Truths

It’s interesting that in the past two years nobody has tried to prove to me that the truths I tell are wrong. Not one single person. They come at me on social media. They talk about me to others. They make posts about how crazy I am or that I’m a conspiracy theorist or this, that and the next thing.
They get mad at me. They talk about me. They tell me to shut up. They haven’t however told me anything at all to try to explain away what I know to be true. Even people who were previously on friendly terms but have since decided to turn against me. No explanation. No chat. No nothing.
I talk to people all day long. It’s become like a 2nd job in my life that I don’t get paid for. Strangers send me messages or call and text. City and county employees, political wannabes, regular citizens, business owners etc…I talk to a lot of people. I don’t seek these people out. They come to me and I’m grateful for the trust that people have in me and my ability to take the heat while keeping things confidential. I’ve heard the same things over and over from at least a hundred people. No joke. The truths of the LC Valley.
You know what I haven’t heard??I haven’t heard anything that contradicts what I’ve learned and what I talk about. It’s obvious that my husband and I got caught up in something sinister when Joe Gish and MoMaureen Anderson/Schaer/Reynolds (good grief and they give Rick grief for changing his last name once) reached out to us and we got involved with SMART. We accidently jumped into a fire that we didn’t want to be in. That started it all. Neither of those two have ever tried to tell us that what we’re saying is wrong. Never. They know we’re not because it’s their plan we talk about. Oh Mo loves to comment bs where ever she can about Rick and I but you’d think she’d want to tell us…Hey you two you’ve got this all wrong and here’s what we’re really doing. But no. Nothing.
Our previous city councilor Luke Blount. Rick and I both highly supported Luke for council and Wilson for mayor. We loved them both and considered Luke to be a man of the highest integrity. The fire station/airport argument happened and boom…we no longer have Luke as a friend (not our desire). So it’s obvious that something was happening there. Something was going on with Luke and the airport crew and Mo was involved in that as well. Did he or anyone come to us and tell us what was going on? No. I’m not trying to disrespect Luke because he’s a good man. But you’d think that if people wanted us to stand with them and support them they’d lay it all out there so we’d be onboard. Wouldn’t ya?
This is just an example of how this journey has gone. I know for an absolute fact that Joe and Mo were against Wilson becoming our mayor. A fact. They said it. We had a meeting about it. The day we told them that we were no longer going to be involved was the day we explained that we couldn’t do what they were doing to Wilson. We didn’t of course think then that there would be any rigging of votes or fraud. We just thought they needed us to make their plans work and we wanted none of it. We left and decided to work hard to tell the truth about SMART and to support Wilson for mayor.
In the course of the election that year we lost a few of our circle of friends because they didn’t believe that Joe and Mo were against Wilson. They didn’t believe it because they choose to believe Mo. She was doing her thing with telling people to believe that she hadn’t spoken to us about Dan Johnson becoming the mayor or that she hadn’t told us directly that Wilson couldn’t and wouldn’t be the mayor. We were told by many people that Mo had a Boots sign in her yard long enough for Wilson to see it when he went to her house for something but took it down right after. This is how people manipulate and get people to believe their stories. People chose to believe her and I guess they thought we were kicked out of SMART or something. I don’t know because…well… nobody told me what was taking place. I know the facts that I know from living them. Others knew what Mo told them or what I told them and I guess chose who they wanted to believe. Such is life.
At the NPC Fair we manned a booth for Boots for Mayor. During one of those days a fellow “supporter” said outright to me that she didn’t believe me and that she believed Mo was supporting Wilson because she put a sign in her yard. I mean…we had Wilson signs in our yard as well. We left SMART because we wanted Wilson to be mayor. It doesn’t make sense to me. But Mo having a Boots sign in her yard meant more than the Boots signs in my yard I guess, for whatever reason. I mean…I was the one volunteering my time at the booth. Guess that meant nothing to some other supporters. (Not Wilson. Wilson continuously gave thanks to us for our help and support).
In the end Dan Johnson became the mayor just as the plan was laid out with Joe and Mo. We told them. It happened.
After the election nobody said anything to Rick nor I about what took place. We were still trying to shout out what we’d learned. In the course of that election season I’d learned so many ugly truths about this town and some of its people. I’m also though still unaware of the other plan that apparently so many of the people who said they supported Wilson are still doing or were doing or what was taking place. I was NOT privy to the information that everyone else was getting for whatever reason. My feeling is that certain people wanted my big mouth and my ‘people’ to just blindly support them without them telling us what was going on. I’d never do that with anyone outside of my immediate family. Never. I need facts. I need truths. I need to know what it is that they want me to fight for and who we’re fighting for. I make the decision who I speak for and stand for. I talk to the Lord about what He wants me to do and I act upon it. No group tells me what to do.
So we found ourselves meeting up to talk about things post-election with the very same people that didn’t believe us when we told them what SMART was up to. We again tried to give warnings but were met with blank stares. We had no choice but to think that they did not believe us. I guess this group of people believed that everything we warned them was going to happen just magically happened by crazy luck. I do not know because as I previously stated, nobody from that group of people have tried to tell me or my husband what it is that they’re doing. They just wanted us to blindly stand with them. The one and only reason that we were even there having conversation with these people is because of our respect for Wilson Boots. Wilson is a man of God and a man of integrity. I will only believe different if I witness anything else come from him. We were there for Wilson and that’s it.We were not there to promote ourselves. We were not there to come up with lies to tell the public. We were not there to plan a takeover. We were there for the Boots family and we thought that Luke was our friend as well.
On the other side of town was the Hannah fraud at the Republican Central Committee and the Airport takeover with Gary Peters and Doug Havens. We learned of the favor for favor system running Lewiston. We discovered the truth about Sheriff Joe Rodriquez and the people that stabbed him in the back and did a public slander campaign to get the chosen sheriff put in his place. We discovered the stash of funds the city has maintained for years and that nearly every greedy individual in Idaho wanted to get their hands on. We discovered that certain people needed to be eliminated from their city positions for the money to get into a position to be dispersed to the greedy corrupt.
Dan Marsh needed to be out. Another thing we warned about that became reality.
We learned that Kari Ravencroft needed to be out of her position as a city employee. Suddenly here came Printer Gate to try to destroy her and her reputation.
We were told that City Attorney Jana Lopez needed to be eliminated from her position. She left her position just months ago.
We learned about Valley Vision and it’s absolute nonsense of just being there to take city money.
We learned about the LLCs cropping up all over the darn valley as an easy way to launder money.
We learned about fraudulent contract bids whereas an Airport Authority Board member gets rich off of every contract given to a certain company. Don’t let them tell you that the lowest bid lie means anything. All it takes is a person with access to the bidding to tell the favored company what the lowest bid needs to be to win the contract.
We learned about the covid money flowing freely all over Idaho that was meant to be for citizens but was given out in fraudulent ways in which the corrupt greedy people just got to keep it for themselves. They threw little pieces out to make it look good though.
We learned so much about the lies, corruption and greed that is holding this city together. These things are most likely all connected as Joe Gish is connected to everything fraudulent that we discovered by stumbling into this mess.
SMART: Gish
Airport: Gish
Hannah: Gish
Republican Central Committee: Gish
City Council: Gish
County Commisioners: Gish
Fraud: Gish
If I knew anything at all about the valley Democratic Party I would not be even slightly surprised if I learned that Gish has his hands in there as well.
I think some people have gotten lost in it all as I’ve tried to tell the story. It honestly is hard to understand unless you know the different happenings taking place in different areas of the valley that are all taking place simultaneously. It’s all tied together. People are back stabbing each other. People are lying to each other and supporting people solely because they believe that supporting that person will get them where they want to be. Power people in our town are using their positions to take bribes and they’re doing their best to make everything look good to the public. It doesn’t help matters that our only newspaper is owned and run by a family deeply involved with all of the underworkings of this town or that newspapers can print whatever story will paint pictures of the way they want the picture to be painted irregardless of the truthfulness of said story.
I speak only for myself here. As close as my husband and I are..I don’t speak for him and he doesn’t speak for me. We are bonded by our absolute love and devotion to each other and our marriage but we are two separate people who approach this mess in two separate ways. We support each other in every way imaginable but I’m speaking solely about my experiences and my ideas here. I haven’t asked him if he agrees with me writing this all out because we don’t do that in our marriage. We trust each other to be honest and to do everything with integrity even when it involves each other. I’m speaking of me and my experience which is also our experiences together since we found ourselves in the ugly pit of SMART.
I mistakenly believed that citizens would appreciate knowing what was taking place and how they were fooled into getting Dan Johnson into his seat as mayor of our town. Dan was a Republican Senator so many people feel as if whatever Gish was selling came out perfectly. He was in fact telling people that he was attempting to turn Lewiston Red. But Johnson was a Senator with an R after his name voting with Senators with a D after their name in the Capital. Johnson has never been the epitome of what a great Republican Senator looks like.
Hannah Liedkie as well was touted by Gish as a Republican that he was sending in to turn Lewiston red. She’s the only “republican” I’ve ever seen in life that has posted things on social media against Trump, or supporting more gun laws. And then there’s the huge liberal following that shows up to fight her online fights for her and to call people racist, bigots, conspiracy theorists etc. when they go against her. I’ve never witnessed that with any other republican in my lifetime. But people believe what they want to believe and while I’ve told her that I’ll publically debate her at any time her groupies still like to say that I won’t talk to her. This is also a circumstance where a LOT of people have been contacted by Hannah and asked to have coffee with her so she can explain away the Eldridges and explain why she looks like a liberal, talks like a liberal, acts like a liberal but… she’s actually a conservative. For me personally it takes more to believe that bullshit than it does to believe that she is what she is.. she’s been placed within from the Gish camp to help them take control. She’s not a republican and it’s this kind of thing that is helping us to lose our country every single day. Do you think that I have been told whatever the story is by her? You’d think she’d want to set it straight with me so that I’d stop talking about it, wouldn’t you? But no. Nothing. Just online nonsense about how I don’t have the “kahonas” to talk to her. Publically posting things as an elected figure against a private citizen to try to discredit what the citizen has revealed about her. I’m ready for a public debate any day. I’ll even do it without notes or any forewarning. That’s where my kahonas lie. I’m ready.
In all of this; In this mess of a city and with those two deceivers Joe and Mo going to my boss to try to hurt me with that tiny job I have that keeps me sane and snooping around in my life… sitting outside the gym watching me, sending people in to tell me to shut up etc.. I’ve only ever wanted to get the truth out to the public. I know that if I had a friend or acquaintance and they knew deep dark secrets that could negatively impact my family in the future I’d absolutely want to know. In fact I’d be furious if something like that was kept from me. I wrongly assumed that I should tell it and it brought a lot of ugliness to my door. I am firmly placed at the side My Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. I’ve zero doubts about who I am to Him and how safe I am now and always will be with Him at my side.
I’m not the type of woman that’s afraid of things or life. I charge in and I figure it out while I’m there and sometimes things go well. Sometimes things don’t, but I’m still walking with the Lord and I’m still confident in my abilities to get me through anything at all. This is no different than any other thing in life with the exception that people that know me on a personal level know that I’m an honest woman. I speak whatever it is that I’m thinking and I’m loyal to the point of being crazy. It’s been a bit nuts trying to get people to see what’s taking place here in the valley and I probably wouldn’t have believed it at first either if I hadn’t been directly involved in it myself. That part of this journey has been maddening to say the least. It’s been sad sometimes too because there have been people involved that I’ve felt very loving towards who have lied to me and tried to hurt me and my husband. You know you just don’t expect that from people you’ve been kind and good to. I expect ugliness from the corrupt ones I call out but not from people who’ve mislead me into thinking they had my back. And all of this comes back to what I stated when this was just going to be a Facebook post. I’m willing to hear any information. Look at any proof. Discuss any event with anyone at anytime. I do it often. But not one person has given me anything to discredit what I know and what I speak of. I’d talk about it if it happened.
I want to believe that people are good and don’t try to hurt each other or lie for money and power. I love that idea and I want the world to be like that. I wish that were the truth I had to speak of.
Give me the plan.
Tell me how I’m wrong.
Give me evidence beyond calling me names. Evidence is what makes me speak of the things that I do. That’s why I speak up… because I know what I’m saying is true because sources have proven it to me. Period.
The opposite side of the issue has given me nothing. When meetings take place in our town by elected officials to discuss the Eldridges and to try to discredit me… that’s gotta make you think. What do we know that they don’t want you to know? Why is it so important to any of them what I’m saying? Why is it so important that you not believe what I’m saying? And if I’m that big of a deal why not tell me what’s “really happening” so that I’ll talk about that instead?? It should make a person wonder.
I’m not done. I’m not giving up. I’m not gaining anything at all by being me beyond knowing that I’m being honest and that my Father God has called me to speak truth and if He calls me to do that… that is exactly what I’ll do. His word is meaningful to me. How He sees me is meaningful to me. And somehow today it was on my heart to get this out there and out of my head. I’ll make it public and it’ll give the power-trippers taking over our town the opportunity to use my words against me. Making this public also has the ability though to open up someone’s eyes to the truth. Maybe it’ll give someone the courage to speak out too or to take a stand or something that has a positive effect on their life and for that I’ll take my chances.
I am a child of the most High King.
I am a child of God. Nothing anyone says or does will take that away from me and I will stand knowing that He is with me telling me not to fear and to stand strong knowing that He upholds me with his righteous right hand. Isaiah 41:10

… things that happened…

Kodiak, Alaska (photo credit destination360.com)

I was 26, a single mom, living in a great apartment on Hillside Drive with my girls. I worked at Beryls Sweet Shop. I always say that I was a waitress because I don’t know what else to call my job there. I did everything in that little shop. I raised my daughters working there. Beryls is vital in every story, every memory of those years in Kodiak struggling to do the right thing and keep us all afloat. Even this story has strong ties to my job and the owners whom were my family in the ten years that I worked there. I don’t know what I would’ve done or who I would’ve become without them.

