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.

The Great Kazooie!

The Great Kazooie

Recently my nephew Garrett celebrated his 50^th birthday. He’s more like a little brother to me than a nephew because there’s barely two and half years between us. He was one of the first playmates I had growing up and he always inspired some great adventures. From an early age, he taught me that life was meant to be enjoyed and experienced – not just survived.

Turning fifty is a milestone in anyone’s life but it is especially amazing for a person you never expected to see ten, let alone fifty.  No, he wasn’t one of those chronically sick kids and no, he didn’t have some terrible disease. In fact he was, and still is, one of the most naturally healthy people I’ve ever known. We are all amazed to see him turn fifty because, as a child, he seemed determined to kill himself.

It began with the baby aspirin. At the age of three he developed an addiction to the sweet little orange pills and would gobble them up like candy if a bottle was left within his reach.  After his stomach had to be pumped the first time, the bottle was placed in the high cupboard, safely out of his reach. Or so they thought.

Not long after, during a summer family barbeque, he’d been put to bed for his nap. He woke up while everyone but me was outside and decided it was the perfect opportunity to make a score.  After doing a reconnaissance crawl – through to determine the exact location of his payload, he proceeded to erect a rather intricate climbing tower out of the kitchen chairs and, using those to reach the counter top, scampered, spider-like, from there to the top of the fridge and into the cupboard where the orange flavored monkey on his back resided; easy-peasy. I watched the whole thing. I suppose I should have gone and got one of the adults to stop him, but I was only six myself and, quite honestly, was fascinated by his brilliance.

The people at the emergency room frowned a little at having to pump his stomach yet again but he was sent home, none the worse for wear.  After that, the baby aspirin was locked in the medicine cabinet.

Being denied his drug of choice, he next discovered that bleach didn’t taste nearly as bad as it smelled.

The people at the emergency room did more than frown a little this time and, after pumping his stomach yet again, he was sent home with a stern warning to my sister to be more vigilant with him. It wasn’t her fault. This kid was Houdini reincarnate. He could escape from any crib or play pen ever made. He could unlock any lock, open any door. He was a dangerous combination of incredibly intelligent, naturally curious, and totally fearless. And he got bored really easily.  My sister was just a kid herself, only eighteen when he was born, and being raised by our mother had done nothing to prepare her for life as a wife and mother. Nothing could have prepared anyone for Garrett.

After the bleach incident, Garrett found a bottle of kerosene. I guess it didn’t have the same lovely bouquet as the bleach, and after a few sips he gave that one up.

The people at the emergency room pumped his stomach anyway, just to be safe, and because they hoped the experience might dissuade him from making any other forays into alternate culinary experiences.

When Bill Watterson first published Calvin and Hobbes, I was convinced that he modeled Calvin on Garrett. So many times, when reading Calvin’s adventures, I would smile and say “Garrett did that”.  Calvin’s alter ego Stupendous Man? Yep, Garrett did that.  He’d tie his blanket around his neck like a cape and attempt all manner of incredible feats, like jumping off the garage roof to see if he could fly.  Thankfully, someone did catch him and stop him that time. 

One of the funniest things I’ve ever seen in my life involved Garrett and his blanket cape. Because of my mother’s illness, I spent a lot of time at my sister’s house, which was good because it gave me someone to play with. My brother Jeff, who is only three years older, never had much use for me as anything other than a scapegoat.

 The house my sister lived in at the time had a bedroom that connected to the living room via two doors, so it made a circular path between the two rooms.  My sister and I were sitting on the sofa, she folding laundry while I read a book to her.  Garrett must have been horribly bored and looking to create a little excitement. He wandered into the living room, his blanket cape tied around his neck. He casually but deliberately walked up to my sister, hit her as hard as he could, and took off running, the cape flying behind him. Of course, she jumped up and started chasing him but you’d have better luck catching a greased piglet than you’d have catching Garrett. Around and around the rooms they went, out one door and in the other, Garrett, squealing with delight and my sister shouting threats about what she was going to do to him when she caught him. Since that wasn’t a big incentive for him to stop, he kept going; running faster and faster.  I sat on the sofa and watched in fascination. It was like a cartoon come to life. By the time he finally slowed down enough to catch him, she was laughing over the absurdity of it all. Smart kid.

Then there was the strip where Calvin jumps from the swings pretending he’s an astronaut. That one was taken directly from Garrett’s playbook. It was one of his finest moments.

