The Three C's

When I first entered the world of AA and Al-Anon I saw people wearing t-shirts with the slogan "The Three C's" on the front. I wondered, "What are the three C's and why is it on their shirts?" I didn't ask my then alcoholic husband because I was fearful he would call me an idiot or that he would preach at me for the next 3 hours about AA.  So I went on wondering.....for a long time.

The topic of one of the very first Al-Anon meetings I went to early in my recovery was "The Three C's". This meeting discussion not only helped to give me a since of power but also was enlightening. I learned so much that night about my thought process, my behavior, and choices that I had made.  What does it mean? The Three C's? We didn't cause it, We can't cure it and We can't control it.

My eyes were opened because I was working so hard to cure his problem--alcoholism. I was begging him to go to meetings, I was monitoring his meeting attendance when he was actually going to meetings and I was loving him so hard that he couldn't possibly have a problem. 

I also worked hard to control him.  I woke him up in the morning forced him to go to school. Questioned him about where he was, who he was with and what he was doing.

Ultimately I felt because I couldn't cure him or control him that I must be the problem.  He helped me believe this because he often if not always blamed me for the problems he was having.  When he was working the program he took most of the responsibility for his crap but when he would go back out he would throw all the blame on me. And I believed him. So I worked hard to cure and control....whatever it took.

All of this to say--here I am again. He's gone. We're divorced. He's relapsed. He's been gone out of our lives since July 31st. But oddly I feel like I've done something wrong.

Bunnies, Rainbows and Balloons :)

As promised here is my blog entry with bunnies, rainbows and balloons. I don't really have many real bunnies, rainbows or balloons in my life! So I'll write about how those things reveal themselves to me in other forms: Kate, tenure and the College of Fine Arts Distinguished Teaching Award.

I've written most recently about sadness and accepting the past, learning from it, moving on and about being proactive in my life. I've neglected to mention in the most recent writings the wonderful things that surround me and have happened to me this year.

First, I spend everyday with a blessing from God--my Kate. She is truly an amazing being. She has the soul of a 90 year old and the heart of a child. She drives me crazy and fills my heart with love and adoration all at the same time. She is so smart and so caring and can be so full of attitude that my head nearly explodes! She's a wonder. After our prayer tonight I went downstairs to clean up dishes, etc. I few moments later I heard her little voice call for me. I went to the bottom of the stairs and asked what she needed. She said, "I need to talk to you." I went up the stairs to find her sitting in bed holding a small figurine. She showed it to me and I recognized it as an angel my sister, her Aunt Juju, gave her. She asked, "Is this an angel?" I said yes and told her, "Now to go to sleep." She then told me she had three angels and I noticed that her stuffed puppy, Lemon aide, had an angel next to him and Talkie, her baby doll, had an angel in bed next to her. She told me that she needed to talk to me about the angels. She told me, "I know these are not real but they will remind us of the angels that God has sent to surround us tonight." She was stalling! She's truly amazing and maddening at the same time!

After four years at the University of Montevallo and applying for tenure it was granted to me last May. Having tenure has been a blessing. I feel as if I know where I'm going to be for the rest of my career and I can really settle in to carving out my own area within the theatre department. Our playwriting group, The White Cardigan Club, is in its fourth year. It was my creation and I feel it's where I can really begin to make a difference in our department and with our students. We have produced three Original Play Festivals and are preparing for our fourth. Each year the student writers are better, more prepared and the work is interesting and worth of production. I definitely feel as if I'm in the place God intended me to be.

A great indicator that UM is the place for me is that I was awarded the CFA Distinguished Teaching award this past year. It was an amazing feeling to be given this award which is voted on by students. It meant the world to me to walk up on the stage with the students cheering to receive the plaque. Wow, the memory still takes my breath away.

Good things are happening and other great things are on the horizon. Kate and I live in a happy little house with 9000 stuffed animals and a fish named Rosy-Spot. Life is good. When I have bad days which we all have occasionally I remind myself of all the people who love and support Kate and me. When I think that thought my heart fills with love and my step feels light. It's a wonderful feeling to be loved as much as we are loved.

Let's talk about sex, baby! No, money, honey.

I always thought that I brought a multitude of 'great qualities' to the long-term relationships I had. As an adult I've had four 'real' long-term relationships. These relationships were all full of love and dysfunction. Those 'great qualities' I exhibited were loyalty, generosity, kindness, patience, submissiveness and love; lots and lots of love.

The loyalty that I demonstrated included never calling my partner out on his bad behavior whether it be alcoholism, lying, cheating or stealing. Often I would just hold my tongue and become 'passive/aggressive' about the event or even in the entire relationship. Days would go by without me speaking to my partner or him speaking to me. Wow! That should have been a red-flag right? Not when you're sick; it becomes part of the sickness-- 'the game'.

I was generous to a fault; buying the love of my partner. I spent thousands of dollars to be with at least two of my past partners. One partner would lie in bed and call into work sick more days than he ever went to work and another partner went back to school on my dime. I kept supporting these guys because I loved and trusted them. I thought they 'needed' to be supported so they could get back up on their feet. I was sick. Classic enabling. I 'needed' Al-Anon.

Boy, am I a patient person. That's a true statement; I can be patient for a very long time but when the final straw drops on my back I become a wild animal. I was patient with these losers. I, however, have not be patient with myself during my recovery in Al-Anon. I've been rough with myself, insisting that I take the entire blame for the emotional, mental and financial mess I find myself in today. As I continue to recover I need to remember to be gentle with myself but not to make excuses as that is just way of continuing the enabling process. I must continue to 'own' up to my part of the mess. I must accept where I was, where I've come from and continue to move forward.

I love the underdog. I'm a very kind person. I cry at sappy commercials. When my brother, Sam, and I were kiddos each summer we played 'Cowboys and Indians'. It seemed like that was every summer but it was probably when we were ten to thirteen years old. We lived on a farm and we would leave our home early in the morning and some days wouldn't return home until late in the evening. We would be dressed according to character. Once someone called my Dad on the phone at his shop to tell him that there was someone on his back forty wearing an Indian headdress--that was me. We would hide in the woods and chase each other, we would put our food in the stream to keep it cool, we would catch a ride on the back of a cow, we would spend the day in the top of a tree where no one in the universe knew where we were. I was always an Indian. I was always persecuted, I was always walking the trail of tears, I was always picking up the pieces for someone. I wanted to help. I wanted to save the starving, the lost puppy, the sinner. I now know where this desire came from, from my Mom but that's another blog entry to be written in the future. I wanted to save my partner in each relationship. I was attracted to men who had a problem because in short--I wanted to save them.

