Why I Can't Quit Facebook

Facebook, I can’t quit you.

You see, there are too many fascinating aspects to your personality for me to walk away. I tried cutting back, I really did. Then I got bored and lonely.

You allow me to pretend like I live in a big city. You let me feel like I’ve been in a large office all day, with loveable, irritating, eccentric, crazy, outlandish, quiet, withdrawn, and average co-workers.

When I enter Facebook, though, I get to pick whether or not I walk by that annoying co-worker’s office or whether I bypass it to stop by the loveable secretary’s desk for a quick laugh.

Facebook lets me take time getting to know people. A good example is the friend who always screams when he posts. At first, I thought he didn’t realize he had caps turned on. Then I thought maybe he had a hearing problem. After a while, though, I saw that he is absolutely loveable and full of life. I can hear his excitement and enthusiasm whenever he posts and it is contagious. Actually, sometimes it is downright vital to giving me a lift. Now, on the rare occasion when he doesn’t scream, I am disappointed and worry about him. When he posts again in all caps, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Facebook lets me identify the few and far between truly mean and mental people. Like the person who called the First Lady a “bitch”; and then allowed someone else on his page to call her a “nigger bitch”. I apologize for typing the actual words, but if you are offended then you may have just a slight inkling of how I felt when reading them on Facebook. I’m not known for having a filter, but I DO possess social skills. And I’m not a racist misogynist. Most of us aren’t. Facebook, for some people, is somehow permission to openly share any dirty little thought that enters your mind. The difference, clearly, is that most of us understand some thoughts are “dirty” and not for public consumption. And most of us don’t talk that way. Or even think that way.

Facebook fabulously allows me to chew on thoughts before I put them out there for public consumption. In the early days, I didn’t appreciate this opportunity and more often than not ended up with my foot in my mouth. Now, I’d be a wealthy woman if I had a dime for each “response” I started to type and then deleted. It still felt good…. and even better when the thoughts never hit the public arena. It’s cleansing and more people should try it.

Facebook gives us a snapshot of the myriad of interests people have. The guy who posts music links every week is a gift. I should tell him. I enjoy hitting “play” and listening to the words while I’m putting dishes away or making dinner. For him, each song means something and by not taking the time to listen, I feel like I’m missing out on a tiny piece of him that is being so freely offered.

There are some folks who use Facebook to complain. Imagine a dinner party with one person at the table who only talks about their own personal woes. Awkward!

Then there are those who talk about the fun and amazing things in their life…..but go to Facebook when pain and sorrow hits as well. I have one particular friend like this. She has hundreds of friends and because of her personality and because she is so loved her struggles turn into a huge group therapy session. The feedback and support is amazing. Sometimes the responses are a little aggressive; sometimes they are full of wisdom and guidance. Sometimes, the response simply says “you are not alone”. I find I am most amazed at the speed and magnitude of the support she receives and it lets me know that this woman must be pretty amazing.

There are the typical attention seekers, those who have hundreds of photos of themselves. Yes, they are usually women. Of course, these photos are of them layered in makeup, dressed up and out on the town with other equally dolled up friends. The smiles are full of wattage and bleach, the tans are perfect, and we get it. You look fabulous. Now, post more pictures of your kids please.

These posters are similar to the “Oh my God, my marriage is so wonderful, look at all of the wonderful things we do together as a couple” folks. Just for your information, no one’s marriage is that damn perfect. If I wanted to see a fake perfect marriage, I’d watch re-runs of “Leave it to Beaver”.

There are the folks who go in spurts. Ginormous spurts, where they post twenty snapshot photos in a row with cheesy “feel-good” statements about God or friends. I scroll through these as fast as I can, by the way. Admit it, so do most of you.

That brings me to the folks who seem to be torn between God and politics but don’t realize it. Seriously, if you post a photo of scripture and then follow it with a photo of a quote from Ted Nugent, you probably should speak with your minister about God’s love. And whether or not he likes the “F” word or the “C” word; both of which fly out of Ted’s mouth like spittle.

Which leads me to something I learned the hard way: prior to running for office, I was one of “THOSE”. I posted political rants on national politics….which led to useless and time wasting arguments with one or two people. ….hurt feelings…….and turned allot of friends off. I had to clean up my Facebook page before entering the political arena and was amused and horrified all at once when going back over things my “friends” and I had written. Never again. For the record: I will post information on Kansas government because it affects my family directly and I truly believe people don’t really know the details. In order to feel comfortable with this, I classify those posts as “educational”. I will also post anything Andy Borowitz writes because it will be short, sweet, and wickedly sarcastic. I will not enter into political discussions again as I did in the past. My life is too short. So are the lives of my Facebook friends.

Pay attention, there will be a test: YOU WILL NOT CHANGE ANYONE’S MIND POLITICALLY DURING THESE TIME WASTING AND STRESS INDUCING ARGMENTS. Yes, that was yelling in print.

I WILL, however, comment if you negligently share posts that claim the POTUS ordered flags at half mast for Whitney Houston. Seriously people, practice safe Facebook posting. Google is your condom.

