If loving and being loved leads to the point of a mental breakdown, then let the breakdown commence.
There is nothing more lovely and wonderful than to love and to be loved. Yes, when a loved thing dies, no matter what the form it takes, be it human or animal, tree or rock, a work of art in the form of something to touch, smell, see, taste or hear be it physical or ethereal, there is nothing more transcendent than to have loved or have been loved by that thing.
Can I be frank with you? I want to be perfectly honest. I’m not sure how to begin to tell the story, but I’ll just begin and here it is.
Do you know what he said to me; what my high school counselor said to me when I went in to talk about my life, my future after graduation? It was our senior year, and we were all being called in. Not even looking at me, but shuffling papers around his desk, he said that it didn’t matter because I would be pregnant before graduation anyway. That’s what he said. Just like that. What is he, like some prognosticator, like some fortune teller, like some shell casting vodou man, like some tea leaf reader?
Was it written on my face? Does he read it in my young body? Was it my short skirt? My pointed-toed shoes? The way I walked? The way I talked? Something particularly nasty about me?
But hey! Maybe he saw something, in spite of the fact that I loved learning, or was he a fucking jackass? Literature, writing, calligraphy, painting; I excelled at many things. I loved music and played in the band and orchestra, but my future was already determined according to my high school counselor. I was just going to get pregnant, so “get out and don’t waste any more of my time”. Anyway, that’s what I heard him say. Get out and don’t waste any more of my time. So I got out. No college applications, no discussion of financial aid, no what do you want to become, do… nothing. Nothing. Thank you, man. Thank you, a hell of a lot.
So, I made him a prophet. Maybe he later patted himself on the back that he had me pegged. But I showed him. I finished school and I could have gone to college; I could have done a lot of things. He doesn’t know… this is what he doesn’t know.
Aunt Wilma said. “You tell her or I will”, as she met me at the front door one day after school. Mom was in her bedroom. Aunt Wilma was important.
“Are all girls who get pregnant out of wedlock bad?” “YES!”, Mom said. She’s sorry now. She did the best that she could. She wants me to forgive her. I do. What I didn’t know then was that she had gotten pregnant while in or shortly after nurse’s training and given the baby, her baby, up for adoption.
Why couldn’t she have been more empathetic? Why couldn’t she admit that she could relate to me? Take me in her arms and cry with me. Why would she wait for another decade to tell me her story? I know why really I do. She was ashamed. Always, we are ashamed. We are shamed by language. Bastard. Illegitimate child. Unwed mother. What were the fathers called?
Instead, I was left alone with my heart, my heartbreak, my fear, my dilemma. I wasn’t ashamed. But Mom was ashamed to let anyone know. I was hidden away from the family, from the neighbors, the school, the church. Dad was silent but I know that I had disappointed him. That was papable. Mom knew how to deal with the dilemma.
I’d love to know what to say…
Johannah? I named her Johannah. I left her when she was only 3 days old. Put her into the arms of strangers. Don’t cry. Have never cried. I don’t feel anything. In the White Shield Home for Unwed Mothers. Alone. Bursting waters. Dead from the waist down. Shaved, slit open.
Tiny feet just like Jack’s, his fingers too. Fuck him. No! don’t fuck him. Why should I hate him? He’s only a boy like I’m only a girl. And I am not too young to know that love is not enough to make a family. We could make a baby but I had no way of knowing how to make a family.
What was my mother thinking to put me away like this? Hide me. Give away my baby. Old enough to get pregnant but not old enough to take care of the tiny baby, take care of the tiny baby.
Kristi has hers. She started at 15. Steve has his. He started at 17. I don’t have mine. Should I die for this? Suffer for this? Be punished? Shamed? It was out of my hands but I understood that this was right. Better for the baby. Better for me and Jack.
Apple Jacks in the morning. Girls masturbating in the night. Sobs coming from the cots in the overcrowded dormitory. There were too many girls. Cots were lined up one next to the other. Sobbing. We were crowded, pregnant and each with a sad story.
Visitors. I had only Mom; she came on Saturday and bought me a banana popsicle. It was never enough. I wanted, I thought I needed, tuna fish. She couldn’t come in because of so many secrets and the shame. She was forbidden. We ate in the car.
