Gwynn's Grit and Grin

“The world of reality has its bounds, the world of imagination is boundless.”  ~  Rousseau

Rousseau’s quote reminds me of a recent conversation I had with a girlfriend. We were reminiscing about our childhood experiences.  I looked back over a time when I used to let my imagination run wild… thought about stories in my past when in my opinion I could accomplish anything in my little world.  My friend laughed as she had similar experiences.  At that time in her life, she also thought she could conquer the world.

One of the instances I remember so well concerns Jim, my younger brother, who used to get sick, often.  At this time, Jim was approximately three years old and I was around five. The weather was especially wet and cold so mother ordered us to play inside. Jim had been recuperating from being sick once again.  In order to amuse ourselves, we decided to play “King and Queen” for a day.

It was as if my Fairy Godmother had swished her magic wand over my head, as I fully immersed myself in the role of being a Queen.  I no longer existed as a little girl… I had become a Queen Mother… a ruler! I could do anything I wanted and succeed. I knew that the beloved King was deathly ill, so it was critical to me that I cure him of his sickness. My little imagination went wild.  It was as if my every day little world no longer existed and I instantly had been transformed into a new realm.  I was no longer in the recreation room of our multi-level home, but actually in a castle. I knew the King’s health was dire, so I ran to create a magic potion to make him well.

In the “days of old,” castles had apothecary rooms, so I ran into our “apothecary room” more commonly called the bathroom. I searched through the medicine cabinet and under the sink.  I grabbed whatever my little hands could reach to mix together… Listerine, peroxide, and heaven’s knows what else.  I was determined to mix an elixir that would solve the King’s health problems.  I was utterly proud of myself as I knew that I had found the perfect potion that would restore the King’s health.

I ran to the King and ordered him to drink my magic medicine.  He took one whiff and scowled, yet I convinced him to take a bit of a taste for his own good. Jim took a teeny sip, screamed and cried for mother.  The next thing I remember is being dragged to the bathroom. I was scared, angry, and confused! I was only trying to help the King, but mom did not accept my story. Mom washed my mouth out with soap… “to receive a taste of my own medicine.”  From there I spent the rest of the afternoon in the closet as my mother said those famous words, “Wait until YOUR father gets home!”  I huddled in the coat closet and cried.  I didn’t understand why mom was angry at me.

Mom assumed that I had intentionally attempted to harm my brother… but to me, my position as “big sister” had vanished as I was now head of a kingdom and could accomplish ANYTHING.  As Queen, I had to save the person I cared about most. But to me, as Queen, no one could question my supreme authority… or so I thought!

I was terrified of my mother, as she was very short tempered and her punishments – harsh. The problem was that I didn’t understand why my actions were so wrong. I was only attempting to make the King well.  When dad came home, he didn’t say a word to me regarding the incident and I was sent to my bedroom. My dad, to me was my friend.  He would save me from mom’s wrath.

In sharing with another girlfriend about my experiences using my imagination, she told me she was impressed with my being a nurturer even as a small child… that I cared that much to help someone I loved.

Albert Einstein said, “Imagination is more important than knowledge.  Knowledge is limited.  Imagination encircles the world.”

As a child, when my imagination ran free, I could be Annie Oakley riding my horse through the fields. I could rope horses or cattle. I even attempted to cast my rope over my German Shepherd’s head as to me Duchess was a stray cow. My neighbors didn’t realize it, but they were safe as I was there to protect them… with my trusty imaginary rifle in hand.

I even transformed into a settler as I created my very own log cabin.  My shack actually was a burnt out tree stump in the midst of our woods.  I created all the comforts of home as I arranged a small log as a bench with a pile of leaves as a pad for the hard bench. Then I fabricated some form of small table. I even brought little tea cups and plates out to store in my imaginary home.

I would sweep my floor and arrange my home to make it a comfortable place to live.  I would invite my imaginary friends to visit and join me for a meal. I thought my hiding place was huge, only to discover years later, that as an adult, I would never have been able to crawl into that space.

However, back then, when mom was angry at me, and I needed the safety of my imaginary world, I would often climb out my ground-floor bedroom window to venture off to my special log cabin. I would often sit there and cry as I simply didn’t understand why I was in trouble… again. In my log home I was free to accomplish anything I wished.

“In happy hours, when the imagination

Wakes like a wind at midnight, and the soul

Trembles in all its leaves, it is a joy

To be uplifted on its wings, and listen

To the prophetic voices in the air

That call us onward.”     Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I still remember my uncle’s early morning call to my office saying, “Gwynn, your mom’s had a major stroke. She’s down here in the Grays Harbor Emergency Hospital.”

“I’m on my way!”

Mom had been recovering from triple by-pass surgery from the week before, so my dad’s sister and her husband were there at mom’s house caring for her, as dad had passed away the year before.  Mom awakened early one morning to get up to go to the bathroom only to discover that she was paralyzed. She screamed for help.  My aunt jumped out of bed too quickly only to pass out hitting her head on the door frame, so she lay there unconscious and bleeding as my uncle called 911.

Later, after a two-hour drive, I arrived at the Grays Harbor Hospital to find my aunt in a bed on one side of the emergency room, my mom in a bed on the other side of the emergency room, and my uncle trying to finagle for a two for one deal. This was the beginning of the most horrific five years of my life.

