I had a recurring dream when I was young. I began having the dream when I was in Jr. High and continued throughout highschool.

I was trying to make my way down the halls of the school, trying to get to my next class before the bell rang.  The halls were so crowded I was feeling overwhelmed.  In my dream I remembered consciously thinking to myself, “just relax, lie back, float to the top and do the elementary backstroke.”  I did so, and was able to gently make my way to my next class, arriving before the bell rang.

Why I had this dream for so many years I have no idea. It was neither good not bad. It just was.  But what I find interesting about the dream was that I REALLY remembered the act of calming myself down and reminding myself of the ability to relax and rise above what was bothering me.

A song my father taught us when we were very young, in part, describes my personality. The song, "Don’t Fence Me In," is a simple one:

Oh, give me land, lots of land under starry skies above
Don’t fence me in,
Let me ride through the wide open country that I love,
Don’t fence me in,
Let me be by myself in the evening breeze,
Listenin’ to the murmur of the cottonwood trees
Send me off forever, but I ask you please,
Don’t fence me in.

Just turn me loose, let me straddle my own saddle underneath the western skies
On my Cayuse let me wander over yonder ‘til I see the mountains rise

I want to ride to the ridge where the west commences
Gaze at the moon ‘til I lose my senses
Can’t look at hobbles and I can’t stand fences,
Don’t fence me in.

Many times in my life I have felt others, wanting desperately to “fence me in,” conform to their view of the world for me, and accept their vision as my own. I have always fought back against this.  Not because I am all-knowing or even right more than 50% of the time.  Rather, because to allow myself to be fenced in would make it impossible for me to continue to explore, learn and grow.

As long as I am free to roam about and just happen on your pasture, I might very well love it and stay a while.  Yet, should you decide to fence me into that very same, lovely pasture, I will likely dig my way out.  Freedom to choose, freedom to make mistakes,  freedom to say I’m sorry for mistakes I have made that have hurt others, and freedom to continue to explore and find out more about myself in the process, is what I truly treasure.

Tonight I thought about what I wanted to write. Writing my blog has become a regular facet of my daily life and one that allows me to share with family and friends, yes those real life people with whom I have built a relationship, and also “meet” others whose paths I would never otherwise have crossed.  Most often, I like to share a memory – usually one that has had a lasting impression on me, for reasons not immediately clear to at the time it occurred.

While speaking on the phone with my daughter a couple of nights ago, she told me she had read a couple of my stories.  Though her recollection of the same event, if indeed she recalls it at all, is a little different from mine, she is taking the time to read them.  We laugh about what I think things meant vs. what she thinks they meant.

My father told me he had passed the link to my blog along to relatives I have never met.  They are family Dad discovered in his genealogical quest.  He wanted them to see some, “anecdotal history” to add to their picture of this part of the family.

My brothers and sister read my blog, though rarely comment.   Sometimes they like to add a comparative story to the one I have told.  They, these fine siblings of mine, are truly the best people I have ever known.  They share my history, but we all recall it slightly differently.

Tonight, as I thought about my post, and about the public apologies, one blogger to the other, about implications of traitors and allegiances and mislaid trust, I challenged myself to determine where the ebb and flow of blogville “relationships” is different from those in the “real world” in which we live.  I have determined that for me the difference is simple. I have never met any of you. I have never shared a meal with you. I have never cared for your sick child, or captured your dog when he broke loose, digging out from under the fence.  You children have never been my wards on a field trip or a band trip, and I have never harmonized with you in the church choir, or while singing happy birthday to a co-worker.

Instead, I have used your words, your expressions of yourselves, to “develop” a character in my head. I see you in this light. And I react to you in accordance with my self-rendered character traits. As an avid reader all my life, this is how I have trained my brain to “understand” the characters built on the author's words. 

I have seen the caution many times, from bloggers whose “characters” were not necessarily pretty ones in my head, to react to the message, not the messenger.  Though this is hard to do, it is the only way I can be certain I don’t “show allegiance” to someone with whom I have never washed dishes or made a bed.  If, in my attempt to continue to participate and to learn from others, you feel I have betrayed you or your trust, I am sorry. I don’t intend to do so.  Just know, that even with those people I have known all my life and for whom I have the utmost respect, there are still at least six versions of every event that ever took place in our shared history.

Have I ever mentioned how I carried the entire United States of America on my shoulders when I was only ten years old?  Well, I did, or at least I was convinced I did. 

As we prepared that spring of 1967 for our move to Cheltenham, England, Dad explained very carefully to his brood of six,  “Everything you say and do, while in a foreign country will be judged to be that of the ‘typical American.’  You represent your country when you are on foreign soil and I trust that you will represent it well.” (or something along those lines)

Well, that’s pretty heavy stuff for a ten year old.  Even my big sister, at eleven, was not strong enough to carry that weight -- how could I?

