Generations, names and birthdays

 I've often mentioned Celtic knots. Events and thoughts lately really seem to reflect that concept of space/time/connections!

Does anyone else have a birthday or two that keeps popping up in one's family? As far as I know this one started way back in 1909 when my aunt Ruth Morgan was born on Novmber 14. She was the immediate elder sister of my dad. Then on November 14, 1951 my brother Charlies Michael entered the world. Neither of us have any natural born kids but I married into the Walton family and got three second hand children. The youngest of the three is may daugher Jennifer. On November 14, 1990 the she a son who was named Jarrod William Hudson (her married name) Then on November 14, 2020 Jarrod's first cousin Julie Mayne (nee Walton), eldest son Malcolm's child, birthed another baby boy who has been named Caden Duncan Mayne. 

Names of course are less coincidental. Aunt Ruth's middle name was Alexandria which was a name known in Grandma Morgan's family, both the McCormacks and then in her mother line, the Haynies in both the female and male versions. It was passed to my baby brother born May 17, 1959  as his middle name although one he often went by as Zan when a kid and later Alex. His first name was Robert which was Mom's father's and her brother's. On the Morgan side there was a sequence of three Charles. Grandpa was named Charles Alva when he was born in 1878. His father's name was John so I am not sure where the Charles came from but of course it was passed to his first son who got Grandma's surname as his middle name, thus Charels McCormack Morgan. At times Dad also added the A. to  his name, apparently an affectation since it appeared on no ocuments. When my first brother came along both parents were against juniors but wanted to keep the initials at least so he became Charles Michael.There that lineage stops due to him having no children but the name was still woven into my life. Back to that in a minute.

On the Walton side, Jim's father was LeRoy Lightner Walton. When Grandpa Roy and his wife adopted baby Jim in 1930 they named him James LeRoy. I am not sure where the James came from since I know of none by that name in either of his parents' familiies.  When Jim's first son came along, he was named Malcolm AlRoy. Jim as a great Hibernophile or fan of all things Scots so the Malcolm likely came from that and the boy's middle name was the combination of his grandfathers: LeRoy and Albert. The second son, born on July 14, 1959, was named David Duncan Walton. While serving in Korea in the Marine Corps, Jim had met and been very impressed with David Duncan, the wartime photo-journalist correspondent who sent so much home from the front lines to Life magazine and other venues. David was named in tribute to that man, although both are good Scots names also.  Then on September 14, 1964 a daughter was born. Again a fairly popular name was chosen, Jennifer, but to keep the JLW  initals, Grandpa Roy's mother's family name of Lightner became her midle name. She used to win bets often since few could ever guess what that L stood for. Perhaps she still does. 

When his first son came along November 3, 1974, Jim's eldest Malcolm and his first wife named him Daniel LeRoy; the Daniel I think coming from a popular song of that time. Three years later daughter Julie was born and the middle L was kept though as Lynne rather than anything more exotic. Julie's first child was born on July 14, 2001, sharing that birthday with his Uncle David, and was named Julian LeRoy Walton. His biological faher had vanished so he was a Walton. Whether he will soon have a child to keep the JLW or not remains to be seen but he does have a steady girlfriend and approaching twenty now could settle down soon. And now Julie's newest has been tagged with the middle name Duncan. I do not yet know why that name was chosen. She and her uncle are not too close. 

Now back to Charles and also another link to Duncan. In 1964 when I met the first love of my life, his name happened to be Charles, too. I  learned that Duncan was his middle name and had been his adopted father's name as well. (Odd parallel here with both him and Jim being adopted and carrying their father's name as their middle name.) It was not to be, but I dreamed for a time of a son of ours to be christened either Morgan Duncan or Charles Robert. Due to many unexpected and disruptive events, our story did not have a happy-ever-after ending but I have sensed or felt that will come in another place and time. Who knows?

