Category Archives: My Memoirs

Goodbye Beautiful Sister

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I grew up in the small town of Maple Shade in Southern New Jersey in the 1950’s and sixties. At that time Maple Shade was populated by a mixture of Irish and Italian Catholic and Protestant families. My family was Irish Catholic.

You couldn’t ask for a better place to grow up. We were a family of eight living on a tree-lined street called Fellowship Road. Our stucco Cape Cod house had four-bedrooms. It was located two doors down from Our Lady of Perpetual Help Catholic Church and the OLPH Elementary School. We heard the church bells peal out whenever there was a Mass, wedding, funeral, or christening.

Father’s old car

When I was young, my parent’s bedroom was on the first floor, and my older brother Harry was across the hall from them. Harry was nineteen years old when my twin sister, Karen and I were born. In fact, he drove my mother to the hospital when she was in labor with us.

My three sisters and I shared one bedroom. While my oldest sister Jeanie had a room across the hall, she was fifteen years old when Karen and I were born.

In the room I shared with my three sisters, Karen, Eileen, and Betty there was little in the way of decorations aside from a crucifix on the wall. The front half of the room open to the eves of the roof. It was large and uninsulated. There was only one heating vent. The room was freezing in the winter, and unbelievably hot and humid in the summer.

The floor was a worn green linoleum. It had small, circular indentations from my sister Jeannie’s high heels. A queen-size bed resided on the left side of the room. My twin sister, Karen and I slept on that side. And my sisters Eileen and Betty slept in the other bed on the right side of the room.

My parent’s conversations downstairs in kitchen drifted up through the heating vents in the floor. My father always seemed to be unduly concerned with the number of garbage cans our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Rice put out. And that she had the unusual habit of cutting the grass in the rain. We always knew what we were having for dinner since the aroma made its’ way up through the vents.

Our bedroom had one window. It faced the Lombardi’s house. Their bedroom windows face ours. The Lombardi’s used to have loud arguments, although some of it was in Italian. We could hear every word. My father installed an exhaust fan in the window in the summer that would suck all the hot air out. The fan was the only thing that kept us all from expiring through those long, summer nights. We would pull the sheets over our heads to avoid the mosquitoes buzzing our ears and biting us.

The only thing that occupied the eves was a pole that ran the length of the space. We hung our clothes on that pole. Whenever I was alone, I would try on my older sister Jeanie’s gowns. I would dance and spin around the room. Jeanie had worn these beautiful dresses to formal dances and as a bridesmaid in her friend’s weddings.

One day when I was about nine, I decided I would cut some of the fabric off of one of her gowns. I wanted to make some pretty dresses for my dolls. Needless to say, my sister, Jeannie, was upset with me. I wished I could take back my careless act. I was afraid she would never forgive me. But she was a kind and forgiving soul, and eventually, she did.

It may sound strange, but I felt very lonely in that room full of sisters. Karen and I were fraternal twins, but we didn’t spend a lot of time together. We had different friends. I was a different kind of child than her. I was gifted with a lively imagination and made friends with all the dogs and cats in our neighborhood. My sister, Jeanie, was fifteen years older than I. My sisters Eileen and Betty were one year apart. This was called Irish twins. Eileen was eight years older, and Betty was seven. It might as well have been a hundred years.

My oldest sister, Jeanie

The day arrived when my sister, Jeanie, left for good. She was getting married and moving to White Plains, New York, with her new husband, Patrick. I will always remember how beautiful she looked that day. She came upstairs to say good-bye to me. I knew it was her before she stepped through the doorway. I heard the click, click of her high heels on the linoleum floor as she came up the steps and through the hallway and into our bedroom.

She was tall, even taller in her heels. They were very high and had a black bow with a rhinestone clasp on top. I pretended to be asleep.

“Susan, I know you’re awake. Come and say goodbye. I won’t leave until you do.”

I looked up at her. I loved my sister Jeanie most of all. She had a wonderful sense of humor. Whenever she was home, laughter filled our home. I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. I hoped that I would grow up to look just like her.

She had short, shiny black hair, and high cheekbones. She wore tangerine-colored lipstick. Her eyebrows were perfectly arched. Her eyes were blue-grey and slightly slanted. They sparkled when she laughed. She had an exotic look. As if she was a princess from some far-away foreign land.

Her laugh was contagious. She possessed a great sense of humor. She was fun to be around, always joking. It was easy to love Jeanie.

That day she moved out of our house, she wore a lavender suit with a silk blouse. Whenever she wore this suit, she would say, “Susan, did you know this was Marilyn Monroe’s favorite color.” And on her earlobes, she wore pearl earrings, that were ever so slightly tinted a pale purple.

She leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. She smelled like the honeysuckle that grew in our backyard on a warm sunny afternoon. She whispered in my ear,” I’ll see you soon, Susan. I’ll miss you.” I closed my eyes tightly, but a tear escaped and ran down my cheek. I felt a knot forming in my stomach. It began to ache.

She turned and walk out the door and into her future while I was left behind. I decided then and there I would never wear high heels, and I never did. After she moved away, the house seemed somehow empty.

She had left her beautiful gowns behind in the eves of the house, and when I missed her, I would put one on and dance and twirl and spin in the eves, whenever my parents weren’t home.

Being Your Own Best Friend and Advocate- These things I know to be true

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Being Your Own Best Friend and Advocate

Life throws many challenges our way. We can not avoid them. We must face them head on. There are times in our life when something happens that is difficult to face. We rather turn the other way and pretend it’s not happening. It doesn’t mean you are weak. It means you are human. We are vulnerable. We experience physical and emotional pain.

I’m not a young woman anymore. I have lived a long time. I have experienced much joy and loss in my life. I come from a family with six children. I had siblings that were considerably older than I was. My only brother was nineteen years old when I was born. He passed away last year. He was a father, grandfather, husband, and psychologist.

My oldest sister Jeanie died on my fifth wedding anniversary on July 13th, 1979. When I was twenty-eight years old. She was only forty-one. She died from Alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency which is a genetic disorder that causes lung disease or liver disease.  Her lung problems became apparent when she was about twenty-seven years old. She had two young children. She suffered from shortness of breath, wheezing, and lung infections. Ultimately her lungs were so compromised that she ran out of breath. Because she wasn’t getting enough oxygen to her brain towards the end of her life, she developed a type of dementia.

Despite how ill my sister was she never lost her sense of humor. She kept moving forward in her life. Did the best that she could to continue being a loving mother and wife.

