Unconditional Love

I've never believed in unconditional love—until today.

I have a daughter, a grandson, a mother, and various sisters and brothers, and I love them all—but I never thought it was an unconditional love. I never once believed that NO MATTER WHAT I would love them—until today.

Today, for the first time in my 45 years of life, I can look upon these people, and a my new-found love, Jerry, and say that I understand unconditional love—because for the first time in my life, I realize that it's been given to me.

My Mama. My Dad. My Daughter. So many people in my life have loved me unconditionally. I have put them through hell, worried them, scared them, and caused them great pain, and not once did they stop loving me. They may not have liked my actions, but they always loved me. And I didn't see it. I didn't see it until today, when Jerry held my face and looked into my eyes and made me believe that it exists.

To accept someone as they are—that is the ultimate gift we can give another person, isn't it? To look at all their faults, and demons, and wounds that have yet to be healed—to look at ones past, their present, and their future and not only say but believe that none of it matters—that is a thing of beauty.

This love—this gift that has been given to me and given from me has given me strength and courage. Suddenly I see the world clearly. My faith in myself has grown exponentially. I believe in myself.

I am not perfect. Hell, some days I'm not even good—but there are people who will love me anyway. And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, will carry me through the greatest storms.

Thank you, Jerry, for making me believe.

Robbie

A wise woman once said “There is a little boy inside the man who is my brother. Oh, how I hated that little boy. And how I love him too.” I’m sure truer words have never been spoken—at least not about my brother Rob.
In hindsight, I should have known. I look back now at our lives and I clearly see the writing on the wall. Rob—or Robbie as I still call him—would prove to be the bane of my existence. Let’s face it, at the ripe-old age of 3, his curiosity got the better of him and he literally ripped the pull-string recorder out of my Mrs. Beasley doll. What kind of person does that? Never again would I hear my little old lady doll say “Gracious me, you’re getting to be such a big girl!” Bastard! Inevitably, doll torture became his forte. Ask our sister, Lisa. He once tied her precious Fisher Price Baby Ann to a tree outside during a vicious lightning storm. I still see her in her little print dress swinging wildly from a noose while Lisa wailed at the window. Yes. I should have known. We all should have known.
Robbie’s childhood was chock-FULL of “incidents.” Broken arms, broken legs, attempting to drive Mom’s Cadillac at 11 years old and running it into the front porch--he kept everyone on their toes. Mischief and mayhem were his middle and last name. Any doubts about that can be erased by Burel Gomillion. Once when running home after dark, Robbie tripped over a skunk and got sprayed—big time! My sister Lisa and I did everything we could. We doused him with soaps and perfumes and powders, but it did no good. The next day he went on a field trip and sat on the bus with Burel. Today he still giggles when he retells the story of Burel sniffing the entire way to Binghamton saying, “do you smell a skunk?” Trouble—with a capital “T.”
Nothing, however, NOTHING compares with his high school years. Let’s see, there was the time I ratted on him because he and some friends were ramming Carl Galavitz’s balls into a pole outside the high school. There was the time as a seventh grader that he wore a t-shirt to school under a sweatshirt so Mom wouldn’t see. “What’s wrong with that,” you ask? Let me tell you! The t-shirt said “CERTIFIED MUFF DIVER.” My sister and I were mortified. When we bring it up today, he just laughs and says,” I don’t even know if I knew what it meant, but the seniors thought I was awesome!”
And Robbie’s number one unforgiveable sin from our childhood? That would have to be telling all the kids at school that I had a cow’s eye transplant because I had such a severe lazy eye!!! Seriously? Seriously? AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!
So tell me then, why, when I think of my brother, I feel nothing but warmth and love. Along with my grandson, Jaxon, and my Dad, Bobby, Robbie is the most important man in my life and I’m pretty sure he walks on water. Of all my siblings, we are perhaps the closest. The love I feel FOR Robbie and FROM Robbie is truly the most unconditional. Together, we share all of our childhood dreams and memories as well as all of the hopes and dreams of adulthood. He is my brother, both little and big all rolled up into one. He was there for me when my husband left me after 20 years of marriage, and the first face I needed when we lost our beloved Dylan. Robbie is now 42 years old. He is slightly graying at the temples, has 2 kids and a wonderful wife whom I’m proud to call sister, and has recently started suffering from a bad back. But that’s not how I see him. In my mind’s eye, he will always be 9 years old, running around the yard with no shirt on, begging us girls to play baseball. No matter how much I grow up, Robbie and I are still children. And I’m happy about that.

