Tag Archives: children

Chapter 1

By age 5, I–Cas Redner–had seen a number of flying saucers…sometimes, they even landed…on my stepfather’s head. My mother’s aim was very good, whether the object was a saucer, a Vick’s jar or a butcher knife. It wasn’t her fault that my stepfather moved so quickly.

Our family fit into our dead end—on so many levels—neighborhood. The cops rarely appeared with fewer than two units and four cops. Mostly they didn’t show up at all—probably hoped we would kill each other off. Sometimes, we did.

When Mom went into a rage the only person who could, without fail, calm her down was Miss Allen. Miss Allen lived in the house next door. Her yard adjoined ours. My mother called her Miss Allen with great respect and I knew better than not to be respectful to Miss Allen. If my mom didn’t knock me into next week, Miss Allen surely would.

Miss Allen, a big ebony woman with white teeth that showed often in a smile, black, kinky hair, huge pillowy breasts and a solid right hook, didn’t tolerate being dissed. I’d seen her knock a full grown man on his ass. She laughed loud, talked louder, hugged big and had a slow burn temper; you just better not keep on until it boiled!

Mom didn’t trust men alone with me, except for Daddy Reese, a short term stepfather, and my step-grandfather, Mom’s stepfather who I called Paw-Paw. I have lots of memories A.P., After Paw-Paw, but none B.P., Before Paw-Paw. There weren’t any B.P. He knew me before I ever knew about him, but then you can’t blame a two and some year old in an orphanage for not knowing her grandfather. Born while my mother was serving time for killing a man, the only person present during my birth, besides the medical staff and my mother, was Mom’s friend, a prostitute named Sue. I went straight from the hospital to the orphanage.

I grew up knowing my mother couldn’t keep me—no nurseries in prisons—and neither could my grandma. My grandfather set his foot down saying, “I’m not going to take care of the kids your daughter whores out.” End of discussion. Grandma cried but she couldn’t afford to take me if she left her husband and she wouldn’t leave for less than that kind of good reason. I’m told that a well-known attorney wanted Grandma to bring me home, leave me on her couch while my grandfather was at work and leave the door unlocked. He said, “When you return the baby will be gone to a good home and there’ll be a little something to help you out financially in an envelope.” Sort of like a puppy. I heard that Grandma drew herself up rigid and stared at the attorney. “I don’ sell my granbaby.”

I grew up hearing that story along with the story about the young couple who wanted to adopt me. They took me home, but when I got sick with a high fever and had a convulsion, they returned me. Nope, don’t want this one. It’s broke.

Mom served her time and hit the streets, in more ways than one. Prostitution paid better than any other job my unskilled mother could find. When Reese Hannah paid the young blond woman for a date, he didn’t know it would go so much farther. An older man with a strong sense of where he fit in the world, and where women fit—in the house taking care of kids and husband—he quickly fell under my mother’s spell. Mom could charm a polar bear out of its fur. Couldn’t blame her. Daddy Reese worked hard, had simple wants and loved my mother beyond all reason. The only condition he put on their marriage: mom had to bring me home from the orphanage.

I’ve never been able to decide if Daddy Reese did me a favor or not. Maybe Grandma should’ve sold me to that attorney?

Paw-Paw said when I came home I would go into a screaming terror if I saw a rubber doll and I was likewise terrified of thin switch-like tree limbs. Except for that, he said he’d never see a child not yet three years old stay as still and silent as I did.

I don’t recall much about Daddy Reese. I remember him coming up the hill from his job in the evening, black rounded top lunch pail swinging from one big hand. I’d run as fast as my legs would carry me down the hill, screaming, “Daddy Reese!” Just before I reached him, he’d put down the lunch pail and spread his arms wide. I’d race into him, and he’d scoop me up and we’d twirl around and around. Then he’d give me a kiss on the cheek and put me down. I’d insist on carrying his lunch pail though it hung nearly to the ground, I was so small. He’d take my hand and I’d skip-walk back home with him. That’s the only memory I have.

My fourth birthday came and Daddy Reese left. Mom had gotten pregnant by another man and divorced Daddy Reese.

My new stepfather, Andrew, was not permitted to be in the same room alone with me, and he wasn’t permitted to speak to me. Nor I to him. I’ve never understood how Mom could control people the way she did, but they did whatever she demanded. Until my mother died when I was nineteen, Andrew spoke to me only three times, and those times remained my and his secret.

A couple weeks after my younger half-sister, Helena, was born Mom had me sit on the frayed couch and taught me how to hold, bottle feed, burb and change an infant. A few weeks later, after I’d had a bit of practice, one day after Andrew left for work, she handed the baby over to me. “You have to take care of her, Sis. Andrew has to work and I have to go find a job, too.” I am sure I nodded because any other answer would not have been acceptable to Mom. Unlike some four year olds, I was mature for my age, and I understood how to live with my mother with the least amount of pain—literal pain as she despised being back talked or disobeyed.

People have heard me relate these things about my mother and they have said, “Oh, God, she was so mean to you!”

No, Mom wasn’t mean. Our world was harsh. To be female in our world demanded a toughness that even men didn’t have to don. And a vigilance beyond what any boy or man had to maintain. It was years after I’d left home that I finally comprehended my mother’s actions.

The Chameleon’s Legacy is a new, coming-of-age novel I am working on. This is a VERY rough first draft of Chapter 1. Leave a comment! I appreciate all comments.