When I was in my early thirties my parents became ill. My dad was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. About the same time my mother started exhibiting symptoms of dementia. I have to say that this was one of the most difficult challenges of my life. Facing the fact that I was going to lose my parents. And taking care of them was very hard. They died eight months apart. My memory of the first year after they passed was a sense of overwhelming loss. Everyday when I awoke my first thought was, I’m an orphan. Even though I was thirty-five at the time. I still miss my parents to this day.

Early in 2008 when I was fifty-six years old, I started experiencing cardiac symptoms. At night I could feel my heart beating irregularly, during the day I noticed that I became short of breath when I walked up steps or any incline. I didn’t tell anyone at first not even my husband. I decided to go to my primary physician and have a check-up. I explained my symptoms to her. She performed an EKG. She told me she didn’t see any problems. She didn’t feel I had any need to be concerned. I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that there wasn’t anything wrong with me. 

After all, I never drank alcohol, never did drugs, never smoked. I had been a vegetarian for over twenty years. I was rarely sick. I exercised everyday of my life. I kept asking myself why would I be sick? I never did anything to endanger my health. Of course, neither did my sister Jeannie.

My heart continued to exhibit negative symptoms. I had angina pains that ran up my left arm and into my jaw. I started having arrythmias all day, which are irregular heartbeats. Even picking up and carrying the lightest burden became impossible. If I needed to pick up even the lightest object, like my purse. It felt very heavy. I finally confided what was happening to my husband. He told me to go to the doctors. The second physician I went to prescribed several more tests. She called and told me that the left side of my heart was not working quite as well as the right side but that it was nothing to worry about.

I disagreed with her. I told her I felt there was indeed something serious going on with my heart. I wanted a referral to a cardiologist. She became quite angry with me and told me once again it was unnecessary. But she gave me a referral.

The cardiologist did many tests, an EKG, an echocardiogram and a cardiac catherization and tilt table test and a pulmonary stress test. When I went to the follow up visit after the tests, this is what he said, “you are now a heart patient. You have left heart failure. Your ejection rate of your left heart is 40. It is supposed to be 60. You have a twenty-five percent chance of surviving five years.” He gave me prescriptions for several heart medications. Which they would start out at low doses and gradually titrate up over several months.

I was stunned. Somehow, I always felt that I was invulnerable to getting a serious illness. But nonetheless I did. The first year was tough, getting used to the meds wasn’t easy, but the depression and anger I felt was often difficult to bear. Gradually I started feeling better. I became less depressed and started living my life again, one day at a time.

I would like to share with you and essay I wrote after I received the diagnosis of heart disease.

Yesterday I was told that my heart was broken. Well they are not the exact words that the doctor used. He used big, important words like, congestive heart failure, and weakened heart valve, cardiac insufficiency. Cause unknown. I knew for the past several months that my body was trying to tell me something. I told myself I am just tired, stressed out, poor coping skills. But deep down I knew my heart was telling me something serious. Wake up, pay attention, and listen!

I stared at the doctor. I said,” I just cannot believe it, I’m so, so shocked. He said,” yes, it’s true you are just a cardiac patient now.” My mind refused to believe that I could now be defined with these few insignificant words.” I said to myself, this is not who I am, I’m so much more than this. I’m an artist, teacher, writer and lover of all living things, mother, wife, sister, aunt, and friend.

I hadn’t been a very good friend to myself, I felt angry, I don’t know who I was angry at. I felt cheated, but I don’t know whom, or what had cheated me. I had spent many years trying to deny any possibility of being frail human, I ate all the right things, exercised every day, never smoke or drank. Why, why me? Why not me, I said deep inside.

Certainly, my life had been stressful, for a long, long time. I didn’t always make good choices, I trusted the wrong people, gave my heart away bit by bit to people who didn’t deserve it. People took big chunks of my heart with them when they left. I often felt unloved, unaccepted, unfulfilled, unwanted. Always reaching out for love, acceptance, never really feeling loved in return.

Indeed, my heart was broken. But maybe, I can find a way to patch it up, pull it together, if I can find all the missing parts. Yes, I told myself I would begin today, put myself back together. Mend my heart. Learn to love myself, accept myself, and bring fulfillment to the heart that had broken in so many small and big ways.

That was eleven years ago. At first, I didn’t think I would live long enough to retire, or see my husband retire. But I have. And here I am living in North Carolina. We moved here three years ago. I have been volunteering at an animal sanctuary taking care of exotic birds. I’m still painting and writing. I spend long hours in my garden tending my garden. I have adopted three new pets a longhaired dachshund named Douglas and two parrots named BB and Travis. And still have my two cats Sloopy who will be twenty-five this year and Evie who will be nineteen.

In conclusion. I would like to say that you should listen to your body. It will tell you when there is something wrong. Listen to it. If I didn’t pay attention to the symptoms that I was experiencing I wouldn’t no longer be alive. You have to stand up to people no matter who they are and make them listen to you. Keep trying until they do listen. Or go to a different doctor who will. If you don’t, who will? You must be your own best friend and advocate, always.

Your life has meaning, it has value. You can do good in the world. And the world will be a lesser place without you in it.

GIVE BACK AND HELP AS MANY AS PEOPLE AS POSSIBLE

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The secret to living a fulfilling life is giving. If you have been fortunate in your life, if other people have given you support when you needed it, pay it forward.  Do it often as it is possible. This is a lesson I learned early in my adult life. When I moved to Florida at twenty-two the only people, I knew were my soon to be husband, Bob and his immediate family.

I applied for a job at B.D. Cole which was an insurance company in West Palm Beach. I had been working there for about two months when I took off two days off because I was getting married. I took a very short honeymoon in Miami.

When I returned to work, I was called into the office and handed a large gift-wrapped box in wedding paper with a beautiful satin bow on it. The attached card said Congratulations on your nuptials, it was signed by all the employees of BD Cole.

I said, “oh, thank you so much for your gift.”  As I was about to leave the office to go back to work my boss said, “Oh Susan, just one more thing. I’m sorry but we are going to have to lay you off because we are having some financial problems. And all the recently hired people are being laid off.”

Saying I was shocked is an understatement. I was floored. At the end of the day, I cleaned out my desk and left without saying anything to anyone. I went back to my apartment and had myself a good cry. I was still crying when my husband of three days came home from work.

I explained to him what had happened and he said,” don’t worry Susie you’ll find a new job.” But I didn’t. I looked for a job for several months. But I became aware that most companies in Florida at that time had a policy of not hiring people who hadn’t lived in Florida as a permanent resident for at least six months to a year.

