What Is A Miracle?

I strongly believe in miracles and that they happen around us every day. I am not speaking of the Red Sea parting or the dead rising again or the people surviving incurable diseases. Those are the types of miracles that everyone can recognize; the kind people talk about for years. Those are the miracles that we pray for, beg for, plead for, but too often never receive. Instead we witness the little miracles, not appreciating the splendor of them.

I watched it snowing this week, listening to traffic updates on my radio as I traveled back and forth to work. Every day I made it to work and back home safely. To me that is a miracle in itself. I have bitched and complained about yet another failed relationship. My family and friends still listen to me, sometimes begrudgingly, but still concerned and empathetic. That is definitely a miracle, since I am sure that I wear them out. My sister, who has seen too much sadness the past year, makes me laugh, encourages me, consoles me, loves me. It is a miracle that she is able to lay aside her grief to do all of that for me. My mom worries about me, nags to me, interrogates me, loves me, laughs with me. Considering all that I have put her through, it is a miracle that she is still willing to accept and love me. My children live productive, happy, solid lives. Because I was not always there for them when they needed me, it is a miracle that they became such wonderful people.

I vow to stop at least once a day to look around for those miracles that I have taken for granted. And not just look, but really see them and appreciate that I was a part of them. What miracles did you witness today that others may have not even noticed?

Second Childhood?

Some days I feel my age, some days I feel old, but most of the time I feel like a kid. Or maybe I just act like one. I strive to be childlike and not childish. There is, however, a thin line that separates the two. Most of the time I am balancing on that line, teetering dangerously close, but trying not to cross it. If only the line were delineated more clearly, then I would know that I have gone too far. Inevitably in relationships, my toe inches across that point and does not seem to stop. I am fine until my mouth falls into the land of childishness.

Today is a perfect example of toeing the line. My significant other and I have been disagreeing a lot lately. He thinks he is perfect and I know I am less than perfect. He assumes he is always right and I admit I am wrong but try to make things right. I have attempted to be a reasonable grownup. I have debated a fair fight to no avail. It frustrates me to reason with someone that will not listen to reason. When the rational approach doesn’t work I ultimately sink to a new level. I become so disheartened by the sheer craziness of it all I jump in the boat to reside in Crazy Town with him. I know the importance of coffee in his life; not because I ever drink it. It is just a fact. So, what did I do? I grabbed the coffee off the shelf and hid it. I didn’t resort to breaking anything valuable. I simply wanted to inconvenience the man I had claimed to love. Now this may seem like a trivial, insignificant action on my part, but I must say that it worked. It took practically no time at all for my cell phone to ring this morning while I was at work to ask me what I did to his coffee.

“What coffee?” I innocently responded. “Oh, the coffee I dropped on the floor and had to clean up?” I lied. After we hung up a slow smile spread mischievously across my childish face. I pictured him pulling on his coat, hopping into a freezing car and driving down the street to get a nice cup of coffee. Score one for the kid. My work here is done. Time to get the hell out of Crazy Town. But I am positive that I will visit again……..

AND SOON!!

Wistful Thoughts of Home

My family has been trying for years to convince me to move back to Ohio. On several occasions I have been thisclose to relenting. Inevitably, something keeps me here in West Virginia. What is that something you ask? I would love to give you some reasonable answer to your question. Things like: a fabulous career, unbreakable bonds of friendship, a terrific home, roots of my other (biological) family. Alas, it has always been about a man. I couldn’t leave my second husband and he refused to move. When I did finally end that dreadful union I met another man. I cannot seem to leave him and he is unwilling to uproot from his family. I don’t hold that against him.

Writing this blog has made me incredibly homesick. Memories of being young and carefree surrounded by loving family and friends have punctuated my every thought as of late. Writing has brought me closer to my family and yet I feel distanced from them. If only my muddled, mixed-up brain could finally make a decision and stick to it. I want to leave, I want to stay, I want someone else to make the decision for me. Why is it so damn difficult? What keeps me with a man and away from my family? I know how to be alone and not feel lonely. I am sure that I am able to brave the world without a man next to me. I am not really a love-craving, sex-starved, middle-aged woman.

Okay, so maybe I am all of those things. Okay, so maybe I appear more confident than I am inside. Perhaps I am just the teenager that longed to be loved and accepted. Unfortunately, I continue to search for fulfillment with the absolutely wrong men. Men that cannot, or will not, accept me for the person I truly am. The woman, who, at times, lives too hard, laughs too hard and loves too hard. Just to keep from dying too much, crying too much and hating too much!

The Finer Things

I, like probably most people in this world, take the little things in life for granted; things that we never give a second thought. I suppose that some may appreciate running water, working plumbing, or even the taste of ice cream on a hot summer day. But for most of us, we just don’t consider the little things in life as a luxury. I grew up in a middle class suburb with practically every material item I could want. Maybe that is why I simply considered certain things a given; that it was a right to have water flow from the faucet when you turn the knob. I didn’t really know anyone in my young life that struggled to survive. I am sure that I saw these people every day and I just hadn’t realized their struggles. Just part of growing up with affluent family and friends.