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Seals and Sea Lions, Oh My!

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Entering Crescent City, multiple chain stores assaulted my vision. Progress had come to the quiet, unique seaside town, gobbled it up and spit out a bland ghost of what had been. The loss tugged at me until I reached the southern edge of the city and swung into The Apple Peddler Restaurant for breakfast.

The Denver omelette came with homemade fluffy biscuits and what Grandmother Pearl used to call ‘milk gravy’. The strawberry waffle topped with luscious red strawberries and homemade whipped cream topped off the huge breakfast. A pot of fresh coffee washed it all down and drowned any lingering sadness over Crescent City’s march to ‘ordinariness’.

Chatting with the young waitress moved her to recommend a visit to Ocean World right next door to the restaurant. Normally, I avoid wildlife shows on ethical grounds–objecting to their normal methods of obtaining and keeping wildlife–but replete with a wonderful breakfast, I decided to take a peek.

The show is housed in an old ship brought to land. I followed the young tour guide through the double doors and onto a concrete path through lush green growth. At the end of the room was a large pond. While the guide told us about the starfish whose stomachs “pop out” from their underside and engulf their prey, I picked one up and marveled at the rough exoskeleton. The sea anemones felt soft and slick. The guide demonstrated a great deal of respect for the living creatures she talked about.

Eventually, we left the pond room and moved downstairs to the aquarium exhibits. Each aquarium appeared to be spacious and to mimic a natural environment. The information about the various fish, eels, sharks and stingrays was entertaining and had me considering no more fish and chips, at least for a while. Two of the stingrays were housed at Ocean World due to the lack of a tail which would doom them in the wild. I was shocked that several of the aquatic creatures had lived for over a hundred years! A few of their resident fish could live to be 200 years old.

We climbed the stairs and followed the guide to go pet the sharks. It was my first encounter with a shark, and an eye-opener. Their rough skins and willingness to swim close to the pool edges so we could feel them brush up against our hands, went a long way to helping me appreciate them as sentient creatures that are due respect and protection.

After our shark petting time, we followed the guide to a covered area to watch the sea lions and harbor seals perform. The three sea lions slithered up on the concrete deck to slide to a stop in front of their trainer. She started by having them “wave” to the people. They took turns picking up a flipper and “waving” at us and were immediately rewarded for their friendliness with a fish. The trainer took them through several physical and verbal acts, but my favorite was the rendition of “zombie sea lions”. I’d never suspected sea lions could make such a wide variety of sounds!

After the sea lions slid back into the pool, the harbor seals skidded into the limelight. Harbor seals resembled young kids on sugar highs next to the more sedate sea lions. The harbor seals performed a number of tricks, one being retrieval of a basketball from the pool then bringing it up on the concrete skirt and making a basket with it.

The trainer talked about the positive training methods used in teaching each animal, how each small increment of desired behavior was rewarded while each mistake was simply ignored. She said one of the seals could perform over a hundred tricks while another one could only do a small number. Each had their own specialties. When asked how they acquired the animals, we learned that two of her “crew” had been rescued, including one sea lion that underwent surgery to remove an eye. Other animals were obtained from facilities that had too many animals.

I felt pretty good when I walked out of Ocean World, leaving Cora and her performing kin behind, to head south on Highway 101. Nothing looked familiar, not even the windy road. Made it to my campsite at Hidden Springs on the Avenue of the Giants right before true darkness settled beneath the redwoods.

To see more photos of Cora and her friends at Sea World go to http://www.pinterest.com/ayawalksfar

Don’t miss further adventures with Jaz Wheeler among the Ancient Forests of California,and other interesting posts, CLICK and FOLLOW.

THE DAY OF THE DEER

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THE DAY OF THE DEER

My momma has always been a quiet person. The only time I’d seen her raise a hand in anger I was ten and came racing from the woods with a bloody nose, yelling at the top of my lungs. Some big boys were stoning a broken winged crow. Momma ran from the garden, passing me as we raced back up the hill.

By the time them boys circled around that poor bird realized Momma was there she’d done snatched one boy by the collar of his shirt and flung him to the side. As she reached for the second boy, those boys must’ve got a good look at Momma’s face. They rabbitted out of there, crashing through the woods in several directions.

Momma stands only an inch taller than my four-foot-eleven and at a hundred-ten, I outweigh her by five pounds. But, that day, there was something in Momma’s face…. I saw it, too. As much as I love her, I felt a shiver run over me.

That evening Daddy kissed Momma on the nose, calling her his lioness. Said she never showed her claws unless something needed protecting.

Grandpa laughed. “She’s the only lioness I’ve ever heard of that drags the critters home and heals them!”

Ever since I can remember, I’ve helped Momma with the critters that wind up at our house. Sometimes, neighbors brought possums and raccoons and squirrels injured by traps, dogs, cats and cars. Other times we found the poor things dragging themselves along ditches or down the center line of a roadway. Grandpa brought Gimp, the mongrel, home. Truckers down at the big truck depot where Grandpa worked had a bettin’ pool on and the money went to the man who ran over the little dog. Grandpa cornered Gimp, threw his jacket over the small dog and grabbed him in his arms. Gimp gave Grandpa a smart bite on the hand, but my grandpa never let go.

