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) 

A Treasured Easter Memory

Photo credit

Funny how things pop into your mind and you really don't know why.  The memory is jogged in a most unexpected way.

A few days ago we had about two inches of snow fall in Portland.  And yes, our hyacinths had bloomed early.  Only to find themselves blanketed in a cloak of white.

Several days latter torrential rains came and although the hyacinths had perked up their heads, the rain battered them right back down again.

As I thought about their battle for supremacy in their world of plants and springtime showiness, I was reminded of an Easter in my childhood when it snowed.  Not a normal occurrence in Nashville, the snow surprised us on Easter morning.

I must have been around five years old.  Just old enough to be smitten with the new dress, gloves, hat and black patent leather Mary Janes that were waiting to be donned for church.

When mama saw the snow, I heard her say to daddy, "We'll just put on one of her other Sunday dresses and an older pair of shoes.  It will be OK.  She can wear the new things next Sunday."

I'm sorry but I was having nothing to do with that.  I had new clothes, something that didn't happen often in our home, and I was going to wear them!

Photo credit

It was a struggle to reach the dress mama had rehung in the closet.  With the help of my little desk chair, I managed to fetch it and the hat.  The lace-trimmed socks and gloves were back in their drawer ready to nap their way through Easter.  And those shoes -- shiny and black -- were easy enough to reach.  They sat at attention on the closet floor.

Mama was busy, so I went about dressing myself.  Oh, was she livid when she found me ready to go in my new garb!

The neighbors probably heard her screaming to me, "Take those clothes and shoes off this instant, young lady!  You're not wearing those today in the snow."

About that time, daddy appeared in the doorway.  Usually he didn't interfere with mama's mandates but this time he did.

"Let her wear the new clothes.  And to make sure nothing happens to the shoes or anything else, I'll carry Sherrey from the front door of the house to the car and at the church from the car to the entrance.  It's going to be OK."

I breathed a sigh of relief.  My hero had come to my rescue just like a princess waiting in the tower for her knight.

And daddy did just as he said -- he carried me to the car and then from the car to the church.  Not a flake of snow touched me that morning.

I hold many memories of my dad close to my heart, but this is one of my favorite, perhaps because it is associated with Easter.

After all, Easter is a time when we hopefully stop and think about the love and compassion God showed for each of us when He gave us the gift of His Son Jesus.  I've always liked to think of my Heavenly Father in the image of my own father, whose caring and love extended far beyond an Easter Sunday morning.

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Linking up with Darlene at

The Sandwich Kid, Part I

Not focusing on food today.  Nope, not at all.  The reference to "sandwich" is related to my status as the middle child of three -- two boys and a girl.  Being sandwiched between two boys isn't easy, but less so in my family. 

Typical of families growing up in the 1930s-1950s, we were three typical kids.  But did you look at the span of the decades above?  Yes, the photo to the right is NOT of my two brothers and me.  It's a "borrowed" photograph -- we're separated by so many years on each end there are no photos of the three of us together as youngsters.

My "big" brother at age 13

My older brother was 14 when I was born.  Often when he was taking care of me while our dad was sick, people would mistake him for my father.  At times I wonder if that was an embarrassment to a teen aged boy.  Or maybe he was thrilled to be thought older.

Gene had been in a single parent setting for almost half his almost 13 years when our mom married dad.  And then within a little less than a year, here's a baby in the house, and a girl besides!

I have only foggy memories of the early years of my life with Gene.  The years seemed to go by without my keeping record of anything until I was about five.  And then I remember so vividly the image of Gene and his best friend, Buzz.  I have a fantastic photograph in my mom's remembrances of the three of us standing together on their high school graduation day.

Then my big brother got married and left home to raise his own family, presenting me with my first nephew at the ripe old age of 6!  Who knew a little girl could be an aunt!  And he kept producing those little boys, one every two years until he had four of them!  Boys, ick!

During all this reproductive activity, my mom would be pregnant at least four times and each time lost that precious life, sometimes in the first trimester but once she carried her little one until six months.

Me with mom holding Brad (1955)

In 1954, a few months after my eighth birthday, my parents blessed me with another brother!  I thought God had forgotten how to make little girls. 

