Tag Archives: writing

1975_Laundry

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We don’t have chores in our house. We do what we’re told when we’re told to do it.  If we don’t do what we’re told, we get the paddle. No amount of whining and complaining can make a difference, although we all try it.

We are lucky though because most of the time Momma does everything and this is how I think she feels like she is taking good care of us, although we would be glad to help if it made her less anxious. She’s always worried, worried, worried – about everything.

Laundry

 ~August 1975~

“Gaaddamn it, get the degreaser.  Hurry up, put the Gaaddamn degreaser in.”

I don’t know what degreaser is and I’m not sure why I should put the damn stuff in. I do know it comes in a yellow bottle.  It’s tall with ridges on the outside.  I can’t always open it quick enough and I hope Momma didn’t tighten it with her grip of steel, because if she did I’ll never get it open before she yells it again. “Put the Gaaddamn degreaser in!”

Laundry is a science to Momma and she’s always rushing around as fast, as fast as she can. With ten kids the laundry takes up the whole day and she doesn’t mind reminding us every time she does it.  She starts while the sun is still light and bright without heat and takes the sheets right out from under me while I sleep.  She does the same thing to all ten of us. Sometimes it wakes me up, but sometimes not. The older kids complain about it and fight with Momma over being woken up, but I don’t care much about getting up early, because I get to help Momma if I get up early. She doesn’t like help and I have to do things just so, because laundry is important. She says, “We might not have money, but you kids aren’t walking around dirty.” There something about being poor that makes most people dirty, but not us.

“Amy Beth, where’s the damn degreaser, quit fooling around and get over here.”

I step up on a rickety old stool and grab the cool metal cup from the shelf that is hung half-crooked, the cup slides if you don’t put in the right place, it perfectly covers a ring on the shelf from the rust on the bottom of the cup.  I’m careful while pouring.  For something named degreaser, it’s very greasy.

“Just half full not all the way full, or you’ll have to start over, don’t waste it.”

We have an old-time washing machine, a wringer washer. It’s white with a red ring painted around the middle, smooth on the outside and cool to the touch.  There are two rubber rollers on top and if you don’t watch out, your hands will get the hell pinched out of them when the rollers are rolling and squeezing the water out of the clothes. That’s what Momma says.  There is a rusty stain on the underside. I’ve tried to wash it off, but it doesn’t work, it’s stuck on there, forever and ever.  The washer stays in the back room over the basement door in the floor.  I’m glad that it hides the basement door, I think bad things are down there and all the other kids tell me so too. I will not go down there unless I am forced, that has only happened once and that time I saw a man’s butt crack, Peggy said – “See! I told you – plumber’s smile!” Staring at the backside of some guy working on our water pump.  I don’t understand what that means, but I laugh and laugh so I can get the heck out of there.

Momma and I boil water on the stove for the load of whites. Sometimes we have hot water on the tap and sometimes we don’t, because we can’t always pay our bills and even if we have hot water, she yells, “That water isn’t hot enough, boil it some more, I like my whites white! And don’t touch that pot, it will burn the hell out of you.”  It takes three giant pots of water to wash the whites.  We make one pot of hot for the colored clothes, mixed with cold water.  For dark colors or when we are lazy and don’t care if we stink and our whites are dingy, we can wash in cold, which is never.

The cold water comes from the hose, which tastes like the metal ring at the end of the hose. The hose runs from around the side of the house and we prop open the screen door to keep it from pinching the water off.  This lets the flies in, but there isn’t any other way to get the hose into the back room.  Then we spend the afternoon killing flies with the pink and white flyswatter that has a long wire handle and is covered in guts. Sometimes in a pinch Momma will swat us with the flyswatter, if the paddle isn’t close enough.

I fill the washer with hose water, turn off the water and unhook the hose from the faucet and leave it lying on the ground, but far away from the house so when the water we drain from the washer comes out, it doesn’t run back on the house and rot the foundation.  I learn a lot from Momma, she explains things as she goes along and I might not understand it all, but I am good at remembering.  I have to know everything or else someone yells about something, so it’s easier to remember everything and do what I need to do right, the first time.

Momma let’s everything soak for at least 30 minutes because we are all so Gaadamn dirty.

Once the clothes have soaked, Momma plugs the electric cord into the light bulb on the ceiling and then she lets me flip the switch that turns it on.  The washer makes a loud grinding noise and the whole backroom shakes. We let it agitate, that’s Momma’s word for swirling the clothes around, for 10 or 15 minutes; standing there not hearing another sound in the world except the grind of the washer.  After agitating, I take the end of the hose and screw it to a spout that comes out of the bottom of the washer, the spout is old and needs to be cleaned with “C Cleaner” which Momma says gets the calcium off.  We open the spout on the bottom and drain the dirty water outside through the hose.

I run outside to watch the water come out and make sure there are no hair or other clogs that back it up.  I hope with everything that there is no clod of hair that gets stuck. I almost throw up thinking about it having to touch it. The water flows dark and murky, making a trail down the dirt driveway.