Tom wasn’t an absent father. He loved and cared for our girls the same as me and when he’d come back to port after weeks or months out fishing he’d take our girls to his home and I’d have time on my own. Nowadays I see how extremely fortunate I was to have him in our lives. Back then he and I would argue and fight like any divorced couple but as we’ve aged we’ve come to appreciate each other and the fantastic kids that we managed to raise together in all of our brokenness. He would take the girls and I’d go do the things I’d missed out on by becoming a mom at age sixteen.

My friend Ruth. She was so special to me and as a single mom to a son and twin sons the same age as my girls we had much in common and understood each other’s struggles. We would go out drinking and dancing when I wasn’t being a mom. In Kodiak it was a common thing to do back then in the 80s and 90s… head downtown and do the walk-through of Tony’s, Sollys (Henrys), The Village, Ships, The Mecca… wander up to The Breakers Bar and sometimes if things were slow we’d walk down cannery row to B&B. Before it became a strip-club then closed forever Beachcombers was the most fun place to be but it was miles out of town and risky to go there first because once at Beachcombers you’d have to take a cab downtown and leave your car or risk driving intoxicated.

Ruth and I preferred the Mecca as they had a live band and Beachcombers became a strip club early on which wasn’t our forte’. I loved to dance. Although those years weren’t the happiest or greatest in my life I do have fun memories of dancing the night away… with strangers, with friends or with many strange friends haha. They were good times although I often drank too much and regretted things the next day. Those years when the girls were with their dad for the weekend gave me the chance to experience things I may have otherwise not experienced as a teenager or young adult because I was a mom at that time and when my girls were home I wasn’t dancing Ada. When my girls were home I was the mom. For all of my young failures this was one thing I didn’t fail at. Mom was mom. Period. No drinking or gathering or partying was allowed in my home when my girls were home. It never happened. It was my rule.

I was sitting at a table at The Mecca… doing something… talking and maybe drinking and he tapped me on the shoulder and asked in bad English if I wanted to dance. I did. We danced. As always I was taking stock of this stranger that I was dancing and laughing with and my first thought was that he was short. He was not a tall man but oh my goodness was he handsome and his smile created a dimple in his left cheek. He had an air of happiness about him and we danced to many songs, I don’t even remember how many but I do remember that I could tell that we felt something between the two of us. I could feel it and he was so darn handsome, I loved watching him dance there in front of me. When we finally sat down he ordered us drinks and said his name was “Manyo” (Manuel). He was from El Salvador and a part of the large Hispanic population in Kodiak. It was normal to hear numerous different languages being spoken on our beautiful island. We had Samoans, Phillipinos, Russians, Asians and Aleuts and they all spoke a language other than English and I spoke some of each as well while I lived there. Manuel was fluent in English but had a heavy accent and reading English wasn’t his strongest skill but he did his best.

We drank and danced and somehow my friend Ruth blurred into the background of my night and Manuel had all of my focus. He was funny and laughed easily. He had a sweetness about him and when the night was over we discovered that we lived near each other and he said he’d walk me home. As was typical for me during that time of my life I left my car parked and walked home. You can walk anywhere in Kodiak and not get tired because there’s not a heck of a lot of area that’s populated. Walking home was normal after a night of drinking and we walked off together… across Krafts parking lot and started up Mill Bay Rd. He showed me his house as we passed and he insisted that he walk me all the way to mine. I told him that I was fine, I’d walk the rest of the way. Drinking establishments in Kodiak closed at 5 am back then. It was close to six by the time we were outside Manuel’s house so I was fine walking the rest of the way in the sunrise. We looked at each other and I knew that something had happened between us at the Mecca and I wanted to kiss him. He came close and I suddenly realized that he was coming in to kiss my eyelids. As happens in odd times between people I closed my eyes and he placed a light kiss on each one. Nobody had ever touched me so lightly and so sweetly in my life then. It was magical. I was completely smitten with him for that. We exchanged phone numbers and said goodbye. That was it. I walked home with a feeling in my soul like something beautiful and amazing had just happened in my life. I couldn’t wait to see him again, to experience his sweetness and his good natured silliness and to have him touch me in such an endearing way.

This was the start of our three years together. One year of somewhat goodness and two years of horrible abuse. We ended up loving each other so much that it turned to jealousy and abuse, it turned into me finally being taken to the ER and him being sentenced to prison. We ended in the most horrible and toxic way and without help from an outside source one of us most likely would’ve ended up dead. It probably would’ve been me. What I haven’t talked about yet was Manuel’s physical strength and the beauty of his muscled body that probably measured maybe 5% body fat. He was gorgeous. He was so fit that you could poke his body in any place and it felt like you were poking rock. He was strong. Physically unlike any man I’d ever known before or have known since. He had spent his childhood in El Salvador working the farm with his angry and abusive father who’d punish his sons for coming in from the field early or taking too many breaks to go to the bathroom. Their family was poor and did everything by hand and it had created a young man that looked like he’d spent years in a gym. It was crazy to me that someone like him was interested in someone like me. In that world of insecurity I became jealous and possessive. I wasn’t the only one as he did the same. I never stopped to think that he too felt like he couldn’t believe that I was his. We were a couple but both of us were so insecure that we fretted constantly that the other was cheating or leaving or that we’d fallen out of love. It was intense. It was toxic. It was a relationship that hurt but that I couldn’t walk away from. We were so caught up in the thought of losing each other that it made both of us insane. When we weren’t together I thought of him constantly. I called his house so much that the woman that owned the home told me to stop calling. It was a mess. But it was also a relationship filled with laughter and love. He bought me a car. A mustang that was for sale in town that I mentioned I would love to own; he pulled up to my apartment with it one day and it was mine.  My girls liked him and he played with them and made them laugh. He was a good and happy man. I was a good and happy woman. Somehow together we became a monster. Our relationship consumed my life and all of my thoughts and I found myself being punched and kicked… while driving, during sex, while out with him in public, on sidewalks, in bars, in my home, in his home… he was jealous of anything and everything that came my way. My daughters knew none of this. My daughters were safe. My insistence that my mom life was separate from my single life made it so that all of the crazy took place while my daughters were away. He knew somehow that it would all end if he brought any ugliness near my girls. He knew. I knew. It never happened. When we were all together we had fun. We barbecued and watched movies. We went to the beach and took walks and things were good. The horrors took place while they were with their dad. 95% of the time alcohol was involved although there were also moments when grocery shopping or errands put him into a rage when someone would look at me or talk to me and he felt that person desired me as their own. He hated for other men to find me attractive or to look at me in a certain way. He punched me once for glancing at a guy on a payphone. He drove me to his church and physically dragged me inside and yelled at me to say before God that I hadn’t cheated on him. I hadn’t. He didn’t believe me. It was nuts. It was a crazy and extremely difficult time in my life.

It’s interesting how we evolved into a couple of such painful magnitude in such a short time. I felt so deeply for Manuel that all rationale seemed to fly away. We were intense. We were intense lovers and intense haters. The spark between us was so great that it turned deadly. We became a shattered, broken duo in the years following those slight sweet kisses on my eyelids. I think entering into a relationship in such a genuinely good and naive way made it all the more horrible later when we found ourselves screaming at each other in parking lots. He got into many fights with other men everywhere we went. I found myself being the woman in the fray pulling her boyfriend off another man with crowds surrounding us and police on the way. He was kicked out of every place we went to dance or drink or to have a good time together. Every night ended in tears and usually abuse of some sort for me. My eardrum was broken one night when he first punched a brick wall and then punched me in the side of my head. I didn’t dare go to my own doctor the next day when I realized that my hearing hadn’t come back while I slept and all I could hear in my right ear was a loud whooshing noise. I went to a different doctor at a different medical clinic so that I wouldn’t have to answer questions that I knew my longtime doctor would ask. I had to let my ear heal on its own and it took weeks for me to get rid of that constant loud rushing sound in my ear. That same night he punched me in the face and his ring caught my skin between my eyes. Once the wound healed I had a deep rivet in my head there that lasted for at least ten years and it’s only been recently that I realized it’s not there anymore under my skin.

People asked. My boss and coworkers asked about my injuries. I lied. I told them a myriad of stories that I’m sure nobody believed but I think no one really knew what to do. I was still happy at work. I was still happy with my kids. I gave no signs to anyone anywhere that my relationship with Manuel hurt. I loved him. Everyone knew. I was obsessed with this man and us as a couple and everyone knew. Looking back I don’t know why I continued. I don’t know. I didn’t want to lose him. And while I didn’t feel like I was being controlled or abused I knew that what we were engaged in wasn’t right. I wanted to fix it. I tried numerous times. We would talk it out. He would promise to change. He would be the sweet and funny guy that I loved to be near and we would attempt to be good to each other again. He attacked me in my parked car one night while behind us a party was talking place at the very place I was employed. If anyone had looked out the window they would’ve seen me being battered…punched and slapped…I lost chunks of hair that night as he ripped it out while I was trying to escape the car. I was thinking that at any minute my boss would come running out of the restaurant and help me. I knew that she loved me beyond reason and if she had seen she would’ve come running. She didn’t see. Nobody did. Nobody came to help but eventually a cop drove by and then turned around and came back. He questioned us and Manuel gave him a fake name because by then he had been arrested a few times for assault upon me and upon others. He gave a fake name and the officer knew so he arrested him and took him away. I drove myself home and went to bed. My head hurt, I was bleeding and I didn’t know what to do. I’d had the opportunity to tell the cop I’d been assaulted. I chose not to. I don’t know why. I was ashamed. I didn’t want to make Manuel mad. I knew what happened when he got mad, when he believed that I was the one in the wrong, when he believed that the problem was me and my mouth and not the fact that he had been punching me in the head. I was the problem so I let it be.

We continued. The abuse continued. He’d try to leave sometimes and I’d follow him. I have a vivid memory of him on the sidewalk outside of my apartment saying to me “Ada please go home” and me screaming and not letting him leave. He got so mad the he took his shirt off and threw it on the ground all the while begging me to turn around and go back home. Inside of me I knew this was wrong. I knew I’d be hurt if I continued to follow him yet following him is what I did. I was frantic. I didn’t want to fight, I wanted him to come back and have a good night with me. Somehow I thought I could de-escalate the situation and we would be able to both calm down and love each peacefully. It didn’t happen. He took off running and I picked up his shirt. It was a shirt I’d bought for him and that he wore often. I went home. I tortured myself with the thought that he went to find another woman… that he’d touch her and kiss her and it hurt to think of and it drove me crazy. I don’t know for sure but I probably called his house a hundred times to see if he went home.

I never missed work during those years. I didn’t miss a day of work for five years straight and then when I did it was because my youngest daughter had chicken pox. My income was the only thing putting a roof over our heads and food on the table for my daughters. It was extremely important in my life and I was a good worker. Dependable and reliable. During the Manuel years I worked from 6am-2pm. I’d open the shop and the breakfast cook Louie and I were it for the morning shift. It was fun. I loved my job and I loved the customers that came in for coffee or breakfast. I had the orders memorized of our regular customers and they’d just come in and sit down and Louie and I would get to work. I met so many great people and one of them was our District Attorney; Steve Wallace. We became friends. I knew absolutely nothing in those years beyond how to work at Beryls and be a mom. I was very naive and dumb to how the justice system worked or how important a District Attorney was on our island. I just liked Steve and we became friends. Two pancakes and coffee Steve. We’d have good conversation while he ate and I’d make lattes and cappuccinos for others and we’d all engage in talk about the town and the weather and what each other’s kids were doing. Beryls was a gathering place and filled with fun and laughter and friends. This place became vital in 1996 when I was in the deepest toxic environment I’d ever experienced. I didn’t understand then how much those customers cared about me and how they saw me declining while I was pretending that all was well. I had been raised in an environment that created insecurities within me that ran deep. I was ugly. I was stupid. I was worthless. I deserved nothing. I was in a relationship that proved to me that all of these horrible things were true of myself. I was barely hanging on. Not only did my coworkers and customers see it but my daughters as well. My oldest tells me that she remembers me crying often in those years with Manuel and it tears my heart to shreds. My daughters deserved a great and happy mom. It hurts to this day to think that she remembers watching me cry.

He went to jail. I can’t remember what offense brought it on but I do remember he was sentenced to a month, or maybe two. It was long enough for me to get my wits about me. Steve Wallace as a friend told me that he knew that I was being battered. He wanted me to press charges so that Manuel would finally have to pay for what he was doing to me. I refused. I knew that I was part of the equation. I knew that I became hysterical with jealousy and drove him to madness many times. With a clear mind while he was away I had decided that I didn’t want to press charges but I wanted him to go away. We needed to end it. Our absolute desperation for each other was not healthy and we both knew it. I went to visit him at the jail. He wasn’t there because of his abuses of me but rather assault upon one of the many men he fought with in ‘my defense’. I walked into the small room and saw him on the other side of the glass and my heart just felt so much. I wanted him to be in my life until the end of time. Looking at him was heartwrenching because I was there to tell him that we must end. It felt safe to do it there at the jail where he couldn’t explode and hurt me. We picked up the phones and spoke to each other. He was sweet and said he missed me and how much he loved me. We didn’t have very much time so I just told him…we must end, one of us will die if we continue this way. Oddly he agreed. His agreement sent me into stress overdrive… did he not care? He wanted me gone? I got so distressed and my heart was beating so fast and I told him that I loved him so much… that I was sorry. I cried. He cried too. We made plans for him to get his stuff from my house when he got out. That was it. I believed it. I believed myself and I believed him. We were done. It was earth shatteringly painful. Honestly. It was very hard on me and I cried often in the days following. I felt lost and lonely. I knew it was the right thing to do but it hurt like hell.