I'm a strong woman. I was in a man's profession for eight or nine years of my life. I had to play with the big boys and I learned to play hard and well. In my work I had to make many decisions everyday and sometimes the decisions had to be made fast. I was good at this. In my private life I didn't want to make decisions about ANYTHING. I didn't want to decide what movie to go to or what restaurant to eat at. I just wanted someone to take me and tell me what to do. In my personal life I became passive and submissive. Each of my partners was attracted to the woman I was at work. Each of them detested the submissive me but each of them pushed me around. Interesting, isn't it? I was verbally, emotionally and physically abused. My daugther's father, D.W., pushed me, screamed at me and belittled me. I believed that I was a weak, lying, stupid, peasant. His words and actions cut me to the bone; I felt weaker and weaker as the years passed. I had forgotten the powerful woman that I was at work and in my life for all those years. The final year of our relationship I would cry everyday sometimes five or six times a day. I would cry in my car before going in to my office, I wouldn't wear makeup to work because I would cry it all off before I got there. I wasn't just submissive, I was a wet rag, I was a puddle on the floor.

That's all over now. I'm that powerful woman again but while I was that submissive woman I allowed myself to be convinced to make many stupid financial decisions. I co-signed on thousands of dollars of student loans for D.W., he convinced me to take out a second mortgage on my house with a balloon payment, he insisted that we take vacations we couldn't afford, he insisted that I was home from my job before 5:00 each day--I can't believe I didn't get fired! I did all of this and more. Currently, I'm still recovering emotionally, mentally, spiritually and financially. I still hurt but I don't cry as much and I definitely don't let D.W. or anyone else walk on me. I hurt the most financially right now, I'm healing the other parts of me. I want more than anything for my daughter to have what she needs in life; I grew up poor and I don't want her to have the same challenges I had to face.

I have been single for two years and nine months. I haven't had a crush or a date in that long. I loved to love. I loved hard. I don't know if I'll ever have another relationship. Currently I don't/can't see myself in one. I'm working on me and taking care of the most important person in the world; my daughter :)

What, what, what in the hell are you thinking?

My daughter cried herself to sleep on Friday night. She laid in my arms and cried because she missed her daddy. I felt sympathy because I miss my daddy too. My daddy died six months ago prior to his death he was in my life daily. We either spoke on the phone or saw one another face to face. He was one of those daddies; he was my mentor. I miss him and like Kate I often cry myself to sleep because I miss his presence in my life.

Kate's daddy is a deadbeat, alcoholic, narcissitic idiot. He called me on a Wednesday over a month ago and told me that he was having a hard time and needed to see his family so he would miss his visitation with Kate that next weekend. Hum...needed to see his family? Kate's not his family? He also said he would just take her the next weekend an idea that I quickly rejected because it was my weekend and we had plans to visit her grandparents; his parents. He promised he would call and see her during the next week and then he would be available to visit with her his next scheduled weekend.

The next week and a half passed and he never called, texted, or a sent smoke signal. I texted him eleven times and left five voice messages simply asking if he planned to get her for his next visitation and to check on his child support payment which I hadn't received. He didn't respond. Finally on the Wednesday prior to the weekend he was scheduled to have Kate he called and left a message; he spoke about his life and how he was working with a sponsor, going to meetings as well as being treated by a doctor. Never once in the message did he ever ask about Kate. He left a number where he could be reached which I called three times and also sent a text to. It's been a week and a half and I haven't heard a word from him. Obviously he didn't get Kate that weekend for her visitation with him.

She started school on Monday. She's had some rocky times as all four year olds do the first week of school. He hasn't called, texted, fax or sent a smoke signal to check on her and her progress. Some of her issues this week are about his absence in her life. She is easy to cry and so am I. I worry about her because I love her so much and I want so much for her and her life.

But I know in the end She's going to be fine because she is like her mommy. She's a strong, courageous woman; she's a survivor. She's amazing :) She's Kate. Can I say more?

My Daddy

It's been two months since my Daddy passed away. I cry every time I see a group of beautiful trees or a small stream or even a NASCAR bumper sticker; things that remind me of Daddy. He was a quiet, patient, caring, eccentric man. One of my favorite recent memories of Daddy I wrote about in a status update on Facebook last November: "I'm home from visiting Mom and Daddy today :) It was a very good day; my Daddy is feeling better. He opened the gate for my car as we were leaving the driveway this evening and as I was driving by him I looked up to see him throwing kisses at us as we drove away. I love my Daddy :)" My Daddy was a good man who loved unconditionally. I wish they all could be as good as my Daddy was.

Going back to old, non-healthy places...and then moving on.

I chaired an Al-Anon meeting last night. It was my home group and I love them. We talked about Step 6 and thinking.

I often am reminded in meetings that I'm not unique. I'm just like everyone else. I may be the only red-head, the only teacher, the only artist, but I'm not the only one who gets stuck in my head. Everyone that spoke last night talked about getting stuck in his or her head in a whirl of insanity. We discussed thinking and THINKING! I like to think out loud with my sponsor. Others in the group like to think out loud while praying. We have many options when thinking; we can allow ourselves to go to the old behavior of "stinking thinking" or we can choose the path of listening, not reacting, thinking and then behaving rationally. Sometimes that thinking requires other ears.

On Saturday night J.W. was at my house spending time with our daughter. I usually leave when he comes over to visit so I can remain in "NC." When I got home that evening at the end of his visit he began to criticize my recent behavior. He criticized my turning his phone off, he criticized my decision not to let our daughter go to his house for overnight visits, he criticize my "fearful" nature. I usually put on the armor of God when I walk into that kind of situation with him but I was off guard on Saturday. When he finished his diatribe I jumped in with my own criticism of him. I told him that I didn't know his new roommate (who he met on Craig's List) and that I didn't trust him with my daughter. I've done a background check on this person and he doesn't exist. I don't think J.W. gave me the real name of the person with whom he is living because as always he just doesn't want me to know the entire truth. He came back with, "how do I know that your brother isn't a child molester?" My brother is my best friend and of course J. W. knew this would push my buttons good. And it did. I lost my mind and went right back to the insanity. I screamed, "get out of my house, get out of my house!" As I slammed the door behind him I called him a few choice words.

So today I work on that hole in the armor. I work on not becoming completely numb but how to know when he is working me and I'm allowing him to by going back to old, non-healthy places. I work on placing his option of me and my family in a really low position. I remember the phrase, "I just doesn't matter, he just not that important."

Heartbroken.....and just plan broken....

When I was a kid summer was spent outside. My bro and I would leave home early in the morning and not re-enter our home until almost dark some days. We would play baseball hitting cow patties instead of balls because our dog, George, would steal our balls and hide them from us; we would explore pastures having adventures for hours on end; or role play cowboys and Indians. Mom and Dad knew where we were or at least knew within about 200 acres of where we were.

Those were the days before Adam Walsh, Somer Thompson, Charish Perriwinkle, and sadly, many, many, more. Who are these children? These are children who were abducted and killed by sex offenders. There are mean, evil, broken people in the world who do unthinkingly awful, horrible things. Sex offenders are definitely broken people. These broken people do things that render innocent, helpless people heartbroken.

Adam Walsh was watching some older boys play video games in Sears while his Mom shopped for a lamp. He was out of her sight for seven minutes. Somer Thompson was walking the mile home from school with her twin brother and older sister as she did everyday. Somer got in an argument with an older girl and ran the other direction. Her sister thought she would catch up with the group. She didn't. Charish Perriwinkle was with her Mother, brother, and sister in Wal-Mart last Friday night when they befriended a creepy but nice man who offered to buy Charish a cheeseburger at the McDonalds inside the store. Charish disappeared with the man before her Mother could even give her permission to walk away.

