100 Questions...Yes or No

100 Questions...Yes or No

1.You can ONLY answer Yes or No.

2. You are NOT ALLOWED to explain ANYTHING unless someone messages or comments you and asks. -- and believe me, the temptation to explain some of these will be overwhelming nothing is exactly as it seems now, here's what you're supposed to do. . . Copy and paste this into your notes, delete my answers, type in your answers and tag as many of your friends as you'd like to.

------- ------- ------- ------- ------- -------
1. Kissed any one of your Facebook friends?--- Yes
2. Kissed someone you didn't like? --- No
3. Slept in until 5 PM? --- No
4. Fallen asleep at work/school? ---Yes
5. Held a snake? --Yes
6. Ran a red light? --- Yes
7. Been suspended from school? --- Yes
8. Experienced love at first sight? --- Yes
9. Totaled your car in an accident? --- No
10. Been fired from a job? --- Yes
11. Fired somebody? --- Yes
12. Sang karaoke? ---Yes
13. Pointed a gun at someone? ---Yes
14. Done something you told yourself you wouldn't? --- Yes
15. Laughed until something you were drinking came out your nose? --- Yes
16. Caught a snowflake on your tongue? --- Yes
17. Kissed in the rain? --- Yes
18. Had a close brush with death (your own)? --- Yes
19. Seen someone die? --- Yes
20. Played spin-the-bottle? --- No
21. Sang in the shower? ---Yes
22. Smoked a cigar? ---Yes
23. Sat on a rooftop? --- Yes
24. Smuggled something into another country? --- No
25. Been pushed into a pool with all your clothes? --- Yes
26. Broken a bone? --- Yes
27. Skipped school? --- Yes
28. Eaten a bug? --- Yes
29. Sleepwalked? --- No
30.Walked a moonlit beach? --- Yes
31. Rode a motorcycle? --- Yes
32. Dumped someone? --- Yes
33. Forgotten your anniversary? --- No
34. Lied to avoid a ticket? --- No
35 Ridden on a helicopter? --- No
36. Shaved your head? --- No
37. Blacked out from drinking? --- No
38. Played a prank on someone? --- Yes
39. Hit a home run? -- Yes
40. Felt like killing someone? --- Yes
41. Cross-dressed? --- No
42. Been falling-down drunk? --- No
43. Made your girlfriend/boyfriend cry? --- Yes
44. Eaten snake? --- No
45. Marched/Protested? --- No
46. Had Mexican jumping beans for pets? --- Yes
47. Puked on amusement ride? No
48. Seriously & intentionally boycotted something? --- Yes
49. Been in a band? --- No
50. Knitted? --- No
51. Been on TV? --- Yes
52. Shot a gun? --- Yes
53. Skinny-dipped? --- Yes
54. Gave someone stitches? --- No
55. Eaten a whole habenero pepper? --- Yes
56. Ridden a surfboard? --- No
57. Drank straight from a liquor bottle? --- Yes
58. Had surgery? --- Yes
59. Streaked? --- No
60. Taken by ambulance to hospital? --- No
61. Tripped on mushrooms? ---No
62. Passed out when not drinking? --- No
63. Peed on a bush? --- Yes
64. Donated Blood? --- Yes
65. Grabbed electric fence? --- Yes
66. Eaten alligator meat? --- Yes
67. Eaten cheesecake? --- Yes
68. Eaten your kids' Halloween candy? --- Yes
69. Killed an animal when not hunting? --- Yes
70 Peed your pants in public? --- No
71. Snuck into a movie without paying? --- No
72. Written graffiti? --- No
73. Still love someone you shouldn't? --- No
74. Think about the future? --- Yes
75. Been in handcuffs? --- Yes
76. Believe in love? --- Yes
77. Sleep on a certain side of the bed? --- Yes
78. Cheated on someone?--- No
79. Eaten till your stomach hurts? ---Yes
80. Had a cavity?---Yes
81. Been searched?---Yes
82. Been so happy you cried?---Yes
83. So mad that you laughed?---Yes
84. Played strip poker?--- No
85. Eaten Liver or Kidney? ---Yes
86. Driven a car over 100 mph? ---Yes
87. Gambled? ---Yes
88. Rode an elephant? --- No
89. Touched a wild animal?-- Yes
90. Use a telescope? --- Yes
91. Done double dutch? --- Yes
92. Gotten a New Year's kiss? ---Yes
93. Been to Spain? ---No
94. Pulled a muscle before? ---Yes
95. Hired a private detective? ---No
96. Went into a public bathroom barefoot? --No
97. Watched a marathon of TV shows? --Yes
98. Questioned yourself? ---Yes
99. Wished you were famous? ---Yes
100. Been dumped?--- Yes

Spending time away...

I went out to the cabin Friday night to unload 1,000 pounds of feed and to check feeders. I also checked the Game Camera at the water trough, and as usual, I always get some great shots of the wildlife.

Kinda pretty, huh?

I spent the night out there behind a locked gate. The thing is, when I go out there to be alone, I want to be ALONE! I stayed up until after midnight, reading my book drafts and listening to the rain fall on the tin roof, and I only had to talk to my husband when I had to report in. I slept pretty good, but woke up right at daylight to watch a few deer and a jackrabbit, then I went back to bed. Sometimes it's lonely out there...But, I like lonely just fine. Talking & listening wear me out! Sometimes I'd rather hear these foxes all night long that have to listen to or talk to a single person!
I checked the Game Camera this morning.The only creepy part was that less 
than 30 minutes before I checked 
the camera Saturday morning, the javelina
 was there. I've heard lots of people say 
that javelina aren't anything to worry 
about...I call Bullshit on that!!! Other 
people can be fascinated by them, just 
like some people are fascinated by bear 
and snakes, but I'll stick to safety first 
and leave those mean bastards alone!

Do I Dare?

My entire life, I have been a dreamer, a planner, a thinker, a hoper. 
I dream of big things. I plan out how things will be if those dreams come true. I think of what I will do with those plans and those dreams, and I hope that someday they materialize.
Many times I've seriously considered giving up. Just stopping...stop dreaming, stop planning, stop thinking, stop hoping, just stop living. But from somewhere deep inside, a little voice whispers, "Don't give up. Hope is still here." 
So, off I go again, creating dreams in my head and chasing them.
Yet, I've reached a point in my life where I catch myself thinking, "Am I too old to dream anymore? Am I healthy enough? Do I have enough time left to chase after a dream, plan for it, think about it, even hope for it?"
Still, the dreams beckon me...They almost shout out my name at times, or so it seems. They say, "We're not done yet! Don't give up on us just yet."
This afternoon as I took my walk I looked up at the sky and I asked God, "Do I dare? Do I dare to pursue another dream? Even if you give me many years, am I strong enough to handle another disappointment? The heartbreak of another unfulfilled dream, another "No!" from you? Do I dare to take another chance?"
My body tires so easily these days and I just fear that I will lack the physical energy to see this new dream through.
My mind screams, "GO FOR IT!", but my body says, "I'm tired. I just don't know if I can take even the possibility of another disappointment."
I sure wish things were easy.
Do I dare to take a risk, or do I play it safe and take a nap?
 

