The Sandwich Kid, Part IV

Procastination, reluctance, dread, guilt -- all of these have had a hand in my getting back to my installments on being a middle child.  You might remember reading Parts 1, 2 and 3.

Each of the reasons I've listed are due in part to the fact that as the middle child between two brothers, one 14 years older and the other eight years younger, sooner or later you must know that I had to find ways to get even with them.  You know you were expecting this, right?

My brother Eugene (Bubba) (R) and his
best friend, Clyde (Buzz)

I'll start with things occurring related to my older brother.  I must have been about four years old at the time.  I knew his room was off limits.  He was about 18 and graduating high school soon.  In this photo, he's the good looking one on the right.

One afternoon I became curious as to why I wasn't supposed to be in his room.

Mama was busy and I could hear her in the kitchen.  So I tiptoed in and began to look around.  Nothing was of great interest to a four year old.  Until I spied bright colors on the corner of what looked like a piece of paper peeking out from under his bed.

And there it was!  Shiny and glossy.  Beautiful pictures, beautiful ladies!  I had to share them with Mama.  I grabbed as many as my hands would hold and ran to the kitchen.

"Mama, mama!  Look what I found under Bubba's bed!  Magazines with pretty ladies all over the pages.  They're all so beautiful."

Photo credit

Mama wheeled around and took one look at what I was holding.  Imagine her horror when she saw the masthead on the stack of magazines I was sharing with her.

I use this simple image to the right to maintain at least a modicum of tastefulness here.  :)

Well, the worst wasn't over.  Of course, Mama just had to confront Gene when he came home from school that afternoon.

And the worst was when he stopped me in the hallway and to down close to my face.

"If you ever snoop around in my room again or show mama something you've found because you can't stop snooping, I'll kill you!"

Well, you could say he had my attention at this point.  I refused to let him see me cry so I backed across the hall and pushed my way into my room and quietly closed the door.

Already I believed firmly that God's words were to be honored:

And that's about it, friends. Be cheerful. Keep things in good repair.

Keep your spirits up. Think in harmony. Be agreeable. Do all that,

and the God of love and peace will be with you for sure. 

2 Corinthians 13:11-13 (The Message) 

The Sandwich Kid, Part II

Last time in Part I of my story as the middle child, you met my older brother, Gene.  For all time, my hero, someone I looked up to, and yes, even idolized at points in time.  Dreamed dreams of the romantic kind about his friends.  After all, there was 14 years difference in our ages (writer smiles here).

Me, mom and Brad (1954-55)

And then along came Brad, my younger by eight years little brother.  I remember the night he was born -- the disruption in my life began right then and there.

Awakened by my folks in the middle of the night, carted off by my uncle to his house, my impression of this little boy could not have been worse!

Morning came with dad arriving at my aunt and uncle's home beaming from ear to ear.  A man with two daughters from a previous marriage and a little girl eight years old, dad felt like God had blessed him like Abraham in his old age.  I truly couldn't see that this was such a big deal.

In those days (for those of you much younger), newborns and their mamas stayed in the hospital almost a week before coming home.  But come home they eventually did.

Brad didn't sleep.  He cried like a banshee in the night, all night.  And this is not just a child-like opinion.  He had medical issues not clear at the time -- enlarged tonsils and adenoids, which couldn't be removed until a few years had passed.  This meant he couldn't nurse well and breathing while lying down was difficult.  My parents would sit up holding him, while he cried, just so he could breathe and calm down.

Needless to say, I wasn't pleased to hear the words "shh, baby's sleeping" each time Brad slipped into slumber.  Mad would best describe my reaction.  Add to that the sweet things by everyone who came by to visit -- he's such a boy, so cute, so sweet, adorable, precious -- and I became totally disgusted with this crying, wrinkled little being.

Enter bad behavior!  Not that I was the perfect child, but what I'm about to describe was totally out of character for me.  I had heard enough and decided to do something about it.

Mom and dad had a beautiful suite of mahogany bedroom furniture.  In the beautiful wood on top of the nightstand, I proceed to carve with the point of a ballpoint pen, "Shhhhhhhh, baby's sleeping!!!!!!!"

