By Mustang Patty
This picture was taken when I was just eighteen years old. I was on a trip with my first husband in the Grand Canaries.
As my novel draws to a close, I find myself in search of another project. Somewhat surprising, I find myself looking inward. I've been reading one of my books on writing memoirs called Writing about Your Life, by William Zinser. So, I think I will write my history. You won't find any whining about the past. I've accepted, forgiven, and moved on. I only think about those things when I'm depressed.
Sitting here amongst my collection of books, dogs nestled close by, I realize I don't think I ever thought my life would be this way. Not the little girl who hid behind the couch while her parents argued and fought. Not the teenager who bore the beatings of her mother and sister. Nor the young girl that had to fight off her mother's boyfriends. I want to write something to portray what life was like, and share the history of my great-grandparents and their arrival in the United States.
The life I have now seems perfect to some. I could retire at fifty-five. I have a husband that loves me. My grown children are still a source of joy, though not always. We are comfortable and live within our means. I don't drink, do drugs, or gamble. I write when I want, I read and review on Fan Story, and I'm comfortable in my own skin.
The early years didn't indicate I would ever live the life I live now. Right before my mother died in 1998, she wrote me a short letter. For the first time in my life, she told me she was proud of me. She commented on my life and how good it was. That letter is one of my treasures.
| Author Notes |
From Wikipedia: A prologue or prolog (Greek, from pro, "before" and logos, "word") is an opening to a story that establishes the context and gives background details, often some earlier story that ties into the main one, and other miscellaneous information. The Ancient Greek 'logos' included the modern meaning of prologue, but was of wider significance, more like the meaning of preface. The importance, therefore, of the prologue in Greek drama was very great; it sometimes almost took the place of a romance, to which, or to an episode in which, the play itself succeeded.
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By Mustang Patty
As I thought about how to start this journey through my life, I tried to find a defining moment. It seemed to me that to understand who I am and where I came from, I needed to sum up my existence with the first chapter. This is that story.
When I was almost nine years old, I suffered through a day that never quite leaves my mind. This singular event served to shape all that came after, and severely color what came before. A recurring nightmare takes me back to that day, and therapists have identified this moment in time as the beginning of my PTSD.
It was the first day of the fourth grade, September 1967. Events of the summer had turned my life upside down. In mid-August, my father had been put in jail. No one would tell me the reason. My mother said I was too young to know. When asked, my aunt said she must have been too young to know too – no one would tell her either. My grandmother didn't have any answers, or if she did, she kept them to herself. Left to my own devices, I decided he must have committed murder. I was only eight, and prone to exaggeration.
This lack of knowledge and my own naivety made me a target for the other kids in the neighborhood. We were all walking to school together and excitedly talking about meeting our new teachers. I can still see the new dress my aunt had bought for me and feel the pinch of new shoes.
I remember the moment of being with the neighbors, and the next thing I remember was sitting in a hallway outside the new classroom. A large coat was draped across my shoulders, and I was shivering uncontrollably. That time in between remains a complete blank.
I now have an idea of what must have been said. For years, my mind simply wouldn't let me recall the conversation. I have a blank space instead of a memory. A dark hole that would cause me grief for years to come. I still try to hear the voices or see the faces that were there. I ended up at school, so I had to finish walking those few blocks to get there. I must have met my new teacher – although I can't remember that, either. It's all just one big blank.
The little girl that sat in that hallway, with her teacher's raincoat held closed, was broken. Something terrible had taken place. A tragic word had been uttered. Her mind couldn't accept it, and she ran far away. Receding into the dark recesses of her brain, the little girl that was, ceased to exist.
I did finally find out why my father went to jail. My mother told me in the spring of 1975, almost eight years after that fateful day. I had applied to enter the FBI's clerical staff. The background check asked me if any members of my family had done any time. I indicated that my father had, but I didn't know the reason.
My FBI recruiter asked my mother while I was out of earshot. She answered his questions and decided it was time to tell me the truth. So, I found out the truth when we got home.
My sister, like so many other women, was the victim of sexual abuse at the hands of her own father. For years, she suffered in silence. But when he wouldn't let her date after she turned sixteen, she vowed to get even. She told my mother what had been going on. My mother, tired of her own abuse, called the police.
Instead of serving the years in prison he deserved, he only spent nine months in jail. The charges were dropped to 'contributing to the delinquency of a minor' because my sister couldn't and wouldn't testify in open court. He hadn't only physically abused her, but mentally as well. He told her if she ever told, he would kill all of us.
When my mother said the words, I felt like she was telling me something I already knew. I only wish she had told me years before. You see, my father came back into our lives in 1968. He only stayed for about fifteen months, but by the time he left, my childhood was over.
As it turned out, there had been a murder committed involving my father. He'd murdered my innocence.
| Author Notes | ANY suggestions or constructive criticism is more than welcome. I struggled to write about this stage of my life. Other than my husband and kids, and varied therapists, I don't share this story. This is shameful and something that causes me a great deal of pain. |
By Mustang Patty
I was, for all intentions, a happy baby. The entire neighborhood was excited about my birth. It seemed that everyone had their own children the same ages; the average was eight years old. I was to be the baby of the block.
My brother was nine and my sister was seven. Though the stories I heard told of my big brother being excited, he didn't pay very much attention to me. My sister was livid. She actively hated the sight of me, and though I don't remember what she did to me as a baby, I know all too well of her abusive nature during my teens.
Stories of a cute and cuddly baby are only told by the neighbors. All I ever heard from my own family was that I was a holy terror. They had spoiled me when I was tiny, so my demands for that same attention began to get on their nerves when I was about six months old. As I grew into a toddler, I developed the bad habit of holding my breath until someone paid attention to me. Looking back, I think it was a cry for help.
There are very few pictures of me as a small child, and even fewer as a baby. I found out this was because my mother and father didn't own a camera. The snapshots I do have come from my grandmother and aunt.
My memories of early childhood are fragmented and blurry. I do remember the fighting, the screaming, and being so scared, I could hardly breathe. One vivid memory features a gleaming butcher knife wielded by my father, and another has my mother wearing a bandage across her face.
The abuse my mother suffered was secondary to my brother's fate. I can remember him running to get away from a hammer, and him spending the night in the rafters of our garage. He wasn't a big kid, and my father was a drunken bully. I didn't know about the abuse my sister suffered, but I was aware that she started smoking when she was about ten years old. I could always smell the smoke on her, and I hated it when she picked me up.
Responsibility for me often fell to my brother and sister. I'm not sure if my mother was simply tired of motherhood, or if she didn't like me, but my siblings were ordered to keep me occupied. This led to scary results. One day, my brother and his friends took me and my carriage up to the top of the hill at the end of our street. There was just enough of an incline to cause havoc. They let go, and the buggy careened down the hill and through the intersection at the bottom. Thank goodness no cars were coming.
Frustrated with my childlike beliefs, my brother revealed the lack of a real Santa Claus to me when I was only five years old. My sister ordered me to my room whenever my parents left her in charge of me. I was often spanked out of frustration by my mom. It didn't seem to matter who frustrated her; I was just an easy target. My dad seemed to be the kindest, unless he was drunk. I remember being kicked out of the way when I tried to stop him from hitting my brother.
