My father was a strict, stern man. A serious man with a firm hand. He seldom smiled--I am not sure if this was because he did not enjoy life or if his past haunted him. He was raised in an orphange, joined the Army (he preferred the airforce but his color blindness excluded him from that field). He served in the Korean war, came back to the States and spent time as a firefighter. He later became an over-the-road trucker. I did not see my father much because he spent months at a time trucking through Canada and Alaska. My father did not speak much. In order to know what he was thinking, a person would need to learn how to read his eyes.
One spring day, after the school bus dropped me off at the end of the quarter-mile driveway, I trudged through the slosh of the melting snow, scooting my boots along the snowbanks and kicking snow into the air. I stepped across the railroad tracks and looked to see the house in which I lived. In the driveway next to my house was my father's 18-wheeler. Uh oh. In my first-grader mind, I flashed all sorts of scenes: would he be mad because I was playing in the snow? Is he going to spank me? Maybe he is sleeping? Maybe I will be spanked for getting my snowmobile boots all wet and clogged with snow? I stepped to the front door, glanced at my boots and decided to use the back door. The back door entered into the utility room where I could remove my boots and hope that father would not notice.
I removed my boots, removed my snowmobile suit and hung up my hat and scarf. I quietly stepped through the hallway in hopes of not waking my father and as I entered the kitchen, I discovered my father sitting at the kitchen table eating a sandwich. I quietly stepped up to the table and whispered a "Hello." I looked at my father, glanced at his sandwich and then back to him.
"Are you hungry?" Throughout the years, there is a couple of things I learned about my father: one is that he did not like to eat alone and the other thing is - is that he always offered food to people. As an adult now, I realize that these actions of his stemmed from having grown up during the Great Depression.
"What are you eating?"
"A radish sandwich." For a moment, I sat at the table watching him eat another bite of the sandwich. After he finished eating that bite, he instructed me to get the radishes out of the refridgerator. I stepped to the fridge, opened the door and looked for whatever radishes might look like. "The radishes are in the bowl of water," my father informed me. I reached for the bowl of water containing the small, round red things that I thought he was talking about. I carried the bowl to the table. By now my father had two slices of bread out of the wrapper and I watched as he buttered both slices. He took the paring knife from his plate, reached a hand inside the bowl for a radish, and then I watched as he sliced the radish. I watched as father neatly layered slices of the radishes onto the bread. He took the salt and pepper shakers, shook a bit onto the sandwhich, placed the other bread on top and handed it to me.
As I took the sandwich, a couple radish slices fell out. "Hold the sandwich tighter," he instructed. "Or go ahead and squish the bread down to hold the radishes in place." I squished the bread, well, actually I flattened the bread. I took a bite of the sandwich. I felt my father watching me as I ate that first bite. I tried to keep my table manners in check. I took another bite and before I had even swallowed, I started asking my father questions. "Why do you keep the radishes in a bowl of water?"
"Keeps them fresh and crispy."
"Oh."
The conversation went on for the length of me eating that sandwich. This conversation was one of the few I ever spent with my father.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Paint the World Ugly
Ever notice all the Uglies wandering around the world today? You know, all those people who have this way of painting your world ugly by negative comments and actions that seem to throw you into a bad temper? Uglies are people who trash everything beautiful in your life and then leave you holding the bag of trash. Well, today I am one of those Uglies and I am going to trash everything. Yep.
I hate today. I hated yesterday even more but I know next week will even be worse so I might as start ranting today. Now, I know that there are justifiable "hates" in the world as in the robbers who burglarized my home. Yes, I hate them. Then there are the unjustifiable hates as in hating the robbers who burglarized my home because the specialists say I should hate their actions but not the robbers. I hate when people tell me how I should hate. Sure, I do hate the robbers' actions but I also hate the robbers for only ugly people would do the evil act of stealing from me and I hate ugly people. I hate the specialists for telling me that "beauty is only skin deep". My reply to that is "Yes, but ugly is to the bone."
I hate waking up before the alarm goes off which happened to me this morning. I hate when I cannot fall back to sleep knowing I need the much needed sleep. I hate sleeping pills because they do their job of making me sleep and I hate being made to do something. So, since pills are not my thing and sleep has eluded me, I crawl out of bed, stumble to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. I hate that I did not set the coffee maker the night before but, then, I am up early this morning, which means my coffee would not start brewing this early anyway.
I hate that I have not gone grocery shopping which means I do not have food inside the house in which to fix a good breakfast. I hate that I am not on food stamps as this means that I have to purchase my own food. I hate those that are on food stamps because this means that my taxes are buying food for them. That just seems so unfair to me and I hate unfairness.
I hate that I have to clean the house. I should be grateful now that my son is off to Baylor, which means I do not have to clean up after him anymore and yet I hate that he is not here to clean up after me.