Mom, born Shirley Waymire, was an only child. I don’t believe there could have been a more independent, strong-willed, stubborn child on the face of this earth!  By the age of nine, my mom‘s best friend was a book so her imagination ran wild.  However, mom was also highly creative and played the concertina, a harmonica, a ukulele, and the piano by ear.

Since my mom’s aunt was a Bohemian who lived down in Monterey, California, mom and her parents frequently made the long drive from Seattle on down the coast. Auntie Jaco could be found in the midst of artists, writers, and other eccentrics like her.  Mom wanted to be just like Auntie Jaco!  On the date of Mom’s ninth birthday her stunned parents were rudely informed that mom no longer would answer to the name of Shirley! Mom would be known as Jaco!

However, mom’s parents did throw a slight wrinkle into mom’s plan as they chose to use the French feminine spelling versus the German masculine spelling of the name.  So mom legally became Jacquot, her own unique version of Jaco.  Needless to say, mom was always determined to do things her way, so in spite of her stroke her thinking didn’t change.

After I arrived in Grays Harbor and conversed with mom’s doctor, he indicated that he didn’t know whether mom could be rehabilitated from her stroke.  The doctor also informed me that mom had asked him to euthanize her.  Mom had a Living Will, and did not want emergency precautions used to save her life.  However, at that time, Washington State had not yet passed a law allowing doctors to help terminally ill patients, with six months or less left to live, end their lives with dignity rather than endure agony.  If the law had been in place, the doctors still could not have helped mom, since with stroke victims there is no clear time line.

Eventually, after several weeks of physical therapy, the doctors determined that mom could neither go home nor drive.  I was going to have to sell her beloved home and take away her independence – her car.  I had to find assisted living, where she could receive physical therapy to help her walk, talk, swallow, feed herself, and do all the normal functions we take for granted. I lucked out and found Clearbrook, four miles from my house.

At first, mom lost a dangerous amount of weight. So Clearbrook suggested I call in Hospice. I was horrified. Doesn’t this mean mom has six months or less left to live? Mom and I met with a Hospice social worker, but that day, mom’s health miraculously improved. Hospice did not accept her. I think the ordeal scared mom into making an attempt to live.

Mom’s determination was admirable.  She always was tough and independent. Mom learned to walk with the help of a walker, but due to the stroke it had damaged her peripheral vision so each time she tried to go through a doorway she would walk into the door frame. It was almost like watching one of those comedy routines where a person would become distracted, turn around, and smash into a wall.

Despite mom’s difficulties she was determined to attempt to walk without her walker.  One day I arrived at mom’s room to find her partially collapsed on the floor, next to her bed.  Her head and arms were positioned down with her bottom extended high into the air. She looked similar to an ostrich with its’ head in the sand. She was trapped and laughing. Mom had attempted to standup without using her walker for support.  Since she did not have the strength to stand on her own, she had collapsed in a pile laughing hysterically as now she couldn’t get up nor ring for help.  It’s a good thing I came along when I did!

Over the years, I would take mom out to lunch at various restaurants, but mom’s favorite lunch was a Costco Polish hotdog. Because of mom’s difficulty in chewing and swallowing it usually took mom and hour to eat that simple hotdog.  But she loved sitting there and watching the people around her.

Since her room was next to the beauty shop, mom often would stop and chat with the beautician on her way to lunch or an activity. Mom became friends with the beautician. Since my mom’s hair was quite thin and naturally curly, at one point in her life she had purchased a wig, but she rarely wore it.  One day on my way to visit mom I had stopped at the reception desk to chat.  I was just headed down the hall toward mom’s room as mom rounded the corner with her walker and was headed my way.

“Mom you have your wig on,” I said in a stunned voice.

Mom reached up to her wig and with her index finger and thumb she grabbed a few strands of hair and yanked her wig off.  My mouth dropped open, as there stood my 81 year old, NOW completely bald mother.

Mom’s response to me was “is my hair cut ok with you?”

It turns out that the beautician at Clearbrook had cancer and due to her treatments she was losing her hair.  My mom had her head shaved in moral support of her friend, the beautician.  The word that “Jacquot had shaved her head to support an employee spread like wild fire.”  Mom even shaved her head two more times before she let her hair grow back.  Even now, years after mom has passed away, if I run into an employee of Clearbrook they will say, “Oh, your mom was the one who cared enough to shave her head for our beautician.”

Mom’s favorite excursion was a trip to the mall, as mom loved a store that sold the stuffed animals and dolls that danced and sang. Over the years we bought mom dancing chickens, singing bears, dolls that did the rhumba, a motion detecting witch with glowing eyes that cackled as it walked toward you, and many other animals.  By the time she died, stuffed animals cluttered all of her living room and bedroom furniture, but mom while bed-bound had plenty of entertainment as the aids would come in and play with the animals with mom.

Over five years, mom would suffer stroke after periodic stroke. Plus, she would have nearly daily Transient Ischemic Attacks (TIAs).  Typically a TIA only lasts for a few seconds or minutes, but mom’s lasted for hours. At one point, the head nurse told me that mom had suffered 17 TIAs in 22 days. In fact, for some reason each time the nurses helped mom onto the toilet, mom would have a TIA.  Eventually the aids were so afraid to help mom go to the toilet that they would flip a coin to see who was stuck helping.

