Every year on the Saturday before Memorial Day, my mother and I find our way to a cemetery in Williamstown, Kentucky. We have made this trek for as long as I can remember.
When I was very young, my grandmother and my great-grandmother came along as well, telling us the stories of those who had gone before. . . teaching us how to carry out this ritual of remembering that the women in my family have practiced for generations.
This year I realized that my mom and I now hold the spaces that my grandmother and great-grandmother once held. Our status of grandmother and great-grandmother, has caused us to move slower over the hills in the cemetery than we did just a few years ago. Yet somehow, as we place flowers on all the graves, we both feel young again as we remember bananas cut up in jello, lemon drops in the candy jar, and food coloring in angel food cakes -- all reminders of a sometimes odd, but always profound, expression our grandmothers' love for the granddaughters my mother and I used to be.
Buried in this cemetery along with countless other loved ones are my maternal grandmother, Mildred Dunn, her mother, Minnie Kinmon, her mother, Clara Mershon and her mother, Sophia Nuxal.
None in this long line of women were your warm, fuzzy types. (My grandfather's DNA served to add a little softness to the gene pool that produced my mother, resulting in a wonderful mix of strength and tenderness that my grandmothers never knew.)
This week I was able to watch the 103 year old woman proudly cast her state's votes for Hillary Clinton's nomination. The broadcaster reported that women were still being denied the right to vote when she was born and now her goal is to live until November to pull the lever for a woman.
As I continued watching until the official nomination, I couldn't help but think of the hootin' and hollerin' that was going on in my grandmothers section of the cemetery.
You see, these grandmothers of mine were not your typical women of the day. They were not Sunday School teachers. They did not serve as hostesses for Women's meetings. They were not interested in talking about their feelings or collaborating with others, and winning a popularity contest was not on their to-do lists. (Those of you who know me, but didn't know them are starting to understand me a little more but I digress.)
My grandmothers did not "check with their husbands" when making a decision and while they did not hold jobs in businesses or factories, they most certainly worked outside of their homes as farmers. They were each driven to prove their worth in the male-dominated world they inhabited.
These women not only bought and raised the chickens, but killed and fried the chickens, ate the chickens, then wiped out the skillet and put it away. Their intelligence and work-ethic were only surpassed by their confidence and strong-will.
They were strong mothers as well who expected more from their daughters than any of their sons. None of them were coddlers or enablers of their little girls. They did not dream of strong, handsome men to save their daughters. Their dream was for their daughters to be able to save themselves. Even a hundred years ago, my grandmothers simply wanted an equal world for their daughters.
Watching Hillary be nominated gave me hope that in the next generation those who have been marginalized will no longer have to work harder and smarter to prove themselves equal. They will just be equal.
I'm thankful for each of my grandmothers and the lessons they have left behind. In November, when I vote for Hillary, I won't be alone in the booth -- the cemetery in Williamstown will be empty of my grandmothers on that date because their spirits will be with their granddaughter.
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
The Untold Stories of My Family Tree
When my oldest child was born nearly 30 years ago, his middle-Eastern born pediatrician, held him up in his first few minutes of life, looked at Sam and pronounced, "You are a healthy, white male born to a middle-class family. . . . No excuses, my friend!"
Now since Sam's parents were taking him home to a basement apartment, with no savings account and wondering how we would pay our insurance deductible, I could have argued the middle-class part, but even then, my young 24 year old self knew the doctor was right. Much could (and should) be expected of this 9 lb. 5 oz. wonder -- for after all, in a very real sense, by just the roll of some cosmic dice, he had already won the lottery. Quite honestly, though most of us don't like to admit it, he was born into a culture of white privilege. So was I. So were my parents. And their parents. . . .
The term "White Privilege" doesn't roll off my tongue easily. It feels shameful and racist. It makes me feel defensive and I want to clarify it by saying, "Well, it's not my fault."
And maybe that's true -- maybe it's not my fault. But to say that my family has not benefitted from white privilege would be a lie.
I love family history and am proud (of most) of those who have paved the way for me. As I sit here with the luxury of being able to chill and think and write, I can't help but be grateful for all of the tobacco that was cut and housed in my grandpa's barn. I'm thankful for all of the coal that was dug and hauled off the mountain. Both of which, in a very direct sense, have given me this very full life I live.