I don’t recall the occasion, but the family was all gathered at my parent’s house.  Daddy was outside watching us kids, supposedly to make sure none us got injured. That’s kind of like letting a blind man drive a bus, but apparently no one else wanted the job and apathy about our safety had taken over.

We had a great swing set in the back yard, just below the concrete patio. It had three regular swings, a set of monkey bars, and a seesaw swing.  My niece Amanda and I were swinging happily together, while my brother Jeff was showing off on the monkey bars, all of us vying for daddy’s attention and approval.  Garrett was swinging on the see saw, but he was standing up on the seat, pushing the swing with his entire body weight, higher and higher. You would think, given Garrett’s daredevil history, my father would have sensed what was coming and stopped him. You see it coming, don’t you?

Sure enough, when Garrett had pushed the swing until it was flying at the top of the swing set, he decided it would be fun to jump off backward! The back flip he attempted didn’t quite make the full rotation and he landed in a heap on top of a concrete drainage culvert beside the patio.

The people in the emergency room were happy to see us, they’d missed us. They all knew Garrett well by now and looked forward to his visits. The broken arm was set into, what I believe, was his very first cast.

Garrett’s biggest feat of daring-do happened when he was just a toddler. This was in the mid 60’s, back in the days before car seats and even seat belts were the law. At the time, my brother-in-law had a little classic Chevy. The street leading to their house went up a fairly steep hill with an embankment on the right.  Marshall was heading home one day, with baby Garrett standing in the passenger seat enjoying the ride. No one knows for sure if he was playing with the door handle and accidently managed to open it, or if he suddenly decided he wanted to go for a walk but, just as the car was approaching the crest of the hill, Garrett opened the passenger door and was falling out. Panic and instinct took over and, letting go of the steering wheel, Marshall made a diving grab for his son. The two of them rolled free just as the car went tumbling over the embankment, coming to rest upside down. Apparently in his previous life, Garrett had been a Hollywood stunt man.

I loved my little nephew for a lot of reasons.  As I said before, the kid fascinated me with his brilliance. And he was such a happy little person, it made others happy to be around him. I’m naturally joyful myself, but living with my mother had taught me to squelch that particular character trait. In my household, we learned that quietness and solitude was your best hope for survival most days. Garrett was just as unable to contain his natural joyfulness as he was unable to stay away from a bottle of baby aspirin. And he took great pleasure in making others laugh.

Garrett was the first person in my life to discover that you can make me convulse with laughter using silly voices or words.  Come to think of it, he may actually be the cause of it.  He had a little word that he used all the time – kazooie! I don’t know where he got it from, I don’t know how it all began, I don’t know what it means -  all I know is, that one little word could reduce me to a puddle of uncontrolled laughter.

At the most inappropriate times, he would sneak up behind me and whisper that little word in my ear. I would immediately shriek with laughter and he would run off giggling, pleased with his conquest.  It became a game with us.

Prayer time at Thanksgiving dinner – Kazooie!

Easter Sunday church service – Kazooie!

Late at night, when we were supposed to be sleeping and I’d already gotten in trouble once for whispering – Kazooie!

Sitting in a movie theater, on a date with a really cute guy I had a major crush on – Kazooie!

I don’t know if he got his jollies from making me laugh or from getting me in trouble, but whichever one it was he really enjoyed it.

So did I.

 I didn’t mind getting yelled at if it meant I had a few moments where I could unleash my own natural happiness and just laugh. Really laugh.  It always felt so good.

Garrett has surprisingly grown from that happy, daredevil of a kid, into one of the finest men you’d ever hope to meet. He’s a dedicated family man with three beautiful children of his own. His calm, happy demeanor and the example he had in his own father and grandfathers, makes him an incredible dad in his own right. We are all so proud of him.

When my daughter passed away, he was there at her funeral. I’m told it was he who picked me up and carried me to the car when I fainted at the cemetery. After the burial, the family was escorted back to the church where the good ladies there had prepared a meal for us – it’s a southern thing. I was sitting, staring blankly at the plate of food in front of me.  I hadn’t eaten a bite in three days and quite frankly didn’t care if I ever ate again. My boyfriend, my son, my brother and sister were all coaxing and cajoling me to take at least a few bites so I wouldn’t pass out again. It was getting on my already frayed nerves. I just wanted everyone to leave me alone!

