The Anderson Sisters
The invitation had been delivered matter-of-factly enough “I was talking with my sisters, and we were wondering if maybe you would like to come over for our little monthly get together.” It was Kristi Anderson; one of three sisters from the church and perhaps the only regulars there about my age.
“Sure.” I replied to the voice. “Should I bring anything?”
“Nope. Just yourself. We have food and drinks all ready.” It sounded a little pre-rehearsed, but Kristi struck me as a shy person to begin with. Besides, being the oldest sister and the only one with a house of her own, she was no doubt nominated to be the one to extend the party invitation. Anyway, I was tired of my own company and Sasafrass hasn’t been herself lately; barely eating and laying around whining.
The first encounter I had with the Anderson Sisters was Easter a few years ago. After presiding over the Easter service Lois, their mother, had her youngest daughter, Alicia invite me to dinner, with the instructions not to take no for an answer. Alicia was about twenty two years old, and a student at the University in Presque Isle. Although a student there myself, I only really saw her at weekly choir practice at the church.
Come dinner time, the girls were all lectured about being on their best behavior for the arrival of the minister in training. There was only one flaw in that plan; the third sister, Erica. Erica was in her mid twenties; about five-ten, and built like a pro linebacker. Her untamed growth of red hair rested uneasily across her broad shoulders, accenting an already chiseled jaw line. She was big, boisterous, and commanded the full attention of any room. It were as if at an early age, when she had begun to realize that she could not easily blend into a room, she would do her best to become the centerpiece. In the setting of a stoic Swedish colony, it did not take much to stand out in the crowd.
Dinner was served with all the trappings of rural Americana. Lois constantly ran from dining room to kitchen, anticipating the needs of the extended Anderson clan. It would seem that the only Anderson who was on edge that day was Aunt Norma, who was inexplicably terrified of cats. Every so often, she would quickly shift in her seat and grow wide eyed before asking someone to go check to make sure that the family tabby was still locked up in the bathroom. Shortly after dinner, she was so certain that there was a cat loose in the house that she jumped up and retreated for the relative safety of the screen door. The one thing that made this scene all the more hilarious to me was that there were at least seven other people in the room who did not find it in the least bit humorous. Aunt Norma eventually lost her nerve and went home before dessert, which consisted of no less than five different pies to choose from.
Feeling ever so grateful, yet not without my sarcastic side titillated by the whole Aunt Norma episode, I surveyed the pies; guessing that Lois had not slept much last night for all of her preparations. When asked which one I would like to try, I let out a sigh and feigned disappointment noting my disappointment that Lois had not prepared a watermelon pie; my favorite. Ever so slightly, Lois deflated against the wall before I could hold it no longer. I smiled and the sisters chimed in; Erica letting out a hearty guffaw that even a lumberjack would be proud of before slapping the table and laughing some more. The illusion was broken. The minister had a sense of humor, and the sisters had found an accomplice.
Upon arriving at Kristi’s house, all the makings of a civil get together were underway. Erica was pouring Pepsi over some chicken in a pan while reassuring me of the flavorful outcome. Kristi was showing me where the beer was, as well as the other booze planned for later on. I cracked open a Killians while Kristi fiddled with her stereo; cuing up her collection of eighties classics and not-so-classics. The kitchen door opened and in walked Norma-Jo, who, by her appearance, I took to be a cousin to the Andersons. Introductions were made as Norma-Jo sipped at a beer. She had the same red hair as Erica and Kristi that was tied back from her face in a red kerchief, giving her face in a kind of Scandinavian peasant look. Soft spoken and unsure, she spent most of the evening sitting on the couch watching everyone else.
The next to arrive was another red headed cousin, Penny. Penny looked a lot like Norma-Jo with a pony tail and glasses. Looks, however, were where the similarities ended between the two. “Oh, it’s preacher boy!” She exclaimed from across the room, beer already in her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you!” She sang out, this time with a sly smile before knocking down most of her beer. I wandered out to the living room while taking a mental head count; five to one. The girls were laughing hysterically out in the kitchen with Erica leading the chorus when, much to my relief, another male appeared through the door. It was Gus, a friend of the Andersons and master of the fry-o-later at the Caribou Burger King. Gus was short and stocky with a sense of humor that hadn’t reached much beyond his high school education.
Before the chicken was ready, I had already been served two Long Island Iced Teas by Kristi; effectively eliminating any possibility that I could ever attest to the wonders of cooking with Pepsi. I was getting hammered way too fast, so I switched back to beer and settled down on the couch to watch a movie. Penny noticed me alone on the couch and dramatically flopped down across it, placing her stocking feet squarely in my crotch. “Having fun, preacher boy?” She asked in a sleepy, drunken tone.