When I first moved to West Virginia I was exposed to a different way of life but I still did not fully comprehend the difficulties of simply living to survive. Then I met my second husband, Pat. I have no idea now what it was that really attracted me to him. He was just a backwoods, country boy raised in a poor but good family. He wasn’t rich but he certainly was no longer poor. That is why I was surprised to see his home. It was actually more like a shack. The outside was just insulation; the inside was simply particle board. The bathroom had no bathtub or shower, a broken toilet and a sheet for a door. That is why it is so amazing that this spoiled, city girl decided to share my life in this ramshackle home.

The land that the house sat on was breathtakingly beautiful, totally isolated from the outside world. I would take walks through the meadows, through the woods and to a point where I swear you could touch the clouds. I spent hours sitting on the peak of our mountain convening with nature, trying to find myself. Or maybe I was trying to escape the hardships of living in a home with barely running water, a husband that was so much more charming at first sight and a past to overcome.

Maybe I did find myself during my years of isolation. I realized that living like I was a neighbor to Mary Ingalls was not the life I had foreseen. Living with a man who turned out to be emotionally devoid of compassion and lacking the intelligence I yearned for finally convinced me to move back to the city. Now that I am in the metropolis (okay so Charleston, WV is not that big) I have come to appreciate the finer things in life: a flushing toilet, running water and stores within walking distance.

Growing Up or Bust!

I thought that with the introductions of my family I would be satisfactorily done with my reminiscing for a little while. Then I happened upon Facebook. My sister, Kendra, convinced me to try it out. I swear my family enables my addictive personality. Do they not realize that blogging and Facebook are now the objects of my obsession? I am placing blame for my lack of sleep and the insistent clicking from one email address to another (one for Blogspot and the other for Facebook) squarely on my family. Listen up family, “Stop offering me suggestions of joining this and writing there or my fingers will be permanently stuck to my keyboard.” When I am lying in the gutter begging the random passerby for internet access, you will have only yourselves to blame.

I joined Facebook on Saturday and already have acquired eleven friends. With the exception of my sister and my son, the rest are all old classmates from high school. I have looked through all of their photos; their lives looking so perfect to me. I wonder if they remember any of the angst of our teenage years. I wonder what memories they have of me. I remember them as being the best friends, the boys I mooned over for hours on end and some that glided through school hoping to be recognized or even hoping to slide through in virtual anonymity.

I mostly remember the one thing that seemed to set me apart from the other young girls in my class. BOOBS! I had them since the fifth grade. Fellow classmates, male and female, would gaze at them often, both sexes wishing they had them, for different reasons. All of them were so fascinated by them that they garnered various nicknames for me, ranging from “Puffs,” they swore I stuffed, “Bahama Mama,” chanted as I walked down the hallway or “Boobla’” derived from my maiden name of Sibla. They were also obsessed with my bras, the “Over-The-Shoulder-Boulder-Holder.” My undergarments saw more places than I did. Their views ranged from the top of a flagpole, inside of freezers, and ultimately on someone’s head.

I was convinced that my breasts were actually a totally separate person just attached to me for a symbiosis relationship. I can prove this theory because they had their own anatomy. My breasts have eyes because everyone stares at them. They have ears because everyone talks to them. And they definitely have a mouth because every time I reach across the dinner table they plop into the mashed potatoes.

Having these two incredible beings attached to me did make me very popular in school. I wonder if my friends from Facebook still remember me or just my breasts. Either way, I remember them fondly as the cute young boys who tried to kiss me and the sweet young girls who befriended in spite of the two objects they coveted.

My Little Boy Became a Man

After I had Megan I knew that I had to have another child. I honestly loved being a mother; definitely more than I loved being a wife. When Megan was only nine months old I discovered that I was pregnant again. My husband and I were both too young and not yet established and yet I instinctively knew that we could handle another child. Another tiny life that would love me and that I would love completely. I thought that we would have another little girl. I sometimes wished that it would be a girl. Not that I could love a little boy any less. Our family just seemed to produce girls and I thought that I was better equipped to deal with another daughter. But as soon as I laid eyes on my handsome little boy I knew that I wanted this child more than another girl.

“Mister” Corey was an amazing baby. He rarely ever cried, did not demand much attention and was good natured. I never had experience the “terrible twos” with this little guy. If I told him not to do something, he would back his rear end into the corner, stick out his lip so far I feared he may trip over it, and look at me with such disappointment. He never, however, did whatever it was I had scolded him for doing. He did not test my limits as his big sister did. He was quiet, not really speaking for the first couple years of his life. He actually didn’t need to; his sister did all of the talking for him. She was motherly towards him throughout their lives.

He was agreeable, considerate and loving. Sometimes I felt a little distant from him but he didn’t seem to need attention as some young children did. I feel as though I should have paid more attention to him but he hasn’t verbalized any mistakes I have made.

Now that he is a young man I realize the compassion and caring he shows to everyone. He is at his best with young children, the disabled and the elderly. I notice that he opens doors for his girlfriend (ah, chivalry is not dead in his generation). He expresses his gratitude often and easily without having to be encouraged. My little boy has become a man that I admire and respect. Corey lives life caring for those he loves, laughs easily with loved ones and loves without abandon. I am privileged to be “Mister” Corey’s mom!

