To Know Him is to Love Him (Part 2)

On By Gay BarzeeLeave a comment

It’s Father’s Day and I’m ruminating about my Dad again, so I thought it might be fun to add to my series of stories of him that I remember. I know this isn’t even a drop in the bucket of what I remember, but I wanted to share these stories so they are not forgotten and this man who loved his children dearly is always remembered.

The Dance

A while back, my sister recently gave me a picture of me with my Mom and Dad. I was probably about three or four years old.  I thought it was really funny because I am standing between my parents who were sitting down.  The top of my head reaches my Dad just under his arm.  I’m standing there with my tongue out, apparently licking my lips from something good from the refreshment table.  At first I thought this picture was at a church service because it clearly is the church that I attended as a child. As I looked closer, though, I noticed that both my parents are wearing flowers.  My Mom has a corsage and my Dad has a boutonniere pinned to his lapel.  This could only mean one thing.  They were at a church dance.

My parents loved to dance and whenever there was an opportunity to attend, they were there.  I believe that this picture was at a “Gold and Green Ball.”  My church, back in the day, used to hold these balls every year. I was young enough that my parents took me with them this particular year.  It has always been one of the earliest memories I have with my parents and dancing.  They didn’t just take me and leave me on the sidelines to watch, they took me in their arms and danced me around with them.  I remember my Dad holding me in his left arm, my Mom securely holding him with her right and we would twirl around the room, just the three of us.  It was a very special night for me and probably the beginning of my love for dancing.  Now that I have the picture of my Mom all dressed up in her pretty dress (most likely one she sewed for the occasion), Dad in his suit and tie, me in my fluffy dress, it solidifies that memory and gives me a memento of that very special night.  I will never forget how it felt to float around the room, securely in the arms of my parents.

Dad’s Suit

My Dad’s suit was always my go to place if I wanted a treat.  He always, always, always had mints or gum in his suit pocket.  I know it was because he never wanted to have bad breath at church, but I took advantage of the situation and helped myself when no one was watching.  I remember sneaking into my parent’s room and quietly opening the closet door to Dad’s side, searching his pockets for mints.  These mints were not like the ones you find today.  He always had the giant pink or white double-thick Ganong Canadian wintergreen mints that have been sold for around a hundred years.  They were big enough that two would fit nicely in my small palm and give me a daily treat.  If it wasn’t mints, then he had Wrigley’s DoubleMint gum in his pocket.  Either way, it was satisfying.

So here’s the thing about the gum and mints and how my Dad responded when he noticed things missing from his pockets.  He never said a word.  He just went out and got more and re-filled his pockets.  I’m sure he noticed, but he was the kind of person that arguing and fighting about things like that was not important. It was more important to bring a little happiness to a child.

I very rarely got treats at home, unless it was something that my Mom baked or made, but my Dad would take me to town with him and buy me a soda (glass bottles) or candy bar (giant bars).  I was always more than willing to go to town with Dad so I could cash in on his generosity and satisfy my sweet tooth.

The Ironing Basket

I don’t recall at what age, but at some point it became my job to help with laundry duties. Before we owned a dryer, we would wash our clothes in the washing machine then take them outside to hang them on the clothesline to dry. Yes, we actually used clothes pins and they had to stay on the line for most of the day. Once dry, they would be brought in and they were always wrinkled.  The sun and wind did not get the wrinkles out like dryers do today. They needed ironing.  Once in the house, they would need to be prepped for ironing.  We did not have steam irons, so we would need to sprinkle them lightly with water to give them a little moisture when ironing.  I would sprinkle them, fold them and roll them up like a towel.  They would then be put in the basket to be ironed.  Dad had a lot of shirts. I don’t remember him wearing anything other than cotton button down shirts, even when out working in the fields and they all needed ironing.  It took me the good part of a day and sometimes all day to get them ironed. I remember Dad’s shirts for the most part, but I also had to learn how to iron dresses, blouses and other things. It was quite a chore at the time, but even today when I’m sewing and ironing, I still remember carefully ironing Dad’s shirts. Going around the buttons, making sure they were pressed nicely so he would look his best no matter where he was, even out in the field irrigating.

Dust Bowl

As I got older, I graduated to driving tractors and helping with the planting, plowing, cultivating, harrowing, disking the soil and other soil preparation for the crops. I remember many times hauling manure from the corral in the manure spreader and coming back covered in it, then my brother or Dad would load it up again and off I would go back out to spread more joy. There’s a reason it’s called a manure “spreader.”  You start going and it flies everywhere.  It’s meant to do that, because it needs to get on the soil so it can be plowed in as fertilizer. Not a pleasant smelling task, but a necessity on the farm.

Other times, I helped with the hay fields, raking it into rows so it could be baled.  My brother or Dad always did the baling.  It was a little too technical for me to handle (or maybe too dangerous) but my Dad never asked me to do that part.  I did, however do a lot of hay hauling. I was able to buck hundred pound bales of hay up onto the trailer.  I’m not sure I could even come close to that now. Sometimes Dad would just have me drive while he and my brother loaded the trailer, but we all pitched in when it was time to unload and stack the bales on the haystack. Dad had a loader that would move the bales from the trailer on up onto the haystack, but we had to get the bales from the trailer onto the loader first. Boy did we all have muscles after hay season!

I do remember one day I was out in the field, probably harrowing to even out the soil.  It was a pretty windy day with dust flying everywhere. I got the field all done and took the tractor back to the house.  Dad took one look at me and burst out laughing. I had no idea why, but his laugh was infectious so I started laughing too. Then he laughed ever harder.  He told me I needed to go in the house and clean up.  I got in the bathroom and looked in the mirror.  I looked like a big dust bowl.  My hair, face, arms, clothes were covered with about ten layers. I think all Dad was able to see was the whites of my eyes and my teeth when I smiled.

 The New Granary

My Dad grew a lot of different things but mostly hay and grains. Sometimes he grew field corn so it could be chopped up for cattle feed.  He grew wheat, barley and oats. One year, he decided he needed to build a granary to store it in. It was an exciting time for me. I had never seen a granary being constructed before. He got all the materials and enlisted others to help, including me. I learned how to use a ratchet to tighten up the bolts. The cement truck came to pour the foundation. Once that was done, we started to put the thing together. We started by putting the pieces of corrugated aluminum together, beginning at the bottom layer then working our way up. As it got a little taller, we used ladders to get us up higher. By the time we got up where it was too tall to reach, Dad got his FarmAll tractor with a bucket/scoop on the front.  That scoop could hold a couple of people and it would get pretty high up. (high enough to get us to the top of the apricot tree for picking apricots every year) Anyway, we continued on with the construction, one bolt, one washer at a time until it was all put together.  I remember the roof was probably the scariest because the sheets were a little bit heavier than the corrugated side pieces. When it was done, though, we all went in to inspect it and found that our voices made a big echo when inside, so we stayed inside for a while fooling around with our voices.