One more birthday story. Mine is April 27 and I found a number of years ago that I shared that date with Ulysses S. Grant (actually Hiram Ulysses before he modified it to be U.S., for reasons of patriotism perhaps). Anyway he was the North's leading general in the Civil War and then became President as a popular post-war hero.  I love a quote from him which I think exemplifies the Taurus determination we both share: "I propose to fight it out on this line if it takes all summer."  Then in 1970 when I went off to my first real job as a trainee in Human Resources at Fort Huachuca, a fellow employee named Thomas Dower and I fell just short of becoming an item for a bit since the other new hires in our small group were married. His birthday was April 27, 1944, eactly a year after mine. What an irony, since he was a rabid and almost nonreconstructed southerner, that he shared a birthdate with President Grant. I did not know it at the time but would have rubbed his nose in it without mercy if I had!

At any rate I have a dear friend who says there's no such thing as coincidences yet my life seems to be overrun with them in dates, names and other strange patterns. That is why I say my ancient Celtic ancestors were onto something when they tried to graphically illustrate the twists, turns and entertwines of life and fate with their beautiful, elaborate and very complicated designs. It is, perhaps, no coicidence that my Guardian Angel's name is Dara, a word that defines the knotted "tree of life" shape widely used in Celtic iconography. 

 

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Sometimes a Tale...

has a happy ending. This one does and in the present world, that is something to rejoice over.

About a year ago, my younger grandson informed me he had gotten engaged and I met his sweet lady through Facebook. At 29, Jarrod was surely old enough to make a good choice and to know what he wanted. I approved totally. Then early in this year they announced they were 'expecting.' This was thrilling news and of course I was delighted when they asked me to make a special quilt or blankie for the little one. They did a gender reveal as soon as the ultra sound came through clear. The new baby was going to be a girl!

I talked with Kat a bit about colors and such and we agreed we both loved shades of purple and I suggested aqua/teal/turquoise went well in the mix. Next step was a virtual visit to my favorite fabric dealer, eQuilter.com in Colorado. I've been a customer for at least 12-15 years and most of my quilt projects have centered around their fantastic offerings. For this one I chose a fairy and butterfly theme which would be okay for a baby and better as she grew older. I was already in a sewing mode having just done two wall hangings for my brother, one for his music room, and one for his lady friend at the time in a Native American motif. When the new fabric arrived I could hardly wait to get started. 

The baby was due in August and I was determined to beat the deadline a bit. I took photos as I went along and shared some of them. I thought it came out really lovely and I even had enough pieces left over to do a little trave-wrap size one too. Then I found an old piece of fleece I had bought ages ago and never quite knew what to do with. Lilac with butterflies in darker purple, rose and white, it was about a 48-50" square and perfect for a blanket! I fringed the edges and it was good to go.  The three projects were duly packed in a box and sent off early in July by Priority Mail. Now is when it gets to the challenge or dark moment part of the story!

Unbeknownst to me, Jarrod and Kat found a new and larger apartment closer to his work and wanted to move before the baby arrived. Busy and rushed, they  had neglected to let me know. Then at the end of the move, Kat's blood pressure shot off the charts. Preeclampsia--a not uncommon but potentially dire pregnancy complication. She was hospsitalized at once and after about 36 hours of monitoring, the doctor decided to induce labor since both mom and baby were being endangered. That meant little Leia Rose made her entrance five weeks early on July 9. She had to stay in neo-natal ICU for a few days but thrived and soon was able to go home. What a relief (once I heard!!) 

I had begun to worry then since the expected "Oh wow" when the package arrived had not come! I texted and learned Kat was in the hospital and then the baby had been born. Time passed and still no package. There was some confusion since the relief mail carrier (at least I assume it was not the regular one) did not get word on the address change or something else went wrong. The package had supposedly been delivered to their old door but had fallen into a black hole. I wrote and they tried to get it tracked but it had just vanished. I was shattered and said I would try to do another when I could; meanwhile I had another (a major surprise) great-grand due later in the year and had to get a quilt done for it too--that mom did not do gender reveals or want to know in advance. 

Skip ahead a couple of months or more. Last week I got a hand written note in the mail from someone who lived at the old address where Jarrod and Kat had lived. He claimed to have a box and a large envelope of photos for them plus some other mail that had never been picked up. I got on line at once and texted them. "Hey, go get your stuff before he takes the package to a thrift store!" Visualizing my labor of love meeting that fate was appalling. The next day they rescued it!  And the "Oh wow" did come through. My sigh of relief probably echoed from here to Winston Salem! 