Once the water has drained, we taking the sopping wet clothes and run them one by one through the wringer to squeeze out all the water.  I am not allowed to put them through the wringer. I am not old enough yet.  My job is to catch the clothes as they come out.  Momma doesn’t like them slapping onto the dirty floor when they come out all squished flat.

Then we rinse the flattened clothes by adding cold water from the hose into the washer and firing it up again.  One more time through the wringer and they are ready to hang on the line in the yard.  There are two lines, one short and one long, both run from the house to the barn, which doesn’t work like a barn anymore, it’s now just an old building full of junk and wasps.  It does have an outhouse on the side of it, but you can’t go to the bathroom in there anymore, it’s been sealed up tight.

Momma doesn’t talk much during laundry, she explains what she’s doing so I know how to do it on my own one day and she yells out things to do “Degreaser!” “Turn the hose on!”  “Now turn it off Gaaddamn it!”

Before we start hanging the clothes, we start another load to soak.

I’m not allowed to hang the clothes, because Momma says “You don’t hang things right, they’ll come out all wrinkled if you hang them, and I’m not spending the whole day ironing.  You’ve got to hang them so the breeze can get through them.”  I don’t even hang socks right, which are supposed to be easy.  My job is to hand things to Momma real fast so they don’t get too wrinkled sitting in the basket and then I take a metal pole and raise up the laundry on the wire.  It’s heavy to lift, but I can do it even when Mom yells at me not to.  I just laugh when she yells when we are in the yard, because she is too far away to smack me.  While she’s hanging the laundry I look for wasps and bugs that bite because I’m afraid of them.  If I see a wasp or a bee, I run in the house until it goes away.

“Get your ass back out here” Mom says, but I just pretend I can’t hear her.  I’d rather hear Momma yell than get stung by a wasp.

~

I had no idea that there is any other way to do laundry, in the winter we do go to the Laundromat sometimes, so I know that there are indoor washers and dryers, but I have no clue that someone could actually buy one and have it in their house.  I also have no idea that all my other friends are having their clothes washed inside their own house.  I assumed that everyone washes clothes like it’s 1950.

I’m sure it seems that Momma was mean to me, but I never saw it as mean, she had no patience for misunderstanding and if you did something wrong or ruined the load of wash, it could cost her hours of time.  I learned to cook the same way, trial by fire, get it right or get the hell out of the kitchen!  If you put too much salt or milk in something you were helping Momma make, it could mean none of us ate that day.  I understand why she felt like doing it herself was faster.  She was doing the best she could and for that I’m thankful.

Jenny_in the hood.

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There is an old woman who rides around my neighborhood on a bike. She rides slow. I walk faster than she rides.

Even in winter, she rarely wears a coat and many days wears pink shorts. She sometimes carries a bag of cans, that I assume she takes to the corner market, The NuRiteway, to exchange for cash. I love the name of the NuRiteway. Right?

Her skin is black, ashen. Her hair is cropped short, and pushed back and down on her head. I imagine she smells like pomade. Her eyes are sad and lonely and remind me of my mother.

She drinks. She uses the cash she gets from the cans to buy booze, beer or MD 20/20. I don’t think she has a preference.

She never speaks to me, but every now and then I will get a nod from her.  I sometimes say hello, but she doesn’t respond.

A few days ago, I was out for a quick dinner on Mississippi Avenue and walked past her. She was sitting outside of the Crow Bar, a divey joint that serves drinks late into the evening, long past my bedtime.  I stopped after walking past and thought – I’m going to buy her a drink. I thought again, that’s crazy, what if she thinks you’ll always buy her drinks? I’m annoyed at myself for thinking this so I go back.

I’m nervous about saying hello to her, but I breathe in and then say “Hi, I see you around a lot and we never say hello. I’d like to buy you a drink and have a conversation with you. Would you be good with that?”

She replied “Yeah, that sounds good.” Her tongue, heavy in her mouth as she talks slow, like she rides her bike.

“Good, I’m Amy and what’s your name?”
“Jenny.”
“Good, got it. Jenny.”

We go inside, it’s dark and damp, she says “She’s paying.” I check the bartender and he raises an eyebrow.  “Yes, I’m paying, Jenny, what are you having?”
“A White Russian.” she says, without hesitation.

She does have a preference of what she’d like to drink. White Russian.
I order a white wine, which is not a very good white wine given it’s the Crow Bar, but nonetheless, here we are.

We go back outside and sit in the sun and I ask Jenny questions.

“How long have you been in this neighborhood?”
“What was it like then?”
“How have you made a living?”
“Do you have any children?”

Jenny, has no children and used to be a bartender and a housekeeper. She drinks most everyday all day. She doesn’t know why anymore. She does smell like hair product.

She gets more animated as we talk and I realize, she’s a nice lady and could be anyone.

After our conversation, I’m ready to head home. I say to Jenny.

“Now that we know each other a little bit, maybe when we pass each other on the street we can say hello. What do you think?”

“Yeah, she says. Yeah.”

I’m not sure if she’s serious, but she smiles at me a little and takes another drink of White Russian.

