When bad things happen to good kids...Or when good kids do bad things

   One summer Lucy and I became fanatically obsessed Beatle fans.  We owned every album, every movie, every documentary, every biographical book, and every photograph ever taken of them. 

   That summer our days were spent with Sgt. Pepper, Sexy Sadie and Mean Mr. Mustard, our evenings were spent with golden slumbers and gently weeping guitars.  We went through a grieving period of about a week, where we mourned the loss of “Walrus“.  Lucy felt it especially keenly.  We languished around the house with silent tears in our eyes.  We lit candles and held hands and swayed gently back and forth to ‘Imagine‘.    Winnie never understood.  She would come home and find us in a cheerless state of bewilderment and say, “I’m so sick of you two!, Number one you’re about fifteen years too late, and number two, I forbid you to waste one more minute on that godless hippie!”  Winnie, was an all American, Beach Boys fan.  Lucy and I found their ceaseless harmonizing… incommodious to say the least. 

          One afternoon, after eight rounds of black jack, Lucy said, ”Agnes, what would you say to us… calling John back from the dead?” 

          Obviously; a brilliant idea!  The epiphany came at a very convenient time, as Winnie would be at a ’Preparing your family for the end of the world’ seminar for the weekend.  Two problems arose.  One, we did not own a Ouija board as Winnie considered them fiendish, playthings of the devil and two, we were unfamiliar with the how to conduct a séance.  I felt it necessary to utilize both methods in order to make contact.   With regards to the Ouija board problem I figured we could make our own, after all it was just a serious of alphabetic letters and an apparatus for the players to put their fingers on.  A piece of card board would do. For the séance Lucy and I did some extensive research. 

          The first thing we had to do was create an “exclusive believers” only invitation list.  The list included me, Lucy, Egg and Sue.  I then set up a spirit friendly environment by lighting candles and dimming the lights. Lucy was to act as Medium which meant hers would be the voice to call on John to join us. It was decided that our make-shift Ouija board would be the back-up option if the séance didn’t work.

          After offering a Divine blessing on the sin we were about to commit, we joined hands.  In a few moments Lucy began.  Using the soberest of voices she said “Our beloved John, we ask that you commune with us.  We ask that you join and move among us.  We will now all repeat the chant until we receive a response from him.”  We all chanted together, “Our beloved John, we ask that you commune with us.  Our beloved John, we ask that you commune with us.” We repeated it four times.   “John, if you are with us, please wrap once on the table. “, Lucy said at last.

          We listened intently. Then we heard not a rap on the table, but the sound of all the upstairs doors closing simultaneously!  We were definitely not alone.  I felt chilled and uneasy “Wait, wait, wait!” I yelled. “Lucy! We didn’t say his last name! All we said was John! It could be anybody! It could be John Wilkes Booth! It could be John F. Kennedy, or John the Baptist!  We promptly snuffed out the candles, set fire to the Ouija board, turned all the lights on, and asked the Lord to forgive us. I felt I was forgiven but Lucy insisted for weeks after, that God was punishing her because she got the stomach flu and chipped her front tooth while vomiting in the toilet.

The Theatre! The Theatre! What's happened to the theatre?

When I was in my early twenties, Ben coerced me into trying out for a few plays with him. I did, but only to discover that I hated acting. He got Ruth and me try out for A Christmas Carol one year. Having the unusual talent of convincing people we were from foreign countries by perfecting the accent, we were all given parts. It was sort of a play within a play, so we were given several roles each. Ruth got all the young lady parts, I got all the older lady ones and Ben got the part of Jacob Marley and a few others.

The director, a woman who although very well intended, lacked theatrical common sense. For instance, she cast the fattest boy I ever saw as Tiny Tim! Not only fat, but ill mannered, loud, disobedient and unbearable in every way. She also cast his slightly less rotund sister for the young girl parts.

