in the skull and bounced off as it came down.  Blood poured from the open gash and I ran screaming into the house, certain that I was dying.

Once again, Daddy took me into the bathroom and cleaned me up. I probably should have had a few stitches but back then you didn’t run to the doctor for every little thing. Some alcohol, mercurochrome, and a few butterfly bandages, and I was good as new. When asked how I had come to get bonked on the head with a ladder, I told daddy it had just fallen on me as I was innocently passing by. The wind must have knocked it over. My brother had been told repeatedly not climb in the pine tree, that it wasn’t safe. So, when daddy went outside to put the ladder away, still confused as to how it got up against the tree to begin with, Jeffrey didn’t make a sound. My rather oblivious father never looked up either. And I never told.

It was much later that night, when dinner rolled around and Jeff still wasn’t home, that mom and dad began to wonder about him.  Mother was out on the back porch calling him in, when Jimmy’s mother called asking if her son was at our house. I got up from the table and went to my room to play with my dolls. I still didn’t tell them.

Finally, Jeff and Jimmy decided that the pain of a whipping was better than being stuck all night in that damned tree and started yelling for help. Of course, in an effort to save at least part of his hide, he ratted me out. The spanking I endured, along with the massive headache, was worth it though. I was learning to fight back.

I got tougher and stronger, if not bigger, and I learned to play just as hard as they did. I raced and wrecked bikes with them, ran – and won – a few foot races, endured scraped knees, bruised shins and a wealth of thorn bush scratches playing hide and seek in the woods. I played tackle football, got clotheslined more than once in a game of red-rover, and took more than my share of elbow jabs to the head playing defense in basketball. And not once did I cry. I screamed, I cursed and I raged……but I never shed a tear.

 We had the best yard for games in the neighborhood by far. It was mostly grass, flat and level and huge, the perfect venue for pickup football and baseball games. I was forever present, and though I was generally chosen last for teams, I was chosen.  But anytime we played baseball, no matter whose team I was on, I had to play the catcher’s position. It was an unspoken rule among the boys founded on two basic principles. One, none of them wanted to be stuck squatting behind the plate all day and, as I was already fairly low to the ground, it made sense to them that I wouldn’t mind it as much. The second reason was much more sinister. Let’s face it, most kids aren’t that good at baseball and, having no backstop, every time there was a wild pitch, which was often, the catcher had to chase the damn ball thirty yards and sometimes out into the street. It was quite a workout. None of us were very good at catching the ball either, so the job always fell to me.

There was one boy in the gang who always insisted on pitching even though he really stunk at the job. But he was older and bigger than the rest of us, so he generally got his way.  His wild pitches made the innings drag on interminably and were a literal pain in the ass for me, as I had to constantly jump up out stance and run after them.

One day, after about four long innings of this torture, I decided I’d had enough. I watched the pitches coming off his hand carefully and began to accurately predict their trajectory. I started making astounding grabs, even though I had to jump to a standing position. Nobody was swinging at them anyway, so what was the harm? Or so I smugly thought.

The biggest boy on Handley Road was up to bat. He was tall and stocky and powerful as well as totally arrogant, and my mother hated him with a fiery passion – why I never knew. He was not even supposed to be in our yard because she had banned him long ago.  I was squatted down behind the plate, my glove at the ready, the muscles in my legs coiled to spring, watching closely as the pitchers arm drew back to make the throw. The rest of this tale I can relate only as it was later told to me, as squatting there behind home plate was the last thing I remember.

As the ball came off the pitchers hand, I saw that it was going to sail clean over the batters head. I leapt up out of stance like a jack-in-the-box in order to make the grab, just as the powerful batter decided to make a violent, if futile, swing at the pitch.

As the bat came around and I came up, the end of the bat connected, not with the ball, but with my face. I’m told that the force of the blow picked me up off the ground and my light body sailed twenty feet backward in the air. By the time I hit the ground, unconscious, my left eye was already horribly bruised and swollen. The boys all gathered around me in trepidation as a flock of crows might surround a dying snake. One boy, making an astute if not correct observation, whispered “I think she’s dead” Then another boy looked to my brother and dared utter the words that struck terror into all their hearts; “Who’s gonna tell your mom?”

My mother’s insanity was well known among the neighborhood. The adults shied away from her as if they thought her psychosis were contagious, and the kids were quite simply terrified of her. The fear of what my mother would likely do to the one who’d slain her child was all it took. The flock took wing and scattered away to cower in the safety of their own homes leaving my poor brother the horrifying job of telling my mother that her little girl was dead.

