Here. Hold My Earrings.

For some reason, you think I'm an awful person. I don't know why. I have no clue what I have done to either of you to warrant such vitriol. I don't know what in the world I did to deserve those nasty words and emotions from you. You wrongly accused me of censorship, of being like a "godfather," of taking away your ability to communicate with your family, of going behind my husband's back to tear your family apart.

It's like the last nineteen years never even happened, that I was never a member of this family, and that I'm an interloper who doesn't deserve to be here. That May, 1995, wedding for which one of you helped excitedly organize? I guess that never happened. All those shared laughs at Christmas? Thanksgiving? Nada.

I helped with your son's wedding. I went to your children's high school band performances. I came to graduations, engagement parties, wedding showers, baby showers. I hugged and kissed you and supported you and loved on your children and grandchildren. I have given your step-daughter an ear to bend because we get each other and I love your husband because I see my husband in him and know that's where he gets his gentleness, his kindness. I have never asked for anything in return, just expecting your support when, and if, it is ever needed. I have loved all of you, unconditionally, because you're all my family.

But, I guess none of that matters to you. It certainly has to me. You must think me such a silly little rabbit.

Since yesterday morning, I've sat. And stewed. And cried. And stared, unbelieving, at the computer screen, wondering where all this cattiness came from. I sat in the passenger seat of my minivan, on a nine-hour road trip to Florida today, feigning sleep, but really just going over everything in my mind. My eyes were closed, yet I quietly cried on my pillow. You both hurt me that much.

You made sure to apologize to my husband for spamming the entire family with that offensive, prejudiced, fear-mongering email. But, let's remember, you apologized for sending the email, not apologized for actually believing that nasty tripe that helps perpetuate fear of Muslim-Americans. You also made sure to apologize to another family member only after they apologized to you for calling you out on it. Wow. Really? You forgave her for being a stand-up person and letting you know when you've overstepped that line? How gracious and generous of you. But, here's the thing. You didn't apologize to me for those hateful, unjustified words you casually threw at me.

It is because of both my husband and I that all of you enjoyed an on-line web site for eleven years, an on-line group that made it easy for you to communicate with your family, an on-line email that one of you abused, constantly, and the other allowed said abuse to pass with nary a whisper. So, I guess me standing up against the uneducated, spammy crap you continued to send is what got me in trouble. OK. As Winston Churchill once said, "You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something, sometime in your life." But, what gets me, is that my husband and I had both previously stated, "Keep up this abuse of the on-line group, and we'll delete it. That's not what this is for." And you kept on. And then, when we made good on our promise, you lost your shit. I NEVER censored you. Do you know the meaning of the word "censorship?" Let's pull out the dictionary, shall we, and correct your uninformed vocabulary:

Censorship is defined as the suppression of speech, public communication or other information which may be considered objectionable, harmful, sensitive, politically incorrect or inconvenient as determined by governments, media outlets, authorities or other such entities.

I NEVER censored you. I gave you multiple chances to come to your senses and use self-control when sending out offensive emails. But, you never did. I'm not taking away your email, I'm not shutting off your phone, I'm not taking away your access to any form of communication. I'm just giving everyone in the family the option to block you and your spam without having to block the rest of the family. I'm making it more difficult for you to do what you've been doing. This isn't censorship, it's self-preservation of my damned sanity.

But the worst? The absolute worst part of all of this? Was when the other one of you sent my husband a Facebook message, speaking of his warm heart (Which implies that mine is cold?) and how he would have never allowed this closing of the family's on-line web group to happen, how he needed to stop me, and that what I had done was horribly wrong.

Really? Really. This was done after 48 hours of BOTH of us agonizing over this. And you? Sending that Facebook message? Was essentially you trying to come between us, to drive a wedge in our 19-year marriage, whisper in the ear of one to put a black mark against the other. My husband and I have known each other since 1988. Twenty-six years. We've lived through infertility, my clinical depression from the death of my father and uncle, postpartum anxiety, downturns in the family business, serious illness, all of it. I'm going to say this once and you need to remember it.

TYLER. AND. I. ARE. AN. INCREDIBLE. TEAM.

And only death will end that team. Not you or anyone else. When you sent that Facebook message, you actually caused the complete opposite to happen. It made us stronger and allowed us to truly see who you are.

Rather than remain quiet, I decided to defend myself here, in my little section of the Blogverse. I'm going to continue to call attention to the crap you think is acceptable and I won't allow you to insinuate yourself in my marriage ever again. Don't expect me to come to your rescue or welcome you with open arms. Instead, you should expect suspicion, chilly cordiality, and a smile that never reaches my eyes. I forgive YOU because I have to move on, but I will certainly never forget.

I've blocked you both on social media. That will never change. I've blocked both your email addresses. If there's important news you need to get to me then I suggest you try AirMail. I hear it's pretty speedy. Will you actually see this post? I have no idea. But it has served it's purpose. It has allowed me to put out to the world that I will no longer tolerate further bullshit from either of you.

Good-bye.

Christmas Ornaments, Part 2

My great-aunt Courtney Berkley Wheeler lived to the ripe old age of 102. She passed away in 1999 after outliving her husband, all eight of her siblings, three of her six children, and numerous other close and distant relatives. She was my favorite Berkley relative and to say she was a pistol was an understatement.

One Christmas in the early 1980s, I received this Christmas ornament in the mail:


It was, and still is, the most obnoxious, old-school satin Christmas ball. And it's pink. Pepto pink. And it was made by my great-aunt Courtney. She made all of these for her great-nieces (pink) and great-nephews (blue). Did I mention there were 67 of us greats? And she made these when she was in her 80s?

Did I mention she also raised not only six children, but also raised her grandchildren of the three children who died young due to polycystic kidney disease? The same disease that claimed her husband? Did I mention that around the time she made these 60-odd Christmas ball ornaments that she burned herself while trying to light her wood stove with gasoline? And that the only reason she passed away was she lost her sight, then her hearing, and just didn't want to exist in a world with nothing to see or hear?

Chuck Norris couldn't touch this woman.

My great-uncle Earl, Courtney's younger brother, described her in the following way in his book The Tenacious Berkeley, Berkleys:

Courtney, the beauty of the Berkley mountain, had more young men vying for her attention than birds in a cherry tree. The timber business, when the virgin timber was cut from the Berkley place, brought young men from far and near; and they all met at the Berkley place on the least provocation. One banjo player, Roy Wheeler, was handsome and determined. He and T.J. (Courtney's father) did not see eye to eye but that did not deter him. Finally, he talked Courtney into eloping. It was a rainy night and he had two horses tethered in a thicket near the house, and he waited at a designated spot until Courtney got a break and could leave the house. They rode to the railroad station in the rain and traveled to Catlettsburg, Kentucky, where they were married on September 17, 1912. It was fortunate indeed that T.J. did not apprehend them before they got away. He was lower than a snake's belly in a swamp for some time, but as usual, he accepted it and made the best of his fury without permanent damage.

When she celebrated her 100th birthday, it was a whirlwind day and I was lucky to get a quick picture with her.



The next year, on her 101st birthday, I was actually able to sit down and talk to her. It had been years since we had seen one another* and, at this point, she was blind. I asked her Aunt Courtney, do you know who I am? and she immediately responded, eyes bright, Oh my! You're Heather! Simeon's granddaughter! We spoke at length and caught up on family gossip and our lives. I think she may have even flirted with the Ty-man.

I absolutely loved her and I love my Pepto Pink Aunt Courtney Christmas ball. It hangs on the Christmas tree in a place of honor, near the top, each and every year.

*The year before, when our picture was taken, was such a crazy, busy day that I don't think she knew whether to wind her butt or scratch her watch. She spent most of the day bewildered at the crowds. I was bewildered, too, and I was only 25.

Giving Thanks

I am thankful that the Ty-man's parents both attended a Georgia Southern Baptist dinner and happened to sit across from one another in 1963.

I am thankful that my mother decided to go on that blind date with that policeman back in 1968 and married him one year later.

I am thankful that Space Academy in Huntsville, Alabama, was full my first two week choices in April, 1988 and that I had to go the week after my high school's spring break.

I am thankful that when I called that cute, tall boy who was in my Space Academy group, that he wasn't dating anyone.

I am thankful that Ty-man's parents showed me (21 years and two days ago today) the place where my boyfriend would be attending college.

I am thankful that I joined a sorority and met my best and lifelong friend Toni.

I am thankful that when I broke off my engagement to Ty-man, then realized my gigantic mistake, that he still loved me, too. And forgave me.

I am thankful that Toni convinced me to attend a sorority alumnae meeting six months after my college graduation, where I met my other best and lifelong friend Jenny.

I am thankful that I married Ty-man 15 years and almost six months ago.

I am thankful that Jenny's mother-in-law gave me the business card of one Dr. Ceana Nezhat when I found out I was infertile.

I am thankful that Dr. Nezhat's family escaped the 1979 Iranian Revolution and came to America where he and his brothers became experts in obstetric, gynecologic, and endocrinologic sciences.

I am thankful that I listened to the Ty-man and Dr. Nezhat and tried one more round of fertility treatments when I was ready to give up.

I am thankful that the NICU nurses and doctors took care of my twin babies for 20 days.

I am thankful that I didn't take birth control the year after the twins' birth and received the best surprise of my life.

I am thankful for my family and for all of the random moments and chances that made us us.

Old School

I downloaded the Hipstamatic app on my iPhone yesterday and I can't stop taking pictures.



We went out, at the last-minute, to a local Mexican restaurant. Yeah. We're masochists that way. Fellow HOA-survivor Jodi and her family accompanied us and after consuming a small margarita (that knocked me on my ass), I was loopy and picture-happy.



The Hipstamatic app adds textures to your iPhone photos to give them that nostalgic look. Thirty years ago we were bitching about our shitty, washed-out pictures and now, suddenly, it's cool!



Personally, I love it. I think it adds depth and meaning to my photos. It's not just a quick phone camera photo of Ty-man and J-man, it's a photograph of a father and his son, spending a moment cuddling amidst the madness of a "everybody-in-this-neighborhood-is-plastered-and-entirely-too-loud" Cinqo de Mayo party. It's like the difference between visiting Paris for the weekend or backpacking through the French countryside. I love the nostalgia of it all.



Hell, even Andy got in on the action, complacently mugging for his own shot.

I guess, at the end of the day, I just like pictures. Period. They tell a story, show others our souls and the beauty beheld in our eyes. It's probably a bit contrived, but be prepared to see more of these retro photos on my blog, because I'm in love with a $2 app.

My Father-in-Law Hates Me

I love my father-in-law (a.k.a. Chuck). Truly. We're both physicists, we laugh at the same jokes, and we share similar opinions.

But the man needs to quit bringing raisins into my house.

When Chuck found out that I disliked raisins, grits, and fried okra, he rolled his eyes, shook his head, and mumbled under his breath. He then proceeded to sneak raisins into muffins, waffles, cookies. No food was safe.

And now, he's brainwashing my children. He and my mother-in-law took care of the kids Wednesday night and I came home to find the above Raisinets on the kitchen counter. OK, fine, the kids were safe and sound, fed and asleep, the toys were cleaned up, and the dishes were washed.

But... RAISINETS! ON MY KITCHEN COUNTER! TAINTING MY HOME WITH THEIR CHEWY, CHOCOLATE ICKINESS!

The man has gone too far. This is war.

Chuck, there's a plate of sugar-coated green tomatoes, fried in bacon grease, waiting on my kitchen counter for you.

Love, Me

War Is Hell

There is someone I know, someone who recently joined the military, someone who has yet to travel East to Iraq or Afghanistan. This certain someone views their service in the military as flags waving, trumpets blaring, soldiers marching along Main Street parade routes in crisply starched uniforms.

But that isn't all what service in today's military is about.

I grew up in a small home in your basic neighborhood. The house next to us was a squat, cinder block rental. Families came and went from that ugly, gray house. Sometimes our personalities clashed, sometimes not, and every now and then I would gain a friend only to say good-bye to them a year or two later. At that in-between stage of toddler to kid, I remember one family living there in particular. Pat and her husband were an older couple whose adult son, Edward, lived with them. Edward was a veteran of the Vietnam War. And Edward? Was damaged. For some reason, I liked Edward. He was brooding and had a bushy beard as dark as his personality. I would hear the adults whispering war, sad, alcohol, violent, and problems when not in Edward's presence. He was nice, but very quiet and I guess that's why I liked him.

My favorite activity as a child was to wake up my father. Working crazy shift hours as a policeman, he could frequently be found napping on the couch, sitting upright, with the newspaper across his lap. I would tiptoe up to him, hold my breath while creeping forward, and holler BOO!, simultaneously jarring his legs with my small hands. He would shudder awake, jowls quivering, and smile at me.

One afternoon, while Mom visited with Pat and her husband, I played quietly on the floor. I looked up and noticed that Edward was sound asleep in the La-Z-Boy. What I saw was someone I liked, sleeping, who needed a rude awakening. What I didn't see was a deeply disturbed man who was, every day, mentally living in Vietnam. I quietly crept forward, intent on my target, tongue in between my teeth, concentrating hard. My mother and the neighbors were oblivious to my actions up to the point I screamed BOO! When that moment occurred, they turned in surprise and horror because at that moment, they weren't seeing a little girl and a son. What they saw was a soldier and a Viet Cong.

Edward lurched forward, arms outstretched and hands reaching for my throat. He meant to kill me. In that nanosecond, he wasn't in a nondescript home in West Virginia, he was back in a wet South Asian jungle, fighting for his life. As my mother and Edward's parents shouted my name and his along with the word NO!, he came to his senses and lurched from the chair to his bedroom. I cried, not because he scared me but because I knew I had done something wrong to a friend and that friend was hurting. I have no idea of the kind of man Edward had been before Vietnam. I don't know what he's like now, or if he's even alive. What I do know is that war irrevocably changed him for the worst and that is a travesty.

This someone in my life who has recently become a member of the military has no idea of what's in store for him. I hear words like service, country, pride, and the like and this someone is right, those words are associated with military service. But this American soldier, in taking the oath of service, has accepted the responsibility for protecting America and her citizens, but has no idea of what said responsibility entails. And I worry about that. I worry for this person and their family. I worry that this person will finally take their turn in Iraq or Afghanistan and come back so changed as to not be recognizable.

I worry that I will see another Edward.

And Here's To You, MAJ Livingston.

Being an only child is generally full of suckage. You're the only one in the house who gets blamed for the broken lamp, people snidely remark Must be nice to be spoiled rotten! when, duh, you're the only kid in the house, of course you're going to get all the toys and attention, and then there's that whole playing Barbies or GI Joe by yourself that is never a good time. But the one great part about being an only child is that when you're older, you get to hand-pick your siblings.

The awesome thing about Ian, my brother from another mother, is that we disagree about everything. We have been known to have over-the-table shouting matches about abortion/gays in the military/Islamic extremism/gay marriage/religion/foie gras*, you name it, we holler at each other about it. But we also have a deep, abiding love and admiration for one another, for what we've each gone through with our families, our marriages, and our children. We've stood by each other through the really dark times and we always agree on sci-fi, Quentin Tarantino, Monty Python, and dark humor. The laughter and silliness comes easily to us and even though, at the end of the day, we can't agree on God's influence or lack thereof in our lives, we still love each other like brother and sister.

Thanks for the great visit this weekend, bro. Glad you're back in the states and I've missed you, Vonda, and your sweet girls, terribly!

*Actually, we've never disagreed about foie gras, but we did once scream at each other about Native Americans. Yeah. It was bad.

All in the Family

Most family pictures are happy pictures, pictures full of people who love one another, care for each other in times of stress and who give of themselves unconditionally.

Then there are other family pictures that look happy to outsiders but are filled with complete sadness to those in the know. When I look at this family photo, I don't see a happy 9th grade Heather (top, right corner) surrounded by her loving family during the 1986 Thanksgiving holiday. What I see is a tense Heather who hasn't seen the inside of her grandfather's house in three years because of family strife. I see two uncles who play with one another but have no clue about raising children or being decent brothers to their sisters. I see my mother who is in Hell just by sitting on that couch and a mother who didn't speak to her sister for eight years. Who didn't attend her funeral. I see an aunt who hated me simply because I existed and who would die nine years later. I see a grandfather who had no clue he was playing favorites and killing his daughter's and granddaughter's love for him every day. I see a step-grandmother who was never emotionally there, two cousins I love but never saw enough, a cousin who would die from a drug overdose 18 years later, a cousin I hardly know, and two step-cousins who couldn't care less about me even though we spent our childhoods practically attached to one another.

I look at this picture every day. I pass by it whenever I cross in front of my bookshelves. And when I quickly walk by with barely a glance I think, Wow. We were a beautiful family. Look at what could have been. But, on the days I stop and really look, pick up the photo and touch each of our faces, I cry. I cry because what I see is a family that no longer exists. I see people missing because of death. I see people missing because they turn away no matter how many times I've reached out. I see hopes dashed and love broken. I don't see a family. I see heartache.

I keep this picture to remind me of what will not be for my family. I keep this picture so that I will never forget.

About

Believe it or not, I actually had people at BlogHer, when presented with my cards that read "Confessions of a Coal Miner's Granddaughter," ask me Are you really a coal miner's granddaughter?

Really? You actually think that I would pull some crazy name for a blog like that out of my ass and not actually be the granddaughter of a coal miner? If I was going to pull a stunt like that, wouldn't I just call this blog "Confessions of a Coal Miner's Daughter?" I mean, if I'm going to fake a coal mining reference for the title of my blog, why not just hang onto the coat tails of Loretta Lynn. Right?

Whatever.

My grandfather was a coal miner for the Kingston Pocahontas Coal Company in Kingston, West Virginia, a tiny little town overlooking Paint Creek. Unfortunately, Kingston no longer exists except in the hearts and minds of the people who lived and loved there. Grandpa Frank was also a fiddle and guitar player who loved to play any gospel or bluegrass song he could remember. In fact, his fiddle sits next to me as I type this. I never knew him (he passed five years before my birth) but I like to think that I inherited his musical inclinations and love of bluegrass. If I could go back in time, I would find him and have a fiddle/hammered dulcimer jam session.

His father's and grandfather's surnames were Scarborough, like the town in England. Both Levi and Issiac Scarborough were coal miners as well and when working for the New River Company in Scarbro, West Virginia, had their names changed by the coal company. Scarborough was too difficult to spell. Scarbro was easier. So, even my maiden name was determined by King Coal.

My Grandpa Frank and Grandma Sally are buried in South Charleston, West Virginia, but the rest of my Scarbro relatives can be found on a hillside, not far from Kingston, overlooking Paint Creek. When the coal company mined out one mountain in particular, they handed it over to the families to bury their loved ones. It's there that my father and uncle found their final resting places. Oh, and cousin Penny's leg. But that's a whole other story.

Being a native West Virginian, from a coal mining family, is part of who I am and I wanted to include that as part of my blog identity. Incidentally, I suppose I could have also named this blog Confessions of a...

Farmer's Granddaughter
Homemaker's Granddaughter
Policeman's Daughter
Artist's Daughter

But the night I started this blog, nearly two years ago, I was watching Coal Miner's Daughter and had just recently found a box full of old Scarbro family pictures. Grandpa Frank's photo jumped out at me and I knew he had to be up there, in the banner of my blog, welcoming my readers.

So, there you have it. Yes, I'm actually the granddaughter of a West Virginia coal miner.

And no, I'm not married to my cousin.

Out-Law

I never learn. I constantly chant to myself, Keep your mouth shut. Don't open your mouth. Don't say a word. It's better if you internalize and I don't know where this comes from. What part of my past affected my psyche and requires me to be a quiet door mat.

My mom's family was, and is, a train wreck in motion. I won't go into details but let's just say that for several years I did not speak to or see my maternal grandfather. My mother didn't attend her sister's funeral. It was much like a divorce, just without the judges, child support, or visitation rights. But with all the hurt and pain.

And when I married Ty-man and met both sides of his family, I knew I had found Heaven. Or, at the very least, the reality version of many 1950s TV sitcoms. These people all love, support, and encourage one another. Disagreements flare up from time to time, but are quickly squelched after said parties get the issues off their chests and exchange hugs.

It's... weird. And so fracking cool and refreshing after dealing with the extreme dysfunction of Mom's family. One thing I know for certain is that I never want to be the cause of The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet becoming The Osbournes.

And then I had to go yesterday and offer my two cents on a family e-mail conversation regarding Christmas and summertime gatherings. And I knew, as I typed, that even though I've been in this family for 13 years, that I'm not truly in this family. I don't share blood or experiences or ancestors. They've just loaned the Ty-man to me. And when I offered my piddling advice on the topic at hand and sighed with relief that I had done so in a non-confrontational, adult, chummy manner, I received a response that was...

well, confrontational. In-my-face. Smack-down-ish.

Do you follow?

But, of course, if you don't already know, my secret identity is TakeEverythingPersonally Woman! and it could definitely be that I read my computer screen seeing one expression on this particular in-law's face when, in fact, the face could have been genuinely smiling. I don't know.

I do know that, in the future, this "out"-law will be keeping her mouth shut. And smiling moronically. And nodding a lot.

And smoldering on the inside.

Road Rules

Our cousin J turned 15 yesterday. And yesterday, she took the test for her learner's permit. She was worried about passing, but she's a smart girl and I didn't think she would have any problems. Plus? That whole smart thing? Comes with a load of common sense meaning this is one 15-year-old who won't be a menace on the road.

But, just to be sure, I thought I would present a few extra-helpful rules for her to live by when she is "on the road again." So, without further ado, I give you:

Coal Miner's Granddaughter's Common Sense Rules for Driving Safe!

1. On a normal day, feel free to drive at least 10 miles over the posted speed limit. Otherwise, you may become a highway pancake. When you're PMS-ing? Drive 20 miles over the limit. You're allowed.

2. Stop signs and red lights are optional at 4AM. When no one is around. And you reeeeeaaaaally have to pee.

3. Feel free to make right turns at red lights, unless otherwise noted with signage. Unless you're a rich bimbo, driving a Mercedes SLR McLaren Roadster, talking on your cell phone, and flashing your five carat Tiffany's diamond while simultaneously taking a drag off your Virginia Slim. Then? By all means, the signage does not apply to you. You may turn on red while the rest of us wait.

4. Mail trucks, schmail trucks. Run those f'ers off the road!

5. If a police officer has pulled someone over onto the shoulder, and has the lights blazing on his cruiser, DON'T SLOW DOWN! It's not a "grass is greener" situation. He's not going to abandon his current citation-writing to chase down your "85 in a 65" butt. He's already committed. Maintain your current speed and direction, please.

6. Rubberneck at an accident on the opposite side of the road and I will have to ram you.

So, what say all of you? Have any helpful tips for Cousin J? Leave them in the comments and I'll pass them along to her.

Fading

My family is fading to black.

I don't mean my immediate family of husband, children, parents, siblings. I mean my cousins. Specifically, my father's first-cousins: Violet, Penny, Jim, Deskar, and Clorine.

It was hard for me, as a child, to understand that one could have cousins older than oneself. In my childish mind, the aunts and uncles were older whereas the cousins were my age or younger. This is how my father's first-cousin became my "Aunt" Clorine. She and her husband, my "Uncle" Deskar, were my favorite family members from my father's hardscrabble, coal mining family. I would spend a few days each summer roaming around their Beckley, West Virginia home, quietly reading in every corner of their brick house. Aunt Clorine had a West Virginia drawl, made raspy from a lifetime of smoking while Uncle Deskar's World War II, shrapnel-induced whispers made all of us keep our voices low so that he could be heard. I miss my father's cousins, not just because they are my last connection to West Virginia, but also because they are my last connection to my father. These cousins are the vessels who hold memories of my father as a child and young man.

And they are slowly, inexorably dying. One by one the people who knew my father are fading into the shadows. Uncle Deskar walked to the side of his house to apply fertilizer to the grass, fell when the heart attack hit, and never got up. Violet begged me to bury my father's ashes rather than scatter them, so that she could visit him. And she was dead within the year. Penny slowly slipped away after her husband's passing. She had no need of this life after Charlie's exit from it. And Jim? Well, he is just gone. Poof. One minute, I was addressing a Christmas card to Molly and Jim and in return, I received a card from just Molly, telling me of Jim's passing. In October. Dead for nearly two months and I didn't know it, didn't even feel a ripple or a sense that someone I love is now missing.

Clorine is currently going through chemotherapy. She sounds sad in every letter I receive from her. No matter how many times I try to sound upbeat on the phone or in my letters, a piece of her is missing. Several pieces, actually. And those pieces are with her brother Jim, her sisters Violet and Penny, and my Uncle Deskar. I don't think there's enough of her left to live on this Earth much longer.

And when she is gone, a piece of me will go, too. And I will then continue the journey begun with my father and Uncle Curtis. Another piece of me will go to the ground with her and remain until it is my time.

I miss you, my family. Be happy, wherever you are.

Please?

The next few posts (except Silent Saturday, of course) will be about those aspects of myself that I dislike and that I've had a hard time correcting. I tend to be such a negative, pessimistic person and maybe doing these few posts about the parts of me I dislike, I can then turn around and write about the parts of me I do like. This is therapy, people.

I have always been a pleaser. I think it stems from half of my family hating me. OK, maybe hate is a strong word. How about extreme dislike?

When you guys were kids, was there ever a time in your lives that you remember an adult not liking you, of being constantly displeased with you, just because of your presence? And if that ever happened to you, do you remember the utter confusion and frustration, the heartbreak of trying so desperately to figure out why those people, those adults, people you were supposed to look up to and admire and want to be when you grew up, hated you? You, a little kid. When it happened to me, I could never wrap my head around it.

I posted about my Aunt Joy a few months ago. You know, the one who couldn't have children of her own and when she found out her only sister was having me, she made it her goal in life to treat me like crap. Yeah, that one. Because of her jealousy of me and my mother, the rest of the family rallied around her hurt and pain and my mother and I fell along the wayside. I think this is where my need to constantly please comes from.

I can remember trying to be funny, creative, smart, helpful, or quiet - anything and everything that I could do to please the adult members of my mom's family, to make them less frustrated with me and more understanding. But nothing worked and I was so confused. This has now, I believe, carried over into my adult life.

I am constantly on the look-out for how to please people. Don't be too argumentative, then they won't like you. That person commented that I look good in coral! Going out to dinner with that person so I need to wear coral again. My alumnae group asked me to head a committee. I don't have time, but I don't want to say no - that may make someone angry. So, I should say yes. I also tend to keep what I truly think and feel close to my chest. I'm afraid that if I tell one friend that I disagree with her political leanings or if I tell another friend that that dress truly doesn't look good on her, that I'm going to lose those people, that I need to keep them happy in order to keep the balance. And oddly enough, it upsets me greatly when I find out someone doesn't like me. Even if that someone is a person I don't like, it will drive me to eat mounds of chocolate. That, I don't get.

I know, it's my problem. I get that. I'm owning that. And I'm finding that after 30-odd years of being a pleaser, it's exhausting trying to figure out what makes those around me happy and keeping them happy through my actions when, in fact, what I do probably goes unnoticed and said pleasing actions were pointless to begin with because those around me are fine with my presence, fine with my friendship, and find minimal fault with me.

Teaching an old dog new tricks is difficult and teaching an approaching-middle-age-SAHM to quit trying to please everybody all the time is even harder. I'm working on saying No! and I disagree! more but I still feel massive amounts of guilt whenever I do say no rather than yes. And I don't blame my family for that. I blame me for trying to make them happy when, in fact, they were never going to be happy with my presence. Finding a quiet corner and reading a book, staying out of their way, would have made much more sense.

Right?

Meh

Today is a day of up and down emotions for me. I knew no one who died in the tragic circumstances of seven years ago. I knew no one who made it out alive. I do know that whenever I hear a low-flying, large commercial plane all the way down here in suburban Atlanta, I look up and wonder. High rises, even with my life-long acrophobia, are doubly scary now. Any time I see a woman wearing a hijab or a man with Muslim prayer beads, I wonder how they felt on that day and how they see me as an American. And whenever I pass through the ridiculous security at an airport, I'm torn between complaining about my civil liberties being violated or announcing my thankfulness that another September 11, 2001 hasn't happened. Yet.

I guess today is all about waving our American flags and hugging our loved ones a little more tightly because who knows if today is the day they'll leave for work and never come home.
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I sent the pictures. I scanned them, uploaded them to Shutterfly, and sent them directly to his house. No middle-man, no flowery Hallmark card with an empty "Here you go! Hope you're well! Love, Me!" message. I'm absolutely empty when I think about Uncle R. I think I said good-bye to him nine years ago, the last time he acted like a normal, loving human being. And that's so sad. So very sad to have this man, who knew my father as a child and who is the last remaining link to his Y-chromosome DNA, slip from this Earth without me truly caring.

I'm sorry Uncle R. I'm sorry I don't know you. I'm sorry I don't understand you. I'm sorry that I'll not weep at your passing, not because I don't care, but because I don't get you. I never understood why one child was your apple and the other two were the rotten cores. I can't get why one grandson rises and sets the sun each day and the other two practically don't exist in your conversation. I'm sorry that you're holding on to memories, in the form of old black and white photos, that are many, many years past, rather than holding tight to your three children and three grandchildren while you still have time, while they still have you. Because those families, friends, and loved ones of the 2,974 people who died on September 11th, 2001? I'm pretty sure they would burn those 4x6 glossies in exchange for one more kiss. One more hug. One more "I love you."

I'm just... sorry.

Disrespecting My Elder

So, Uncle R called again. You know Uncle R. The one who couldn't get off the phone fast enough when I smacked him down about prayer in schools.

Yeah. That one. (Right there, on the left, with my Grandmother Sally.)

Lemme give you a back story. My father was the youngest of three. The oldest was Uncle C, who died of a broken heart two weeks after my father's death, who took beautiful pictures, who read my paper even though he only had an 11th grade-1940s-West Virginia-coal town education. I miss Uncle C as much as I miss Dad.

The middle brother? Uncle R. Dad and Uncle R never got along and, to make a long story short, I eventually found out why they constantly argued. When Uncle C died and left me as his executrix? Uncle R and his son-in-law caused me undue strife and upset regarding the contents of C's will. A few years ago when Uncle R's wife died? He wanted to dig up my father's and Uncle C's ashes and re-bury them next to his wife so it would be more convenient for him to visit their gravesides. Yeah.

And yesterday? He badgered me for the third time to send him old family pictures. Old family pictures he never knew existed until he saw his father's picture up there in my blog banner. And how did he clinch the deal?

"I'm dying, Heather. I've got prostate cancer, Lyme's disease, and osteoporosis. I should be on your priority list."

What pisses me off about this is it's always about him. Always. No matter the circumstances, no matter the events in our lives, it's all about him. I can't go into details because this blog post would end up being as long as War and Peace. Trust me when I say that I'm not exaggerating. And to have his impending death thrown at me? Just takes the cake.

What makes this worse is that I come out of this looking like the lazy, uncaring niece who can't see past the end of her nose (or the line of her immediate family) to send him a few piddling pictures. But honestly? My family comes first. And at the end of the day, when my family is in bed, the laundry is folded, the dishes are washed, the toys are put away, and I have an hour or two to myself? I barely manage to pull myself out of a stupor much less send a handful of pictures to my dying uncle.

God, I look like a dumb-ass. Just go read another blog and forget I wrote this.

Baby Shower Breakdown

Two hours and 30 minutes to Gadsden, Alabama with my mom driving. XM Radio's 80's on 8. Woo hoo!

Road snackage + Snapple tea = FULL BLADDER! (Quick Taco Bell stop-off...)

Southern Baptist Baby Shower (It was a full house - estrogen was bouncing off the walls!)

Cake, cookies, meatballs, peanuts, cake, icing, cake, cookies, cake, punch.... SUGAR RUSH!

Three tables full of gifts (read: loot!).

Southern accents abounded. "Brother so-and-so. Sister what's-her-name."

We were kicked out at promptly 5PM for the start of evening church set-up. Git. GIT!

Thus began the hauling of gifts to the soon-to-be parents' house, followed by a fabulous dinner with the uncle- and aunt-in-law, and finally the hauling of our butts 2 hours and 30 minutes home.

I'm exhausted, but cousin-in-law Lindsay's journey (read: bone-deep exhaustion) as a new mother is about to begin:

(Isn't she gorgeous?)

Of Cousins and Soon-to-be Mothers of Teens

Cousin J's visit last week was not just a breath of fresh air, it was also a realization. As the week progressed, I became aware that in just 11 short years (yes, short because when I think about my life it's very clear that these 36 years have flown by) I will be the mother of a teenage girl. And I am terrified.

I know, I know. You're all about to remind me that I also have two sons, but for right now, we'll just focus on Miss-Miss.

Now, don't get me wrong. J is just the sweetest 14-year-old girl I've ever known. She's got a great head on her shoulders, she has a brain that processes common sense ideals, and she's pretty savvy when it comes to boys, parents, school, and the future. There were never any bad moments during our visit. At no time did I just want to shove her down the black hole of parenthood where most teens are imagined to reside when they annoy the hell out of their parents and loved ones.

While we were shopping last Thursday, many salespeople made reference to J as my daughter. Holy crap! I thought, I actually could have a 14-year-old daughter right now. If Ty-man and I had gotten married immediately after college instead of waiting a year and got started immediately on a family, I would have a 14-year-old standing next to me that would be my daughter or son. There's absolutely no way I could deal with a 14-year-old right now! In fact, I don't think I'll ever be ready for a 14-year-old. Damn.

What scared the bejeezus out of me were the moments J opened up to me. She informed me that she has decided to date when she turns 16 (January 2010, ladies and gents). Mom and Dad haven't decided this, she has. I don't think they're going to have any say. And? She's already picked out the boy. I know all about her boy-crazy friends, which friends are snotty and are mean to her, that she didn't like her older brother's girlfriend, how she feels about her immediate family (grandparents, uncle, 1st cousins, mom and dad), the kinds of clothes she likes to wear and those clothes her mom doesn't like her to wear that I thought looked OK, and on and on. This scared me because I can be a friend, someone she can talk to, someone who is an adult but is viewed by her as just a really old teenage girlfriend, someone who isn't her mom. It scared me because who will be this person for Miss-Miss? Will that person confide in me? Will that person lead Miss-Miss in the right direction and give her good advice? Will that person talk smack about me to my daughter while at the same time telling her to go against my wishes?

I make sure whenever I speak with J that I only speak good about her parents and grandparents. I have the utmost respect and love for them, but even if I didn't I would still make sure to never speak ill of them in front of their daughter. Will Miss-Miss's confidante give me and Ty-man the same courtesy?

I can't hand-pick Miss-Miss's confessor; if I did she would run in the opposite direction, knowing I also had that person's ear. I guess I just have to have a little faith.

That and prepare the minivan for the onslaught of a 15-year-old J, learner's permit in hand, when she visits next summer. Wow. Not ready for that, either.

This One Time, When My Uncle Called...

Yesterday, I mentioned that my uncle called me and requested family pictures. The part of the conversation I didn't mention was the following:

Uncle R: You know, L (his daughter) has pulled N (her son) out of private school. She can't afford it.

Me: Oh, that's too bad.

Uncle R: It was a Christian school. That little bugger knew the Lord's Prayer by heart! Three years ago, when we buried my wife, he said that prayer by heart at her funeral. (Note: Little N was just three then.) I don't know why we can't have prayer in schools! I think that's a shame!

Me: Well, are you OK with Islamic prayers, Buddhist chants, praying the rosary, and other religious things being taught and followed?

Uncle R: Well...

Me: Because places like Atlanta are extremely diverse with kids from many cultures in the public classroom. If you're going to have Protestant Christian prayer in the schools, then you have to include everyone else.

Uncle R: I'm not sure about that.

Me: And? If you have Protestant Christian prayer in public, government-run and funded schools, then I think things like evolution, sex education and the like should be taught in Sunday school. It's only fair.

Uncle R: So how's the weather down there?

Yeah, I know how to kill a conversation fast.

The Kids' Table

You all know what I'm talking about. The kids' table was always the fold-up card table with an old, over-washed tablecloth. Your mother or grandmother tried so hard to dress it up but everyone knew it had spent the previous year in the basement, leaning against some lonely wall until the annual family Thanksgiving/Christmas gathering. Until that morning, the table had probably been covered in dust and cobwebs until Grandma wiped it down and covered it with that God-awful 1950s Ozzy and Harriett mess of a tablecloth. Then, the youngest children would be crammed in at said table to eat their holiday dinner. Usually the older teenagers served as temporary babysitters, stop-gaps to keep the little kids from making it into the fancy dining room with the extremely breakable china and parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles dressed to the nines for a dinner that would be consumed in minutes. The teenagers were, of course, biding their time until college when, as 18-year-old freshmen, they could consider themselves adults and ready for the "big" table.

I hated the kids' table. For me, the kids' table was a punishment. It certainly wasn't an escape from the adults, a place to throw mashed potatoes and continue playtime with my cousins. In fact, the kids' table at my grandparents' house wasn't any fun at all. At least, it wasn't fun for me.