One of my roles was that of Mrs. Cratchet. If you’re at all familiar with the book, you will recall the scene where Mrs. Cratchet is lamenting the loss of her sweet, deceased boy and says the line “With Tiny Tim on his shoulder, your father would walk very fast indeed. But he was light to carry and your father loved him so that it was no trouble”. The fool I felt at having to deliver that line made my throat swell and my eyes water.

A patron of the theater after a performance, commended me on my realistic portrayal of a grieving mother and said that she sensed my “genuine affection” for him. “Him?” I said puzzled, “Oh you mean Tiny Tim! Ah yes… he’s… so like the character he plays.” It occurred to me that the only thing that would make that repulsive boy even remotely like Tiny Tim, would be to cripple him. And the thought crossed my mind a hundred times a day.

During the dress rehearsal, Portly Tim (as we called him) was slapping his sister through one of our prop windows while we were receiving direction. Ben got up from his seat and went over to the window, put his forearm around Tim’s neck and squeezed it firmly, then whispered in his ear “You’re not serious about acting, so I’m going to give you this one chance to shape up, or my sister and I are going to take you up into the mountains, and no one will ever hear from you again.“ Naturally, Portly Tim told his portly mother, and Ben had to make a portly apology or be faced with a portly lawsuit.

During the run of this play, I got terribly sick, which made my already negative attitude toward it horrendous. The rest of the cast members, excluding my family, complained that my behavior was bringing the whole company down. I stopped ironing my costume, fixing my hair, or delivering my lines with any sincerity at all. I whined that the front stage was too hot and the back stage was too cold. I told the children that there was no Santa Claus and made it clear in every way that I was completely uninterested in how the play went or if my performance in it was any good.

To make things worse, Ruth and I were forced to sing a duet together. I have a very poor voice and Ruth’s is even worse than mine. But the director assured us that is was of little importance and that all we needed to do to make up for it was sing as loud as we could! At one point we were to sing a high E, which I would sing alone as Ruth couldn’t come anywhere close to it. After it was sung, she would rejoin me for the rest of the song.

During my infection, I lost my voice and squeaked out my lines as best I could, but afterwards, Winnie said that I sounded more like a mouse that was being stepped on, over and over again. When the fated high E came onto the scene, it was met by complete silence! Both our mouths were open, but not a sound escaped! I looked at Ruth, who gave me a piteous, wide eyed look, like I had just sold her to the gypsies. The silence endured until we both fell off the platform we were standing on from laughing. It was laughter, but given my voiceless condition it looked more like I was going into cardiac arrest.

We tried our best to incorporate the fiasco into the play, but it was obvious to the audience that something was amiss.

That was the last play I ever did. Ben continued pursuing a career in acting, while I was permitted to attend some of his performances only with the understanding that I never, ever talk to any of the actors.

Drugs...AA...Therapy...Child-support...and 1 fated plate of spaghetti

When it came to men, Ruth was the worst judge of anyone I’ve ever met. Her biggest problem was that she was a believer in rehabilitation. The fascinating individuals she would bring to our house astounded even Pap. She would relate to us painful accounts of the endless tragedies they had suffered and how they never got a break and how they were always being taken advantage of and how their fathers beat them with whips and put out their cigarettes on their bare skin. I would often say “Come on Ruth, anyone can see he’s a total wash-out”  He is not Agnes! He’s going to therapy, he goes to his AA meetings every week, he pays child support to all the mothers of his children, he’s going to be off probation soon, it wasn’t his fault his car got repossessed! He’s been clean for thirteen whole days!” Ruth put all her stock in these people and made attempt after attempt to cure them of their depraved and lecherous ways. I can honestly say that never once was she successful.

