The Nights (part 2)

Momma loved to tell the family history after supper. As little girls we would gather in the drawing room and listen. If we had guests over, as we often did, the stories were more animated and even boisterous at times. 

“Isn’t that devine! Have mercy! My eyes have never see anything as beautiful as this before!” My great grandfather Hubert and great grandmother Willowmene exclaimed these words when they first saw the land they had purchased and planned to farm. This land represented their hopes and dreams to become landowners, raise a family and serve our Lord. “Devine Mercy has been in our family for generations and will continue to be forever more. One day one of your husbands will inherit all of those hopes and dreams and continue to make them a reality.” 

“It’s time for bed my little doves.” I had become the storyteller after mother’s illness left her unable to speak above a whisper. I had become many things during her illness. I now realize it was preparation to become the mistress of Divine Mercy. 

By the time daddy and momma died I understood how to run the home, the house slaves, create menus and host parties which were talked about in neighboring states. The governor and his wife were regular attendees. Our slaves played the best music and our food was the most coveted. Poppa use to always say, “A man who beats his slaves is no man at all.” Because we didn’t beat them, they produced the finest of everything for us. They were loyal to us. Well, at least most of them were. I do not believe I will ever understand why any of them would want to run away from here. It was the best plantation around. The ones who ran were immediately sold upon capture. We would not allow them to come back and poison the minds of the others. We posted the paperwork in the quarters for several nights. Although they couldn’t read they understood the meaning. The runaway had been captured. Because we didn’t beat or mistreat our slaves they were sold at the highest prices. 

Momma had taught me to use my head when making decisions regarding how I ran the house. She would often say to us, “Never allow jealously to rule your emotions. The good books says a man who is unable to control his emotions is like a city without walls.” I stopped going to the slave quarters after seeing the children born from the slaves we bought from a few counties over. My heart broke each time I saw another brown, male version of my husband. I prayed faithfully to God for a son. During the nights when John left our bed for the quarters I would silently cry out to God. “Please allow me to birth just one healthy boy, an heir like Isaac.”

My cries were often drowned out by their cries. 

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Hi

I love writing. I love having the opportunity to communicate a thought or idea. I’ve taken time off. Call it a hiatus or a need to get in touch with my own voice and thoughts and opinions. Who am I? What do I want to convey to the the reader? Where do I focus my efforts? 

After all this time off I’m still not really sure that I want a theme as much as I just want to write. 

I’ve gone through a lot in the last two years. Do you ever feel like it’s one thing after another? I’m not saying it’s all bad. Some has been great others things have been meh. But that’s life right? Isn’t it? 

This blog is going to continue to be random and filled with what may be statistic driven data or just things I’ve learned over the years. 

In the mean time, keep on keeping on, hang in there, trouble don’t last always and in most places of the world, “The sun will come out tomorrow…”. Tomorrow is your opportunity to give it one more try. 

Give somebody a twenty second hug today to extend their life and yours.  

I Am My Mother’s Child

There is nothing that brings you to the reality of your life like a court ordered social study. If you read March 5, 2014 then you know that the ex husband decided to have me served. Somewhere along the way he decided he wanted 50/50 custody of the kids.

He remarried about three years ago. He moved into her house with her and her two children. No big deal right? Her house is 23 miles away from my house. The same house I intentionally selected because it was less than 7 miles from his door to my door. My goals in selecting a house were a good school district, a sense of community and not far from their dad. I never wanted him to feel like his children were to far away. But then he moved. Our youngest were attending a charter school that was in another city  about five miles from my house. I made the decision to move them to the zoned school in our district. He was not happy about my choice and he said I was moving them further from him so he hired an attorney and I was served.

Back to the social study. After several months of court dates, attorney’s fees and tension between us the judge ordered a social study as requested by the ex.

A social study is conducted by a social worker. They have you fill out pages and pages of documents listing everything that has happened in your life. It’s your autobiography. This document is scrutinized and judged by the social worker. They come to your house and interview everybody who lives there. They walk through your home taking notes on everything from the items on your refrigerator, safety of the neighborhood and overall opinion of your home. The social worker also interviews friend, doctors, teachers and family members.

The document… Geez… The document. It took me several days to fill out the document. For me, it was the equivalent of standing naked in front of strangers who had magnifying glasses and were intent on viewing every flaw. It was hard. As I said it was an autobiography of my life. The questions were invasive and at times difficult for me to answer. You see, I am like many of you, I have tucked the disappointments and heartaches of my childhood away in a place that I don’t like to visit. But here in this document I was asked about things I don’t like to discuss with close friends let alone a stranger.  But I answered honestly.

After a few weeks I received the results of the social study. This was the document she would present to the judge. The judge would use this document to assist with his final ruling. As I read her report I cried. I cried because here was a stranger summarizing my life in a 15-20 page document.

My life  started out as a potentially tragic story. I was born the youngest of three. My mother was about 21 when I was born and had birthed a total of three children in less than four years. She was the true definition of a single mom. My father was around but he wasn’t present. My mother worked very hard to provide for us but she wasn’t home with us. I was molested as a child. I started drinking as a teenager and drugs, although I did not partake, were readily available.

I continued to cry as I read the document. My ex husband’s life looks wonderful on paper. He grew up in a two parent household. He has one brother and they had a dog. His mom stayed home for the most part and his father was an engineer. He was raised in a Christian home. He and his new wife both had stellar up bringing. They are the ideal American family when you read about them. As I continued to read and cry, I was sure I had lost. How and why would anybody in their right mind select me over them? As I reached the last couple of pages I realized I had been holding my breathe. There were about ten numbered items. These were the things the judge wanted to know. This was her final assessment. This would affect the decision of the court

Why is this article titled as it is? Because after reading her summary of my life I went back and rewrote my life story. I needed to add in the side notes and I needed to understand my life from the view point of a young twenty something raising three kids on her own. I needed perspective. I needed to understand that the social worker’s summary was not the final say on my life. Through tears and fears I read my life story to three friends of mine. I felt the need to say the words out loud. In front of people who love me. We are often judged by our past. We judge others based upon their past. But I realized that I’m more than my childhood. Like my mother, I am an overcomer. Our stories don’t read the same but the common thread is do the best you can and overcome obstacles.