She didn’t accept another drink, even though I offered. She didn’t ask for anything else, we had a nice conversation and I left her in her space.

We’ve had some drug dealing and shady characters in our neighborhood lately. One person even took a picture of Jenny and posted it to an online forum thinking maybe she had something to do with it.  Maybe she does, I don’t know.

What I do know is that I like to think that all people are inherently good and given the chance they’ll find their New Right Way to be in the world, but not everyone gets that chance, or chooses to take it. So, I try to remember when I see people in the world who are different than me and who’ve made different choices than me – that they could be me and I could be them – if either of us had made different choices.

I’m glad I sat down with Jenny and hope the next time I see her she’ll say hello, one neighbor to another.

Stealing_Perrier

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Spring, 1980

I work at the store after school on some days. I only earn a quarter or two, but it’s worth something to me to feel important. I know at nine I shouldn’t worry about feeling important, but I do. Working. I put the quarter or two that I earn into my bank account at the bank across the street. I’m saving for a way out of this town.

I stock the coolers at the store and can carry two 8-packs of glass bottles under one arm and one 8-pack in the other.  Each day when I walk by the cooler, I check to make sure that everything is stocked up and when someone buys something, I run and replace it right away.  It’s my job.

I am tempted everyday by one thing in the store, Perrier. The smooth green glistening bottle taunts me each time I walk past the cooler door.  I slide open the door, the black rubber on the bottom squeaks and I have to push in while I’m pulling to the right or the door gets stuck. If the Perrier bottle is not facing forward, I turn it so the perfect lettering is facing to the front.  Why we sell Perrier in the store, I don’t know.  I’ve never seen anyone buy it.  Perrier is RICH and beautiful to me, not poor and run down like our town. I have never tasted it, but I bet it tastes clean, like the smell of laundry after hanging on the clothes line.

I can’t stop thinking about Perrier and instead of saving for it, which would take months of work at the store, I decide that I can steal it faster than I can save for it.

I know it is wrong to steal, but my brother Patrick does it and he doesn’t seem to ever get in trouble for it. I will only do it once, I promise myself. Only once.

I keep watch for anyone coming down the aisle by the cooler. I’m nervous and I think this is why bad things happen when people steal. They get too nervous and mess up, but I can’t stop my nerves from making me shift around – left foot, right foot – my heart racing.

There are customers up front talking to old Mr. Hambone, who drinks Seagram’s Seven from a paper cup all day long. If I hurry I can run out while they are distracting him.

I slide open the door, pull down one bottle and put it up under my shirt and hold my arm against my side as hard as I can to keep it under cover. I run out of the store, down Avon street, legs and arms pumping, breathing short and quick, sprinting down the sidewalk as fast as I can. I run all the way to the library, around the back where there is a fenced in electrical cage. I sit down in the grass and hold the cool bottle against my face. Sweat dripping, heart racing. I know someone is going to catch me. I want to taste the sweet taste of Perrier, but I am scared. My nerves are jumpy, jumpy and the bottle now feels hot and bad. My belly has the I’ve done something terrible feeling.

I stand up and throw the bottle over the fence, which is locked, with barbed wire along the top.

I stare through the fence, longing for Perrier. Sad.

It was quite a few years before I could afford Perrier and when I finally tried it, I fell in love again – not just with the packaging, but with Perrier. The cool crisp mineral taste. I was hooked.

I thought Perrier would make me feel rich – but realized it wouldn’t if I didn’t get it in a way that felt good to me. Why I learned that lesson and some people keep stealing, I’ll never know, but I’m grateful to have learned it early.

I still don’t know why I had it in my head that Perrier was so good, I laugh at my nine-year-old self, but realize she’s still here with me today. Loving Perrier.  And it is – GOOD.


Synchronicity and a New Job

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Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen ~
Ralph Waldo Emerson

If you are looking for signs of what you should be doing in your life, they will appear. It CAN BE that simple.

I was fired on the same date my brother died 21 years ago. Given the number of days in a year and the number of days in the last 21 years when something significant like this could happen on

February 16th, I’m going to say it means something. I’m not exactly sure what, but…here’s where I went with it.

My brother was an artist, a handsome devil of a man, who died too early, at 34.  I believe that he died because he didn’t follow his dream. His dream of being an artist.  I’m taking this event as a sign that I must follow my creativity and follow what I want in the world, don’t hold back, hold myself to my own standards and thinking. Don’t kill myself doing something I don’t want to do. GO.

I don’t know how it will end but I do know how it begins.

On February 22nd, I posted about being fired and what I would be doing next. Something with writing – intention set – check.

I promised myself to take the time to grieve, not stress too much, not fret, to have courage – it would all work out in the way things always do and then I watched it all unfold, from the past to the now.

In 2005, when I left the job I was working, I was given a copy of a book that is published by an agency that specializes in writing and strategic communications.  The book is personal creative writing of the people who work at this firm.  They publish it annually to keep their own creativity moving.  The person giving it, knowing I was a writer thought I would enjoy reading it. I read it and put it in a drawer somewhere.  When I moved in 2008, I got rid of nearly everything I owned, so I no longer have it.

