JULY 30

Most of my early memories are not pleasant but they were all I had.  I remember a few different places where we lived, events that happened in those houses and I held on for dear life to each and every memory.  In my young mind, I construed and misconstrued them into something good and something positive, grateful for the few moments that I could carry with me into my new life.  Years later, when reunited with my real family, I learned just how accurate my memory was.

The first house that we lived in I can remember fairly clearly.  A corner store up the street from us was painted with an unusual red-and-white-striped theme on the exterior that I never forgot.  We went there quite a bit although I cannot fathom where we got the money.  In those days, you could find quite a few glass pop bottles lying around on lawns and sidewalks.  Small bottles were 2 cents and large bottles were 10 cents.  We could buy 3 black balls (stop giggling!  They were min-gob stoppers) for 1 penny so on a good day of hunting, we could get in a good haul of candy!  Just what a

poor family lacking in nutrition needed.  And we were way too young to be crossing that busy street.    http://www.treehugger.com/

http://www.bonbonsconnexion.com/

Many years later as a teen, I was riding the bus past a store that had that same red-and-white-striped pattern.  I became convinced that this was the same red-and-white store from my toddlerhood but had no way of knowing for sure.  There were a lot more privately-owned variety stores back then and very few chain stores so this store would have been one-of-a-kind.  A few years later, when I had met my real family again for the first time in 15 years, they told me about the various places where they had lived.  One of those places was right up the street from this store.  I could not believe that I had remembered!

I was by there on one of my rare outings about a year ago.  I need those trips down Memory Lane occasionally!  Anyway, this store is still there and still painted red and white.  The stripes are gone but, after more than 50 years, it's still there, as bright and vibrant as it was in my youth!  It is a lovely red brick building with the corner bricks painted white and now it is much more elegant but it's still my store!

Knowing that I had remembered accurately was exhilarating!  But it also meant that those 'other' memories were likely accurate, also. 

JULY 21

The few (and only) times I ever talked about my earliest memories to my adoptive family, I was told that children do not remember much before their 5th birthday.  Any story that children think they remember is just that...a story.  They likely overheard it on TV, the radio or heard people talk.  In my case, I was just looking for attention.  If you're looking for attention, you're being bad, as good children are seen and not heard!  You must therefore be ignored until you can learn to be good!  While they were busy 'ignoring' me, they would routinely forget about me.

  I was also told that if I asked for something, I could not have it because I was rude enough to ask.  How dare I?!  I seldom if ever got anything, let alone something that I really wanted.  When someone was going somewhere and I could have gone along, I would end up not getting to go.  Why?  They didn't know I wanted to go because I didn't ask and why didn't I speak up?!!

So you see, dear daughter, even to this day, it is engrained in me not to ask for help unless I can show blood, a broken bone is showing through the skin, I've fainted or I've fallen and can't get up.  I tried never to call friends just to chat.  I made sure that I always had a 'reason' for interupting their day because I felt so guilty for bothering them.  But even that backfired when my friend Paula (you remember Paula?), near the end of one friendly chat said, "OK, so what did you call for?"  After I repeated her question in shock, she said, "Yeah, everytime you call, you want something."  I politely told her that I felt that I needed a reason to call her, as I could not otherwise justify disturbing her.  I never called her or anyone else again.  Your father answered the phone when he was around, I let the answering machine do its job and I got you to handle your calls to her daughter yourself.  You were getting old enough to arrange your own playdates and sleepovers, anyway.

   Talking about your problems was a sign of weakness and there just ain't no way I'ma gonna do that!  If you showed weakness in my adoptive family, the human vultures would circle.  They would dive in with their sharp claws of ridicule, insults, taunting cruelty.  One needs to build a high wall of protection around oneself and by writing this down, I'm am working oh-so-slowly to bring down that wall, brick by brick.  It is such tedious, draining work.  Tedious because I have always written things out with an actual pen, not a computer and I am losing my energy.  Draining can apply to physical energy but even more so, at least for me, it can apply to emotional, psychological and mental energy.  So you see, dearest daughter, you simply must forgive me every time I get sidetracked from a story.  I feel an intense need to stop and justify everything I say and do before I can continue.  Perhaps it's just as well that you are not here so I can just keep writing without constantly seeking your permission and approval.  Time for me to grow up and just get on with the task at hand... wouldn't you say?

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/
http://www.wjbf.com/

My Beginning

I haven't written to you for a while, my dear daughter.  Sometimes they keep us so busy here, especially over the long weekend , what with fireworks and families visiting and whatnot.  Since my family doesn't visit, I can sneak away and write when the other residents have private time with their family members.  Everyone thinks I'm sleeping!  TeeHee!  What they don't know...  Oh, it could be worse!  I might have family visiting and I would actually have to spend time with them!  Horrors!

The subject matter at hand, my real family, is a tough one.  It's a tough one to get back to and, if I'm honest with myself, I have to admit that I've been grateful for the excuse not to write and thereby not have to think about past woes.  But I musn't dally too often or for too long as I am sure that I'm running out of time and I will run out of energy before that.