Salvation Army officers with stern faces. Classes about what? I don’t remember. I think I quit thinking then. While I waited, nothing. Just empty days and empty nights.
I borrowed dresses and waited for Jack to come. He never called but when I called him, if he answered, he made promises at my pleading. Me, I was waiting all day.
My house, my world was across the river. I could see my neighborhood from the windows. I was put on hold. They tried to shame me by the words that they spoke: repeating the words, illegitimate, unwed. Like that. But it didn’t work.
Does my body echo my pain today? I know that parents do damage unknowingly. Mom and Dad tried but what about me? What kind of damage have I done? How did that tiny baby feel? She knew only my heartbeat, my smell, the sound of my voice. She didn’t know I was only 17. Then she was in the arms of strangers. New smells, new heartbeats, new voices. Did she miss me? Did she yearn for me? For how long did she cry for me?
I didn’t know where she was. I didn’t even know if she was dead or alive. A prostitute or a doctor, or if she was loved and had siblings. Was she addicted to drugs or have children of her own. There was no way of knowing. I signed a paper saying that I would never look for her. My files would be sealed. She came from me, but I gave up all rights and blocked all roads that would lead me to her or her to me. I was told only that she was going to a family who raised horses and had a son but could have no more children. That was good enough, I thought. But that was a lie. A big, fat lie, even.
I left the home without her and went on with my life. I worked, married Jack, had two more children, went to school, divorced after 27 years, traveled, had other relationships. But what was Johannah doing?
Oregon’s 1957 statute sealed the birth certificates of adoptees though it violated the State’s Bill of Rights. These were and are stored at the State Department of Vital Records. This act reflected the social mores of the time, the social stigma of the shameful act of giving birth to an illegitimate child. This act would keep the secret whether the mother wanted it or not. A separate birth certificate would be created with the new name, new mother’s name, and new address and the original birth certificate hidden from the eyes of the adoptee.
In 1984 Oregon created the State Adoption Registry. But I didn’t know that. Initiative 46. So, as soon as I could, I updated my files at the Boys and Girls Aid Society, so if she wanted to find me, she could.
Throughout the years, some people in the family and some friends wanted me to look for her. More shame. More shame. What have you done? they said. I didn’t know if I should look for her. What if her parents hadn’t told her she was adopted. What if, what if, what if… Other women shared that the same thing had happened to them. The same shame, the same sadness, the same wondering. I did tell Hannah and Jesse, my other children, her brother, and sister when they were 11 and 9 years old, that maybe there might be someone looking for us and I told them the story. Hannah was mad, “If you can give one baby away, maybe you can give another baby away too,” she said adamantly as she stomped out the door. I don’t blame her. I understand that for her it was not at all understandable. Here stood her loving mommy, telling her that she had given away a baby to someone else and she didn’t even know where she was.
Many years passed. Fifty to be exact when I received a message on FaceBook. I’m helping my wife look for her birth mother. We think you might be her, it read. My heart skipped a beat. Maybe more than a single beat. I could barely breathe. I called Jack and said I had received this message but I thought it might be a scam. Jack had always been in favor of looking for our long ago baby. “Answer”, was his simple response. So I did. My baby would be fifty years old now. The response came back, and her name was Johannah. There was no doubt, our child had found us.
No, I had no trepidation. I had no fear. I had no reservations. I wanted to know her. I wanted to see her. We emailed each other and we both had so many questions. She had been looking for me for a long time but she found Jack first through Ancestry.com. Then Facebook confirmed that I was her mother, attached to Jack, though we had been long divorced, and Hannah and Jesse were there too. She was anxious and ready to know us. She wasn’t about to wait. Within two weeks, she was on the doorstep with her wife, Raquel.
Our family is complete now. I only regret that Mom and Dad and my sister Kristi will never know her.
Though I am sorry for any pain I caused my beautiful Tracy by handing her over to strangers. I could not have known the love and joy that she would bring to this family that missed her forever. Thank you, Tracy and Kelly, for not giving up.
This post is in a short response to a Facebook post made by a friend. I won’t include it here but suffice it to say that it released a floodgate of words. This is relatively unedited, so you will read redundancy and ill-composed sentence structure, but I couldn’t care less.
