As a kid, I didn’t think twice about walking five miles to my friend’s house, a mile to the bus stop, or three miles down the road just to see the old paper mill still up and running.
Walking was never a dreaded chore. It was sheer enjoyment. A means of transportation. A trip around the world and back. It’s what I did.
As a single mom with no vehicle and no money to buy one, I walked to and from work, to the grocery store and the Goodwill across the busy highway. I’d put my baby in the stroller and off we’d go. Just the two of us, down the old tree-lined, cracked, broken sidewalks of Wilmington, Delaware.
I was thirty-six when I started jogging and fifty-three when I stopped. At sixty-two, I started jogging again, but not with the same commitment or enthusiasm. It soon dwindled from walking when I felt like it to not walking, period.
But I never quit thinking about how much better off I would be today, had I never quit jogging. Because, now, two years shy of turning eighty, with neuropathy and back problems, it’s tough just getting out of bed.
But, I’m not in a wheelchair, or on oxygen, and because I don’t want to be, I’m going to walk. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe an hour. Maybe three days a week, maybe four or five. Maybe, only one day. But that’s better than not doing it at all.
So yes, I walked today. Really fast because it was freezing. My fingers were on the verge of breaking, and I was a hair from calling my husband to come get me!
I just finished a brisk twenty-minute walk. Yay! I mention this because I stopped walking when it got so hot last summer, promising myself to start back in the fall. But, everything happened but that.
You know how it goes: I’m too busy, too tired; too not into it. I’ll do it tomorrow. A thousand tomorrows later, my walking shoes sit and cry in the closet.
Thinking about getting fit and making excuses for why I can’t only cause a guilt complex. And already there’s no more room in my brain for that! So, I pledge, not to the New Year, but to myself to get out the door and walk.
If it’s not snowing. Or raining. Or too windy. Or someone mentions shopping!
A head lacking ideas is an artist’s worst nightmare. It’s like sand running through their veins. Like a near-death experience. Like creative juices stop flowing and their arms and legs fall off. Their brains fall out. And they die. Slowly and painfully, like a zombie.
It was a day like that, sitting at my art table, staring at the bone-dry paintbrush in my hand. Brandon, my then six-year-old grandson, was watching Beauty and the Beast for the umpteenth time, and studying the eye-catching images on Disney DVD covers.
Between Belle getting locked up by the Beast, and refusing his demanding dinner date, I got an idea! Suddenly, the juices started gushing, my heart arose from the dead, and my brains flew back into my skull! I’m alive!
Jumping down from the stool, I said, “Hey, Brandon! You wanna help me build a birdhouse?”
Like a puppy on steroids, he jumped to his feet and followed me out the door, across the backyard, and behind my husband’s workshop. That’s where the bricks were. Neatly stacked against the building, as if waiting for this very moment to become useful again.
Excitedly, I looked at Brandon, his beaming face now drenched with doubt. I guess I’ll just have to prove it to him, I thought to myself. I will create it, and then he will believe it. And that’s what I did. Now everyone believes it.
Final words: I created many of these brick birdhouses, churches, and schools, and gave them away. I sold a few from a local Christian bookstore, but they were too heavy and awkward to package, so I quit selling them. I kept the one in this post, mostly to see the look on people’s faces when I tell them it was once a dirty red brick.
God is mad at me God is punishing me God is disappointed in me God expects me to be perfect
I have to go to church to be a Christian I have to obey church rules I can’t dance, take a sip of wine, wear shorts I can’t question God
Real Christians sacrifice themselves to serve others Real Christians have faith to jump out of their wheelchairs Real Christians tithe, even if they can’t pay their mortgage Real Christians never say no
If your feelings are not Christ-like, hide them If you have a conflict with your neighbors, bake them a cake If you speak the truth that hurts, apologize If you don’t get along with everyone, something is wrong with you
A woman should never leave her abusive husband A woman should bow down to men A woman should be seen and not heard A woman doesn’t deserve respect
I believed all those things and more Because I was brainwashed Because my eyes were closed Because I believed it was the Gospel truth
But, I don’t anymore God opened my eyes to the Truth I no longer walk in darkness Because the Truth has set me free
1949. Landenberg, Pennsylvania. Most people never heard of it. But it’s a real place where cat-sized bullfrogs lived, and cows, chickens, roosters, lizards, trees, hills, valleys, brooks, streams, and spring water trickling from ancient rocks. It was a child’s paradise. Better than PlayStation. Even better than iPhones.
No one living there that I knew had running water, heat pumps, or inside toilets. In the old rickety outhouse, newspapers and pages from the Sears catalog served as toilet paper. In the summer, kids went barefoot because they didn’t have shoes to wear. In the winter, we all nearly froze to death.
We swam in the creek in front of the house, ventured through the woods, and straddled fallen trees and limbs pretending they were horses. In the winter we played in the snow, made silly snowmen, threw snowballs, and drank hot chocolate near a blazing fire in the rock fireplace. Living in those plush, rolling hills of Landenberg, Pennsylvania, our family was many things, but poor wasn’t one of them. We were the richest family on the planet.
It was going to be our forever home until sickness drove us out. Doctor’s orders. The house was too damp, he said. I guess he was right because, every winter, Daddy suffered bouts with malaria, complements of WWII, and Kenny and I had rheumatic fever.
It was night, and Mom was in the hospital when Daddy rented a truck, packed our few belongings, and drove us into the real world with all its bells and whistles; so-called luxuries that people couldn’t live without. Bigger houses, fancier clothes, and a schoolhouse with more than one room. It even had running water, toilets you could actually flush, and real toilet paper.
