Life...or something like it...

I don't remember what I thought my life would be like back when I was a kid. I know I had a lot of big dreams and all of them were probably unrealistically focused on being famous for something or other. I'm sure that was my way of just wanting to be somehow different and special. As I grew up, those feelings changed. I think because I started to realized I was pretty okay the way I was.

These days, I feel a lot of need for change. I had a strange, brief brush with my own mortality at the end of last year and I'm watching my sister fighting the battle of her lifetime right now. As I see this and as I ponder what I went through, I start to feel restless. Like there is something more to life than this 9 to 5 or, in my case, 7 to 4 existence. I feel a little removed from my passion.

Then again, what is my passion? Now that's a good question...

I love the people I serve in my job. I work with services for people who are diagnosed with severe and persistent mental illness. They are, by far, some of the most interesting, courageous people I have ever met. And there is so much we, as a society, should learn from them and do for them. So, I guess that part of my job is one of my passions. But I am also far removed from them too because I am in an office all the time being an administrator. I don't doubt that what I do has some importance but it is not as close to the people as it once was when I was case managing.

I also love animals. I would love to run an animal rescue and take care of those animals that others have discarded. I believe strongly that we are the caretakers of this planet and the animals are where we need to be most conscientious. I have no doubt that in another life I was probably a "crazy cat lady"! Ha! But I can't do that and continue to work my job to pay my bills so there's the catch.

I love to sketch, draw, and paint. I draw all the time. I sketch nightly, filling up paper with ink and pencil drawings of whimsical doodlings from my brain that quickly come and fill up the blanks. My favorite is black and white drawing but I also love to dabble in colors and I can do it for hours on end, losing myself in the time and mystery of it all. So that is definitely a passion.

How does someone follow their passion? How does one make a passion a life's goal? When does it become the seed that grows into something bigger and takes off becoming the integral part of life itself? I feel like I need to find out soon because continuing to do the same thing day after day is becoming mind numbing and soul sucking. So, yes...soon....I hope....

Choose happiness...

One of my nieces posed this question on her Facebook page, "Are you truly happy?" Her friends, all in their mid to late 20s all weighed in with various answers. Some of them decided they were happy for now but things could be better and some were not happy at all and had a laundry list of complaints. I find the question interesting and one that I've asked myself from time to time.

I think about happiness a lot. I see a lot of unhappy situations where I work. People living in poor conditions, dealing with illnesses and poverty and hopelessness but I can't really tell you the last time I saw a truly unhappy person. Because even in the unhappiest of situations, most people will tell me that they do feel some happiness in their lives. Somehow, they find it.

I am a happy person. Now having said that, let me also say that I have slight depression for which I take medication. I am dealing with health issues but meeting them head on. I'm going a bit stir crazy from being home all the time due to my knee surgery. I wish I had more money so I could do more of what I wanted to do but I don't. Yet, I am happy. I look around at my small home, at my husband and family and know that I am loved and have people to love and that is what matters. So I am happy.

I am one person in a big, big world and at the end of the day I might not leave a very big foot print but I do leave a mark so I am happy. I do matter. I have worth. I am interesting in my own way. I can be funny and fun to be around. I can also be crabby and worth leaving alone once in awhile but then again, so can we all! Life is too short to constantly live in a state of want and wishing and worrying. Sometimes, maybe more like all the time, it is very important to relax, breathe and appreciate who and what and where we are. And when you do...it comes to you. Happiness. It's right there. Waiting for you. Just take it.

We were poor?

My father worked for JI Case for a long time but eventually bought a corner bar with attached restaurant in Kenosha. My family, in those years before I was born, lived in Racine and his idea was to have a buddy of his run the bar business while he worked at Case. This would effectively be bringing in two incomes from my Dad alone. My mom worked at Western Publishing in Racine at that time so, if this plan had worked, my family would be raking in some dough, so to speak. There was, however, one large kink in the plan, which my Dad soon found out.