Well, I started off very carefully.  My first order of business was to “learn the language” so as not to STAND OUT as a “stupid American.”  Let’s just say I made a few mistakes in achieving this goal.  But, within just a couple of months, nobody was asking if I was American any longer.  They thought I might be Irish…LOL (sorry to the Irish).

Nevertheless, every time I broke a school rule, I knew I was not only letting my school down and my family down…I was also letting my entire country down.  I suppose I broke fewer rules than I might have, had I not been weighted with this burden. 

All in all, I cannot say I minded my parents’ expectation.  I suppose it is like going to visit friends in their home.  You are expected to behave just a bit better than you might in you own home. And, if you are the kid who misbehaves at others’ houses, the implication always falls back to your parents….they must not have raised you right.

So, I thank my father for making sure I understood the ramifications of my actions, and I want to publicly apologize to all Americans for the misrepresentation I made of the ‘typical American’ during  those years I lived in England.

“Please arrive at the band room in the high school at 10 AM to be fitted for your band uniform.”

It was with no small amount of excitement that my son awaited fulfilling this invitation.  For three years he had been playing the saxophone - the one owned by my brother who passed away when Stephen was just six.  Now he was 14 and entering high school, which meant Marching Band.

Now, let me give a little background into my son’s thinking at the time.  When he was in 7th grade, he came home from school one day and announced that he had decided where he wanted to go to college.  His choice? Well, Yale.  Or Florida State University!   Hmmm…curious choice.  Why?  Well, Yale was his first choice, but it was very expensive, so FSU was his second choice because he could be in the Marching Band!

Now, the morning arrives and we arrive early as usual and wait our turn for his “fitting.”  Others are walking up and getting their uniforms, and Stephen is just standing there, waiting patiently.  Finally, I suggested he ask when his turn might be, since many had come and gone as he stood quietly by.  So, he mustered up his courage and asked when he was to be fitted.  The lady looked at him and asked his name.  She looked it up and told him to come right along, all the while apologizing.  She thought he was a “little brother” of one of the high school students!

Well, suffice to say, there were no uniforms small enough for him, (he was a whopping 4' 9" and weighed about 75 lbs) so he had to have one altered.  It was a long day, but he was ONE HAPPY CAMPER when we walked out of the band room, uniform in hand.  A quick trip to the shoe store for the requisite black shoes and he was “stylin’!” (Oh, yeah!!!)

And of course, the thrill of the uniform was short lived.  He grew to hate wearing “the chicken,” as they referred to their plumes, as much as all the other kids….but in the beginning…well, you know, I already told you…he was thrilled!

One day, more than 18 years ago, I came home from work to find life as usual at my house. Hubby was comfortably positioned in the rocking recliner, feet propped up, TV blaring.  Kids were “somewhere,” but no noise over the TV, so, sort of “peaceful.”  As I crossed the living room to my roll-top desk, the desk that served as my complete office in those days, to put my briefcase down and sort the mail, I was greeted with the standard, “What’s for dinner?”

Well, as I was winding up for my just as standard smart-aleck response, our terms of endearment were interrupted by the proud emergence of our youngest, then five.  Jen was very proud of herself as she made her entrance onto the living room stage. She beamed from ear to ear and spun and twirled as only little girls can.  But our attention was not on her lovely dance moves, or her very special, rather dingy dress that she loved because of the way it flared out when she spun.  No, our attention was on her head.

Our little “angel” had been transformed into a little, well, hmmm, egghead?  I did not have time to open my mouth before hubby hollered at the top of his lungs, “Jen!  What the H___ happed to your hair????!!!!”

Well, as proud as she had been of her hair cut, for that, indeed, was what she had been showing off, she immediately turned to angry.  Her accusatory voice rang out clearly, “Stephen did it!!!”

About this time, Stephen, completely unaware that all Hades was breaking loose, came out of the bedroom that had served as the make-shift hair salon, carefully carrying the shoebox, into which he had made certain every clipped lock had fallen. Well, as could be expected, he caught Holy Heck for his actions, over his protests of, “Jen asked me to cut her bangs!”

What I found amusing about this little lesson in life is that the single person who should have been reprimanded for this deed was not.  The father, in whose care the children had been entrusted, was actively meting out the punishment, but never once stopped to consider his own lack of attention that allowed this to take place.  Sure, the kids were five and seven and did not need to be hovered over, but they were able to get my sewing shears and perform this transformation without their father ever coming up for air.

Nevertheless, there she was, in all her glory and the world would just have to wait for the bangs, cut off at the skin line, to grow back.  About three weeks after the incident, I caught her in mid twirl in her favorite dress.  I snapped her picture for posterity.  It was one of the many I discovered this week as I went through the box of memories. It was crinkled and stained, but that face, that pure delight shone through. 