My Brother Jimmy

Growing up, I was the oldest of four children, and the only girl. 
Two and a half years after I was born, my first brother came along the day before Christmas. I was always an observant child and so when Momma brought him home from the hospital and he begin to cry, I told her to take him back to the hospital and get her money back. I mean, he seemed kind of faulty to me at the time with all of that fussing and crying. But before long, he became my best friend and I watched over him like a hawk. I helped him learn how to walk, as any good sister would, and when he would start peeling all of his clothes off in the front yard, I would undo the diaper pins for him so that he wouldn't poke himself. I never did understand why mother would get so upset and take a switch to me. After all, how many four year old children can change or remove a diaper without poking themselves or their brothers? Later, we would sit side by side for hours building sand fences and corralling pill bugs, or raiding the goose's nest under the house and breaking the eggs open as we played like we were cooking breakfast. Of course, we never told mother and she just assumed that snakes were getting her geese eggs. As we grew older, Daddy would have a load of dirt brought in to fill a low place in the yard, and my brother and I would build roads, lakes, dams and even subdivisions using the Tonka toys he always got for Christmas, as well as the garden hoe. (Daddy was a smart man...He gave us kids dirt to play in and we eventually got that dirt pile leveled and then he would get another load brought in.) Some of our biggest fights were over land lines, land grabs and construction equipment theft, and we would do battle that would have made William Wallace proud as we whopped each other with clubs and screamed obscenities from our mud smeared faces. (Our Wallace gene ran strong, even before we knew we possessed it!) Sometimes, we would join forces and attack our younger brother who joined the clan in 1968. But mostly, if 2nd brother made us mad, we would just hold him down and tickle him until he peed his pants. He would come up swinging and we would run away from him together, laughing our heads off. As we grew older, we did chores together; feeding chickens, gathering eggs, milking the cow, gardening, yard work, whatever. It was usually us two oldest...as 2nd brother spent more time getting out of work than we did doing work. 2nd brother was a charmer, a clown and a comedian. He was momma's favorite and he could get by with saying and doing things that momma would have truly killed us over. And if you think this made us mad, you'd be correct. There were a few times where momma did not give him the spanking he deserved, but we would! Much later the fourth child joined us and we all had a hand in spoiling him rotten because he was 'our baby'. To this day he is rotten, and we have only ourselves to blame.
While I love all of my brothers...warts and all...Number one brother will always be the one I feel most at home with. Even as children, he was steady and unchanging, dependable and constant. I, on the other hand, was either like the wind: flighty, changing, floating around with my head in the clouds, or a forest fire: hot tempered and destroying everything in my path. 
Last night I spoke to him over the telephone and when I got off an hour later I smiled. In this world where everything and everyone changes, where nothing seems dependable and people's emotions are like the waves on a stormy, unpredictable ocean, my brother remains steady, unchanging, dependable and constant.
I am so glad that momma didn't return him when he was a baby. There's no amount of money that could ever replace my brother, Jimmy.

Realties...

There are certain realities in life that I tend to avoid if at all possible and I'll make all kinds of petty excuses that will enable me to stick to my guns of avoidance. 
Illness, death & funerals are just three of these things.
If someone is sick and terminally ill, I am the worst friend in the world because I stay away...not from the person, but because I can not contain or restrain my emotions around someone who I know is about to leave this world forever and I'll never get to see or hear them again. It's entirely selfish. I know this and I apologize for it, but I can't change my screwed up reactions, anxieties and emotions.
Funerals are pretty much an extension of this.
I don't 'do' funerals anymore. At least not if I can avoid them. I get totally freaked out saying 'goodbye' to people I love and I end up making a 'scene', which embarrasses the hell out of me and just about everyone else in attendance. I swear...Nothing fake about it. I just turn into a snot-slinging, sobbing, sometimes wailing mess! Not only do I have social anxiety disorder, I also have illness, death and funeral anxiety disorders!
But yesterday, a beloved family member called to tell me that they have named me as their beneficiary on a small life insurance policy and this policy is to be used to cremate them and dispose of their ashes. This person even said that they needed to bring me their 'box', the 'box' that will hold their ashes.
I was both honored and then, totally freaked out.
Most of the time I do my best to avoid the unpleasnant realities of life such as illness, death and funerals. But I guess God has other ideas for me because within the past month I've found out that I've had a heart attack, I have heart damage, and someday I will have to tend to the remains of someone I have loved my entire life by having their body cremated and then having a service after. 
I just hope and pray that my body holds up for many years to come and that this other person lives a long, long life because I'm just not I'm ready to die or cremate anyone just yet.

A Little Sadness...

Bi-Polar aka Manic-Depressive Disorder, is a painful and hard way to live one's life. I wouldn't wish it on anyone. Not ever. I can't remember a time in my life when I wasn't suffering at least a degree of internal pain. No words can explain it, nor did there have to be a reason. The pain was just there, eating away at my heart like a slow, but destructive cancer. To those who do not suffer from this disorder, this disease, it is not something easily understood, if it is even ever understood. How do you explain, when things are going well, that you are just unhappy, just sad, just hurt deep inside? You can't and eventually you just stop trying. 
People will call you crazy, mentally unstable, insane...Yet you are not any of these. You know what you are going through, the hell you are unintentionally putting others through. You know it all, the highs and the lows, the joys and the sadness, the feelings of euphoria and the feelings of utter and complete despair; the elated feelings of goodness and good will and then the frustration, the irritability and even the rage...and yet, you can do nothing about any of those feelings. They are just there; they are just a part of you that you can not control. 
The doctors and the shrinks prescribe a cocktail of mind and mood altering drugs that actually do some of us more harm than good. You are either so zombied out that you can't feel anything except the drug, or you fall farther and deeper into the darkness until everything goes out, even your very life. 
I've been to both places and it scared the hell out of me! I'm smart enough to know that I'm not crazy and I've been evaluated enough times by professionals that they would agree. Yet the medications did alter my thought processes to the point that I truly thought I was losing my mind. Getting off those drugs was harder than the months and months it took to try and get me regulated, despite my body and brain screaming, "FORGET IT! WE'LL NEVER SURRENDER WITHOUT A FIGHT!" The last time I finally got off the meds, I swore, "Never again!" And, I meant it. It's not been easy, but I'd rather have my sanity as I struggle through the disorder than be so medicated I am uncertain who I even am.
Most days, most weeks, sometimes I can even go months, I'm good. I can keep the sadness and the depression at bay. I like being able to feel, even if the feelings aren't always good. I like being in control of myself, at least to some degree, and making decisions based upon who I am without meds as opposed to who I didn't recognize while taking them. But sometimes, the stresses of life sort of sneak up on me and before I realize what is happening, I have a 'flare' and down I go. 
So, I crawl into my shell and keep everyone at arm's length because what no one seems to understand is that a simple word or act can be a trigger for me. Something that seems 100% benign to you may be the catalyst that brings on severe depression for me. For this reason, I learn to stay away from just about everyone except my immediate family. 
You see, I don't have to worry about whether they love me or not. I don't have to worry if they find me good enough, if they find me smart enough, if they find me worth a dime. I know that they do and I am safe with them. But it's not so with many others out there. Not so at all. 
Yeah, I'm super sensitive...to words, to deeds, to nuances, to the looks that people give. I'm super sensitive to criticism as well because, you see, I am already my own worst critic. 
Truth is, it's easier for me to write words and never know if anyone disagrees with them. It's easier for me to hide behind a computer keyboard and screen than have to deal with people face to face because I fear that I won't be good enough face to face. 
Truth is, I'm not. 
If I were then why is it that I have not had a single close friend for any length of time in the past 20 something years; a friend that would drop in for coffee and sit and visit for hours, or a friend that I could go shopping or 'do' lunch with, just a friend to hang out with? (Not including my husband and my kids, that is.)
If I was worth a damn, there would be someone out there that I could seriously call my best friend.

And so, this life and this disorder makes for a very lonely life. Very lonely, indeed. 
 

Meanwhile Back at Momma & Daddy's...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=koJ23tll01I

Swimsuit Shopping

Yesterday I had to go online and search for a swimsuit. We're hoping to go to the beach at the end of summer, plus the ladies get together a few times a week and swim at the local pool, so I needed a swimsuit. 
I found this...

But then I remembered my size and realized if I actually bought it and wore it, I would look like this...

And that was NO good!
So, after three hours of searching the web, I finally found and bought this one...

Kind of cute, I think, and maybe enough material there to cover up a multitude of bad eating choices and my aversion to exercise! 
 

Love doesn't kill.