Trust me, I'm a Novice

Computer users, much like computers themselves, come in every shape, size, and color. Today’s users are young and they are old. Today’s users may own one computer, or they may own many. Some only use them at work, while others use them everywhere—their car, their home, at work, and even at play. And, although computer users are as diverse as Microsoft and Mac, in my opinion they can be categorized into four distinct groups.
The first type of user is the novice. Because of the extensive use of computers today, there are actually not many novices out there. They are—no disrespect intended-- comprised mostly of the elderly. Our grandmothers and grandfathers who own an extensive array of every peripheral device invented (scanners, speakers, cameras, etc.) but only know how to play solitaire. The novice group can also include youth ages five to seven. Those users who constantly implore the assistance of their parents to start up the computer, log on , locate the web site that promises fame or fortune (usually from the back of a box of cereal), only to last for ten minutes—or until the next shiny metal object catches their eye.
Next are the amateurs. Don’t let the title fool you, however. Teens are often considered amateurs. An amateur because they only utilize a few programs, but their knowledge of those few programs is extensive. This category of users couldn’t possibly tell you when their next algebra exam is, but they can recite hundreds of You Tube links backwards and forwards. They can’t remember to put the cap back on the milk or to feed the dog, but they can remember at least 50 pirate movie sites and their “user id” for countless internet accounts.
Moving up the “computer food chain” we meet the experts. Experts include people who get paid to actually use the computer and to help others use theirs. Computer programmers are experts. Those foreigners who answer the help line when you purchase a computer are experts. Experts are extremely knowledgeable about computers. They know how they work and why they work.
The final category of computer users is what I have affectionately termed “freaks and geeks.” Freaks and geeks can take a computer apart and put it back together blindfolded. They are familiar with every chip, every circuit, every minute wire and eagerly await the next QWERTY keyboard convention. Their hands get sweaty and their heart palpitates wildly at words like verichip, nanotechnology, and artificial intelligence. They are normally pale-skinned, with a significant portion of their coloring emanating from a 17-inch monitor that flows incessantly day and night. Freaks and geeks are proud of their title and wear their pocket protectors with pride. They can’t be bothered with experts, let alone amateurs and novices. Their diet consists of anything that takes less time than uploading the latest version of whatever game is newest on the market. Many view them as sad, lonely individuals, but, in all honesty, they are not. They are perfectly content to befriend their Gateway and have found that the most meaningful relationship is formed with processors, not people.
As time marches on and humans become amateurs, amateurs will become experts and experts will become the next freaks and geeks. Where this will leave freaks and geeks is hard to say. Perhaps they’ll just continue to grow old until they reach that big recycle bin in the sky. :)

My Opus

I was born on April 29, 1965. I turned 45 years old this year. On my 45th birthday, I woke up alone, unemployed, recovering from alcoholism, and scared to death. I remember feelings so sorry for myself. “I’m 45,” I kept saying, “I’m 45!” I am 45 years old and have done so little.
My life is half over and I have never seen Vincent Van Gogh’s “Vase With Fifteen Sunflowers." My life is half over and I have never experienced the world class cuisine of Jamie Oliver or his “game ragù with pappardelle .” My life is half over and I have never felt the white, pebbly sand of the Mediterranean beaches or the earth of an exotic, foreign country beneath my feet. My life is half over and I haven’t listened to the great symphonies of the world—Berlin’s Philharmonic, the performance of Tchaikovsky, Pavarotti. My life is half over and I have yet to smell the uniquely exotic scents of Dhofar. My life is half over.
I spent that day as I usually did. I babysat my 2 year-old grandson Jax. I called my Daddy, who shares my birthday, and listened to him sing to me. I did household chores and went for a walk and surrounded myself with memories of brothers and sisters and lovers and life. I spent some time with Katherine, my daughter, my life, and I ended the day on Mama’s front porch in a rocker. Pretty uneventful, right?
But as I sat down to journal about my 45th birthday—my 45 years on this earth, I couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps I hadn’t seen a Van Gogh, I realized, but I had looked into the beautiful eyes of a grandson who was part of me and born out of love. Perhaps I hadn’t experienced world class cuisine, but I had tasted the delicious love of a daughter. No, it’s true, I hadn’t felt the earth of an exotic country beneath my feet, but I had lived in my hometown my whole life, as did my parents, and as will my child. I hadn’t heard Tchaikovsky, or other great symphonies of the world, but I had heard the laughter of children, the unique melody of spring peepers, and my Dad sing to me and for me. I hadn’t smelled the frankincense of Dhofar, but I had breathed in the smell of a man who loved me. These were my opus and my life was just beginning. What a wonderful birthday.

Gratitude is an Attitude

There was a time in my life—and it wasn’t all that long ago—that I had a somewhat strange definition of gratitude. I had appreciation—I even showed appreciation—and yet my idea of gratitude was, well . . . a little off-kilter.
November 1973. Richard Milhouse Nixon is still in office. The world doesn’t even know the meaning of “energy crisis,” and Tony Orlando and Dawn top the charts with their catchy hit Knock Three Times. Bell Bottoms and platform shoes are all the rage, Marshall Matt Dillon is still courting Miss Kitty in Gunsmoke, and I am in the third grade. In an effort to make Thanksgiving turkeys, we trace our hands on dull-brown construction paper while Mrs. MacGibbon explains to us the meaning of gratitude. Then--as is customary in the third grade--we are asked to make our own gratitude list. I take out my new box of Crayola crayons, carefully choose my favorite color, denim blue, and begin writing . . . my Close-n-Play phonograph, my new Family Affair lunchbox with the Mrs. Beasley thermos, my Partridge Family Album with the foldout poster of Keith Partridge inside and my genuine aluminum mood ring. I truly was grateful.
November 1993. George Bush—the original—is still in office, the new buzz word is “el Niño”, it seems like everyone is in love with the new P.T. Cruiser and I am now 28 years old. I am a happily married, young woman with a wonderful career and y gratitude list now revolved around the amenities my lifestyle provided. I thanked my higher power for my automatic car starter, my 800-thread count linen, and my Keurig Pro 2000 Single-Cup Coffee Maker. I had a sincere appreciation for my universal remote, my massaging showerhead with ten pulsating heads, and Chinese take-out. I appreciated anything and everything that made my life easier: Dyson vacuums, my 101 CD collection, and those little plastic yellow picks that hold piping hot corn-on-the-cob. I was grateful for many things, but they were all material things.
Then, on March 12, 1986 at 6:43 p.m., God saw fit to present me with a gift--the gift of life. My daughter, Katherine Elizabeth came screaming into the world headfirst and all of my gratitude for material things dissipated. Suddenly, every ounce of my gratitude revolved around one thing--her. I was grateful for her health, her smile, and the warmth of her little 6-pound 12 ounce body. I appreciated, her chubby knuckles with the dimples on the back, those plump folds in her soft, pink neck, I even grinned at her first poop! I was grateful for her life.
November 2007. As we all know, it was at this point in my life that I had lost all my gratitude. Somehow, I had allowed alcohol to become the only thing for which I cared. I took for granted my beautiful (now 21 yeas old) daughter. I lost all appreciation for her and what she meant to me. I no longer treasured the gift of life that was my daughter and I am ashamed to admit that I no longer treasured anything except that which would help me to escape and forget.
Then, in June of 2009, I got help. Once again, I began to have and show appreciation. I’ve thankfully changed. I’ve been given another chance—another opportunity to reassess my life and take stock in those things that really do matter. My gratitude today is endless—it really is. I appreciate so many things. I value my education, my health, and my dream to be a writer. I treasure a supportive family, my newfound integrity, and my sobriety. I am once again thankful for my daughter and now, I can proudly say that I am grateful for a grandson, too. I’m grateful for my spirituality, my wisdom, and my kindness. I’m eternally thankful for my hopes and my aspirations. And I am grateful, once again, for life--but this time, I’m grateful for my life.

Equal Rights

My Great Grandma Marie (Hawver) probably didn’t give much thought to women’s rights. In all honesty, it probably never even crossed her mind. Let’s face it, working alongside my Great Grandpa Roy on the farm, raising four children under the age of 10, and making home-made biscuits every night for dinner, didn’t leave a whole lot of time to consider whether or not she had the right to vote. Up each day at the crack of dawn, she headed to the milking parlor—not the beauty parlor. It’s difficult to imagine it now, but women like Great Grandma Marie really accepted their lot in life. There was no union on the farm, Rosie the riveter was just a twinkle in some (probably male) public relation firm’s eye, and the contraptions we now call panty hose had yet to be invented.
My Grandma Cora (Hall), on the other hand, was much more privy to the women’s suffrage movement. Born in the 1920’s, she lived through those especially trying times when women still fought long and hard for equality. Even so, Grandma didn’t exercise her right to vote. Instead, she exercised her right to stay home, smoke Salem Lights, and watch the “Edge of Night” each weekday afternoon. By the time Grandma was married to Grandpa Chuck, unions for women were available and many more women did make the choice to work in factories—especially since many of the men were “off to war.” Grandma Cora, much like her mother, chose to work on the family farm, raised five children, and made sure Grandpa had a never ending supply of homemade peanut brittle. I asked Grandma Cora once about equal rights for women and the like. Her reply was, “Hell, I don’t know, the only rights I knew about were the kind you did with pencils.”
My mother, Sandra (Hulse), was born in 1948. She lived through Gloria Steinem’s Ms. Magazine, the bra burnings of the 60’s and 70’s, and was even possessed a driver’s license (I know because she showed it to me—she thought the photo they took at the DMV made her look like Fu Man Chu). As I had done with Grandma Cora, I once asked my mother how she felt about equal rights for women. Unlike Grandma Cora, though, Mom had strong views on the subject. She believed that women were equal. Equal as in it was O.K. to work outside the home, if her husband said it was alright. By the time my mother was of working age, however, women in the workforce were much more commonplace and “the pill” was actually a realistic option. Therefore, my mother raised six children and worked full-time outside the home.
I am 45 years old. I was born in 1965 and raised as a young adult in the 80’s. I shouted equality for women atop every career choice I ever made. I not only believed in equality for women, I lived equality for women. I went back to work when my daughter was five weeks old. I voted in every single election since I was 21 and can count the number of times I’ve worn panty hose on two hands. Dinner with the family usually consisted of take out, I earned more money than my husband, and until I was 35 years old, I didn’t wear a bra.
Times have changed. My daughter is now 24 years old. She has a two year-old son and works full-time for a union-paid job. She’d like more children, but finds it nearly impossible. She’d love to stay home with her son, but that too, seems like a far off dream. When I ask her what she thinks about equality for women, she simply sights and says, “Let me tell you what, Ma. It’s overrated.”

My Sisters and I

Whether stationed in Sullivan or my home base of Delaware County, chances are you have passed a countless number of these every weekend throughout the summer. Perhaps you have even taken the time to stop at one or two. Until you’ve tackled one in the company of my sisters Lisa, Shelley and Heather, however, you will be considered a mere Private in “The Battle of Lawn Sales.”
Preparation of forces begins will in advance--at Mom’s H.Q.—when First Lieutenant Lisa is given charge of intel. Scrutinizing local newspapers, clipping and organizing the notices of sales—or “skirmishes”—as we affectionately call them, near our hometown is her assignment. As per Lisa, clippings may not be loose, but should be meticulously taped to an 8 ½ x 11 sheet of paper with one copy made in case our original is lost—or captured.
While Lisa gathers intelligence, Sergeant Shelley is given command over a litany of street maps. Maps are carefully organized alphabetically and placed in plastic sheet protectors in case of accidental stains.
Our destinations are clearly strategized, with rendezvous points mapped out along the route in case our troops are separated, or a sister, God forbid, becomes m.i.a.
Having the correct change is a key tactical game plan. Sister Heather, a.k.a. Corporal Keesler is given strict orders to ensure all soldiers have a significant amount of one-dollar bills and quarters. Corporal Keesler also hosts snack rations detail. Her years of KP duty in her own home helps provide our squadron with the appropriate fuel needed for anticipated extended hours in the field. The day of the sale, we are dressed and ready early.
Eating a healthy breakfast, wearing comfortable, “standard issue” sneakers and one last latrine visit is the responsibility of each sister soldier. A rendezvous of oh-eight-hundred hours is met, our vehicles given one last inspection, and our company sets out.
As is standard operation procedure, I, “Hawkeye Hulse-Hodges,” a senior member of our squad, am sent on ahead as reconnaissance. “Bad sales” as they are known in combat, can be easily spotted by veterans such as ourselves and must be thoroughly investigated prior to our initial offensive. Often times, we sisters known the signs, but many a lawn sale rookie has fallen prey to sales full of nothing but toys and surplus sales stocked with baby items. Choosing our battles carefully, we recognize those sales that are camouflaged in an effort to lure us in. Undaunted, we pass by, knowing that the real triumphs lie ahead.
Finally, our mini-van-convoy sees the enemy and he is ours. Parking quickly and quietly, we are prepared for a stealth invasion. Pocketbooks at the ready, we encroach. Shelley, who is able to do a quick scan of the perimeter, leads us in a frontal attack, followed by Heather and Lisa. I flank the rear. We have arrived. Our mission is clear—search and seizure. Now is the time when seasoned veterans such stand apart from mere trainees. “Stand fast girls! Hold your positions!” I yell as a rival lawn-saler tries to hone in.
We stand strong—pillaging and plundering. Books, clothes, furniture, they are ours for the taking. Our acquisitions include a Hall China antique bowl, two Barry Manilow CD’s—one his greatest hits—and a Whisper 2000 Treadmill for which back up troops had to be called in. Victory is ours.
Later that day we retreat to Mom’s Headquarters. After a careful inventory of items, a little R and R is in order. Exhausted and weak, our troops head home. Confident that they have served well and that even though this battle has ended victorious, we must be ever vigilant should we be called on again.