Ruth moved Leroy Lester into our basement in the hopes that she would be able to help him kick his cocaine addiction. He bathed biannually and wore the same two shirts interchangeably. In addition to his being a cocaine addict he was also a criminal mastermind when it came to getting free meals from fast food restaurants. Prior to moving in he twisted his ankle while crawling out the window of his previous residence while it was being raided He hobbled around the house sunken eyed and smelling of sweat and French fries. He lived with us for over a month before being kicked out by Pap. Pap didn’t care that he was a vagrant, pathetic user or that he drank rubbing alcohol on the weekend, or that he wore women’s underwear, but what got Leroy Lester ejected from the house was that one day he decided to re-heat a plate of spaghetti in the microwave without putting a cover on it first. Pap came home to find his usually, spotless and unsoiled microwave resembling a supreme pizza. Knowing that it couldn’t possibly be any of his children, as we knew just what an serious offence that was, it was clearly Leroy Lester who had done it. Pap went down to his room where he found him high and painting the toenails of his working foot. He knocked him around for a while before making him pack up his spare shirt, fingernail polish and leave.

The Yultide Shame, The Death Coach Pontiac and The 5 Day Old Pumpkin Pie

Being Poor. Being poor makes normal, rational human beings become unreasonable, idiotic but occasionally ingenious. We went through such a period. In fact I recommend experiencing poverty at some point to everyone. You know that ridiculous old saying “Necessity is the father of invention”.
During time of shortage, I learned that playing the nickel slot machines with the last bit of grocery money can often be profitable. I learned that powdered milk left a bad after taste, and that elbow macaroni and taco seasoning make perhaps not a delicious combination, but a less repulsive alternative to elbow macaroni and ketchup.
To save money on our electric bill Winnie decided that we just wouldn’t use the lights anymore. She purchased several kerosene lanterns and told us that should anyone be caught flipping any switches they were to loose their hot water privileges as well. Suddenly everything was a privilege; water, shampoo peanut butter, car rides, the doctor, actual toothpaste instead of baking soda, the television and crayons.  A great sacrifice for Quack and Beetle, as coloring was one of their only forms of entertainment. Winnie commented years later that she probably should have allowed us to watch some TV, because we wouldn’t have done half of the rotten things we did if we’d been devotees of ‘Little house on the Prairie’ or the ‘Cosby’s’ or ‘Punky Brewster’ like so many other kids.  
During the winter it was decided that the furnace was also too expensive, so Winnie and Pap covered all the windows with heavy plastic for insulation. Our only source of heat was to be a small wood-burning stove in the center of the house. I remember laying awake at night and breathing puffs of icy breath into the air.
About this time the passenger side door to our sixteen year old maroon, Pontiac Grand Prix fell off. So Winnie and Pap went to a scrap yard to find a replacement. They found one, but it was from the newer white model. Not an exact fit but nothing a few feet of thick rope couldn’t fix. The family vehicle was a source of extreme mortification for all of us. But it wasn’t the car alone that made us wish our parents hadn’t liked each other, never gotten married and never reproduced and subjected us all to this outrageously unacceptable existence. It was that our windows were covered in plastic, we ate, bathed, washed dishes and did homework by the light of a kerosene lamp, we got excited about boxed cake mixes, we wore overcoats and moon boots to bed.
If someone we knew happened to see us on in our front yard, we would promptly run to the door and knock. If we were seen by our car we would say loudly “Well, it was good seeing you! Take care now.” To which Winnie would say even louder “Get in the car!”
There was the time when Winnie became fixated on making one of us into a musical aficionado. She sold the television, the microwave and the weed eater to purchase the necessary instruments. Sue was to play the flute, Ben the clarinet, Lucy the cello and I the violin. Ruth at the time had two broken arms from falling out of a tree and was therefore reprieved. Upon receiving the instruments Winnie entreated us to “be diligent and make her proud”.
Every time she would catch us playing cards, or tracing our bodies on the sidewalk, she would purse her lips together and say “Is this what I sold the microwave for?” Lucy and I would go into the room we shared and scratch out a few sounds to placate Winnie. The whole musical experience was short lived when Winnie caught Lucy dressing her cello in a sport coat and tie, and my violin teacher hit me in the head with my bow for playing it like a guitar. Sue played the flute for a whole year until it was found out that she couldn’t read one note of music. Ben joined the marching band without realizing that they actually marched, and was horrified to find out after being told to meet at the high school, that they would be marching in the local Pie Cherry Day’s parade. He marched alright, all the way home in his neatly pressed navy and gold uniform.
It was during this period of privation that someone had the impudence to deliver Christmas to our front porch. It was a week or so before the holiday when there was a quiet knock at the door. Sue opened it, saw the mass of gifts, canned food and the attractive grocery store pumpkin pie with dollops of dried whipped cream on top, and someone scurrying off into the shadows. She immediately yelled into the darkness “Hey you! Get back here and take away all this crap!” then quickly ushered Lucy out the front door and said “Go get um!” Winnie was inwardly humiliated but outwardly behaved like a good Christian. “No no, none of that, just bring it all in quietly.” It wasn’t as if she hadn’t prepared for the occasion. Winnie was a master at creating something out of nothing. We were to receive modest gifts, there was a turkey in the freezer, she had the necessary ingredients to make Tiny’s giblet and sage dressing.
These were clearly people who had no idea who we were, but had probably followed the red Pontiac to see where the unfortunate owners of said vehicle lived, only to find our house dimly lit with heavy plastic on all the windows. I have never faulted them for their attempt at generosity. But, as we all know most charitable acts are not for the receiver, but for the giver. It’s taken Sue decades to recover from that yuletide shock of so many years ago, and it wasn‘t just because one of her gifts was a New Kids on the Block fanny pack. Ever after, around that season when friends and neighbors would visit, whether they would ring the door bell, pound or knock quietly she would say, “So help me if that’s a ham and a can of cranberries, I’m going to… “ It was always something violent and dangerous, to which Winnie would reply, “Now Sue, how could they know you didn’t like the New Kids on the Block?”

