I have known for a long time that I am to write three books.   In particular, I am supposed

There are so many things about my hair throughout the years including: Always having long hair as a child. Pigtails when I was in early grade school. Later on pony tails. And then after that, a few times I remember my mother setting my hair in rollers the night before and going to school with long, flowing, curly hair which I loved. I do remember in physical ed class in grade school, tossing my hair back, and hearing one of the girls say, "Well, her hair does look good, but she's showing off." Or something like that. I also remember a lot of rules with regard to my hair. When I was younger, I was only allowed to have pigtails or pony tails, but I wasn't allowed to let my hair all the way down. Once one of my elastics broke on my braid so I thought that was a perfect time to "let my hair down." My mother was really mad at me and I believe accused me of doing it on purpose. I remember when I was in the fifth grade, I had never had my hair cut and I wanted to get it cut just to see what it would be like. My mother took me to a man in, I believe, Hanover, New Hampshire, to get my first haircut. I remember him saying to my mother that my hair was fine. Well, at the time I was really pleased with that because I thought he was saying that I had great hair. I realized later, much later, that he meant my hair was actually not thick and flyaway so it really wasn't the compliment I originally thought it was. I don't really know why I remember that particular comment or when I figured out what it really meant. I also remember in high school my high school science teacher talking about losing your hair. He said that if you washed your hair every day that you would eventually end up losing it. I somehow took that comment to heart and worried about going bald for a good part of my life. I remember going to the hairdresser once and she told me I was losing my hair. I panicked. What I didn't realize is that people do from time to time cyclically lose their hair and it grows back. I also know that there are women who are bald and I knew I didn't want to be one of them. That started an unreasonable fear I had for quite a while, that is, going bald. I remember once when I was getting my hair done, my hairdresser told me that I was losing my hair. Panic set in. Oh, no, it's happening. I remember going to a dermatologist for advice. He told me I was having cyclical hair loss and that it would come back. Which it did. Another time I answered an ad regarding hair loss. They told me that my hair was okay and not to worry about it. This went on for a long time, until just recently. I finally have a great hairdresser now who knows how to do my hair the way I like it and I no longer worry about going bald. I went through a long period of getting perms. These were the kinds of perms that you didn't have to set your hair. You could just wash your hair and let it dry and it came out curly. Then I finally decided I didn't like that look anymore. So I decided to just go straight and get the kind of haircut where that would look okay if it was blown dry. So sometimes you got a decent cut and other times you didn't. I recall an experience in my 20s or 30s when the hairdresser remarked that my hair was falling out. Panic struck!!! I immediately made an appointment with a specialist concerning my hair loss. They examined my hair and told me that I didn't have a problem. I had a full head of hair at that time. I even went to see a dermatologist concerning my hair, and he explained that I had cyclical hair loss and that it would grow back, which it did. So, for the time being, I put aside my fear of going bald. I've had every color of the rainbow (or at least the hair rainbow). When I was in California for the first time, I starting dying my hair blonde. I thought it was a good idea. It looked good at first, but when the dark roots started coming in, it looked awful. I eventually went back to my normal color. I have had long hair all the way down my back. For quite a long time, I was into dying my hair auburn. Most of the time, I went to the hairdressers to get it done. My son really liked that hair color, because when I temporarily returned to my natural hair color, my son (who was probably about 10 or 12 years old then) asked me if I was going to return to the other color. When I started going gray, of course, I continued to color my hair. Many of my friends were letting their color go gray or white, but not me. I guess I got that from my mother, who never went white until a few months before she died. It was pure white, and it was beautiful. It costs quite a bit of money to go and get your hair colored, so I took to doing it myself for a while. There is a trick to coloring your hair. You're only supposed to do the roots. If you slop all the color on at once, your hair gets darker and darker and darker until it is finally almost a black color and not a shiny black color, but a dull, dead-looking, unhealthy-looking color. When you go to your hairdresser to get your hair cut, she will sometimes tactfully suggest that you start getting your hair colored in the beauty salon. Not a bad idea. However, it takes a long time for the ugly-colored, damaged hair to grow out, and get replaced by nice, healthy hair. However, I did that and got pretty good hair. I also have had a struggle getting a good haircut every time I would go. I had a hairdresser in East Greenbush who sometimes would give me a good haircut and sometimes not. So I decided to try another hairdresser in Cohoes. She charged about $80 to cut and color my hair. Well, she did a so so job with the haircut. But what I didn't realize was (until it was too late) that she too was just globbing on the hair color and not just doing the roots. So after a few trips to her, I ended up again with black and damaged hair. Heck, I could have done that myself. I knew I was in trouble when one of my friends from church asked me if I had black hair. Ugh. So it was back to the drawing board. Looking for another hairdresser. Well, I didn't have a car for a while so I was doing a lot of walking. I happened to walk past Shelly's Cut and Style on Remsen Street. So I went in. She even had special prices for seniors (which I am), $35 for haircut and color and blow dry. So I went to her. I loved the haircut and color I got. I have been back about 4 times and I always get a good haircut and color and it only costs me $40 with the tip. I have finally, after all these years and bad experiences, found someone who does with my hair what I like. That was fine for a while, but then she ended up giving me a bad haircut. So I have had a lot of adventures and misadventures with my hair. The one that really stands out the most happened about 12 years ago in California. I was in the midst of going to school to get my undergraduate degree from Cal State University in San Bernardino, California. At this time I was doing the perm thing and getting my hair colored auburn. I was getting it done at Fantastic Sam's so I didn't always get the same person doing the coloring. This one time when she asked me what color I wanted, instead of saying auburn, I said burgundy. What I didn't realize is that there was a really bright and bold color that happened to be called burgundy and that is what she put on my head. My hair ended up being kind of a "glow-in-the-dark" shade that a teenager would choose to put on their hair, not someone my age. When I walked out in the sunlight, especially the bright sun in California, the color was almost purple. It was an unbelievable color. What to do? What to do? I knew I was in trouble when I went to school and one of the my fellow students (a teenager or early 20s), loved my hair color, thought it was really cool. Well, I was a pretty busy person, going to school full time and also working full time, so I decided just to live with it. It lightened a little bit as I washed it, but I will say the next time I went to get my hair colored, I didn't make the mistake of asking for burgundy. What an experience? About five or six years ago, I decided to let my hair go grey. That was a big decision for me but it seems a lot of women are now deciding to let their hair be natural. It was a big relief not to have to color it anymore. Coloring had become a drag. You would end up with gray or white roots and that looked awful. Also the color would wash out and you didn't end up with the same color for very long. I actually have no regrets about my hair color. I remember my mother was aghast at the idea of not coloring her hair, but toward the end of her life she stopped coloring it. She had beautiful thick white locks when she died. One of the concerns that I lived with my entire life was losing my hair. I was afraid I was going to go bald. I had a lot of hair when I was growing up. It was thick but very wispy in texture. My mother and two sisters had very thick hair (too thick because they would always be getting it thinned). The consistency of their hair, I would say, was medium to coarse. They certainly didn't have to worry about going bald, that's for sure, and they would frequently complain about their hair being too thick. I should be so lucky to have that problem! I remember being jealous and resentful because my hair was so different and fragile to me. Over the past few years, I have noticed my hair getting thinner. It finally got to the point where I cut it short because that seemed to be the only way I could manage it. The last time I saw my sister, Joyce, she remarked that I was losing my hair and gave me one of those looks of hers, letting me know how disgusted she was. I told her that at least it covered my whole head, and I didn't have any bald spots like many women my age. She agreed that she had 'fat' hair, which meant she was superior to me in some way. There has always been a competition between us, manifesting in various ways. But that is the topic for another story and ammunition for my forgiveness practice. Over the last several months, I have become extremely uncomfortable with my hair to the extent that I constantly look in the mirror to ensure I am not bald. It has become an absolute obsession for me. I recently listened to a session by Tina Louise Spaulding, who channels Jesus and someone raised the question of whether a person should cut their hair. Jesus responded that people lose their strength when they cut their hair and should let it grow long regardless of what society thinks. He says that hair acts as an antenna. Well, that got my attention because now I have short hair. He went on to say that the fact that some people have baldness or alopecia (hair loss) stemmed from another lifetime when they considered their hair to be their crowning glory. That's probably true because my hair has been a concern for me my whole life. Unfortunately, Jesus did not go on and give a solution to these people with hair-thinning problems. I don't know if this is the right thing to do, but I did go to a specialist in hair regrowth in an attempt to regrow my hair. I am in the process of this now. I do not want to have short, thin hair. I want to grow my hair at least back to shoulder length. I also don't want to spend all my precious energy worrying about my hair. I don’t necessarily expect it to be my crowning glory, but at least act as an antenna like it is supposed to.

I CANNOT LIVE WITH MYSELF ANYMORE

I have been listening to Eckhart Tolle speak about living in the present moment. He tells about an incident that happened with him in which he said to himself, "I cannot live with myself anymore." He had been suffering from depression and anxiety for years and had reached his breaking point. He had come to a crossroads in his life where his situation was intolerable to him. When he realized what he had said to himself, Eckhart questioned what he meant by the statement. "Who is the self that I cannot live with anymore." Then he went to bed and had a transformation overnight. He described it as waking up to a blissful state and staying that way. He was content to live in the present moment and realized that the present moment is all there is. There is no past or future, except in mind. He went on to become a world-renowned spiritual teacher, guiding his followers to embrace the present moment. He has devoted his life to this mission.

I have often said the same sentiment to my inner self that I cannot live with myself anymore. I have declared that I am not going to dwell on the face and worry about the future. Unfortunately for me, my declaration has not brought on the intense spiritual transformation that Eckhart Tolle underwent. I have found that I must remind myself frequently to monitor my thinking and not get caught up in regrets about the past. I have considered how wonderful it would be to say it once and not have to concern myself with another negative thought. I don't believe it works that way for the average person seeking spiritual enlightenment or freedom from the mind and ego. It is a process rather than an event.

When Eckhart Tolle underwent his transformation, I believe he was relieved of his being's earthly aspect, much the same as when you cross over and feel total peace and bliss. There was a higher purpose for this to happen for him, and he is living that purpose now. Eckhart had a spiritual contract to demonstrate to his followers what it is like to live in the present moment. He doesn't have to worry about slipping back to his ego and negative mind because apparently, they no longer exist to trip him up. He is in a state of utter peace all the time.

I want to be able to get to Eckhart's level of peace to the best of my ability. I have realized that there are two parts of me. This part tends to think negatively and get caught up in feeling sorry for myself and regretting past events. That is my ego or my adult self. The mind and ego are very creative and like to play tricks on me. There is also my higher self or what I like to call my inner child. My ego and mind want to tell me that I am too depressed to accomplish my goals, such as writing my books. When that happens, it puts me in a state of immobilization, and I feel like I can't do anything. It's like my inner child saying, "well, if you're going to talk to me like that, then I'm not going to do anything." I'm not too fond of the way I feel when I tell myself negative things. It is an icky feeling in the pit of my stomach. This uncomfortable feeling is what I have been trying to avoid my whole life. It is what led me to be a workaholic and an alcoholic, along with other addictions. When I get that feeling now (which is a direct result of my negative self-talk), it stops me in my tracks. Sometimes I want to go to bed and not move.

I am making an effort to be careful about what I tell myself. My mind and ego are so tricky that I can't just do this once. It takes vigilant monitoring on my part to accomplish this goal. I don't want to waste any more of my precious time by agonizing over my part experiences, blaming my family, playing the victim role, and worrying about the future. There are too many things that I would prefer to do. I love to write, but I can only write when I don't have that pesky little voice telling me I am too depressed to write. I have a lot to say, and I now know how to finish writing the three books that I have started. I don't want to write tell-all books that place the blame on my family and circumstances. Instead, I want to write how I came to understand what happened with my family dynamics and how I learned to forgive myself and everyone else involved. I am one of the lucky ones because I suffered to the extent that made me want to be free. If I hadn't been so unhappy, I probably wouldn't have worked so hard to achieve freedom from the self-imposed prison I found myself in.

Living one moment at a time is my key to spiritual enlightenment in this lifetime. Even though it took me a long time to achieve my spiritual maturity level, I am proud of myself for never giving up. In my case, it was a process, not an event, but worth every bit of effort I put into it. I have often wondered if my spiritual journey is worthy of sharing with others, but I now realize it is. That I why I am determined to finish writing my three books and get them published.

POLITICS, TRUE CRIME, AND CELEBRITY GOSSIP

I have been working on living in the present moment, creating a presence in my life, and diminishing the amount of negative thinking in my head. I have realized that I am addicted to certain things in my life that keep me from realizing my goal of true enlightenment. These three things are politics, true crime, and celebrity gossip.

It is effortless to get caught up in the atmosphere of politics in the United States, especially with the election of Joe Biden as president and Donald Trump's defeat. The country is polarized because half the country agrees with what Donald Trump says and does, and the other half does not agree. It seems to be an excellent way to get my mind off myself and get caught up in the frenzy of the political scene. Everyone has an opinion. Half the news organizations condemn Donald Trump and don't have a good thing to say about him. The other half seems to go in the direction of agreeing with everything he says and does. On Youtube, I can go on for hours at a time listening to these opinions. What I have come to realize is that this is not a productive use of my time. It is not in my best interest to judge anyone, including politicians. Who knows what is right and wrong, anyway? I have decided to devote my time and energy to becoming as emotionally healthy as I can. One of the best ways I can do this is to avoid listening to the opinions of others.

Another addiction I have had over the past many years is being absorbed and obsessed with true crime. I have spent many hours watching Youtube episodes, watching Dateline, and 48 hours, as a way to avoid feeling my own emotions. True crime is a national obsession, given the number of Podcasts on the subject, Youtube channels, and television shows available for viewing. This activity is another colossal waste of time, and it feels into the negativity that already exists in my mind. It seems that when I didn't want to sit with my negative feelings, I would start watching one of these programs to get my mind off whatever was going on. There are many more uplifting and inspiring ways to spend my time instead of listening to the horrible things that one person inflicts on another. I could choose to listen to a Youtube message from Eckhart Tolle, for instance, or watch an episode of Curiosity, Inc.

The last distraction I would like to discuss is celebrity gossip and the public's seemingly insatiable appetite for it. A way to take your mind off your own life is to fixate on someone else's problems. Youtube, magazines, newspapers, and television shows spend an excessive amount of time dissecting every possible detail of a celebrity's life. This obsession is because the general public has an appetite for it. I have not been as interested in this as the other two diversions mentioned above, but all three have been part of my life.

I am making a concerted effort to steer away from negative media that takes me away from my true self. I also try not to talk about anyone behind their back or gossip as part of my effort to become more spiritually enlightened and live in the present moment. I don't want to throw away my present precious moment by engaging in any of the above activities.

PART 18 POWERFUL WOMAN

"First, powerful woman, you must make the choice to reclaim yourself. Choice is your ally. Use it well. Treat it in a holy way. Every moment of your existence is a choice. You are but a choice away from living your life the way you and the highest God intended it to be lived. It is up to you, blessed one, powerful one, to make the choice to turn yourself in the direction that is noble, toward your heart, away from your mind, toward your power, not your weakness, toward your now, not your next."

Quotes in italics came directly from the recording "How a Powerful Woman Awakens," Maureen Moss, www.maureenmoss.com.)

I have chosen to reclaim myself as a powerful woman. I spent many years of my life, waiting for the approval and acceptance of others. What I didn't realize is that support was unnecessary. Of course, when I was a little girl, I had no idea that the disapproval I began experiencing from my family had nothing to do with me. Everyone in the family struggled to establish their way in life and came from an unenlightened state of mind. I accepted their rejection of me as the truth about my essence when I was coming from a place of pure light. I tried to figure out what I had done wrong and spent an excessive amount of my life trying to win their love back.

I can’t go back to my life and choose differently. The past is over and done. Dwelling on history and agonizing over regrets is a colossal waste of the present moment. From this moment forward, it is up to me to choose to live in and embrace the present moment and not waste any more time. It is never too late to realize that how I live my life a moment at a time is up to me. No one else has any say in how I perceive myself or how I choose to experience my life.

In the same way, I do not have the right to judge anyone else. Everyone is responsible for their own choices. Everyone has free will. I have learned to not concern myself with what anyone else thinks of me or what I think they think of me. When I get caught up in all that, I am using my mind excessively. As I move toward the direction of my heart, away from my mind, I am free. That in itself is a powerful and liberating feeling.

When I started the journey of this lifetime, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. I had many challenges to face and overcome. I have chosen, one moment at a time, to live my life the way I intended. The highest God intended me to live it that way as well. I live in a world that needs me and everyone else to awaken from the dream of unconsciousness and become enlightened. For my part, I am committed to fulfilling this. It is of utmost importance.

PART 17 POWERFUL WOMAN

"How you may ask do I reach and release my powerful self with wounds still oozing and psyche still bleeding? How do I forsake my past, nourish my tired body, and silence my mind that often berates me and tears at my essence? You come to know this, powerful woman, as the veils of illusion are lifted by your actions, you will come to know that your weakened sense of self has been an illusion, created by all false beliefs held in regard to the mental perceptions of the experiences of your life."

Quotes in italics came directly from the recording "How a Powerful Woman Awakens," Maureen Moss, www.maureenmoss.com.)

I can relate to these statements as I have spent my entire life trying to heal my wounded self. Releasing the past has been extremely difficult for me to accomplish. It is time to let the past go. I realized that everyone in the past that I resented and blamed for my circumstances was doing the best they could. I have wasted so much time agonizing over the perceived loss of the love of my family. I wanted them to love me, and in the process, I lost touch with myself.

Over the years, I have accumulated memories of many negatives experiences. I have felt guilty and ashamed about many things that have happened in my life. There is nothing I can do to change anything that occurred. I need to let these memories go and move forward. I have realized that I am a strong woman, not a weak one, and that I can move forward in a positive direction. Berating myself for wasting so much time is not a productive use of the time I have now.

My weakened sense of self has indeed been an illusion. My sensitive nature and compassion are among my most positive attributes, and they are among my greatest strengths. If everyone cared as profoundly about others as I do, the world would be a better place.

I realize now that the most important thing I can do is release the past and forgive anyone that I felt harmed me. I also need to forgive myself for allowing myself to dwell on these negative experiences to the point of immobilizing me from moving forward. I spent so much time agonizing over how I lost my family's love and how I could get it back that I became trapped in a never-ending cycle of negative self-talk. I realize now that my family did not set out to make my life miserable. That was never their intention. They were acting in the only way they knew how, and I reacted in the only way I knew how. I have spent many hours writing about my unhappy childhood, and it is now time to release that and continuously live in the present moment. That is where my freedom lies.

It is time to stop defining myself by my mistakes and experiences. Like my family, I was doing the best I could. I have been guided and encouraged for many years to release my past and not let it own me. I have made peace with many of my family members who I thought had harmed me in the first place. My mother and I forgave each other before she passed away in 2005. My father and I also came to terms with our relationship. He is working with me from the other side and is encouraging me to write our story. Many of the family members I interacted with while growing up support me from the other side. It is time to let it all go. It is best to let go of negativity while still living. Living in the present moment is the key to enlightenment. I want to leave all that baggage behind me when I do a transition. It has been a heavy burden all these years, and living in the present moment for the rest of my life is very appealing. I have all the resources and support I need to accomplish this.

I don't know why it took me so long to come to this conclusion finally. I am happy that I realized that my negative thinking was not based on reality but on false beliefs that I had accumulated and clung to for a long time. There are still people in my family that I regret have not forgiven me yet or perceived me as the beautiful person I am. Even if it doesn't happen during my lifetime, I know that eventually, all these issues will be resolved. There is nothing I can do to make this happen. I am only responsible for myself and my journey, and that is what I must concentrate on one precious moment at a time.

PART 16 POWERFUL WOMAN

"Rise up, powerful woman, rise up, and stretch to meet yourself, and you will be received with ecstatic applause."

Quotes in italics came directly from the recording "How a Powerful Woman Awakens," Maureen Moss, www.maureenmoss.com.)

I have wanted to rise up to my most significant potential for a long time. It all started when I was a little girl in Vermont, and it seemed that I lost the love of all my family members. I thought I had their love, and then I lost it, and it devastated me. I couldn't figure out what had happened, what I had done wrong, and I tried to change so that the family would love me again. I didn't realize then that their feelings and reactions toward me were not personal. I became the family scapegoat, and I served a purpose. As long as they could tear me down, they didn't have to look at themselves. My childhood and teenage years were sad, lonely, and seemingly without hope.

I developed particular ways of thinking and interacting with others, which did not serve me. I didn't know how to be in a healthy relationship with anyone. Everyone in the family told me it was my fault, and I accepted this. I experienced many difficulties throughout my early adult years. I had no one to turn to for support and guidance. Because I was the scapegoat to my family, I also took that role into my relationships and jobs. This way of relating to people caused continuous pain and frustration. I was continually sabotaging myself without realizing it.

When I was in my mid-20s, I first became interested in pursuing my spiritual mission. I knew I was on a spiritual journey. I joined a program called the Inner Peace Movement and attended many workshops and seminars. I wasn't able to realize my spiritual potential because I still assumed the role of scapegoat, and the members of the spiritual community treated me in that way. I still was having problems with my family, was trying to determine how I could remain in the family peacefully. My family members continued to see me negatively, and I stayed as the scapegoat, no matter what I did or said.

Instead of dealing with the pain and suffering I was experiencing and healing from it, I drifted into alcoholism. I became a full-blown alcoholic. Of course, this situation disgusted my family, who already thought I was crazy, and now I was drunk much of the time. My family never encouraged me to try and get sober and deal with my problems but kept reinforcing my failure. It gave them even more things to talk about behind my back. At age 40, I became terrified in my life situation and was afraid of what would happen to me if I continued to drink. I went to a 30-day residential rehab facility and have been able to maintain sobriety for 35 years without even one slipup. My family never acknowledged this or encouraged me in any way. I think they would have rather seen me drink myself to death. During my alcoholism and the initial period of sobriety, my spiritual path was put on hold. I knew I had to get sober if I had any chance at all of evolving spiritually.

A couple of years into my sobriety, I started attending the Unity Church of Albany (more of a spiritual community rather than a religious one). It was during my attendance at Unity that I met Roberta Yackel, who was the minister. She had recently begun channeling her spiritual teachers, referred to as "The Teachers of Peace." They were extremely helpful to me in helping me to define my spiritual purpose. It was about 1990 that I began working with them.

Through my work with these teachers, I was able to determine my spiritual purpose. They encouraged me to go to college to work as a therapist for adolescents experiencing the same type of trauma that I had endured. They also stressed to me the importance of letting go of my past. I was advised to get away from the negative influences of my family, particularly my mother. They explained that my family saw me negatively, and I also saw myself the same way. They suggested that I sit in meditation and ask my spiritual teachers to reveal my true nature.

Even though I was able to move to California to get myself physically away from my family, I could never break my connection with them. They had me convinced that it was all my fault. I remained their scapegoat. I could not let go of my past, which continued to haunt me and kept me a prisoner of my mind. I also continued in the scapegoat role in all my other associations. I couldn't seem to see that I was bringing all this suffering on myself and that I had a choice to change my thinking about myself. I was stuck. I was still not ready to rise up and see myself as a powerful woman.

While in California, I continued to seek spiritual guidance from time to time. One of the ways I did this was through a medium named Blanche. She advised me through a spiritual reading that my mother's life was nearing its end. Steven, my mother's spiritual guide, came through and told me that my mother was not going to pass over until I told her I loved her. He told me that I was stubborn in not forgiving her. This assertion shocked me because I didn't think she loved me, and she indeed never asked for forgiveness. I had always assumed that our relationship was unsalvagable. It turned out that my mother and I had longstanding karma that we both were determined to heal during this lifetime. To make a long story short, I told her I loved her, moved back to New York State, and took care of her until she died in November 2005. We had forgiven each other.

I still was not able to rise up as a powerful woman. I remained stuck in the old patterns and didn't know how to release them. I stayed in the scapegoat role for the remainder of my family and my relationships. I was still suffering. Another revelation I had while I was still in California was that my father worked with me on the other side and watched out for me. He urged me to write a book about our journey together, which didn't heal until after dying in 1999. Since I was about 45 years old, I have known that I was meant to write at least one book about my life story, and most likely, three books. I have started and stopped these books for the last 15 years. I can't seem to stick with them long enough to complete them.

The one positive thing I did accomplish in the last five years is giving up my scapegoat's habitual role to everyone I meet. This relinquishment has been most satisfying to me. I can finally see my family in their right light and realize that just because they see me negatively doesn't mean I have to accept that viewpoint. I am free to be a wonderful, powerful woman that I am.

In the last year or so, I have immersed myself in the teaching of present moment awareness. Being present has taught me to relinquish my hold on the past and not worry about the future. It is where my freedom lies. Living in the present has given me the motivation to continue writing without feeling immobilized. I am now able to rise up and meet myself. I not only can provide myself ecstatic applause, but I can feel it coming from my support system, including my spiritual teachers and my ancestors who are backing me from the other side. It's been a long time coming, but it's never too late to evolve spiritually.

PART 15 POWERFUL WOMAN

Nor has the fire of the divine mother God been extinguished from within you. Though it may have been dimmed while in the throes of experience, you powerful woman, are the keeper of that omnipotent flame." Quotes in italics came directly from the recording "How a Powerful Woman Awakens," Maureen Moss, www.maureenmoss.com.)

I have finally realized that I do have a fire of the divine mother God within me. I have known for a long time that I am a strong woman and have the ability and courage to reach the goals I have set for this lifetime. I don't need the approval of my family or anyone else to become the person I was always meant to be. One of the beliefs that kept me from more aggressively pursuing my goals was the fear that my family would become jealous of me if I were successful. I grew up thinking that I could not outshine anyone in my family, especially my mother and sisters.

The fire within me was indeed dimmed considerably during the many years of struggle with the negative experiences I endured. I was lost for a long time. It took me many years of soul searching to find myself. It is a relief to know that the flame was never extinguished and that I am the keeper of that omnipotent flame. I sometimes wonder if it is too late to salvage what I have left of this lifetime. But I now know that it is never too late. I have to keep ever vigilant about my tendency to overthink and not feed myself with negative self-talk that tends to immobilize me. I only have to do this one minute at a time. It is the present moment that counts. As long as I stay grounded in the present and do not worry about the past or the future, I have what it takes to deal successfully with the next present moment. It's as simple as that! I have all the support from the universe that I need to achieve my goals, one minute at a time.

PART 14 POWERFUL WOMAN

“It has never been taken lightly that earth life has taxed your spirit, prompted divine power to leak through the pores of your skin, and asked much of your heart. But take heart, powerful woman, it has not robbed you of the gifts of persistence, determination, and courage. Each is omnipotent.” Quotes in italics came directly from the recording "How a Powerful Woman Awakens," Maureen Moss, www.maureenmoss.com.)

My journey toward becoming a powerful woman has been fraught with much chaos and difficulty. I have suffered endlessly. It started when I was a little girl, and I felt I lost every family member's love and support. Up until about the third grade, I believed that everyone loved me. Around that time, I felt that everyone in the family changed their mind about me. This perceived loss was devastating to me. I thought there was something wrong with me, and if I could only change it, I could win back my family's support. This change never happened, and I finally realized I was fighting a losing battle. I also learned that many factors played into my family's drama and that it wasn’t personal toward me. I played the role of scapegoat in the family, and no one was going to admit this. Unfortunately, I had begun to see myself in a negative way that my family perceived me.

I finally realized that I am not the negative person that my family believed me to be. Ever since I was in my early 20s, I have been drawn to pursuing a spiritual path in my life. I have learned to lean on my spiritual teachers' guidance to show me my true nature, which is one of unconditional love for myself and all others. I no longer have to long for the approval and acceptance of my family, who will most likely never see me in this way. It has taken me a long time to accept this and move on with my life in the best way I can.

In the last few years, I have been influenced by many spiritual teachings. Living in the present moment is at the heart of these teachings. I also am learning to monitor negative self-talk. I have learned that my mind and the ego likes to play tricks on me and convince me that I am not a good person. This negativity has kept me from knowing what my goals in life are and then pursuing them. One of the messages I tend to receive from the negative self-talk is that I am too depressed to accomplish anything worthwhile. This message has immobilized me and kept me from finishing the books that I have been guided to write. I have written hundreds of pages but have not put them into a readable book format. It has been a stop-and-start process with long periods of inactivity between writing sessions.

I have finally begun to realize that I am a strong and powerful woman. With all the turbulence and chaos that I have experienced during my life, I wouldn't be here today if I wasn’t a strong woman. I have come to admire my persistence, determination, and courage. Through all my trials and tribulations, I never gave up. I am so grateful for that.

I recently was given the option of transitioning to my next life or staying here to finish what I had started. When the question was posed to me, I felt a tremendous sense of peace and was tempted to say I wanted to cross over. Then I realized that I still had books that I had promised to write and wanted to finish. I didn’t want to have my life review and questioned why I never finished the books. What could I say? So I decided to stay and continue my journey. Shortly after this decision, I almost died from kidney failure and septicemia. I would have passed away if that had been my decision. It was my version of a near-death experience.

I have since recovered from my illness. I have dedicated myself to write my life story and experiences to the best of my ability. I am guided by my father, who is now on the other side. We have an interesting story which I am telling. I am also receiving support from my ancestors who have passed away and my spiritual teachers. I am not in this alone by any means. I have also been advised to reach out to Archangel Gabriel, who will help me delegate time and energy to write. She will also help me enjoy the process. How can I lose?

PART 13 POWERFUL WOMAN

"You are the one you have been craving all of your life. You are the most important relationship you will ever have." Quotes in italics came directly from the recording "How a Powerful Woman Awakens," Maureen Moss, www.maureenmoss.com.)

These statements are so right. When I spent my whole life trying to gain my family's respect and love, I should have been concentrating on loving and accepting myself. I wanted them to love and respect me the same way I believed they did when I was a little girl. I didn't realize at the time that their perceived abandonment of me was not personal. Of course, I took it personally. Why wouldn't I? I was just a little girl, trying to survive in a world that I believed was rapidly dissolving around me. I began to see myself in the eyes of my family. They convinced me there was something inherently wrong with me, and I accepted that belief and took it on as my own.

I developed a false sense of myself. Along with that perceived negative image of myself, I began a self-talk pattern that has repeated in my head incessantly over the many decades of my life. I spent my whole life trying to gain acceptance from everyone around me instead of accepting myself as the marvelous person I am. Because I assumed the role of scapegoat in my family, that was the only way I knew how to relate to other people. Again and again, I have set up scenarios in which this destructive pattern has played out over my lifetime. Every time I did this, I lost a little bit more of my self-respect. My self-loathing caused me to become immobilized by negative and repetitive self-talk.

In trying to gain a relationship with family members, I lost the most connection I will ever have. That is the relationship with myself. I wasted time worrying about being accepted. I was afraid to be successful because I thought it would cause some of my family members to be jealous. I later learned that no matter what I did, individual family members were going to be envious. There was nothing I could do to control this. I also discovered that this was their problem, not mine.

I have been craving the love of myself all my life. I didn't realize it. I put everyone else first and my needs and desires last. One of the ways this has manifested is my inability to finish writing several books I started. Writing has been an on-again/off-again process. This hesitation relates to messages I have received from my family, none of whom want me to write these books. I finally realized that whether or not I write these books has nothing to do with them but everything to do with myself. I have a right to tell my life story as I see it. They also have the right to do the same thing. The two versions, I am sure, will be quite different. But that's okay.

Many years ago, I was working with a group of spiritual teachers. They were trying to encourage me to drop my old image, which was negative, and assume a new positive image. I was advised to sit down in meditation and ask my spiritual teachers to show me my real self instead of my family's negative version and accepted by me. I don't know whether I did that at the time, but I must do that now regularly. I have wasted enough time. My peace of mind and spiritual evolution depend on the relationship I have with myself. I am not alone in this quest, even though I perceived myself to be alone most of my life. I have my spiritual teachers, my ancestors who have crossed over, the help of the archangels any time I choose to ask for it, but most of all, I have myself. I am the most important relationship I will ever have. I deserve to see myself positively and stop the endless negative self-talk that has kept me a prisoner in my mind. I am free to be the best I can be. It's about time I realized that. It's been a long time coming.

MY DOG, DAISY

I have had two dogs during my adult lifetime, Sheba and Daisy. I got Sheba around 1999 when I lived in California. She was a puppy from a batch of puppies from my next-door neighbor. She continually squeezed through the fence until I became convinced that she wanted me as her owner. She was a little black puppy, half pit bull and half chow. She had scaly skin all over her body, which I later found out was mange.

A short time after I adopted Sheba, when she was still a puppy, her mother (the chow) got into the backyard and attacked her. She bit her in several places. I took Sheba to the vet, and she recovered physically, but she remained a neurotic and scared dog for the rest of her life. If dogs can have PTSD (posttraumatic stress disorder), she certainly did. She was a good dog, though, and loved children. She was always scared of men, though, and I believe she was abused by men when she was still a puppy.

The one thing that Sheba loved to do when she was a puppy was to run away from me. She liked to be chased by me. Sheba kept up this habit of running away from me her entire life. When she ran, she felt free as the wind for a dog otherwise afraid of everything. When I drove back to New York State in 2005, I took Sheba with me, although she had to be sedated because she was afraid to ride in a car. When we were halfway across the country, she got away from me. Fortunately, I caught her (probably because she was sedated), and we could continue our trip. Sheba lived to be 14 years old. I was sad when she died and vowed that I was not going to get another dog.

I don’t know what made me change my mind, but I started yearning for another dog about seven years ago. I decided to get an older dog for a couple of reasons. Because I was in my 60s then, I felt that I didn’t want to start with a puppy, and if I got an older dog, we could grow old together. I had decided to get a rescue dog, and older dogs were more challenging to place. I thought it would be nice to give an older dog a loving home.

In February 2012, when I returned from a trip to Florida with my teenaged grandson, Josh, I went to the Humane Society in Menands, New York, to choose a rescue dog. I had already chosen one from their website, but someone else had chosen the same dog by the time I got there. I looked around for another dog. My eyes landed on a terrier pit bull by the name of Punky Brewster. She didn’t pay much attention to me at all. I decided that she was the dog for me. She was five years old, which was just the right age. When I told the person at the Humane Society that I wanted her, they seemed surprised. The first thing they asked me was whether my landlord would allow me to have a pit bull. I assured her that this was not a problem. The people who worked at the Humane Society were delighted to see her. She had been there for many months, and no one had expressed an interest in her. I asked the girl if I could change her name. I thought that was a ridiculous name for a dog. They said that was fine because she didn’t answer to that name anyway. I immediately named her Daisy, in honor of my childhood dog, and she seemed to like that because she started responding to Daisy right away.

I learned a little bit about Daisy. She had been owned by a family who gave her up to the Humane Society. They then returned to get her. This reunion didn’t last long, and Daisy ended up being homeless before being rescued. Daisy had had puppies, and she was spade before I took her. You would think a dog with her history would have had some hangups, but Daisy didn’t have any at all. She was a good dog from the first day I got her. I tried to put her in a kennel when I went to work the first day after getting her, but Daisy got out of the cage. She never did any damage to my apartment.

Daisy was not afraid of anything and was utterly opposite to Sheba. She loved to ride in the car and didn’t cry when I took her to the vet. Daisy loves people and insists on saying hello to anyone we meet. She doesn’t jump on them or anything but wants them to give her a little pat on the head. Daisy likes men as well as women and is not afraid of anyone. She especially loves children and has endless amounts of patience with them. Everyone in the neighborhood knows Daisy and loves her. She is now 12-1/2 years old and seems to be in pretty good health. She loves to go for long walks and has lots of energy. She doesn’t limp when she walks. I think she will probably last another year or two, at least I hope she will. She has been an excellent companion to me. She turned out to be the perfect choice for me. I believe it was meant to be that we found each other when we did.

About two months or so ago, I started thinking that Daisy was getting ready to die. I based that mainly on the fact that I thought she had stopped eating. I later found out that she was playing games with me. She was trying to avoid eating dog food because she preferred to share my food with me. When all else failed, she would eat her dog food. I mentioned my worries about Daisy to a couple of people. I was worried off and on that she was nearing the end of her life. About November 14, I started worrying again about Daisy. I thought she wasn’t eating. By November 17, I was so concerned about her that I called my vet and arranged to have her come in for an appointment.

I went to work that day at 9 a.m. and was finished with my shift at noon. I was scheduled to go to my next client at 2 p.m. Since I was supposed to bring Daisy to the vet at 5:30, I arranged with my client to go a half-hour early. I started feeling bad at my morning shift, with a terrible backache and body aches all over. When I got home, I realized I was running a fever. It also became apparent that Daisy wasn’t sick (she was eating and drinking when I got home), but that I was the sick one. I canceled the vet appointment. By this time, I was too sick to go to my next client’s house, so I called in.

Over the next day or two, my illness progressed rapidly. At first, I thought it was just a minor ailment that I could rapidly shake off as I usually did. I had a fever that waxed and waned. I started having the chills which turned into rigors. The next day, I was scheduled to go to have a Covid test, but was too sick to drive. I was much more ill than I had ever been in my life. I started to worry that maybe I had Covid.

On Saturday, November 21, 2020, I managed to drive myself to the Urgent Care Clinic at 7:30 in the morning. I wanted to find out if I had Covid because I felt my clients had a right to know that they were possibly exposed to Covid. At the Urgent Care Clinic, the nurse practitioner did some tests, determined that I didn’t have the flu, and had a clear chest x-ray. She told me she was afraid I had sepsis and that I needed to go to the emergency room immediately. I asked her if I could wait until Sunday because I had a dog at home, and I didn’t want to leave her alone. At the time, I was more concerned about Daisy than I was about myself. I still didn’t realize the gravity of the situation. She told me I needed to go to the emergency room without waiting, and so I went.

It’s a good thing I went when I did because I was in kidney failure and I had septicemia. I didn’t know it, but I needed to have my gallbladder removed. It had suddenly gone bad and was pumping poison throughout my bloodstream. I didn’t know it then, but if I had waited just one more day to seek medical attention, I most likely would have died. It was so ironic that I had been worrying about Daisy for the past month when I was the one at risk. I very nearly died. That was a real wake-up call for me. I realized that there were many things that I still wanted to accomplish during this lifetime. I had always thought that I would live to be at least 85 or 90 because of my excellent health. It stunned me that I almost died at age 75.

By the time I was ready to be admitted to the hospital from the emergency room, I was delusional and delirious. The nurses told me that whatever I was saying didn’t make any sense. These delusions were because of the septicemia. I did have the presence of mind, though, to text my son and arranged with him to take my car home from the emergency room. He also picked up Daisy and took her to his house. I was willing to make arrangements with my vet to keep Daisy in the kennel until I was released from the hospital. He decided to keep Daisy with him. He has always gotten along well with her, and he loves dogs. She did very well with him.

I asked my son, Chris, where Daisy slept. I thought she probably slept in the living room. I was surprised when he told me that she slept with him. The first night she was there, when he went to bed, she came in and put her paws on the bed. That was her hint that she wanted to sleep with me because that’s what she always does with me. He picked her up and let her sleep with him. I thought that was so sweet. It was one last thing I had to worry about while I was in the hospital for six days recovering from my near demise.