“It’s nice to take it easy, for once.” I replied, never flinching at the now-searching heels of Penny in my lap.
“If it’s easy, take it twice!” Shouted Erica from the other room before laughing at her own attempt at cleverness.
Not satisfied with her efforts, Penny swung her legs to the side and sat up, slamming the side of her posterior as tightly against mine as possible before dropping her hands at her side so that her left hand came to a tactical rest in my lap. Now, for the first time since crazy Aunt Norma ran from a cat that wasn’t there, I was truly amused, and vowed to myself to make the most of this. Letting Penny’s hand just lay in my lap both encouraged Penny and left her perplexed with what her next move should be, considering I had not reacted in the least. Finally, little by little; almost imperceptibly, she started inching her face toward mine; never letting her hand either leave my lap, or letting her put too much pressure on that hand so as to nullify the “accidental” nature of its presence there. I was amazed by her balance and wondered when she would tip over, squashing my bits with her errant hand before finishing me off with a head-but. Watching the movie, I could hear laughter and banter from the kitchen. “I’m not an alcoholic, I’m a drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings!” Another tidbit from the Pez dispenser of funny that is Erica. Finally, I could feel uneven breath on my cheek. She was within two inches of my mouth and holding. Letting this go on for another minute, I quickly leaned into her, almost touching her lips, and departed the couch for the booze in the kitchen. Mission accomplished.
“We’re out of mixer.” Kristi slurred at me, holding up a handle of Long Island Iced Tea mix. “This is all we have left. Wanna do shots?” Famous last words never to be acted upon once the clock has turned over to morning.
Two small juice glasses were placed on the table and filled, and refilled, and filled again. At some point, Penny rejoined the group in the kitchen; pressing her body against mine as I threw back another shot.
“You’re not going home tonight, are you?” She leaned into me as if to whisper, but the liquor had already affected her volume control, causing her to bark her request into my ear. “You need to stay here tonight.” She continued. “I’m sleeping here tonight… right over there.” Her head lolled back and she pointed toward a wall while attempting to reenact her sober sly smile.
The world slowed down and faces blurred. Gus suggested that we go for a walk to clear our heads a little. It seemed like miles to the first neighbors driveway and I fought the urge to curl up on the roadside and take a nap. Finally, that metallic taste invaded my mouth from under the back of my tongue. The blood rushed to my head and then fell back out of it and into my stomach, causing me to projectile vomit from a standing position across the width of the neighbor’s driveway. After three waves of alcohol exited my body, it was time to call it quits and walk the miles (thirty yards) back to Kristi’s. Once safely inside, Kristi stumbled toward the stereo as Erica and Penny called out in a form of chant for the “party song”. The nearest I could tell, the song was an old Nitty Gritty Dirt Band ditty about a boy and a girl fishing in the dark. The revised lyrics, however, complete with the Anderson sister dance moves, were more of an adult nature. Through the one eye that would focus, I could see all the girls across the living room country line-dance style, dancing and singing, “You and me go fuckin’ in the ditch. Drop your drawers, you skinny little bitch. And we’ll do it slow…”
“Almighty God, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid, cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love You and worthily magnify Your Holy name, Through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.” If I appeared to be extra penitential while giving the brief order for confession and forgiveness, it was mostly due to my pounding head and troubled stomach. Certain that I reeked of alcohol; I had stuffed three Altoids in my mouth prior to the bell ringing, so that the closest faithful in the fifth pew could not smell me. The service ended and I snuck out early in order to add to my three hours of sleep.
Rolling into the meadow, I felt every bump; rolling from side to side in the Cavalier’s interior. Exiting the vehicle, the sun glinted in my eyes; causing a kaleidoscope of silvery diamonds to encircle my vision; a halo I walked through to my front door.
Falling upon my mattress, I could not attain the euphoric pass-out effect I had envisioned on the drive home. It was difficult to put my finger on what was wrong; especially in my hung over state. I was feeling the sting of guilt. Was I feeling bad because I delivered the Mass half in the bag? Surprisingly, no; considering nobody even suspected that I wasn’t quite myself. They got what they came for; didn’t they? I said the prayers and the liturgy, gave a brief homily, and sent them all home to Sunday dinner. That’s all they ever wanted from a minister in the first place. Hell, if I did that every week, the ladies group would probably sign up to get me good and soused every Saturday night.