Resentment for me grew and by the time my father left when I was almost nine, my family blamed me for most everything. I guess I was a better target than my dad; I couldn't cause the physical damage he did. My self-esteem was very low, and everything that came after only added to my depression.
Left to my own devices, I turned to books at an early age. We didn't have much in the way of reading material in the house. There was half of a set of encyclopedias; the other half presumably still at the A&P Supermarket. We didn't get the newspaper, and my mother didn't own any novels.
Despite the lack of reading material, I started to teach myself to read. With a little help from my amused father, and my constant stream of questions, I learned words. It was easiest where there was a picture beside the term, and my first conquest was 'elephant.' I loved the way it sounded, and since I really couldn't read, I made up the facts while I studied the letters I knew. Books were my first friends.
| Author Notes |
The photo is of me when I was about three months old. My grandmother paid for the professional photographs.
Writing this chapter was very hard, and this will probably be the only chapter focused on these early years. |
By Mustang Patty
At a time in history when immigration to the United States is being frowned upon, I look to my past. I wouldn't be here if my great grandparents hadn't left Italy to set sail for the United States back in 1903. Though the Italian immigrants were viewed as ginneys, wops, and degos, the story of my great grandparents is one of triumph in the face of adversity.
I was lucky enough to spend a great deal of time with my grandmother. I'm not sure if she always agreed to take me home with her because I begged, but I'd like to believe that she just liked to have me around too.
Grandma was a great story teller, and one day I asked her, "Can you tell me how mia Nonna e mio Nonno (Great grandma and Great grandpa) came to America?"
She looked at the ceiling as she gathered her thoughts. As she began, I could see the pride in her eyes. "My Papà and Mom, Angelo Francis Lista and Rose Sarducci Lista, left Italy in May of 1903. They had just gotten married. They were only 16 and 14, but it wasn't unusual in those days to marry so young. My parents left their home in Reggio di Calabria shortly after the wedding. The Calabria region is at the very tip of the boot of Italy. It's right across from the island of Sicily, and the feuding was thick and deadly. My Papà didn't see much in their future there, so they set off to America with all their savings and belongings."
Grandma had a habit of mixing Italian with her English. She had been fluent in the native tongue of her parents while she was growing up, but as she taught herself English, she lost a lot of words. Since Nonna's death, she really had little reason to speak Italian – except for curse words.
"Rosa, ci si deve spostare in America." (Rose, we should move to America.)
"When they got to the United States, they lived with a cousin, their sponsor. The apartment building in the Italian section of New York city was small, but they all lived comfortably. Papà found a job unloading trucks, and my Mom worked in a bakery."
"Rose, avremo una buona vita qui." (Rose, we will have a good life here.)
"My father dreamed of the day he could find some land and start a farm like the one he left in Italy. He knew how to raise cows, pigs, and chickens, and he knew how to care for grape vines. Rose would help him and they would bring up their babies in this new country of theirs.
"Scrimping and saving, they added to the savings they brought from Italy. One day, Papà heard about a man who was selling land. Since he didn't speak much English, he brought his cousin, Francis Maglione with him.
"This man had dollar signs in his eyes when he sold the stupid ginney a bunch of swampland down in New Jersey. Little did he know what my father would do. He used that land to enrich their lives."
"Da questa terra, potremo costruire il nostro future." From this land, we will build our future.
"He purchased thirty acres for three-hundred dollars. He sent word to Italy that he could sponsor anyone who was willing to work hard. For the next five years, he sponsored fourteen families and helped them to make a life in the United States. First, he built a house to accommodate those that came from the old country. As the others built their own houses, he had room for the growing family. Eventually, a large group of houses, grouped all together, formed a new Little Italy. My Mom gave birth to three little girls, all only eighteen months apart. I was the oldest, born in 1905. Mom stopped working after I was born, and devoted herself to her little girls and being a good wife.
"The swamp land was used to raise pigs. Papà made his fortune selling the stock for meat. The labor was provided by the men he helped, and the little community helped one another as they formed a life in their new homeland.
"As a second money crop, grape vines were planted and eventually the grapes became a thriving wine business. Your great grandfather was a brilliant businessman. He didn't do anything without thinking of how it would benefit his family."
The acre of vines were still standing when I was a little girl. Some early memories have me playing under the branches. I can remember my great-grandmother stroking my cheek, and telling my mother,
"Guarda come ella proveniva direttamente dall'Italia." She looks like she came straight from Italy.
At my great-grandparents' compound, I was the little darling and youngest of the great grandchildren.
"La mia bellezza." My beauty, as Nonna called me.
| Author Notes | My great grandparents, Nonna and Nonno, died within months of one another in 1963. An important part of our family history died with them. The family land was sold, the houses were knocked down, and a hospital now sits where the Little Italy part of Metuchen, New Jersey used to be. |
By Mustang Patty
Mr. Stevens was holding our test results in his hand, "Here is someone who is clearly not living up to their potential. Patty has scored higher than anyone in the seventh grade on these tests. She chooses to not come to school or participate in her own education. What a waste!"
Those are words that haunt me. A seventh-grade teacher took it upon himself to share the results of a standardized test with the whole class. Twelve-year-olds have enough issues in dealing with their ever-changing bodies and surge of hormones, and now I was outed as being even more different.
School was a problem for me. From early on, I was bored. To cure the boredom, I only went to school when we were having a test or project due. My grades were all A's, and no one really made a big deal about my attendance. I was honest when teachers asked me why I wasn't at school. It was the only way to have time with my mother.
I had been tested in the first grade and the school wanted to put me in a gifted program. My parents were against it. Mostly because it would cost them money, and no one was available to drive me to and from the special school. I try not to dwell on how different my life would be if I had attended the program.
Finally, the teacher I had for fifth grade realized that the problem was my not being challenged enough. She gave me extra assignments, and I wasn't absent one day during that year. Her notes in my academic file were copious. She believed I was destined for great things.
But, my father returned from jail in the fall of 1969, when I was in the sixth grade, and everything was turned upside-down. Oh, he behaved himself for almost a year. There were no drunken rages or anger filled fights. He brought his paycheck home every week, and we were almost like a real family. Almost.
There was a huge secret; my mother had dated someone else while he was gone. My brother and sister were too old for him to bully, and he had to tread carefully. The divorce papers had been filed, but never finalized. Life was balanced on a razor's edge.
It all blew up in late spring of 1970. I came home from school to blaring country western music that could be heard from the street. My legs were shaking as I walked up the stairs. I was afraid of what I would find.
My father sat at the kitchen table with an open bottle in front of him. A box of pictures was spilled and spread out before him. I could hear him grinding his teeth from across the room.
"Patty, come over here, darlin'. Come and sit with your daddy." The smile on his lips didn't quite reach his eyes, and I knew he was up to something.
"Sure, Daddy. Just let me put my stuff away." I ran to my room and tried to find a way to avoid going back out there. Where was everyone else? What was he doing home at three-thirty in the afternoon?
I sat down at the table, and he held up one picture. "Who is that in this picture?" His voice was barely controlled and his anger was palpable.
"That's a picture of me in Mommy's car."
"No. Who is the reflection of? Who was taking this picture?"
It was the only picture my mother hadn't purged. Reflected in the window was a picture of Fred, the man she had dated. His camera caught me in the back seat with a big smile on my face. I froze at the thought that I would be the one to reveal this horrible truth. The razor was about to slice my life.