The buddy he had entrusted to run his business was indeed running it right into the ground. Profits were down, mostly due to his drinking them up and then giving away the products! My Dad had to let him go and brought his nephew in to help for a time. But that too wasn't a perfect solution so the day came when the whole family packed up and moved to the apartment above the bar in Kenosha. So it was that I was the only person in my family to be born in Kenosha.

The apartment we lived in was pretty big! There were four big bedrooms. My parents had the largest at the back. My sister and I shared the next largest right off the kitchen. Another sister was in one off the main living room and there was another off the "good" living room. The "good" living room was the one that had the best furniture in it and we were not allowed in there except when there was company or it was a holiday. God forbid we spill something on the good furniture. There would be hell to pay! The only bedroom that I can remember having a closet was my mom and dad's. The rest of us had movable racks to hang our clothes on. When we moved and I had a closet in  my room I had a sort of phobia about it because I always felt like something was lurking in there!

There was one bathroom in this apartment. In it was a large bathtub and a toilet. No sink. Our medicine cabinet, mirror, tooth brushes and tooth paste were all kept at the kitchen sink. It was our only sink so that's where we did all of that and washed our hair! You learn to share and be patient when you share one bathroom with so many kids!

There was no central heating in this apartment. There was a heater in the kitchen and another one in the main living room. We would get up each morning, grab out clothes and get dressed by one of the heaters. It was normal for us. There was also no air conditioning. We sometimes would go sleep out in the back behind the bar if the summer heat was too much. But the truth is, I, for one, didn't know any better. I was a kid and completely oblivious to how other people lived. It wasn't until I was at a slumber party at a friend's house and there was a heat duct in her room that I realized other kids had heated bedrooms!

When I look back there are many things that other kids had that we did not but at the time it just didn't matter. The truth is it doesn't matter now either because my parents made sure we had everything we needed. Sure, I got my share of hand me downs but my mom would fix 'em up and make them seem new. They made sure we had fun as a family - taking short trips on their time off to the Racine Zoo, Paddock Lake or Zion to buy Oleo! Every year, my Dad would load up the car with enough baggage to sink the Titanic and then add however many kids were home at the time plus Mom and we'd head off on the road to spend a week or two with relatives in North Dakota or Iowa. We'd fight and complain and be car sick the entire way but none of us would ever have given up a minute of those trips.

My mom could stretch a grocery budget like a pro. We'd eat creamed peas on toast or tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches but we liked it because she always made it taste so good! On our road trips we never stopped for fast food. No! Our treats were hand packed - sandwiches, fruit, cookies and other goodies - lovingly wrapped in wax paper and kept in a shoe box in the front seat by Mom.

Every Easter we got new dresses, fancy shoes and hats. Every fall we got new school shoes, gym shoes and school supplies. Every summer, we were made to play outdoors and take responsibility for our actions. No, we didn't have a lot of money. My Dad's bar and restaurant was a popular place but not one that made him rich in monetary terms. He made hundreds of friends though. At his funeral, we were overwhelmed by the number of people who came to pay their respects. The funeral home had to open two more parlor rooms to accommodate them all. Most were past customers, some were folks my dad had quietly helped out without telling anyone - a loan here, a hand up there - but all came as friends.

So yes, were were poor, if you look at poverty in terms of money. We didn't have much. Still don't. But what we did have, and still do, is a family that cares deeply for each other, talks almost daily to each other, and cares just as deeply about other people. We know the value of what we have because we have had to do without.

That's me in the corner...losing my religion....

Last week there was a  long article in the local paper about Catholic priests from this area who have been identified as pedophiles and documents showing how the archdiocese handled the allegations oh these many years. The consensus is they didn't handle it well but rather, like other diocese across the US, simply closed the shutters and moved the offenders around from parish to parish. It's sickening and disheartening.