Out of nowhere, I felt warm hands clasping my shoulders as the person behind me bent down to whisper in my ear. “Hey, Aunt Lisa……Kazooie!”  I dissolved into a torrent of giggles as everyone around me looked as if I had truly gone insane.

It wasn’t Garrett who had delivered the blow, but rather his son, Houston. The Great Kazooie had passed the torch. It didn’t matter to me, it had the same effect.  It felt good. When I could finally stop laughing, I picked up my fork and ate the first real meal I’d had in a week. Laughter truly is the best medicine.

 For weeks afterward, I’d open up my Facebook page to find that Houston or Garrett one had posted a big “KAZOOIE” on my wall. They can’t know how much that small gesture meant to me.  It reminded me that laughter and happiness had always been and still were mine and that I would find my way back to them one day.

Walking Through the Valley of Bob Dylan

(and the Shepherd who led me there)

When giving Bob Dylan’s rock and roll hall of fame induction speech, Bruce Springsteen said “the pop of the snare drum at the opening of Like A Rolling Stone was like the sound of someone kicking open a door in my mind.” He went on to talk about how the first time he heard a Bob Dylan song he was riding in the car with his mother and she opined, as a lot of mothers in the sixties did, “He can’t sing”.

For a long time I held that same opinion.  It was hard for me to listen to a Dylan song in its entirety for that very reason.  His voice is as irritating to my ears as a whiny child in Wal-Mart on New Year’s Day when I’ve gone in to purchase Tylenol and an ice pack for my post-celebratory hangover.  I can enjoy his songs when placed in the hands and voices of other artists, such as Billy Joel’s inspired version of To Make You Feel My Love or Hendrix’ blistering send up of All Along The Watchtower but to sit and listen to Dylan himself? I think waterboarding might be a more enjoyable experience.

And then, about a year ago, I met a guy who is undeniably the biggest Bob Dylan fan I have ever known.  One night, while sharing a bottle of good champagne and discussing all manner of deep and meaningful things – as was our penchant to do – we hit, once again, upon the topic of Bob Dylan’s music.  He pointed out to me that, being adept at turning a phrase, I should be more open to listening to Dylan’s beautiful words in Dylan’s own voice.  I explained to him – again – that it is most difficult to appreciate a beautifully written lyric when all one can think about is stabbing their ear drum with an ice pick.  He asked if I would be willing to watch a biographical documentary film with him on the topic of Dylan’s music.  After a little debate on the matter, and being tickled and kissed into submission, I graciously relented. 

  The things a woman will do for the man she loves!

We snuggled up on the sofa with the wine between us, and settled in to watch.  He held me close as one would hold a terrified child in a thunder storm.  I’m not entirely certain if he was attempting to make the experience more comfortable for me or if he was trying to prevent my escape, but between his strong, comforting embrace and the champagne, I soon relaxed into it.

 The film was, in its own right, entertaining and informative and I would have enjoyed watching it for that reason alone.  But what enthralled me was the passion displayed on Shepherd’s face as he discussed one pivotal point or the other.  The joy and rapture that danced in his beautiful brown eyes as the music washed over us.  He was totally animated and alive. I imagine I look much the same way when listening to Jackson Browne.  I began to wonder what it was about this music that could so entrance him and I determined that I was going to find out.

The next day, I dutifully scrolled the musical offerings on iTunes and made a few choice selections.  Start slow and pace yourself, I thought. Like the novice I am, I began with the Bob Dylan primary.  I downloaded Like a Rolling Stone, Blowing in the Wind, To Make You Feel My Love, and A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall, the last being Shepherd’s favorite.  I then googled and downloaded the lyric sheets to all the songs, a necessity when attempting to understand a singer who sounds like he’s either speaking in tongues or cannot read the words on the lyric sheet before him because he forgot his glasses.  I made up my mind I was going to make a full study of the songs and the lyrics even if it induced a migraine of epic proportions.  I had to unlock the source of that look of rapture on Shepherd’s face.

Over the next few weeks, whenever a Dylan song came across my iPhone playlist, I listened intently to the melody, the lyrics and the raw nasal inflections that give the music its texture.  I realized that, while I still preferred other voices to Dylan’s own, that strained grasping voice was indeed the perfect complement to the songs and their meanings.  The sixties were not always groovy – make love not war. It was a time of strife and the struggle of a young generation to make its collective voice heard.  That voice was brash and demanding and Dylan’s hardcore style reflected it perfectly.  I began to have a new appreciation for the artist inside the man and could even admit that I finally got why he was such a big deal.  He was truly the prophet of his time, the voice crying in the wilderness.  But I could not capture that aspect of near – holiness that lit up Shepherd’s eyes.