I don't actually hate anyone, though there are some that I seriously dislike. I honestly don't want anyone dead, though there are some I wish would just go to another country, another planet, another universe. But hating someone and wanting them dead is just something I do not feel. In fact, I am not sure that if the life or death opportunity presented itself...the situation where it was either them or me...that I would choose my life over anyone elses life. 
When I was a very young adult, I allowed myself to be talked into having an abortion, even though it was not what I wanted. I was weak and I was wrong for not standing up to Satan and his two vessels, and I will regret that horrible decision for all of my days since. 
I knew the instant that my unborn child died. The horror of what I had done coursed through my veins like ice water and a part of me, in addition to that child, died. For months I teetered between life and death, every night falling asleep wanting to die and some of those nights coming within inches of bringing about my death. Eventually, I found my way back to God and after several years, I finally forgave myself. Doesn't mean that I will forget it or stop regretting it. Just means I forgave myself. Of course, some people reading this may not believe that, but those readers will have to discuss this with God.
After that, I realized the true value of human life. I realized how wonderfully precious and unique every life is to God, both the unborn and the born, both the good people and the very bad. As I've grown older, I've grown to the point that the mere flippant remarks of people who say, "I'm going to kill so & so." and "I wish so & so was dead!", not only makes me ill, it makes me want to get as far away from that person as possible; wash my hands of them and move as far away from their presence as I can get! I truly do not want or need that kind of negativity and hatred in my life! And I don't care if it's in joking, either. It shouldn't be said, even lightly. The very Bible tells us that we shall be held accountable for every word uttered from our mouths, and I really don't want to have to explain my ugly, hate & death filled words to God because I am already going to have enough to have to answer for.
I know a man who told his wife that if he ever caught her with another man he would kill her; blow her brains out. What made this even more shocking was that the wife was not doing a single thing wrong, nor had she been. Fact is, she was old, obese and in questionable health at the time and 'fooling around' was just not something her mind had ever entertained. This same man gets mad at random people and says he's going to shoot them, cut them, kill them. He hates anyone who disagrees with him, anyone who he feels wrongs him, anyone who might be a different race than he. And even though he's never been in any trouble with the law, he freaks out every time they get close to him. It makes me wonder if his flippant threats are maybe not quiet so flippant, and he fears that he's going to get caught if he ever acts on them.
Regardless, love does not hate. Love does not kill. Love does not want others dead. Love does not even threaten death, especially to those that one has been sworn to honor and love and protect. Love does not entertain ugly thoughts, nor does it play negative scenarios through ones head where it eventually erupts from their mouths.
God is love and if we have God in us, His love will guard our hearts AND our minds. We won't think about hating and killing because it is contrary to the God that is in us. But people who spout words of hatred and murder are not, can not, be walking with God, nor can they truly have God in their hearts. It is just impossible for God and Satan to inhabit the same vessel. 
However, as hypocritical as this may sound, I do believe in the death penalty. I believe that we should establish firm and unwaivering consequences to certain crimes. There was a time in this world where coldblooded killers knew that they would themselves die via hanging, firing squad, electric chair, gas chamber, lethal injection. The consequences of coldblooded murder was enough to deter many an individual. But something changed and people grew soft and now? No one seems to care if threats are made, and if those threats are eventually carried out, some bleeding heart is going to try and blame the victim or some other nonsense, and more times than not the killer gets a hard slap on the wrists, maybe even life behind bars, but rarely are they put to death by our Criminal Justice system. How is that a deterrent? The thing is...I believe in the Death Penalty, but I could never be the person who administers it!

When someone tells me that they are going to kill me, I take that threat seriously, even if law enforcement does not. I don't make threats such as that because I value human life, even if I don't like certain humans. When someone threatens my life, I feel that they do not value human life and I believe that if given the chance, that person would kill me dead and do so without hesitation. 

Love doesn't kill. It's as simple as that. 
Real love would rather be humiliated and embarrassed, than cause fatal harm to those it loves. 
So the next time someone who claims to love you says that they will kill you, even in a supposedly joking manner, do yourself a favor and sever ties with that person as soon as you can! You aren't God. He is the only being that can fix a heart filled with that much hatred and callousness. 

 
 

A few reasons that I am grateful for my parents...

One of the things I learned while attending a Criminal Justice class in college had to do with individual perception. Upon investigating a crime scene with witnesses, a good investigator will always take statements from each individual, then later put them together to create an entire story. No one single witness can give the entire story because as individuals, we all have our own unique perception of what we see, hear and feel, and it will not be a carbon copy of what the persons standing next to us sees, hears and feels.
The same can be said about family, particularly siblings within a family. 

I was born in 1963, the oldest of four children and the only daughter. In 1965 my first brother was born. In 1968 my second brother was born and finally, in 1975, my third brother was born.
In the fall of 1969, I started first grade. Before long, my mother begin allowing me to visit the homes of school friends and soon I was allowed to spend the night with them. I did not have frequent 'play dates' or overnight visits, and perhaps this is why I treasured those I did have and those visits became branded within my mind.

One friend lived just down the road from us, as was the case of most of my friends who I was allowed to visit. She lived in a house that was at the end of a washed out lane that ran alongside her grandmother's house. Her grandmother's house was a tiny thing that was not in good repair, but the grandmother kept it up as best she could. My friend's house, on the other hand, was large and very pretty...from the outside. But once inside, things changed. The living room was well done, with sheetrock and flooring and it presented itself beautifully, though stacked high with boxes and tools. Off of that ws the kitchen that had the sheetrock up and a few base cabinets sitting in the middle of the floor, along with the clutter and tools. But as you opened the door that led into the hallway towards the bedrooms, everything changed.
The bedroom part of the house was simply dried in with the exception of her parent's bedroom. It did have sheetrock and a door, but the walls had not been finished, and the floors were bare plywood. The bedrooms of my friend and her little brother were framed with 2x4's, and cardboard from boxes had been tacked on the walls for separation and privacy.  There were two wood heaters for warmth in the winter, and I can well remember just how cold that house was! The bathroom was nothing more than an empty room. They had no running water, no septic system, no toilet, no bathtub and no lavatory. Behind the house, and only about ten feet away from the house, was a two-seater outhouse with a door that wouldn't stay securely closed. At night, my friend and her brother used a coffee can without a lid as their 'slop jar'. The first few times I stayed overnight, they did not have electric, either.  
My friend's father supposedly worked in Houston and might come home on the weekends. Then again, he might not. When he did, everyone walked on eggshells in his presence because he was not a nice man. My friend didn't tell me this, but her brother and her cousins did. My friend's mother worked at a hospital and most times she worked nights. My friend and her brother pretty much lived with their grandmother, which is also where they ate and took baths. My friend, however, was always better than me and she told me so repeatedly. She never missed an opportunity to tell me how much smarter she was than I, how much better her parents were than mine, how much nicer her home was than mine and so on. Sometimes I'd get mad and hit her. One thing I was better at than her was fighting. But, we never stayed mad at each other past a few minutes. She really didn't have many friends that visited and I wasn't invited to visit friends very often, so we made it work. She would make me giggle and she would make me wonder why she was so intent on creating an illusion about her life that was nothing like her reality. Even then, I had compassion for her, even if she did sometimes get on my last nerve!
Because of her, I joined Missionettes at her church and she and I would spend hours memorizing scripture and trying to work on badges. We also enjoyed Vacation Bible School together...Back in the 70's, Hi-way Tabernacle had the best VBS one could ever hope to attend!
She only came to my house to spend the night two times in five years. 
The first time she came over she was about 9. Mother had fried t-bone steaks for dinner. We had a calf butchered at least every year and we ate well. My friend sat down at the table and as we were filling our plates, she got finicky and pointing to a beautiful t-bone asked, "What is that?" Momma said it was a t-bone steak. My friend asked, "But what kind of meat is it?" Momma said, "It's beef." My friend withdrew her pointed finger, stuck her nose in the air and said, "I don't eat beef. I only eat hamburger. Do you have any hamburger?" My mother's green eyes flashed in what I can only call amused anger and she said, "Hamburger IS beef, young lady! Hamburger is ground up STEAK, just like the steak that is sitting on that plate in front of you. We are having STEAK for dinner. NOT hamburger." Well, my friend refused to touch the steak and played with her potatoes while the rest of us ate as if we hadn't eaten all week. She continued to pout after dinner and when bedtime finally came, we went to bed only to have her start screaming around midnight and crying that she was scared and wanted to go home. Momma got up and drove her to her grandmother's house. The friend was mad at me for weeks after, for God only knows what. I, in turn, was mad at her for being such a rude titty baby! At her house, the only food to eat was bologna and peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and dinner. At my house we had steak, potatoes, peas, cornbread, iced tea or Koolaide, and anything else we wanted, yet she wanted hamburger! Then she cried like a baby and messed my sleep up! 
The second time she came over was to my one and only slumber party when we were ten and right before we moved away. She was better then, but I think it was only because she was scared of looking bad in front of the other girls. 
Years later I would hear that her parent's divorced and that her father had another wife and kids in Houston...the entire time he had a wife and kids on the Prairie. I don't know if this was true or not, but it made sense as I remembered things about him and how he treated my friend, her brother and their mother. 
I've tried to find her many times since, I've even enlisted the help of friends, but it is as if she vanished. After Jr. High, no one knows what ever become of her. 
I think I will always miss her. 