Dealing with mom’s strokes was like watching the world’s craziest roller coaster.  Mom would get well, have another stroke, fall, break limbs, rehabilitate, inch by inch losing more of her capabilities.  Mom did things no one thought imaginable AND lived. Mom went from walking with the help of a walker, to using a wheelchair, to ultimately being bed-ridden. She could no longer run errands with me nor eat her Costco hotdog.  Observing mom was like being wary of ground water dripping down a cliff, slowly eroding it, until you knew eventually, the cliff would crumble.

I received calls any hour of the night or day informing me that mom had been rushed to the emergency hospital. Would I please go attend her?  Eventually Hospice was brought in — twice.  Hospice discharged mom the first time after six months. A year later, Hospice was called in the final time.  I would prepare myself for mom’s death, and then she would recover – repeatedly.

One weekend after another of mom’s strokes, the Hospice nurse called to prepare me for mom’s death.  I was to call the undertaker, and start making arrangements.  The weekend came and went.  Inexplicably, mom lived.  However, by now, she could no longer walk or stand.  Mom would attempt to talk to me, and not be able to complete her sentence, even though she knew what she wanted to say.  I could see mom’s frustration in her eyes, and then she would burst into tears.  She couldn’t feed herself, or even operate the remote for her TV.  Mom was an intelligent adult trapped inside the body equivalent of a newborn baby.

My mother suffered pain, embarrassment, the loss of her independence, and the loss of dignity with her strokes. I repeatedly told my friends that my husband and I did not want to die in the same manner as my mother.

Six months nearly to the day after I received the phone call from Hospice about mom’s last stroke, I received a different call “Gwynn, your mom has passed away.”  I couldn’t believe that the cliff had finally collapsed.

“Don’t let your past dictate who you are, but let it be part of who you will become.”  Unknown

Upstairs on my antique tripod table sits a 50 year old, detailed and beautifully-carved horse head. The horse head is carved into a grainy piece of faded, now dusty, and variegated wood the color of Kurashige mango.  I pass by this slab of wood every time I go in and out of my bedroom or walk through the upstairs hall.  It is dear to me as my brother, Jim, carved it way back when he started junior high school.  It was Jim’s first attempt at woodworking and it shows how extremely talented and creative my brother was.

There are a variety of mementos from Jim sitting around my home: a dried flower arrangement in my bathroom, note cards and photo albums stashed under my desk, and even a miniature pot for burning incense, that was never used by me, sitting on one of my bookshelves.  These gifts were all thrown out by our mother when my brother died, only to be rescued by me.  I ask, HOW can a mother callously throw out remembrances of her son’s life? As I sit here rehashing our family trauma, I feel like a deflated hot air balloon, devoid of emotion.  I have spent nearly all of my life being angry at my parents, so I think I have finally cleansed myself of that horrid sensation.  When I lived with my parents, expressing my anger wasn’t allowed, so I stuffed it only to explode at mom and dad years later after my brother’s death.

Now, I suffer such a conundrum as I struggle to unravel the tangled threads of our family dynamics. My blue-eyed, red-haired, hotheaded brother was beyond rebellious while growing up. Yet, Jim was also highly artistic, creative, and intelligent. My brother drew detailed pictures while also exhibiting an eye for design and color. Jim loved various cultures and was fluent in Spanish, French, Russian, and Tibetan. Plus he knew and spoke a little Dutch and German.  Jim and I were night and day opposites as I worked at being a people pleaser, to calm my mom and dad.  Plus, I loved the freedom of being outside, riding my bicycle 35 miles, body-surfing in the ocean, doing water-ballet, or reading a book in the sun, as I escaped from being around my parents.

My brother was also quite liberal-minded, but it was the 60’s in Southern California after all … “sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll.”  Dad, a staunch conservative, couldn’t be in the same room for five minutes with my brother before the fireworks went off.  Ninety percent of the time I felt as if I was in the middle of a Vietnamese war zone between the surprise attacks and sudden explosions. Avoiding being around our parents was a priority for my brother, Jim, and me.

Our dad’s grandparents came from Conwy, Wales and were exceedingly strict to the point of being abusive.  Consequently, our dad’s father used to beat up his wife, his daughter, and his son, our dad. Our dad broke the cycle slightly in the fact that when he finally out grew his father, dad told his father that he “would kill him if he EVER laid a hand on his mother and sister again.”  However, what dad did not recognize was the belittling that took place at home. Thus, he carried that habit forward to our home.

Mom grew up in a similar situation. Mom’s father’s family came from Germany. My great grandfather had been a superior court judge for the state of California.  He had been quite wealthy, but then he tried to help the state by backing a bond for a Northern California water system.  Unfortunately, the bond failed and the state of California took everything from my family. Our family’s anger never dissipated and brutally impacted everyone. Mom’s parents were extremely stringent in their life-style and beliefs.  Thus, our mom’s and dad’s childhoods had been extraordinarily difficult, and they had quite strict ideas about how the world “should be” as neither of our parents had a healthy or happy parenting style.

Consequently, our parents had no idea of how to deal with two children who had ideas of their own about what they wanted out of life. Supposedly, “good children” always followed their parents’ advice and did EXACTLY what their parents said… right?  Not in our case.