He went inside and broke the news to her as gently as he could. I don’t know what the conversation sounded like exactly, as I had been left outside alone, and unconscious, but I imagine it went something like this:

Jeff – “Hey Mom, we got any Kool-Aid?”

Mom – “I just made some lime, I know that’s your favorite.  It’s in the fridge, help yourself.”

Jeff -  “Thanks. Can I make a sandwich?”

Mom – “Sure. There’s pepper ham in there and some olive loaf. Help yourself.  You want chips?”

Jeff – “Yeah that sounds good. Do we have pickles?”

Mom – (exasperated huff) “In the fridge. Do you not see them in there? I swear you’re just like your father.  Have to ask for something that’s right in front of your nose. You’d rather make me stop what I’m doing to come hand you something that’s right in front of your eyes.  I’ve put up with that out him for twenty years, I’m not about to put up with it out of you.

Jeff – (mumbling) “Sorry Mom.”

Mom – (louder exasperated huff) “Where’s your sister?”

Jeff – “ Ummm…. Lisa?....Oh, she’s out in the yard.”

Mom – (even louder exasperated huff) “Well, go tell her to come in and eat; might as well feed both of you at the same time, no sense having to clean up a mess twice.”

Jeff – (mumbling around a large mouthful of olive loaf) “Can’t. She’s dead.”

Mom – (smacking Jeff on the back of the head) “Don’t talk with your mouth full!”

This time my injury warranted a trip to the emergency room where x-rays revealed I had a concussion but, miraculously, no broken bones. The only lasting effects I have are a small scar above my eyebrow that you can only see when I squint and nerve damage that makes it impossible for me to wink my left eye; kind of a bummer when you’re right handed and trying to sight anything. That’s also the reason I work a scrolling mouse on a computer upside down and have difficulty with directions.

My eye was grotesquely disfigured for weeks afterward and even when the swelling went down, I had to wear an eye-patch for what seemed an eternity. I looked like a pint-sized pirate.  I milked it for all it was worth too.  Any time mother got even a little irritated at me, I’d whine pitifully and rub at the patch “but my eye hurts”.  Not only would she calm down, she’d produce a treat of some kind for me. I got all my favorite goodies and a few new, more gender appropriate, toys. My father decided I needed to spend less time with the boys, even though he seemed proud of that shiner. For years, he loved to tell the story about his little slugger and the summer of the black eye.

After that, I earned a new respect among the boys on Handley Road. Oh, they still expected me to keep up if I was going to play, but I noticed they weren’t quite as rough with me. And whenever I was outside and one of the neighbor boys rode by on his bike, I’d stand up and stare at him defiantly with my good eye, letting them all see that I was bruised but I wasn’t beaten. You might knock me down, but I’m gonna get back up and I’ll be swinging when I do. You might get the best of me once but you’d better make the most of it ‘cause it won’t happen again. And you will never, ever, see me cry. 

Muffin The Ninja Cat

Muffin the Ninja Cat

When my kids were small, a friend – and I use that term loosely – gave them a kitten. She was a tiny, grey – striped, tabby that looked more like something her mother hacked up rather than gave birth to.  She weighed no more than a couple of pounds and most of that was hair.  Three year old Roxanne promptly named the little fuzzball Muffin…. and would not be swayed to a different, cooler name.  I mean really, what kinda name for a cat is Muffin?  Cats should have cool, mysterious sounding names like Jezebel, Lucifer or Demonspawn.  But Roxanne had her mind made up, so Muffin it was.

From the beginning Muffin had a love – hate relationship with Roxanne.  She would snuggle beside Roxanne at bedtime, purring contentedly, and then without warning swat her viciously across the face with a dainty, razor sharp, claw.  Perhaps she was offended by the way Roxanne breathed – I don’t know.  Or maybe she sensed that Roxanne was about to make her the world’s biggest two pound scapegoat.

My evilly intelligent little daughter was soon to discover that having a pet had its benefits in the getting out of trouble department. What better way to deflect guilt from an incriminating situation than to blame everything on a mute, defenseless animal?  The cat certainly couldn’t dispute her.  To Roxanne’s brilliant, three year old mind, it was fool-proof. But bless her heart, she neglected to see the one glaring flaw in her otherwise solid plan -  her mother is no fool.