Father Figure

After Kathy divorced Ronnie, she married, divorced, remarried and divorced again. My suggestion to her was not to marry again; just live with a man. She took my advice when she met Rich. She fell in love with this handsome, charming man. They had just enough in common to enjoy each other’s company, yet they possessed enough differences make their lives interesting.

I call them “The Bickersons.” As I have previously noted, my mom, Kathy, likes to nag and Rich likes a good argument. They usually fight a good fight together and their relationship has usually grown because of it. Some relationships couldn’t withstand a good argument from time to time, but not these two. Maybe it is the making up they enjoy. Maybe they just need an outlet to deal with the pressures of every day life. Whatever the reason, their occasional disagreements helps their love grow stronger.

Rich loves my mom with a passion she has never known before. He has a relatively laid back nature, without being boring. He is outgoing, scrappy, amorous. Even though my sister and I are not his own, he has always shown us love and respect. We have come to love and respect him, adopting him as our dad. His own children are not very close to him, and since that is their own choice, I am convinced that it is definitely their loss. Maybe they do not appreciate what I can see so clearly.

Rich has not forsaken, judged, or been cruel to me any way. He has always been giving, loving and accepting. Where my dad, Ronnie, has a tendency to be aloof and distant, Rich expresses his love openly and passionately. Though he may not have legally adopted me as my dad did, I have embraced him as my dad. He has been a profound influence in my life and for that I am extremely grateful. He has lived a devoted life, laughed a hearty laugh and loved a tender love. Thank you, Mom, for sharing this wondrous man’s love with me for the last fifteen years and for the rest of our lives!

Mis(ter)Conception

When Kathy was young and trying to escape a home that had caused so much pain, she met a young man. He was from West Virginia but working in Ohio. He was ruggedly handsome, dark, but highly intelligent. For about fifteen minutes he made for a pretty good distraction. As suddenly as he appeared into her life, he went back to the hills of West Virginia. He wanted to take her back with him but Kathy could never leave her metropolitan roots for a single-wide trailer nestled in the middle of nowhere. That is the way she pictured his homestead.

Kathy was now alone and pregnant. He had chosen his place in the backwoods, hill country. He must have lived really deep in the holler because I didn’t see him until I was thirteen years old. He spoke this foreign language that I was unable to understand. I think it was called “Hillbilly-eez.” My biological father was a complete and total stranger to me. I recognized, however, the profound resemblance between us.

I spent one week each summer with him, his wife and my younger sister and brother. We looked like a family. We all shared the same dark hair and almost ebony eyes. For that one uncomfortable week each year we acted like the perfect tv family, all polite and smiling. But there was just no substance to our time spent together. Maybe because we did speak in different tongues. We had no memories to share. Those memories that bind a family. They had their own only family and I had mine.

After my first failed marriage, my biological father offered me a place to live. I had longed to be a part of his family for my first thirteen years. Years filled with angst, yearning for a sense of belonging. Seeking a relationship with a man I hardly knew, I moved to West Virginia and fell in love. I would like to say that I fell in the love with the man who helped to create me. With no memories to share, we were as we had always been, strangers. We did come to share one thing. We both loved West Virginia.

Even though my fantasies were more satisfying than reality, I have made my life here in West Virginia. I have not seen my father in quite some time. I have no ill feelings for him. How do you feel ill towards a complete stranger? I am thankful that our relationship brought me to the place I call home. My father gave me the gift of living, laughing and loving in the state of “Almost Heaven!”

Peaceful, Easy Feeling

Probably the most difficult decision my mother, Kathy, ever had to make was turning my care over to Dolly and her second husband. She knew that they would love and care for me, but it was heartbreaking for her. A lesser woman would have went on with her life, free to do as she pleased. Not Kathy. Her determination to be with me grew stronger with each passing day. She forged her plan for us to be reunited. She worked and saved, convinced that one day she would be with her little girl.

She met and fell in love with a couple of men while we were apart. While these men were good companions for her, she inherently knew that they would not be the best father for her child. Then one day she met the man that would be a good husband and, more importantly, a perfect father. Ronnie was capable and willing to love a child that was not biologically his own. After they married and became established Kathy brought me home with them.

Ronnie was devoted, docile, dependable. He had a strong sense of family and definition of his role. Ronnie was determined to support his family. He worked many long hours to provide for us. We never wanted for anything. Never being a stern disciplinarian, his manner of parenting was laissez-faire. I honestly only remember one time during my childhood that he raised his voice to me. I was heartbroken for days, knowing that I had disappointed him by my behavior. Unfortunately, I am sure that I disappointed him many times throughout my life. It was not anything her ever said or did to make me feel this way. I just knew!

Everyone who ever encountered him fell in love with him. He had a gentle nature with a soft, easy laugh, undoubtedly the best I have ever known. While their union did not last after I grew up, my mother gave the gift of having him as my dad. Ronnie lives a quiet life, laughs an easy laugh, loves a gentle love. My world has been a better place with his peaceful spirit.

Not Just Another "Pee" in the Pod

The oldest child of Dolly, my Nanny, and Papa was my Uncle Kip. They had not really given him a middle name, just “E.” As a term of endearment, he was called Kippie. I was, however, unable to pronounce his name so I just called him “Pee.” Of all the children Pee probably most resembles Dolly, in looks and personality. He is charismatic, comical, caring.