I did what I always do. I carried on. I took care of my daughters and worked. I started feeling better and happier and started believing that it might just be okay. Tom came home from the Bering Sea and wanted to take the girls for the weekend. Life was good. I wanted to stay home and just be but I didn’t. I called Ruth. She got a babysitter and we went dancing. I’d missed my friend in the years that I was being battered and wasn’t allowed to go out with her. We dressed up and did Ruth and Ada. I don’t remember what that night contained. Somehow what took place before I went home is lost in my mind. My nights recollections start with me getting out of a cab and unlocking the door of my apt. 1010 Hillside. My safe place and the home I’d made for my girls. I walked down the hall and started downstairs to the living room. I stood at the top of the stairs and noticed that a plant stand was tipped over and there was a plant and dirt scattered across the floor. Everything after that is a horror story. He came out of the laundry room on my right and tackled me…we both fell down the stairs and it began. I can’t believe that I lived through that night. During this horrible struggle I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a knife. I made an attempt to stab him but his strength was just too much. He grabbed my arm and stopped me and the next thing I knew I was lying on the ground with the knife to my throat. He was straddling me and telling me that he could kill me right now. I fought. I did everything I could. He threw the knife and grabbed my wrists… he was screaming at me to kiss him and when I refused he hit me. I got away and ran out the back door screaming for help. He caught my hair and pulled me backward and literally dragged me back into my apartment. Nobody came to help. I got away and did it again this time running out the front door and started for the street. He caught me again. He dragged me inside kicking and screaming. I knew that I was bloody and that my shirt had come off. I thought that I was going to die and my mind was frantic about my daughters and I knew I had to fight so that they wouldn’t have to deal with their mom dying. I tried. I fought. He was too strong. Too muscled. He won over and over again. I don’t even remember everything. I think I blacked out a few times and would wake up being pummeled. I don’t know how long this lasted. I don’t know. I heard my sister Kim outside my apartment screaming. She lived in the same apartments but on a different street. She’d heard my screams and ran to my place. She was beating on the door and he wouldn’t stop. He just kept hitting and I kept trying to deflect the punches. The next thing I knew I was in the hallway by the front door and I heard police outside. I was crying. I was screaming. I was trying to get to the door to let them in but he tackled me from behind. The door suddenly flew open and Manuel was gone. He’d fled out the backdoor. Those policemen… they seemed like angels. There were many… four at least and I think they all came in but I don’t know. It was a flurry of cops and radios squawking and someone gave me a shirt and I saw that my arms were scratched and bloody and that my house was wrecked. I remember sitting on the couch with an officer but I don’t remember if it was a man or a woman. I remember their kindness with me and it makes me feel like I’m going to cry as I write this. One of them came in and said that he was gone. They were patrolling looking for him. I gave statements and cried and eventually called Judy, the owner of Beryls sister who sometimes worked there too and was a friend. I don’t even know why I called her in particular but I did and she drove me to the hospital. I don’t know what took place at my house or where the cops went. I went to the ER.

Cops were at the hospital too and someone was taking pictures of my body and my wounds and Judy went home and they put me in a quiet room and hooked me up to an IV. The nurses kept asking if I needed more for my pain and then my regular doctor walked in and I cried again. Dr. Halter knew everything about me. He was the one to tell me I was pregnant at sixteen and he was my doctor during both pregnancies as well as my girl’s pediatrician. All I remember is a nurse asking if I wanted pain meds and Dr. Halter told her “No, Ada doesn’t like medications”. In all of that I was so grateful to him for saying that. It was true; I didn’t like medication. I still don’t and it’s very important to me to have a doctor that understands that about me. We talked or something, I’m not sure. I slept. My daughters were due to be home that next morning and I was fretting over being home for them. Someone had called Tom and they told me not to worry about it and at some point in the day I finally was discharged. I don’t remember how I got home. Shortly after I got there though a police officer arrived and told me that they’d picked up Manuel right outside my apartment that very morning and that he was locked up and not going anywhere anytime soon. I was safe. I came to find out that he’d been out of jail for less than 12 hours when he broke into my apartment and waited in the laundry room for me to get home. Nobody had notified me because he had been in jail for assaulting someone else, not me. Then began the long and exhausting process of taking care of this problem using the justice system. I was a victim. It finally hit me when I’d gotten home from the hospital. I was a victim of a violent crime. I could not believe it had come to this. I could not believe how battered I was and how much physical pain he’d inflicted upon me. I believe today that while I was healing from telling him goodbye he’d been in that jail cell with his anger festering and planning his attack upon me. He later told the public defender that I was with another man while he was in jail and that it angered him to the point of abuse. It wasn’t true. I wasn’t with another man. I had spent that time trying to release him from my mind and my heart. I had no time for another man.

The days and weeks following the attack and his arrest were tough. Steve Wallace told me to come to his office and after work I did. I was staying in the back at work during those days and being the restaurant baker because my face was bruised and battered and nobody wanted me out with the customers looking like that. I remember sitting in Steve’s office telling him everything. I tried to paint Manuel in a better light numerous times. I knew that he was in a lot of trouble and it caused me stress. I didn’t want him jailed. I didn’t want him deported. I wanted him to stop hitting me. I wanted a life without physical abuse in it. I refused to press charges and finally Steve said that I didn’t need to. He said that he was going to press charges. He knew that I was afraid. He somehow knew that I couldn’t do it. If it came from me and he was released I would most likely be killed. We both knew it. He pressed charges for me. I will forever be indebted to this man for helping me so kindly the way that he did. I’d never had anyone stand up for me the way that Steve did. In all of these years since every time I think of these events I remember Steve stepping in to stop the madness. I always hope and pray that other women in abusive relationships will find a Steve to help them out of the chaos. It’s needed. It’s almost impossible to get out on your own. I tried. I almost died trying.

I had an appointment to go before the Grand Jury and at that time I didn’t even understand the purpose of why. I just went where I was told to go. I waited outside and then the court officer opened a door and motioned me in and there were rows of people sitting…facing me… watching me… watching as I sat down. I was so embarrassed and so ashamed. I felt so little and out of my element. I wanted to be anywhere but there. I wanted to go back to work and just move on. Steve was sitting at a desk on my left and looking at him I was reminded that he was trying to help me. His kind smile and the strength that emanated from him made it easier to look out at the jurors and not be afraid. I was asked questions that I answered the best that I could… how many times had I run outside to try to get away? Where was the knife that I grabbed to defend myself? And someone asked me if Manuel had hit me or punched me and I didn’t know the difference. It turns out they were punches that I’d received. Then Steve handed out photos and the jurors passed them around. I honestly had no idea what they were looking at. No clue what so ever. I just sat there and watched and saw people reacting with anger and sadness and I could tell that those photos meant something to these people. Steve then handed them to me and asked me to tell the jury who was in the photos. I took the stack and starting looking through them. I was shocked. They were me. They were photos of me at the hospital. My face was not in any of the photos. My body was there on full display. Scratches and bumps and dried blood everywhere. My back with bruises forming and my breasts with scratches and what looked like a hickey. My legs were the worst and where that day I had numerous black and blue areas healed up to skin color… in the photos the bruises were fresh and some still red. The tops of my feet had skin peeled off from being dragged back inside my apartment when I’d tried to escape. I remember now that shoes hurt my feet right after the attack and I’m grateful today that my bosses Cindy and Ryan let me work while hiding from the public’s eyes. I hadn’t realized how crazily battered I was until that moment in front of the Grand Jury looking at those pictures. My shame was deep. It was horrible for me. I’ve always been a somewhat modest woman when it comes to my body and it was very hard sitting there knowing those people had seen me like that. That Steve had seen me like that was almost too much to bear. I’d always had so much respect and admiration for him while Louie and I served him breakfast and had our morning talks. All of that stuff with the Grand Jury was almost worse than the beating. At least the beating hadn’t involved numerous strangers being almost intimately involved in my life. I’ve never forgotten nor will I ever forget that day. I hated it. I went back to work as if nothing odd was taking place. After work I walked to the school to pick up my girls. We went home. I made dinner. I was a mom.

Court was difficult. I couldn’t look at him sitting there with his attorney. I wanted to say that I’m sorry. I wanted to tell him that it was just too much and that if he’d stop we could go back and we could love each other sweetly again. I wanted to but I didn’t. In preparation for court I’d been told to only answer the questions asked of me. I was told to not extrapolate. Just answer honestly. No more. No less. And I did. During the days we were in court one of Manuel’s friends contacted me and asked me to drop the charges. He asked me to tell them that I didn’t want Manuel to go to jail. He told me that they were threatening to deport him and to please put a stop to it. Obviously I told someone but I don’t remember if it was Steve or my boss Cindy. I do remember being told to show up at court and I did and I was questioned about that conversation with Manuel’s friend. It was a big deal. In the middle of it all I cried to Steve to please not deport him as he’d worked so hard to come to the US and it meant a lot to him to be away from his abusive father. In the end Steve did take that off the table. That made me happy.

He was sentenced to prison. I think it was two years but all of these years later I don’t really remember. It could’ve been five. I have the documents in a bin of paperwork. I haven’t looked at them in at least fifteen years. I’m not that battered woman anymore and there’s no need to go back to that. Steve told me that his name was on a no fly list and he would be unable to fly back to Kodiak upon his release. Steve made certain that I would be able to be released from the anger and the abuse. God bless him I don’t know what I would’ve done without him. He stepped in when I was so lost and so battered that I was barely hanging on. My whole life was being lived from sheer impulse. I had been going through the motions of work and motherhood purely from instinct… my body was acting like life was perfectly fine while my mind was caught up in abuse and love and jealousy and fear. It was a horrible time in my life. I would not wish it upon anyone. Enemy or no. Nobody deserves to live that way. Love does NOT hurt. Love does NOT send you to the hospital with photos being taken of your bloodied body. It’s a cycle that needs to be stopped as soon as it begins and in all of the things life has thrown at me this is the one thing that gives me a deeper understanding of women who can’t let go even when letting go will free them from pain. I get it. I completely understand.

I read books. I spoke to others. I gave a small speech in a group of other women from abuse and I told them my story and how I could’ve never gotten out on my own. They said they understood me too. They said that I was strong. I told them that I’d read in a book that battered women use so much strength to make every day appear normal to the outside world…I told them that society thinks we’re weak but I’d read that we are actually strong; that it takes a huge amount of strength to pull off that feat of going to work… parenting… doing life as if life is great while at the same time taking punches that should only be done for sport, while being belittled and abused we carried on. Pretending like nothing was wrong and we were ok. It’s the badge only battered women know and carry. Nobody wants that badge. Nobody. But some get it and it doesn’t make sense until years go by and you find yourself letting it go and rationalizing to yourself why you let yourself be dragged so far down in the name of love. It’s just something that happens gradually and before you know it you find yourself creating a new world where you cover for an abuser. They don’t deserve it. They never did.

Manuel was someone that grabbed my heart and my soul and would not let go. Still today when I say his name in my mind my heart jumps and my stomach hurts. I’m not afraid of him. I just remember those intense feelings we both had for each other and when I remember today I think that we both should’ve seen it coming that early morning that he kissed my eyelids. Right at that moment we became so caught up in each other that it wrecked us both. I never wanted that for him. I never wanted that for me. We were toxic. I don’t know what happened to him or where he is. I always wonder if he thinks about me, about us and how we destroyed each other. I always wonder if he’s sorry or if he still blames it all on me. I’ve prayed that his anger and hurtful ways ended there when he went to prison. I prayed for him and whomever he found to love later in life and hoped he’d be the good man I knew he could be.

I moved on. I lived and I learned and I didn’t make it a cycle in my life to find abusive men. Thank the Lord for that, for guiding me and protecting me. I moved on and I made a good life for myself and for my daughters. I stepped out of that life of drinking and dancing. We left Kodiak five years later after I starting dating a beautifully kind and gentle man. I asked him to marry me. That’s a different story altogether and I recognize today that I desperately needed goodness and love in my life and I’d found it and his love made me whole again. I married Eliseo Velasquez. His love was pure and good and he helped me to see the world in a better light. I lost him. In 2001 my daughters and I left Kodiak for good. We moved to Idaho. My daughters are adults now and have careers and I have son in laws that make my heart joyful with the way they love my daughters. I have grandchildren and I have a husband now that is my very best friend. I’ve never been hit or punched since that day in 1996 when the cops beat down my door to save me. That was it. That was the last day. I never saw him again. It was over.

If anyone reading this needs help, needs hope or needs someone to take the reigns and pull them out of the pit… please reach out. Please find me or call law enforcement and tell them your story. Reach out to me… to someone. There are people that care about you. You may not see it while you’re down but they’re there. It doesn’t matter if you are mouthy or argumentative… you don’t deserve to be hit. Man or woman… that’s not it. That’s not love. That’s not a good life. I’ll help in any way that I can. I promise.

…mornings…

I’ve always loved early mornings. My entire working life I somehow managed to have 7 am shifts and even when the alarm would go off at 5:00 and I’d hate getting out of my comfy bed I could still see the beauty in a good quiet morning. There’s something about a new day that is just so peaceful and beautiful. You never know how the new day will end and that’s part of the beauty of it. It might be the last sunrise you ever see. It might end with a new friend or broken leg, the sky could fall or a new love come into your life. It’s a wide open space with birds chirping and dew drying on the yard and a chill still in the air.