Next time, I'll tell you more about Brad, and then we can talk more about being that middle child between two brothers so far away on each side of me chronologically.


Photo credit:  Blue Bear Nursery

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

Remember Saturday Night Preparations?

“Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy."

Exodus 20:8

And I'm sure you may remember this verse from Exodus.  My mother took this verse and not only applied it to the Sabbath day, or Sunday.  She began our preparations for keeping the Sabbath holy on Saturday night.

iNet.com

Not to imply that this was our bathroom, but there was the requisite scrubbing at the hands of a mother who took cleanliness to heart and often to extremes.  So, in turn, we all got our Saturday night scrubbing.

And this included the head of hair we'd been blessed with, each thick and hard to dry but clean it must be!  The shine must be there on Sunday morning if no other morning in the week.  So, our scalp's got a good massage too.

Sunday best was laid on each of our beds, and these were clothes we were not allowed to wear on any other day, except for weddings and funerals.  My dresses were starched stiff and sometimes were scratchy.  The boys' pants creased knife sharp, and they had fake ties to wear.  Remember those?

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Most often, my dressy shoes were black patent leather, which meant that the worst I had to do was take a damp cloth and remove any dust, dirt or scuffs.  The boys had to do the entire cleanup, polish and buff routine.

But Mother wanted us to look our best for church.  As I grew older I understood this as I began to study God's Word.  Not only are we preparing for the Sabbath.  We are preparing to go into God's house, and he is due our very best in all respects.  This is where Mother's true heart resided -- in God and in honoring him each and every day.  And she was teaching us to do the same.

Q4U:  Do you have similar memories on Saturday nights, or maybe it was Sunday morning?  Or were you perhaps born at a later time when we had adjusted our thoughts to an understanding that what we are on the outside is not as important as what is on the inside?  I'd love to hear from you!

Journey of a Lifetime - Installment 4

Nelle struggled on through life doing her best at the jobs she could find.  She was a hard worker and through her mother's training, she was a young woman with morals and values.  The family attended church every Sunday and the Bible was a focal point of reading at home.

Unfortunately, nearing 19 years of age, Nelle met a handsome young man named Joseph Whitehead.  At about the same time, her younger sister began dating Joe's brother.  It wasn't long until the two couples married.  And within a year Nelle and Joe had a son, Joseph Eugene Whitehead.  The marriage was not to be long-lived as Joe was an alcoholic and found it entertaining to batter those whom he proclaimed he loved.

The divorce was final in the mid 1930s, during difficult years for the country and the city of Nashville.  Nelle struggled once again to find work.  A variety of jobs came her way.  When the young men began to go away to war, she landed a job with AVCO working as a Rosie the Riveter on airplane parts.  She definitely did her part in the war effort!  However, that job ended when the boys began to come home and needed their jobs back, and once again Nelle found herself raising a young son and without work.

Luckily for me, Nelle found work at Foster & Parks in Nashville working as a devil for the typesetter who would become my father.  A “devil” in the printing industry is someone hired to tear down the type which had been set to print something, and then to melt that metal down so that it could be reused.  When her older brother learned about her new job, he told her to stay away from "that typesetter called Country Adams.  He's nothing but trouble."  Obviously, Nelle didn't pay much attention to her brother’s comments, doing everything Country asked her to do, especially when he told her if she could bring him back a pack of Luckies, he'd take her to the movies.  She did everything she could to secure that date, and came back with the Luckies and a smile on her face.

A promised date took them to the movies and out afterwards for a little clubbing.  Country unfortunately had a bad habit with drink, and he became drunk.  Nelle had strong feelings about alcohol and drunkenness and told him that if he wanted to see her again or have any part in her life, he'd have to clean up his act.  It must have been true love for Country stopped drinking, and they married in 1945.  They agreed not to add to the three children they had between them, but God intervened and I was born in February of 1946.  Nelle’s son, Gene (or Bubba to me), was 14 and quickly became my hero.

Country’s two daughters, Virginia and Elsie, were young women already married when my parents married.  They each had children born not long after my birth.  It wasn’t clear to me why at the time but Virginia and Elsie didn’t visit us much.  As I grew older, it became quite clear that they too had struggles with mama.