I had spent my life as a buffer between our parents and my brother so when I left for college the firewall was gone.  Jim and dad argued one day over heavens knows what, the argument escalated, and dad beat my 16 year old brother up.  Jim ran out of the house never to return as he moved in with a friend.  Jim sold drugs to survive.  Plus, what we didn’t know is that the “friend” was a sexual partner. I learned years later that Jim had been raped too by a supposed Sea Scout leader. So Jim had quite a few sexual experiences that we had no clue existed.

When my brother was 19, in the early 70’s, much to the entire family’s surprise Jim ‘came out’ as being gay and declared that he was HIV positive. Recently I have heard people say “Oh no, HIV wasn’t discovered until the 80′s.”  What these people don’t realize is that the medical community definitely knew about HIV/AIDS before the 80′s as they attempted to cover up these findings thinking that they were a few isolated incidents.

So when Jim made his announcement, I was totally shocked, as simply I had no clue to what Jim was experiencing.  I knew Jim had considered suicide in his mid-teens as I had sensed something was radically wrong one night when he slipped out a window and didn’t return until the wee hours of the morning… but I didn’t have any idea of the specific problem.  Ohhh man, the family shook like a Ferris wheel in a violent wind storm. Any relationship that my brother had developed with our parents evaporated like a drop of water on a sizzling pan as my dad stated “No son of mine is going to be a F***ing Fag!”

Being gay, especially in the 70’s, was unacceptable to our parents. It was also met with total intolerance within the community.  I remember Jim had to go to the doctor for some blood work.  The aide mistakenly hit my brother’s vein and blood spurted out all over.  The aide was terrified and ran from the room, leaving Jim to bleed and solve the problem himself.

Because my brother could not find acceptance at home or within the community,  Jim strove to find acceptance through religion. Over my brother’s short, but action-packed lifetime, Jim dove headlong into most of the world’s religions at one time or another. Jim, in his early high school years started out as a Christian Scientist.  At that time, Jim became sick from his involvement with drugs.  By this time, I was married with my own life, so I only happened to find out from my parents that Jim was in the hospital in intensive care.  The doctors discovered while Jim was in the hospital that Jim was born with an abnormal heart – three lobes on both sides of his heart, plus it was severely tilted to the left.  The doctors wanted to do exploratory surgery and thought that Jim would die if they didn’t check out his heart.  Since Jim was 19 and a Christian Scientist, he refused the surgery. Miracles happen as thankfully even though he was in critical condition Jim survived without the doctors cutting into him.  The great news though is this experience did get Jim off drugs.

Jim’s life dramatically straightened out then, so he went off to college in Northern California to obtain a Liberal Arts Degree.  After his graduation, he taught blind children in a school in Colorado Springs, Colorado.  Jim’s goal was to teach these youngsters that there was hope for them to grow up to become productive adults and not be victims.

Over the years, Jim belonged to Reverend Sun Myung Moon’s group and had to escape up over an eight foot barbed wire fence at a Los Angeles compound late one night in order to get out of the group before Reverend Moon and his group was kicked out of the United States.

Jim’s next learning experience was when he joined the Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh’s group that practiced “human potential psychotherapy.”  The Bhagwan taught a syncretistic spiritual path that combined elements from Hinduism, Jainism, Zen Buddhism, Taoism, Christianity, ancient Greek philosophy, and new forms of therapy and meditation. As the other followers, my brother grew his cinnamon-red hair long enough for a top-knot on his head.  He was clothed in orange and wore a beaded necklace with a picture of the Bhagwan attached.  When the Bhagwan started collecting his followers’ worldly possessions, Mercedes, Rolls-Royces, Jaguars, bank accounts, etc., Jim finally recognized the Bhagwan for the fraud that he was and left the cult.  Shortly afterward, the Bhagwan was kicked out of the United States and sent back to India.

In the meantime, while in Seattle, Washington, Jim taught at a school for Special Education students to help the kids learn to function in the everyday world.  Then my ever curious brother, moved back to Northern California to graduate with his Master’s in psychology.  Because of his interest in the Buddhist philosophy from when he was involved with the Baghwan’s group, Jim decided to learn more about the Buddhist religion while he was obtaining his Master’s Degree in psychology. Surely, he would gain acceptance for being who he is this time! What I find incredible is that people don’t seem to look beyond the surface at who we are as individuals.  Jim was Gay, but he was a loving and very bright person who helped children and adults.  Why couldn’t he be accepted for the good aspects of his life? In each of Jim’s religious followings, like at home, Jim had to hide the fact that he was Gay.

When Jim completed his Master’s dissertation on starting HIV/AIDS Support Groups, he set up the first support groups back in Seattle to help these people suffering with this disease, as Jim was. Eventually, Jim became so enmeshed in this religion that he decided to become a Buddhist monk.

Because Jim was HIV positive and extremely thin, Seattle’s cold weather was creating havoc with Jim’s body. So he moved to the Buddhist Ashram in Honolulu, Hawaii where he eventually ran the Ashram because of his depth of knowledge in the Buddhist religion and his capability in speaking the Tibetan language.