Oh, the punishment rendered was painful but my satisfaction at having sent my message was delicious.  Imagine my horror when my parents never had the top of the nightstand repaired.  Yes, when we cleared out the house that last time after mom's death in 2001, there was my message for all the world to see.

Don't forget to tune back in soon for Part III of The Sandwich Kid!

Photo credit:  Bargain John's Antiques


Linking up on Tuesdays in March with Write it, Girl.  Come on over and check out whose writing!

Why Do I Write??? (Installment 3)

In two previous posts, I've answered this question by stating in the first post my love of words and using them to construct sentences and paragraphs and the impact my father's occupation had on my life.  In the second post on writing, I stated that I write because I have to write.  Blunt statement, and I confessed that. I also pointed out that, for me, a day without writing is a day without joy.  Those statements are both true, and now I want to expand on the necessity of my writing.

As I said last time, I have a story to tell and that's the bottom line for me.  It is my story.  It is mine to tell.  Will it be the truth for everyone who knows me or is related to me?  Likely not.  I'll try to determine the facts as best as I can from those who may know them, but it doesn't mean that we'll each one agree.  Because it's still my story.

Because it is my story, the onus is on me to tell it if I want it to be told.  No one else is going to write my story, unless I hire a ghost writer, and currently I'm not inclined to go that direction.  So, it's up to me to write it down.  Whether it is ever published or not, or shared with family, or perhaps friends, is not important to me right now.  Getting it down as a record is -- I want my children and grandchildren to have the benefit of my story as the threads of our family weave together to create our family story at some point in the future.

So, in this post, I have given you the true reason behind my attempts at chronicling the facts of my life.  I have so many questions about my father's life.  An orphan at age 4, he had few and vague memories of his life.  As we his children grew older, questions weren't easily answered by him of his later years.  Talking wasn't something he enjoyed.  His pursuits were more cerebral in nature, and so I didn't press.  Now I wish I had.

 

If you have a story to tell, I encourage you to consider at least starting a journal to capture your memories, thoughts and facts so that at some point they will be available to younger members of your family.  Add photographs as appropriate to your journal.  And if the bug bites, start writing!

Photo credits:

Top right:  www.fanbois.wordpress.com

Bottom:  www.asp.sg

Why Do I Write??? (Installment 2)

I continue to ponder the answer to this question, because responses to it are many and varied.  Tonight I'll touch on just a couple in addition to what I shared a few days ago. 

As blunt as it may sound, I write because I have to write.  A day without writing something is a day without joy for me.  I never knew that until after retirement and a time when I thought, "I never want to sit in front of a computer again!"

How wrong I was in making that statement.  The sitting in front of a computer that I'd been doing for decades was to type pleadings in a case for an attorney, or to draft up some legal document or another; it wasn't writing for the pure joy of it.

Now, I write because I want to, I enjoy it, and yes, I have to write.  And now you're next question may be to ask for an explanation of "I have to write."

And the answer to that is that I have a story (perhaps more than one) that either needs to be told or deserves to be told.  No one can tell that story but me because it is personal to my life.  Others may be the creation of imagination, but they will also be mine to tell.

If I don't write, will they ever be told?  Likely not.  So, I write.  Sometimes every day, and as you can tell from my recent presence here, not always every day.

Do you have a story or stories to tell?  Have you started writing them down?  It doesn't mean that you're striving for publication, but perhaps just leaving stories for your children and grandchildren to enjoy in the future and pass along to others in the family.

Think about it . . . try it . . . you too may find joy in writing, and then you'll know why I write.

Where Do I Belong?

When my parents married, they each had children from previous marriages.  Daddy had three daughters, and mama had a son.  I'd look at photographs and didn't see anyone I really looked like.  As I grew, I was the short, chubby cousin.  My brothers had the good thick, curly hair from mama.  My eyes weren't the same color as anyone else's.  I would wonder just where I came from and where did I fit in this puzzle called family.

Daddy had been raised in an orphanage and was separated from his older sister and brother when he was about 14 or 15.  Life got in the way of his searching for them, but the summer I was 12 he found them both living within 100 miles of each other between Tampa and Orlando, FL.  He could hardly wait to get us packed up and hit the road!  I figured this would just mean more people I didn't fit it in with.