As of today, November 9, the other new baby has yet to appear but should be born this week. So I will soon know what quilt to make. I had gotten some unicorns and pegasi in purple and blue-green shades to try to redo Leia Rose's gift, so if this baby is a girl, that will be hers. I also got some western and horsey themed fabric which would work for a little boy. All I can say is what started well has ended well and at least this one odd little story has a happy ending! 

Daddy Jarrod will be 30 this coming Saturday and I am very happy for him and his lovely young family.There could even be another November 14 birthday which he already shares with Great Uncle Charlie who had shared it with our Aunt Ruth prior to her death some years ago. It is odd how some dates seem to run in familes. And yes, I am a real sucker for happy enedings! That is why I've been a life-long reader and writer of Romance and other genre fiction where the good guys always win and it's happily ever after or at least happy for now at The End. Life is not always that cooperative.  

Photos:  Little quilt front; Music Room hanging, Baby Quilt front; Baby Quilt back.

Dylan had it right... Memoir Monday, pondering elections

 And I am speaking of Bob, not Thomas here, though perhaps there is some odd connection between them.

Fifty five years ago I'd recently registered to vote for the first time. It was exciting and I took it seriously from that day on. I think I have only missed one major election in all those decades, 1968  when I was in college at Flagstaff and so caught up in a mess of personal issues that I forgot to change my registration from the Verde Valley precinct I had lived in. 

I cannot recall the 1964 election being too contentious. LBJ was running to be elected in his own right after taking over from the fallen JFK just over a year earlier. Challenging him was Barry Goldwater, then a senator from Arizona. For the most part, Arizona has been a conservative state almost from the first. The only recent Democrat they went for was President Clinton. Not sure what this year holds.

Barry was supported and favored by the John Birch Society, many notches less given to violence than say The Proud Boys but still staunchly supporting the US Constitution and the "American Way"--whatever in hell that is!! In my rather enmeshed family, dad was determined Democrat and mom a Republican though she seldom said much about that. She'd followed the lead of her own father who was Republican even if a railroad man and union supporter.  I voted Democrat that year FWIW and have changed back and forth a number of times since. Now I go mainly Libertarian although some will call that wasting my vote. Still I do that to make a statement; I do not trust or really support either of the major parties and believe they are all "crooks" and much more interested in amassing wealth and power, both personally and for their close circles than governing by and for the people. 

There were protests and riots and such in the 60s. The Vietnam War was going on and a very disputed matter that was. The younger folks were well into "rock" which was becoming the anthem and music of protest and revolution for that time. Rodney King happened and Kent State and for awhile one might think real change was coming--but it really didn't, not much and not yet. Things settled back to a dull me first keeping on mode instead. 

Of course Bob Dylan and the earlier folk singers he emulated for a start such as Pete Segar,. Arlo Guthrie and others were about protest and justice and many ideas that resonate today. He sang, "The times they are a changin'." He was at least partly right; they were but not in one huge leap. Barriers fall in the 1960s that could never be erected again. Rules were wiped away and many were no longer intimiidated by the idea of challenging authority, whoever or whatever that might be. 

I was far from an activist but once out by myself in college and life I drifted a few notches in that direction. A very liberal or progressive professor influenced me there for a couple of years. After my marriage I found myself,  really for the first time, in a much more conservative environment and absorbed that to some degree. Now I live under a peculiar crazy quilt of ideology and follow issues and sometimes people much more than party or label. 

I am horrified by the degree of raw virulent hatred I see in almost every direction. This is NOT how we make the world or any lives better. Looking back some five plus decades I can see no other time when the divisions were so enormous that it seems no one can bridge or start to heal them. This is frightening. For myself I really do not care; I will be out of here and this in due time, probably another decade or even less. But for my kids and grandkids and great grands coming along, I am very concerned. I fear they will not know the America and the life I knew. It was not perfect but it was always looking ahead, building on the past while working to be better--for everyone. 