Most of my readers enjoy reading about my misadventures and I am well aware that when I get serious, my “likes and comments” plummet. That’s O.K. I will continue to spout off when the mood strikes because I don’t want to stand silent when our voices are needed. And our voices need to be raised right now.
The post had to do with whether or not your opinion of people changes based on who they support politically. It suggests that it should not. This is my response to, first, the poster and then to a friend of the poster, who agrees with the premise of the post. The name has been changed to protect the innocent.
This is easier said than done, xxxx. The fact that a person would vote for someone who is a known racist, a misogynist, a liar, without empathy for the poor, who is homophobic, anti- immigration, anti-Muslim, etc., and continues to support such a person, says alot about that person who you consider to be a good person and worthy of your friendship. I have friends and family who support such people and I don’t believe I can still hold them in respect or in a close relationship. I choose not to associate with people who hate or support those who hate and are a danger to the health of this planet. I will take a stand against it and cannot look into the eyes of others who can tolerate for the briefest moment those who don’t stand against it be they acquaintances, long time friends, or family.
My comment was not meant as sarcasm. I cannot stand with others who vote for a government of hate, warmongering, whoremongering, scaremongering, and that is spending money, 25 billion dollars, on a wall, and increasing billions on the military, increasing coal mining, oil drilling, dismantling the EPA, using our SS monies to continue wars that serve no one but only to fill the pockets of the already rich, who lie about everything… the list goes on and on. For me to continue in a relationship with someone who supports “not my president” and his band of criminals would be like me saying, as Trump did about the white supremacists and neo- Nazis, that there are some fine people among them, that those who support them are fine people. That would be ludicrous and hypocritical. No. If one hates like he does and supports his policies and refuses to see what damage he is doing, I do not, cannot, see them as who I thought they were. I see them as what they are, in collusion with a would be dictator and so much worse.
I won’t compromise. I didn’t say I voted for Hillary. I didn’t mention my vote. Our history is bloody and I’m not just talking about the U.S. Genocide, oppression, inequality, injustice, xenophobia, are what characterize the human race. Power corrupts and an oligarchy we are. The constitution was written for the benefit of the white landowner. America was built on the backs of slaves and indentured servants, on the backs of the poor and dispossessed.
From our first steps on this continent, from England, Spain, France, Portugal, we have been trailing blood from our hands and feet. We continued the bloody wars that were taking place in Europe, fought over land and resources and we have never stopped. If you want an eye opener, simply read the basic facts on Wikipedia on the US history of war. Peace, freedom? For who? At what cost? What a joke!
The American dream has never been and will never be. It is an illusion created while we were sleeping. Ask a native American, ask a Black man or woman, ask the working poor, ask the homeless, ask the deported, ask the refugee, ask someone in prison on charges of marijuana possession, ask the dispossessed who can no longer afford rent and even less, buy a house, a car or take a vacation. Ask a single mom who has to choose between paying rent or buying food, ask a promising student who can’t afford college… Ask, ask, ask some questions. Then ask whether 25 billion dollars should be spent on a wall when our roads, highways and byways and bridges are crumbling. Ask why we need billions more spent on the military? Could it be because we are hated around the world? Could it be because the government is afraid of civil war if they take our Social Security, our health care, our homes, our land. Have you read why there was a provision for a militia in the constitution? Read it and weep.
Trump isn’t and never was a politician and he’s ignorant and selfish and worse. He’s just the fruit of the horror that we as a country, a white nation, have sown. Take a good look while you still can. And weep. Weep because the human race, at its core, is homicidal. We have devised ways to finish off life on this planet. What an accomplishment. Way to go guys. Let’s see which homicidal leader will start the final war. Let’s see what unregulated chemical manufacturer will pollute the last of our drinkable water and fertile land, what under-regulated oil company will drill and frack away our oceans and lands, what plastics will clog everything including marine life and forest dwellers.
I could go on, but I won’t. Read it for yourself. I don’t need to school you. You’ve heard it all before but you refuse to open your eyes. There’s no way that the will of the people prevails. Never has, never will.
Rise up people and face the torture chamber, the lynching rope, the chopping block, imprisonment, the firing squad, the reservation, or banishment, if you’re lucky. Many already have.