I don't remember my exact words. My total recall left me. His anger weakened my legs and fogged my brain. Whatever I said, it unleashed all the fury he had been holding in.
He wanted a name. He wanted facts. I was crying so hard, I couldn't give him anything.
His belt was pulled from the loops of his pants. Swinging towards me, I could hear the harsh whistle of the leather. His words were even more haunting as he roared, "Come here, you little bitch – I'll teach you to lie to me."
I don't remember the rest of that day. I only know that when I came to, lying under my brother's bed, the voices of my mother and sister were calling to me. The house was in shambles. We never saw my father again.
School was easy compared to the lessons I learned that day. My education about people, and how much you could trust them, was complete. Mr. Stevens' actions on that fateful day in seventh grade only proved the point.
I went on to get degrees in Accounting, Business, an MBA, and a law degree. It seems that I was trying to prove to myself, and the world, that I was living up to my potential.
| Author Notes |
This was another chapter that was hard to write. Memories of that day still haunt my dreams.
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By Mustang Patty
"Hiya, Pat. I got your email this morning. Are you okay?. I think we need to talk…"
Patty, I got your email. What do you think you are doing?
Over the past week, I emailed the first few chapters of these memoirs to my brother and sister. My brother lives in Georgia, and my sister still resides in New Jersey. Their reactions were very different.
My brother called and expressed his sorrow for not being there for me in any meaningful way. I told him there was no reason for him to feel guilty. The only crime he committed was to live his own life. He cried and told me he wanted me to fly out there in the next few months so we can finally talk about the things he has refused to talk about for years.
And then there was my sister's response. She texted me first. The message was not pleasant and I knew she was upset. I received an email early this morning. She begged me to not write about the abuse I suffered at her hands. She told me she couldn't be held responsible for anything she did. She was a victim. I was just a bystander.
One would think that after my father left for good, we would have a happy ending. My brother did, sort of. He got married that winter and left the house. I was forbidden to take any of my problems to him; he had his own life. I obeyed that rule, and as a result, my brother and I took years to form an adult relationship.
My sister and I have been pitted against one another for years. My mother may not have intended for it to happen, but she never seemed to want us to get along. Every time I tried to connect with my sister without my mother around, there was trouble. I was resented and assumed to be a big part of the ever-growing problem. My sister was thrilled when I left for the Army. She told everyone I would probably end up with a dishonorable discharge. When my first marriage ended after five years, she said no one would ever be able to put up with me.
The picture I included with this chapter is of my brother and sister about three years ago when my brother turned sixty-five. My sister was sixty-three when the photo was taken. The occasion was my brother's birthday party and he was opening my gift. I couldn't be there because my daughter was eight and a half months pregnant with my first grandchild. They look happy, don't they?
A photo can tell lies. For years, my brother will call me and refer to my sister as, 'your kids' aunt.' My sister has referred to my brother as a drunken womanizer for forever. But to each other's faces, they are best friends. It's no wonder I can always find dozens of other places to go on vacation, and I'm paranoid about how they talk about me to each other.
But it needs to be said that my brother paid a big price. He is a functioning alcoholic and on his third wife. He lost an eleven-year-old son to a tragic skiing accident in 1989, a part of his soul died. His remaining son has given him three grandsons, and he must schedule his visits around that of his first wife and her family.
My sister has two adult boys of her own. She has been blessed with five grandchildren, but she lost her husband about nine years ago. Bitterness tinges her life, and she still smokes, despite losing both our mother and her husband to lung cancer. Every phone conversation I've had with her in the past twenty years finds me frustrated and wondering what it will take to get her into counseling.
So, this chapter will serve as a bridge from the painful early childhood to the start of my life as an adult. I joined the Army just nine days shy of my eighteenth birthday, and I truly set out to be all I could be.
By Mustang Patty
In 1989, my family suffered a tragedy. It affected my brother the most, but there was enough pain for my mother, sister, and me. The incident affected the way I brought up my own children, and seeds of doubt about God were planted in my brother's head.
If anyone asked him, he would have to admit he wasn't the best husband. He probably wasn't even that great of a man, but he knew in his very soul, he was a good father. He had been blessed with two boys, and he loved them with every fiber of his being. Yes, John was a good Dad to his sons despite everything else.
His older son, Jack, was a sophomore in high school, and the younger son, Darrell, was in the fifth grade. While Jack excelled at school, Darrell just got average grades. Jack was planning to get into the Air Force Academy and Darrell figured he would be lucky to get a job driving a garbage truck. They were both happy, though. Friends, sports, and school took up their weekdays, and there was family camping, NASCAR, and visiting relatives to fill the weekends.
It was early in November that Darrell brought home the brochure and permission slip. "Mom, Dad…look! There's gonna be a ski trip from school. They're gonna take us on a big bus up to the Poconos. We leave at like six in the morning, before it's even light! Can I go, Mom? Can I go, Dad?"
Big brown eyes peered up at this Dad. "After I learn to ski, then you and I can go skiing sometime. It would be just you and me because Mom and Jack don't know how to ski, right Dad?"
"What do you think, John?" Maureen looked over at John. She was a little worried about the money, but she knew in her heart they could afford it. But still, there was a chill in her heart. She ignored it – she seemed always worried about something.
"Darrell, why don't you let Mom and I talk about this and we will give you an answer tomorrow, okay buddy?"
Darrell looked down at the floor and agreed to the terms. He didn't like it. Like most boys, he wanted an answer right now. But, he knew better than to argue. He and Jack rarely won an argument, and they usually lost something more than they bargained for, so he simply left the room.
John and Maureen discussed the trip and decided Darrell could go. They sent in the money and the permission slip and started to put together the equipment Darrell would need. Maureen and Darrell shopped for boots, warm clothes, and a hat and gloves. John took Darrell to the ski shop and found skis that were the right length for his son.
A big red circle graced the day of the trip on the calendar. Every morning, Darrell would count how many days were left. "Look Mom. There's only two more days. I can't wait! Thank you so much for letting me go." He looked up at his mother with love. As she considered his face, her breath caught in her throat. He was simply a beautiful boy.
On the morning of the trip, alarms rang in both the master and Darrell's bedroom. Darrell sprang from his bed and rushed to the bathroom. He jumped in the shower and started singing at the top of his lungs. John and Maureen moved a bit slower, but they smiled at their son's jubilant mood.
Saying goodbye at the bus was hectic. Forty other children and their parents were shuffling in the cold parking lot. When the chaperones called for the children to line up, they carefully checked in each child and their gear. John and Maureen stayed until the bus pulled off into the darkness. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon.
Since Darrell was gone for the day, Maureen decided to thoroughly clean his room and she did her usual Saturday chores like laundry and tidying up the kitchen. John and Jack were working on the car they were rebuilding for Jack to use when he got his license. The day had turned into a bright and clear winter day.
The phone rang around twelve-thirty in the afternoon. Maureen was in the basement and John was in the kitchen having some lunch. Leaning his chair back from the table to the wall phone, he grabbed the receiver and brought it up to his ear, "Hello."
"Is this the Thomas residence?" asked a woman's voice.
"Yes, this is the Thomas residence."
"May I please speak to either John or Maureen?"
"Yes, this is John. How can I help you?"