I'm also more than a little proud that I have discovered no slave ownership in searching our family tree. (Although that could have more to do with place and poverty than their righteous indignation that I choose to believe on occasion.) My great, great grandfather, William Martin, even fought for the Union side of the Army during the Civil War, although honestly, I sometimes wonder if it was out of belief or need for a pension!
There are no stories of black maids in my family's oral history. In fact, my own maternal grandmother quit school to become another family's maid for 75 cents a week. I've found no evidence of KKK membership or any other blatant racism.
On the other hand, I have heard more than my share of stories of poverty, losing farms to the depression, borrowing money for doctors' visits, eating more soup beans than anyone should have to eat, wearing shoes that were too big or too small. I listen to them all and I treasure them and some day I will tell them to my grandson, Bo, because I want him to be in awe of the hard work and love that have created him and me.
My family could never be accused of being born with a silver spoon in its mouth and wealth is where I'm more comfortable with the word privilege. But, when I listen for the stories that weren't told, it is clear that our white skin brought more privilege than any silver spoon could.
You see, there are no stories of our children being sold, or uncles being lynched without cause or trial. My grandmother did not go to the woods to use the bathroom but went to the same outhouse as the people she cleaned house for and neither of my grandpa's had to avert their eyes to the ground when they applied for a job. Even in their patched overalls or their faces covered with coal dust, my grandpa's did not walk around to the back door of the store.
My dad could smile at any girl, and while she might not have smiled back, his life was not at risk.
My parents went to the better school and sat in the front of the movie theater (when they could come up with the 25 cents!)
As a teenager, I might have told Mr. Jenkins, my Geometry teacher, under my breath, of course, that , he had no idea what he was talking about. (My stomach hurts just writing that!) Mr. Jenkins met with me after class to reprimand me privately. I was not sent to the office or publicly humiliated for stirring up trouble or being disrespectful.
Even today, I can teach my own white sons to question authority when something doesn't seem right. No security person blatantly follows them at the mall. I don't worry that they will be treated differently. I don't worry that hidden prejudice will keep them from the school or job or house they want. I worry that they will walk away with speeding ticket and won't have their proof of insurance when pulled over, but I don't worry that their rolling eyes or even rude behavior might cause a police officer to fear for his or her own life, putting my sons' lives on the line.
Those are the stories of my family's tree that aren't shared at family reunions. They are the stories that bear witness to the White Privilege that my family has experienced.
It still doesn't sit well with me, but it is truth.
Every good rehab program says the first step is in owning your issue, so there you go. I have benefitted and continue to benefit from white privilege.
What haunts me now is how do I use it to bring justice for us all?
Now since Sam's parents were taking him home to a basement apartment, with no savings account and wondering how we would pay our insurance deductible, I could have argued the middle-class part, but even then, my young 24 year old self knew the doctor was right. Much could (and should) be expected of this 9 lb. 5 oz. wonder -- for after all, in a very real sense, by just the roll of some cosmic dice, he had already won the lottery. Quite honestly, though most of us don't like to admit it, he was born into a culture of white privilege. So was I. So were my parents. And their parents. . . .
The term "White Privilege" doesn't roll off my tongue easily. It feels shameful and racist. It makes me feel defensive and I want to clarify it by saying, "Well, it's not my fault."
And maybe that's true -- maybe it's not my fault. But to say that my family has not benefitted from white privilege would be a lie.
I love family history and am proud (of most) of those who have paved the way for me. As I sit here with the luxury of being able to chill and think and write, I can't help but be grateful for all of the tobacco that was cut and housed in my grandpa's barn. I'm thankful for all of the coal that was dug and hauled off the mountain. Both of which, in a very direct sense, have given me this very full life I live.
I'm also more than a little proud that I have discovered no slave ownership in searching our family tree. (Although that could have more to do with place and poverty than their righteous indignation that I choose to believe on occasion.) My great, great grandfather, William Martin, even fought for the Union side of the Army during the Civil War, although honestly, I sometimes wonder if it was out of belief or need for a pension!
There are no stories of black maids in my family's oral history. In fact, my own maternal grandmother quit school to become another family's maid for 75 cents a week. I've found no evidence of KKK membership or any other blatant racism.
On the other hand, I have heard more than my share of stories of poverty, losing farms to the depression, borrowing money for doctors' visits, eating more soup beans than anyone should have to eat, wearing shoes that were too big or too small. I listen to them all and I treasure them and some day I will tell them to my grandson, Bo, because I want him to be in awe of the hard work and love that have created him and me.