Rise up if you dare. Fill mass graves. Fill the newscasts and newspaper headlines with your death. All this while the rich line their pockets. Do you think they care about you? Why would they, except as you serve them? You answer that question.
This letter was written to me in 1953 by Dad’s only sibling, Aunt Wilma, Wilma Jean to be exact. I was in the hospital suffering from infantile paralysis or poliomyelitis. I was only five years old and just starting kindergarten when I succumbed at the tail end of a serious epidemic and just a year before the Jonas Salk vaccine was distributed throughout the US public school system.
The letter is written on paper from a small tablet, maybe 3″x5″. This was the cheap kind of tablet that you might write a grocery list on. It was, at one time, a multi-colored paper that has faded to a dull orangish-yellowish brown. I rolled it at some point, tying it with what once was a pretty blue satin ribbon but over the years, it faded to a nearly colorless grey. For some reason, I have saved it for over 64 years. Mostly, it has been safely tucked away in my blue trunk. Now, I find it very curious and have a question about its intention… about her intention. About the seemingly mysterious guilt hidden there.
More about Aunt Wilma later.
Mom woke us up each morning for school, singing:
“School days, school days,
Good old golden rule days.
Reading and writing and ‘rithmatic.
Played to the tune of a hickory stick…
She left every night at 10:00 for St. Vincent Hospital where she worked for over 40 years. We never thought of her as a working mom. She left the house after we were tucked soundly into bed and arrived back home mornings in time to get us ready for school. This day was no different, except for one big thing.
Kristi had already climbed out of our bed and left the bedroom, even though she wasn’t yet in school. I could hear the sounds of Mom cooking and everyone talking. Steve was already in 2nd grade and he always had lots of stories to tell. In spite of all of the morning’s activities, I could hear Mom calling me to get up and come to the table, or “you’ll be late”, she said.
I was just too tired and heavy feeling to move. I knew I needed to get out of my flannel nightie, put on my school clothes, wash up, brush my teeth and hair and get out to the kitchen nook where breakfast was already on the table. But, I didn’t think I could. Somehow, I don’t know how, I made it out to the kitchen, sat in my chair, but I couldn’t pick up my spoon. I sat there drooping, still in my nightie and I said, “Mama, I can’t pick up my spoon.” Mom turned to look at me and according to Mom, she knew at once that it was polio.
Polio was at epidemic proportions in the US by the 1950s. By 1952, thousands of children had died and tens of thousands were paralyzed. In the fall of 1953, polio season, as late summer and fall became known, I came down with the symptoms.
Mom immediately called Dr. Peasley, our family physician, who came over to confirm that I had contracted polio, one of the most feared childhood diseases. Since polio is a highly communicable disease and we did not yet have the vaccine, arrangements were made to take me to Isolation Hospital. This is where Mom took her tiny 5-year-old and dropped her off to be cared for by doctors and nurses. I don’t remember this, but Mom told the story so often, I feel that I can remember it: As I was being led away, I turned one last time and said, “Mommy, go home and put your uniform on.” Leaving me there was one of the hardest things she had ever done, she later told me.
I remember much of my experiences with polio. I can still see the young man, lying in a bed close to mine, who breathed, using a pneumothorax apparatus. I didn’t know what it was then, of course, but I remember that he blew bubbles. I don’t remember how long I was in Isolation Hospital, but I was next moved to Providence Hospital, where I spent 3 long months.
“The City of Portland opened a sixty-bed, municipal Isolation Hospital at Kelly Butte in September 1920 to house patients with contagious diseases. This hospital closed in 1960.” https://www.southeastexaminer.com/2013/05/kelly-butte/ Nick Blackbourn, 2013/
Mom was a nurse, trained at the University of Minnesota and fortunately, she had the opportunity to train with Sister Elizabeth Kenny. Sister Kenny had developed a controversial but what proved to be an effective treatment for polio patients, utilizing exercise of affected muscles and not immobilization; in other words, physiotherapy and hot packs.
So, Mom knew what we were up against. It was possible that I might die or only fate knew how much paralysis I would suffer and how much might be permanent. Mom and Dad had two other children to be concerned with. They both were working and hospital care would not come cheap. What would they be facing financially and how could they manage a little girl of 3 years old, not yet in school, and a son who was just 7 years old and me, who needed full hospitalization?