I give you, my little egghead angel!

I am sometimes amazed when look back at the old photos and see the beginnings of the works of art that each of us is.  We were once so small and yet, even in our very early stages, we were filled with that personality that would grow and define us, set us apart from all the other artwork that is humanity.

 

Jen was always my little outgoing character. Walking at eight months and talking at about the same time, she was a whirling dervish! Before she was one year old she had learned the fine art of “acquiring” what she liked.  Any time items “went missing” in the house, we were likely to find them stashed in Jen’s “secret hiding place.”  Yes, under her bed she had quite an odd collection of “treasures.”

 

One day, as I sat at my sewing machine, whipping up more clothes for the kids, Jen casually strolled by the coffee table, on which her father’s sunglasses rested.  Liking the color, I suspect, she decided they were to be hers and off the coffee table they were snatched!

 

Her father, tickled at his kleptomaniac ten month old, snapped her photo, as the little thief made off with the goods.  At ten months, she was, apparently, not well versed in the finer art of thievery…she still thought flaunting the goods was a fine idea!

 

Do as your father says!

I was raised with that admonition and, by Jove, so were my children!

 

 

School picture day arrives and Stephen dons his favorite shirt, under which he is sporting a T-shirt.  Dad says, “It’s too cold out there.  Put on this sweater vest!” Stephen objects, but Dad wins.  “And when those pictures come home, I’d better see it on you!”

 

“And SMILE!!!!”

 

 

And the result….

 

 

 

Well, as I prepare for another Easter season I think back to one about ten years ago. I worked with a great guy who was of the Baptist faith.  One afternoon, he decided to go over to the drink machine and purchase a soda.  Being the gentleman he was, he asked if he could get me one as well.

“No, thanks, Byram,” I said, “I gave up sodas for Lent.”
“Lint?” he asked.
“No, Lent,” I said.  When he clearly had no idea what I was referring to, I explained further, “You know, it’s that period that runs from Ash Wednesday to Easter.”

“Humph,” he said, with a naughty twinkle in his eye, “Now that’s one LONG period! Are the cramps bad?”

LOL

When we moved to Virginia from Florida in 1988, we bought a house in a little place called “James Store, VA.”  It is one of several “po-dunk” places in this neck of the woods and I was drawn to its rustic, quiet “ambiance.”  We did not have the luxury of mail being delivered to our house, but had the opportunity to go each day and chat with Mr. Cox at James Store, where, as the postmaster, he carefully rubber banded our mail together each day. 

Getting out mail was an activity we all looked forward to and it was with a little sadness that we accepted the news, in the mid 90’s that this was one of the many post offices to close in the USPS restructuring.  When this happened, we were given the option of putting a box at the end of our dirt road (a quarter mile from the house) or getting an actual PO Box in another small post office about a mile north.  We decided on taking the PO Box for security reasons, and so our mail was then addressed to “North, VA.”

While the post office at North was still small, it lacked much of the charm of James Store.  I didn’t need to wait for Mr. Cox to finish his chat with another mail customer in order to get my mail. I had a key and went directly to my box to retrieve it.  Somehow, the “experience” of getting the mail was not nearly as fun as it had been.  Days could pass without either my husband or me having any interest at all in driving up to get the mail.

When I sold that house and moved into a neighborhood, I started having my mail delivered to the end of my driveway.  Convenience knows no bounds! And yet, though my mail is only 450 feet from my front door, there are days that I simply FORGET to go look in the box!

Today in my rummage through the box of memories, I came across a photo of James Store, as it was when we moved here in 1988.  It still stands, but is boarded up and vacant.  It seems such a shame.  It holds so many memories. I doubt I will ever enjoy the experience of getting the mail quite as much as I did those first seven or eight years.

 

This afternoon, while attempting to do some inventory (honest, I was) I had to move a heavy box full of something.  I could not recall what was in the box, so I opened it to see.  What I found kept me busy for the next two hours.

Old photos, old letters from friends and family, even notes I had passed in Junior High School…we are talking 1972 timeframe!  Among the interesting things that I had somehow grouped together in that box were two paintings done by my grandfather in 1961 and 1962.

I understand why one was in the box.  It had to do with a measure of discomfort I used to feel at the thought of my sweet little Grandad  painting a picture of a naked woman.  But why the other was in the box, I can hardly fathom.  I love the boats he painted, and, in my old age of 48, I don’t half mind the nude! (Still a little weird.)

So, since I discovered them, and I know they have not seen the light of day in at least 15 years, I thought I’d share them.

I give you, a nude and a boat.