Oh dear, I think I wrote without a filter, didn’t I? Forgive me, it’s the Facebook conundrum. In the end, we all have to decide how we say what we need to say without going overboard. Few of us really ever figure this out completely, me in particular, which may be the REAL reason I love Facebook.

For the most part, she’s pretty real. And I like real. And I loved all of those birthday well wishes. Be honest – who wouldn’t?

Gotta go, I just heard a ding.

P.S. Now I’m worried about hurt feelings. If you think I was talking about you, I probably wasn’t (except for Matt – that was you – and if you ever quit typing in all caps I’m going to find you and your computer and break the “caps” key so that it is permanently on “caps”……because I love your all caps!). Yes, it’s okay to sometimes post a photo of you looking hot. Who wouldn’t? Just don’t post 100 of them. Unless you are my hot sister DJ and it’s your professional page. In that case, more!!! Yes, it’s okay to say your husband is awesome! Just don’t do it every day; with responses from him. That makes all of us gag. Are we all good? If not, send me a pm and we can discuss.

Charles, Tents & Grit Man: Chapter 2

Last week I posted the first email written from the summer of 2007 when our family spent two months in Richmond, VA, while Brian was there for work. We decided to make an adventure out of the trip and hauled our 19 foot long toy hauler RV to live in. The following is a portion of my "email diary".

We’ve arrived in Richmond! Now that I have a new email address, please feel free to email me any time. I plan to be on the computer whenever I’m not protecting the kids from all of the pedophiles I know are lurking in the camping park. I hesitate to use the term “trailer park” because it brings back scary childhood memories; however, I can already see that “trailer park” is going to be the word du jour for the summer. Sigh.

The trip was fairly uneventful, other than the scented pond with beautiful power lines providing icing. We did stay at the “Hillbilly Park” in eastern Indiana. At least that is what the entrance sign said. I now know that Brian was trying to break me in slowly. Our current housing situation is workable (I say that loosely), if you forget the family living in a tent across from us, the strange girl who rides her three wheel bike by our site hourly while going in circles so that her stares can get a better gander at the new folks (can you say “feeling stalked?”), and the pallet factory behind the tent family (it’s safe, there is a chain link fence separating them from the pallet workers).

We awake in the morning to the sound of forklifts backing up…..”beep, beep, beep”, which is the same sound Brian makes when I’m pregnant and trying to back into a chair. He’s actually quite funny. When I’m not pregnant.

The only accessible road to our community is a mile from the nearest retail establishment. Said “retail establishment” is, in actuality, a truck stop. This bustling truck stop is just off of I-95, the main interstate between here and Washington D.C. and a main artery along the east coast. Let’s just say it is a slightly busy interstate. I do admit to some surprise, since I had initially envisioned a beautiful state park with the sounds of birds and rustling trees when Brian first proposed staying in the RV. I’m sure we will become quite accustomed to the flow of traffic as it lulls us to sleep each night.

Our one road is an industrial frontage road (see: pallet factory, among others). I decided to take the kids on a leisurely stroll a few mornings after arriving to get breakfast at the lovely truck stop. It contains a Cinnabon and since we DROVE I was unable to enjoy my usual Cinnabon at the airport. The stroll was to culminate in a wonderful breakfast for us, slathered in cinnamon and icing. Shortly after beginning the “stroll”, with Marah marching along beside me and Brody wiggling in the stroller, we were run into the ditch by a large semi. After getting ourselves together, we tried it again. The second semi honked and I think I saw the driver mouthing the words “are you stupid?” as he flew past us. After digging the dirt out of Marah’s mouth (she didn’t really mind and thought it might be a regional snack until I told her it wasn’t edible) and bending one of the stroller wheels back into place, I made the responsible decision to return to the campground. North Richmond, the site of our new home, is “not the best part of town” according to Brian, but I didn’t want to let the bars on the windows or yard art scare me. Besides, our campsite is monitored. It just isn’t safe to leave if you aren’t in an automobile.

You might be wondering why we didn’t drive in the first place, which is a very logical question. You see, I don’t have a car and Brian has to drive the truck to the job site each day.

Let me preface this next paragraph: I'm not a demanding wife, not in the least. In fact, I'm downright easy going, so when I type words like "demand", please keep this in mind. When the “camping“ proposal was first presented, I made only two requests. No, I didn’t think they were unreasonable. The first thing I sweetly requested was a new lap top. Brian promptly returned home a few days later with an old one they had laying around the office. He’s not known for comprehension….that, or he must’ve been distracted when the word “new” preceded the request. I wasn’t complaining, though, and the lap top is working just fine. The second demand, and it was a fairly clear one, involved transportation. He was to get me a rental car while we were there. This is where marriage and communication becomes an issue: I MEANT a rental car as soon as we got there. I think he THOUGHT I meant a car, any car, when he got around to it.

This is the new automobile development. Brian decided it might be a BETTER idea to look for an older used car to buy with cash for me to drive while here instead of renting a car, as originally planned. See where this is going? He wants to pocket as much of the per-diem as possible and sell the car at the end for what we paid (it’s a special talent he possesses).

While watching him shop on Craigslist for work vans, which he thought might be cool so that we could store the bikes in it while we are here, I had to remind him that they don’t contain back seats, eh hum, for the kids. Was that before or after I beat him upside the head?