I didn’t know it then, but that night was apparently the last I would spend with him.  I’ve neither seen nor heard from him in months and he no longer returns my messages.  It gives me great sadness to think that I may never again stare intently into those big brown eyes, little flecks of gold dotted through them, and watch them flash and sparkle when I say something particularly witty – or stupid; that I may never again spend an evening arguing points of religion, philosophy, and metaphysics with him over a bottle of good champagne.  Or that I may never again be cuddled peacefully into those strong arms, watching a movie together and sharing wine-flavored kisses as he absently runs his fingers through my hair.

 I miss him.

Today was a stunningly gorgeous spring day.  Having nothing better to do, I laced up my hiking boots, grabbed a couple bottles of cold water, popped my ear phones in and set out on the wooded trails behind my house.  I was walking along, soaking up the sunshine, completely happy and at peace with the world.  I was deep in the woods, making my way carefully on the downward slope of a valley when suddenly, twisting into my brain from the ear phones, came Dylan’s A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall. There is no pop of a snare drum on that song but, as Springsteen went before me, somewhere in my mind a door kicked open.  I got it.  I understood, finally, the beauty of that tight, strained, off-key voice.  I didn’t just hear the lyrics, I saw the pictures that were painted within.  I felt the anguish, the anger, the fear, the dismay at what was happening to this man’s world.  By the time Dylan was singing about “walking to the depths of the deepest dark forest” I was on my knees there in the valley of the forest trail, weeping unabashedly, completely surrendered to and enraptured by the majesty of that heartbreaking song. I had found that place of near – holiness.

 I wept for my generation and all that we have endured and struggled through to get to where we are now.  From the injustices of the civil rights movement and the horror that was the Vietnam War to the anguish of watching so many of our peers fall under the spell of drug and alcohol addictions.  We have seen so much.  It is to us that Dylan queries “What did you see my darling young one.”

I wept because I finally understood the look of rapture on Shepherd’s face, the way those eyes of his danced with joy, full of love and tenderness, as he talked about singing this song as a lullaby to his blue-eyed son.  I wept because I had never inspired that look on his face.

I suppose mostly, I wept for myself.  Those haunting words kicked open a door in my mind and shattered my heart. And the one person in the world I most wanted to share my new-found liberation with was turning a deaf ear to me; why I do not know.  Maybe my weeping was simply a response to the pain of missing him and the song  merely the catalyst that sparked it.  After all, it is his favorite song, of course it reminds me of him. 

But, when the song was over and my tears subsided, my joy and peacefulness returned to overflowing and I found myself dancing and skipping my way back home.  It was like a new drug, and I wanted more! I came in and downloaded two complete Bob Dylan albums.   Tonight, after I've tended to a few household chores, I will relax in the bathtub with my headphones on, full wine glass in hand, and listen intently to each and every song.  I will think of Shepherd, of course, and I will smile.  And if anyone would happen to be watching, they would see a look of radiant joy, love and tenderness in my deep blue eyes.

Everyone who comes into our lives comes for a reason.  And each person we meet has a gift for us; something to teach us if we are willing to learn and accept it.  Bob Dylan came into the lives of a generation on the cusp of adulthood and, with his gift of music, kicked open the door and set captive minds free.

  

Shepherd came into my life and gave me the gift of Bob Dylan – and of himself.  A more beautiful man, inside and out, I have never known.  In the year I spent with him, he taught me grace, patience, an appreciation for fine champagne, how to love someone without needing to possess them, and the beauty of a fragile heart.  I’m so thankful for the wild and free winds of change that blew him into my life and I pray that one day soon, it will blow him back my way.  