That year we would bring the grain in from the field in the back of the truck. Someone would drive the combine and someone would drive the truck alongside so the grain would shoot into the bed of the truck. It was an art getting it just right, but sometimes I drove and sometimes my Mom would. It was a big production during harvest. Once in the truck it would be driven to the granary where it could be unloaded with an auger going from the truck to the granary. I’m not sure it was the safest thing for a kid to do, but I took my shoes off to shovel the grain toward the auger. (cringe) If I didn’t then the grain would get stuck in my shoes and cause a lot of discomfort and pain. It was easier to just be barefoot standing in the grain feeling the grain between my toes. The thing I remember most about it is the smell of the fresh grain, it’s golden color and all the grasshoppers hopping all over. They would hop around and as I shoveled the grain to the auger they would be carried right up too. To be sure, many a grasshopper died in that granary from suffocation and the weight of it.

This is just another glimpse of my memories with my Dad. There’s so much more that can and will be written about him, but since it’s Father’s Day, I want to say how much he was loved. He was always a hard worker and there was always a job to be done. He was a farmer and enjoyed it. He taught me to work hard and to keep going until the job was done. He taught me that reading and singing is a joy and it is important to enjoy things after a hard day’s work. He taught me that stories are important and meant to be shared with others. He kept going until he just couldn’t go anymore. I miss his smile, his laugh, his hugs, his whisker burns. My stories with him and of him will not end until I take my last breath. He was a good Dad.

It’s Christmas…again

On By Gay BarzeeLeave a comment

Well, it’s Christmastime again. I find myself feeling homesick and lonely. At other times in my life when I felt this way, I would just go home and visit the folks. A dose of Mom and Dad always did the trick. Now, however, that home no longer exists. The house has been sold and the folks have passed on. There’s nowhere to turn to that relieves the aching in my heart except the stories in my mind. I know what I’m longing for and it’s just not “out there” anymore, but is deep inside where I’ve held it close all these many years. There are many fun memories that would be worth re-living again.

I want to sit at the kitchen table and chat with my mother and siblings while she makes her “made from scratch” fudge. She had one pot that she used to make it in that seemed to work. She measured out the sugar, cocoa powder and butter then stood at the stove watching it cook as we talked about whatever came to mind. She tested it with the old “cold water in a cup” method by spooning a little into the cup of water then molding it with her fingers to see if it was ready. She never owned a candy thermometer. This was her tried and true method. Once ready, she took it off the heat to cool. It seemed to take forever in that thick old pot. We would anxiously await and try to distract ourselves while waiting, but the aroma of fresh made fudge permeated the whole house and made it very difficult. When it was finally cool, we would take turns stirring until it was perfect and we could add the vanilla and the black walnuts that we so diligently cracked with a hammer for hours so they could be added to the fudge. It was a rare thing that her fudge didn’t turn out perfect, but even if it didn’t, we ate it anyway. It was always a special treat that only Mom knew how to make.

I want to sit on my Dad’s lap while he hugs me and gives me whisker burns. He always had the best hugs, the best laugh and the best stories. I miss his smile as it lights up his face when I walk into the room.

I want to see a snowfall and watch our little black cat as she tiptoes through the snow, finally jumping up to land on the fence line so she can sit and bask in the sun. She stands out starkly against the white backdrop and it makes me smile.

I want to see something like my Mom’s “gumdrop tree” again. That was one of a kind. She bought the gumdrops and it wasn’t good enough just putting them in a bowl. She wanted to make it fun so she went outside and found a branch from the tree that had a lot of extending branches and brought it in the house. She found a pot to stick it in then proceeded to put gumdrops on every branch. The funniest thing about it was that it wasn’t a deterrent for us to eat them. It was still candy and it didn’t matter if we ate gumdrops from a dirty tree branch or not.

I want to watch as Mom dusts off the old green candy dish to hold her annual hard tack candy purchase. She wasn’t big on buying sweets throughout the year, but at Christmastime it was a whole different thing. Orange slices, gumdrops and hard tack were all over the house.

I want to smell the fruitcake and carrot pudding as it bakes. Not many people like fruitcake, but my Mom could make it so it tasted really good. She made a point to purchase all the little colored jellies and raisins that went in it. It was so moist and yummy especially fresh out of the oven. I don’t think it hung around long enough for it to get hard and nasty because we either ate it or she gave it away to the neighbors.

I want to witness Mom as she gathers everything together to make carrot pudding. She always wanted that to be a special part of our Christmas dinner. For some reason, she just couldn’t cook it in a loaf pan. She would go on a hunt to find old tin cans, large and small. She would mix up the batter and stuff those tin cans full then put them in the oven to bake. She had a pan of water in the oven so they would stay moist as they baked. They had to be baked in tin cans so they would be round when they came out. Maybe she was trying to make a Yule log? I’m not sure.  I just know that she would get them out of the oven and carefully out of those tin cans. She would tip the cakes on their side so she could slice them and they would be neatly round slices. She would top them with her homemade caramel sauce and it was delicious.

I want to participate in another school pageant. I don’t know who was responsible for planning these at the grade school, but kudos to them for doing such a spectacular job! My first one is etched in my memory. The whole gymnasium was decorated like a winter wonderland! Our class sang Silver Bells as we “wandered the city street.” I was transported to a magical place. At the end, of course, Santa showed up for all of us. Sixth grade was just as memorable. Our teacher, Mrs. Pearson, (I wonder where she is now?) was from Kauai, Hawaii. She introduced us to the Hawaiian culture that year, fresh coconuts and all. At the Christmas pageant, we performed our own Hula dance (yes, we had grass skirts) to the song “Mele Kalikimaka.” I can still do some of it to this day. (You can actually see the dance on You Tube now)

I want to stay up half the night with my brother waiting to see Santa Claus. It was so exciting laughing and talking with anticipation, then finally drifting off to sleep. Only to find in the morning that we’d missed him yet again.

I want to feel the anticipation of knowing my older brothers and sisters are coming home for Christmas Dinner as I stand at the large picture window watching every car coming down the highway. Patiently waiting, watching. Knowing they will be home soon because Mom said they were coming. I stand at the window watching each car rise over the hill and am disappointed over and over until finally their car pulls into the driveway. They’re here and I jump up and down with joy!

I miss them so and we don’t see each other often enough anymore. We are all older and involved with our own families and lives, but I still miss them. Maybe it’s the plight of being the youngest in the family. I sometimes feel like the forgotten one. Maybe it’s just the mindset of always being the one left behind as they moved on with their lives. I would think by now that feeling would have gone away, but it’s still there from time to time. Being the youngest isn’t always the prime spot in the family as some would have you believe. It can be lonely at times.

I don’t know if this stroll down memory lane has helped ease my aching heart, but I’m glad I have such great memories to fall back on during the holidays. It helps bring a smile to my face as I remember home. Even though I can’t go back there, I can hold on to the good times as they bubble up in my mind waiting to be remembered, waiting to be written, waiting to be shared.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all!

The Joy of Christmas Past

On By Gay Barzee1 Comment

Once upon a time, there was a Christmas…or two.

Christmas has been a very special time of year for me from the time I was a little girl. Somehow, it was made special to me by those who loved me. I have a picture of me at my oldest sister’s wedding. I was four years old, dressed in a lovely red and white dress. In the picture, I am holding my sister’s hand and my brother is on the other side of her husband holding his hand. It is absolutely darling. I don’t remember a lot about that day, but I know it made me feel special. (My sister has always done that for me.) Since it was a December wedding, it felt like the most magical time of year to get married.