Another friend was almost a relative, though not quiet. We were probably closer than cousins and she was, for a long time, my best friend, even though she was younger. There were six kids in that house, four boys and two girls with my friend being the prettiest of the bunch. They were poor, but not as poor as the friend above. Her dad worked Monday thru Friday, and her mom worked cleaning houses whenever she could. They lived in a two bedroom house, little more than a shack, but they made do. In one bedroom the two girls shared a bed and three of the bigger boys shared another bed. The baby boy slept with the parents in the other bedroom. 
Her mom was the best cook I've ever known, hands down! She could make the most appetizing of meals out of nothing and those meals could feed her army and still have leftovers for the next day's lunch! 
They also had electric, running water, indoor plumbing and propane. Their house wasn't spotless, as no house with six wild kids can be, but every day those kids swept the floors, did the laundry and washed dishes. That is, when they were allowed inside the house. The rule was, "Go outside and play and don't kill each other". They never did, though it was touch and go on many occasions. 
Her parents? Well, I loved them both! Many people called them 'trash', but they were good to me and they were fun to be around. Her parents enjoyed their kids and there was a lot of laughter way back then in that little shack. 
Of course, there was a lot of fighting between the kids, especially my friend and the oldest boy. I never understood the hatred she had for her oldest brother until I was thirty years old. Unbeknownst to me at the time, her oldest brother was sexually abusing her and he would go on to molest others as well. When I heard this terrible news, though the puzzle pieces fell into place, my heart was broken for her. Thankfully, the most he ever did to me was pull my hair. I bit him and drew blood, and he never touched me or my hair again! 
Last time I saw her was at the funeral of someone we both loved deeply; someone we did not know the other knew, someone that did not know we knew each other, and someone we thought loved only us. We hugged and we held each other for a long time, our tears wetting each others shoulders. We needed no words. She was my dearest friend and we'd loved the same young man that we stood there mourning. I told her to come see me. She said she would, but I knew then that I would never see her again. I think she knew it, too. 
That was  29 years ago.


Another friend was an only child, though her father had been married previously and she had half siblings. Those half siblings rarely, if ever, acknowledged her or her mother. This friend was always whining about something from the first time I met her until the last time I spoke her her, forty plus years later. As a kid, she had a weight problem that would follow her through her adult life. I don't know what the problem was when she was a kid, but as an adult it had a whole lot to do with laziness. Anyway, she and I were always fighting about something, most usually because she was a whiner. I spent the night with her one time when I was about eight or nine, and that was enough for me to never want to do that again!
I can't describe the way I felt at her house, other than to call it something akin to terror. The very presence of her parents scared the hell out of me! It didn't take anyone telling me for me to realize just how mean and cruel her parents were. Through the years I've heard what great people they were, but I'm telling you, behind the closed doors of their home they were NOT great people. The entire time I was at her house her parents seemed to dare me to do anything out of line and my friend advised I walk a very tight rope or else her daddy would beat us both. She made a believer out of me when she showed me the dark stripes on her back. He even pulled off his belt and showed it to me, shaking it in my face for good measure, if I did ANYTHING out of line. Problem with this was...I had only been at her home an hour and all we'd done since I got there was look through her books and giggle!
I never was so glad to leave a place as I was to leave her house the very next day! 
Years later, as an adult, I renewed the friendship and managed to hang on to it for a couple of years. Her father had died, as had her first husband. She remarried a man that was the same age as my father and not worth two cents. They moved away from her old home place and left her mother. Once her little family was settled, her husband went back down to the old home place and lived with her mother for months before her mother sold out and followed her daughter, with her daughter's husband in tow.  I tried to keep the friendship alive, but I just got so tired of her whining, blaming, hypochondria, holier-than-thou bullshit that I went off on her one day. A few days later she wrote me a letter and in it she said that she never wanted to speak to me again and if she saw me in heaven, she still wasn't going to speak to me or even acknowledge my presence there.  This was completed with a sentence, written in big letters and punctuated with a row of exclamation points: "AND I MEAN IT!!!!!!!"
She always could make me laugh!

Later, I had another friend who lived on the opposite side of the river in one of those trashy subdivisions that made greedy land developers rich by selling flood prone bottom lots to unsuspecting people who either hoped for a better life for their kids, or needed to escape the trappings of the big cities for legal or illegal reasons. I'm not really sure if her parents worked or not, I honestly can't remember. I do remember that they lived in an unfinished and shabbily built house in a low draw and on pilings that lifted it about five or six feet, not nearly high enough for the draw it was in or the proximity to the river. (Even at thirteen I knew this.) The interior consisted of an open concept living room, dining area and kitchen, and these rooms had plywood on the walls instead of sheet rock. The kitchen was a half-assed attempt at cabinets and counter tops, also constructed with half-assed skill. There was a hole, about two inches by four inches, that was in the corner of the dining area. This hole was covered with a piece of 2x4 lying flat and nailed into the floor on one end. When it came time to sweep the floor, the 2x4 piece was moved away from the hole and everything was swept into the hole. This included emptying ashtrays on the floor and sweeping the butts into the hole. 
A sheet covered the opening into the hallways and bedrooms, and upon entering this area, you discovered that you could see through the framing from room to room, including the bathroom. While a sheet covered the bathroom door, as well as the doors leading into the three bedrooms, the only things that kept you from seeing through to the exterior walls were the strategic placement of dressers and chest of drawers, cardboard boxes and clothing on hangers that were placed on nails in 2x4's. The parents bedroom did have a couple of small tarps hanging from the walls to give privacy, but that didn't cut down on the sounds.
Her parents were heavy drinkers, heavy smokers and heavy filth talkers. The fact that they had two teenaged daughters did nothing to stop their sexual appetites, which were heard clearly through the tarp covered walls at night. The two times I spent the night with her, I went to sleep with a pillow covering my ears and praying I didn't smother in my sleep!
Her parents had a male friend who lived in Houston, but on weekends he came to their house to see their oldest daughter. (My friend was the youngest.) The girl was about fifteen and had for all intents and purposes, quit school. She went just enough to say she was a student, but that was about it. She was allowed to smoke, drink, cuss and date whomever, whenever she chose. On weekends, she chose the male friend, who at the time was in his thirties. Later I would be told by my friend that he had a wife and kids in Houston, but the wife was a bitch and my friend's older sister 'understood' him. Even then, I wasn't stupid.  The two times I was there, the sister hung all over this man with her parents approval. They smoked and drank and talked about trashy, filthy things, and my friend and I would get out of the house and their company just as soon as we possibly could. 
She and I did a lot of walking on those visits and she did a lot of talking about her family. From these talks I figured out that her sister was a prostitute and her parents were her pimps. They liked the male friends coming in on weekends to spend time with her sister because the men always gave them money before they left. I also remember the last visit where we loaded up and went to the drive in movies. The sister was dolled up and once there, she went off 'to work'. When the movie was over, she came back to the car and pulled a wad of cash out of her short shorts and handed it to her mother. She slid in next to the male friend and said, "Now I'm yours." and all the adults in the car were happy. 
Not long after, we moved and I never saw this friend again. To this day I feel an ache in my heart for my friend. She wasn't like them when I knew her and I wonder if she ever got away from them, or if they eventually ruined her as they had her older sister? 

Another friend lived on a property that had once been a working farm. Her parents had gotten 'down on their luck' and needed a place to live, so they moved in to a falling down trailer house that had been backed in to the edge of a forest and dropped. When I say dropped, I mean just that. There wasn't a single block under that house; just the tires underneath, that had eventually lost air, and the jack in the front. The front door wouldn't close properly and waking up to possums and raccoons in the house, as well as snakes and rats, was a common occurrence. The first morning I was there, they all laughed at me because I yelled out when I stepped into the kitchen and found a possum on the table! Making this one and only visit even more uncomfortable was that there were no beds. My friend and her sibling slept on the floor on salvaged sofa cushions. 
Her parents were drinkers, heavy smokers and hell-raisers. There were piles of beer cans and liquor bottles all over what could be considered their 'yard'. The two nights I was there, they had friends over and they would still be sitting outside under the pines stirring a fire, laughing, cutting up and getting drunk when us kids finally fell asleep. They also liked for their kids to be outside and as soon as we woke up, we had to quietly make ourselves a bowl of cereal, quietly eat it, quietly clean up after ourselves, quietly get out of the house, quietly stumble over passed out people in lawn chairs and on logs throughout the yard, quietly get a few hundred yards away from the trailer and then...run and scream like banshees escaping a prison!
We climbed trees, rode horses, caught pollywogs on earthworms, played in the old barn, beat her boy cousins up and played in the old farmhouse. We had a blast! Sometimes after noon on both days, some adult would call us to the house where we had hot dogs or Spam sandwiches with chips, cookies and Koolaide. We'd eat, then clean up as the adults started drinking again, including Sunday afternoon. 
I never got to spend another night with her after that weekend. Her dad got a job somewhere and they left the old farm. I never saw her again. 
I hope her life has been nothing even close to her name: Stormy. 