"I'm sorry Mr. Thomas, but there's been an accident."
John leaned forward in his chair and the front legs hit the floor. "What kind of accident? Who's hurt?"
"This is Doctor Nelson at the Allentown General Hospital. Your son, Darrell, was brought here about fifteen minutes ago…"
"What? Why? Is he okay? I can be there in about two and a half hours. Is he asking for us?"
As he asked the string of questions, Maureen came up the cellar steps. She rushed into the kitchen with a frightened look.
Holding up a hand to stop her questions, John gave all his attention to the doctor on the other end of the phone.
"He is here and it would be a good idea if you and your wife get here as soon as possible. Right now, I need your permission to operate. There's some swelling on his brain and we need to alleviate it."
John took a deep breath as he tried to digest what the doctor just said. "Yes, ma'am. We are on our way. Do whatever needs to be done."
Hanging up the phone, John turned to Maureen's horrified face and realized he would have to tell her this awful news. "Honey, there's been an accident and Darrell is in the hospital in Allentown. They want us to come right away."
Jack joined them as they got into the truck and started the drive toward the mountains. No one was talking; they didn't want to voice the questions in their head.
The hole in John's heart started out as a tiny pinhole when he saw Darrell lying in the hospital bed. There were so many tubes coming in and out, he lost count. The huge bandage on top of his head was so white, but so was Darrell. The blackened eyes told their own story.
Growing bigger, the hole throbbed as John and Maureen heard the story from one of the chaperones. It seemed that Darrell was skiing just fine, and then took a jump over what he thought was a mogul, but instead, it was the side of the mountain. Darrell flew about one hundred feet and landed on his head. The rescue unit was there in minutes and rushed him to the hospital. He hadn't regained consciousness.
When Doctor Nelson came out to see them after the surgery, she let them know they had put him in a medically induced coma. In that way, there wouldn't be any pain if he did start to wake up. They needed to get the swelling in his brain down before anything else. She told them she would be back as soon as she knew something else.
Hours passed while they sat in his room. The machines continued to beep, wheeze, and whir. The clock on the wall seemed to be stopped at times, and then it would speed up at others. John held his breath, waiting for his son to wake up so everything could get back to normal.
The doctor checked in rarely, but the nurses were in and out of the room. Darrell's vitals were checked and recorded. He never moved or made a sound. John, Jack, and Maureen just sat and watched him.
A lady with a clipboard came into the room and asked for John and Maureen. The chaperone quietly excused himself. "We need to talk about organ donation. I'm sure that in the face of your tragedy, you would want to help someone else."
John and Maureen looked at each other; stunned beyond belief. Why had no one told them they were looking at a hopeless situation? Was their little boy brain-dead?
Doctor Nelson came into the room and she was clearly embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I was tied up and didn't get a chance to talk to you first." Turning to the lady, she asked, "Can you give us a moment?"
"I'm so sorry, but we've done all we can for Darrell. Despite the surgery, there is no brain activity. We can wait a few days to see if he will wake up, but there is zero to little chance that will happen. With your permission, we would like to start weaning him off the oxygen and machines. Those are the things that are keeping him alive."
Tears streamed down John's face as the hole expanded to the size of a dime. He could barely breathe, but he felt Maureen squeeze his hand, and he gently told the doctor, "Let him go. We don't want to keep him here. And, we will donate any of his organs that someone needs. It's something we talked about as a family around the dinner table. It's what he would want."
The hole continued to grow as they made the arrangements to get Darrell's body back to their hometown. Making the funeral arrangements required every bit of his patience and he was in constant agony. Somehow, he made it through the service, and all the people at the house.
Finally, he had some time to himself. He took a deep breath and felt the pain in his chest. He acknowledged the missing piece of himself. He accepted the hole in his heart as he cried for his son.
Twenty-eight years later I still find it hard to believe this happened. Darrell was one of those little boys you couldn't help but love. He drew wonderful pictures, and made funny jokes. He was short; he was loved by many friends. The church was full at the mass said in his honor, and friends and family came from all over the state of New Jersey.
My brother and his wife, Maureen, got a divorce just one year after Darrell's death. My brother acknowledges a 'higher power,' but refuses to believe in a God that could allow this to happen. After a few years of sobriety while Darrell was alive, he started drinking again. He still talks about Darrell and wonders what kind of a man he would be today. He is a broken man with a huge hole in his heart.
| Author Notes |
picture is the school picture taken of Darrell just eight weeks before the accident.
My brother changed in so many fundamental ways after Darrell's death. In some ways, he became more kind and more loving. He never took anything for granted. When he started drinking again, my heart hurt, but I know he had to find his own way to cope with the pain. |
By Mustang Patty
Being the mother of a gay son isn't always easy. When my son came out when he was fifteen, I was in shock. While everyone around us said they always knew, I never put my son into any kind of a role. Yes, he was a sensitive boy. Yes, he liked to sew, crochet, and watch me do my makeup. But, I didn't automatically assume he was gay. Sexual orientation is more than those things – it's all about who you love.
It was Mother's Day of 2002 when Gregory told me he was gay. By this time, he had already come out to his sister, and the Youth Pastor at our church. Those reactions had been completely different. His sister told him she would always love him—no matter what. The Youth Pastor told him it could be 'fixed.'
I went into my own kind of shock. I hugged him, but my mind was in turmoil. My son was going to have so many issues. There were too many people who hated homosexuals. I wasn't worried about judgement on our family—I was worried about the kind of life my son would lead. My pain was all about his pain, and all he would be forced to endure.
My reactions to everything that was thrust into my life were to hit the books. I wanted to learn everything I could about how to support my son. I joined PFLAG—Parents for Lesbian and Gays. After reading many articles and books about what had happened to other teenagers who'd come out, I knew I had to fight for his rights in school and any other environment. Taking on our church and their upcoming plans to 'fix' him was the first item on my agenda.
Much of my free time was spent in the church office. I oversaw the budget and giving records. Every Monday, I spent at least three hours counting money and recording checks. I would put together the deposit and prepare a budget report for the Senior Pastor. On this Monday, I requested a meeting with the Pastors of the church.
I was told they had planned to send Gregory to a camp that coming summer. They explained the camp would help him to come back to the Lord. Gregory's leadership roles in the youth ministry would be taken away from him until he was 'fixed.' My horror grew with each remark made by each of the Pastorial staff. I couldn't believe what they were proposing.
I believe in Jesus Christ, and I've been a Christian since I was a small child and came to love the Lord as my Savior. When Christ was on earth, He gave us one commandment—to love one another as He loved us. The blood He shed removed the old Covenants and washed away the sins of anyone who would believe in Him. There is not one word in the Bible quoted from Jesus that deals with specific sins. Sin is sin—none are greater than any other. God created every one of us, and we are all subject to sin. It is our belief in Christ that will allow us into Heaven—not our deeds or acts here on earth.
Attacking the Pastors of this small church probably wasn't a good choice. I didn't physically abuse anyone; I simply stood up for my beliefs and my son. I tried to express myself, but my temper was hot, and the volume of my voice went up. Their faces were in shock because no one had ever seen me as anything but pleasant, but this Mamma Bear was fighting for her cub.