Occasionally, even Dad hauled a critter home. The last one was a hawk. The slipstream of the big rig ahead of Dad’s snatched the hawk as it dove for dinner along the road’s shoulder, slamming it to the ground. Momma put on a heavy pair of leather gloves and examined the frightened bird. No broken bones, just a few outraged muscles. Two months later, the four of us drove further out into the country to release Redtail.

It was the last release Dad ever did with us. Two weeks later when the brakes on his rig failed, Dad hit a sharp, West Virginia curve too fast. The state police found him and the wreckage of his rig at the bottom of a ravine.

After Dad died, Grandpa gave Momma his old .38 Smith and Wesson. He said the four inch barrel made it accurate enough to be useful. At the time, I thought Grandpa should’ve known Momma well enough not to do that. Momma doesn’t like guns.

I thought for sure that Grandpa wouldn’t be able to talk her around, but like Dad he can be what Momma calls “mulish”. Maybe that’s why she gave in when for the ten-thousandth time, he insisted she needed to have the gun. “Dag gum it, Natalie, what is the matter with you, girl? Whatever happened that you’re so agin guns?” A shrewd look settled over Grandpa’s whiskery face. “Somethin’ happen back when you was a kid? Somebody you love got kilt with a gun or maybe just bad hurt?”

“My childhood is irrelevant and you know it, Amos. Guns are for killing. I don’t like killing, that’s why I’m a vegetarian, remember?”

“Look, honey, I ain’t gonna be around here forever. You need to be able to protect yourself and Amy. Please, just humor an old man?”

Since then I’ve wondered if Grandpa somehow knew. Eight months after Dad died, Grandpa was building a new pen for Stanley, a wild rabbit with a milky film over both eyes. At the hospital, I heard Dr. Randolph tell Momma that Grandpa was gone before he hit the ground. Massive heart attack.

Grandpa’s pistol gathered dust on the top shelf of Momma’s closet ever since that day. That’s why I never expected Momma to do what she did. But, I’m getting ahead of myself now. Momma’s always reminding me to start at the beginning of things. Soo…..

The day IT happened I’d just turned twelve the weekend before. Looking at my bean pole self, nobody coulda told how old I was. I still wasn’t wearing nothin’ under my shirts. That day I was out back of our older brick house. Calling for Gimp, I grabbed a hammer and the plastic jar of nails. I needed to finish the plywood shed Momma and me had started building.

I’d wanted a horse for the longest time, but grocery store cashiers don’t make much. Besides, we had quite the collection of critters already and Momma said horses were too expensive. She didn’t see how we could stretch our budget that much further. Now, climbing between the salvaged boards of the four-rail horse fence, I slowly edged my way towards the bay filly with the white star on her forehead, trembling on the far side of the small paddock.

A few days before Momma and I had sat up till the eleven o’clock news come on trying to figure out how we could make-do so we could afford the little filly. I volunteered to wear last year’s school clothes since I hadn’t grown much over the summer. Momma suggested we could eat a few more beans and a few less veggie burgers. We knew we had to find a way to do it.

Ever since early spring, Momma had been watching this little filly on old man Hampsen’s place, five miles up the road. The filly’s field bordered the road Momma took to and from her job at Darrelson’s Grocery. By August, the last weeds in the field had been eaten. Momma said she could see the little horse getting thinner than she already was by the day.

The first week of September, school started along with the fall rains. The bony filly soon stood knee deep in muck.

That Friday night, I rode along with Momma when she wheeled her junker Ford into Hampsen’s drive. Though she ordered me to stay in the pickup, I could easily hear Momma’s usually soft voice. It wasn’t like she was shouting; something so strong in her voice carried it across the crisp September air. “You can either sell me that poor little horse or I swear I’ll call the animal welfare people and keep after them till they’re pounding on your door.”

Hampsen pulled a raggedy red bandana from the hip pocket of his dirty overalls. Loudly blowing his big, red nose, he eyed my momma as he stuffed the bandana back into his pocket. “I reckon I could let ‘er go for fifty dollars cash money.”

“Fifty dollars! I’m not goin’ to give you a dime over thirty dollars and I want a halter and lead rope, too. You should be payin’ me to take that poor creature.”

I held my breath. Then, just in case it might help, I crossed my fingers.

“Weelll….” He drawled. With an abrupt swing of his arm, the head of the ax he’d been leaning on thunked into the chopping block. “Ya gonna haul ‘er outta ‘ere on that?” He shoved his bristly chin at our truck.

Momma pulled her wallet out of her back pocket. “My daughter and I will walk her home.” We stalled her in our garage. I hand grazed her on the lawn while we built a pasture fence.

As I ran my hands down her brittle-coated sides, Momma and me had done the right thing. I was still talking to her when I heard them. Squinting towards the brown hill sloping up across the back of the twenty acres Grandpa’d left us, I watched as a slender doe staggered into sight. Even from where I stood, I saw the red stain on her shoulder. She bounded clumsily away moments before two, orange-hatted, bow hunters lazily trailed after her.

“Momma!” I yelled. As I scrambled towards the house, the back door banged open.

Momma’s feet pounded across the wooden porch floor. “Hey! Get off my land!” Her voice rang across the autumn afternoon.

“That’s our deer.” The heavier hunter shouted back.

“I said to get off my land, now!” The boom of Grandpa’s .38 punctuated her words.

The hunters stopped, staring down the hill at us. They were close enough for me to see the angry flush on the heavy one’s face.

Momma, straddle-legged, faced them, the black pistol aimed in their direction.