It began with the curtains. I was working in the house one day when I heard a crash in the vicinity of Roxanne’s bedroom followed by a muffled giggle. I rushed to the scene of the crime to find the bedroom curtains and the blinds in a tangled heap on the floor.  Poor little Muffin was sitting amidst the rubble looking dazed and unsure of how she got there.  Roxanne was bent over her bed, convulsed in giggles. The story I got was that Muffin was climbing up the curtains and pulled the whole works down on top of her head. Ok….cats are known for their love of climbing and my skills at hanging drapery are questionable but come on, the kitten weighed two pounds soaking wet! The curtains were plausible but…. the blinds? Let’s just say I had my doubts on the validity of the story, but since it smacked of kitten mischief, I let it slide. 

After that, Muffin became the household wrecking ball.

Who knocked the glass of punch over? – Muffin  

Who smeared glue all over the floor? – Muffin

Who pulled all the leaves off this plant? – Muffin

Who spilled an entire bottle of shampoo in the bathtub? – Muffin

The poor cat got blamed for everything and each time I had to admit her guilt was at least plausible. That is until the infamous corn dog event.

Even now I laugh at the memory.  It wasn’t at all funny then – in fact I was furious – but now it’s become one of the most precious memories I have. Roxanne was well known for her voracious sweet- tooth and it was a constant battle between us to get her to eat healthy food.  From the ages of two to five, the child survived on corn dogs, mac and cheese, and chicken tenders but was surprisingly well under weight for her age and height.  Getting her to eat fruit and vegetables was next to impossible and I’m not ashamed to say I often resorted to that bit of age-old parental wisdom – bribery.

Early on, I made a deal with both my children that if they would at least taste new foods – a taste being at least three good bites – then if they didn’t like it, I wouldn’t make them eat it.  Dalton, who was seemingly a vegetarian sort from birth, was easy.  He loved salads and all sorts of veggies and fruits. Usually, after three bites, he would finish whatever was on his plate.  Hard-headed Roxanne was a different story all-together.  She viewed the three bite rule as a loophole to get out of eating anything that wasn’t on her limited menu. I could give Muffin a pill easier than I could get Roxanne to swallow three bites of anything she deemed “yucky looking”.  And anything green was decidedly yucky looking. So Roxanne and I had a special deal.  If she would eat the three bites, then she got a dessert.  No bites, no dessert. Another classic gambit from the parents play-book.

One evening I made steamed broccoli for dinner - don’t groan, you did it too.  I put three small florets on Roxanne’s plate along with her corn dog and a few fries and sat her down at the table. The battle began. No way was she going to put that broccoli in her mouth. She gobbled down the fries easily and was about a third through her corn dog when I reminded her that she needed to eat the broccoli before she could have her dessert, which that night happened to be her very favorite – vanilla cupcakes. That was my mistake.  She saw the cupcakes and all thoughts of anything else went by the wayside.  Her mission from that moment on was to get to that cupcake. She even refused to finish her corn dog.  Now, she could have taken the easy way, which was also the right way, and forced down the three tiny pieces of broccoli but no – she was far too devious for such simplicity as that.  It’s a shame I didn’t know just how devious my sweet little daughter was at that time. I wouldn’t have trusted her as much as I did.

After arguing for almost an hour and steadfastly refusing to allow Roxanne to leave the table until she’d eaten the broccoli, I was surprised - and quite proud of myself for holding my ground I might add – when Roxanne suddenly announced that she’d cleaned her plate and could she please have her cupcake now.  I turned around from the sink and was amazed to see an almost clean plate.  Nothing remained but a few crumbs and a smear of yellow mustard. 

Now, most intelligent people would have immediately wondered – what happened to the corn dog stick?  I consider myself to be such an intelligent person but I suppose my relief at having won the battle blinded me to that little piece of evidence.  I praised her for being a brave girl and trying something new while I handed her the eagerly desired cupcake. Sucker

Roxanne sat happily enjoying her prize, vanilla frosting smeared across her beaming face, as I went about my household chores.  I turned on the clothes dryer, which I remembered contained my work clothes for the next day, finished cleaning the kitchen and helped Dalton with his homework. 

A while later, I went to get my clothes out of the dryer.  Little Muffin was curled up on top of it, contentedly snoozing, enjoying the toasty warmth the appliance was putting out.  She seemed quite angry at being disturbed from her cozy roost and hissed at me when I shooed her down. I opened the dryer door and to my horror found a mustard-plastered mess. There, perched atop my white linen pants, was the remains of a corn dog, stick and all.  The broccoli had all but disintegrated, leaving sloughs of green stains on every article of clothing in the dryer and sticky smudges of bright yellow mustard were permanently dyed into my best clothes.  I exploded into fury and screamed the first and only name that came to mind – ROXANNE!!!