My life was often hard, growing up in a one family depression where we were considered and treated like  the same kind of trash as anyone else who was poor and insignificant; race or color etc. really had very little bearing. You were part of the Upper Strata or you were shit. That is wrong; I agree and I see that, but it is sad to realize most do not recognize this is a class war and only partly about race or other labelable characteristic.  "Identity politics" is a wonderful method to divide and conquer, to keep the dissident masses fghting among themselves instead of going after the real enemy--that ubiquitous Power Structure. Would that all of us "Deplorables" could see how much better off we'd be to play us versus them on a much broader scale and cease to fight among ourselves over unreal differences that many are conned, misled or even brainwashed into falling for. 

We need some more voices like Bob Dylan to point a way and challenge everyone; he is old now like me and not reaching the millenials and later generations very well. Maybe somone will emerge but unless a third or other party hatches an amazing new leader who captures us with his/her charisma, passion and dauntless drive, I doubt I will see this. Will I be able to vote in aother election come 2024? My crystal ball is very clouded but I see nothing bright and alluring. Progress is not possible without change but sad to say, all change is NOT progress. 

Celebrating my favorite season in verse

 Over the years I often wrote poems about fall. September and October have been my favorite months since I was probably a 'tween, in that space between child and young adult.The wind somehow is less abrasive then, the blaze of sumemr is over and until I moved to Colorado, I really did not dread winter much. Along the southwestern border area, fall usually lingered at least until mid to late November. Halloween was rarely too cold to go trick or treating in your costume--mine were always home made--without a coat to  hide it! Some of my poems were dark but others full of the golden light that I associate with the Solstice to Equinox period of the year.  So enjoy if you will. 

These are all copyrighted, of course but if one touches you,  it can be shared with credit given. They span Arizona to Colorado and California, even to Colorado and New Mexico.  And some random photos from my collection, only the first is mine. The second either my dad's or late brother's and in Arizona.

September in Colorado        

September in the mountains

Comes in gold and brightest blue

to hold a potlatch for the lucky few.

     Brief the aspens golden dance

     Underneath the turquoise sky

     As if they knew the end was nigh.

Dance and be merry today

For too soon snowflakes will fly;

Dance and be happy, tomorrow we die.

   Wearing the sacred turquoise

    To celebrate the season

    The air is joyful, needing no reason.

To skip across the hillsides

Scattering leaves and flowers,

Cooling and drying, chasing the showers.

    September in the mountains,

    Dressed for a festive fling

    Remembers winter is followed by spring.

                        GMW, 24 Sep 1974

Fall Reflection

Golden haze of autumn days

That lead the heart in peaceful ways

And hold the winter’s roars at bay, 

Above the mountains, far away.

Wandering by lazy streams

Where drifting leaves echo the dreams

Of happy past and future sure

With summer’s bounty stored, secure.

A time to savor and reflect,

Enjoy what one must oft neglect—

The sense that when all’s said and done,

One is all and all are one.    

                        GMW, 1982

Summer’s End

Winter comes, but not here yet,

   she slyly lures us to forget

with these balmily lazy days

   of Indian Summer, her harsh ways.

Forget the snow, the wind, the cold,

   growing careless, getting bold--

grasshoppers dancing in the sun,

   heedless of tasks that lie, undone.

 

Forget October is not spring,

   manana's drowsy tune to sing.

Watching a scatter of golden leaves

   awaiting the end of their reprieves,

I am tempted, though I know

   how soon the wintery winds can blow;

How they chill me to the bone

   and make me fear and feel alone.

Anticipating harsher days

   and dreading winter's grinding ways

I yet enjoy this restful time--

   summer's last fling, a gift sublime.

                        GMW, C: 1994

Autumn at Huachuca          

Slowly summer fades to fall  

In little changes after all

Comes age or death or fall of night.

Only if you tune your sight

And other senses can you tell.           

Nature keeps her secrets well,            

But there are many subtle clues         

Appearing now to break the news.

Summer slowly slips away,

Bit by bit and day by day—

A hint of coolness in the air,

Leaves gone dusty everywhere.         

Clouds remain, but not the same       

Even birds have changed their game,

Now in flocks instead of pairs,

Singing different, sadder airs.           

                        GMW, 1992   

Autumn Gold

Gold is the color of autumn

   The flowers, the leaves and the light.

As green is the color of summer

   And blue is the color of night.