I have since recovered entirely from my illness with no residual side effects. I knew I would recover because I knew I wasn’t ready to cross over yet, as tempting as that is sometimes. I don’t want to waste any more of my precious time. I don’t want to regret that I didn’t finish writing the books I had started. I am motivated to write as much as I can.

I am so thankful I have my dog, Daisy, my constant and ever-loving companion. She and I are so much alike in our temperaments. We both love people and children and look forward to interacting with them when we got on our walks. Hopefully, we will have a lot more walks together. Neither one of us is done living yet. That has become abundantly clear to me over the past couple of months.

I CHOOSE TO LIVE IN THE LIGHT

I was born in the light 75 years ago. I felt that love and light for the first six or seven years of my life. I didn’t realize how sweet that light was or how much it would come to mean to me at the time. I just took it for granted and basked in its glow. There were problems in my family from as early as I can remember, but when I was tiny, they didn’t seem to impede my feelings of love and well-being.

My mother’s name was Evelyn Bertha Phillips Atwood. She was born on September 2, 1922, and died on November 6, 2015. She had a profound impact on my life. She was born in rural Vermont to a farm family, the eldest of five daughters. Her family was of the utmost importance to my mother. As a child growing up, we spent much of our free time with extended family gatherings at my grandmother’s house. I was the middle daughter of three girls, and we loved going to what became fondly known as Grammie’s house.

My mother’s younger sisters especially showered the three of us with love and attention. We were the first grandchildren in the family. My extended family included many great aunts and great uncles who I found fascinating. I was nonjudgmental when I was a little girl, and I loved everybody unconditionally. For a long time, I felt they all loved me the same way. Life was good. I enjoyed everything about going to Grammie’s house, including playing outside in the fresh country air, eating Grammie’s fabulous home cooking, all made from scratch, and the constant attention I received from everyone. Even though we were poor, I didn’t seem to lack the necessary ingredients to live a full and happy life. What could go wrong? I was carefree, energetic, cute, and loved.

I lived what I felt was a joyful life until about the third grade. That’s when the façade of my contented life started to crumble. It seemed to start with my mother. She turned against me, and I couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong. My mother seemed to think that I was the favorite child of her three daughters. I didn’t see that coming as I felt we were all treated equally by all family members. But my mother was convinced of it, and she wasn’t going to let that happen. She went on an all-out campaign to turn everyone in the family against me, including my two sisters. All the family members sided with her against me, and I became the scapegoat of the family. I was devastated and spent the rest of my life trying to win back the love and affection from my family that I believed I had lost. I thought I had done something wrong and that I could change if I could determine what it was. This faulty belief was a futile effort on my part and led to a lifetime of damaging self-talk and self-sabotaging.

There were a couple of things I didn’t realize at the time all this was happening. It seems that I had chosen my family and the circumstances of my life to further my spiritual evolution. My mother and I had had experiences many previous lifetimes together, and we had amassed karmic baggage that we both were intending to heal this time around. This karma led to a lifetime of having a love/hate relationship with my mother that affected every part of my existence. I came to see myself in the same negative way that my mother and the rest of my family saw me. I didn’t realize I had a choice to view myself in a more positive light. I felt stuck, and I believed I needed to regain my family's love to move forward. This long-held belief was not right, and it led me into a life of chaos.

Another crucial element of my life was my spiritual inclinations with which I was born. I was born into a family in which I was more spiritually evolved than the other members. At first, my family seemed to like this and did not feel threatened by it. I was able to give and receive unconditional love as a young child. My family members seemed to respond positively initially, but my spiritual light eventually became a disdain source, starting with my mother. She appeared to be threatened by it. Part of my personality was that I was sensitive as a child. I didn’t want to see anyone suffer and often expressed this to my mother. This element of my personality was eventually turned against me as a negative, and I was accused of being crazy, among other things. Unfortunately, I believed all this negativity about myself. I incorporated it into my self-talk for the majority of my life. This negative self-talk has caused endless and needless suffering. It has immobilized me from realizing the goals that I set for my life.

I have always been faced with the dilemma of whether to live in the darkness or the light. I believe that I was supposed to be a beacon of spiritual light for my family. I didn’t realize that they had a choice of whether to choose the light or stay in the dark. I am only responsible for my personal preference and not the options of any of my family members. Everyone is on their spiritual journey, whether they realize it or not. I realized I was on a spiritual journey in my 20s and guided toward that journey most of my life. What I didn’t realize is that not everyone has the same inclinations toward a spiritual path. Maybe they are just not ready yet. I have learned that it is rare that a person chooses a spiritual path and that what sometimes leads them to the way is suffering.

Because I still craved my family's acceptance along the way, I told them about some of my spiritual experiences. I wanted their approval and was only met with disdain and derision. My family used this as another excuse to provide evidence of my diminished mental state. I didn’t realize for the past many decades that I didn’t have to worry about what my family thought about me one way or another. What my family thought of me was not personal, although it seemed like it at the time. Every person has a journey to make, and it is no one’s business how they choose to make it. To worry about someone else is a colossal waste of time because it takes the person away from the present moment. It is a needless distraction.

After all these years and much internal struggle and suffering, I have at long last decided to live in the light. I will do this one precious moment at a time. I have books I am writing, and delaying them any longer is not going to happen. Moment by moment, I will listen to my inner voice, and when it starts to veer off in a negative direction, I will stop it in its tracks. I’ve wasted enough precious time. I made a promise to live the rest of my life in the light. That includes sharing my light and insights with anyone who is drawn to listen to them.

NOT EVERYONE CAN BE SUPPORTIVE OF ME

I spent a good deal of my life trying to get support from a family who, for the most part, was incapable of giving it to me. The lack of support all started when I was a little girl. Until about the third grade, I thought everyone in my family loved me, and I certainly loved them. Gradually beginning with my mother, followed by other family members, I lost the love of my family. I couldn’t understand why this happened and spent many decades trying to prove to my family that I was worthy of their love. I wanted to get something back that I thought I had lost. I finally realized that I was the family scapegoat and that it was impossible for my family to provide me with any meaningful support. Unfortunately, it took me many decades to realize this. I suffered for many years believing that there was something wrong with me. I felt that if I could only correct it, I would become loveable. I finally came to believe that there is absolutely nothing wrong with me. I had to learn to love and accept myself. I found that not everyone will be there for me, regardless of their words or promises, and that it is not about me. It is nothing personal. It is their issue, not mine.

In November 2020, I became gravely ill. I had a near-death experience. Before I became sick, I could choose whether I wanted to make my transition now or continue with this life. It was a simple question that I received as a thought. I believe my spiritual teachers posed the question to me as I felt very peaceful at this time. I was almost tempted to cross over as there were people on the other side I wanted to see. Then I realized I wasn’t quite ready for my life review yet. I had started three books (all about half or more written), and I wanted to finish them. I have been given guidance for years to write these books and have had difficulty completing them. I promised that I would complete the books before crossing over. This promise happened before I got sick. Instead of almost dying and then coming back, the reverse happened to me. I decided to stay before the near-death experience.

Before long, I became very sick. I needed to have my gallbladder removed; however, before this could happen, the poison from the gallbladder went to my bloodstream causing acute kidney failure and septicemia, which if left untreated, would have caused my death within a day or so. I was able to get to the emergency room in time, have my gallbladder removed, and recover from the severe infection. Because of the promise I had made earlier, I knew I was going to live. It took me about a month to recover my health, and I am now writing about my life experiences.

The only family members who knew I was sick were my son, Chris, and my grandson, Josh. My family has been split apart for a long time. My daughter, Deana, and my two granddaughters have been estranged from me for over 15 years. I don’t believe my son is in touch with them either, so he didn’t inform them of my sickness. My two sisters, Phylis and Joyce, also did not know of my illness. I almost told Joyce in an e-mail about my plight but then decided against it. I didn’t believe either of them were capable of giving me proper support, and I didn’t want to go through the motions of whatever they might offer. I also didn’t wish for Joyce to tell Deana. She turned her back on my life many years ago. Deana certainly realizes that I could die at any time, being 75 years old. I didn’t want to beg for her support or be hurt again because she didn’t give it to me. You can’t make someone else love you. It’s too bad it took me so long to come to terms with that fact.

Throughout my lifetime, I have repeatedly chosen the wrong people from whom to try to get support. These people were no more capable of supporting me than my own family. I was choosing the same scenario over and over again and always got the same results. You would think I would have learned by now. I guess not, though, because the other day, I had a similar experience.

I have a next-door neighbor who is probably in her 50s. She lives with the gentleman who owns the house. Sometimes she would be friendly to me, and other times she was rude and arrogant. While I was in the hospital and after I came home to recuperate, I thought that maybe if I saw her, I could tell her what had happened to me and perhaps get some support.

A few days ago, we had a massive snowstorm with at least two feet of snow accumulation. I was in my garage trying to figure out how to dig my car out when I looked up and saw my neighbor. I thought this was a perfect time to share my experience. Instead of saying hello or asking me how I was, she demanded to know if my garbage can was blocking her back gate. The last time the garbage was emptied, the garbage can was thrown up against her entrance, and the snow had blocked it. I was surprised at how angry she was and felt hurt that she didn’t even ask me how I was. “Do you want me to move it?” I asked. “Oh, never mind, I’ll figure it out myself,” she snarled and stomped off without another word.

I dug the garbage can out and was about to write her a note saying the can was removed. Instead, I saw her in the front and told her I moved the can. She said, “Well, you don’t have to be so snotty.” That did it. I became angry and said, “I just got out of the hospital after a week and almost died. I am 75 years old. If you’re going to find something to fuss about, I think you could find something better than that.” I then turned around and slammed my front door. (Incidentally, it’s been about a week, and she still hasn’t tried to get out the back gate.) 

came to believe that there were a couple of reasons why I reacted the way I did. The first reason is that she reminded me of my family, and my frustration with them was obvious. I then realized that most people don’t think of other people but are only concerned with their own lives. Not everyone feels the same way I do. I tend to put other people’s concerns above my own, and I am a very compassionate and caring person. I had to forgive myself for overreacting and forgive her for not offering me support. I must love and support myself because I am the most important relationship I will ever have. This need for self-love has been a hard lesson to learn.

MY VERSION OF A NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE

In the last few weeks, I underwent a profound spiritual experience, which I now realize was a form of a near-death experience. I have always been fascinated by the concept of a near-death experience. One of the reasons, I believe, is that I came into this lifetime highly evolved, and I always knew I had a spiritual purpose that I wanted to complete. My consciousness drew me to spirituality in my early 20s. At the time, I believed that everyone sooner or later had the same desires as I did, that is, that we came to this lifetime to evolve spiritually. I thought this search was everyone's to make, find, and fulfill their unique purpose in life and grow spiritually. I found out later that this assumption was not correct and that I was unusual in my quest for spirituality. Most people didn't give it a thought. This fact became especially true of my family, who often thought I was weird because of my beliefs and maybe even a little unbalanced mentally. My family didn't share my enthusiasm, but it didn't stop me in my quest to find my purpose; however, it did slow things down quite a bit off and on.

When I was in my early 40s, after I had become sober after a severe bout of alcoholism, I entered a period where I actively pursued my purpose through some spiritual programs that I encountered. I became aware that my spiritual goal was to help children and adolescents recover from traumatic events in their lives, much as I had been able to overcome. When I was 45, I left New York State for San Bernardino, California, to pursue my education to fulfill my purpose. It took me ten years, but I finally achieved a Master of Social Work degree from Cal State San Bernardino.

I was poised to begin my life work with my educational credentials in hand. I went to work as a foster care social worker and worked for four years in that position from 2001 until 2005 when I came back to New York State to help my mother transition and heal the longstanding karma that we carried with us. After my mother died, I tried to get a job working with children but was not successful. I continued to work as a medical transcriptionist, frustrated that I was not using my education and fulfilling my purpose. I eventually did obtain a position utilizing my social work degree, but it wasn't with children. I worked as a director of the Adult Day Services Program in Cohoes for four years. I felt that at least I was contributing to working with people with Alzheimer's.

Looking back now, I believe that I stopped short of achieving my goal of working with children by not becoming a licensed social worker to provide therapy. I was still greatly influenced by the negative programming that I received from my family throughout my life. Unfortunately, I saw myself in the same way that they perceived me, and this belief kept me tethered to my past. No matter how hard I tried to shake the past, it was with me ever reminding me what a worthless person I was.

When I cross over, and I have my life review, I don't believe that I will say that I fulfilled my real purpose in life. I wasn't able to provide help to children that I desired. This failure is a huge regret of mine. I recently tried to atone for this failure by working as a caregiver to persons with Alzheimer's. It is almost like working with children, and I am very skilled at this. I hope in some small measure it makes up for my failure to help children.

There is another aspect of fulfilling my purpose. Ever since I achieved sobriety some 35 years ago, I began getting messages to write a book about my life experiences. I have done a lot of writing over the years, and I have three books that are almost three-quarters of the way done. One book is about my spiritual life with Daddy and its evolution even after he died in 1999. Another is about healing my longstanding karmic relationship with my mother, which is nothing short of miraculous. A third is about growing up in a family highly stigmatized by mental illness and how it affected my life. My negative self-talk has prevented me from finishing any of them. All of the three books have healing messages that could help many people if they read them. I also know that Daddy is very anxious for me to finish the one about our relationship, and it must be frustrating to him when I keep putting it off.

So the backdrop of my spiritual purpose and my desire to put down my healing stories leads me to what I believe was a near-death experience. As I stated earlier, this concept has always interested me. My sister, Joyce, actually did have a near-death experience, and it happened the way I thought most of them did. In other words, you almost die, and just before you complete your transition, you realize that you aren't quite finished with your earthly sojourn and so turn back only in the nick of time. You are given a choice, of course, if you want to stay or want to go.

A long time ago, my sister Joyce had a lot of problems with her female organs. One night she was lying in bed, and her heat went off. The cold air prompted her to get up and check it out. She realized she was heavily bleeding and went immediately to the hospital. It turns out she was bleeding internally and had almost bled to death. She recalls feeling more peace than she had ever felt before and was going down a receiving line where many souls welcomed her to the other side. In the meantime, the nurses were yelling at her to come back. Even though she was more peaceful than she had ever been, Joyce returned because she still had many things left to do. I don't know if she honestly had a spiritual epiphany or not, but she did say that she is no longer afraid to die. Her spiritual teachers gave her the choice of whether to stay or go. 

recently had an experience that was a little in reverse of what I believed would be a near-death experience. It was about November 11. I was standing in the doorway of my bedroom, and a feeling of peace came over me. This feeling was unlike what I had typically been experiencing. The thought came to me that maybe it was time for me to cross over. At first, I thought it was a pretty good idea. The question formed in my mind of whether I felt I had accomplished everything I had wanted. Maybe I could be of more assistance to humanity from the other side. The fact that I would see people who I knew unconditionally loved me appealed to me. I remember thinking how nice it would be to see Eugene since I knew he had died a couple of years earlier.

Just as I was getting comfortable with the thought of passing over and feeling warm and fuzzy about it, it occurred to me that I had left some things undone. The main thing I thought about was my books, especially the one about Daddy and me. He has wanted me to finish it for a long time. I made a promise right then and there that if I didn't die that I would finish writing the books, no excuses allowed. I promised faithfully, word of honor, that I would do this.

I didn't overthink it at that time other than to believe that I had dodged a bullet. I had thought I was perfectly healthy and had nothing wrong with me that would cause me to die. Of course, the threat of Covid loomed over everyone because in November 2020, the world, particularly the United States, was right in the middle of a pandemic. Maybe I was supposed to catch Covid, and that would kill me. I didn't seriously think so, though, because I was not engaging in risky behaviors, and I didn't have any symptoms. Of course, many things could happen, including an accident. So I was relieved that I didn't have to go through that. I had already decided that I wanted to live and continue with my journey. I wouldn't have to go through the near-death part, I thought. Boy, was I wrong!

Looking back, it started on Saturday night, November 14, when I remember having the chills and not being able to get warm all night long, no matter how many blankets I piled on or how high I put the heat. I was cold to the bone. I don't believe I was running a fever, though. I seemed to feel better and went to my shift as a caregiver for Home Instead, although now that I think about it, I didn't feel quite right. I felt rundown and even told my supervisor that I no longer wanted to work on the weekends because I was getting too tired.

I went to work on Monday at 9 a.m. I felt okay, but I thought my dog, Daisy, was dying. I didn't believe she was eating properly and that she was going to die. (She is now 12 years old.) I later found out that Daisy was trying to get me to give her my food instead of her dog food and that she ate her dog food when that was all she had. Wednesday, November 18, I was concerned enough about Daisy that I called the vet, and they said I should bring her in immediately. I made an appointment for 5:30 p.m. that day.

I went to work at my 9 a.m. shift, but I noticed that I had severe back pain and neck pain and felt ill. I went home and took my temperature, and it was 100 degrees. This temperature is high for me as I usually run 97 degrees. I called the office and told them that I had a fever and didn't feel well. My job requires that we notify them if we have a fever of 100 or higher. Since I felt terrible and had a fever, I did not go to my regular shift. I then realized that Daisy wasn't sick at all, and so canceled her vet appointment.

My fever waxed and waned for the next 12 hours or so. I had called my primary care provider, who advised me to get a Covid test to make sure. I didn't have many Covid symptoms, though, just the fever and chills. I tried to convince myself that it was a transient illness that would soon fade away. I had scheduled a Covid test for noon on November 19. The next morning I had rigors (shaking chills where my knees knocked and my teeth rattled for a couple of hours). I was sick. I could not drive myself to get the Covid test without risking my life. My fever continued to wax and wane, and I found out that sometimes happens when you have Covid. I went into a panic because I was afraid I had Covid and possibly exposed some of my clients to it.

I called my office and told them how sick I was. Kim, the director, advised me to call my doctor immediately. Not only was I worried about having Covid, but so was everyone in the Home Instead office. I called my primary care physician's office and told them I was too sick to drive to get a Covid test, and what should I do? The nurse advised me to wait until Monday to see if I felt better and then get the test. She said there was nothing the office could do until I proved I did not have Covid. Now I am convinced I have Covid, no doubt about it in my mind.

I didn't dare wait until Monday to see if I felt better because it took five days from the time you took the test to get the results, and I didn't want to jeopardize my clients by having them wait to see if I indeed had Covid. By now, it was getting harder and harder to get an appointment to get a Covid test because of the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. I had given up my 12 o'clock appointment, and there were no more appointments for that day.

Something told me to keep trying to get an appointment for Saturday, November 21. One of the girls in the office said that I could come in as a walk-in if I had symptoms. I didn't want to waste any more time, and so I dragged myself over to Latham at 7:30 to get the Covid test. I got the Covid test, and I figured they would send me home to wait for the results. I should receive by Wednesday, November 25, at the latest. I was anxious to let my employer know of the results, mainly if I tested positive for Covid. I knew I wasn't going to die from it because of my teachers' encounter regarding whether I wanted to stay or go. I was more worried about exposing other people than for my safety.

To my surprise, the Walk-in Clinic kept me there to evaluate me further. They didn't think I had Covid but knew there was something drastically wrong with me. They did a flu test, which was negative (I already had my flu shot this year). They also did a chest x-ray, which was negative for any infiltrates, further helping to rule out Covid. They also did a urinalysis, which showed infection. I had noticed that my urine had begun to smell very strong in the two days previous to this test. I still was clueless that I had anything wrong with me.

The Nurse Practitioner came into the room and said I needed to go immediately to the emergency room to find out exactly what was going on with me. She said she thought I had sepsis. I knew sepsis was very serious and could be life-threatening, but I didn't know I had it. How could I get sepsis? Wasn't I perfectly healthy? So I dismissed that as a possibility. I was in total denial that I could have anything that threatened my life.

Because I was worried about my dog at home, I asked the Nurse Practitioner if I could wait to go to the emergency room the next day. She said emphatically stated that I needed to go now and even called Samaritan Hospital to tell them I was on my way. I reluctantly drove to the emergency room. A short time after I arrived in the emergency room, I went into another severe bout of rigors. I couldn't get warm. My knees were knocking, and my teeth were chattering. I later found out that chills can be a sign of Covid, but rigors were not. After this bout of the rigors, I became delirious and could not make any sense at all. I was delusional.

It finally dawned on me that I was in severe medical jeopardy when the doctor told me that I was in kidney failure. I also had septicemia. They took me immediately to have an ultrasound of my gallbladder, which showed acute cholecystitis, and the surgeon made arrangements to remove the gallbladder the next morning. I now realize that the gallbladder had gone wrong when I had the initial session of chills on November 14, and it got progressively worse as time elapsed. It was causing severe infection in my blood and causing my organs to begin failing. I was on the verge of death. If I hadn't gone to the emergency room when I did and had waited until the next day, I would have died. It was that close. I hadn't dodged a bullet after all. Here was my near-death experience. I had never been so sick in my life. My angels, teachers, Daddy and Mother, and a whole flock of angels worked overtime to save my life.

After the surgery, I began a slow road to recovery. I stayed in the hospital for six days on IV fluids and IV antibiotics. My renal function returned to normal, as did my white blood count. I should make a full recovery. Right now, I am at home, trying to get my strength back. I feel a little better every day. I am concerned that my sodium count is low, but I am trying to raise that. My other labs are almost within expected levels. Today is the first day I felt up to writing. Hopefully, this is the beginning of my finishing my books as I promised. I don't want to face my life review and have my teachers ask me why I didn't finish writing the books. I really would not have a satisfactory answer to that question. I also realized I have other unfinished business waiting for me. When it is time for me to cross over, I do not want to feel ambivalent about it. I want it to be a joyous occasion in all ways.

I now know if I didn't before, I am guided every step of the way. All I have to do is ask for assistance, and all the sources of heaven are available to provide it to me.

SIX DAYS IN THE HOSPITAL

The last time I was an inpatient in the hospital was January 1988 when I had a hysterectomy. That was 32 years ago. The last time I was sick enough to require a physician’s care and antibiotics was also in 1988 when I had walking pneumonia. Since then, I have been relatively healthy, and the only time I went to a doctor was for my annual checkups. Of course, I have had a cold occasionally and haven’t felt well from time to time, but nothing serious.

Because of my medical history and my ability to recover from illnesses quickly, I did not take it seriously when I became sick on November 15. I believed I would bounce back within a day or two. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It turned out that my gallbladder needed to be removed because of acute inflammation and gallstones on November 15. I had experienced chills during the night. If I had gone to the doctor immediately and had my gallbladder removed then, the procedure would probably have been uncomplicated. I was not able to get medical attention until November 21 for several reasons. One reason is that I was running a fever and needed to be cleared for Covid before my doctor would see me. The other reason is that I didn’t think I was seriously ill, given my previous medical history.

By the time I received medical attention on November 21, I was in acute kidney failure and was suffering from septicemia. The poison from the gallbladder was in my blood, and I was very close to dying. One more day, and I believe I would have died. The emergency room personnel determined what was wrong with me and arranged for my admission and surgery the next day. It finally occurred to me the precarious situation in which I found myself. I am 75 years old and, of course, I know I will die, but I realized I wasn’t ready yet. There were things that I wanted to do before my time came. I have three books in the process of being written, and I wanted to finish them. So I decided to fight for my life. I knew I would live, but I’m not sure that the medical personnel was as convinced of this as I was. I was a very sick woman. But I knew I was a strong woman and that I would make it.

While I was still in the emergency room, I had an episode of rigors that lasted a couple of hours. I was shaking all over, my knees were knocking together, and my teeth were chattering. I became delusional and delirious at that time, and nothing I said made any sense. The poison from the gallbladder was killing me. I had arrived in the emergency room at about 10:30 a.m., and the hospital staff took me to the floor about 12 hours later. I was placed in a hospital bed, and a nurse started IV antibiotics and IV fluids. I must have fitfully slept because the next thing I remember is being taken down to the operating room at about 7:30 a.m. Dr. Hykin, the surgeon who would laparoscopically remove the gallbladder, introduced himself. That’s all I remember until I woke up in my hospital room after the surgery was completed. I felt terrible. I was given morphine and rested for a while.

I do recall thinking that I was in a psych ward of Samaritan Hospital. That demonstrates how strange my thinking was. Many years ago, my mother had been admitted to the psych ward of Samaritan Hospital a few times because she had bipolar disorder with psychotic features. She hated being in the psych ward. I asked one of the aides if I was in the psych ward, and she assured me I wasn’t. I still thought I was and didn’t change my mind until I went for a walk around the area and realized it wasn’t the psych ward. Many old ladies in bed were recovering from surgery, just as I was. My thinking gradually returned to normal, thank goodness.

I spent the next six days in the hospital. Typically someone who has a laparoscopic cholecystectomy recovers rapidly. This procedure is often done as an outpatient, but at the very most, an overnight stay in the hospital would be required. I didn’t bounce back that quickly because of the poison in my bloodstream. An Infectious Disease specialist oversaw my care. After a few days, he told me that my white blood count had returned to normal and that as soon as they knew what the organism was that was causing the infection, I could be put on oral antibiotics.

To go home on oral antibiotics, I had to be able to keep water and food down. After two or three days, the staff discontinued the IV fluids; however, I couldn’t keep water down, so these were restarted. I was nauseous all the time. The hospital food was disgusting. I hadn’t eaten much of anything for over a week. I was tired of being sick and wanted to get back to my normal state of health. I wanted to get rid of the IV fluids and antibiotics. The Infectious Disease doctor told me that if I didn’t start eating, I would not get well. That night I forced myself to eat an egg salad sandwich, and the next day I forced down most of the breakfast. Because I was able to eat, I was discharged from the hospital on the sixth hospital day. I still felt weak, sick, and tired, but at least I was going home, which was a step in the right direction. It took me a couple of weeks at home to start feeling well again. Today is December 22, 2020, about one month after the surgery, and I can honestly say I feel like my healthy self at last. It was quite a journey.

One curious thing happened the last night I was in the hospital. For the last few months, I have been having problems with charging my cell phone. I would have to put it in safe mode to set it, and it would only stay charged for a few hours. I had brought my charger with me to the hospital and was trying to keep the phone charged. The night before I was to leave the hospital, my phone could not be charged. It had died on me. The next day, I dragged myself to Verizon to see what was wrong with my phone. Sure enough, it had died, and I had to buy a new phone. I thought it was funny because I almost died in the hospital, and my phone died instead. I thought it was kind of symbolic of the struggle I had undergone.

ALMOST A COVID CASUALTY? 

I recently went through an experience unlike anything I had ever encountered. I almost died. It was my version of a near-death experience. It was backward, though, as the question was posed to me, “Are you ready to cross over yet? It’s your choice. Do you think you have accomplished everything and are ready to make your journey home?” At the time, I had the most peaceful feeling and was for a moment or two jubilant. I knew what waited for me on the other side, and that was pure love, like nothing I had experienced during this lifetime.

Then I got to thinking. I considered the books that I was writing and had only half completed. I thought of all the excuses I had given myself as to why I couldn’t finish them. I thought about Daddy, who, for the past 20 years, has been patiently encouraging me from the other side to write, especially about our life together and the spiritual lessons we learned. I didn’t want to have a life review and admit that I had not finished writing the books. I made a promise right then and there that I would finish writing the books. I felt well then and did not realize that I was about to become gravely ill.

A few days later is when it all began. It started with having the chills on Sunday night, November 15, 2020. That was unusual for me. I piled on every blanket I could find and still felt cold to the bone. The next day was Monday, and I felt okay and no longer felt chilled. I was not running a fever and went to work as usual. I took Tuesday off because I had to stay home to make sure my landlord did some apartment repairs. I don’t believe I took my temperature that day because I didn’t go to work.

I went to work on Wednesday, November 18 and started feeling sick. My back ached, and my muscles all over my body were sore. I had a temperature of about 99, which was high for me as my temperature usually runs about 97. I was between shifts on my job, and when I retook my temperature, it was 100. I called the office, home Instead, and reported that I had a fever of 100 and said I didn’t feel well. Because of the Covid pandemic, my employer required me to note any fever of 100. The manager of Home Instead, Kim, told me not to go to work and call my doctor for further instructions.

I didn’t feel well, but I didn’t feel terrible at that time, either. My fever waxed and waned, down to 97, back up to 100, and finally up to 101. I thought it was something I could shake off like I usually did. I didn’t believe it was anything serious at that point. I didn’t feel I had anything life-threatening as I knew I wouldn’t die because of the promise I had made a few days previously. I thought I had dodged a bullet.

I made a telephone appointment with my primary care provider, Robert Smith, PA, for 3 p.m. He asked me a few questions. I told him I had a fever that was going up and down, and at the time I talked to him, I felt it wasn’t anything serious. He asked me if I was having breathing difficulties or losing my sense of taste or smell. I didn’t have these symptoms, just the fever, and chills. I also told him I thought I was getting better. I had convinced myself it was not anything serious. He advised me to get a Covid test to be on the safe side. He told me where to go to get an appointment. I told the office manager, and she took me off my schedule until I had the Covid test results. I made an appointment for 10:30 on Thursday, November 19, at the WellNow Urgent Care Clinic in Latham, New York.

I did not do well overnight. My fever came and went. The highest temperature I had was 102. I started having rigors early on the morning of November 19. The rigors refer to the shaking and chills you experience in response to a severe infection, such as the novel coronavirus, making its way into the bloodstream. My knees knocked together, my teeth rattled, and I was so sick I could barely get up. I knew I wouldn’t be able to drive myself to the urgent care clinic at 10:30. I was going to call and cancel, but the phone wouldn’t work. I was desperate to cancel the appointment, and so I e-mailed my supervisor and told her I was too sick to go and get the Covid test. I asked her to call and cancel the appointment. I knew I was ill because at any other time I was sick, I still was able to drive my car. There’s no way I could have safely driven my care at that point.

I finally got my phone to work, and my manager became quite concerned about me. She told me to contact my doctor immediately. By now, I thought I had Covid, and so did she and everyone else in the office. I was worried because of the older people I was working with and the fear that if I had Covid, I might have given it to them. I was determined to get a Covid test, no matter what else happened. I was starting to believe that I had Covid, but I didn’t think it would kill me as I knew I would not die.

Taking the advice of my manager, I called my doctor’s office. I had just had a phone conversation with him the day before, and he didn’t seem to be concerned about me. I kept trying to call the nurses’ telephone line but got no answer. I finally reached the receptionist and asked her what I should do. I told her I was too sick to drive to get a test. She said that someone I lived with could drive me. I live alone with my dog, and I didn’t know anyone who could provide transportation. Besides, I thought I had Covid, which complicated my ability to get a ride by this time. I knew I couldn’t expose anyone to Covid if I had it. Finally, the receptionist asked my primary care provider’s nurse what I should do. She advised that I should wait until Monday to see if I felt better. No one suggested that I go to the emergency room in an ambulance since I was too sick to drive.

I knew I didn’t want to wait for Monday to get a Covid test because it takes at least five days to get the results. I was worried about my clients, and if I did have Covid, I felt they should be informed immediately. I was more concerned about them than I was myself. I also knew I couldn’t go back to work until I had a negative Covid test, so I was determined to get a test.

By now, I was feeling better enough that I thought I could drive because the rigors had subsided. I called WellNow Urgent Care Clinic and tried to get another appointment for a test, but the receptionist told me there were no more openings for that day. The appointment I had given up was filled. I asked if I could come in as a walk-in as I was having symptoms, and the receptionist said that it was impossible for that day. She did say that I could come in as a walk-in the next day since I was having symptoms. I learned that the clinic opened at 7:00 a.m., and I was determined to get there. I was hoping that I wouldn’t get rigors again, which made me the sickest. The receptionist assured me someone on their staff would see me if I came in first thing the next morning.

I still felt sick, but I thought I could safely drive the three miles to Latham. I was shaky but made it to WellNow at 7:00 a.m. True to their word, the urgent care staff took me into an examining room immediately. A technician administered the Covid test. I would have to wait five days for the result. I thought that I would be sent home to await the results of the test anxiously. Instead, a Nurse Practitioner came in to examine me. She didn’t seem to think I had Covid. I wasn’t having trouble breathing, and the only symptom that I had was fever and chills. The first thing she did was give me a flu test. It turned out that I didn’t have the flu. She then did a urinalysis, and she said that there was something wrong with the urinalysis. I believe she said I had an infection. That made sense because for the past couple of days, my urine had smelled very strong. She also ordered a chest x-ray, which was negative and showed no infiltrates.

In the meantime, I am not feeling well at all. I tried to rest but found that impossible. The nurse practitioner came back into the examining room and told me that I needed to get immediately to the emergency room so they could determine what was wrong with me. She said she thought I had sepsis and that blood work would need to be done to determine what was causing it. From my years as a medical transcriptionist, I knew that sepsis was severe and could be life-threatening, but I couldn’t see how I could have it. I still didn’t think I was that sick.

Because I had a dog at home, I was worried about what would happen to her if I went to the emergency room. I asked the nurse practitioner if I could wait until the next day to go to the emergency room. She said that I needed to go immediately, and she called them and told them that I was on my way. I drove to the emergency room even though I was very sick.

I was left in a waiting room at the emergency room for what seemed like a long time. By now, I was starting to get the rigors again. I was shaking all over, and my teeth were chattering. No amount of blankets could warm me up. The emergency room events are a blur, but the first thing I remember a doctor saying which got my attention was that I was in kidney failure. I knew then that I was a very sick person. I also had septicemia, which is severe and life-threatening. I remember going to the x-ray department and the technician performing a CT scan of my stomach.

It was determined that my gallbladder had gone wrong as I had acute cholelithiasis and cholecystitis. The poison from it was pumped throughout my system. This poison was causing kidney failure and septicemia. It finally occurred to me that I was in the process of dying. I was admitted to the hospital, and arrangements were made with the surgeon to remove my gallbladder the next morning. I was also started on IV fluids and IV antibiotics. I now know that if I hadn’t sought treatment, I probably would not have survived. I was a ticking time bomb. I knew I would come through this ordeal, but I’m not sure everyone in the hospital felt the same way. I was sicker than I had ever been in my life. The one thing I was relieved about was that I did not have Covid, and I hadn’t exposed anyone to this dreadful disease.

The rigors that I had in the emergency room caused more poison to enter my body, and I started getting delirious and delusional. I was saying things that made no sense. I did have enough understanding to contact my son and arrange for him to pick up my car at the emergency room and retrieve my dog. I think I was more concerned about my dog than I was myself. I do know that if I hadn’t forced myself to drive to get the Covid test, I probably would have died at home. Who knows how long it would have taken for someone to find me.

I was kind of bitter because I felt that I had to prove that I didn’t have Covid before receiving treatment. The minute a doctor’s office knows that you have a fever, then you have to prove you don’t have Covid. However, in retrospect, thinking I might have Covid ultimately saved my life. I was so determined to find out if I had Covid that I sought treatment just in the nick of time. I didn’t receive good medical advice from my primary care provider’s office, but I have since forgiven them. Even I didn’t know how sick I was. Robert Smith, PA, my primary care provider, was genuinely concerned about my state of health. The outcome could have been devastating. But it all turned out okay. I almost died, so I guess I can honestly say that I had a near-death experience. It got my attention, that’s for sure.

BLOG ENTRY #110

"She keeps herself on track by her connection to her heart and the heart of the mother/father God that lives inside of her. She prays and meditates. She dismantles her internal department of defense and refuses to let the world external seduce her." Quotes in italics came directly from the recording "How a Powerful Woman Awakens," Maureen Moss, www.maureenmoss.com.)

I need to keep myself on track because my mind likes to play tricks on me. The decision to allow me to become the powerful woman that I am is not a one-time thing. I have to keep reminding myself over and over what a tremendous person I am and how my true nature is to love myself and everyone else unconditionally. This constant reminder is because I had so much programming over my life to the contrary, and I don't want to slip back to where I was. There are still people in my life who would love to have me believe I am unworthy. This group includes people in my spiritual family who should know better, my daughter and granddaughters, who presently don't see me as I am, only as I was projected to be.

It is easier to keep myself on track and to stay connected to my spiritual self when I regularly meditate as I have been doing of late. I know now that the mother/father God lives inside me, and I can always depend on the love that comes from that connection. I will admit that I had a little difficulty with the concept of the mother/father God because I thought it was the same as my earthly mother and father, who were not exceptionally loving or supportive of me most of the time. I realize that there is no comparison between my parents on earth and my mother/father God. But I had the fear in the back of my mind that maybe God would give up on me or change his mind and think I was hopeless.

Of course, I realize now the comparison is ridiculous. I was trying to compare my parents, who were caught up in their personalities and their earthly experience with pure spirit. There is no comparison. I now know that God's love is forever unchanging, not only for me but for every single soul who has ever existed or will exist. There is nothing that I or anyone else can do to lose that ever constant and unfailing love.

I lost faith in myself, starting in about the third grade when it seemed that all the people around me who I believed loved changed their minds about me. I didn't realize at the time why this was happening to me, and the effects were devastating. I didn't understand all the spiritual reasons behind what was happening. It seemed like one minute everyone loved me, and the next minute no one did. My mother had turned her back on me, and she was leading the charge against me that there was something wrong with me as a person. Everyone seemed to go along with her. If there had been one single person who stood up to her for me, things might have been different. I couldn't understand why Daddy didn't stick up for me. He just seemed to go along with how my mother and everyone else treated me. It was devastating and led to a lifetime of seeking people's approval and becoming the scapegoat to anyone I encountered along the way.

I have come to realize that unseen forces have always guided me behind the scenes. If this were not true, I would not have survived this long. It took a long time for me to understand that invisible support can be more potent than actual physical support, and this certainly proved right for me. I have been guided and protected every step of the way. Ever since I was in my early 20s, I have been led to pursue a spiritual path to make sense of my life. Through the years, I have learned to trust and believe in this invisible support. I have a group of spiritual teachers who guide me. I can also ask for extra help from the angels and archangels who are always available.

Then, of course, there are my family members who have passed over. It seems that Daddy has been a spirit guide for the last 20 or so years ever since he passed away in 1999. He has been watching me and protecting me and urging me to write my books. He wasn't able to support me during our physical life together, but he is more than making up for it now. My mother and I resolved our longstanding karmic drama before she passed away, and she too now is massive support from the other side. Both my mother and father now see me for who I am. This persona is instead of how they had portrayed me during our turbulent life together. That is the difference between seeing someone from a purely spiritual level rather than a personal one. This understanding is also real for every family member who ever saw me in a negative light.

I have an extensive invisible cheering section who want me to succeed in every way I can. I no longer see myself as alone in the world. Now that I have changed my attitude toward myself and see my true self, I attract many people who see me the same way. I have come to realize that I can see the good in people, and this has helped me to feel comfortable and loved. I was told many years ago that I am very talented in working with people. I now see that this is true. I have genuine compassion and love for every single person with whom I interact. I am currently working as a home caregiver, helping to keep older people in their homes. I enjoy this very much, not only working with the client but with the family also. I witness firsthand how functional families come together for each other. I didn't experience that growing up, and unfortunately, neither did my children. The way of being in a dysfunctional family was passed down generation after generation. I wish I could have figured things out earlier, but the one thing I do know for sure is that I never gave up on the healing process. It has been one hell of a journey. It is a healing journey that my children will also have to take, but that is up to them. I can only show them the love I have today.