I hate when the telephone rings after ten o'clock in the evening or before seven o'clock in the morning. This morning my phone rings and I hate to answer but I do answer because I am thinking there is some god-awful emergency. I do not have caller ID as that cost money and I hate giving the phone company more money than is needed for their services. Ditto for the plumbers, carpenters and electricians who hate when a single woman (such as me) calls in the inspectors before paying the bill. Besides, I justify now having a caller ID because I like surprises as to who could be calling so early. Oh, the voice on the line is that of my brother who is on his way to work. No emergency here except that he wants to unload his ugly trash on me. Not today because my bag of trash is uglier than his sack of crap. My brother hates working at Wal-mart. Yeah, well, I hate Wal-mart and I do not even work there. I hate my brother for hating his job; at least he has a job. I hate all those employed people who sneer at the unemployed as if we are incompetent to be inside the workforce. I hate all the unemployed for griping about not being able to find a job. I hang up the phone even while my brother is still speaking. I hope I ruined his day.
I am on my way to the nearest fast-food chain and I hate that I have so far to drive. Yes, the nearest Town from me is at least ten miles in all directions. I hate waiting in line at the drive-thru and I hate that my radio station is not playing sing-along songs. I hate that I have to reach my left arm out the window into the freezing cold air just to push a button. This place ought to install a honk-your-horn-for-service device. I hate that I have to repeat my order to the metal box but I am sure the voice behind that metal box hates when I reply, "No, I said I wanted. . ." and then I repeat the order verbatim. I hate when the voice suggestive sells "Would you like to try an apple pie with that this morning?" I want to scream "Hell no! If I wanted apple pie this damn early I would have ordered an apple pie!"
While in town, I hate the fact that I have to spend my money on tools. I remember that my ex-husband took all the tools with him after the divorce and that fact has me hating him all over again. I hate myself for not changing the locks fast enough to stop him from weaseling in and taking the tools that I would have gladly thrown at him. I honk at the vehicle in front of me with the hand that holds the sausage biscuit because the driver in front of me is oblivious to the fact that the light has turned green.
I hate hardware stores. I hate auto-parts stores even more. Of course, I could shop at Wal-mart or better yet, call my brother and have him pick up these tools with his discount card and now that I think of this option, I hate myself for having hung up on him. I hate the checkout clerk who cannot count my change back to me and instead, pushed the money along with the receipt into my hand. As I step outside, I see the smoker so rudely tossing his burning cigarette butt to the ground. I hate smokers. Besides the awful odor, smokers are costing this country thousands of dollars in medical care. I hate the nonsmokers for telling me that I should quit smoking because smoking might kill me. Yeah, well, I have a reply to that one "My NOT smoking might kill you."
On my way home, I hate the driver in front of me for driving the speed limit. Come on, drive faster. I hate the person behind me for tailgating and then passing me after I passed the car that was in front me. What a jerk!
I check the snail mail to discover bills. I hate bills. Instead of retrieving the bills, I leave them stuffed inside the mailbox in hopes that the mail carrier will return to sender. I hate the junk mail enclosed with those bills. I know I should heed my father's advice when he told me to send that junk mail back with the payment. Yeah, well, once I get the money to for the bills I will do just that.
I hate the thought of using my new hammer and screwdriver to do fix-it stuff around the house. I hate home ownership. I hate the homeowners who say they own their homes and yet do not even have the house paid for. Those folks are not homeowners. They are mortgage holders. I actually own my own home. Yes, my house is paid in full and I hate myself at tax time because owning a home means I do not have a tax write-off. I hate people who itemize everything on their tax forms and then receive huge tax deductions, which results in a gigantic tax refund.
I am not sure which is worse: owning a home or owning a car. I hate owning a vehicle because owning a vehicle means that I have to pay the high cost of fuel to run the damn thing. I hate getting oil changes. I hate having the tires balanced and rotated. I hate changing flat tires along the side of the highway. I hate wasting money on car tags. I hate paying the insurance bill just to verify I am allowed to drive the vehicle.
I hate myself for not stopping by the grocery store on my way home but I hate grocery shopping. I hate the overwhelming decisions that go along with grocery shopping. The dreaded aisle for me is the cereal aisle. Who needs all those unhealthy choices? I hate standing in the checkout lane behind the couple with screaming babies. I hate waiting on the people in front of me who have their carts stuffed with chips and soda and frozen pizzas and I hate watching them swipe their food stamp card. I think those on food stamps should have to purchase healthy foods and limit their intake of such foods because I hate fat people. I hate skinny people too. I know skinny people eat just as much as fat people but their metabolism works at a much faster pace. I try revving up my own metabolism by drinking as much caffeine as possible and still I am a few pounds overweight.
My telephone rings again. This time I do not answer it as I am busy hammering away at a nail. My brother leaves a message saying that he has just found out he has a funeral to attend next week. I hate funerals because I hate when people die. Of course, I hate when people live too because people suck.
The phone rings again and I hate that too. I hate when the phone rings on my day off. This time the voice on the answering machine is that of my best friend Cindy. She is inviting me over for supper. I hate that I have to call her back. I hate myself for telling her that I will be there but a free meal is a good thing for someone who hates grocery shopping. I hate Cindy. She is too perfect. Cindy has a perfect figure with perfect poise. I hate her perfect husband and her perfect children. I hate her perfectly clean house and I hate her perfectly manicured lawn. Yes, Cindy lives in a perfect world. I can change all that by dumping my ugly trash on her.
I hate hating. All this hating is giving me a headache of the serious kind. I hate that I have to take an aspirin to get rid of the headache that is getting worse by the second. I hate that I just tripped over the bags of ugly trash that I overloaded with my uglies. What am I going to do with all this trash? Ah, think I will just burn it all and then take a nap. I hope when I wake up my world is painted a different color.
I hate today. I hated yesterday even more but I know next week will even be worse so I might as start ranting today. Now, I know that there are justifiable "hates" in the world as in the robbers who burglarized my home. Yes, I hate them. Then there are the unjustifiable hates as in hating the robbers who burglarized my home because the specialists say I should hate their actions but not the robbers. I hate when people tell me how I should hate. Sure, I do hate the robbers' actions but I also hate the robbers for only ugly people would do the evil act of stealing from me and I hate ugly people. I hate the specialists for telling me that "beauty is only skin deep". My reply to that is "Yes, but ugly is to the bone."
I hate waking up before the alarm goes off which happened to me this morning. I hate when I cannot fall back to sleep knowing I need the much needed sleep. I hate sleeping pills because they do their job of making me sleep and I hate being made to do something. So, since pills are not my thing and sleep has eluded me, I crawl out of bed, stumble to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. I hate that I did not set the coffee maker the night before but, then, I am up early this morning, which means my coffee would not start brewing this early anyway.
I hate that I have not gone grocery shopping which means I do not have food inside the house in which to fix a good breakfast. I hate that I am not on food stamps as this means that I have to purchase my own food. I hate those that are on food stamps because this means that my taxes are buying food for them. That just seems so unfair to me and I hate unfairness.
I hate that I have to clean the house. I should be grateful now that my son is off to Baylor, which means I do not have to clean up after him anymore and yet I hate that he is not here to clean up after me.
I hate when the telephone rings after ten o'clock in the evening or before seven o'clock in the morning. This morning my phone rings and I hate to answer but I do answer because I am thinking there is some god-awful emergency. I do not have caller ID as that cost money and I hate giving the phone company more money than is needed for their services. Ditto for the plumbers, carpenters and electricians who hate when a single woman (such as me) calls in the inspectors before paying the bill. Besides, I justify now having a caller ID because I like surprises as to who could be calling so early. Oh, the voice on the line is that of my brother who is on his way to work. No emergency here except that he wants to unload his ugly trash on me. Not today because my bag of trash is uglier than his sack of crap. My brother hates working at Wal-mart. Yeah, well, I hate Wal-mart and I do not even work there. I hate my brother for hating his job; at least he has a job. I hate all those employed people who sneer at the unemployed as if we are incompetent to be inside the workforce. I hate all the unemployed for griping about not being able to find a job. I hang up the phone even while my brother is still speaking. I hope I ruined his day.
I am on my way to the nearest fast-food chain and I hate that I have so far to drive. Yes, the nearest Town from me is at least ten miles in all directions. I hate waiting in line at the drive-thru and I hate that my radio station is not playing sing-along songs. I hate that I have to reach my left arm out the window into the freezing cold air just to push a button. This place ought to install a honk-your-horn-for-service device. I hate that I have to repeat my order to the metal box but I am sure the voice behind that metal box hates when I reply, "No, I said I wanted. . ." and then I repeat the order verbatim. I hate when the voice suggestive sells "Would you like to try an apple pie with that this morning?" I want to scream "Hell no! If I wanted apple pie this damn early I would have ordered an apple pie!"
While in town, I hate the fact that I have to spend my money on tools. I remember that my ex-husband took all the tools with him after the divorce and that fact has me hating him all over again. I hate myself for not changing the locks fast enough to stop him from weaseling in and taking the tools that I would have gladly thrown at him. I honk at the vehicle in front of me with the hand that holds the sausage biscuit because the driver in front of me is oblivious to the fact that the light has turned green.
I hate hardware stores. I hate auto-parts stores even more. Of course, I could shop at Wal-mart or better yet, call my brother and have him pick up these tools with his discount card and now that I think of this option, I hate myself for having hung up on him. I hate the checkout clerk who cannot count my change back to me and instead, pushed the money along with the receipt into my hand. As I step outside, I see the smoker so rudely tossing his burning cigarette butt to the ground. I hate smokers. Besides the awful odor, smokers are costing this country thousands of dollars in medical care. I hate the nonsmokers for telling me that I should quit smoking because smoking might kill me. Yeah, well, I have a reply to that one "My NOT smoking might kill you."
On my way home, I hate the driver in front of me for driving the speed limit. Come on, drive faster. I hate the person behind me for tailgating and then passing me after I passed the car that was in front me. What a jerk!
I check the snail mail to discover bills. I hate bills. Instead of retrieving the bills, I leave them stuffed inside the mailbox in hopes that the mail carrier will return to sender. I hate the junk mail enclosed with those bills. I know I should heed my father's advice when he told me to send that junk mail back with the payment. Yeah, well, once I get the money to for the bills I will do just that.
I hate the thought of using my new hammer and screwdriver to do fix-it stuff around the house. I hate home ownership. I hate the homeowners who say they own their homes and yet do not even have the house paid for. Those folks are not homeowners. They are mortgage holders. I actually own my own home. Yes, my house is paid in full and I hate myself at tax time because owning a home means I do not have a tax write-off. I hate people who itemize everything on their tax forms and then receive huge tax deductions, which results in a gigantic tax refund.
I am not sure which is worse: owning a home or owning a car. I hate owning a vehicle because owning a vehicle means that I have to pay the high cost of fuel to run the damn thing. I hate getting oil changes. I hate having the tires balanced and rotated. I hate changing flat tires along the side of the highway. I hate wasting money on car tags. I hate paying the insurance bill just to verify I am allowed to drive the vehicle.
I hate myself for not stopping by the grocery store on my way home but I hate grocery shopping. I hate the overwhelming decisions that go along with grocery shopping. The dreaded aisle for me is the cereal aisle. Who needs all those unhealthy choices? I hate standing in the checkout lane behind the couple with screaming babies. I hate waiting on the people in front of me who have their carts stuffed with chips and soda and frozen pizzas and I hate watching them swipe their food stamp card. I think those on food stamps should have to purchase healthy foods and limit their intake of such foods because I hate fat people. I hate skinny people too. I know skinny people eat just as much as fat people but their metabolism works at a much faster pace. I try revving up my own metabolism by drinking as much caffeine as possible and still I am a few pounds overweight.
My telephone rings again. This time I do not answer it as I am busy hammering away at a nail. My brother leaves a message saying that he has just found out he has a funeral to attend next week. I hate funerals because I hate when people die. Of course, I hate when people live too because people suck.
The phone rings again and I hate that too. I hate when the phone rings on my day off. This time the voice on the answering machine is that of my best friend Cindy. She is inviting me over for supper. I hate that I have to call her back. I hate myself for telling her that I will be there but a free meal is a good thing for someone who hates grocery shopping. I hate Cindy. She is too perfect. Cindy has a perfect figure with perfect poise. I hate her perfect husband and her perfect children. I hate her perfectly clean house and I hate her perfectly manicured lawn. Yes, Cindy lives in a perfect world. I can change all that by dumping my ugly trash on her.
I hate hating. All this hating is giving me a headache of the serious kind. I hate that I have to take an aspirin to get rid of the headache that is getting worse by the second. I hate that I just tripped over the bags of ugly trash that I overloaded with my uglies. What am I going to do with all this trash? Ah, think I will just burn it all and then take a nap. I hope when I wake up my world is painted a different color.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
I Am An Essayist?
I remember that second essay assignment in English Comp I. The professor said the essay had to be a personal essay with a minimum of three pages. Ha! I can do that. The key word for me was minimum. I felt so proud of myself as I handed in fifteen (yes, FIFTEEN) pages of a personal essay a true story of an event that shaped my life (and not for the better). What a shock for the professor when I plopped it on her desk. What a shock for me as she handed it back without a grade and exclaimed, "I said an essay, not a short story." I argued that my pages were that of an essay. She said an essay is "true". I responded with a scowl that the essay I handed in is true. "But it is a short story, not an essay." This conversation had me following her into her office where she would sit me down on that wooden chair next to her desk (I later wrote a short story about that chair referring to it as an electrocution chair). So there we sat, inside her office as she explained over again exactly what an essay is and what an essay is not. Focus and discipline, she said, were the two things I lack. I left her office pouting and promising myself to look up the words "discipline" and "focus" in my dictionary.
I looked up those words and since then have dreaded writing the essay. I want to blame myself for having A-D-D with a type A personality along with my love for caffeine knowing all these are a lethal combination when it comes to writing an essay. I thought about going to my doctor and asking for a prescription that included focus and discipline but decided against it because I like myself. Therefore, instead, I cut back on the caffeine. Well, I cut back just a little bit. I also promised myself to try harder at staying focused and disciplined when the task of writing an essay enters my life again.
On writing the personal essay, I have since discovered that I do like to meander into unexpected places instead of taking a straight path from A to B. After all, where is the fun in shooting straight? Unless one shoots an arrow or fires a gun, why make a straight shot? As long as I end up at the same destination, who cares what roads I take to get there? I enjoy the scenic routes, yes, even in writing.
Now that I am rereading page thirty-eight in the book "The Art of the Personal Essay", I found a line or two that has me wanting to show this page to that same professor. "The essayist must be a good storyteller." I have the urge to go sit on that wooden chair inside her office and plop those fifteen pages back on her desk and say "There!" But, then, she would probably hit the button and have me electrocuted.