There are many things that jar the senses and remind me of that childhood magic. Yesterday, my neighbor brought us some homemade peanut clusters. It flooded my brain with so many great memories. Peanut clusters have always been a special treat at Christmastime and this is why. SANTA CLAUS!! Every year we had a Christmas program at church where the children would perform songs and everyone would sing. We would keep singing, louder and louder so that Santa could hear us. Then we heard the jingle bells and Santa came Ho-Ho-Ho-ing into the building. I could hardly contain the excitement.  My stomach fluttered and I thought I would jump out of my skin. Santa was here and he was here just for us! We all lined up to get a chance to sit on Santa’s lap so we could tell him what we wanted for Christmas.  He then gave us not just a candy cane, but a whole bag full of candy and peanuts. We got gum drops, orange slices, hard tack, peanuts and best of all, chocolate peanut clusters. Literally, this was a brown paper lunch bag half full of candy and topped off with a real orange.  It was worth all the singing. To this day, I can’t eat a peanut cluster without having that memory come front and center. One taste and I am right back in that gymnasium with my stomach fluttering with excitement and joy. They taste soooo good.

Speaking of excitement, my brother and I used to stay up half the night talking about and waiting for Santa. We always dreamed about what he would bring us each year. We invariably had company, so all the beds in the house were taken and we were sent to the spare couch in the dining room. This wasn’t just any couch. It was the old brown fold down couch. The back could fold down so it was flat and we could sleep on it. My brother was at one end and me at the other. I’m not sure that was the greatest set up since the Christmas tree was in just the next room and we would know when Santa came, but that’s what we had to work with due to the house being full. It somehow made it even more exciting for us to be out where we could possibly get a glimpse of Santa. We chatted excitedly until three in the morning or later. We were told numerous times to get to sleep, but we just couldn’t help it. It was Christmas!

For many years, the only tree we had was an old aluminum fake Christmas tree. Looking back now, it was kind of hideous, but we didn’t care at the time. We decorated that thing for all it was worth and knew that if we did it right, Santa would come. He always did in spite of, oft times, meager finances in our household. There were times my parents didn’t have two nickels to rub together, but they always seemed to create magic at Christmas time for us.

I do remember the year I found out about the true identity of Santa. I was sneaking into my parent’s bedroom closet. You see, Dad always had mints or gum in his suit pocket and I knew exactly where they were.  I went to dig a mint out of his pocket and saw a strange suitcase in their closet that had been painted gold. (Yes, Mom painted everything gold.) It had compartments in it and I really didn’t think much about it until Christmas morning and, sadly, found out it was my gift from Santa. One compartment had an old re-furbished doll in it. The doll’s head had been shaved and a wig that my mother had sewn was sitting on her head. I recognized the wig material from a wig that we had hanging around the house. Apparently Mom used it to sew a smaller one to fit the doll. She also made some beautiful doll clothes but I was so disappointed that I didn’t really appreciate that point. (That appreciation showed up in my adult years.) I had believed until then, that Santa really did come from the North Pole, not my own home. It finally made sense that my friends always got lots of great toys from Santa, but mine were sub-par. Honestly, no regrets. My parents did the best they could with what they had and I appreciate that now.  I still remember that disappointment, though. It’s stuck in my brain as it taught me some valuable lessons regarding thrift, being kind, doing your best and bringing happiness to others.

I believe now, that the magic of Christmas is not in the gifts. It’s not what we get, but the love we give. It’s the magic of love and of family and friends getting together. It’s making memories to cherish. Memories like making candy together in the kitchen or baking rolls for Christmas dinner. It’s getting all your chores done so you can sit down at the table and play games. It’s making a big dinner and having your older brothers and sisters come home to help celebrate the day. It’s playing card games with as many people as you can fit around the dining room table, then trying not to cheat because you are so close that you can see each other’s cards. It’s playing card games like Pit, Authors, Rook and Spoons. It’s coming together and enjoying each other’s company. Those are the memories I hold dear now. Dad’s laughter. Mom getting mad if she didn’t win a game. Everyone’s hands scratched and bruised from grabbing spoons in the middle of the table. Those are some of my best memories of Christmas.

I cling to these memories that are so close to my heart. I cling to them like I would cling to a rope hanging over a 200 foot drop and can’t let go lest I tumble to my demise. These are special times that I don’t want to forget because they are a significant part of my journey. They remind me of the childhood sense of joy and wonder about the season. They are what is exciting about Christmas to me.  Honestly, with my aging brain I’m afraid I will forget them and I don’t want to. They are some of the happiest memories of my childhood.  It brings a sense of excitement and joy back to me when I look at a tree, hear a Christmas carol, watch a Christmas movie, or bite into a peanut cluster. These things are Christmas to me and I can never forget.

Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

I Want More Sprinkles!

On By Gay Barzee1 Comment

I had a dream a couple of nights ago that left me feeling really homesick. Those who know me, know that I moved to a different state about a year ago, so it may be that the anniversary of the move or maybe that my dream just triggered something inside me. I dreamed about the mother of one of my closest friends from my younger years. I don’t remember the whole dream, but do remember her giving me a really long hug and a kiss on the cheek. I could feel her love pouring through me.

When I woke, I felt a pull toward home. Although, the things that I am longing for are no longer there. Even if I did make the trip, it would be a different place and a different world. What I think I am missing, are glimpses of the past. Of happier times. Of being carefree. Of ordinary moments.

My daughter has an interesting analogy about life. (Her analogy is a little more philosophical and deep, but I’m just summing up.) Anyway, she says life is like a cake. You are born, that being the beginnings of the cake and something special. During your lifetime you have various milestones that you want to achieve. Going to school and college, finding a job, getting married, having a family and then you move on to the next journey called death. All these milestones are the frosting on the cake. (Well, except maybe the death part, depending on whether you’re coming or going.) The daily things, the ordinary and fun things that happen to you in between all these milestones are the sprinkles that make life complete. 

Our lives are flavored with sprinkles from friends, family, children, grandchildren and many other acquaintances who weave in and out of our lives. Everyone we encounter on our journey makes it more special and it brings love and light into our lives. (Or as my husband noted, can take a bite out of you and create a learning and growing experience.)

I miss the sprinkles. 

I miss my friend who could laugh with me about anything and everything. We were dubbed the giggle twins when we were together. We just could not help ourselves. We laughed at everything!

Then there’s Mrs. H, our neighbor from down the highway who stopped by every once in a while just to shoot the breeze. She always reminded me of Aunt Bea on the Andy Griffith show. She had the same shape. She always came over wearing a dress and no bra. That always gave Mom and I a chuckle. (Well, Mom was more appalled but I was quite amused.)

There was the day that Dad accidentally ran over our neighbor Pearl’s chicken with his tractor. I can still see her standing in the middle of the road, chicken legs in hand, shaking her arm with the dead chicken flopping around as she was screaming at my Dad, “You killed my chicken!!!”