“Lissen, lady, back off. I’ve already marked that deer with my arrow.” Arrogance echoed in his words as he turned to continue the slow pursuit.

The gun barked again. The shot kicked up dirt in a bare patch a few feet ahead of the hunters. “Next time it won’t be the ground I shoot.” Momma’s voice didn’t sound nothing like her. The hard edge made my stomach clench up.

The men hesitated a moment longer. The shorter man gestured towards Momma, obviously arguing with the heavier man. Finally, they turned, stepping quickly back the way they’d come.

Momma didn’t waste time watching them leave. She hurried up the hill. Stopping where the hunters had stood, she gazed down a moment then picked up the deer’s path of flight, moving off silently, quickly. It wasn’t too long before I heard the gun boom again, just once.

I waited for Momma by the porch steps when she came down the hill. She caught my eyes then glanced away towards the pens holding the raccoon we’d patched up from an arrowhead infection in his shoulder and the raucous crow whose broken wing had never healed quite right. When Momma looked back at me, her smoky-gray eyes were tear filled. She lowered herself wearily to the steps. “Wasn’t anything else to do. She was so beautiful.”

Then Momma laid the gun on the porch and buried her face in her hands. For the third time in my life, I saw her cry.

The End.

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WHAT WERE THE CHILDREN DOING?

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WHAT WERE THE CHILDREN DOING?

During most disasters children are secluded from the harsh realities as well as possible.

On March 22, 2014, 10:47 a.m., the Highway 530 Mudslide swallowed the tiny community of Hazel.

Shortly after the slide hit, those people living EAST of the slide responded.

During the grueling day as hope flared then dwindled, the people from the small town of Darrington and the surrounding area east of the mudslide, labored to rescue those trapped.

What were the children doing?

Whatever was needed! Our young people immediately responded to the disaster.

Some joined the adults on the debris field, rescuing survivors.

Some worked at the Community Center preparing a hot meal for those slogging through the mud slurry and for the stunned and devastated city of Darrington and the surrounding area.

The next day and for many days thereafter, our youth continued their heroic efforts:

They packed lunches, sometimes hundreds of lunches

Helped prepare meals and then helped to serve them

Wrapped utensils to be used during meals

Worked on the debris field

Did welfare checks on older citizens

Cleaned houses for volunteers and displaced families to stay in

Unloaded trucks of donations

Shelved those donations

Delivered food and other necessities to families

Swept floors

Helped affected families move into temporary homes

Raised money and donated it to the victims

Washed fire trucks

Helped with animal care and animal food distribution

Wrote and performed a song of hope and strength for the people of Darrington

Drummed and “laid a blanket” ( a Native American ceremony performed by the Sauk-Suiattle People) for donations for the affected families

Did whatever was asked of them without complaint

How do I know this? I was the Darrington Volunteer Registrar during the disaster. Some of our youth worked as many as 15 hours a day, day-after-day. In the end, our young people donated over 3,000 hours of effort. And these are only the youth I know about! Many others worked but never registered with me.

Are we proud of our youth?

You betcha!

Our young people, ranging in age from Cub Scouts to seniors in high school, ARE the

DARRINGTON DO-ERS!

Thanks to all of them the recovery efforts were supported. Tired and disheartened and grief-stricken people received food, shelter, and other types of assistance as well as a renewal of hope.

These young people rock!

Do you have a story of young people who rock? Would love to hear it! Leave a comment!

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The Accidents (funny how they can happen…)

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THE ACCIDENTS

By Betty J. Matney/Aya Walksfar

Services were supposed to start at two o’clock. Here it was ten minutes after and folks still coming in. I didn’t dare turn around and look, but I could hear them in the aisle behind me. Seemed like everybody in the whole county decided to pack themselves into this church. Like this funeral was the social event of the season or something. I guess that was because it wasn’t a natural funeral. If there is such a thing. But you know what I mean. Natural’s when the person is really really old or has some real bad sickness and everybody is sort of expecting them to die.

We sat in the front pew and nobody tried to come sit with us. Didn’t help me none with Dr. Mike on one side and Aunt Rose on the other, I felt squished. Between the heavy perfume from the large spray of yellow roses standing at the head of the casket just a few feet away and sweat making my clothes stick to me, miserable didn’t come close to how I felt. I hadn’t wanted to come. Aunt Rose said I had to. Said folks would think it odd if I missed my own momma’s funeral. Aunt Rose pays a lot of attention to what folks think. She reminded me that morning that even little girls of eight had to act like ladies. Even little girls who’d become orphans.

Relief run through me when Reverend Baker came down the aisle and mounted the steps to the podium.

The good reverend had stopped by the house last evening. To bring us comfort and pray with us he said. So we’d all joined hands and he started praying. He didn’t waste any time before he had my mama being cradled in the Lord’s arms. About then I had all I could do to keep from upchucking. Mama didn’t go to heaven. Mama went straight to hell.

I know ’cause I was there the night my daddy died.

For the service though he started in right after the first prayer talking about what a happy marriage my parents had. I didn’t know what that had to do with my momma laying in that casket and pretty soon, my eyes started getting heavy. Well, they popped right back open when he began talking about my daddy drowning last summer. I could feel myself getting a bit huffy because he kept calling it an accident. It wasn’t. I know how my daddy died. Like I said before, I was there that night.

Then Reverend Baker started talking about how Mama had been so miserable and unhappy after my daddy’s accident.