I decided to go to hairdresser’s school. I can’t remember just why I thought this was a good choice for me. Since, I never had any interest in even my own hair. Perhaps it was the only training available at the time that only took nine months. After I graduated, I was hired at the Colonnades Hotel on Singer Island doing facials. I decided that I would look for a volunteer position since giving facials was not very challenging.

And that was when I realized my true calling, helping other people. My first volunteer position was with an organization called Childcare Assistance for Special Children. And during the next several years that I lived in Florida I volunteered as a fill-in houseparent for a home for mentally handicapped adults when the regular houseparent took vacations. I leaned how to do physical therapy for two young brothers who suffered form Cystic Fibrosis. 

My husband Bob and I moved to California so he could attend Brooks Institute to study photography. My first job didn’t last long I was hired to sell hats and wigs at Robinson’s Department Store. To say I was bored is an understatement.

I was lucky enough to be hired as a houseparent at St. Vincent’s a residential school in Santa Barbara. My position was houseparent for a group of adolescent girls with a variety of physical and learning disabilities including mental retardation. It was the most rewarding position I have ever had in my entire adult life. Those girls taught me more about life, and courage and love than any other people I ever known.

Because of the positive experience I had working at St. Vincent’s I continued throughout my life to try to contribute to other people’s well-being and quality of life. Whenever, I saw an opportunity. Because, in helping others, I helped myself immensely. I felt my life had true meaning, that I was contributing to making the world a better place. It has given me a sense of worth that I would not have realized in any other way.

Over the next several years, I took classes in teaching Basic Skills and English as a Second Language. I taught Basic Skills to people trying to get their GED. Some went on to higher education. They were able to earn a better living and help their families financially.

I taught English as a Second Language to immigrants from India, China, Bosnia and Serbia. There aren’t words to describe what a wonderful opportunity this was for me.

As a second generation American I had the ability to help other people from across the world to find a new life in our country. A life with more opportunities for themselves and their families. A chance for them to contribute to our country as all previous immigrants have. America is a country of immigrants.

In my paid positions, I worked as a houseparent and Assistant Supervisor at Terrell Cottage at Ranch Hope in Alloway, NJ. Which is a residential treatment program for at-risk adolescent boys from inner cities such as Camden and Trenton NJ.

I worked at Center for Family Service in Camden, NJ in a program called Project Cope which matched children who had an incarcerated parent with a member of five churches in Camden. It was a partnership with Big Brothers, Big Sister Program. I took my training through the Amache Program in Philadelphia run by former mayor of Philadelphia, Wilson Goode, the first black mayor of a major city in America.

In conclusion, I would like to say without doubt that no one can create a better life for themselves than in the service of his fellowman. It gives back a thousand-fold. Could I have made more money somewhere else? Yes, probably. But I would not have had the opportunity to work with all the caring and wonderful human beings I have known. I wouldn’t have met people from every walk of life, people from all over the world. I wouldn’t have been able to feel that my life was as well-spent.

The Yellow Bug- 1970 Yellow Volkswagon

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It was the summer of 1970. I had been working as a dental assistant for Doctor Edward G. Wozniak for about a year and a half. I started working for him when I was a senior in high school. My title was dental assistant. But actually, I was the entire office staff.

1970 Yellow Volkswagon

1970 Yellow Volkswagon

I was his chairside assistant and was in charge of developing dental x-rays. This was decades before digital X-rays. I answered the phone. I handled the billing and confirmed appointments. I cleaned the dental office and the waiting room. I sterilized dental tools. Sometimes I babysat his two young children. And it wasn’t unknown for me to take his car for a tune-up.

I worked a split shift. I didn’t get home until 9:30 at night. And then I would have to be back first thing in the morning by 8 am. I worked five and a half days a week. I made a minimum wage of $1.45 an hour for forty hours. I didn’t get paid overtime.

I worked from eight in the morning until twelve, and then I drove home and had lunch with my parents. After lunch, I went back to work. My mother always had lunch waiting for me a buttered bagel and lemon yogurt. Once my mother found out you liked something, she kept giving it to you long after you were sick of it. She was funny like that. Finally, I begged, “Please Mom, no more bagels and yogurt.”

It was a vigorous work schedule. But looking back at it, I realize I enjoyed working there. Dr. Wozniak was a decent man who worked as hard and long hours as I did. He was about thirty-eight when I started to work for him. I was almost eighteen. Even though there was a twenty-year age gap, we worked well together.

He was patient with me while I learned the job. I was a quick study and loved the fast pace, and meeting new people. I enjoyed keeping the office spic and span and keeping everything orderly. I was my father’s daughter, intelligent, quiet, organized, and always on time.

I decided I needed to buy a vehicle of my own. My sister, Karen, and I had been sharing a car our father had given us. Did I mention we are Fraternal Twins? It was a beat-up Edsel, about ten years old at the time. It was my fathers’ car before it became ours.

Now that I think about it, my father was very generous in giving us his car. He had to purchase another car for himself. My dad had recently retired and was living on Social Security, so he must not have had very much money. I guess I never really thought about that until now.

My sister and I were somewhat embarrassed driving this car because it was in pretty rough shape. Let’s say it had seen better days. The trunk was banged up and had a chain holding it closed.  My father had glued a picture of a strawberry on it in a misguided attempt to cover up the enormous dent. He was something of a folk artist. But that is a story for another time.

The driver’s seat tended to collapse backward unexpectantly. We had to anticipate this and keep our backs straight at all times. You couldn’t lean all your weight against the back seat. You had to keep your back straight and somehow suspend it that way unless we wanted to end up in the back seat with no one driving.

At some point, I had the brilliant idea to prop an umbrella behind the seat to prevent the seatback from collapsing backward.  The umbrella worked for some time until it would vibrate and, over time, fall to the right or left. I realize now that this was a dangerous and possible suicidal driving problem. At the time, I didn’t give it much thought. My sister and I never talked about it.

The other problem was that my sister and I were inexperienced at both driving and being responsible. As a result, we would often forget to turn the headlights off on our shared automobile when we arrived home. And during that first cold winter night, we repeatedly killed the battery by leaving the headlights on overnight. In 1970  lights didn’t turn off automatically when you took the keys out of the ignition.

Unfortunately, we would have to wake my father up to jump the car battery. This happened quite frequently and made for some very tense mornings. My father, who worked nights, would be sleeping, and we had to wake him up. He would yell and holler and give us hell. We would promise not to do it again. But we did, and then we would have to wake him up again. It was a long learning curve for my sister and me.