Oh, and there was nothing better than bikes with banana seats and long handlebars. Two or three of us could get on one of those suckers with two on the seat and one on the handle bars. I wouldn’t recommend it now. It was dangerous but we didn’t care because it was fun! At least until the day that a car drove by, honked at us and scared us so badly that we took a big tumble. We had road rash and bruises. I had a bruise the size of a large cantaloupe on my leg for weeks. My friend’s leg was bleeding as we both limped home to lick our wounds.

If you really want some quiet meditation, you don’t need a yoga mat to do it. All you need is a hot sunny day, a small stick and a back road that is paved. There are little patches of tar that get hot and it creates bubbles. You can sit in the sun for hours popping those bubbles. If you want to take it to the next level, do it with your friend down the street. It’s pure entertainment and you can find your nirvana in this quiet space.

Water park? Who needs one. We had our own just down the dirt road that ran alongside the canal. There were a couple of spots in the canal that were too sloped for the water to go down without eroding away the ditch bank, so the irrigation company cemented in the waterway on the slopes. This created a couple of great water slide venues. One spot had a really long one and the other was a series of three different ones close together. The two at the bottom were perfect slides. We didn’t even need anything to sit on when we slid down. We just did it in our cut offs. There was enough water force that it swooped us down. Then we got out and did it again. It created hours of fun and cheap entertainment. My brother and his friends were the only ones brave enough to go down the really long one up the road. I had fun just watching them, though. They would block off the water at the top with a board, then let it loose to create a huge deluge of water to slide down on. We spent hours during the summer in our own water park with the neighbor kids from across the highway. (Again, I wouldn’t recommend this, it’s dangerous to swim in canals and people have died.)

We didn’t have television and internet like kids have now. We only had one TV, black and white, with an antenna, three channels that turned off at midnight and no remote. We had to get up off the couch to change the channel. I loved to watch Saturday morning cartoons until I got called to go outside and help with whatever chores there were.

Often, in order to play, we had to make do with what was around outside in order to entertain ourselves. I sat under our willow tree many a day creating dirt roads with my sister’s old metal roller skate. (Yes, the kind that you hook onto your own shoe and tighten it down with a key.) I used sticks, rocks and water to create mud in order to make my little village with its roads. It was a work of art!

When my friend from down the road came over one day, we found the biggest patch of tall weeds we could find and created our own “fort.” It was like the jungle on Gilligan’s Island and it was our secret special place that we could go to and talk about life and all its problems. We solved many a world issue in that fort together.

I actually loved weeding the garden in the early mornings. Not that I loved the weeding part, because I’m sure I gave my Mom a lot of grief about having to go out to work. It created an oasis for me, though. I listened as the morning breeze whispered across my brow. Invariably, I could hear the sound of mourning doves cooing, the sound of the train whistle far away and cars whizzing by on the highway in front of the house. It was a time of calm and peace.

I miss baseball on a Sunday afternoon. Our family loved to play and there was a baseball diamond down the road a couple of miles at the old Apple Valley school. We would gather our balls, mitts, bat and then gather as many neighbor kids as we could find along the way as we walked down to the school. We played for hours until it was time to go home. Then we walked back home exhausted and exhilarated. Most of the time we made it through unscathed and without injury.

Oh, and I can’t forget when my brothers and sisters and I played Olly Olly Oxen Free. We would throw a baseball over the roof yelling “Olly Olly Oxen Free” for someone on the other side to catch the ball. Once caught they would run around the house to catch the ones on the other side and you’d better run fast!

We also played Duck, Duck Goose in the winter snow in our front yard. We made trails in the snow so it was easier to run. Although, running in the snow from someone is especially tricky and slippery even with a trail.

Speaking of front yard, we lived on a highway, so there were always cars and trucks going by. We figured out that if we stood out by the highway and gave the “honk” signal, that the trucks would honk at us. Hours of laughter and entertainment there, folks.

In High School, my cousin and I used to have study hall together. Big mistake. We were always laughing it up and goofing off about one thing or another. I know the teacher didn’t appreciate it, but it is one of my fondest memories of him. He was one of the few cousins I had that was close to my age, so for me it was super special to have someone in the family other than my siblings to goof off with. I think he’s the one who taught me how to play paper football across the table.

I remember when my parents needed a new well and my uncle was the one they called. He was a well digger by trade and brought his rig over. It was amazing to me as I listened to the loud clang of the drill go into the earth over and over and over, inching deeper and deeper and deeper into the soil that this would eventually produce water. It took days and weeks until finally they struck water and it was a glorious day!

Speaking of my uncle…Every year our town held a celebration to celebrate the days when Fort Boise came to be. I went every year to this event. It was one of those things that I had to beg my parents to let me go. If I went, that meant being away from the farm for a day and one less person to help with chores. My friends were there, though, and I so I just had to be there too. I didn’t really realize how important it was at the time, but looking back, it was a bonding experience with my uncle. He always went to watch the parade and invariably, I would sit and watch it with him. Granted, the parade wasn’t a huge Rose Bowl event, but it was fun to watch people we knew going down the street on their floats, horses or in their souped-up cars. It was a small town, what can I say? We longed for entertainment. I do miss those moments with my uncle, though. That was something very special.

Yes, sprinkles are ordinary moments that are just a little extra-ordinary. We don’t notice them until they are gone. They give us something to smile about when we are older. They give us stories to tell our grandchildren and we get to embellish as much as we want because they are ours to tell.

I suppose I am homesick for my sprinkles. The good news is, we can create more sprinkles every day just by noticing the little things. Simple little life moments can become precious memories that we hold in our hearts forever. So, enjoy your sprinkles and, if you dare, add a little whipped cream with a cherry on top!

The Mullet

On By Gay Barzee1 Comment

Welcome to the 80’s! I’m now sporting a half mullet! I hear they may be coming back in style, so maybe it’s not all bad. Life just keeps handing me lessons over and over again until I learn, I suppose.  It’s kind of a long story, so I’ll try to sum it up for you.

We moved almost a year ago and because of COVID we have pretty much isolated ourselves and stayed at home. We hadn’t met anyone, really, other than our really sweet realtors. We have gone out for walks in our neighborhood. It’s such a nice climate and we can get out for a walk nearly every day.

Well, one day while we were out, we met a neighbor a few doors down from us. He’s always out cleaning the dust off his truck and is very friendly. (We do get a lot of dust in the desert.) He introduced himself and he and my husband got to chatting, finding they have a lot in common. He kept mentioning that his wife is a hairdresser and a very good one from where she came from in the mid-west. He said I should meet her and have her do my hair. I was hesitant. I didn’t know her, nor her reputation. We invited them over for Christmas dinner so I could meet her.

Now, you have to keep in mind, that we are still in the throes of COVID, so we were being very careful about how we were cooking and serving the meal. My first impression was that she was nice, but she was loud and literally did not know boundaries. She was inches away from my face when she talked and she talks very loud. (COVID alert!) I kept backing away from her until I hit the wall and could not back up any further. I would describe her as a gypsy woman. She talks with an accent and if she were sitting at a table with a scarf over her head and a crystal ball I would think that’s right where she belonged. Red Flag #1.

