Who can hope to be safe? who sufficiently cautious? Guard himself as he may, every moment's an ambush. ~ Horace

I'm at the point in life where I don't like to watch the news much any more.  I am sickened about the sex scandal at Penn State, just as I was with all the cover ups concerning molestations within the Catholic church.  Having been a child who was molested...only one time...and knowing the devastating affect it had on me, I can not imagine what it must be like to be repeatedly violated.  I never told my parents what happened to me for 7 years.  It's amazing how the attacker can make an innocent child feel like it's the child's fault, makes the child question themselves as to why they were the one the pervert focused on and not some other child.  In my case, it could have been dozens of others who might have been...and probably were....violated by this man.  He was a person whose home was open to children from all over town.  His wife worked days, he worked nites.  Perfect scenario.  Along comes me, a little girl of 9, and he targets me while a bunch of us kids were playing Hide 'n' Seek at his house and I was "it".  Those minutes on the floor of his living room alone with him will never be erased from my memory.  When everyone called "Ready!" and I had the chance to get away, I fled from that house as fast as I could and I never went back.  And I never let him within 20 feet of me ever again.

And I kept that secret bottled up inside until the day I was 16 and I finally unburdened myself to my parents.  Naturally, they were aghast and were horrified I'd kept this from them..."Why didn't you tell us?  We could've gotten a hold of the police!  He could've harmed lots of kids!"  True, true, true.  But how do you put into words something that happened to you before you even knew what sex and perversion were?  Seven years later, we had moved 140 miles away and he had died of throat cancer.  Good riddance.  And to this day, 48 years later...well, I have to forgive him because I'm a Christian but I get sick to my stomach whenever I think of what he did that day and how he took my innocence away forever.  We forgive, but we never, ever forget.

And so....

I'm at the point in life where I don't like to watch the news much any more.

Some persons are very decisive when it comes to avoiding decisions. ~ Brendan Francis

I recently wrote about being one of a set of twins. My twin died in utero and even tho we never shared life in the outside world, I've always felt as if a part of me is missing. There are even 'syndromes' about such a thing: Vanishing Twin and Lost Twin. I had no idea either existed until I typed in "lost twin" a few years back in a Google search, wondering if there was any one out there who shared the same lost feeling I have at the core of me. Shocking to me, there are probably millions.

After writing about this I had several comments and emails about it. It brought to mind one of those 'family secret' stories passed down thru the generations that I thought I would share because I think in itself it's quite unusual but very interesting. Interesting to me because it seems destined that whole sets of twins don't seem to survive in my family. So...I thought I would share this with you. I have a feeling I might've touched on it somewhere in the past but with almost 1000 posts in my archives on this blog and several hundred on my 'first' blog...well, the thought of digging thru those is so daunting I'll just leave it alone and start from scratch. And it was so long ago I might've written about it most of you wouldn't remember it anyway.

My paternal grandmother gave stillbirth to a set of twins, back around 1920. As to whether they were boys, girls, or one of each I don't have a clue. But as the story has been passed down to me by my mother, my grandmother was recovering in the hospital afterwards and that is where this story begins. My grandmother died when I was 3 years old so I don't remember her. I don't know what type of person she was emotionally to try to gauge just how this might've affected her. My oldest brother is 6 years older than me and was 9 when she died...he's told me she was one of the best grandmothers in the world. I do know she was also a Christian woman, so I'm sure she must've felt the assurance in her heart that someday she would be reunited with her two 'lost' babies. But I imagine the reality of losing them at that moment in time must've been tragic.

Grandma had a roommate, a French-Canadian Catholic woman who'd just given birth to her 12th or 13th child. As my grandmother lay there in her bed she couldn't help overhearing the conversation the woman had with her husband when he came to visit. They both spoke about how they had no idea how they were going to feed and clothe yet another little one. They were already under tremendous strain trying to provide for the others already there. As Grandma listened a seed sprouted in her heart and when my grandfather came to visit her later in the day she told him of the other woman's dilemma. "Why don't we ask if we can adopt the baby girl?" I believe they'd already lost my uncle, a toddler who'd died from spinal meningitis. My grandfather agreed, and they approached the other couple with their idea.

