Now That They Are All Dead (I have carried with me for decades while I waited for my elders to pass on)
Hand Me Down Rage I became aware of the anger both my parents (must have) lived, and how it affected we kids.
Circles of a Life I became aware of completions: people appearing, unexpected connections, and resulting in unusual, sometimes spontaneous, always benevolent situations.
A Nightmare in Bali, 1983: I suffered my first adult episode of PTSD.
Bob Geldof got me Arrested!: for taking photos in a refugee camp with a news journalist. A description of our rollicking escape from gunfire in the Sahara Desert. (The Geldof connection made it happen!) Oh oh - maybe it should be called Bob Made Me Do It!
Last day in Riyadh: an emotional final day in our home in Riyadh.
A Hole in Her Heart: Where I came from: my mother's history makes a good beginning.
Roar, Firemouth! It too woke me up from sleep last summer. At first I thought it was another book title knocking at my dormer door. I sat up in bed then knew I had to get to the computer immediately. I now have a lovely sign posted on the wall that I first see when I wake up. Roar Firemouth!. It is my personal get-to-work call and it gets me out of bed and doing the necessaries before sitting down to create what I always hope will be an eloquent passage.
A Hole in Her Heart may be the title I will choose. I came into an understanding of my poor deceased mother thanks to my genealogical investigations of her family, which revealed a sad and lonely story. She was a toddler when things went awry and never was able to make sense out of it. What does a baby know about what's going on? They can only feel.
Through my search sites I found her sister's son, who kindly sent me his original family photos so I could scan them and share with my family. He told me about my mother's life from a different perspective, a very different perspective, proving that little was known about her and how she was (not) cared for as a child. I found more about this from newspaper articles around the turn of last century.
Fortunately the discord between Mom and me was sorted out . That's really a candy-coated way to describe our violent history and the final moment of violence. I was sixteen and she broke a heavy wooden coat hanger over my head. I grabbed her by her elbows and I threw her across the room. Shortly after we began a brief but remarkable relationship. This part seems to be what I most want to write about: how bad things happen and how they can be righted but it is not always done in your time frame, your lifetime.