It is so crucial for me to keep myself on track and not let myself drift away into negativity ever again. Loving myself and being true to myself are the most important things I can do for myself. By loving myself, I can share my love with everyone I encounter. I know I am not taking this journey alone. Even though there are still family members who do not recognize my goodness, I understand that this is a temporary state of being. The personal is not lasting, and the spirit is forever. The most important thing I can do is to persevere and to lean on my invisible support system.

As I continue to pray and meditate, I refuse to let any negativity in my inner world. I have been created to make a difference in my world, and with God's help, I am doing this one day at a time. My internal and invisible support system travels inside of my every footstep. I am never alone.

YOU JUST MET AN ANGEL

When I had been in recovery from alcoholism for two to three years, I was going through a period of trying to find my way in life. I had started working with a medium from my church, who was in contact with her spiritual teachers. I was also trying to set up a regular spiritual practice of meditation and figuring out a way to work with my spiritual teachers. There was a particular song that I liked to listen to that was entitled, “Perfect Angel.” It was about getting in touch with your guardian angel for guidance.

I was on my way to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, and before I left, I was listening to the song, trying to get inspiration. I was questioning my ability to contact my guardian angels and wondered if perhaps they might have given up on me. I still saw myself as somewhat of a hopeless case even though I was maintaining sobriety. I remember sending out a plea to my angels to give me a sign so that I knew they were there to help me, and that it wasn’t just wishful thinking on my part. I then turned off the tape and left for my AA meeting.

I no sooner got out my front door and headed for my car when I spotted a funny little man standing by my vehicle doing some gymnastic trick. He had a big smile on his face and looked very friendly, so I approached him. We got into a conversation, and I learned that he was waiting to catch the bus to go downtown to where he lived. The bus stop was across the street, and I was unsure as to why he was near my car, but I accompanied him across the street and sat down to wait for the bus.

Out of the clear blue sky, when we sat down, the funny little man looked me straight in the eye and said, “You just met an angel.” Given my previous plea, I was taken aback and said, “Really?” He said, “Yes, my last name is Angel.” I had such a peaceful feeling come over me because now I knew that I had spiritual helpers who not only heard my pleas but also answered them.

After an enjoyable conversation for a few minutes, it became apparent that the bus was not doing to show up. Mr. Angel had four quarters ready for the bus. He gave me the quarters, and I gave him a ride to his apartment. I went on to my AA meeting, feeling not so alone in the world, after all.

JOKES, ONE-LINERS, AND TWO-LINERS

Daddy had a joke for every occasion. He was a veritable repository of jokes: dirty jokes, clean jokes, bar jokes, farmer’s daughter jokes, city-slicker jokes, old jokes, and new jokes. Daddy thought he was the funniest man around. If you didn’t believe it, all you had to do was ask him, and he’d rattle off a joke to prove it. Just to look at him was hilarious enough. Daddy could wiggle his ears, cross his eyes, and pucker up his lips, all at the same time. He made the funniest faces. If Daddy had an audience, he would be on a roll, and there was no stopping him.

Do you know the difference between a pregnant woman and a light bulb? You can screw a light bulb.”

Do you know the difference between people praying in church and people praying in the casino? The people in the casino really mean it. 

“My jokes are all original. Aboriginal that is. Mostly stories from around these parts. Some I borrow. Some I just plain steal. But I always put in my own special touch, using names that sound familiar. That makes them aboriginal.”

While reading the obituaries, he was likely to say, “Here today and gone to breakfast.”

Daddy liked to mispronounce things comically. If he disagreed with you, for instance, he’d start his next sentence with “Irresyphilis of the fact. . . .”

Referring to his age, Daddy might say, “I’m getting “old-timer’s” (Alzheimer’s) disease.”

Or he would screw up his face, real serious-like, and say, “On the other hand . . . she had a wart.”

Daddy liked to go fishing for perch. His friend says, “I don’t like perch because it has too many bones.” So Daddy agrees, “I’m with you. I like bananas because they have no bones.”

Daddy could be wildly inappropriate. After hearing about a bad car accident, invariably he’d ask, “What’s that lying in the road . . . a head?”

Daddy liked to talk about cheap people. I’ve often heard him say, ”He’s so cheap, he wouldn’t pay a nickel to see a rat eat a bale of hay.” That’s pretty cheap.

He would often call someone a tightwad or cheapskate by saying he “has fishhooks in his pocket,” meaning he’s so reluctant to reach into his pocket for his wallet, it’s as if he’d suffer bodily injury if he did.

He was famous for his two-liners, modified from bawdy songs, such as: “Get off the table, Mabel. That two bucks is for beer.”

Or he would talk about his girlfriend, Freda: “Freda me, ten bucks for everybody else.” 

AN ILL-FATED LOVE

When I was born in 1945, Grammie and Grandpa Phillips lived on a farm in Berlin, Vermont. Also living there were my mother’s four younger sisters and three of their male cousins, Robert, Eugene, and Jack. They needed a home after their mother, Helen Dalley, who was Grandpa Phillips’ sister, had a complete mental breakdown and was institutionalized at the Vermont State Hospital for the Insane in Waterbury, Vermont for what turned out to be 17 years. This placement turned out to be a godsend for Grandpa Phillips, who was not a healthy man and desperately needed help on the farm from these three strapping boys. Each boy worked hard on the farm with daily chores, including milking the cows and cutting hay in the summertime. Each one finished high school and went on to join the Air Force afterward. By the time I came along, Robert had left for the military, and I only remember seeing him occasionally when he would return home to visit. I came to know Eugene and Jack well as they were a large part of my childhood when we visited Grammie’s House often.

Going to visit Grammie’s House was great fun, and we did it often, especially when I was a little girl, and we lived on a farm in Orange, Vermont, which was only about 10 miles away. One of the reasons we loved to visit Grammie’s House was because of all the attention we received from our aunts and second cousins. For a short while, my sisters and I were the only grandchildren, and it was a wonderful time for us. I was especially fond of Eugene, who I recall playing with me and teasing me when I was a little girl. I was fascinated by his Adam’s apple, the way it bobbed up and down when he swallowed. I liked to comb his hair and sit in his lap. Eugene was about nine years older than me, and so when I remember him, he was a teenager.

He was kind of quiet but had a great sense of humor and loved to play tricks on me. He always seemed to have a twinkle in his eye and a ready smile. Once, he asked me, “Do you want a kiss?” When I said yes and got ready to receive a kiss, he laughingly handed me a Hershey’s kiss and was pleased that he had tricked me. Lots of times, I would go down to the barn after supper when Eugene was doing the evening chores, including milking the cows, and he loved to squirt me with warm milk from the cow’s udder.

I never really thought of Eugene as being related to me even though, in reality, he was my second cousin. I was a tiny girl when he and I would go for walks in the woods behind Grammie’s house, and he started kissing me romantically and telling me he loved me. I always remember loving him. This kissing went on for many years in my childhood. I will say unequivocally that it never progressed beyond kissing, nor did Eugene ever try to do anything to me that was sexual, not once. He always treated me with the utmost respect. However, I was a little girl, and he was a teenager, and I somehow knew that what we were doing would not be considered appropriate by the grownups in my life, especially my mother and grandmother. I was too little to understand the intense feelings that we felt for each other.

At one point, I finally asked Grammie Phillips if it was all right if Eugene kissed me. She said it was fine, but I am quite positive that she did not realize how we were kissing each other, which was like a boyfriend and girlfriend even though I was a child. She probably thought he was giving me a peck on the cheek now and then. So for most of my early childhood, while Eugene was still in high school, we were free to spend time alone and often did, and no one questioned it or tried to find out what we were doing. I believed when I was in the second grade that I would grow up and marry Eugene, and we would build a house next to Grammie’s House and live “happily ever after.”

Things began to change, though, when Eugene graduated from high school and left to join the military. I was in about the seventh grade. I wrote him a few letters. During the summer, when I was a freshman in high school, and Phylis was a sophomore, she took care of an older woman in Enfield, Vermont. I visited Phylis for a week that summer. Eugene had come home on leave and inquired where I was. He was told where we were, and he came down and took Phylis and me out to dinner to an Italian restaurant. I ordered a delicious lasagna. We had a great time during the visit. I was self-conscious, though, because my teeth were rotten, and I couldn’t smile. It was fun, though.

he next time I recall seeing Eugene was when he was on leave. Mother’s younger sister, Marion, and her husband Howard asked Eugene and me if we wanted to go to the drive-in movies with them. We sat in the backseat and made out all through the film, just kissing, as we were accustomed to doing since I was a little girl. Marion didn’t turn around to say anything, but the second she got home, she told my mother that if I got pregnant, she wouldn’t be responsible. My mother was furious and demanded to know what I was doing. The only experience I had was with kissing, and I didn’t know what they were talking about and why they were so worried that I would get pregnant. I was very naïve and had no clue as to how a girl got pregnant, but I was pretty sure that what I was doing wouldn’t lead to that condition. At any rate, that was the last time I was allowed to see Eugene when he came home on leave.

The next time Eugene came home, I wanted to see him because I loved him and missed him. However, Grammie Phillips wouldn’t let me set foot in her house where he was staying, and I was forced to stay for a week at Lena’s home without so much as laying eyes on him. Lena was not very kind to me as I recall and barely spoke to me. She did take me to a Grange meeting, though. Not too long after this, Eugene was stationed in Italy and met a girl named Carmen, who he married and brought to the United States with him. My childhood dream of growing up and marrying Eugene was over. It is interesting to me that I was allowed to spend as much time alone with Eugene as I wanted when I was a little girl, but this all ended when I hit puberty. I was also labeled as a temptress who tried to entice Eugene into doing something sexual with me. Nothing could have been further from the truth, but that’s the way they saw it. I was never sexually abused as a child, did not have any sexual experience at all as a teenager in high school, and was naïve about anything related to sexual matters. However, my family thought I had been having sex right along and that I had to be watched so that I didn’t get in trouble and cause embarrassment and humiliation to my family.

I got married at age 18 and had my daughter, Deana before I turned 19. That marriage didn’t last, and about five years later, I tried marriage again with similarly disastrous results. Although I was only married for a few months this time, my son Christopher was born. I now had been divorced twice and had two children to raise. Eugene got a divorce from Carmen in 1970, had gotten remarried, and was in the middle of another divorce. I got the bright idea of trying to rekindle my childhood dream of marrying him. As I said before, I never thought of him as being related to me, and I thought we could get together and have the marriage that I yearned for as a little girl.

We did have a brief but disastrous relationship. It was a mistake on my part of think that this had any chance of working out. He came to visit me once or twice, and I traveled to South Carolina to visit him. He had changed, and so had I. His once happy and mischievous disposition had somehow become jaded, and life had not turned out for him the way he thought it should have been. I was a mess, too. I had all kinds of baggage from childhood, including a difficult relationship with my mother and depression. Both of us were drinking too much. I don’t know if Eugene ever attempted to stop drinking, but after I realized I was an alcoholic, I went to rehab and stopped drinking at age 40. It has been over 35 years since I have had a drink.

After a few months, we both realized that this wasn’t going to work out, and we broke it off. The relationship did not end on good terms, and I never saw Eugene again after that. It just wasn’t the same chemistry that we shared when I was a carefree little girl, and he was a teenager. I thought he, like so many others in my life, had changed his mind about me. He got married again in 1982 to a woman named Angeles, and they had a son named Brian. He was 46 years old when his son was born. They stayed married for 36 years. On his tombstone are written the words “beloved husband.” I hope he found happiness in marriage because I certainly did not.

I learned that Eugene died in Phoenix, Arizona on June 12, 2018. I recently went for a reading with a medium at Among Angels in Clifton Park. She told me that we had been married in a previous lifetime in England and his name was Robert at the time. We had been contented with each other. That made sense to me and made me realize why I had always thought I would grow up and marry him and why I never thought of him as being related to me. Sometimes I have vivid dreams about Eugene. As for the lucid dreams, she says he comes to me at night to be with me and comfort me. She told me that if I have a problem, I could tell him, and in the morning, the solution to the problem would become evident to me. She said that when I cross over, he will be one of the first ones in line to greet me and that we will be married again in another lifetime. She also said that he never changed his mind about me and that there was no unfinished business from what had happened between us, just that it was not the right place or the right time. I was very relieved to know these things because I never had a chance to say goodbye. I am also happy that he is now in heaven and that, eventually, we will be reunited. That will be a good day for me.

SKUNK HOLLOW TAVERN

Daddy was raised in a small town in Vermont called Hartland Four Corners. His family lived in a large white house on Brownsville Road. This location is where Grandpa Atwood had a successful milk distribution business. Many of the adventures and misadventures that Daddy told about his childhood centered in and around his home. I don’t know when Grandpa Atwood acquired the house or when he sold it. Grandpa and Grammie Atwood moved to Florida in the mid-1940s, so chances are I never saw it as a child. The house was built around 200 years ago under the first school of architecture in the United States, which was established by Asher Benjamin.

I learned a few years ago that Daddy’s old homestead still stands. It is one of the two oldest remaining buildings in Hartland Four Corners. About 40 years ago, the house was converted into a restaurant called the Skunk Hollow Tavern. My sister, niece, and I went for lunch there. What used to be the basement of Daddy’s old home is now a Tavern Room, with its antique charm, bar seating, music, and casual atmosphere. The premises consists of mainly two restaurants in one. Besides the tavern downstairs, the upstairs has a more elegant dining room, with a slightly more formal feel. This space was Daddy’s living quarters growing up.

The Skunk Hollow Tavern almost seems frozen in time. I had photographs of the home when Daddy lived there, and when I compare them to the photos I recently took, they look remarkably similar. You can tell it is the same property. Structural improvements have been made, including a new roof, but the exterior looks the same. It made me happy to see Daddy’s home, and I am so glad the new owners have maintained the integrity of the property.

The owners of the restaurant were kind enough to take us through the property. It was a strange feeling having lunch in a setting where Daddy played as a child over 75 years ago. In the upstairs quarters is where Grammie Atwood cooked and served many of her delicious dinners. It is not very often that a person gets a chance to step back in time and see firsthand what used to be. I was delighted to have this opportunity to time travel back to Daddy’s childhood, if only for a little while.

“YOU’RE JUST LIKE THE ATWOODS”

When I became a teenager, the complicated relationship I had with Mother seemed to intensify. Not only would she talk about me negatively behind my back to anyone who would listen, but she also liked to hurl insults at me from time to time. One of her favorites was the disparaging remark, “You’re just like the Atwoods.” I’m not quite sure what I might have done to elicit this remark. Maybe it was the way I looked or the tilt of my head. Who knows?

I knew she held my father in great disdain. She seemed to think she was superior to him in every way. Mother was the dominant one of the two. Mother often lamented how she didn’t have three children to raise, but four because she felt Daddy never grew up. Daddy was never able to stand up to her, not once, and Mother ruled him with an iron fist. Maybe she didn’t like the Atwoods because he was one of them.

I’m not sure what she had against them. Maybe she thought they were stuck up. I know they could be very opinionated and judgmental at times. I always believed that they felt they were more intelligent than the average person. Mother used to say that she would never get in an argument about anything with Grammie Atwood, especially politics because she always thought she was right about everything. She never attempted to see someone else’s perspective. They did appear to be aloof and not very warm either.

As a family, we did not spend as much time with the Atwoods as we did with my Mother’s side of the family. That was because the Atwoods did not live near us year-round, whereas Mother’s relatives mostly resided in Vermont. Mother’s family were mostly farmers with a lower income level than the Atwoods. They were country folk and not as sophisticated in their approach to life as the Atwoods were. I thought they were more interesting.

addy’s father, Clarence Fay Atwood (Grandpa Atwood), was a successful businessman who invested very well in the stock market. He put his money in General Electric and other profitable stocks and did very well financially with them over the years. Grandpa Atwood did so well with his business of distributing milk that he retired to live in Florida in his early 40s. He and his wife, Marjorie Howland Atwood (Grammie Atwood), traveled the United States extensively. Grandpa Atwood always had a shiny new Buick and bought many travel trailers as well. Grandpa and Grammie Atwood spent many summers visiting us in Norwich.

Daddy’s siblings, including his brother Howland, and his two sisters, Priscilla and Marjo, lived in different parts of the country but visited many times during my childhood. I always thought Mother liked Daddy’s family, at least it appeared that way to me. She always treated the members of his family very well. Priscilla and Marjo used to come and visit us in Orange. They would have been teenagers when Daddy married Mother in 1944. Marjo once remarked that Mother taught her how to make her first pie during one of her visits.

Mother’s financial future tremendously improved when she married Daddy, but I doubt that was a consideration when she married him. They got married after a whirlwind courtship during World War II in January 1944. That’s when Mother officially became an “Atwood” and carried that name for the rest of her life. I never felt it was a burden for her, but maybe she did. Grandpa Atwood was always available to assist Mother and Daddy when they needed cash.

The financial assistance started immediately after Mother and Daddy got married. Grandpa Atwood wanted to set Daddy and his brother, Howland, up with a business in Hartland, which was a general store. My parents lived upstairs from the store. The store also included a post office for Hartland. Both Phylis and I were both born when my parents lived there. Howland and his wife, Priscilla, lived nearby, and Mother and Priscilla seemed happy to be first-time mothers. Mother had her new daughter, Phylis, and Priscilla had her son, Gary. I have a photograph of Mother holding Phylis as a baby, and she glowed with apparent happiness. There is also a photograph of Mother holding Phylis and Priscilla holding Gary, in which they both looked quite satisfied.

While they were still living in Hartland and running the store, Mother gave birth to her second baby, me, and Priscilla gave birth to Ehrick, my cousin. It seemed that Mother and Priscilla still enjoyed each other’s company now that they each had two children. One of my favorite photographs was taken of Phylis, Gary, Ehrick, and I, as young children all dressed up for a tea party.

I don’t know how much Howland and Daddy were involved in the running of the store. I do know that Mother worked in the store as a clerk and also was postmistress. Her sister, Lena, used to come to visit and take care of the children in the upstairs apartment. Daddy was most likely still driving a taxicab at that time. Rumor has it that Daddy and Howland did not get along well. It wasn’t long before Daddy got restless and abandoned the idea of running the store. He was itching to be a farmer and own a farm.

With the financial assistance of Grandpa Atwood, Daddy acquired a small farm in Orange, Vermont. I was still a baby when we moved, and my first memories are of living there. The next photograph I have is Mother holding me. Daddy is nearby, holding Phylis and petting our horse, Babe. Mother looks thin, tired, and is wearing an apron. She had gone from being a businesswoman to being a farm wife, and I’m not sure she relished the idea. Grandpa Atwood was always available to assist. By this time, he had an orange grove in Florida and regularly sent us fresh oranges and tangerines.

Even after Daddy failed to make a go of the farm in Orange, Grandpa Atwood was always a backup when my parents needed money for some of Daddy’s adventures and misadventures. I wonder if Mother realized that cash is not always readily available to people when they need it. She seemed to take that for granted, and it became a part of her life. When I think about Mother putting down the Atwoods, I wonder what the real issue was. Maybe she was one of those people who aren’t happy unless they can find fault with someone.

There is one incident that sticks with me all these years. When we were living in Norwich, we had a small apartment that was part of our house. Grandpa and Grammie Atwood fixed it up and stayed there one summer. They had a sign posted in the dwelling which read, “You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family.” I cannot imagine what possessed them to think that this was a good idea. Mother, of course, took great offense to this and was still talking about it up until she passed away at age 83. I’m sure she never confronted them about it, but never forgot it and took it as a great insult. They might have thought it was cute. I would like to believe that they didn’t mean it to be hurtful, but I’ll never know.

I find it odd though about Mother talking negatively about the Atwoods. She was always pleasant to their face and sweet as could be. I do know that Grandpa and Grammie Atwood, Priscilla, and Marjo and others in the family treated Mother with the utmost respect. I never heard any of them utter a word against Mother. They only had good things to say about her. I believe that they would have defended Mother over Daddy any day of the week. I think they felt sorry for her because she was stuck with him and his bad habits, including drinking and gambling. He continued to be considered the scapegoat of the family throughout his entire life. This was emphasized by the remarks his family made about him. At one point, Grandpa Atwood told Mother that he was willing to have Daddy declared incompetent because of his alcoholism. What a slap in the face to his son. I’m glad Mother had enough sense and common decency not to go along with that. Daddy did eventually stop drinking on his own, but he carried with him the stigma of being considered the black sheep of his family. Mother played the martyr role to the hilt. I knew what was going on behind closed doors, and Mother treated Daddy the same way his family did. She nagged him so much that I felt sorry for him.

When I think about the phrase “you’re just like the Atwoods,” said to me by Mother with such disgust and disdain, I have to wonder. I do recall saying, “Thank you,” to her in a sarcastic way to be spiteful. She thought she was insulting me, but I never felt that way. I also never felt like an Atwood anyway. I identified more with Mother’s side of the family. I knew them better and felt more comfortable around them. Mother stayed married to Daddy for 55 years until he passed away in 1999. I recently learned that he had a spiritual contract with her to see her through his lifetime. He certainly lived up to his part of the bargain. Even though they didn’t have a particularly good relationship, they stuck together until the end. Mother could have done worse than to end up as an Atwood, and telling me that I was just like the Atwoods was not the worst thing she ever said to me. Maybe the lesson is to accept the good in people and overlook anything that you might consider harmful. In my view, the Atwoods certainly played a decisive role in Mother’s life, whether she chose to acknowledge it or not.

DADDY AND ME, COMEDY AND HUMOR

There’s nothing that Daddy or I liked better than a good belly laugh. I love to laugh out loud, and so did he. Laughter is known to be strong medicine. It draws people together in ways that trigger healthy physical and emotional changes in the body. Laughter strengthens your immune system, boosts your mood, diminishes pain, and can protect you from the damaging effects of stress. Humor is known to lighten your burden, inspire hope, connect you to others, and keep you grounded, focused, and alert. Daddy spent a lot of his time making up faces, telling jokes and funny stories and so I believe he was on the right track in many ways.

My sisters and I grew up being exposed to many comedians. Daddy loved slapstick and physical comedy. He loved Laurel and Hardy, with Laurel playing the clumsy and childlike friend of the pompous bully Hardy. I’m pretty sure Daddy identified with Laurel.

Daddy also liked The Three Stooges, an American vaudeville and comedy team, including Moe, Larry, and Curly. They made many short subject films that were aired on television, starting in 1958, which featured their violent archaic slapstick and comedy routines. I remember Daddy laughing out loud every time he saw one of these films when I was growing up. I never liked this kind of comedy. I used to say I didn’t want to have my intelligence insulted by them, but Daddy didn’t seem to mind.

Abbott and Costello were another American comedy duo that Daddy enjoyed. Bud Abbott and Lou Costello engaged in rapid-fire patter and knock-about slapstick. Abbott was the schemer, and Costello played a childlike patsy. I often wondered who Daddy identified with the most.

The Marx Brothers consisted of Groucho, Harpo, Zeppo, Chico, and Gummo. They are widely considered by critics and fans to be among the greatest and most influential comedians of the 20th century. They were known for their inventive attacks on the socially respectable and upon ordered society in general. The Marx Brothers were another favorite of Daddy’s, and I liked them, too. They were genuinely funny.

Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis were an American comedy duo who stayed together as a team between 1946 and 1956. Daddy liked Jerry Lewis’ humor, but I found it a bit over the top. They made a lot of movies together, and I’m sure we went as a family to see some of them.

Other comedians that I grew up with and enjoyed on TV were Red Skelton, Milton Berle, Jackie Gleason (The Honeymooners), as well as Lucille Ball and Desi Arnez. As a family, we had many a laugh watching their antics.

Another favorite of Daddy’s was Spike Jones, an American musician and bandleader who specialized in satirical arrangements of popular songs and classical music. Daddy liked Spike Jones so much that he had an LP titled “The Man on the Flying Trapeze.” My sisters and I played it so much while we were growing up that we ruined the record. While Jones enjoyed fame and prosperity, he was annoyed that nobody seemed to see beyond the craziness. That’s the chance you take when you present with this kind of act.

The same thing happened to Daddy. He played the clown so much that people didn’t see his serious side (he had one), and no one took him seriously. I’m sure that most people didn’t realize that beneath the façade or mask that he wore, there was an intellectual and sensitive man. He may have wanted to hide what was going on with him, which was his sadness and, most likely, depression. However, being funny is not the same thing as being happy, and unfortunately, I don’t think Daddy was contented much of the time, and he definitely wouldn’t want anyone to know that about him.

Robin Williams is an example of someone who used comedy to mask the pain he felt deep inside. People often wear what is called ‘the mask of depression,’ which helps them put on a more acceptable face to the world. But behind the mask, there is a terrible struggle going on. There is a stigma about depression, and frequently the laughter distracts from feelings of weakness. Robin Williams committed suicide at age 63 after years and years of making people laugh,

One thing that put me off about Robin Williams was whenever he gave an interview, he never just answered a question. He was always trying to be funny. It was so apparent to the observer. I used to wonder why he didn’t just give a straight answer instead of continuing to go for a laugh. It was evident to me that he was hiding behind his true self. I wonder if Daddy was doing the same thing.

Daddy was the designated scapegoat in his family, but I wonder if he also played the role of the clown. I believe his family was most likely solemn most of the time. Did Daddy crack jokes and find other ways to provide entertainment? If he was trying to alleviate his family’s stress, I’m sure at least some of his attempts backfired. Particularly insensitive jokes or immature antics would have tried their patience. If his jokes were poorly received, did he double down with more humor? I don’t imagine a lot of Daddy’s antics went over very well in the family, and that could be one of the reasons why he was treated with disdain much of the time.

I wonder if Daddy’s outward appearance of making faces and telling jokes masked deep-seated insecurities. Did he use his sense of humor as a defense mechanism to put off dealing with pain, fear, or any other emotional discomfort that he faced? Daddy was known to be immature, and Mother felt that he never grew up. She considered him her fourth child. Did he live in a state of arrested emotional development? He presented his sense of humor as his most defining characteristic, but at what cost to him? He might have gained popularity, but he most likely was isolated within a sea of people who didn’t know him other than as a walking laugh factory. This situation led him to self-medicate using alcohol.

I consider myself to have a good sense of humor. I love to laugh, especially out loud. I am excellent at one-liners. I have a quick mind, which is necessary to pull off a good one-liner. You only have a second to make a one-liner, and that’s all it takes. You have to be witty and alert and pay attention to what people are saying. I would say I have a dry sense of humor, which is something that comes naturally to me. It’s up to me whether I want to be the earnest philosopher or let the clown within me take hold. I have both potentials. The clown is just the philosopher turned inside out. Dry humor is more about the philosophy within me looking at the world through the clown’s eyes. It is a more subtle and intellectual kind of joke.

There is a difference between Daddy’s humor and mine. His was well-planned and memorized ahead of time, and mine is always spontaneous. Daddy liked to tell the same jokes over and over. I don’t want to tell preplanned jokes. If something comes up on the spot that I can respond to, that’s perfect for me. I remember frequently getting laughs and people telling me how clever and quick I am. My humor is always a one-time occurrence. Daddy’s jokes, stories, and one-liners were well-rehearsed and repeated probably hundreds of times in his life.

I don’t like the phrase “no pun intended,” and don’t ever use it myself. The reason is that I did intend the pun, and I want to give my audience the chance to catch on without being told it was a pun. Most of the time, they do. If they don’t, that’s okay, too. I would say I am a “punny” person.

Laughter, comedy, and having a sense of humor have been an essential part of my life. I can thank Daddy for introducing comedy into my life at a young age. I love to laugh out loud. Luckily for me, I have a tape of some of Daddy’s funniest stories, and all I have to do is pop in the tape and hear his humor. It’s like he is still with me, telling me the same old silly stories. Joking around was part of Daddy’s life, but he ran much deeper than that. He was a kind, gentle, funny, compassionate, and loving man who may have been misunderstood by many, but not by me. I saw beneath all the silliness and loved what I saw. I still do.

DADDY’S SIBLINGS

Daddy’s parents were Clarence Fay Atwood (born on March 21, 1895, and died on November 28, 1972) and Marjorie Eliza Howland Atwood (born on November 23, 1892, and died on January 2, 1982). Clarence and Marjorie got married on May 24, 1916. Clarence was a farmer, and Marjorie had been a schoolteacher before their marriage. Clarence went on to become a successful businessman and owned a profitable milk distribution business. Clarence was 21 when they got married, and Marjorie was 23.

Daddy’s only brother, Howland Fay Atwood, was born on September 14, 1918. This birth was Grammie Atwood’s second, the first baby not surviving. He was named after her maiden name, Howland. I’m not sure where Howland attended college. At age 23, he married Priscilla Murphy on August 6, 1942. They had four sons and no daughters. He died on July 24, 2010.

Next in line was my father, who was born six years after Howland, on February 19, 1925. My father had two sisters. The first was Priscilla Joyce Atwood, who was born on June 19, 1931. She is the only living child of Clarence and Marjorie and turned 89 in 2020, and still resides in Florida.

Priscilla went to Florida Southern College in Lakeland, Florida. She was a teacher. She also joined the Air Force. She married Louis Knox, but they got divorced. They did not have any children; however, she lost a baby boy. She wanted to be with Louis and so forced the Air Force to release her. When they got divorced, she wanted back in the Air Force, but she gave them such a hard time they said, no thanks.

The youngest sister was Marjorie Bertha Atwood (we knew her as Marjo, and she was later called Margie), and she died of Alzheimer’s disease on 9/20/2017 at age 81. She was born in Hanover, New Hampshire, on 10/11/1935. She married Donald DuMez, who was born on May 23, 1936, and he died of drowning in a diving accident on 12/27/1961 at age 25. They were quite young when they got married in 1954 when she was 19, and he was 18. She went to Stetson University in Deland, Florida. She went on to get her Ph.D. and was a college professor. She had two children with Don Dumez – Marilyn and Brenda. In 1964 she married Daniel Robert Turner, and they got divorced in 1985. They had one daughter Marjorie. She then married T.J. Shaw, and they were married when she passed away.

Because Daddy was the designated scapegoat or the black sheep of the family, this affected the relationship that Daddy had with his siblings growing up and after they all left home. Howland was six years older than Daddy, and the two of them couldn’t have been more different. Howland was thin and kind of effeminate. He always had a feminine-sounding voice and sounded more like a woman than a man. Daddy, on the other hand, was chubby and very masculine. Howland was the good boy and could do no wrong, and Daddy was the bad boy and could do nothing right. I remember Daddy telling the story of someone stealing a piece of the pie. Even though Howland was the most likely culprit, Daddy was blamed for it because he was fat, and Howland was skinny. I’m sure Howland set him up in similar situations quite frequently. I don’t know how they got along, but the family dynamics would seem to prevent a close relationship between the two. I have seen several photographs of Daddy and Howland doing activities together, such as swimming and skiing, but I don’t believe they had much in common. Howland was intellectual, and Daddy was a rough-and-tumble type.

I’m not sure what Howland’s occupation was. I know he and his family moved back and forth from Vermont to California a couple of times. He might have been a horticulturist, but he wasn’t a truck driver like Daddy. Both Daddy and Howland tried their hand at farming at various times without much success. That’s probably about the only thing they had in common. Howland was very interested in genealogy and spent endless hours tracing back our family history. Daddy liked history, but I don’t think he would have had the patience for such detailed work.

Since Howland and his family lived in California much of the time that I was growing up, they were not a big part of my life. I remember visits here and there over the years. I think Daddy and Howland got along okay, but most likely, Daddy did most of the talking. Howland would have been hard-pressed to get a word in edgewise, I’m sure. I do recall Priscilla telling the story that Howland was disgusted with Daddy for having such a big headstone in the Hartland cemetery where both of them are buried. That would be typical of the snide remarks that were always being exchanged between family members. I would say it was not a close-knit family group.

My father’s two sisters, Priscilla and Marjo, lived in Florida from the time I was born. They used to come up and visit us in Vermont in the summertime. I have photos of them with Phylis and me at Grammie’s house. I remember Marjo saying that my mother helped Marjo make her first pie during a summer visit. I always admired both Priscilla and Marjo when I was growing up. I thought they were neat and exciting. I especially liked Marjo because she had such a bubbly and infectious personality. I believed that Daddy got along well with his two sisters and that they all loved each other. I found out much later that his sisters didn’t have much respect for him or me at all, which was heartbreaking for me.

It turns out that when they were growing up, Priscilla didn’t have much use for my father. She used to set him up and try to get him in trouble. When she achieved her goal of making him look bad, she was delighted. This information all came to light at Howland’s memorial service in 2011. Before the ceremony, Priscilla told me that Daddy was “something else,” and that she didn’t like him much. During her talk, she relayed an incident where someone told Daddy that he wasn’t fit to eat with the hogs, and he piped up and said, “Oh, yes, I am.” She thought that was hysterically funny. She also told different ways that she made him look bad. I thought these were inappropriate remarks for such a gathering, but that didn’t stop her. It made it crystal clear to me what Daddy had to put up with as a member of that dysfunctional family.

I found out that Priscilla and Marjo both thought that I was a loser. I had made an inappropriate comment to Priscilla when I was four years old that I didn’t want to look like her. She never forgot and told that story about me every chance she got to whoever would listen. It became a family legend, and every so often, someone in my family would tell me that I looked like Priscilla. Priscilla even reminded me of saying that to her in 2011, which was 62 years after the remark was made. Not only had my father been the scapegoat of his family, but I was the scapegoat of mine. It was an uncomfortable role to play. It is something that Daddy and I never lived down.

THE GAMBLER

My father loved to gamble compulsively, and this was an addiction to him every bit as much as his excessive alcohol use. They seemed to go hand-in-hand with him and may have even started at the same time. He started drinking when he was a teenager at Kimball Union Academy KUA). He often talked about drinking beer and playing poker with F. Lee Bailey as a student at KUA. F. Lee Bailey became famous as a lawyer defending such clients as the Boston Stranger and O.J. Simpson.

My father left KUA before finishing and did not complete his high school education. He got married at age 18 to my mother. Unfortunately, the habits he learned at KUA stayed with him throughout the marriage and caused many arguments. Some of my earliest memories are of my mother yelling at him for staying at the beer garden where he was drinking and playing cards. At family get-togethers, my father always tried to get the husbands to play cards. He loved to play poker and attended many poker games throughout his life.

My father and I both had an addictive personality. Addiction is defined by Merriam-Webster as: "a compulsive, chronic, physiological or psychological need for a habit-forming substance, behavior, or activity having harmful physical, psychological, or social effects and typically causing well-defined symptoms (such as anxiety, irritability, tremors, or nausea) upon withdrawal or abstinence." Most people develop addictions due to not feeling good about themselves, a genetic predisposition, or because they build camaraderie with others engaging in the same behavior.

I believe my father and I both used addictions to try to escape the negative feelings we had about ourselves. We were both scapegoats of our families and seen as black sheep. We both felt rejected by our families, who seemed to blame us for everything that went wrong. We were misunderstood by the people who were most valuable to us. Addictions were how we tried to deaden these uncomfortable feelings. Both Daddy and I became alcoholics, and we also were able to stop consuming alcohol for many years. We also had other addictions. Daddy was addicted to gambling, whereas I became a workaholic. Both were inadequate ways of dealing with unresolved trauma from childhood experiences.

While I was growing up, I remember Daddy's gambling as mostly involving playing poker. I always thought his drinking was a more significant problem, and the card-playing went along with it. Perhaps once Daddy stopped drinking, his gambling habits accelerated. I remember that he used to like to bet on the horses. Daddy used to enjoy going to the Green Mountain Race Track in Pownal, Vermont and bet on the greyhound racing. I don't know if he bought lottery tickets, but he probably did. It seems in the last 20 years since Daddy died, scratch-off tickets have become more popular and seem to be very addictive. I can imagine Daddy standing there, scratching off those tickets. Scratching off lottery tickets in hopes of a winner looks like a colossal waste of time and money. It is something in which I don't participate.

Daddy loved to go to Las Vegas and Atlantic City, New Jersey. Daddy and Mother both used to like to frequent the Indian casinos like Foxwood and the Turning Stone. As much as Mother didn't like some aspects of Daddy's gambling, she enjoyed playing the slot machines. I don't know how much money they wasted on gambling, but I do recall Daddy often saying to me, "I'm spending your inheritance." He thought it was funny, but I didn't. I'm sure Uncle Deane would be rolling over in his grave to see his hard-earned money foolishly spent like that. I know he never spent a dime on gambling in his life, nor did any of Daddy's close family relatives.

There were many ways that I was like my father; however, I never developed a love of gaming. If everyone were like me, the casinos would go out of business. I don't recall ever even buying a lottery ticket. I'm not particularly eager to purchase raffle tickets, although it is to support a good cause. It's not that I'm cheap; I wouldn't say I like to gamble. If I'm going to spend my money, I want to have something tangible to show for it. Maybe my dislike for gambling was my way of not ending up just like my father.

UNCLE DEANE

I remember Daddy and others in the family talking about Uncle Deane from the time I was a little girl. Deane Orvis Howland was Grammie Atwood’s younger brother, and he was born on January 13, 1895, and died on April 24, 1989. My father, Deane Frederick Atwood, was named after Uncle Deane, who played a substantial role in his life. Daddy admired him so much and talked so lovingly about him that his story took on almost mythic proportions in my mind.

According to Ancestry.com, Uncle Deane was required to register for the draft in World War I. His draft card stated that he was 22 years old, tall of medium build, with blue eyes and light hair. He worked for the New England Telephone and Telegraph Company as a serviceman. Uncle Deane was in the Army for a brief period from February 14, 1918, until November 14, 1918 (when the war ended). He was a Private First Class. Because he was born before February 16, 1897, he was required to also register for the draft for World War II. He was 47 at that time and married to Aunt Verna. He continued to be employed by the phone company.

Deane Howland went to work for the New England Telephone and Telegraph Company, commonly known as New England Telephone, immediately after finishing school and continued that employment for 49 years. His employers noted him to be funloving and systematic. He rose in the ranks from a serviceman to Worcester District Plant Superintendent. Deane was primarily known for his work in dial conversion and was said to be an organizational genius. While he started work at White River Junction, Vermont as a young lad, he worked for many years in Massachusetts. His home address for many years was 672 Pleasant Street, Paxton (Worcester County), Massachusetts.

Deane remained a bachelor until he was 35 years old, at which time, he married Verna Emily Thornton (Aunt Verna) on April 19, 1930. They were happily married for 57 years. I don’t know specific details of their courtship, but based on information gleaned from Ancestry.com, Verna also worked for the phone company in White River Junction, which is likely how they met. She was a telephone operator and later became a supervisor. 

wonder if Verna played hard to get with Deane. That could have been the reason for the timing of their marriage in their 30s. A handwritten poem was found a few years ago that was written by Deane to Verna. The verse reads as follows:

All On Account of a Button

Just because a poor old lady

Infirm, and old, and gray,

Should make a little shirt

Upon a rainy day

And for lack of filthy lucre

One button should be short,

Don’t you think it pretty mean

For sarcasm to resort?

Now pray, lad, cease your worry

For the button is at hand.

With thimble, thread and needle

You surely are well manned

And just a safety pin or two

For full measure I’ll throw in,

And I’ll even add a pocket

If your favor this will win.

Just because you resemble R____ie,

You need not feel so sore.

Pray forgive me my transgressions

And remember them no more.

If you’d be ladylike and kind,

Perhaps more admirers you might find,

But I’ll be good (cross my heart).

Won’t you, honey, do your part?