When we were very young, my father used to play a game with us. On a brass tray he turned over three or four small, fluted brass “goblets” and under one he tucked a gum drop.  Carefully we watched as he moved the goblets around on the tray.  We followed every move and finally, when Dad had finished all the troop movements, we were invited to guess which goblet covered  the gum drop.

 

We became very good at this game and it, of course, was one of many such games Dad and Mom played with us which helped in memory building.  I remember this game in particular because the prize, that gum drop, hidden under one of those goblets actually served to distract our attention.  Now I know that sounds odd but it is a true phenomenon.

 

Playing the game with no gum drop, but, say a button, hidden under the same goblet, I would follow the goblet very well and almost always be able to identify the one with the button.  But the gum drop distracted me just enough, I mean I could TASTE that little piece of candy, that I lost track without ever realizing it.

 

I try to remember that fact about myself when trying to solve puzzles. I am a puzzle solver by nature. But, to be successful I must remain objective.  To be objective, I must not get emotionally involved with the “gum drop.”  All the clues are there, I’m certain, but allowing myself to be distracted even momentarily, will lead to improper identification of the correct “brass goblet.”

When I was in ninth grade, I was seated next to a girl named Jean Hostetler in science class. This was simply because my teacher believed in seating everyone “alphabetically”. I was Judy Fletcher, and her name came right after mine.  Jean was a big girl and I was not. She was also a bully. On a regular basis she would casually slam me on the head with her science book; you know the big heavy one!

 

Well, I was never a fighter and I believed in that whole, “turn the other cheek” thing.  But, to be honest, I was really just scared of her. So, I PRETENDED I didn’t notice.  Surely, if I ignored her, she would “go away.” But no, every day she showed up and many days I endured the book to the head.

 

One day she came into the room and she was VERY nice to me. It seems she found out that one of the substitute teachers, one with whom I had a good rapport, was subbing in my English class.  She wanted to tell me that she thought he was, “SOOOOO Cute!” Now, you must understand, I did not have googoo-eyes girly-in-lust conversations with this girl EVER, so I was pretty certain I wasn’t going to start having them now! So I answered her saying, “Cool, I’ll let him know.”

 

Well, she dared me to do it, and, since she dared me and I didn’t know whether I’d be worse off doing it, or not, I did. On my way from science to geometry class, I stopped off at the English class and greeted Mr. Dawson. “Hey,” I said, “Jean Hostetler dared me to tell you she thinks you’re cute!” Well, he was laughing and all and then his face got serious.  He told me to head on down the hall. 

 

I looked behind me and there was Jean.  Charging at me like a mad bull.  OK, time for me to RUN.  Off I ran as the hallway, filled with kids changing classes, parted like the Red Sea.  All was going pretty well, though she was taller and faster, I had the FEAR driving me.  Unfortunately, as I may have mentioned in a post some moons past, I always wore shoes too big for my puny feet.  I stuffed the toes and wore size 6 or 7’s.

 

This particular day, this practice let me down, for I tripped on my “clown shoes” and down I went.  Knowing Jean was hot on my trail, I picked myself up, but only to my knees and was literally trying to run down the hall on my knees.  By this time the kids were all getting involved.  They knew I was dead meat, and they were not willing to stand in the path of RAGING JEAN!

 

Just as I was about to get really clobbered by this crazed girl, my geometry teacher, Mr. Foran, came to my aid.  He grabbed Jean and held on.  I was never so thankful to see my geometry teacher as I was that day!  Jean was sent home and I was told to go see the school nurse.  I told him I was fine. She had not actually touched me that day, though murder was on her mind!

 

The next day, back in science class, Jean slammed me on the head with her science book.  I looked at her straight in the eyes and told her I did not appreciate her doing that, and I wanted her to stop.  She laughed at me.  She said, “I wondered when you were going to finally acknowledge I was hitting you!”

I won’t say we ever became friends, for that would be untrue. But she did not hit me again, nor did she confide in me about those she found cute!  I was happy with it that way. I can’t say I really stood up for myself, because it really didn’t feel that way.  I just got tired of pretending something mean and nasty wasn’t happening.

When I was born, it was with eyes severely crossed that I first viewed my world. There was little question I was going to need help or never have reasonable vision. As luck would have it, the leading authority at the time for my condition was resident at the hospital in which I was born.  Dr. Marshall Parks performed my first surgery when I was eight months old. Both eyes were affected and so surgery was performed on both.

 

I recall all my childhood, when I would look in the hall closet, amongst the band-aids and aces bandages, cotton balls, gauze and the likes, were two odd looking navy blue fabric “things” with ties on either side, and something akin to Popsicle sticks encased in the cloth.  When asked, my mother explained that these were the splints I was required to wear for that time immediately after my eye surgery.  They were tied around my little arms ensuring I could not bend my elbows, thereby further ensuring I could not pull my patches off, etc.  Why she kept them in that closet all those years, is beyond me, because I could see no other “alternative use for such devices.”