Fast forward seven years.

I’m sitting across the table at a Thai restaurant from a recruiter and she says “Have you ever heard of this strategic communications firm?”
“I’ve seen them, but they are in Vancouver.  Who wants to work in Vancouver?”
“Have you seen their building, because if you see it, you’ll know that if you HAVE to be in Vancouver, this is the place to be.”
This was only two weeks after losing my job, so I wasn’t quite ready to REALLY talk to people yet. So, I replied “Let’s wait and see how things go.”

I emailed her about a week or so later and asked to be introduced, because I kept thinking about it.

She said “I’ll introduce you, but let’s wait a little longer.”

A few weeks go by and at the end of March I get an email, from said agency, that says “Our CEO, received your resume from someone on the Agency Roundtable that she attends.” They attached a job description and asked if I wanted to come talk to them.

Synchronicity. I called and said yes!

Who gets a job interview like this?  Maybe a lot of people, I don’t know.  I also don’t know who gave her my resume, it wasn’t the recruiter, that I do know. Whoever it was, thank you.

When I got to the interview I sat down on the sofa and saw the same book, I was given in 2005 when I left that job, which I had forgotten until that day.  Synchronicity!

I spent the next couple of weeks interviewing. There were multiple other shining moments of synchronicity, in addition to sweeping views of the Columbia River, but I was still questioning it, it was almost too good to be true. It was like I was in a movie and everything in the world was saying this is the next step – follow me, but I wasn’t convinced and I kept thinking what is going on? – and then something magical happened, they sent me a job offer.

There have been other options in the last few weeks, other dangling carrots, but I’m trusting that all the signs are pointing me in the right direction. If there is this much energy flowing here, I’m going with it.

I accepted that offer today. It surprises me to say that, but it’s how it all came together.

To be clear, I didn’t sit back and think about what I wanted and wish it would come to me. I set a clear intention – acted – I wrote a manifesto from my heart, that represents me and how I am in the world – I knew that people who didn’t like it wouldn’t like me – and I used it as a cover letter – you can see the latest version of it here – I sent that out to a few key people and then I networked some, and in return I received.

And the next chapter – BEGINS.

The universe delivers.  intention – action – reception.

What are your intentions? You are powerful.

ON_Reading

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More memoir soon – this is just more musing on life.

One writing coach I worked with read my work and said, a seven year old would not use the words you are using in this piece, Torment and Metallic are not words a seven year old would use. She obviously didn’t know me very well.  She could have asked – why are you using this word here?  Did you know that word at seven? Instead she told me not to use them.

What that did for me is lead me to explain why I use the words I do in my writing. So thank you writing coach for pointing this out to me.

I had NINE older brothers and sisters and they are all VERY smart and yes they used the word TORMENT and METALLIC, so at seven, I had a big vocabulary thanks to my brothers and sisters.  And my last statement of explanation from my seven-year-old self – I’M NOT A BABY!

I like to read and sometimes I choose a book that is daunting, one that I know I will not understand for the pure pleasure of being okay with not understanding.

I’ve always loved reading and as a child in Michigan, I would go to the library as often as I was allowed, which was pretty much whenever I wanted, because no one was really paying THAT much attention.  I was on first name basis with the librarian – Sandy Sherba.  I don’t think she really like me though, I was after all the little girl with the rotten teeth.

I tired of reading children’s books and had read most all the books in the children’s/young adult section anyway – it was a small town, and a small library.

I browsed the adult literature section of the library, Sandy Sherba would shoo me out of there saying, “These books are for grown ups.”  When I tried to check out Beowulf, she said “No, how about you read something in your age group.” I then tried to check out The Yearling, which in fact is a Young Adult book, but it was categorized in the adult section because of the content.  “Find something in your age group, you are not old enough to understand this.”

How she knew what I would understand, I do not know.  Because I couldn’t check out the books I wanted, I’d steal a book out of the adult section and go hide somewhere in the library and read and read and read. I read, Tolstoy, Faulkner, Woolf, Sexton, Shakespeare. Most anything I could get my hands on.  I developed a secret love of poetry and would read page after page after page. Reading made me feel alive. I didn’t understand most of what I read, but I am certain it influenced me in some way. I knew I would understand it someday.

I still do this to this day, I read a lot, and sometimes I choose a book from a topic that I’m interested in that I know will be a challenge for me – like James Hillman, or James Joyce – mind melting works.  The first time I read Marion Woodman, I thought to myself what in the hell is she even talking about here? Years/months later when I pick up the book again, I realize I gained something because when I begin to re-read, I understand it, or at least some of it.  I love how that works.

Maybe this too increased my vocabulary.

What about you? What do you read? Does what I’m saying make any sense?

July_1974_EATING_PLASTER

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As promised last month – here is an excerpt from my memoir.  Feel free to comment. I’d love to hear from you.  

LIFE is about connection

Follow the threads, follow the connection – what led you to here? And to hear? And what do YOU hear?