The Abused

The paper that the poem was written on had a button attached, a needle and thread, two safety pins, a thimble, and a pocket. Of course, I don’t know the story, but I would assume that Verna made fun of some article of clothing of his that was missing a button, and he didn’t appreciate it. I thought it was an ingenious way of getting his point across. I don’t know how long after he delivered this letter to her that they married, but apparently, it did the trick. It was apparent when they were together how he devoted he was to her.

I recall seeing Uncle Deane and Aunt Verna several times when we lived in Norwich. They used to come and visit in the summertime when Grandpa and Grammie Atwood were visiting from Florida. When we were children, Uncle Deane used to send my sister and me a birthday card each year with a two-dollar bill. He also sent a Reader’s Digest to my parents each year. Uncle Deane presented as a jovial man with a twinkle in his eye and a ready smile. On the other hand, Aunt Verna seemed a little more reserved and not outwardly friendly. They seemed to be quite different in temperament. Daddy always made a point of trying to impress Uncle Deane, even more so than usual.

Because of his successful career as a telephone executive, Deane was able to amass a sizeable fortune. He was also noted to be a wise investor in the stock market as well as a frugal man. Uncle Deane and Aunt Verna did not have any children of their own and left their fortune to their seven nieces and nephews. This generosity was beneficial to my parents and gave them a nest egg which lasted the rest of their lives.

GRAMMIE ATWOOD’S SIDE OF THE FAMILY

When researching Grammie Atwood’s family, I found that her family of origin was much smaller than that of Grandpa Atwood. Marjorie Eliza Howland Atwood (Grammie Atwood) was born on November 23, 1892 (I didn’t realize that she was almost three years older than Grandpa Atwood) in Jericho, Vermont, and died on January 2, 1982, in Columbia, Florida. She was nearly 90 years old.

Her father was Orvis Silas Howland (my father called him Gramp), who was born on September 5, 1866, in Jericho, Vermont, and died on December 8, 1951, at age 85. Her mother was Bertha Minerva Crandall, who was born on August 18, 1868, and died on October 10, 1935 (my father said he doesn’t remember her too well because she died when he was young; he was ten years old when she died). She was 67 years old when she died of a cerebral hemorrhage and also had hypertension. I remember Grammie Atwood talking about going to the Crandall reunions, which would have been her side of the family. Daddy was very fond of Gramp and used to visit him on his farm frequently.

Orvis Silas Howland married Bertha Minerva Crandall on March 27, 1889. They had three children: Glenn Crandall Howland who was born on April 15, 1890 (he was about three years older than Grammie), Marjorie Eliza Howland who was born on November 23, 1892, and Deane Orvis Howland who was born on January 13, 1895 (a little over two years younger than Grammie).

Glenn Howland had three children. These were Daddy’s cousins. John Hudson Howland was born on November 14, 1915 (about ten years older than Daddy), and died on November 22, 2003. James Orvis Howland was born on September 24, 1918, and died on September 16, 2006. Daddy talked about his cousins, John and Jim, a lot. John lived in Windsor, Vermont. I don’t know if we ever visited him, but we probably did. I do recall visiting Jim at his life-long home in Hartland, Vermont. Daddy and Jim loved to talk. They both had very thick Vermont accents. I’m not sure which one could out-talk the other.

Glenn Howland also had a daughter named Dorothy. She was born on November 4, 1919, and died on April 24, 2013. I don’t believe she played much of a role in Daddy’s life. I don’t remember hearing a word about her. I didn’t know about her existence in the family until recently.

Glenn Crandall Howland died relatively young at age 56 on November 19, 1946. His cause of death was cerebral hemorrhage due to essential hypertension (the same diagnosis as his mother, who died 11 years earlier). His occupation was listed as a lawyer, and he lived in Windsor, Vermont.  What I didn’t realize until I read his obituary was what an accomplished man he was. Glenn was a municipal judge of the Windsor district and former state’s attorney, a post which he resigned from due to ill health. He was admitted to the Vermont bar in 1914. He was elected state’s attorney of Windsor County in 1921 and held that office for four years. He served in the House of the Vermont Legislature in 1925 and 1927. In 1937, he was elected to the State Senate. He was president of Windsor Federal Savings and Loan Association and past president of the Windsor County Bar Association. I don’t remember hearing much at all about him.

That left Grammie Atwood with only one sibling, her brother Deane. Grammie named her second son, my father, after her brother. Uncle Deane played a considerable role in Daddy’s life and lived an exemplary life, which will be highlighted in a separate section.

ROGER BUMPS

The name Roger Bumps was very familiar to me from one of the many stories that Daddy told as I was growing up. I always assumed he was one of Daddy’s cousins, but when researching the family, I came to realize that he is not a blood relative. Instead, he was married to one of Daddy’s cousins, June Mary Atwood, who was Horatio Nelson Atwood II’s daughter. June was born on June 16, 1925 (in the same year as my father), and she died on 8/31/2004.

June married Roger William Bumps on September 26, 1944, approximately a year before the end of World War II. They were married in Springfield, Vermont. June was 19 when they got married; Roger was 24. Roger was born on January 12, 1921, in Woodstock, Vermont.

Roger enlisted in the United States Army on June 5, 1942 (right in the middle of WWII). After serving in the Army, Roger became a state trooper in Vermont. He was in the National Guards and returned to active duty in the Air Force on 3/12/1953 and retired as a Lt. Colonel on May 31, 1970. Roger was a veteran of World War II, the Korean War, and Vietnam. He was a B-36 pilot while in the Air Force.

The story that I remember my father often told was about the plane crash on August 28, 1954, in which Roger was the sole survivor. Twenty-six men lost their lives in the crash, which at the time was the biggest in B-36 history. At the time of the collision, Roger was an Air Force captain. He had just finished his four-hour duty at the controls when the big bomber crashed to the earth in Rapid City, South Dakota, at the Ellsworth Air Force Base. Although a B-36 pilot himself, Roger was not piloting this plane. Had he been piloting the plane, he may not have survived as the pilot was killed. His injuries included a fractured skull. He was initially listed in critical condition but did ultimately make a full recovery after being confined to Air Force hospitals for several months.

Roger went on to live a full life and died in Riverside, California, on April 16, 1994, at the age of 73. Coincidentally, I lived in Southern California near Riverside from 1990 to 2005. Had I realized this at the time, Daddy and I could have visited him. Then I could have heard the story first-hand. Still, the story has stayed in my mind all these years. Roger and his survival of the plane crash made quite an impression on Daddy.

UNCLE FRED

Daddy had two uncles who both played an essential role in his life. Uncle Fred was one of them. My father’s middle name is Frederick in honor of Uncle Fred. I remember hearing Daddy talking about going to Uncle Fred’s farm for the summer. I didn’t understand how he fit into the family until I did some research on Ancestry.com, which was quite enlightening.

Frederic William Atwood was born on August 28, 1896, in Woodstock, Vermont. He was next in line in birth order after Grandpa Atwood, who was born in 1895, so Fred was a little over a year younger in age.

According to the 1900 census, Fred was three years old, and Homer was the head of the household of the farm in Woodstock. The 1910 census reveals Fred to be 13 years old, and Homer is still the head of the family. According to the 1920 census, Fred was now 23 years old, and Homer was still head of the household. The children left were Lillian (she never left home or married because she had contracted poliomyelitis). By then, Geraldine had been adopted by Homer and Lena. She was nine years old.

By the 1930 census, Homer had passed away, and Lena was listed as the head of the household. Fred was 34 years old and working on the farm. Lillian was still there as well as Geraldine, who was 19 years old. This situation leads me to believe that Fred remained on the farm and worked it for most of the rest of his life. This scenario would explain why Daddy went to visit Uncle Fred frequently as Daddy lived in Hartland, and the farm was not too far away in Woodstock.

According to the 1940 census, Fred was head of the house and now owned the family farm. Lillian, who was disabled, still lived there. Fred was still single in 1940. On November 28, 1942, Fred married Violet May Bernor in Woodstock, Vermont. She was 23 years old at the time, and he was 46. She was from Pittsford, Vermont. I’m not sure why he waited so long to get married, but Fred must have been a bachelor when Daddy visited him as a child. Fred and Lena had a son, Frederic William Atwood, who was born on February 16, 1951, and died of metastatic pancreatic carcinoma on May 31, 2000. Fred and Violet had a second son, David Paul Atwood, who was born on September 1, 1954, long after Daddy had left home and got married himself. This fact is the reason why I don’t recall Daddy ever mentioning their names.

Uncle Fred died on May 13, 1956, at age 59. According to Ancestry.com, he died in Boise, Idaho, of uremia. Fred had a history of glomerulonephritis. I’m not sure how he ended up in Idaho. The informant on the death certificate was Edith Davis, his sister, who was married to Dr. Ralph Davis and did not live in Vermont since her marriage. I’m not sure what happened to the family farm, but in 1954 when David was born, Fred’s address was noted to be Fair Haven, Vermont, and his occupation was listed as retired. I wish Daddy were here to shed some more light on this. He would know what happened. It could be that Fred was in ill health and found it necessary to sell the farm. He died at a relatively young age.  He was buried in Woodstock, Vermont, his birthplace.

GRANDPA ATWOOD'S SIDE OF THE FAMILY

The family was of the utmost importance to my father. I remember him talking a lot about his cousins and different members of the family that he interacted with during his growing up years. A frequent topic of conversation was the Atwood Reunion, and I remember attending it occasionally. I even have a photograph of Daddy when he was about 13 years old, and the title of the photo is "Deane Atwood, 1938, Atwood Reunion." I love this particular image of Daddy. He has a smile and a mischievous grin on his face, his arms are crossed, and he has one foot crossed over the other. He looked full of it and ready to have a great day.

What I don't recall, however, are the individuals that made up Grandpa's family. The reason, I believe, is because my family did not spend as much time with Daddy's side of the family as we did with Mother's part of the family. For one thing, Grandpa and Grammie Atwood had relocated to Florida from Hartland, Vermont, in the mid-1940s. They did spend the summers with us in their mobile home, but I don't remember visiting Grandpa's relatives very often, or even that he talked much about them.

Because they played such a vital role in Daddy's life, I wanted to summarize the composition of Grandpa Atwood's family and see if I could connect any of the names with what I heard from my father's stories. To do this, I gleaned a lot of information from Ancestry.com. I also have a group photograph of Grandpa Atwood's nuclear family, which was provided to me by Daddy's brother, Howland Atwood. He has labeled the photo with the names of Grandpa's parents as well as his brothers and sisters. Between these two sources, I have pieced together the following summary and what I remember hearing about the various individuals involved.

Clarence Fay Atwood (who I refer to as Grandpa Atwood) was born on March 21, 1895, in Woodstock, Vermont, and died on November 28, 1972, in Volusia, Florida. He married Marjorie Eliza Howland (Grammie Atwood) on May 24, 1916. Grandpa Atwood's father was Homer Pratt Atwood (born on September 20, 1860, and died on September 27, 1929). He died only four years after Daddy was born, which explains why I never heard too much about him. I don't remember Grandpa Atwood ever speaking of his father at all. Grandpa Atwood's mother was Lena Elsie Fay (born on January 12, 1968, and died on July 15, 1933). Daddy was about eight years old when she died. Again, I don't recall hearing about her, either. Grandpa Atwood would have been in his 30s when his parents passed away.

I didn't realize that Grandpa Atwood came from such a large family. There were seven living children born of Homer and Lena Atwood (two daughters died young, Ruth at age three, and Lena at about one month old). Grandpa Atwood's parents adopted a girl named Geraldine Myrtle. She showed up as a member of the family on the 1920 census when she was nine years old. I don't remember ever hearing a word about her.

Grandpa Atwood's siblings were: Irene Clark Atwood (born in 1901 and died in 1942); Roena Elizabeth Atwood (born in 1893 and died in 1970); Edith Sarah Atwood (born in 1890 and died in 1972); Frederic William Atwood (born in 1896 and died in 1956); Horatio Nelson Atwood II (Horatio Nelson Atwood, born in 1887 and died in 1931; he was named after his grandfather); and Lillian May Atwood (born in 1891 and died in 1953).

Irene married Harry (Harrison Richard) Ambrose, and they had several children, which would have been Daddy's cousins. I remember Daddy talking about Harry Ambrose and his cousins, who were around his age. They spent a lot of time together growing up and most likely attended many of the Atwood Reunions. Irene died before I was born, and that most likely is why I never heard her mentioned. I don't remember ever meeting the Ambrose cousins, although I may have when I was young.

Roena married Ray McBride (Walton Raymond) in 1912. He was 36, and she was 19. It was his second marriage (he was a widower). I remember Roena’s name being mentioned by Grandpa and we may have even gone to visit her when Grammie and Grandpa Atwood came up in the summer. They had three children: Iris, Kenneth, and Ray (also named Walton Raymond). My father talked about his cousin, Ken McBride, frequently. He eventually moved to Riverside, California, and we went to visit him twice there (once in the 1960s and also in the 1990s as I lived in California on two separate occasions). I recall them having a good time reminiscing about their childhood experiences. I don't recall hearing much about his cousin, Ray, but I believe he was a pilot.

Grandpa's sister, Edith, married Dr. Ralph Davis, a surgeon at the Veterans Administration Hospital. They lived in Minnesota and Indiana and had two sons, one of whom died at the age of 6. I don't recall hearing anything at all about Edith or her family. Since they lived in a different state, there was most likely very little interaction between the families.

Frederick William Atwood was born on August 28, 1896, and died on May 13, 1956. Uncle Fred is the one I remember hearing about the most from Daddy; therefore, I will devote a separate section to him.

Horatio Nelson Atwood II was born on April 30, 1887, and died on June 24, 1931. He had a farm in Pomfret, Vermont. He passed away when Daddy was only six years old. He married Clara Maxham, and they had four children. One of the daughters was June, and she married Roger Bumps. I remember hearing about them so often that I will dedicate a separate story to them.

Grandpa's sister, Lillian, was born in 1891 and died in 1953. She never married and taught school. When she was a young woman, she was afflicted with polio. According to Uncle Howland, she had a lovely personality and very much enjoyed the visits of her nieces and nephews. She played dominoes and other games with them. Lillian remained living with Uncle Fred until 1953 when she passed away.

I didn't know this, but Grandpa Atwood's mother, Lena, also taught school as well as his sister Roena. Marjorie (Grammie Atwood) also taught school before she married my grandfather. Lillian was friends with Marjorie and used to drive a horse and buggy down to the Woodstock Railroad Station to pick up Marjorie, who came for a visit. She got on the railroad at Windsor and at White River Junction transferred to the Woodstock Railroad. That is how she met my grandfather, Clarence.

Marjorie and Lillian both attended a Teachers' Conference in Montpelier, Vermont. Lillian happened to drink some water, but Marjorie did not. Shortly after that, Lillian came down with polio. At the time that Lillian and Marjorie attended the convention, the Montpelier water supply was considered of poor quality. Contaminated water was noted to be the cause of polio in the United States. The doctors said that Lillian was the most wholly paralyzed patient they had ever seen. She gradually regained control except for her legs, and use of her arms was very limited, but she did beautiful crochet work, and a state agency used to sell her work, so she had some income. The cause of her death was listed as poliomyelitis.

The family adopted Geraldine Myrtle sometime between 1910 and the 1920. I don't know much about her as I don't recall ever hearing her name mentioned, so I don't know the circumstances of the adoption at all. Geraldine was born in 1910 and died in 1962. At age 19, she appeared on the 1920 census with Lena as the head of household (Homer had passed away). She married Emmett Edward Racy on May 28, 1936 (she was 25). She was divorced from him on January 1, 1952. She married someone named Dean Whitwell Read (this was his second marriage also). I don't know if she had any children from either marriage.

Interestingly Kenneth McBride (who was Roena's son) boarded with Geraldine when she was married to Emmett when Kenneth was 21, according to the 1940 census.

DEANE ATWOOD'S INNATE GOODNESS

Being the scapegoat of his family and the black sheep, I don't imagine that my father heard many people telling him what an honorable person he was. It didn't help when he became an alcoholic as a teenager and married a woman who was strong-willed and hypercritical of him. Over the years, I've heard a lot about what he did wrong. I haven't heard so much about his virtues, though. I want to take this opportunity to talk about the goodness and kindness of a man who I still call Daddy.

Daddy had many stories to tell about his growing up years in Hartland, Vermont. It was evident to me that he had tremendous love and respect for his family, especially his mother and father. He was very proud of his parents. I recently transcribed a tape that he made years ago in which he relayed some of his stories. I liked the one about his mother because it demonstrates the great affection he had for her. The story goes like this:

"Every summer Uncle George and Aunt Edna would come down to the house, and they were coming down, so my mother told me to go out and dress a couple of hens and get the freezer out and make a freezer of ice cream. So anyway, Lloyd brought them down, and we had a nice dinner. If you've never eaten a chicken dinner on a Sunday at my mother's, well, you haven't eaten. It was the best meal that ever was."

The way he raved about her dinner was very touching to me. I could tell from the sound of his voice how much he admired her.

There is a story about his father, who he also greatly admired. This story was also transcribed from the tape:

"My dad used to buy and sell horses. He used to show them at shows. It was kind of a hobby with him. One time he got a hold of this horse that was a whistler (a term used to describe horses that make an abnormal respiratory noise during exercise). He said, 'well, that would be a good one to sell to George.' They went out and looked at the horses, and George always needed a couple or so. So, we had this one horse that my dad wanted to get rid of, and he was showing him the horses. George says, ‘Well, what about this horse here, Clarence?’ My dad says, ‘Well, I don't think it's anything you would want.’ He says, ‘okay.’ Well, pretty soon, he'd be back, and he said, ‘well he doesn't look bad to me.’ My dad said, ‘Well, I don't think it's anything you would want.’ The hook was set. He sold him the horse. We went to the Atwood Reunion, and George says, 'Clarence, you were right. I should have listened to you. That horse wasn't anything I wanted. I had a hell of a time getting rid of him.'”

Grandpa Atwood was known for being a shrewd businessman and Daddy loved to tell stories which confirmed this.

He also talked about his grandfather Howland, who he called Gramp, and his Uncle Fred. He told another story about his Grammie Howland (his mother's mother), which I also transcribed directly from the tape.

"I wished I could remember Grammie Howland. I was quite young when she died. I think my older cousins and my brother would remember, but there were things that my mother told about her. There was one story that comes to mind concerning a pie. It seems like Grammie made a pie, and Timmy, the cat, got into the middle of it. So, at night, they were sitting around the table, and she said, 'Whose cat is Timmy?' Uncle Deane spoke up, 'He's my cat, my cat.' She was great for having the punishment fit the crime."

I'm not sure what the punishment was if any, but the story was heartwarming anyway.

It was so evident to me how much he cared for his family, although I am not sure they held him in such high regard. I don't recall ever hearing him say anything negative about any of his family. I wish I could say the same for them.

Even though Daddy saw himself as Archie Bunker and was quite narrow-minded about a lot of things, he did have a soft spot in his heart for a family of three siblings who lived down the road from him. They were named Barbara, Wayne, and Ricky. They were foster kids and were developmentally disabled. At the time, Daddy had a thriving rabbit-breeding business (he had between 1500 and 2000 rabbits at a time). He needed help with the rabbits, and so he hired these kids to help him. I don't believe the foster parents treated them very well and most likely took them in for the income they got from the state. They told Daddy that they were beaten for things like wetting the bed.

These kids worked for Daddy for several years until they grew up. He was noted to be very patient with them and always treated them with compassion and respect. Daddy probably told them lots of his stories, and I know my mother fed them whenever she got the chance. The foster parents were so cruel to them that they locked up the food and probably just gave them the bare necessities. It's easy to be kind to children without disabilities, but it takes a particular person to befriend those who are less fortunate. I am so proud of Daddy for taking the time to nurture these kids. I'm sure that it had a lasting impact on their lives. Even after they grew up and no longer lived at the foster home, they kept in touch with my mother and father.

I recently learned that when Daddy was growing up, his mother stressed to him not to make fun of anyone who was developmentally disabled (I’m not sure what term she might have used) and he took that to heart. I also heard that when we lived in Orange, there was an incident when someone who was developmentally disabled was painted all over their body and died from it. This upset Daddy. His term for people like this was “fool.”  He didn’t mean it in a derogatory way and that was probably the kindest term he could come up with. He often said “It doesn’t take any intelligence to make fun of a ‘fool.’”

Daddy had a way of acting like a clown, making jokes and faces, and telling the same stories over and over again. I wonder what he would have done with his life if he had been able to step out of that role and show his true self. It’s sad to me that more people didn’t take him seriously during his lifetime because underneath it all, he was a tenderhearted, kind, and loving man.

My son, Chris, never had a chance to know his biological father, but Daddy acted as a surrogate father to him. They loved each other unconditionally. Daddy taught him to drive a truck, and Chris has been working as a truck driver ever since. At 17, when Chris had an accident with his vehicle and totaled it, Daddy was understanding and said, "You can replace the truck, but you can't replace the boy." Chris was the son my father never had. Chris had the kind of relationship with Daddy that I yearned to have.

My father always treated my mother's family very well. We spent many happy days at family get-togethers. My mother's family was not as well off as my father's family was. Daddy had the benefit of his family's fortunes, which were passed on to him. He always shared his good luck with my mother and never made her feel like it was his money, and now hers. Because of his inheritances, she was able to have enough money to keep her going for the rest of her life. I believe he allowed her to control the family finances.

When any family member or friend was in the hospital, my father made it a point to go and visit them. He was considerate that way. I used to think my father was narcissistic and only thought about himself, but I was wrong about this. Because he loved so deeply and cared so much, he wanted to be accepted for himself without judgment. He did have his faults, as we all do, but the good outweighed them by far.

I’M JUST LIKE ARCHIE BUNKER

Daddy was proud of the fact that he reminded other people of Archie Bunker. Of course, it was one of his favorite TV shows, probably of all time. Archie Bunker was the head of the household in the sitcom “All in the Family,” which aired in the 1970s.

Archie is famous for his gruff, ignorant, bigoted persona—African Americans, Hispanics, “Communists,” hippies, gays, Jews, Catholics, “women’s libbers,” and Polish-Americans were frequent targets of his barbs. Archie, like my father, was a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant (WASP). He had a heavy accent, as did Daddy. Archie’s was a New York City accent, and Daddy’s was a thick Vermont accent.

Although an Anglo-Saxon ancestry might suggest he is of English origin (Daddy was with an ancestor coming over on the Mayflower), Archie mocks the British and refers to England as a “fag country,” because of their English accents. He referred to Germans as “Krauts,” Irish as “Micks,” Japanese as “Japs,” the Italians as “Dagos,” Chinese as “Chinks,” Polish as “Polacks,” and Hispanics as “Spics.” He often uses the word “colored’ about African-Americans. Of course, Daddy used the N_____ word all the time which was not used on the show. I was not too fond of the fact that my father used the N_____ word and tried to get him to break the habit, but he wasn’t interested. I thought it made him sound ignorant as well as racist. I wanted to get him to use the term African-American because I felt it was not offensive. My mother used the word “colored” to refer to black people. I tried to break her of that but no go.

Archie was a working-class character in Queens, New York, and worked as a dockworker/cab driver. My father also was working-class and worked as a truck driver, and even worked as a cab driver during World War II. He was a veteran of WWII (as was my father, although his Navy career was cut short due to a problem with sleepwalking after boot camp). Both were reactionary and conservative. They had similar physical characteristics, and both made up a lot of faces when they talked and were highly animated when they tried to get their points across.

Much like Daddy, Archie was not motivated by malice. Archie was a hardworking man, a loving father, and a husband, and so was Daddy. Family meant everything to my father, especially his family of origin. Whereas Archie had conflicts with his son-in-law, Mike, who was a liberal, Daddy disagreed with me on most subjects. I am the liberal one in the family. I think differently than almost anyone in the family. Mostly everybody didn’t mind seeing Daddy as the Archie Bunker character because they all felt the same way he did. I sometimes wondered how I was a product of that family. My liberal thinking did not even rub off on my children or grandchildren who are consistently racist and opinionated in their outlook of the world.

One of the things that Daddy regrets about his life is that he felt that no one took him seriously. He didn’t realize it at the time, but I have always tried to take him seriously. I saw potential in him and the positive characteristics that others were not able to see or chose not to perceive. I wanted him to show his true self to the world and not hide behind the clowning, constant talking, and the ignorant way of talking about others. He also swore a lot and had some distasteful habits that I felt made him look bad.

While my father and the people in his world seemed to like his personification of Archie Bunker, I never wanted to think of him that way, and I still don’t. I knew he was better than that. I knew he was an intelligent and sensitive, caring man underneath it all, and I wanted the world to see that. That’s the way I choose to think of him today.

I AM THEIR VOICE

I have known for a very long time that I am supposed to write books about my life experiences, but have had a hard time getting the job done. The three books that I am in the process of writing (about 3/4 done on each I would say) are potentially titled: "Daddy and Me: It's Never Too Late," "Aunt Helen, Mother, and Me: Overcoming the Stigma of Mental Illness in our Family," and "Mother and Me: A Journey of Redemption, Forgiveness, and Love."

There have been several reasons why these books have not yet reached completion. One is that I wasn't sure I had compelling stories to tell (I am now convinced that I do). All of these books concern various aspects of my family life and the experiences that I had with my mother and father. Some of these reveal painful aspects of our life together; however, each one has a happy ending. I didn't want to write a book that portrayed me as a victim, and so I had a lot of healing and forgiveness to do before finishing the books. I no longer see myself as a victim, and I have come to understand and accept many of my formerly confusing life lessons. I didn't want to betray anyone in my family who I have loved from the day I was born. Interestingly, the two family members I was most concerned about (Mother and Daddy) did not want me to write a book when they were alive, but now that they are on the other side, they are anxious for me to finish the projects. So all the excuses I had for not completing the books are gone.

I find myself in a unique situation. There were very few people in my life who provided encouragement and support to me. My mother was vocal about convincing me and anyone else who would listen that there was something wrong with me. I was a good student throughout grade school and high school, achieving high grades and academic honors. One of my prominent skills was an apt writing ability. For some reason, though, my mother went out of her way to convince me not to go to college. When the subject came up with my desire to write a book, she was vehemently against it. That kept me from pursuing this goal for a long time. My father sided with my mother and also didn't want me to write my story.

Luckily for me, though, I have been on a spiritual journey since my early 20s, continually trying to find answers to why my life turned out the way it did. I have received several readings from spiritual mediums over the years, which have clarified many of my issues. I have been able to understand the complicated issued that I faced with my mother and father, and we have healed these wounds, mended our relationships, and have achieved forgiveness, understanding, and love. The content of these readings is interspersed throughout the three books. They have had a profound effect on my spiritual understanding of the journey I was on with my family.

What has become clear to me is that the very people who discouraged me from writing these stories, that is, my mother and father, are now my strongest supporters to write and not put it off any longer. One of the facts revealed in a message was that my father believed that no one took him seriously. He had the facade of a clown and always wanted to make people laugh. Hidden deep beneath this persona was a sad and sensitive man who didn't have a voice. I was one of the few people who tried to take him seriously, but at the time, I couldn't get through to his inner being. I have been the one person who has understood him, and he now realizes that. I believe I can present the story of our lives in a sensitive and understanding way that will benefit us and also anyone who might read it. He is guiding me from the other side and helping me put this book together once and for all. I am the voice he never had.

My mother and I had a very complicated love/hate relationship from the very start of our journey together. We had spent many previous lifetimes together in different scenarios and had a lot of karma to heal. On a spiritual level, we were both determined to remedy this karma and not have to go through another dramatic lifetime together. Of course, neither of us were aware of this on a conscious level. We did manage to heal our relationship this time around and found the love and forgiveness that we both wanted. Before this happened, the last thing my mother wanted was for me to write a book about the family. Now, of course, she sees things from a different perspective and is quite anxious for me to chronicle our journey together.

Unlike my father, my mother had a voice during her lifetime, and she used it to put me down to anyone and everyone who would listen. She was able to convince many people that I was the problem. These people included my father, my sisters, my grandparents, relatives on both sides of the family, her friends, and coworkers. There was also a family history of mental illness, and I was designated as the "crazy" one. The mother was ultimately diagnosed with bipolar disorder with psychotic features, but to divert the attention away from her, she convinced everyone that I was the bad seed. The story of how this drama played out is the subject of how my mother and I were able to heal a complicated relationship and find peace with each other. Now that she is on the other side and sees things from a spiritual perspective rather than a human one, she is anxious for me to finish this writing project. She knows that I will be the voice of reason in presenting this story, and she trusts me to do that. She is one of my greatest supporters from across the veil.

If anyone deserves to have their story told and to be given a voice, at last, it is my great Aunt Helen. She has become one of my all-time heroes. There was a history of mental illness on my mother's side of the family, and Aunt Helen was admitted to Waterbury State Hospital and stayed for 17 years. Her story is fascinating. She was ultimately chosen as one of the first 100 inpatients to be released through a rehabilitation program. I have more than enough material to write her story and how it affected not only Aunt Helen but my mother and me. I was fortunate to be able to work with my second cousin, Don Phillips, who had firsthand knowledge of the story.

When I was going over the notes from one of the readings I had with a psychic medium, I realized that Aunt Helen was the quiet woman who visited me. She came with my mother and my grandmother. I couldn't figure out who she was at first. She was described by Don Phillips as being very quiet. She is anxious to have her story told at long last, and I am happy to be her voice.

Another person in my family who I had issues with was Grammie Phillips, my mother's mother. I loved Grammie Phillips, and when my sisters and I were little, we liked nothing more than to go to Grammie's house. Grammie Phillips was a hardworking farm wife. She took care of the household duties, and Grandpa Phillips did the farm work. Grammie was very organized and frugal. I remember that she had a good sense of humor. She was an excellent cook and made everything from scratch. She was a strong woman, and she was without question the head of the house.

When I got to be in about the third or fourth grade is when our relationship seemed to deteriorate. I felt that Grammie, like other members of the family, including my mother, had turned against me. There was a history of mental illness in the family. Because I was seen as sensitive, the label of "crazy" was affixed to me. I accepted that as my fate. I didn't think Grammie Phillips loved me anymore. I was discouraged about this. I was able to see Grammie Phillips in the hospital a few weeks before she died, and we had an enjoyable visit. Her trademark sense of humor was present during this visit. During one of my visits to a medium, Grammie Phillips visited me. The medium asked if she was much stronger than her husband. I agreed that she was. She is still very much the head of the household and cooks all her meals from scratch. She now lives in a big beautiful house in heaven. I can envision all the family members coming for Sunday dinners just like they used to when I was growing up.

During the last several years, I made several trips to Vermont to see the old homestead that was Grammie's house. The house had deteriorated to a large extent and was no longer habitable. It eventually was burned to the ground. The last time I went, there was a brand-new large house standing in the spot where Grammie's house was. Maybe that's how her home in heaven looks. She certainly deserves it and is one of my relatives who now would like to see her part of the story told. It will be my pleasure to give her a voice in my books.

Grandpa Atwood is one of the few people who tried to encourage me to succeed. He didn't want me to end up getting married and having a baby when I was 18 (which, of course, I did). He even went so far as to ask my mother to let me move to Florida, live with them, and to go to college. I wasn't physically or emotionally in any condition to be able to do that, but I will always remember the kind gesture on his part. I felt like I disappointed him in life. The last time I saw him was when I was pregnant for Chris. He died in 1972. However, I later found out that he has been watching over me and helping me ever since then. He is in heaven helping people now. When I thought about writing Daddy’s story,

I realized that I didn’t know much about the Atwood side of the family. I knew the Phillips side much better because of all the visits we made to the extended family. I have been researching Grandpa Atwood’s family and siblings, and I will include a summary of the family in the book concerning Daddy and me. I am sure Grandpa will guide me in this endeavor.

Uncle Deane is my father's uncle (he was named after him), and I remember him from my childhood. He was a successful telephone company executive in Massachusetts. Because he didn't have any children of his own, he left his sizeable fortune to his nephews and nieces, including my father. Because I played the role of scapegoat in my family, I don't believe he had a high opinion of me, at least it didn't seem that way to me. I would have loved to have been admired by him. Uncle Deane is one of the relatives who came during one of my visits with a psychic medium. He placed a bar of gold bullion in my lap and said that I deserved to have the best in life. He will be featured in my book about Daddy and me.

It appears that I have quite a cheering section to encourage my writing endeavors from the other side. For some reason, the people in my family did not see the "real" me while they were living. But now they do, and their support is essential to me. Those who remain on this side, for the most part, are not able to support me and would prefer to see me fail. I cannot let this affect how I go forward. I have made promises to write these books, and I will deliver.

A PROUD WORLD WAR II VETERAN

Daddy turned 18 on February 19, 1943, right in the middle of World War II. As required, he signed up for the draft on his 18th birthday. At the time he signed up, he was living with his parents in Hartland, Vermont, and he worked for his father, Clarence Atwood, who ran a milk distribution business. He weighed 165 pounds at 5'9," and he was noted to have a ruddy complexion, blonde hair, and blue eyes.

Instead of waiting to be drafted, though, he signed up for the United States Navy sometime in 1943. He made it through boot camp but was very disappointed when he was honorably discharged because of sleepwalking and yelling. Because it was wartime, the military officials felt that this was dangerous because he might alert the enemy because of the commotion he made. He wanted to be successful and do his part in the wartime effort, but that was not to be. This disappointment was one of the first of many more to come.

Because he made it through boot camp, Daddy was considered a WWII veteran, and he was very proud of this. There is a plaque placed at his gravesite, which reads: DEANE F ATWOOD, AS US NAVY, WORLD WAR II, FEB 19 1925 - FEB 7 1999. He tried to do his best to serve his country, and sometimes that's all that can be done. He continued to be treated at the Veterans Administration Hospital throughout his life, and that is where he died.

After his Navy experience, he returned to Hartland and worked as a taxicab driver in Windsor, Vermont. One of his duties was to deliver casualty telegrams. This job was difficult for him because many of the casualties of war were young men that were neighbors and previous schoolmates. He might have experienced some survivor guilt. At any rate, he met my mother in the process of getting the telegrams, who was a Western Union relief operator, and the rest is history.

Daddy frequently talked about his experiences at boot camp. He liked to tell stories, and one of them went like this: "WWII. Everyone knows about that from the newspapers. WW1 that was in the history books. WWII was in the newspapers. Korea came along, and that was a police action, and Vietnam was on the 6 o'clock news. In WWII, I was in the Navy, and in book camp, this one guy acted kind of peculiar. Every time he would see a piece of paper, he would pick it up and read it and then throw it down. No matter where he was if he was in ranks or marching in the line, he would see a piece of paper, and he would run over to it. Well, they got after him, and they tried to discipline him. Finally, they sent him down to the neuropsychiatric ward. He went to see a psychiatrist. He grabbed a basket and dumped it out and looked at all the papers, and he shook his head. "What is it you want?" "Well, I really don't know." Finally, they gave him a section 8 discharge. He looked at it, read it over, and smiled, and now he says, "That's what I was looking for." (This story was transcribed word for word from a tape that Daddy recorded of his stories.)

THE “RUBE”

I don’t remember hearing this term growing up in rural Vermont. The first time I recall hearing it was my father referring to himself as the rube. He relayed that his buddies, most likely the people that he played poker with, referred to him as the rube. I didn’t quite know what a rube was, but Daddy seemed to take it as a compliment. At the very least, he didn’t seem to mind being referred to this way.

I recently looked up the meaning of “rube” by searching Google. The first definition I came to was “an awkward, unsophisticated person.” Other definitions included “a country bumpkin” and “an unsophisticated country person.” Synonyms that I am familiar with include bumpkin, clodhopper, cornball, hayseed, hick, hillbilly, and yokel. This doesn’t sound like a compliment to me so I was wondering what my father was thinking.

Examples of how rube was used in a sentence included: “They treated us as if we were a bunch of rubes.” Also, “Rural voters were tired of being treated as rubes by state officials, who showed interest in them only at election time.” These sentences don’t sound complimentary to me either.

The next step I took in my attempt to understand the term rube was to ask Google the question: “Is calling someone a rube considered an insult?” This is the answer I got: “Rube is an insulting word for a person considered uneducated or uncultured. Your average country bumpkin is also a rube.” “Calling someone a rube is another way of saying, ‘You sound like an idiot and you don’t know what you’re talking about.’ This word implies a lack of sophistication, manners, education, and culture. Rubes are usually from rural areas, and they’re also known as bumpkins, hayseeds, hicks, yahoos, yokels, and hillbillies. This is an insulting word, so use it cautiously—though it’s probably fine to use it jokingly with your friends.”

I will have no way of knowing if the associates of my father’s were insulting him or just kidding around. He certainly didn’t seem to take it as an insult and perpetuated the use of the term.

Daddy was from Vermont and had a thick Vermont accent (which to me does sound like a hick talking). Lots of well-educated people from Vermont and New Hampshire still retain that accent. I was just talking to my second cousin from Vermont who is college-educated and has a thick accent. My father came from a family who believed in education. Grandpa Atwood had a high school education and went on to be an astute businessman and amassed a sizeable fortune that lasted his entire life and the ability to leave sizeable inheritances to his children. Grammie Atwood was a schoolteacher before she married Grandpa. My father’s older brother went to college as did his two younger sisters.

Daddy, on the other hand, didn’t even finish high school. It wasn’t for lack of intelligence though. Early on, he was designated the scapegoat of the family and the black sheep. He was the troublemaker of the family. He most likely went on to see himself in this way and that would account for why he wasn’t taken seriously by many people in his life. He liked to clown around, make up goofy faces, and spoke in a way that prevented people from seeing his serious side (which he did have but kept it well hidden). This is why his buddies saw him as the rube. I’m sure they never realized that behind that façade was an intelligent and sensitive man.

WRITING MY LIFE STORY

I was born with good writing ability, and throughout high school, I enjoyed writing papers and book reports. One of my English teachers, Mr. Budlong, was quite impressed with my talent and once announced in class that "you have an apt writing ability." When I finally went to college in the 1990s, I immensely enjoyed writing papers and was told by many professors that I was a good writer.

I've been guided for many years to write my life story. It is the story of how I triumphed over many, many challenges. I also learned to forgive myself and others in my life. It is a story of redemption and of letting go of old beliefs that do not serve me. It is also the story of my family. How did I have come to make sense of how I fit into the overall family?

Here I am 75 years old, and the story still has not been told in its entirety. Why? For one thing, I didn't want to write my account from a victim's point of view. Poor me, look at what my family did to me. That would serve no useful purpose at all. I also didn't think I had an interesting enough story to tell. Also, who would believe me?

When Mother and Daddy were still alive (about 25 years ago), I brought up the idea to my family that I wanted to write a book. I guess I wanted their approval, as I always did. Mother didn't say anything to me but told Deana about it. Deana confronted me and said that she knew the real truth about me and that if I wrote a book and appeared on Oprah, she would go on and tell her about me. Unfortunately, my mother had a meager opinion of me and has influenced my daughter to feel the same way about me. So that ended that. I stopped the idea of writing and put it on hold indefinitely.

I was pretty busy for the next number of years, finishing my education, first getting my Bachelor's degree in Sociology at Cal State San Bernardino, and then my Master's of Social Work Degree, which I earned in 2001. I still kept wanting to write, and the idea has always nagged at me, but I waited.