So, I am sure that you are asking what these friends have to do with the gratitude I have for my parents? And, what any of this has to do with a siblings perception?
There are lots of reasons...
My father has always been a hard and dedicated worker, whether for himself or for someone else. The only time he wasn't at home every single night was when his job required him to be out of town. Aside from that, every night Daddy came home to Momma and us kids.
In turn, Momma always had a good hot meal waiting when he got home. Just about every morning, as my brothers and I ate breakfast before school, she would get meat out of the freezer to thaw for supper, and every afternoon she would start cooking not long after we got home from school. We might not have what we liked, but we always had what she and Daddy liked. We learned to eat it and go to bed full, or not eat it and go to bed on an empty stomach and sometimes, with a very sore behind!
Daddy never was a drinker to much extent. A beer or mixed drink now and then, but never every day and not once in my life have I ever witnessed my Daddy drunk. Truth is, I do not think my daddy has ever actually been drunk!  Mother hated alcohol in any form from the time I was a baby until I was twelve and she started drinking heavily. But up until I was twelve, she would not even allow beer on her property and would throw a fit if she found any.
Daddy was never a heavy smoker, either. A cigarette now and then, but he preferred cigars and pipes, and you'd be more apt to see him without either than you would with them. Mother started smoking at the same time she started drinking, when I was about twelve. But before then, one did not smoke in her house.
Now Daddy can cuss like a sailor, but I was almost fifty-one years old before I heard him use the 'F' word and that was a slip in a moment of hurt and anger.
Daddy didn't tell crude, vulgar or off-color jokes around us kids when we were little. He was raised better and he knew it! He never talked about sex stuff around me, either. Even living on a farm and having animals mate was embarrassing to him if there was a female around. 
Mother did not cuss at all until about the time she started drinking. Before then, she was not afraid to drag us to the bathroom, kicking and screaming, and stick a bar of Lava or Safeguard soap in our mouths. After we were done spitting and gagging, she'd take a keen switch to our bottoms. I learned early to make sure she wasn't around before I uttered a cuss word! 
And, though we were far from rich, we always had decent houses to live in. We always had electric, running water, indoor plumbing and not once did we live in a house that wasn't finished. Later, Daddy and Momma did buy land with a hundred year old house in bad repair. They did the best they could making it livable, and my baby brother did live there during his high school years, but for the first twenty years of my life, they chose better houses and sacrificed land. The one time we had a snake in the house, Daddy got out of bed, grabbed his belt and while in his underwear, beat that snake to death with his belt. Later, he got dressed and put that same belt on. 
When I was a young adult, I opened a drawer in Momma's kitchen and discovered a possum. There was a hole under the kitchen sink that we didn't know about, and as soon as my brothers got that wretched thing chased out, they sealed the hole and later killed the possum. 
We just didn't put up with nasty critters in any house we lived in.
My Daddy did not beat on us kids. Not ever. And while he could be scary to my boyfriends, mine and my brothers friends loved him. (They still do!) He has always been a joker and a teaser, and just because you were a friend of one of his kids and he didn't know you well, that didn't stop him. Truth is, Daddy has always loved kids.
Momma? Well, Momma never was a great lover of children and she's said this herself many times. She didn't mind spanking us for the smallest of infractions, and sometimes she'd spank the neighbor kids, too! When it came to kids, Mother had no fear of them OR their parents. If she was going to tolerate them and watch out for them at her house, feed them her food, allow them to play with her children, then they had better be on their best behavior or she would remind them who was the boss at our house. She could be downright lovable and sugary sweet when we had visitors, and as long as the visitors behaved themselves, this is all they saw. But let them mess up and they discovered that nobody messed with Momma (or her kids) when they were at Momma's house.
While I was molested by a cousin, that kind of crap did not go on in our house and under Daddy and Momma's roof! 
My parents never had 'drunken parties' until dawn with adult friends and relatives passed out all over the house and yard. We didn't have piles of beer cans and liquor bottles in our yard, and we'd better not have ANY trash in our yard, Period! 
Daddy and Momma didn't sleep late, much to the constant aggravation of their children who wanted them to. Saturday mornings everyone in the house was up by 8am, 7am if Daddy was really pushy. Momma would make a big breakfast and then Daddy would have the boys outside working and I would be inside cleaning the house, and as soon as I was done inside, I went out and helped my brothers. Of course, once Daddy got the kids busy, he'd sneak back inside and take a nap, which angered everyone, but that didn't stop him. Looking back I think if a man is going to get up five or six days a week and work ten to twelve hours a day, he deserves a nap or three in the middle of the day on weekends. But when you're 8 or 10 or 16, you just don't see it that way.
Of course, Momma always took a nap after lunch. Seven days a week she took her nap, and if you didn't want your behind blistered, you would either take a nap, too, or be very, very quiet while she did. My second brother and I went through our childhood with very sore bottoms most days after lunch, but Momma rarely missed a nap. 

Looking back now, I see that the first twelve years of my life were good. A move when I was almost eleven was very hard on me socially, but the home life remained good until a few months shy of my thirteenth birthday. Aside from the occasional visits with grandparents, aunts or friends, our parents raised us 100% of the time. Home meant Momma and Daddy. Vacations meant grandparents, aunts or friends. 
They also knew where we were just about all the time and we didn't stray too far without notifying one of the other where we were going. 
My parents made sure we had a decent and finished house, and to Daddy, anything else would have been an embarrassment.
Daddy worked hard to provide for us and Momma worked hard to cook for us, clean up after us and care for us. It wasn't easy for either of them. Sometimes Daddy would come home after a bad day and raise hell with everyone in the house. Sometimes he would go outside, slam doors and throw things, but he never hit any of us, nor did he ever spank us in anger or because his day was bad. Sometimes Momma wouldn't feel good or her nerves would be on edge, and on those days we probably got a few spankings and licks we didn't deserve. Many times she couldn't keep up with all of us kids and the house keeping, so she'd hire help to come in and get the place cleaned and organized. 
But no one is perfect and no one is happy and carefree one hundred percent of the time. My parents were human, they remain so today, and I realize that this is just part of being married and raising kids.
My parents taught us how to work and how to care for each other, even if some relatives didn't agree with this. I do agree that kids need to be allowed the time and freedoms to be kids, but they also need to be taught responsibility and how to work. Regardless what my siblings or relatives remember, I remember a fair balance of both. 
When my mother suffered a mental breakdown just a few months after my third brother was born, and then her having a total hysterectomy almost a year after he was born, had I not been taught earlier how to work and look after my brothers and take care of things around the house, things would have been a lot worse than they were. 
My brothers don't remember, but I do. I remember making them breakfast and lunch and helping Momma with supper. I remember changing my baby brother's diapers, making him bottles, giving him baths and getting him to sleep. I remember watching my brothers while Momma slept or while she left the house to 'get away' for a little while. Aside from the couple of serious fights my brothers and I had, and knocking a bathroom door down, no one was ever injured on my watch, none of us starved to death, or did without baths or clean clothes, and we managed to not tear the house down...except for that door, of course. 

Looking back at a handful of my childhood friends and the lives that I witnessed them living in their own homes with their parents and siblings, I am most grateful to God in Heaven for giving me the parents He did. The first twelve years of my life weren't perfect, but looking back I know without a doubt...they weren't very bad, either!

Bad Chapters don't define me...

