THE PATH

Thy Lord has paved a path for me

To live my life here righteously

But on this path I chose to stray

To try and find a better way

The road got bad and I felt sore

I felt I'd jumped through Satan's door

When I looked back the path was lost

And then I knew I'd paid the cost

I know Thy Lord says He'll forgive

If I can change the way I live

Sincere repentance is the key

And live His word faithfully

I feel that path will soon be clear

And that Thy Lord is always near

I live in hope that I will find

Eternal happiness, peace of mind

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A CHRISTMAS YARN

Peering out into the bustling, crowded street two stories below gave me a slight reprieve from my three-week-old office job, and my holiday worries. Christmas had become a symbol of commercialization, a negative impact on humanity. However, it was only three days away, approaching whether I liked it or not. I had three children ages eight, seven and four tremendously anticipating the upcoming event; truth of the matter be told, I was broke. Our recent relocation had been costly and there wasn't enough money to put food on the table, in addition to presents under the tree. Observing the mall shoppers across the street scurrying in and out, reminded me of mice scurrying through a maze looking for cheese. Lucky for them, I thought. 

The short loud ring of the fax machine followed by that all too familiar high-pitched whine broke the reverie. I stood in front of the sluggish fax machine patiently waiting for the curled up reminder to get back to work, and without looking at it, I sat at my desk stretching it out in front of me. As I scoured the memo from the main office, my heart started to race and my face flushed with disbelief, while choking back the tears willing to fall. Every employee was going to receive a Christmas bonus in our paycheck on Friday, Christmas Eve. Although I realized I'd succumbed to the commercialization of Christmas, an enormous weight had just been lifted, and it looked like Christmas was going to happen after all.

Shopping on Christmas Eve means bumper-to-bumper horn-blowing traffic, waiting in endless lines while listening to the mindless chatter of last-minute shoppers, to the constant blaring of Christmas music on the intercom, and, for me, a necessity. Although now I had money for gifts, it would be tight to cover all the expenses required to conjure up Christmas. Selecting gifts for the kids was easy; they needed everything. As I shopped quickly and deliberately, my thoughts flew to the abundant Christmas tree merely existing in my small tidy living room at home, an anonymous gift propped proudly by the back door a few nights earlier. With the hours melting away, I made a quick decision to bypass the decorations to try to save the money for the "Santa" gifts, and haphazardly grabbed a couple skeins of Christmas yarn.  A few hours later, loaded down with a trunk full of delightfully inexpensive presents, I rushed home to tuck them away before the kids got home.

That evening we settled down in the cozy, dimly lit living room to decorate the neglected, naked tree together. The Christmas yarn consisting of intertwined threads of holly green mixed with Santa-suit red, and angelic white, was to be our tree decorations. It would just have to do. 

The kids, oblivious to the lack of traditional decorations, chattered enthusiastically as we each tied the Christmas yarn into our own personal version of bows onto the thick, sticky pine branches, enjoying the strong pine forest scent permeating the joyful room. Melissa, the surrogate mother of the family, tied small purposeful tidy bows, while Megan, the quiet follower, tied big loopy bows with long tails. Cory, the youngest, unable to tie his own shoes let alone a bow onto the tree, rambunctiously assisted by pulling the yarn out of the skein for the rest of us. We popped popcorn in hopes of stringing it for the tree, but hysterically found out it only works in the movies. We ended up decorating the popcorn too, with oozing warm butter and a whisper of salt, then ate the rare treat instead.

 By the end of the evening, the tree was adorned in a delicate spray of holiday-colored bows, depicting an old-fashioned Christmas. Finally, tucking the children into bed, I playfully warned them to fall asleep fast, so Santa could come. Silently I prayed there would be enough time for that miracle.

Armed with several rolls of invisible Scotch tape, even more rolls of cheerful Christmas wrapping paper and a sparkling, cold bottle of White Zinfandel wine, I opened the bedroom closet to find a huge pile of toys staring out at me.

 A train set, a pink radio, fuzzy purple slippers; an endless mound of toys demanded my attention. Deciding to bypass the wine glass, I took a refreshingly large unladylike swig of the wine straight from the bottle, wiped my mouth and began the task. As the wine washed over the stress of the day, toy after toy, I began creating Christmas. 