Then, finally, during the Gulf War, Jim accompanied his Lama and the Dalai Lama to India to give out money to the temples. I do know that in order to be selected to accompany the Lama to India Jim had to be able to speak and write Tibetan at a certain capability. Since it is the Dalai Lama’s duty to distribute money, Jim and the Lama accompanied him as they had brought some of the donations from Hawaii.  Sadly, the sentiment against Americans at that time was vicious, so the Hawaiian Lama disguised Jim as a Nigerian.  They dyed his red hair black and darkened his skin, and then hid Jim out in Katmandu for three months until they could figure a way of sneaking Jim out of the country and back home.  I never did learn the details of how Jim managed to get home, but it was a complicated route.

While Jim was hiding in India and Katmandu he saw the drastic differences in how the Buddhist nuns were treated versus the monks.  The monks lived in temples surrounded by finery, whereas the nuns lived in corrugated metal huts. The nuns swept their dirt floors and were vigilant for snakes as there were no doors on these huts. Jim was disgusted by the caste system and the treatment of these nuns. Jim wanted acceptance for all! When Jim returned to the states he turned in his robes and left the Buddhist religion. After Jim’s experience with the vast religions he was so angry he vowed never to participate in another religion. He was true to his word, because he died a little over two years later. 

Because of the dirt and squalor in the food and living conditions in Katmandu, Jim unknowingly picked up three vicious parasites that were unknown to the doctors in the states.  By the time, the doctors figured out why Jim was so ill, the parasites had made Swiss cheese of his organs.  Jim went through nearly two years of hell as his organs gave out. He experienced pain and incredible suffering as he could no longer control his bodily functions.  Plus, since my brother was seriously HIV positive his system could not fight the diseases or the parasites, nor was there any medicine for either.  The doctors told Jim he did not have long to live, but they didn’t know exactly how long. It simply depended on Jim’s body and what fight it had left.

I still remember his call saying that he was dying.  He warned me that he would have no warning… he would simply be gone.  I felt crushed as I didn’t want to lose my friend and brother. I was determined to have time with my beloved brother. I promptly climbed on a plane to Honolulu, to say “good-bye.”  Fortunately, it was Memorial Day weekend and I had a three day holiday from work.  I was a single mom so I had two children at home to support. I scraped together the money for my trip.  By the time I arrived, his strength was marginal and he had to rest between the three days of my visit. Jim was so ill that he could not be with me for three days in a row. I simply wanted time, whatever time I could get, with my brother, but he was determined to be strong and be a good host.  One day he drove me around the island to show me the tourist spots.  I have no idea of where we went as frankly I didn’t care.  I simply wanted time with my brother. The next day Jim rested while I sat in my hotel room studying for a class.  That night, we went out to dinner at a local Asian restaurant. The next day, my brother drove me to the Honolulu Airport where I hugged him and said “good-bye.”

I want to know how you say “good-bye” to someone you love, knowing you will never see them again?  I didn’t want to upset my brother so I worked at being very strong.  Then sat on the plane as the tears trickled down my cheeks.

Amazingly, Jim lived for nearly a year longer.  We would chat on the phone frequently to discuss our lives and what we had learned. One very important fact that jumps out and hits me in the face is that because mom and dad insisted that our jobs be practical, Jim and I did not follow our passions.  Why Jim taught children escapes both of us as because of his interest in languages and cultures, he would have preferred to be a translator and maybe work for the United Nations.  I went to work for a bank, but I would have preferred designing clothes or doing something with my love for the water. I loved creativity.

Then one day Jim dropped into a coma and three days before his 42^nd birthday he died alone. Jim had refused to call our parents when he entered the hospital.  Jim was too tired to deal with mom’s and dad’s judgment of him. By the time Jim dropped into a coma, his friends realized that our parents didn’t know Jim was in the hospital. Then I will never forget the dull sound of my dad’s voice as he said, “We missed the flight.  Your brother passed away before we could get there.” No matter how I try, I can’t remember the rest of the conversation.  My body went dead, my ears rang, I felt like I was going to throw up, I had to go home.  I couldn’t stay at work.

When I think back about my brother’s now spent life, my mind is flooded with memories and tears. Everything cascades forward so I have difficulty telling one detail from the next.  However, the one thing that stands out is that my brother definitely was an interesting character, and he lived more life in his 41 short years than most of us live in a far longer life span.  My brother, James Robert Edwards, had been on a crusade to discover acceptance for who he was as an individual and never found it because he felt that he always had to hide who he really was – a Gay man.

Viola Agnes Jensen Peterson wasn’t famous exactly, not unless you counted the awards Nordstrom’s handed out to her for being their top sales person in the men’s clothing department year after year.  However, she was famous to her family as she was dearly loved, as a thin, down-to-earth, hard-working woman who came from a Danish family of ten children.  Vi was born into the middle of the pack, but no matter what age they were, all the children learned to work hard as they grew up on a North Dakota farm.

Vi didn’t want to remain on the farm so she married an enticing Norwegian engineer, Einar Peterson, who promised her adventure and excitement. In the years that they were married, Vi encountered adventure, but I don’t think it went the way she had it in mind.

When I think back about my connection to this family, I realize that the universe definitely had a lesson planned for me.  One day their son followed me to the beach, since his apartment building was kitty corner to the home where I lived on 19^th street in Hermosa Beach. We learned we were both from Kirkland, Washington but had lived at opposite ends of town as small children.  It was years later after we married and moved back to Kirkland that I became friends with his mother.