Another departure for a pointless thought about beauty...

King Henry VIII after loosing the fragile and somewhat sickly Jane Seymour due to the birth of his son Edward, had one of his trusted advisors arrange a marriage for him with a girl from a fine German family. Prior to consenting to the marriage, Henry was shown a portrait of the young lady. Being pleased with what he saw he agreed. Ann of Cleaves was brought to Court and presented to him. What he saw both appalled and shocked him. This was not the slim, docile, beauty he expected. Ann was at least six feet tall, had large protruding front teeth and pock marks on every visible patch of skin. Needless to say the marriage was never consummated. It was also of short duration. Ann of Cleaves is my favorite of the six wives of Henry VIII. She was virtuous, compassionate and above all exceptionally bright. During their brief union, Henry came to admire and respect her greatly. He even consulted with her on several important matters of state. But so repulsed was he by her physical appearance that he soon had her dismissed, and focused his attention on the infantile, pink lipped Catherine Howard. Who by all accounts appears to be utterly puerile, rampant and entirely void of all common sense. She was impudent enough to engage in an illicit affair with an obscure youth, only to have her head lopped of for it. And Quite rightly, such stupidity should never go unpunished. This scenario makes us ask ourselves several important questions. Why would Henry choose stupidity over intelligence? Why would he embrace reckless behavior over cautious competence? Clearly Ann would have been a far superior queen. They were obviously able to communicate on a some what harmonious level. He enjoyed her company, he valued her opinion and she respected and revered his position. What more could a man of extreme eminence ask for? What more indeed!
Why would Henry so eagerly and blindly invite chaos? Beauty. Beauty was to blame. In her sly way, beauty is to blame for many things. Because the value of beauty has gone up considerably within the last century, the exchange rate with other currencies such as decency, cleverness, integrity, virtue, humor, benevolence, humility and so on have become depressingly valueless. That is not to say that people in general reject these qualities. Many expect their beautiful partners to embody them all! “Please! Have the courtesy to be the complete package!” They cry! The more beautiful you are the easier it is to be forgiven for these minor inadequacies. I have only met one person in the course of my life that exemplified all these assents. My mother. In her quiet unpretentious way she was the ideal woman. Her near perfection was effortless. She spent very little time focusing on any one particular attribute. I find when one concentrates unduly in one area, their other areas become enfeebled. For instance, have you ever met someone who spends twelve to fifteen hours a week at the gym? These people are awfully difficult to talk to. And not only because they are endlessly being distracted by their reflections but because they release so many more endorphins than the average person.. This release makes them, I believe thirty to forty percent happier than the rest of us. They rarely experience a healthy depression. I find their conversation much like having a dry mouth and only being given uncooked cream o’wheat to drink. Their excessive workouts have made them blissfully one dimensional.
The question still remains as to why a person of intellect and substance would want a foolish partner? Hmmm…could it be for the same reason that we eat junk food? We know it’s bad for us. We know it raises our cholesterol levels, clogs our arteries, makes us fat and decays our teeth. Whereas wholesome food although less instantly satisfying builds up the body and generates energy for action, both physical and mental. One can only come to appreciate the worth of nutritious food after a lengthy period consumption. Why is it so hard to resist those things that are so damaging to our health and well being? I think it is due to the handsome way they are packaged and presented For the same reason our taste buds prefer refined sugar, MSG and carbonation, our eyes enjoy a pleasing visage, silken hair and straight, gleaming teeth. But how does one identity the healthy from the unhealthy? I believe it can be easily accomplished if one uses common sense. Moderation. Allow me to put it to you this way, you can’t presume to eat a dozen assorted Krispy Kream donuts four times a week and expect to maintain your current weight. So it is with the ingestion of exorbitant amounts of physical beauty. I suggest avoiding it. Not completely, perhaps only indulge on special occasions. Try not to make beauty a part of your every day life or diet, it simply isn’t healthy.