Several hours later the big pile of toys had evolved into a big pile of eager presents strewn on top of my modest bed. With the weary chore of the wrapping complete, I quietly opened the bedroom door to listen for any possible stirrings from the kids. The coast clear, I began tiptoeing down the stairs with armload after armload of half-priced memories from Santa and placed them carefully under the naked yarn tree. Upon delivering the final load, I gazed in disbelief that Christmas, even if it was a Charlie brown Christmas, literally stood in my home. 

Maybe it was the overwhelming relief, perhaps it was the wine, but as I stood glued to the floor, a tear trickled down my face. Soon torrential sobs of self-pity laced with pride escaped my heart. I sobbed for everything my children didn't have: purple bicycles, red tricycles, crisp, new clothes......a father. And I sobbed for all that we did have: ample food on the table, a sturdy roof over our head.....each other. Completely spent, I dragged my tired body up the stairs and crawled under the cool sheets of contentment for a short nap.

Twenty-two years have come and gone since that Christmas and for me, it still conjures up memories of hardship rather than joy. Remembering was simply too painful for a long time. It was just a few years ago, at Christmastime, we sat around the table to reminisce the past about our favorite Christmas. Much to my surprise, all three grown kids agreed their favorite was the year we had the "yarn tree." 

Not one of them remembers anything of the gifts that year, just how much fun it was to have a tree with only yarn bows. My oldest daughter informs me that although she wasn't aware of the financial strain at the time, in looking back, she realizes the implication of the yarn now. Sometimes as I realize the unpleasant, hectic, societal pace at Christmas, I think back to the yarn tree and remember a simpler time, with a smile on my face.

Copywrited

THE CLASSIFIED ABS

As I stare at the apple wearing my face in the full-length mirror in front of me, I make a mental note to shop looking so hard. It is something like passing an accident on the freeway. Motorists cannot avoid craning their necks to see victims strewn around, as horrifying as it is. This is the same thing. In my head, I am a 115 pound young woman; however the woman staring back at me looks a lot like my mother.  Startled by the sudden revelation, my mind shifts back through the concourse of my life to record the silent, gradual stages of my abdominal distortion.

Hanging out at the local beach in the summer was more for meeting boys than for swimming purposes. My girlfriend and I pranced around clad in skimpy bikinis, pretending to be confident, when actually we were very insecure with ourselves.  Secretly, my phobias were rampant: the pimple camped out on my forehead, was Mike going to look this way, and did the other girls look better than I did. However, my teenage belly rode tight and firm on my girlish straight frame, and frankly, the only thing I needed to worry about hanging out of my bikini was a tampon string.

Giving birth to a couple of kids works out quite nicely for the twenty-something abs. The slight womanly spread of the hips allows the tiny little pouch derived from pregnancy the room to settle back. The tight fitting black and purple leopard-print Halloween costume hid the secret while boasting a subtle hourglass figure. I was comfortable and confident in anything I was wearing - or was not wearing.  Damn! I looked good and knew it.

Somewhere in my thirties, I began to realize the post-baby bump was turning into a car bumper. In order to harness the problem, it became necessary to trade in my size five pants for a larger size, and then later, even a larger size. Clinging desperately to my pride, I was still able to mimic a tall, slender illusion by altering the style of outfits. Regardless, it seemed my thirty-something abs demanded more real estate while my waist took a permanent vacation.

The forty-nowhere abs make a simple thong feel more like an underwear enema. Girdled underwear and tummy-control pantyhose become as necessary as the right arm. Shopping in the Junior Department to stay hip, lends an opportunity for the clerk to remind you the old-lady department is at the other end of the store.  Adding insult to injury, the only remaining evidence of a six-pack is the one cooling in the refrigerator.

Upon coming to terms with my abdominal transformation, it becomes clear that living with an internal spare tie is part of the circle of life. It becomes mandatory to find new ways of defining oneself. Nourishing the mind, embracing humor, and letting go of yesterday has become my today.  The next time I step in front of that mirror, I will merely wave and say, "Hi Mom!" then turn and walk away.