Up until age 9, our major holidays were spent with my mother's family: her father, step-mother, sister, brother, nephews, step-sister, and step-nieces. I looked up to my older step-cousin Ann (bear with me - that's her middle name - just trying to be polite with the identities of others) and her younger sister Lynn. Although they lived out in the "boonies" they seemed so much more aware of life and the world around them. Ann was certainly the prettiest of us three, they both wore stylish, preppy clothes, and listened to Blondie, for chrissake. I couldn't compete in the looks, clothes, or music departments, but I loved playing with them. My other cousins, Lee and Alan, were just - strange. Too serious for kids aged 5 and 7 and I felt I could never connect with them. Even four years ago, at the tender age of 29, when Lee died of a drug overdose I couldn't mourn his passing. I didn't know him.

The kids' table was a place out of time for me. The cousins all got along with one another and left me out of most conversations or laughed at what I said. I felt more at ease with the adults - adults who, except for my parents, acted as if speaking with me were an inconvenience. They didn't get me and my adult-speak coming from a 9-year-old larynx was probably disconcerting. I was an honest, intelligent child who got on their nerves.

So, there I sat at the kids' table, too precocious for the other kids, too annoying and young for the adults, at an in-between place that was uncomfortable for all. I wish now there had been a third table, a Heather table, where I could have sat alone with my meal and a book.

I think I would have been happier.

Aunt - Like Mom Only Cooler

The title of this post is the wording on a coffee mug the kids gave to their Aunt Roxanne for her birthday. She is Ty-man's sister-in-law (a.k.a. the wife of his older brother) and she is, and will be, a cool aunt.

The coffee mug made me think about my own aunts of whom I had four (not counting all the great-aunts I only saw once a year - if that). These four aunts were in my immediate family: three were married to uncles and one was a blood relative - my mother's only sister. The three in-law aunts were OK. I didn't know them very well and wasn't close to them. But my mother's sister - this is who the post is about.

When you stop and really think about it, being a woman is a very special thing. Each woman part of a larger sisterhood - fellow women who know what it's like to have their hearts broken by immature teenage boys, who deal with the monthly annoyances of mood swings, cramps, and tampons, who understand the discomfort and embarrassment of a yearly pap smear, who get the constant nagging of our own mothers, who feel your pain when you realize you're turning into your mother, who see your beauty even when your gray roots are showing, who feel for you when your clothes don't fit post-third baby. Really, it's an amazing thing to be part of this large community, half the world's gender. I know that my girl friends are women who sometimes know me better than I know myself because they've been through it all, too. So, knowing this, a girl's aunt, in particular her mother's sister, should be a very special person in her life. She should be the woman the girl can turn to when her mother won't, or can't listen or understand. You would think...

That coffee mug spoke volumes to me when I bought it for Roxanne. She truly loves my children and will step into the role of mother if something ever happens to me. I see it in her eyes when she comes over to our house to visit or babysit. Her face lights up whenever she sees Miss-Miss, Bubba, and J-man, and she has such fun playing with and talking to them. I know she would take great care of them and raise them wonderfully. I know that on those days when Mama doesn't have the answers, Aunt Roxanne will and if my kids are too embarrassed to talk to Mama about it, Aunt Roxanne will be the ear to listen. And I know that Miss-Miss, in particular, can have someone to talk to if Mama isn't there. Roxanne would never steer her on the wrong path - or ridicule any choices she may make. At the same time, watching Roxanne with my children also makes me sad to think of my mother's sister - my Aunt Joy. She wasn't an aunt, a second mother only cooler, a friend, a confidante. She was... a disappointment.

My Aunt Joy was infertile. By the age of 21, her endometriosis was so widespread that the only option for her, in 1963, was a total hysterectomy. Can you imagine taking hormone pills at the age of 21 because the parts of your body that would normally take care of that for you are gone? Can you fathom being a 21-year-old woman, at the supposed most fertile time in her life, suddenly finding herself as the equivalent of a woman in menopause? I can't. But I know it scarred her because of the way she treated me.

After my aunt's death in 1995, my mother finally told me the story that put all the puzzle pieces together and explained all the horrible treatment I received from Aunt Joy over the years. In the spring of 1971, when Mom told her only sister she was pregnant, you could supposedly hear a pin drop. Large amounts jealousy with a side of snide comments ensued. Outings between the two were canceled by Joy. Phone calls became non-existent. My aunt, the woman who should have been a second mother to me, only cooler, was sick with envy and couldn't bring herself to face my mother or her expanding abdomen. I've gone back again and again, reading the cards Aunt Joy gave my mother with baby shower gifts or cards sent to my parents after my birth, trying to read between the lines the screaming that must have gone on in her head. I know the screaming and the agony were there - I heard it all during my struggle with infertility. I would hear it each time I went to a baby shower, visit a new baby and mother in the hospital, or have another friend tell me she was pregnant.

For all the rotten, nasty things Aunt Joy did to me, an innocent child, all those years ago, I later wanted to talk to her, find out what it was like for her, share my pain with her, a pain I know she understood well. I was more like her than she ever imagined. I have her hands, her handwriting, some of her mannerisms, and her infertility - traits we could have shared, laughed at, cried over. But, she has passed away and is no longer with us. She died ten years before my first pregnancy. But, let's be honest, she was never there for me. She was never my aunt. She was instead a bitter woman who happened to be my mother's sister. And my children would have probably brought out the worst in her.

I am an only child and I have made sure to surround myself with wonderful girl friends, the aunts I want my children to have, the aunts I wish I could have had. But I know that the one blood-related aunt, Aunt Roxanne, will never be the horrible, bitter woman that was my Aunt Joy.

And thank the stars for that.