Of course, at the time, I was not aware of any of this. I was too young to know and too sick to care. I only came to understand as an adult, just how much Kristi and Steve had to accommodate Mom and Dad’s schedules. Mom told me that Kristi and Steve couldn’t visit me so they sat countless hours in the waiting rooms while both Mom and Dad were sitting with me. Fortunately, there were Grandma and Grandpa living right around the block from us. How much did they have to sacrifice to care for Steve and Kristi and still find time to come to the hospital to visit me and keep on working. Then there was Aunt Wilma and Uncle Bob and any number of Mom’s brothers and sisters who came to see me.
My worst nightmare happened the night the iron lung was rolled into my room. If you don’t believe that a 5-year-old child can have vivid memories at that age, you are sorely mistaken. I don’t remember my symptoms other than complete fatigue. I must have had the accompanying chills, fever, vomiting, paralysis but finally, there was complete paralysis from the neck down. I remember being placed inside the machine with just my head sticking out onto a shelf with a mirror above my head. A rubber collar, attached to the machine, securely encircled my neck. My world was what I could see in the mirror. I was terrified.
As an adult, I was baffled how my parents could have made the decision to place their little child into one of these monstrosities. How could one decide that this would be better than death? To me, it is a kind of death. I would never choose to live inside of a metal apparatus with caregivers changing my diapers or having a complete colostomy and catheter. Opening the iron lung to physically care for the patient, meant that the moments when the machine was not working were moments of sheer terror. Dying of suffocation is desperately terrifying.
I don’t know how it happened but I suddenly started to recover some of the use of my body and my ability to breathe on my own and out I came. I was saved, by I don’t know what, from a life in the iron lung. Eventually, new ways were developed to help people with paralysis breathe. But, I may have, could have, spent many years in there. It is unthinkable to contemplate a life where I would be unable to play outside, feed myself, to play with toys, or read on my own or write… unable to run, climb, to make love, to have children, to drive or ride in a car, to travel or anything else you might think of.
Though I was released from a life of incarceration, I spent, from what I remember Mom telling me, three months getting well in Providence Hospital. I spent Thanksgiving in the hospital and Christmas too. I became a bit of a hellion from what I understand. I could hear and see some of the other children, who were not as sick as me, tearing down the hallways in their wheelchairs. I wanted to do that too and as soon as I wasn’t so tired, I was doing my share of racing. I remember Thanksgiving dinner. No one came to eat with me and the hospital food was not to my liking. I hated the peas and the gravy. I began to spin my tray on the table until my plate flew off sending my dinner flying. Though I was sick, the nurses were none too pleased with me.
At Christmas, Dr. Marxer, who I grew to love, let me go home for a few hours. I remember Mom and Dad coming to get me. They made a bed in the backseat of the car with blankets and pillows and all kinds of stuffed animals. When we got home, they carried me into the house and I laid on the couch with Gypsy our dog lying on my feet the whole time. I got to be a part of the celebrations with aunts and uncles, Grandma and Grandpa and Steve and Kristi doing all sorts of things to make me happy. It was terrible when Mom and Dad had to take me back. I couldn’t have been more distraught. All I wanted was to be with my family but I was tired… too tired to even eat.
The days went by slowly in the hospital but I had lots of visitors and regular time in the therapy pool. Eventually, all of my muscular strength returned and the only effect was that the right deltoid completely atrophied. When I was ready to leave the hospital, Mom kept up the physical therapy with me lying on the kitchen table and there were regular visits to the therapy pool and visits to the doctor. I do not remember how long I had to wear a brace that held my arm up and out in front of my chest, but it was too long, as far as I was concerned. I can still see it, abandoned in the basement hanging from a post. I hated it. It made me different from the other kids and I felt awkward. But I had to wear it until the surrounding muscles supported my arm and held it in place and kept it from popping out of the shoulder joint.
Mom and Dad refused to treat me special. I was expected to participate in family chores and there were no excuses that were accepted. Many nights I cried at the dinner table because they would force me to eat with my right hand. They also made me brush my hair and teeth with my right hand.