The social worker’s assessment was in my favor. My children are still with me the majority of the time and I changed their schools. I don’t hold a grudge with the ex.

Write your own story. Statistics and opinions do not have the final say. Write your own story and release  hope. I rewrote mine and am confidant when I say I’m an overcomer and my mother’s child.

The Colors She Wore

She was beautiful from a distance
She was stunning up close
Her eyes told her story
Her words revealed her heart
She was like none other
She never unintentionally blended into a crowd
The colors she wore told her story outloud
Red made her feel powerful
It gave her life
It hid her pain
Red on her lips or that little red dress
Power and life were the crowns in that story
Blue was the color she wore to disappear
She blended into the sea of people
She faded into the backdrop of the sky
Blue meant she needed time to herself
Blue was reflection
Her color of undetection
Her wardrobe consisted of black as well
It wasn’t for the illusion of being thin
She wore it to be more corporate
She wore it to be received well
It was not her color for going out on the town
That was to common and if you know her, you know she’s not common
Beautiful combination that told her truth
She wore vibrant colors to express her mood
Green or coral, magenta or ecru
Browns made her feel earthy and real
One with nature and mankind
She felt like deep breathes and world peace
Green was her color to represent new and fresh
She channeled mother earth
Together they would give birth to ideas and philosophies
They would embrace the circle of life
Whatever the color she was talking to you
She was sharing her right now
Her inner thoughts and feelings
She was telling you her story by the colors she wore

Peter, Paula and Mary

Peter:
I had that same dream again. The one I’ve had so often I’ve memorized the dance of the leaves as they sway in the wind. It’s the same dream everytime. I am walking through the park. It’s a great day outside. The sun is shining, the clouds are soft, white and look fluffy. I gaze over at the bench and there she is. She’s always there. After 20+ years of knitting the same sweater you’d think she would be done. But, she’s never any further along. We make eye contact and she slowly rises off the bench, calls me by my given name and gives me a big hug. She steps back and looks at me and asks where I’ve been. Then I wake up. I never get to tell her what happened when my boat landed in America. I never get to mention how I searched for her for years but could never locate her. I never get to tell her about my devoted wife who’s carrying our first child. I never get to tell her because I wake up.

    Paula:
    He must be having that dream again. Sigh. When will it ever stop? He came over alone from Vietnam. He was supposed to meet his mom under the rainbow in the market. They had studied the map for weeks. The route was laid out, he knew where to stop for food and drink as he journeyed to the meeting place. She could not greet his boat because it was arriving under the cover of darkness and they didn’t want to draw attention to its arrival. There were no streamers or people gathered to welcome them to this new land. He didn’t know his boat was reported lost at sea but the boat and all seven of the passengers made it through the tumultuous storm that attempted to rob them of their future. They were a week and a day late but he knew him mom would wait for him in the place marked on the map. 

    Mary:
    I went to the market every night for a week. Finally someone told me the boat was missing. Missing?!? Aaaaahhhhhh!!! I cried out in great despair. No matter how much the tried to console me or hush me I could not push my pain down. It wanted to be released into the universe and so I let it go. I don’t know how long I laid there. In my mind I saw his sweet face smiling and waving at me telling me not to worry. He would be fine. For some reason they split us up. They insisted I go first to find a job and make a home. Why did I listen to them?!? This journey was for him, his future, his opportunity to be more than a poor village kid. Looking around the market and seeing the rainbow was too much to bear. I moved to another city far far away from my regrets and pain. 

    Peter:
    I rub my wife’s back and apologize for waking her. The further along she gets in the pregnancy the more she enjoys the back rubs. I suggest we take a walk in the park. It’s supposed to help with circulation. Besides, I like walking through the park I designed. The market was abandoned years ago. I was commissioned to design something that would continue to knit the community together. My immediate thought was a park. On the very spot where I was supposed to meet my mom I placed a bench. It was the same bench from my dream. I had hope I was aligning the stars and helping my dream become a reality. 

    Mary:
    After many years of running from my pain I moved back to the place where it all began. I needed peace. I needed to embrace my past and emotionally bury my son. The last time I saw him he was wearing a red sweater. I wanted to knit him a new one and bury it in the park that now stood in the place of the market. I planned to bury the grief I’ve carried for over 20 years. It was a beautiful place. Even though it was full of people it was still serene. I found an empty bench and continued knitting the sweater. I decided to make on the perfect size for a baby. I couldn’t bring a shovel with me to dig the hole. I wanted to be discreet as I held a short memorial service with one attendee. 

    Paula:
    I saw her first. Just as we rounded the bend on the walking path. She was just as he had described her in his dream. 

    Peter:
    Are my sleepless eyes providing me with a mirage? Am I at home in my bed sleeping? It’s her!! It’s really her! We make eye contact and she slowly rises off the bench, calls me by my given name and gives me a big hug. She steps back and looks at me and asks where I’ve been. 

    The letter

    Today’s challenge is to write a story about a letter that was found but be as brief as possible. Here goes. 

    There was a smudge of lipstick in the top right corner of the dainty stationary. It was directly above a heart. The carefully drawn heart contained two sets of initials.  

    Those words that filled the page gave me hope. That letter made me believe in love again.