I looked up those words and since then have dreaded writing the essay. I want to blame myself for having A-D-D with a type A personality along with my love for caffeine knowing all these are a lethal combination when it comes to writing an essay. I thought about going to my doctor and asking for a prescription that included focus and discipline but decided against it because I like myself. Therefore, instead, I cut back on the caffeine. Well, I cut back just a little bit. I also promised myself to try harder at staying focused and disciplined when the task of writing an essay enters my life again.
On writing the personal essay, I have since discovered that I do like to meander into unexpected places instead of taking a straight path from A to B. After all, where is the fun in shooting straight? Unless one shoots an arrow or fires a gun, why make a straight shot? As long as I end up at the same destination, who cares what roads I take to get there? I enjoy the scenic routes, yes, even in writing.
Now that I am rereading page thirty-eight in the book "The Art of the Personal Essay", I found a line or two that has me wanting to show this page to that same professor. "The essayist must be a good storyteller." I have the urge to go sit on that wooden chair inside her office and plop those fifteen pages back on her desk and say "There!" But, then, she would probably hit the button and have me electrocuted.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
I Failed.
I failed to be who he wanted me to be which resulted in a disastrous marriage. I do not blame him for our divorce, as I am wise enough to know that both a marriage and a divorce take two people. However, I blame myself for the farce of a marriage I seemed to live for maybe; just maybe, I portrayed to be someone I was not.
Like the start of most marriages, we were friends, lovers, companions and we had that wedding bliss. We thought we knew each other and what the other person expected of us, though we could keep our friendship flourishing and our marriage adventures happy and spontaneous. For a while, we managed to do just that. So, what the hell happened to us? Looking back, I realize our marriage fits so perfectly into the saying by Bill Watterson, "Know what's weird? Day by day, nothing seems to change. But pretty soon, everything's different." After ten years of loosing myself, I found myself filing for a divorce.
Before the marriage, Charles and I had much in common: Horse training and showing, music, swimming, favorite foods, place of employment and even trucks. However, I failed to see the differences in these common similarities. Though we were both into horse training and showing, he was training roping horses and showing in rodeos while I was an English rider and showing in Hunter Jumper classes. His music was country; mine was classic rock. He liked the Chlorinated pools while I preferred Baquacil. He enjoyed the home-cooked meals while I enjoyed the local restaurants. We worked at the same factory though he was a mechanic and I was a line keeper. So, in all honesty, the only "things" we had in common is that we both drove Chevy trucks and pulled our horse trailers.
I cannot say exactly when our marriage started falling apart. Was it when I became pregnant and Charles insisted I quit my job? Was it when he heard about Christopher Reeves having an accident while riding Hunter Jumper? (An accident that left Christopher Reeves paralyzed). I remember that day vividly as Charles and I and our two boys sat at the dinner table. I mentioned to Charles that our newest horse is showing great promise in Hunter Jumper. I asked him if he would build me a couple of jumps higher than those I already used. He did not answer but he did leave the table and head out of doors. I assumed he was going outside to build those jumps. Instead, he loaded up the horse and took it to the nearest sale barn. (Only after our divorce did I find my English riding equipment). Or maybe we started heading for divorce court the day I started talking about the latest short story I wrote and he rudely interrupted me telling me he was not interested in my writing. Or maybe he was thinking about a divorce at the New Year's Eve party we were hosting at our home and one of his friend's brought a guitar over. His friend asked me to teach him how to play "Free Bird" so I did all the while noticing that glint of disapproval in my husband's eyes.
Whatever the reasons, I slowly discovered I was becoming a person I did not enjoy being. I was not training and showing horses anymore, instead I was working out at a fitness center, getting my nails manicured, my hair styled more often than needed knowing my husband preferred a "Barbie" image. My truck and trailer were sold for a family car. My writing was pushed aside for more important doings such as cooking and cleaning and dishes and laundry. The chores I despised seem to take precedence over the career-oriented person I once was. The worst happenings within my marriage is that I never thought, never dreamed of being that wife who would live in denial. I used to laugh at the news when the media announced that some woman had no idea her husband was a rapist or mass murderer. How could she not know? What a fidiot! (My made-up word for fucking idiot). So, when I suspected my husband was doing drugs, I confronted him on the matter. He denied it and I believed him. Once I found some white powder in a plastic baggie hidden inside the bathroom, I confronted him with the evidence in my hand. Again, he denied it saying that the powder was from the factory and that he needed to have it tested for whatever chemicals may be inside it. I believed him. Well, sort of, sort of not as I did start monitoring his behavior. Then, when I found another baggie of the same stuff, I wised up a bit. I scheduled an appointment with a psychiatrist for surely, Charles would not lie to a professional and certainly, the psychiatrist would see through a lie and inform me of the truth. Charles said he was not involved with any drugs, the psychiatrist assured me Charles was telling the truth and so I left the office feeling foolish for having suspected the worst. On my drive home, I reflected on the white powder and my husband's behavior. I decided that perhaps I was creating images inside my mind for maybe I wanted to turn him into a monster; maybe I wanted a reason for a divorce. How could I be so stupid in thinking that Charles, of all people, would do drugs? After all, the man held down a good job and even invented robotic machines for the Japanese.