My heartbreaks for the families of these children. My heartbreaks for the Mothers. I can honestly say that to lose Kate is my greatest nightmare.

When in a store I NEVER take my eyes off of Kate, I wait to watch her enter in the doors of her school every morning when I drop her off, and I NEVER let her go outside our house in our neighborhood by herself. There are many other precautions I take  to keep her safe but none of this is a guarantee.

I don't blame the victims or their families in these cases. I do think part of the issue is that we feel safe. We trust the people in our communities. Another part of the issue or problem is lack of education. We know our neighbors and love our neighborhood, we love our school, we know many of the people who work in the stores in our area. BUT for us there's a registered sex offender who lives three miles from our house.

And here's my rant: We have a new neighbor. She's eight years old. She moved in to the house two doors down on April 1. Kate loves to play with her.  When school was in session our neighbor, who we will call Jane, came out to play when her Mom or Dad got home around 5:30pm. She and Kate could play for about an hour until we had to go in to have dinner. Now that it's summer and most children aren't in school Jane has no bedtime or curfew. She rang my doorbell on Friday night at 8:20pm looking for Kate. Kate goes to bed most nights at 8:00pm.  "We  have a schedule," I told the girl.  She said, "Why? It's summer."

I'm not really bothered that she rang my doorbell at 8:20pm, I'm bothered because she and a five year old boy from the neighborhood were running the streets without ANY adult supervision at 8:20pm! I don't know her parents and I've only seen them a handful of times but the next time I see them I'll fill their ears full.

Friday night while a little girl was losing her life in Jacksonville, FL these children were wandering our neighborhood alone. I'm heartbroken that Charish won't have a chance to start third grade, to graduate from high school, or go to college. AND I'm heartbroken that some parents don't see the danger that lurks in our quaint, safe neighborhoods.

I'm also heartbroken that Kate will probably never know the freedom that my bro and I knew as children.  Running through pastures without a care in the world and certainly without fear. I can still remember the smell of freedom.

These are certainly different times with different sorts of people.  Broken people as well as heartbroken....

Too much information.....

Too much information…well, maybe.....but it's your choice to keep on reading....

This is called “Survivor’s Journal” and I’m a survivor. However, along the journey there are bumps, big ole pot holes, and blow-outs. This is my journey and since I’m sharing it with you all in this form I’ll share not only the triumphs but also challenges.

These days I’m working hard to keep smiling and to think positively. I’ve been really sad for the last several weeks. We just passed the two year anniversary of my Daddy’s death, in that same week I turned 45, my Mom is not doing well, and it seems that everything I touch breaks.  

I miss my Daddy so much. With all that is going on in my life I so wish that Daddy was here to talk with me on the phone everyday. I also wish I could visit him and take a walk with him in the forest all the while listening to a funny story he had to tell.  Being around my Daddy was very calming. I wish he was here for my Mom.  I miss him.

I talk to my Mom almost every day.  Everyday she complains of being lonely. She’s sad because I can’t just jump in the car and drive to Fort Payne during the week to see her. She’s sad because she knows that she is losing her memory.  I feel helpless…

I know that I have a great life.  I have the wonderful opportunity to work at something I love.  I have a wonderful family. I have a sweet, happy daughter who loves me as much as I love her. I’ve done so much and I’m proud of the art that I’ve made,  the relationships that I have built, and the lives I’ve touch through university teaching.  But at 45 years old I struggle financially because I chose a profession that I love but that is not lucrative. It makes me sad.

In the last several months it has become apparent that I’m going to have to buy a car, probably a vacuum cleaner, a laptop, and a dishwasher. Kate’s mini-DVD player is also not working. I feel as if everything I touch breaks. I feel overwhelmed…

But as I wallow in my negativity I cannot shake off the positive energy that in essence I created. I sat Kate down last weekend. I wanted to explain why I have been in such a bad mood; why I had shed so many tears. I told Kate that I missed her Paw, that I was sad because I had turned 45 years old, and that we were going to have to buy a car so we would have to only buy the things we really needed.  We needed to save money.

Kate sat there for a moment and then she reached over and wiped my tears away with her tiny fingertips. She smiled as she looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Mommy, well you know what you need to do? You need to stop buying me so many presents.”

I said, “But I like to buy you things Kate.”  Her eyes got wide and bright as she had this idea and said, “Mommy, I know what I need to do! I’ll sell lemonade and juice. I can make some money, Mommy!” I said, “Would you want to donate it to your school or Shelby Emergency?” Kate said, “No Mommy. It would be for you. For your new car.”

So…my journey may have bumps, holes, and flats but it also has so much positive energy, love, unconditional love, that I cannot stay sad, overwhelmed, and helpless for long!

Friday, Friday, Friday…..

The last couple of Fridays have been days of enlightenment for me.  I was enlightened, awakened to the fact that I was being really hard on myself about my work, performance in the fall. The fall semester was very difficult for me for many reasons.  

Artistically it was very fulfilling; I directed an incredibly rewarding production of THE HEIDI CHRONICLES.  I couldn’t have been more proud of the cast, crew, and production team. There were definitely glitches here and there but everyone supported the process and kept working to make the show beautiful, entertaining, enlightening, and empowering. I loved almost every moment of rehearsal and performance.

As the show went into technical rehearsals I started feeling more and more pain in my right side. The pain became almost unbearable as we opened the show. The day after opening Kate came down with a stomach virus.  I thought that I had given it to her and that it was the cause of all the pain I was having. As she got better my pain remained. I felt sicker and sicker. In addition to the pain in my side I was so nauseated that I found speaking almost impossible. I would feel as if I was going to vomit at least once during each class. Finally after the show closed I went to the doctor. I was given prescriptions as we waited for results from blood tests. The next week the test results were still not in and I was in so much pain that I was climbing the walls.  I called the doctor’s office for the third time since the original visit.  Finally, an appointment was made for me to have a CT Scan.  A couple of days later I received a call from the doctor; I had a massive ruptured cyst in my right ovary and now in my uterus. There was infection. I was given a prescription. Later that prescription of antibiotic would cause the lining of my stomach to become enflamed.  I also had a series of mammograms because of cysts that were found in my breast as well as an Upper Gastro endoscopy.  

As you can imagine the illness made teaching difficult. However I never missed class when I was sick. I missed several times to have procedures done. So overall I didn’t feel great about my work in the classroom or as a professor during the fall.  It’s hard when you are passionate about something and that passion isn’t enough.  When your performance is lack luster because you are ill.  I guess I thought the students would understand that I had to take care of myself. I shared as much as I could with them. And most of them were understanding and concerned but there were a few who got offended or hurt or angry when I wasn’t as available as I normally am.

As a professor I work to educate the whole person; not just the artist not just the actor but the whole person. Sometimes it takes and there are instances when it doesn’t. This was another moment of enlightenment on a Friday a couple of weeks ago. I will never give up my dream to share what I know about living as an artist but do have a better understanding that not everyone will be open to this concept or this kind of learning. And that’s okay.  And those are the selfish, self-center ones who will not understand when they can’t be the focus for a minute.