Bad chapters in my life do not define me...But they do present themselves as opportunities to show what God has done in my life!
Growing up, there were a lot of things that harmed me and there were a lot of things that I thought, was even told from time to time, that I brought on myself. It finally got to the point where I was filled with so much pain and anger, that I turned it all inward and begin years of self-destruction. I did things that I knew were wrong, but I was past the point of caring. I figured that if no one else cared and I was responsible for the bad, I might as well be bad and maybe someday I would just die.
I hated me; everything about me. I didn't care. Nothing mattered.
So, I made some very bad choices and I followed some very bad paths. I did many things that I would later be ashamed of, even regret to the very core of my being, but at the time I simply did not care. The pain was too intense. The hatred of me and all that I was, wanted nothing more than to destroy my very existence on this earth.
Later, God started speaking to me...that same Voice that had saved me from my attempted suicide, that voice begin speaking to my heart.
At first there was severe condemnation...I had been raised in a church that used the 'guilt trip' as a means to salvation and for several years, I fell right back into that terrible teaching. Once again, the ugly thoughts of suicide invaded my mind and I struggled to keep those thoughts at bay for several years.
Eventually I found my way...not the way of my 'ancestors', but MY way; the way that God had prepared for me, the way away from and out of the guilt of condemnation. It was at that time that I begin to understand the wonderful, loving and forgiving true Grace of God and it's healing power begin to slowly, but thoroughly, cleanse my entire being.
It was also during the beginning of this 'renewal' and 'awakening', if you will, that I felt a 'call' on my life. A 'call' to share my experiences, a 'call' to help others who, like me, were in such horrible, indescribable pain. I even said, "If I can help one person, just one single person, it will have all been worth it."
And I meant every word!
Only problem was??? When I begin sharing my testimony, sharing my story, the very people who 'claimed' to be supporting me spiritually, the very people who 'claimed' to be my brethren in Christ, the very people I called 'family' and 'friends', these people would shoot me down! They would stop me before I even got started and they would tell me that I needed to 'forgive myself' and that I needed to 'forget the past'.
They wanted me to cover it all up and just act like nothing ever happened.
I heard that 'you need to frgive yourself and move on' line so often that I started questioning my motives, then I started questioning God's 'call', and then I started questioning God.
Even though I knew what He had called me to do, even though I felt that my story was one that needed to be shared and told, I finally got so tired and so sickened by having these 'wonderful' people chastise me that I stopped. I just quit even trying.
I withdrew from everything and everyone, and I kept it all hidden within my own heart. I convinced myself that maybe I had been wrong and maybe it would be easier to just stay away from people instead of  'accidentally' dropping a word here or there and then having them tell me that I needed to 'forgive myself'.
And, of course, everyone was happy. Everyone was comfortable. No one had to think of bad things or hear bad stories, no matter how much God might have forgiven, healed and restored a person. THAT wasn't important. What WAS important was that these people's level of comfort wasn't challenged or threatened, and all was well in their little narrow worlds.
Yet...in my world? There was no peace. The desire to share my story was as strong as ever. God had not released me from the 'call' and I knew it. But still, I allowed others to keep me silenced.

Almost three years ago I received a call from a distant cousin. I had not spoken to her in years and did not understand why she had called me. But in the course of the call, she suddenly said, "I just have to thank you." I asked, "For what?" She said that I had saved not only her life, but her child's life as well. I did not understand and I said as much. She then said, "Remember when you talked to me that day and told me your story?" Sadly, I did not. She went on to say that until that moment, the moment that I told her my story, she had planned on aborting the child she carried (that no one knew about at the time) and then she had planned on taking her own life afterwards. I was shocked and it was one of the few times in my life where I was at a loss for words. She went on to say that after I told her my story, something changed in her heart and she changed her mind, decided to keep the baby and give her life another chance. She said, "It was tough at first, and it's been tough many times since then, but I have never regretted changing my mind. I am so blessed now and I owe you. You saved mine and my child's life. You did that and you should be proud."

I forgave myself a long, long time ago. God forgave me, as well, and He gave me another chance. Not to forget the 'chapters of my life', but to embrace them, to own them and to always remember where I was so that I would never forget how far His love, His forgiveness and His precious Grace had brought me!
I will share my story. I will speak of my testimony. I will tell the world just how wonderful and gracious my Father in Heaven is. I will shout out from the mountain tops just how far my wonderful God has brought me.
And, if any 'chapter' of my life makes you uncomfortable to hear or read my story, then I can assure you...I'm not the one with the problem!
This is who I am...a book made up of many chapters.
I am not defined by any single chapter.
My identity is the entire story, and by the Grace and Love of Almighty God, it shall end well!

My morning prayer for May 22, 2014

Dear Father in Heaven,
I just want to Thank You for not judging me the way religious fanatics do and for loving me the way that they do not. Thank You for Your Forgiveness and Mercy; the two things that so many of Your children claim to possess, but do not. Thank You for Your Amazing Grace...How sweet and healing it has always been to my soul! Help me to be better today than I was yesterday, better tomorrow than I was today. Help me to allow YOU to be seen in me, instead of people only seeing me just being me. Help me to not judge others unfavorably, to love them as You love me, forgive them as You have so lovingly forgiven me time and time again, to be as merciful to others as You have always been toward me, and to always be graceful and extend grace in all things.
Help me this day, Oh Lord I pray, and every day that is to come, for it is You alone that guards and guides my life. May I not cause You shame.
In Jesus' Precious Name I pray,
Amen!

My Thoughts on Funerals

Funerals. I hate them and then, I sort of like them. Let me explain.

I like the beauty and smell of the flowers, the craftsmanship of the casket, the music, the songs and eulogies of heart felt remembrance. I like how nothing can bring a family or group of strangers together quiet like a funeral. I like the genuine hugging, the kind touches, the soft words meant to bring comfort. But, that is about all that I like about funerals. I hate everything else about them!

I am not good at letting go. I am not good at saying goodbye when I know that it's forever, or a really long time. I'm not good at sitting in that pew and remembering the person alive; memories of both the good times and the bad times turn me into a basket case. I am not good at keeping my emotions in check, nor am I good at not allowing the emotions of others to effect me. I can barely contain myself when I see the deceased in the casket, or know that their earthly body is closed up in that box or their ashes rest in an urn on a pretty little table with their picture displayed beside it. I want to scream, I want to bawl and do so loudly with snot spilling forth from my nose and tears dripping off my chin as I fall on the floor because my legs will no longer hold me up. Or, I want to stand up and dash out of that place and never look back.

I also hate the bullshit...the deception of, "She was a saint!" or "He was such a good man!", when I know in fact that she was a a witch from Hades and he was a cold-hearted, mean s.o.b.. The fake tears and fake sadness by those people who, you know for a fact, hated the dead person with a passion.

I also hate the funeral preaching. I REALLY hate the preaching at a funeral! In my opinion, it is utterly ridiculous to try to get people saved at a funeral. I wonder, what do these long-winded opportunistic preachers have in mind? An altar call right next to the casket? Or, are they trying to preach Uncle Lucifer into Heaven? Scare the Baptists into converting to Pentecost? Make the Atheist believe there is a Higher Power and if they don't straighten up that Higher Power will kill them, just like He killed poor old pagan Aunt Bessie who may, or may not, be burning in hell like molten lava? 
I once went to the funeral of a relative who was a turd if there ever was a human turd. The first hour the preachers (there were several) spoke of what a good, kind, sweet man he was to the point that one of us voiced that maybe someone needed to get up and go check inside that casket to make sure we were at the right funeral! The next hour was spent preaching, and I'm pretty sure the preachers touched on just about every book of the bible during their sermons. By the time they concluded the sermon, I mean service, we were all so tired and miserable that even those who frowned upon alcohol and tobacco were considering going out for a case of beer and a carton of cigarettes! 

I hate the dishonesty of many funeral eulogies. A lie is a lie is a lie, no matter how you tell it or why you tell it...a lie is wrong, Period! A lie about a dead person doesn't make that person any better or get them into Heaven if they aren't already there.

I hate the guilt of a funeral. It is said that you are supposed to go to a funeral, or a viewing, to pay your last respects to the deceased and offer support to the family and/or loved ones who remain. Well, you either did or didn't respect the deceased when they were alive and could see and hear you, but I just don't think 'paying respects' to a dead body does them any good. A funeral does allow one to say good bye, see for themselves that the person is really gone, but paying last respects to the deceased? You are doing it for you, maybe to ease your guilt or say goodbye for you. Your dead friend or relative is dead. They don't care if you show 'respect' or piss on the flowers. They aren't there.
Showing support for those left behind? Maybe, maybe not. If I'm going to feel their pain and turn into a bawling, snotty, wailing cow, (and I will), I just don't see how that can be supportive to anyone. Of course, there is my morbid sense of humor as well...It shows up at the most inopportune of times, (when I'm sad and nervous), and never fails to offend someone. So, why even set everyone up for that? Why put others through that?

I hate having to dress up for funerals. It never fails that someone will die at the most financially trying of times and you look around in your closet, your husband's closet and the closets of your kids and realize that none of you have anything 'funerally' to wear! You or your husband, or both of you, not only lack extra money, but you are going to have to take off work and then go shop for funeral clothes for the entire family with grocery, mortgage and car payment money. No, no one should attend a funeral in a tee shirt and bermuda shorts with flip flops. However, if going to a funeral is more important than putting food in the mouths of your kids and paying for the roof over your heads and the car you need to go back and forth to work, there is a serious problem. Oh, you can plan ahead and buy everyone a suit of nice clothes for a funeral and hopefully someone will die so that you get a chance to wear them before the kids grow and you and your husband gain or lose weight! 
Fourteen years ago I bought two nice black dresses to wear to funerals in hopes that I would never be caught off guard again by the thoughtless death of someone. Eleven years ago I stopped smoking and two years later I had gained fifty pounds. Those dresses still hang in my closet. They fit the hangers as well as they ever did, they just no longer fit me!