Pink is the color of springtime;

   The color of winter is gray;

But I love the gold of autumn

   And wish the color would stay.      

                        18 Oct 63

 

                        I

The aspens march in golden ranks

encircling the mountain's flanks

and wait in martial silent rows

while overhead the fall sun glows,

washing with gold, in wild excess,

aspens' parade in autumn dress.

 

                        II

Within a haze of golden trees

  a stream sang golden songs

I dreamed and hoped that I had found

  the spot my soul belongs.

The cliffs were rust, the sky was blue

  and gold was bridged between

to fill the air and fill the earth,

  for me, their Golden Queen.

 

                        III

I walk beside the golden stream,

     sad that it is just a dream.

How cool that flowing gold appears,

     and how serene, unmarked by tears.

If leaves were coins I would be

     in wealth for all eternity...

From bondage I could buy my soul

     and free again, I would be whole.

 

                        I-III C: 1990 

Absolutely Arizona--The Airplane Patch

I missed a week. Took on a new volunteer job and it is kinda eating my lunch but we'll make it. Anyway here is one more thing that is Absolutely Arizona. 

Unless you  have been interested in aviation or around or affiliated with the Air Force in some way you probably have not heard of the "boneyard" in the Arizona desert near Tucson, part of the Davis-Monthan AFB complex. On quite a few acres of bare desert land, hundreds of old airplanes are lined up in neat rows--for almost as far as you can see. 

The dry mild climate is an ideal place to store these relics where heavy humidity and very cold tempratures are almost never endured. Rust is no big hazard and if any plastic is covered against the UV rays which will deteriorate it, these planes can sit there for decades and some have. Models and sizes are generally lined up togther, WWII fighters and bombers and now retired planes from more recent conflicts. 

Why keep them?  There are many reasons. Often some can be 'canabalized' to rehabilitate others of that model in better shape to make a number air worthy again. Our government has repaired and sold many planes to other nations who make good use of them, or so we at least hope. Some private organizations like The Confederate Air Firce--no I do not think they fly that now disdained flag-- and other groups that do shows and exhibitions have bought some to create their own fleets. A few collectors may actually haul off a choice specimen at times. Even some have been repurposed for aerial fire fighting and other uses. In a pinch we might actually need to use some of the more recent models again. While nobody envisions another Pearl Harbor or even 9/11 where we'd need to get a lot of defense into the air, it cannot be ruled totally impossible. 

I worked briefly at David Monthan in 1983-84 and although I did not support the units directly  responsible for managing the storage yard, I drove by parts of it daily and am still impressed at the sheer size and variety of the craft there. I once had a weird dream in which some undefined scenario was unfolding and I watched as hundreds upon hundresd of airplanes flew over my home continuing all day. I suspect  memories of the 'boneyard' were partly to blame. What if--maybe that was my writer's warped brain asking--all those planes were able to fly and one by one rolled out to the end of a runway and took off, just as fast as traffic control could get them moving?  I think it just might take all day!

Adjacent to the Air Force Base is the related Pima Air and Space Museum. What it might lack in sheer numbers, it more than makes up in the incredible variety of aircraft and air-related memorabilia that it houses. It is well worth a visit simply for the historcal and truly impressive collection you can view with some very knowledgable tour guides. While it has been limited durong the pandemic, I think one can still get a ticket and  take a look, socially distanced and properly masked as the guide will be. 

While other desert areas could be equally qualified to house both these faciliteis, the fact the Air Base and its controlled land was right thre and had been established since the days when the Air Force was still the Army Air Corps in WWII,  this site to be chosen. Thus it is Absolutely Arizona.

At the bottom I shared a couple of photos--not mine--to give you a small idea of what the 'boneyard' is like. The scale is boggling!

Here are a few links to learn more: 

https://www.airplaneboneyards.com/davis-monthan-afb-amarg-airplane-boneyard.htm

https://pimaair.org/

https://www.facebook.com/PimaAirAndSpace/

Memoir Monday: There Were Good Days

 At times as I decry some of the harder times I went through in my early years it may seem life was constantly grim and ugly. It was generally not easy, I admit, and I did a lot of work but there were dozens of good days and highlights and times I was so very happy to be alive and to be me. Most of them centered around horses. I fell in love with the equine species early and expanded that to include the half-assed part of the herd and even some of those mules' other heritage. 