Where were my kids, I wondered? What were they doing this Sunday morning? Were they having fun? Were they thinking of me; even when I wasn’t thinking of them last night. Uneasiness crept over me as I entwined my feet in the unkempt covers. I felt cold and exposed in my empty little room. I was a terrible father. Why didn’t I think of them last night?
I had spent the entire night thinking only of myself and my own good time. I had managed to block out my kids while Penny groped me and the thought made me sick. It’s not that I hadn’t already sufficiently distanced myself from them in one way or another. I went from calling them every night, to every other night. Soon, just to keep my phone service connected, I had to call weekly. Sometimes the phone got shut off anyway. Sometimes I called less; taking every missed call as another personal failure. Years later, it would be easy to pat the old me on the back and say that I deserved my own life apart from the kids; that I deserved some adult fun. This was not years later, though, and failure compounded upon failure; even if perceived, was another reason to feel utterly defeated. But now I failed not only myself, but my children as well.
I rolled off the mattress and slumped down the ladder to tend the fire that had also been neglected by my night out. Sheba’s claws ticked out of the kitchen and a wet nose met the back of my calf as I descended into the living room. Ears back and tail swishing low, she offered her freckled muzzle to me as I reached the floor. I gave her furry cheek a scratch but would not look at the pictures on the wall; only the fading glow of coals in the center of an ashen pit in the stove.
A Depressing Slide
Springtime in the North breaks almost overnight, bursting forth blooms of every color and chest-high grasses. Nature knows that it has precious little time in order to complete another cycle before winter eclipses the land again. Ravens commence their broad-winged patrols in wide arcing turns, as flocks of smaller birds dart from field to tree-top like a rapid moving cloud. In the yard, apple trees bloom and spread their downy flakes across the tops of wild wheat grass that moves like the tide in the ever-present North wind.
All the world around me smelled green and alive again. It would, that is, if I could smell. In her orgiastic ecstasy, Nature neglected mankind; or rather, his histamines. Swollen and oozing, I sat at my computer in misery; one eye completely swollen shut, the other well on it’s way. My nose had become a wonder in itself; swollen to a ripe, wino-red and running without reprieve regardless of my constant attempts to clear my nasal cavity. With each pair of sneezes came a hair-like tickle at the back of my throat that would trigger a rib-cracking round of coughs, followed by another sneeze-duet. During the night, I would give up hope and stuff a wad of toilet paper up each nostril until the dam would get too soaked, and again, spill out onto my face and pillow. Down to three or so hours of sleep a night, I spent my days in an already exhausted, medicated haze; taking as many as six Benadryl at once to make it to work. Last week upon clocking in, I was told to go home in words that I was sure were merely a euphemism for “you are scaring
the customers”. The next night in my department, while working upon a three-step ladder, I was temporarily trapped, holding onto the ladder and an adjacent shelf to save myself from falling when the store suddenly tilted sharply to the left. Called back to my senses by an eight year old boy who had just dumped a box of BB’s onto the white tile floor, I slowly descended the ladder and prepared to round up ten thousand steel balls as they raced forth in every direction. I was vaguely aware of his presence, as he did not feel the need to tell me what had just happened or why. He just stood there in his WWF tee shirt, fumbling with an empty box of Crossman Copperhead BB’s, his hair, unkempt and hanging in his face, obscuring his left eye. I shot him a medicated glare and wondered, possibly aloud, where the rest of the trailer park was. Then my ear caught the sound of thousands of tiny spheres racing for destinations unknown. Looking down, the blurry copper beads swirled, collided, and darted. It’s like the beginning of the universe, I thought to myself; a tiny microcosm of the Big Bang Theory. Leaning over the mess, I began to sweep the racing copper colored BB’s in a futile attempt to get them to roll into a dustpan with a blunt front lip, worn to a jagged ridge from years of BB wrangling and the sort, that did little more than deflect the offending particles like a giant pin-ball bumper. Cursing out loud, I did little to impress the perpetrator of the BB incident until, out of my nose, came a stream of clear liquid that landed in the dustpan with a splat. Suddenly, I was the alien monster in charge of this fledgling universe; sliming entire galaxies at will. The quickly fading sound of sneakers squeaking on the tile floor told me the show was over.
“I think everything is there.” I told the receptionist behind the counter at the VA
clinic as I handed her a clear plastic clipboard with several forms attached. She was in her mid-thirties, with short brown whispy hair, dark framed glasses and that familiar look of a local trying hard to appear professional in the County: uptown professionalism, the latest business fashions from Wal-Mart, and too much product in her boxed dye job.