For a few short moments before posting this, I had to relax my breathing, remember, that this too is part of the story, my story.  I then went to Twitter, you know – to distract myself and a message from the universe appeared – I’m headed in the right direction.

From Anne Lamott – You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories.  If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.      

~July 1974~

I am lying in Momma’s bed, which is my bed too. I am four and wearing my pink nightgown. I don’t like pink, but since I’m a girl I have to wear it. My blond hair is ratty and laying on the pillow.  I don’t like to comb it, ever.  My mouth is crusty on the side from drooling through the night. I have one of my stick legs kicked out of the covers because I get hot sometimes.

The queen-sized bed is parked in the left corner of the room against the wall.  I sleep closest to the wall so I won’t fall out of the bed.  I never thought I would fall out of bed, but Momma says “Gaaddamn it, move over or you’ll fall right out.”  One of Momma’s favorite words is “Gaaddamn it”, with an A drawn out right in the beginning, she strings it on to the front or end of most any sentence.  Her favorite is when she’s trying to yell at one of us and can’t get to the right name fast enough, “Billy, Jenny, Patrick, Michael, Peggy….Gaaddamn it, Amy Beth!”

I stay in the middle as best I can. Momma sleeps near the window and I’m glad because if anyone ever breaks in, she’ll get them before they get me. She’s tough.  She had me when she was 46. She says “No one has a normal baby at 46, most of them come out retarded.”  She can also knock you into next week with one backhand and that means strong.

Momma has a few things on the top of the brown wooden headboard.  A bobby pin, which she uses to clean her ears in the morning, a jelly jar full of water that is mine that I drink out of when I get thirsty at night and her reading glasses which are smeared and greasy on the front. I don’t know how she sees out of them.  She once let me try them.  They made me blind. If I touch the bobby pin or glasses, she gets so mad at me and yells loud. “Gaaddamn it Amy Beth – if I told you once, I told you a hundred times. Don’t touch my Gaaddamn glasses.”

I am the last of Momma’s ten babies, and the last always sleeps with Momma, there isn’t room anywhere else.  There is only one real bedroom in our house.  It is at the top of the stairs, that Momma can’t climb because she is too fat.  If we’re trying to get away from Momma that’s where we go – right up those stairs.  Outside of that room is a landing where there are 3 more beds.  Downstairs behind the kitchen is a pantry that we use as a bedroom.  The pantry, the bathroom and the room upstairs have doors on them. None of the other rooms do. Momma’s room is big and wide with 3 windows, but it is not really a bedroom, it is more like a living room or something else, but we use it as a bedroom.  There is a walk-in closet sized room off of Momma’s room that my oldest brother Mark sleeps in.

When I wake up and am scared at night I twirl a ringlet of Momma’s hair between two fingers.  It is smooth and silky.  I want to put my whole face in her hair to be close to her.   I never get very much time alone with her, except here – in the bed, in the middle of the night, she is all mine. Sometimes, I twirl her hair too tight and she wakes up and yells “Gaaddamn it, what are you doing!?” and then falls right back asleep.

In bed, short rays of sun dance in through the windows, shining spots onto my blanket. I stare at the wall where there is plaster missing. Chunks of plaster are missing from the walls in spots all over the house. Some are small, like my hand, others are as big as my whole body.  In the places where the plaster is missing I can see thin boards that are rough and splintery, in between them there is gray rocky plaster. I am not supposed to pick at it.

When Momma is out of the bed and I am alone, I do pick at the plaster.  I hold my hands down as long as I can, but they just want to pull that plaster out. I try to see if I can pull out long pieces without breaking them. My finger is just the right size to fit in the space between the boards. The plaster is cool on my warm hands, rough, but falls apart easy.  I line up the pieces I pull out of the wall on the bed next to me, brushing the crumbs onto the floor.  Sometimes plaster falls back into the wall where no one will ever see it.

There are thin gray hairs in the plaster.  My brother, Bobby, who is next oldest to me, 5 years older, tells me “There is horse hair in that plaster.”  I don’t believe him, because he also tells me that a tiny little witch lives in the knot, which looks like a tiny little door, in the giant maple tree by the Arnold house, 3 houses down from ours.  I don’t walk past the front of that tiny little door by myself though, just in case he is right.

After lining the pieces up, I imagine they are rock candy.  I lift each one as soft as I can and bite the end of it. I like the longest pieces best, fully formed and taken from their home in the wall. Biting off the end of a long piece is the best feeling in the whole world.

They taste like what I think chalk might taste like.  I know not to eat chalk, but I can’t help from eating the plaster.  I try not to as hard as I can, but I love the gritty feel and the crunching it makes when I bite down on it with my small black teeth.  Most people have white teeth, but mine are white and black.  Rotten.

I am careful to hide the pieces behind the blanket because if I get caught I will get the paddle.  I don’t know why I get the paddle for eating plaster, I can’t help but eat it.

Bobby walks in the room. He is taller than me with sparkly blue eyes, a mop of blond hair that swoops down on the left side of his face and freckles on his nose.  I hurry and cover the pieces of plaster, my mouth is full of it though and he sees me.