We lived closer to my sister’s job than mine, and I had that two-hour break in the middle of the day. So, I would drop her off at the Mailing Services where she worked. And then, go to my job, which was another ten minutes away from Collingswood to Oaklyn, NJ.

My sister endlessly complained that I had the car more often than her. She said it was unfair and I was always the favorite. And sometimes she had to take customers out. I never fully understood where she was taking these customers or for what purpose. I probably never asked.

About this time, a friend of hers stopped by to visit. Her name was Elaine Wharton. We went to grade school with us. She taught Karen how to drive even though she had just gotten her driver’s license a couple of weeks before.

Elaine was driving her new car. Karen and I were sitting on our front steps. And she told us that she had just purchased a brand-new automobile. And she informed us she didn’t have to put out any money. She had financed the whole thing. We had no idea that this was possible.

My sister went to the car dealer and purchased a new car within a couple of weeks. She bought a Maverick. It turned out to be a lemon and broke down more than it ran.

I decided to get a 1970 Volkswagen. My sister went with me to the VW Dealer since she already knew the ropes. She did all the talking. She was imbued with confidence at an early age. Confidence I didn’t develop until much later in life. The car salesman asked me, “Is she your Philadelphia lawyer?”

It turned out that I was making less money than Karen, and I had to get a co-signer. I don’t think my sister and I ever discussed our salaries. I asked my older brother, Hugh. He was a clinical psychologist. He was twenty years older than us. He was married and had three kids and two jobs. He wasn’t too thrilled about co-signing, but he did it.

The car was a 1970 lemon-yellow VW, and it was love at first sight. It had an automatic stick shift, which I had to learn how to use on the drive home from the dealer.

The car cost $ 2,300.00. My payments were $65.54 a month for three years. I paid it off in eighteen months since I couldn’t tolerate the idea that my brother had to co-sign for me and seemed ticked off about it.

I was so excited about this car; it was all mine and beautiful. I used to get up early every day and hose it down before I went to work. My father swore that I was going to wash the paint off of it.

My Dad was somewhat perturbed that Karen and I were only nineteen and had brand-new vehicles. And here he was, sixty-three, and never purchased a new car.  That year he went out and bought himself his first new car, a Ford.

I had my yellow bug for ten years. I drove it out of NJ  to Florida when I moved there. I drove that car all over Florida. And to California when we moved there when Bob attended Brooks Institute, a photography school.

I loved that car up to the day my husband, Bob, and I were involved in an accident while driving in the rain on the way to San Diego. We were going to spend Thanksgiving with his best friend, Ronnie.

We didn’t have any extra money because we were living hand to mouth. And unfortunately, the car had bald tires. There was an accident in front of us. And we skidded into the median strip. My VW was crushed in the front by the car we hit and a car in the rear. The trunk was in the front in those early VW, and it was totaled.

When my car was towed away, I never saw it again. I cried like a baby. I cried the whole time we were visiting Bob’s friend and refused to eat anything for the three days we visited them. I’m sure he and his wife were glad when we left.

It’s a true axiom that you never truly get over your first love. Because although it has been over fifty years since I lost my beautiful VW, and I have owned many cars since, I never loved one as much as I loved that yellow VW.

These Things I Know To Be True

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Words Matter

When I consider the things that have most shaped my personality, my self-esteem and my self-identity it was another person’s words that built me up or knocked me down. Words have power. The power to hurt or heal. 

When I was very young, before I attended school my parents and my siblings’ words defined me. They created my reality. Gave me a sense of who I was in the narrow world I occupied, my home, my neighborhood.

I didn’t comprehend that some of these words were said in anger or perhaps annoyance. I was a very sensitive and thoughtful child. My feelings were easily hurt.  Harsh words often felt like a physical blow to me. Apologies are not often made to children. It is impossible to take words back once they are uttered. It’s possible for words thoughtlessly said to a child to permanently affect their perception about themselves and who they will ultimately become.

The words that I recall my parents saying to me as a young child that stayed with me throughout my life are these: Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about. Get that look off your face, I don’t know what your problem is. Are stupid or just lazy? You can’t say boo to Susan, she will start crying. You’re crying, what now? I’ll give you something to cry about.

These words seem to dictate to me at the time that my feelings were invalid. That I wasn’t  Words have power. The power to hurt or heal.  supposed to cry or at least let people see me cry. That I was stupid. As a result, I learned to hide my feelings, keep things to myself. Hide who I was from the people who were supposed to care for me the most. My family often remarked how quiet I was, how I kept my feelings to myself. When they were the ones who taught me to do this to protect myself.

My parents and siblings were not terrible people. They weren’t abusive. They were just overworked, tired people who lived in close quarters and struggled everyday to get by with less than they needed. It was often difficult to make ends meet. The same problems people now have. Overworked, underpaid, too much month left when the money is used up.

As I matured, I made an effort to be more aware of the words I used when I spoke to other people. I tried to keep in mind that hurtful words did indeed hurt people. I certainly was not and am not perfect. I lose my temper and say things out of anger to people that I love and care about. When I calm down, I apologize for what I said and tell them I didn’t mean it. I strive to be a better, more considerate person. I am not always successful. I remember each day, is a new beginning.

In addition, when I see someone is doing the right thing, putting great effort to do their best, I tell them what a great job they are doing. And how proud I am of them. When a friend or an acquaintance looks nice. I complement them. How much effort does it take to say, “Hey, you look fantastic today?

Words truly have power to lift someone up or do put them down and crush their spirit. If you consider the last time someone told you how great you were doing. Didn’t this positive reinforcement spur you on to do more and better in whatever you were working on?

If a friend or loved one comes to you and confides in you about some personal struggle, are you open to listening, really listening to them? Do you offer them support and a caring heart without judgement? Or do you blow them off because you’re too busy? Put yourself in their place, wouldn’t you want this same friend or love one to care about you, to support you when your life is a struggle at times?

How great would our world be? If you, me and everyone we know arose from our beds everyday with the idea that we’re capable of making the world a better place just by being in it. And treating the people we meet and see during our day with a kind word, a supporting word? How difficult is it to say, “Hello, have a great day?” To the people we meet along the way.

You are doing a great job. I can see how much work and effort you are putting into everything you do. I see how hard you are doing, I’m proud of you. I have faith that you can succeed at whatever goal you set for yourself. You are a decent and kind person. I feel lucky to have you in my life. You make the world a better place, by you being a part of it. I love you. I care for you. I am here for you. I consider you my dear friend.