Tell those you love that you do. Show respect to those you care about while they can still look you in the eye. Say what you want to say while they can hear you. Hug them while they can hug you back. Give them flowers while their noses are still able to smell them. Tell people about Jesus and let them see Jesus in your life while they can still make a conscious choice to accept Him or deny Him. And, if you fail to do these things and those people die, leaving you riddled with guilt, vow to do better with the next person. Make some changes in your life so that when the next person passes you can know in your heart that you did better this time and there was nothing left unsaid or undone. 
Just remember...Some people actually enjoy funerals and weddings. (I'll get to weddings another time.) Some people attend funerals and weddings like some people attend Friday night football games and Saturday night beer joints. It's their 'fun' thing to do, to be seen and to see, and they relish in the sadness of a funeral and the joy of a wedding. We see nothing wrong with these people, nothing at all. Therefore, people shouldn't see anything wrong with those of us who don't attend funerals or weddings. Some of us don't attend Friday night football games or go to beer joints, either.

 

The City Relations

I was raised in the country and it didn't matter if we lived on an acre or ten, my parents always managed to make that land a 'farm'. From the ages of about five until I was fourteen, we had a milk cow and calves, chickens, pigs, a horse and we always had a garden. My brothers and I worked and played in the dirt and our favorite place to be was always outside. (It was also Momma's favorite place for us to be!) We caught crawdads & minnows in ditches, dug up earth worms and fished in ponds and rice field canals. We climbed trees, made forts, played cowboys and Indians, hunted rabbits at night, rode our bicycles, played football, fought each other, defended each other, got dirty and were healthy and happy. Most of the time we ate very good, even if it wasn't always food we wanted to eat. We had our own fresh milk and vegetables, as well as butchering our own pigs and chickens and sending our calves to the locker. 
We also worked, and we worked hard. 
My first brother, the one born two years after me, and I milked the cow, fed the animals, worked the garden and helped Momma. He was Momma's 'Worker Child'. My second brother, born about five years after me, worked some, but mostly he worked hard at trying to look like he was working hard when in fact he wasn't doing much of anything but providing us with comic relief.  Number 2 brother was always Momma's 'Beautiful Clown Child'. My third brother was born when I was almost eleven and he never did too much of anything except argue. He was Momma's 'Smart Child'. As far as I know, I have never been anything other than 'The Girl', and have never been anyone's favorite anything until I met my husband and became his favorite wife, and had my kids and became their mom.
Anyway, my brothers and I worked and played, got dirty and went barefoot a lot. We also spoke 'country', like our Daddy, where a 'tire' was a 'tar', a 'wrench' was a 'ranch', and we were always 'fixin' ta do sump 'um'. 
Because of this, our 'city cousins' and their 'city mother', our Momma's older sister who was raised in the same Big Thicket house as our Mother and by the same country parents as she, felt sorry for us countrified heathens and would invite us to 'visit' them in Houston every summer. Only later, when I grew older, did I realize that they thought our Daddy was a mean hard drinking, hell-raising man who worked us kids near to death and they felt it their Christian duty to offer us relief and 'culture' from his heavy hand. Had I known this then, I would have given them hell, but I didn't. Fact was, I viewed these week long summer or spring break 'vacations' with both excitement (for the first day) and homesick anger (every day after). 
On March 10th, 1970 I was in first grade and six years old. I went to school that morning everything was normal, but when the school bus dropped me off that afternoon, I saw that my aunt and her oldest daughter were there waiting for me. I was happy to see them, but knew something wasn't right because they said they were taking my brother next to me and myself back to their house for a few days. I reminded them that I had to go to school, but they said it was okay and we were having a little vacation. I didn't want to go. Something was very wrong, but I had no choice and my brother and I climbed in the back seat and away we went. Just outside of Splendora I HAD to know what was going on because I had a really sick feeling and I was scared. From the front seat my aunt told me that my Nanny (My Daddy's mother, my grandmother) had gone up to Heaven to live with Jesus. I was smart enough to know that this meant that she had died and I was never going to see her on this earth again and I quietly cried, "No!" My aunt told me that Jesus wanted her with Him now and she would be happy and well and I shouldn't be sad for her. Well, I WAS sad and I was MAD! I didn't care what Jesus wanted. I wanted my Nanny on earth with ME! When I started to cry, my aunt ordered me not to cry and not to be sad, but I was a rebel even then. I did cry and I was sad. In fact, I'm STILL sad! I was not allowed to see my Nanny for the last time. I was not allowed to tell her 'goodbye', not allowed to grieve as I should have been. But that wasn't my aunt's fault and I've never held this against her. She was just doing what her baby sister asked of her...take up the slack, watch the kids for a few days, give Momma a break. It became sort of a habit after that and until I was about 13. 