“Looks good Mr. Mac-Innnnn- tire? Is that it?” She smiled as she struggled to sound out my name. I stopped getting irritated when locals couldn’t pronounce my name about the fifth time I had to decipher Gagne, with it’s three pronunciations depending on where in the county your family was from. As I returned her smile and nodded, she slowly leafed through a large appointment book, searching for an opening. Scanning the pages with great concentration, she scratched at her nose and made a quick final notation before snapping her head back up to face me. “You’re all set.” She said in a chipper tone. “The doctor will be able to see you in September. We’ll call then to set a firm date.”
“September” I repeated incredulously, furrowing my brow and leaning forward as if the Benedryl was affecting my hearing.
“I’m afraid so.” She said in a child-like tone, mirroring my own brow and nodding her head at a slight tilt. “The doctors book months ahead of time. Sorry.” Her head was still nodding when I turned around and walked toward the door. The lobby was full of patients, most of whom were gray-haired and in various stages of infirmity. I wondered if they were my age when some perky nurse put them on the list.
Getting in my car, the warmth of spring translated into an auto oven as I settled behind the wheel. The heat made my head swim temporarily, until the dust caused by slamming the door caught my nostrils, eliciting a fresh round of sneezes. I quickly covered
my nose, but not before soaking the steering wheel with -snot? Spit? It really didn’t matter anymore. I knew now what I had to do; there was simply no choice left. I had to go to the enemy and ask for help.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I remembered the last time I had spoken with the good folks at the Department of Human Services. It was the mediation phase of my divorce, when a forty-something blonde with a briefcase and deep-seated hatred for anything sporting a penis told me that I should be happy that the state can only take half of my paycheck for support. After explaining my already strained financial circumstances to her overly- made-up face of stone, her reply was curt, “Maybe you should consider dropping out of college and getting a second job so that you can send in more money.” It was then that I decided that I hated them- all of them. After expressing my desire to support my children and fighting to be made the custodial parent, I was treated as a common deadbeat. A criminal. Since then, I would refer to them (in their presence whenever possible) as SS officers. I denied their authority in all matters pertaining to myself or my children, and would stonewall any attempt on their part to gather information about me or my employers.
Walking into a lobby similar to the one I had just left, I immediately noticed the change in clientele. A large woman sat between two cushions of a plain institutional sofa, causing the ends of the assaulted cushions to stick up from either side of her backside. Her face was pasty and overly-large, with brown eyes set close together. I wondered if she had Down’s Syndrome, or was just an unfortunate victim of bad genes. Just then, a little patch
of frizzy brown hair slowly rose above the coffee table littered with toys in front of the woman. It was followed with what appeared to be the face of a little boy about four years old and sporting the same close-set eyes. “Christ, somebody fooked her.” I muttered to myself as I made my way to the receptionist at the far side of the room.
This receptionist made me long for the first. She was in her forties, with short salt and pepper hair that clung to her head in tight wiry curls like a poodle. Her eyes were brown and each carried beneath it, a large sack. Her nose was narrow and hooked, giving far too much length to her face. She never smiled. “Can I help you?” She asked; her expression never changing from it’s neutral gaze.
“Look, I’m sorry. But the thing is, I’m broke. I need to see a doctor and get something for my allergies. I never ask for…” I realized that I was running on even as she cut me off mid-sentence.
“Fill these out and bring them back.” The face never changed.
After an hour in the waiting room watching the kid play while his mother stared blankly at some spot on the wall, I was led into an office through a security door. There, I was met by a pleasant woman in a blue jacket and white top. She was older with signs remaining in her face that she was once quite attractive. Her eyes still held a sparkle to them and that sparkle never once faded; even when she assumed the same head tilt and nod while telling me that I was shit out of luck. I could read in her face that she was used to giving bad news, just as I could read in her tone that professional numbness had robbed her of any genuine sense of compassion for my plea. What did I expect? I came to the camp of my enemy seeking comfort and now left feeling foolish and weak for the attempt.
Still, I was strangely consoled as I got back into my car and fumbled out two more store brand Benedryl. Someone had, if for only a minute, pretended to care about my situation. I blew my nose and rolled out onto the access highway and headed for home.
That night, Sasafrass’s pain had increased, evidenced by her continual whines to me for help. She had begun to show blood in her urine as well and I had placed a fresh towel under her, to make her more comfortable. She hadn’t moved in days except to struggle forward and drink a little from the bowl of water I had placed at her nose. She should have gone to the vet long ago. A venture that would have cost even more than the doctor visit I so desperately needed and couldn’t afford. I alternated between petting her and reassuring her, to sitting in a chair and watching her. She was mine from the time she was six weeks old, and barely a white puff of fur with a little black nose. Now, ten years later, she had grown from a chewing machine of a pup to a shadow that would follow me from room to room and lay at my feet. Sheba played nursemaid as well, getting up several times to sniff her and nudge her flanks with her freckled nose. The whining increased as the night went on, and as I sat there, I couldn’t believe what I was contemplating.