Words are that powerful, they create our reality. Use words with great care my friends. How great would our world be? You tell me.

To Forgive And Forget That Is The Question

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These Things I know To Be True

Forgiveness is man’s deepest need and his highest achievement (Horace Bushnell)

Having said that I believe you have a choice to forgive the person that has harmed you and yet decide not continue that relationship. Or you can forgive this person who has harmed you and to ask for fairness or justice. As it isn’t possible for you and this person to step back in time and undo the harm it has done to you or the relationship.

I have been struggling to forgive my older sister for over four years. I along with my sister and my niece and a friend of hers were invited to have lunch at my oldest sister’s house. While we were having lunch, my oldest sister started saying very hurtful and inappropriate remarks about my marriage. I was stunned and kept saying,” who are you talking about?” Over and over again. Everyone was laughing at my reaction to what my sister was saying. 

I was so devastated by this experience that I just got up and left without saying anything. A week later I called her and try to explain to her how much she had hurt me. She had the opportunity to say she was sorry in that moment but she didn’t take it. She became extremely angry at me and told me I had no right to criticize her. She repeated the hateful things she had said to me at her house. And then she hung up on me. I was so shocked that I thought somehow the call had been disconnected. I called her back. The phone machine picked up and I just kept repeating her name. She never called me back.

The negative feelings that I harbored toward her were nearly as painful to me as the harsh and harmful words she said to me. If she wasn’t a person that I loved and felt connected to at a deep level, I would not have felt so betrayed.

I spoke to my other two sisters and explained how upset I was by this event. The sister who was present during the incident said, “Oh, we weren’t laughing at you. We were laughing at how she said it.” My other sister, said, “Forget it. As she is under a lot of pressure. This dismissive attitude toward my feelings deepened the injury my older sister caused.

Over the next months I became depressed and angry. I stayed angry for the next several years. I stopped painting and writing. It is only in the last year that I started writing again.

My husband and I prepared to retire and made the decision to move to another state that was more affordable. And also, to remove me from a place that constantly reminded me of my sister and what had happened between us. During the next two years after we moved away both my older brother and his wife passed away. I didn’t return for the funerals. I couldn’t bare the thought of seeing my oldest sister.

Last Spring, my sister wrote me a note. It said.

I’m so sorry for all the things I did that hurt you. I never intended to hurt you. If you can forgive me. I will always be grateful. You were always kind to me and my husband. I will always remember those times. Your sister. E.

I made the decision to forgive her. I hope this act will have the effect of healing my heart and release the pain I have felt for the past four years. I will make every effort to let go of this painful experience and move forward in my life with a lighter spirit and love in my heart to replace all the pain that was living there.

My enduring hope is that having forgiven my sister for this transgression that I’m able to feel that I have a family again.

The Apron

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I run up the front steps and throw back the storm door and pull open our red, front door. It’s 3:08 pm. My personal best time for getting out of the third-grade classroom and into our kitchen. I open the cubbyhole next to the front door, toss in my schoolbag with one hand, pull off my galoshes, and threw them in with my other hand.

My mother is standing slightly hunched over the ironing board. There’s a basket of clean clothes waiting to be ironed on the kitchen table. The front of her dark hair is still set in bobby pins. She’s wearing her everyday apron over her favorite blue housedress. Hanging down her apron is a line of safety pins that are attached to one another. They sway back and forth every time she leans over to pick up the next pair of my fathers’ pants or shirt. Anything that doesn’t get ironed today, she‘ll roll up and store in the refrigerator until tomorrow.
“Hi, Mom!”

“Susie, don’t forget to hang up your coat in the closet. How was your day, did you learn anything new today?”

“Well, I learn how to spell Mississippi and Arithmetic.”

“Would you like to have a snack?”

“Yeah, I’m starving, what are we having for dinner? I smell something good.”

“I made stew, your favorite, and I’m making the crust for the top.”

My mother walks across the room and takes out a glass and fills it with milk from the fridge. We have a milkman. His name is Ralph. He delivers milk and sometimes eggs to our side door early every morning. He takes away the empty bottles. He has bushy red hair and a mustache. There is always a big, stinky cigar sticking out of the side of his mouth that bobs up and down when he speaks.

My mother takes two homemade peanut butter cookies out of our Happy Face cookie jar. She puts them on the table near the front window and hands me the glass of cold milk. I dunk the cookies into the milk.

“Where’s Karen, Susie, how come she didn’t come home with you?”

“Oh, I forgot. She asked me to tell you that she was going to play over at Anne Marie’s house until dinnertime.”

“Well, she knows she’s supposed to come home first. Susie, when you finish your snack, will you pick up the newspapers off the floor, and throw them away.”

When my mother washes the linoleum floor, she always covers it with newspapers until it dries. So, if we walk on the floor when it’s wet, we won’t leave dirty footprints.

After my snack, I throw away the newspapers and run up the stairs to my room to change out of my school uniform. I cross the room and hang my uniform on a hanger in my closet. Well, it isn’t a closet. My room is on the second floor., It used to be the attic, and the “closet” is the eve of our house, which was never finished.

In the winter, it’s really cold in there, and in the summer it’s a furnace. So, either way, it isn’t a place you would want to spend a lot of time in. My older sisters’ have some of their old prom gowns stored in the closet, and sometimes I go through the boxes and try them on.

One day I decide that one of the dresses would make a beautiful dress for my doll, so I cut a big hole in the skirt which was made out of shiny blue satin with a crinoline on top. The next time my sister Jeanie visited us from New York, she noticed my dolls’ new dress and recognized the fabric. She was furious.

I decide to watch TV until dinnertime. I flop down on the floor about ten inches from the TV and put on my favorite show, Sally Starr and Chief Halftown. I love Popeye cartoons, especially when Popeye burst opens the spinach can, and gulps it down in one swallow, and his muscles immediately swell on his scrawny arms. But I still refuse to eat any vegetables except corn.

After the show, I turn off the TV. I overheard my father talking to my mother. He just woke up. He works for the bus company in Philadelphia from eleven PM at night until seven AM in the morning. So, he sleeps during the hours that I’m in school. He’s always a grouch when he wakes up, so I try to stay out of his way.

I want to hear what my Mom and Dad are talking about. So, I tiptoe over to the steps, which are next to the kitchen, and listen to what they were saying. I hear my father say,” Marie, did you look everywhere for them?”

“Yes, Harry, I did. The last time I saw them was when I put them in my apron pocket.”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to have new ones made, Marie. I don’t know where we will get the money!”