Branded a heretic, I was asked to leave the church and never return. This did not diminish my belief in God, and I still pray every day. I continued to support my son, and I'm so glad we didn't turn against him, or ask him to be anything but himself. Our family continued to be a unit, and we all left the church home we'd made for ourselves. To be honest, none of us have belonged to any church since that time.
I realize many of you reading this story will disagree with my opinion. Some of you may not even continue reading or give me a review based on the subject matter. That's okay; we are all entitled to our beliefs, our personal creed, and to live our lives as we see fit.
My story is one of tolerance. I try not to judge anyone, but it is human nature to judge people. So, I do my best to try and understand the heart of the person. The color of their skin or their personal politics simply do not matter. Loving my fellow travelers on earth is what was asked of me by my Lord, and I will do my best to honor His request.
| Author Notes |
My son Gregory, when he was fifteen years old
I realize many of you have opinions that differ from mine. While I hope I do not lose any friends or readers, I can accept it might happen. What will hurt is the knowledge that people do not accept me for me. |
By Mustang Patty
Staying with the challenge Mastery set before us, I'd like to list my jobs. Truth be told, I've held over 100 jobs in my 40-year work history! (I guess over 100 different positions would be more apt; I've only had a few professions.)
My high school typing class paid big dividends for me as I worked as a Secretary or Administrative Assistant at many different companies. Sometimes, I got my foot in the door as the Receptionist, and my ability to type over 80 words per minute opened new opportunities.
I worked as a waitress, both in food and cocktails. The tips weren't bad and I loved feeling so good with all the daily exercise. I didn't like the pinches, pokes and slaps on the rear some of the male patrons wanted to share.
When I first went into the Army, I trained to be a cook. My big plan was to get stationed in Hawaii, work the early shift, and spend the afternoons lying in the sun. An injury that happened in Basic Training caused me to be re-classified as a Clerk-typist. I spent the next two and a half years typing ten hours a day. (That explains my speed and accuracy.)
After getting out of the military, I went to work for the Federal Government. My injury incurred during active duty qualified me for a Veteran's preference and my typing skills secured me a clerk-typist position. Over the next several years, I bid for different positions to help me move up in pay grade. Along the way, I discovered a love for accounting and switched to Supply Clerk.
I worked in Nuclear supply in one of the largest government shipyards on the west coast. I helped change systems from manual to computer and taught data entry skills to the workers in my building, and eventually throughout the shipyard. I loved that job!!
My husband got out of the Navy, and I had my daughter. So, I became a full-time mother. No job has ever given me so much joy and satisfaction.
My love of accounting drew me to tax preparation. In the late 1980s, I took an H&R Block tax course and prepared taxes for them on a seasonal basis for two years.
Loving the numbers, along with helping people, I opened my own tax business. I went to people's homes and prepared their taxes in front of them. We would laugh and I would get to meet their children. We drank coffee and shared our lives.
Building my clientele to over 75 people, I had to start having my customers come to me so I could continue to grow the business. I ran my practice out of my home for over ten years. I built my client list to over 300 clients and stayed busy from January through April.
Since tax work is seasonal, I teamed up with Accountemps and did bookkeeping for companies all over the Portland, OR metropolitan area. During that time, I was at up to 4 or 5 different places during each year. I learned all the nuances of many different industries and my skills were in high demand.
It became more popular for people to do their own taxes online, and my client list was drastically cut. All I had left were the corporate returns, and while they paid better, I didn't get the people contact I loved. So, I took a full-time job as the Controller of a food import company. I missed the constant change I'd experienced over so many years, and I decided to retire on my 55th birthday.
As I look back on my work history, I think of the hundreds of people I met. I miss many of them. I can honestly say I learned something from everyone I met.
| Author Notes | I was so nervous about writing this. Until I put down my job history in an organized manner, I thought that all of you would think I'm just a flake that hopped from job to job. The truth is, I learned a great deal about many different industries. The knowledge I took with me helped me get through my MBA program because I understood things on many different levels. |
By Mustang Patty
Back in 1985, I had one of those moments that will forever be etched in my mind.
I was working at Naval Air Station North Island in San Diego, California. I was only twenty-six; my husband was out at sea, and had been for about four months. My baby girl was almost five months old, and I was in the best shape of my life.
Every day at lunch time, I walked the length of the docks. It was one way to look out to sea and imagine my husband's ship, and remember the day I stood there and waved up at him on the railing. We were past the half way mark, and I eagerly counted the days to his homecoming.
June weather in San Diego is especially lovely, and the breeze blowing from the water was pleasant, as was the sun's rays on my skin. Sunglasses in place, I enjoyed the sights of the day.
The office at work was all abuzz with the news filming for one of Tom Cruise's movies taking place on the base. It seemed the new movie, 'Top Gun,' had Tom playing a naval aviator. The aircraft carrier in dock, The Ranger, was going to be used, as well as some filming at a neighboring base, Miramar.
As always, I got to do some sight-seeing while I took my walk. Sailors in uniform always brought a smile to my face. I may have been married, but I wasn't blind. It was especially good to see the pilots in their flight suits. Their aviator glasses reflected the sun, and they were always smiling. The glint from their teeth told me they enjoyed their jobs and I envied them their time in the sky.
On this special day, a group of aviators were approaching me. Swinging their helmets, and chattering away, I was drawn to the sight of one of them. He wasn't as tall as the rest, but his smile was whiter, and his gait was a bit different. I wasn't sure what it was about him, until I recognized the face.
It was the same face that beguiled me in 'Risky Business,' and 'All the Right Moves.' It was him!!
Every fiber of my being was drawn to his smile. Without thought, I was on the run.
Reaching the group, with my eyes locked on his, I could see through the lenses of his aviators. His smile was just for me. I grabbed his hand, and kissed it.
Embarrassment overcame me, and I turned and ran back to my office. For the rest of the day, my cheeks burned with color, but I still felt his skin on my lips.
| Author Notes |
picture from IMdB
Though this is an embarrassing memory, it is one of my favorite stories. I often wonder if he remembers the crazy girl who kissed his hand back on North Island all those years ago - or is it just something that happens so often, he can't remember them all? |
By Mustang Patty
Shallow breaths as she lays as still as can be. Every minute or so, she reaches under the mattress to make sure she can still feel the butt. In her mind, she can picture the steel. She starts with the point, past the tip to the edge. Turning it over, she handles the spine and caresses the heel before she grabs hold of the tang past the bolster. With this in her hand, she feels safe. She can stop him. She will stop him cold.
Sometimes I think the late sixties were the worst years of my life, but that's because I try to block out the early seventies. You see, in 1971, my mother let a monster in the house. And when he came to stay, my life irrevocably changed.
My brother's wedding had gone well in December of 1970, and my mother, sister and I settled into our own routine. It certainly wasn't easy having three women under one roof, but my sister and I had been raised to respect our mother, and we listened, did chores, and maintained a sense of home.
My mother was dating, and while it felt a bit weird, I didn't really mind the friends she would bring home. One of her 'friends' was the owner and racer of several pacers. I used to love to go to the stables and groom the horses, and watch the races. I wasn't old enough to bet, but I would urge my mother to put money down on one horse or another, and I usually made enough to buy us a nice lunch or dinner.
I babysat on most weekends, and so when my mother began to go out each weekend night, it really didn't bother me. I wasn't at home anyway. Sometime in March, she started to come home later, or early in the morning on Saturday and Sunday, and she started to bring this guy, Jim, with her.