He also thought it might be best for us to “hang out” in the camper this weekend while looking for a car and “settling in”. We’ve been here since 6:05 pm on Monday night. There’s no way in HELL I’m “hanging out” in the camper for several more days. The kids are becoming so attached to me that I peed on Brody yesterday (don't ask; the camper is only 19 feet long and has a VERY small bathroom). He was already traumatized because the six year old boy with black teeth and a lisp at the pool tried to hold his head under water to see how long he would last. I’m all for kids finding their own way, but the Linda Blair in me came out and I think I scared the poor little lithsper.

Someone save me. Please.

Motto: Remember, we have our health and are together.

P.S. After a warm and loving talk last night I convinced Brian to get me a rental, at least for the weekend. He just needed a little persuasion (under threat of mutiny).

Charles, Tents, & Grit Man: Chapter 1

During the summer of 2007, our family made some very significant changes. Brian had been handed the largest project of his career (the largest project his company had ever run, by a large margin). Schweiger was the General Contractor on a new data center being built in Richmond, VA; Brian the lead. The project lasted two years and by the summer of ’07 he was well into the first year. Leaving early Monday morning and not flying home until late Friday evening was taking a toll on him, our family and on my job. As a result, and after a deep period of soul searching, I walked away from a 15+ long year career in juvenile corrections to stay home.

The first order of business involved how to spend time as a stay at home mother. Since summer was arriving, and we had spent the previous year with a weekend only dad, the choice was easy. The kids and I would travel to Richmond for the summer and spend it with Brian, catching up on some much needed family time and attempting to renew his spirit, which was sagging under the pressure of the project.

Brian, in a nutshell, is very frugal. It's an admirable quality, one that this girl badly needs to learn. He was receiving a very adequate per-diem allowance that would’ve allowed us to rent a corporate apartment for the two months the kids and I planned to stay there. He thought it would be exciting, however, to pull our 19 foot toy-hauler camper to Virginia and pocket the difference….which was significant. As we embarked on our journey, it became clear to me very early on that there would be memories I needed to preserve, and so began an email correspondence with friends while there. The number of “subscribers” grew rapidly and by the end of our stay I was inundated with new people saying “OMG, those stories are so funny, add me to the email list”!!! It should’ve been my first blog, but better late than never.

So…..for your reading pleasure…..here’s the first installment of "Charles, Tents, & Grit Man”!

We successfully survived the first week here in Virginia! Thank you for all of the supportive emails. I forgot to share one other story from the drive here. Brian, still recovering from the apparent trauma of the incident, recently reminded me of the tale.

During the drive to Richmond, we decided to stay one final night on the road in a West Virginia KOA camp. This one is fairly new and was supposed to have all the amenities! When we pulled in we noticed quite a few kids swimming in a pond by the camp office building. It contained a small make-shift beach. I say “beach” loosely.

Marah immediately seized upon this and begged us to go swimming. The ride had been long and the kids had been beautifully behaved (this is before our family began having “Fing” contests….yes, I added this statement to the old Richmond story….if you want to know what a “Fing” is, please refer to a previous March blog titled, drum roll, “the Shulda Fings”). They both deserved some fun.

After settling in, Brian grabbed his trunks and we got the kids ready and headed to play. As we walked along the side of the pond towards the beach (did I mention “beach” loosely?) I noticed an overwhelmingly nasty scent. Many of my friends and family know that I’m a freak about smells. I figured I was being my usual freakish self. The closer to the water we got the more, um, pungent the smell became. Yes, I think I'll go with "pungent".

Did I mention the funkish gunk on top of the water around the edges? Actually, it wasn't funkish; it was pure, unadulturated funk. With a capital F. Before we could stop her, Marah flew into the water with glee. She doesn’t seem to have inherited my phobias; in fact, she takes great joy in eating her buggers in front of me to watch me retch ( caveat….she only just turned six at the time of this writing and no longer eats her buggers; I’m adding this with the hopes of avoiding later family therapy and having to apologize for humiliating her in front of hundreds of people). Brody (at the tender age of 2 ½) followed close behind. During those days, he plodded along quite hysterically on large, wide, borderline club feet. He really was a cute little guy (I joke; they weren’t really borderline club feet, really). I firmly told Brian there was no way in hell any part of my skin was touching that water so I set up camp a good distance away and OFF of the so called beach.

From a distance, I saw Brian making a face and realized he was wrinkling his nose in disgust, meaning the smell had registered with him as well. He's not gifted with a superior nose like his wife. There were a number of, let’s just call them “outdoorsy”, kids playing in the water just like it was the Great Wolf Lodge. In laymen's terms, since I'm not holding back, they were actually dirty and feral looking. I really need to see a therapist about this clean thing I have going; and DON'T judge me on the feral statement - you didn't see these kids. They were scary.

Marah, as usual, just seemed unable to help herself as she drifted closer and closer to the funk over at the edge. I think she is telepathic and secretly took pleasure in building her mother’s anxiety. I could feel myself starting to breathe rapidly, the panicky kind of breathing one gets that ultimately results in a 911 call or, at a minimum, in passing out. Brian refused to let his swimming trunks touch the water (such a prissy) so after much screaming, waving of hands, jumping up and down, and bringing attention to ourselves, we got her out of the pond and headed back “home”.