I think my most favorite mornings are vacation mornings. Waking up in a different place with new sounds and that feeling you get of anticipation to get out the door and explore. It’s never a bother to wake up early during vacations. A peek of sunshine and my eyes spring open and somehow I’m ready. Gimme some coffee and get out the door. I think this drove my daughters crazy when they were young. I’d be so upbeat in the mornings during our vacations and pushing them to hurry up and let’s go. My heart right now gets an ache thinking about it. My girls and I running out the door of random hotels always heading to a beach. I don’t know why we didn’t spend more time vacationing in the mountains or cities. We were always doing palm tree vacations. Still today that’s where my mind goes when I start pondering vacation plans.

Those days when I was young and bold and being a mom was everything and all encompassing. We were poor so just the fact that I managed to get my girls anywhere off of our island was a miracle in itself. We didn’t do it much when they were little but we did go Hawaii which was a great time and I cried when I looked out the airplane window and saw the island below us. It was surreal to me…a teenaged mom and struggling restaurant employee getting ready to land in Maui. The Hawaiian mornings were truly great and I haven’t been able to find coconut syrup anywhere else in the world like we had there in our favorite breakfast place.

I’ve had mornings in so many different great places as a kid and as an adult. Camping is also full of beautiful mornings. In our family we don’t consider it camping unless it’s done in a tent. I think that’s an Alaskan thing. In Idaho camping is done with an RV and although we’ve been here for more than twenty years that’s something the girls and I never caught on to. Camping = tent. Period. Waking up in a tent… There is nothing else like it. Last summer Rick and I went camping and the first night it started to rain. No big deal we went to bed early and snuggled in close together to sleep. The rain got worse and then came the thunder and lightening. I managed to fall asleep but woke up repeatedly to loud claps of thunder and flashes of lightening. The rain was hitting the tent so incredibly hard and instinctively I kept putting my hand out to feel the walls of the tent and the floor to see if water had gotten in. It didn’t. We slept.

In the morning I awoke and Rick wasn’t there and I could hear him outside the tent talking to my grandson; they had arrived after the storm started and slept in the car instead of trying to set up camp in the dark and the rain. I just listened to their talk and felt grateful that my husband feels love towards my grandbabies and my girls and I just lay there and felt the morning for a bit. The birds and the sun coming through the fabric of the tent… the heat that was starting to gather inside and how warm and comfortable I was even though I hadn’t slept well and I knew when I got up my body would be screaming like it does every morning but even more so for having slept on an air mattress. Camp coffee and sitting and listening to the crazy story of my daughter having gotten lost on the way to the campsight and then arriving after dark in the height of the storm. In moments like those nothing else matters and it makes me wish that every day could be a camp day and every morning I could wake up outside with animals and my loves sitting in the sun basking in the absolute glory of the day.

I’ve had mornings of waking up in the hospital, in my crazy days of had mornings of waking up in a strange bed, there was the morning after my dad died and waking up in my best friend’s bed after having fled to her house to get some sort of ordinary back into that crazy day. I’ve woken up in Florida as a child and as an adult with children of my own. I’ve had mornings on airplanes and even waking up on the floor of an airport in Alaska to people walking by my head where the night before I’d fallen asleep in a place I thought I’d have some privacy. Mornings with cats and dogs, rabbits and a pig. Waking up before sunrise to trudge out to the pigpen and upon seeing my pet suddenly forgetting that it was cold and I was sleepy and scratching that big hairy pig head and feeling so much love … it brings tears to my eyes remembering. I thought he would live forever. All of the mornings with animals inside the house and out and waking up to Freddy and Weeze whom I still can’t even think about 4 years later because losing them still is like losing apart of my own soul. Those two were always ready for morning. A trip outside for a potty break and then they’d come sit by me looking expectantly at me although they knew after all of those years that I’d be leaving the house for the day.

I’ve had mornings as a new mom and being so tired yet so excited at the same time. The type of exhaustion that only comes with parenting newborn babies. I remember looking forward to the days each of my babies would be out of their newborn stage and start sleeping all night until suddenly they are and they’re teens and then go off onto a life of their own and although it’s great to see them being independent I wish I could go back in time and be tired and awake in the middle of the night rocking my babies to sleep and pondering how they’d be as adults. One more morning of watching the sun come up while some early more TV show played in the background and looking down at the beautiful miracle sleeping on my lap and feeling like I will kill for them if I had to. Those mornings of newborns and chaos are so distant that all I know now is the feeling of it all and right now I think about my beautiful daughters and imagine Brittney sitting on the couch having coffee while my grandkids ask her repeatedly about the day’s plans. Chelsey waking up to the sweetness of Cody and bunnies and I wonder if my granddaughters are with her or if this is a morning when they’re with their dad. I’ve had mornings of waking up knowing that my daughters are having a morning with a newborn and wishing that I’d have prepared them more so it wouldn’t be so shocking like it was to me how much a baby can take up all of your days until suddenly they don’t anymore and they’re running around throwing kisses and naming inanimate objects. And the sweet greatness of the mornings after knowing that a new life was born the six times a grandbaby cage into my life. I remember each morning and the exact feeling of thinking that the day should be different somehow because a baby was born in our family. The world should stop and rejoice at the greatness of it and even still seventeen years later being so crazily in love with those children of my children that my mind goes to all sorts of crazy if I think someone or something intends to do them harm.

I’ve had dark mornings after my spine failed me and the darkness of losing everything was the first thing that entered my mind when my eyes flew open. Those mornings of pain and anxiety and the sick feeling of needing some help and it was nowhere to be found. And the mornings that came when my insomnia was so bad that it almost killed me. Sitting on the couch sick with lack of sleep and watching the day become light and knowing that another night had passed with no sleep and the feeling inside of my body of hopelessness as I knew my body was failing. Watching the morning come in after a night of being awake has a completely different feeling; dread and fear because you know that you have to live your day but your body isn’t working as it should and your brain is muddled from lack of sleep. When my doctor finally got me sleeping and I woke up with the TV on and sunlight pouring through the window by my bed I couldn’t believe that I’d finally slept and made it out of that horrible place. That was one of the best mornings of my life coming on the heels of a few of the worst of my life. Insomnia of that type is no joke and it will make you hate seeing the morning come in if you let it.

Things change and life happens and mornings never stay the same. For the sun and the clock it’s just a typical day but to everything else it’s similar but not the same. A flower has bloomed in my front yard and it’s the first one from seeds I planted last year. Seeing it there makes me feel like I wanna cry and I talk to that flower and welcome it to the day. It’s been a long time coming and it’s completely crazy but I feel connected to the things that I grow and it’s the reason why I like to start everything from a seed. I love plants of all types and colors and species. My daughters know by now that a plant is always a welcomed gift by me and those growing in my yard that were mother’s day gifts or birthday presents hold a special place in my heart. And these early summer mornings I go out and walk around my yard and check to see what’s new and also what’s decided that it’s time is done. The pumpkin plant in the front yard has really taken off and I make a mental note to start giving it extra water because experience tells me that pumpkins love their H2O.

The cats follow me around the yard and I talk to them as if they’re people and Sparkle even sits down and examines things with me and jumps around chasing things and bringing sweetness into my day. Bella stalks something over by the fence and suddenly here comes the neighborhood stray, Bubba, as if we’re his home and I go inside and dish him up some food. I leave the door open because I can tell it’s going to be a beautiful day and this day, today, I try hard not to form any sort of a plan in my head to try and control the day. Just let it play out the way it wants Ada… you never know if this is your last day. Savor each moment, relax and enjoy it. There are bees on the old kale that’s now flowering and I’m happy that I just let the kale grow because I haven’t seen a bee in the backyard for a really long time. I check to see if the little birds have come out to their makeshift window-porch yet. They haven’t but I can hear them inside the room chirping so sweetly in their way that is the nonstop background noise in our home. I feel so thankful for my husband who does his best to make things good for the animals that I love as I look around and see the different things he’s done for them and we ponder what to do with Krueger’s outdoor pen now that she’s gone. He keeps talking about tearing it down but neither of us have the heart to do it. We miss her so much and I think we both kind of feel as if one of these mornings were going to wake up and she’s going to be sitting in a ray of morning sun waiting for a cricket. Her pen is left untouched and oddly a patch of lettuce is growing right next to it and I just cut it all yesterday and gave it to my grandaughter’s bunnies to eat. I didn’t plant the lettuce there but that’s how things tend to go in my backyard. We have a Mulberry tree that gives us a ton of berries and nobody knows where it came from. It grows up through the chain link fence and has given my neighbor fits because she thinks it’s her job to worry about my tree and my fence. I won’t cut it down. Ever. We will just get a new fence. It’s a bona-fide tree now and towers over the house next door. No clue how it started growing there; it just did.

I started this particular morning in pain. My body is broken and although I’m used to it by now some mornings bring pain that shocks me still. This is how I know I’m strong. This is how I know I’m tough. It hurts so much and since surgery in February I can’t walk or stand up for more than 5 minutes or my leg dies and when I say it goes numb it doesn’t actually become numb; that would be much better than what it does. It dies. That’s the only way that I can describe it. It dies and won’t hold me up but at the same time the pain escalates to the point that I can’t stay focused on what I’m doing as my mind starts to panic that we’re going down. It’s not great. It’s hard to put a positive spin on the situation going on with my body right now but if a positive spin is going to come to me it will be in the quiet beauty of a morning. If I can have any sort of control over my day I will let that control be with my mind and within my soul. I’ll control my reaction to the horrible pain in my dead leg.

That I’ve woken up yet again to a beautiful day is a gift in itself. Fifty three years of mornings. Mornings full of love and of gratitude for this life that from the outside I’m sure looks pathetic but to me has been full of God’s grace and blessings. That I wake up knowing that my little family is still safe and sound in their respective homes and that my own home is full of love and positive energy…pets and plants and that there’s plenty of food to eat and we’re sheltered from any and all storms. My beautiful Buzzard isn’t waking me up anymore as she’s learned that she’s ok and that HER mornings are beautiful now… there’s food and water and she’s learned that I eventually come for her and she’s content and unafraid. That’s all that I really want a morning to be. In all of my brokenness I can bring something beautiful to those that I love. I can go outside and watch the fruits of my labor blooming in the yard or producing food from seeds planted lovingly by myself of somehow placed in the ground by birds or the squirrels that also call my yard their home. We’re all squared away and in a few hours this morning shall be done like all of the others and the day is fresh to be whatever we want it to be or whatever it wants to be to us.

Mornings are my favorite. I’m blessed to have seen so many and forever thankful I’ll be. I kind of hope that when my day does come I’ll pass from here in the beauty of a morning. That would be neat and the cherry on top of this life I’ve been given. I hope and pray that will be another 53 years from now because I do so love it here and especially in the early morning hours as I experience another new day be born. God bless us all. We’ve been given so much and we so often take it all for granted. Relax and enjoy the day. Listen to the sounds and really see what the day is trying to show you. Turn off the fake noise and the fake lights and really see what the morning holds. That’s my unsolicited advice for the day. It’s really meant for my own self but of you need that advice feel free to use it too.

My mom…2

I wrote about my mom the other day. There was so much left over in my mind that I kept thinking that I need to write more… go further. One day perhaps this little place will be all that’s left of my life here. If my writings give some insight into my history than I’ll have done something great. If nobody ever sees or reads my stuff I’ll still have done something great. For myself. From about age ten on I’ve delved deeply into my family history and my family experiences to figure out who I am and where I came from. I’ve looked into my DNA and discovered an entire genealogy that I never knew too but that doesn’t interest me as much as the people who surrounded me every day of my early life and how they affected me and who I  am as an older adult. I’m very good at looking at most things in an unbiased way and from all angles. Some have been harder than others and my mom falls into the harder category. She’s my mom after all.

I think that due to my own daughters and my deep love for them and my own journey through motherhood I’ve not been able to have a clear perspective when it comes to my own mom. I think I’ve wanted her to be something more than she has been and because of that desire I’ve tended to paint everything more rosy than it truly was or is. I’ve wanted a mom who cares and loves unconditionally. I’ve wanted to believe that me and my siblings meant something to my mom. Even when she didn’t do anything at all after my brother died…I made excuses in my own mind as to why it was okay. She didn’t attend his memorial service. She didn’t attend when we took his ashes to sea in Alaska and said goodbye. My brother was her only son and her first born child. She did nothing. How? How is that possible?