Between 1946 and 1954, Nelle suffered through four pregnancies, all of which ended in miscarriages.  The reasons for these losses isn’t known to me, but I do know that she didn’t smile much during this time.  Finally in November 1954 my young brother, Brad, was born.  Brad cried and fussed a lot due to enlarged tonsils and adenoids preventing him from sleeping well.  However, there was nothing to be done at such a young age.  The lack of sleep took its toll on our parents. 

I certainly didn’t like the idea of having a baby brother, and I made my feelings clear by carving with a ballpoint pen in a mahogany nightstand.  My parents were constantly telling me when Brad did fall asleep:  “Now, be quiet. The baby is sleeping.”  I soon began to tire of this repeated instruction, so I chose my words carefully and went about creating my art.  Neatly carved in that nightstand, until this day, are the words “Shhhhhh, baby is sleeping.”

No one seemed to understand the why behind my creation, nor did anyone take the time to ask me to explain.  I felt left out, and at eight years of age the last thing I wanted around was a baby.  Instead, I was punished, which I believe I deserved.  It was after all an effort on my part to get their attention to express my needs, and I chose a very poor medium to deliver my message.

Brad’s arrival seemed to round out the family as my parents wanted it.  Country was so proud exclaiming to all who would listen:  “God has blessed me like he did Abraham with a son in my old age.  He was 53 when Brad was born, and Nelle was 42.  At their ages, a fretful and crying baby was indeed tough for them.  Having an eight-year old carving up the furniture wasn’t helpful, and so they decided that there would be no more additions to the Adams household.

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I choose not to address anyone else's relationship with Nelle, or as I'll call her from now on, Mama, as I don't feel it is fair to delve into areas where I can't confirm facts.  What I do know about my life, and what I witnessed in my younger brother's can be confirmed, and I share it willingly because it ties into the end of our journey and brings power and beauty to the finished story.

And thus begins the story of my life with Mama.

Journey of a Lifetime -- Installment 3

In order to speak to you through the hues, shades and colors of his palette, an artist must layer color upon color to tell the whole story.  In that same way, I must share the layers of my relationship with my mother so that you can fully understand the miraculous nature of our last sojourn.  For me, the final layer held the best of times spent in my mother's presence.  So, to begin layering, I’ll start at the beginning with my mother’s story.

She was the middle of five children born in May of 1912 in Nashville, TN.  Her father was twice her mother’s age, not uncommon in those years, and the little red-headed, green-eyed baby girl had problems from very early childhood.  With poor eyesight and hearing, life would begin with those struggles already decided for her.

Nelle Mae Roper was named for a good friend of her mother’s, and the friend doted on this child long distance while living in St. Louis.  She sent cards, gifts, and made sure that Nelle was registered on the cradle roll of her church in St. Louis.  But despite all these efforts on the part of such a good friend, life wasn’t dealing a fair hand to this little family or this little girl.

Two other children followed, and when Nelle was 6 her father died suddenly leaving her mother with five children and no means of income.  In the early 1900s women weren’t as visible in the workplace and finding work wasn’t easy.  The family went on welfare and depended on the Big Brothers, a local Nashville assistance group, for food at the holidays.  The two older children were in school, and eventually finished and went to work.

However, graduation would not be in Nelle's future.  She just barely made it through the eighth grade, when her mother chose to take her out of school to stay home and care for the two smaller children, a girl and a boy.  Nelle's mother found a job as an elevator operator in a local bank building, and desperately needed the income this job would provide.  Nelle didn't have the first clue as to how to care for these children much less how to discipline them.

As young children will do, the two would become unruly, running through the house, not staying indoors, and making messes Nelle had to clean up.  Stories have been shared that in an attempt to discipline Nelle would grab handy kitchen utensils, most often large knives, and chase the younger two threatening them if they didn't behave.  Poor Nelle!  If only someone would help her see what her role really was supposed to be.  After all, she was only 11.