At midnight, I rose from my chair and, grabbing a shovel, went out into the meadow. Digging a shallow hole into the side of an embankment, I still couldn’t believe what I was doing. I had become completely numb. This wasn’t happening. Laying aside the shovel somewhere in the dark, I went back to the house. Scooping up Sassafrass with the white towel still beneath her, she whined a little but made no attempt to shift position in my arms. With what little strength she had, she turned her head on my arm and stared
up at me, wide eyed and ears back. I talked to her as I carried her out into the dark, freeing a hand to stroke the fur on her head. I told her it would be alright. I told her everything was fine. I lied.
Laying her on the towel in the hole, I turned to go back to the house. My feet stumbled and my hands shook. I wished and prayed to God that she would find the strength to get up. Just get up and wander off in the dark. Wander off before. Sheba lowered her head when I went back inside and loaded the .22 rifle. Her ears were back as she approached me, but I couldn’t look her in the eyes. She knew. Shaking more violently now, I wandered back into the darkness. I could see her outline ahead of me. She hadn’t escaped. Never letting her see the rifle, I layed it behind her as I knelt down beside her. She didn’t move. I stroked her fur as I watched her flank rise and fall with each labored breath. She whined again to me for help. Reaching behind her, I slid the rifle barrel behind her ear and kept petting her and attempting to sooth her with my voice. “I’m sorry.” I told her. “God, I am so sorry.” Over and over, I repeated; how many times? Time was a blur, and neither of us were really there. This wasn’t happening. How does it all come down to something so horrible?
There was a muffled report of the rifle. In an instant, her body tensed and relaxed. I heard the rifle clack off of a rock as it fell from my hand. I felt my body become weightless and I rolled sideways and landed on my shoulder and back. Above me through burning eyes, the stars and moon swirled like a kalidescope. My breath came in ragged jags as I could not even catch my breath enough to cry. Immediately, from within the house, a low, mournful howl went up from Sheba. One after the other, she continued to
howl for her fallen pack mate. I lay there on the wheat grass for an eternity. It must have been hours before I felt the dew freezing my back and broken grass stems jabbing me to wake from the nightmare. Sassafrass still lay bleeding at my feet. I rolled over and felt her side. She was cold. No longer would that side rise and fall. No more would she be able to follow me from room to room. No more would she steal scraps from the kids or chase mice like a cat. She was gone and I could neither justify it fully in my mind or call the bullet back.
A preface to this piece I am posting
I am collecting true ancedotes to include in a book;the life and times of nurses in and out of the hopsital. Here is the latest piece I penned, as theraphy for an assult on my budget. Laughter takes the edge off my pain.
I welcome liberal critique, and please have little concern your critique will upset me, as I have already endured the pain of a day spent in a dental chair with two men and a dead fish
Snuggling With a Dead Fish
Allow me to begin with a disclaimer, although the title may suggest otherwise, this anecdote has not-a-thing-to-do with intimacy, or the absence of__intimacy.
Somehow I missed smoking pot or dropping LSD with the sixties subculture flower children, however yesterday, morning, between clock-in time and lunch break, strapped in a dental chair, I am certain I made up for all of the premium pot and LSD I by-passed some forty years ago. Looking back, now four decades older and wiser, my decision to leave the fun stuff to the enjoyment of others was in my best interest if not my survival, as I admit that yesterday, by high noon, and high on “happy-gas,” I am convinced that snuggling with a cold dead fish (literally) is normal.
“Do you want to listen to music?” the dental assistant asked bringing out a headset hooked to a small transistor radio.
“Thanks! Think smooth jazz will camouflage the pain?”
I am having this conversation with this young man solely because this is the day I lose one tooth and gain four crowns.
The dental assistant reflecting a white-white smile replied with assurance, “I have you on oxygen, and Dr. Cheery just turned on the Nitrous Oxide. You will be thinking Zen thoughts in no time”
I am not certain about Zen thoughts, as my mind is obsessed with angst over the small loan I took out to barter my way out of the dental chair. At the moment, the only thing I look forward to is relaxing with “happy-gas.” Bring on the golden glow of the turbulent sixties; I paid extra cash-up-front for a crystal-blue-persuasive euphoria and I am not disappointed, as a blissful detached feeling slowly envelopes my body while the smooth jazz station reminds me, ”this is the good life.” Let the show begin. The next four-and–a-half hours, two faces hover mine like wasps, their hands in my mouth now stretched open, wide enough for a Mack truck to maneuver with ease.