Now that my mind isn’t muddled with trying to call her enough to keep her happy, say the right things to keep her content, listen to her lies over and over again without calling her out… now that I’ve been removed from that it’s all so clear the manipulation that has taken place. I moved out when I was sixteen. For an entire year before I moved out of her home we were struggling with my dad’s death and barely interacted with each other. After my oldest daughter was born, when I was sixteen, she would come visit us often. She worked at the hospital then and hadn’t remarried yet and we’d go out to dinner together and she’d even sleep over. It was nice. We had a sweet relationship back then. She remarried shortly after I turned twenty one and moved out of state. I think that is the turning point and where she took on my step-dad’s identity for herself. She seemed to do the same thing with my own dad. Some of the things she held strong to as my dad’s wife just vanished when she remarried. My dad was staunchly against judging people for the color of the skin or their nationality. We were taught this from very early in life…we are all the same in God’s eye. My mom taught us that along with my dad. Once she remarried though she was suddenly racist. She’d talk on the phone about how much she didn’t like Native Americans although my two daughters; her grandchildren, are Native American. She started disliking anyone with an accent or anyone who spoke a language other than English. My oldest sister’s children are Mexican. It didn’t matter to my mom. Only people like her and my step-dad were talked kindly of. I’ve heard my mom say the dreaded ‘N’ word so many times in the last thirty years that it’s barely registered anymore when she says it. My dad… my real dad would’ve been irate to hear her talk like that. She took on the personality of her new husband. I’ve known it and even talked about it to my kids and my husband in the past. It’s only now that I’ve truly realized the split that he’s caused and how he’s (probably unknowingly) turned her into him. She no longer wants her own children in her life. I’m fifty-three. For thirty two years I’ve tried to contend with this. I’ve made excuses to myself and to others to try to hide the truth from myself. I’ve had huge arguments with my two sisters and my only surviving sister has been blocked from my moms life for years now. I don’t know why I couldn’t see it this clearly before. My mom has been the problem for years upon years and her ability to manipulate me specifically causes me to not see things correctly. I’m the baby in our family. I’ve held on to the image of my mom from childhood of when she was good and kind and showed love for all of these years. Perhaps I’ve wanted it so badly… for this to be who she is and who she was that I was blind to what was really taking place. I mean I’ve known. I’ve listened to her on the phone belittle and berate not only myself but my real dad and all of my siblings. She did not do anything when my sister Wendi died in 2020 either. In fact she refused to pay the mortuary to cremate my sister’s body. They kept trying to contact her to get directions on what to do with my Wendi’s body. My mom complained to me about it on the phone. Their typical excuse that they couldn’t afford it. She has a checking account that gets topped off every month. The mortuary wanted $2000. My mom and step-dad refused. So you wanna know who took care of my sisters body? The son of an ex boyfriend of hers. She helped to raise him and he was so broken over her death that he flew to Washington after she died to see where she’d lived. His dad paid for her cremation and he received her ashes. How sad and horrible is it that my mom had no interest in her dead daughter? Or son. I can’t even imagine. I can become distraught just thinking about losing one of my daughters. I pray every single day for the Lord to give them both long, healthy and happy lives. I think most moms feel the same.

So… her not wanting to talk to me… my step dad controlling the phone… the two of them deciding that I can’t be trusted… it’s a good thing. It’s made me see finally who my mom really is. Who she’s been. It is true that I carry within me the kindness that she taught. I carry within me the nurturing nature that she showed me as a very young child and for that I’m incredibly grateful. I truly am. But she also turned her back on us as children. So much so that when two of her children passed away she did nothing more than talk about it on the phone. Speaking of it now… that is the most cold and callous thing to hear come out of my own memories of my family. That is who I am not. As much as I’m soft and gentle like the woman who raised me… I’m not dishonest. I’m not cold and I have not and will not ever turn my back on my children or my grandchildren. This part of my psyche is so strong and so fierce that I know that I would die to protect my family. With no qualms what so ever. I did not take those things that are ugly from my mom and I thank the Lord for that with all that I am.

I think that this time of not having to cater to her has cleared the cobwebs and let me see the truth. She has not cared about us. She has not cared about me or my children or my grandchildren. It’s sad how much I’ve tried to make it happen. I’ve tried to rationalize and tell others only the good things and put her in that place where others mom are. That place where moms love and sacrifice for their kids. It’s silly to think now. That’s not my mom. I can’t believe I’ve managed to hide that from myself for all of these years. Wow. I’m gullible when it comes to family ties.

I know now. I’m fully aware. It is what it is. Nothing changes because of my discovery. I just have some peace of mind finally that it wasn’t me. I’m the kid. I’m the child and she’s the mom in our situation. It was her job to be my mom. It’s my job to be the mom and grandma to my own family. She stopped being my mom when she remarried. Somehow she couldn’t be both a wife and a mom and grandma. She could only be one and she chose to be the wife. Knowing how untruths flow so freely from her mouth I can imagine what he heard about her horrible children and what’s driven their hatred of us on her side. It’s a sad realization but needed none the less. I’m thankful for this time. I’m thankful that she was kind and sweet when it mattered the most for me personally. I’m thankful that I have memories of her running my head to help me sleep and being there for me when I was too nervous from moving so often to go to school in a new town. She was what I needed at age three and if not for her then who knows where I’d be.

It’s hard to let it go now but I’m very good at keeping things real with my own self. This is the reality of my mother. It is what it is. It’s done and all I can do is try to be better. I can be the best mom possible to my own daughters and as long as I know I’m doing the best I can that’s all that I can expect from myself. I am Ada. I am not my mom.

…my mom…

There’s no photo to share here. I’m writing this solely for my own selfish reasons and to get it out of my head. I have tried, over the years, to do other things to make things right in my soul besides put trouble into words and send them off into online land. I write in notebooks too. Sometimes I write on scraps of paper or in the back of books. Somehow in all of these years that I’ve been alive this is how I deal with things. I write. I write it down and in the process I figure it out. There’s always hope in my mind that making my writings public will do some good somewhere. I don’t know how but my heart tells me to let whomever read whatever. I have nothing to hide.

When I was a teen I kept journals. I knew that my mom was sneaking peeks and I knew that my sister Wendi was as well. Sometimes I’d leave little side notes in my journals for them; “Hi mom!”. Neither of them ever talked about it if they saw them. I’ve never been one who cared if others know what I’m up to. If I’m doing something I’ll talk about it. I don’t care who else talks about it either. I don’t really keep secrets about myself. Honestly if people can’t handle me and my life that’s a problem of theirs not mine. As a teenager it was of course my mom’s business but she never did anything to reel me in. I guess she just wanted to know what was up so she and my sister read my journals. I can’t remember exactly but I’m pretty sure that my sister told me once or twice that the two of them snooped on my stuff. I’m pretty sure that I didn’t care.

So all of these years later and my mom is turning eighty-five this year. My sister has been gone for fifteen months now and I haven’t spoken to my mom in three. This is the longest I’ve ever gone with no communication with her and at first it was distressing but now I’ve just come to accept it and it’s not surprising in the least. It’s a little hurtful to be sure, because this is my mom and although we haven’t had a super close relationship for years now she’s still my mom and I love her. It’s helped me to make sense of so many things though…this barrier to honest communication that’s taken place. It’s helped me to see that this isn’t just one incident but this has been taking place with her my entire life. This is why my birth family has never been close like most families are. I’ve never felt any sort of family loyalty or strong ties to any of my siblings or my mom since back when my dad died in the 80s. My dad passing brought out family to an end. I’ve always kind of known it and I’ve even written about it but suddenly it’s crystal clear since my mom and step dad have decided that I can’t be in their lives anymore.

The short story is… On Christmas Eve of 2021 I received a phone call at 10:30 at night from my parents. I thought it was an emergency because they typically go to bed at 7 or 8. When I answered they were both on a phone and started talking about how someone told them that I want to take their house away from them and take all of their money. This apparently stemmed from a Facebook post I made about my mom not wanting to talk to me when she had been briefly hospitalized. I STILL don’t know for sure why she was in the hospital because my dad (step-dad) said it was because she didn’t know she was diabetic. She did know and was supposed to be getting insulin injections every day. The last time I was at their house, which is two hours away, he was giving her the insulin. In any case I tried to get ahold of her and the nurse said she didn’t want to talk to me or to have anyone give me information. This is in stark contrast to how we’ve lived our lives until then as I’m usually the one that handles her medical stuff. In any case I posted about it on social media. I said that my mom was in the hospital and didn’t want to talk to me. As is the case with social media friends of hers and people whom I know replied with their ideas. One comment was to try to get a medical power of attorney to which I said something along the lines of “yeah that’s a good idea”.

My step-dad has his own kids and then he has kids that aren’t his but that he raised who are all older than me. I was 21 when he and my mom married and they were all in their thirties. I have thought that we were all friendly with each other. I’ve been grateful that they love my mom and call her family. Truly. But now that my mom and he are near the end of their lives the greed has taken over it seems and his side of the family is itching to get their hands on his money. It’s always been a topic of conversation. Literally always. When my mom married him and for all of the thirty+ years since, everyone in their world knows that he has a lot of money. He won’t spend it. He’s never spent it. He is the type to say that he’s broke and will never spend money on anything without it being a real big issue even though he has hundreds of thousands in the bank. He always says that he can’t afford stuff. Always. Because of his miserly ways and the fact that he was a log scaler for most of his life his worth is pretty grand. His. Not hers. My mom went into their marriage with nothing but her 401k cash-out of approximately $10,000 which they’ve told me over the years went into the bank and is still there. I’ve known for years that my mom had a checking account that he would top off every month so she could have her own money. Not that it mattered because he never let her drive and they live far out of town, so she never got to use the money unless she ordered things from catalogs. She did that from time to time but typically my step dad took care of everything in my mom’s life. Similar to how things worked when my dad was alive and the reason behind everything falling apart after he died.

So… one of my step-dad’s daughters decided that the replies I received on my Facebook post about my mom were my weird and thoughts instead of whomever wrote them. And she decided that she’d tell my parents that I was trying to take their home. I tried to tell them both that I don’t give two tiddly winks about their money or their house. This is the honest to God truth and none of it is my mom’s in any case so I’ve never thought it would ever come my way no matter. I don’t want it. I don’t care about it. I don’t even think about it. I have my own house. I have a great life and it’s never been about wealth. Ever. Period.

Greedy people just assume that others are greedy as well. It’s not the first time in my life that others can’t grasp the concept that money doesn’t drive me. It’s not the first time in my life that someone has taken their own thoughts and ideas and portrayed them as mine. This is the first time though that it’s brought about a wall between my mom and myself. My dad’s kids want his money. Everyone knows that in our lives. They think that I want his money too. And sure money would be great but he’s not my dad. I’ve never expected anything from him beyond loving my mom and taking care of her. He owes me nothing and I’m perfectly fine with that. I didn’t marry him. My mom married him and I absolutely know that his wealth was a major player in her decision making at the time. I’m not my mom. I’m me. My husband is not even close to being wealthy. I married my husband because he is my best friend and the love of my lifetime. We don’t have money and we are completely happy with our marriage and our life together. I’m not my mom. I will never be my mom. I don’t want her money or his money or anyone’s money. Truly. But those who do want it can’t fathom not being greedy so they assume things. So they (my parents) told me what they heard and I told them the truth and my step-dad said the person who told him that I want their house is someone that he trusts so he doesn’t believe me. I thought I was someone that they both trusted but I guess I got that wrong. So that was that. The next day; Christmas Day, my mom called to say Merry Christmas but she wasn’t talking like she normally does and that was the last I’ve heard of either of them. I’ve called and he won’t let me talk to my mom. My step dad just acts cold on the phone and tells me that my mom is busy and can’t talk. I know that she’s not “busy” as she can’t even walk but that’s what he says so I just let it go. I sent her a letter but never got any response. Years ago when they did basically the same thing with my oldest sister I was told that she sent my mom a letter too. He never let my mom see it. Both of them told me that it was filled with obscenities so he threw it away. I kind of believed it when it happened because my oldest sister is somewhat rough around the edges. Now I know that it most likely was a nice letter the same as mine but he tells her what he wants her to believe and she follows along. My mom has always been controlled by men… when she was a kid, after her mom died and in both of her marriages. She just floats through life doing what whatever man in her life tells her to do. She married my dad when she was eighteen. She was alone for six years after my dad died and then married my step-dad. It’s all that she knows in life.

So now I guess my relationship with them both is done. I know that to others who have close relationships with their parents it probably seems cold and callous to just accept it and move on. I’ve struggled with it for months now and finally came to grips with the fact that they choose what happens in their lives. I choose what happens in mine. They don’t want me in theirs… so be it. That’s pretty much the story of my life with my birth family and it’s not painful or surprising anymore. My surviving sister hasn’t been in my mom’s life for probably ten years now because of some rift that my step-dad turned into a big deal. Now it’s my turn. The only thing that I think now is that during my life I’ve always been great to my mom. I’ve always held her up to a higher standard of treatment than the ordinary person and no matter what she’s done to me or how she’s treated me I’ve never treated her bad or spoke bad to her ever. She’s lied to me and about me numerous times and I’ve quietly let it go. I never do that with others. I cannot handle dishonesty and I get pretty damn angry when it happens anywhere near me. My mom has always been the exception. She has been a person who makes things up my whole life and I’ve known it. We’ve all known it and we all just let it happen. We were made to not speak up when we were kids and she was not telling the truth about whatever it was being spoke of. It was never anything serious… minor things… like what people said to her in public or what she did during the day while we were with her. She just fabricates everything and she always has and for some reason our entire family has just let her do it. I’ve never been mean to her. I mean that with complete sincerity. I’ve been angry with her but I’ve never told her or expressed my anger to her. I’ve always held on to the mom I experienced as a small child… the good and loving woman who nurtured me so sweetly. She was fantastically kind to all of us kids until we reached ten or twelve then she just disappeared emotionally and we all had plenty of scars to prove it. It’s only my oldest sister and I now. My dad passed. My brother passed. My other sister passed. My birth family is pretty close to being a thing of the past. It feels like my mom will probably be leaving this world without making amends with me. If that’s what she chooses to do then that’s what she chooses to do. I’ve made my amends. As frustrating as it is I know that I’ve done my best with her. I’ve treated her kindly and I’ve been respectful to her my whole life. I’ve been the same with my step-dad. I know that the fault isn’t mine. I have no burden to carry when it comes to them.

All I can say today is that I hope that money is worth it to those family members who will stop at nothing to get it. I hope they buy whatever it is that makes them happy. I would absolutely hate it if my own daughters only thought of me as someone who will give them money once I die. How horrible is that??? I’m grateful for my life and my little family that was made with love. We are honest with each other and that means more than all of the money in the world. I love my mom. She knows that I love her. What she does with that is her thing. It’s done. I pray that my step-dad let’s me know if she passes away. You’d think that would be a common courtesy but you never know. To him I don’t deserve to know. So be it.

…my love…

December 2014. Wasilla, Alaska.