I signed up for a Memoir Workshop at the Cohoes Senior Center about eight years ago and began to write some stories. I have several of them in a notebook. I was going to keep up with the writing class, but when I started working as the Program Coordinator at the Adult Day Services Program at the Cohoes Senior Center, I couldn't get away to attend the classes. So again, I put the project aside.

When I went to have a reading by a medium at Among Angels in Clifton Park, the first thing the medium said was that I wasn't working on my book, and I wasn't meditating. She also told me that I needed to let my parents off the hook and stop blaming them for how my life turned out. Instead, I needed to put it down in a book, and that would be healing for not only me but for my whole family. She told me not to waste another minute, and I have often said to myself that lately. I'm not going to waste another minute. So I promised I would start writing.

I took a six-week memoir writing class at the Arts Center recently run by Marion Roach, who is an excellent writing teacher. I wrote several stories for that class and read them aloud. So I got to writing again in earnest. The class ended, and I found that some of the things I needed to write about would be very difficult to read in front of a roomful of people (even though they were quite supportive of me), and I decided to forge ahead on my own. Right now, I am trying to get everything out and down on paper, and then I can refine it later into a story, maybe 2 or 3 stories.

I had another reading a couple of weeks ago by a different medium at Among Angels, and she also brought up the book. She gave me lots of information about various family members who were in the spirit world and how they were doing and what they thought about me and how I am doing. Grandpa Atwood (who died about 40 years ago) came forward and laid a bouquet of white roses in my lap and congratulated me on the book. My Aunt Marion came forward and told the medium that she placed her hands on mine at the keyboard while I was writing to encourage me and to help me with my memories.

Grammie Phillips came forward and was quite a bit in front of Grandpa Phillips. The medium asked me if Grammie Phillips was much stronger than Grandpa, and I said she was. I also told her that I came from a long line of strong women and weak men. Grammie and Grandpa are living in a big beautiful house. Everyone steps aside and lets Grammie Phillips do all the cooking, which is fine with her. She makes everything from scratch just like she did at the old farmhouse in Berlin, Vermont.

Grandpa Atwood has been able to help a lot of people still living on earth from his vantage point. These include several members of several different families, some of whom have been on the verge of committing suicide. He helped to prevent this so that they could finish their human experience without giving up.

The medium told me relatives who have crossed over had a successful time in adjusting to heaven. She said that family members who were not able to support me on earth are now helping me in heaven and are cheering me on, especially in my attempts to tell my story and make sense of my life. Those on the other side are better able to support me than my family members who are still living. I'm still trying to figure out why that is. Those who have passed on don't want me to waste any more time in holding grudges and hanging on to old patterns and old beliefs that are not working.

I have always had an urge to pursue my spirituality and have been a seeker since my early 20s. I thought everyone came to that realization, but I found out that few do. Most people plod through life, don't question things, and realize after they have passed over that in a lot of ways, they were wasting their time and the opportunities they had for spiritual growth while on the planet. I was always a little afraid of it because I thought my family would think of my spiritual search as a sign of my "craziness" and that I was weird. The exciting thing about that is, no one on the other side thinks spirituality is funny, and they gave up all the hangups they had about it. So I guess I would be in good company in heaven.

I still become a little overwhelmed when thinking of taking on the project of actually writing a book. Then I kind of give up. Yesterday I meditated and asked Daddy how I could know that he was supporting me and did he think I could do it. I then got the idea to go to the healing circle at Among Angels that evening because Daddy would have a message for me.

As I sat in the circle and the medium said that he could not guarantee that everyone would get a message, I wondered if I would be one of the lucky ones. I was. I was the third person to receive a message. The medium asked if anyone related to someone who had a milk route in the 1950s and delivered milk to people's houses. That was one of the jobs he had during my childhood. I, of course, identified with that because Daddy was a milkman in the 1950s and delivered milk to the residents of Norwich, Vermont. Two other ladies also identified. Next, he said that this person was a large man (Daddy was overweight most of his life) and that he also suffered from heart and lung problems (he died in 1999 from a heart attack and suffered from COPD from many years of smoking). I identified, and so did another lady.

So the medium went a little further. Does anybody identify with September? Did someone die in September? A birthday or anniversary. For some reason, I didn't hear the birthday part and so didn't bring up the fact that my birthday was in September right away, but eventually came to my senses and said my birthday was in September. The medium laughed because people get flustered when they are about to get a message and sometimes get confused. So the message was for me, and it was Daddy.

Daddy showed the medium many books and what looked like a library. I told the medium that I was in the process of writing a book, and Daddy was referring to this. He said to the medium that when I finished the book that he could help me in the publishing process because he had some contacts from the other side. He is anxious for me to work on the project. He asked the medium if I thought I could finish the writing part by the end of the year. Well, of course, I could if I worked on it regularly. Daddy told the medium that he didn't want to put me under pressure – hmmm. So all my relatives on the other side want me to write this book and set the record straight on some issues that the family had collectively and would like to see me resolve these issues on this side rather than to see them clearly on the other side.

It seems funny that Daddy is so supportive of me now because he wasn't able to be when he was a part of my physical life, although I craved that. He just couldn't do it. If he had been able to stand up to my mother only once, things might have been different, but he wasn't able to. She was a powerful person, and she simply overpowered him. Even though I believe he agreed to support me and help me with my relationship with my mother before I was born (an agreement I think was made with the help of his spirit guides and mine), he just couldn't do it. Instead, he took the path of least resistance and took my mother's side over me, which was very hurtful to me. He wanted to gain her approval, and one of the ways he tried to do it was to put me down to her and to agree with every negative thing she had to say about me.

But that is something I need to put into perspective and to put aside. I am so fortunate now to have a supportive relationship with Daddy, who watches over me very, very carefully, and wants me to succeed. Thanks, Daddy!!

So I now commit to sit down at my keyboard every day and write my life story with the help and support of Daddy and others on the other side.

WE EACH PAID A HIGH PRICE

Aunt Helen, Mother, and I each in our unique ways paid a high price for the stigma that has been placed on mental illness, both on a societal level and a personal level. We also dealt with this stigma in different ways. This perception depended on the circumstances that we faced, as well as influential people in our lives.

Aunt Helen was caught up in the timeframe where those people with perceived insanity were removed from society and placed in asylums for extended periods. Aunt Helen was a young woman who had given birth to nine children in 11 years. She started exhibiting problems with psychosis after the next to the last child was born, and the doctor warned her husband, Winfield, that she should not give birth to any more babies. Helen went on to have one more baby and had a total breakdown, unable to care for her children, and developed full-blown postpartum psychosis. This breakdown led to the State coming in and taking her away to the Vermont State Hospital, where she was an inpatient for 17 years.

Stigma towards mental illness on a societal level led to many men and women being removed from society and institutionalized for many years with conditions of overcrowding, questionable treatments, poorly trained staff, lack of proper medical care, and in many cases working for the institution without being paid. It is not known the exact treatments that Aunt Helen received and what she had to endure during her years of custodial care, but it must have been challenging.

I am not sure once Aunt Helen was released how affected she was by the stigma of mental illness, as she was one of the fortunate ones who was part of the rehabilitation program and was given much therapy and assistance during this process. Even though she did not have visitors in the long years that she was institutionalized, her sister-in-law, Ruth Phillips, was an RN and worked at the Vermont State Hospital for many of the years that Aunt Helen was there and she was very supportive of her. It was due to Ruth's recommendation that Aunt Helen was accepted as one of the first 100 patients who participated in the early rehabilitation program.

Even though stigma towards mental illness was quite prevalent on the part of the family that I was most familiar with, apparently, this stigma was not present in the other part of the family. This part was most involved with Aunt Helen's life after institutionalization. Since they did not feel the same way, it undoubtedly made Aunt Helen's rehabilitation and return to society easier.

Aunt Helen's brother, Don Phillips, and his wife R.N. Ruth Phillips, lived on a farm in Waterbury, Vermont, a few miles from Waterbury State Hospital. They hosted many Sunday dinners in honor of Aunt Helen with supportive family members and grown children in attendance. I'm quite sure that no one talked about her illness or what she had gone through for the years she was away. This assistance undoubtedly made her transition go more smoothly than if she had no one to support her. So in this way, she was very fortunate.

When Aunt Helen settled in Burlington, Vermont, her son Phillip also lived in Burlington and kept an eye on her and made sure that her needs were met. His son, Phillip Jr., was also very supportive of his grandmother. Her son, Robert, who was away in the military, was also very supportive of her and her recovery. He stayed in touch with her through letters and visits. Aunt Helen was able to maintain her own living space and was employed by taking care of an older woman.

WATCHING THE DONNA REED SHOW

The Donna Reed Show was a TV series that ran from 1958 to 1966. The Stones consist of loving homemaker Donna, her pediatrician husband Alex, and their children Mary and Jeff. We loved that show, and faithfully watched it as a family every week. Television was still relatively new then. We had a TV set. It was black and white, and we only got one channel. So whatever was on that particular channel, we watched.

One night my mother decided that Phylis would get to stay up later than me because she was older (by ten months, not even a year). She could watch the Donna Reed Show but I couldn't because I had to go to bed. This occasion is the only time she came up with that scenario to the best of my recollection. I remember how badly I wanted to watch the show, and I kept coming down the stairs and begging Mother to let me watch. Phylis was sitting there, smug and proud as a peacock that she had pulled one over on me. No matter how much I begged, Mother didn't give in. So there they sat watching the show, and I finally gave up and went to bed and cried myself to sleep—again.

This one example shows the randomness with which my mother chose to act towards my sisters and me. She was very inconsistent, and you never knew what her reasoning was. She was also very stubborn, and once she made up her mind to something, nothing would change it. Injustice has always been one of my issues (I guess that comes with being a scapegoat), and this one hit home. It just seemed so blatantly unfair.

The next week we all sat down and watched the Donna Reed Show, and nothing was said about the previous week, although I was holding my breath, and breathed a sigh of relief that the rule from last week didn't carry over to this week.

VISITING JIM HOWLAND

One of my father's cousins was named Jim Howland. Grammie Atwood's brother, Glenn, was his father, and so he was Grammie Atwood's nephew. I have a photo of him with his wife. He lived in Hartland, Vermont, his whole life, and was a true Vermonter with a heavy Vermont accent.

As a little girl, I remember going to visit Jim and his wife and family in Hartland. My father, who loved to talk, really enjoyed these visits. A special treat for us was when Jim made popcorn that he had grown himself. After drying the popcorn, he would twist the kernels off the ear, which truly amazed me. It was so good, the best popcorn I've ever had, with delicious butter melted over it. As we were sitting and eating the popcorn, it was fun listening to my father and Jim talking about lots of things, including their life together growing up in Hartland and any other number of subjects. Of course, both of them liked talking more than listening, but it was fun anyway. We would usually be offered seconds for the popcorn.

I would see Jim and his family now and then as a child, and we would run into them at family reunions, and sometimes they would come and visit us in Norwich when Grandpa and Grammie Atwood came to visit for the summer. 

I don't recall seeing him much as an adult, but I had fond memories of visiting him. The last time I saw him was at my mother's funeral in Hartland, Vermont. I wanted to speak to him and tell him about the good memories I had of my childhood when we visited and feasted on popcorn. He looked puzzled for a minute or two, but finally said, "oh, you're the one that gave them so much trouble." I was stunned and deflated. As far as I knew, he didn't know that much about me, but my role as the black sheep of the family and scapegoat was what he chose to remember about me. Sadly, this is what he decided to say to me at my mother's funeral, but that means a lot about how my family felt about me and the role I played in it.

I don't recall that I caused them that much trouble, and if I did that was so many years ago that it should have been forgotten. It just made me realize how much talking behind my back that my family did my entire life and how far-reaching its effects were. Hardly anybody in my family ever saw me in a positive light. I would have thought that at 60 years old, when I came back from California, especially to help my mother make her transition and took outstanding care of her, that at her funeral, my family would cut me some slack and try to see the good in me. I guess not.

For whatever reason, I came from a family on my father's side who felt the need to designate a member of the family as a scapegoat or the black sheep. My father, unfortunately, played that role for his family, and so did I until I finally stopped seeing myself that way.

UNCLE CLYDE, AUNT SUSIE, AND THEIR BOYS

Uncle Clyde was my grandfather Phillips' brother, who was born after he was. Grandpa was the oldest son of Don Emory and Gratia May Phillips. I remember seeing Uncle Clyde and Aunt Susie at a few family gatherings at Grammie's house. I recall that Uncle Clyde looked a lot like Grandpa Phillips, only much healthier and happier. Grandpa Phillips seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and when I was born, he was 50 years old and already looked like an older man. His hair had turned white, reportedly almost overnight, after he found his brother, Mark, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

I remember Uncle Clyde as being a jolly man with a twinkle in his eye and always smiling and laughing. I believe Aunt Susie had the same type of disposition. They didn't come around very often, and so I knew very little about them. I don't recall Grammie Phillips ever saying anything disparaging about either Uncle Clyde or Aunt Susie. Uncle Clyde lived on a farm in Moretown. He was quite close to his younger brother Don. Don's son, also named Don, was very close to the family and recalled spending a couple of weeks every summer at their farm. He said he was treated very well, and it was one of the few places that his father trusted with his only son. I don't recall that my parents or sisters ever visited him at their farm, but we may have. I only remember seeing him at Grammie Phillips' house.

Uncle Clyde and Aunt Susie had three sons, Melvin, Kenneth, and Clifton. Clifton died as a teenager of appendicitis in 1945. Both Melvin and Kenneth were extraordinarily intelligent young men. Both attended UVM and did exceptionally well there. I recall my mother saying that Melvin was so smart that he got a 100 on a chemistry final while a student at UVM. Kenneth graduated from UVM in three years rather than the usual four with honors. Both Melvin and Kenneth went to Annapolis, quite an accomplishment for two farm boys from Vermont. The competition for an appointment is stiff. In addition to standard college-entrance requirements, applicants needed to pass a physical fitness test and a medical examination and secure a Congressional nomination. Melvin was a naval officer during World War II and served on the USS Grayback submarine which was lost to enemy action, sunk by Japanese carrier-based aircraft and anti-submarine surface units, February 27, 1944, in the East China Sea.

I have a photo from the obituary of my second cousin, Kenneth Elwin Phillips, 84, who died peacefully at the Partners in Care, Hospice House on October 1, 2009, following a short illness with brain cancer. I don't recall ever meeting Ken as he was away in the Navy when I would have been growing up and didn't come back to Vermont often.

He was born in Moretown, Vermont, on August 9, 1925, son of the late Clyde G. and Susannah (Corliss) Phillips, my Uncle Clyde, and his wife, who I knew as Aunt Susie. Ken grew up on the Moretown family farm with his two brothers. In 1943, he was one of 11 graduates from Waitsfield High School where he was class valedictorian.

Ken, like his older brother, Melvin, attended the U.S. Naval Academy, where he was in the 15th Co., class of 1948. Ken was a career U.S. naval officer and retired as a captain (06) after 29 years of service. He served at sea for six years as the engineer officer on four ships and then went to post-graduate school at Monterey, Calif. He received his master's in mechanical engineering. After graduate school, Ken served on the naval destroyer, the U.S.S. Hamner DD718. He considered this tour one of his best maritime experiences and attended many USS Hamner annual reunions to reconnect with his lifelong navy comrades. As an advanced engineer, he had duties at ship repair facilities in San Diego, Yokosuka, Japan, and San Francisco. Ken also had a tour as a special aide to the chief of naval ship command in Washington, D.C. Ken received many awards and recognitions during his naval career, including the Meritorious Service Medal.

It is sad to think of Uncle Clyde and Aunt Susie losing two of their three sons in two years. Ken was married twice but did not have any children of his own, and so there was no one in his immediate family to carry on the Phillips name and legacy. I recently had the honor of visiting the South Duxbury Cemetery, where Uncle Clyde, Aunt Susie, Clifton, and Kenneth are buried. There is a stone there to memorialize Melvin, but since he was lost at sea, no body was recovered.

I have recently become intrigued by my ancestors and what their life may have been like compared to mine. It is interesting to me how the immediate families of my grandfather Clayton Phillips and my uncle Clyde who was his brother and next in line after him, differed. They were both farmers in Vermont. Grandpa and Grammie Phillips had five daughters, and Uncle Clyde and Aunt Susie had three sons. Because they were farmers, it would have been advantageous to have sons to help with the farm chores. In this way, Uncle Clyde was fortunate enough to have sons to help him. I remember my mother telling me that Grammie Phillips had suffered several miscarriages and always felt that these would have been boys had they been born. So it wasn't a secret that they would have preferred to have boys.

Grandpa Phillips aged quickly and always appeared much older than he was. He was not in good health and struggled daily to get his work done. I don't know for sure, but Grandpa Phillips probably suffered from depression. He had a familial tremor and shook like a leaf. He had been diagnosed with Parkinson's disease, but most likely, this was a misdiagnosis. I also recall him having leg ulcers and having to treat them at night with salve and bandaging. His life was not easy at all. To add to his burden, his wife believed that the Phillips side of the family had some mental illness gene that affected his side of the family, and she made no secret of her disdain for it. This belief is where my mother's fear originated and passed on to me.

None of Grandpa Phillips' daughters finished college. My mother was a bright young woman and attended the University of Vermont (UVM) in Burlington for two years before dropping out. She had wanted to be a teacher and would have been very good at it. She attended college during World War II, and she felt that financially she could not afford to continue. Instead, she dropped out and became a Western Union relief operator, met my father, got married, and immediately had three daughters. None of her sisters attended college. Virginia, the next oldest daughter, did become a registered nurse. The other three went on to work before marriage.

On the other hand, Uncle Clyde's two oldest sons went to UVM and did very well. Both Melvin and Kenneth went on to the Naval Academy at Annapolis and became officers in the United States Navy. This accomplishment is quite unusual because they were the first in the family to achieve such lofty educational goals. They were farm boys from a small farm in Moretown. I am sure they were encouraged by their parents and also that they were brilliant. Undoubtedly, Clifton would have followed in their footsteps had he not succumbed to appendicitis when he was 15 years old.

A couple of things come to mind. One is that obviously, Aunt Susie did not carry the stigma towards mental illness as my grandmother did. I also believe that Uncle Clyde was physically healthier and more robust than my grandfather was. Grandpa Phillips was overwhelmed by a powerful woman and five daughters. It must have been difficult for him living in a family surrounded by females. It is little wonder that he was undoubtedly overjoyed to have Aunt Helen's three boys come to live with them on the farm. Not only were they able to help him with the farm chores, but they balanced out the feminine nature of the family.

I feel that Aunt Susie was most likely very supportive of her husband and their sons. This fact is evident when you look at the accomplishments of their son Kenneth. Sadly, the other two boys did not have an opportunity to go on and fulfill their destinies and also that Uncle Clyde did not have any direct descendants, and that part of the line died with Kenneth.

I also wonder why I never heard more about Kenneth and his accomplishments. I never really knew he existed until this past summer when I went on my final pilgrimage to Vermont in search of the truth about my ancestral lineage. I certainly heard a lot about Aunt Helen and my great grandmother Gratia.

I wonder how my life might have been different had Uncle Clyde been my grandfather and Aunt Susie, my grandmother. I probably would not have known anything about being "crazy," and I would have been valued for who I was as a person, a knowledgeable one at that. Maybe I would have gone on to college right after high school instead of waiting until I was 45 years old. Perhaps I wouldn't have been so afraid of going crazy or being perceived as such. However, this is just a daydream. My life was meant to be the way it was. As difficult as it was, I have evolved into the person I am today. I am in the process of forgiving myself and others, and healing karma that I have always known was mine to heal in this lifetime.

THE SPANKING

Real spankings were not a part of my experiences of growing up. I recall being spanked only once, and this left a deep memory in my psyche. One it was painful and two, it was so utterly unfair. My mother and father had friends in Norwich while we were growing up named Ralph and Helen Aulis. Ralph ran a small grocery store in town, and we girls walked over there after school so that my mother could pick us up after work. She also sometimes stopped there to pick up grocery items.

This one particular afternoon, Mother was at the store. Ralph walked with her out to the car. She had bought us each a lollipop, and we wanted her to give them to us right away. Mother held them over her head so we couldn't reach, but we all three jumped up and down, trying to get the lollipops away from her. To me, it was just kids being kids, but she was furious.

All the way home she said to me, "just wait until I get you home, you're going to be sorry." She was angrier than she usually gets, and I was scared. She also kept saying, "You're never going to embarrass me like that again," over and over. The rage seemed to be out of proportion to the incident that had made her so angry.

When we got home, she marched me upstairs to Joyce's room, threw me down on the bed, pinned me down so I couldn't get up, and proceeded to spank me very, very hard with her hand, over and over. I was terrified by being pinned down, and I had never felt that much pain before. It hurt. I was scared, and I kept begging my mother, "Please stop, please stop." Still, she kept it up, still screaming at me, "Don't you dare ever embarrass me like that again. You're never going to do that again." She finally stopped and let me up, and my bottom was bright red and very hot and sore. She went downstairs about her business, and I laid on the bed for a long time, crying, sobbing, wondering what I had done that was so terrible, really shaken up.

I'm not sure what bothered me more, the pain of the spanking or the cruel injustice that I felt had been perpetrated on me. She never spanked my other sisters or said anything about them embarrassing her, and as far as I was concerned, they were every bit as guilty as I was. I still don't know what the big deal was. But it enraged her. I now realize that something that I did most likely triggered in her some unresolved karma from our past. I have known for a very long time that my mother and I had a lot of karma to work on this lifetime, and I guess that was part of it.

What I have come to believe is that in a past life, I was a slave, and she owned me. One of the reasons I feel this way is that I have always been upset when I have to see a whipping scene in a movie. I would feel like it was happening to me, and I could feel it in my stomach. I would do anything to avoid seeing such a scene on television or in a movie. My family, especially Mother, thought this was funny and teased me about it endlessly. To me, it was one of my earliest memories that I had from a past life, and it was real to me. Apparently, in a previous experience, I was whipped unfairly, and this terror stayed with me. I was always afraid that the same thing would happen again. That's why I was so upset over the spanking. I was pinned down and was at Mother's mercy. I should consider myself lucky that it only happened one time, but it was an experience I will not forget. But the fear was always there.

I also think she had some crush on Ralph, and she was embarrassed that we were acting silly in front of her. I doubt if she and Ralph ever acted on their mutual attraction, but they enjoyed flirting with one another. I do recall once that Ralph told Mother that I was beautiful, and she was angry about that.

I also believe that Mother was very competitive with me, and I really couldn't understand why. She never wanted me to do something better than she did and didn't want me to show her up. Mother made this very clear to me as I was growing up. I recently had a reading with a psychic medium, and she told me that Mother and I were twins in a former life and that I was the older of the two, and she always felt that I was favored over her. She also, at times, seemed embarrassed by me.

TALKING ABOUT PEOPLE BEHIND THEIR BACKS

I grew up with this happening all the time on both sides of my family. It happened so frequently that I thought it was normal, and I've pretty much done it my whole life except in the few years when I made a conscious effort to stop doing this. I have to tell you that it's a hard habit to break. Usually, when you're talking behind someone's back, you're saying something that you don't want them to hear or that you wouldn't say to their face.

My mother, Grammie Phillips, my sisters, and my aunts were huge on talking about people behind their backs. Unfortunately, I spent a great deal of my life doing the same thing. I am now in the process of forgiving myself for this and all the hurt it caused, especially to me.

I remember an incident in Vermont when I was visiting my sister Joyce. My Aunt Priscilla was there as well as my mother, and my children (it was a long time ago). We were talking about money, and Joyce made some kind of comment to me like, "Well, if you want money so much, why don't you marry someone who has it?" That's what Joyce did, and it worked for her. She was kind of rubbing it in. I got furious (as I frequently did during my lifetime) and went storming out with whoever my boyfriend was at the time. The kids stayed behind.

There was a big discussion about me by my family members after I left, badmouthing me as they usually did (they did it much more than I realized). Priscilla had commented that she thought I was jealous of her because she had a lot of boyfriends. I remember her talking about different men that she was going out with, and I recall being surprised that she even dated at all (not a pleasant observation on my part), and a look came across my face. She interpreted it as jealousy (that's what happens when you make assumptions about things) when I was surprised that she dated anyone.

After I was gone, she commented that I was jealous of her. Chris told me about it. I mentioned it to my mother that this is what she said about me. My mother got highly indignant, not because Priscilla had said that about me, but that Chris had told me which she thought was wrong. "He shouldn't have told you," was her comment. That was one of the few times that she thought Chris did anything wrong. Most likely, a lot more was said about me, but that's the thing that sticks out in my mind.

Another similar incident happened several years ago when I fell and suffered a concussion. Josh was about eight years old then, and he and Chris came to Memorial Hospital to pick me up. I could barely walk because I was so dizzy and was kind of out of it. Josh was quite impressed by this and told my daughter Deana about it. She and I had been estranged then for at least a year, and she was very angry with me. Her reaction was to laugh at what had happened to me (I think deep down, Deana cared more than she wanted to admit, and this was her way of deflecting it). Josh was quite surprised that she would do that considering the harmful condition that I was in, and he told me about it. I think he said it to me because it concerned him. I told Joyce that Deana had said that about me (Joyce and Deana are aligned against me, or it seems that way to me). Joyce reminded me of my mother when she became angry that Josh told me what Deana said about me and thought he was in the wrong for telling me and not Deana for laughing at me.

I have found myself feeling the same way at times. Case in point is Myrtle at the Cohoes Senior Center. She is an older woman who has volunteered at the Senior Center for years. She has a habit of getting me to talk to her in confidence about certain things and then turning around and telling the person involved. Keith warned me to be careful about what I said to her because she has a way of running back to the person and repeating it to them. I found myself getting angry with Myrtle for telling people what I had said, and realized that if I hadn't opened my big mouth and told her these things that she wouldn't have been able to do this.

I left the Cohoes Senior Center after working there for four years as the Program Director of the Adult Day Services Program. I realize now that I did a lot of good there, but by accepting the scapegoat role and acting following it tarnished what could have been a flawless experience that I could look back on without regret. There were a lot of issues in this position. One was the fact that I was given a lot of responsibility with little or no support on the part of management. Our resources were stretched to the limit. One of the requirements was to have two trained staff with the participants of the program at all times. This scenario rarely happened, and I had to depend on interns and welfare recipients to fill in the gap.

Another considerable difficulty could have been avoided if I had not been sending out the vibration that I was a scapegoat. This role made the program dysfunctional. There was a lot of drama going on with a lot of blaming and talking about people. I got caught up in not getting along with some of the women at the Cohoes Senior Center. This problem was an old trait of mine that I am working to eliminate. If I had withdrawn from the drama and refused to participate, things would have been a lot better, but that's water under the dam now, and I have to go on and learn the lessons and not repeat them.

About six months before I left the Cohoes Senior Center, Keith agreed with the Senior Services of Albany to merge into one organization. It was supposed to be a good thing, and Cohoes was to have equal status with the larger organization, which was run by Monica (a very strongminded and overbearing woman who was in charge and let everyone know it). She had a plan, and it was to take over Cohoes. She ruled with an iron fist. Her employees were very loyal to her and would always report back to her, "I have to tell Monica." At first, I thought this would be a good thing for me because she was big on following rules.

I soon realized that she had no intention of keeping me in the position. I had an MSW as did Beth and one of us had to go. I kept trying to make it work because I thought this was my last opportunity at gainful employment, and I was holding on for dear life. I was fighting a losing battle as it turned out.

I had worked very hard in this program to make it successful. Almost all the participants in the program loved me (except for a couple of troublemakers). It came to be the end of the year, and the time had come for Monica to make job offers to the Cohoes employees. We were either going to work for her or not have a job. I didn't fully comprehend that at the time. I honestly thought I was going to be part of the new organization. Delusional? Maybe. The program contained about 11 active members by the end of the year.

It was right around Christmas time. I noticed that Keith and Beth were making a big deal about getting everyone in the program out the door. I was called into a meeting with Monica. She announced to me that she would not be offering me a job for the coming year. I was surprised although I should have seen the writing on the wall. She told me that I could receive unemployment and that they wouldn't object to it. One of the last comments she made stuck in my mind, "We are going to have a stellar day program, and we can't do it with you onboard."

What a slap in the face that was after all I had done to keep things going. I drove my car to pick up participants and drove the van to and from the program. I also bought food for the birds out of my own money and bought craft supplies with my own money. I worked way more than 35 hours a week regularly. So I reluctantly let go of what I thought was my last job and started unemployment, which would only last 26 weeks. I was trying to figure out how I was going to make it after that.

They brought in a woman named Jennifer to take over my job. I was hurt and didn't go back for quite a while. I missed the participants, and they missed me, at least most of them did. I finally reluctantly called, and Jennifer told me I was welcome to visit and that I left quite a legacy by how much everyone in the program loved me. I did stop by, and she was friendly. I heard back from different people that "things are just not the same at the program," and gradually, participants started leaving or getting dismissed because they didn't get along with Jennifer or she didn't know how to handle them. The next time I went to visit, Jennifer wasn't so friendly but did allow me to visit. Everyone who knew me from when I ran the program was thrilled and excited to see me. Last year when I visited, the program had dwindled to about six people.

On my way out, Myrtle called me over. She told me that Tracy was gone (a black woman who had been in the program for about 20 years). She didn't get along with Jennifer and was told to leave. Charlie was gone because he had one of his temper tantrums, and Jennifer didn't know how to calm him down. He was dismissed. I never saw any new people coming in either. I probably said some inappropriate things to Myrtle about the program, foolishly thinking she would not repeat it. I guess she couldn't wait to tell Jennifer what we had discussed, and she probably embellished on it because I don't recall saying anything that outlandish. It just made me wonder what was going on when I saw a thriving program dwindling.

I didn't go back to the Senior Center for a long time. I decided to stop by and give James two Fourth of July pins, one for him and one for his mother. The Watervliet Senior Center was having a bake sale. I came in with a box of pins in my hand, and Jennifer thought I was contributing to the bake sale and signaled to go ahead. I went into the dining room, and there were four members of the day program having breakfast. I knew three of them, and they were delighted and thrilled to see me. There was also a young girl who was helping out with the daycare program. I gave everyone a pin. The young girl got a pin too.

Jennifer came up, and the girl asked her if she wanted a pin. She was angry because she didn't realize who I was when she signaled me to go inside. "I didn't realize who you were," and Jennifer was quite angry. She rushed the remaining four people in the program into the daycare room and was trying quickly to shut the door. I asked if I could visit. She said, "No you can't visit anymore." I asked why. "She told me that the last time I visited, I had said some negative things about the program, and these were reported back to her from Myrtle." I said, "okay, that's fine." She said with firmness and finality, "I'm done."

I will have to admit, at first this bothered me. My face turned beet red as it does when I am confronted like that. I was annoyed at Myrtle for repeating whatever I thought I had said to her in confidence and then realized that if I say something to someone, then if it gets repeated it's my fault for saying it in the first place, and I really can't get mad at someone who repeats it. And I really should have known better. I think there are a few things at play here. I believe that when Jennifer took over the program, she thought it would be easy and that she would build on it where I had left it off. It didn't happen that way. The program has gone downhill since I left, and she probably didn't want me around reminding her of this fact, especially when the participants get so excited when I arrive.

I have made a promise to myself that I will no longer talk about other people behind their backs. It is a losing proposition and only hurts and causes problems and difficulties. So it's time to move on and let the past stay where it is. There is nothing I can do about it now and feeling guilty for some of the things I said, and it doesn't help. Just learn and go forward. There are still a lot of things that I did in the program that were positive and helpful, and that is what I will take from the experience.

I have no reason to go back to the Senior Center. There's nothing for me there, just a lot of memories of my final role as scapegoat. I no longer play that role, and my vibration has changed from a victim and a scapegoat to a loving, happy, and joyful person who likes to spread joy and happiness to those around me.

I couldn't help but think though of the last zinger that Monica made to me, "We want to build a stellar program, and we can't do it with you." How's that working out for you, Monica?

I was hired by Maximus, Inc., to work as a customer service representative for the Affordable Care Act. I realized many of the mistakes I had been making in my work life for years. One of them was to assume the role of scapegoat. I worked at this position for four years and found it very rewarding. I learned how to be a good employee without drama and learned how to get along with others. I no longer talk about people behind their backs, and this gets easier as time goes by. It is a lesson well learned.

ROSE 

An essential figure in my life during the early part of my recovery from alcoholism was a counselor named Rose. I had the same type of relationship with her that I had with my mother—a love/hate relationship. She was a powerful woman, and she liked to tell me exactly what she thought was wrong with me and would become angry if I confronted her (which was difficult for me to do). She was also in recovery and had a few more years of sobriety than I did.

I never really got involved in therapy all that much. I would say that no one understood me or could see my point of view. In reality, I think the problem was that I related to people in a victim/victimizer sort of way, and I seemed to let myself become enmeshed in situations where I became the scapegoat. This scenario was such a deep-seated reality for me that I didn't realize what was going on until just recently when things have finally begun to make sense. I am finally willing to take responsibility for the part I played in all of these dramas and how I set myself up again and again and again to play this role. It was like second nature to me.

I would say I went to Rose for individual counseling and attended her recovery groups for a few years, probably two or three. She came highly recommended by people that I knew from the AA rooms that I participated in my early sobriety.

Rose had a habit of liking to tell me what she felt I was doing wrong. I remember once her giving me a comforting hug, and I must have patted her on the back during the process. She said, "No, you are being comforted. You shouldn't be trying to comfort me." I was always afraid of doing something wrong and so took that to heart. Give me a break! What difference does it make if someone pats someone on the back while they are being comforted? She was quite critical of me.

When I told her once that she reminded me of my mother, she became quite offended because, at the time, I had a deficient opinion of my mother. I had not even remotely begun to deal with our dynamics or start the forgiving process, which eventually led to Mother's and my freedom. The dynamic between Rose and me exactly mirrored the one I had with my mother. I now know that it was my vibration that was sending out to the world. "Are you looking for a scapegoat? Someone to blame and criticize. Well look no more, I'm your person." I realize that because I had not forgiven my mother, then others reminded me of her. I suffered endlessly and have now come to terms with it.

One particular situation sticks in my mind very clearly, even though it was 32 or 33 years ago. A group of us were sitting in a circle in one of Rose's recovery groups. At the end of the group, Rose announced that she would go around the room and each person would express to me the effect my actions and behavior had on them. Rose said this was so I would understand that the way I treated people was affecting them. She, like my mother, apparently thought there was something inherently wrong with me, and she was going to not only point it out but try to change my offensive behavior.

I was stunned. This incident felt like a betrayal at the highest level. It was something that my mother would have done to me. Not necessarily in a group, but she would have a little one-on-one with me and explained to me what was wrong with me. I sat there, humiliated until everyone in the room had their say. Then I got up, refused to hug anybody, and fled. I was quite upset. I guess everyone in the room thought I was going to go out and get drunk, which is the last thing I intended to do. Instead, I happened to run into a couple of people I knew from AA before a meeting and had coffee with them.

Everyone in the group called Rose during the week. They wanted to know whether I had fallen off the wagon. Rose probably telephoned me to see if I was okay. This incident showed another way that others perceived me in a way that was not accurate. Mother always thought I couldn't handle anything and that I would ultimately commit suicide. Rose figured I would start drinking. Neither of them could understand what a strong and resilient person I really am and that I was never suicidal, nor did I ever come close to taking a drink.

I now realize that I brought a lot of heartache onto myself. I set myself up over and over and over again in the scapegoat role. I didn't know how to relate to people in any other way. There were probably as many people in my life who would not have treated me that way if I had only realized it at the time. Vibration is everything, and mine said loud and clear "scapegoat." So much suffering for nothing.

In retrospect, I look back at the years with Rose as a mixed bag. If I were able to see then what I see now, I would have terminated the relationship and not put up with a lot of the crap she dished out. I don't think she ever really saw me for the person I am. I spent about five years of my life attending AA meetings until finally, I realized that doing so was keeping me entrenched in the past and that reliving my dysfunctional behaviors and talking about them was no longer serving me. So I stopped going to meetings. Some people in recovery firmly believe that if they stop going to meetings, they will start drinking again. I didn't feel that way, and 30 years have gone by since my last session and no drinking.

I also stopped seeing Rose. She was going off on her own and wasn't in the position to take insurance anymore. We had quite an exciting ride, contentious most of the time, but overall she was kind of there when I needed her. I went to California to pursue my education in 1990 and came back in 2005 after getting my Bachelor's degree and MSW. I ran into Rose at Unity and told her my accomplishments. She didn't seem overly impressed. Neither was my mother.

LIFE ON THE FARM WITH GRATIA

There was a distinct way of life in a farm family in Vermont when Don Emory Phillips and Gracia Freeman got married in 1928. Farmers worked the land for not much money. They grew their food, vegetables, and meat. The cooking was delicious and always made fresh. Vegetables were canned in the summer for two months and preserved for the winter months. There was a cold cellar in which to put the winter squash and potatoes and onions. They were always very connected to the earth and all very much part of the flow of life. Even though they were not people we could call wealthy by any measure; their lives were prosperous because they managed it as a way of life.

What was life like for Helen and her siblings living on their farm in Duxbury, Vermont? Helen was born in 1907, the fifth of eight children born to Don Emory Phillips and Gratia Freeman Phillips. As a farmer's wife, Gratia was expected to devote herself to home and motherhood, which was to be her highest calling and most useful occupation while she relied on her husband for support.

Don Emory Phillips and Gracia May Freeman got married in Duxbury, Vermont, on March 19, 1894. He was 32, and she was 27. It seems that they got married a little bit later than was usual for couples from a farming background. Gratia's parents, George, and Clara Freeman were relatively well to do for the area and times. They had a farm which Don and Gratia eventually moved onto and farmed.

I wonder what was going through Gratia's mind when she married Don. Was she happy and excited about starting a new life? Had she revealed the mental illness that would plague her and prevent her or members of her immediate family from living any kind of a healthy life? She surely must have known what was expected of a farm wife in the 1920s. Was she prepared and willing to fulfill those obligations? Did the depression that she eventually succumbed to start before she got married? Did it worsen after having children and having the responsibility of being a farm wife with all that entailed? I will never know these things for sure and can only speculate.

What did Gratia do during her adult years until she got married at age 27? She undoubtedly stayed at home, waiting for a respectable partner. Girls did not go out to work from the farm then, and she was probably considered an "old maid" by now. In the early 1900s, a woman was considered a spinster if she was still unmarried at age 25 and, in some cases, younger. The word spinster means one who spins. In Dutch households, no woman was fit to wed until she had spun table and bed linens. Thus the task of spinning was relegated to unmarried women.

And Don, her husband, was definitely getting up in years, 32 years old and still not married. I heard from my second cousin Don (who is Helen's nephew) that when Don and Gratia got married, Don was able to live on the family farm. The house still stands and is in excellent condition and so it was a prime location. Maybe this sweetened the prospect of the marriage between the two of them. Back then, marriage was more of a business partnership than a romantic one.

Farm families spent much of their time trying to raise a crop and grow their food. Weather influenced every aspect of life on the farm in the 1930s. Farm gardens helped keep rural families fed. The children were always busy on a farm. You had chores in those days to do. You came home from school, did your chores, helped with supper, got your lessons, and by that time, it was almost bedtime.

Many duties had to be done daily: hauling water, gathering eggs, tending the garden, and filling the wood box. And some tasks like milking cows and feeding livestock had to be done more than once a day. Fieldwork started early, with feeding and harnessing the horses.