Wrapped in a warm comfy blanket with my head resting on a mushy bead pillow, I am almost as relaxed as giving birth to my firstborn; when the frosted flakes I had for breakfast decide to make an encore. I feel a wave of nausea coming on, which elevates patient-doctor relationship to an intimate dimension. In my “happy-gas-stupor” my dentist name changes to a one coming straight from my heart, waving my hand “Doctor Feery” I holler, “I’m-about-to-puke!”
Startled, the assistant and the good doctor bring the chair from a head down position, sitting me upright, simultaneously turning down the happy gas. (Insert sad face here)
My stomach stops churning and I manage a few well placed moans. Dr. Cheery asked,
“Is the nitrous wearing off? We’ll let you rest. Nurses are tough.Your mouth has been open awhile, makes it difficult to inhale the nitrous”
He turns up the gas and leaves the room. I am a good patient; trying to inhale as much of the good stuff in the least amount of time, I hyperventilate at a furoius rate,only slowing my breathing when I feel the tingling sensation return to my toes; smooth jazz playing in my ear reminds me that all is well with the world.
The doctor floats back into the room, bends over my head as if in a vision, his voice echoing from a deep canyon. He reinserts the jackhammer in my distorted mouth and the show goes on.
I reach up with a heavy hand that seem to not belong to me and dab at what I am certain must be a river of blood trickling down my right cheek. I slip a quick peek at the Kleenex. It is high and dry. Hallucinating; I am hallucinating, the benefit of an out-of-body experience, and a tolerable side effect of my “return- to-the-sixties-moment”
“There now, all finished!” Dr. Cheery and his assistant, in unison, compliment me profusely on being “such a trooper.”
Grateful the cereal I woofed down some six hours ago, stayed put, I wobble down the hall to the restroom. Unlike my dentist and his efficient assistant, the mirror speaks no lies. I stare at a resemblance of my face, decide to go for the jugular and try a smile. “Mirror, mirror on the wall,” think stroke, and you get the picture of my reflection.
Home, my bed and a soft pillow sound good to this acclaimed trooper. Think ice, as this is a prime factor to assuage pain and sorrow. I reach in the freezer, hoping to place my hand on a bag of frozen veggies; (perfect for an improvised cold pack) however the freezer disappoints me, as it is empty, save for a large packet of frozen Tilapia. I pull out the packet of frozen fish, look it over twice, ceremoniously wrap this culinary delicacy in a soft cloth, down a couple of Extra Strength Tylenol and head for bed. Snuggling with dead frozen fish placed tenderly on my face, in the truest definition of snuggling, is not an ‘affair of the heart’ however; considering the throbbing ache in my jaw, it runs a close second.
I would add a photo to authenicate this intimate experience, but the fish thawed before I could set up the camer for a timed photoshoot.
Judy
The word bitch should be used solely in conjunction with the word grief. I promise you, if I ever hear another man call a woman a bitch, I don't care who he is, I'm going to hurt him. If I ever hear another woman call a man a bitch, I'll release a few choice words that will touch her core, but she'll be able to continue. Neither a man nor a woman can make you feel as sickening as grief can. I don't care what they do to you - cheat, lie, steal or slam you to the ground and run. Grief is the only bitch I know.
Grief intruded into my life June 4th 2008 at 4:20pm. That's when I received a call from my father's wife informing me that my daddy, Bobby James Hudson, was gone. She said it as calmly as she could. "Niecy, we lost Bobby today." That's when my procession of one began.
I proceeded to cry. I proceeded to yield to the shit feeling that was ravaging my body, because I couldn't fight back. I proceeded to collapse and let myself be gutted by grief. Grief cuts your insides and churns them at the same time, runs them over, burns them, and leaves them there expecting you to function as if oh well should be the next words you say.
The first steps of my procession were to see my daddy lying in his coffin. Simply visiting my daddy became viewing his body. I was at a wake that would never allow for sleep. This wake wanted tears and I obliged...boy did I oblige.
My procession kept going strong with then next day being more forceful than the first. The funeral told me to say goodbye. I only did so after God told me to hold onto His hand. He said that I will see my daddy later.
Next, the cemetery. Grief began to slither around my throat. It's hold grew tighter and tighter but I still saw the coffin which held my daddy - even with my shades on and my eyes closed.