 

The surgery to straighten my eyes and the glasses I began wearing at ten months were designed to have me glasses-free by ten years old.   Well, apparently, nobody told my eyes this and, still in glasses with one lazy eye at twelve years old, my mother took me to the eye doctor in England.  This guy was a local and chosen either by word of mouth or randomly…not clear on that.  His recommendation was that I have surgery on my “lazy” eye to further correct that eye and help me achieve binocular vision. (with a lazy eye, the brain cuts off the signal from one eye, so as to achieve a single image, rather than the double vision produced when both signals are trying to be accepted.  The person therefore, has no depth perception, as vision from both eyes, binocular vision, is required to have depth perception.)

 

Well, Mom let this UK doc know in no uncertain terms that he would FIRST have to get it approved by our US doc.  When Dr. Harte asked the name of my US doc, Mom told him, and he started to laugh. It turns out that in 1970 there were seven leading experts of in this area.  Dr. Parks and Dr. Harte were two of them.  So, I had the surgery, at age 12 ½ and recall the whole experience vividly.

 

The results of the surgery? Well, I have permanent sutures in my right eye (as opposed to the soluble ones used in the US by Dr. Parks), and  most of the time my right eye does not “wander” any longer, but neither does it work in conjunction with my stronger left eye. So, I remain a monocular person, seeing everything in only two dimensions.

 

One day, when I was 21, I was at work when I was struck by an excruciating pain in my “good” eye.  The vision was going in and out and I was scared.  My boss told me to go to see the company doctor, which I did.  The company doc looked at my eye and, in the tone of a parent, accused me, “You’ve been RUBBING that eye!”  OK, so sue me!  He was right, I had been rubbing it, because I had allergies and they made my eyes itch!

 

So, he took a closer look and declared I had a cyst on the eye and needed to see an ophthalmologist immediately.  I called Dr. Parks, but he was in Australia so that was out. I had to select a new doctor and fast. I did and was told to come to his office in two hours.  

 

Upon my arrival, the receptionist asked to look at my eye.  I showed her and she gave me paperwork to complete (pretty hard to do when the vision keeps going in and out on your only good eye.)  As I completed the paperwork, the phone rang. It was the doctor.  The receptionist conveyed to him that the cyst was indeed on the eye and not the eyelid.  In just a few more minutes, Dr. Gonzalez made his entrance, still clad in his hospital scrubs.

 

His examination of my eye revealed a cyst too large for him to feel comfortable removing in the office, so I was immediately admitted to the hospital for surgery the next day.  The concern I was informed, was twofold.  The cyst was pressing on the optic nerve, disturbing my sight, and the cyst was fluid filled, and should it burst (like from rubbing my eyes) it would contaminate and infect the whole eye.

 

My surgery the following day went well, though it took three times as long as the doctor had anticipated.  Still, the cyst was removed and the eye stitched to ensure rapid healing and reconstruction of the shape of the eye. (cysts are like icebergs…what the doctor could see on the top was the smallest part.)

 

When I went for my follow-up visit, just after being discharged from the hospital two days later, the doctor told me he believed that cyst had been growing there for 7-8 years!

 

And so it was that my vision in my only “seeing” eye was recovered just short of real trouble.  As part of my recovery, I was not allowed to read ANYTHING for six weeks.  I challenge ANYONE with seeing eyes to successfully adhere to that one.  I mean, street signs, advertisements, you name it, we are constantly reading.

 

I can honestly say, I have never taken my vision for granted. At 48 years old, I am thrilled my vision is correctable to 20/25 in my good eye (20/50 in the bad one). I marvel every day at the fact that I can see as well as I do and have NEVER disliked wearing glasses.  They are as much a part of me as my eyes themselves.

 

My friend’s son will be undergoing surgery soon for a condition related to the one which made me cross-eyed.  His eyes wander out, rather than in. This was referred to as “wall-eyed” when was young, though I think it has a nicer sounding Latin name.  My friend is worried about her six year old son – worried that the surgery will ‘hurt.”  As told her, even at twenty one when I had my most recent eye surgery, I do not recall the pain being overwhelming.  I have encouraged her to prepare him with love, letting him know that he is in good hands and that the surgery will help him see better for the rest of his life.

 

I always feel I am operating on borrowed time with these eyes, and I use them as much as I can. I try to make what I am viewing, something worth viewing and remembering.  For I have always been certain I will spend the latter part of my life without the luxury of vision. When that happens, I most assuredly want to have memories of things worth remembering.