After that the minister talked a lot about Mama’s slipping and falling over the side of the bluff. He kept calling it an accident, too; but you could tell he really thought she committed suicide. She didn’t jump. I know. I was there then, too.

Instead of stopping here like I thought he would, he went back to talking about my parents’ happy marriage. That’s when I shut my eyes and stopped listening and started remembering for myself. Remembering my life before my daddy died.

My memories always start in my special room. The room between Daddy’s den and the living room. My playroom.

Every day, Daddy’d come there and play with me. He’d sometimes toss me high in the air, almost to the ceiling. Time after time, he’d toss me until my long black hair pulled loose from its ribbons and streamed across my face. I’d squeal with laughter until I started hiccuping, then Mama’d start scolding and he’d stop. He’d laugh and sweep us both up into his arms and hug us. I’d stop hiccuping and Mama’d stop scolding and smile up at him. A crooked little smile that seemed to hold a secret only the two of them knew.

There were special days, too, like my fifth birthday. I was recovering from pneumonia; and Daddy wrapped me in a pink fuzzy blanket and carried me downstairs to the playroom to open my presents.

While I sat on the floor at his feet and carefully slid the paper off the boxes, Mama sat on the arm of the chair and ran her fingers through Daddy’s thick black hair. I’d steal a look up at her and Daddy and catch her shaking a finger and scolding him for spoiling me.

Daddy leaned down and hugged me close. “Daddies are supposed to spoil their best ladies,” and he’d laughed. Momma’d smiled at him with that special crooked smile.

My special room was a noisy, laughing room. Until that night in August a year ago. That night just a week after my seventh birthday. The night of the storm.

I remember the day started off cool and a little cloudy. I had to play inside because I had a cold. Mama went to town that afternoon to shop and have dinner with her sister, Aunt Rose. By the time Daddy got home from his office, the sky had turned almost black. I stood at the window, watching the wind dance wildly through the trees down by the lake.

Daddy’d already changed into jeans and a sweat shirt when he joined me at the window. I snuggled up against him; such a cozy feeling to have Daddy’s arms around me as we watched the clouds chasing each other across the sky. He said he thought the storm would pass us by, but the sky looked awfully black to me.

Daddy got a little fire crackling in the fireplace and Nellie, our day maid, set up a card table with a red and white checkered tablecloth and two folding chairs. When I wrinkled my forehead at Daddy, he smiled real big. “Thought me and my best girl might have a little picnic.” Mrs. Haggarty, our housekeeper, brought in hot dogs and french fries and lemonade. She winked at me when she placed a plate of peanut butter cookies–my favorite–on the table.

Later in the evening, after my bath, I dressed in my nightie and dragged a blanket to the room so I could keep Daddy company while he waited for Momma. Nellie and Cook left for the day, and Mrs. Haggarty left for choir rehearsal, but none of them mattered. Daddy let me curl up on his lap as he read to me, but I noticed he kept looking at his watch.

The last of the cedar logs in the fireplace had become nothing more than glowing red lumps, when we heard the first clap of thunder. The storm hadn’t passed us by. Great drops of rain splattered on the floor behind us; and my daddy’s white deck shoes made squeaky sounds as he hurried across the room. He muttered as he slammed the window down. Daddy hated it when it got too stormy for him to go sailing.

Once a week, he took our boat out to sail by himself on the dark deserted lake. He took my mama and me sailing a lot, too. But never at night.

Now heavy gusts of wind drove the rain, slashing it across the windows, and whipping the tall azalea bushes just outside the glass into a frenzy until the branches tore at the glass between us and the bushes. The lights flickered, and I caught my breath. My heart pounded and I shivered.

Daddy rubbed circles on my back and reminded me that we had plenty of candles. He put a pillow from the sofa on the floor and had me lay down while he tucked the blanket in around me. In spite of the storm, I fell asleep curled up in the shadows alongside his chair.

Angry voices woke me.

I rolled over and looked up. Daddy and Mama stood in front of the fireplace. Daddy stood half turned away, one hand shoved in his pants’ pocket and the other gripping the mantle. Head bent, he appeared to be staring into the fire. Momma stood a couple of steps back facing him, her hands clenched into fists at her side.

Her voice shook as it rose and fell. I only caught snatches of what she yelled as she stormed back and forth in front of Daddy. “All those nights….sailed by yourself….Alice….not stupid….across the lake….divorce….”

Daddy’s voice sounded cold, like the winter. “Your sister should mind her tongue.” He lifted his face and the look on it made me tremble. “I don’t expect you to understand, but a man needs his freedom.”

I squeezed my eyes shut again, pulled the blanket over my head. Hands over my ears, I hummed softly. I’d never seen my parents made at each other.

A few minutes later, I stopped humming and pulled the blanket down. The room had gotten quiet. I peeked around the legs of the chair. No one in the room but me. I scrambled to my feet, pulled my nightgown up around my knees and rushed out.

At the end of the hall, Daddy yanked his jacket from the closet. He had only one arm in his jacket when he jerked open the front door and strode out into the storm. Mama, her heavy sandals with their high, square heels thumping on the tile floor, didn’t even reach for a jacket as she darted out after him.

By the time I reached the front porch, my parents had disappeared. I thought I’d lost them in the darkness when lightning flashed across the sky. Daddy’s blue windbreaker billowed out behind him as he headed for the strip of sandy beach at the far edge of our lawn. Momma ran after him, but her yellow skirt kept wrapping around her legs. She stopped and stepped out of her sandals. She clutched them in one hand and hiked up her skirt with her other hand then took out after Daddy. The glow from the lightning faded and darkness closed in again.