Pee was popular during school and college. If you scanned his high school yearbook you would notice that his pictures were prominently displayed throughout. He was a class clown as his younger sister, Kerry. To balance the sadness that loomed in the household, we had to find humor wherever we could. After Kathy left, Pee was most often the subject of Papa’s cruelty. This made his tender spirit all that more astonishing.

Pee was companion as I grew up. When I wanted to play he would lightheartedly exclaimed, “Go play in traffic, kid!” Then he would pick me up gently throw me on the floor and wrestle with me. One of my favorite pastimes was listening to him play his treasured guitar. He was very passionate about his music, usually “The Who.” I always knew that pain touched his life, as it had the rest of us. Only fleetingly could I see a faint glimpse of sadness in his eyes. Mostly I only saw his wide smile and heard his gentle laugh.

Pee escaped his father’s home when he reached adulthood. He, like Kathy, was anxious to begin his new life in his own world. I know that I lived a better life because he was a part of it. The love an affection he gave to me will never be forgotten. Even though I only see him rarely, his love stays with me. Pee has lived a joyous life with a joyous laugh to love joyously. My memories of my former playmate will live with me forever.

His Softer Side

Sometimes it is difficult to remember the good times with some people. My Papa was just such a man. I have been thinking a lot lately about the man who fell in love with and married Dolly, my Nanny. Unlike Pat, Dolly’s second husband was more suitable to her. Where she was flirtatious and outgoing, he was solid and serious. Where her focus may have been haphazard, his focus was squarely on her. Even though he may not have known how to show it, he loved her so deeply that he must have ached to watch her deteriorate before his eyes knowing that she would never be the woman she once was.

He had a difficult time expressing his love to his children. He was, however, at his best when we were young. He was never better than when he loved my Uncle Mickey, regardless that he was not his biological son. Mickey had been stricken early in life with Meningitis rendering him deaf and mentally impaired. Mickey knew of him only as “Dad.” He would never comprehend, or have the slightest inkling, that Papa was anything less. Maybe Papa loved him because he would always remain a young boy.

Papa and Kathy, my mom, never really saw eye to eye and he could be cruel to her throughout her life. That may be the reason it was so perplexing that he loved me so. He may not have been my biological grandfather but he was nonetheless my Papa. His love for me brought out the best in him. For as long as I could remember he called me his little “Schnootzer.” I never wanted to be far from him. His strong arms would hold me tightly as I would sit on his lap in his favorite chair. He smelled of Old Spice and, for me, he always wore a smile. Maybe I was the escape from his ordinarily disconsolate existence. The family never truly understood the reason for his unhappiness. The creed of our family was not to discuss such matters.

Papa was a paradox of conflicting traits. He could be formidable, severe, unpredictable. At the same time he was also passionate, affectionate, affable. My promise to myself is to honor his memory by recalling the best of him as often as I can. He may have lived a difficult life, laughed not nearly enough and loved a different kind of love. For today, however, I choose to see beyond his faults and remember his softer life, softer laugh and softer love.

He Loved Abundantly...

Now that I have introduced the six generations of women in my family I must describe the men in my family. Millie’s husband, Sam, and her son, Frank, were both deceased by the time I was born. I only knew them by the few stories I had heard of them. Sam, I was told, was a kind man. I believe that Millie was the domineering partner in the marriage. After his death she never remarried. She did not feel the need to have a man in her life. She had Dolly to focus all of her energy. Millie never spoke of Frank much. His suicide was just too painful for her. Maybe because it hurt Millie so, Dolly didn’t speak much of him either.

Dolly met her first husband, Pat, when they were still teenagers. Pat had movie star good looks and more charm than Clark Gable. He was gregarious, entertaining, passionate. He and Dolly were so much alike, probably too much so. Dolly would say that he took her humor away from her. He would spend hours on end mastering and showing off his magic tricks. She did not relish the competition. Their marriage only lasted a short time. Pat went to the store one day and never came back. He really had not abandoned her. She had left him long before he left her. I believe that the end of their marriage was heartbreaking to him. Dolly, on the other hand, moved on with her life.

Leaving Dolly was probably the best decision for Pat. He met a beautiful, reserved young woman, Betty. She loved him and the five children they had together. With her love and support he became a self-made millionaire. She devoted herself completely to her husband and family. She loved him more than anyone before or after her. Sadly, it just wasn’t enough for Pat. Her passion was just too different to suit his needs. He was always a good man and she was always a fine woman, yet he was still searching for that one woman.

During this time, Pat became known to practically everyone in his community. Undoubtedly any place he patronized someone always recognized him. Unlike Dolly, however, he always knew their name. He was respected and revered. He also encountered a woman that could match his passion. Not long after they met, Pat fell in love and married Jean. Unfortunately, her desires were not always focused on Pat. They divorced after her many indiscretions.

He briefly married another woman. The pairing was so insignificant I am unable to even recall her name. Then to Pat’s surprise he met the woman that he would proclaim the love of his life. She was forty-four years his junior. She, like Pat, had led a hard scrabble life. He loved to entertain her, his family and the entire neighborhood singing karaoke in their garage. His sounds rivaled those of Sinatra, Nat King Cole and Tony Bennett. To his utter dismay, his love did not prove enough for her. During their union, through no fault of his own, he lost his empire. Then he lost her. His fiery Denise. Until the day he died he never truly got over her.