I don't know how all the details were ironed out, but the little girl was adopted by my grandparents and christened with the name Claire. In those days adoption was kept very quiet in families for the most part. And even tho Claire was olive-skinned and had dark hair and stood out in photos amongst all the fair Swedes and English family members, she grew up not having a clue she was adopted. My father, who was their natural born son, came along a few years later. He never knew Claire was anything but his natural sister.

When my grandfather died when I was 10 my dad and I went to his house to sort thru Grandpa's belongings. My dad found a strong box stashed away filled with all kinds of papers and tucked in among them were Claire's adoption papers and Birth Certificate. To say my dad was stunned is an understatement. But my brothers and I were told the news. I guess my parents figured with Claire living in New England and us living here in the NW, especially in the 50s and 60s when air travel was a luxury and not an every day occurrence for so many like it is today, they figured the odds of us seeing Aunt Claire and spilling the beans was pretty remote. Even so, we were sworn to secrecy. When I finally did meet her, in 1968 when I was 14, I wonder what she must've thought of me, peering at her so intently most of the time. But her unknown history -- to her, anyway -- and knowing I had such an important secret stowed away deep inside made her quite mysterious and special to me.

Years later, when one of Claire's sons joined the military and was shipped overseas to Europe, she was going to take a trip to visit him. When she applied for a Visa, tho, she needed a copy of her birth certificate, which she didn't have but my father did...when he'd found it in Grandpa's strong box he'd never sent it to her. So dad mailed it off...and a few days later he received a rather hysterical, frantic phone call from his sister. What did this MEAN, she was adopted?! No WAY was she adopted! Grandpa and Grandma were HER parents! When dad had found out her history he'd had no idea how to tell her...emotional issues were never his strong point. Instead of preparing her for it, he'd decided to let the Birth Certificate tell her the news.

It was this incident, in knowing this secret for so long....and other important life secrets that belong to other family members that have had devastating affects when they've also been revealed...that have made me be honest with our children. Sometimes probably even bluntly honest. But skeletons in closets usually don't portend any good news. Being forewarned is forearmed...I've felt that way in every aspect of raising children. My children grew up knowing all about whatever's been hidden away in generational memory vaults. And as to my history and Dear Hubby's history...they know all about our faults and foibles, too.

I guess in some ways too much knowledge can be a bad thing. But there is also safety in knowledge. Comfort in knowledge. Security in knowledge. And there is love in knowledge.

Spring

Spring blossoms float.
They waft lazily on the breeze,
shimmery in the sun fog

on our cool-morning walk.

You see them.

You say,

"Snowflakes, Grandma!"

and you lift up your arms

with your face turned up to the sky,

twirling in circles.

The flakes kiss your eyes.

Your delighted laughter

bubbles out.

And I stop

and I smile

and hold this moment

close

in my heart.

The fire is the main comfort of the camp... -- Henry David Thoreau

(I got this amazing photo here)

My Dear Hubby is an amazingly intuitive man. He has a keen sense of knowing when I'm reaching the end of my rope and am in need of some 'me' time. Or at least some 'down' time. Where no one can reach me. No one can interrupt me. I'm left alone to enjoy a day in peace and quiet. Sometimes those days are ones where I'm left at home alone...but those are so rare I hardly even know what that feels like any more. So when he suggested we take a drive up into the Mt. Hood National Forest and go for a campfire/picnic yesterday, I was all for it.

We left at 6 am and traveled up the Columbia River Gorge highway, heading east to The Dalles. We watched the sun come up as we drove along. Hardly another vehicle on the highway. Once we got east of Hood River the Columbia was as smooth as glass...the play of Nature's lights did tricks on the mind and the eyes. You couldn't tell where the shoreline began and everything shimmered in subtle shades of mauve and lavender. I saw a couple of pelicans, sea birds I've never spotted before so far upriver - about 160 miles from the ocean - floating peacefully in a sheltered cove. As we reached The Dalles and headed south into north central Oregon, the rolling hills of fruit orchards, the contrast of green grass and bleached-out stubble from winter grass and grain crops, the dips and swoops of the highway as it meandered thru the landscape, began to ease the stress in my shoulders. I could feel myself begin to relax. I knew I'd been stressed and tired...but until that moment I hadn't realized how much.