There was a time in my life when it was important to me to have my name in every program. It’s a self-centered desire. One time my name was left out of a program in grad school and I was bitter until one of my professors asked, “What do you want? A balloon?”  Immediately I realized how ridiculous my bitterness was.  There were years when I left my name out of the program after program.  I was practicing putting the process above my own glory or whatever. Today, I don’t care about programs and I joke about hearing my name at the Tony Awards or Oscars but the biggest goal is not to be in a program or to hear my name in an acceptance speech-- it’s to raise an empowered woman, make art, educate artists, and to make enough money to survive and perhaps travel a little.

And perhaps most importantly….Last Friday I became aware that because of the sickness and bitterness of students last semester and because I miss my Daddy when things like this happen…I haven’t been happy.

So for now my goals are to be happy, raise an empowered woman, make art, educate artists, make enough money to survive, travel, and not to let the bastards get me down…..

I thought we were all in this together.....

So I just finished directing a wonderful production of a wonderful play, THE HEIDI CHRONICLES. This play means a lot to me not only because of what the play says about women, as well as humanity but also because I'm a Heidi. I'm very much like the title character; I'm a career woman, a single mom, I believe in women, I believe in equality for all people, and I believe in love.

There have been times in my life when I was told that what I was doing to help the world was a drop in the bucket. I would reply with something like, "enough drops will fill the bucket." And there were times when I got down and I couldn't see the fruits of my labor. I've even doubted that all the work, trials, pushing was worth it. So like Heidi in the play, "I'm just not happy, I haven't been happy in some time."

I have goals. I have goals for my life, career, relationships, and I also have goals for the world. There are changes that I would love to see occur and to achieve these goals I work from within my classes at our little university to encourage change in the world. I teach understanding, tolerance, the celebration of diversity, and may other concepts that probably scare the crap out of college that I once taught at. I teach the whole person, not just the artist. And I see change. I see change in my students. I see most of them going into the world with the goal of making it a little bit better. I believe in them too. They are more than a drop in a bucket.

However this wouldn't be my blog if I didn't mention Kate. I believe strongly in her. She's smart, funny, energetic, but most of all she's compassionate. Kate is much  more compassionate than I am. If anything I have given to this world will make it a better more loving place Kate will. Kate loves big.

A few weeks ago Kate and I went to a friend's birthday party at the local skating rink. Kate was having an allergy attack that morning but regardless of how she felt she begged to go to the party so we went. She got there and immediately felt better because she saw her friend, the birthday girl, and off they went to the rink. At the rink there was a little girl and her Mom who I didn't know. The little girl was a friend of the birthday girl and had been invited to the party too. She sat there on a bench next to the rink with her Mom and she sobbed. She was a little shy and according to her Mom had had a difficult morning.

Kate walked up to the sobbing little girl and put her arms around her. She told her that it would be okay. She went on to tell the little girl that she would skate with her. And within a minute Kate had the little girl by the hand and they were out on the ice. Neither of the two of them had ever skated before but they both did very well. They depended on one another; if one fell the other waited and helped. They laughed and had a lovely time.

When it got time for cake Kate sat by the birthday girl but when her special friend came in Kate offered half of her chair to the little girl. They sat together in the same chair and ate cake to celebrate.

Most of us wouldn't stop to ask someone crying if they were okay much less put an arm around them. Most of us wouldn't spend time at a party with someone we didn't know. Most of us wouldn't offer half our chair to someone who had no place to sit. But wouldn't the world be a little better if we did?

My favorite line from THE HEIDI CHRONICLES is from Act II, scene 4:

I don't blame any of the us (for how I'm feeling). We're all concerned, intelligent, good women. It's just that I feel stranded. And I thought the whole point was that we wouldn't feel stranded. I thought the point was we were all in this together.

So can we stop judging, hating, overlooking one another for a minute and just love each other because aren't we all in this together?

The hard stuff....

Yep, it's birthday month for Kate again. She turned the big "6". It's been a great year. She loved her time at the CSC; she learned a lot, made lots of friends, and undoubtedly ran and screamed for hundreds of miles. We had a fantastic summer; we saw plays, we saw movies, we spent a week in Baton Rouge, and spent a week with our favorite people at the beach. Kate did all of this without a father. July 31 marked the one year anniversary of Kate's last visit with him.

The first couple of months she spent without him were the hardest for her. After her birthday last year I think she sort of got over not seeing him. I don't think I did a very good job of explaining where he was; I was unsure of exactly how much I could say or should say to a five year old. So I simply told her that he wasn't well, that he was sick, and that he loved her. She was okay with that explanation and went on living her happy little life. The year was spattered with phone calls from him. He was frustrated with me because I refused to be in charge of his relationship with her. The last thing that I was going to do was to act as his secretary and set up phone calls with her. If he wanted to talk to her he had to call her which he did occasionally. The last phone call was at the end of April.

The year was also spattered with court dates to "change the custody" agreement. I believe there were five hearings that I went to with my attorney which he missed. Finally the judge allowed us to change the custody agreement without him present. I was awarded full custody. Period. Finally.

After the above agreement was signed by the judge he got an attorney who filed a request to dismiss the agreement. Boom. He doesn't show. He doesn't care enough to come to court. When it's changed he will pretend to be interested. Pretend to be interested after missing two birthday (no presents, no cards, no calls), a Christmas (no presents, no card, no nothing), valentine's day, Easter, first loose tooth, first day of kindergarten, and many other occasions.

So after over a year I saw him in court last week. The agreement was indeed dismissed by the judge. We will have to recreate an agreement. We will have to do a lot of expensive "discovery" since we don't know where he lives or who he lives with. We will have to schedule a number of court appearances which I will inevitably have to pay for. Me, the Mommy who is there for her child. I feel okay with this, I have a great attorney. She assures me that we will not agree to anything that would put Kate at risk. More than likely he will get supervised visitation but this might not happen until sometime next year. The courts are slow. But in all of this I felt the need to do a better job of communicating to my sweetness.

Today after church I took Kate to lunch. She wanted to go to Olive Garden; her favorite restaurant because of the mints that you get with the check. She wasn't feeling well. She has been having an allergy attack since Friday evening. I said to her as we sat waiting on the bread sticks, another reason she loves the place, "I need to talk to you when we get home." I think she thought she was in trouble because she replied a little sheepishly, "Go ahead Mommy, tell me now." So I mustered as much tact as I could and I said, "Kate I love you more than anything in the world and I will always take care of you. I take really good care of you. You will live with me as long as you need to. If you ever, ever need anything I want you to ask me. I'm here for you." She said with a little grin, "I know Mommy." And then I told her the hard stuff, "Kate, your father left because he was sick. He can't take care of you. He loves you and someday you will be able to visit with him again but he will never be able to take care of you the way Mommy does." Again Kate looked at me and said, "I know Mommy, I know."  And then she put her forehead on my shoulder with her face toward my arm and there she sat for the longest two minutes of my life.