My family could never be accused of being born with a silver spoon in its mouth and wealth is where I'm more comfortable with the word privilege. But, when I listen for the stories that weren't told, it is clear that our white skin brought more privilege than any silver spoon could.
You see, there are no stories of our children being sold, or uncles being lynched without cause or trial. My grandmother did not go to the woods to use the bathroom but went to the same outhouse as the people she cleaned house for and neither of my grandpa's had to avert their eyes to the ground when they applied for a job. Even in their patched overalls or their faces covered with coal dust, my grandpa's did not walk around to the back door of the store.
My dad could smile at any girl, and while she might not have smiled back, his life was not at risk.
My parents went to the better school and sat in the front of the movie theater (when they could come up with the 25 cents!)
As a teenager, I might have told Mr. Jenkins, my Geometry teacher, under my breath, of course, that , he had no idea what he was talking about. (My stomach hurts just writing that!) Mr. Jenkins met with me after class to reprimand me privately. I was not sent to the office or publicly humiliated for stirring up trouble or being disrespectful.
Even today, I can teach my own white sons to question authority when something doesn't seem right. No security person blatantly follows them at the mall. I don't worry that they will be treated differently. I don't worry that hidden prejudice will keep them from the school or job or house they want. I worry that they will walk away with speeding ticket and won't have their proof of insurance when pulled over, but I don't worry that their rolling eyes or even rude behavior might cause a police officer to fear for his or her own life, putting my sons' lives on the line.
Those are the stories of my family's tree that aren't shared at family reunions. They are the stories that bear witness to the White Privilege that my family has experienced.
It still doesn't sit well with me, but it is truth.
Every good rehab program says the first step is in owning your issue, so there you go. I have benefitted and continue to benefit from white privilege.
What haunts me now is how do I use it to bring justice for us all?
Monday, June 27, 2016
Confessions of a Bigot
I don't like Chihuahuas.
When questioned why, I respond with:
When questioned why, I respond with:
- They're aggressive and yappy.
- They're annoying.
- I'm not sure they're even real dogs.
Granted, I'm a southern woman, and I would never say those things to an actual Chihuahua owner, but I would certainly talk behind their backs about their poor choice of dogs. I laugh at jokes about Chihuahuas, and I even try to avoid Chihuahuas at the dog park. I have threatened to disown my three grown children if they should ever make me a grandma of Chihuahuas. In other words, I'm a Chihuahua bigot.
And while you may be reading this (or I might even be writing this) sort of tongue-in-cheek, it honestly kind of bothers me. I've even tried to work on the way I feel and act but my bigotry seems almost innate, like it's natural to dislike something so different in my eyes from all of the other dogs.
But just like Paul on the road to Damascus, in a matter of about 20 minutes this past week, my heart was changed forever.
Grace, my 108 pound bundle of love, and I were taking our evening walk. We'd seen rabbits, talked to our young friends who like to pet Grace each day. We'd even said hey to a few other dogs we pass along the way.
We had just rounded the corner of the street over from us, when out of nowhere a Chihuahua ran toward Grace. Of course, Grace being Grace, accepted this dog as her new best friend as it ran in and out and under of Grace's legs, jumping up to kiss Grace's muzzle, standing on hind legs to be tall enough to sniff Grace's butt, all the while I tried to shoo it away.
It didn't shoo.
I tried to keep walking, but Grace kept turning her head around and her new friend kept following. I even glanced around to see if maybe somebody else was walking on this street that might help this animal out but to no avail.
I finally knelt down very begrudgingly to see if it's collar had a phone number. Long story short, after a quick text to the number on the collar, it turns out "it" was a "he" whose name is Zeke. His dad was out looking for him and we were able to meet up. In the meantime, Zeke proceeded to give me about a thousand kisses in the short block that I carried him to his Dad.
And just like that. Boom.
I love Chihuahuas.
Zeke was the first I had ever known, the first I had reached out to, the first I had cared about and loved. In 20 minutes.
Over the years, I've been lucky enough for the same thing to happen to me with people -- even the yappy ones who are a bit annoying.
Because I hit the jackpot when it comes to parents and my chosen profession, I've experienced lots of people who are very different from me.
I remember in the early 1980s when my mom's colleague and friend died from AIDS. She hugged him closely as he was dying, and boom, my family cared for those who suffered from AIDS because now to my family AIDS had a name -- David -- and we would never turn away from David.