Another of my poems - from September 2013

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 shadow

Awaiting your redeeming call

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

I knew not who I was

Mesmerized by dark eyes that revealed the truth of me

I awakened into life

Abdicating a throne I did not possess, 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 my blood

I wait

A poem I wrote a few months back

You are my light

You found me in the darkness, took my hand

and led me out to a place where I could again feel

The warmth of the sun on my face

And see the beauty in all that surrounds me

You are my peace

Your presence calms the chaos in my mind

Stills the voice that forever screams "why"

And brings my world into sharp clear focus

You lead me on the path of my soul’s redemption

You are my joy

You unlocked the chains that bound my heart

And pointed me toward freedom

Stripping off my gown of mourning

I ran in resplendent nakedness

You are my mirror

Enchanted but true

Gently showing the flaws and imperfections without judgment

Encouraging change yet marveling at the beauty

Of battle won scars, my badges of courage and strength

You have brought me so many gifts

And laid them at me feet

Not pretty baubles, not gold nor costly perfumes

You have given me gifts more costly than those

You gave me back my life.

Letting Go and Moving On

A few days ago a friend told me of an encounter she had with a young person in regards to the blood drive.  This young person asked my friend why I continued to hold the blood drive, wasn’t it time that I let go and moved on? After all, it’s been 3 years! I don’t know who this person was, it’s not important that I know, but if one person asked this question I’m sure there are others. So, I’d like to offer an answer.

Losing a loved one is never an easy thing, be it a grandparent, parent, cousin, friend or even a beloved pet. We grow up understanding that there will be times in our lives when we will be destined to mourn those we love. But a parent is not expected to lose a child. Ever. It is unexpected, unimaginable, unfathomable. It is simply - unnatural. Others who knew them may find it easy to forget and move on with their lives, but how are we to ever let go of one who we carried within our bodies? Who we nursed and nurtured and watched grow? Who we loved unconditionally and for whom we would have willingly traded our own lives? It is an absolute impossibility. In fact, suggesting to a bereaved parent that they “get over it and move on” is the cruelest thing you could ever say. Had you died young, would it make you happy to know that your parents just forgot you and went on with their lives, as if your existence never mattered? No, we all desire to know that someone loved us enough to mourn for us. After the death of a child, a parent really has only one of two options. Either sink into depression and madness or do something – anything - that helps us live with the loss. But forgetting, letting go, is never an option.  

“Ah” you say. “So this is why you continue to hold the blood drives” No… there are other, far less public, things I can do to remember my child.  Although it helps, this is not why the blood drives continue.

Roxanne herself began the blood drives on her 17^th birthday. It was her way of giving back to a community that had done so much for us, to repay a debt she believed she owed. She asked that, in lieu of gifts for herself, that her family and friends go out and donate blood.  You see, in February of that year, she came very close to death when her blood counts suddenly and drastically fell. She recognized the fact that had it not been for six generous blood donors, she would not have been there to celebrate her birthday at all. And had it not been for those six blood donors, she would not have gotten to do the things she did in the last few months of her life and I would have been robbed of some very precious memories.  Six strangers gave up an hour of their time and a pint of their blood. In return, we got one more birthday party, one more mother’s day card, one more slumber party, one more picnic, one more late night heart to heart talk.  We got a prom queen, a graduate and a champion for blood donation. 

And that’s the main reason I continue the blood drives every year and why I strive to make it better and bigger.  It’s not about me holding on to Roxanne or trying to make sure that no one else forgets her.  I know that, over time, her memory will fade in the hearts and minds of others, and that’s how it should be. It is unrealistic of me to think otherwise.  The blood drive is not about me and my grief nor is it really even about Roxanne so much anymore.  Yes, it gives me a positive and healing thing to do for her birthday and yes it serves to honor her memory and one of her final wishes.  But the blood drive now is mostly about….the blood.  And the gift of life - the gift of time - that it represents. 

Each unit of blood has the potential of saving up to three lives. To date, the Roxanne Adams Memorial Blood Drives have gathered a total of 144 units of blood.  That’s potentially 432 lives that have been saved or prolonged. 

432 more birthdays; 432 more picnics; 432 more slumber parties (or campouts); 432 more heart to heart talks; 432 precious memories that may never have been; 432 more Mother’s Day Cards.

You see dear young person, that’s why I continue to hold the blood drives every year.  It’s my way of doing everything I can to give another mother the same gift of time that I was given, or to spare another parent from the pain of this unholy grief.   Even if Roxanne had lived, we would be hosting the blood drive every year, because that’s how much we believe in the importance of blood donation.  We experienced it first-hand. 

March 3, 2014

By popular demand, I've created this blog page to post my poems, essays and other writings.  I hope that everyone enjoys and thanks to all for your support and encouragement.  Following is an essay I wrote recently: