“Your past is just a story, and once you realize this it has no power over you.” – Chuck Palahniuk

two.

In late September I got a message from my sister. She had received an email from Senior. That’s one of the names we called my father because some of us could not bring ourselves to call him Dad. We sometimes called him by his initials but since my brother also had those initials and was a Junior, we called the old man Senior, which is far superior to some of the many other names we have called him over the years.
In his email he said something along the lines of “If you are agreeable, I’d like to come North, to your town to have lunch with you at a place, date and time of your choosing. Please seriously consider it.” We weren’t surprised. It’s what we had been anticipating since his interest in us had ramped back up after his wife’s death a few years ago. My sister said she was considering it but wanted to know my thoughts and wanted to know if I had any interest in going with her. What…are…my…thoughts. Hmmm. I really didn’t know what I felt about it. Curiosity? Anger? Indifference? Seeing him was something I had never thought would happen in my lifetime. Even after he moved to South Carolina I didn’t think it would really happen. I often told my siblings “well I hope someone tells us when he dies.” He has dozens of nieces and nephews. We just hoped when his time came one of them would think to notify his children
I called her the next day and we discussed it. We listed out the pros and cons. All but one of us hadn’t seen him in over forty-five years. The potential for awkwardness was off the charts. We decided to ask our other siblings if they were interested. While we weren’t sure yet what we wanted to do, one thing was certain, no one should do it alone. My youngest sister said she would come. If he bailed on us as he did in Yellowstone, we would at least have a nice lunch together. We started a group chat making jokes that he wouldn’t know who was who and maybe we should wear shirts with our childhood pictures on them to help him sort it out. Or name tags, or shirts with our names, or we could pretend to be each other. Those early conversations before things were set in stone were light and easy. It was fun to joke about what we would say or do because at that point it was still hypothetical.
My brothers declined. The youngest was just six weeks old when my father left. He has no memories and no desire to make any. Our father is a complete and total stranger to him. My stepfather was his dad and that was that. It’s more complicated with my other brother. Two years younger than me, I am not sure what his memories are of our father. My mom claims my father didn’t know how to raise a son. I always found this odd, as he himself was a boy and had a lot of brothers. It was known in the family that my paternal grandmother favored her daughters. She had lingering resentments towards men from abuse she had suffered when she was young. I believe she took it out on her boys, and there were plenty of them. I think my father may have grown up believing that girls were easier to love. Whether he realized it or not he distanced himself from his young son. There is no way at that age my brother could possibly have understood the complexity of what was going on with our very damaged father. He said thanks but no. It would be just us girls.
We decided to meet in the town where I live as it would take two hours off my father’s drive. South Carolina to Virginia is a very long drive for an eighty-year-old man. A day, time and place were chosen, and a plan was set. The conversations with my sisters turned from light and easy to worried and nervous. We had no idea what to expect. Talking about it to my husband one day I said, “What should we talk about?” and my husband joked, “Well, you could ask ‘So, what have you been up to?’” I laughed and said, “well that will take up a good chunk of time.”
I called my Mom. It was important to know that she would be ok with this. She said she wanted us to do whatever our hearts led us to do. She hoped that we would get out of it whatever we needed but of course she would worry. I think her exact words were “I just don’t want him to hurt you again” to which I replied, “we would have to have expectations of him for that to happen.” I reminded her we were not going to let him undo all the great work we had each done in our lifetimes to become the emotionally healthy, well adjusted, accomplished women we are today. We were not the vulnerable little girls he had walked away from so many years ago. I told her that he was the one who should be worried. We are three formidable ladies. Whatever happened or didn’t happen was up to us. If anyone was vulnerable, it would be him.
The morning of our lunch I was very much on edge. My stomach was tied in knots. My heart was pounding. I said more than once “I don’t know if I can do this.” My husband and I got into a dust up about some small thing and I had a reaction that was gigantically out of proportion to the offense. I sat on the side of my bed and cried. Thankfully he knew it had nothing to do with him but rather a release of the stress I was feeling. I am a bit of a control freak (surprise!) and the fear of the unknown was rattling my cage. I am glad I had that minute to sit in my emotions and cry it out. I think it kept me from getting emotional later when we were dropping truth bombs everywhere. When the time came to leave the house, I felt as ready as I could be, which means, not at all.
We pulled into the restaurant parking lot and immediately noticed a slightly hunched elderly man entering ahead of us. He walked with a cane and had a life alert necklace around his neck. We watched as he was seated at a table near the window. I motioned to my sisters and waved my open palm towards him, making an “ahh ha, there he is” gesture. My youngest sister immediately said “That’s not him. He is taller. We’ll know him when we see him.” I think on some subconscious level we must have expected a visceral response to seeing him. Maybe we longed for some gut feeling, a buried muscle memory that would tell us he was our daddy. That’s not what happened. We didn’t get the strong physical sense of connection we were subconsciously expecting. What we got was the hostess telling us “that older gentleman is expecting three ladies.” The guy who didn’t look anything like anyone any of us remembered was our dad.
I had prearranged with the restaurant for a semiprivate table and once we were seated, the server brought him over to us. I had picked one of our favorite places and they gave us our privacy and space, only approaching if we waved them over to order food or refill drinks. The first few minutes were an awkward mix of hellos and figuring out seating. We easily slipped into casual small talk about his drive which took significantly longer than planned. He was not familiar with the vagaries of Interstate 95 and the drive had been rough on him. I kept looking at him trying to find a trace of…. oh, I don’t know…the past, myself, something I would recognize. My brother used to look so much like him, the younger him, and now he looked nothing like my brother. What kept going through my mind was “this is a nice old man to whom I feel no connection.” He passed around pictures of his garden, his house, his cats. Through the years he had owned many cats (substitute children if you ask me) and spent a chunk of time telling us their names and peculiarities. He told us about his bowling trophies, missing the mountains of the Pacific Northwest and his other interests. He kept referring to his brother as our Uncle which felt strange because when he left, his family virtually disappeared from our lives. We didn’t just lose him We lost aunts, uncles, cousins, our grandfather. Such was their shame at what he had done that they couldn’t bear to see us, poor fatherless children. What a crock.
We spent a solid hour and a half making small talk and eating lunch. He shared a few memories of when we were children. Unfortunately, his memory wasn’t great, and he got the details mixed up. He also kept calling my sister by the wrong nick name. I could tell each time he said it, it was making her uncomfortable. At one point he asked how my cat Poncho was doing. I said “I have never had a cat named Poncho” so he looked around the table and when my sisters, practically in unison both said “Nope, no cat named Poncho” he seemed confused. He clearly had us mixed up with someone else.
What stood out to me is that he didn’t ask us much about ourselves. He only seemed slightly interested in our lives, our jobs, our families. He mostly seemed intent on telling us everything he could possibly tell us about his life. He brought copies of certificates, licenses, accomplishments. He brought large blurry pictures he had printed on a home printer, the ink smeared from not being allowed to fully dry. He passed around copies of a short story he had written about one of his…you guessed it…cats. He gave us a manuscript of a book he is writing about his father, titled somewhat ironically “Dad.” Apparently my grandfather was beloved in the neighborhood for being a father figure to everyone. My sister says regarding our own father “I guess that apple fell off the tree and rolled away.”
He kept retrieving document after document, picture after picture from his bag and passed them around, each of us glancing at the item and passing it to the next sister. Forty five years of a life spent without us, condensed in to a briefcase and then spread out on the table as if to say “see me.” There were no pictures of his wife, the stepmother we never knew and obviously no pictures of us. He could draw from his bag all day and would come up empty every time when it came to evidence of having us in his life. There was none.
We continued our conversation and he mentioned that he had been sober for 32 years. I quick did the math, realizing that he continued to be a drunk for a good fifteen years after leaving us. I guess he had a lot of things to drink away. He hinted at marriage problems caused by his drinking and said his wife “kicked him in the butt to get some help.” His profession had been in corrections, working with juvenile offenders. It’s what he had been doing when he left and apparently became his lifelong passion. For a time, he even worked as a drug and alcohol counselor to teenagers. It was bittersweet to hear him talk of helping other people’s children while abdicating responsibility for his own. He said that twelve step programs saved his life. He told us he remembered the last words my mother said to him. “You need to leave.” I wanted so badly to say, “I don’t think she meant forever.”
After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, my sister said “Well part of the reason I wanted to meet today was so that we could ask you some medical history questions. We don’t know any medical history on your side of the family.” To his credit, he answered, fully listing off the various things that each of his siblings had died of. This one had a heart attack. That one had a stroke. He casually mentioned the number of prescription medications he takes, and my other sister said, “That’s a lot of pills, what are they for?” We spent 10 minutes or so listening to him reciting “Well this pill is for that and that pill is for this, etc. “He described a health concern that he and I share but I kept my mouth shut. My medical situation is none of his business, reminding myself that he is a literal stranger.
Once we had cracked open the door to asking real questions, my sister kicked the door down and went all in. It was beautiful. “What I want to know is why after all this time did you want to meet us now?” Not going to lie, I don’t remember exactly what he said…something about being lonely, getting older, wanting us to put our eyes on each other before he dies.” I was just so proud of my sister opening herself up like that. She had many other tough questions and to his credit our father sat quietly, staring at his hands, occasionally nodding his head. He took it all in.
As if we were passing an imaginary talking stick, I took up where she left off. I told him I wasn’t sure he exactly understood how tough it had been for us. I candidly shared some examples of our destitution. I was trying to figure out what to say next when a thought came to me. “I am familiar with twelve-step programs” I said. “Correct me if I’m wrong but one of the steps of the program is to make amends to those who have been harmed by your addiction. If you’ve been sober for 32 years, where are our amends?” “Why weren’t we numbers one through five on that list?” He sat in stunned silence. My sisters, a little stunned themselves, made nods of their heads in silent agreement. The apologies and I’m sorry’s should have come many, many years before. I told him we did realize that meeting with us took a great deal of courage. It had to have been hard to sit there and take it all in. My other sister picked up the thread and said probably the truest thing we shared with him that day. “I feel bad for you” she said. “We are really great people, fantastic people and you missed out on having us in your life.”
A lot of questions were asked and answered. He tried to be open. We tried to be kind. There were a few tears, there was a lot of honesty. Looking back now, a week removed, I think the honesty was the most beautiful part. The exact details of what was said aren’t necessary to share. Those of us who were there know what was said and how we felt, and that’s all that matters.
After two and a half hours, I asked a server to take our picture and we wrapped things up. We had plans back at my house with my daughter, some grandkids and pizza. We were dying to leave so we could start talking about WHAT…JUST…HAPPENED. We said our goodbyes and he hugged us, saying “It was nice to see you” and “Stay in touch” to each one of us. I can’t describe how I felt when it was over. It was surreal. We had a lot to unpack.
It’s been a week and I’m still unpacking it. I can’t stop saying “he was a nice old man but I didn’t feel a connection.” I’ve done some reading in the past several weeks about the long term affects of parental abandonment. Typical reactions can include anxiety, PTSD, trust and relationship issues, disordered eating, and addiction. It’s a lot. Several of those hit really close to home. Some experts consider parental abandonment a form of child abuse. I’d like to think at this point in my life I’ve moved past it. I try very hard not to let it define me which is somewhat ironic because by sharing my story I bring attention to it. I guess it’s all part of the process. In January I start training to be a CASA (Court Appointed Special Advocate) I will be working with teenagers who have been removed from their homes or are placed under a protective order due to either abuse or neglect. I am not an expert on anything, but I hope that my experiences in life can help me relate to a teenager in trauma. I won’t have to bullshit that I know what it’s like to be let down by a parent. I know.
A few days after our lunch my sister got an email from Senior telling her he got home ok. The trip had exhausted him. He said our meeting went as he expected. He said, “It was all about emotions, you girls (ladies) had something to say, and I needed to listen whether I liked it or not.” I found it condescending. I got the feeling that listening to our hurt feelings would be a one-time deal. In thinking about how I want to move forward, I realized that he would reap the greater benefit of me opening the door and letting him in to my life. I am still looking for the value add. I’m on the fence about it. I am also ok with whatever each of my siblings decides to do about him. We’ve all got to live our own lives and do what feels right to us. Right now, putting it on the back burner and seeing what happens is what feels right for me. My birthday is in three months, so maybe I’ll get flowers with a card that says Love Dad. And if that happens, I’ll write back and say thank you because my mother raised me to have manners, and I’ll sign that card Love Felicia and Poncho, because, if he can’t take a joke, we are definitely not related.

If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck it’s probably a duck.

That’s a saying I use frequently. Often it’s in the context of telling my husband that if two or more people tell you something about yourself it’s probably true. For instance, I have had two different husbands tell me I am bossy therefore we can conclude I am more than likely a little bossy. I have had multiple bosses tell me I am a good employee therefore blah blah blah you get the picture. I mean let’s own who we are right?  When you are hearing the same theme running through the feedback you get about yourself, you really need to face reality and realize it’s more than likely true. Say you hear from more than one person “You’re a control freak” or “You have to have things your way” that could be true.  These are just examples mind you, not saying anyone has ever said those things to me. I mean, not that I can remember. Oh here’s another example “You only remember things that favor you.”

The other day I was at work just chatting with my two office mates. One of them was trying to figure out if someone was retiring based on some hints she was picking up. I gave my “well, if it walks like a duck” line and shared my anecdote about “If two or more people, especially spouses, tell you something about yourself it’s probably very true.” At which point my other office mate Mike says “Then I guess I really am an asshole.”

He gets it.

XOXO

Felicia

A few days ago I got a renewal notice from Go Daddy that my domain was about to expire and since I’m not ready to give up on my dream of becoming a world famous blogger (insert sarcasm here) I had to decide if I wanted to keep this site up. I recently read a story about a well known author who accidentally let her domain name expire and some guy who makes a living buying expired domains sold it back to her for five grand. Whoa! That’s a whole lot of money to pay for owning your own name on the internet. So to prevent the exploitation of the (in my imagination) much in demand project midlife domain name I quickly logged in to pay the very reasonable $18 to renew. Once I started scooting around the site and looking at old posts I was shocked when I realized it has been almost FIVE FREAKING YEARS since I last posted on this here blog thingy. I really had no idea it’s been that long.

What the heck have I been doing in those five years? I guess just living life but I’m trying to figure out exactly what kept me from writing. It could be the addition to the family of four more grandchildren. It could be the two moves and buying a house. It could have been the myriad of health issues, some serious. It could have been an attempt at a home based business. It could be writer’s block and thinking I had nothing interesting to write about which oh my gosh see above is not true. It could be that the older I get the tireder I get. OK that not a real word but point being I’m almost always tired and writing requires time and brain power which I’m short on most days. It could be I don’t believe anyone is really interested in what I have to say other than my Mother. Maybe it’s a bit of depression over what I consider the state of our country, the divisiveness, the lack of civility , consideration and kindness. I have always my whole life been “Up with people” but lately my experiences and those of people I’m close to make me question how inherently good people really are.

It’s none of those things, it’s all of those things. It’s whatever other excuse I can come up with but I have decided to give this thing another go. I mean I paid eighteen whole bucks for it and if I’m anything I’m thrifty and want to get my moneys worth. So to that end I plan to share some of the experiences of the last five years with you. Some will be funny, some not so funny and some will be honest and difficult. But write my stories I must because this blog is for my grandchildren. Some day I won’t be here anymore. I won’t be able to leave them much by way of an inheritance but they’ll have this and my hope is it will be worth more than eighteen dollars, even more than five thousand dollars. My hope is that to them, it will be priceless.

More soon.

xoxo

Felicia

We like technology in this house. I am sure it is no surprise given what I do for a living. Under one roof we have four laptops, an iPad, a Blackberry, three smart phones, a Kindle and my husband just found out he is getting a tablet for work. It is likely at any given time any one of these devices is only inches away. Obviously there are certain times we put it down. Playtime on the floor with my grandson, date night with my hubby and a new episode of Survivor are good examples. However lately I do think we may have a bit of an addiction. Here’s a sampling of why I may be a little concerned. (Names withheld to protect the innocent and because some of this is downright embarrassing!)

Someone and someone else realized they both updated their Facebook status while in the bathroom.

Someone caught themselves watching TV at the same time as they were watching clips on an electronic device of other TV shows.

Someone sends someone else text messages to say dinner is ready instead of screaming up the stairs like in the good old days…..of a few years ago.

Someone and someone else often wake up to a glow coming from under the covers on the other side of the bed.

Someone puts everyday places in the GPS even though someone has been there a million times just to see how the lady will tell someone to go.

Someone does not print out recipes anymore but rather props technology up on the kitchen counter using said technology as a modern day cookbook thus requiring said technology to be cleaned off regularly.

Someone and someone sit side by side for hours and barely utter a word until one of the someone’s comes across a cant be missed You Tube video and forces the other someone to watch it which is usually followed by “well I thought it was funny!”

Someone’s reply to every dilemma of life is “I bet there’s an app for that!”

Someone and someone else sleep with their technology close to the bed in case a middle of the night urge to pin craft projects or check basketball scores should arise.

Someone checks the weather multiple times a day online instead of going to a door or window like a normal person.

Someone stops in the middle of the aisle at the store to reply to text messages and check notifications.

Someone has diagnosed and treated several minor illnesses and injuries based on information obtained on Web M.D.

Someone actually cried when an electronic device experienced a catastrophic failure. (Ok, it was me, I cried, are you happy?)

Someone considers their large capacity external hard drive the best gift they’ve received in years.

See what I mean? Should I be worried? Is this normal? Are we normal? How do we fix this? When does the new season of The Voice start and will Usher do a good job? So very many questions….I don’t know what to do…oh wait, yes I do…I’ll Google it.

Recently while watching Downton Abbey with my husband (yes, I have brainwashed convinced him to watch it with me) he made a comment that made me laugh so hard I had to hit pause.  You’ll only get this if you watch the show but you know that scene where Mrs. Hughes is firing that new maid that was chasing after Tom?  Joel says to the TV screen “don’t feel bad I hear there’s an opening in town for a prostitute!”  HA!  Hysterical right?

 That’s how you know something is really funny.  You either hit pause so you can finish laughing or you wind it back to see it again.  We’ve got a few shows that make us do that regularly.  At work everyone talks about have you seen this drama or that and usually my answer is no.  I don’t watch dramas.  I like sitcoms.  If I wanted drama I could turn the TV off and look around my crazy life. I like things that make me laugh.

Laughter is important to me.  Laughter has gotten me though some of the most difficult times of my life. My therapist says I use humor to deflect other emotions. Not sure I understand what she means but she should have been paying ME for all the chuckles we shared.  Charlie Chaplin said a day without laughter is a day wasted.  I agree.  Life is so painfully short. It’s a crime not to find happiness in every possible minute that we can.

Is there really ever inappropriate laughter?   When my best friend lost her son in a tragic accident people gave us dirty looks because I was feeding her a running commentary on the floozy her ex husband brought to the funeral.  Was it inappropriate of me to make a grieving mother laugh?  I don’t think so.  Laughter can comfort a broken heart.

When I was a senior in high school my best friend and I got kicked out of class for laughing.  We couldn’t help it.  We were staring out the window and a ladder walked by. It was most definitely one of those “you had to be there” situations but that particular day in that particular moment it struck us as hysterical.  The teacher didn’t think so.  Yet today, I couldn’t begin to tell you what was going on in that English class but Stephen and I could repeat the story of the ladder with every detail perfectly remembered.  Laughter can makes memories.

Years ago when I found myself alone, heartbroken and in an unfamiliar place my oldest friend used laughter to pull me up out of my sadness and remind me that life goes on.  Laughter can heal. 

Being told I am funny is the greatest compliment someone can give me. I would rather be told I’m funny than be told I am beautiful or smart or creative.  I mean, we all know I am all of those things but funny is my favorite.  (HAHA J/K)  Do you know how I knew my first marriage was over? I asked my ex husband “Do I make you laugh?” and he said “Not particularly.”  Knife to the heart moment but it was incredibly eye opening.  And conversely I know that my marriage to Joel is solid because we make each other laugh every single day.  I think it’s the secret to a good marriage.   Try not to laugh when you’re in the middle of a fight and your partner shows you this picture.  It’s impossible to stay angry.

In summary…. If you do not have a drink coming out of your nose, DVR pausing, can’t breathe or speak, wet your pants a little laughter on a regular basis I’m worried about you. 

Get on the internet and look up pictures of dogs in clothes or those ecards with old timey people saying ridiculous stuff or videos of humans being stupid.  Find what tickles your funny bone and do it often.  They don’t say laughter is the best medicine for nothing.  Laughter is good for your soul. 

Off to look at some Grumpy cat.  Now that is funny.

Not all superhero’s wear a cape.

The one I know is about five foot six, hails from St, Louis and has an affinity for fixing things.

My super hero is my step dad and this afternoon our family and many friends will gather to celebrate his eightieth birthday. I think it’s appropriate to thank him today for doing what super heros do – they save people.

When I was nine years old my father left his wife and five children (one of which was a newborn) and ran off with his secretary.  So cliché I know but the scars of this heinous act are still carried around by his five children to this day.  My young mother’s life had been about being a wife and mother from the age of nineteen.  Suddenly she was solely responsible for making sure her babies didn’t go to bed hungry.  She had to scrimp and scrape for every morsel she put on our plates.  She had to get a job and leave her baby in day care back in a day when that was not the norm. We moved often and learned to make due and do without. We wore things out and handed them down. We learned to make our own fun and learned the value of working for something that you wanted.  We took care of each other.  We grew up too soon. Thanks to the charity of others we got by.  It wasn’t until years later when I found myself in a similar but not as dire situation that I could start to imagine how completely overwhelmed and terrified she must have been.  My mom needed life to cut her a break and in 1981 it finally did.

Bob Powell had recently joined our church and not long after some mutual friends introduced him to my mother. I was sixteen years old so the details of my mother’s blossoming romance were not of any interest to me but I do know that the relationship advanced swiftly.  Bob had a similar story.  He was divorced and had two young adult daughters.  He had raised them on his own teaching them everything they would need to know to be independent self sufficient women.  Those girls could change a tire, do an oil change, fix a toilet and rewire an electrical outlet.   I guess Mom and Bob bonded quickly over war stories from the front lines of single parenthood.  Unfortunately he received a job transfer to Washington DC so on Valentines Day not terribly long after they met, he proposed to her and she accepted.  By April that same year they were married.

As happy as my mother was I was angry at her good news.  I was just finishing my sophomore year in high school.  I had a job that I loved and my friends were my world. I had been forced to grow up quickly, go to work at 14 and help take care of my family.  By the age of 16 I thought I was already a grown up. I did not appreciate this guy coming along and moving us 800 miles away from our family, our friends and our lives.  When we landed in Virginia I did my level best to avoid him as much as possible.  We moved in to a lovely big house and my mom was able to stay home again. Suddenly we had all we could eat and I had my own room.  Still it was hard to be grateful. I went to school, I got a job and I started to settle in but I wouldn’t give my parents the satisfaction of knowing I liked it here.  Looking back I realize I was kind of a disrespectful brat. I got in trouble. I disregarded rules. I was counting the days until graduation so I could get out.

My feelings towards my step dad started to change during my junior year of high school thanks to what I now realize was a completely selfless act of kindness towards me. I had been casually dating a boy from church and he was taking me to a school dance.  He showed up at the appointed time to pick me up but came in to the house and said “I don’t think we’re going to be able to go to the dance. Something is very wrong with my car.  I barely made it here.”  I guess my face registered how crushed I was because before he could pick up the phone to call his parents my step dad said “Why don’t you drive my car?” Every head in the room spun around to look at him to see if he was serious. Bob’s car was his pride and joy.  He drove a Datsun 280Z. He had recently been teaching me how to drive stick shift. He felt like knowing how to drive stick was something every girl needed to have in her arsenal of skills.  “Are you serious?” I asked.  “Yes, but only you can drive” he said.  “I don’t want this joker behind the wheel of my car.” 

My heart began to thaw.

What kind of man lets a teenage girl drive his beloved sports car?  What kind of man marries a woman with five children? What kind of man lifts an entire family out of poverty and desperation? What kind of man sells his sports car because a station wagon would be more practical? What kind of man never gives up even though at times it was not easy?  What kind of man tells people he has seven children and makes no distinction for the ones he actually fathered? What kind of man has been there for me in every painful and joyful experience of my life ever since the day I drove off to the dance in his car?

A very good man.

Blood doesn’t make you a dad.

 Love does.

Happy birthday Bob. 

I love you.

Felicia

Today on the way home from work I scanned the radio dial for something other than political ads.  I landed on DC 101 and they were taking it old school with AC/DC’s Hell’s Bells.  I cranked it up and played my steering wheel drum the rest of the way home.  I love classic rock and some bands have the ability to immediately transport me to another time.  Some songs, if only for a few minutes, have the power to make me feel young again. Angus and the boys do it to me every time.

I was 16 years old the first time I heard AC/DC. The year was 1981 and I was being forced to move from Chicago to Washington DC.  My mother was marrying an engineer who worked for the government so it was off to Virginia we went.  I was leaving behind my friends, my school and a job that l loved.  My endless begging and pleading to be left behind with relatives fell on deaf ears. Driving across Indiana, through Ohio and in to the mountains of Pennsylvania, my anger and resentment grew with each mile. I truly believed my mother was ruining my life and I made sure she knew it. Six months later and still struggling to fit in I was primed for a teenage rebellion. It was around that time that I met the boy who would one day become the father of my children. He was nineteen, already graduated and drove a 1970 cherry red fastback Mustang.  He listened to heavy metal, could buy beer and was my parent’s worst nightmare.  One steamy summer night he popped his Back in Black 8-track in to the tape deck and said “this is my favorite album.” 

It changed my life.

I had always been kind of an oddball in the family with my taste in music. Raised on a steady diet of Everly Brothers, Mamma Cass and Neil Diamond, nobody in my family listened to anything that would have been considered heavy metal.  I wore out my Mom’s Elvis and Ricky Nelson records but by the 70’s Elvis wasn’t a rebel anymore and Ricky got hold. Rock and roll had changed.  I liked the Eagles, the Beatles and when Electric Light Orchestra’s Turn to Stone hit the radio waves during my preadolescence I couldn’t hear it enough.  While my sister was listening to Jeffrey Osborne and Barry Manilow I was spending my babysitting money on Rush and Moody Blues albums.  When I hit my teens I couldn’t get enough of Journey, Styx and REO Speedwagon.  (My husband says those are girls bands and don’t count.)  Point being, I was going my own way musically.  The house was listening to a lot of hymns and easy listening stations back then.  (Would someone please answer Lionel Richie, he keeps calling.) I wasn’t listening to anything back then that could have been called hard rock or metal but I was laying a foundation. When AC/DC entered my life I was ready.

I can’t put in to words how it changed me. I knew I was listening to music that my mother wouldn’t approve of.  I was listening to music that she wouldn’t allow me to have in the house.  I had asked for Meatloaf’s Bat out of Hell album and I was told I wasn’t allowed to have it because there was a curse word in the title. Not sure if my Mom knows it but I bought that album myself and hid it in my room.  I can still sing every word to Paradise by the Dashboard Lights.

 Falling in love with AC/DC was pure rebellion.  I loved it. It’s been over thirty years since then and my marriage to that boyfriend didn’t last, but he gave me three beautiful children and I’m grateful.  I’m grateful too for Back in Black. The album and the song. When I listen, I time travel. When I hear those opening chords I feel a little bit like I’m about to do something that’s going to get me grounded.

When I moved to Virginia 30 years ago the thing that struck me first and most were the trees.  I was born and raised in Illinois and I had never seen trees like this.  We moved here in April when everything was in bloom. Driving down Old Keene Mill Road for the first time I couldn’t get over the sea of green as far as my eyes could see. My first impression of Virginia was a good one.  However it wasn’t until autumn that I realized what a beautiful place I now called home.

There is nothing like fall in Virginia.  I almost think you have to be from somewhere else to really appreciate its beauty. All of the pictures in this post were taken yesterday with my cell phone on my drive home from work. It doesn’t matter what kind of day I have I feel so lucky to have these beautiful things to look at as I drive away leaving my work day behind me.

In the book Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery, Anne says “'I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. It would be terrible if we just skipped from September to November, wouldn't it? Look at these maple branches. Don't they give you a thrill–several thrills?”

What I find pretty amazing too is these leaves are about to die and fall away from their branches.  They are at the end of their life and yet their beauty is at its peak. I hope I’m like that, I hope I get better and more beautiful with age and go out in a blaze of glory.

Anne is exactly right.  Life would be very sad without October and there is nowhere else I would rather spend my Octobers than here.