Vi was memorable as we enjoyed long heart-to-heart chats with one another.  I had a relationship with her that I did not have with my own mother, so Vi became like a mother to me. We were there to support one another… something I had not experienced in my own family. Vi was there for the people she loved no matter their faults.

Over years of marriage Einar and Vi lived in Washington, Alaska, and California.  Einar became a licensed pilot of small airplanes and flew them around Alaska while working on large construction projects.  One time Einar crashed his airplane through the ice and radioed for help. Since Vi was a passenger, along with the construction materials in the plane, Einar had to hide Vi out in the snow banks until after the investigative rescue crew left so that he wouldn’t get in trouble for overloading the airplane.  Einar liked to party and his nine year old son, repeatedly had to drag his dad out of the local bars to bring him home.  Einar liked to drink. He even fell, cracking his head open, and while bleeding went back to bed.  Fortunately for Einar, Vi came home from work to find him bleeding and called 9-1-1.  If Vi hadn’t come home when she did and called 9-1-1 Einar would have bled to death as the actor, William Holden did.  Plus, after this scary event, Vi with the help of her son, forced Einar into an alcohol treatment center.

As the years progressed Vi, maintained their home, raised two children, worked full-time for Nordstrom’s in Bellevue, Washington, and loved her grandchildren.  Vi, as the top sales lady in Nordstrom’s men’s department, earned more than Einar, who was the City Engineer for the City of Kirkland, Washington.  Most importantly, she loved being a grandmother and playing with her grandchildren.  I still laugh as Vi was highly intelligent and excellent at helping people, yet she was addicted to People Magazine and all of the Hollywood gossip rags!

Then suddenly, her already slim body shriveled, and her spleen became swollen. Doctors ran tests. I went with her to the Oncologist’s office for the results of those tests. The doctor told Vi, who was barely 65, that she had a rare form of cancer, myelofibrosis, and that she had plus or minus five years to live.  Evidently, that is the typical life expectancy of someone with this voracious disease. The doctor reported that Vi’s bone marrow was ceasing to make blood and the marrow was turning to fibrosis tissue. I don’t know how Vi kept from crumbling right there in the doctor’s office.  As for me, I was in shock and denial. The doctor couldn’t be right! I wanted to believe that some miracle would happen and that Vi would live many more healthy years.

However, Vi’s energy slowly languished, but she worked as hard as ever, but now black and blue bruises formed.  She continued to work at Nordstrom’s until she was too tired and retired at 66 after working for Nordstrom’s for over 20 years. She put her grandkids, Heather (age 8) and Mathew (age 5) to work cleaning her sliding glass door.  I’m sure the bottom of their door saw more Windex than any other window in the house. Then one day, two and a half years after her diagnosis, Vi caught what seemed to be a bad case of the flu, but she was hospitalized. The next night she was gone. This vibrant bloom withered overnight right before our very eyes.

Vi wilted like a rose that had been lost in a snow drift. Watching a person, I loved like a mother, flag and melt away before my eyes decimated me as she was a very dear mother-in-law. I was closer to her than to my own mother.  That month I lost Vi, two weeks later my beloved grandmother died, and then one week later my delightful and energetic grandmother-in-law died from a sudden stroke.  These very special women, the vitality and love in my life, all died within a month. I too sometimes feel like that blackened rose because of my sense of shock and desolation at the loss of these treasured women.

The day arrived for Vi’s funeral and reception.  I bore the burden of preparing all of the food for the reception at my house after the funeral service while Vi’s daughter sat there in my living room.  I was determined to be as strong as my dear mother-in-law had been as I trudged forward – looking similar to a zombie. My daughter, Heather and I could sense Vi’s invisible presence and Heather often saw Vi in her dreams.  Heather even asked “why the grandmother who loved me died?”

Remember, as one bloom dies new buds form.  My daughter, Heather, is very much like her thin, hard-working grandmother, Vi, right down to loving People Magazine and the Hollywood gossip rags!

A surprise, winter storm left me sitting in my dark family room listening to the wind whip through the trees while the branches rubbed frantically against the side of our house and window. The leaves created creepy shadows across my carpet and walls. The rasping and creaking sounded like someone trying to break in to my house.

It reminded me of another stormy night years ago, as a small child, when a similar storm sent me diving under the bed covers shivering from fear. It seems like yesterday, but then I realize some of the facts are fading from my mind, especially since I was never sure whether what I saw that night was real or a dream.

My bedroom was on the second story of our three-level, “L-shaped”, Swiss/German chalet-styled home on Holmes Point Drive in Kirkland, Washington. I had grown old enough to get my own bedroom one flight down from my mother’s and father’s room, and my baby brother’s room. I was so excited to have a room of my own!  My new room was down a long, dark hall, running in back of a large country kitchen.  The hall ended in our glassed- in family room looking out across the lawn and flower gardens.

Our home sat on an acre and a half of lawn and trees, in a very rural, wooded area. The road in front was an oiled gravel road. We had very few neighbors, as our street bordered Lake Washington on one side, and the woods, where we lived on the other side.