In his last days he lived with his daughter, my mom, Kathy. They had never really know each other but they became best friends in his final years. He became closer to all of his children. When he passed away he had no regrets. Pat discovered that his one true love was actually his devoted family. He had lived many lives, laughed many laughs, and loved many loves. Our family is grateful that he lived with us, laughed with us and loved with us.

A Brand New Year

My heart was broken after the death of Ashley, my beautiful little girl, my dream. Because of the black void in my life, I was consumed by thoughts of having another child. I have read that when a person has a limb amputated they are still able to feel it. I could feel the way she felt in my arms, her smell and her serenely, beautiful face. I physically ached for her. Unbeknownst to my new husband, Ashley’s father, I tried to conceive another baby. It was an all consuming desire to have a new dream, a new baby, a new sense of completeness.

Within two years I discovered that I would finally have the child I so desired. I loved the feeling of life growing inside of me. On December 31, 1986, I went into the hospital for a scheduled Cesarean. As I lay anesthitized, I dreamed that when I awoke I would be holding Ashley in my arms, as if the last 2 ½ years had never happened. When the effects of the anesthesia wore off, the knowledge that Ashley was gone forever was overwhelming. Thankfully, however, the doctor told me that I had given birth to a little girl, Megan. I had a brand new little girl for a brand new year. My celebration of life, laughter and love.

Miss Megan was the most beautiful baby I had ever laid eyes on. As was customary, she had only a small of amount of hair, pale blonde, but her head was perfect (the shapes of heads in our family was always worrisome to my family). Megan’s eyes were the brightest, most sparkling blue. Nurses would comment on this, naming her “Bright Eyes.” She loved to be held, spoken to and rocked for hours on end. She was also perfectly content to lay in her crib and studying her surroundings.

As she grew older, she was imaginative, audacious, zealous. She had a habit of testing her limits and mine. She was, above all, loving and affectionate. My mom has always said that you didn’t visit with Megan, you wore her. That has always been my favorite trait of hers. She, along with her younger brother, filled the void in my life. She completes me.

Now my Miss Megan has a daughter of her own, Little Layla. I only pray that they never have to survive the ordeals that her feminine ancestors had been afflicted. I hope that they may lead a happy life, filled with laughter and love.

The Little Girl I Never Knew

Like my sister, Kendra, I doodled baby names on blank sheets of paper, imagining a tiny person that would love me completely. A baby that I could love completely. The women in my family loved our children fiercely. And a baby accepts you just as the person you truly are. That unconditional, untainted, all-consuming devotion to each other. Unlike my sister, I didn’t wait until my world was established. I discovered that I would have this child that I longed for at an early age. Sweet sixteen and embarking on a new journey. Was I scared? Hell, yes!! Was I worried that I would be unable to provide for all of a baby’s needs and wants? Again, Hell, Yes!! Did I know that I would love this tiny life that grew inside of me? Undoubtedly, Hell, Yes!!

For nine long months I wondered if I would be blessed with a beautiful little girl or a handsome baby boy. I imagined every feature of this miracle inside of me. I dreamed of the future we would share. I hoped for a world filled with happiness and tiny peels of laughter. I envisioned the baby’s smile, the baby’s cry and the baby’s personality. I secretly wished that this child would be the solution for the emptiness that, late at night, would sometimes consume me. This wondrous child would complete me.

On a balmy May day, accompanied by my mom and boyfriend I went to the hospital to finally lay eyes on my baby. The excitement filled the car as I utilized my Lamaze breathing. We giggled and laughed and shouted out the window, “We’re having a baby today!” Childbirth did not instill fear in me. Any fleeting amount of pain would not deter from the miracle that was about to happen. Little did I know that I was destined to experience a lifetime of pain beginning that fateful day.

The fear began when I saw the nurse’s eyes as she informed us that there was a problem with the baby’s heartbeat. Time agonizingly ticked by as if someone had the moment viewed in slow motion. Waiting, waiting, waiting for the doctor to arrive. He rushed into the room and announced that the baby was in distress and that he had to perform a Cesarean section. I reassured my mother that the baby and I would be fine. No one would take my baby away from me now, not after all of my dreams and plans of the future.

Ashley Marie was born that day while I dreamed of her. I was only permitted to see her briefly as my family delivered the dire news. She had been deprived of oxygen during labor and had to be whisked away to another hospital. I watched in terror as she was wheeled away. I only touched her briefly but I could still feel her on my fingertips.

For an entire month we hoped, prayed, wished, demanded that she survive. After all, we were a family filled with female survivors. After all, I wanted this precious little girl more than I wanted for anything before.

Looking around the hospital ward she shared with tiny, premature babies, we were encouraged that she would be healed. Considering she was twice or three times larger than her roommates, she had to have a better chance at healing and living. Her features were so perfectly formed. She was breathtakingly beautiful lying in her incubator so serenely. Unlike the baby girls born into our family, she had a more than modest amount of golden brown hair. Her face was not pinched, her skin was not red from the trauma of her birth. It was unfathomable that this perfect little creature could have left this world without ever knowing it. She passed from this earth only a month after fighting her way into it.