When I found yet another baggie of white powder, I decided I could no longer play the role of a naive, stupid, Barbie doll of a housewife any longer. I had a friend on the police force run a check on the powder. The report came back as 350 dollars worth of crack cocaine. I was devastated. I filed for a divorce not so much for reasons of drug abuse but more for the reason that I had believed him over me. I believed his lies over my own better judgment. For once, I truly hated myself.
I wish I could say that my divorce was a success but I even managed to fail at that. I did not pay attention to the details, instead I rushed through the whole process thinking the faster I get away from this man the better for my children and me. I thought more about the safety of our children and myself than the future. I did not file for any monetary gains.
I remember the judge asking me if I did everything in my power to hold this marriage together, I replied, "yes". Only after I left divorce court did I realize that I lied because from a Christian standpoint, I could have tried forgiveness one more time. I shook that thought away in a hurry. As I drove away, I can honestly say that I felt nothingness. I thought about Taoism and the motto within that belief, "From nothingness do we begin and from nothingness do we begin again." That day, I realized I failed at marriage (the future would assure me that I failed at the divorce) but I was okay at beginning at nothingness as long as the path I chose would lead me back to the real me.
Like the start of most marriages, we were friends, lovers, companions and we had that wedding bliss. We thought we knew each other and what the other person expected of us, though we could keep our friendship flourishing and our marriage adventures happy and spontaneous. For a while, we managed to do just that. So, what the hell happened to us? Looking back, I realize our marriage fits so perfectly into the saying by Bill Watterson, "Know what's weird? Day by day, nothing seems to change. But pretty soon, everything's different." After ten years of loosing myself, I found myself filing for a divorce.
Before the marriage, Charles and I had much in common: Horse training and showing, music, swimming, favorite foods, place of employment and even trucks. However, I failed to see the differences in these common similarities. Though we were both into horse training and showing, he was training roping horses and showing in rodeos while I was an English rider and showing in Hunter Jumper classes. His music was country; mine was classic rock. He liked the Chlorinated pools while I preferred Baquacil. He enjoyed the home-cooked meals while I enjoyed the local restaurants. We worked at the same factory though he was a mechanic and I was a line keeper. So, in all honesty, the only "things" we had in common is that we both drove Chevy trucks and pulled our horse trailers.
I cannot say exactly when our marriage started falling apart. Was it when I became pregnant and Charles insisted I quit my job? Was it when he heard about Christopher Reeves having an accident while riding Hunter Jumper? (An accident that left Christopher Reeves paralyzed). I remember that day vividly as Charles and I and our two boys sat at the dinner table. I mentioned to Charles that our newest horse is showing great promise in Hunter Jumper. I asked him if he would build me a couple of jumps higher than those I already used. He did not answer but he did leave the table and head out of doors. I assumed he was going outside to build those jumps. Instead, he loaded up the horse and took it to the nearest sale barn. (Only after our divorce did I find my English riding equipment). Or maybe we started heading for divorce court the day I started talking about the latest short story I wrote and he rudely interrupted me telling me he was not interested in my writing. Or maybe he was thinking about a divorce at the New Year's Eve party we were hosting at our home and one of his friend's brought a guitar over. His friend asked me to teach him how to play "Free Bird" so I did all the while noticing that glint of disapproval in my husband's eyes.
Whatever the reasons, I slowly discovered I was becoming a person I did not enjoy being. I was not training and showing horses anymore, instead I was working out at a fitness center, getting my nails manicured, my hair styled more often than needed knowing my husband preferred a "Barbie" image. My truck and trailer were sold for a family car. My writing was pushed aside for more important doings such as cooking and cleaning and dishes and laundry. The chores I despised seem to take precedence over the career-oriented person I once was. The worst happenings within my marriage is that I never thought, never dreamed of being that wife who would live in denial. I used to laugh at the news when the media announced that some woman had no idea her husband was a rapist or mass murderer. How could she not know? What a fidiot! (My made-up word for fucking idiot). So, when I suspected my husband was doing drugs, I confronted him on the matter. He denied it and I believed him. Once I found some white powder in a plastic baggie hidden inside the bathroom, I confronted him with the evidence in my hand. Again, he denied it saying that the powder was from the factory and that he needed to have it tested for whatever chemicals may be inside it. I believed him. Well, sort of, sort of not as I did start monitoring his behavior. Then, when I found another baggie of the same stuff, I wised up a bit. I scheduled an appointment with a psychiatrist for surely, Charles would not lie to a professional and certainly, the psychiatrist would see through a lie and inform me of the truth. Charles said he was not involved with any drugs, the psychiatrist assured me Charles was telling the truth and so I left the office feeling foolish for having suspected the worst. On my drive home, I reflected on the white powder and my husband's behavior. I decided that perhaps I was creating images inside my mind for maybe I wanted to turn him into a monster; maybe I wanted a reason for a divorce. How could I be so stupid in thinking that Charles, of all people, would do drugs? After all, the man held down a good job and even invented robotic machines for the Japanese.