I was born Aug. 2, 1961, the 6th child of 10.  I cannot imagine, knowing my mother as I do now, that baby #1 got much to eat, let alone baby #6.  I'm sure we did not get much love or attention and my mother wouldn't have cared or noticed.  If you can name it, we likely didn't have it.

  None of us know for sure, who our fathers are, although officially, all the others have a listed father.  But unofficially, when the cat's away...and in this case, it was my mother playing, as well as the 'fathers' and I believe she could name any number of men to be each of her kids fathers.  Where was Jerry Springer or Maury Povich, for that matter?!  My mother could have rocked both those shows and made those teens look like amateurs!  I don't think poor Maury could keep up with all the DNA testing needed and the show might go broke.  Imagine!  A low-life family like ours being responsible for bankrupting the Povich show!  Couldn't happen.  Could it??

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http://www.webtvwire.com/

JUNE 30

I've always refused to talk about my 'real' family, my biological family.  I never believed the things that happened to me were my fault but at a certain age, I slowly began to realize that others sure seemed to.  I became very ashamed of who I was although nothing was ever under my control. 

My family was really poor.  My mother had 10 kids in all and finally maried after the last one, something completely unheard of in that day and age.  We didn't know it at the time as we were so young, but we were already 'marked' at birth.  Born to an unwed mother in the 60's sentenced you automatically to a life of welfare, squalor and rejection.  Nowadays, young girls pop out 'illegitimate bastards' all the time.  That's what they called us, you know, and that meant there was no hope for us.  Oh, I know there was the whole peace and hippie movement and 'love' children were being born, but that seemed to be further away, somewhere else.  Where we lived, everyone lived in perfect families in perfect harmony...and then there was our kind...the kind that were embarrassing to live near.  The kind that you pretended not to see on the street or crossed over the street to avoid and tried your best to move away from.  The kind that brought your property value down...but what did any of that have to do with me?  Or any of my siblings?  At birth and toddler-hood, we were still innocent...mostly of the fact that we were already 'marked'!

http://www.dealwithwhites.com/

JUNE 23

Because I know (hope!) that this will not be read until I'm gone, I feel free to write as I wish.  You can't stop me, no one can!  I can call you any name I want, tell any story I choose and no one can stop me!  Do I sound a bit like an immature brat?  A bit like a 'nah-nah, you can't stop me' brat?  Well, on these pages, I'm free to be that, too!  But really, I just want to tell you of who you are and how your family came to be.  And maybe a touch of the other, too!  Tee Hee!!!

I write bits and pieces of this on days when I when I am feeling inspired and energetic.  Inspired and energetic.  If only those 2 things would occur on the same day more often.  Sigh!

There are certain subjects that no child wants to think about in connection with their parents.  No child should ever have to know.  So I will refrain from any of that.  I will spare you the details!

JUNE 20

My reasons for writing this are two-fold, selfish and unselfish.  I've always wondered if I could write so it's time to try.  I know that I can't sing, dance, rap (thank goodness!) or write poetry.  I've never been, nor will I ever be, a raving beauty.  The raving part, for sure at times, but never the beauty.  I'll never sprout up to 5'10", the boobs sank south long ago, the extra weight that I managed to lose a few times is back and I guess it will see me to my grave.  There's not enough time left for me to lose it again.  Sigh...  The blond hair of my youth, long ago, could be had again.  Not sure how many bottles of bleach it would take but I could make it happen!  But why bother?  There are enough bottle-blonds in this place already, I figure they don't need another.  Sooo, perhaps I can write.  Or, perhaps not.  Either way, I won't be here to care!

Mostly though, I want for you and your 5 siblings to know what went on before.  When you're all older, grayer and wondering why you are as you are or, more likely, why your siblings are as they are, you can refer back to these letters and say, "Ah, so that's why John is the way he is.  He takes after Dad!"

Best part about writing this?  It's supposedly therapeutic to write things down but there's nothing therapeutic about writing things down if you 'get caught'.  If someone reads this while I'm still alive, I'll feel as though I've been 'caught' and going to get 'shit' from someone.  I'd be afraid that someone would confiscate it, like a school child, or worse, read it or worst of all, read it out loud!  I've been treated with enough disrespect, criticism and contempt to last 10 people a lifetime and cannot take any chances.  I'm hiding these letters really well.  When I'm gone, they'll be mailed to you and I will never have to see your reaction.  I'll never have to see anyone's reaction ever again and that's kind of a relief!  Not the way I imagined my life playing out but does anyone get to live his life the way he wishes?  The very thing that I have dreaded the most, the certainty of my impending death, has indeed freed me to do things I feared so much in the past!!