I grew up Catholic. I have fond memories of attending Catholic school and even fond memories of many of the religious teachers - both nuns and priests - I have had. I do appreciate the basic tenants I learned being raised Catholic but, alas, I can honestly say that I am no longer a Catholic. In fact, I don't even believe in God anymore. Well, not the portrayal of God as I had been taught to know him. My disbelief came way before the alleged pedophilia hit the fan. You see, growing up, my mom always told me that whenever I was in need I could call on God and he would be there for me. Then, something bad happened to me. Something I haven't ever really even told my family about because the circumstances would tear them apart. But while it was happening I remembered what my mom had said and I called on him. Over and over again. And the bad thing happened anyway and it's taken me years to come to terms with it. And it's taken me years to realize that, for me, God wasn't there - and isn't here now. For me, he doesn't exist.

I don't judge others who still believe. I think we all have to come to our own spirituality one way or another and if organized religion and the Bible are what they believe that's fine. I realized recently that though I don't believe in God I am not actually an atheist. At least I don't think so. I have discovered my spirituality in my world - the lake, the wind, blue skies, a storm, a breeze - it's all there. There is peace in it. And I do pray but in a very different way now. I find myself calling on my own inner voice. My inner self that gives me peace, strength, a kick in the pants, wisdom and other much needed guidance. I realized it's all been there, inside me, all along. God, or spirituality, to me is not some enigma to be feared or in awe of but rather it's the quiet place inside each of us that guides us to be better people.

I have a friend who was also raised a Catholic. We attended grade school together. She's had a rough life of addiction and a journey to recovery that has been amazing. During her journey, she discovered her Native American roots and the deeply spiritual ways of her ancestral people. When I see her now, she's at peace with herself, her addictions, her life and has a wisdom about her that I admire so much. Maybe when we stop worrying so much about what we believe and we act on what we feel and know to be true, the world can heal. And all will be right at last.

Not so much...

It's funny watching my 20-something nieces interact. There is always some kind of drama going on with them, sometimes it revolves around boys, other times it's someone in their "crowd" that they just "don't get".  The drama makes them "stressed out" and "tired of it all" and even stops them from going out to certain parties or places if "he's going to be there". I can remember being in the thick of that kind of drama when I was that age. I think we all were back then. It was part of the growing process when we took our cues from our friends and TV and Mademoiselle magazine. We wanted to be unique but the kind of unique that "fit in" with our friends. We were decidedly the same, but in a good way. Yet, we revelled in the made up whoopdydoo's that swirled around us all the time. We were finding out who we were and what it all meant.

I'm not sure when it happened - when did I stop caring about what other people think of me and just really started enjoying who I am. There was no epiphany for that. It just happened. And when it did all that made up histrionic drama went with it. In the words of that great meme, "Ain't nobody got time fo' that!" And I don't. The older and wiser I get the more I know that rolling with the flow is so much more comfortable than trying to leap the waves. I'm not saying we have to conform. Oh hell no! Far from it! I'm saying we have to accept the persons we are and get on with it.

The funny thing is, when you do that? The acceptance thing? All these crazy, exciting doors open up. Doors you might have missed or wouldn't have even known they were there! Suddenly, because you don't gage yourself by what other's see, you can really get out there and live! There's nothing to lose and everything to gain. And the other thing you learn is that all that time you spent worrying that other people wouldn't get you - well, turns out it didn't matter anyway! You see, the other people are all worrying about that very same thing. We just spent years of senseless worry! So much better just to be who you are and get on with living and enjoying every single breath!

Take risks!
Take a chance!
Give someone else a chance!
Laugh a lot!
Cry when you have to! Sometimes that can be for the silliest reasons - like a Hallmark commercial - but just go ahead and cry!
Dance!
Paint something! Even if you never tried it before. Do it! It's therapeutic. And you may surprise yourself.
Make friends. Have as many friends as you can possibly make but always know you'll only have a handful or so that you can always rely on. It doesn't matter. They are all your friends.
Give something away.
Give the gift of your time to someone else.
Stand up for something!
Write your life story. Seriously, sit down with a notebook and just start writing whatever you remember about growing up. What a great gift for someone you love.
Sing! LOUDLY! Make up a song if you have but just SING!
Dress up once in awhile.
Wear a costume once in awhile. For any reason.
Delight in the joy that other people can bring you. Be proud of the people in your life. Show them!