I raced after them, felt the grass turn to sand beneath my feet. Lightning flashed again as I reached our pier. Daddy stood in the back of our small sailboat tied to the end of the pier. My bare feet skidded on the wet boards of the dock. My long hair whipped across my face. I stopped and pushed it back. Thunder cracked and lightning flashed. I squinted into the rain.

My breath got caught in my chest and I covered my mouth with both hands. Daddy had untied the boat from the dock. He couldn’t really mean to go out on that black water! A gust of wind slapped me and my foot hit a slick spot on the boards. I flailed my arms, but still slammed down on the dock.

Thunder cracked in a nearly continuous roll while lightning sizzled and crackled like some terrible monster across the sky. Gasping for air, I watched as Momma dropped her sandals then grabbed the rope Daddy had untied. The wind shoved our little boat sideways against the dock.

Momma yelled something, but I couldn’t hear. Daddy yanked the rope from her hands. As her gripped broke, she stumbled and fell to her knees, knocking one of her sandals into the water.

Daddy bent over the little motor on the back of the boat as Momma stood up. Flashes of lightning and rolling thunder turned Momma’s face into a devil’s mask as she lifted her arm high over her head and stepped closer to Daddy. With a downward swing, she slammed the thick heel of her sandal against Daddy’s head.

I screamed as Daddy’s legs crumpled and he fell face down into the boat. Momma bent and shoved the boat. It hesitated then the churning water pulled it away from the dock. Momma watched as the boat twisted and spun beneath the force of wind and wave.

Frozen, eyes wide as lightning shattered the darkness, I watched my Daddy’s boat as I fought to stand up.

Momma’s shoe slipped from her fingers and fell into the cold, black water. I scrambled to my feet as the wild water lifted Daddy’s little boat and the wind snatched it, slammed it into the black boulders just beyond the beach.

As the lightning faded, Momma turned and walked across the beach, toward the house. In the sudden blackness, I stumbled from the dock and found my way home, too. I don’t think she ever saw me.

Nightgown clinging to my wet body, and teeth chattering, I climbed into bed, curled into a ball deep under the covers. A wispy shadow of fear nibbled at my stomach. It was scary to hate my momma so much.

I drifted in and out of sleep. I couldn’t get warm and it became harder and harder to breath.

I have only two clear memories of the next few days. One is of Mrs. Haggarty slipping warmed socks over my ice cold feet, and me being too tired to tell her thank you. The other is of crying for my daddy, and Dr. Mike holding me close, surprising me with his tears wet against my hot face.

When I finally came fully awake, the late afternoon sunshine filtered through the open venetian blinds making zebra stripes across the dark blue quilt of my bed. I lay quietly, weak and exhausted from pneumonia.

My bedroom door opened, but I kept my eyes shut until Dr. Mike sat down on the edge of my bed. He pulled me up close to him, and rocked me slowly back and forth. When he began to speak, I could hear the words rumble deep in his chest.

Leaning my cheek into the hollow of his shoulder, I listened to the murmur of his voice. I was so warm and cozy that for a few moments I didn’t really listen. He’d used the word “accident” a couple of times before I realized he was talking about my daddy.

I shook my head violently, struggling in his arms. “Mama. Mama,” I croaked. My voice came out scratchy and my throat hurt. Before I could explain further, he put a finger against my lips and hushed me.

Carefully, he held me away from him by the shoulders and looked closely into my face. He said I’d been very sick for over a week, and that Mama was very sick, too. He said I’d been sick in the body, but Mama was sick in her spirit; and sometimes spirit sickness took longer to get over than the body kind.

He shushed me again when I tried to speak.

After a few minutes, Dr. Mike stood up and, while he was tucking the covers around me, he spoke again. “Your mother took your daddy’s…accident…very hard. I’m sure she’ll be okay eventually. It’s just going to take awhile, and for now the best place for her is in a special hospital where they understand this kind of sickness. But I’ll be here for you and so will your Aunt Rose.”

He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. I heard him muttering as he walked across to the door, “Too young. Too young. Not even sure she understands her daddy’s dead.”

Dr. Mike was wrong. I’d known my daddy must be dead before I left the dock that night. And I understood about Mama. Maybe better than he did. She did just what I’d done the night of the storm. She pulled the blanket over her head and hid.

When I got well enough to go downstairs, Mrs. Haggarty put a big soft chair in front of the windows in my playroom. I spent hours curled up in it looking out the window. Looking at the lake. Watching the sailboats. Thinking.

At first, I pretended I was out there with my daddy. Then it’d come to me that we’d never go sailing again, and I’d remember why. I got so mad I’d hug myself real hard for fear the anger would leak out and lay like a puddle of dirty water on the rug.

The first couple of days when Mrs. Haggarty brought me lunch she did a lot of patting me on the head and sniffling. She kept acting like she wanted to say something, but it wasn’t until the third day that she managed to stammer out that if I wanted to talk about anything she’d be there to listen. I looked down at the floor and mumbled thanks, and after a minute or two, she left the room. That was the only time anyone even came close to asking me about that night. Even Dr. Mike only gave me reports on how well my mama was doing. He never asked me if I wanted to talk. That was okay. I’d wait. Momma had to come home sometime.