My last memory of Ashley was her lying in her tiny coffin. There should never be a need of a coffin so tiny. She laid so peacefully inside wearing her pink and white bonnet. Tragically Ashley never had the opportunity to live, laugh love. Even more tragic is the fact that I will never know of the joy of sharing her life, her love and her laughter.

My Greatest Christmas Gift

In Dolly’s heart I was always the baby, never having to relinquish my status with her. Even when I left her home to share my mom’s brand new world. I always felt like the treasured little girl I was raised to be.

My mom met and married a man that she knew would be the perfect supporter of her little girl. I began my new adventure with them when I was seven years old. Two and a half years later my mom and dad, as I called her husband, welcomed a new baby girl, Kendra. In our younger years I felt the need to compete with Kendra with my mom and new dad. A Christmas Eve baby, Kendra had a sprinkling of bright red hair and sparkling grayish blue eyes. She fit into the mold of my new family, where I may not have. My mom and dad also had red hair. I looked like a square peg in a round hole with my dark eyes and hair. Kendra was not an overly beautiful baby. Her head was a bit too square and her expressions a bit too serious. Her face was usually pinched and her wails pierced the household on most occasions. Of course, she was always placated by her daddy. He loved her so.

Kendra grew into a precocious, sassy little nymph, with red corkscrew locks. Our parents indulged her every whim. With them she could be whiny and spoiled. But no so with me. I, as Millie had been to Kathy and Kerry, became her disciplinarian. On many occasions, I was left as her charge. In the beginning she resented my methods but later in childhood she came to love and support me. We forged a bond that cannot be broken by anyone or anything.

She has always been my protector. When she was only four years old, my mom was upset and yelling at me in the family bathroom. Kendra rushed my mom from behind and landed a blow with her tiny fist in mom’s back and exclaimed, “Don’t yell at my Krisy!” She has also stood staunchly behind me even when I was wrong. To her, I believe, I can do no wrong. With her encouragement, I am able to do anything I dream to do. My deepest desire is to be just like her when I grow up.

Kendra is affectionate, devoted, impassioned. As the women before her, she has seen too many tragedies at too early an age. Naming her future heirs when she was just a small child, her dream has always been to hold her own child. Her dream nearly came to fruition but was soon extinguished with the deaths of her three infant sons. If you look very closely you can see an inkling of clouds behind her sparkling eyes. She is determined, however, to dream another dream, live a different life, love a new love and laugh through it all.

Forever Laughter

Dolly and her new husband gave Kathy another brother and a baby sister, Kerry. Despite being the youngest of the family, Kerry never fit the stereotypical, spoiled baby sister. She did, however, relish her position in the hierarchy of the family. She may have been a bit willful from time to time but she was generally entertaining; probably a gift inherited from Dolly. Physically she favored her father, but her spirit was rivaled only by her mother.

Loquacious as a child, she would captivate all who entered her world. She could exasperate Dolly and Millie at times, but they still loved her deeply. She struggled, as her sister, in her school years. She too was smarter than she appeared, but, perhaps, lacked the confidence in her intelligence. Instead of taking her life seriously, Kerry made jokes. She was the quintessential “Class Clown.” She was brash, scintillating and vibrant.

She was twelve years old when I was born. Because my mother, Kathy, was discovering her new life in her new world, I was raised in the same house as Kerry. Even though she was technically my aunt, we were more like sisters. We vied for the family’s attention as Kerry lost her position as the “baby.” On the rare occasion, Kerry resented the “new baby,” especially when I was permitted to share her bedroom.

Her room was just that, “Her Room”; her utopia in a life too often filled with uproar and calamity. It must have been difficult to yield her private oasis. More often than not, however, she willingly allowed me to share her world. Many times throughout her life, I was included in her world. Her friends accepted me as a “tag-a-long.” I became a surrogate mascot to her ever growing group of friends. I remember them all fondly as they still remember me.

Life could have eroded Kerry’s vigor for life and stole her humor from her. She is afflicted, as her mother Dolly, with Multiple Sclerosis. Having witnessed the slow progression and destruction of Dolly‘s life, it would have been all too simple to succumb to it. A lesser person would have lost herself in gloom and despair, but she was a fourth generation survivor. Her strength and faith grew limitless as she was dealt another blow. She was diagnosed with colon cancer. She fought a long hard battle with this second deadly disease and overcame another tragedy.

Today, Kerry is the epitome of survival. She has been on the brink of destruction and lives to laugh in its face. She loves this life, lives to love and laughs to endure the world. All I know is that the world is better with her life, her love and her laughter in it!

The Mystic Butterfly

As was all the rage in the mid 1940’s, Dolly sat in the local teen hangout. She sat alone in the corner table quietly amusing herself. Hearing the loud booming laugh she discarded her thoughts and turned slowly to see the source. Across the room she was overcome with desire for the young man standing in a throng of other teenaged girls, hanging on every syllable he spoke. Suddenly he caught her gaze, and for the first time in his life, he was awe struck. He excused himself, walked across the black and white tiled floor and sat down at her table. Before he could say a word she spoke, “Would you like to see my little friend?” Out of her coat pocket, Dolly retrieved a tiny white mouse.