Time went on and Nelle was offered the opportunity, without a high school diploma, to attend business school.  By now, the younger children were in school and this would work out for all concerned.  Nelle's eyesight and hearing, however, made learning difficult for her, especially with her lack of schooling thrown into the mix.  Luckily, from time to time, she was hired by an attorney in her mother's office building, but these jobs never lasted.  Obviously, her skills were not well-honed and her ability to cope not well suited either.  Why didn't someone see?  Why didn't someone give her advice?

(Copyright 2011 - Sherrey Meyer)

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. 

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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.]

Remember the Sabbath

Observe the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Work six days and do everything you need to do. But the seventh day is a Sabbath to God, your God.   Exodus 20:8 (The Message)

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Eyes slowly open.  Clock says 4:30.  Toss, turn, try to slip back into sleep.  Now it's 5:30.  A peek out the window shows the night is slowly turning to day.  Light is changing.  On the cusp of a new day.  And then it comes to me.  It's Sunday, the Sabbath day, the holiest of days in the week.

"Up," I tell my mind and my body.  Enough time until the clock goes off to sit quietly and think on this day.  My mind wanders to childhood memories of Sundays, a time when family truly honored the Sabbath, a day of rest as ordained by God in the verse of Scripture above.

In my family, Sundays were all about worship, Sunday School classes, and family time.  The most menial of tasks were allowed but there were things that weren't allowed because it was Sunday.  As children, we weren't allowed to go roller skating, attend a movie, play board games or cards, and as a young girl, I wasn't allowed to do any sewing or needlework as that could be defined as "work" and not a part of the rest we were supposed to be observing.  It was confusing because mom cooked and cleaned up in the kitchen, but dad explained that this was a necessity of life and that it wasn't work in the same sense of the word.

Despite all the invisible scars left behind by my dysfunctional home life and at the hands of my mom, I'm so pleased that this gift of the Sabbath was passed along by my parents to me.  I still look on my Sunday as Sabbath.  I try my best to treat it as my day of quiet and rest along with my husband.  We may engage in some pleasant activity, such as a concert at a local church, but beyond that we limit ourselves to time at home or in nature taking in God's creation.

Soon, another week begins.  How will you observe your Sabbath?

Let's Get Down to Business!

Getting down to business with this blog hasn't been uppermost in my mind for a variety of reasons, none of which are highly excusable in my mind.  Yet they are what they are! 

If I'm going to write my memoir, I need to stop just toying with it and get down to business!  I need to wrap up my reading on memoir and writing, and put what I've learned to work.  My plan of action is formulating starting with more posts taking place here as potential parts of my draft.  I will still do other writing here as a blog is a good writing practice forum.  So, not all posts will be reflective of my attempt to write about my life or "right" my life in the present.  As I've explained before, my life today is the best my life has ever been; however, there are memories and parts of my life that need to be dealt with in order not to pass those invisible scars along to the next generation.  Thus, the blog title "'Righting' My Life.

I ask your patience as I begin this process, and your input and comments are more than welcomed.  I'm a newbie at both writing memoir and blogging.  Any suggestions and ideas may be left here and will be acknowledged in some way.

Wonderfully Made!

Today on Heart to Heart with Holley author and blogger, Holley Gerth, wrote on this same topic (Holley's blog).  Her words captured my eyes and drew me in closer and closer to see exactly what she was going to share.  You see Holley started with those labels we all check on items we purchase, and I couldn't quite understand where she was headed.

Then, as Holley always does, her writing explodes and there it is!  Holley was talking about how wonderfully God had made each of us.  I have a hard time remembering sometimes that God made me, especially when I examine in great detail the flaws that I see or that others kindly, or not so kindly, point out to me.  But He did wonderfully make me, flaws and all!  The joyous part of this story is that He loves me, flaws and all.  Isn't that just the greatest?  Flaws and all doesn't deny me the right to consider myself wonderfully made by my Heavenly Father. 

I cannot for one minute improve on the quote from Max Lucado or the words Holley quotes from her book, God's Heart for You: Embracing Your True Worth as a Woman.  But what I can share with you is that part of my life story deals with a time when I felt no worth at all, beginning early in my childhood.  All self esteem was stripped away, and I grew up believing I had done everything wrong.  Worthless!  No good!  Ungrateful!  These are just some of the words that resounded in my ears and memories.  Yet I had been learning about God at church and in Sunday School, and finally He made progress teaching me that I was worth a lot to H im, that I was a good girl and later a good woman, and that He knew gratitude lived within me, and much, much more!  Such freedom is unbelievable wheny you've felt imprisoned by invisible scars of emotional and verbal abuse.