Insects, Dead Birds, and Inappropriate Behavior at a Funeral

When I was thirteen, Winnie decided to adopt two children from a woman who lived in a seedy motel. A four year old girl, and a two year old boy. What an idea! Two adorable children to run and fetch for us! Two wonderful little slaves! Apart from enslaving them we changed their names. We called them Quack and Beetle. Quack was beautiful, with bright blue eyes and fine wispy white hair. Beetle had green eyes and golden curls. Quack meowed for the first year or so, and Beetle didn’t talk until he was five. And even then, the only thing he said was “stupid idiot”.

Quack was the daughter my mother never had. She was fair and sweet and completely devoted to her. Not mouthy and robust like the rest of us. She even looked like Winnie. Beetle was Lucy’s little prodigy, he was the little boy she never got to be.

Beetle was very enterprising as a child. He was a lover of insects and animals alike, dead or alive. When he was eight he started catching gigantic moths. He would kill them, then sell their corpses to the children who passed in front of our house on their way home from school. He would charge $2.50 per carcass.

It occurred to Winnie that something wasn’t right when she had taken Beetle to the grocery store one day, and realized she had forgotten to bring her purse. She was astonished to find him produce a wad of cash three inches deep and say “Don‘t worry Mom, I‘ll take care of this.” By this time it was too late to make him give refunds, so with the rest of the money, she and Beetle purchased a small bird farm, which included, eight geese, three ducks four chickens and a plethera of homing pigeons. Winnie thought that this would be an excellent opportunity to teach Beetle, accountability and the importance of caring for God‘s little creatures.

By the end of the second week, Beetle’s fowl farm was reduced to two geese, one duck, no chickens and three homing pigeons. He couldn’t account for the severe loss of life! It wasn’t the weather, it wasn’t that they didn’t get enough food, and it wasn’t’ that they were purposely being snuffed out by anyone. Pap said one day as he had gathered up an arm full of feathery remains from the back yard “That kid’s killed more birds than that comet killed dinosaurs.“ The birds didn’t just die on our property. For days we had a continual stream of neighbors bringing corps after coprs and saying “Is this yours?” or “I found this on the hood of my car“ or “I don’t know how the thing got into my tool box, but here it is”.