This photo came up in my Facebook memories yesterday. I showed it to my husband and we were both shocked that it was taken seven years ago. This was our first but not last “usie”. I had just arrived back in Alaska after thirteen years away and was there for a week to visit Rick after we found each other via Facebook, quite on accident, after being friends in the 80s when we were teens. We both look so happy here. We were ecstatic to see each other after all of the years…we had kissed once in 1984. We were close friends until I started dating my girls dad and became pregnant. Once I was a mom my life changed drastically and I lost basically every friend I had. They were all continuing their teen years and I was busy making a family.

Rick too had gotten married and had two sons although he waited until he was a proper age to do both. We rarely crossed each other’s paths as adults. I think I may have seen him twice in the grocery store in the seventeen or so years I was in Kodiak after becoming pregnant and having babies. He had a horrific event in his life in that time. Much more damaging and terrible than anything the average person has lived through. I knew it. The entire island knew it. People in Kodiak tend to not judge though. Alaskans are different. Alaskans let life play out the way it plays out and tend to understand that not everything will be joyful or perfect. It was part of island life… the event that took place with Rick.

So in 2014 after thousands of texts and messages I flew to Alaska to visit. I returned and took care of my affairs the best I could with my then limited physical abilities and went back to stay with him. I think we both knew it was what I needed to get back on my feet again after my own horrifying ordeal with my health and the surgery and all of that agonizing fallout. Rick did what Rick does. He let me stay with him while I healed and he took care of me. Period. In those three years we had tumultuous times. We fought each other, we degraded each other and we fell in love with each other at the same time. We had a very close bond as teens. We had a very close bond in Palmer for those three years as well but we were both terribly broken people.

Our lives had played out oddly similar. It’s so surprising today how we understand each other so well and talk about how it comes from us both living through many of the same things in life, although what my husband has had to endure is extremely more difficult that even my worst days. He is a true fighter and I absolutely admire his strength in getting through it all with his heart still intact. My husband is strong. He has taught me a lot about a soul’s ability to persevere. His life’s trials messed with his mental health and his ability to communicate and to show love. He still deals with severe issues in his mind and psyche from the trauma he lived through. He never stops working on himself and that is how we’ve gone from that broken and argumentative couple in Alaska to the strong and loving husband and wife we are today. It’s been a struggle but once we figured out what was wrong we worked together to fix it. That is our thing…our bond…we help each other to see what the other cannot see and we fix it together. My husband is one of the greatest gifts the Lord has given me and I know why it took so long for him to be in my life; I was not ready to look at myself in the light needed to have a great relationship until Rick and I came together after thirty-two years of life.

We looked at this photo from 2014 and both agreed that we still feel new in our hearts. It doesn’t feel like it’s been seven years. We did spend one year apart when I left him in Alaska in October of 2017 with the intention of walking away forever. He came to visit in December of 2018 and made the decision to make Idaho his home too in 2019. In 2020 we married and in just two weeks it will be our second wedding anniversary. This may be the reason why we still feel new to each other. After he moved here to Lewiston we were both changed. We both started to be gentle with each other and to love each other the way we both needed to be loved. I’ve never regretted not letting him go. He held a special place in my heart in the 80s and still today he is my person, my love and the one who understands me on a different level than anyone else. We are very close, my husband and I. I completely adore him.

We are good to each other now. We never tire of each other’s company and 99.9% of the time where you see me you’ll also see him. I’m sure people get tired of it but I don’t care. We come as a team. We back each other up. He is my comfort and my rock. I am his voice of reason. We are the Eldridges… his father’s birth name that was taken away once he was adopted as a child. His dad died in 2020 along with his oldest son, sister and brother. It was a heart wrenching year as it ended with my sister Wendi losing her fight with substance abuse. We lost many loves last year. We handled that together the same as we handle everything. We prefer to handle things together after two lifetimes of being lone rangers weathering storms independently. It’s a beautiful thing.

I look back at previous posts here and my rule is to not re-read them after I’ve posted them. I write to get things out of my head and the process helps me to let go of things that I need to let go of. Typically I don’t need to let go of great and happy things in my head. The things I write about are typically painful. That’s the entire point of my writing. I started Journaling when I was 14 and eventually went from the hundreds of notebooks I kept to online writing and somehow just went ahead with keeping it open to the public. I’ve gone months without writing and sometimes I write every day. Sometimes I don’t even finish because halfway through I get my mind sorted out and it no longer interests me to keep writing. I have hundreds of drafts saved that will never see the light of day. It’s my therapy. It’s how I cope.

So I start scrolling through my posts and see that I’ve documented every single bad thought I’ve ever had about Rick… when we were in Alaska together and I was right in the middle of the worst calamity of my life and somehow believing that I was capable of just having a great relationship smack dab in the middle of my health crisis and thousands of miles away from my family. It just goes to show how desperate I was back then… for something… for someone to save the day, to love me, to fix my health problem and help me change my life back to the great productive one I’d had before my spine broke apart. I was really in a very sorry state of mind. I’m surprised that I stayed in Palmer for three years now, looking back. It wasn’t a great time in my life but it was a very transformative time and it was the beginning of Rick and I and even though it’s a bad memory it reminds us both of how far we’ve come and how much our true friendship pulled us through such a bad time. We talk about it often. We communicate. That’s our secret. That and the fact that we are truly the best of friends. Only one person in my life has ever felt like this in my heart and that’s my oldest daughter. I love like crazy both of my girls but my oldest has become more of a friend as well as we’ve aged. I’m so thankful that I have my family and the love we all share with each other. Without it I wouldn’t even care to be here in this world.

So here I am today sharing my photo of Rick and I looking happy when in fact we were just pretending. We had some great days in Palmer, truly. Rick is a tender and generous man. His heart is so beautiful but he was forced to be in a place where a beautiful heart can get a man killed so he was afraid to let it be known. He still gets a little agitated when I tell people that he’s sweet haha… he doesn’t like people to know that about him. He is a great husband though. He is everything to me. I thank the Lord for bringing him into my life, every single day. My life has changed so dramatically since he moved to Idaho and we married. I’m no longer handling life alone. This was a very difficult thing to accept and to get accustomed to. I remember showing up to a Mental Health Clinic back in about 2010 without an appointment. I just went in and walked up to the counter and started crying. A Dr. was behind the desk looking at a chart. God bless this man… he immediately came out from behind the desk and told me to come with him. We went into his office and he acted like he had all of the time in the world to talk to me. I wasn’t even charged for the visit. I don’t remember even telling the reception my name or any information about myself.  I just cried and talked to this kind older Doctor until I felt better. I remember him saying to me that he understood that I was tired of being my own rock. Ugh, it hurts my heart right now writing about it. He reiterated to me that I felt like there was nobody to ever help me with a anything and it was wearing me down. He was spot on. I was tired of the constant fight to do everything on my own, the absolute solitude I felt when problems arose and I knew that it was up to me and only me to find a solution and to make that solution happen. It wore me down then and it didn’t stop. Only three or four years later I found myself physically broken and losing everything I’d worked so diligently for and with literally no one available in my life to help me out. There was no one and that year from the day of surgery until I went to Alaska to visit Rick for a week was the absolute worst experience of my life thus far. I would not wish it upon my greatest enemy. It was torture and then I flew to Alaska and there was my friend Rick inviting me into his home… giving me a safe and quiet place to rest my weary soul and my broken body. And this has been how our lives have been since the day we met when I was thirteen. Always I knew that my friend Rick, Eddie’s little brother, was safe and would comfort me. He did it over and over again when we were kids. I always knew that I could show up at his house and he’d let me in and care about me and that I’d be safe. My life was such as a teen that numerous times I’d show up at the apartment on Hillside where Rick and his brother and sister lived (both of whom passed in 2020) and I’d ask if I could spend the night. Every time I’d tuck myself into Rick’s bed and we would snuggle and sleep. It needs to be known that my guy is three years older than me. When I was 13,14,15… he was a teenaged guy with raging hormones… yet he never attempted to touch me in a disrespectful way. We never did anything other than comfort each other with each other’s presence, he comforting me more than the other way around. We kissed one time and one time only. I don’t know what was up with that. Perhaps I was listening to the Lord even then and He was telling us both to wait, to not jump into anything adult-like and to just be there for each other. We chased others around… Rick had girlfriends and I was constantly in the presence of young men whom I liked and kissed and did inappropriate things with, but we didn’t do those things together. It’s pretty crazy now when we talk about it as a married couple. It’s like a part of both of us knew that we were special together. Maybe though that’s just our thoughts today after we’ve lived the majority of our lives without each other. Maybe that’s hindsight or maybe it’s real and we knew. But today we do know. We cherish our marriage and the life we’re making as a couple. We still snuggle together in bed at night, I still feel safe in his presence. I feel like I can be soft now and when issues arise we both tackle them together. I’m no longer conquering the world solo and neither is he. He still respects me the same as when we were young and treats me as if I’m on a different level than all other women in the world. We are one. This is pure love.

It took us a bit to let our guards down. We really did struggle, man oh man we are two stubborn people, but we got to where we are finally. The Lord saw us through just as we were meant to be. When I read that one quote that says something like “My only regret is not finding you sooner and loving you longer”, I think of my husband and wish we had been able to have babies together and buy a home together and be young and healthy together. I also know though that it wouldn’t have worked earlier. Neither of us were ready then. We didn’t know what we didn’t know and now we do. I’m so thankful. I’m completely obsessed with my husband. I don’t expect him to be perfect and he doesn’t expect perfection from me. We expect from each other that we will snuggle together in bed each and every night and keep each safe until our days are gone. It’s so beautiful. I’m so grateful.

My husband my love. ❤

…lies and untruths…

It’s interesting to ponder people. All of my life I think I’ve been a people- watcher. I watch and contemplate and try to figure out why people do the things they do and compare to why I do the things I do. When you closely observe other people you start to understand your own self more and in the process of figuring out what makes others tick you get a good grasp on what makes you be you. We’re all unique. We all think we know what others are doing and why, but the truth is that the only one who really knows what’s happening to each individual is the individual themselves. It’s an odd thing in the world today that somehow people have convinced themselves that their thoughts about others are absolutes. You think someone is racist for example… therefore they ARE. No amount of truth will change the mind of the thinker; they thought it so it’s true. That’s weird, isn’t it?

Something has happened while we all went about our daily lives in the past twenty years. Something took place while the young adults of today were children that convinced them that they know what others are thinking and the reasons behind what other people do. It’s so bizarre. There’s literally no way of knowing these things. None. Even an individual telling others their motives isn’t a good indication when nobody other than the teller knows if its true. Anyone can say anything true or false. Words can be said that are the complete opposite of truth and listeners have to decipher what they’re hearing. That’s the only truth there really is. Words come out. Ears hear them. Something inside each of us decides if the words mean anything at all. It’s so easy yet so many people can’t seem to grasp this about life. So many people just hear and react. To some. Not to others. It’s very interesting. How did we get here?

I was born into a family of fabricators. I didn’t realize that half of what I was hearing as a kid was not true until I was well into adulthood myself. My family heritage, what we were doing as a family and why…I wasn’t told the truth. By the time I was in my thirties and figured it out I felt like my entire childhood had been a sham. My dad died young and my mom is now in the throes of dementia so it’s too late to get to the bottom of it. I’ve just had to accept that things were not as I believed and move on… make my own family based upon truths and strength and love. It took a few years to get my mind straight and to get myself into the right frame of mind to start to live my life being as honest with myself and others as I could possibly be. Sometimes it gets brutal. Sometimes I say things that are true that hurt and it’s not intentional… the hurting others, the truths are, but I truly don’t like to make others uncomfortable with my honesty. It’s become such a normal thing in my life all of these years later that I put no thought into it. Sometimes, after the fact, I realize that being tactful needs to come with honesty. I’m still learning that. Every day.

So after twenty-something years I think I’ve lost track of the fact that others don’t have the same desire as myself. Here I am constantly watching others and trying to figure out others and I sometimes don’t pay attending to my own ideas that everyone is unique. Everyone lives their lives differently and some people don’t care about truth. It’s weird to me because lies stole some things from my childhood. Lies are the basis behind my feeling as if I have no birth family and only have the family that I created with my daughters and my husband. Lies are the worst in my opinion. I’ll do damn near anything to help destroy a lie. I can’t handle it. Lies make me angry. Lies make me uncomfortably combative. Lies aimed at me or my family fester in my mind and in my soul and eat at me every single day while I plan how to get the truth to shine instead. It’s like an obsession within in. I can’t let it go.

In the past year I’ve been embroiled in trying to bring truths to light. I got involved in something huge and once I saw it was deceptive I backed off, removed myself and my family and immediately took to trying to fix it. This is what I do with dishonesty. I attack it. Most of the time I know it’s a losing battle. Lies create comfort and people want to be comfortable. People want to believe that every spoken word is truth and that they have a good grasp on what’s right and what wrong in our world. I think that for a great majority of people if something makes them feel good then they grab it as truth and won’t let go until it’s ripped from their bloody and battered hands. To admit that it’s a lie means to admit that you’ve been had, and nobody likes to admit that they bought into a sham hook, line and sinker. That feels embarrassing and shameful. Better to hold on to the version of truth you grabbed in the first place than to put it down and call it what it is: a lie.