Pat, my grandpa, loved to tell the story of the first time he met my Nanny. He had never encountered such a scintillating, albeit somewhat scandalous, lady. Their short marriage was turbulent. Mother and her husband, Sam, didn’t approve of the young man. Don’t forget that no one was good enough for their precious Dolly. Sam could be heard muttering, “The bum is here.” (side note: the bum became a self made millionaire after their divorce). Out of their love, two children were born, Kathleen and Michael.

Kathy was an unremarkable young girl with red hair and hazel eyes. Her beauty would develop over the years, slowly metamorphosing into a vivid butterfly. She wasn’t as outgoing and charming as Dolly and Louise. She was the perfect balance of all the women before her. One characteristic unique to her was her defiance. She was bold, daring, audacious.

She rebelled against authority at home and in school. Kathy was worldly smart but struggled through her academic years. Her teenage years were fraught in turmoil. Her stepfather grew to resent her and was overtly cruel to her. Millie was too consumed in shielding Dolly to fully protect Kathy; and Dolly was too consumed in her make belief world. Kathy learned survival skills at an all too early age. She became a fighter, though just below the surface was a small girl longing for approval.

Just barely an adult Kathy escaped from her home and the enduring heartbreak her stepfather had caused. She forged a life of her own, always searching for a happiness that may have eluded her in early life. She moved to a new city to pursue a new life. She was finally free to explore life, love and laughter. She had enough sadness, anger and frustration to last ten lifetimes.

On her own she slowly blossomed into a strikingly beautiful woman. Women were drawn to her, forming friendships that would last a lifetime. Men were mesmerized by her arresting spirit and remarkable beauty. Even though she left a number of them brokenhearted, I am convinced that they still long to be in her world for just one more moment. She never intentionally harmed anyone. She was simply on a journey to find the happiness she so deserved.

Because of, or in spite of, her difficult beginnings, Kathy has become a strong and independent woman. She carries herself with grace and dignity even in the face of hardships. She lives fiercely, laughs fiercely and loves fiercely. I am fortunate enough to be the daughter of this extraordinary woman who is more than content to lead an ordinary life.

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Pixie

Millie was strong, even domineering from time to time, but definitely a realist. Louise was alluring, maybe even a seductress, yet also a realist. Dolly, on the other hand, lived a life of make believe. One could speculate that this was her coping mechanism. She endured a multitude of hardships. Growing up Millie, whom Dolly always called “Mother,” shielded Dolly from the harsh realities of life. Perhaps Mother was overly protective of the little girl she had always dreamed of having. She would travel to the ends of the earth and back for her. Throughout Dolly’s lifetime, Mother applauded her for doing well and picked up the shattered pieces when tragedies struck. Nothing or no one would tarnish her perfect porcelain Dolly.

Mother paraded her around town in pin curls and lacey pinafores. She never missed the opportunity to promote her many gifts. She took great pride in regaling Dolly’s talents for singing and dancing. Mother was her biggest fan, her rock and most likely the source of her frustrations. Dolly reciprocated these feelings even though she may have taken Mother for granted. Mother required very little from Dolly. It must have caused Mother an inkling of discomfort to realize that Dolly so much resembled her birth mother, Louise.

Dolly did not have the amazing natural beauty of Louise but they shared the same spirit. Dolly was playful, flirtatious, vivacious. She was like a schoolgirl even into late adulthood. Her laughter was infectious to all that were fortunate enough to cross her path. She never met a stranger and everyone loved being in her company. Everywhere we went someone most assuredly recognized her, rushed to her and exclaimed “Dolly!!” Inevitably, after an ardent fan departed, Dolly would turn to her companion, giggle and say, “I have no idea who that was!”

Even into late adulthood she was like a schoolgirl. She wasn’t irresponsible, actually. She never really had the opportunity to be responsible. Mother wouldn’t allow her the freedom to make many mistakes. But Dolly reveled in knowing that Mother would always be there for her. If Millie was the quintessential Earth Mother, then Dolly was her polar opposite.

I am convinced that I was Nanny’s (as I referred to Dolly) best friend. I was more of an adult as a child and she was more like a child as an adult. We were practically the same age, with the same passions. Every weekend we had our very own slumber party, staying up until the wee hours of the night watching television. During the summer, we would venture out to the drive-in movies. We would be awaked by an attendant knocking on the car window, signaling that the movie had ended and it was time for our adventure to end. These are some of the fondest moments of my entire life.

At a young age, Dolly’s body betrayed her. Before I was born she was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. Her body had been ravaged by disease and the effects were obvious. But that was just the vessel she was destined to endure. The disease never dampened her spirit. She remained the pixie she had been in childhood. She loved to live. She loved to laugh. She loved to love and be loved. And loved she will always be, by her biggest fan and best friend!

Bewitching, Beguiling, Bewildering

Much to Millie's dismay, Louise was once married to her only child, my Grandpa Frank. It was no wonder the reason Frank loved her so. She was a beautiful, regal lady, possessing grace and dignity that eluded other women. She rivaled pin up girls from the 1920's and 1930's. I imagine that in her day she was probably considered the epitome of a femme fatale. Her alluring and seductive charms left men spent and yearning for more. Don't misunderstand me. She never left the men in her life broken hearted, merely aching for one more moment of her company.