Parenting is full of joy, full of trials, full of teaching, and most definitely full of the hard stuff.

Random Acts of...

About two weeks ago I was driving myself and Kate to school. It was an average day; we were on time, the weather was good, we were listening to the radio, and enjoying a little serenity in the car.

We were driving on Highway 31 going South when I noticed a black Chevy Camaro about 100 yards ahead of us driving erratically. This car was moving in and out of the right hand lane, weaving onto the right shoulder of the road as well as into the left hand lane.

I think I said out loud: "What's going on?!" This random statement got Kate's attention. She said, "What Mommy? What?" I told her not to panic and that I didn't have any idea what was happening. My goal was to move past the car quickly.

As I approached the car I could fully view the situation. There was a young man on a bike pedaling as fast as he could on the shoulder of the highway as the driver of the Camaro was trying to hit him. The windows of the Camaro were down and the driver was shouting at the young man. I couldn't understand what was being said. The poor kid on the bike just kept pedaling; pedaling as fast as he could for his life's sake.

I called the police. I reported what I saw.

All the time Kate kept saying, "Why Mommy? Why would someone try to hurt someone else like that?" I said, "I don't know Kate. I don't know." And then I realized what I needed to tell her, "Kate there are bad people, no evil people, in the world. These people don't care about life." Kate fired back with, "Why Mommy?" And I answered as best I could, "I'm not sure, I guess they are full of anger which probably grew out of intense fear."

Then I thought a moment and  I told her, "Don't let your fear make your angry, Kate. Let courage and strength grow from there. I know you can do it; it's already started."

I want my Mommy!

How many times during the day do I hear the phrase, "I want my Mommy!"? I can not begin to give a realistic figure. One hundred times? Probably, at least. I love it that my child loves me so much but, wow, that phrase is a little over used. My favorite time that she screams, "I want my Mommy!" is when we are in the car and I'm driving and she is bolted into the backseat in her chair.

No matter how many times she says, "I want my Mommy!" everyday I respond in the same way. I say, "You've got me Kate!" And I mean that; she has me emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. However, it's true she may not have me that moment physically.

I'm always with her emotionally even when I'm teaching class and she is at her school I'm constantly having loving thoughts of my sweet child. I often during the day remember sweet little things that she says to me or does for me. I love her so much.

She is always in my mind. A funny fact: when Kate was in daycare and potty training the daycare owner would text me when Kate had a successful BM. No lie! Even when I was teaching class. It became so funny to me that I'd announce it to my class. The students even waited for me to get the daily text.

She and I are spiritually connected not only by the fact that she is of me, a part of me, and I carried her for 8 months, but that we lift one another up. Sounds odd maybe, but I pray for her and send white light throughout the day, and she always prays for me every night. We support each other.

Our relationship is very different from the relationship I had with my Mom. Actually I guest the relationship I have with Kate is much more like the relationship I had with Daddy. Mom and I were at odds from my birth. She was in labor for 72 hours and almost died when I was born. I've thought that perhaps we never "bonded" after my birth. Almost immediate after my birth she became pregnant with my bro. She and bro had/have a very good relationship.

As a small child I remember being jealous of my Mom's relationships with my bro and my younger cousins. I watched her brush my cousins' hair and I even remember asking her to brush my hair and her saying no. Our relationship became adversarial. I don't know why. I don't know what I did for her not to love me but I remember doing everything in my power not to be yelled at by her. I remember hiding and I remember telling her whatever I thought she wanted to hear in order to not be screamed at.

Daddy was my rock. He listened to me and encouraged me as much as he knew how. He forced me to go away to college and Thank GOD he did. He always knew my heart and he was a great motivator. There was never a moment in my life that I doubted that Daddy loved me.

After college my relationship with Mom changed. Daddy had open heart surgery and she became his rock. She was wonderful with him and for him. She really became an encouraging force. He felt like he owed his life to Mom and rightfully so. She cooked the right foods, she nagged him not to eat bad, she helped keep him on an exercise regiment, she was with him every step of his recovery, she was his soul mate.

As she became closer to Daddy she also became closer to me. I think she understood me a little better. I certainly understood her better and felt indebted to her for keeping my Daddy alive. I've always loved my Mom but I really felt like she loved me during this time period.

In my twenties and thirties I became a friend to my Mom. She finally really talked to me about what was going on with her and with Daddy. If I was upset I called her and talked to her and then asked to talk to Daddy. If something wonderful happened I called her. I sent her articles, programs, poster, pictures of every show I did. She and Daddy have boxes of video tapes of old shows.

Now, I'm the Mom to a wonderful five year old and in some ways I'm a Mom to my Mom. My Mom has dementia. She has good days and bad.  It really hurt Daddy to watch her memory diminish over the past couple of years. In October 2010 Daddy confided in me about the emotions he was having watching Mom lose her memory. He told me that he found it frightening that someone who had been so strong a personality and so independent in life could be so weak and needy. He was overwhelmed. I tried to call and talk to him about it but she hovered around him and the phone. He would never say anything that might hurt her feelings. Now with Daddy gone, bro and I feel those emotions as well as the grief over the loss of Daddy.

So I go and visit Mom and lose her in Wal-Mart. No joke. That happened last week. She went to the bathroom while I was checking out. After I paid for the groceries Kate and I started looking for Mom. We went to the bathroom and she wasn't there. We waited there thinking she might come back but she didn't. Kate was very, very upset and fearful that someone had "taken Meme". After several minutes Mom had us paged. She was in the bakery. She hadn't remembered where we were when she left us but she knew enough to have me paged. Thank GOD! So now it's as if I have two five year olds. That's the way I think of it--if I wouldn't let Kate do it by herself I can't let Mom do it either.

So there are times that I think "I want my Mommy!" just like Kate. And I really do. Sometimes my Mommy is there when I look at her or talk to her, and other times it's not my Mommy. I want my Daddy too.

So these days rather than being down or sad I try to remember to be very happy when my Mom is there and most of all to remember to be there for Kate when she really "wants her Mommy".

Do you believe in me?

A little over a week ago Kate bopped into the kitchen and looked me in eye then fired this question at me, "Do you believe in me Mommy?"


Wow! For a moment it was as if my breath had been sucked into my toes. I couldn't swallow. My body was a vacuum. How to answer this question of a five year old. Hum....


I took a moment with a mindful smile on my face. As long as I smile Kate is at ease; this is part of the magical knowledge of Mommies. How do I answer this question? I mustered, "Of course I believe in you. I believe in you with every thread of my being. I believe in you from the bottom of my heart. I believe in you." Kate responded with a smile and, "Great! I believe in you too Mommy."


The smile on my face was 'real' now. Ah, she believes in me. Great! What does all this mean?


On Sunday, July 1st the minister at our church preached a patriotic message. With the title "My name is America." I listened intently as I always do at church waiting to learn, be enlightened, be moved, emotionally connect, something! I WANT something when I'm in church. I don't turn off or become distracted; I'm an active participant. I don't always get something but it's okay, I'm sure I will eventually have an "ah-ha!" experience down the road when I'm SUPPOSED to get something.