Attacks against my family have happened in the past year. It’s crazy to me because I’m nobody. I’m a grandma, I don’t come from money or even have money, my family name is not tied to anyone or anything of significance in the world. I have spinal diseases that control my life and a love for the Lord that keeps me going through it all. I’m nobody. Insignificant, yet there are videos online about others thoughts that I’m racist (here we go with thoughts being spewed as truths), that my husband is a dangerous individual unworthy of love and the latest that I’ve threatened an entire family including a toddler. Me…a grandma. An insignificant older woman with literally no record of any wrongdoing in all of the fifty plus years I’ve been alive. I do this one thing though. I tell the truth. I’m honest and that is perceived as a threat to some. Isn’t that interesting? And it goes right back to how I started writing today. People believe what they want to believe and somehow this is believable to others. Me telling my truth about my life and my thoughts and my actions mean nothing in a world where people have been conditioned to think that if they think something is true then it must damn well be true. No amount of facts change people minds and in fact I’ve been argued with in that the problem is me. I should, I guess, just sit down and let these lies live… because it makes people uncomfortable to hear the truth, to hear that their thoughts are just that… words inside their head that mean absolutely nothing. I know the truth. The lying party knows the truth. The difference is that other people form ideas based upon nothing but words alone. It’s like a trap that us humans get caught in. The only way out is for the liar to fess up. Liars never fess up though. They don’t. To confess to a lie only helps one person and that’s not the person doing the confessing. So it very rarely happens.

There is of course proof. Facts and proof should, for all intents and purposes, mean something in life. But they don’t. This is our world. Somehow in the course of bringing children to adulthood we have failed. We have put too little emphasis on truths and giving too much attention to untruths that simply feel better. If you’re not rich its easier to believe that someone has oppressed you to bring you there financially. If you find yourself in jail it’s easier to believe that law enforcement picked you because of your skin color and the judicial system is racist than to see the truth that you committed a crime and got yourself into trouble. You can get yourself out too, but that takes looking at the truth… that you have to change something about yourself, that you have to put some work in and look at things in their real light and not the dim light of the lies you’ve been told. You can sit on the couch and play with your phone  on social media and you can lament the horribleness of our world and tell yourself that you’re fighting the good fight, and the lies of the world will tell you that you’re a warrior. But you’re still on the couch. Your words aren’t doing anything on social media. It’s all a lie and you add your own lies and your couch buddies take it and run with it and the next thing you know you all are saving the world while your eating Cheetos in your BarcaLounger with your Apple IPHONE 50xlg. This is what they’ve done to us, to the young adults of our world. You think you’re being a fighter so it’s true in your mind. You feel like a fighter and it feels real so you run with it and ignore the facts and the proof that some people are out there marching in the streets putting their lives on the line to do the real fighting. You call those people the enemy. Those people speak real truth. Those people know what’s truly going on. The people out here fighting hear the same lies that others do… they’ve just learned to look further. Go further than words spoken. Find proof. Don’t stop simply because your buddy on the other couch said he’s legit. He knows he’s sitting in front of a computer screen while calling himself a badass and he knows that you won’t look any further than what he says. You’re badasses together while the older woman you’re attacking for telling the truth is out in the streets fighting to make life more honest for all involved.

It’s a crazy world when lies become truth and truth tellers get treated as the enemy. It’s a crazy world. I remember when our world was much more beautiful. I remember life before the world wide web. I remember clear blue skies and a bright yellow sun. I remember laying in the tall grass while bumble bees buzzed around and the feeling of being safe out in the neighborhood with friends. I remember going to bed at night without checking to see if the house was locked up and ensuring that security cameras were set. I remember a world where men cherished truth and integrity and protected women and children. I know why I fight for truth. I know why I’m not sitting on social media filling others minds with lies to build myself up. I don’t do lies. They make me very uncomfortably combative. I can’t let them go and I can’t pretend that they don’t exist. I work diligently for truth. I won’t stop. I can’t. I’m not made that way.

I came here to write about the lies. Sometimes writing things gets them out of my head and sets them free. I’m hoping this time will be one of those times. I’m also hoping that the ones who’ve shared this little writing space of mine to try to shame me are here… reading my words, laughing at the dumbness of it all. I do hope. Because I’ve nothing to hide. I’m unashamed of who I am and what I do. I’m an honest person. I worked hard to get myself out of a family of deception. It took a lot of introspection to understand what works for me in life and if my writings make even one person start to ponder their own lives and thoughts for even one second… I’m grateful and thankful that I’m the type to put it all out there on front street. Hate if you like. Bully if you like. As for me…I opt for truth. My truth. I know what goes on inside my heart and my head and I do my best to share it with whomever comes across my words. My truth is my truth. Period. Your thoughts are your thoughts and your thoughts only. Vastly different from my truth or anyone else’s thoughts even. Remember that when you hear the lies. In the end we all need each other. We all need each other to be good and honest people. We can do much together as a group. It’s much more difficult to have to sift through the masses trying to find your people.

…standing up…

I haven’t been here writing in a long long time. Much has happened since I last wrote about life when my sister died. It’s been 10 months since Wendi passed and I’ve never felt more peaceful about my sister than I have in the last ten months. I know that if she were here… oh my goodness she would be nuts as a big sister seeing all of the craziness taking place since her death. She was always so over protective. I truly hope she knows that I’ve got this.

So we’re a week away from a city election. Not just any city election but one in which I’m a candidate. The way people are acting you’d think I’m in the running for President of the United States. Not to downplay the importance of being elected to city council, I understand exactly how vital these positions are to the welfare of our town. I’ve never though, seen any previous municipal election bring out this sort of ugliness. It makes me wonder why some are so desperate to keep me out of the way. Obviously something is going on that they think I will destroy. It’s very interesting.

There is some deep and criminal corruption taking place within our town. I know it and they know that I know it. I talk about it and I’m doing what needs to be done to try to stop it. Of course this type of thing comes with risk. I’m not naive about the risks involved or how things might end for me. I know. I know and I’m willing to take those risks to bring a stop to the people who want the worst for my home and my family’s future. . I know that many people don’t understand and I’m okay with that. My entire life has been events that many people don’t understand. It’s not anyone’s life to understand. It’s my life. I get it..as does the Lord.

When I was young and raising children on my own I worried about what people thought about me. I worried that people would think that I wasn’t being a good mom because of my age. I worried that someone would try to take my daughters from me. I worried that others saw me as a failure because I was a waitress and didn’t have the material things that others had. I worried about what people thought about me and because of that I acted accordingly. I did things solely for how they would be perceived by others. I knew who I was and that I was doing the best with the circumstances I’d been given. Still I put a lot of effort into making other people happy.

I’m a grandma now. I’m close with the Lord now. I’ve mentioned it before here…He showed me who I am and everything changed after that. I listen to the Lord. I act accordingly. That bothers people it seems. It doesn’t bother me. I’m not responsible for others ideas or feelings about me. I’m responsible for me and living my life in a way that is not only fulfilling to my family but to my Lord God as well. That’s what people don’t seem to get right now during election season. It’s interesting to me that strangers think that I will care about what they think about me, my life, my family and especially my marriage. My life is mine. I love my life. I never dreamed that my own life would be so beautiful and peaceful at this point in time. I spent so many years struggling to raise my daughters and just when I thought things were great my body fell apart and I lost everything. I pretty much accepted that my lot in life was hardship, struggle…picking myself up and being my own rock over and over again. I was comfortable in hardship. The medical fiasco… that almost did me in though. That was hugely difficult and it still messed with my head every single day. It propels me to be strong and to keep my body healthy above all else. That was very tough but I did it, I’m on the other side and it turned my life in a completely different direction. It made my life be what it is right now today. I couldn’t ask for anything more than I have now. I’ve been truly blessed. I have health. I have my beautiful family. I have a husband who is the gift I needed from the Lord right when I needed it most. Others don’t have to love my life. It’s not theirs to love and will change absolutely nothing in my life what others opinions are. My life is sweetly mine.

So here comes my decision to run for city council. My desire to help our community to be strong as well. I know that I have what it takes because my life has been overcoming things that could have broken me. I can do this effortlessly. It is literally second nature by now…I see the problem…I figure out what needs to be done and I do it. I knew people would come against me and they have. I also know that I have nothing to hide and because of that others have to make things up to try to make me look bad. I guess that’s the nature of the beast that we call “elections”. It is what it is.

This exact blog spot of mine has been talked about as if some sort of scandal takes place here on these pages. These exact pages that have never been blocked from public view are being treated as if someone discovered some horrible secret about me. It’s laughable but it’s also disturbing that there are people in the world who think that truth and raw honesty is scandalous and something that I should be ashamed of. I’m not ashamed. As I said…I gave up trying to be who others want me to be at least 20 years ago. I don’t do anything in my life to please others. I just don’t. I know who I am. I know that I’m a good and kind woman. This who know me personally know who I am and what I am about. I know that truth matters to me above all else. I know that truth hurts some people when it is spoken of. It’s not my job to lie so that others won’t be offended. It’s not my job to hide secrets or cover up the corrupt. It’s also not my job to make other people okay with that. I’m honest. That’s who the Lord made me to be. I’m emotional and I have a very strong sense of integrity. People will get the truth from me. Always. It’s who I am and I’m perfectly fine with it.

My honesty bothers people and I’m certain that those people are reading this right now. I am unconcerned. I do what I do and some people like it, some people don’t. I have no desire to be loved by all of mankind. I know that’s not a possibility in life. I do have the desire to bring the truth to our community so that every person knows what they’re dealing with and can plan accordingly. If my honesty hurts you…I can’t help you with that.

These pages… my writings… They’re public for a reason. They’re public so that people can see who I am when nobody is looking. These pages are my place to write with brutal honesty and to work through my difficulties in a way that works best for me. To anyone here now with the intention of trying to paint me in a bad light…God bless you. I hope that you too can find the strength to look at life with open and honest eyes. I hope that it sits right in your soul that taking my blog and trying to make it look ugly is a reflection on yourself and not a reflection on me. I am who I am. I write it down and I send it out into the world for whomever to read and contemplate on. It’s not a secret. It’s my life.

…my sister…

September 1964 – December 2020

     My sister died. On December 8th of 2020 my big sister disappeared and left behind her body, an apartment full of big cat memorabilia and two dogs. She’d never married in her 56 years of life. She gave birth to two daughters in the 1980s; one given to adoptive parents and one not. She spent the majority of her life in Alaska and the last 10 or so in Washington State. She was a sad woman who couldn’t quite get over trauma that took place in our family years ago. She lost her long time boyfriend to cancer about six months before her death. She was a substance abuser and even more so after Ken’s death. I feel like her will to live collapsed. As much as I have loved her in life, I’m happy for her that she won’t need to struggle through any more days feeling like she doesn’t have the means to get through that day. She was kind and soft, loved animals and her three grandbabies. She was lost, so very lost.

When we were children my sister and I were very close. As a matter of fact, we were close well into adulthood but from our thirties on our relationship fell apart and we lived in two different worlds. Neither of us understood why the other chose the path we took. My sister never thought of herself as a drug abuser in her later years because she’d traded street drugs for prescription drugs and I guess to abusers that’s considered to be “clean”. I don’t know though. I’ve never walked that path, I’ve just watched from the sidelines.

I wish now and have for years past that she had chosen a different path. I completely understand the issues that tormented her in life. We lived it together. It will be something that I will never understand though; how two kids from the same family handle the same situation so vastly different. It hurt to watch her decline and I didn’t ever handle it well. I eventually just cut her off completely. In hindsight I see how damaging that was, but while she was living she only talked to me when she needed something or was having a tragedy and I get it that I felt unloved by her because of that. That’s how I handled it. Everyone handles things different. I know this, so I don’t spend any time beating myself up over it. My sister knew I loved her. She knew how important she was in our childhood. She knew because I told her many many times.

Our dad died when I was 15 and she was 18. He and I had an argument the last time we spoke. It took 20 years to come to grips with the fact that my last words to my dad had been angry ones. I make certain to tell people how I feel now. I tell others how much I love them and what they mean to me and how special they are. I must say… it served me well when my sister died. We spoke angrily to each other pretty much every interaction in the last three years of her life. I always sent her massages after to apologize and tell her that I just missed my sister; my real sister. I missed the sister who showed me how to catch crawdads and ride a skateboard.

Our childhood was not typical. We traveled a lot and moved often. Our parents didn’t believe in modern medicine or doctors. They didn’t vaccinate us or take us to a dentist. My dad was very strict and we got punished pretty severely for even minor little things. There were four of us kids and the oldest was my brother and the only boy. I remember that he didn’t get punished as often as us girls but maybe that’s just my imagination. He was 11 when I was born (I’m the baby) so anything could’ve been happening with him and I’d probably not have known about it.

I wasn’t super traumatized by my dads strict demands. I just didn’t do the stuff that made him mad and life was ok. We had horses and pets. We once had a swimming pool and we went on vacation every year. We visited Walt Disney World so many times that my oldest sister once cried because she didn’t want to go again. I’d learned early on how to keep myself out of trouble and even now in my fifties I’m still a pretty mellow straight arrow kind of woman. My sister went completely opposite and defied my dad every chance she got. It seemed like his rules were a list of things she just had to do. Everything that would get us in trouble; she did it. I saw her get hit with a garden hose for stealing money out of my piggy bank. I myself was hit with a 2×4 when I picked up my dad’s discarded cigarette and put it in my mouth.

My sister and I were in it together. Our other sister, the oldest girl, left home at sixteen; ran away and got married and that brought an entire different set of chaos in our home. Wendi and I handled it together. Our mom was the person who showed us love but she was very passive. My dad was the boss. My mom lived with us and cooked but she was too quiet and obedient to really be parental. Us kids loved her immensely. I still do. But she did little to parent us so we were pretty much on our own when my dad was at work. My sister turned into my pseudo-parent and it was just normal for me back then. I turned to Wendi for everything: comfort, education, safety, courage etc. She was the main person in my life. Don’t get me wrong… she was a typical sister too. She teased me about darn near everything, hit me for no reason and never let me win at games. We were sisters first, she was mom Jr. second.