Don't ask me why, but I didn't like him. He made my skin crawl. The hairs on the back of my neck tingled, and he gave me a funny feeling in my stomach. I didn't like the way he looked at my mother. I didn't like the way he looked at my sister, and I couldn't stand for him to look at me. You see, Jim was the monster.
I was twelve. The kind of twelve that was quickly developing and leaving the brain behind. I couldn't understand the way men looked at me, and I wasn't thrilled with the new developments. Clothes fit weird, and I didn't feel like myself.
When he looked at me, it was as if he knew all of that, and wanted to offer me answers. His eyes were too knowing, and when he stared at me through the haze of cigarette smoke that now filled our house, he winked whenever he talked to me.
After about four weeks, it was Father's Day. The first Father's Day since my Dad left, and I offered to take my mother out to breakfast.
"Hey, Mom. Let's go out to breakfast. It will be fun. You deserve to celebrate this day; after all, you are both mother and father to me."
She smiled and said, "Wait, let's wake up Jim."
"No, he's not my father. I want it to be just us."
She didn't look exactly happy, but she acquiesced.
We went to the local International House of Pancakes; a place where she used to work. We ordered and I made sure to tell the waitress to give me the check. I was feeling very grown up and very capable.
"So, Mom, how much longer do you think this Jim guy is gonna be hanging around?" I asked after swallowing a piece of pancake. I quickly grabbed my glass of milk to consider while she answered.
"Funny you should ask that, Pat. I was going to tell you that Jim is going to be moving in at the end of the week."
My heart stopped. Stunned, I could barely find the next words. "Really? But, are you guys gonna get married?"
"No. Really, Pat. You don't understand these things. You're just a little girl. But, you will be nice to him. Remember, I'm telling you to be."
I was getting back some blood to my brain, and I sputtered, "But, I don't want him there. He's weird and icky."
Stern dark eyes looked at me. She slowly lit another cigarette and considered my face. Finally, she spoke, "Like I said, you aren't old enough to understand these things and this is NOT your house. You don't pay any rent. I do, and I get to say who will live in the house."
Clearly, I was not going to win, so I backed down. My spirit damaged, I felt uncomfortable, but I knew I had nowhere else to go.
Not surprisingly, my sister decided to move out within two weeks of Jim coming to live in our apartment. I begged her to take me with her, but she said Mom would never go for that. She just told me to be careful.
The summer went on and for some reason, there was suddenly enough money to send me to Girl Scout Camp. I had asked for three years in a row, and there was never enough cash, but now, I was going for two full weeks. My mother kissed me goodbye, and I had two great weeks in the country learning to ride horses.
My return home was surreal. Since my sister had moved out, I now had my very own room. Jim had painted it a sunny yellow and all new bedding was bought. My mother continually reminded me to thank Jim for all he had done for me. The cynic in me knew there was a catch.
Holding my breath, and waiting for that cinch gave me a nervous stomach and the start of an ulcer. Finally, in early 1972, my sister told me she had heard Jim was telling all his friends that my 'cherry' was his. I wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but I was scared. I made my sister tell me what all was involved and I came to a decision.
I bought myself a kitchen knife. I placed it under the mattress with the butt just under the edge. Reaching down I could feel it, and I knew I would use it. The knife made me feel more in control. I was no longer nervous. I had a plan.
On an early morning in 1974, I felt someone climb into my bed. My fifteen-year-old eyes popped open and my hand moved towards the edge of the bed. I stopped breathing and I didn't make a sound. His hand cupped my bottom and then moved upwards to grab my breast.
Before he could touch me again, I sprang to my side with the knife held over my head. "Go ahead, you stupid bastard. I've been waiting for you."
His eyes opened wide and he slid off the bed and took his skinny ass out of my room. I heard my mother screaming at him in their room. In about thirty minutes, he had packed his clothes and left.
My mother's only words to me that morning were; "You really are crazy and someday, you're gonna kill somebody."
| Author Notes |
photo from Google
This is probably one of the worst memories I have. I didn't have any control of my life and I lived in constant fear. Sleeping with a knife under your bed is an awful way to live and to this day, I have an inordinate fear of knives. Jim moved out on my Mother's birthday and began a new nightmare. |
By Mustang Patty
"Reparenting" was a strange term. Jenny shook her head in wonder at the shrink's suggestion. Knowing how she loved to write, he'd challenged her to create a story of the life she truly wanted for herself. This was the first assignment of her journey. Dr. Peters prepared her that these were only the first baby steps of many strides on a long road.
Jenny sat at the keyboard and struggled with how to begin. She finally started to type:
Once upon a time a baby girl was born to a family who loved her. They had looked forward to her birth ever since they knew of her existence.
This differed from the house where every family member viewed her birth as a mistake. No one wanted another child in the family. They all saw her as a nuisance.
Her mother loved to cuddle. She shared the new baby sister with her other children. Together, they would watch her take a bottle or wonder at the tiny fingers and toes.
She didn't remember the early years, but to hear the stories that were told whenever they were together, she had been a huge burden to all of them. She cried and demanded attention. Their lives had been going so well before she came. The house they lived in was just right for four people and a fifth made it crowded.
Proud to be a father again, her dad hurried home from work to help with the new arrival. He loved watching her tiny rosebud mouth when she yawned or cried. He found her enchanting.
Her father had pretty much ignored her. After her birth, he started drinking more and he came home later and later. He complained about the noise, the expense, and the smell of the new baby.
As the years passed and the little girl grew, she was surrounded by love. Having an older brother gave her someone to look up to. He loved taking his baby sister out in the yard to play and talk. She listened to every word as if he were a god, and it was obvious that she adored him.
Her brother was almost ten years older and she couldn't remember a single time they spent time alone together. He started working at 14, and her memories of him were split between his frantic attempts to stay out of the way of their father's fists and coming home from work late. He was always hot and tired. Nasty comments were his only words for her. She soon came to see that was how he expressed love.
Sisters make the best friends. In spite of the age difference, her older sister made time to be with her. They talked of things like boys, their futures and clothes. Her sister laughed at the things she said and took extra pride in her good grades. Always cheering for her in whatever endeavor she was taking on, her sister was her biggest fan.
Jenny's sister was her worst enemy. Jealous from the first moment they brought her home; her sister took every opportunity to hurt Jenny. She rarely complimented Jenny on anything she did and was malicious in her comments about clothes and makeup. When Jenny found out that her sister was involved in an improper relationship with their father, she tried to factor that information into the equation of their relationship.
Years passed and the family formed a tight unit. Together they were involved in the children's' activities and both parents were committed to making sure the children received the tools they needed to make it in the world.
Their father left for good when Jenny was twelve. He spent some time in jail when the relationship with her sister came out, but then he worked his way back into their lives again. He even stopped drinking for a period of time to fool everyone into believing he changed. Things were looking rosy.
One day she came home from school to find him home alone. He was sitting at the dinette table with an open bottle of scotch and a beer chaser. Looking through pictures, he had come across a photo taken while he was 'away.' There was a reflection of a man taking a picture of her mother and he demanded to know who that was. He wanted to know if her mother dated anyone during the time he was gone. He held Jenny's wrists and when she answered his questions, he punished her for her mother's sins.