When I was 21 I worked for an insurance company in Washington, D.C. It was a boring job, but made “fun” by one of the characters who worked with our group.  Our task was to transfer paper files to microfiche.  This was a boring, boring job and I was thankful that “Murph,” as he called himself, was on the team.  He was an old guy (56) and we were mostly a young bunch.

 

Murph was quite a story teller. He regaled us with stories of his current living conditions. It seemed his wife had died the year prior and he now lived with his brother-in-law, George, George’s wife, Renee, and their pet poodle “Poopsie.”  His tales were hilarious and he told them even as he performed his “verification” of the images on the microfiche.   He was a good hard worker.

 

One Friday morning, Murph called into the office and let us know he would be late getting in. It was horrible weather, (tropical storm) and he arrived a couple of hours late, but, of course, armed with a tale of his trip in, taken by taxi.  It was quite a delightful tale, and it included his “making up a song.”  He sang the song for us.

“Everybody calls me mahva, mavha fahahahka..” were some of the words of his song.

 

That night, as the storm intensified, we lost power in my apartment building.  I was hanging out in the dark when the phone rang.  I answered and was greeted by a man singing, “Everybody calls me mahva, mavha fahahahka..”  “Hi, Murph,” I said, without hesitation.  “How did you know it was me?” he asked.  I laughed and told him I thought that was pretty obvious.  I asked why he was calling and he said he was drinking a gin and tonic and just wanted to see if there was anyone else alive in the world.

 

It sounded a little odd, but it was Murph, after all.  So, I assured him there were others of us alive in the world and I would see him Saturday morning at work.

 

Saturday morning three of the four of us that were going to put in the extra time showed up.  Murph did not.  I told the others of the strange call the night before and they were concerned too.  It was not like Murph not to show up. We did our work and left late in the afternoon.

 

On Monday, I arrived at work and again, no Murph.  I was really getting concerned as was my buddy Dave.  We decided to go up to personnel and ask them for Murph’s address.  We thought we’d go check up on him. Well, clearly it was a different world back in 1979, but the personnel lady gave us the information we requested.

 

At lunchtime, Dave and I set out on foot to Murph’s address in Georgetown.  We found the row house and we knocked on the door.  No answer.  We started asking people on the street if they knew him.  Nobody did.  We noticed a window in the top story was open and we tried yelling up to him.  Still nothing.

 

So we did what any normal 21 and 22 year old would do.  We walked to the police station and asked them to come and break the door down.  We were certain Murph was up in his bed having suffered a heart attack or something.  The police AGREED to come help us, and we rode back in the back of the police car. 

 

When we got to the house, I noticed a different car was parked at the curb and suggested we knock again before trying forceful entry.  Since it was my suggestion, I got to do the knocking.  This time, my knock was rewarded with the door being opened by a gentleman, with a mouthful of sandwich and crumbs on his face.  It was not Murph. 

 

“Hi,” said I, “you must be George! I work with Murph and he has told us all about you. We are worried about him since he didn’t show up for work…” I stopped my rushed explanation of our purpose when I heard him say, “I’m Renee.”  Hmmm, wasn’t expecting that!

 

Well, The long and short of our discovery that day was the George and Renee were too kindly, elderly gay men who shared their row house with their dog (not a poodle and not named Poopsie.) Murph, was, indeed, a friend, but he did not live there.  In fact, Murph lived at the VA hospital….on the “mental ward.” 

 

This was getting weird even for me!  But as it turns out, it was the truth.  Murph had been working for the four months I had known him, using day passes from the VA hospital to do so.  That Friday, the day he arrived late to work, he had been released from the hospital.  Nobody had seen him since that afternoon and I was the last to have spoken with him.

 

So it was that Dave and I set about hunting down this “friend” of ours.  We spent our lunch hours walking the streets of DC, looking for Murph.  On Thursday, we found him.  He was drunk and disoriented and was wearing the same clothes I had seen him in on the previous Friday.  He had been “living” on the streets.

 

Dave and I convinced him to come with us and ride the Metro back to my apartment, where we were preparing for our Friday night party anyway.  Murph agreed and once back at the apartment (that I shared with my 16 year old brother, Ted, that summer) we dispatched Murph to the tub and instructed Ted to take Murph’s clothes to the laundry.

 

Murph ended up staying at my apartment for the next three months. Ted had returned home a couple of days after we found Murph, as it was the end of the summer and the start of his Junior year in high school.  Murph took Ted’s room in my apartment.  We never discussed his tall tales of his life that were pure fabrication. He returned to work, but not for long. As it turned out, Murph suffered from what they now call bi-polar disease.  We knew it as manic-depressive.  Eventually, Murph got so bad off, I had to readmit him to the VA hospital (no easy task, I can assure you.)  That was the week of Thanksgiving.