As we walked away, the smell was overwhelming and gaggifying (I made that word up; it’s cute, huh?). I quickly realized that now it was emanating from our two children. Brian pointed out that he had been panicking not just over the scent and scum....not because he was a sissy (my words)....not because of the feral children.... but because of the electrical wires that were hanging low over the entire swimming area of the pond. Seriously, someone 6’5 and taller could’ve reached out and swung on them like a vine. Actually, I'm pretty sure some of those mountain children probably DID swing on them later, most likely having built up a tolerance for randomly swinging electrical wires. I could hear them snorting at the "city folks" as we all but ran screaming from there. Sometimes I forget how smart and observant Brian can be. I’m worried about stink and dirt; he’s worried that his kids may die a horrible and electrically induced fiery death. It is times like these that I’m quite pleased with my choice for a mate.

Once back in our small RV, I had to hand wash their suits (Brian's too, even though it hadn’t touched the water....big baby) TWICE in order to keep the camper from stinking. As I wrung them out, Marah quietly said “hey mom!”. Looking over my shoulder, I felt a familiar gag in the back of my throat as she gleefully popped a bugger in her mouth. I knew then that this would be a summer to remember.

Semper Fi

Semper Fi

When you see an elderly gentleman at a public place and he is wearing a military baseball cap, it is a sure sign that he most likely served his country during one of our wars. If he has a cane, looks to be in his 80’s, and is accompanied by several younger adults, it is a good bet he served during World War II.

When this happens, approach him. Ask him when he served. Then shake his hand and thank him. It may not seem like much to you, but it will mean the world to the old man.

This happened Saturday night when I was having drinks with some old friends from my home town. I noticed him immediately, since I was facing the entrance. He was tiny, hunched, shuffling with the aid of a cane and a man who was most likely his grandson. I know this because the “younger” man looked to be about my age or a little younger.

It wasn’t the fact that he was old that caught my attention. It was the red baseball cap, bearing an eagle, globe and anchor. This might not mean much to most people, but it practically screamed at me. My friends noticed and laughed; I apologized and told them I’d need to speak with this man before he finished his dinner and they sweetly said they understood. I just knew, before asking, that this gentleman had served with the United States Marine Corps during WWII.

In these types of social settings, one doesn’t want to come across as rude or pushy. I didn’t want to intrude on his dinner or time with the young family who had brought him out (the “grandson” had a wife and two young kids with them). It was just impossible not to see my own Grandfather in him and having grown up seeing the Marine Corps emblem daily on things around our home I could NOT at least say “Semper Fi” to him. It means “always faithful” and is the creed of the Marine Corps.

I waited until returning from a bathroom visit and approached by bending down and looking up at him. I could see his hearing aids, his sagging and aging skin, wrinkles around his eyes which were watery and fuzzy….and when I grabbed his hand gently, it was soft and warm.

I simply said “I couldn’t help but notice your cap…..when did you serve, if I might ask?”

He responded in a quiet and quivering voice, “World War II”.

I asked if he was in the Pacific theater, and he said yes. I then asked where; he replied with the names of a few far lesser known islands. I told him my Grandfather had been with the First Division, 7th Regiment and he said he had been with the 4th. When I said that my Grandfather had fought on Okinawa he closed his eyes briefly and nodded his head. Most people don’t know that the loss of American life on the island of Okinawa was the largest of any battle during the war.

I was having a hard time hearing him and he me; the music in the bar & grill was loud and he was hard of hearing to begin with. At one point, the wife of the grandson (I don’t KNOW that it was his grandson, but I’m assuming) yelled loudly at him, the way we sometimes do when exaggerating back at someone who keeps saying “WHAT?” I was surprised at my initial response. I wanted to smack her for yelling at him. In hindsight, I’m sure she wasn’t trying to be mean.

I asked him where he had gone to boot camp, San Diego or Parris Island? Only a Marine would understand that question. He responded “San Diego”, whereupon I was able to tell him I had the honor of visiting the US Marine Recruit Depot fairly recently in honor of my grandfather.

We squeezed hands once more as I thanked him for his service and for allowing me to intrude on his evening, then returned to the table to enjoy my friends. A short while later, their group got up to leave and as he carefully walked by me, the old man reached down and shook my hand again, thanking me for approaching him. I said “Semper Fi” as they walked away and the Grandson looked at me and said “Thank you. You have made his night!” To which I responded “No, he made MY night.”

Since then, I’ve kicked myself, wishing I had asked him more questions….or even seeing if he’d mind it if I interviewed him. At a minimum, I wish I had asked the grandson if anyone in the family has written down his story. Over 1,000 WWII veterans die per day. This reality hit home for me when the last surviving World War I Veteran passed away two years ago. Eventually, there won’t be any more of them to interview. The same will happen with the Korean Veterans and the Viet Nam Veterans.