I have literally thousands of memories that involve my sister. Every memory involved my sister to some extent. The other two siblings were too old to spend any amount of time with me, although I did feel their love and knew that they did their best to guide the littlest child and keep me safe and sound. We all were dealing with our own stuff and I think it’s pretty accurate to say that I had it the best in our house simply because I was pretty obedient and quiet by nature. Wendi was loud and obnoxious. She was a Tomboy and athletic and brave beyond reason. I would’ve followed her literally anywhere when we were kids and been confident that she had things under control. She was deaf in her right ear and it always messed with her when we’d walk on a sidewalk or a roadside because she felt the need to be between me and the traffic yet walking on my left meant she couldn’t hear me when I talked. My dad was deaf in one ear as well oddly enough and it was pretty common for us to talk really loud in our family so everyone with only one working ear could hear. It would hurt my feelings when Wendi ignored me even though I knew darn well that most of the time it was because she couldn’t hear. She was everything. Truly. It hurts when I think about her now. It hurt when she was still alive too but somehow with her death I can’t seem to drop it.

I remember we’d talk about what we’d do when we grew up. Wendi wanted to be a teacher for awhile, then a professional skate boarder (which was almost unheard of back in the 1970s). She used to pretend to be a teacher with me and she taught me how to spell, write my name, read and write in cursive. She was great at math and helped me to understand the basics even before I started 1st grade. She taught me how to put my shoes on the right feet and how to tie them, she taught me about the universe and Jesus. She’s the one who told me where babies come from and once told me that when you eat the food starts filling up your body until it’s stuffed full and that eating too much makes your body expand and causes a person to be fat. Ha, it’s crazy that I still think of that now 40+ years later when I eat too much. She was full of information and knowledge and fun. Goodness she was some sister. I’m very fortunate that she was there for me back then. I would not be who I am today without her.

When we were teens my dad moved us back to Alaska. It was the summer I would turn 14 and she was 17. I enrolled in 9th grade but Wendi decided to just stop and not go back to school. It was bad for me because it would’ve been the first time in our lives we could’ve interacted at school. Once when we’d just moved to Florida we were in the same school; I was in Kindergarten and she was 3rd grade. I loved knowing she was at the same school during the day but I never got to see her. By the time she was 13 my parents had basically checked out of raising kids. They loved us of course but not in the ways that parents do today. My dad worked hard and he was a fantastic provider. We never wanted or needed anything that he didn’t provide for us. My mom was good and kind but just somewhat distanced. We just all lived together by then but us kids could do whatever we choose. Wendi had gotten pregnant and hid the pregnancy from my parents until her 6th month. She had my niece a month before she turned sixteen. By the time we landed back in Alaska Misty was two years old and we all just kind of raised her together.

Wendi was still okay when we moved back to Kodiak. We were still close and although I no longer needed her like I had when I was younger she was still my go-to person anytime life got weird. She taught me about menstruation and tampons, told me about sex and how she got pregnant and so many times talked to me about boys that I liked and of course none of them were good enough for me. We drifted as she aged and looking back now I can see how this is when she started leaving me behind. My own teenaged life got a little nuts after the tragedy that took my dad’s life and left my mom and I on our own. Wendi was with my dad when the boat sank and an entirely different and crazy family story is attached to that but she went down hard after that. We all did. My mom, us kids… our odd little family in general. Nothing was the same after Dad was gone. It’s like we didn’t know what to do without him telling us. It was a very unique life experience.

We were close, then we weren’t; my sister and I.  I watched as she unraveled and due to my own inexperience at life and having had my own babies by the time I was twenty, we just slowly walked in opposite directions. My mom was completely lost in those years and started working three jobs to pay the rent after a lifetime of being a housewife. She remarried six years after dad died and moved to Idaho. By then Wendi had birthed another baby girl but without my dad holding our family together she made the decision to adopt her out. After the birth she moved away from our island home into Anchorage and thus the bridge between us was complete. From then on I became more disillusioned with her life choices every time we spoke. She wasn’t the strong sister anymore. She wasn’t the brave one who could defeat any monster. Something had broken in her and she didn’t know how to fix it. Needless to say that as a teenaged mom and by then a divorced single mom I didn’t know how to help her either. I was barely hanging on myself and it was literally all I could do to keep my own children fed and healthy. I worked to keep my girls and myself going and life was so full of just surviving that any free time I had I used to be with my girls and try to give them a good a happy childhood. It would not have been possible without their dad. He was and still is one of my life’s greatest blessings and I’m truly grateful that he chose to be a present and loving dad to our girls even when his feelings towards me were raging.

Wendi never had that. After dad died it seems like she was in a constant search for someone to love her and keep her safe. She got herself into many horrible situations and did some pretty great things too, but always seemed to take two steps back after every progress step she made. By the time I left Alaska my girls were thirteen and sixteen and my sister and I had virtually no contact with each other. I knew what she was up to only because she kept in touch with my mom. No matter what was happening in her life she’d still call our mom numerous times a week. I realize now that I got all of the news of my sister filtered through my mom’s brain and with her ideas attached. So in hindsight I see that it wasn’t completely accurate information. What I heard though wasn’t pleasing. When Wendi and I talked I barely recognized her as the same sister. Her decline through the years I guess kind of disgusted me which is sad to think or even say. I wanted her to stop the nonsense with her drugs and alcohol. I didn’t want to hear about another stint in jail or car accident or what guy was doing her wrong. I gave up on her. I hate admitting it, but I did. I’m certain that she gave up on me being someone she could turn to as well. It must’ve felt to her as if I consoled everyone else who came to me with problems but I wouldn’t console her. I’m sure now that it hurt her immensely. It wasn’t intentional on my part. It truly wasn’t. I was so intent on raising my own daughters in a different atmosphere than we’d been raised that it was the center of my whole life. I needed to provide a safe and loving place for my girls. I didn’t want drug abusers anywhere near my children. I didn’t want alcohol to be a part of my life as a mom with little girls to raise. I stayed true to that little girl in me who did the right thing so as not to be punished. I struggled in my own life and anyone who was going to make my struggle harder was blocked out. That included my beautiful sister.

I have only come to these conclusions in the past month after her death. I’ve been so angry at her for so many years that I just didn’t think about her. I didn’t talk to her and I didn’t try to help her. I told her that I loved her. I told her how important she was to me while I was growing up. I sent her a song by Mercy Me and told her to listen to it and everytime she heard it to know that it was her song. You Are Beautiful. She cried about that song. She didn’t understand her beauty or strength. She felt weak and helpless and nothing changed her mind about that. She became so unhappy that even my mom complained about not wanting to talk to her because she was always crying and negative. She became a completely different person as an adult. For reasons known only by her she took the road that led her to believe that she was worthless. My sister. The super courageous mini mom that taught me how to be strong and smart. I don’t get it. I’ll probably never get it until I see her again in God’s Kingdom. I know she’ll be there. I’ve prayed about it. I’ve talked to the Lord about it many times in the past month. She’ll be there. She knew Him. After she died and I helped her daughter clean out her apartment we found a diploma that she received for graduating from a school of Ministry. She has so many writings and books and certificates about her walk with the Lord. Her heart never stopped being beautiful, this is what I discovered in her death. Her heart knew how to be kind and loving a to trust where others couldn’t find trust. She got lost. She was completely lost just like the time we were in the human maze and someone had to come rescue us. She tried to get us out of there and the whole time she held my hand and assured me that it was only a tourist attraction and we’d for sure get back to our parents. We were both lost in that maze. The only difference in our experiences was that I knew that she knew what to do to get us out. She didn’t have that security though. There wasn’t anyone telling her it was going to be ok and we’d get out. It’s sad really. It just goes to show that we never truly grow up. Our bodies age and our minds get filled with experience that turns into knowledge. We grow to understand what to expect from people and things based upon what happened previous times. And now I can see my sister in a new light. There was never a person who held her hand and took care of the scary things. She took care of those things herself. It wore her out. It stole her courage over the years. She gave up and just gave in. She checked out mentally, my dear brave sister. I know I’ll see her again. I have no doubts. I also know she won’t be broken when we reunite. She’ll be Wendi on a skateboard. Wendi walking on my left side so that I don’t get hit by a car. Wendi swimming and laughing and calling me to come see what she’s found in His Kingdom. She made it so that my bravery didn’t get used up in childhood. SHE was my bravery so that in adulthood I was fresh and fearless and knew that no matter what comes somehow it’ll be okay again and will move on to the next scary thing. Above all else I hope she realized what she did for me. I also hope that after I leave this earth I’ll retain my memories of my life here so I can remind my sister when I see her…remind her of how her sacrifices as my big sister helped me to be able to conquer obstacles that maybe others would think were too overwhelming as a grownup. She led me to believe that no matter what things will always be ok because when she told me those words she meant it. Things were always ok. For me. She really meant that it would be OK for little sister, not for herself.

Wendi Renee. I love you sister.

…virus…

Easter 2020

I’m not here to write about Covid-19. I’m not here to write about my complete irritation at the American people for blindly obeying orders that don’t make any logical sense and letting our freedoms be stripped in the name of public safety. Truly. I want to write about everything that’s come about since my mom had a heart attack in the last few days of 2019 and how now, 4 months later, she’s finally going to be able to go back home after having a quintuple heart bypass surgery followed by a serious infection at her incision site and a long term stay at care facilities 80 miles from her home. Not talking about the 90+ year old gentleman from the same facility who was the first person in our community to lose his life due to complications from Covid.

I’m the only one here with my mom from our immediate family. My oldest sister tried to see her at the hospital that’s 120 miles from my home after my mom had the bypass surgery but for a reason that only my mom knows she locked my sister out and wouldn’t see her or take her calls. I’m sure that hurt my sister and is the reason why she bowed out and stopped calling and trying to visit. I’m not even sure if she knows that our mom is still not home and still dealing with the outcomes from that surgery. My sisters don’t talk to me.

My other sister used to talk to my mom every day on the phone. I used to get tired of hearing my mom talk about her as if she’s the only child that cared about her because of those phone calls. I think this sister has talked to our mom twice since surgery and that was, according to my mom, to cry about something happening in her own life rather than ask my mom how she’s doing. I’ve also gained the information from being here with our mom for her recovery that she’s been sending my sister money regularly up until she had a heart attack and no longer had access to her checkbook. Although she’s in the beginning stages of dementia it’s not lost on her that my sister stopped calling once the funds went away.

So that leaves me and although I’ve always been somewhat of a mama’s girl I’d been straying away from her in recent years mainly because of her confusion and bad memory and the way she started talking to me as if I’d failed her somehow as a daughter. She was annoying to me I shamefully admit and it bothered me that she called me sometimes ten times in a day if I wasn’t answering my phone. It hurts my heart now to think of it and to think that I was turning so cold towards her. Her and I have been thru so much in these past four months and now with the lock downs in place due to Covid I miss her and I miss being the force behind making sure that she’s being treated right and justly.

We’d play cards when I visited her every morning first at one facility and then another. I’d help her order her lunch and dinner and we’d Google things on my phone when we didn’t know the fancy items on the menu…carrots almandine, beef Wellington, bananas foster. She’d one day not like potatoes and the next say they were her favorite food. I’d show her pictures from my life that I captured on my phone. My birds and the cats, my grandbabies and home improvements. We’d talk about life when us kids were still young and my dad was still alive. My mom told me things I never knew about her and my dad and things they went thru as a couple that us kids never knew about. She cried when she talked about him dying while she was still dealing with his infidelity and how he died never letting her know if he wanted to rekindle their flame or move on. She talked about me being shy and obedient and how she’s always known how much I love animals. She proclaimed over and over how appreciative she is that I’ve been there every day distracting her from the realness of being so sick and far from home. I responded every time with “Well I love you mom and that’s what we do”. Knowing that her and I both had slacked off on being good to each other since I had my own medical crisis and lost most things in life that I had worked hard to accomplish. It’s kind of like my mom and I discovered our bond again and fell into a love like we had when I was a girl but I’m the mom now and I show her the love and kindness she showed me when I was a child.

It’s been about a month now that I haven’t been able to visit her. I was in her room mere hours before they issued the lock down. I accompanied her to physical therapy and she called me her cheerleader. The week after I was allowed to meet her at a Dr. appointment and hold her hand as they cleaned the gaping wound on her chest and replaced her wound vac. I could tell that it was truly painful for her and I started to cry myself and I kissed her forehead and kept telling her that I’m sorry that she has to go thru all of this. Today she’s at an appointment without me as the hospital where the office is cracked down on who is allowed to come inside, all in the name of public safety. I want to scream thinking of her being there alone. To others she’s a patient, to me she is my mom. I hope and pray that they remove that wound vac today so that next week I can pick her up and drive away from the facility and take her home. She misses my dad (step) and her dog. She’s tired of eating eggs for breakfast and having to sit in a wheelchair in her little room day after day while our government laments the perils of a virus without understanding that my mom is basically in prison while she waits for the lock downs to be lifted. We talk on the phone but now for both of us that’s not enough. We have become so bonded that I find myself thinking of her every minute. I feel as if nobody can care for her in the same manner as I and that we need each other to make it thru this crazy time in life.

My mom is 82. She was 30 when I was born. I was her fourth and last child. The third girl so nobody was too excited that I was there but also the last baby so I was treated like nobody in our home ever wanted me to grow up. And here we are now. Anxiously awaiting the day I can hug my mom again and hold her trusting face and plant kisses on her head. What started as a horrible medical event has turned into one of the most loving times of my life as I get to shower my mom with all of the love I’ve carried in my heart for fifty years. Just my mom and I coming out of the trenches more bonded and in love than ever in our lives before. The Lord is so good, so knowing and kind. I cherish these days and I’m so thankful that I’ve become a daughter that my mom can be proud of ponder again.