BROKEN SEALS

On this particular day, my Honey and I were driving to the next town over to attend his Aunt Louise’s funeral.  A wonderful woman I only met a few times in past 27 years.  During the drive we decided to listen to a CD I had recently ordered from Amazon which was Dan Seals Greatest Hits. Back in the late 80’s, Dan spoke to me through his music, helped me through heartache, and made me feel he understood.  Since this time of my life was before I’d met my Honey, I asked him if he knew Dan Seal’s music, he said he was not sure. 

While listening and singing to the CD my mind drifted back to that time in my life and the feelings and emotions of 1989 came rushing back. It was a very difficult time in my life, however, Dan was there for me.  Deciding it would be a great idea to see if Dan was coming to a smaller concert venue near us, I began pushing buttons on my phone to look up Dan Seal’s tour schedule.  My belly got butterflies and I became very excited at the thought of seeing my Hero in person. Instead, an article came up saying Dan Seals died in 2008. 

Instantly I was crushed beyond belief, I burst into tears and kept repeating that I didn’t know, while continuing to sob.  With Dan singing in the background my mournful wails continued all the way to  Aunt Louise’s funeral at the church. 

Trying to pull myself together I wiped my tears and tried really hard to hold my emotions in check.  But I couldn’t. DAN SEALS IS DEAD. We entered the family room with Aunt Louise in her casket, family everywhere I looked, and me in the back row crying my eyes out.

My Honey’s sister, Katie, asked him if I was alright.  He mumbled something about me being emotional and crying over Aunt Louise.  Yes, Aunt Louise was a dear sweet lady, however, I sat at her funeral and cried like a baby for my hero, Dan Seals.  Gone forever.

There is no doubt in my mind his family thought it very odd that I was crying this hard at Aunt Louise’s funeral.  They kept shooting me sideways glances with a funny look on their face.  I didn’t care. This may not have been Dan Seals funeral, but, I was mourning for him anyway under the guise of Aunt Louise. I would love to believe Dan was there, as well, because this was my final goodbye to him. 

I am sure Aunt Louise will forgive me. 

DESIGNATED ASSHOLE

As a child I was very shy and backwards. There was no self-esteem inside me and I made myself as invisible as I could.  The other kids perceived me as weak because of my passive personality. Therefore, on my back was a permanent bulls-eye that said “Bullies welcome here”……….

This passiveness continued for most of my life.  I never learned the word “NO”.  This created a sense of not having value.  I did not believe my life was of any value to anyone.  I allowed people to take advantage of me in many ways over my lifetime, which cost me, more than I can even admit to myself. 

Eventually, this passiveness cost me a career.  A career that cost two years of student loans and a lot of time and effort preparing for it.  This was the last straw.  I took a good hard look at myself, which was very painful, and made the decision to change. 

The hardest part of this change was for my family.  There were some family members that used to take advantage (sad to say) of that passiveness and enjoyed humiliating me at family functions. I made it clear that this behavior would stop. Immediately. And if it continued, there would be no relationship, blood or not, and it would not be my choice.  It worked.

Unfortunately, there are more family situations that I had to stand up and say NO to.  This changed attitude of mine confused everyone.  Honestly, I think they did not know how to handle this and they probably questioned my sanity behind my back. 

Over the years, I have not had many friends. The friends I do have are very good lifetime friends.  I could count them on one hand.  Although I managed to come out of my shyness and backwardness in my adult years, I was still not popular, cool, or comfortable in large groups. 

Currently there is a “friend” (let’s call her Linda) that is mad at me.  I have no idea why. Linda has been giving me the silent treatment all week now.  Linda always promised me that if she was mad she would let me know.  This is because when she is in a “mood” everyone knows.  I learned long ago not to take these moods personally. Plus, she knows I cannot tolerate the unspoken tension.

 So, for the first few days I figured Linda was working through something.  Finally, I faced Linda and asked if she was mad at me. She vaguely said, “Yes”……. I was floored.  Then I asked, “Why haven’t you told me what you are mad about?”…..she answered dismissively, “There has not been opportunity”.  I call bullshit on that. There has been ample time.