As a kid, we lived as protestants in a very Catholic neighborhood. Our next door neighbor brought us soup when my mom was sick. She wore a handkerchief on her head when she went to mass. And while the rest of my extended family reported that Catholics prayed to idols, boom, my family celebrated first communions with our friends. We may not have understood the Catholic practices and traditions, but my parents knew that someone who brings soup is the hands and feet of Christ.
My very white, Appalachian, dad ran a gas station in a black neighborhood during the time of King's activism and assassination. Dad loved and respected his customers and, boom, our family threw out a generational usage of the N word and my black friends were welcomed into our home.
As a teacher, I've had the opportunity to love Muslims, Jehovah's Witnesses, Mormons and Jews. I've loved black kids, Asian kids, Hispanic kids. I've loved kids from redneck homes, those who live in trailer parks and housing projects. I've loved kids from homes so large that I find them nauseating -- except for the fact that I love the people in that house and, boom, the nausea is gone.
In my personal life, I love friends and family who are as far right politically and religiously as I am left, but they wrap me in their arms, send cards when I'm sick, they love and protect me.
Recently though, the opportunity to love so many different kinds of people has almost frozen me...because I feel so afraid for all of them-- all of us.
Because every group of "thems" has a name for me -- Barrack and Bekah and Joe and Carlos and Mrs. Harrigan and Rashad and Becky and Matt -- that means that they are, we are, all at risk of being hurt and unloved. We are all at risk of being the aggressors and perpetuating hate. We all seem doomed -- sort of.
Our only hope is meeting each other, finding out each other's names, and helping each other find their way home. That's all it took for Zeke and me.
Monday, May 23, 2016
Stonings and Goldfish
At Highland Baptist Church, when a baby is dedicated, her church family promises to "tell her the stories of Jesus and teach her the songs of our faith." I like that -- and, actually, those of us who officially teach our church's children in Bible Study and Children's Choir take our pledge quite seriously, but sometimes things get complicated, like this past Sunday.
In our preschool Godly Play session, the story for the first Sunday in the church's Ordinary Season was the story of Saul's conversion. Just to fill you in, Saul does some pretty terrible things before he "sees the Light." Things that 4 and 5 year old boys seem to take great delight in for some reason.(I know that sounds so sexist, but, I'm sorry, folks, it's true.)
As background, the "Godly Play" program that we teach on Sunday mornings is designed for the storyteller to simply tell the story. No interpretation is offered. No great lesson pulled from obscurity. It's all about trusting the process. (Something that us Highland folks can get a little uppity about.)
So anyway I was trusting the process until I got to the point where "Saul" was holding the coats of those who stoned St. Stephen and about five little boys' eyes lit up. It had never occurred to my boys that light sabers were not actually needed in a fight to the death, but that just a few rocks would do the same thing. In a move that goes against "Godly Play" practice, I very quickly connected the dots that stoning was very, very, wrong and that Saul actually saw the Light and changed his evil ways. So much for just "telling the stories."
So with that still on my mind, I couldn't help but smile when on Sunday evening, Ashley began our children's music program for the adult congregation with the disclaimer that their first number would NOT be a song of our faith.
At this point, the same kids who were more interested in Stephen's stoning than the life-changing light on the Road to Damascus, stood with big grins and started singing enthusiastically about a goldfish. In the verses, the goldfish tried taking a shower, brushing his teeth, even riding a bicycle, always discovering and re-discovering by the chorus, "Wait a minute. I'm a goldfish. I should be swimming, swimming, swimming." Truthfully, it probably doesn't appear in any Christian Children's Chorus books, but I think it could.
As I mentioned earlier, yesterday was the beginning of a long Ordinary Season (or the Growing Season, as all the cool kids call it.) It is my favorite season, which actually none of my preschool friends agreed with it. They're more about purple and white seasons. I mean, I get that, too. Not a lot of glory in the Growing Season. No gifts or Easter eggs either.
Growing is hard work, and, honestly, I'm thankful for this time in the calendar, where we can wrestle with stories about Saul and the stoning of Stephen, where we can try out some new songs or ideas. Where we can work just like goldfish in trying to figure out what God has created us to be.
These next few months of the Growing Season give us all a chance to practice and process what we have learned -- and when we get too far off track -- we can remind each other just like the goldfish "Wait a minute. I'm a child of God. I should be loving, loving, loving."
So, I guess in the end, Ashley and I kept our promise to our young friends. The vows we took didn't say the stories would be easy or that the songs couldn't be about a bike-riding goldfish.