And most important - just be you. Because no one will be able to resist the real you.

Three people I will never forget...

When you stop to think about your life, you have to remember those people who somehow influenced, good or bad, and helped make you the person you are today. When I think of my life I can remember many influential people. Some were influential for what they taught me, some for how they lived their lives, and some just for being who they were. I'm going to talk about three of those people today. Three people that somehow touched me and I will never forget them.

Uncle Bill Whelan -
My Uncle Bill Whelan was my Auntie Hazel's second husband. I was pretty young when we would go see them at their home in Waukon, Iowa. Now, my Auntie Hazel was something out of a Better Homes and Gardens Magazine circa 1955. She always wore a pretty cotton house dress with an ever present apron. She had eye glasses that she must have gotten in the mid-50's and just kept from that moment on. They were dark brimmed with a slight cat eye. She was always  cooking in the kitchen when we visited. A kind soul, soft spoken and very sweet. Uncle Bill was even quieter. He was a short roly poly balding man who always seemed a little grey in every way. He would smile at Auntie Hazel as if the sun rose and set in her very presence. I recall one summer, on our annual trip to see them, that his eye sight had gotten very bad. He was going blind and it was hard to watch him enter a room, unaware anyone was there, and flip the light switch on and off and on again in the hopes that he would suddenly see better with the light on. That summer was hot and my cousins were no where to be found. I don't quite remember where they were but I was a little bored and a whole lot hot. My Dad, Mom, Auntie Hazel and Uncle Bill's daughter Julie were all playing cards. Uncle Bill couldn't see well enough to play. I lazily wandered out to the front porch and sat, bored, on the porch swing. A short while later the creaky screen door opened and Uncle Bill came out and sat next to me. He had two large glasses of ice cold lemonade. The good homemade kind with real lemons. We sat quietly swinging for a while and then he said, "A little boring here, isn't it?" I agreed. Uncle Bill took my hand and led me to his car. Yes, even though he was legally blind he was still driving! No kidding! There was only one place he drove to anymore and there was absolutely no traffic on the lonely country roads he took. He was driving me to his farm! Uncle Bill had a farm house and a barn and a bit of land not far outside of Waukon. It was in a pretty isolated area so there really were no other cars on the road. He rented the farm house out to a family who looked after his animals there. When we got there we went into the barn and he started to saddle a beautiful pale horse. Even though he couldn't see much anymore, he instinctively knew how to do this. I got to ride that horse all afternoon while Uncle Bill waited in the shade of a nearby tree. He didn't care how long I road and I was never happier! That was the highlight of my trip! When we got back to Aunt Hazel's a few hours later, my Mom and Dad were frantic! They knew Uncle Bill could barely see two feet in front of him yet he had driven me at least 15 miles to the farm! Aunt Hazel poo-pooed the whole ordeal claiming, "Oh everyone knows to get out of his way if they see him coming!" I'll never forget my Uncle Bill for recognizing a little kid's boredom and making it a day to remember!