After sleeping on this, I have come to the determination that, at this point, it does not matter what she is mad about.  By creating the unspoken tension, and refusing to talk to me about it, I consider us even. Which is what I will tell Linda if she ever decides to confront this issue. 

In looking back at my troubled relationships with family and friends, I have to wonder, am I the asshole?  Does standing up for myself when mistreated make me an asshole?  Does refusing to be manipulated make me an asshole?  While I do some sincere soul-searching, I hereby declare myself, The Designated Asshole. 

THE GARBAGE CAN CONFESSIONS

It started one week at work, after a particularly embarrassing sweets-binge, with the evidence in my garbage can.  As I looked inside, shame washed over me, and I began to wonder what the Office Cleaning Crew would think.  They don’t know me and I don’t know them.  Yet, this shameful candy evidence in my garbage can made me want to reach out to The Office Cleaning Crew …..  or the garbage can…..not sure which. 

Week #1: 

I took a paper towel and a fat sharpie then wrote the following note on it:

“I am very sorry for this disgusting candy wrapper mess in my garbage can.” 

At the end of the day on Friday I draped the note over the top of the garbage so it would not be missed. 

Week 2: 

  Ridiculously feeling the urge to make another statement about my garbage can, I wrote:

“I did not eat as much garbage (candy) this week, but, I did eat some cookies and some candy.”

There was no garbage associated with the cookies.

With that statement one has to wonder, who am I really talking to? 

The Office Cleaning Crew?

 My garbage can?   

 Myself?

God?          

Writing these notes makes me look crazy, however, I prefer to look upon it as repentance, purging, and, maybe let The Office Cleaning Crew know I am not a pig, and if I am, please know I am a human pig, and that I can laugh at myself. 

Week #3: 

It is amazing to me how much these garbage can confessions have already impacted my life.  Knowing I would be confessing to the garbage can about what I consumed during the week, the desire to eat the candy did not come.  The entire week passed with not one piece of candy passing my lips.  In addition, I walked at lunch for thirty minutes and on some days this week I even power walked every hour for three minutes. 

Friday happened next.  Sigh.  A coworker proudly announced Fritter Friday (a new idea apparently).  Who can pass on fritters?  Yes, I crumbled and had a fritter after a whole entire week of being good.

On one hand I am pleased the whole week went by sweet-free.  On the other hand I fumbled on the fritter.  I am calling that even. 

The garbage can confessions are becoming my weight-loss program.  Who knew?  Today, my note will say the following:

 “As you can see I ate a lot of salad this week and no candy.  I did have a fritter fumble.” 

As I write this, The Office Cleaning Crew comes to mind, I laugh, and wonder if they are looking forward to my confession this week.  Maybe they have not noticed.  It doesn’t matter.  The act itself of confessing my eating habits to the garbage can has obviously improved my diet.  

THE BABY

 A long time ago, me and my sisters (three of us) were all pregnant at the same time.  My older sister. who we will call Sister 1, was married and having her second baby due in March, 1980.  I was married and having my first baby due in January, also, 1980.  We were too young and we all got pregnant before being married, another childhood story for another time.

During this time, with Sister 1 and myself also married and out of the house, we began to notice some changes in our little sister, who we will call Sister 3.  Obviously, I am Sister 2.  Sister 3's demeanor became quiet, secretive, aloof.  The Parents, functioning alcoholics according to my opinion,  and elite members of the most prestigious club in town, which we will call the Moose Lodge for this forum, were oblivious to Sister 3 altogether.

There were also changes in her body.  Sister 3 wore regular clothes, however, was buying them in larger sizes.  This did not fool us Sisters.  One day, while driving Sister 3 to high school, I just frankly asked her if she was pregnant.  It took her a little bit by surprise, she paused, waited, and gave me a pointed "yes".  "Does Mom and Dad know?",  I asked.  She shook her head and stated she didn't know how to tell them.