It was obvious that Beetle failed miserably in the ‘caring for God’s little creatures’ department. After that he wasn’t allowed to take care of anything. If we ever caught him refilling Headcold’s bowl of food we would say “Oh no Beetle, I’ll do that, you go out and play!”

When Quack was young she would disappear for hours and hours at a time. It never seemed to bother Winnie, I would say “Have you seen Quack, I can’t find her anywhere!” She would reply “Oh, I’m sure she’s here somewhere.”

One Saturday afternoon, Winnie and I were cleaning the kitchen and I opened a cupboard that was scarcely used to find what looked to be the miniature dwelling of a homeless midget. “So, what’s this all about?” I asked her. “Oh that’s Quack’s secret place.” It was not the garbage heap it appeared to be at first glance. On closer examination it was clear that someone had strategically placed each and every item. There were pictures of a hamburgers and fashion models taped to the walls of the inside. There was a jar filled with bottle caps, piles of National Geographic’s, and at least thirteen empty tubes of lipstick.

By the end of the day I had uncovered four more of Quack’s secret nesting holes. One at the back of the coat closet, one under the bathroom sink, one in the bottom right hand corner of Winnie’s curio cabinet and one behind the easy chair in the family room. And each one filled with coupons, stacks of old phone bills, newspapers, fortunes from fortune cookies, empty pill bottles, Monopoly money and candy wrappers. Quack has continued the practice of nest building to this day.

Their mother Missy even came to live with us at one point. She looked much like Quack. She was sweet but had a head full of cotton candy. She devoured every salacious, dirty, violent book ever printed. She would ride our bicycles, jump on our trampoline, and eat only the junkiest of junk food.

By the time she was twenty five, she already had six children with four different fathers. When she was twenty eight her boyfriend pushed her in front of a garbage truck that flung her thirty feet in the air. She survived, but was in a coma for over three months, then later did her recuperating at our house. In her room she would put stickers on every piece of furniture, including the television set. When she was still in her wheelchair, she would have me roll her over to her dresser to she could arrange and rearrange her belongings. She had numerous troll dolls, grocery store silk flowers, an ugly brown teddy bear with a fat red heart on his stomach that said “I luv u” and several Guns N Roses, Nazareth and Black Sabbath tapes.

She began using a walker about four months later. The accident seized Missy with an unreasonable paranoia and she was forever imagining people were talking about her. I was fairly demented after a while. She would screech at me, accuse me, whine, thrash and push me to the point of lunacy.

One evening we were sitting at the table after dinner, Winnie having retired to her room to escape the sound of our voices, when Missy said, “I know you and Ben were talking about me, I heard you!”

“No you didn’t.” I retorted calmly.

“I did, I heard what you said and I think you’re horrible!”

“Nope” I said spooning ice cream into my mouth.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I wasn’t looking at her.

“Like what?”

“I just saw you! You were just scowling at me! You’re always giving me dirty looks!”

“Missy, I wasn’t even looking at you!”

“I’m telling Winnie that you and Ben are picking on me again!” Ben wasn’t at home at the time… he was out signing autographs. Just as she was about to reach for her walker, I took the opportunity to grasp it and hurl it down the stars. She watched in horror as it bounced down the stairs, onto the landing then out of sight. She immidiatly dropped to her knees and crawled her way down to Winnie’s room howling. I know very well that I’ll burn for that, but it’s done and it’s too late to make amends now.

By the time she was thirty two she was dead. Overdosed. I really did care for her and now that I’m older, sometimes I’m filled with regret and sadness.

Her funeral was much like her life. ZZ top played ‘She’s got legs‘, her cracked out mother who had an outstanding resemblance to an overweight drowned Barbie doll, gave a pathetic, yet mercifully brief eulogy. She only mentioned once or twice how proud Missy had been to have such a “beautiful mother”. The absolute absurdity of the situation made my flesh quiver with laughter.