She never could remember exactly what happened that afternoon, but her mother came home to find her hiding under her brother's bed. It was that afternoon that her mother, brother, and sister told her father to leave.
Lucky to have grown up surrounded by love, she felt self-confident because her family nurtured all of her talents and dreams. She went to college and her parents made up the difference between the cost and the scholarships she won. She majored in Education and became an English teacher. She loved to open the minds of children and her life was fulfilling.
Jenny read what she wrote and laughed to herself. Her mother remarried before she finished high school and no one cared about her good grades or desire to go to college. Her mother refused to fill out the paperwork for financial aid because she was afraid that she and her new husband would be audited by the IRS. Fleeing to the Army, her life had gone on a different path. She never did become a teacher and career-wise, her life was empty.
Finishing that first assignment for her doctor, Jenny already had a better understanding of herself. She wished she could show the prose to her mother or sister, but her mother had died and her sister didn't want to talk about the past. Her brother dealt with his own demons, and she didn't want to burden him with hers. She closed the notebook and cried for the little girl who could have been.
| Author Notes | 1000 word count. I originally wrote this story in 1999 for another writing site. |
By Mustang Patty
Sit back and settle in. I know I've told you many stories over the past year. Some were true, and some were based in truth with a bit of fiction mixed in here and there. But the story I'm about to tell you is absolutely true.
Now, since this is true I can't begin with 'Once upon a time.' No, instead I will start with this. There was a time back in the nineteen-sixties when I was the youngest child in the neighborhood I lived in. This led to coddling and being spoiled by the neighbors, and some behaviors that would never have been tolerated by others were welcomed in me.
When I was the tender age of seven, I asked my father what it meant to be a 'professional.' I had been hearing much talk about 'professional athletes,' and people with 'professions.' My father explained that part of being a professional was being paid for what you do. At the end of the conversation, he commented that I was a professional little girl and gave me a quarter.
I wasn't happy with being just a little girl. Surely there was something I could do to get paid for. Then I could be a professional in that thing. My grandmother always liked my drawings and stories, so I decided to put together an illustrated book.
The project kept me quite busy for the next few days. First, I had to come up with the story, and then I needed to draw the pictures to complement each page. The story was about a horse in a pasture. The images showed him galloping and walking and eating apples from the hands of his master. Now, this 'book' was the quality and composition you might expect from a precocious seven-year-old, and though I wish I had it somewhere in my library, I can tell the rest of this story without the artifact in hand.
I do remember what I did next. I washed my face and combed my hair. I put on my best dress and shoes. I placed my manuscript in a paper bag and went to our next-door neighbor's house, and knocked on the front door.
Our neighbor, Dot, doted on me. Her youngest child was in high school, so I was a welcome interruption in her day. She invited me in and offered me some milk and cookies. I sat on the edge of the couch and prepared my sales pitch.
When she came back into the room with our refreshments, I asked her to sit down. Once she was settled, she remarked, "So, what is this all about Miss Patty?"
"I have in this bag something that will change your life. Once you read this story, you won't ever want to read any other book." Satisfied with my hyperbole, I handed the wrinkled brown bag to her.
She took the stapled papers out and made a fuss over each picture. Then she went back and read the story out loud. She said it was marvelous.
"And just think, it can be yours for just twenty-five cents."
"Oh, my. I think that's a bargain. Just a minute, let me get my purse," Dot said as she left the room.
"I only have a dollar, but I think its still worth that much. You were selling yourself short, my dear."
With a broad smile on my face, I took the dollar. "Thank you, Mrs. Mortenson. Now, I'm a professional writer. My Daddy told me if I wanted to be a professional, I just needed to get paid for doing the thing. You paid me for my book, so now I'm a professional…see?"
"Yes, Patty, I see. Well, I need to get my ironing done. Would you like to stay and watch some TV?"
The Mortensons had a colored TV, so I jumped at the chance to watch television at their house. "Yes, please."
"Let me just call your mother, so she knows where you are, and make yourself at home, dear."
"Is it okay if we watch 'All My Children?'' I asked.
"Of course, dear. That's one of my shows, too."
I settled myself in Mr. Mortenson's recliner after turning on the set. The bright colors on the screen showed me Erica Kane and her world. As I munched on a cookie, I wondered how long it would be until I was the head writer of this show. Anything could happen, now that I was a professional writer.
| Author Notes |
photo of the Author, Halloween, 1964.
Thank you for reading this true story of my childhood. |
By Mustang Patty
Isn't it funny how expressions can be coined and have a certain connotation to them? Well, today the phrase 'going postal' was applied to me, and I was tickled pink.
As many of you know, my dear hubby and I are in the process of moving into our new house. The paperwork was all signed on January 8, 2018, and I was given one house key. Luckily, I located the garage door remote in a drawer in the kitchen, but though I looked high and low, I couldn't find a mailbox key.
The neighborhood has several community mailboxes throughout the streets. There are two of these little structures equidistant from my front door. As I've been working with contractors to make repairs and install different things, I kept hoping to catch the mailman. I never saw him.
In vain, I contacted the listing realtor for my home and asked her to get in touch with the previous owner. I didn't hear back from her. Looking in the phone book, I found three post offices located in my area. I dialed each of their phone numbers, and there was no answer, just a ringing, and ringing. I called 800-Ask-USPS; they have a maddening menu which doesn't allow you to reach a real human being.
Yesterday morning, I was frustrated beyond my usual temper. In a huff, I sat down at my computer and wrote a letter expressing my frustration. Then, I remembered that next to all of the phone numbers listed, there were also fax numbers. Aha, I said to myself. I used my online fax service and entered every fax number for the local post offices with my seething letter attached. (Okay, it probably wasn't seething, but I felt much better after I wrote and edited it.)
So, the faxes went their merry way, and I waited all day to hear something. I was happy I hadn't sent a ransom note or anything important to them. How on earth can you get in touch with a post office?
At seven-thirty this morning, I received a call from the Post Master of Salem, Oregon. He asked me if I was Patty Adams, and had I sent a fax to his office. When I told him yes, he very kindly explained how I could get a key and find out which mailbox was mine. I heard him chuckle as we hung up, but I didn't overthink it.
Since Dave had today off to help with the last of the packing, I asked him to go to the post office customer service window and follow the Post Master's directions. When Dave came home, he was laughing and told me he had a story for me.
When Dave went to the Customer Service counter and told them who he was and where he lived, the clerk said, "Are you married to the fax lady?"
Dave replied, "Yeeees. My wife sent you guys a fax to get this settled. Why?"
"Well, I have a copy of her fax right here," as he opened his drawer. "You tell that little lady we will be sure to take care of her mail. We wouldn't want her to go postal with that fax machine of hers again. We all got written up for not answering our phones."
So, my writing has once again earned me a new title, and a good story.
| Author Notes |
photo taken from the USPS website
All of the boxes are packed except for the kitchen. The UHaul and two big burly guys are coming on Saturday morning. The next time I write anything for the site; I will be sitting in my new den at my beautiful desk. Please pray for me over the next few days - I'm exhausted! |
By Mustang Patty
During the troubled times of my fifteenth year, I would open my bedroom window and crawl out to the vast ledge. We lived on the second story, and the design of the building gave me a perch. I used to stare at the stars, and I have to admit, I spied on the neighbors, too. It was amazing to me the things people do when they are unaware of being watched.