“Mom, Amy’s eating the plaster again!” He yells behind him, flat, focused, as if he sees me doing this every day.

“It’s going to rot your teeth out you know?”

I don’t know that it’s going to rot my teeth out, they are already rotten and I hardly ever eat plaster.

Momma comes in the room marching her fat body over to the bed, snatches back the covers and looks at me with her serious sad face and saggy skin hanging down, her black and gray curls bouncing around.

She looks sad and then angry, “Gaaddamn it, quit picking at the plaster, you kids will ruin this Gaaddamn house one day. Amy Beth, I told you to stop eating that goddamn plaster. Now get out of that bed.”

Bobby sticks his tongue out at me.

Momma grabs my arm, her short fingernails biting into me through my nightgown and yanks me out of the bed and onto my feet on the floor in front of her.

I finish crunching my plaster.

“Momma, I don’t want to eat it, I have to.” I look up at her with the saddest eyes I know how to make.

“I’ll teach you to eat that plaster, I’ve warned you enough.”

I drag my feet as she keeps hold of my arm and pulls me into the living room, which is just outside our bedroom.

“No Momma, no Momma, please no Momma.” I cry before the paddle is even down off the hook.

The paddle is made of wood.  On one side it has a saying on it that I can’t read and some kids standing against a fence with their butts out like they are about to get spanked.  On the other side Momma has written the names of every person she has ever spanked with that paddle.  The list goes all the way down. Linda, Brian, Kloosie, Joey, Chrissy, Billy, Jon Jon, Heather, Kelly, Denise, Tom…so many I can’t keep count.

If Momma likes you, she hits you nice and soft.  If Momma’s mad, she hits you mean and hard.  She’s always hitting someone with something, whatever is closest, she’ll throw things too and she has a good aim. She’ll spank a neighbor kid as fast as she’ll spank any of us and then send them home saying “Go ahead and tell your Momma I spanked you and see if she doesn’t hit you too.”

I put my hands over my butt so she won’t swing the paddle.

“Move ‘em, or I’ll hit ‘em!”

“No Momma, I’ll be good I promise.” I cry

“I’ve warned you enough, now move ‘em.”

I hear the paddle swing back through the air and move my hands just as it reaches my butt.

I jump forward a little, but Momma still has my arm so I can’t get away.  Smack, it stings and I feel the heat of the stinging run out and down my legs, smack, smack, smack.

Five times.

She turns my arm loose and I fall on the ground crying as loud as I can.

Momma puts the paddle back on the hook and walks toward the kitchen.

Bobby stands over and whispers. “I told you not to eat the plaster.”

Momma hears him and yells back toward us “You’ll be next it if you don’t stop it Mister.” And I laugh through my tears. I laugh.

~

It was a different time, it was a different place, I can make all the excuses in the world for my Mother, but when it comes down to it, she didn’t know what else to do. I suppose, if I had lived her life, I may have been the same. A man who she kept getting pregnant with, and him never fully being responsible for us kids – he was married to someone else, little income, ten kids, a 9th grade education, depression, worry, worry.  She was a victim of her own circumstance, but she didn’t have the skills or the courage to do anything else. She had her reasons for being sad, miserable and for lashing out when she’d had enough.

I used to be afraid to talk about my story, other than making fun of myself and of how I grew up, not realizing that it was terrible to do that. My psyche suffered for years. I now have compassion and empathy for the me that was and for the work that I had to do as an adult to become less caught up in this old story.  I used to think if people FOUND OUT who I was, everything I was working toward and even my identity could be taken away.  I don’t think I even had an identity, I was just muddling along, muddling along, doing the things everyone does, job, home, tv, blah, blah, blah.  I was powerless. In time and through therapy, reading, and believing, I’ve realized that I am powerful and I make my own destiny, I do not have to go back and no one can take this away from me, ever, unless I choose to let them.

For those who say forget your past and move on, I believe there is something valuable at examining your past and figuring out why you do the things you do. Figuring out the why I do it in most everything, has become a passion for me. Sometimes when you find the answer to the why, you don’t need to do it anymore.

By examining the past, I can decide if the story makes me who I am or is just a story that is holding me back from being more alive, a story that creates anxiety. I can decide if I want to change it or keep it. The stories don’t have to keep hurting you forever; you can unravel the mystery.

In writing this particular story I did unravel a mystery, Gypsum, which is in horsehair plaster, reduces fever, according to Chinese medicine.  I always kicked my leg out of the bed, maybe I had a fever and my four-year-old body was craving what it needed to do to cool it.  Gypsum.  I now know to listen to my body – thankfully at the moment, it is not craving plaster.

My whole life has been pushing me to this moment – where I can say, I’m me and that’s all that matters and I know who I am and what I want in the world.

I am not a victim. I got out of there. I have the skills to figure it out.

I do believe my life’s experiences made me who I am today – and I kind-a like who I am today. My past is the reason today – I am fierce in my life, I LOVE fully, and I LIVE fully, without regret. Live.