On that Sunday I got something when the minister asked, "Do you believe in me?" He was asking this question for our country not for himself. And in that moment all those emotions that I had experienced a few days before when Kate had asked the exact same question with the exact same intonation rushed into my body, into my mind.  Wow! Of course I believe in America...from the bottom of my heart!


I believe in my country--I'm a radically patriotic person. I love being an American. I become very angry when folks put down our great country. I think folks think if you're a 'liberal' that you don't believe in our country; that's not true!  Now, I'm not defending politicians or stupid people or ignorance or evil. But that's everywhere. I'm talking about the good people who reside all over our beautiful country. I've worked and lived in many places and I love and respect folks from the far Northwest to New England to the Southeast as well as the West. Each part of the country I've lived in had folks with quirky culture and traditions AND how wonderful is that!?! I love tradition and culture.  I LOVE QUIRKY....I love America...


And I believe in our country as I believe in my daughter. She's amazing. And so is our country.

One night on the way home from Montevallo Kate said, "Oh look, that's beautiful!" I said, "What are you looking at?" Kate's reply, "An American Flag, Mommy, it's just beautiful."

I thought to myself, "It's beautiful that you think so Kate:)"

I wanta hold your hand.....

Last year on my birthday we celebrated my Daddy's life on earth. I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to say a few words about my Daddy that day. I thought I had lost the little story that I wrote for him but today I found it. I want to share it with you:



If you know Jack Killian’s sons you might think that my Daddy was the quiet one. But he was so much more than that.



My Daddy was encouraging, supportive, kind, generous, loving, mischievous, funny, argumentative, eccentric and artistic.



My Daddy was artistic and he shared that talent with me. When I was a baby and a toddler I had a red, five year diary. The entries in the diary started with scribbling on pages and then on some pages daddy drew elaborate pictures of farm houses and Santa Claus. Some pages he drew the pictures and I colored them. Instead of bedtime stories he would ask me how to build a brick house. We would list everything you needed. We would draw it in my diary. He taught me to be an artist.



My Daddy was encouraging and supportive. It was the fall of 1986; I had been accepted to Birmingham-Southern College. On a hot August day Daddy packed up two cars with my things that I had planned to take to college. We looked a little like the Beverly Hillbillies J I was so very shy and nervous. I remember walking out to the car where Daddy was rearranging the trunk for the 5^th or 6^th time; I stopped him and told him that I was wrong that I didn’t want to go to B-SC. I had decided that I wanted to stay at home and that I would go to the community college. I remember him telling me, “You have things to do and you can’t do them here. You have to go. Now go get your butt in the car.”



My Daddy was generous. There was this spot in my car under the front seat between the fabric seat cover and the metal frame. That’s where my Daddy would hide $100 in twenties every weekend I would go home from college. He said it was “just in case money.” Even after I graduated he would still leave twenties there each time I came home. This past year at Thanksgiving after Daddy got out of the hospital I was packing my car to go home. I opened the driver’s side door and there on my car seat was a twenty dollar bill.



My Daddy was funny. A few years ago Daddy decided to go through all the boxes of pictures that he and Mom had accumulated over the years. There were boxes and boxes and boxes of pictures. Daddy took on the task of writing the names of people in the picture on the back as well as the date if he could remember it. He spent hours and hours on this project. He loved doing it. He and Mom vowed that if they didn’t know who the people in the picture were they would throw the picture away. Daddy would do just about anything not to throw a picture away. He would save the photos of the unknown family members in a box and ask everyone who came in the house if they recognized the people. Finally Daddy threw away the box. But there were about 20 ancient black and white photographs that he couldn’t bring himself to throw away. The photographs are amazing. They are of interesting looking people doing really bizarre things. Daddy named each person in all the pictures as well as documented what was happening in the pictures. Daddy created a branch of our family tree. He named that branch “The Gordons”. He chronicled their lives. He was so funny.



My Daddy was eccentric and argumentative. Daddy was a conspiracy theorist. He was weary of the government. He believed that the bird flu would get us all. He asked me one day what I thought about him mounting some kind of gun on either side of the driveway. I asked why he would do that and he told me, “So everyone will know how crazy I am.” Recently he painted the hallway in the house. He asked me how I liked the color he chose. I said I didn’t really like it and he replied with, “Well, I do.” Daddy loved to talk about politics. Really he loved to argue about politics. He would find the one thing that would set you off and then he would not leave it alone. He would push your buttons.



My Daddy was mischievous. Daddy was very, very hard of hearing. That’s a nice way to say he was deaf. He wasn’t completely deaf and that was probably the problem. He could hear just enough of a low roar to drive him crazy. Several different types of noise would bother him: high pitched screaming, everyone talking at once, and high pitched screaming while everyone was talking at once. Christmas was hard for Daddy; everyone at the house talking and laughing and the children running and screaming. One Christmas Daddy couldn’t get anyone’s attention so as he sat in his chair he would occasionally set off his car alarm. Everyone would stop talking for a few moments. Children would stop screaming. When it got loud again Daddy would set if off again. It took us quite a while to figure out what was going on. Once we did we all had a good laugh which was probably pretty annoying for Daddy.

My Daddy was loving. Last Thanksgiving Daddy had an accident and was in the hospital. After he got out of the hospital as Kate and I were leaving his house to go to ours he opened the gate for the car as we backed out of the driveway. As I drove by him I looked in the side mirror and I saw him blowing kisses at us! I love my Daddy.

It's been a difficult year without him. I've missed his wonderful advice, his silly sense of humor, his laugh, his strength in everything, his eyes and I think most of all his hand holding mine. When I miss him most I remember what it felt like to hold his hand.

Jell-O Molds

When I was a kid my grandmother who we all called "Nanny" had several brass Jell-O molds that hung on the wall in her kitchen. Do you remember those? The one I remember best was a fish. I remember her making lime-green Jell-O in it. When it was chilled she turned the little fish mold over and tada! The yummy green fish slipped out perfectly and it was if there had never been anything in the mold. We greedily ate the Jell-O up! Jell-O isn't even that good but as little kids Jell-O is the best thing ever or at least back then it was.

Interesting.... I've been thinking a lot about that Jell-O.

Recently I've written things on my facebook wall and I've posted funny cartoons and pictures that have offended people. These offended "friends" rather than writing their opinions on their walls have put comments, some really uncalled for comments, on my wall. On my wall. Wow! I'm sure this is a discussion we could have about social media and how the general populous feel free to write offensive things because we are almost anonymous on social media, yada, yada, yada. But that's not where I want to go tonight. I want to talk about Jell-O.

I'm not Jell-O. I'm not green Jell-O. I'm not even red Jell-O. Life might be easier if I was but I'm not. I don't fit in a little brass fish Jell-O mold. You might turn over the mold to tump me out and I'm probably going to stick and I'm certainly not going to make a perfect little fish.