I've added this picture of a blond Miss Piggy, dear daughter, to help to lighten the mood for you.  It's a pretty heavy subject matter and maybe I'm doing more for myself!

http://www.cherishedfriends.com/

TO MY DEAREST DAUGHTER. JUNE 14

As I sit here dying a little more each day, approaching death's door little by little, I've come to realize a few things.  I realize how quickly time flies.  I realize that I need to put my thoughts down on paper before they are no more, before time leaves me for good. 

I realize that people spend an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out how they became who they are and why they behave as they do.  The sum of our total does not derive only from own experiences but also from the experiences of those who have gone before us.  We pass on our own fears, worries, expectations and our lack of expectations from certain kinds of people and certain situations. 

I know that my own children are who they are and make the decisions they do partly because of their own experiences in life, the experiences of their friends and neighbors but also because of the attitudes, likes and dislikes of their father and myself.  It's impossible to leave our own views out of things but it can be equally uplifting or damaging.  Many choices made in my life - some by me, some for me and some against me - contributed to the lifelong sense of helplessness and rage I've felt and I KNOW I've passed it on.  My intentions may have been pure but the impact is just as intense - either wanting to curl up on your bed and wither away or tearing into the world head-on, stopping at nothing and stepping on everything in order to control the world around you.  All 6 of my children have chosen 1 form or other in order to cope, usually to some extreme.

I was her caregiver but only as a volunteer and only in a volunteer's capacity.  There wasn't a lot I was allowed to do - I was mostly there for companionship.  I believe that made your mother trust me more and her trust helped to compensate for all I could not do.  I was there because I wanted to be and she knew it.  There was no money involved and she knew that I received little in the way of appreciation.  I continued to volunteer simply for the pleasure that her company -amongst others- brought me.  I was equally lonely, having never married and we needed each other.  At least, we both needed someone and we'd always considered the timing of our friendship to be nothing short of a miracle.

It would be absurd to think that your mother shared everything with me but how much more could there be?  Hers was such a tale of sadness and woe that I cannot imagine what else there is.

Now, I don't believe that you deserve this package of letters.  You most certainly do not deserve anything that your mother labored over so intensely and lovingly.  But she made me promise to send these letters to you as her last outpouring of love and I suppose, her last plea for compassion and understanding.  I'm convinced that it's a futile effort and a complete waste of my time and the last of your mother's energy.  For her, though, I would do anything, including putting my own angst and grief aside.
I beg of you not to burn or destroy these letters.  In memory of the woman who gave you life, please return them instead!

Your mother would not speak a word against you nor allow anyone else to.  So I held my tongue.  She was so very proud of her grandchildren that I didn't have the heart to tell her that I spent your one and only visit here picking up, cleaning up and paying up after your kids.  The broken lamps and picture frames were replaced quickly so she wouldn't know.  The only blessing to your whole visit was her smile and her lack of willingness to face the truth.  It saved us all from a harsh time, I suppose.  She never asked where her irreplaceable record collection went - whether she couldn't remember it or chose not to ruin what time she had left with negative talk.  I guess we'll never know.  Either way, it was painful to watch.  Her giving, you taking right to the very end.

During the years that I looked after your mother, she told me many stories about her family.  Her life was sad, her childhood deprived and she waited her entire life, it seemed, for the abuse and neglect to end.  She told me her stories in random sprints, falling silent afterwards for days.  At that point, I think that she always regretted her decision to 'share'.  Another month would go by and she'd be ready again.  She seemed happiest during that month - after she'd recuperated from the shame of divulging her secrets and before the need to do so again swept over her.

therockologist.com

When your mother was sick for years, you were abroad.  First you were abroad studying (partying!), then you were abroad romancing, travelling, generally living the high life.  Always at someone else's expense, never your own.  Oh, I know you finished journalism school, but the rest...   I'm so grateful that your mother didn't - refused to? - know about the rest.  You were her last hope that one of her children would turn out AND come home to her.  It took her years to save up enough to send you to school and the thought that you may not have made good with it might have been more than she could bare in her fragile state.

When you finally settled down with that nice Italian boy, your mother was so happy!  One of her children was married!  Not 'living in sin'!  And not divorced!  That was so important to her, old-fashioned or not, so I guess that in a way, I'm grateful to you for lying to her and not telling her about your breakup and subsequent divorce.  It would have destroyed what was left of her broken heart.  I just wish that lying wasn't such a big part of your life.

Thanks to the two kids that 'the wealthy one' (as you called him) gave you, you got a whole mess of money in the settlement, enough to set you up for years.  Enough to keep you 'gallivanting' (one of your mom's favorite words) all over the place.  Not that this gallivanting was anything new.  I'm pretty sure you were doing so during the marriage and as they say, the ink was barely dry on the divorce papers and you were at it again.  This time, more publicly.  Publicly enough that we kept the newspapers from your mom at the care center. 

It never occurred to you to share a penny with your unwealthy, unhealthy mother or to come home for more than one visit every 15 years.  Lots more travel and designer clothes, lots more men and lots more nannies.  Nannies to look after your kids, who will no doubt turn out exactly like their mother.