After some remarks given by a member of the clergy, one by one we filed to the front to take a last look at the departed. My best friend Egg, Sue and I all approached the casket, not to find our sweet Missy but what looked to be a dead, French eighteenth century mime! Her face was a vaporous white, her lips were the color of grape fruit juice, and the wicked perpetrator, whoever they were, thought it necessary to paint a small flesh colored mole on Missy’s cheek black… not only to paint it black but to enlarge it eight times it’s original size. We all three gasped! This can’t be! We stood gazing, unable to remove our eyes. When at last I mustered the courage to look at Egg, she did not look back, her eyes were fixed, but she knew I was looking at her. I glanced at Sue who was furiously biting her lip. Then it happened! Egg let out a muffled little giggle. That did it! I felt the upsurge fill my chest, and come up through my lungs and was on the verge of having a hysterical fit of laughter when Sue jerked my arm, and I accidentally swallowed it and began choking. We immediately turned and walked away briskly .

Yes, yes, I know very well that I’ll burn for that too. But my only comfort is that Sue and Egg will be burning along side me.

A departure from family business for a pointless thought about love...

Love. For as long as I can remember love has utterly confused me. It seems that people are continually labeling ordinary emotions such as loyalty, devotion, comfort, responsibility, insecurity, familiarity and fear as love. How can one truly identify love? How does it come to be? How long does it last? And how could one trust it? Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to be in love. I imagine what it would be like to miss someone, to worry about their safety, to wonder what their doing. The closest I’ve ever come to this feeling was when I met a small black puppy. I found myself constantly preoccupied with the puppy’s safety, hoping he was being treated kindly and imagining what it would be like to snuggle him. These moments are short lived, and I return to being perplexed by canoodling couples and over used terms of endearment. Love is something that everyone wants. And why is this? Could it be the feeling of love surpasses every other emotion? It seems nothing feels better to a human being. Since the beginning of time people have committed every conceivable atrocity in the name of love. For some it’s possible to be in love with love. From what I have observed this feeling of being in love with someone is like having every molecule in ones being leap to attention. But is it love when someone happens to fit all my physical, intellectual and emotional requirements? Wouldn’t it just be chance? Why call it love? Isn’t it just a unique coincidence? As people we persist in excessively using the term love for everything that pleases us. “I love that bed spread” or “Did you see that movie, I just loved it” or “I absolutely love that shade of yellow, I would love to paint my upstairs bathroom that exact color” You see! It is my belief that we have trivialized this emotion to the point where it means no more to us than a delicious meal. You savor the meal, the act of eating it is agreeable, you recall the meal fondly and think to yourself “I loved the way my steak was cooked and the mash potatoes! I would love to have the recipe” It appears we find true love numerous times a day. We find it in everything comforting and enjoyable. But what makes acquiring the love of another person so enticing? Why is it that we place that love above all the others? At some point in every person’s life their eye turns singly toward the pursuit of what many consider the world’s most definitive prize. The love of another human being. The love that that person offers, gives the recipient a sense of importance, of superiority. When one is publicly ill-treated, the thought, that there exists in the world someone who believes that they are the personification of perfection, lessens the wounding impact. But what of those who have no such alter-ego? What of the ones that are overlooked and by their would/should-be pursuers? One of two things usually happens. The first become enfeebled and feel personally attacked at every turn. People in this fragile state are more often than not unpleasant to associate with and tend to murmur continually about their solitude. This behavior only increases their feeling of inadequacy and need of constant reassurance of their value. Unfortunately, I have no advice to offer as to how to deal with such a person . If you truly care for them, I would suggest not pushing them in front of a fast moving train. If you do not care for them, by all means get rid of them. The chances of them being rehabilitated are slender indeed. The second group of slighted individuals become thick skinned, reality driven and optimistic. I am one such individual. I hope one day to feel more for a human being than I do for a puppy or my bed spread.


(This thought was written three days before I met my future husband...odd)