I'm different from you. I have talents, skills, I'm funny, and I know a lot of trivia. I can be cranky, I'm easy to anger, I've been called fiery and I'm occasionally argumentative; well, maybe more than occasionally. I like country music, I like Italian opera, I love blues and jazz, I love Led Zeppelin, and I love Billy Holiday, Bessie Smith and Nina Simone. I dislike Rap and I'm not really into Hip-hop music. I love Jesus and rock-n-roll and beer. Can you love all those things? I do. I'm a Christian and I read a lot of Buddhist books and I mediate. Can you do all those things? I do. I practice yoga not voodoo though I've been accused of doing both. I love the movies A STREET CAR NAMED DESIRE, BRAZIL, THE PIANO, V FOR VENDETTA and THE LITTLE MERMAID. I'm a democrat and I love peace and I have a very strong work ethic. I hate prejudice, guns, weapons of mass destruction, judgment, poverty, ignorance, narrow-mindedness, crimes against women and children, and violence in general. I believe in kindness, love, understanding, charity, laughter, family, spirituality, education, hugging, the future, art, art, and art. There are a few that agree with me and some that disagree (and I'd argue that they are wrong :) ).

We're all different. It's true. We all have strengths and weakness. We all have opinions, loves, and hates. Isn't it better to celebrate our diversity than to try and force our differences on one another? Isn't life a little more interesting because we are all different? Isn't it cool that we live in a country where we are allowed to express our real, authentic selves?

Or at least that's the theory--that we are free to do that. If I express myself and people shoot me down on my own Facebook wall just for being me what does that say about our country, our society? Well, I'll tell you what my Aunt who lived in the house with my Nanny and those Jell-O molds would say, "Don't let the bastards get you down." So rather than have my mind changed by those comments or become angered by those folks on Facebook, I defriended them. I continue to defriend folks each day. It's a sad day when someone doesn't want to let me be me or you be you. But it's okay; don't cry for me, they were "fake friends" anyway. And I bet they wouldn't fit in that Jell-O mold either!

How early is too early to smoke crack!?! I mean, really?

I wrote this a few years ago. I referred to it a few days ago in class. So for all my students out there who are curious :)

This morning I was driving along on my way to work which I was really happy about because yesterday I was at home all day long with Kate. I love Kate but 24/7 with her can be taxing especially if she has exploding diarrhea which she had yesterday--I would go into detail but perhaps you would like me to spare you that, I'll just say this....I had to cover the sofa with a blanket!

And anyhoo--I was driving listening to Piper's brother Ace on the radio and I noticed that the car in front of me was swerving and that the driver had a pipe in his hand. I checked the clock and indeed it was 7:55am. I'm very cautious these days because I was just in an auto accident (not my fault! thank God) and it totaled my car and almost totaled me. And when a driver is acting erratic as this one was it is very disheartening. HOW EARLY IS TOO EARLY TO SMOKE CRACK?!

Kate's grandmother, Margaret, has a theory about drinking; you never drink before 5:00pm or before you walk from one end of the beach to the other. I'm in complete agreement with Margaret, except that I think on Sunday you can drink when the game starts which might be before 5:00pm. But CRACK at 7:55am?! I mean come on....have some klass people......

To be or not to be....honest?

So I recently read a blog entry about being honest. In the blog the writer wrote of one of the dilemmas of blog writers; of whether to be completely honest or not to be honest (by withholding information). And I'll be completely honest, here for a moment, I often stifle myself from writing here because I wonder what my audience will think of me.

I'm not really sure who reads this but I do know that people DO read it because I track my "stats".  Most folks don't comment on my blog--well, my close "grown-up" friends feel free to comment.  I welcome comments and it's especially good to hear from friends I haven't heard from in a long time. My dilemma is to be  honest or to color the writing with "positivity" because I don't want people to feel sorry for me or think I'm not strong or in control because of what's going on in my personal life.

So with that said, I'm going to be completely honest tonight. Will folks at my office look at me and then look at the floor tomorrow when they see me? Maybe but I think there are times when we should be honest and there are times when we NEED to be dead honest. Today is one of those days for me.

I'm afraid. I don't think this makes me weak or stupid, or non-artistic. I don't think people should feel sorry for me nor do I want people to. I'm afraid because I have been the victim of violence in my life. The violence was NOT MY FAULT. It is not the victims fault but I do see where it could have been avoided if I had made wiser choices. I've made some really bad choices and I hope that someone who reads this makes better choices because of what they read here.

My ex-husband was verbally abusive, emotionally and mentally abusive. He even pushed me and scariest of all he kidnapped (and yes, I'll use that word) my daughter twice.  The first time he took her it was for a few hours. He took her to the bookstore and they played and got a cookie. They had a good time but I was insane with worry. He wouldn't return my phone calls or text messages. I waited at home having no idea where he was or where he was going....with her.  I was afraid.

The second time was for 20 hours and it was on Christmas eve/Christmas day 2009. I called the police. I begged someone to help me...anyone but no one had the power to do anything. He refused to answer my phone calls or my text messages. He called me while I was on the phone with the police and in the message he left he told me that my daughter would stay with him that night and that I couldn't do anything about it.  He was right. I was powerless. I was up all night long. I paced. I cried. I hated myself for not being able to protect her. She wouldn't wake up and run down the stairs to see what Santa had brought. She wouldn't see that he had eaten her cookies and drank the juice she had left him.  I was so afraid for her safety, for her happiness, for her.

I called and called and called the next morning starting at 6am. She was always awake by 6. I knew she was awake. But no answer, no answer, no answer. I paced, I cried, I hated myself. At 11:00 he answered the phone. He had taken a bunch of pills when he went to bed and he had just woken up. I could only imagine my poor baby sitting next to his passed out body unable to get him awake, unable to get help, wearing a diaper that she had been wearing for over 12 hours.

He apologized. He handed the phone to my daughter and I was relieved, angry, sad, crazed to hear her. Her little voice said, "My Mommy!" Then she cried. He took the phone from her and said that he would bring her home. I doubted that he was telling the truth but about half an hour later he was on my porch with my precious baby. I reached out the door and took her from him and then closed the door and locked it. I didn't want to hear his response, his excuse. I didn't allow him to see her for four months. That was two years ago. I'm still afraid.

A month later he followed my car after I picked my daughter up from daycare. He called and demanded to see her. He demanded that I stop my car. I refused. I cried. He screamed at me through the phone. My daughter could hear him, she could read my emotions as I tried to remain calm as he followed us toward our home. My daughter started to pray, she prayed to Jesus that he would leave us alone, that he would stop. I changed my path. I drove to my brother's house but no one was there. He continued to follow us. I called my attorney who told me to go to the police station. I called the police and told them what was happening to us. The policeman on the phone kept me calm and told me where to go. All the while my daughter prayed. the police pulled my ex-husband over and gave him a ticket. The police came to my car and checked on us. I told him that I had tried to get a restraining order but that it was denied. He said that it was difficult to get one because it took away a person's rights. Specifically the right to carry a gun. REALLY! This person should be allowed to carry a gun?!



I'm afraid. Tonight I saw a car almost identical to his pass us by on our way home. My heart started to race. I was sure that it was him in the car. I looked in the rear-view mirror I saw the car turn around in a side street and follow us into our neighborhood. I turned down a random street. I made a big circle. My daughter kept asking where were we going. I said we were checking out the houses on that street.