I asked her about my hair and she seemed to know what she was talking about and had some good ideas for a new style that would be a bit more flattering. She looked at my shampoo and said it was not the best shampoo for my hair. (what?) She was hypercritical of everything, but in spite of that, I canceled my appointment with the hairdresser I had, and scheduled with her.  In the meantime, my sweet husband helped them with a house project fixing the roof flashing on their back patio. It took him several days to help get it finished and it saved them about $500 in repairs. (Not that we don’t have enough of our own remodeling to do. Just sayin…) While he was there helping them, she started talking politics with my husband and was in his face yelling at him, pointing at his chest, telling him he was wrong, she was right. He came home really stressed out and frustrated. Red Flag #2.

I did go to her to get my hair done and she did a beautiful job. The color was perfect and she cut my bangs in a way that really flattered my face. “She’s good.” I thought. A few things were niggling at my brain, though. When I went to get a pedicure, she noticed, then the next time I saw her she showed me her nice new pedicure. We were walking by their house a few days later, and she and her husband were driving by. She literally told him to stop and let her out of the car. She came over to talk. She noticed I had done my fingernails. I told her it was Color Street nails but she didn’t know anything about the product so I invited her to follow me home so I could show her. She didn’t really act all that interested, but she started talking politics again with my husband. I watched as my husband very kindly, very sweetly, told her that if they were to be friends, she needed to stop talking politics with him. She didn’t stop. She kept getting louder and louder and I was trying desperately to get her out the door which we finally did. We were both left feeling anxious and frustrated. Red Flag #3.

I ghosted her for a few days to try and get my head straight, then my husband went over to tell them that if she was going to continue with her “in your face” politics, then we just couldn’t be friends.

In the meantime, I was having inner turmoil about the whole thing. Was I just imagining things? Is she really that combative? What is it about me that attracts these kind of people? I should just be nice to her because my husband has found a great friend, even though it made me feel uncomfortable having her copy everything I did. (She went out and got a manicure after she saw my nails. I told her I was going to get a pink bike for my birthday in March. She bought herself a pink bicycle.) In my face. Red Flag #4.

All this time, I am trying to figure out what it is about her that is setting off something inside of me. She sort of reminded me of my mother. Sort of. I remember my Mom singing the “Anything you can do, I can to better. I can do anything better than you” song. There was something else that I couldn’t put my finger on. She was, to me, an energy vampire. Rather than feeling lifted up and happy when around her, I felt drained, anxious, and scared. I wasn’t sure why? She always wanted to stir things up, gossip about everything, talk about the neighbors, politics, bad-mouthing her daughter, etc. My spidey sense was on fire but since I couldn’t put words to it, I continued on. I told my husband that I wasn’t sure I could trust her to cut my hair after all the turmoil we had with them over the last month. She’s the one with the scissors and razor. It quite frankly, scared me. “Be brave, ” I said to myself. “Not a big deal. She’s a professional.”

I really needed a haircut. My bangs were growing and it had been almost two months since my last haircut. I told her I needed to get a trim and she said she would call me after her next Saturday appointment to set something up. Well, she didn’t call, so I resigned myself to going somewhere else. Everything in my being said that’s the right thing to do, but I wasn’t sure how to tell her that and I was feeling guilty about going elsewhere. (Why? I don’t know. I just don’t like hurting people’s feelings) My husband was out walking with her husband a few days later. I was out doing yard work and as they walked by the house, he told me she had me set up for an appointment on Saturday at 2:00. Right then, my gut said “Tell him no. Tell him to cancel it. Ask him if she really wants me as a client.” but, I thought, she did a good job the last time, so time to grow up and stop acting silly.

Right before the appointment, I had a gut feeling I should just cancel. Make up some story, make excuses, anything to not go. I didn’t. I went and when I got there, she had just finished up a client and had done a beautiful job on her hair. “She really knows her stuff.” I thought. I watched as she was getting her client out the door and cleaning up. She removed the mirror from the table and swept up. She asked me what I wanted done and I told her I just needed a half inch trim all over. We had decided during my previous appointment that my hair would look better if I grew out some of my bangs and just go with more of a wispy bang. So, she knew there were parts of my hair that needed to stay long and grow out some. We conversed as she cut and I really couldn’t tell how much she was taking off, and since the mirror was missing, I couldn’t see. I just trusted that she knew what she was doing. When she was done, she didn’t get the mirror back out to show me like she had the last time. I didn’t think anything about it and I didn’t look at it when I got home. I didn’t notice it until the next morning. I saw that she had cut my bangs short and almost back to the middle of my head. Some of the cuts were as short as one and a half inches. She had to have taken a good 4 – 6 inches off of some parts. It was choppy and a mess. It’s going to take months to get the length back.

Not to go down the paranoia road, but I’m already there, so why not? I told my husband I think she did it on purpose. She is good at cutting hair and she would never in a million years cut it in a way that looks terrible. She had already made it a point to tell me how good she was at hair and the clients I had seen looked great! She has a reputation to uphold. So, considering I view her as a gypsy woman, I wouldn’t be surprised if she kept a lock of my hair so she could put a curse on me. She already told me her mother was a card reader and that she predicted the COVID pandemic before she died a year ago, so anything is possible, right??  It might be in her blood.

Seriously, she seems to be bi-polar or to have some sort of mental disability. I’m not a psychiatrist, so can’t really say for sure, but she can be nice as pie one day and literally in your face the next. There’s just something off about her and my spidey sense is on fire when she’s around. I just don’t trust her. I keep wondering if all this stems from my own trust issues, which it probably does. There’s just something about her that doesn’t ring true with me. I don’t know if it’s worth trying to be around her just so I can work on my own issues and figure this out or if it’s better to just stay away. She keeps calling me, but I have ghosted her again. I’m not sure that’s a very nice thing to do, but it seems the only way to protect myself and deal with my own anxiety. My gut is telling me “Do not engage” so I better listen this time.

Sorry this is longer than a “sum up” but I had to get it all out. Here’s wishing you a sassy style and healthy locks. May your hair bring you the joy and beauty you deserve. I will be here sitting in the sunshine willing my hair to grow as fast as possible.

Gussie’s Shoes

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It certainly has been one crazy wild ride this year!  It’s given me plenty of time to think and reflect, which has been a good thing.  I’ve cleared a lot of old baggage in order to make room for any new possibilities that will come my way. There are still a lot of things niggling at my brain, though. One of them has been there for many years.

When you are a teenager, you do a lot of really dumb things.  Selfish things.  I don’t know why I can’t just let this one go, but it’s probably because I never apologized.  I never learned how to say “I’m sorry” in my formative years.  These words were never spoken in our home.  It was always just assumed, and then we were left to process the emotions ourselves.  Oh brother!  That can be disastrous with young adults who don’t have a fully formed brain yet.  We see things through child eyes and it’s normally up to our parents to explain and clarify by asking questions about what’s going on and explain so that we can see things from a different perspective.  An adult perspective. My parents didn’t know how to do that.  I’m not even sure I knew how when I was raising my children, but we do better when we know better.  (I hope my kids can forgive me)

That being said, what’s still in there that I can’t let go of is Gussie’s shoes.  Gussie was a dear friend and live in roommate to my best friend’s mom. (No, not like that.  They were just really good friends)  I just loved these two women when I would visit.  They were from the south and they had that southern drawl with accompanying southern hospitality.  They were two of the sweetest people I’d ever met.  I don’t know the full story of how they ended up in in the west, but I know that my friend’s dad had passed away and her mom and Gussie were making ends meet and raising two beautiful daughters in our small rural community.  I’m so glad they did.  My friend was always there for me when no one else was.  We had a lot of fun together singing in the high school choir and singing in competitions at local and regional events.  Let’s just say we harmonized well together.