We moved to Cooches Bridge, a historic district located at Old Baltimore Pike, Newark, Delaware, not far from Landenberg. However, we didn’t move into a bigger, fancier house like those down the road. We moved into a tiny, upstairs cinder-block apartment with dozens of homing pigeons roosting and cooing below. I called it the pigeon coup. Daddy had his woodworking shop down there. He liked it. It had a flushing toilet.
Mom liked it there, too. She didn’t have to carry in firewood, wash clothes on the scrub board, and get up in the freezing cold each morning to start the fire in the wood stove and fireplaces.
I loathed living there. Compared to our magnificently, rundown, creaky, little three-story farmhouse in paradise, this was like a grassless, treeless, waterless, critterless, rockless prison! I was too ashamed to tell anyone I lived there. Every afternoon getting off the school bus, I’d creep like a sloth toward the long, dirt driveway leading to the cinder-block pigeon coup. Of course, everyone knew. I just pretended that they didn’t.
Reality soon became a nightmare of trying to belong in a place I didn’t even want to be. Like a fox without a den, I was lost, frightened, and alone. I never knew I was so utterly shy, timid, and poor.
In the heart and mind of that carefree, little girl, swinging on the swing, the wind toying with her golden-red hair, nothing was missing from her life. She had it all. There was nothing more she needed.
Now, sliding quietly behind her wooden school desk, feeling naked, and exposed, she crawled inside herself, closed and locked the door. No one could know her fear. No one must see her tears. No one can ever know how much it hurts.
Yes, she was introduced to a new world with all its modern-day baubles and trinkets. And though this new world tried convincing her she needed more, she’d race back to that place few people ever heard of, where her life began and flourished like a beautiful blossom, where dreams came true, Santa Claus was real, and no one was poor. No one died of starvation. No one went naked. Landenberg, Pennsylvania. Always in my heart, forever on my mind.
That moment stands out in my mind like the Empire State Building. That moment when my third-grade teacher threw up her hands and walked away from my desk. That torturous moment when my face burned with embarrassment and frustration as the tears splashed on my desk like pouring rain. As hard as I tried, my brain just could not grasp it!
Math has always been my worst enemy. Worse than a snarling, junkyard dog. Even worse than that tall, skinny school bus bully. And somehow, between my frustrating disabilities and feeling like a complete failure, I got this crazy notion that if I messed up, the world would stop spinning.
Childhood trauma. We all have our painful stories to tell. Some even bear traces of humor, like the time my mother dragged me kicking and screaming to our next-door neighbors and made me apologize for being sassy. I needed a straitjacket that day!
Some memories fade over time, while others stick in our hearts and minds like superglue. And, the humiliation of being singled out that day as the sole classroom dummy left a deeper scar on my heart than the tattoo on my leg.
But what we do with those scars of yesterday is what makes us who we are today. Do we stay crippled for the rest of our lives? Do we blame others for our misfortune? Do we blame ourselves?
I love watching the documentaries I Survived. It’s amazing how people suffered unthinkable acts of torture, were left for dead, and came out alive. Later, many of those victims chose to become law enforcement officers and advocates for other victims. Some found love again after their faces had been butchered and scarred beyond recognition. But all of them bravely pushed through it with a better understanding of who they are.
Our lives, one way or another, have all been changed. None of us leaves this world with the same, baby-smooth skin in which we were born. Whoever we are, whatever we do, rich or poor, we all bear the scars of life, but only the brave survive.
Yesterday, my husband received a phone call from Publishing Clearing House. He won 7.5 million dollars. All he had to do to receive it was to pay $1,700.00. Registration fee.
For decades, my husband bought magazines he never read in hopes of winning a million dollars. So, when he received that call yesterday, he lit up like a Christmas Tree! It took my son and me both to convince him that it was a scam.
It made me realize, though, that getting rich was never one of our goals when we got married. Building relationships, spending time with each other, and being there for our son was our greatest investment.
I’m grateful for our growing family, for the fun and laughter we share together, and for the love, peace, and joy that comes through building healthy relationships. Being happy from the inside out is worth more than millions of dollars to me.
It was my husband’s birthday. Rascal, our beloved pet, died a few weeks before, and hubby was having a hard time getting over the loss. I didn’t want another dog to fall in love with; saying goodbye is just too hard. But seeing my husband moping around the house was even worse.
The dog pound is depressing, but here we are, eyes wet with tears, looking for the right dog to take home.
Rascal was special. We didn’t choose him, he chose us. He was the puppy next door; a beautiful Australian Shepherd mix, with tiger stripes and a silky white chest. Before we knew it, he was sleeping on our front porch, and then, living in our house. The grandkids loved him and he loved them. The kids at Pet Smart loved wrapping their arms around his furry neck. He even allowed grownups to pet him. But, on his own turf? Not a chance. He wouldn’t even let them in the house. PERIOD! But children were always safe. He was their dad, their best friend, their best-ever playmate. Always. Any time, any day or night.
After three times around the kennel, we were feeling hopeless about finding the perfect dog. There was one, though; a hound mix. That skinny, brown, short-haired dog with long legs and floppy ears. I didn’t want a hound. Buck didn’t care what kind of dog it was, he just wanted a dog. So, a hound dog is what we got.
She is the strangest dog we’ve ever had. After eight years, she’s still jumpy, as hardheaded as a bull, and as stubborn as a mule. She licks everything, barks at everything, and thinks all babies are hers by pushing their moms away.
She is definitely my husband’s dog. She sleeps with him and wakes him up whenever he stops breathing or has one of his recurring nightmares. She’s never been trained to do that, she just does it. She is an amazing dog. We fell in love with her and her quirky personality. That’s what makes her Bella!
Straight From the Heart 