My message today is this: don’t miss these opportunities, be it an active duty military person passing you in a Wal Mart, a man in his late fifties/early sixties with a military cap on, or an elderly gentleman walking with the aid of a cane in a restaurant. I know, without having to ask, that the old man I spoke to this past weekend lost at least one friend during the hell of WWII. Statistics on Marines serving in the Pacific at that time practically scream it. Every United States serviceman or woman who has served in the military put on a uniform that represented our country and they all did it knowing at some point they might be asked to risk their lives at the behest of America. They have earned a simple “thank you”. It takes no time and means more to them than we could ever know. You’ll feel pretty good yourself after doing it.

Semper Fi. To receive posts from Gemini Journey please email "subscribe" to geminijourneyblog@gmail.com

A Beer Bottle Scar and Happy Endings

I have a three inch scar on the outside of my left thigh. Age has softened it, made it lighter, but it tells a story. In fact, most of our scars tell stories, don’t they?

The one on my right hand was a “bump” that kept growing in college, eventually bothering me when I wrote. The removal, compliments of the Herington Hospital, was fascinating. It was 1989 and I hadn’t realized doctors could deaden an entire limb while the rest of the body remained awake. I remember lying on the table thinking to myself “whoa, this must be what Grandpa Stone feels like having no arm!”

Another scar tells the tale of an intoxicated spill in college when I cut my foot. Still others bear witness to aggressive and unbridled play in elementary school. One special tiny scar…….yes, Troy Anderson, it is still visible to the naked eye……is on the inside of a knee. My neighbor thought it would be fun to see if I wanted to see a match “burn twice”. I was extremely gullible and never saw it coming until he placed the lit match on my skin. Yes, I can honestly say I have seen a match burn twice.

Think about your own body and the many scars that dot the canvass of skin you call a house. All of them hold a tale, some lost in time and others waiting in the recesses of memory to be brought forth at just the right story telling moment.

My thigh scar is a story that leaves me smiling and shaking my head at the same time. I received that scar at the hands of a fellow four year old after she broke a glass beer bottle and cut me.

To set the stage, I must first tell you about my best friend in the entire world during those few months sometime around 1974. We lived in an apartment complex in Kansas City, Missouri, in a not-so-nice part of town. With little to no supervision, my new friend quickly took me under her wing and where she went I followed. I don’t recall her name, although she clearly needs one if the story is going to flow. I often think of her as Aziza, the name of a little girl I knew while working at a group home right out of college. Both girls were angry and both girls had no control over the chaos their parents placed upon them.

Aziza was scared of absolutely nothing. The first time I followed her into trouble involved mud. We were both hungry and, as was the norm, had been sent outside to entertain ourselves. Aziza found a plastic bowl lying in the ditch and quickly showed me how to create a mud pie. Now, it didn’t sound good to me but I thought this girl was the smartest person I’d ever met. We both mixed and stirred and then promptly shoved mud into our mouths. My bath that night was rough and I vowed never to eat mud again. Besides, it didn’t come close to assuaging the hunger and it tasted, as you can guess, quite horrid.

The next time Aziza led me down the path of sin was a little more serious. In our apartment complex, there was a basement lined with planked wooden storage closets. Residents could see their possessions and store them with the assurance that each gate was secured with a pad-lock. Aziza had discovered one such storage area with the door hanging slightly open, no pad-lock in sight. We were thrilled when we found a box of Christmas decorations, including a miniature Christmas tree, miniature Santa and Sleigh, and miniature wrapped Christmas gifts. Aziza convinced me that every single one of those small, shiny packages must have a real gift inside.

We drug the box outside and began methodically going through it on the sidewalk in front of the apartment entrance. We carefully opened every single one of those miniature packages, but ended up bathed in disappointment when not a single one bore fruit. Chaos erupted later, when the owner pulled up and recognized her items. Then I felt a flick on my ear, which was my mother’s favorite way to garner the attention of her children. She had three inch nails and would flick the top part of our ears when annoyed. It hurt like hell, leaving the cartilage stinging for hours after the attack (at least if felt like hours in my young mind).

My time with Aziza was never supervised or reduced, even after our first criminal offense was discovered, and we continued our friendship with her leading the way and me following blindly. One day, bored and stuck outside again with nothing to do, she asked me if I wanted some candy. The answer is obvious. Aziza told me her mom had candy hiding on top of their refrigerator. Since no one was home, we boldly marched into the apartment and Aziza shimmied up the counter, standing on tip-toe to reach on top of the fridge. She jumped down and was holding a flat, round, plastic container.

I followed her outside and we sat down on the steps to divvy up the loot. “Watch,” she said, “I just have to push them out the back!” Aziza pushed the little pink pieces of candy through a foil backing and they plopped into her tiny hand. After she had pushed out all thirty-one pieces of candy, she ate sixteen of them and I ate fifteen. They were the worst candy I’d ever eaten, but I wasn’t about to tell Aziza that. Typical of our luck, her mom walked up the steps right around that time and started screaming at her. It was glaringly apparent that this was not Aziza’s first offense with the packaged candy.

What happened next? I recall sitting in a cold hospital room, shivering, while a nurse held a small container under my chin. I vomited and vomited, until I didn’t think I could vomit any more while tears rolled down my face. I’ve never been able to puke without crying at the same time. Years later, I would naively ask my Grandmother if I would ever be able to have children again or if those birth control pills we’d taken for candy could have damaged me forever. She laughed and assured me my female parts would be just fine.