I know we all go through this but it doesn't diminish the fact that my daddy broke my heart. I know he didn't mean to. I know he loved his babygirl. When I was younger my father told me that he wouldn't always be here. His words - "Babygirl, ya daddy ain't always gone be here." My words - "Well, where are you going to be?" Together we'd laugh. Lawd, I miss my daddy.
A father's love for his daughter is priceless. Fellas, you all can step up your game and you still won't measure up. My daddy made me feel SO special. His encouraging words to keep on babygirl, stick with it, success doesn't come overnight. Man, this hurts.
I wanted my father to see me make it. To him, I already did. He saw something different in me. He saw that I stepped out on faith and did what my passion told me to. I know that he was proud of me.
Bobby James Hudson was the first black man to work in an office position at the TAM Plant in Niagara Falls NY. 1968 didn't have a civil rights march for him - he was just being a provider for his family. Tuskegee Institute taught my daddy a few things. He took that knowledge and eventually opened his own store, Hudson Tile and Carpet in Ocala Florida. But that was after he showed others how it should be done at the Color Tile store in Niagara Falls NY.
My daddy and his ideas! I smile just thinking about them. Shaklee, Amway, Omaha Steaks and BARD (Bobby, Alice, Ronny, Denise) Security. His favorite food - fried chicken. Once my daddy told me that he could eat fried chicken every day! Why? "'Cause I was raised on it babygirl." Oh... I miss my daddy.
He taught my brother to keep a handkerchief in his pocket. My brother now has taught that to his sons. Something so simple. but something to be proud of still. He taught me to be me, and ain't nuthin' wrong with that :-)
Golf, golf, golf. Why did I say that golf was a dumb game...that all you do is walk around hitting a ball. Lawd, did I get a LECTURE on golf! I was a teenager. I'm 42 now and I have NEVER said a bad word about the game of golf since!
I'll hurt, I'll cry and still talk too much about my daddy. My procession will continue with me working it out and being the woman that Bobby James Hudson knew I could be.
I love you daddy.
Wanda D. Hudson
Wait for Love: A Black Girl's Story
LuvMe
http://www.wandadhudson.com
I need someone to talk to!!
Really, I've lived with this man for almost 8 years. Why? I keep asking myself that all the time.
We have nothing in common. Just to have a conversation with him is like talking to a child... even worse. Everything I try to talk to him about has to be explained over and over again until I find a way to get him to understand whatever I am talking about. I can tell my own children something, explain it once and they can undestand any conversation. Not him!
And then there is the constant negativity and the gloom and doom attitude of his. He seems to have a problem with positive thinking. He sees everything with a negative outcome... never once believing that everything is going to be all right- until he sees that it is-- and then he'll still find something negative to say about it.
I can't be myself around him. He seems to feel extremely insecure with the fact that I have many friends and that I enjoy being with them and they enjoy being with me. In his mind no one can really like me and everyone is just using me and making me into a fool. In his mind- I sleep around with every man in the world that I encounter or work with. Geez! If only that was true! I may be able to lose a few pounds with such an activity and put an end to my 3 year dry spell! But I have never been a sleep around type of gal... too many things out there to be afraid of. I'm not willing to take any risk. We don't even sleep together. We haven't slept together in 3 years- ever since he began drinking. We do live together, but sleep in seperate rooms. I dread weekends- especially when I have to work or running errands in town. He is a very verbally abusive drunk to me and to my three boys. We are all so tired of living here with him and under these conditions. Why are we still here? I have tried to find an affordable place to live- with no luck. I am on a long waiting list for housing. I've looked towards any services that may be of help- to no avail at this time. So, I'm not giving up- I just have to deal with this situation until God makes a way. And yes-- I pray!
Meanwhile, it's like living alone. I would love to have a man in my life that will always put me first, who is not insecure in my strength and intelligence as a woman. Who has no problem with me just being me. I would love to have a partner with whom I can have a conversation with and not have to explain what I am talking about. Someone who can enjoy every little thing in life and find joy in just the smallest thing- even if it is some small act of kindness towards another person.
Mind you- this is not me trying to make some kind of love connection here. It will take a very long time before I am ready to allow anyone into my heart. As far as finding my soul mate- I just don't know if such a thing actually exist for me. And that's cool. I think I would rather be alone than to go through any more bad relationships. I have better things to do with my time. Besides, perhaps once I find a place of my own, I can allow male friends to be friends with benefits. [*winking with a smile*]
Well, I guess I've vented enough for now. At least it made me feel better actually writing all this down. I can laugh at myself. Oh by the way- please don't feel like you need to give me any advice on my bad situation. Believe me... you can't tell me anything I haven't aready told myself over and over again. I need a home. It's that simple. I truly need a home of my own. I'm so disappointed that at my age I don't even have a home of my own. But that too is something I pray for and I believe God will provide in time. I do believe God has his Angels on Earth and miracles happen every day.