We turned off on to a gravel road. One of probably thousands I've traveled on thru the woods and desert with Dear Hubby the past 36 years. We saw deer run across the road. We saw a Canada goose perched on a rock outcropping...probably protecting a nest. Hawks glided lazily above. We eventually found the spot we'd had a similar campfire/picnic at several years ago and set up our day camp. We got a big, warm campfire started. I sat down to read and keep the fire burning, and Dear Hubby took off with his longbow for a 'walkabout'.

It was a little cool at first but as the sun began to creep steadily higher and shone down on me thru the pine and fir branches, I took off my coat and soaked in the warm rays. I got lost in my book, listened to a woodpecker high in a tree overhead tap-tapping for his breakfast. And before I knew it, Dear Hubby was back. We started a big pot of coffee on the Coleman stove. We roasted hotdogs on the fire. We had a lovely feast.

Another walkabout. A book finished, another started. Time to pack up and go home. Another beautiful drive down the Columbia, back to Portland and reality.

As we sat in the living room last nite Dear Hubby told me, "I've taken a lot of trips and done a lot of things with different friends thru the years but I've never enjoyed any of them as much as I enjoy spending a day like today with you."

The first day of Spring.

Love still blooms.

Privacy: the state of being free from intrusion or disturbance in one's private life or affairs: the right to privacy.

When I was a teenager there wasn't anything I valued more and protected more than my privacy. And I was blessed to have a mother and father who respected not only mine but the privacy of my three brothers as well.

When do we parents overstep those bounds? When does 'concern' become 'invasion'? I had friends...my daughter had friends...whose mothers felt it was their right to snoop thru drawers and closets, between the mattress and box springs, under beds, in pockets and purses. My mother never did that to me and I never did that to my daughter -- or my son. Some aspects of our lives really do belong to us as individuals, even when we're 10 or 15 or 18. How do we teach them to trust when we don't respect their privacy?

I was not and still am not a perfect parent. My two children are both in their early 30's now. I've made mistakes and I've admitted to them and apologized for them. But I don't think either one of them will tell you that I've ever pried in to their personal business. As teenagers, when their bedrooms became impossibly messy, I always asked and was given permission to go in and straighten things up. I never looked at anything. Seriously. My mission was to clean and that's what I did. I practiced the same respect for privacy when I cleaned people's houses, too. You shuffle papers together in a neat stack, keep your eyes averted, and set them down when you're done. Whatever is private is private. When my son got married I had a talk with my daughter-in-law and told her I would never pry, that he was hers now and I was 'handing him over'. And I meant it. And I have. He is my son but he is her husband.

I reap what I've sown, too. Do they come and talk to me, seek my advice at times? Yes. Do they sometimes confide? Yes.

I guess what I'm trying to say to some of you younger mothers who are in the middle of mothering preteens and teens is: How you treat them now is going to be the foundation your adult relationship with them is based upon. They do grow up. And if you're really blessed and lucky, they evolve into some very special friends in your life, not just your kids. You have to trust them; they need to know they can trust you.

Turn around and they're one, turn around and they're 4...

I stumbled across this gem today, sticking out cockeyed from a bookshelf Dear Hubby and I have in the bedroom. As I went by and began giving it a push back in alignment with the other books I stopped when I realized what it was: an autobiography written by my son when he was 9 years old. As well as that, there was also a biography in it he wrote about me:

"When my mom was little she had a dog. My mom has 3 brothers. There names are K, T, and E. K is the oldest of her brothers. My mom ran away one day and when her dad found her and her friend he took them to have ice cream. One day at school she was caught reding a book when she should be working. Then her teacher took the book and burned it up. She married a man named D. She loved D. He looks nice. She had my sister in 1977. She had me when she was 22. Her favorite foods are apples, popcorn, and elk meat. My mom is very pretty. She has brown hair, beautiful eyes. She loves me very, very much and I love her! She likes writing and reading and a hole lot of stuff. She likes watching baseball games if there exciting. She is a busy mom. She is very alergic to cotton wood trees."

It was my Mother's Day gift that year. Taped inside is a paper tulip he'd made and given me, too.