Thanks be to God.
In our preschool Godly Play session, the story for the first Sunday in the church's Ordinary Season was the story of Saul's conversion. Just to fill you in, Saul does some pretty terrible things before he "sees the Light." Things that 4 and 5 year old boys seem to take great delight in for some reason.(I know that sounds so sexist, but, I'm sorry, folks, it's true.)
As background, the "Godly Play" program that we teach on Sunday mornings is designed for the storyteller to simply tell the story. No interpretation is offered. No great lesson pulled from obscurity. It's all about trusting the process. (Something that us Highland folks can get a little uppity about.)
So anyway I was trusting the process until I got to the point where "Saul" was holding the coats of those who stoned St. Stephen and about five little boys' eyes lit up. It had never occurred to my boys that light sabers were not actually needed in a fight to the death, but that just a few rocks would do the same thing. In a move that goes against "Godly Play" practice, I very quickly connected the dots that stoning was very, very, wrong and that Saul actually saw the Light and changed his evil ways. So much for just "telling the stories."
So with that still on my mind, I couldn't help but smile when on Sunday evening, Ashley began our children's music program for the adult congregation with the disclaimer that their first number would NOT be a song of our faith.
At this point, the same kids who were more interested in Stephen's stoning than the life-changing light on the Road to Damascus, stood with big grins and started singing enthusiastically about a goldfish. In the verses, the goldfish tried taking a shower, brushing his teeth, even riding a bicycle, always discovering and re-discovering by the chorus, "Wait a minute. I'm a goldfish. I should be swimming, swimming, swimming." Truthfully, it probably doesn't appear in any Christian Children's Chorus books, but I think it could.
As I mentioned earlier, yesterday was the beginning of a long Ordinary Season (or the Growing Season, as all the cool kids call it.) It is my favorite season, which actually none of my preschool friends agreed with it. They're more about purple and white seasons. I mean, I get that, too. Not a lot of glory in the Growing Season. No gifts or Easter eggs either.
Growing is hard work, and, honestly, I'm thankful for this time in the calendar, where we can wrestle with stories about Saul and the stoning of Stephen, where we can try out some new songs or ideas. Where we can work just like goldfish in trying to figure out what God has created us to be.
These next few months of the Growing Season give us all a chance to practice and process what we have learned -- and when we get too far off track -- we can remind each other just like the goldfish "Wait a minute. I'm a child of God. I should be loving, loving, loving."
So, I guess in the end, Ashley and I kept our promise to our young friends. The vows we took didn't say the stories would be easy or that the songs couldn't be about a bike-riding goldfish.
Thanks be to God.
Monday, February 15, 2016
Sleeping Well
Sleep is an important part of my life. I look forward to naps on summer afternoons, as much as I do books to read and walks to be taken. I go to bed early and tend to worry if I'm going to get my required 8-9 hours. I like to think my obsessions with sleep started when the twins arrived. I think there was a good 15 month stretch when I did not sleep for more than two hours at a time, and it seemed as if as soon as I had everyone sleeping through the night, they were all teenagers and I was waiting up for them.
Anyway, there are a few "sleeps" in my past that for some weird reason have found a place in my long term memory.
My favorite place to sleep was in the back of a Ford Falcon coming home from "the country" if we had been to my Dunn grandparents' or home from "the mountains" if we had visited with my Collins family. It was dark, I was stretched out in the backseat (one of the perks of being an only child as well as a child of the 60s - no seatbelts.) My parents talked softly of dreams they shared as my dad held the steering wheel, and the hum of the road was better than any sleeping pill. I was safe and loved and probably full of biscuits and gravy.
Another time of deep rest was when my mom was sick and in the hospital. That night, before other care takers swooped in, my dad tucked me in, taking on my mom's usual job. His tucking-in skills were different than hers. He tucked in all of the covers around my arms and feet all the way up to my chin, much like a mummy, I would imagine. I felt like I might be so bound to the quilts around me that I may never freely move. But, I slept knowing that somehow the tucking in was the best he could do, understanding that the lack of physical freedom he had forced on me was his way of keeping me safe until my mother returned to set our world right again.
As an adult, sleep has served different purposes than simply rest. It has been a best friend when in the depths of depression, and it has served as an elusive dream when anxiety and anorexia have been in the driver's seat.