For some reason, I got out of where I was, not everyone does, but hopefully I can help people see that you can change your life, even if it feels like it is too late, even if you had a wonderful childhood but life feels like it sucks right now, you can change it.  If you don’t like how your life is – Change IT.

And I know I’m constantly quoting Danielle LaPorte, but – You can’t face forward until you’ve processed your past.  

And then I shivered, I’m headed in the right direction.

What do you hear when you tell yourself some story from your past?  How does it make you feel? 

~

IT’S NEVER TOO LATE.

~

Two notes about this writing session and all future writing sessions that are memoir related, this is my memory of how things were. I have a big family and I’m sure they may remember some things differently or they may remember things that I don’t.  All names have been changed, other than mine, Bobby and Michael’s.  Bobby and Michael – didn’t get out. They died in 1996 and 1991 respectively – more on that in another session.

Writing as Therapy and Light Shining Vaginas

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I went to a writing retreat in New Mexico about 6 years ago. It was my first real writing getaway. I had this vision of how working with other writers would be…

It wasn’t anything like what I had envisioned.

What I realized is that writing retreats or group writing sessions aren’t my thing.  I had a great time and got a lot done, met some fantastic people, but it’s just not me and I wonder how many other people out there would like a different kind of experience.

Here’s why writing groups and retreats don’t work for me. They most often are not about writing, they are about people trying to fix the broken parts of themselves, but they don’t know how to do that, or want to get real therapeutic help, so they go to writing.  Which is admirable. I do believe writing can heal you and help you, but it’s not the only thing that can do that.  A good therapist can too, but you have to be willing to go and to do the work.  That’s the key thing – it’s the same with writing, you have to be willing to do the work. To show up, TO WRITE! No one will do it for you.

For me when I have a chance to get away to write. I want to write. I can do therapy another time.

In my humble opinion writing workshops are another excuse for not actually sitting down to write.  I don’t have time, I don’t have money, I can’t because of – whatever the reason is – it all comes down to YOU JUST DON’T WANT TO. So, you attend a writing workshop to get your writing fix.  

Writing is a solitary practice for the most part. Why do we think that making it into a not solitary thing in a workshop will help? It’s what’s in your head that goes onto the page, not what’s in someone else’s head. I just want to write already.

Writing retreats are also full of NEW AGE type people, the ones who use 10 – 20 elegant and delicious words to describe something that could be described in five. You know the type. They arrive in flowy, ethereal clothing and  breathe deep, say namaste often and believe that every person who writes should also be Buddhist, do yoga and meditate. There can be a one-upmanship about these folks, which has no basis in new age thinking, but it happens a lot. It’s another sign that maybe a good therapist can help.

Writing workshops also have writing exercises, in this particular session the exercise was to close your eyes and hold hands (yes with everyone in the room) and say what you are experiencing. There were around 40 people in the room and each person said something – “I feel nervous.” “I feel anxious.” “I feel at peace.” “I feel honored.” and then – one – one of the new agey women in purple and teal flowy, silky clothing – “I feel light coming through.” She held two hands over her lower stomach. “I FEEL LIGHT SHINING OUT OF MY VAGINA! I feel my womb expanding with the universe.” She yelled, softening her voice at the end.

What?

No more writing workshops for me!

I burst into laughter. I know that was totally not okay, but I could not help it.  Some might say my aversion and insensitivity to it, likely means it’s what I really need in my life, but I’m okay with my choice to not be the person with light shining out of my vagina.

I’m new age in my own way.  I’ve read plenty of new age-ish books and old age books that say very similar things. The older things, like myth and some Joseph Campbell and Marion Woodman make you work a little for the knowledge.  I like those because it’s almost as if it’s a secret – wanting to be unraveled.

Consciousness and enlightenment are not new age ideas.

Writing workshops go hand in hand with new age books, there is no book on the planet that will give you enlightenment or consciousness, it’s what you DO with the knowledge from the book that brings you consciousness. With writing it’s what you actually sit down and WRITE!

If I have to label myself, I’d say I’m REAL AGE. I’m becoming more aware of everything around me, but in a way that mimics how people have always done it, a vision quest, a hardship, digging yourself out of the dark, and appreciating the good times in life. Mixing the old age with the new age.  REAL AGE.

Writing workshops can also feel like a rip off. I personally have not come out of them with much more than I went in with, there is no accountability.  People don’t usually proclaim if you do this writing workshop and don’t like we’ll refund your money. There is no taking into account the different writing levels and experiences. It’s more like – pay me $300 and I’ll take you through some exercises that may or may not help you and then I’ll critique some of your work, which also may or may not help you, then you go away, unless you’d like to take another workshop.

GET TO THE WRITING ALREADY! WRITE!

Maybe I’ve just been attending the wrong workshops?

So, while writing this I got it my head that I should develop a series of work sessions that work for me and maybe they’ll work for other people like me. Work sessions based on doing the work and being accountable to the work.  Creating a space for REAL AGE information. Things that cut to the chase, but still leave you with a sense of unraveling secrets.  A no holds barred session where you write on your own. JUST WRITE.

So that’s what I’m going to do.