I write about my grandboys a lot. But when I read thru this little journal this morning, this book written by my son who is their father, it transported me back 22 years ago as if it was yesterday. And I remembered the darling little boy with the flyaway hair, the skinny little butt that needed suspenders to keep his pants up, and cowboy boots splattering thru every mud puddle they could find. And I marvelled and was appalled at how fast those years have gone by. Did I treasure them enough, him enough? And as I searched my heart I knew that I had. But if I'd only known then what I know now I would've treasured them more.

I Tell You...

I tell you I am a wayfaring stranger.

I tell you I listen to

melodies

written for only

me

to hear.

I tell you I am alone.

Misinterpreted.

Misunderstood.

I tell you I am on a lonely road.

I tell you I see things

images I can't explain

to even you.

I tell you I am invisible.

Invisible.

Evaporated.

I tell you I am a mystery.

I tell you I am unknown.

Strange...

living in a world

I don't understand.

I tell you I am aching.

Troubled.

Lost.

I tell you I have secrets.

I tell you I am enclosed

caged

behind the

bars

looking out.

I tell you I am airborne.

Drifting.

Directionless.

I tell you.

I tell you again.

And

again.

-- MissKris2005 -- July 30, 2006 --

Loneliness is a place that I know well. It's the distance between us, and the space inside ourselves...

And I've got a longin'

That's hard to find

Won't give me no peace of mind

Something that I've lived with all along

Days and weeks and months and years

Filling in the time my dear

Tryin' to find the place where I belong

--Annie Lennox "Loneliness" --

I'm almost 56 years old. You'd think at my age most people would have learned their life lessons by now, wouldn't you? Not so for me. I'm going to spill my guts once again so go grab a cup of coffee or cup of tea and settle in. I dunno how long-winded I'm going to get on this one.

Maybe it's from sitting on the couch with my daughter this morning and talking about friendships and self-images and others' perceptions of us. Maybe it comes from doing some more soul-searching lately. Whatever. But I've come to a painful realization of how I've limited my own life in years past. Me. My actions. My reservations about letting people in, letting them get to know me. My fears. My inadequacies, either real or imagined. Oh, this is so hard to admit to the world in general but especially to myself. It is so hard to peel back the layers of skin and see myself as I am, the time I've wasted. The opportunities missed.

You know, shy people are selfish people. Really. We get so wrapped up in worrying about ourselves we forget about how the other person might be feeling in the same situation. We see only our needs, our wants, our yearnings. We don't even begin to think about how the other guy might be feeling the same emotions, the same self-doubts we're feeling as well. Maybe even tenfold compared to ourselves. And we freeze. And we don't reach out. And we go away disappointed. Over. And. Over. And. Over. Again. In ourselves. Ourselves.

I just looked at the calendar on my computer, down where Time is listed. I had a huge shock when I realized it's November 21 and it was 33 years ago today I became a Christian. Especially since I'm writing about the topic I'm writing about at the moment. Because it has been relationships with people within my church that I have limited myself from more than anywhere else in my life. 33 years. Oh, that is painful. Because it's just been lately where things have begun to open up for me. Well, in the past few years, anyway. First it was my friendship with Karen. Then going out to dinner with a couple we've known for 31 years. Then getting on Facebook and...tentatively...putting forth the effort to say hello to those within my church circle, to 'Friend' some of them. Sending notes and cards and emails to people I know. Showing myself friendly. Because, by setting so many limitations on myself these past 33 years I have not shown myself to be very friendly. And it hasn't been because I'm not friendly. It's because I've been afraid to be friendly. Dear Hubby, thru the many different areas he's been involved in thru the years, has gotten to know a lot more people than me. And when people have said to him, "You know, Kris is so nice but she's so quiet!!" he's always amazed by that. He tells them, "You don't know my wife! There isn't a shy bone in her body!" Maybe that's been true in every other venue of my life...but definitely not at church.

What is so humiliating about confessing all this is by looking at it in retrospect I can see these issues have been because of me. Because of my attitude. My building the castle walls of defense around me and blaming everyone around me. Never myself.