I remember awakening in the middle of the night and listening to the wind howling. The branches lashed against my window as if they wanted to come in. The moon’s reflection through the leaves of the giant Quince tree outside my bedroom window created eerie images.  The shadowy claws seemed to reach out for me. The creaks and groans inside the house escalated my fanciful thoughts and fear.  My heart started to pound, I closed my eyes tight hoping my imagination would settle down. I was terrified of being alone, but was trying so hard to be a “big girl” so I could keep my own bedroom and not have to share with my brother.

As I peeked out of the covers, two huge glowing eyes seemingly peered into the room watching me. The eyes appeared to be crouched on a huge limb while the shadowing of the leaves around the smoldering globes made the face appear to be some form of tiger or monster studying me. I didn’t know what to do, but I figured if I lay as still as a statue, while trying to hold my breath, the creature would believe I was asleep, so the bogeyman wouldn’t know that I had seen him.

Suddenly the windows shook from what I thought was the boom of thunder and I heard a terrible crash, like the tinkling of breaking glass, the sound that lightning sometimes makes. All this noise took place while I was now hiding at the foot of my bed under the quilts shaking. I was too afraid to go to mom’s and dad’s room, since it was a long way from mine, and I would have to brave the dark, deserted house, to climb the stairs alone. Besides, mom would get really angry at me if I disturbed her sleep. I wanted to run to my mom, but I was afraid to. Eventually, I must have fallen into a troubled slumber.

Next morning when I wandered along the gloomy hall to the family room, I was shocked to find the glass paneled French doors of the family room shattered. The shards of glass had been swept up and the door was covered with plywood. The furniture had been straightened but the room still lay in slight disarray as if a fight had taken place.

My best friend, our one year old, pure-bred, German Shepherd, Duchess, came hobbling out to greet me. Her right ear was bandaged like an upside-down ice cream cone, and the corner of her mouth was taped where the vet had stitched it, and her paw was bandaged. I cried “Mommy, what happened?”

“Someone broke into our home last night. The intruder and Duchess fought, but Duchess protected us and chased the man away.”

Now many years later, a familiar name jumped out at me from an article in the Seattle  Times, our local newspaper. It was a story about my former childhood neighbor and periodic babysitter, who had lived across the street from my old house. He was now in his seventies, but according to the article he had a police record for exposing himself to women and children. The paper had reported that he had been caught exposing himself to a child and her mother at the park near our old neighborhood.

I was horrified as my mother and this man’s mother were close friends. His mom taught my mom how to make pottery.  They gardened together, and his mom had even rescued me from sleep walking out in our yard late one other night.

Seeing this man’s name and reading about his background with women and children made me wonder if this man had been the person who broke into our home that night.  Had he actually been heading for my room only to be attacked by Duchess? In those days, scandalous subjects were so forbidden that everyone hush-hushed them and swept them under the carpet. Never to be talked about, especially in front of young children.

In all these years, I never thought to question my parents further about what happened that night or if they knew who broke into our home. So I couldn’t resist doing a teeny bit of detective work, as maybe I can get Gibbs of NCIS to hire me. It was easy, as I picked up the phone and called a mutual friend that grew up with my former neighbor and who keeps in contact with my ex-neighbor’s family. I was saddened and relieved to learn that my former neighbor had not broken into my childhood home, but in the last few years he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s so his personality had changed and he was doing things he normally would not have considered doing.

So why had I so quickly jumped to conclusions that someone I had trusted as a child would have broken into my home to harm me? Here as an adult, I had jumped to conclusions and assumed the worst because of a newspaper article that had not included all of the facts.  This situation was a good lesson for me in – not assuming the worst about people before finding out ALL the facts.

       “Some people

       try to turn back their odometers.

       Not me!

       I want people to know why

       I look this way.

       I’ve traveled a long way

       and some of the roads weren’t paved.”       Author Unknown

          Now as I look out into the depths of the oak trees nestled in the gully just off the bay behind my house, the dark shadows beneath the trees remind me of a very dark, cloudy, late night long ago.  When I was a little girl of approximately three, my parents, my younger brother, Jim, and I lived down by the shores of Lake Washington amongst acres of fields, few homes, and woods that housed bobcat, porcupine, raccoons, coyotes, and deer.

Our father’s severe traveling schedule meant we only saw dad one weekend a month.  This left mom to grow our food on an acre and a half of land, care for the house, and care for two small children – alone. Mom and dad desperately needed some time alone, so mom arranged for a friend to babysit for a few days, leaving Jim and me behind.

One particular late night, Virginia, the neighbor who lived across the road down by the lake, heard frightened screams of a small child.  It was too late and not safe for a child of any size to be out alone.

Listening, obviously something was wrong, so Virginia quickly threw on some clothes, headed outside and up the hill, crossed the road, and looked to see if she could track down the crying child. There across the oiled gravel road, wandering among the trees along the side of the road Virginia spied a small child – me. My feet were bare and I was dressed in my nightgown.  My bare feet and the hem of my nightgown were soaked from the late night dew in the long grass.  Strangely, I didn’t seem to know where I was going. I was lost and screaming for my mother.

Approaching, Virginia swooped me up into her arms to calm me as she carried me across the lawn and driveway toward our 3,500 square foot Swiss chalet style house. The front door was unlocked as none of the neighbors locked their doors in those days.