Aunt Rose moved into our house to take care of me and manage things until Momma could get well. We’d never liked each other much and this arrangement didn’t change anything. At dinner she’d ask about my day. I’d say it’d been fine. She’d ask if I’d done my homework. I’d say yes. And that was that.

At school, the teachers sort of walked and talked around me. Now and then, I’d catch them giving me a sorrowful look and shaking their heads. Even the kids gave me space. No teasing. No shoving. No getting in my face. Nothing. And no one ever mentioned my parents.

Late spring Aunt Rose brought Momma home. Momma kept to her room and Doctor Mike came every morning to see her. I started to go in one morning, but Aunt Rose stopped me. Said I looked too much like my daddy and it might upset my mother. Aunt Rose said she’d let me know when it was time for me to see Momma.

A couple of weeks after Momma came home, I passed her bedroom on my day down to breakfast when I heard her laughing. I stopped. When I heard it again, I cracked the door and peeked in.

My heart started beating so fast I thought it was going to jump right out of my chest.

There was my momma, looking up at Dr. Mike with that crooked little smile she’d always kept just for my daddy. My stomach twisted and bile filled my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut and swallowed as hard as I could. It didn’t matter that my daddy was dead. It should still have been his special smile.

A couple of days later that Mama had her tragic accident.

There’d been a heavy fog that morning. The kind of fog that left everything dripping. I probably would have stayed inside except I heard Dr. Mike’s car pull in to the driveway. I didn’t know what I’d do if I saw Mama smiling at him again, so I grabbed my toast and slipped out the back door before Mrs. Haggarty could stop me. I headed up the path towards the top of the bluff where I could sit on a stump and wait for the fog to finish lifting.

The fog clung like a blanket across the trees that surrounded the path, muting the normal morning noises. Wrapped in a soft cocoon of silence, I puffed around the last curve. Someone else stood on the edge of the bluff ahead of me. At first, I thought it was Aunt Rose then she pushed the hood of the yellow slicker back. Momma stood staring down at the boulder strewn beach below.

I walked toward her and just kept walking. I don’t know why she didn’t hear me. If only she turned around…

A few steps from her, I lunged. My arms straight out, the flat of my hands hit her just below the shoulder blades. I threw myself backward as Momma teetered on the edge. Her left hand grasped at the boulder next to her, but fog had slicked it. Her fingers slipped off the rock. She windmilled her arms then fell forward into the air.

She didn’t scream. At least, I don’t think she did. All I heard was the silence echoing around me.

The silence in my head sent me scurrying when folks reached for their hymnals. The minister’s wife began to play the piano. Dr. Mike nudged me with his elbow and I stood up.

The minister led the procession out of church. As it passed my pew, I suddenly felt all clean and empty inside. Dr. Mike laid his hand on my shoulder. It lay there a couple of moments before he removed it and sort of nudged me to move on out into the aisle. I stepped out and then half turned to tuck my hand into his only to find another hand already there before mine. Aunt Rose’s hand. And she was smiling up at him. I felt my face freezing over. How dare she! She got my daddy into trouble. Her and that woman named Alice.

It’s been a few weeks since Momma’s funeral. I look out the window to where the hill dips down and the green lawn ends at the lake’s edge.

Alice.

Across the blue water, a stiff breeze fills white sails and sends the small boats skimming the still surface. Aunt Rose nudges me. I smile up at her as I wonder what kind of accident she will have.

I glance back out at the lake. Maybe Alice was out there right now. Sailing with some other little girl’s daddy. That was all right. I think I already know what kind of accident she’s going to have.

The End

Betty was an older woman, and a writer, who lived with my wife and I until her death a number of years ago. I know she would be as pleased as I to share this story with you.

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Oh, the people you will meet!

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Megan Cyrulewski is an amazing and interesting young woman, one I have been privileged to know. Weeks ago I did this interview with Megan, but then the Highway 530 Mudslide hit and swallowed all of my time as effectively as it swallowed the tiny community of Hazel, Washington.

Megan Cerulewski is an interesting woman. She is an attorney, a single parent, and a writer who runs a blog that benefits other authors. I was pleased when she agreed to an interview. What Megan has to say is worth listening to. I hope you enjoy meeting this fascinating woman as much as I did.

Do you see yourself as a ‘strong woman’?

This is an interesting question because if you had asked me three years ago, I would have said no. Today, however, I know I am a strong woman. I overcame a lot in a short amount of time and even though there were times when I wanted to give up, all I had to do was look at Madelyne. She is the reason why I’m stronger than ever.

How would you define strong women?

I think it depends on the situation. Strong women can be visible such as Hilary Clinton or can be a woman like my mother who was a stay-at-home mom. I believe every woman is a strong woman; some just take a little bit longer to find their inner strength.

What are some of the things you are doing to help your daughter grow into a confident, independent woman?

I have to admit that I’m a little overprotective when it comes to Madelyne because of the situation with her father. However, I also try my best to let Madelyne be who she wants to be. I make sure to praise her intelligence and encourage her love of reading. I think education is the key to becoming confident and independent, and I don’t mean just inside of a classroom. For example, in the summer, I take her to Greenfield Village (an outdoor museum near metro-Detroit), the Zoo or our local Nature Center so she can ask questions and expand her knowledge base. As Sesame Street always states, “The more you know, the smarter you grow!”

What do you think of the “Ban Bossy” project?