I don’t know what they were talking about, but my Dad sure sounds mad at my mother. I decided it would be better if I stay out of his way for a while.

Just then, Karen comes in the door and sees me crouched on the steps, and says, “What are you doing, snooping again?”

She walks into the kitchen and starts talking to my mother. I hope she isn’t telling them I was listening on the steps. If she does, I tell them that she always listens to them talking in the kitchen through the heating vent in her bedroom.

I decide to go outside, just in case. So, I put my boots on over my sneakers and my favorite coat. It‘s too small for me, but I love it. It’s fake white fur with big blue snowflakes on it. The hood is trimmed with fur. This is the first coat that was really mine and didn’t belong to one of my older sisters first. 

As I jumped down the front steps, I almost fall because there was a thin layer of ice. I decided to make snow angels in the back yard. I jump down the steps two at a time to the backyard. I notice the snow is beginning to melt.

I was hoping it will snow again soon, really deep so I can have some snow days off. I’ll build a snow fort. And have snowball fights with all the kids in the neighborhood.

I flop on my back and move my arms up and down. I’m disappointed because there isn’t enough snow for the angel’s wings to show up good. Maybe it will snow tonight. I decide to add that to my prayers tonight. Please God, please let it snow- two, no, three feet!

Then I hear my mother calling from the side door, “Susie, come in and get ready for dinner.” As I was going to the side step, I saw something on the ground. I walk over to it and push it with my foot. I realize it’s false teeth. What in the world are teeth doing out here?

And then it almost feels like a bell goes off in my head when I realize it’s my mother’s teeth. My mother and father wear false teeth. That’s what my parents were talking about in the kitchen. I stuff them in my pocket and run into the house. My sisters and parents are all sitting around the table. “Mom and Daddy guess what, guess what?”

“Susie take off your boots before you make the floor all dirty again!”
”But Mom I have a surprise.”

“Boots first, surprise later, Susie.”

I run into the hall and throw my wet coat on the floor, kick my boots onto the closet floor, and run back to the kitchen.

“Now, can I tell you?”

“OK Susie, what is the big surprise, maybe then we can eat in peace?”

I open my hand like I have a precious gem in my hand.

My father says, “Look, Marie, It’s your teeth!”

My mother comes over and gives me a big hug, and says, “but where did you find them, Susie; I looked everywhere?”

“I found them on the ground next to the garbage cans. Mom, they must have fallen out of your apron pocket when you leaned over to put the garbage in the can. I guess today is your lucky day.”

These Things I Know To Be True

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The words I love you cannot be heard or said too often.

I believe in these words with all my heart. However, having said that I would like to add that I have always had difficulty saying these words. My difficulty in expressing these words stems from growing up in a family where my parents never said “I love you.” My mother and father did not hug us. They didn’t show affection toward each other in front of us.

Still, in my heart I knew my mother and father did loved me. I knew it because they worked tirelessly everyday of their lives to keep a roof over our heads, feed us and put clothes on our backs. There were six children in my family.

My mother was the youngest in a very large Irish Catholic family. Her parents emigrated to America at the turn of the century to find a better life. Her mother was bedridden for most of my mother’s childhood. She had ALS, Lew Gehrig’s Disease. My mother had to take care of her own mother and father and her brothers and two aunts because she was the sole daughter. Her family spent all their energy just trying to survive.

She married my father when she was nineteen years old.

My paternal grandparents immigrated from Ireland from County Down Patrick. My Dad’s father died from uremic poisoning when he was five. His mother had to support them by herself, she was a seamstress. She made the decision to place my father at Gerard College in Philadelphia. It was a residential military school in Philadelphia for boys. Who only had one living parent. He lived there from the time he was seven until he was seventeen. He saw his mother once or twice a year. As you can imagine he didn’t receive many hugs during those years.

When I was a little girl about nine or ten years old, I told my mother that I wish she was more like my best friend Joanie’s mother. My mother said, “What do you mean, Susie?” I answered, “Joanie’s Mom is always kissing her, and telling her how much she loves her.”

When my mother was at the end of her life, she said these words to me.” Susie, the most hurtful words ever said to me were when you told me that you wished I was more like Joanie’s mother.”

I was about thirty-four years old at that time. I thought about the words I had said to my mother and I was sorry that I hurt her. But still, how painful for a child such as myself to go throughout her entire childhood without ever having been told, “I love you,” from either of her parents. How sad I felt for my younger self and yet how brave I was to ask for those words and not receive them. I cried that day for my mother and for myself.

When I was twenty-one years old, I fell in love with my best friend Joanie’s cousin Bob. He had just gotten out of the Navy after serving during the war in Viet Nam. He stopped in NJ to visit my friend Joan on his way home to Florida. Joan asked if I would be interested in going out with him while he was visiting. And since I always had a crush on him. I said yes. And he was the first boy that kissed me when we were playing hid and seek. After he went back home to Florida, we corresponded by phone and mail. And I visited him in Florida. After I returned home, we continued to keep in contact and eventually I decided to move there. We were married the following year. I had just turned twenty-three. This was in 1974.

In 1999 Bob and I celebrated our 25th Anniversary. By then we had two children. Who were eighteen and fifteen. I would like to share a letter that I wrote to Bob on that anniversary.

Dear Bob,

This year marks the 25th year that we spent together as a married couple. It’s a long time. And in that time, there has always been one sustaining fact. And that fact is that I love you deeply. We have passed some very difficult times together.          Times when we didn’t have a pot to piss in, to use an old Irish expression. When we were younger, we didn’t have a great many things or money. It didn’t seem that important then. We always got through somehow. Because we had each other.

As time passed somehow “things” became more important. Certainly, we have accumulated a great many things in the past twenty-five years. But, if there was ever a choice put to me, Susan, you have to give up the things, the big house or Bob. I would say without hesitation, I want Bob. You are the most important person in my life. You are my best and most loyal friend. My life without you in it would be no life at all.

After our children grow up and move out. There will still be me and you and that will be enough. I know I don’t tell you often enough how much I love you. But I do very much. More than I could ever express in words. I love your intelligence, your integrity. I admire your dedication to your work. The kindness, and respect you show toward the people in your life. 

We may not be a perfect match, but it is a love match. I feel blessed to have you in my life. I look forward to the many years of life we have to spend together yet.

And now this week on July 13th   2019 Bob and I will be celebrating our 45th Wedding Anniversary. We are retired now and live in North Carolina. We spend our days together doing the things that we love. He with his photography and me writing and painting and gardening.