2. Mr. Freeman -
From the time I was born until I was about 10, we lived above my parents bar and restaurant, Kelly's Tavern. Right next door there was a small auto garage run by an African American man named Mr. Freeman. To get to my best friend Janet's house I had to pass his place every day and very soon I took to stopping in to say hello. This was in the late 60s so a little white girl and a grown black man were unlikely friends. But we were. Every time I stopped in his shop, he would stop what he was doing and chat with me. I could tell him anything and ask him his opinion on anything. Things like "what do you think about a mom and dad that won't get their daughter a new Barbie" and "if you wanted to go to Paddock Lake with the neighbors but you knew you had chores what would you do?" Mr. Freeman was a font of knowledge and advice to me. Somedays, I would take two bottles of Coke from the bar and take them to Mr. Freeman's. He would open the bag lunch his wife made him and share half with me and I would give him a Coke and we would talk and talk. He never made me feel like I was intruding or like I was a kid! One day his son came in. He was in his 20's and was, what you might call, a "militant" black youth. He looked at me with a cold stare and started yelling at his father about "white honkies" and "little white bitch". I assumed he meant me and it scared me. Mr. Freeman got very loud and told his son to leave. After he was gone, I sat very quietly for a while. Mr. Freeman told me that in his lifetime there have always been people who hated him because of the color of his skin. He said that was very wrong and that everyone should be able to be friendly and get along. He said he never wanted me to be afraid of anyone because of their skin color and he hoped that I would always have friends who were different than me. Then he added, "Just like me!" Mr. Freeman walked me next door to the bar where my dad was working. He told my dad what had happened and how scared I was. I watched as my dad and Mr. Freeman shook hands. Then, when he was leaving, he gave me a hug and said, "See you tomorrow! I think we're having my wife's meat loaf for lunch." Mr. Freeman was the first person of color I had ever known and his kindness and readiness to spend time with a little white girl taught me a huge lesson in love, tolerance and acceptance. He's the reason that, to this day, I am appalled at racism and hatred that still exists in this country. Life's way to short to pass by the opportunity to have a dear friend like Mr. Freeman just because of the color of his skin. And I hope that somewhere his son learned this lesson too.

3. Lee VanDyke -
Years later, I attended the University of Wisconsin - Parkside. I was majoring in Communications with an emphasis on Theatre Arts. I was acting. I auditioned for every show from the moment I started my college years. During my last two years there, a teacher/director named Lee VanDyke was hired. Lee saw in  me aspects that I didn't even know I had. He cast me in roles that challenged me and he made me a better actress. During the summer months, he would direct a short season of summer plays. I auditioned for those too and got cast in those as well.  It was during the run of one of these summer seasons that my dad passed away. His passing was not a surprise. He had been ill will leukemia for some time. We had just finished the first weekend of shows and had a pick up rehearsal on that following Thursday. The morning of that rehearsal my Dad passed away and I was devastated. No matter how well prepared you think you are, when you're dad passes, you realize nothing can ever really prepare you for it. I called Lee and told him. He said he would leave it up to me but if I didn't make rehearsal that night it was okay and perfectly understandable. I just couldn't do it so I skipped the rehearsal but I knew I could not skip the show. The cast and crew were counting on me as were the people who had already purchases tickets. As they always say, "The show must go on." That Friday night I showed up to get in costume and make up. I was running on fumes, numb and not really sure what I was doing. I was putting on a brave front but inside I was screaming. Before the show, Lee came to me and took me aside. He pressed a note into my hand. It said that he knew my Dad would be proud of me as he often saw the look of pride on his face when my Dad came to see me act. He also said that he was proud of me and that even though no words would ever take away the hurt I was feeling inside, he knew that I would go on and be strong and be great. And I did. I went out on that stage and before I knew it the show was over. I mean I seriously did not have a single memory of a minute on that stage. But at the curtain call, the audience erupted in loud applause and everyone stood for a standing ovation! It was the first time that ever happened and I was amazed! I had done the best performance of my college career and it was at a time that I couldn't feel much more than sorrow. I've kept that note from Lee. And I still have contact with him on Facebook. He is a very special person, a mentor, a teacher, and a friend who took a scared, sad girl and challenged her to become everything she could be. I will never forget his kindness, his humor and his smarts. He had a great influence on my life.

So there they are. Three people whom I will never forget. I'm sure there are so many more! I thank all of the great influences in my life and hope that I have, in some small way, influenced someone else in their life too.

Normal isn't all it's cracked up to be!

A friend of mine, who's going through a particularly rough time right now, said to me just the other day, "I just want to be normal!"

I've been thinking a lot about that since then. What exactly does that mean? What is normal? I know what it means in her case. She wants to have a "normal" family, and a "normal" job, and a "normal" boyfriend, and a "normal" life. For her, "normal" is based on the idealized version of what life should be like. I don't know all that many people who actually get that. In fact, I don't know anyone who actually gets that.

We are all the product of our past, our families, our behavior, our education, our trauma and our happiness. All of it shapes us into who we are today. And even though there are those who, from the outside looking in, seem perfect in every way, we are all gloriously flawed.