Sister 3 was the tomboy of the family.  The closest thing to a "boy" my parents ever got.  Our family was proud when as a grade-schooler she insisted she join the boys baseball team.  Now this was the 60's and unheard of.  However, it happened and in the team picture it was impossible to tell she was a girl anyway.  Sister 3 did not, never did, ever mince words.  She said what she meant and she meant what she said.  I think this equally irritated and pleased Dad.  Dad used to call her "Little Miles" after his dad, while beaming with pride,  because she was so much like Grandpa and Dad, who had the same temperament.

Highly emotional moments make my brain freeze to some degree. This is why my memory is a bit sketchy at this point.  There were so many mixed emotions inside me and I could not process them quickly.  My memory tells me that I found out she was about 5 months along.  This meant she was as pregnant as Sister 1 and two months behind me.

It took many conversations, Sister 1 and myself, refusing to inform The Parents, forcing Sister 3 to tell them.  We felt she needed to take the responsibility to tell them since she created this situation.  It took two more months, 7 months along, to tell The Parents.

Since I was not present when this happened, or don't remember being present, how this revelation was  taken by The Parents is not known.  I do know, they "coped" by spending a lot of their time at the Moose Lodge, leaving a 15 year old, pregnant, afraid, lonely, emotional.....alone.

It was decided immediately between them all, a mutual agreement between The Parents and Sister 3, The Baby would be given up for adoption because that is what would be best for The Baby.  That decision....so bittersweet.  The joy for my first baby would forever be linked to the sorrow of Sister 3 giving up The Baby.  Same thing with Sister 1 and her second baby.

January blessed me with a beautiful baby girl we will call Snow White because she literally looked like her.  Lots of dark hair, fair skin, full red lips and very long eyelashes.  Even the other grandparents at the hospital commented on my Snow White's beauty.

The beginning of March blessed Sister 1 with a second son.  We carried on as if  Sister 3 had not been pregnant.  This had to be so hard for Sister 3.  She said nothing.  She asked nothing.  She went on as if this were not happening to her, in my opinion - the coping mechanism taught by The Parents, no doubt.

Six days after the birth of Sister 1's son, Sister 3 had The Baby.  This was a very weird situation with The Parents.  At the hospital, The Parents refused to let ANYONE see Sister 3, not even her own family and especially not friends.  We found this very strange, however, the family always did what Dad said.

The Parents have two ways of coping.  One, the Moose Lodge.  Two, refusing to talk about a situation making it non-existent to them.  We worried about Sister 3's emotional state, among other things.  We wanted to be a support system and it was frustrating to be forbidden to see her.  In our childhood home, feelings are not to be expressed out loud.

Later, Sister 3 told me she got the chance to see The Baby, a handsome, healthy Son, with lots of dark hair.  I think this made it easier on her.  The Baby was adopted through an agency, and soon,  was gone.  The Parents never talked about it.  Since all three of us have babies born close together the same year, there were some years I sent flowers to Sister 3 on that special, however, heartbreaking day. In watching our children grow,  the absence of The Baby was in the forefront of my mind, especially on their birthdays.  Sister 3, in my opinion never, ever got over giving The Baby up.  She knows rationally it was the right thing to do, emotionally and mentally it is a loss, just the same.  A family member missing, never forgotten.

For years, Sister 3 and The Baby's parents exchanged  non-identifying letters with updates.  It is me that named him The Baby.  All these years I have wondered about him, envisioned him, yearned for him, as well.  For some reason The Baby has always been close to my heart.

Recently, Sister 3 has decided it is time to try to find The Baby.  The adoption agency has since dis-banned.  She does not want to use Facebook to make a public search plea. She says that is too public for such a private manner.  In fact, Sister 3 has only told her two children and me that she wants to look for him.  I think she is afraid The Baby will reject her if found.  Sister 3 believes her children and The Baby have a right to know each other.  So even if he did reject her, maybe he would not reject his half siblings.........or me.

On August 8th, my Ancestry DNA kit was sent off so I can learn more about my heritage. Secretly, it is my hope The Baby also has done an Ancestry kit and is allowing DNA matches to contact him. This would be a dream come true for our family.  Blood is blood.

Searching for a man, born March 10th, 1980 in the western United States.  If you are reading this and think this could be you, contact me privately.

9-9-16  UPDATE:  Ancestry DNA test came back.  The Baby did not show up as a match.  Very disappointed.