I began writing this post a few days ago and today read this interesting article in the Times about how talk therapy is on the wane and writing workshops are on the rise. http://ow.ly/a3cKM

Who am I to be critical of a Times article?  I’m going to anyway. What I think is missing from the article is something important. Some people do need therapy and some writing teachers need therapy and should do that before they start writing or teaching, or they should do both. You can mess people up if you don’t know what you are doing when you are trying to walk the line on therapy versus not therapy.

We should all learn that we don’t need permission to articulate our feelings and thoughts – a good therapist will help you with that.  I’m not sure a writing teacher can do that.

What would you like to see as part of a NO HOLDS BARRED ACCOUNTABILITY WRITING SESSION SERIES?

For_BeingBroken

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Sometimes something happens in life that breaks you wide open. It usually has to do with LOVE or a RELATIONSHIP. Cracked down the middle. Something beautiful happens on the other side of this breaking, but in the moment it’s a brick wall pushing you up against realization, your choice – break open or break down.

When we enter relationship with our work, another person, our family – we sell each other a message of who we are. When the other person, all of a sudden, doesn’t live up to that, or changes, we’re upset by it. What we’re not thinking about, is that it’s not only on them to communicate what’s going on, it’s on us to be paying attention. Sometimes we choose not to, because it might be painful, or we don’t want to change, but whether we want it or not, change is going to happen.

Relationships when they break or change, leave you – alone. One side goes away thinking, did I make the right choice? and the other one goes away rejected.

This is the place –  the point – where one, or both of you, can be broken open.

Breaking open – to be forever changed in a meaningful way. To learn something and integrate it into your life.

Breaking down – bitter, angry, vindictive, victimized.  While feeling those emotions is good, holding onto them doesn’t bring change.

Breaking open can transform those emotions into something more meaningful – love, compassion, understanding of yourself and maybe even the world.

When breaking open, you take part of the responsibility of coming to the table with an open mind and heart, not only about them, but about yourself. You are engaged and notice where they are changing and where you are changing and decide if you want to work together, to stay – to create a meaningful relationship, or not.

If you’re not in a relationship where this can happen or it’s already ended, it’s your opportunity to have this dialogue with yourself and decide what is right for you and to bring that to your own table.

The world is changing rapidly, in realtime, due to social media, and this change signals that it’s time for all of us to begin having more meaningful conversations and to stop waiting for the other person/people to join in or catch up or become the person you want them to be.

Whether you choose to stay or to go, quit or not, discuss or not – open your mind and heart to whatever you choose and live it, breathe it, feel it, let it transform you. It doesn’t matter if it ends, changes, stays the same, you have the power to make it more meaningful. 

Break open or break down? 

For_Writing/Righting

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Getting ready to get into formation

I know writing is what I’m called to do. I’m good at other things, but nothing feels more RIGHT than to WRITE. I love that those two words are pronounced in the same way. Write. Right?  Writing is what rights me.

Sometimes I sit down with the pen in my hand and begin – it might be a list of things, a love letter, a story, a poem. It doesn’t matter what I write, what matters is I end feeling more RIGHT. The invisible is visible, right on the page.

The first line of the Odyssey by Homer is – Sing in me muse and through me tell the story.  For me, this is a call to action – the GO BIG or GO HOME message from the 8th century, giving me permission to write – asking for invisible help to guide me through.  The line by Homer is inscribed on a ring I wear on my pinky finger. It grounds me into writing, it’s right.

I have always wanted to be a writer.

I’m only now willing and able to say I AM a writer AND I’m going to incorporate writing into making a living – somehow – because I must. I know it’s what’s right. Somewhere deep.  It’s what I need.  I don’t exactly know what that looks like yet, but I’m going to keep showing up for it and trust that it will come. When I say something like this, I understand I have to be okay with the outcome – What if this means I end up writing legal copy for packaging? – well that’s not what I really want to do – but if that’s what happens, I’ll trust it’s all part of getting there.

I have this fear that wells up when I say I’m a writer.  I think of my father, who used to write poetry and send it off to Reader’s Digest and nothing would happen.  He too wanted to be a writer in his mid-70s.  Did he start too late? What if I’m like him? What if I can’t make this dream happen? Gulp, I would rather have tried and evolved, than not tried at all. I won’t wait until I’m 70.

I’ve spent the last eight years writing in my spare time, EIGHT! – mostly in the dark shadows, with some thoughts and intentions of bringing it alive, but no real push to actually DO IT.

I know that eight years ago I could not have left a job and started writing, not even two weeks ago was I willing to do it, but getting fired well – it’s forced me to rethink things.

I am ready to do it NOW, because I never stopped writing. I never gave up on it. I kept it in mind, always.  Now, I see that all that writing in the dark shadows, was so that I could write in the light, in the daytime.  I was righting things all along.

What are you called to do?  What are you not giving up on? What rights you?

Next month I’ll share an excerpt from my upcoming memoir. Terrifying writing that here, but it’s what I’m going to do. Fear be damned!

Credit to the words invisible help to poet David Whyte.