Our school was having a talent show in the fall of my senior year (if I remember correctly) and we wanted to sing an old “Andrews Sister’s” song.  I think we chose the 1940’s Glenn Miller R&B song “In the Mood” or “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.”  I honestly can’t remember which song it was, but there were three of us in the choir that really harmonized well together so we decided to go all out and sing this song wearing era costumes and all.  I didn’t have much at home that I could choose from that would look authentic so my friend let me borrow Gussie’s shoes that she had held on to since the 1940’s.  They fit perfectly and made my costume look totally authentic.  We gave a great performance and looking back, I should have just sent the shoes home with my friend after the talent show.  I didn’t.

I don’t know why I took them home with me, other than the fact that they fit like a glove and were so amazing that I wanted to wear them just one more time.  I wore them to church the next Sunday and felt really proud of myself because they were so cute and they made my legs look hot!  I should have taken them back the next Monday, but I didn’t.  They were in my closet for the longest time but I never returned them.  Then life got in the way.  I graduated high school early at the end of December and didn’t see my friend much after that.  That was my year of hell.  I had no direction and I was a hot mess.  The shoes eventually ended up out on my parent’s screened in back porch and they got rained on and weathered and pretty much ruined after that.  I felt so awful that I had allowed them get to that point.  I never did talk to my friend about it and never apologized to her or Gussie.  I was so ashamed that I hadn’t returned them when I should have.  I think the shoes eventually ended up in the burn pile at home and finally went to the dump.

I know, they were just a pair of shoes, but to me, they were a representation of trust.  Gussie trusted my friend and my friend trusted me with these antique, leather, beautiful red shoes that had been saved from an era that was unique and they probably had sentimental value to her.  I broke that trust.  I didn’t apologize.  I just “assumed” they would forgive me, which they probably did, but I didn’t forgive myself.

Part of saying “I’m sorry” to someone is also saying “I’m sorry” to yourself.  I never learned that, really, until honestly just a few months ago.  Not really, down in the depths of my soul, anyway. It has been a huge breakthrough for me to learn how to truly forgive myself for past mistakes.  It’s always been easier to forgive others but then beat myself up over the things I do.  That has changed now.

I’m not sure if my friend even remembers the shoes, but Gussie has long ago passed on.  I hope she has been given shoes of gold where she is now.  They would be a great accessory to her angel wings and she deserves them.  Thank you Gussie for lending me your shoes and please forgive me for not returning them as promised.

Peek-A-Boo

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I think we all remember that cute little game that gets played with just about every baby on the planet.  Peek-a-boo?  It is a fun game that gets little babies smiling and often giggling with their cute little belly laughs.  The takeaway from that game for me, at this moment in time, is the second line.  I see you. 

I believe one of our core human needs is to be seen.  We want someone, anyone, to be a witness to our lives.  We want to be visible, not invisible.  I remember going to events that my kids were participating in and watching them as they scanned the audience until we finally made eye contact so we could wave at each other.   They wanted the assurance that someone was there to see them.

I think, as a parent, the reason I was so diligent in making sure I went to my children’s events stemmed from my own childhood and youth.  When I scanned the audience, no one was there.  I only remember four instances that my parents (one or both) actually attended a performance or school event.  I definitely gave them plenty to choose from.  I was a very active child participating in drama, choir, volleyball, piano and organ, community plays, honor choir, and the list goes on and on.  I have often wondered what it was I was looking for since I over-indulged in so many activities. Even my high school graduation was overlooked.  No. One. Came.  As a child you ask yourself all kinds of silly questions, such as “are they not proud of me?”  or “am I not good enough?” or “what’s wrong with me?” As an adult you see things differently.

I remember “running away from home” frequently during my grade school years.  I wanted to experience what it was like “elsewhere”.  I would miss the bus on purpose and trot off to a friend’s house with them after school.  I was also known to get on a different bus with a friend so I could go home with them.  This gave me a peek into their lives and homes.  Of course, I would never call home to ask permission before I went because I knew what the answer would be.  It was always no.  So,  I just did it.  Mom would call all over creation to see where I had disappeared to.  It’s a good thing we lived in a small town.  I was always in trouble but kept right on doing it. 

I think now about how scared I would have been if my kids had done this to me, but then, we lived in a different world at that time.  We were out for hours playing with our friends until the sun went down then we would make our way back home by ourselves in the dark.

I recently had some old slides of myself and my brother transferred to digital format then had the pictures printed.  I look at these pictures and wonder what happened to this sweet, innocent, happy and relaxed little girl who looks as if she is at peace in her world. She appears to be happy. I’m not sure what happened after that, but something did. At some point I lost the message that those closest to me were there for me. Maybe it’s because I’m the youngest and all my brothers and sisters were leaving home. I don’t know. It’s a bit of a mystery.

I look back at my search for love and acceptance. I turned to just about every wrong place you can imagine. I think about past mistakes, how I hurt others, how they hurt me.  I suppose life throws you curves to help you learn and I’m not sure I handled all of my lessons with grace and dignity.  Knowing what I know now, I could have handled a lot of my lessons better and created a little less heartache and pain for myself and others.  Too many times I allowed others to take advantage of me, and in an effort to please them, I always overlooked my own self-love. 

So, now, I am learning about the power of self-love and radical forgiveness. I happened upon the Ancient Hawaiian Ho’oponopono prayer and have been meditating to this daily for a couple of weeks.  It’s a very self-powering process. It is helping to clear out the excess garbage I have accumulated and stuffed down into the deepest part of my heart.

I am hearing the message that I did the best I could with what I knew at the time.  I am working through all my mistakes in order to get to the point of loving myself truly and deeply.  I am giving myself the grace that I so often and freely give to others, no questions asked.  I have been processing and letting go of some of my hardest life lessons.  I have a lifetime of experiences to get through.   The list is long but these old messages are being transformed each day and literally being “let go” into the universe and being replaced with inner peace, acceptance and forgiveness. 

I always felt that love was “out there” and un-reachable, now it is becoming “in here.”  I look at the pictures of my sweet little younger self and say the Ho’oponopono prayer:  “I’m sorry” “Please forgive me” “I thank you” and “I love you.”

I see you little girl, and I love you.

I see you, and I love you.

To Know Him Is To Love Him (Part 1)

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A while ago while talking with one of my nieces, the conversation led to her saying that she “didn’t really know my Dad” (her grandpa) very well because she was so young when he passed away. That felt, to me, like one of the saddest things I had heard in a long time. Sad, because, to know my Dad was to love him.  He was loved by many and his light shined bright. He always had a smile. For those who didn’t know him, I would like to acquaint you with Everett Waite Jorgensen (1914 – 1988), a man who meant the world to me.