I absolutely love and encourage this project and I will tell you why. When I was in 5^th grade, I was the only girl on our elementary school Safety Squad. I was made Lieutenant – the first girl ever toget that position. However, I remember some of the boys on the safety squad were really mad, but their parents told them I got the position because I was a girl. I actually had my picture and an interview in the newspaper because I was the first ever girl lieutenant. At the time, I didn’t understand why everyone made such a big deal. Now, I do. Apparently in 1989, it was still thought of as almost impossible that a girl could have a leadership position. I hate to think that that prejudice is still around over 20 years later, and yet it is.

What do you think of toys like those from Goldiblox?

http://www.goldieblox.com/pages/about

I have to be honest and say that I have tried my hardest to get Madelyne to like princesses. I finally got her to watch Cinderella…and she likes to pretend she’s the fairy Godmother. I even bought her the Little People Princess Castle but I think it might be collecting dust. I buy her a lot of pink outfits because that’s my favorite color. Madelyne tells me to buy more yellow outfits because that’s her favorite color.

Madelyne is a mini-engineer, just like her Grandpa. She loves to build and create, so we compromise. She has a miniature toolbox set, but it’s pink. She has a dump truck, but she does let Cinderella drive it. Depending on the day, she either wants to be an architect, a teacher, a “diggy truck” driver or a tree with acorns when she grows up. (I have no idea where she got the last one.) I say as long as she’s happy, then she can do whatever she wants.

However, she does love her dance class and wearing her pink tutu!

To learn more about Megan, visit her website: www.megancyrulewski.com

YOUR CHANCE TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE!

AN UNEXPECTED HONOR

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I’d like to thank #AllisonBruning at http://www.allisonbruning.blogspot.com for nominating me for The Lighthouse Award. Never heard of it, but love what it stands for: #bloggers who like to help people! It always feels so good to be recognized.

There are gifts given to every person. How we use those gifts determines what kind of human we become. Writing is one of my gifts. For me, writing is about helping others: it provides mental relaxation, adds to knowledge, highlights important issues, provides role models and most of all, gives us hope.

Another gift is my love for Mother Earth. In 1996, my wife and I purchased 12 acres of abused farmland that we named Wild Haven. What had once been forested wetlands had fifty or so years before been logged, the pathways of water changed and made into farmland. The farmland was then abused by overuse and negligence. By the time we bought it invasive weeds controlled eleven acres of the 12. Bodies of dead animals and birds lay scattered like discarded rubbish. The people that had owned it loved to kill, not to eat but to destroy. Not even a bird flew over the land until our medicine man came and cleansed it. The first bird to return was a hummingbird. Now we host 68 different species of birds over the course of a year’s time as well as a number of mammals such as coyote, fox, rabbit, possum, raccoon, deer, an occasional cougar, and a black bear who loves our fall apples. Three species of salmon now call our creek a pathway to spawning grounds. In 2001 the National Wildlife Federation certified our farm was Wildlife Habitat. In 2002, we have won a county award for Wildlife Farm of the Year. In 2003, we won the Washington State Award for #Wildlife Small Farm of the Year. #Conservation is the gift we give to the generations yet to come. What kind of world will we hand on?

To see more photos of Wild Haven, go to http://www.pinterest.com/ayawalksfar Look at Jaz Wheeler’s Farm board.

The third gift I have been graced with is the ability to look at writing of others and see where I can suggest changes that will make it stronger, clearer. I don’t do the polish editing like my wonderful editor, Lee Hargroder Porche, but what I call developmental editing. I help clarify timelines, pick up on dialog that isn’t realistic and other details that can make an author’s work a bit more real.

The Lighthouse Award requires that a blogger:

• Display the Award Certificate on your blog.

• Write a post and link back to the blogger that nominated you.

• Inform your nominees of their award nominations.

• Share three ways that you like to help others.

• Nominate as many bloggers as you like.

When I think about all the people who #blog and who make helping others a large part of their lives, there are too many to list. But here are some that I nominate for The Lighthouse Award:

#RubyStandingDeer at http://www.rubystandingdeer.com whose Native American series is a spiritual journey

#ErikaSzabo at http://www.authorerikamszabo.com who tirelessly worked to bring to us the Read for Animals book and event

#WiseandWildWomen at http://wildandwisewomen.com whose entire goal is the uplifting of women

#JenWilliams at with http://myraysoflight.wordpress.com who constantly brings forth issues we need to consider

#JumbledWriter at http://www.jumbledwriter.com whose blog and subjects are all about conversations that help people consider timely issues

Please visit these wonderful blogs. You’ll be glad that you did! Be sure to CLICK and FOLLOW so you don’t miss new posts!

To share in the conversations, join Aya on http://www.facebook.com/ayawalksfar

To check out Aya’s latest works go to http://www.facebook.com/AyaWalksfarAuthor

To see some really cool photos click over to http://www.pinterest.com/ayawalksfar

Aya Walksfar, Author

Hard hitting, in-the-news murder mysteries

Tag Archives: children

2 INTERESTING #BOOKS ,REGARDLESS OF READER’S AGE

MEET THREE REMARKABLE WOMEN

THE CHAMELEON’S LEGACY

Seals and Sea Lions, Oh My!

THE DAY OF THE DEER

WHAT WERE THE CHILDREN DOING?

The Accidents (funny how they can happen…)

Oh, the people you will meet!

YOUR CHANCE TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE!

AN UNEXPECTED HONOR