When I found yet another baggie of white powder, I decided I could no longer play the role of a naive, stupid, Barbie doll of a housewife any longer. I had a friend on the police force run a check on the powder. The report came back as 350 dollars worth of crack cocaine. I was devastated. I filed for a divorce not so much for reasons of drug abuse but more for the reason that I had believed him over me. I believed his lies over my own better judgment. For once, I truly hated myself.
I wish I could say that my divorce was a success but I even managed to fail at that. I did not pay attention to the details, instead I rushed through the whole process thinking the faster I get away from this man the better for my children and me. I thought more about the safety of our children and myself than the future. I did not file for any monetary gains.
I remember the judge asking me if I did everything in my power to hold this marriage together, I replied, "yes". Only after I left divorce court did I realize that I lied because from a Christian standpoint, I could have tried forgiveness one more time. I shook that thought away in a hurry. As I drove away, I can honestly say that I felt nothingness. I thought about Taoism and the motto within that belief, "From nothingness do we begin and from nothingness do we begin again." That day, I realized I failed at marriage (the future would assure me that I failed at the divorce) but I was okay at beginning at nothingness as long as the path I chose would lead me back to the real me.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
My Passion? Well, I Must Admit--I Love My Truck!
What people love the most in life varies. Some people love their spouse the most, or their children, or their parents, or their pets, and not always in that order. Workaholics may like their jobs and even enjoy their jobs, but do they love their jobs? I doubt it. If you ask me what I love the most in my life, I have to admit (crazy as it sounds coming from a girl) I love my truck. My truck is a dependable workaholic loaded with excitement.
A week after my divorce, I soul-searched for what it was I wanted in my life. I knew I needed something dependable, reliable, and versatile. Where could I find such qualities? I pulled a sweater over my head to keep the autumn chill off me before stepping outdoors to feed the horses. As I entered the barn, I calculated the hay bales and discovered there were not enough bales to last through the winter season. It was then that I decided I needed a truck. I abandoned the barn, got inside my car, and scouted for a new truck. As I drove from one dealership to another, my mind toyed with all the options available. By the time I arrived at the next dealership, I knew what kind of a truck I would take home with me.
"It's a Chevy Z71, half-ton. . ." the dealer was speaking.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever that means." I so rudely interrupted, I am out for good looks and low maintenance." I stared at the black Chevy and for the first time in my life, I felt love-at-first-sight.
My new truck and I have an unspoken agreement: that as long as I feed it fuel and change the oil on a regular basis, it will take me from point A to point B. Of course, I will need to get the tires balanced and rotated, and clean the windshield; but those are occasional things and I can handle those few occasions.
Because my truck is so handsome with its smooth grey leather interior, its rugged black exterior, and its masculine tires, I am not afraid to show it off to my friends. As a bonus, it has all the gadgets that a girl such as me loves to play with, the cell phone holder, cup holder, even a visor with a mirror! I can push buttons and it responds in an instant. If I am too hot, I push this button. If I am too cold, I push that button. It comes with a six-changing CD player and there is no voice complaining about my bad choice in music. It does not even remind me that I am an awful singer.
My truck is a four-wheel drive with a built in GPS system which means I never have to stop to ask for directions as I travel across the United States. Together, my truck and I have weathered all sorts of places, a hailstorm in Kansas, a tornado in Chicago, and a blizzard in Montana. My truck has carried me through some scary situations, the deep sandy beaches of Florida, the steep grades of Arizona, Utah and Colorado. We have even made it through the swamp marshes of Louisiana and Mississippi, along with the ice-covered roads of Minnesota. I love my truck.
One of the best qualities my truck has is that it is a workaholic. It hauls my hay bales from the open fields to the barn, it hauls my horse trailer from the driveway to the rodeos, and it hauls my boat from the backyard to the lake. My truck even hauls my other rides, like my ten-speed bicycle, my four-wheeler, or my motorcycle, without getting jealous. My truck carries my toolbox and helps me stretch a barbed-wire fence; it pulls my friends out of ditches, and takes my trash to town. It does all these without griping about having to do the chores on my Honey-Do list. I have even put a plow on the front end of my truck to help it push my way through the snow. Another great feature about my Chevy truck is that it waits patiently while I spend hours shopping and then it is gentleman enough to carry my bags home for me. If ever I step out of the store and forget where I parked, I can push my truck's panic button and it will honk and flash the lights until I discover its location. Once I am inside my truck with all its safety features, I feel so secure.
I love my truck! It is exciting, entertaining and enjoyable. My Chevy truck does not leave me home alone on a Saturday night, it does not mind waiting for me while I finish getting ready, and it even enjoys the girls night out. I can drop the tailgate and party anywhere, sporting events, theme parks, and rock concerts. If I get too sleepy to drive home, my truck doubles as a hotel. I can sleep in the bed with my sleeping bag; I can put on a camper; or I can pull a motor home.