Women sewed and mended clothing and washed clothes by hand. They made soap from lard (bacon fat), baked bread, and preserved everything from beef and pork to green beans and tomatoes. But the canning process meant spending hours over a hot wood stove in the summertime. Even the most unpleasant tasks like cleaning the chicken coop or the outhouse had to be done year 'round. And there was the constant housecleaning, a battle against the relentless dust that seeped into the house.

Soon Don and Gratia started their family. The ideal composition of children in a farm family would be half boys and half girls. The farm wife labored at cooking, housekeeping, needlework, and family care, and the girls helped her with this. Women sewed, cooked, washed, ironed, planted, hoed, milked cows, fed the chickens, canned vegetables, and nursed family illnesses. That's a pretty tall order for any woman, but it must have seemed overwhelming to a woman like Gratia, who suffered from debilitating depression and probably postpartum depression.

The boys' work was more labor-intensive and included chopping wood, plowing and manuring the fields, planting, and harvesting, haying, managing the horses and the livestock, etc. etc. etc. In the best of situations, men's and women's activities interlocked and depended on each other for the successful functioning of the farm.

Don and Gratia started their family on January 8, 1895, when my grandfather, Clayton Roderick Phillips, was born, less than a year after their marriage. Then on November 4, 1896, Clyde George Phillips was born almost two years later. They were off to a good start as far as having potential laborers for the farm. Now it was time to have a daughter. Esther Dell Phillips was born on February 17, 1899. Next, another son, Don Eugene Phillips, was born on December 17, 1901.

Clara May Phillips, the second daughter, was born On June 23, 1904, about 3-1/2 years later. Another girl to help with the household duties. Following Clara, Helen was born on January 8, 1907, their third daughter. Three boys and three girls seemed to be the perfect formula for a farming family back in the early 1900s.

Then on June 8, 1909, Mark E. Phillips was born, the last of four sons. The final daughter, Agnes Margaret, was born on January 16, 1911. That completed their large family of four sons and four daughters, four boys to help with the heavy farm work, and four girls to assist with the household duties.

Unfortunately, Gratia suffered from depression a good part of the time and could not fulfill her duties as the matriarch of the family. I have heard that my grandfather often had to go to school late because his mother couldn't get out of bed in time to make biscuits for him to take for lunch. Because of a barely functioning valuable member of the family, the equilibrium of the family was upset. Gratia most likely suffered from significant depression and likely postpartum depression after having so many children in 16 years. She also had a lot of responsibility as the farm wife and, in the best of circumstances, would have found this life difficult.

Of course, she didn't live in the best of situations and battled depression probably daily, finding it difficult to even get out of bed in the morning. Finally, she had had enough. After she had given birth to her last child, she was in a state of depression. The doctor advised her to have bed rest for a couple of weeks until she could get back on her feet. Gratia never got out of bed again for the rest of her life. She gave up. She left her children and husband the responsibility of caring for her 24/7. They also had all the other duties of the farm to accomplish. Esther would play a massive role in taking care of her mother once she assumed the role of invalid. She also undoubtedly was a great help in trying to keep the household afloat, with one essential person missing in action (Gratia).

That must have been difficult. Not only was Gratia not able to take care of others, she expected them to take care of her. I have heard that she was a very fussy, particular person and wanted everything "just so," and was probably demanding. She died at Waterbury State Hospital at age 70 after having spent the last 28 years or so as a self-imposed invalid.

I would imagine that Helen would have felt trapped in this situation. I can almost hear Gratia saying to her, "Helen, brush my hair." "Helen, get me a cup of tea." Gratia probably was challenging to be around. It seemed to me that Helen would have been itching to get away and start her own life, far away from the demands of living on a farm and caring for a depressed woman who took the easy way out and didn't even try to do anything for herself. Of course, there would have been a lot of enabling on everyone's part to have this situation go on as long as it did. I wonder if anyone ever said to her, "Pull yourself together. You've got a family to take care of who are depending on you." Probably not. Even if they had, it pretty much would undoubtedly have fallen on deaf ears.

The 1930 census was most telling. By then, Don E Phillips had passed away, leaving Mark (who was only 18 years old when his father died) the head of the household. The only ones left were Mark, Esther, Agnes, and Gratia. What a depressing household that must have been. My grandfather, her oldest son, got married to Bertha Mina Luce on June 8, 1921. He was 26 years old. He still returned to his parents’ farm to help out.

On the fateful day that Mark decided he couldn't stand it another day, Mark wrote a note and left it on the table for my grandfather to find. The letter said, "I’m going out to shoot a mark.” Grandpa Phillips went out and found that he had committed suicide by shooting himself, and he was “clever” by saying he was going to shoot a mark since his name was Mark. Poor Grandpa! This incident had a profoundly devastating effect on him. I have been told that his hair turned pure white overnight. It was not something that he or anyone else discussed. It was just there!

We’ll never know for sure what made Mark give up when he was 23 years old. Maybe he didn’t see any other way out. He most likely felt trapped in a situation, not of his own making or choice. He undoubtedly was depressed. There is a rumor in the family (unsubstantiated) that he was having an affair with a married woman. That might have led to his downfall.

That left only Esther, Agnes, and Gratia, no men left on the farm regularly. Agnes became diatraught over her brother’s suicide and tried to kill herself by jumping into the Mad River. She was rescued but developed pneumonia and eventually died. Some say that she stopped eating and starved herself to death. She, too, saw no reason for going on. Two suicides within less than a year in a family that was barely functional. Agnes probably didn’t see a way out either. I wonder how Gratia felt about losing her two youngest children in such a violent and seemingly unnecessary way. Who knows? It wasn’t something that the family talked about as far as I can tell.

Helen had already left to get married to Winfield Dalley in 1926 when she was 19 years old. She made her break but probably went from “the frying pan to the fire.” She gave birth to nine children in 11 years up until 1938. Was this freedom? I hardly think so. It wouldn’t be too much longer before she had a complete nervous breakdown (probably from postpartum psychosis) and began her 17-year stint at Waterbury State Hospital. A broken family, indeed, it was.

Clyde (the second son) left the family farm at age 22 to Marry Susanna Corliss (I always knew her as Aunt Susie) in 1919 (two years before my grandfather) and was the first one to leave the farm. When Clyde and Susie first got married, they were living on Freeman Hill, which was likely close to the family farm. He most likely helped out on the farm even after he left to get married. My grandfather, her oldest son, got married to Bertha Mina Luce on June 8, 1921.

Esther and Don took care of Gratia most of the time. Esther didn't get married until 1941, two years after her mother passed away at Waterbury State Hospital in 1939. She indeed dedicated a great deal of her life taking care of her mother. Esther was 42 when she finally felt free enough to get married and create some kind of a life for herself. She married Gardner Sherman Page. They didn't have children of their own, but she had a step-son, Gardner Page, Jr. At age 42, her occupation listed on her marriage certificate was "housework." That was probably an understatement after all the years that she cared for her mother and their home. Gardner was 58 years old when they got married. Better late than never, I guess you would say.

Another late marriage resulted from taking care of Gratia. That was her third son, Don, who got married in 1941, two years after his mother passed away. He went on to have two children, and they had a lovely farm in Waterbury. Ruth, his wife, was an RN and worked at Waterbury State Hospital. She was instrumental in getting Helen released back into society where she belonged.

I THOUGHT I DIED

My mother went through a period of tremendous confusion the weeks before I came back from California in July 2005. She had been on lithium for years and years to treat bipolar disorder. Without the lithium, she would become very manicky, talked nonstop, got excited quickly, and couldn't sleep at all. My mother once admitted she liked being high, but she realized that the higher she allowed herself to go, the lower she would sink into depression, which was a condition unbearable to her. So she continued to take the lithium as prescribed as well as the antidepressant (I believe it was Tofranil), and it kept her bipolar disorder pretty much at bay.

She also was faithful about getting blood tests when on the lithium level to make sure her blood did not contain toxic levels of it. Toward the end of her life, she started to have a breakdown in her muscles, including muscle hyperirritability and ataxia. I discovered that even the therapeutic use of lithium carbonate might produce unusual toxic responses such as these.

To counteract these pronounced side effects in which she was having difficulty ambulating, she was taken off lithium abruptly, which threw her into a manic phase. She was even hospitalized at Samaritan Hospital psychiatric ward for a few days, which she hated. She would lament, "You don't want to go there. The people there are crazy." Not wanting to admit that she had a psychiatric diagnosis, she tried to find ways to explain why she ended up in a psych ward, of all places. She went home in a manic state. It was apparent to me that she was manic again because when I talked to her on the phone, she talked nonstop in a very pressured and excited voice. Also, she wasn't sleeping at all. She had grandiose ideas of cleaning her trailer and mopping the floors, which, of course, she was not able to do.

While in this state, Mother called me at 6:00 a.m. (California time which was 3 hours earlier than on the east coast where she lived) and said she waited until 9 to call me because she knew I would be up then. She went on to say that she was so glad she got in touch with me. She had tried to call Chris (my son), who she lived with and couldn't get him. She said that because she got me, she knew that hadn't died yet. For some reason, my mother thought that if she died, she would still be in her body, but wouldn't be able to contact anyone, and she would be alone and miserable. But since she got me, she knew she hadn't died yet.

This episode reveals how wacky her thinking was getting at this point in her life. She was psychotic and was saying things that made absolutely no sense to me. I tried to talk to her and calm her down. I was the only person she could trust enough to reveal what was going on. Somehow she knew I would understand and be able to comfort her. This scenario was a whole new experience for me with my mother since I can remember. She was always the strong and dominant one, and now she was becoming weak, frail, and utterly confused. I knew she didn't have long to live, and I was hoping that I would be able to get home before she did pass over.

I SEE PEOPLE

During the time that I was still living in California but preparing to go back East to take care of my mother, one day, she called me and announced, "I've been seeing people, and they're dressed weird. Do you think I'm crazy?" My mother had bipolar disorder with psychotic features, and since she had been taken off lithium, her thinking was not right. However, I do not believe she was hallucinating, and I told her, "No, you're not crazy. You're seeing your guardian angels from the other side who are watching out for you. That's all. There's nothing for you to worry about." She seemed relieved by that answer and also confided in me that I was the only person she dared to tell. No doubt, if she had mentioned it to my other two sisters, they would have thought she was hallucinating and told her so, and would have thought she was crazy. Fear of being seen as crazy was a fear that had permeated her life and which she passed on to me.

When I asked her to describe the people, she said that one was a man who was dressed in old-fashioned sports clothes of some kind. She was sitting on the couch and looked up, and there he was. She said, "oh, excuse me," and he was gone. She also described a woman in old-fashioned clothes. Mother said she was standing in front of her and when she saw her, she said "excuse me" again and then she was gone. Being a person on a spiritual journey, I am aware there are different ways of perceiving people and messages from the other side. One of these is visual. I have also known for a very long time that I do not visually sense things, but rather have profound inner knowings in which I know things. However, I have always wished I could close my eyes and "see" things. So I was quite impressed when my mother told me that she could see spirits from the other side and told her this. She even confided that she saw Daddy sitting on her bed long after he had passed away.

Wow! Who knew? I have always known I was on a spiritual journey and, for quite a long time, felt everyone else knew this, too. I was wrong. Most people don't give a thought about their spiritual journey or their purpose in life. I am the only one in my entire family that I know of that thinks about such things. Any time I mentioned anything about spirituality, I would immediately be put down. At one point, my sister Joyce even asked me if I was "hearing voices," a not so subtle hint that maybe I was schizophrenic. So the fact that my mother could see spirts impressed me to no end. It validated for me that everyone has these gifts in one way or another, something I had known all along but had to keep quiet about for fear of being labeled "crazy."

When I think more about Mother seeing spirits, I wonder if perhaps she had mentioned this to her mother when she was younger and was told she was imagining things or worse that she was "crazy." My grandmother was a highly superstitious woman and most likely would have had that reaction. It wouldn't have taken my mother long to figure out that this was something to keep quiet about if indeed it did happen. I am speculating because I don't know for sure about these things, but it helps me to understand more fully the mindset of the people who helped shaped my mother's fear of being "crazy" as well as mine.

I COULD HAVE DIED—TWICE OR MORE TIMES

I had two severe health scares when I was in my early 20s, both of which had the potential of finishing me off. The first was encephalitis, which I contracted while I was still working at the Plastics Department in General Electric when Jack Welch was the president. I was at a party from work, and I remember Jack Welch kissing me a few times. The next morning I work up with a high fever and a terrible headache. I called Dr. Green, the neurologist, and told him about my symptoms, and he instructed me to go immediately to the emergency room.

I was diagnosed with encephalitis which is an acute inflammation (swelling) of the brain. The early symptoms were fever and headache, which I had. In the emergency room, I was administered a lumbar puncture and put in hospital isolation, where I remained for a week. I don't remember there being any other treatment like antibiotics because it was a viral infection. The second lumbar puncture revealed that I was improving and so I was sent home. I was lucky to have recovered without any sequelae.

This episode of encephalitis occurred around 1967 or so. In 1990 I went to a movie entitled "Awakenings," in which people who had encephalitis were left in a catatonic state for many years. They understood what was going on around them, but they were unable to communicate. These people were awakened for a short period with the use of an experimental drug. The patients who were awakened were happy for a short time until the drug manifested side effects, and they were again left in a catatonic state. But while they were awake, they revealed that they had been aware of everything around them when they were catatonic, but couldn't communicate. That must have been a horrible way to live, trapped in your own body. To me, that would have been hell on earth, worse than dying.

So I felt very fortunate that the illness I had was relatively short-lived and did not leave me with permanent damage. It could have been life-threatening, but it wasn't. And my mind and body are still very much alive.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I had a physical exam at school, and that was the first time that I was diagnosed with a heart murmur. Most heart murmurs are benign, and nothing much was made of it at the time. I didn't go to my doctor and get it checked out or anything like that. What could have been of significance was that in about a year, I would begin to have four abscessed teeth which were not treated for at least six years and flared up intermittently during that time. There was poison from the abscesses pumped through my system. This poison could have damaged my heart, which had a murmur.

Eventually and after the abscesses had been taken care of, the poison in my system caught up with me. I had what is known as subacute bacterial endocarditis. I had fevers and chills, and every joint in my body ached and was stiff. I felt like I was going to die. I ended up in the hospital for a week. When I got out of the hospital, I was still living with Mother and Daddy in a mobile home outside of East Greenbush before they bought the land in East Nassau. I remember the night I got home when there was acute pain in the middle of my left upper arm that was so intense I could barely stand it. I don't remember getting a shred of sympathy from anyone. I probably didn't tell them how much pain I was in either. I remember sitting up in the recliner, trying to get comfortable enough to get some rest. I may have had a codeine pill to take. I'm not sure.

Anyway, I got through the night and started to feel better. Amazingly I recovered from this without any sequelae. This recovery was quite a miracle actually because I could have been permanently disabled with heart disease or died from it. I later found out that my heart murmur was related to the aortic valve and is known as aortic insufficiency. Aortic insufficiency is the leaking of the aortic valve of the heart that causes blood to flow in the reverse direction during ventricular diastole, from the aorta into the left ventricle. The cardiac muscle is forced to work harder than usual. Some of the symptoms can be palpitations, shortness of breath, and fatigue. I don't notice any of these.

Since I have been diagnosed with this condition, it has never worsened, according to my echoes, and it has not caused me any disability. I am indeed very fortunate that the prolonged length of time that I had abscesses in my mouth that were untreated did not kill me or render me disabled. I believe I was saved for a reason.

The lifestyle I lived in during my 30s was also dangerous. Joyce used to think I was going to get murdered. Mother thought I was going to commit suicide. I became a full-blown alcoholic. I got sober at age 40. Otherwise, I probably would have died from it. No doubt, I would not be here today, happy and healthy, and still going strong after more than 35 years of sobriety.

Towards the end of my alcoholism, I was starting to get scared. I was having blackouts. I was driving drunk. Again my angels must have been working overtime to keep my safe. At one point, a medium told me that it was a gift that I survived my life intact and able to continue my spiritual journey. I went through a very long bleak time before I finally realized why I came here.

The one thing I know to be true is that I never gave up. Even in my darkest moments, I never thought of ending it all. In the depths of my soul, I knew that there were things I came here to accomplish and that if I didn't do it this time, I would have to return and start over again. It wouldn't have been any more comfortable the next time around, and all I would have been doing was prolonging the inevitable. I am eternally grateful that I lived through those years, and now I can concentrate on my healing journey and spreading the love and joy that is mine to give. I also realize that I was never alone and never unloved, even though I thought I was.

DADDY

You often hear about people talking about their father, my dad did this, or my dad said that. I didn't have that. Instead of having a dad, I had a Daddy. For some reason, my two sisters and I have always called him that, and probably will until the day we die. Maybe it was because he was a wounded child who never actually grew up. But, for whatever reason, we never switched over to dad.

Daddy was not a hands-on kind of a father. I don't think he had much interest in being a father, either. It kind of just happened without much planning. One of my earliest memories of Daddy was him wiggling his ears. He loved to wiggle his ears, and he knew how to do it very well.

I also remember when I was very young was Daddy telling my sisters and me that he used to be a little girl before he grew up. Don't ask me where he got that notion. I haven't the slightest idea. I used to wonder if he believed that he used to be a little girl because I certainly never did. Another thing I remember about him is doodling a kind of rudimentary cartoon drawing of a face. He always drew the same one, never varied at all.

Mother had three kids by the time she was 25. Phylis was born in November 1944, I was born in September 1945, a month after the end of World War II just ten months after Phylis, and then in May 1947, Joyce came along, only 20 months later. Mother had her hands full. Especially with me because I was a very active child. I kind of think Mother thought of Daddy as her fourth child. He was three years younger than she was. She was a powerful woman and used to boss my father around or at least made a valiant attempt at it.

I first remember Daddy at our farm in rural Vermont, a small town called Orange. Daddy was always trying to figure out a way to be successful. He wanted to be a farmer but didn't have what it took to succeed as a farmer, and that's just a subsistence living most of the time. I remember one time he was out in the woods cutting down trees, and he cut his leg quite badly. He had to go to the hospital to get it fixed and came home on crutches. I can still remember to this day, Daddy walking through the front door on those crutches.

Daddy was the black sheep of his family, and the whole family treated him like he wasn't worth anything. He tried his entire life to gain their approval and never succeeded. His father, Grandpa Atwood, was hard on him as a child. I heard about one beating that was so severe that Grammie Atwood had to intervene because she was afraid he was going to injure him severely.

My Uncle Howland, who was about six years older than my father, was the favored child. Daddy was fat, and Howland was skinny, but Howland could pack away the food and never gain an ounce. He used to steal pies and stuff, but my father would get blamed for it because, as Grammie Atwood used to say, "well, you're the fat one, it must be you." I can almost see his brother's face gloating about that.

I also heard that the whole family would go away for the summer on vacation, that is, Grandpa, Grammie, Howard, Priscilla, and Margie, but would dump my father off at Uncle Fred's farm because they didn't want to be bothered with him or were embarrassed by him. He never found out about this until years later when they would recount different adventures they had on vacation while Daddy was down on the farm, probably having to work his butt off. I would possibly imagine Daddy and his father, my Grandpa Atwood, were working out some sort of karma because they had such an intense relationship. If Grandpa didn't like you, he could make your life pretty miserable. He was a very judgmental man, very opinionated, always right about everything.

Daddy was an alcoholic, probably since he was a teenager. He liked to stay down at the "beer garden" and play cards instead of coming home and tending to chores or helping my mother take care of us. My mother was quite a nag and used to yell at him, trying to get him to be the kind of husband and father she thought he should be but never was. I remember many, many fights over the years concerning the issue of my father drinking too much. My mother would threaten to divorce him if he didn't shape up but never had any intention of leaving. I remember many times wondering why anyone invented beer in the first place and how much better my life would be if my father would only stop drinking.

Oddly enough, though, I never really blamed my father for what was going on at home. I don't even recall often being mad at him. I thought my mother was such a nag and was overbearing that no wonder he would drink. I thought I was the only person in the world who understood Daddy and accepted him, no matter what. Sometimes when my mother threatened to leave him, I secretly I kind of wished she would so we could have some peace for a change, but to myself, I didn't know what would happen to Daddy if he didn't even have us. I wondered if I would ever see him again.

Daddy eventually was able to stop drinking. He did this on his own. He knew it was going to be the death of him if he didn't stop. I believe he was sober between 20 and 30 years before he died in 1999. He and my mother stayed together. My mother still nagged and domineered him even after the drinking stopped, which made me realize the problems they had were more complicated than just the issue with alcohol. Daddy always tried to please my mother, but never could. She was embarrassed by him. Although everyone thought my father was to blame for their marital woes, I always thought it was my mother who continually berated him and negated his value as a person. Of course, I now realize it "takes two to tango."

I don't recall Daddy ever telling me he loved me. Neither do I remember him calling me on the phone or writing a letter to me when I lived in California. I'm not quite sure he knew when my birthday was because I never got a card from him. My mother initiated all contact with me. When I was struggling with my issues with alcoholism, my father never once encouraged me to stop drinking or congratulated me when I finally became sober. It was almost as if I didn't exist. I guess he saw me as the black sheep of the family, much the same role he assumed in his family. I do vaguely remember a few years before he died, he said to me, "I know I never said anything to you to encourage you to get sober, but I just want you to know I was praying for you." Those were the only words of encouragement I got from Daddy. Today those words mean a lot to me.

When I was living in California, pursuing my education, I got to thinking about how much alike Daddy and I were. sat down and wrote him a letter, telling him that I got my inner strength from him because we both were able to achieve lasting sobriety, which is not an easy thing to do. I told him how proud of him I was and how much he meant to me. We both were the scapegoats of our nuclear families, the black sheep of the family thought to be nothing but losers by the rest of the family. Every negative thing we did was magnified; every positive thing was disregarded. I yearned for my father to understand how I felt about him. I wanted him to know I realized what kind of life he had led as a child and also the difficulties of being married to my mother. I wanted him to see that I had the same kind of life. Whether he ever grasped that is a mystery to me as he never told me anything that would indicate how he truly felt about me.

Daddy had a lot of health issues, mainly from years of abusing his body with smoking and drinking. He had a heart attack in 1987 that nearly ended his life. He survived that and lived until 1999 when he died at the Veterans Administration Hospital of heart failure when he died in the middle of the night after a code blue, and he was not able to be resuscitated. He died as he had lived—alone. I was not able to get back from California in time to say my last goodbye to Daddy but arrived in time for the funeral. I guess the time for Daddy and me to understand each other had passed. It was over. He was gone.

For quite a while, after going back to California, I was vaguely annoyed with Daddy for not having much of a relationship with me while he had the chance. While I never really was angry with him in life, now I was angry, and it kind of kept eating away at me. It was too late now, or at least I thought it was. But I soon found out that it's never too late for understanding and closure. As I have been on a spiritual path for many years, I had been attending a meditation group at my church every Wednesday night. Reverend Blanche would give a talk and then open the rest of the evening up for messages from the other side. Reverend Blanche can get messages from those who have passed on. If you give her a photograph, she can touch it and get in contact with that person.

Even though I was afraid of being disappointed at the results, one night, I decided to bring a photo of Daddy and have her try and get in touch with him. What did I have to lose at this point? I had already lost everything. However, I was surprised at how easily she made contact with him.

DADDY, PLEASE LOVE ME continued

I was having one of my typical arguments with my mother over the phone. I don't remember what it was about, but it was quite an argument. Mother probably signaled to Daddy that she was getting frustrated, and, as always, he wanted to get her approval, so he got on the phone and said to me in a very nasty tone of voice, "Why are you picking on your mother? Don't you have a boyfriend you can pick on?" That cut to the core of my being. In other words, I was such a mean person that I had to have someone to pick on. I had no idea that he believed that I was picking on her. If anything, I thought she was picking on me and had done so since I was a little girl. Daddy, that's what she did to you, nag, nag, nag, and I hated her for treating you that way. Why would you stick up for her when she was doing the very same thing to me? It also struck home that he felt all the problems I had with my boyfriends was entirely my fault, and that he felt sorry for them for having to put up with me. There were many problems because I had no clue how to be in a loving relationship, as I learned from my parents' example. What my father said to me and how he said hurt me tremendously, and I hung up the telephone.

My solution to that hurt was to go on a drunken bender. I was continually drinking by then, and my alcoholism was out of control. This insult gave me a perfect excuse to drink myself to oblivion. That was it. I was never going to set foot in my parents' house again. Now I knew for sure how they both felt about me, and I could no longer fool myself into thinking that Daddy was on my side, he just didn't know how to show it.

So when I got over drinking and went home to sleep it off, Daddy called me and apologized for what he said and asked me to come over for dinner that Sunday. That was kind of big because I don't recall him ever telling me he was sorry about anything before. I'm sure my mother had something to do with it because she didn't want me ever to stop coming over. So what could I do? I had to go back. I wasn't strong enough not to. Phylis later told me that he was sorry and that he had said something hurtful. So now I knew for sure I was alone in the world. Daddy, who was supposed to be on my side, had chosen Mother over me. Anyway, I couldn't stay mad at him and continued going to my parents' home for visits.

It wasn't too much longer after this event occurred that I started realizing that I needed to get sober. I was beginning to have blackouts, and I was afraid of what was going to happen to me. I was terrified. I knew that my alcoholism would not have a happy ending. I also believed that if I got sober, my family would change their minds back about me and start loving me again. I was almost 40 years old and knew I would die from drinking if I kept it up. I had turned into someone I didn't want to be. I knew I was better than this and that my life had more in store for me than to die a drunk.

I went to St. Peter's Detox Unit to get detoxed and started an outpatient treatment program for alcoholism. I was not successful at stopping drinking and was sent up north to a state rehab center, which was all I could afford because I didn't have insurance to cover it. I was scheduled to go on a bus, and Mother and Daddy dropped me off at the bus station. I don't recall either one of them wishing me luck or telling me they knew I would make it or anything like that. I believed they thought I was a hopeless case. I was so hooked on alcohol that when the bus stopped for a short break on the trip, I spotted a bar and had a screwdriver (orange juice and vodka) before getting back on the bus. What do you think my chances were of actually getting sober when I couldn't even go one day without alcohol? It was pitiful.

At the time, I was a very, very angry person. In the early part of the program, we were assigned a counselor. My counselor was someone who was not a recovering alcoholic, and I believed and expressed it vehemently that he could not possibly understand me or help me with my problem. I used that as an excuse for leaving the program, and I left in a furious state of mind. "I'll do it on my own by going to AA meetings." I came back home and maybe attended a meeting or two and continued with my outpatient treatment program, but soon started drinking again and was right back where I had started.

In the meantime, I was put on my third husband Mike's insurance plan, and so I could now go to Conifer Park located in Glenville, New York, only about a 45-minute drive from my parents' home. Conifer Park Inc. has been providing treatment services to those who suffer from the disease of Chemical Dependency and their families since 1983. What began as an Adult, 58-bed licensed Inpatient Alcoholism treatment facility, gradually developed into one of the largest and most comprehensive treatment facilities in the Northeast and remains that way today. I went there in February 1984 and stayed for 30 days.

This rehab was my second attempt at getting sober, and I'm pretty sure no one in my family thought I would make it. They certainly didn't give me any encouragement and never once called me at the facility or came to visit me even though it was an easy driving distance away. I was a mess. I cried a lot, was angry a lot, and after the 30 days, I didn't want to leave because I was so afraid I would start drinking again. However, I left Conifer Park in March 1984 and started attending AA meetings. No one at the rehab center had much faith in my remaining sober for any length of time, but I knew in my heart that I would be able to do it. It wasn't easy, especially since I went home to an actively drinking alcoholic. Mike was an alcoholic but didn't drink what I did. He drank beer, and I was strictly a vodka and wine drinker. I don't recall ever drinking beer in my life.

Anyway, I did get sober. I have never picked up another drink since February 24, 1984. That's almost 35 years. I attended AA meetings for the first five years. I stopped going because I didn't want to stay entrenched in the past. It was time to move on in my spiritual journey. Neither Mother nor Daddy ever gave me any verbal support about overcoming alcoholism. I was kind of on my own as I was in everything in my whole life. I don't think they thought I could do it, and even though I did achieve sobriety, it didn't seem to make much difference in how they treated me or how they felt about me. Who knows what goes on in someone else's mind anyway?

I once confronted Mother about her failing to give me any support when I was trying to get sober. This confrontation occurred while I lived in California and was on one of my many trips back home. Mother would never admit to anything like not supporting me and acted as if she could care less. She said, "Well, I guess you didn't need it because you got sober anyway without it." And that was the end of it.

Daddy, however, felt some guilt, I guess, for not supporting me. After all, he knew what I was going through, having suffered from alcoholism himself and giving up drinking on his own. He came to me on one of my trips home and said, "You know, Barb, I never said anything to you about getting sober, but I just want you to know I was praying for you." That surprised me because that was one of the few times he ever expressed his true feelings to me.

An intriguing part of my life was the fact that when I went to school, it was expected of me that I would do well and that I would get good grades. At least that's what I thought. Maybe that was coming from inside myself that I wanted to do well because I don't believe that Mother ever told me I did an excellent job or anything like that, but I preferred to get A's rather than any other grade and most of the time I did achieve that. Daddy would inevitably remark, "Why didn't you get all A's?" Maybe he didn't know what else to say and had to say something, but my sisters and I always thought he had quite a bit of nerve saying anything since he never actually finished high school.

I was expected to get good grades or thought I was, but I was not expected to go to college and, in fact, was discouraged from it. I was also expected to be able to get a job and support myself so as not to be a burden on anyone. Mother told me that I was too depressed to go to college. So I didn't go even though I was a good student and always took college prep courses in high school.  A few times during my 20s, I tried going back to college and taking night courses, but never really stuck with it.

I was sober for about five years when I began to contemplate what my life purpose was, and I found it to be to work with people on a professional basis. I was also told that I had a gift for working with people (even though I didn't realize it at the time), but I came to realize that I needed to further my education if I was going to work with people on this level.

I decided to go to school but felt that I needed to get as far away from my mother's negative influence as possible to commit to getting my education and sticking with it. I meditated on where I should go, and was given the clear answer of San Bernardino. I checked into San Bernardino and found that there was a state college located there, Cal State San Bernardino, and that they also offered a Master of Social Work Program (which was new). San Bernardino was located in Southern California (not that far from where I had lived when I was married to Ronny, and he was stationed at Edwards Air Force Base). I applied there and was accepted and made arrangements to move there to further my education.

Of course, I got no support from my family, including Daddy and Mother. I left Albany, New York driving my car and pulling a U-haul in June 1990 as I wanted to get settled in California before I started my schooling. I needed to find a place to live and get a job, etc. None of this was planned ahead of time, and I was winging it, but I knew it would all work out and that I was perfectly capable of doing it.

I was about halfway across the country, and I called Mother and Daddy to tell them how my trip was going. Daddy acted like he was apprehensive about me, like I couldn't do this, couldn't survive on my own, and Mother did the same thing. Instead of saying, "Go for it, we're in your corner," it was always more like what makes you think you can do this?

When I did make it to San Bernardino, about a week after I set out (having decided to take my time), I got a motel room until I could look around and find a place to live. It was scorching (I hadn't yet adjusted to the extreme heat of the desert area) and dusty. Phylis called me acting all worried about me, but did concede that I was a survivor.

I got a small studio apartment which I stayed in for less than a year. Daddy came to visit me while I was still living there. This visit was probably about 1991 when he was still healthy enough to go on a trip by himself to Las Vegas. He loved to gamble and probably stayed with his long-time friend, John DeGoosh, and rented a car and drove to San Bernardino to visit me. He had asked Mother if he could stay with me, but there was no way as I slept on the pull-out couch in a studio apartment. So I made a reservation for him at the local motel, and we spent a couple of days together. One of the things we did was go to visit his cousin, Kenneth McBride, who lived in Riverside as Daddy loved to talk, and they spoke of "the good old days."

Around the time Daddy was going to come and visit me, I was inspired to write him a letter telling him how proud of him I was and how much he and I were alike. It was quite a long letter, and Daddy said he liked the message. Mother told me how nice it was. I think she kind of yearned for me to say the same thing to her, but I didn't feel the same way about her as I did about him.

Later, Mother and Daddy came out to visit me together. This trip was probably in 1992 as I was now living in a two-bedroom apartment. I had noticed that many of the people who lived in the apartment complex were black; in fact, most of them were. I thought it a little curious, but it certainly did not bother me. However, that was one of the first things that Mother and Daddy noticed and made a point to tell me about it. They laughed at me because of it. Daddy was notoriously racist (using the N-word all the time), and Mother was more quietly racist (calling black people "colored" with a funny look on her face when she said it).

We had a pretty good time when they visited. We went to Sea World and a couple of other side trips. Both of them were still pretty healthy and able to get around. It was at this time that I first started thinking about writing a book, my memoir, and I was going to interview them. Both of them acted like they didn't want me to do this and so I didn't get too far into it. I wish now that I had asked them more about their earliest lives, but I didn't and now must piece together things as best I can.

Daddy and Mother came out a couple of more times when I was married to Don and living in the house in California. I went back to visit a couple of times a year. Daddy died in February 1999, and it had probably been several months since I had last seen him. I don't recall talking to him on the phone often. He never called me to converse with me. Most of the time, I spoke to Mother, who felt it necessary to talk to me almost daily.

So as far as I knew when Daddy died in 1999, I had given up on the idea of having a relationship with him that I would consider supporting and understanding as I had wanted. I just kind of gave up on it. Then when he died in 1999, I felt it was over. I remember being angry with him for quite a few years after his death because we were never able to have a decent relationship, and now it was too late. Plus, I didn't think he loved me. I didn't know he gave me a second thought on the other side of life any more than he did on this side.

I continued to go to school. My fourth marriage had broken up in 1998. Daddy died in 1999. I was getting ready to go to grad school, and I wasn't about to give up on my idea of completing my education, no matter what else happened to me. Daddy was gone, and that part of my life was over (or so I thought).

DADDY, PLEASE LOVE ME continued

When I came home from the hospital from the heart ailment, I remember a Saturday night when my left arm ached so much I had to sit up in a recliner and take pain pills to get through the night. Again I went through this alone as no one cared.

Daddy continued with his alcoholism, and, by this time, I was well on my own to becoming a full-blown alcoholic myself. Daddy used to try to get Mother to drink with him, but she never was much of a drinker, and so now he had me with whom to consume alcohol. Once he gave me a big bottle of liquor to take home with me.

He then finally reached his limit and knew if he kept drinking, it would kill him, so he swore off the stuff cold turkey and never picked up a drink for the rest of his life, which was over 20 years, maybe closer to 25. He never went to any kind of treatment facility or AA or anything and instead took up gambling more heavily as another form of addiction. He used to be a big smoker too but had given that up quite a few years before he stopped drinking. I don't know that stopping drinking changed his personality much, but it did extend his life to almost 74 years.

Daddy had a pretty severe heart attack in May 1987 in which he almost died. It was so close that Mother called Priscilla and Margie, to come and see him before he died. I had been sober for about three years in 1987. I remember seeing him in the ICU looking like a beached whale. He was very overweight and quite pathetic looking. I thought he was going to die then and so I got up to his face as close as I could and whispered that I loved him. I thought I was going to give him another heart attack. He just wasn't the type of person that expressed his feelings very well and certainly didn't feel comfortable having them shown to him either. But he survived. I don't recall, but it seems I stroked his head because when I went to a medium healing circle, he told the medium that he recalled me doing that and that he liked it. Well, you could have fooled me.

Daddy was very fond of my son Chris and vice versa. Chris opted to live with them from about the age of nine. I can't say as I blame him because I was in the throes of alcoholism and other problems, including depression, and was a lousy mother. So Chris became his surrogate son that he never had. It was good for both of them because Chris' father was never in his life (by his choice) and only saw him once when he was a newborn.

Daddy began to realize that his life was drawing to an end. I was still in California in the middle of graduate school for the Master of Social Work program, which I finished in 2001. Josh, my grandson, was born on November 8, 1998. Daddy wanted to make sure he had a picture taken with him holding Josh because he knew he wasn't going to be around to see him grow up. Having his photo taken with Josh was very important to him. Mother took a couple of pictures, and, unfortunately, they are lost as far as I know. Daddy did look pretty sick as I recall. Daddy passed away in early February 1999 when Josh was only a few months old.

The significance of Daddy wanting his picture taken with Josh recently became clear to me. I had a reading with a medium at Among Angels, and she told me that Daddy was going to come back for another lifetime as Josh's son and that he and Josh were going to be able to help people, and that is what he wants to do. That makes a lot of sense now because I believe people are members of spiritual families or groups and that Daddy and Josh and I are in the same spiritual family.

I found out many years ago that Daddy has been watching me from the other side and helping me. He said he came to realize that he could be of more help to me from the other side than he could on this one. That is most likely true because he couldn't help me and try to get along with my mother at the same time. It just was not possible.

When Mother called me in February 1999 and told me Daddy was in the VA Hospital, and he was in bad shape, I knew he was going to die. I was right in the middle of a quarter (we were on the quarter system at Cal State San Bernardino, not the semester system), which was only ten weeks, but I made arrangements to get back to New York State as soon as I could. I kind of knew I wouldn't get back to say goodbye to Daddy, and I didn't. He died a day or two before my plane left California. His heart gave out. He died after an unsuccessful resuscitation attempt, which must have been agonizing and frightening for him.

We had a funeral for Daddy, which was sad, especially seeing Chris fall apart broken-hearted because he loved Daddy so much. I needed to get back to California and resume my studies because I didn't want to get behind. Unfortunately, there was an airline strike or something like that, and my flight was canceled. I couldn't get a ticket, so I opted to go back by train. I took an Amtrak train along the southern route of the country. It might have been fun, but I had come down with the flu, and I was sick (that's the last time I recall being that sick). My throat hurt, and my body ached, and I didn't enjoy the trip one little bit. But I made it back, didn't fall behind, and managed to graduate with an MSW.

I felt that my mother was mean to me in a lot of ways, and I thought that everyone surely realized how badly she treated me. I don't know why I felt that because no one ever came to my aid or my defense. I later found out that she talked about me behind my back to anybody who would listen and turned many people against me from the time I was about ten years old. It was very, very painful. Where were you, Daddy? You were supposed to help me! I knew she nagged him, and I didn't like it, so I naturally thought he would realize how hard she was on me and that he wouldn't like it. That wasn't the case, and there was an incident that happened about a year or two before I got sober that hit this home to me.

DADDY, PLEASE LOVE ME continued

He was unbelievably cruel to me, and I believed every miserable thing he said to me. I thought I was crazy, and I felt I was a bad mother. I felt that there was something very, very wrong with me. And on and on it went. He also abused me physically, and once the police came and kept him from killing me, which he was about to do.

I finally had had enough. I had left Ronny and was trying to establish a life for myself and Deana in California. This attempt proved difficult because I was so depressed I could barely function. I didn't know which way to turn, but I knew I wanted my own life and did not want to be under anyone's control, including Ronny or my mother. I announced to my mother that I was planning on staying in California. She laid a guilt trip on me, and I fell for it. "You're just trying to hurt me," she said in a pitiful tone of voice. That was it. I told her I would come back and live with them in New York State. They had since moved from Vermont to the Albany, New York area as a desperate attempt for my father to start over as his alcoholism was really out of control, and Mother blamed it on his being in Vermont and under the evil influence of his friends from the Legion.