Getting those two old cowponies when I was about ten started me off on that path. I loved Lady, a big old bay mare with a kind and loving way and even Chindy--who was actually Tchindi, a Navajo (Dine) word for the restless spirits of the dead, mostly the worst ones! She was not a bad horse but had an arsenal of tricks. I learned a lot from them both but the highlight of my life for ten years was the mare I got as an eight month old filly in February 1956. My Valentine or Tina  was always truly mine and the only animal ever to come into our ownership or management that was never at risk of being sold or swapped off. She was a red-bay with black mane and tail, a full blaze down her pretty face and one white foot, the near rear. She grew to be a big mare, about 16 hands high ( a hand is a common horse measurement taken at the withers and 1 hand  = 4") and 1000 pounds or so at her full growth. 

Leggy and tall with a Thoroughbred's build she had a Thoroughbred's spirit and energy but was never stubborn, nasty or crazy. Equally at home scrambling up a steep rocky mountain trail or running for the joy of it down some dirt road, she became a mainstay of our whole operation. That was an evolving business of buying/raising, training/breaking and selling a bit over 100 different animals in that decade. We could count on her to be steady and calm leading a young or wild animal to get it trained, snubbing a similar one for the first few times it had a rider aboard and being the bell mare the herd would always follow. 

She never actually retired but we eventually gave more work to a number of other horses and especially some good mules and let her run in pasture more. At eight years old, we bred her to our new Appaloosa stallion, Yavapai Chief. She produced two colts with him born just over a year  apart. Bravo hit the ground on March 19, 1964. He was the image of his mama except lacked the blaze and white foot, just a tiny star, but almost identical in disposition. He learned quickly and was just about ready to begin serious training when the business fell apart and most of the herd was sold away. Rico was a bright copper penny sorrel with dazzling white markings --but not Appaloosa--and he was born on my birthday, April 27, 1965. A big colt, he took a  lot out of Tina and she was sick off and on that summer and fall. I nearly lost her several times.  The reality she would some day be gone was hard to accept.

In retrospect I know now we should not have bred her back so quickly after the first late foal. She did not have enough time to totally get her strengh back. Then carrying and birthing Rico was very stressful for her. I lost her the following spring, on March 16. Still, in that decade she had given me so much. I know she loved me as she showed it in any small ways, always listening for my whistle to call her in when she was out at pasture, resting her big head over my shoulder until it almost drove me into the ground though she did not realize the weight she applied. It was just her way to be close and "hug" me as a big four footed creature could not otherwise do. 

There were several other favorites over the years who gave me bright happy moments. Horses: Lady II, Tonalea, Colonel, Ritzi--though she had a tragic end at age two, Patrick, Buzzie, Old Chief himself, Leo Mix, a young Quarter Horse stud who didn't realize he was a stallion for some time, and Little Dusty, another sad loss. Among the mules there was old Louie, the first one, and then Stella, Ruby, Beano, Trixie, Cinder, Stonewall Jackson and especially Annie and Prez. They all served me so well and we shared many miles, them at a trot or running walk and me sitting easy on their backs as they carried me wherever I needed or chose to go.  The special symbiotic realtionship you build with an animal where there is mutual trust and reliance is unique, upifting, almost sacred. From those experiences I can fully empathize with the mushers (sled dog drivers) I now admire and respect. We all understand this bond and truly feel it in our hearts. 

For having learned and known that if there were nothing else, I know I am deeply and eternally blessed and I will carry those memories to the end of my days and likely beyond. In fact I fully hope and expect to see them all--the horses, mules and dogs I have loved --when I come out of that passage tunnel into the golden light of a much better place. Some call it the Rainbow Bridge--I just call it my kind of heaven. 

Notes on the photos--the first is Tina with me and brother Charlie within days after she came home. The next is that summer, though not yet trained she was gentle. The third is Bravo, the fourth Rico and then two of me and Tina--one as she was being trained probably in the summer of 1958 and the other a couple of years later--I loved the way her spirit came through here--ears up and taking that hill like it was a race to be won. What a splendid horse she was!