Just so you know, I am not trying to paint a glorious or saintly picture of him.  He was human, after all.  I would just like my family, especially my children and grandchildren, to know who he was through my eyes and my heart. He was my hero and my biggest supporter in life through my formative years.

We rarely get the chance to glimpse into someone’s life and see ALL of who they are and it’s usually only those closest to them that they can truly “be themselves” around.  That being said, I think my mother knew him best on an adult level, but as a child, I saw him through child eyes and that can often be a lot more magical and endearing.  I always saw him as my rock in a home that seemed a little more than rocky at times.  No matter what was going on, though, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that he loved me.

Dad did well in life, learning life lessons and as we all do, then he applied them accordingly.  He was deeply religious and had a love of God.  He always tried to obey the ten commandments and adhere to the golden rule. He always said “you have to walk a few miles in someone’s moccasins” before you really know them. Some memories I have of him are funny and some are just interesting, but they paint a picture that will portray him as I saw him. I’m sure my siblings have many more stories of him from their own perspective. Since I am the youngest there is a stark reality that I did not have as much time with him as my siblings.  They were greatly blessed to have more of him than I did.  He died when I was 28 years old and my own children were very small at that time. He weaved his way through life and through lives.  He settled into the hearts of many who loved him dearly.  I hope you enjoy these short stories as I share them a few at a time during my stroll down memory lane.  I have many to share.

My Dad, My Hero

One spring day, my Dad and I were going out to the fields to irrigate. All of my brothers and sisters were in school, so I am guessing I was about five years old. We didn’t have kindergarten in those days so I hadn’t made it to the “big time” of going to school yet. He didn’t always take me with him to irrigate either, but he did it often enough that I have a lot of memories of going out to the fields with him.  He was a farmer by trade and loved the land. He owned around 200 acres of good farmland in southwest Idaho and grew sugar beets, grains, hay and corn. The land was not level, but looked more like small rolling hills.  The irrigation ditches were positioned at the top of each hill so the water would flow downward into the field. There were enough acres that the fields needed to be irrigated pretty much every day during spring and summer until the crops could be harvested. The water would be dammed off in the ditch in order to have enough backed up for the aluminum irrigation tubes to work. He (we) would carry a load of irrigation tubes from one section to the next in order to get the whole field watered so the crops would thrive. When he had watered the whole field (this took days), the tubes would be carried back to the beginning and he would start over.  He would have me help him carry the tubes back and forth and set them out at each furrow so they could be set and get the water flowing. He taught me at an early age how to get the water started in the tubes. I would pump those tubes with all my might, trying to get the water running. Sometimes it took me several tries. He easily could start them with swift move.  He would dunk the tube in the water and pull it back out with it flowing. I never did quite get the knack of it the same way that he could do it.  Nonetheless, he was just good at farming and made it look easy most of the time.  He had it down. 

On this particular day, we were walking down the road to go out to the field and we both noticed a huge bull snake laying across the road.  When I say across, I mean across from one side of the road to the other and it was about eight to ten inches around. While I stood there tensed up, he just told me “stay here” then proceeded toward the snake. He was carrying his shovel over his shoulder as he always did.  He’d have the handle resting on his shoulder with the shovel end toward the back. That’s how he always carried it unless it was in use.  He pulled the shovel down off of his shoulder and sauntered over to the snake.  In about two split seconds he had the head chopped off of the snake then proceeded to pull the carcass off to the side of the road. I was just standing there in disbelief right where he left me.  I didn’t dare move. He put his shovel back over his shoulder then came back and took my hand as if nothing had happened.  We walked together out to the field to start irrigating.  He was my super hero that day.  I know the snake was pretty much harmless, but it was big and scary to a five year old. Dad had saved the day and was my protector.

Entertaining the Cows

Saying that my Dad was happy all of the time is an understatement.  He was always singing (unless he was swearing), but mostly singing.  He always had a tune to hum or song to sing when he was doing chores or out in the field watching the crops grow. He especially loved humming when he was milking cows.  He told me it calmed them down and helped them give more milk.  I’m not sure if that was true or not, I just think he loved singing so much that he couldn’t help himself.  He would pet them and hum while he hooked up the milking machine to their udders.  It’s funny how singing to cows is contagious. I used to go out to feed the cows and after I was done forking out the hay into the manger, I would stand up on the hay trailer as my ‘”stage” and sing my heart out to them while they were eating.  I could always count on them to be a captive audience.  They even stuck around when they were done eating, watching me with their big cow eyes and “chewing their cud.”  I had dreams of being an entertainer and practiced for them every day.  But, I digress…

Dad and my brother milked cows twice a day, morning and night and it brought in enough money that eventually Mom and Dad were able to get their farm paid off from the proceeds. The milk was sold to a local dairy processing plant, in a town about twenty miles away. In the beginning, when they first started milking cows, Dad would strain the milk into big metal milk cans and we would transport the full cans every morning and drop them off at the processing plant.  When the cans were full they were very heavy.  It sometimes took two of us to lift them up into the pickup bed so we could transport them.  We would drop them off and get empty cans to bring back for the next day’s milking. Eventually, Dad bought a tank system so the milk could be filtered then stored into a cooled tank in the barn until the big milk trucks could come and pick up the milk. The “milkman” would hook up a hose from the tank in the barn to the tank on the truck and turned on a pump moving the milk from one place to the other. This was a whole lot easier than lifting those heavy milk cans! The biggest perk to having the milkman come was that we could order things from him as often as we needed and they would be delivered on the next milk run. Things like butter, cheese and ice cream were always available.  We got the big two or three gallon buckets of ice cream (think Baskin Robbins size buckets) and I can’t remember a time when we didn’t have ice cream in the freezer or cheese in the fridge during those cow milking years.

I think Dad enjoyed being a dairy farmer.  It provided a steadier stream of income as well as the joy of singing to the cows every day. Being a farmer, let alone a dairy farmer, is hard work.  There is always something that needs to be done, looked after, tended to, or fixed.  Dad was one of the hardest working people that I know and he always did it with a smile and a song.

I would encourage anyone who knew him to write a few stories of your own.  My oldest sister is compiling a longer comprehensive history of my Dad’s life.  You can send her your stories so they can be included in her efforts.

I will be posting a few short stories at a time in a series so that I can write them as they come to mind.  Sometimes I forget things but all it takes is a nudge from a picture or something said in passing to remind me.  These stories are held deep in my heart because I never want to forget this man who loved me unconditionally.

Feathers

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I’ve had a fascination with birds lately.  Since moving to Arizona, I have seen several different birds and am curious to know what kind they are.  I know we have hummingbirds.  I’ve had one entertaining me on a daily basis since we arrived.  I have a yucca plant that has been in bloom with the most beautiful coral colored flowers.  It’s just outside my office window where I can watch the hummingbirds help themselves to its sweet nectar.