Some flaws are minor, to be sure. Others leave deep wounds that take years to heal. Life, if you're living it right, leaves scars. That's how we learn and grow.

Normal is not the Norman Rockwell family eating dinner at the table where the Mom happily serves the Sunday roast as Dad peers lovingly over his newspaper at the kids. I don't think that even really existed when Rockwell painted it. Sometimes dinner tables are loud, raucous places where people get a helping of bad feelings with their jello. Sometimes dinner tables are silent and cold where one person eats alone and wishing. Sometimes there's not even a table at all.

Normal comes to us when we realize we are the heart of the matter. At some point, in spite of what hurt, trauma, abandonment, rejection or smothering adoration we may have survived as children, we have to stand up for ourselves and create the life we need. Not the life we want because too often that life is unattainable - but the life we need.

When we can accept that our parents won't always be there for us in the way that we need them to be, When we can recognize that sometimes we are creating our own drama and if we just stepped back and saw it for what it was we could get rid of it once and for all, When we realize we can make decisions that are in our own best interest in spite of what other's might think of those decisions, then we have reached our "normal".  There's something to be said for taking a good look around sometimes and realizing that we may not be able to rely on our immediate family but we have a vast number of people who know and love us and our rooting for us every step of the way. That's called growing up and once that happens, the world becomes a much better place for us. Because we all have flaws and hurdles we must pass, we need to realize that this is what is normal for everyone!

In my family, I have been blessed with siblings that are closer than most. Yet, when we come together the natural birth order just takes place  and we all get right into our "spots" without a word. Even though we all have families of our own, we are not without skeletons in our closet. We have all been through losses, traumas, break ups, sorrows and survived. We have all had to define ourselves in this world and rely on each other to accept who we are. In that way I know I am lucky.

But I also know that I have people, unrelated to me, that I can always rely upon for support. My friend does too but she cannot see it for what it is. She feels alone. She feels abandoned. Yet, she is not. I wish I could open her eyes to that. Instead she is reverting back to relying on someone who time and again has disappointed her because she so desperately wants a "normal" life. She will be disappointed again and it will devastate her all over again too. I wish I could convince her to stand up, on her own two feet, and see her life for what it is - totally and completely normal!

Normal is as we each define it. It's how we choose to live it. My normal cannot compare with yours because normal is so individualized. And that's why when someone is calling out that they wish they could just be "normal" I always tell them, YOU ARE! We all are!

The following is an excerpt from a book I'm working on...

The book is loosely based on my life and this is part of something I've been working on. Interested in hearing what you think of it....

 As a child, I have been told, I had a horrible way of registering pain and suffering. Whenever I got hurt or was disappointed or just plain didn't get my way, I would cry. Not just cry...I would let out one long wailing cry that lasted until every ounce of breath was out of my lungs. Then I would turn blue and pass out. Of course, this would scare my poor mother out of her wits. They tell me I would do this almost anywhere but the worst times were when I was in some precarious situation where my passing out would just cause me further injury and trauma. My mom told me that one time I was at the top of our hallway stairs. Again, we lived above my Dad's bar and those stairs were steep! I started crying over a paper cut, or small bruise, or hurt feelings at the top and launch into my long wail without breathing which then would make me pass out and launch myself head first down that creaky flight of stairs. All the while my mother was horrified, standing at the top, thinking for sure that this time I had, indeed, killed myself. Another time was at my oldest sister's wedding. I naturally don't remember this, this was all told to me by my parents, but apparently I bumped into something and started wailing and was launched down a hard set of stairs in front of everyone at the reception. I always knew how to make a dramatic entrance. My Dad said that “a cold compress and several Shirley Temples later, I was just fine”.