Grandma Lou, as she was known to me, was the only one left broken hearted. Since Millie never approved of her (no one could ever be worthy enough of her baby), the marriage between this beguiling young lady and the quiet, enigmatic man lasted only a short period of time. Louise lost not only her first love in the ruins of the marriage, she lost her beautiful little girl. Her Dolly!! She left her life behind her in pursuit of a new and different happiness.

Louise discovered a rich and fulfilled life full of joy and laughter. Along her journey, she passed through our lives in brief intervals. On rare occasions I remember visiting her at a local department store where she was employed. We would stand at a distance and watch her animated interactions. It was obvious to me that Dolly, my Nanny and Louise's daughter, was bewildered by this virtual stranger. She desired, as so many others longed for, to live in her world. A world diametrically opposed to Millie's world. Dolly knew, however, that her relationship with her birth mother would crush Millie. As a result Dolly could only steal rare moments with her bewitching mother and we were left with a longing to know more of her.

Usually with age and the realities of life, beauty and joy fade. Not so for Louise. The last time I saw her she was in her late eighties. She could still vie with Jean Harlow or Marlene Dietrich in the height of their careers. The sparkle in her eyes shone as brightly as it ever had and her smile could still illimunate the darkest night. She never lost her spirit for living, laughing and loving.

The Female Perspective (Part I)

I seem to wonder a lot lately the exact nature of my existence; the reason I have become this unique creature. In an attempt to solve this enigma I have decided to disect the women that have influenced my life (the men will come later just because, in my humble opinion, their species is so much more difficult to comprehend). My wonderous journey begins with my great-great grandmother, simply for chronological purposes.

I was blessed with the auspicious pleasure of knowing this amazing lady, Millie. At my birth she was already 83 years old. I was 15 years old when she passed away. She endured this world for nearly a century. She survived the depression, witnessed the inventions of the car and airplane , and watched in amazement while the first man walked on the moon. She tirelessly raised five generations. She helped raise her two youngest sisters while her parents were alive and was made their guardians after her parents' death. She raised her son, his daughter, her four children and finally me. She lived with my Nanny (her granddaughter) for most of her adult life.

Life, love and heartbreak never broke her spirit. She survived the death of her husband and the suicide of her only son. She rarely spoke of either but behind her bright eyes you could see just a hint of sadness. I suppose a modest amount of sorrow is acceptable as long as it doesn't bury you. Millie was the epitome of fortitude, the strongest person I have ever met.

To me, she was also this lady of mystery. The subject of my bewilderment was the steamer trunk she had in her room. If I could only see inside the trunk I knew that I would have the solution to all of life's little mysteries. She guarded its contents as if it were the Shroud of Turin. Occasionally she would hint at the valuables inside. To encourage best behavior from me she would promise me that I could play with the dollie inside the trunk. Obviously I didn't meet her expectations since I never laid eyes on this dollie in her lifetime. After she died my mother inherited the Shroud of Turin and I was finally able to satisfy my curiosity. Everything that truly mattered to her was contained inside the trunk. Most importantly, for the first time I laid my eyes upon the elusive dollie. It was the most beautiful object I had ever seen; yet not for her eshtetics.

My mother inherited the dollie and it is on proud display. I long for the day when it will be mine. One day, when I am a "good girl," I am going take it out of its box, sit right on the floor and play with it for hours on end; realizing how fortunate I was to be loved by this amazing woman. I only hope that one day I can earn the right to hold her most treasured valuable.

My First Lessons

So my mother sent me to this site and encouraged me to blog. She is the strongest woman I know. She is also opinionated and a nag (love ya, Mama)! Unfortunately she seems to always be right. I value her opinions now as I am a middle aged, twice divorced woman. I seem to be the biggest source for all of her worries. But worrying makes her happy. (I must make her absolutely ecstatic)!!

I have made so many mistakes in my life and yet she still stands behind me. Occasionally it is with one raised eyebrow and her glare that reminds my that I will always be her little girl. Isn't it funny how you usually feel like a grown up except when in the company of your mother? The best time to feel like a kid around her is when she acts like a kid too. Not childish but childlike.

Between my mom and my late Nanny (her mother), I learned how to Live, Laugh and Love. I still remember waking up for school and hearing their laughter from the kitchen table. No, they hadn't gotten up early to prepare my breakfast; they never went to bed. (Maybe they are the reason I am still awake at 4:30 in the morning writing my first blog post) I also recall, with fond memories, the two of them making a mad dash for the bathroom. Inevitably one or the other makes it just short of the goal line. Wet pants making for another round of hysterical, uncontrollable laughter.

They are both survivors. They each had more than their share of obstacles in their lives, but they never let it get them down for long. They have taught me how to really live. Not live as in existing. I mean enjoying life and everything that goes along with it. My Nanny led a little bit of a fantasy life; pushing her problems to the side by inventing a new adventure. A day trip to the mall was more exciting than a trip around the world. My mom is more of a realist. Her passion for living is born from the real world. She overcame her hurdles and found the things in life that matter.

Their abundant love also taught me the art of love. Perhaps we love to our detriment, yet we still open our hearts as if they have never been broken! Between the three of us we have a sum total of nine marriages and eight divorces. Who knows how many others we have loved and lost!?!