One dark night in February, I spied a young man arriving home. He had very curly hair, and from my perch, I could smell a mixture of cologne and steakhouse. I assumed he worked in a restaurant and the hours he worked suggested that of a waiter. I watched as he checked his mail and pushed his way in the door.
He usually came home around eleven-thirty, and I was always on my perch to watch him. One night, to my surprise, he looked up. There was no surprise or anger on his part. He blew me a kiss and said, 'Goodnight, beautiful.'
My young imagination went into overdrive after that. He played along, and every night when he came home, he would converse with me a bit more.
"Hey, you. Are you going to tell me your name?"
"Are you going to tell me your name?"
"I'm Pat. And, I think you are going to come down from there one night and take a walk with me."
"Wow. You assume an awful lot, Pat."
"Okay, beautiful. It's cold out here, so I'm going inside. Make sure you stay bundled up."
"Goodnight kind sir."
By the time Valentine's Day rolled around, I was quite smitten with this stranger. I had no idea how old he was. I just knew he wasn't one of the bothersome boys I went to school with. He was a man, and he thought I was beautiful.
School dragged on forever that day. In my boredom, I hatched a plan. I would make dozens and dozens of Valentines and stuff Pat's mailbox. There was always the chance he had a girlfriend, and he might receive other Valentines, but I was pretty sure I would have the quantity card in my favor.
I spent hours with my construction paper and colored pencils. I penned love poems and stole cute little sayings. I signed every Valentine, Anonymously Yours.
Around nine o'clock that night, I went downstairs and crossed the street to his apartment. I carefully stuffed his mailbox, and my heart felt light and giddy. I knew it would be a long wait until he got home, but I knew it would be worth it to watch the reaction by his porch light.
Precisely at ten-thirty, his car pulled into the parking lot. I checked to see if there was anyone in the car with him and seeing no one, my heart sang. Surely, if he had a girlfriend, they would be spending Valentine's Day together.
I held my breath as he got out of the car. It felt like I was watching a slow-motion film as he walked to his door. The lid to his mailbox was askew with the volume of Valentines, and he stopped in his tracks as he stared. Carefully, he opened the box, and I could hear him chuckle as he pulled out the cards.
With a glance towards my usual place, he stopped in his tracks when he didn't see me. On this night, I was in the shadows of the tall bushes below my window. Wrapped in scarves, a down coat, and warm mittens, I ignored the cold to see the fruition of my plan.
He looked at the dozens of Valentines in his hands, and then back at my window. I couldn't see his face, but I like to think he was a bit disappointed.
After all these years, this is by far my favorite Valentine's Day memory. Yes, I've gotten cards, roses, and candy. But for one brief moment, to myself, I was the most important Valentine in a young man's life.
| Author Notes | photo from Google Images |
By Mustang Patty
I use the name 'Mustangpatty1029,' as my nom de plume on this website, along with many others. Originally, I was given the name, because I've driven a Mustang for most of my driving life.
My first car was a 1968 Mustang convertible. I sold that car while in the Army. When I received orders to go to Germany, one of the officers in my unit offered me $2,000 for the car. That was a lot of money in 1977, so I took the money and ran.
When I was discharged in 1979, I was married to my first husband, and he didn't think we needed a Mustang and insisted we buy a pickup truck. Well, you can guess what my first purchase was after we divorced, I bought a cherry-red 1983 Mustang.
Since then, I've owned several more Mustangs, I had a 1965 Fastback 2x2, 1997, 2006, and 2008. It wasn't until 2016 when arthritis in my knee became too severe to press down on the clutch that I sold my last Mustang.
As for punctuation, my least favorite punctuation mark is the comma. There are so many types of commas, and different ways to use or abuse the comma that it takes a lot of studies to learn to use them correctly. When I was in school, I lived by the rule, 'When in doubt, use it.' My return to FanStory late in 2016 forced me to dig out my grammar books and style guides to reacquaint myself with the rules.
| Author Notes |
The comma is only one of the punctuation marks we will be learning about in the grammar club. We will also study the eight parts of speech and their proper use.
This little introduction is my entry for the first assignment of the organization. Come join us; everyone is welcome. |
By Mustang Patty
Dear FanStory Family;
I have decided its time for me to leave FanStory for at least several months. My book projects, teaching schedule, and obligations to friends and family are becoming more and more hectic.
After winning Recognized Writer of the Month, maintaining the top spot in Short Stories since the first of this year, and the other accolades, I've accomplished my goals here. So many of you have helped me to grow as a writer and I am very appreciative. You helped me polish ideas and sell three of my stories to publishers, and I can never thank you enough.
Please pray for my friend, Brynda, as she begins her chemotherapy this week, and for me as her primary caregiver.
I've disabled my work so girrafmang and humpwhistle can battle it out for the top spot in the Short Story category.
My prayers and wishes for you are to write and love as much as you can. It has been a joy to meet all of you.
~patty~
| Author Notes | Logo from Royal Caribbean; setting sail on April 5th with my hubby and best friends, Pete and Brynda |
By Mustang Patty
This prompt reminded me of the game, ‘Never have I ever.' Maybe I'm thinking about that game because I'm facing a crossroad in my life that at a different point in time, the answer would have been easy. But at this time in space, I find my ideals are changing.
I came of age during the turbulent seventies, and the allure of the drug scene took many of my childhood friends far away from me. I was protected by relatives and my siblings' warnings that they would disown me if I ever ‘did drugs.' My time in the military kept me away from any harm, but I must admit that I did a small amount of experimentation in the eighties. But that all changed when I met my spouse, and we decided there would be no drugs in our home because of working for the government.
I didn't have any problems walking away from the limited amount of drug use I'd encountered. Drugs weren't a part of my life for years. I don't believe you can be an effective parent while you're high. I even gave up drinking wine – which I loved, but I loved my role as a parent much more.
So, once marijuana became legal in the state of Oregon, first for medicinal use, and then recreational, I was faced with a choice. Did I want to begin to dabble in the world of the pleasant high? Did I want to ease the aches and pains of my chronic arthritis with a pure dose of weed?
Last month when I saw my doctor, she completely surprised me when she suggested I start smoking pot. She looked at the extensive list of drugs I'm already taking for different things, and she wasn't too crazy about adding something else to help me with the constant pain in my knees. The shots weren't working, and I was beginning to have problems walking down the hall to the bathroom.
After lengthy conversations with my spouse and grown children, we all come to the consensus that as long as I'm not smoking in front of my grandchildren, or driving, there wasn't really anything wrong with this organic solution to my pain.
So, this morning I placed an order for several seeds to be mailed to my house. (I couldn't face the idea of walking into a shop to purchase the seeds.) After spending hours poring over the instructions on growing my own plants, I'm anxious to make use of my garden window and become a pot farmer. (Don't worry, I will only have eight plants in my house – the legal limit in Oregon, mixed in with a lovely selection of herbs.)
How will it affect my writing? If you start to see strange prose, let me know.
| Author Notes |
photo from Google Images
Reserve all judgment!! If you haven't suffered from debilitating pain, or barely made it to the bathroom because your legs just won't carry you-you really don't have any idea of why I would consider this. |
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| © Copyright 2015 Mustang Patty All rights reserved. Mustang Patty has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
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