And so, this last bit of advice, make every effort to tell the people in your lives how much you love them and how much they mean to you. Because life passes quickly. It seems like a blink of an eye.

These things I know to be True

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Do not let your age define or limit you

Aging happens, there is no stopping it. You can’t avoid it. Accept it as a normal part of life and keep moving forward. But what is more important is what you do with that time.

When I graduated from high school in 1969, I was hired for my first real job working as a dental assistant. I discovered things about myself I was unaware of until then. I was intelligent, had an amazing memory, wasn’t as shy as I thought I was. I just lacked confidence.

The longer I worked, the more confidence I gained. I came to realize that I was a capable, motivated, organized person. It didn’t happen overnight, it happened over time. I learned who I was, and what I was capable of accomplishing.

When I was twenty -one I was hired at Ancora State Mental Hospital as a psychiatric aide in the active psyche ward. I worked there for one year. I came away from that experience with a deeper understanding of how life can damage people. I became aware that I could help people heal themselves through kindness, understanding, by listening without judgment.

When I was twenty-two, I fell in love and moved to Florida and married Bob. We will be celebrating our forty-fifth anniversary on July 13th, in two weeks. After living in Florida for several years Bob decided he wanted to go to school to study photography in Santa Barbara. I became more independent and self-reliant in California because Bob was going to school and working a full-time job and we didn’t get to spend much time together. I found a job I loved, working with children and made new friends.

When Bob graduated from school, we decided to move back to New Jersey to live near my family. I wanted to have children. I had difficulty getting pregnant. The doctors told me I was too old. I was too old to have children at twenty-nine.

I learned to have patience and not to give up hope. Eventually, I had my daughter Jeanette and then three years later my daughter Bridget.

When I was thirty-six, I decided I wanted to go back to school and get a degree. I was accepted at four different Universities in Philadelphia. I chose Temple, Tyler School of Art. For the next four years, I studied, I learned and worked as hard as any person could. I only got three hours of sleep a night. I didn’t want my children to feel that their mom wasn’t there for them. So, I did all my homework, and painting, drawing and studying after they went to bed.

I learned to set goals and to achieve them. It took hard work and perseverance. My kids learned that a woman can be a mother and an individual. Both of my daughters grew up to be artists. I was forty when I graduated from school with two degrees, Summa Cum Laude.

Fast forward to 2019. I am sixty-eight years old. I retired three years ago from working but I’m still an artist. I’m writing, I started this blog and I’m publishing my memoirs and short stories. I have written a book. I volunteer three mornings a week at an animal Sanctuary taking care of Exotic birds. I was a citizen volunteer for the Guardian ad litem for the family court in NC.

Am I a young woman anymore? No. But I ‘m still living my life to the fullest living in a new place, having new experiences and learning new things every day. I keep moving forward. I don’t let my age or other people define who I am. And neither should you.

Maverick, Long May He Ride

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The view outside my bedroom window is shocking. It’s snowing, snowing, on Easter! It’s only flurries, but still! Spring is supposed to be sunny, but cool days with plenty of daffodils and tulips.

I love Easter, just like I love Halloween, because it means candy. I crave candy. I dreamed about it when I sleep! I had laid out my Easter clothes last night. A beautiful white dress with lilacs sprinkled across the top, and pale purple sash that tied in the back.

My mom  bought me a straw hat with a wide brim that she decorated with flowers and a white, satin band. Unbelievably, I got new patent leather shoes, and new socks with a little bow that shows when you fold the socks down.

The final touch was white gloves that come to my wrists. Well, snow or no snow I am wearing my new outfit. I can’t stop thinking of all that yummy candy that I am going to get, as I hopped down the stairs to the kitchen.

I make my grand entrance into the kitchen, I peek at the kitchen table fully expecting to see two baskets, one for me and one for my twin sister, Karen. What I see is not two baskets, but a cardboard box, and my mom and dad sitting on the same side of the table with a weird look on their faces.

“Happy Easter Susie, don’t you look pretty in your new dress.”

“Susabelle, you are a thing of beauty and a joy forever. “My dad adds.

“Hi Mom, and Daddy, Happy Easter, what’s in the box?”

“Well, why don’t you wait until your sister comes down and then you can both see at the same time?”

“You two will have to wait until after Mass, it’s getting late, Susie call your sister.” My mom says to me.

As I called my sister, I couldn’t help but wonder where the Easter baskets are, and what is in the box? Karen comes down the steps and is wearing a similar outfit as me, except her dress is blue and white, and has daisies.

My mother feels that twins should dress alike even though Karen and I do not look alike at all.  In fact, we don’t even look related. I have blond hair, and Karen has chestnut brown hair, and freckles all over her face.  As Karen walks into the kitchen, and I can tell by the look on her face that she is disappointed by the lack of Easter baskets. She loves candy almost as much as I do.

“Oh Karen, you look beautiful, my Mom and Dad say together.”

My father says,” before you leave for church, I want to take a picture of the two of you on the front steps. He whips out a camera from under the table. And off we go. If there is anything that I hate almost as much as I love candy is getting my picture taken.

My father is a real camera buff, always torturing me by wanting to take my picture, He has a little photo studio set up in the basement, and a darkroom where he develops and prints his own pictures. Five minutes later I hear the church bells ringing and Karen and I are off to the 9:00 Mass.

“Susie, what was that box on the table, did Mom and Dad hide the candy somewhere?” Karen ask.

“I don’t know Karen. You know as much as I do. There better be candy somewhere.”

Because it’s Easter, there is a high mass, one and half hours of torture. All the kids spend the whole time checking out each other’s Easter clothes. Waiting impatiently to leave so they can get back home to their candy booty.

Karen and I are not the only ones to have that particular monkey on our backs. Sugar, how we loved it, how we craved it, in every form it came in, candy, cake, ice cream, pies. You name it. We love it! I like to roll peeled apples in cinnamon and sugar.

Karen and I practically fly home. We can smell bacon and eggs as we walk through the door. My stomach is growling, sounds like there is a bulldog in there. The box is gone, but still no baskets. Well, we have waited this long, so I guess we can wait a little longer. I don’t think I have ever swallowed toast, eggs, and bacon so fast in my life. I don’t think I even tasted it.

My mother clears the table, and brings the mysterious box back and puts it on the table. I hear a weird scratching noise from inside the box. Karen and I look at each other, and I can tell that we are both thinking the same thing. This doesn’t look like candy. Even though we are not identical twins, sometimes we have the same thoughts, at the same time. “Well, girls open the box, Happy Easter.”

