Liberation

For causes I can't explain.  All of the previous year have not recognized my age.  Kept thinking I was actually the age I am now, on my birthday.  Last year, though a year younger, somehow thought of myself as the next year's age, this year's age.  Now that it's here, it's as though I'm the same age in my head two years running.  Now it's official: I'm the age I've thought of myself all of last year.  No idea why.


It's also a significant year in that my child will also be 'of age'.  'Free'.  A legal adult.  In a way, we are both liberated, in different ways.


God willing, there will be many new beginnings, and the intense pain of transition, yet again.  Still metamorphosing, further along in the journey. 


A home, a 'permanent' home.  Longer than a one year lease, at least.  A place to stretch out and regroup, again, in preparation for the actual permanent 'permanent' home, where a grandma age person will spend the rest of her days, to settle, organize, and progress, for a change.  Taking a shot at lost time with a beloved son that really can't be made up, however more than in recent years, to scratch the surface of a rebonding that will take the better part of the rest of my life. 


My mother was this age when she remarried, uprooting herself and relocating for a person she has now been married to longer than my father, who I've not seen since our grandmother passed eight years ago.  My mother is a point of reference.  She's making plans for the rest of her life, and this time nearly twenty years ago she embarked on a whole new life.  If she can do it, I can.  It's not too late for another chapter in the legacy, that my son can very soon again be a part of, and his children as well, when the time comes.


God willing.

Grandpa's Spring

Seeing daffodils feels like Grandpa saying 'hello'.  Have a photo of him in his Sunday suit in his yard by one of the flower beds he kept up among all the other beautiful flowers in the yard.  It was round.  He stood over a circle almost a dozen deep of rich and pale yellows, or so it seemed.  He was using a cane, or a single elbow crutch, smiling as wide as ever. 

He had been a tough guy in his day, a police officer, Greyhound bus driver, real estate agent, coal miner (leaving school after second grade), among many other things.  The true definition of a 'pillar of the community', more loved and respected than the local, state, and national politicians who knew him well.  He was honest, to a fault, and authoritative in a way that is extremely rare.  When he gave a command, you followed, knowing it was only and truly for your benefit, not his.

He passed nearly eight weeks to the day his 'sweetheart' left us, strong willed to the end, and deciding when he would go to join her, as he did.  Toward the end of his wife's days on Earth, she had declined and to say she was not resembling the young girl he had fallen in love with would be an understatement.  And yet, in a way I can understand, when she passed he saw only that young girl and their best of times, as if who she had just been had not happened at all.  This was who he 'returned' to, and who could blame him?

Neither of his daughter's daughters succeeded in finding a mate that could even begin to come close to who he was and represented.  He became an impossible act to follow.  The great grandson he never met said he missed him; the legend remains strong decades later.  The presence is still felt at times.

In these days, the family legacy continues in his memory.  He is smiling down on us in ways we can often feel, while holding the young hand of our grandmother, and hanging out with our other grandma as well, another legacy in her own right. 

If only all children could know and enjoy such people, the world would not be what it is, or our society would be much further ahead.  They are the ones sent to show us how it's done, and there seems to be always too few of them.

"Blog Day"

The last day of the month, except when I'm completely overwhelmed and forget what day it is, even if I've thought of it earlier in the day. Not even a blip on the radar from disclosing a 'family secret' from anyone who is even remotely connected, not that I expected any necessarily. If anything, I expected someone to be angry. No one in particular, really. It shows just how much people actually link to what's provided in an email signature, or where it might be otherwise located.

It had to come out: the only time I can ever remember while still very young being 'happy' upon finding out that someone had died. He was loved by his mother, the author of a hand written family saga with a much better memory for names and people than I have right now. He was also a child predator, of family members. Nothing all that new given the statistics; it just so happens it was in our family, too. The fact is this came out after the victim(s) were far into adulthood; old enough to be a grandparent themselves. The truth is it came out when it was happening, and nothing was done, nothing I was made aware of.

Maybe there was a threat by a father who was more abusive in a different way; maybe he was never asked to come around again to do 'handyman work' around our house. One thing is for sure, if Grandpa had been told, his nephew (I didn't know he was a blood relation at the time), our family handyman may have mysteriously disappeared, off the planet.

Grandpa was a strong positive patriarch, 'man of the church', and former police officer, with lots of guns, as all the male relatives had in those parts, in those days. Grandpa had no 'record', of course, though had he found out his granddaughter had been affected multiple times by this person, 'heaven only knows' what the consequences may have been. Maybe that was what the adults involved were afraid of in not letting it get very far, at all.

All the child knew at the time was that no one did anything, even when they told. And it wasn't the first time something had happened. There were others, like the next door neighbors before we had moved. No memory if anyone was told until again in adulthood, which was met with anger for causing stress. What about the child? What about feeling at the time that no one would listen or do anything anyway.

Grandpa only had a second grade education, forced to go work in the coal mines at age ten for literally pennies. He was wise and smart, and fortunate to be a hard worker not bound by educational requirements in being able to earn a living and provide for his family, unlike today. I wish he had known enough to go to the police himself after he had retired when I was being bullied in school to recover something precious that we knew who took it. The emotional impact was the same. Don't bother telling or 'pushing it', 'you're not worth it', no one will care enough to make it right: that's how it felt. It's what I won't forget, and how I can remember and feel or understand a child's emotions.