The eventual finale to my association with little Aziza was quite dramatic, even though it wasn’t preceded by any type of fight or squabble. I think boredom must’ve been the culprit and, quite possibly, something she had either seen in person or on television. Regardless, we found ourselves sitting on the front steps of the apartment entrance one final time. With no warning, Aziza walked over to the grass and picked up an empty glass beer bottle that was lying innocently on the ground. I watched her carefully. She didn’t look at me.

Aziza raised the bottle and brought it crashing down onto the steps. The bottom part broke off, just like you see in movies. Here is where the comparison ends, though. She didn’t swing it around. She didn’t tell me she was going to cut me. She simply walked up the steps next to me, bent down, and swiped the jagged edge of the bottle along the side of my small thigh. Then, she kept walking and disappeared into the building.

I sat there for a moment, wondering why she was going inside, when I felt something warm flowing down the side of my leg. It didn’t hurt, you see, until I glanced down and saw the deep crimson of blood gushing out. In the span of seconds, I felt a sting and a burn. It was then that I realized it was my own blood and I screamed.

We returned to the hospital where I received stitches and a shot to ward off infection from the dirty bottle that had cut me. I don’t remember ever seeing Aziza again, although I’m certain we must’ve run into her prior to moving. During that time, we moved quite frequently so I can only imagine how our partnership might have turned out had we lived there for any significant length of time. This is something I try NOT to think about, although I’m certain it would’ve provided ample fodder for a writer.

I’ve hated hospital shots and stitches ever since. In fact, I’ve hated miniature Santa sleighs, getting muddy, birth control pills, and broken glass for as long as I can recall.

I started this tale by mentioning scars. Getting philosophical about it would be very easy and we all know that the scars we carry inside us are far more damaging than those on the outside. I kind of like my broken beer bottle scar, though. You see, on the surface one would imagine that Marlys and Aziza would have ended up young and pregnant, addicted, in prison, or dead. Statistics are often blunt evidence in the face of hope.

As I sit here typing, remembering little Aziza and looking at my scar, I’d like to think that she also made it out and is healthy, happy, and no longer eating mud pies or stealing from neighbors. In fact, I like to imagine that those scars motivated her to make sure her own kids are sneaking real candy from the kitchen instead of birth control pills.

That is, after all, how a good story ends, isn't it?

The Massa'

I guess enough time has passed, because it’s back again. On my mind, creeping into late night thoughts, presenting itself in my first visions when waking. Sometimes it returns because of something I saw on television; other times, a book I’m reading. If I watch a movie, like “The Boy in the Striped Pajamas”, it can take several weeks to shut down my brain.

I don’t know why I’ve always felt this connection to the Holocaust. As I get older, I don’t think about it as much. I no longer imagine the gas chambers when first entering a shower like I did when younger. I’ve read so much by now, seen so many photos, explored the history of Germany’s culpability….how and why her people were able to not only turn a blind eye to genocide but in most cases actively help perpetuate it…..that I only return to it every so often. When “it” happens, I feel a cloud, guilt, and a deep depression that the evil which occurred is still within some humans; the propensity to hate and to discard humanity still out there, in full view.

It could’ve begun within me, in the womb. One of the people who knows me best, my best friend from college, jokes that I must’ve been a Polish Jew in a past life. Another teases me, although the teasing leaves a sour taste, saying I obsess over the Holocaust because maybe I was actually a Nazi. I think it’s more simple than this. I think it began with my DNA, something unique to my person, and with the White City Library when I was in the 3rd grade.

We would walk together as a class the four blocks to our small town’s library. I loved this building, made of large stone squares. It was my favorite structure in town. The steep stone steps seemed huge and I felt like a Very Important Person each time I entered. The smell was familiar, as well as the quiet, the old-school card catalog and the stamp Frankie the Librarian used. These were things I would wrap myself in, a special place right in the middle of our small village. I thought it must be glamorous to work there and couldn’t imagine always having so many books surrounding me every day.

It was here, while the other kids were in the basement picking through age appropriate books, that I found myself alone in the small non-fiction section on the main floor every single visit. The book was always there, easy to spot if you knew what to look for; hard back, thin, no sleeve, old and rough. I’ve wracked my brain, but cannot remember the exact title. It was something like “We Must Never Forget” and it was filled with photos. Black and white stills of the Holocaust, photos that to this day sear my memory as they did back in 1979. I never checked out the book, was afraid I’d be told “no”, as if the book was something racy I could get into trouble for reading. Only there really were few words. This was a photographic record of the horrors.

The one page I cannot forget is a series of four photos. A man, probably middle-aged but who looks as if he is seventy, sits in a glass box. He was an experiment. The test involved high pressure, to see how much pressure a pilot could take before….well, before. The man has no expression through the first two photos. By the fourth, I thought I could feel the pain in his head; I could physically see it in his face, his eyes. I never shared this book with anyone else. It wasn’t a macabre “Oh you’ve got to see this!” type of book in my young opinion. It was as if I knew I needed to know about this secret because I could never be fully enlightened in life if I ignored it. The fact that it was a book, in a library, seemed too poignant and ironic, since the Third Reich began burning books in order to darken the veil.