So smile after reading this... even laugh if you can. I Did! I don't feel sorry for myself and I am happy with the woman that I am. I've made bad choices in life. As humans we all do. I take responsibility for the choices that I make. It's never easy- but they are all learning experiences that has only made me stronger as a woman. I'm proud of that and I've learned to laugh at myself along the way. Tonight, I just needed someone to talk to- and I did!
By The way- I don't mind questions or comments... I welcome them!
My writing has come to a screaming halt the last few days. No matter how much I tried to fight it my home life just pushed it way into my time. I can’t complain really (well I could but that wouldn’t be fair) my hubby has put up with me sitting at my computer every chance I get for weeks now. (No it is more like months). Anyway he was home sick for two days, and yesterday we went to a horse show, I missed most of it because I had to come home for a form we had forgotten to take. I don’t know where my brain is at times. (Err… no I do know where it is, it’s on my books. Thinking, thinking, thinking.) We had a good day anyway, the boys won plenty of ribbons, owners hubby shows for were very happy, and we got there and home without any major problems.
I also had the great idea of changing my web site header. I wanted something fresh, something new, something that would take me to my happy place when I write. Great plan, even a fantastic plan… until I crashed my site and lost everything. So I had to start again. Nothing like a new start, a fresh start and a lesson learnt. (I hope, never really know with me what I’ll do next.) So if you get a chance have a look at my new website, the header is the same as the one. Here’s the link http://www.sandiehudson.com .
So I’m not sure how much writing I’ll get done this week but I’m hoping to get at least an hour a day in, it all helps toward get that novel finished. Until next time, my the Word Fairy smile on you.
Hugs
Sandie
My name is Lisa. I'm a 37 year old woman with many interests, among which the main one is writing. In a close tie, dogs are my other main interest. Reaching at a close third is reading, and then drawing. I have a degree in behavior modification and I'm a certified counselor. I enjoy studying behavior. I’m known by a few nicknames depending on what part of my personality appeals to you most. I'm 5 ft; 105 lbs. and I've been the same height since high school. Friends call me smurf or smurfy because I'm smurf sized. About 15 yrs ago, my fiancé bought me a Doberman Pinscher puppy and sealed my love for all things dog. I was and still am DobyCrazy! When I write, it unleashes the most tenacious part of my nature. Like a Doberman, I am unquestionably loyal to my friends and family. I bark out my opinions on matters with full conviction and faith in my knowledge. When I need to catch someone's attention, I will MOOF! with an authority that brooks no argument. They call me Dober. I get my playful moods when I try to make others smile. Then they affectionately term me Doby.
I can't remember when I haven't written . Diaries, journals, napkins and scattered papers were all my muses. Some early memories of me at 4 years old include sitting on Pepe's lap while I read the newspaper to him en français, and english. When I was 12, I won the New England Young Author's contest. I still smile at my little home made book of box cardboard covered in rose striped shelf paper.
There was a child and young adult section in my local newspaper that I was a big fan of. My god. (Passive sentences, fragments, atrocious grammar and ending sentences with prepositions! My English Professor would hang me!) Gets another cup of coffee and resumes her typing. I 'write' better when I actually physically write and then transpose it to typing. For me, straight out typing is always sloppy. Exactly like this intro. Laughs. Anyway, I regularly submitted articles and pieces to the newspaper each week for an entire summer.
Since those charming childhood days, I've written everything from poems, short stories, sci-fi novels, and sports articles that remained unsent. I've always written because it's my addiction. My habit. My outlet. I haven't sent anything to a publisher, agent or newspaper since I was 14.
(shameless plug, shameless plug)--Check out my shiny new blog:
http://dobersdogdaze.blogspo t.com/
She sips her coffee and looks at the white expanse that beckons to her to fill it with her mark. Her ebony eyes drift to the walnut paneling to look at the carving of a mare and foal that grace its stark simplicity. The cursor blinks at her, tapping it's foot impatiently, telling her to TYPE already! She cradles the white coffee mug in her hands and sips while looking at her typing. She sighs. My tense shifts are hideous. Honestly. An editor's nightmare. The woman debates re-typing the tiny amount she's already done and shakes her head no. It's my mood today so there's no fighting it. My Id, Ego and Superego will have to duke it out with each other and decide on today’s winner.