On my 25th wedding anniversary to Jeff, Carly and I spent the night with dear friends the day before an Open House at the college Carly hoped to attend. For the last year, I had spent countless hours trying to figure out how to preserve my sanity and dignity and move to the simple life I longed for. . . but that morning, unbeknownst to any one, I had made the final decision (although it was another 4 months before I left) to leave my marriage. And that night, I slept.
Last week, I slept again.
My dog, Grace, had surgery on a ruptured ACL a few weeks ago and her recovery has proven to be challenging for all of us. Between boredom and pain, her sleep is disturbed with panting and pacing and whining, and, since her bed is located on the floor next to mine, my sleep is also disturbed.
Anyway, I woke up to my 5:20 am alarm to get ready for work. I was stiff from the cold and completely exhausted. Walter met me with a hug and let me know that my school had been cancelled. Sensing my mood, he turned me around and walked me back to bed, insisting that he straighten up my twisted sheets that come from a night of tossing and turning first. He brought in another quilt and spread it on top of me. By that time, I had slipped into a happy form of unconsciousness, waking 3 hours later to an empty house and a note on the kitchen counter.
In the meantime, Walter had taken my dog, our dog, out for her "fake" potty break in below freezing weather (for some reason, she insists on going outside before breakfast but refuses to actually do anything) and then he fed her breakfast, took her out again for the real potty break, then medicated her and tucked her back into her bed next to mine.
It was a wonderful sleep. I slept knowing that I was not alone, knowing that I had someone who had my back. I didn't need words, or explanations, or excuses or guilt.
I slept like I was stretched out in the back of a Ford Falcon, listening to the hum of the road.
Anyway, there are a few "sleeps" in my past that for some weird reason have found a place in my long term memory.
My favorite place to sleep was in the back of a Ford Falcon coming home from "the country" if we had been to my Dunn grandparents' or home from "the mountains" if we had visited with my Collins family. It was dark, I was stretched out in the backseat (one of the perks of being an only child as well as a child of the 60s - no seatbelts.) My parents talked softly of dreams they shared as my dad held the steering wheel, and the hum of the road was better than any sleeping pill. I was safe and loved and probably full of biscuits and gravy.
Another time of deep rest was when my mom was sick and in the hospital. That night, before other care takers swooped in, my dad tucked me in, taking on my mom's usual job. His tucking-in skills were different than hers. He tucked in all of the covers around my arms and feet all the way up to my chin, much like a mummy, I would imagine. I felt like I might be so bound to the quilts around me that I may never freely move. But, I slept knowing that somehow the tucking in was the best he could do, understanding that the lack of physical freedom he had forced on me was his way of keeping me safe until my mother returned to set our world right again.
As an adult, sleep has served different purposes than simply rest. It has been a best friend when in the depths of depression, and it has served as an elusive dream when anxiety and anorexia have been in the driver's seat.
On my 25th wedding anniversary to Jeff, Carly and I spent the night with dear friends the day before an Open House at the college Carly hoped to attend. For the last year, I had spent countless hours trying to figure out how to preserve my sanity and dignity and move to the simple life I longed for. . . but that morning, unbeknownst to any one, I had made the final decision (although it was another 4 months before I left) to leave my marriage. And that night, I slept.
Last week, I slept again.
My dog, Grace, had surgery on a ruptured ACL a few weeks ago and her recovery has proven to be challenging for all of us. Between boredom and pain, her sleep is disturbed with panting and pacing and whining, and, since her bed is located on the floor next to mine, my sleep is also disturbed.
Anyway, I woke up to my 5:20 am alarm to get ready for work. I was stiff from the cold and completely exhausted. Walter met me with a hug and let me know that my school had been cancelled. Sensing my mood, he turned me around and walked me back to bed, insisting that he straighten up my twisted sheets that come from a night of tossing and turning first. He brought in another quilt and spread it on top of me. By that time, I had slipped into a happy form of unconsciousness, waking 3 hours later to an empty house and a note on the kitchen counter.
In the meantime, Walter had taken my dog, our dog, out for her "fake" potty break in below freezing weather (for some reason, she insists on going outside before breakfast but refuses to actually do anything) and then he fed her breakfast, took her out again for the real potty break, then medicated her and tucked her back into her bed next to mine.
It was a wonderful sleep. I slept knowing that I was not alone, knowing that I had someone who had my back. I didn't need words, or explanations, or excuses or guilt.
I slept like I was stretched out in the back of a Ford Falcon, listening to the hum of the road.
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