It wasn’t long after I found this book that I began reading Corrie Ten Boom’s “The Hiding Place”. It fit perfectly with my spiritual mindset at the time and with my newfound curiosity about the Holocaust. It was my first introduction to Ravensbruck and the violence of the camps. Around that time, a film adaptation was made and long after I’d gone to bed after watching it, I found myself silently crying, unable to erase the vision of an old woman in the film whose hands were crushed for smuggling food to camp Jews.

I was probably too young. But, then, I think maybe not. Sometimes, when reading book reviews of novels that deal with this topic, I see someone write something like “the Holocaust theme has been done before and is tiring to a reader” or “frustrated with a topic that has been told so many times before”. I think to myself, maybe these people should’ve been impacted from an early age with exposure to the horror. How can something so awful, so indescribable, be spoken of too many times?

Regardless, it did impact me. It began with showers. I would imagine closing my eyes and feeling not water, but an acrid smell burning my nostrils, throat, eyes and lungs. I’ve cried most tears over the Holocaust in the shower. It doesn’t happen as often anymore and I’ve learned to shut down the thoughts as quickly as they begin; unless, as stated earlier, I’ve had recent exposure via print or video.

I’ve always saved small things, like sugar packets. Not because I can’t go to the store and buy more sugar and not because I was raised by Depression era grandparents, but because the small amount within those tiny little packets would’ve been worth its weight in gold in Lodz or Warsaw. We carelessly discard something so trivial, so infinitesimal, something that could’ve been traded for a piece of bread from a starving person. I’m the same with socks that have holes, knit gloves that are unthreading….and whenever I leave the house just to drop off one of our children, I briefly consider the shoes I’m wearing and whether or not they would protect my feet if I had to walk a long distance unexpectedly.

Living in Kansas, there is always the threat of tornadoes. Have you ever thought about what you would grab first if you had to rush to the basement? I’ve thought about what I’d grab first if armed men came to the door and made us leave, allowing us only a small bag. You see, in my heart, my deepest and most vulnerable heart, I know it could happen. It didn’t just happen in Germany or Poland. It has happened in Somalia. In Croatia. In Iran. It is still happening today.

Before you roll your eyes, I understand that I’m not normal and that I might sound cliché to some. You see, though, I don’t care because there has got to be a reason I carry this. This is what it is like for me: I see the murdered men, women, and children as if they were at the end of a zoom lens. Imagine a massively powerful telescope in space, looking down on earth. The earth is like that number we all know: six million (and more). As the lens zooms in, we see 1 million, then 1 thousand, then 1 hundred…..until, at the very end of that lens, there is a baby and her mother lying in a pit, awash with blood, while the mother sings to the baby before a bullet ends the song. The mother and the baby each had names. They were each loved. Each of them had a story, a community, a family, hopes, dreams, fears, and souls.

Each of these individuals is why I find myself overcome when I think of the horror of that time. It’s why I look around my neighborhood and wonder who would be willing to help and who would quietly look the other way, including myself. Some, I’m certain, would be whistlers. As a child, I looked at my grandparents and knew that if they had been Jewish in 1940, they would’ve been turned left after leaving the train because they were old. My cousin Rachael, with a disease that has ravaged her body, also would’ve been turned left. My Uncle David and his two daughters would’ve worn the yellow star, simply because they carried Jewish blood while my Aunt Steph, a convert and devout Jew but not Jewish by birth or blood, would’ve been spared the star.

I don’t know what to do with this and I can’t pretend to understand why I cannot shed it, even after almost forty years . I’ve never known what to do with it. Family and friends think it’s cute and odd and they look at me with affection when I bring up the subject but they cannot really know that it isn’t cute when I move into those dark moments where, after dwelling in my mind, I can’t breathe. I didn’t even go through it. No one in my family went through it. I’m not even Jewish. I’ve never been starved or beaten. I only feel what I feel because someone took the time to write about it. So tell me, reader, what do I do with this?

I guess, in a small way, it is important for people who are affected more deeply by these things to share what we feel, to remind others that they must think about what happened every so often. That they must make the connection between what happened then and what continues to happen in other places; what could even happen again in their own country if we are not careful…..if we do not take the time to zoom in and remember each and every face, our own humanity.

I didn’t plan to write this today, but for some reason cannot stop. Today was my Uncle David’s birthday. His grandmother was a Russian Jew, his children and grandchildren Jewish. My cousin’s son Simon became a Bar Mitzvah two years ago and he has embraced his culture and religion with sincerity and devotion. I love this young boy and know that his grandfather would be so proud, so touched, that he understands the thread he sustains and immortalizes willingly. He is evidence that good grows, even in the face of evil.

Simon is preparing now for his confirmation, which is the decision of young adults to embrace Jewish study in their lives and reaffirm their commitment to the Covenant. Simon will represent "the first fruits of each year's harvest” and the hope and promise of tomorrow. More than this, he represents an entire race that not only survived, but has thrived and grown in the face of man’s most base sin.

I began this trying to find a way out the darkness that sometimes rears its ugly head. After all, that is why I write, if only to get it out and try to move on. In doing so, I find that I’ve come full circle. Today, I will replace the visions of death with memories of a special uncle and his birthday. ……..and of a young boy’s light that burns brightly. A light that represents every Jewish spirit that was extinguished. A light that represents growth, continuity, history, life, and hope.