Since Virginia and mom were friends, Virginia had visited with my mother many times so she easily found her way into the house, through the dark living room lit by the moonlight, down the long hall behind the kitchen, through the recreation room, and up the stairs to the bedrooms. No sounds stirred from the bedrooms, as the babysitter obviously hadn’t heard my plaintive cries. Angrily, Virginia flipped on the master bedroom light where the babysitter lay sound asleep oblivious to the event that had just unfolded. Slowly, and groggily the babysitter looked up, only to be told to pay better attention to me and my brother as I had been found outside by myself scared out of my wits.

After rudely flipping off the master bedroom light, Virginia kindly took me to my bedroom that I shared with my baby brother, and tucked me back into bed before she let herself back out of the house.

I still remember how terrified I felt waking with wet feet out in the lawn, not knowing where I was or how I got there. I still wonder to this day where I had wandered before Virginia found me.

Repeatedly, I had a habit of sleep-walking from the time I was a small toddler until I was approximately six years old, but mother never believed me.  Mom would repeatedly ask me why I was up, but of course I didn’t know so mother would threaten me with her hairbrush.  Mom was convinced that I was lying to her, and to prevent getting hit, I would come up with a story. Mom would continue to question me and of course I didn’t have the right answers so she hit me anyway. One time I fell part way down our cement basement steps as I unknowingly opened and walked through the wrong door. Even after this event, mom never believed that I had no idea of what I was doing.

Now, many years later I learned that sleep walking is quite common with children, but usually from the ages of approximately six years old until about 12 years of age.  Also, sleep walking is genetic.

I learned that children who sleep walk are usually normal in every respect but a few studies have suggested that in some cases children may have inner conflicts that they are not able to verbalize. And in a few cases, family counseling and reassurance have been all the therapy necessary for children with frequent parasomnias.

Unfortunately, my parents didn’t believe in counseling either.

Experts recommend that when finding a child who is sleep-walking that you slowly steer the child back toward bed.  Even though the child’s eyes may be open or the child is talking the child is not aware of what he/she is doing. Don’t attempt to wake the child, but slowly tuck the child back in bed.  Also, consider child-proofing the house to make it safe by locking windows and doors so the child can’t fall out windows or go through doors out into the woods alone.  Learning this information, for me, was like having the moon come out from behind those clouds to light up the sky.

Even though these events took place many years ago, mom consistently for the rest of her life told me that she could never believe me.  She never accepted that I didn’t know what I was doing when I was younger, and sadly I had created the stories to protect myself from getting hit… to no avail.

Now, as an adult, I have learned the negative consequences of how mom’s treatment impacted me in my working and adult life, as mom and I never reached a resolution on this issue.  However, remembering these events made it crucial to me to work at being a different mom than my mother was – more loving and understanding of my children.  The good news is that these events are part of the impetus for my years of volunteering with organizations that help children.

Until now most of my stories have been more “grin” than “grit.”  However, my goal with this Blog is to eventually tell stories about my life to help others learn from their past and make positive changes for their future.  My past wasn’t in your face brutal, like with many kids, but it had a subtle poison to it that has taken me many years to determine what went wrong and why.  Learning from my past and changing is critical to my happiness.

I wrote this story a few years ago when I was in the beginning stages of looking back at my life after my parents died.  It’s a start to identifying the “grit” in my life – what makes me who I am today.

“ Good kids are like sunsets.  We take them for granted. Every evening they disappear.  Most parents never imagine how hard they try to please us, and how miserable they feel when they think they have failed.”  Erma Bombeck

Have you ever been in a position where you made a knee-jerk move and realized it might be a mistake? Then wondered how in the heck you were going to get yourself safely out of the situation – like trapping a rattlesnake?  Hmm, maybe that wasn’t such a smart move after all.  In my case, I’m going to blame The Three Stooges, as if it hadn’t been for them I may never have pulled this stunt.

When my mom got angry at me, she had this nasty habit of hitting me.  So, like with that angry trapped rattlesnake, I had to figure out how to keep out of her way!  Now, the good news here is that my mom was only 5’4” tall. So this maneuver is not recommended for short people! Remember how Moe would hold off Curly by planting one hand in the middle of his forehead?  Curly would just keep swinging and not even touch Moe.

One day, while watching The Three Stooges – I do remember that part.  What I don’t remember is why Mom was so angry at me, but she was headed my way with steam coming out of her ears and her eyes bulging. I knew I was in deep trouble. Suddenly, like a jack-in-the-box, I popped out of my chair, and before either of us realized it, I had planted my hand right smack dab in the middle of mom’s forehead.  The good news here is that by now I was several inches taller than Mom, so my reach was long enough to keep her away.  However, like with that cornered rattlesnake -WHAT was I going to do once I let go?  Thoughts were frantically running through my head and being discarded equally as fast as I was attempting to figure out a solution to my problem.  I didn’t know how long I could hold Mom off, as unlike in The Three Stooges, I realized she could knock my arm away if she had chosen to put up a fight.  Then the miracle of all miracles happened… Mom started to laugh!  Now, I was worried… was Mom’s laughter an evasive maneuver, and was I going to be in even more trouble than when I initially planted my hand against her head? Plus, my arm was weakening. What was I going to do next! However, Mom truly was laughing, hysterically, which managed to defuse this tense situation.

So, The Three Stooges actually saved my butt.  I should have written them a Thank You note as Mom never hit me again.