Karen opens the box, and we both lean forward to see what it contains. What we see is two little chicks, which are peeping away and trying to escape the box without any success.

Any thoughts of candy fly out of my head. I’m in love. I pick up my chick. He is yellow and has a brown spot on the top of his head. “Oh, isn’t he the most adorable thing in the world, I love him.” I immediately start making plans, where he’ll live in my room, how I can’t wait to show my best friend, Joanie.

“Oh, says Karen, he’s cute.” But she is still looking around for her basket.

My Dad says, “I thought you and Karen would like these better than candy, my friend Johnny Marrow has a chicken coop, and these chicks were just hatched a couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh, I do, can he live in my room Mom?”

“No, Daddy has built a little house for them on the back porch.”

“He did, oh let’s go see it Karen!”

We decide to go down through the cellar and up through the bilko doors to the back porch. Which is really just a cement slab with walls that my father built out of found supplies like, old windows and an old screen door that bangs open and closed, every time you use it. He bought corrugated metal from the junkyard, and made it into a roof, which is great except when it rains and then it sounds like the roof is being hit by heavy artillery gunfire.

My father follows us down to the porch and shows us the new cage. He’s carrying the box with the chicks in it.

He likes to build things and almost always uses recycled materials. It looks like he has made the chick’s new house out of packing crates and window screen. He has a water bottle attached to the side and a little red bowl sitting in the back corner with some kind of, I guess- chicken food in it.

I tenderly lift my chick out of the box and put him into the cage, Karen looks at her chick and hesitates for a moment before picking him up and putting him in the cage. Meanwhile I am squatting down and buck, bucking at my baby chick.

“I’m calling my chick Maverick. Because Maverick is my favorite cowboy on TV.”

“How about you Karen, what are you calling your chick?”

“I don’t know yet, I will have to think about it for awhile, Daddy.”

After a couple of months, I notice that Maverick is growing a lot faster than Karen’s chick. In fact he is growing at an enormous rate and he’s growing a wattle and a red comb in the top of his head. His feathers are glossy black and brown. Karen doesn’t like cleaning out the cage so I clean it every day after school.  

One day I decide that Maverick must be bored inside the cage all the time. I decide that I will take him for a walk down my street, which is called Fellowship Road. At first, I walk with him cradled in my arms, but he keeps struggling to get up, so I decide to let him sit on my head.

I walk slowly down the street to show him off. He seems to really like it up there. I guess he can see everything really good from this perspective. All the sudden he starts making a weird noise like cartoon crows do on TV. Cock a doodle do, over and over again, and it’s pretty loud.

I can’t believe how great he is. So, I keep strutting up and down my street with Maverick on my head. Some of the neighbors come outside to see what all the noise is about. Mrs. Rice our next-door neighbor comes out and stands on her front step with her hands on her hips. She’s slowly shaking her head back and forth, and wagging her finger at me. Her son, Jackie comes running over to me, and says” hi, what’s his name, where did you get that rooster?”

“Oh, Karen and I got chicks for Easter, isn’t he neat? His name is Maverick.”

“Wow, he is really cool. I wish I could get one. but my Mom won’t let me have pets!”

After that I take a walk with Maverick every day after school, after I clean the cage. My sister, Karen’s chick got something wrong with it. And one day when I came home from school, he wasn’t in the cage anymore. I run upstairs and ask,”

“Mom where is Karen’s chicken?”

“Oh, Susie, Karen’s chicken got sick, and she died, I sorry.”

I started bawling my eyes. “Oh no, oh Karen is going to be so sad.”

“Well, I already told Karen and she was upset, but she will be alright, don’t worry.”

I decide I better go out and check on Maverick, and take him for a walk. In case he feels bad because his friend died. When he sees me, he starts crowing and pushing at the door to his cage. He seems really happy when I take him out for his walk.

The next morning is Sunday and after Mass, we have our usual big breakfast of scrambled eggs, and bacon and toast.

“Susie, Daddy and I want to talk to you about Maverick. You know how he likes to crow early in the morning and sometimes on and off all day, well Mrs. Rice and some of the neighbors have been complaining about all the noise.”

I look from my Mom to my Dad and see they both have a serious look on their face. “Susie, we have to give Maverick away, because he’s waking the neighbors up early in the morning, and making a racket all day.”

“What, no you can’t give Maverick away, I love him. He’ll miss me too much.”

“I’m sorry Susie we have to. Daddy is going to take him up to Johnny Marrows house, where we got him. So, he can live in the big chicken coop with all of the other chickens. And he won’t be lonely anymore. And you can go up and see him everyday after school.”

I was so upset all night, I couldn’t sleep, early in the morning I went down to Maverick’s cage and took him out and petted him until I had to get ready for school.

My Mom told me that my father was going to take him up to Johnny’s house that morning before he went to work. All day long I worried about him. I decided that as soon as school let out from school I would go over and see him and make sure he was doing OK in his new house with the other chickens.

As soon as the bell rang, I got in line to go home, but at the corner, I ran across the street, and down Main Street to Johnny Marrow’s house. He has an auto parts store downstairs, and he and his family lived upstairs in an apartment.

My father worked for him part time, delivering car parts to people and sometimes waiting on customers in the store. When I got there, I ran in the door and the bell that was attached at the top rang. My father was standing there talking to Mr. Marrow.

I ran up to my Dad and said, “Hi, Daddy, where is Maverick? Can I go see him now?”

“I’m really sorry Susie, but after I brought Maverick over here this morning, and put him in the cage, the other Rooster decided he didn’t like your rooster being in there, and they got into a fight. The other Rooster killed Maverick. I’m really sorry.”

I looked at my dad, and then Mr. Marrow and I cried, and said, “I hate you both, you killed Maverick, you killed him.”

“Oh, look Susie you need to calm down, I didn’t kill him, I didn’t know the other rooster would attack him, and don’t cry anymore.”

But I did cry. I cried all night until I fell asleep, and my eyes were all swollen when I got up in the morning and then I cried some more. My mother tried to calm me down, but couldn’t because I was mad at her too.”

It was a long, long time before I stopped being mad at everybody. And I never did forget how much I loved Maverick, and how I like strutting down the street with him on the top of my head.

Every time I saw Mrs. Rice, I stuck my tongue out at her, and would throw trash in her yard when she wasn’t looking. She told my Mom and Dad I was a brat. But I didn’t care what she said, because I thought she was a witch.