I love you Simon, and I miss your grandfather. He would be proud.

The Bogeyman

I thought I met the Bogeyman once. That feeling you have when there is instant panic, like when a car pulls out in front of you, is something which most of us can relate to. The night I met the Bogeyman I felt that panic, only it didn’t leave in an instant; instead, it lingered over what seemed an eternity but was probably only a matter of ten to fifteen minutes.

I was in 6th or 7th grade, the same age roughly as our daughter Marah. My Grandparents had gone to Wednesday evening church services and for some reason I was allowed to stay home that night. Most likely I was either not feeling well or had homework. It was rare for them to leave me alone, but church only lasted one hour. What could happen in the span of an hour?

My mother was married to a raging alcoholic at the time. I often say that her “picker was broken”. They must’ve been fighting that night, but I was insulated from most of it and had never seen any of the awful drama face to face.

My grandparents didn’t drink; ever. The only way I really knew when my step-father John had been drinking was because his eyes were watery, he smiled goofily, he was loud, and he smelled like liquor. It was rare for me to be in a car with him and even more unusual for me to spend the night with them. I didn’t question it the time, although I now know that my grandparents, ever the faithful and persistent guardians, once again had my back. Was there no end to their love and protection?

It began with a phone call. I stood in the kitchen, listening to Uncle Bob tell me to stay calm. He said that John had just left their house around the corner and was “on his way”.

I said “on his way where?” Uncle Bob said “to you”.

He went on to give me very clear directions: pull all of the drapes, make sure all of the doors are locked and stay away from the windows. He made me promise I wouldn’t answer the door, no matter what, and then reassured me that “everything would be all right”.

I frantically ran through the house, pulling the living room curtains closed, locking the front door and then locking the very back door that would provide entrance a few summers later to another late night Bogeyman.

I made my way into my grandparent’s bedroom and picked up the phone in their room to call Uncle Bob back. Panting, I said “I did it, everything is locked up. What is going on?” He said that John was drunk as a skunk and livid. Furious, he was trying to find my mother and he was sure as hell she was at our house. He told me that John could get violent but that I’d be fine as long as I stayed out of sight and the doors were locked.

By now, I was starting to become terrified. I was alone in the house. It was just me and no one else. Then I saw lights flash on the living room wall as he pulled into the driveway. I saw his shadow outlined on the curtains as he came up the walk and then I heard him……banging on the front door. Hard, then harder. Then he started to pound, over and over and over. He was screaming, cursing.

But then, as quickly as it had started, it stopped. I thought maybe he had left, so I walked into the kitchen to call Uncle Bob.

It was at that moment my heart stopped, stuck in my throat, and I felt that I’d never take another breath. I could hear him again. In a distance, not screaming, but calling my name….”Marlys”…..”Marlys”……”Marlys”…..over and over. I didn’t know where it was coming from. He wasn’t in the front anymore.

Oh God, it hit me like a ton of bricks. He’s coming around the back yard of the house. I was in the kitchen and every blind on the back porch was open. He could SEE me standing there. More panic hit, in waves. I didn’t lock the doors from the porch onto the deck. He could actually come INTO the house!

Maybe, I thought, he was actually inside! In fact, I could hear my name better now and it was coming from the bedroom area of the house. He was saying my name over and over and it was coming from the area of my grandparent’s bedroom. I was crying by now, unsure of what would happen but knowing that I was alone with this crazy man who was drunk and angry. Sweat, racing heart, wet palms, lungs gasping….I was a walking textbook for panic, me in my little twelve year old body.

At that moment, I heard the garage door open. John didn’t have a garage door opener….it had to be someone else. As I tore open the door to the garage I was met in a bear hug. It was Uncle Bob, all 6’4/300 pounds of him. I sobbed and he told me it was fine, that John was gone.

I told him I thought John was in the house and as we walked back into my grandparent’s room, we discovered I had left the phone off the hook and it had been my Uncle’s voice I had heard on the phone calling my name. When he realized that I’d left the phone off the hook, he had raced the few blocks to our house to check on me.

To this day, I remember that night as being one of the most terrifying in my life. I never found out the details of their argument, nor did I find out what happened later that night. Once Uncle Bob got there, I went back to being insulated.

What I do carry with me is guilt. You see, that was my brief introduction to what life in John and my mother’s home could be like; the home that my older brother and infant sister were living in. They didn’t have protectors.

Millions of kids don’t have protectors. Those few moments of terror I felt and that I remember in such vivid detail even to this day, are just a small taste of what it must be like for so many young children who live in violent homes. I’ve been asked many times why I chose to work with struggling youth and I know some of it goes back to that night. It was out of gratitude….and hope that maybe, just maybe, I could be Uncle Bob to another Marlys.

Uncle Bob died three years ago and at his funeral some of us shared fond and funny stories about him. THIS is the story I really wanted to tell. The story of the night Uncle Bob saved me from the Bogeyman.

I thank you…..and haven’t forgotten.

Uncle Bob and his youngest daughter, my cousin Jessica