 It's funny how some memories are taken in as you live them but some are given to you by the people who were around at the time. I clearly don't recall my strange way of crying and passing out but everyone in my family does. There are other memories like this in my life. For instance, we have an old photograph of my standing on a dock up in northern Wisconsin at a cottage we used to go to every year. My sister Patsy is standing next to me. I'm holding an enormous stringer of fish as though I caught them. I'm about two at the time. Patsy is holding the fishing pole. It's more likely that she caught the fish herself but the only way you can even tell it's her is because she had boney legs and knocked knees when she was a kid. Her head is completely cut out the picture. I think that one picture kind of sums up my early relationship with my sister Patsy. She was the “baby” for seven years before I was born. Sure, I was a big surprise but once I was here I was lavished with loads of love and attention. Not just from my parents either. My other older siblings treated me like baby royalty and, unfortunately, that was the end of Patsy's reign. She spent most of my formative years thinking of ways to ditch me in the neighborhood or stuff me behind a bed without getting caught. Hey, I don't blame her! If I was her and I came along, I'd hate me too! My mother didn't help the situation much. She would insist that Patsy take me everywhere with her. Whenever she went outside to play, mom would insist she strap me into the stroller and take me along. Now remember, Patsy is only seven years older than me. I was about two when this was happening so my mom was entrusting my safety and well-being to a nine year old. A nine year old who hated me! Patsy would stroll me over to the Fox's house. The Fox family – George, Bernice and their kids – lived a couple of houses away. Patsy would leave me sitting in their back yard, still strapped into the stroller and then she would go around the corner to play with her best friend Kris. She would come back and get me on her way home and my mom was unaware of the entire escapade. I was so little that I just sat there, looking around and enjoying the sunshine. Mr. Fox worked so he was gone all day. Mrs. Fox was usually home but she never came out of the house. But one day Mr. Fox came home early and found me! He called my mother and asked why I was just “parked” in his backyard. My mom came and got me and waited for Patsy to come home. Of course, Patsy was frantic because she had “lost” the baby and, though relieved to see I was okay, she faced the wrath of my mother. My mother, as it happens, was not worried about me at all. She knew I was safe the entire time. No, she was embarrassed that Mr. Fox had called because that didn't “look right” and that was always the most important thing to my mom. Throughout our lives she always worried that we were doing something, saying something, wearing something or associating with someone that would make other people think it didn't “look right”. My mother was no snob. That's not what she meant at all. It was not the social economic standing of people we hung out with or the need for designer clothes. No, to my mother it was all about deportment, how you carried yourself, how good your manners were and if you took pride in your appearance. To her, these were the outward signs of a good character and it mattered to her what “Mrs. Kelleher's daughters” did, said and looked like when they were out and about. After all, we were the physical reflection of our parents.

 To some it might sound horrid that a mother would allow (read that force) a nine year old to take her two year old sister outside and expect that she would monitor that horrible toddler all day. I suppose now in this times it is a risk and likely cause for someone to call in Social Services. But back then, in that neighborhood, there was no way I was ever going to be hurt or kidnapped. In our neighborhood everyone knew everyone else's business. Every mom and dad had free reign to dole out punishment as they saw fit. If you were caught acting a fool at someone else's house they'd give you a swat, yell at you and send you home and, before you even had a chance to make up a good excuse, they would have already called your mom so she was well informed of your shenanigans even before you set foot in the door. Then you'd get another swat, some more yelling, sent to your room and, probably grounded for a while. Back then, before TV's and personal computers and Playstations were in every kid's bedroom, being grounded was like death. We never wanted to have to stay indoors and taking away our wandering rights was like tying us up and leaving us for dead! Yes, it was that dramatic. The funny thing is, just as each parent had full approval to punish as needed, they also would feed you and doctor you if you got hurt. If you happened to be over at a friend's house at noon, you'd get fed. They never sent you home at lunch time, only at dinner. If you fell and scraped your knee, they'd clean it off, put on some Mercurochrome, and give you a band-aid and send you back out to play. All mom's back then thought alike. If you got in trouble, or if someone said you did something wrong and called your mom, your mom would believe them, no questions asked. There were times when I got in trouble for crap I didn't even do but when I got home I still got it! My mom's philosophy was that if I was there at the time it happened, even if I wasn't directly involved, I probably at least thought about doing it so that deserved a punishment!