Because...you see...by letting myself begin to reach out tentatively and letting that armor crack, by opening myself and allowing myself to be vulnerable...something that is very, very hard for me to do...I'm finding that people in my church are responding to me like everyone else does. That they're finding me nice. And likable. And thoughtful. And funny. And interesting. That I'm not that lump of dough who's been occupying the same pew space for the past 33 years. That I have a voice. That I'm really and truly a person.

It is of course possible to dance a prayer. ~ Glade Byron Addams

Somewhere on the inside of this aging body is the soul of a dancer. I had a little friend named Annie when I was around four years old and her parents were Austrian immigrants. Her mother loved classical music and quite often when I'd go over to their house to play, she would have old 78s playing on the record player. My parents loved popular music of the day...Perry Como, Johnny Mathis, Nat King Cole, Rosemary Clooney, Patty Page...but it was during the many hours of play at Annie's house that my love of classical music was born. Bach, Strauss, Beethoven...one of my favorites was "Swan Lake". I can remember Annie and me dressing in flouncy bouffant underslips that belonged to her older sisters and she and I would dance around their living room, pretending we were prima ballerinas. That is where my love of dance was born, too.

I spent my childhood dancing around our living room on top of my Dad's feet every Saturday night when "The Lawrence Welk" show would come on. At the close of every show, Mr. Welk would go down into the audience and ask ladies to dance with him...that was my signal it was time for me and my Daddy to dance so I'd hop on top of Dad's feet and away we'd go. My Dad was a very elegant dancer and I would feel as if I was transported into the TV, becoming a part of the swirling screen of dancers. I outgrew that when I got too big to stand on top of his feet.

I became a huge fan of "Where the Action Is", a teen music show that would come on TV in the afternoons after school. There were dancers on there called the "Action Kids" and I just loved one of the girls named Lesley. I wanted to grow up to be just like her some day...I was around 10-11 at the time. My childhood best friend Angie pretended she was another dancer named Jerilynn. We had HUGE crushes on Fang (me) and Harpo (Angie) of Paul Revere and the Raiders. We would take my transistor radio out into her back yard and turn it to KBKW radio in Aberdeen and we'd dance all over the grass, learning how to do all the footwork and hand-motions the Action Girls made while they danced, plus the fancy little steps the Raiders would do as they played their instruments. We thought we were so cool! And our vivid imaginations would transport us to another world...we believed we were those girls and that Fang and Harpo were our boyfriends.

I never took formal dance lessons of any sort. We didn't have the money and I don't think I would've ever conformed to something like that, anyway. I was such a free spirit. As I entered in to my teens, my way of escape thru some very hard years was to close myself off into my bedroom, turn on my stereo, and dance for hours on end. I was light as a feather on my feet, as fluid as molten metal...no one ever came to investigate because no one ever heard me. I would light candles and put on a stack of albums and dance until they were done...then I'd put on another stack and start all over again. My mind would drift away into the music, my body would take over. I could leave my misery for those blessed hours. And then I got married. And I stopped dancing. Except...every now and then when I was alone in our house or apartment and a song would come on that would deeply move me...I'd find myself disappearing into dance again. But not often. I had no reason to escape anymore.

Circumstances came along that changed my freedom to dance. It was a time in my life where a lot of my creative forces left me because they weren't encouraged. That quiet little spirit of light in my soul died way, way down to just a little flicker in the core of me. But it smoldered quietly there, patiently waiting to find its way back out to the light. When I would do silly little-kid dances with my children to "Music Box Dancer" or "Jungle Book" or "Sesame Street", that little ember would struggle to come out. But I'd push it back down, again and again. And then came a day when I couldn't live that way anymore. There was too much inside...my music, my books, my writing, my poetry...especially my dance...that was crying out for release. And I let it out....and at first it was a tentative trickle, kind of feeling its way and wondering if it would be dammed up again. Then I decided I didn't care who might disapprove or condemn me for it, as long as I didn't feel it was coming from the One who leads me along. For me, dancing is a type of worship. I feel close to God when I am letting the very essence of me guide my feet, when I am lost to the outside world around me.

There is something beautiful about being home alone and turning on the stereo...of a quiet house with no one to watch this older woman letting the music flow thru her, flow out of her. There is something beautiful about the peace it brings into this older woman's heart. Because inside the heart of this older woman, the soul of a dancer still lives.