So I packed up our stuff, had some things shipped, and booked a flight for the East Coast back to my mother's control. I tried to explain to Mother and Daddy what had happened in my marriage and how cruel Ronny was to me, but this fell on deaf ears. They instead sided with him against me, which hurt my feelings. At one point, my mother stated, "Ronny was fair to you. He never said a bad thing about you." In other words, she believed it was all my fault, but he was just too nice a person to tell her the bad things I did.

Daddy had gone to meat cutting school. He was always trying to find himself and to do something to earn a living that he wanted to do. Mother attempted to support him in some of these endeavors, although I don't think she ever really believed in him or his potential. When they moved to New York, he got several jobs as a meat cutter, but he was so slow that he only lasted a week at each position and then was let go. This scenario happened quite a few times in a row and was quite devastating to his already fragile self-esteem.

He desperately wanted to succeed at something. He was still drinking, and this had become quite a problem for him. He went on a bender after being fired from one of the meat cutting jobs. I didn't see him in this state, but Phylis told me it was pathetic. He finally went back to driving a truck, which was something he had been doing since he was a 14-year-old kid working for Grandpa Atwood in his milk delivery business in Hartland, Vermont.

When I moved back to New York State, I got a job as a medical secretary for Dr. Robert Green, a neurologist at Albany Medical College. The drama of dealing with my abscesses was finally coming to an end because I was able to go to the dental clinic. When I was pregnant for Deana, I had had one of the abscessed teeth pulled, the one on the bottom lower right jaw. For some strange reason, I thought I could save money if I had the tooth pulled without Novocain (I was cheap back then and tried to save money in every way I could), so I told Dr. Harold to go ahead and pull it without Novocain. He didn't even question the wisdom of this decision. He went ahead and extracted it. That was a mistake as the pain was unbelievable, and it felt like my insides were ripped out. I didn't pass out or anything, but it was pretty intense for a few minutes. So one abscess was now gone. I guess I have a high threshold for tolerating pain.

During my pregnancy, the other abscessed teeth otherwise were in remission, and I felt better than I had in my whole life. I now know this was because of the extra energy I got from Deana's guides (ten, I'm told) were hovering around us added to my six. I had lots of energy, was never depressed, and I looked and felt great. This situation all came crashing down though after Deana's birth with the withdrawal of the extra energy and the flaring up of my abscesses.

I was drained and in pain, and my mouth was swollen. One of the mediums that I went to recently told me that during Deana's first year of life, her guardian angels were very close to her and stayed that way for the first few years of her experience. She could see auras and had other spiritual abilities that scared her and which she withdrew from when she was a young child, maybe around 7 or 8 years of age.

While I was working as a medical secretary for Dr. Green, one of the abscesses flared up and swelled up so much that I was admitted to the hospital overnight for observation. It was so big that the doctors took a picture of it because they had not seen one that large before. That was on my upper right-hand jaw, and I had that tooth extracted by the dentist at the dental clinic.

Now I had the two large abscesses on my two front teeth remaining. Typically, the way to save the teeth would be to perform root canals. From going to the Dental Clinic at Albany Medical College, I found out these teeth did not have to be removed, and I would not be toothless after all. If I had known that there was a procedure that would have saved my teeth, I might have been able to avail myself of it earlier but better late than never. Simple root canals would not adequately treat my abscessed teeth, which had been like that for about five years. Instead, I had two apicoectomy procedures performed. By definition, an apicoectomy is the surgical removal of the tip of the root of the problem tooth. An incision is made in the gum tissue to expose the bone and surrounding inflamed tissue. The damaged tissue is removed, along with the end of the root tip.

Both my two front teeth were actively abscessed when I had these procedures done. The dentist gave me many shots of Novocain, but because of the infection, they did not numb the pain. So I had these procedures performed with no anesthetic. I remember the dentist drilling into my gums, and it seemed like the procedures took forever, but I survived, and now all my abscesses were gone along with my fear of being toothless and having to wear false teeth.

I had these procedures performed on a Saturday morning at the dental clinic. I was terrified of what was in store for me. I remember asking my mother to give me a ride to the appointment and wait for me, but she refused and didn't want to have anything to do with it. I think the reason was that I tried to lay a guilt trip on her about neglecting my teeth for years when I was growing up, but she never did admit that she was sorry about it or that she did anything wrong. Maybe she didn't know the extent of the problem because I tried to hide it, and she assumed that I was crazy, and this is what was causing me to act the way I did and not because of constant, throbbing pain. But to my mind, she should have figured something out and tried to help me instead of leaving me to my own devices.

I recall having a big fight with her about my teeth and trying to get her to feel bad about the situation. Daddy was drunk, and he didn't want to hear it, and so he told me to shut my mouth. He always sided with my mother anyway. And so I went by myself and had the problem taken care of once and for all.

I suffer from eczema of the skin, which gets bad in the wintertime. When I was younger, and no one knew what was causing my skin condition, I went through a period of trying to find out the medical cause of it. I once showed my very red and inflamed and itchy legs to Daddy to try to get some sympathy. I got none but a shrug of the shoulders. Who cares? Gosh, could somebody care a little bit about me, I often wondered? I had worked for a short time at Mary Hitchcock Memorial Hospital on the floor where people were treated for psoriasis, and I remember hearing about "the heartbreak of psoriasis" on a television commercial. I was afraid I had the heartbreak of psoriasis and would need to be hospitalized for weeks at a time getting treatment for it. That didn't end up being the cause, and my eczema is easily treated now with over-the-counter hydrocortisone cream, but at the time, it was just one more thing I endured alone.

The only time I got much attention from Daddy was when I was in the hospital, which was several times in my early 20s. The first time I contracted encephalitis, and this is something you can die from or be left in a semi-comatose state. Luckily, I recovered from it spontaneously without any residual side effects. I also had a condition called subacute bacterial endocarditis, which I believe was from my years of having four abscesses. These had continually drained poison into my system (I had a heart murmur and now have aortic insufficiency). I had severe chest pain and sore joints and was hospitalized for a week. I also spontaneously recovered from this. Mother insisted that Daddy come to visit me in the hospital, which he dutifully did. I don't know that he would have had it not been on her insistence, and she made sure I knew that it was her idea and not his.

DADDY, PLEASE LOVE ME CONTINUED

The milk was produced by the Pompy Jersey Farm in Pompanoosuc, Vermont, which was owned by Verne Drew. We had moved from Waterbury, Vermont to Pompanoosuc, where Daddy worked as a farmhand at the farm. We lived down the road on Route 5 in a house. After we bought the house on Route 5, Daddy continued to deliver milk for him, and I have a photo of the truck he delivered it in.

Mother frequently used to tell me that I knew how to handle Daddy so that he didn't get too angry with me. That was true for the most part; however, I will admit to one particular activity I did in front of him, which annoyed the crap out of him. I knew it bothered him, but I did it anyway. It was a minor thing, and I'm not sure why it got to him, but it did. You could visibly see his jaw tighten as he tried to control his anger. What was this thing I did? I beat my ice cream. Whenever I had a dish of hard ice cream, I would stir it up until it got to be the consistency of soft ice cream or what is called Creemees in Vermont. Whenever we were on an outing with the family during the summer, Mother would say, "let's stop for Creemees." That was music to our ears because we all loved this delicious summertime treat. They came in vanilla or chocolate, but I always opted for vanilla and still prefer that flavor over the chocolate.

I had a lot of depression while I was growing up starting at about the third grade and exacerbated by decaying teeth, which turned black and for which I was ashamed and tried to hide by never smiling. I cried a lot all through grade school and high school and even beyond. I mean a lot! Sometimes I would cry all night and wake up in the morning with swollen eyes. The reasons I cried were many but boiled down to the fact that I was despondent, and I began to feel that no one in the whole world loved me. This belief made it very, very difficult for me to cope. When I was a little girl, I knew everyone in my world loved me, and gradually they all seemed to change their mind about me and stopped loving me, one by one. This situation was terrifying for me.

I recall one particular day when I just could not stop crying. I cried and cried and cried. I now realize that it is challenging being around someone who cries all the time, but I just couldn't stop. Daddy was getting annoyed with me and told me, "I love you, but I just don't see why you can't stop crying." The I love you was said in a disgusted resigned kind of way, not a loving way, and that's the only time I recall Daddy telling me he loved me. I also don't remember him ever calling me up on the telephone or sending me a birthday card. He never wrote me a letter although I have copies of two letters he sent to Phylis many years ago. Of course, I wanted him to do all these things, but he never did.

We lived in Norwich, Vermont. When it came time for us to go to high school, the three of us went to Hartford High School in White River Junction, Vermont, because my mother worked at Cross Abbott Company. She dropped us off in the morning and picked us up after work at around 5 p.m. (All the other students who went to Norwich Elementary School went to high school in Hanover, New Hampshire except us.) So we would have to hang around after school every day and wait for our mother to pick us up. I thought this was a real drag because everyone else went home, and we were stuck there. It made me feel different somehow.

One afternoon after school, Daddy was scheduled to pick me up instead of Mother, which was kind of unusual. I wasn't sure what time he was going to be there, so I thought I had time to run to the store and get a snack before he got there. Unfortunately, I missed him, and because I wasn't ready when he got there, he went on home and left me there to find my way home. I scurried around and found Sue Rising, whose father was the guidance counselor at the high school, and who lived past us on the way home. They gave me a ride. I was furious though that Daddy wouldn't wait a few minutes for me. In my mind, we had to wait every night after school to go home for hours, and that seemed like a huge inconvenience for us daily. I ranted and raved to my mother about how mad I was and how unfair it was of him. She certainly didn't come to my defense and kind of ignored me, which made me even madder. Was no one on my side? I realized then if I hadn't before, that I was in this alone, and the one person who was supposed to be in my corner had abandoned me at the school. To me, this was symbolic of his overall abandonment of me. I felt he didn't care much about me one way or the other.

In looking back, I can see where he would have left me there. After all, I should have been waiting for him, and I guess it was inconsiderate on my part to think he should go out of his way for me. But it was a symbol of the fact that the support and help I expected to get from him during this life just wasn't going to be there. I felt defeated and alone.

Daddy liked to play cribbage, a card game for two players that involves playing and grouping cards to gain points and the use of a cribbage board. I knew how to play, and a couple of times, I tried to get closer to Daddy by asking him to play a game of cribbage with me. I remember playing the game with him, but again not achieving the closeness to him that I yearned for and thought I deserved.

High school was a particularly difficult period in my life for several reasons. During my freshman year, I started a new school in White River Junction, which was tremendously stressful because I had decaying teeth, and I tried to hide this fact by never smiling and making sure no one saw the ugliness of them. When I finally did get the teeth repaired in my sophomore year, I was able to smile again for a time and had many good months. Unfortunately, this did not last as the fillings were so deep as to damage the nerves and abscesses developed in four of my teeth, the two front ones and one on the top and one on the bottom of my right jaw. I was so afraid of losing my teeth and having to get false teeth (would I have to be toothless for a period) that I never told anyone about the abscesses but instead endured the pain for as long as I could stand it. The pain was unbelievably bad, and my mouth would swell up. No one tried to find out what was wrong with me and instead thought I had descended into madness. I was in the depths of despair with no one to help me find my way out. It was a hugely stressful time for me.

Somehow I managed to get through high school with honors and was even inducted into the Honor Society. Not surprisingly, I had no friends as I was continually trying to hide the condition my mouth was in, and I was in pain much of the time. The poison from the abscesses must have seeped throughout my system, and that couldn't have been healthy for me. I have had a heart murmur since I was a child, and it's a wonder that my heart was no damaged by this. I was a depressed teenager. Not only did I feel sick most of the time, but I looked awful too. My grooming and hygiene were lacking. In other words, I was a mess. Mother and Daddy and everyone else in my life thought I was a hopeless case. I felt so, too, but I was trying to find my way.

I had always had a challenging relationship with my mother. She was controlling and domineering and seemingly didn't want me to succeed at anything. The problems I was having with my teeth only confirmed to her that I was indeed "crazy" and beyond hope. I'm sure she thought something terrible was going to happen to me like maybe I would give up on life and myself and commit suicide or something like that. (Incidentally, I was never suicidal.) I was afraid that she would have me committed to a mental hospital like what happened to Aunt Helen. It was a genuine fear of mine.

Daddy's alcoholism was totally out of control with Mother and Daddy were fighting all the time. He was a truck driver for a company in White River Junction. There were many times when my father was too drunk to drive, and my mother made him go out on the road anyway. It's a wonder he never got in an accident, killed himself or somebody else. As far as I know, he never did have an accident or a ticket for driving drunk.

After I graduated from high school, I tried to go to a college in Massachusetts but didn't last long because my abscesses were causing me excruciating pain, and I was too depressed to continue. I came back home and immediately decided that I would marry the first boy that asked me to get as far away from my mother as I possibly could. The first person who came along was Ronny Bruce, who lived in New Hampshire. He was only 17 when I met him, and that's who I latched onto for my desperate bid for freedom. He was a tall, thin young man who was very nervous and always bounced his foot up and down when he was sitting.

Mother and Daddy took a real liking to him; in fact, they considered him the son they never had and wanted (although I didn't realize it until I met and started dating Ronny). Mother took him under her wing and coaxed him to try foods that, being a fussy eater, he had never eaten before. Daddy loved him from the start and thought he was just about it. His truck needed a new engine, and somehow Daddy thought Ronny was capable of doing the job for him. For weeks on end, they worked on that truck with the engine out. I don't recall the outcome now of whether or not the vehicle was eventually repaired, but it was a real bonding experience for the two of them.

We got married on December 7, 1963. I had turned 18 in September, and Ronny was about to turn 18 on December 13. Ronny and I used to fight and argue a lot, and Mother was fond of saying that it was appropriate that we got married on Pearl Harbor Day (I guess this was because of our "explosive" relationship. Of course, I learned how to be in a partnership from my parents, who were continually fighting, but I'm sure that this never crossed her mind). Of course, she always sided with Ronny against me, as did Daddy.

I realized soon after we were married that I was a few weeks pregnant (having had my first and only sexual experience three weeks before the wedding). Ronny soon joined the Air Force and went on to basic training. I stayed home with Mother and Daddy and worked as a secretary until it was time for me to have our baby, whom we named Deana after my father, who was born on August 25, 1964. About a month later, I joined Ronny at Edwards Air Force Base in Southern California.

At last, my dream of escaping my mother's tyranny was coming true. I couldn't wait to get away from her. I assume Daddy was ambivalent about his feelings for me leaving because he got roaring drunk on the day we were to drive to Boston for Deana and me to catch the plane to Los Angeles, California. He stayed out all night, and we weren't even sure if he was going to get home in time to see me off to California. He did make it back, but he was too drunk to drive, and Mother drove us to Boston.

Thinking that getting married and leaving my unhappy life and nagging mother behind, I thought I would live happily ever after. I did get a job as a secretary at Space Labs on Edwards Air Force, as this was the height of space exploration. I still had the abscesses which flared up quite frequently and were immensely painful until they subsided, but would inevitably flare again. I continued with the fear of losing my teeth and would do anything to avoid that. Unfortunately, leaving my mother for Ronny was like going from the frying pan to the fire. He treated me every bit as poorly as my mother did and in much the same ways. He regularly called me crazy and a bad mother and insulted me in every way he could imagine.

DADDY, PLEASE LOVE ME

One of my earliest recalled desires was for Daddy to love me and to love me unconditionally. I wanted him to stand up for me and to take my side. I always remember loving him no matter the difficulties he had and some of the foolish mistakes he made over the years. I was forever on his side, and I wanted him to be on mine.

This strong desire goes back to before I was even born when I was making plans on the other side to come into this world as the daughter of Deane Frederick Atwood and Evelyn Bertha Phillips Atwood. As far as I know, both had agreed to this arrangement (of course not on a conscious level). Daddy had a spiritual contract to work out with Mother, and I had a karmic relationship to work out with her, too. I knew it was going to be a steep road for me to travel, being my mother's daughter, but Daddy had agreed to soften it for me and to come to my defense if need be. I also decided I would do the same thing for him. Daddy's and Mother's and my guides worked this all out before I was born. So that was my unconscious understanding of our agreement when I was born in Windsor, Vermont, on September 20, 1945.

When I was still a baby, we moved to a small farm in Orange, Vermont, and that was the setting of my first memories of Daddy. Daddy was quite young when Phylis and I were born and was very immature. Mother considered him as her oldest child, someone whose behavior she had to try to manage and control. One of the most serious of these behaviors was alcoholism. Daddy had become an alcoholic while a teenager at Kimball Union Academy and continued this behavior throughout many years until he was finally able to stop drinking in his 50s.

Many loud arguments that took place in that rundown little farmhouse in Orange, mostly having to do with Daddy drinking and coming home late, and letting us all down again and again.

"You've been drinking at the beer garden again, haven't you," was a familiar refrain of my mother's as a screaming match took place yet again.

I did not like hearing this kind of fighting going on between my parents and often wished that Daddy would just stop drinking, and Mother would just stop nagging so much. Sometimes I wasn't sure which came first, the drinking or the nagging. My memories of Daddy in Orange are fleeting and come in shadows: Daddy coming home from the hospital on crutches after severely cutting his leg in the woods, or coming back from the hospital after having his appendix removed. A lovely memory I have of Daddy is when he made homemade strawberry ice cream. That was the best tasting ice cream I ever had.

I have a vague memory of an incident that took place at our kitchen table in Orange. All five of us were sitting around the table, and we were using pencils for something. We used to sharpen them with a knife. Joyce said she needed one. I had a long pencil, so I got the bright idea of breaking mine in half and giving Joyce half, figuring that we could sharpen both broken ends with a knife, and we would have two instead of one. Daddy did not understand my logic and immediately reacting by slapping my hand. I was stunned because I wasn't trying to be naughty, but rather to share my pencil with my younger sister. Of course, he misunderstood my logic, but for some reason, I believed he should have known what I was thinking.

We used to go to the movies once in a while. Mother and Daddy took us to many of the Disney movies that were playing at the time. I don't recall this particular episode often related by my mother, but she used to say that Daddy was never able to hit me. I once asked her why that was. We were at the movies, and I was acting up (I was a very active child), and I guess Daddy was starting to get annoyed with me. I looked up at him and said, "Please don't hit me, Daddy." This incident tugged at his heartstrings, and for a brief moment, must have recalled the agreement he had made with me before I was born. So Mother says from that time on, Daddy never hit me. And this is true. He never did.

Part of Mother's way of dealing with Daddy was to treat him as a child who needed to be scolded continuously and reprimanded to get him to shape up. This approach didn't work. She often said that Daddy did not make an excellent father, and she was afraid to leave him alone with my sisters and me. I'm not sure what the fear was, but she didn't think he was willing or capable of caring for us. She also felt that we were not comfortable with him. I don't know about my two sisters, but I never felt this way about him. I wanted him to love me. Daddy was kind of a goofy guy and liked to make funny faces. He also knew how to wiggle his ears and did this often. We liked that. He used to tell us that he was a girl when he was little. "When I was a little girl . . ." he wouldn't often say. Of course, I never believed that for a minute, but I often wondered if he did. Another thing he used to do was draw a cartoon of a man's face. That was the only thing I ever saw him draw, and he did that often throughout the years.

Daddy loved to tell stories, and he would relate the same ones over and over and over. He loved to talk especially to his closest family members, anyone that would listen. One of the stories he told over and over again was concerning Roger Bumps, who was in a plane crash and was the only survivor. He liked to talk about childhood memories, although some of them were quite unpleasant. During a reading I had at Among Angels, he relayed to the medium that he rambled a lot to cover up the many insecurities he had during his lifetime related to being the scapegoat of the family and the black sheep.

I understood that about Daddy. I always felt compassion for him because I knew only too well how his family, including his mother and father, Grandpa and Grammie Atwood, and his siblings, brother Howland, and sisters Priscilla and Margie portrayed him. They just didn't have much respect for him, which they never tried to hide and which he knew and experienced to the core of his very being. Then he married my mother, who was overbearing and didn't have much regard for him either.

So Daddy was torn in many different directions. Even though he had agreed to come to my defense when I was struggling with issues with my mother, he just was not able to. Although Daddy was an alcoholic from his teenage years on, I always seemed to take his side (even if I only did so quietly and silently) over Mother's. Mother became quite the martyr and felt superior over Daddy. She nagged him endlessly. This nagging ate away at him, and bit by bit tore him apart until there was nothing left.

Mainly when we lived in Norwich, I used to wonder why someone invented beer. I thought that if only Daddy did not drink beer, that everyone's life would be better, and if no one had created it, then he never would have been able to drink it. Occasionally he would try to stop drinking. One Sunday afternoon, he was desperately trying to stay away from beer, and he sat quietly reading the Bible. I guess he thought if he got religion, that would help. I briefly held out hope that this would be it. Of course, it wasn't, and on he went down his destructive path.

Mother always tried to get him to stop and threatened him often with leaving him. One particular night he came home roaring drunk, and she said that was it, it was over, and we were all going to leave him. She stood by the closet near the bathroom and began throwing clothes into a suitcase. Briefly, I had hope that our torment would end, that is, the endless rounds of drunkenness and screaming matches between Mother and Daddy. I was also conflicted because I didn't want to leave Daddy behind, was afraid for his safety (would he take a gun and shoot himself, I just wasn't sure), but I wanted peace, and so felt that going with my mother would be the better option. This hope only lasted a little while as the fight blew over, and we were right back where we started.

Grandpa and Grammie Atwood came up to visit us in Norwich every summer with their latest car hauling a mobile home behind it. For the most part, these visits were delightful. We liked their company and spent a lot of time with them. Daddy still had his problems with drinking, but I think he somehow managed to curtail it when his parents were around. Later on, when I thought about it, I wondered why they spent so much time with us as they didn't seem to have much respect for Daddy though he always tried to gain it from them. Mother told me a few years before her death that Grandpa Atwood was willing to have Daddy declared incompetent, and all she had to do was say the word. I have to hand it to her, though, because she said she just couldn't do that to my father. It would have been beyond cruel. I don't know if he ever realized this was going on. I honestly hope not. I hope my mother never told him. It would have crushed him.

So Daddy was the bad boy, and Mother was the goody-goody in that relationship, especially as seen in the eyes of Grandpa and Grammie Atwood. She was the saint, and he was the sinner. She loved playing that role and played it to the hilt. Even though Mother had problems of her own (bipolar disorder), no one ever held that against her, and I don't recall anyone ever even hinting about it. If she acted a little odd, someone might comment that she might have forgotten to take her medication that day, but that was the extent of it. But Daddy never lived down his reputation, even decades after he managed to stop drinking for good. His sister Priscilla, even now many years after his death, can hardly say a decent word about him.

I always vied for Daddy's attention. One of the ways I did it was to go on his milk route with him for the day. Daddy had a milk route in which he delivered milk to residents of Norwich, Vermont, during the 1950s.

He liked to clown around, and I have a photo of him doing just that in his milk truck. I guess this part of his life was essential to him because when I went to a healing circle at Among Angels when he showed up for me, he told the medium that during the 1950s, he had a milk route and delivered milk as one of his jobs. I thought it was fun to go with him, and I felt it was a way I could get closer to him, although I'm not sure this worked all that well. I tried. And that was one of the ways I did it.

THE LONG TRIP HOME

Mother was getting ready to make her transition in the spring of 2005. Her life had been complicated because of the mental illness of bipolar mood disorder. This condition was initially diagnosed as manic depression in 1979 at the age of 57. She was tired and had just about had it with life. She had been trying to give me (and my sisters to a lesser degree) the message that she was preparing to die, but we didn't take her seriously. I can vaguely remember her saying something like, "I'm not going to be here much longer," and I would laugh and say, "Oh, come on, Mother, you're going to outlive all of us."

I believed that, too, because she had always been healthy, hardly ever getting sick, and having no significant medical problems that would have ended her life prematurely. She also was a powerful woman, and I just couldn't conceive of her dying. During the last year of her life, though, her health started to deteriorate. She had been on lithium since 1979 (to control the manic phase of her illness), and here it was 2005. For 26 years, she took a substance that could be toxic and eventually was. I believe it was the lithium that destroyed her neurologic system and rendered her unable to drive and ultimately to walk.

I was getting ready to leave California and told Mother so. She said, "Oh, good, then I'll wait to die until after you get here." In the spring of 2005, I had learned from a medium in California that Mother was getting ready to die soon. Mother was so excited that I was coming home that she decided to wait. I knew that life had not been easy for her, but I didn't comprehend just how hard it had become.

Mother and I had always had a very complicated and contentious relationship. It was love/hate, never wishy-washy. I knew that we had a deep karmic relationship with each other, and I also believe that both of us intended to heal it this time around. This understanding, of course, was on a subconscious level. Mother would have never admitted to anything as wacky and weird as that.

At the church that I was attending in California, a medium named Blanche was giving readings, and you could ask her questions. She is the one who told me about Daddy watching over me on the other side. One night in the spring of 2005, I got up enough nerve to ask her about Mother. What she told me was surprising to me and very enlightening. The first thing she asked was: "who is Steven?" I didn't know anyone within her circle named Steven and said so. Blanche confirmed that he was her spiritual guide and that he had been with her during her entire lifetime. He was with her now, helping her prepare to pass from this world to the next.

Steven did confirm to Blanche that my Mother indeed was making herself ready for her transition to the next plane and that it wouldn't be long, maybe within a month or two, certainly before summer was over. What stunned me was when he said, "Your mother will not leave until you tell her that you love her." Why did that surprise me so much? Mainly because I didn't think she particularly loved me, and if she did, she certainly had a funny way of showing it. Always talking about me behind my back, laughing at me, putting me down, insulting me, etc. etc. etc. Steven also said that I was very stubborn.

I was taken aback by this remark of Steven's saying that I was stubborn. After all, I felt justified in feeling the way I did about Mother. I didn't think she deserved to be forgiven for all the rotten things she did to me. Anyway, I didn't think she cared one way or the other about me as a person, just as someone to despise and make miserable. I was wrong. I also realized that I might be stubborn, but I'm certainly not stupid. If Mother is waiting for me to tell her I love her, then that's what I'll do, not knowing the reaction I would get from her. I can't remember the last time she told me she loved me and I didn't think she did, and I had come to accept that. But I also knew that Mother and I agreed to heal the karma between us. Who was I to prevent that from happening? It had been going on for lifetimes, and it was time to end it. Someone had to make the first move. If me telling her I loved her would help towards that end, then by gosh, I would do it. She could laugh at me or scorn me if she wanted, that was her problem.

I called Mother the next morning at 6 a.m. California time. It was 9 a.m. her time. I said something like, "I know I don't say this very often (never really), but I've been thinking about it, and I just wanted to let you know that I love you." Holding my breath, I waited for her response. I didn't have to wait long. She was nothing less than ecstatic. "I love you, too," she said, and I could tell that she meant. But then on out until the day she died, we said that we loved each other. That's when I told her that I was coming back to New York State later in the summer, and that's when she informed me that she would wait for me to get here. She was happy about it.

She went through a period of being happy, and dying was the last thing on her mind. She and I were going to heal our relationship at long last. Her health was not good, but nothing life-threatening was going on. She was becoming frail and forgetful. The lithium had caused the nerves in her legs to deteriorate, and the process was irreversible.

At around this time, the doctors decided that they would take her off lithium because of the nerve damage. They were going to put her on a more reasonable alternative to control her manic episodes, such as Depakote. It was too little, too late, though. The damage had already been done. She was admitted to the Geripsychiatric Ward of Good Samaritan Hospital in Troy, New York, with the diagnosis of bipolar disorder with acute psychosis. She was literally out of her mind. She detested being in a psychiatric ward because she was afraid someone would think she was crazy, and she had spent her life trying to avoid such a label. I don't think anyone ever did call her crazy, and people were more or less accepting and understanding of her condition.

Mother was in an acute state of psychosis and mania. When she was manic, she couldn't stop talking, and she did not sleep at all. Mother also was psychotic, and her thinking was anything but reality-based. She hated being in the psych ward. "Nobody in their right mind would want to be here," she so poignantly said to me. When I was at work, I would try to talk to her when she was in the psych ward, and I would have to shout because she had difficulty hearing. Some of the things I said to her must have sounded weird to anyone who might hear.

She never did lose her sense of humor, though. One of the patients went past her and said, "you talk too much," to which Mother replied, "I know I talk too much. You're not telling me anything I don't know." But when she was manic, she just couldn't shut up, and there was an excited tone to it. It was kind of strange sometimes. She just couldn't help herself.

At the psych ward, they took her off lithium. They were trying to get her on a medication that would keep her mania at bay. This approach didn't work well. It was simply too late. I do believe that they put her back on the lithium to control the manic symptoms. The damage to her nerves and her legs was complete. Mother finally had her "nervous breakdown," but not in the way she always had feared. The nerves in her legs were broken down.

I had been making plans for a while to move back to the East Coast when Deana (my daughter and power-of-attorney for Mother) called and said that Mother had fallen and couldn't get back up and walk. Mother thought she had had a stroke (a huge fear of hers after seeing her father die a slow death from strokes). Deana and Chris (my son) took her to the hospital and found out that she had not had a stroke, but she was physically unable to walk.

I dropped everything and decided to leave immediately from California. I departed on Sunday morning, July 24, 2005, for the beginning of the long drive to the latest version of my new life. I had a Buick Century car and a very nervous dog named Sheba, who was afraid of everything, including riding in a car. She was so neurotic about it that I had to get pills to calm her down, which made her sleep for most of the trip. Sheba had developed a game of running away from me when she was a puppy because she liked to have me chase her. One of the memorable parts of my trip back was her getting away from me in Kansas and making a run for it. Lucky for Sheba and me, she was easy to catch because of the sedation she was on. If she had gotten away, who knows what would have become of her. That would have broken my heart. I was glad that didn't happen because I had enough of my mind concerning Mother and what lay in store for us on my return after 15 years in California.

The drive home wasn't that remarkable. I just remember driving about 750 miles a day for four days to try to make it home before my Mother passed on. I really couldn't stop at a restaurant and get out and have dinner because of Sheba. I would stop and get a sub now and then and eat in the car.

Mother was in the hospital, and she seemed to think it was pretty much the end of the line. From one day on the road to the next, I wasn't quite sure what the news would be about Mother. At one point, she told Deana and Marissa (her great-granddaughter) that she was ready to die now, and they could give her the pills. She was kind of disappointed when she found out that it didn't work that way.

While I was on my trip back on Monday, July 25, 2005, Mother had the episode where she couldn't walk, and she was admitted to Samaritan Hospital in Troy. The nerves in her legs were useless, and she could no longer ambulate. It took two people to move her because Mother couldn't assist at all. Even if she didn't die there, she wasn't going to be able to function in any setting other than a nursing home, which I believe was in the process of being arranged. This ending was the last thing in the world she wanted. There was a long tradition in the Phillips family to not have a parent or loved one die in a nursing home.

Surprise, surprise! My Mother perked up. She showed enough signs of wanting to improve that the doctors decided that she could spend one month in a rehabilitation facility in Troy, New York, and learn to walk again, at least enough so that she could come home to live with me in my new condo. She was so happy when I arrived at the hospital. She told me that she was waiting for her daughter to come from California, not knowing that it was me. She said she didn't recognize me because my hair was too dark. But when she did figure out who I was, she was happy to see me and relieved that a nursing home would not be her last permanent residence. She did learn to walk again, haltingly and with a walker, but she was able to go home with me for the remaining few months of her life. 

ALL I DID WAS CRY

I was a delighted child for a long time. I loved life and was very energetic. Everyone in my sphere, including my many relatives, seemed to love me. I loved being outdoors. I wanted to learn how to do anything I could. I worked very hard at learning how to ice skate and loved it when Mother let us stay after school at Norwich, so we could ice skate until she got done with work. I wanted to learn to ski, but that was too expensive a hobby for us to undertake. I loved swimming in the summer in the Norwich Pool and sometimes at lakes. Going to visit Grammie's house was always fun, and we enjoyed Grammie and Grandpa Atwood coming to visit us every summer and staying on our property in a mobile home. Life was good.

That all seemed to change when I was in about the third grade. The first thing I noticed was that my front teeth were decaying at an extremely rapid rate and turning black. This condition was horrifying to me and caused me such shame that I withdrew and didn't smile anymore for fear of other people learning my secret. At about that same time, I started getting depressed. I was sad a lot and cried frequently. My mother cried a lot, too. I remember one time when we were shopping in a big grocery store, and she dropped a six-pack of beer on the floor, and it spilled all over the place. She was so humiliated she started crying. I don't know if she was more embarrassed about buying beer or making a mess. I felt sorry for her.

I don't recall Grammie Phillips crying much, if at all. I now realize that Grammie Phillips probably shamed her for crying and possibly accused of becoming like her Aunt Helen (who was locked up in Waterbury State Hospital because she was insane). My mother was ashamed of crying and said if you had to cry, it was better if you did it in private, no one could see you, and you wouldn't make a fool of yourself.

My life was going downhill fast. All the people in my world that I thought loved me were seemingly starting to change their minds about me. I didn't know what I did wrong to cause this, but it was terrifying. My mother and aunts labeled me as "sensitive." They talked about this in front of me, as if I wasn't there.

I remember one incident where we went to a State Fair in Vermont and were sitting in the bleachers watching the stock car races. I didn't like them at all because of the noise and the crashing cars. I was afraid someone was going to get hurt. I probably started crying and covered my eyes and ears to prevent seeing the mayhem that was taking place. Mother reported that back to my aunt. They shook their heads knowingly and said, "well, she is sensitive after all." That is when my mother started convincing me that I couldn't handle things and that I was weak and got upset easily over things. In other words, I was "crazy." She started trying to convince me that she needed to protect me from life because I was so fragile.

I did cry a lot. Sometimes I cried so much as a child that my eyes would be swollen in the morning. I was continually getting my feelings hurt and taking things personally. I was also very discouraged, very, very sad. I thought my whole world was caving in around me, and I couldn't function. What was going to happen to me? This crying a lot went on my entire life until I started taking Prozac 20 mg a day as an antidepressant in 1990. I was about 45 years old then. My depression had hit rock bottom, and at that time, I could barely function. I did manage to get up every day and always held down a job, but I was miserable.

The Prozac kicked in, and my depression lifted. For the last 30 years or so, I got over the issue of crying all the time. I now realize it was because I was depressed. Had Prozac been available when I was a child and had a doctor prescribed it to me, along with a little bit of understanding and maybe some counseling, my life would have been different, I am sure. But that was not to be, so I had to learn everything the hard way.

I hardly ever cry anymore because I am no longer depressed or sad. I have come to terms with a lot of things that once bothered me. I no longer believe I am crazy, as I did for many years. Sometimes I get emotional over a scene in a movie or when something hits me, and I will tear up. Of course, I cry at funerals. But I am no longer overly sensitive and do not get my feelings hurt needlessly. I no longer feel powerless as I once did. Learning not to take things personally was a huge lesson for me.

EARLY MESSAGES REGARDING PROSPERITY

My first memories are of living in Orange, Vermont, in a small farmhouse. My parents got married young, Daddy was 18 and Mother was 21, and by the time we lived in Orange, they had three little girls with only 30 months' difference in age from the oldest to the youngest. I don't know if we were poor or not, and it didn't seem to matter to me because I was contented there. Living in Orange was the best time of my childhood. I still believed that everyone in my life loved me. That would gradually change as time went by, and life became more complicated the older I got.

I came from a large extended family on both sides. My mother's parents, the Phillips side of the family, were subsistence farmers, struggling to get by, probably considered impoverished by most people's standards. On the other hand, the Atwood side of the family, my father's parents were quite prosperous and well off. Grandpa Atwood was a successful businessman and retired at age 40 with a sizeable nest egg. He was a very clever man when it came to managing money, and he invested wisely over the years. Grandpa Atwood had enough money to buy a new car every year and often bought new travel trailers. He and Grammie Atwood traveled all over the United States.

He had enough money that he was able to leave a large inheritance to each one of his four children. Another prosperous member of the family was Uncle Deane Howland, who was Grammie Atwood's brother. He had a very successful career as an executive with the phone company, and also was a good money manager. Uncle Deane and Aunt Verna did not have any children of their own, and so left a sizeable amount of money to each one of his nieces and nephews. These would have included Daddy, Uncle Howland, Aunt Priscilla, Aunt Marjo, and two of Daddy's cousins, Jim and John Howland. So Daddy and Mother (because she was married to Daddy) had the benefit of some nice inheritances.

Grandpa and Grammie Atwood came up to visit us every summer in their travel trailer (sometimes these trailers were long), but I spent more time with Grandpa and Grammie Phillips. The Phillips family influenced me more by their attitude toward money and finances than the Atwoods. Another compelling part of my formative years as far as money was concerned was the fact that I lived in Norwich, Vermont, from age 8 to 19. Norwich, Vermont is a bedroom community for Dartmouth College located across the river in Hanover, New Hampshire, and there were many well-to-do members of the town.

We lived in a rundown house near the railroad tracks a couple of miles outside of Norwich. Daddy was a truck driver and also an alcoholic. I don't like admitting it, but I was sometimes ashamed and embarrassed by him because he was a truck driver, a not highly regarded occupation in Norwich. Our house was kind of a dump. It was shabby looking with ugly green shingles, a porch that was falling apart, and it was just not a very pleasant place to live. Plus, it was usually a mess because my mother was not much of a housekeeper. She was always trying to make improvements, but nothing seemed to help much.

Grandpa and Grammie Atwood came to visit every summer. Even though it was apparent to me that they were quite well off, that didn't have much influence on how I felt about my financial prospects. This belief started back when I was in high school, and I always knew if I wanted something, I would need to earn money and buy it myself. I achieved this by babysitting and working during the summer as a carhop for the Frosty Stein. I knew that my family would not meet my needs otherwise. When I asked Mother for three dresses for my graduation parties, she wanted to know why I needed three dresses and begrudgingly let me order them from a catalog. I'm sure I was cautious about not spending too much of her money.

One of the significant issues between my mother and me was the sense that she was in competition with me and that I must never outdo her in any way. She was an excellent cook, for instance, and I have always had a dislike of cooking because I didn't want to compete with her in any way. Another firm idea that she planted within my consciousness in high school was her insistence that I learn to type. The reason for this was that she didn't want me to go to college, but she wanted to make sure that I could make a living so as not to be a burden on her or anyone else. She felt that if I learned to type, then I would be able to get a job, even though it might be menial, and I could become self-sufficient monetarily.

After I got my first job as a secretary in White River Junction, I was still living at home and waiting to go to California. The second I got my first paycheck, my mother couldn't wait to get $10 from me for room and board. It kind of came as a shock when she said it, but I always gave it to her without any complaint.

I spent many years typing for a living, sometimes going into debt with credit cards, but never seemed to have any money left over. Mother had made it very clear in the years that followed that she would not be available to lend me any money no matter what the reason. I remember when I was in my early 30s and working at the bank in Albany when my clutch burned out in my car, and I needed to get a new one. The car was relatively new, and this was a shock and an expense that just wasn't in my budget at the time. I remember calling my mother in tears, very upset, not knowing what I was going to do and how I was going to get my car fixed so that I could get back and forth to work.