I need a time machine

 I've been very much immersed in working on my memoir recently. That has  involved a lot of rereading of my old journals to pin down dates and events and just to recapture some of the things I thought, felt, fought, dreamed... I almost said "she thought..." In many ways I am very detached from that girl-almost-a-woman. Was she really me or am I really her descendant? I am not 'her' per se, at least not completely. 

I just realized today that I feel very sorry for that young woman back in 1963. I am impatient with her also but I wish I could go back and give her some advice, some encouragement and most of all, a big hug. She was so troubled and so lonely and so very needful of a friend--and of a bunch of hugs. She was in a very withdrawn and touch-me-not place right then and felt she had almost no friends. There were some pen pals and two younger girls still in high school that she did not see as often as she would have wished, but besides that, there was no one. 

Her graduation from high school the year before was almost like something she had read or an excerpt from a television program. It did not seem real or important at all. How could someone be so isolated in the middle of the 20th Century? It was not pioneer wagon train and horse and buggy days after all! Of course there was no internet or cell phones or many things we take forgranted now but there were phones, the US mail, radio and TV, trains, planes and automobiles! 

To understand you have to have some awareness of what an enmeshed family is like and that complicated by emotional incest and a pair of mentally and emotionally troubled adults that were supposed to be heading that family.  As badly as she often wanted to leave--to jump in the first pickup truck that went down the street or go hitchhike on 89A that ran by a quarer of a mile from her house, she could not. Several times she wrote in her private notes how she felt she had to stay there and try to hold things together while her parents argued, dug themselves ever deeper into a financial morass and had various physical health issues as well as their mental ones. She felt she had to be the responsible adult for them and her two younger brothers. Going outside to seek help was unthinkable. Family matters must remain inside those walls and not be shown or told to anyone! No one outside could be trusted to begin with and a cloud of shame and confusion also hung over her. Secondarily, she deeply cared for the herd of horses, mules and burros for which she was generally the primary care taker. If she was not there who would see they were fed and watered, exercised, doctored and cleaned up after, who would? They would die of neglect or run off or...

I recently read a bit about a new book that I have ordered and actually have waiting on Kindle to read. It is called Secrets At The Big House --I apologize that I negected to note the author--and apparently is a kind of memoir and attempted self-help guidebook for some of the walking wounded damaged by issues in their childhood or youth. Here is the quote that captured me while I was looking at other things on Amazon: 

"But from inside The Big House, my mother’s hysterical, histrionic fits were covered up by her parents, her brother and the loyal servants. She was a master manipulator.

We were never sure where our mother’s terrible wrath and rage came from, at least not as children. We suffered her anger in the ignorance and innocence of childhood. We suffered her lack of patience, her irritability. Her inconsistency. We swallowed her detachment, choking on her never ending criticism, her cruelty and her judgments.

How easily words poison the mind.  My mother was a master at poisoning minds.  She made sure any budding sprigs of self-esteem and pride in myself were nipped short before they even had a chance to grow.  

First, she delivered the initial blow that would open the wound, then she made sure the wound never healed by continuously pouring the stingy poison of more hurtful words on to it.

My self-image was poisoned and she suffocated my natural optimism and joy. It would take many years to undo the damage she inflicted upon my psyche."

Substitute father and he for mother and she, exchange extreme poverty for the wealth and high society and I could merge into that narrative. There were no servants and others outside the immediate family to cover anything, just me/her and the nightmare that went on far too long. In time a composite effort by some good people who somehow picked up the subtle clues and sensed thngs were wrong and did their best to alleviate it, at least for me, and a few true guardian angels helped me find freedom. It was not easy and I was troubled by guilt for a long time, but I made it. I am here today some decades later to share the story and try to give others a bit of hope, courage and daring so they too may find freedom and release. 

I want to reach out to anyone else who is one of the walking wounded. You can  escape; you can in time rebuild yourself. Dream it, dare it, and DO IT!!   Feel free to write me any time or even call. I may not answer the phone but will call back shortly if you leave a voice mail and a number. 575-404-8573 or azwriter427@yahoo.com.  I will never deny or turn my back on a kindred soul in this journey. I pray you can find peace and wholeness for yourself.