I had begun tap-dance lessons when I was 2 years old and soon after returning home, they commenced once again. Then, there were 12 years of ballet. I played soccer and softball. I rode bikes and scooters and I skated all around the neighborhood. I played the clarinet and bass clarinet in the school band and orchestra, playing at games and marching each year in the Rose Parade. I ran around just like any other child. I remember kindergarten, so I must have been able to return to school before the end of the school year.
I used to have photographs of me as the March of Dimes poster child. I was wearing a purple and yellow dress with pearl buttons. I was posed with a famous actress and two monkeys in front of TV cameras. Those posters were never published. Most March of Dimes posters showed children in leg braces. Maybe with only an arm brace, I was not pitiful enough to draw the sympathy of the public.
By the time I was 13 years old, my muscles could no longer hold my arm in the joint and I was repeatedly running into the house in excruciating pain for Mom to put it back in the joint. The doctor finally said that there would have to be surgery because it would continue to get worse. But this is a subject for another story.
So, back to Aunt Wilma and the letter.
Aunt Wilma, by all rights, was a wild child. I want to honor her memory so I won’t go into great detail about her personal life, but what I will share with you is common knowledge to the world and to me. She drove a black chrome-encrusted Ford Fairlane. The back floor was covered in candy wrappers and coke bottles. She’d rather eat Chinese food than anything else and she worked at the bowling alley by my grade school as a soda jerk and later tended bar.
Aunt Wilma could jitterbug like no one’s business, skirt flying up around her head as her partner swung her over his head. She had trophies for swimming, bowling, softball, and I can’t remember what else. She could hunt and fish and swam with the sea lions with Dad and Grandpa out in the ocean. She loved to camp and she loved the family. Sometimes on the weekends, she’d take us kids to her bowling tournaments and it felt like we were traveling across the country. When we asked her where we were going, she’d say Timbuktu. We knew we’d get candy, hamburgers, milkshakes… sometimes all but sometimes just one or the other.
I thought Aunt Wilma was the best thing that ever happened to me, except for Grandma. She was so athletic, so well dressed, so gregarious, so much fun. There was always a bit of a feeling that we were being naughty but Aunt Wilma made it O.K., gave us permission to be a little naughty. I didn’t learn until much later that Aunt Wilma was naughty. At 5 years old, I didn’t even know then all the fun that she could be.
When we went to her house, she put us to work folding clean laundry, dusting and doing dishes. She was too busy having fun for these mundane chores. One time, Kristi, who was probably 4 or 5 years old, was standing on a chair at the sink, scrubbing a double sink full of dishes. As Auntie Wilma walked by, Kristi said, “You work me to the bone”. Aunt Wilma swooped her up and took her straight out to the car without a word and drove her home and didn’t have her over for weeks. Kristi was shocked not really knowing the extent of the truth she had spoken.
So, Aunt Wilma lived dangerously. She was an expert flirt and as she aged into her 30’s and 40’s she wanted to wear our clothes and embarrassed us no end with our boyfriends. Having male attention was an important aspect of her life. I think I have said enough to illustrate why I have questions about this letter.
Her lifestyle does not preclude her religious beliefs. I don’t doubt that she believed in God. I am sure that she was sure that she might be dead or worse except for his intervention, and if I were a believer in a god that intervened in our day-to-day activities, I would say it was so.
So now we come to the letter. Just exactly what does this suppose to mean? “Grandpa and me were so happy and having such a good time and never thought anything could happen, so God thought we needed to be taught a lesson. He didn’t want to hurt you, so he just made you sick.”
God punished me because Aunt Wilma and Grandpa were so happy? Doesn’t it sound like she felt guilty about something? Doesn’t it?
I have transcribed the entire letter except page 13. That page is missing and I am sure it will never be recovered. This makes me sad but the letter is old, it has traveled with me and has been stored precariously for nearly 7 decades. Could I be the only one to think that at least that one statement on page 14 is curious?
Read on and tell me what you think.
1/ Hello Karen, I hope that you are not mad at me for not coming over to see you, but I have had a cold and I don’t think the doctors and nurses would like me to bring that to you. All the other little girls and boys in the hospital
2/ with you might get more sick. I want you to get well fast so I don’t want you to catch a cold from me. Santa Claus said to get well fast so you could see him when you come home. He’ll probably wait till you
3/ get there to come to bring presents. If he does have to go back to his home so Kristi and Stevie won’t break them and your momma can keep them for you. Maybe he’ll bring them to the hospital.