 

I saw Murph twice more after that day. Once, about two weeks later, when I had just come out of recovery from surgery on my eye, I opened my good eye to see him standing in my hospital room.  He had brought me a plant. To this day, I have no idea how he knew I’d even had to go into the hospital for this emergency surgery, but he had gotten a day pass and was my first visitor. 

 

The second and last time I saw him, was the following March. As I sat in the break room with my co-workers, Murph appeared in the doorway.  He was holding a very large package.  From across the room he announced in his loud voice, “Judith, this is for you.” All I could think, as I took the package from him was, “I cannot open this here.”  I had no idea what it would be, other than he told me it was a painting he’d done in his “therapy.”

 

When I got back to my apartment that afternoon, I unwrapped the brown paper from the painting and looked at my gift. On a white, stretched canvas, were straight lines.  All lines were “painted” in bold, primary colors.  The lines were painted every which way.  The lines had been painted using a brush but also using a ruler.  It was not an embarrassing painting, as I had feared, but it was a confusing one.  I never hung the large painting.  I just leaned it up against the wall.

 

I don’t know what became of the painting, or of Murph. I do know that he taught me a little something about the willingness to believe the “stories” others tell of their lives, past and present.  And I do know that he introduced me to the reality that those who suffer from this particular mental disorder, can be witty, intelligent and engaging, even as they themselves are sinking into the mire of their illness. 

 

I still think about my friend, who liked to introduce himself to others, “Jim Murphy, you can call me Murph, Murph the Serf, international jewel thief!”

This is a repost from September...just because I'm missing my daughter a little.

At 21 years old, my daughter knew what was what and what she wanted. She had landed a great job (by her standards, not mine) in Charlottesville, VA.  She wanted to find a place to live, where she could have her cat and maybe a dog. She wanted some room, some space. One day in January, she told me she'd found a cabin she could rent for, well, a reasonable monthly rent.  I was happy for her.  I helped her pack all her belongings from the tiny townhouse in Richmond into the U-Haul, and off we went.

Now the early part of the year in Charlottesville can be downright chilly, and I'm thinking, cool, log cabin, rustic, in the woods...so nice...one mile from work, but remote...probably has a woodburning stove...need to remind her of fire safety...etc, etc,

Imagine my surprise when she directs me down a barely passable road, past a fair number of  "shacks" to her "cabin"....the second to smallest of the 12-14 structures in them there woods!  Now, I must say, I have seen better structures at Boy Scout Camp, but, she was all excited and who was I to tell my grown daughter that maybe a door that had a handle (rather than an eye bolt with a hook on the inside and a padlock in the outside) was more the defining characteristic of "home" as opposed to "camp?"

I took photos, and we laughed as we unloaded all her junk.  I left her in a SEA of "belongings", and headed back to Gloucester.  One month later, I took the three hour trip to see her, and was amazed at the transformation.

 

cabin front door cabin "living room" transformed living room living room taken from loft

My daughter was five when we moved from Florida to Virginia. We moved to a home on a little over 6 acres of woods.  We traveled a dirt road on which ours was one of three homes. Our mail came to the little “general store” at James Store, VA.  We stopped in daily to collect our mail, which Mr. Cox, the postmaster, had neatly rubber banded together for us. 

And in the winter we tarried a while in the warmth of the wood stove and chatted with this older gentleman.  He was a funny, wise, southerner who loved to talk about anything and everything under the sun. 

One Saturday, in our first spring in VA, the whole family went to “get the mail.”  After visiting a while, as we were heading out the door, my sweet, angelic daughter asked if she might have a sucker.  Well, of course her father ate it right up and said, “Sure Jen, you and Steve each choose what you want…Mommy will give you the money.” (Thanks a lot, bucko!)   So, I looked in my wallet, which, in those days was usually barren of bills, and found the sole resident….a five dollar bill.

Jen wanted to “pay,” and so I gave her the bill and told her to be sure to give me the change.  Well, my sweet daughter did exactly as she was told.  She accepted the change Mr. Cox counted back to her and then she very nicely handed me the three quarters and nickel from the 20 cent sale.  But she held onto the four one dollar bills.

Certain she was playing around, I said, “Jen, give me the change, please.”  Well, I am here to tell you this was the one and only time I ever saw this child throw a fit, in public or in private.  She was NOT giving up those dollar bills!  I literally picked her up and carried her home while she threw her fit.

She was as mad as a hornet because she had done exactly as I had asked, and then I had demanded those bills from her too.  So it was that my five year old was introduced to the U.S. monetary system.  Once I had her calmed down, I spent a good hour with her, teaching her how to count the money and how the “change” from a purchase included the bills, not JUST the coins!