If you ever doubt, if you ever forget, think on these words and remember you are wonderfully made!

Image found at http://www.joyfulexpressions.us/HTML/CustomDesignsForYou.htm

What Kind of Childhood Did You Have?

I used to get so tired of that question being asked -- by teachers, pastors, counsellors, friends who didn't know me when I was a child.  The frustration came from not having the childhood everyone else seemed to have.  You know, the one with smiles, hugs, affirmations, quiet voices, harmony.   I did grow up in a Christian home, although as I tell my story that may seem a bit contradictory.  I'll bet there are some of you who grew up in a similar fashion.

Earliest memories are of living in a very small house with my mom, dad and an older brother who was 14 when I was born.  I must have been about three or so at the time.  For some reason, I was drawn to this older brother, and as I reflect back it may be that he was the calmer of the two people who seemed to be in charge of me -- my mom and this older brother.  My dad was in poor health from about the time I was two so he took little part in the day-to-day activities other than making a good faith effort to go to work and come home every day.

It's funny I now look back on this older brother as a sort of protector.  That isn't to say he wasn't the brunt of our mother's temper -- he was from time to time.  I wish I had known then what I know now about my mom because it would have made life so much easier growing up.  But then we aren't supposed to know everything when we're 3 or 4 or 30 or even 50, as you'll see as my story unfolds.

Mom, me and baby brother

And then mom began to get pregnant and have miscarriages one right after the other for a total of four between my older brother and me.  Then, when I was 8, my younger brother was born.  His arrival added to the tension already prevalent in our home, and things didn't get better.  It seemed every day held surprises for each of us. 

I hope you'll come back and read more later . . . maybe our stories will overlap.  Maybe they won't.  But I'd love to share mine with you just in case it should help.

30 Years!

I opened my eyes this morning and as I turned to see my husband lying beside me, I couldn't believe that it had been 30 years ago today that God brought us into this relationship called marriage.  Bob is the greatest gift God has given me in that 30 years, and I still treasure him as much or more today than I did on August 15, 1981.

Bob and I had traveled rocky roads in previous marriages.  We agreed to be married after dating and knowing each other for a rather brief period of four months.  You see we knew God was in the formula, and that with  Him in the formula we couldn't go wrong.  This isn't to say that life has always been easy because it hasn't.  We blended two families on weekends and during summers.  Job changes resulted in our moving from Tennessee to the Pacific Northwest where Bob found work and had family.  This meant leaving my family and friends of a lifetime in Tennessee.  However, as my story unfolds, I didn't find this too difficult as it meant another chance at living life to the fullest and in happiness.

Now that we've celebrated this day we're laughing and thinking, "What if?"  What if we make it another 20 years will the kids throw us a 50th anniversary celebration (mumblings were heard that we'd be 94 and 85 by then)?  Our 40-year old son called today to wish us a happy anniversary and ended the conversation with, "I'd better let you go so you can get started on that next 30!  Do you realize Bob will be 104 and you'll be . . .?"  I filled in the blank with 95, and he gasped!  Sad but true.

Life is filled with good memories like these and yet I need to purge some memories that weren't so good before I married Bob and God became a bigger force in my life.  Please stay tuned!

Welcome!

As you can see, this blog is very much "under construction."  I want to write, and so here I will practice that craft.  I want to write about my life, and so here I will offer vignettes and memories of my life in hopes of someday publishing a book or collection of short stories.  It is not my intention to bore you or to tell the stories of others.  I sincerely want to tell my story.

My fascination with telling my story comes from a love of words -- spoken, printed, sung.  I'm the daughter of a printer and publisher, and I've been told that ink runs through my veins rather than blood.  It's my belief that the purpose of words is to allow us to share our stories and memories.  So, here in the next few weeks I hope to begin doing just that.

I hope you will enjoy what I write to share, and I truly hope that if you have comments, you will leave them here for me to read.  Let's even think about becoming friends along the way!