My heart pounded. I couldn't breathe. I remembered the feeling of losing her albeit for a few hours but to me it felt like a lifetime. And I was more than afraid...I was terrified. That doesn't make me weak, or pitiful, or stupid, or southern, or non-artistic...it makes me a Mommy. And that's honesty.

Popcorn :)

So...I'm so grateful to be blessed with some of the most wonderful family members and friends. There are days that I'm driving or sitting at my desk or walking across campus and I can feel my body filling with love, energy, powerful light. I know it's coming from the thoughts and prayers of those folks who live near and far that love me. 

Today was one of those days. I was driving to the bank and I was filled with love. I decided to call one of the people who I know sends that feeling to me daily, Sam, my brother.

On a momentary side note: if you know me you know that Sam has had many nicknames in his life. I've called him: Bubba, Little Sam, Big Sam, Unka Sam and Bro. Today I call  him Bro. You should know that I always call him Bro. I never refer to him as Sam. It's just easier. My Daddy was Sam, my dog was Sam, my best friend's daughter is Sam, one of my best friends from Louisiana is Sam, my Cousin Clint's son is Sam. Many, many folks in my life are named Sam.

I called Bro. We talked about Mom and Kate and Abby. And somewhere in the middle of our conversation we started talking about Iowa. Bro said he would like to go back to Iowa. I on the other hand am not drawn to Iowa but talking about Iowa made me think of Idaho.  If you know how my mind works call me up and tell me because I immediately thought of my Daddy. When I think of Daddy I generally have a story.

Today I reminded Bro of a story-- After I moved to Louisiana Daddy started driving to Georgia each week to buy lottery tickets. He and Mom made it a weekly event; drive to Georgia, get lottery tickets and ice cream. It was nice. They played the same numbers each week; my birthday, Bro's birthday and Jaime's birthday. I don't think they ever won much money but it was an event.

One night when I was talking to Daddy he told me that he and Mom were getting ready to go to Georgia to get the tickets. I asked him what he would do with the money if he won. Daddy said, "Well, I'd build you a big beautiful house where ever you wanted it and I'd build Sam a house in Alabama and I'd build Jaime a house in Idaho." I was perplexed. I thought and then asked, "Daddy, why Idaho?" Daddy replied, "Because that's one place on earth I never want to go." Daddy went on to say, "I'd buy me and your Mom an RV and we would drive from Sam's house to your house. We'd dirty up all your towels and then we'd leave." Daddy used to joke that we only came home long enough to dirty up their towels.  Bro and I laughed hardily at that!

After I got off the phone with Bro I went to the bank and then I ran into Wal-mart. As I entered the store there was a display with those big cans of popcorn with images of Christmas on them. I thought I need to get one of those for Daddy and then I remembered.  He loved the caramel popcorn :) Maybe he was there and some of the love and light that I feel is coming from my Daddy.  Maybe I'll go back and buy one. I love popcorn too.

To Be a Redneck!

On Tuesday night the University of Montevallo held its Dancy Lecture Series. Brenda Marie Osbey was our guest lecturer.  Ms. Osbey has a long and prestigious history in the state of Louisiana. She's an amazing poet, historian, as well as fantastic lecturer.  Perhaps it was her poetry that inspired me the most. She writes about NOLA and her life as a young black woman there. She is authentic, brilliant, southern, uninhibited and truly AMAZING. 

I'm a playwright but I haven't written in at least a year. Many time constraints as well as personal issues have kept me from writing.  Ms. Osbey inspired to me to write again.  She inspired me to write with abandon, to throw the truth on the paper, to be who I really am, to be unafraid, to....write. 

I'm going back to the several plays I've begun but not finished. This time I will finish them. I will post them here as well for you all to read. Thanks to Ms. Osbey I'm feeling authentic today and I'm okay with that. After listening to her lecture I was reminded of a silly journal entry that I wrote a couple of years ago. This entry is a glimpse into the whimsy of my personality as well as a little of my back-story.  I call the entry "To Be a Redneck!" 

Hell yeah! I own a cowboy hat. The fact is that I own a large number of cowboy hats. I wear cowboy boots on a regular basis and I drive a truck. However, no one has ever accused me to my face of being a redneck.

To be quite honest, I’m a little disappointed. I’ve even accused myself of being one! I used to joke with my brother about being a redneck while standing next to my truck (okay, really an SUV) in his driveway and drinking a Miller light wearing my cowboy boots. But if you know Sam, you know that he shrugged it off and said, “Hell, I’m the king of the rednecks!” Whatever!

What message is being sent to kids who grew up in “traditional” redneck families and connect themselves with the concept of “redneckedness” but are not considered rednecks by their peers? Are there other social groups who disown their young in the same way just because they’ve become educated, attained goals, got good jobs, make a decent living and don’t have a hound dog sleeping under the couch on their porch?

When I was in college my cousins used to laugh at me because they said I talked funny. I guess because I had learned to write sentences where the verb and subject were parallel this made me different from them, however, all the while I wanted the “sameness” of our relationship. I wanted to retain my “authentic redneckedness.”

Yesterday I had the chance to regain my title of a redneck woman; a colleague told me that his 1992 Ford Ranger was stuck in the mud in his side yard and he was on his way home to push it out. I offered, immediately I might add, to hitch his truck to mine and pull him out. This created extensive laughter from his wife who said, “I’ve got to get home to charge the batteries in the video camera!” And that was when I realized; I own cowboy boots, hats, a truck but I have never owned a pair of Daisy Duke’s. Which I add, I probably should being wearing Daisy Duke’s with my cowboy hat, cowboy boots while pulling Marcus’s truck out of the mud and drinking a Miller Light in his driveway, Y’all! This attempt at regaining the “redneckedness” of my youth failed. Marcus was able to get the truck out on his own without the aid of my truck, boots, hat, Miller Light, etc. Sad.

So perhaps because of my lack of opportunity and lack of appropriate redneck attire I can no longer fit into the regional stereotype. This saddens me. But alas, back to the important question posed above, what message are we sending to young rednecks? I guess the message is: get out, you no longer belong.  Or perhaps, rather than get out, we should shout—RUN! FORREST, RUN!

After doing about 30 seconds of research on the subject of “disowned children” I found that society disowns children because of disability, sexual orientation, poverty, religious differences and for disobeying societal rules. All very sad stories, and true, but what about redneck children who are being ostracized for growing, learning, thriving? I found no stories of such children. Perhaps we are an under recognized group? Is there Federal Funding for such? I want my check!

After years of schooling, being disowned and other such events I believe that I am wise enough to give advice on this subject and my advice is this: drive a truck, wear boots, get a hat, buy Daisy Duke’s (even wear them if you are brave enough) and speak your speech with a strong “y’all” here and there!

We may not have hound dogs under the couches on our porches, we may not even have couches on our porches, we may take down our Christmas lights because the “association” tells us we must, we may hold advanced degrees from prestigious universities but no one can take from me or you the earthiness that lies at our core, no one can take my authentic self (and they will have to pry that Miller Light out of my cold dead hand!).

One of the many Cowboy Hats!