10 Seconds

Ten seconds. In the time it takes me to write the few words in these two sentences, ten seconds will have passed. But on New Year’s Eve, 2009, ten seconds was a lifetime.
Ten. I am four years old. My hair, wild and unruly, escapes in a bramble of curls beneath my father’s faded army helmet. My mother is unbelievably young. She holds a Polaroid camera, encouraging me to straighten my glasses and smile. My father sits behind her, on the sofa--his soft, young hands strumming the guitar I will forever see him with. I remember, and feel the warmth of innocence.
Nine. I am ten years old. My sister Lisa and I have carefully constructed our play “office.” TV trays serve as our desks, little scraps of paper with neat, fourth-grade handwriting are our sales receipts, and our toy intercom phones keep the business running smoothly. I see my sister in my mind’s eye and feel the tenderness of sisterhood.
Eight. I am 17 years old. I watch as my mother and three youngest siblings drive away. I watch the taillights and my childhood become smaller and smaller. Although I remain with my father, sister, and brother, I have never felt more alone. I am now the grown-up in the house. By the time they reach the end of the block, I miss them fiercely.
Seven. I am 19 years old. I hold his warm hand in mine. Nervously, our lips meet. It is love. I know I will spend my life with him. I feel my heart bursting with newness and wonder. He tells me he loves me, too, and I believe.
Six. I am 21 years old. The blush pink of the blanket is pushed back, revealing our miracle. Her delicate fingers are tiny, yet grasp my finger with stubborn determination. A sign of what is yet to come. I breathe her in and know I will never be the same.
Five. I am 30 years old. I look around at the many familiar faces that are my family. They are smiling and happy. My brothers are there. My sisters are there. My mother and father are there. My cake is awash in the light of 30 candles. I feel complete.
Four. I am 40 years old. I turn over, reaching for the warmth and familiarity of his body and our 20 years together. I feel the steel-cold of the sheets instead. The emptiness of the bed and my heart fills every pore of my being. I feel hollow, vast, dark, and alone. After twenty years, I discover lost love. It is as if I have been abandoned in the middle of the ocean. I don’t know if I can stay afloat.
Three. I am 43 years old. My mother is desperately pounding at my apartment door. My head is throbbing and my voice does not come. I don't know where I am. I don't know who I am. I see the bottles that have become my life. They are empty--like me. I feel hopeless.
Two. I am 44 years old. I am better. I feel something. It is small. One last dying ember hidden among the ashes that are my life. It waits to be re-ignited. Hesitantly, I let it lead me.
One. I am still 44 years old. It is New Year’s Eve. I am surrounded by love and kindness. I let the tears fall like confetti and with the last tear I let go of the past, surrendering completely. I take one last look behind me and see it all. Then, I turn, and face my future. It is 2010 and I am alive. Happy New Year.

To a writer...

To a writer there is nothing more beautiful as an empty screen and a full mind.  I see the world in words.  I am consumed by taking what I feel or what I see or what I believe to be true, and finding the perfect words that will invite you in.  A comedian has but one desire--to make you laugh.  A writer has but one desire--to make you FEEL.  If I can take the arcs and dots and lines and swirls that comprise letters, and arrange those letters just so, then I have the ability to transport you.  If you are sad, and i write well, I can make you smile.  If you are bored, and I write well, I can give you adventure.  If you are lonely, and I write well, I can make you believe in love.  Stay with me on this blog and let me take you somewhere new each day...I promise it will not be boring.

Surrendering

When I was 18 I gave ALL of myself to someone.  I shared every last ounce of myself.  No--not "shared"--I GAVE myself to someone.  For 20 years I not only loved this person, I cherished him.  I believed my life was incomplete without him.  3 years ago, he left me.  I don't feel the need to go into the pain--there are no words for it anyway.  Suffice to ssay it took me to places I never want to go again.  For a short time, I wasn't even "here."  I'm not sure where I was--I couldn't get far enough away from myself or the pain.



Fast forward to today.  August 14, 2010.  I cannot believe I am considering it again.  BUT I AM.  I want to take that last courageous step to the edge, gently close my eyes, open my arms wide, and, fully trusting in love--REAL LOVE--fall.
I want to share my life.  I want someone to make me smile and to make someone smile in return.  I want someone to wake everyday with me on their mind first.  And I want them to close their eyes every night with me on their mind last.  I want it--and for the first time in a long time, I believe I deserve it.


It isn't about whether or not "HE" is the one, it's about believing there is one.  For me.


I'm surrendering--and it feels good.

Viola!

Viola!  Here it is--for what it's worth.  Some of my essays, my thoughts, my musings, and lots of stories about my family.  I hope they make you smile as much as they have me.  enjoy