4/ I don’t know, I think you will be home by then though. Gee, I sure hope so. You do everything the doctors and nurses tell you to and maybe you will be. My house is so dirty. I can’t get it as clean
5/ as you do when you help me. You’re such a big help and can do so much I can’t hardly get along without your help. But we’ll make up for lost time later. Your momma keeps telling me how
6/ you are and what you do and say and about the things people send you. I think that’s real nice and you are right when you say that all hospitals are nice. Because if it weren’t for them, you might never get well.
7/ We both know that God is in there with you just to watch and make sure you and the rest of the boys and girls like you will get well and get what they need to make them well.
8/ I tell him every night what a good girl you are and all the good things you’ve done and to help you all he can. And if anyone can make you well faster, it’s him, so you talk to him too, ’cause He’ll hear you
9/ and help you more than any of us can. He talks to the doctors and nurses and tells them what to do for you, so you talk to him all you want. When you get lonesome, don’t cry, just
10/ pretend he is right where you can see him and talk to him, then you won’t be lonesome ’cause you know He’s with you and that is the best company in the whole wide world. That’s what I do when I’m
11/ lonely, so I know God is always with you, honey, but you can’t see him. He hears everything you say and sees everything you do Even when you sleep, He’s awake to watch
12/ and see that you are all right. Sometimes you will wonder why you should be sick if God is supposed to take care of you. Well, He didn’t do it because you were naughty or because he was mad at
13/
14/ Grandpa and me were so happy and having such a good time and never thought anything could happen, so God thought we needed to be taught a lesson. He didn’t want to hurt you, so he just made you sick. That
15/ is how wonderful He is. So you talk to Him and tell Him anything you want to. People don’t talk to Him just at night before they go to bed. Anytime you want to talk, He listens. Even if you want to tell him a secret, and you want to whisper it, he’ll still hear you. Isn’t that going to be a lot of fun to know that you aren’t ever going to be lonesome and will always have someone to talk to? You try it and see. It sure helps.
I have lost my bearings upon the sea,
I am carried out by salty lee.
I have no map to chart my way,
No moon, no stars, the winds at bay.
I try and try to find the course,
But find my map is old and worn.
So now I pass by shore and port,
And find no h[e]aven ~ and sail alone.
Reefs hidden, murmur in shallows,
So I make my offering ~ hard and cold.
But with warm and loving heart,
I will anchor here.
Soul at rest, home for now.
Written for birthday bliss 2012
We could feel a tropical storm coming but we were nearly at our favorite place. It was hot, hot and the humidity was incredible. Last night there was a huge thunder and lightning storm and so we were walking in a sauna.
Steve wanted to swim and since it was our last night here, we were going to have dinner and drinks. When we got to Mahi Beach, Steve went right out into the water.
It began to rain. The waiters, Carlos, Luis and I carried our belongings inside the palapa covered bar.
The waves grew large and seemed as though they were going to nearly reach us inside. Streams of rain water opened up rivers that ran into the sea. The sky darkened and lightning flashed and thunder crashed. I could see Steve being tossed by the waves and hoped he would come in soon.
The rain came down and as Steve emerged he stood under the clouds bathing in rain water.
We watched as the sea near the shore filled with debris from landslides, large branches and mud turned the sea brown.
The storm ended and the sea calmed, the rain stopped.
We stayed there for hours drinking and snacking until sunset when we walked to the bus stop to catch the #4 that would drop us off a couple of blocks from the house.
Aaah, Vallarta.
The moon always shows its same face to the earth… most of the time, it is never truly full because there is always a bit in our shadow.
Last night, I was driving straight east on Division St. with the moon directly in my sight but way north of the horizon. It looked full to me, as there was a filmy garment of clouds softening its glow… I followed it as if it were my guide, but as I seemed to be drawing nearer, which, of course, was only an illusion, the clouds cleared and I could see that at about 7:00 if the moon was a clock, a dim shadow lay across its face. It wasn’t full but it was Dee’s birthday and she was turning 70 years of age.