The fascination with birds has also nudged me to think about feathers.  Feathers come in many sizes, shapes and colors.  Some are soft and fluffy, while others are bristly and barbed.  To really appreciate each one, you have to examine it from many directions.  You also have to touch it to appreciate its uniqueness.  Some feathers have even been artificially colored by people to make them look brighter to the human eye.  Bird’s feathers have evolved in order to help them blend in, show off when mating, help them fly, stay warm and keep dry.

While thinking about feathers, I was reminded of a story that a dear friend once told me.  It must have been profound, because I never forgot it.  We were talking about gossip and the intentional or unintentional harm it may bring to others.  She said “Talking about others is like a bag of feathers.  Each feather in your bag represents something you know about someone else.  If you keep the feathers in the bag, they go nowhere.  If you empty the bag and allow the wind to carry those feathers, they will fly in every direction.  Forward, backward, up, down, and sideways.  They move here and there, rarely stopping in one place.  They are fluffy and light moving quickly and easily with the wind.  Trying to gather them all back once released is nearly impossible.  You can never get them all back once the damage is done.”

I’ve had my tail feathers singed before and boy, oh boy, did that hurt!  My adolescent years were not the easiest (is anyone’s?), but having people talking about me was one of the most painful experiences of my life.  Yes, I know I made mistakes.  Most teenagers do (and no one is perfect). It was just made worse when the adults in my life, as well as my community, shamed me rather than supported me.  If you’ve ever had to pluck a chicken, you know how bad it stinks.  Well, this gave off a very foul smell!

I grew up in a small rural town.  It seemed that I was the one that everyone was talking and whispering about.  I definitely didn’t know how to handle the roller coaster of emotions.  I had shame, guilt, anger, and depression.  It seemed like I had no one in my corner of the nest.  At times it felt like a mob was after me.  This is probably why I am very sensitive today about people talking about me.

In reality, I did have a few very close friends who were extremely supportive.   I am grateful and appreciative today that I had them.  I was going down the rabbit hole and wasn’t sure I could pull myself back up.  All I felt was worthless and un-worthy and that no one really cared!  What I really wanted was someone to love me and understand me.  Isn’t that what all teenagers want and need?  It’s a difficult age.

I attended a workshop several years ago regarding the brain.  I learned that the brain isn’t fully developed until around the age of twenty-five.  Well, that was a huge ah-ha moment.  No wonder I was so mixed up when I was younger.  I was glad to get this little tid-bit of information so that I could offer myself some grace and forgiveness.  Hind-sight is always twenty-twenty.

So, in thinking about feathers I have to wonder…  What would have happened if someone had found my feather and threw it away rather than releasing it back in the wind?  What would have happened if someone had found my feather and brought it back to me where it belonged?  What would have happened if someone had found my feather and offered to help me in some way?  Take me under their wing, so to speak.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not really regretting my feathers (or my youth).  They have made me who I am today.  They have given me strength that I never knew I had.  I still wonder, though, if the underlying memories from the pain that I still feel at times would be erased?  Would they be replaced with love and kindness?  Would a few of my old feathers be soft and fluffy down, instead of bristly barbs?

As Bob Dylan said “The answer my friend, is blowin in the wind…”

Take care of yourself.  Take care of others.  Take care of the stories people have entrusted to you.  Understand that everyone is on a journey toward growth and understanding of themselves and it is in the sharing our stories that we understand ourselves better.

Feathers come, surprisingly, in all shapes, sizes, textures and colors just as people do.  Shake your own tail feathers because that is what makes you unique and lovable.

Wipe Your Feet, Please

On By Gay Barzee2 Comments

I really hate being a doormat.  I’ve had many situations in my life in which I have allowed people to step on me or “wipe their boots on me” in order to take advantage of me.

By nature,  I am a peacemaker and I learned from an early age as a survivial mechanism, that I had to let others have their way without regard to my feelings or thoughts. My true nature thrives on happiness, joy and kindness.  I avoid conflict like the plague.  It pains me deeply when I hurt people, so I try not to do or say anything that might offend.  In doing so, though, I have put my own needs last and accepted bad behavior in order to keep the peace.  Being a peacemaker, however, has been at my own peril.  I often bottle things up inside and either eat my way through the emotions or practice my pressure cooker behavior and let the pressure build until I explode.  Pity the poor person that’s around when that happens.  (Usually my husband, bless his soul.  He’s a great listener)

I understand that it would be so much easier to just talk to people and express my feelings. . . or would it?  I tried to do that when I was a child and was literally shut down, told to be quiet or shamed for feeling the way I did, and even told not to feel at all. I learned to keep my mouth shut.  So, how easy is it really, when you’ve had no practice at expressing yourself?  It puts you in a very vulnerable, helpless position and wide open to criticism, resentment, shaming, and rejection.  Let’s face it, I am very conflict avoidant.  It is so uncomfortable, I feel it from my head to my toes and it takes weeks for me to process emotions.

There is a little girl inside me, though,  the one who was shut down and shamed, who speaks softly in my ear…It’s ok to express yourself.  It’s ok to have an opinion.  It’s ok to set firm boundaries.  It’s ok to be who you are.  It’s ok to speak up.  It’s ok to love yourself first.  You have nothing to prove to anyone.  It’s ok to be you.  It’s ok to be happy.  That little girl is at my very core and she’s the one I have learned to listen to above all others.

Learned behavior.  Hmmm…There’s something about those words that gives me pause.  If you learned how to act one way, can’t you re-learn how to act another?  I certainly believe so.  We don’t have to go through our lives doing it as it’s always been done “just because your mama said so.”

Problem solving is never easy.  Sometimes you have to have uncomfortable, yet crucial conversations.  You know, the ones where you’re churning deep inside wondering if you speak up and say how you really feel, you are at risk of being rejected and trampled on (or accepted, whew!)  It isn’t easy.  I’ve had a lot of rejection in my life and it hurts.

I have been studying  Karpman’s “Drama Triangle” recently.  This idea started in 1969. (I was ten years old at the time so it’s been around a while.)  If you don’t know what I’m talking about, there’s plenty of U-tube videos out there as well as some great Ted Talks on the subject.  It’s human nature to want to take on different roles such as rescuer, victim or persecutor.  I had a therapist years ago who told me it was my job to free myself from the triangle because the only person I could do anything about was myself.  Some people may see that as selfish, but self-care is NOT the same as being selfish.

We have to learn (or re-learn) how to set healthy boundaries and it takes practice.  We need to surround ourselves with people who lift us up, not tear us down.  We need to remove ourselves from one-sided relationships.  We need to find our tribe of “others” who only want the best for us.  Sometimes we are faced with a choice of choosing between ourselves and friends or family that we love.  It’s a hard decision to make and one that I never take lightly, but self-care can sometimes lead to difficult decisions that have nothing to do with whether you love someone or not.  I’m talking about self-care and surrounding yourself with positive people, setting healthy boundaries, preserving yourself.  SAVING YOURSELF.  Make a decision to let go and walk away, or have that crucial conversation, but get out of the triangle and empower yourself.

Take care of you, because no one has the potential to take better care of you than you do. Practice your own self-care and let those who need to wipe their feet do it on their own doormats and let your healing begin.