To her credit, she immediately presented herself, completely unafraid of my wrath. I made a classic parental blunder and asked her how it came about that a corn-dog had found its way into my clothes dryer.  I knew how it got there, I knew exactly who did it.  I suppose I asked because I wanted to give her an opportunity to tell me the truth; make it a teachable moment. But, as my friend Michael once pointed out, why would a child tell you the truth when she knows the end result is going to be punishment? They’re children, not idiots. So, I shouldn’t have been at all surprised when she looked up at me with those big brown innocent eyes and said “Muffin did it”

 I was rather taken aback at her response.  I had expected an “I dunno” or  “not me” or even the classic - I’ve suddenly gone blind – ploy of “what corn dog?” But this sweet child, with complete malice aforethought, blamed the kitten. Being three years old, I’m sure she didn’t see the obvious flaws in her story so I thought I would help her by pointing them out. 

“How did Muffin open the dryer Roxanne?”

 “She was hiding until she saw you open it and then put the corn dog in while you weren’t looking”

“How did Muffin pick up the plate Roxanne?”

 “She didn’t, she stole the corn dog off my plate with her teeths”

“The corn dog is bigger than Muffin Roxanne, how did she carry it all the way to the dryer?”

“She’s stronger than she looks Mommy.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Muffin put the corn dog in the dryer?”

 This conversation had passed the border of ridiculousness and taken a sharp turn onto the hiway of absurdity.

“Cause you would spank her and I’d have to eat broccoli instead of cupcake.”

 Well, Kudos for that half-truth I suppose.

Roxanne was convicted on the charges of duplicity, perjury and making her mother feel foolish and was punished accordingly.  She received one of the few spankings she ever got and was sentenced to no dessert for two weeks. That night, after the angry tears – both Roxanne’s and mine - subsided, I peeked into her room to find her fast asleep.  Muffin was stretched out on the pillow beside her, stroking her little kitten paw through Roxanne’s hair as if soothing her. When she realized I was watching, she shook her paw free of the hair clinging to it and – I swear - the little demon smiled at me - and swatted Roxanne across the back of the head, digging her claws into the tender flesh of her scalp. Roxanne jerked awake at the sharp pain and, of course, the first thing she saw was me.

 Score one for the kitten – maybe she wasn’t as guiltless as I thought.

Then came the coups de gras. 

One Sunday afternoon, I had a horrible headache.  One of those headaches that can make you beg for the silence and darkness of the grave.  Trying to find some relief, I took a few Tylenol and laid down on the couch with a cold rag over my face, charging Dalton with looking after his sister and keeping her quiet.

I managed to doze off but hadn’t been asleep long when I was rudely awakened by a deafening crash. Lurching up off the couch, I went reeling down the hall to see what, or who, was broken.  Outside the bathroom door, my two children stood frozen in horror. Muffin sat plastered against the backs of Roxanne’s legs, trembling with fear.  I didn’t waste time asking stupid questions and pushed them aside to see what they were staring at. 

It looked like a small bomb had exploded in the bathroom.  The toilet tank top was broken with half of it lying at a crazy angle in the tank and the other half shattered on the floor.  Porcelain dust hung in the air and floated to the carpet like a fine snow.  Roxanne’s doll stroller was turned up on its side in the bathtub and Dalton’s toy cars were strewn about the floor.  My sleep addled brain searched for an answer to this bizarre tableau and hit upon, what I saw as, the logical guilty party; Dalton.  Normally, I was a level headed parent and thought before I acted. But this time, I’m ashamed to say, my rage and disoriented state overtook me.  My poor son was about to get what would have amounted to a beating. I snatched him up by the arm and had the other arm in full swing when I felt Roxanne tugging demandingly at my clothes and heard her crying “Mommy! Mommy! Don’t!! Dalton didn’t do it!!!” 

  I stopped short of landing the first blow and glared at her, breathing furiously down on her upturned face like an enraged bull while still gripping a terrified Dalton by the arm.

“Who did it then!?” I demanded “You?”

She gulped hard, but hardly even thought before saying, quite convincingly…..

“Muffin”

I was totally poleaxed. I knew she was lying but there was something about the way she said it so guilelessly that caught me off guard. I let go of Dalton’s arm and he took the opportunity to run for the sanctuary of his room.