My Aunt and Uncle lived in a nice brick house on a tree covered lot in Northeast Houston and off of Mesa Drive, back when that part of Houston was nice. Back in the 70's, the pace was slow and the neighborhood was safe. I could ride my cousins 10 speed bike all over the neighborhood without fear of anyone kidnapping me and I did love that. They also had an ice cream truck that came around every day, something we never had in the country. Sometimes they would take us to the Galleria shopping, or to the Budweiser Brewery and bird park. Other times we would pile into my male cousin's car and go cruising the streets of downtown Houston after dark. Now THAT was a Lesson for this 'country bumpkin' for sure! I saw my first 'cross dresser' when I was about ten years old and I was shocked as any ten year old might be! I also learned what 'street walkers' were and on what streets in Houston that they could be found. Only later would I stop and wonder why it was that my straight laced, refined and ultra United Pentecostal cousins would know these things, even know these streets??? As I look back now, it all makes perfect sense because my male cousin remains a perverted jackass and it didn't 'just' start when he got married the first time!
My aunt was married to a man who worked for a refinery in Pasadena. They had one son and three daughters, the son being somewhere in the middle, truth is, I really can't remember their birth order except for the baby. Their kids were older than I, the youngest about six years.
The son would begin molesting me when I was six, but never did he so much as touch me when I was at his home in Houston. I guess that was sacred ground for him. He preferred molesting me when his family would visit at my own home or at my grandparents house and the last time was at his and his new wife's home, but never at his parent's home. The girls were high strung, haughty and spoiled rotten, and I have never known any three females lazier than those three when they lived at their parent's house!
Since I was always busy doing something, I would arrive at their house and start cleaning. Not only did the place need it, but cleaning kept me occupied and there really wasn't anything else to do there. They had no television, for they felt that television was a sin apparently worse than anything else, including riding around at night looking at cross dressers and prostitutes. I would play with their Barbie dolls and then look through their tons of fashion and bridal magazines to the point where my eyes would cross. Later, I'd sit and stare at the piles of unfolded clothes, dirty dishes lining the kitchen counters and table, mold growing in the bathrooms and mirrors so filthy I could barely make out my own image and I decided to get busy! 
Even then I wondered how on earth a mother and a daddy could live in a house that dirty and unkempt with three able-bodied pre-teen and teenaged girls and one teenaged boy running around? Not only were they lazy, they were disrespectful and I can't even recall the number of times I would go hide in the corner of their bedroom and cry when they got into their screaming matches with my aunt and uncle! It often sounded a lot like the primate exhibit at Houston Zoo during feeding time. What was worse were the evenings when my aunt and uncle would get into those screaming matches! I don't know how many nights I went to bed in tears and begging God to PLEASE let me go HOME! I even had songs that I would sing in my head..."I'm Five Hundred Miles Away from Home", "Oh, how I want to go home..." I wanted my Momma and my Daddy!!!
Of course, there was the church...and if anyone ever had 'churchitis', it was my aunt and uncle! 
Because we were heathen children being raised Assembly of God, my aunt felt it her God-given duty to brainwash us with 'the TRUTH' of 'Oneness'. Forget that I had gone to church with my United Pentecostal Nanny every Sunday she had me and up until she died in 1970. Forget that I had asked Jesus into my heart when I was five and still couldn't read. And forget the fact that I had been baptized In the Name of the Father, The Son and The Holy Ghost when I was about eight. I was still a lost heathen in their eyes and I had to be 'fixed'. So, they'd drag me to church,and I do mean drag because I simply didn't like going to church, period. They'd dress me in their fancy clothes that were always too old for me...I was tall and they were short, so at ten I could fit into clothes and shoes they were wearing at sixteen and twenty. We'd head to church and be introduced as 'our cousins from the country', and the people would look at us with  pity as if we were the two headed cousins from a carnival freak show.  Sometimes it was fun...the music in a UPC church is ALWAYS wonderful! But sometimes it was 'strange', like when people would be running up and down the aisles screaming their lungs out and running into things, sometimes coming close to knocking themselves out. THAT scared me and made me VERY uncomfortable. I just never could understand why the Spirit of God would cause someone to harm themselves? But, at one point, I did feel God and I was baptized In the Name of Jesus as per UPC belief. I remember praying and saying to God, "I don't know if this is right or not, but I want to be sure and you understand." I know in my heart that God always has, but Momma was a different story!
When my aunt proudly told mother that I had been baptized Oneness, you would have thought that my aunt had said that I had been infilled with a demonic spirit!!! I can still vividly recall the fury in my Mother's beautiful green eyes that day! We're not Catholic, but it is with little wonder that she didn't call a priest to perform an exorcism on me. I'm pretty certain she wanted to murder my aunt, though! I think Mother was furious at her for several years after! As for me? I was okay with it because I felt that God was okay with it, and after all, He is the only one that mattered.
As big as my Aunt has always been in the United Pentecostal Church, she was even bigger in hair. Back in the 60's and 70's, women with big hair was the 'thing' in the UPC church. By 'big hair' I mean the tall bee-hive hair-dos, complete with 'rats', teasings and Aqua Net shellacs. My aunt was superb in this art and many women in her church came to her weekly to get their hair done. In turn, one of the ladies would do her hair, so that all the ladies would look nice Sunday morning. It didn't matter if they got their hair done on Wednesday, Thursday or Saturday, the teasing & Aqua Net would keep it looking as good as 'just done' on Sunday mornings. The ladies would sleep in hair nets and scarves to keep their 'do' fresh and with a minimal of poking and spraying the next morning, the hair remained in tact and as big as ever.
My aunt always drove her kids to school and there were a few times when my city cousins would have school and my country brother and I did not. I still remember vividly this one particular morning...My aunt, who apparently did not sleep in nightgowns and preferred sleeping in her underwear and a slip, pulled on a thin ratty button front house 'coat' and slipped on her ratty looking house slippers, grabbed her purse and out the door we went to take my cousins to school. I was appalled! My mother NEVER left out house without being fully dressed and here my aunt was, driving several miles to take my cousins to school IN HOUSTON and in her slip and see through house coat!!! But my horror was not complete because after we dropped the cousins off at school, my aunt stopped at Merland's grocery store and GOT OUT! I was shocked! I couldn't believe it! But, she got out and ordered me to follow and inside that store we went; not a hair on that UPC up-do out of place, her slip a good two inches longer than her see through house coat and those ratty house slippers slapping the tile in Merland's grocery store as she marched us to the lunch meat section, then the cheese, then the chip section, then the bread section and finally to the check-out where she talked to people as if she had clothes on! I was MORTIFIED! When I got back to my Momma, I told her about this in whispers and she shook her head, inhaled slowly and deeply and kind of made a groaning sound. Some time later Mother took us to visit one of her oldest friends in Thicket. The friend wasn't dressed and had on her nightgown and house shoes. It came time for lunch and the friend said she was going to run down to the store for lunch stuff. Mother asked, "Aren't you going to get dressed?" The friend, who also had the same name as Momma's sister, my city aunt, laughed and said, "Why? I'm just going to the store. I go like this every day." Mother looked at me and I looked back and we both shook our heads. Later Momma would say that some people just had no decency!
As for the hair, though, it played a big part in my aunt's life for years to come. There was this man in the church who loved hair and he started helping my aunt. As she got older, she started sending him her 'customers' and he ended up being the only one who did my aunt's hair. Well, one week he kept putting her off and he did this through Saturday, promising to be at her house first thing Sunday morning. For what ever reason, that particular Sunday was a big day at church and my aunt was getting pretty nervous about her hair. Sunday morning the man did not show and when she tried to call him, his mother said that he was asleep. Well, my aunt grabbed my Uncle's belt and drove herself, I'm sure in slip, housecoat and slippers, straight to the man's house. His mother opened the door and my aunt marched right past her, went straight to the man's bedroom, walked in, flipped on the light and proceeded to give that man the whipping of his life! When she had exhausted herself, she marched out of the house and past the man's protesting mother, drove herself home, fixed her own hair and went to church! 
No man comes between a woman and her hair!
My aunt did not cook often, and with good reason. She was NOT a good cook, at least compared to my momma she wasn't! Now, she had freezers filled with food, but I would guess that 99% of all that food was freezer burned, or at least it tasted like it was. She had a pantry full of canned goods, but she never used any of them, and her refrigerator was filled to the brim with food, but most of what was in there had things growing on it. She was a food hoarder, no matter if the food was edible (it usually wasn't) or should have been thrown away years earlier (It should have been). However, in spite of her not cooking regularly, her kitchen was always filthy and even though she had a dishwasher, her sinks were always filled with dirty dishes and there wasn't an inch of counter space that didn't have dirty dishes cluttered around. When we were at my aunt's, we ate a lot of Kentucky Fried Chicken, a lot of hamburgers and a lot of Shipley's Donuts. She did have Chex cereal, though. About the only meal she 'cooked' regularly as far as I can remember. 
Most times when we arrived at my aunt's house, the only place to sit was on the clothes baskets. After I started folding clothes, like I did at home, I would discover the clothes baskets was actually a couple of sofas. 
And books? Lord have mercy, but my aunt had the books! Mostly Harlequin Romances, but later she'd graduate up to the Zebra Romances, also known as soft porn with a romantic undercurrent. Like my grandmother before her, my aunt was an avid and obsessive reader. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, was more important than reading those romance books. Well, except for church and hair and the mail. 
Mail, you might ask? Well, now, that was a stealthy event! My aunt taught her daughters, and then me, to listen for the closing of the metal mail box attached to the wall next to the front door. As soon as we heard that slap of metal, we had to sneak out, retrieve the mail and hide it on our person until we could get back inside the house and then we had to slip it under a sofa cushion, under the sofa, or anywhere that my uncle would not be able to see or find it. Later, she would retrieve it, go through it, sort it and give him what she wanted him to have. The biggest fights I ever witnessed was when my uncle retrieved or found the mail before she had sorted it! For years I didn't understand, but as my reading improved I would often see envelopes from the finer stores and later I would realize that these were bills for charge cards. I then understood why my cousins always dressed so well and why they gave me clothes finer than anything my parent's could ever afford. But even before I understood what was going on, it bothered me. My parents did not have to hide the mail from each other and I had learned at an early age that hiding things was a sign that what you were doing was wrong.
Don't get me wrong. I loved my aunt and I dearly loved my three girl cousins. They taught me a lot and showed me some wonderful, interesting and fun things. From them I gained my love of shoes and an appreciation for the finer things of life, even though those things rarely fit into who I am now or the lifestyle that I prefer. I still appreciate them and I thank my cousins for that. 
But as 'countrified' as I was, I wasn't dumb or underprivileged as they believed, and still believe today. My Daddy has never been a hard-drinking or physically abusive man, nor was my Momma physically abused and a poor, little victim. Through all their faults, my parents were good parents who taught us right from wrong without having to play duplicitous games or put on 'airs'. Daddy worked hard and so did Momma. Momma's house was not always clean, but that woman cooked some mighty good food and she did things with us kids that were far more important than anything anyone could ever put on a charge card. My parents took us on trips, camped out with us, showed us how to make a fire and how to hunt, fish and clean our harvests. They taught us that lies were wrong, hiding things was wrong and getting dressed before leaving the house was right! (haha!) 
And while I always looked forward to that first day or two at my aunt's house in Houston, returning home and seeing my Momma, hearing her voice and knowing that I was home was always the best part of the entire trip!
Aunts and Uncles and Cousins are great, but Momma and Daddy and little Brothers are always better! At least they were for me...

Don't get me wrong. I appreciated my aunt driving all the way to our home in the country and getting me. I appreciated the time my female cousins spent with me and the things we did while there...shopping, going places, playing dress up, playing board games and so forth. I appreciated all of the fabulous clothing & shoes they gave me. 
But...there was just no place like home and no one as comfortable back then as my Momma.