My truck takes me on adventures: fly fishing in Utah, white water rafting in Colorado, and ice fishing in North Dakota. After spending a weekend playing in the mud, I can take my truck through the automatic car wash without it griping about how the sign is not politically correct. After all, the sign should read, "Automatic Vehicle Wash".
When the cash-for-clunkers program was in effect, my brother telephoned me to inform me my truck would qualify. He insisted that I should check into it. I was outraged! I mean, I moved away from my parents, I divorced my husband, my boys are in college, and my pets ran away. I have discovered that I can live without all of them, but give up my truck? I do not think so. I love my truck!
A week after my divorce, I soul-searched for what it was I wanted in my life. I knew I needed something dependable, reliable, and versatile. Where could I find such qualities? I pulled a sweater over my head to keep the autumn chill off me before stepping outdoors to feed the horses. As I entered the barn, I calculated the hay bales and discovered there were not enough bales to last through the winter season. It was then that I decided I needed a truck. I abandoned the barn, got inside my car, and scouted for a new truck. As I drove from one dealership to another, my mind toyed with all the options available. By the time I arrived at the next dealership, I knew what kind of a truck I would take home with me.
"It's a Chevy Z71, half-ton. . ." the dealer was speaking.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever that means." I so rudely interrupted, I am out for good looks and low maintenance." I stared at the black Chevy and for the first time in my life, I felt love-at-first-sight.
My new truck and I have an unspoken agreement: that as long as I feed it fuel and change the oil on a regular basis, it will take me from point A to point B. Of course, I will need to get the tires balanced and rotated, and clean the windshield; but those are occasional things and I can handle those few occasions.
Because my truck is so handsome with its smooth grey leather interior, its rugged black exterior, and its masculine tires, I am not afraid to show it off to my friends. As a bonus, it has all the gadgets that a girl such as me loves to play with, the cell phone holder, cup holder, even a visor with a mirror! I can push buttons and it responds in an instant. If I am too hot, I push this button. If I am too cold, I push that button. It comes with a six-changing CD player and there is no voice complaining about my bad choice in music. It does not even remind me that I am an awful singer.
My truck is a four-wheel drive with a built in GPS system which means I never have to stop to ask for directions as I travel across the United States. Together, my truck and I have weathered all sorts of places, a hailstorm in Kansas, a tornado in Chicago, and a blizzard in Montana. My truck has carried me through some scary situations, the deep sandy beaches of Florida, the steep grades of Arizona, Utah and Colorado. We have even made it through the swamp marshes of Louisiana and Mississippi, along with the ice-covered roads of Minnesota. I love my truck.
One of the best qualities my truck has is that it is a workaholic. It hauls my hay bales from the open fields to the barn, it hauls my horse trailer from the driveway to the rodeos, and it hauls my boat from the backyard to the lake. My truck even hauls my other rides, like my ten-speed bicycle, my four-wheeler, or my motorcycle, without getting jealous. My truck carries my toolbox and helps me stretch a barbed-wire fence; it pulls my friends out of ditches, and takes my trash to town. It does all these without griping about having to do the chores on my Honey-Do list. I have even put a plow on the front end of my truck to help it push my way through the snow. Another great feature about my Chevy truck is that it waits patiently while I spend hours shopping and then it is gentleman enough to carry my bags home for me. If ever I step out of the store and forget where I parked, I can push my truck's panic button and it will honk and flash the lights until I discover its location. Once I am inside my truck with all its safety features, I feel so secure.
I love my truck! It is exciting, entertaining and enjoyable. My Chevy truck does not leave me home alone on a Saturday night, it does not mind waiting for me while I finish getting ready, and it even enjoys the girls night out. I can drop the tailgate and party anywhere, sporting events, theme parks, and rock concerts. If I get too sleepy to drive home, my truck doubles as a hotel. I can sleep in the bed with my sleeping bag; I can put on a camper; or I can pull a motor home.
My truck takes me on adventures: fly fishing in Utah, white water rafting in Colorado, and ice fishing in North Dakota. After spending a weekend playing in the mud, I can take my truck through the automatic car wash without it griping about how the sign is not politically correct. After all, the sign should read, "Automatic Vehicle Wash".
When the cash-for-clunkers program was in effect, my brother telephoned me to inform me my truck would qualify. He insisted that I should check into it. I was outraged! I mean, I moved away from my parents, I divorced my husband, my boys are in college, and my pets ran away. I have discovered that I can live without all of them, but give up my truck? I do not think so. I love my truck!
Monday, January 10, 2011
Pathways
I applaud Robert Frost for taking the road less traveled. However, I chose the path with more adventures. When my heart is thumping, my knees weak, my palms sweaty and my nerves so shaken that I feel nauseous, I know I am on the right path. (Or maybe I am just addicted to the excitement, the anticipation and the adrenaline rush that accompanies exploring new territories). New experiences nourish the soul and open doors for mental stimulation and growth. A person needs to explore uncharted waters in order to reach one's full potential. A person should not live inside a cave because a life without discovering new horizons is a dull, stagnant misfortune.
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