The rage drained out of me like water in a sink as I squatted down to look my precious daughter in the eye.

“Would you care to explain to me how Muffin did this?” I asked.  Secretly, I couldn’t wait to hear the answer. I knew this was going to be good.

Roxanne only briefly looked down at the floor before looking me dead in the eyes and then began her tale.

“Well, you see Mommy, Muffin was walking on the top of the potty – I told her she shouldn’t be up there -  and she slipped and she gots her paw caught on the thing and the potty pinched her….it hurt really bad.”  She added the last part for emphasis, hoping to gain an amount of sympathetic understanding for the poor beast.

“I see” I said, trying to keep the stern look on my face.

“But how did Muffin break the potty?”

“She got mad because the potty pinched hers paw, so she jumped down and picked up my baby buggy and……WHAM!!! She hit the potty with it.”

I had absolutely no response.  I slowly and calmly stood up, walked down the hall and out the back door into the yard and there….doubled over laughing hysterically.

How ingenious of her.  I don’t think she deliberately knew that telling such an outlandish tale would diffuse the anger I was feeling, but that’s exactly the effect that it had. I think she probably was desperately trying to save her big brother and if that was her goal,  succeeded masterfully. I knew Muffin didn’t break the toilet but after that I didn’t care really how it happened.  I knew the real culprit and later that night she and I had a long discussion about it. She never fully admitted to what she had done though, still insisting that Muffin had been the one to strike the fatal blow.  I pointed out to her that Muffin was physically incapable of committing the offense, to which Roxanne replied,

“You just never seen the things she can do Mommy. She’s tricky”

Muffin sat on the pillow, listening to the whole conversation rather intently and swishing her little tail around.  She had a strange, self- satisfied look on face.

Not long after that, I married.  My new husband moved into our home with his cat, Sunshine, who was the antithesis of his name.  He was big and round and orange but that’s where the resemblance ended. He was so mean spirited he made Grumpy Cat look like Pollyanna; Muffin hated him immediately.  It wasn’t long after they moved in, Muffin got out one day and ran away into the woods.  We never saw her again.  Poor Roxanne was inconsolable and cried and called for her companion for weeks. It broke my heart.

Years later during Roxanne’s illness, we returned to a state of battling about what she was and wasn’t eating.  Roxanne’s gastroparesis made it impossible for her to eat normally. If she swallowed anything, it simply came back up.  But being a teenager, it was hard for her to be denied her favorite foods.  And she felt like such a freak, having to be fed through a tube and an IV that occasionally she would eat something – knowing full well she was going to throw it up – just to have the pleasure of tasting food and feeling like a normal human being.  Every time I caught her doing it, I scolded her adamantly. She would remind me that the doctor had told her she should try to eat whenever she wanted. I reminded her that the doctor didn’t have to hear her gagging and crying for hours afterward.

One day I came home from work and found an empty container of juice and a half empty box of cookies on the kitchen counter.  Frustrated, I called Roxanne to the kitchen and handed her the evidence. Stupidly I asked, “Who ate these cookies?”

Her big brown eyes twinkled and she grinned at me mischievously

“Muffin ”

She got me again.

I Put On Your Shirt

I put on your shirt and drove into the darkness

The crisp night air coaxed your scent from the starched linen collar

And whipped it around my face with my hair.

Caressing my heated flesh with a wild, passionate memory.

Accelerate, shift gears, inhale

I put on your memory and drove faster around the turns

The throttle surged against the rhythm of my hands and feet

The same way my body responds to your touch

Rising against your hands until I out run your control

Accelerate, shift gears, inhale

Blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror

No officer, I haven’t been drinking tonight

I am under the influence of a love so powerful

That I had to go for a drive to clear my head

I put on your shirt

And nothing else.

He Who Haunts Me

He who haunts my thoughts

Is a ghostly dancer, gracefully gliding

Through the shadowed hallways of my mind

His beautiful visage a reminder of love’s cruelty

He who haunts my dreams

Is a shrouded wraith, passionately screaming

Into the ancient depths of my memory

His keening voice an echo of love long past

He who haunts my heart

Is a powerful phantom, relentlessly beating

Out the rhythm of my urgent desires

His elegant hands the conductor of love’s symphony.

He who haunts my soul

Is a shining specter, quietly beckoning

Beyond the veil of my fictional reality

His piercing eyes a mirror of love’s true form.