Imagine my surprise when this lovely lady opened the front door, hugged my daddy, and turned to me and said, "I'm your Aunt Lucy.  I'm so glad to meet you."  There I stood, years older of course, but I looked like Aunt Lucy!  Then she introduced me to her daughter and the likeness was uncanny.  Suddenly, I fit in -- I belonged.

But even without that sense of belonging, as I grew in my Christian faith I learned that I had no cause to worry about fitting in or belonging. 

I Peter 2:9 says, “But you are a chosen people ... belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light.” (NIV)

God had claimed me as His own from the moment I was conceived in my mother's womb.  Even though I might have strayed from time to time, I always belonged to Him.  I am His.

Linking up with Beck Gambill on Sister to Sister.  Today's word is belonging.  Have any thoughts to share?  Visit Beck's site to read the guidelines for writing your feelings about belonging.

Journey of a Lifetime -- Installment 2

As the plane leveled out, I allowed my mind to wander back through time.  After all, the trip would take the better part of the day -- I could spend the hours meandering through memories.

My first concrete thoughts of childhood begin sometime around the age of two or three.  I can see her as clearly as if it was yesterday, her beautiful red hair cascading down her back.  And her eyes – they were so green; and when she was happy, they sparkled like jewels.  I could remember her lying across the bed with her hair hanging down and her eyes laughing as I brushed the red waves and curls.  What a favorite memory this was!  It was a time when we were the best of friends.  A happy daughter, a happy mother.  My world was filled with bliss!  But only occasionally.

Other memories were buried in a blanket of pain.  Those were the days when those same green eyes pierced my soul – filled with fire and anger.  Then, I felt her anguish, frustration, and bitterness.  But at such a young age, I didn’t understand those emotions and thought they were somehow directed at me, perhaps my fault.  I believed that every action or word she flew in my direction related to my failure to please her.  And beginning then, the words and actions became a mushrooming cloud that haunted me to this very day. 

How I still longed for something different – something that gave me what I wanted from her.  I wanted soft hands, loving words, sounds of affirmation, storybooks at bedtime, barefoot romps through fields of wildflowers.  What I didn't know was that she believed she gave me all those things and more.  She never realized what her words and actions translated into in my mind and heart.

As the plane moved me closer to home, I reflected on the times when I overheard words flung at my father.  Later I would see the hurt in his eyes and his actions, his withdrawal from all of us.  There were nights when her anger sent her flying out the door, dragging my younger brother and me behind her, driving feverishly through the city as if she were looking for something or someone.  But it was never clear to me just what she went racing through the streets to find.  Those nights came back with the same haunting fear they left me with in childhood – what or who were her ghosts? 

A panorama sped through my mind of those times when daddy was so sick that we thought he’d die, and I watched as she nursed him with such gentle, loving care.  The same was true when one of her children fell ill.  Then she became what I wanted every other day of the year.  Her hands caressed a feverish head and wiped away fretful tears, and she promised she would make it better.  And she did.  But then tomorrow always came, and every tomorrow was unpredictable. 

œœœ

As I retreated from the past and back to the present, I realized that decisions of the last few days had selected my traveling companion for me.  I was beginning a journey with someone I'd known all my life.  We'd traveled down many roads in our 50 plus years together.  Some paths remembered held delights; and others held emotions filled with pain, and some too painful to recall.  But recall them I must.  Some inner voice urged me to look deeper, to listen with a fine tuned ear, to walk closer for once.

My companion on this trip was my then 88‑year old mother.  In a period of less than a week, I had made the decision to move her across the country and in spite of the memories etched into my mind and soul which told me not to, the decision had somehow been so easy.  Our history contradicted the sensibility of my decision.  How could I please her now?  I'd never pleased her before.  How could I possibly think that I could make the right decisions for her, for me, for us?  After all, I'd lived a lifetime with criticism and harsh judgments. 

There it was again.  That inner voice that kept telling me this was right.  I heard it whisper, “You have no other choice.”  In spite of attempts to read or nap during my flight, that voice kept etching away at all my arguments against this decision.  And now, I need to share that voice and its meaning for me so that hopefully I can show you where it led me.  This last journey with my mother has become one of my greatest treasures. 

[Copyright 2011 by Sherrey Meyer.  All rights reserved.]