Tomorrow we will see the Full Worm Moon, as it is sometimes called… or it has other names like Crow Moon, Crust Moon, and Sap Moon. But tonight it is Dee’s moon.
I turned sharply to climb the hill at 202nd. St. and wound around the cul de sac filled neighborhood to arrive at Steve and Dee’s doorstep. A party was in full swing. Four of their eight children were there with their children and grandchildren and Dee’s longtime friend Terri and her longtime partner David.
The tables were laden with food and the air was filled with an ever increasing crescendo of voices. Smokers were in the garage or just outside the kitchen door on the patio as darkness fell. The smell of sweet tobacco and marijuana wafted throughout the garden and snuck through the cracks in the doors and windows.
Steve was putting the finishing touches to the turkey gravy and carving on breast and thigh. I added my tamale pie to the myriad of dishes filling the tables. Meatballs, special mashed potatoes with all kinds of cream and cheeses, cakes and pies and bottles of wine, green bean casserole, platters of fresh vegetables and dips and chips make up a short list of temptations.
Dee’s party, it was. She has been a part of our family since I was in my 20s when she and her three boys joined the contiguous family of Steve and his three children. There are two others who have never been a presence in the family, except in our hearts, Steve’s first two sons, so there be eight. So, Dee has been around for a good, long time and has been mother to the many through thick and thin, through feast and famine.
Death is imminent, I am reminded with each birthday that comes and goes. It is certain for all of us, but that awareness may be more so if you are 70. I don’t mean to say that Dee is any closer to the end of her life than anyone because no one knows from day to day how long we have on this earth.
But 70 years of age she is, with all of the joys and sorrows, that were her lot, written in her smile lines and her scars. She has no time or energy for meaningless drivel and drama anymore. You can see the “devil may care” in her eyes; that look makes her more beautiful and charming but occasionally more hurtful to the young.
So, I wrote her a poem to honor her life on this day, her birthday under an almost full moon, and to wish her many more years to be mom, grandma, wife, sister, and friend.
And I offer to you, my friends, my recipe for tamale pie. You’ll love it.
Some kind of Poetry… if you will
My sister, my friend, but 70 years have passed.
Your life has never been more than a grain of sand falling through the narrow passage of the hourglass.
Just now, still in your infancy,
Your body, not more than particles of stardust, expands to merge with the unknowable,
Yet, your heart still persists, reaching for the beyond knowing.
My sister, my friend,
Your time of repose has come; that which you seek stands at your door.
There is nothing more for which to strive.
You have nothing more to do.
It is your time of being, of dancing and singing.
Karen’s Tamale Pie
Ingredients
3 can of beans (I use pinto and black, and of course you can make your own from dry)
1 can of hot green chilies
1 large can of fire roasted, diced tomatoes (not drained)
1 can of corn (drained)
1 onion
1 green pepper (any color would do)
1 bunch cilantro
3-5 cloves garlic
1 jalapeño
1 tsp. chili powder
1 tsp. cumin
1 tsp. salt ( or to taste)
1 tsp. cocoa powder
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 tbs. honey (you could also use date or coconut sugar, maple syrup, agave syrup, etc.)
1 roll of polenta (or make your own; it’s very easy).
1 pkg. of Daiya grated, spicy jack cheese
Method
In a food processor throw in all the fresh vegetables. Use an amount of jalapeño and cilantro to your taste. Pulse to a chunky consistency.
Saute in a dutch oven in water or oil until onions are translucent.
Drain and rinse the beans, then add to the pot with the vegetables. Add tomatoes, chilies, corn and seasonings. Let simmer for 30 minutes or longer for deeper flavor. Let cool slightly. I like to make my chili hours or even the night before I assemble the pie, but it’s not necessary.
Slice polenta roll into rounds. Sprinkle most of the cheese on your prepared chili, then place the polenta rounds on top of the chili. Sprinkle the rest of the cheese over the polenta.
Heat oven to 350°. Place the pie in the oven and bake uncovered for 30 minutes. Cover and continue cooking for 15 minutes more. Check and if the chili is bubbling and the cheese has melted, it’s time to enjoy.
You can top this with any of your favorite toppings, but really, it’s creamy and spicy just like it is
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