I think I scarred her for life though.  Because, at age 23, if I am with her in a store, she will ALWAYS double check to make certain she got the right change.  Although it is her money now, when I’m around, she has to be EXTRA careful!

His happiness could be achieved with a simple red balloon.  He's all grown up now...takes more to impress him!   LOL  Sorry, old crummy photos, but, still, fun to look through! 

 

I graduated college at 20, armed with a degree in Political Science and minors in German, French and Math.  I had taken 2 ½ years to complete my college education and I was SURE the world was mine for the taking.  Then came that pesky little thing called applying for jobs.

Well, I’m sure most of you have experienced the “hmmmm, educated but unskilled, don’t call us, we’ll call you,” reception as did I during that first round of job hunting. It wasn’t that I didn’t have experience working, for I had been working since I was 14, and with an official paycheck since 15 ½.  But those jobs were retail, restaurants, and the like.  Nothing “professional.” 

Finally, after what seemed an eternity (three weeks) I landed a job in Washington, DC, using precisely 0% of my education, but earning a paycheck, nonetheless.  I remember my first day, getting off the Metro at Farragut West and walking the two blocks to 1701 Pennsylvania Ave.  I was excited!

Well, excitement quickly turned to boredom, but I was earning my paycheck and finding ways to keep myself interested in an incredibly boring job.  I soon switched to second shift supervisor and my hours were 3:00 to 11:30PM.  I liked the shift and the people.  All was good.

Each night as I left to catch the Metro back to the ‘burbs, I had to walk around a “bag lady.”  She always appeared to be sleeping in her street-made bed/tent of newspapers and old sheets. I always “felt sorry” for her, but thanked my lucky stars I was NOT her.

One night, I imagine I passed too close to her staked out camp and suddenly, she assaulted me.  Not physically, mind you, but with words.  She let me know, in no uncertain terms that I was in her space. I realized that night that I was also a bit afraid of this lady with her matted hair and broken teeth and crazed look.

But what she saw on my face must have been something more like pity. She started into quite a long history of her life and how she had ended up where she was.  The words that struck me hardest were, “I was just like you once. You will end up just like me.”

Crazy?  Maybe.  But her words have stuck with me since that night nearly 28 years ago. I know she spoke the truth insomuch as I could very easily end up just like her. I know a great deal of life is unpredictable. I know that my only chance at avoiding her dire prediction is to never forget the possibility exists. I know I will always work very hard to provide for myself and others. And I know I will never take anything for granted.

As children, we were not allowed to play with sticks. I’m uncertain where exactly in the rule ranking this particular rule fell, but it was well up there. Being perfect children, the six of us adhered closely to those rules (of course we did!)

Background information:  We moved to England in 1968, when I was 10 and took with us our pet Capuchin monkey, Chico. In those days, the monkey had to be quarantined for about six months, I believe.  At any rate, Dad was busy making Chico a new cage for when he would eventually be sprung from quarantine.  The cage was being constructed with dowels.

Dowels may LOOK like sticks, but, in fact, my brother Tim and I determined they were NOT sticks.  They were PERFECT for a sword fight and out into the back yard we went, each with our sword.  We were quite talented duelers, having never seen such in real life or on TV, since we had no TV.  Nevertheless, the books we read described the act in such detail, we sure we had it right!

All was going well, until Tim made a sudden jab and caught the fleshy part of my little finger on my left hand (clearly my poise was slightly off) and I felt a great pain.  Now, here is the other part of the duel that goes without saying, (but I’ll say it anyway.) If you get hurt and you want to cry, you simply announce that the duel has ended and you do not CARE to continue!

I did the aforementioned and ran into the house, that I might shed my tears in private.  My sister, Jeannie, who was “in charge” that day (since playing with dowels remarkably did not happen when our parents were home), was just finishing her routine of mopping and cleaning the house when our parents were gone.  As I ran through the kitchen, still having never looked at my finger, I heard her demand, “who’s bleeding all over everything?”

Well, of course it was my blood.  As it turned out, Tim’s dowel had a nail head sticking out of the end and it had caught my finger and tore the flesh to the bone.  Now I had to endure my 11 year old sister and my 9 year old brother arguing over whether to “flush the wound with hot water or cold.”  To this day, I don’t recall which they used. I do recall it HURT.

I also know that this little duel and the predictable results were never mentioned to my parents. As siblings tend to do, we made a silent pact of silence. We, the three eldest of the six would have fared nothing good by telling.  On the other hand, we knew we would never again break the “no sticks rule” by redefining the stick.

To this day, I have the knot of scar tissue from a poorly dressed wound that three siblings worked together to repair. Our conspiracy was one of many in which we engaged during those early years. Hmmm, I wonder if my children had such conspiracies.