I was crying so hysterically that at first, she thought something had happened to one of my children. I told her what happened and that I needed $200 to get a new clutch and could she lend me the money. She refused to advance me the money even though I promised to pay it back. I was desperate and went to a lending company that charged a high- interest rate. My mother was disgusted that I had resorted to such a measure and put me down for this. There was no winning with her.

Not only would she not lend me the money, but she disparaged me for resorting to another way of obtaining the money that I desperately needed. I don't recall how I was able to get the work done on my car, but I came to realize that I was truly alone in the world and that I had to depend on myself no matter what the circumstances.

The odd thing about the fact that my parents weren't there for me financially was that Daddy's mother and father always bailed them out whenever they needed it. Grandpa Atwood financed the farm in Orange for my father because he wanted to be a farmer. He also helped them out many other times, probably more times than I know.

One distinct memory I have occurred in Norwich. The post office was across the street from the Norwich Elementary School, which I attended from the second through eighth grades. At one time, my mother took a temporary job as a postmistress when someone was out on sick leave. Anyway, we had a post office box, and we stopped every day to get our mail. I don't recall the exact details, but I was in the front seat of the car, and we had received a letter from Grammie Atwood. I decided to open the letter and read it, and, boy, what a mistake that was!! Inside the message was a check to my father for $500. It was one of his bailout checks, and I knew he would be furious when he found out I opened the letter and found it. And I was right. He went on and on about how I didn't have the right to open other people's mail and who the heck did I think I was anyway. When my father got on a tangent about something, he went on and on, and I just had to endure the words and wait for him to stop talking. I guess it was supposed to be a secret.

So my parents always had a back-up plan and not only had a source of help during the years that I was growing up, but they also received pretty large sums of money through inheritances. The fact that they refused to help me during my lifetime was quite amazing to me in light of their experiences with Grandpa and Grammie Atwood. They liked to be on the receiving end of these gifts but never seemed to realize that I would have liked to have received money also.

When Mother and Daddy received the large inheritance from Uncle Deane (I don't know the exact amount but maybe around $200,000), they were thrilled, of course, to get it. If I had received a large amount of money like that, I would have thought nothing of sharing at least some of it with my children. That thought never crossed their mind, at least not to share some of it with their three daughters. My mother was very much in it for herself. Aunt Verna (Uncle Deane's wife) had died quite a few years before he did. She had quite a valuable diamond ring, which Uncle Deane gave to my mother. My mother immediately had that ring appraised for $4000 and cashed it in. She wanted the money, not the sentiment of having the diamond.

A fact about the inheritance from his Uncle Deane was that he almost died from a heart attack in 1986 before Uncle Deane had passed away. If he had died then, my sisters and I would have received the inheritance, bypassing my mother entirely. Luckily for her, he lived long enough for them to benefit from the gift. When my father passed away in 1999, my mother was afraid that my sisters and I would contest the will because of that inheritance. She went to her lawyer and had him send us papers to sign off from disputing it. The funny thing was, none of us would have tried to get any of that money away from her. We were just happy that she had enough money to take care of her needs.

Another incident that hurt my feelings was when my father passed away in 1999. After the funeral, she made a big deal about making sure that each one of the grandchildren got some money from him and passed out $500 to each of the six grandchildren. My sisters and I got nothing. All my mother could say was, "well, you're going to get a lot of money when I die." Well, by the time she died, we only got about $14,000 each because she had managed to give the grandchildren the rest. She didn't want us (especially me) to have anything. I find that intriguing because I never got any inheritance from my grandparents.

Another core belief I have is that everyone else deserves to have whatever they want, except me. This belief, again, comes from my family. One of the ways this manifested was the fact that my mother couldn't stand the thought of me being the favorite of anyone, and if someone in the family treated me like they favored me, she would get on their case. I don't know why she was worried about it because no one in the family treated me like their favorite. I was more like the black sheep of the family, the outcast, the scapegoat, the crazy one, etc., etc., etc.

Aunt Lena (the middle sister of five in the Phillips family – Mother was the oldest) favored Joyce. She thought Joyce was just about it. Joyce went up there for a week one summer, and Lena was bragging to my mother how much help Joyce was with mopping the floor, etc. and she gave her $20. I went up the following week and also tried to help her. She gave me $4. That not only hurt my feelings, but it says a lot about how certain relatives valued me.

There is one last issue I would like to discuss before closing off this discussion regarding the deep-seated beliefs I held regarding money and prosperity. The message I got from my mother was that I was supposed to make enough money so that I could support myself and not be a burden on anybody, but I also was not supposed to be successful and make more money than I needed to survive. I can remember many times making the statement, "I don't care if I have a lot of money, I just want to have enough to get by." Ugh. What a self-fulfilling prophecy that turned out to be. Also, I was not supposed to have a house or condo of my own. I didn't want anyone to hate me because I had beautiful things. I felt that if I had a lot of money or material things, my family would hate me. That's kind of ridiculous when you think about it because they never really liked me that much anyway. My family didn't want me to have anything. I internalized that belief to the point where I thought I didn't deserve anything.

So the self-defeating beliefs about money boil down to the following: I have to be able to take care of myself because I can't depend on anyone else to help me. I am to make enough money to take care of myself and not be a burden, but not enough to make anyone envious or jealous of me. I don't deserve to have anything nice.

It still amazes me that I let others determine what I deserved to have out of my life. The beliefs that my family passed on to me are not the truth about my life. They turned out to be a lie and were destructive. I am now free to determine what I deserve to have in my life and to realize that I am not alone in a cold and unforgiving world. I have come to realize that Mother and Daddy, who are now on the other side, want me to have joy, happiness, and fulfillment in my life that they were not able to give me.

In my heart of hearts, I know that I have not been going through life alone. Had I been genuinely left to my own devices, I would never have made it to where I am today. There were many times in my life when survival was a gift to me. Seriously I have been watched over and guided and protected every step of the way. This guidance will continue for the rest of my life. Daddy especially is rooting for me to keep on my healing journey. Also, Grandpa Atwood has been watching over and guiding me. Then there are my spiritual guides and countless angels who are on my side. So I believe that God is the source of my supply and that prosperity is my divine right. For this, I am forever grateful.

THE BEST I CAN BE

In 1988, I was between jobs. Not only was I unemployed, but I was also emotionally and mentally fragile. I was in the early years of recovery from alcoholism and was also suffering from a chemical imbalance leading to numbing depression. This condition can be adequately treated with an antidepressant, although I was not yet on one. I had worked in a job with an unsupportive work environment. My coworkers eventually pressured me into quitting, leaving me without employment. I started thinking I was never going to work again and would not be able to support myself.

After looking into a few jobs without much success, I applied to a temporary agency on Central Avenue. The next day I got a call from this agency saying they had a one-week temporary job at Albany Ladder doing secretarial work. I was less than thrilled about working for a ladder company, but I needed the job. That one-week job turned into a two-year position, and it changed the direction of my life.

One of my duties at Albany Ladder was to assist in the implementation of the "Choices" program, a four-day personal growth program that was offered to every employee of Albany Ladder, regardless of their position. The program included a white water rafting trip and many team-building experiences that took place in the woods behind Albany Ladder. It was difficult for me to believe that a company existed that cared enough about its employees to invest in an environment where people can grow, not only in the work environment but personally as well.

About two weeks after I started my temporary job at Albany Ladder, I became a full-time employee as the company secretary. It was just the type of job I was seeking but didn't know existed. I soon attended one of the Choices programs myself, which was very enjoyable. The owner of the company was a man named Lester J. Heath, III, or Les, as everyone called him. I began wondering what kind of person was in charge of a company that offered all its employees this kind of opportunity. I soon found out.

Les was in his mid-40s, in the prime of his life, a handsome, charismatic man who was the CEO and chairman of the board of Albany Ladder and was a very successful and prosperous businessman. He seemed to have it all—the picture of success and confidence. I soon found out though that Les had overcome personal struggles of his own—namely alcoholism—and was an active member of Alcoholics Anonymous. I was surprised, but that led me to realize why he went to such extremes to help others. It was his way of giving back because of the gratefulness he felt for being able to achieve something that can be elusive—lasting sobriety. I, too, was actively searching for meaning in my life and wanted to discover my "purpose in life." These were issues that had been weighing heavily on me when I started working at Albany Ladder Company.

At some point during my tenure at Albany Ladder, my family doctor put me on a long-overdue antidepressant, Prozac, which helped to stabilize my chemical imbalance. Since the Prozac has been in my system, I have never suffered from debilitating depression again, and I have been continuously sober for greater than 35 years.

About a year after I started at Albany Ladder, Les developed another program called "The Best I Can Be," which lasted four days and was held at a resort in the Catskills. The program consisted of outdoor team-building activities such as rock climbing, rappelling, and a rope course, all of which require trust, effective communication, and mutual support for success. It's incredible how much you can learn about yourself while participating in these activities.

Another exercise that I found very helpful at the "Best' program was writing my mission statement, a brief description of what I wanted to accomplish in my life. As I wrote my mission statement, I was better able to focus my energy, actions, behaviors, and decisions toward the things that were most important to me. That was a real turning point in my life.

One of the best things about working at Albany Ladder at the time was freedom to be who I was without being ashamed—after all, the head of the company was amazingly going through the same thing I was. Attending the "Choices" and "Best" programs and then helping to plan and implement them was just what I needed at that particular time. I finally had a job where I was respected and appreciated, where I could develop and evolve, and help others do the same thing.

For a while, I thought I would stay at this perfect job forever. However, I came to realize that my experiences at Albany Ladder were a stepping stone to my next phase in life. Even though I had been an excellent student in school, for various reasons, I didn't believe that I had what it took to get a college education. Instead, I learned the skill of typing that I thought would always enable me to get a job.

After I wrote my mission statement, I began to realize that I wanted to get a college education and that I would not feel fulfilled as a person until I did. I decided to go to Cal State University in San Bernardino, California. In July 1990, I drove 3000 miles to California to begin the educational phase of my life. I thoroughly enjoyed the ten years I spent in California getting my education. I graduated summa cum laude from Cal State with a bachelor's degree in Sociology, and later earned a Master of Social Work degree. This achievement would never have happened had I not been given the gift of a job that allowed me to heal and discover who I was, and I will be forever thankful for that.

Although I had a hard time leaving Albany Ladder to go off to an unknown future in California, in retrospect, I realize nothing in life stays the same forever, no matter how good it is. That was also true for Albany Ladder and Les. A few years after I left, Les was diagnosed with a rapidly growing brain cancer known as glioblastoma multiforme. Les died from this brain tumor in 1997, at the age of 51, while I was going to school in California. I was able to talk to him a few times on the telephone and to thank him for everything he did for me. He was also proud to know that he had helped me to achieve some of my personal goals.

After Les' death, Albany Ladder was subsequently sold, and the personal growth programs stopped. As I drive by the location where Albany Ladder used to be on Central Avenue in Albany, nothing remains. Nothing but the memories of the years I spent there finding myself and becoming "the best I can be," through the best job of my life.

YOU ARE GIVING ME A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN

One of the issues I had to come to terms with during this lifetime was realizing that there is nothing wrong with me, especially that I am not crazy or evil or sinister. "Being crazy" was so embedded in me growing up that convincing myself that I was sane took quite a lot of effort. I have concluded that the thoughts and beliefs I have about my life were formed in my childhood. These beliefs stemmed from messages that were given to me repeatedly as a child. The most persuasive words delivered over and over again while growing up were about my mental state.

It started when I was a little girl, and I was labeled "sensitive." Being sensitive was another word for crazy on the Phillips side of the family. I distinctly remember going to a stock car race at a fair and crying and holding onto my ears because of the noise and the fact that I thought people were going to get hurt. I genuinely care about people, and I don't like to see anyone suffer. I don't want to watch certain movies or shows on TV where torture or suffering is depicted. So the whole thing about getting upset at the stock car races was discussed with Grammie Phillips and anyone else who was around to listen and add their two cents' worth.

The whole point of being too sensitive was that I supposedly just couldn't handle things, that there was something wrong with me, that I just wasn't strong enough to cope with life in any meaningful way, that I was weak, that I would fall apart, and on and on and on. People supposedly had to be careful around me, so they didn't "upset me," that kind of thing. I didn't even realize who sound a person I was until I was well into adulthood. Maybe even within the last 10 to 20 years or perhaps even just now.

Grammie Phillips and Mother were significant influences on how I viewed myself in the mental health or mental illness category. Mother struggled with these issues her whole life. She was depressed much of the time. A psychiatrist later diagnosed her with manic depression, now known as bipolar disorder. She was either high or low but rarely in between. The highs were fantastic, but the lows were so profound that she couldn't stand it and could barely function. There never seemed to be any middle of the road state of mind for her.

One of the things that I remember her frequently talking about was "nervous breakdowns." It seems like someone she knew was always having a "nervous breakdown" (what that meant I wasn't sure, but I knew it wasn't right, and it rendered someone unable to function in the real world.)

A distinct memory I have of the concept of "having a nervous breakdown" came from Mother discussing a woman in Norwich named Eunie Ballam. Eunie or Eunice was married to Donnie Ballam, who, along with Ralph Aulis, ran a small IGA meat store in Norwich. They also made "grinders" (a type of sandwich which is now known as submarines or subs) and sold them in the store. Supposedly Donnie forced Eunie to work so hard, making these grinders that from time to time, she would have a "nervous breakdown." Mother blamed it on her working too hard, which Donnie forced her to do.

I'm not quite sure I knew what happened to Eunie during one of these nervous breakdowns. I knew she couldn't function, but did she have to go away someplace and recuperate? Did she go to a hospital, or did she turn into a puddle, unable to do anything, especially making those grinders? I don't remember how many times this happened to her, but I do recall one time and maybe more than once.

When Mother got frustrated with my sisters or me, she would tell us we were going to give her a nervous breakdown. That was pretty scary to me. I wasn't quite sure what was going to happen to our mother. Would she be unable to function and take care of us? That would not have been good because Daddy was surely not capable of taking care of us at all.

What I didn't consider at the time, but I now realize, is that my mother was way too strong a person to succumb to anything like a nervous breakdown. She did have her issues and later in life was hospitalized a few times for episodes of bipolar disorder with psychotic features, but she certainly didn't have a nervous breakdown. In my adolescent mind, I imagined the nerves in your body disintegrating and never functioning again. I didn't realize that it was most likely a temporary condition that was the inability to deal with undue amounts of stress (like making too many grinders maybe).

The term "nervous breakdown" is sometimes used by people to describe a stressful situation in which they're temporarily unable to function normally in day-to-day life. It's commonly understood to occur when life's demands become physically and emotionally overwhelming. The term was frequently used in the past to cover a variety of mental disorders, but it's no longer used by mental health professionals today.

Nervous breakdown isn't a medical term, nor does it indicate a specific mental illness. But that doesn't mean it's a normal or a healthy response to stress. What some people call a nervous breakdown may indicate an underlying mental health problem that needs attention, such as depression or anxiety.

Signs of a so-called nervous breakdown vary from person to person and depend on the underlying cause. Precisely what constitutes a nervous breakdown also differs from one culture to another. Generally, it's understood to mean that a person is no longer able to function normally.

When I was thinking about Eunice Ballam and her "nervous breakdowns," I thought of what a wimp she must have been. Donald Ballam, Norwich, Vermont," died in 2016 at the age of 90. Surprising to me was the fact that Eunice Ballam lived to age 92, having been Donnie's wife for 70 years. She lived nine years longer than my mother did. I guess she wasn't such a wimp after all and learned to deal with life's many ups and downs. I had struggled with depression for a good part of my life, from approximately the 4th grade to about age 45. I never had a nervous breakdown, though, because no matter how depressed I was, I forced myself to go to work. I have always been afraid of not being able to function. That fear likely stemmed from Mother's messages to me about being too sensitive and feeling like she needed to protect me. I started having panic attacks when Deana and Chris were little. One night I hyperventilated, and I thought I was going to die during the night, and Deana and Chris would wake up and find me dead. In a panic, I called Mother, and she came over and stayed the night. When I realized there was nothing wrong with me, I was embarrassed that I called her. That was one time she was kind to me.

I have had panic attacks off and on since then, with even going to the emergency room thinking I was dying and finding out there was nothing wrong with me except I was scaring myself to death. This feeling still happens to me, although very rarely now. I wonder if it stems from residual messages to myself that something is going to happen to me that I have no control over and that I will not be able to function or take care of myself. I've always had to take care of myself because my parents made it crystal clear to me that they were not going to take care of me.

Several years ago, I was out walking my dog, Sheba, when my shoes slipped on the pavement, and I landed very like a ton of bricks on the hard surface. The fall did not knock me unconscious, but I could not get up off the ground. At first, I wondered, "Oh, no, is this the day I am going to die?" I fully expected to have the experience of seeing the light and having a receiving line from my loved ones from the other side, welcoming me home. I knew Daddy would be there.

When this didn't happen, my next thought was, "I hope I can keep working." I was working as a medical transcriptionist then and knew I needed to be able to use my hands and brains to do this job. The paramedics took me to the hospital in an ambulance. Luckily I didn't have any fractures of the skull or bleeds from the brain, just a concussion. I was sent home to recover, with the advice that gradually my symptoms of extreme dizziness would subside. The first day I had to hold on to the walls to go to the bathroom, but day by day, these symptoms lessened, and I was back to normal in a week or so.

So it is pretty apparent to me that having a nervous breakdown means not being able to take care of yourself and that fear has haunted me for a long time. I guess I have finally proven to myself how strong I am, but it's been a long time coming.

LIFE IN POMPANOOSUC

After selling the farm in Orange, we moved for about six months to Waterbury, where Daddy worked as a farmhand on the Farr Farms. I finished the first grade there, but I don't recall going to that school at all. We lived in a duplex house for the hired help where there was a big driveway going up to the house. There was a river behind the house. I remember a loud argument between Mother and the neighbor lady. She kept screaming through the walls at her. Mother also used to read to us from the Bobbsey Twins books, which was a series popular for children when I was growing up.

After about six months, Daddy got a job at Verne Drew's farm in Pompanoosuc as a hired man. We lived in a small two-family house on the main road of Route 5, a short distance down from the big farmhouse that belonged to the Drews. The Drews had 8 children, 6 boys and 2 girls, Dottie and Dixie. The oldest boy was Dave. Danny was my age. Mother and Daddy got along really well with Verne and Irene, his wife.

Sometimes we three girls would go down to the Drews' big farmhouse, and Irene would watch us while my mother went on an errand. Sometimes we would color pictures and try to get Irene to tell each one was the best. Irene was very diplomatic and would say something like, "That picture is perfect for your age," to each one of us. We still liked competing with each other.

Every Christmas, Irene would always have a big decorated tree in her living room. I was genuinely fascinated by the lights which were in the shape of candles of several different colors with liquid bubbling up. I loved to stare at them as they were mesmerizing to me.

Christmas at our house was particularly fun when we lived in Pompanoosuc. Daddy had a milk route and so had to deliver milk early on Christmas morning. We weren't allowed to open our presents until Daddy got home and we would anxiously ask my mother, how much longer? How much longer? Finally, he would show up, and we could have our Christmas.

One Christmas, Santa left my sisters and me each a doll. We all still believed in Santa Claus, but I do recall staring at each one of our names on the label from Santa and thinking that Santa wrote just like my mother did. I never forgot that. Still, it took a while to catch on that Mother was Santa Claus all along, and that's why their writing was identical.

That year I received a fire truck from Aunt Lena with a fireman that climbed the ladder after you wound it up. I thought that was a pretty nice present. That year at school, we were allowed to bring in our favorite Christmas toy to show our classmates, and that's the once I chose to bring. I believe I was in the third grade that year.

In Pompanoosuc, Mother always put out milk and cookies for Santa Claus to have as a snack. In the morning, all that would be left was an empty glass and a few crumbs. She went to a lot of trouble to make things fun for us, especially in the early years.

Our next-door neighbor was a little boy named Butchie Maxfield. My sisters and I used to play with him on the backswing. I was quite a tomboy and pretty rough and tumble. As I remember it, he was a little on the spoiled side. I don't recall his mother's name, but she was a single mother. One time my mother asked her to watch out for me because I was sick that day.

One of the things my sisters and I did while living in Pompanoosuc was to plan a make-believe wedding ceremony. We were going to hold it under the trees in the Drews' front lawn. I don't know if we had the wedding, but we spent a lot of time talking about it. I think I was going to be the bride, and we were going to try to convince Dave Drew (the oldest Drew son and the cutest) into being the groom. I don't think it went much further than that.

My mother started working outside the home when we lived in Pompanoosuc. Previous to that, she had been a stay-at-home mother but enjoyed office work and was good at it. When she was contemplating what she wanted to do for work, Mother inquired about going back to work for Western Union. She had been a relief operator during World War II. She decided against it when they told her she would have to go through training again. I remember her saying that she would have to go back to school, and she didn't want to do that. (At the time, I thought she meant she would have to go back to high school. It's interesting how children interpret what they hear adults say.)

She got a job at Southworth's Garage as a bookkeeper and also substituted as Postmistress for Norwich Post Office while the regular one was out on sick leave. She finally went to work for Cross-Abbott Company in White River Junction and worked there for quite a few years before she and Daddy moved to New York State.

When I was in the fourth grade, Mother and Daddy bought the house on Route 5 in Norwich, where I lived until I was 19 years old. Daddy continued his milk route for a while, and Mother continued working at Cross-Abbott. I finished high school there in 1963, got married on December 7, 1963, and moved to Southern California in September 1964 after giving birth to my daughter, Deana.

HOSPICE AND THE LAST GOODBYE

For all the illnesses and sicknesses and disintegration of my mother's body, up until the very end, she was not a candidate for in-home hospice treatment. In other words, she didn't present with anything that would finish her off within a specified time (such as six months perhaps), and the doctors did not consider her to be terminally ill. That I did find interesting because I knew she was getting ready to make her transition and that she had postponed the inevitable (of course, this was on another level than she was aware). I knew that when she was ready to go that something would happen to bring this about.

It turns out that pneumonia was the vehicle that would help her transition into her next reality across the veil. She had gotten sick at home, and I had called 911 to have her taken to the hospital, stressing to them that she was a DNR (do not resuscitate), and none of the medical personnel were allowed to perform any heroic measures to try to save her life. It turned out she had pneumonia. The ER doctor told me they would do everything they could, but that it didn't look suitable for survival.

The doctors in the hospital treated her with antibiotics, and pneumonia temporarily subsided. Her doctor said that she did not have anything wrong with her to keep her in the hospital except that perhaps her sodium level was a bit off. There are strict criteria now in hospitals not to keep a patient any longer than they have to. So she was sent home. By this time, the medical profession finally decided that she was ill enough to be deemed terminal, and they placed her on in-home hospice.

Being a strong woman, she never really gave the doctors the impression that she was that sick. By the time her physician put her on hospice, she was pretty far gone. She looked awful in the hospital. She could barely talk and was not very coherent. She was confused, and I could tell she was afraid because she wasn't quite sure how this would all end.

My mother was brought back to my condo on Thursday, November 3, 2005, by ambulance. She looked so pathetic, confused, thin, and gaunt appearing. The hospice nurse came, and they ordered a hospital bed. The medical supply personnel delivered it on Friday afternoon, November 4. A young man brought the hospital bed and even helped us get her into it (though he wasn't supposed to do that). The hospice nurse got her settled down and made her comfortable.

My mother was confused and frightened concerning all that was going on. She reached out and grasped my hand at one point. Chris, her grandson, came to visit her, and she was delighted to see him. The hospice nurse remarked how happy she was to see him, which was the last time Chris saw her. I was glad he had the opportunity to say goodbye.

Even though my mother had only been on hospice for one day, she took a pronounced turn for the worse. Her breathing became labored, and it was the kind of breath pattern that happens at the end of someone's life. I had to call the hospice nurses four times that day. They were amazed at how quickly my mother's disease advanced. At one point, the hospice nurse asked if I wanted to try antibiotics again. I said no that my mother was ready to go and that she didn't want to fight it anymore.

By this time, my mother's doctor in East Greenbush had prescribed liquid morphine, which kept her pretty much stuporous and out of it. Lena and Marion (her two remaining sisters) came from Vermont to visit her that Friday night. They said goodbye to her even though she didn't know they were there. They were staying in a local motel and planned to come back the next day; however, I called them to tell them that she had died during the night.

I was right about the fact that when it came time to cross over, that something would happen that would enable this. In this case, it was pneumonia. The last night my mother was lying in the hospital bed, I was asleep next to her. I suddenly woke up at 4 o'clock and glanced over at my mother. She took her last breath and crossed over. I don't know for sure what awakened me, but I believe it was the spirit of my father, who was there during her transition. There was no noise or anything like that, and it was very peaceful. I'm glad it happened that way as that was our final goodbye. I won't see my mother again until I cross over, and I know she will be there waiting for me.

MY BRIEF EXPERIENCE WITH A PSYCHIATRIST

Because the message had been delivered to me over and over again, loud and clear, that I was “crazy,” I accepted that fact and believed it to be true. Mother was always asking my sisters or me, “Do I have to take you to a psychiatrist?” when we did something that she thought was particularly off. She had an aversion to going to a psychiatrist herself. My mother avoided one even after a trip to the Psychiatric Unit when a doctor there diagnosed her with a manic depressive syndrome, later called bipolar disorder. It was an empty threat because she had no intention of taking us to any mental health professional, including a psychiatrist.

When I was in my early 20s, I decided I would go to a psychiatrist to find out exactly what my diagnosis was. I don’t remember her name, but her office was in Albany. She never interacted with me much at all, and I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to act. I would sit down and talk about whatever came to my mind. She never commented and just looked at me. I don’t recall her ever asking me any questions.

My sister, Joyce, once asked me what I thought my diagnosis was—manic depression or schizophrenia. I assumed I must be one or the other or maybe even both. I once asked the psychiatrist what my diagnosis was. I begged her, “please tell me, what am I? Manic depressive or schizophrenic?” She just laughed and looked at me. She neither confirmed nor denied what I was. There was no reassurance on her part. I later realized that I was neither, but it would have been comforting for her to tell me that. Maybe I wouldn’t have believed her anyway since I was convinced there was something drastically wrong with me.

I do recall one particular incident. I had my first ocular migraine (disturbing phenomena where I saw zig-zags and wavy lines going across my field of vision). It lasted about 30 minutes and then resolved. However, I was scared half to death when it happened because I thought it meant that I was “going crazy” or “having a nervous breakdown.” I called my psychiatrist and told her, “I can’t take this.” Instead of comforting me, she said, “well, if you can’t take it, why don’t you go ahead and kill yourself.” That snapped me out of it in a hurry.

In all the times that I have been depressed, thinking no one loved me, and that I was alone in the world, I never once had the thought of killing myself. I can honestly say I have never been suicidal. Instead of being mad at her, I quickly apologized. I probably apologized to her again the next time I saw her, but I soon realized that she was not helping me, and I stopped seeing her.

I do remember my mother thinking that I was going to kill myself because I was too “sensitive” to cope with anything. She hinted to me that it was her responsibility to protect me from myself. I later discovered that being sensitive was one of my greatest gifts, not a weakness. I learned that I could be soft and powerful at the same time. That was one of my life lessons. I used to say that I would never commit suicide because I wouldn’t want to give my mother the satisfaction that I was too weak to handle life’s difficulties. But in reality, that wasn’t it. I just never was suicidal. There were times when I didn’t want to feel as bad as I did. There were also times when I wondered if I would ever feel any better about myself. But I never gave up. Doing myself in was something I never once contemplated, and I am so glad that I came out of it whole and complete and happy.

MY MAGICAL QUALITY

There is an old photo that pictures my mother and father, my two sisters, Grammie and Grandpa Phillips, my Aunt Marion, and three of her children, Denise, Billy, and Jimmy. We all looked contented there, and it is reminiscent of some of the happy days I spent at Grammie's house. What I liked about the picture most of all is that it shows me holding Jimmy and interacting with him.

From the time I was a young girl, I realized that I was able to relate well to children. I have always had an immediate rapport with children without even trying. It just comes naturally to me. There is just something about me that children like. It is what I call my "magical quality." I sometimes wondered what it was they saw in me that adults didn't. Even today, I am sometimes amazed at how quickly children react to me. I seemingly don't have to try. Sometimes they look at me with such love and admiration that it takes me aback.

There were many times in my life when I didn't think anybody at all loved me. I knew my family loved me when I was little, but as I hit puberty, that all seemed to change. Everyone who I loved and who I thought cared about me seemed to change their mind about me. I didn't know why, but I found it bewildering and frightening. Was I going to end up alone with no one to love?

The one constant that never changed, nor did my perception of it, was how children reacted to me and still do. There is something about my essence, my energy to which they gravitate. I like most kids too. Even kids that some other people might find obnoxious. I can almost always see through to their true essence as they see mine. It's quite a gift actually and one that I don't take for granted. Because it never changed, it helped me get through the hard times when I realized that at least kids loved me unconditionally.

When I was trying to figure out what my purpose in life was, I kind of thought it would be working with children because of this magical gift. I did work as a foster care social worker in California, but I was still in transition as far as my healing was concerned, and I don't feel I was as helpful as I could have been. Working with the foster care system was challenging also.

I moved to New York State in 2005 to help my mother make her transition and heal that relationship. I had spent ten years of my life earning my MSW, and I wanted to use it. I didn't get an overwhelming reception when I applied for similar positions in New York State that I had in California. I got the distinct feeling that everyone who interviewed me thought I was just too old (I was in my 60s by then).

Soon after my mother had passed away and I was still not working as a social worker, I went to a spiritualist church and received the message that I would find work in my chosen field and not get discouraged about it. I continued to work as a medical transcriptionist, even though I was not too fond of that work.

In the meantime, I had moved to Cohoes, New York. I was working in the evening and so volunteered at the Adult Day Services Program during the day. That is a program where the elderly who need supervision during the day because of dementia and other problems come for socialization. A young man named Steve was in charge of the program. I also had lunch there. It gave me something to do during the day as I worked as a medical transcriptionist at night. I'm not even sure what drew me to do this as my parents would never have gone to a senior center because they felt the people there were too old.

Anyway, I kept volunteering and enjoying it. I did tell Steve and Keith (the director of the Cohoes Senior Center) that I had my Masters in Social Work. Interestingly enough, the time came when Steve left for another job with more money, leaving the position of Program Coordinator open. Since I had spent so much time volunteering and got along well with all the program participants, Keith offered me the job, and I accepted it. At last, I was working as a social worker and putting my long years of obtaining an education to good use.

I was hired in September 2011 and stayed until December 2015 when another company took over management of the Center, and they eliminated my position. I wondered a little if I was being true to fulfilling my life purpose but soon discovered that working with the elderly s much like working with children. I soon found that the magical quality that I thought only applied to children also pertained to the elderly who appreciated me every bit as much as children did.

In May 2016, I was now 70 years old. I thought my working days were over. The Affordable Care Act was looking for customer service representatives to help consumers with insurance issues over the phone. To my surprise, Maximus (the contractor for the Affordable Care Act) hired me, and I worked there until June 2020. I found out that I was very skilled at talking with people and almost always got a positive response from them. If someone was upset or frustrated with the insurance system, I found it easy to calm them down. My social work skills came in handy. I was able to converse with a diverse population, including immigrants and low-income people. I found my magical quality pertained to everyone with whom I came in contact.

ul employment. A long time ago, a medium told me that I was very skilled with people. That puzzled me at the time because I thought that only pertained to children. I now realize my magical quality belongs to everyone. I am friendly and love interacting with just about anyone. It took me a long time to figure it out, but guess what? I love myself, I love people, and they love me. It's just that simple and a gift I enjoy sharing. It makes my heart burst with joy.

A BUNNY CROSSED MY PATH TODAY

Daddy has been on the other side since 1999. He didn't make it until the 21st century, and I didn't have a chance to say goodbye. I was in California working on my Master's Degree in Social Work, and he died before I could get back home. That was kind of heartbreaking for me because I knew we always had a deep connection that didn't get expressed very well, and then it was just too late. Or was it?

I went through a period when I was mad at Daddy. He was supposed to help through this challenging lifetime, and he just wasn't able to do that. I was fortunate since the church I went to was having a series of meditation services on Wednesday nights in which a medium, Blanche, was able to get messages from those on the other side. All we had to do was bring in a photo, and she could get in touch with that person.

With dread, I finally decided to bring in a picture of Daddy to see what would happen. What I didn't realize is that when a soul crosses over to the other side, they drop all the faulty thinking and hangups that they carried with them during their lifetime. They become more apparent and pure in their love without a lot of background static interfering. Blanche was able to reach Daddy across the veil.

One of the first things he said was that he was watching me and also a teenager (the teenager would have been my granddaughter, Marissa, who was learning to drive). Marissa is in my spiritual family, and I guess that would mean that Daddy is too. I found out that relationships are forever and that Daddy and I are spiritually linked and will be part of each other's lives for eternity, and that death does not end that. It's a continuum of experiences and learning.

I was glad to know that just because my father died didn't mean that he could no longer help me with my journey as he had promised he would before I even showed up for this lifetime. So he is continuing to guide me and is probably more able to help me on that side than he was on this one.

Some of the things he said were interesting. For instance, he said that I was careless, which is accurate, and I don't pay enough attention as I should to what I am doing. I have been aware of him protecting me when I am driving. He also reminds me of things I have forgotten, which has spared me many inconveniences. I know for sure, though, that he wants me to write my story, our story, and I have been putting it off for years. I have finally committed to my writing life and realize that it truly is now or never.

One of the amusing things that Daddy said to Blanche made her wonder, and he even had to repeat it twice to make sure she understood what he said. That was, "Don't put your pants on backward." For years I wondered what the heck he was trying to get across, and I finally figured out the meaning of the message. He wants me to take my time and pay attention to what I'm doing and pay attention to the details. I do have a tendency to put my shirts and pants on backward, which is very uncomfortable. The other day I even wore a jacket inside out for a while. So I am trying to pay attention to what I am doing.

I know he has been trying to get my attention for a long time and to try to get me to focus on the books that are in my head and to put them down on paper. I have at least four books I could write, maybe even more. Some of them are also more than half-written. I need to heal from this lifetime and to make sense of why I came here, and what I hope to accomplish. I want to make sense of a life that has been chaotic at times. Of course, after I die, everything will make sense, but I want closure and understanding now. I don't want to wait for my life review on the other side. In a way, I am doing a life review now, which, of course, includes my relationships.

One of the books that I want to write is the story of Daddy and Me, our struggles and triumphs, some of which were quite similar. I want to look deeply into how each of us ended up as scapegoats or black sheep of our families, how it happened, when it happened, and to understand and forgive it all. I want to know why Daddy's family made him a scapegoat and why he agreed to accept that role. He would have had to accept it for it to happen. It's impossible to make a scapegoat out of someone who is not willing to take on that persona. I also want to know what dynamics were going on in the family that would make having a scapegoat as part of the family a necessity in the first place. I want to be able to do this without casting blame on anyone. I want to understand.

I also want to understand why Daddy helped to make me a scapegoat (since he hated that role himself so much) and why he wasn't able to keep his promise to help guide through the turbulent waters that would become my life. Why did I accept the role totally and completely? Why did I see myself as the scapegoat in so many of my relationships? Why did I live my life that way for many, many years? These are things I want to look at and understand.

So anyhow, I found out that Daddy was watching me from the other side. I once went to a psychic who was a medium, who received messages from "the other side." She told me that it was time to let my parents off the hook. It took a long time to forgive them, and I am still working on forgiving myself, but seeing myself as the victim and them as the victimizers led me nowhere. It kept me stuck and mired in my little world of self-pity and neglect.

I asked her why he wasn't able to be there for me during my life when I desperately needed someone to stick up for me. He said that he "didn't swim in the right school of fishes." That resonated with me because one of the things that Daddy used to mention all the time is that he didn't know if he was a fish or water. He was born on February 19, on the cusp between Pisces (fish) and Aquarius (water). In other words, some of his astrological charts said he was a Pisces, which would make him a fish, and others said he was an Aquarius, which would make him water. So I knew it came from him when he said he didn't swim in the right school of fishes.

The medium said his life was tough and that his family had pulled him in so many directions that he didn't know who he was. I always knew that about him, and I knew that this haunted him his entire life and that he tried and tried to win favor from them. His sister Priscilla still barely has a decent thing to say about him.

I also asked him how I would know that he is with me. Since I didn't have a lot of positive interactions during my lifetime, it is hard for me to imagine what he is like now without all the hangups and crap and insecurities he carried around with him during his life. He told her that when I see a bunny that this will be him. She didn't know what this meant, but I did. My father always liked to have animals of some kind or another to raise. When he lived in East Nassau for years, he raised rabbits and chinchillas. The grandchildren used to call him Grandpa Rabbit, and there are bunnies on his tombstone in Vermont.

I wondered how I would see bunnies as I live in the middle of the city of Cohoes, New York. However, there is a park nearby where my dog, Daisy, and I walk. I always see a lot of squirrels in the park, but sometimes I get lucky and see a little brown bunny cross my path. I am from Vermont and used to live near the woods. I loved the woods then and felt peace there. Walking in the park gives me that feeling. Whenever I am walking along and start thinking about Daddy and our life lessons, and I see a bunny, I know that he is watching over me, guiding me, and all is well.

THREE SISTERS – THREE DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVES

I am the middle daughter of three girls born to Deane and Evelyn Atwood right before and right after World War II ended. My parents were young when they married. Daddy was only 18, and Mother was 21. We were born relatively close together, only 30 months separated the older daughter, Phylis, from the youngest, Joyce.

Phylis was born on November 13, 1944. Ten months later, I followed on September 20, 1945, and 20 months after my younger sister, Joyce, was born on May 25, 1947. You would think that three girls born around the same time, to the same parents, with the same childhood experiences and relatives, would share a similar perspective of their growing up years. That is precisely the opposite of how it all turned out. We all look at our childhood experiences differently and can hardly agree on anything at all. How is that possible?

First of all, my parents started their marriage with underlying issues. My father was young, immature, and was already an alcoholic, developing this affliction at about age 16. My mother’s family on her father’s side had a long history of mental illness. The theme of being “crazy” permeated my mother’s thinking throughout her entire life, and it affected how she viewed life in general and other people in her life, including her daughters. Ironically, a psychiatrist diagnosed her with bipolar disorder with psychotic features, and this was very difficult for her to accept and handle. These two issues of alcoholism and mental illness affected how the family dynamics played out.

Of even more significance than the issues my parents brought into the marriage, I believe, were the underlying karmic relationships and spiritual contracts that everyone entered into before becoming part of the family. I am most likely the only member of the family that would even consider these things as possibilities. A lot of the family would most likely think I am a little daft for also bringing up such matters, but this is what I believe, and, after all, this is my version of the story. I will explain what I know of these alliances and how they affected the family as a whole.

My mother and father had made a spiritual contract in that Daddy agreed to help Mother make it through this life. They were not necessarily going to have a harmonious relationship (which they didn’t), but I can see where he did help her in their lifetime together. It also explains why they were so instantly attracted to one another and married only six weeks after meeting. She was the dominant one of the duo, and she overpowered him in many ways. He was never able to stand up to her. That had a detrimental effect on his relationship with me as his daughter. My father and I had previous lifetimes together, and he agreed to help me in this lifetime. He was never able to do it, though, because the relationship he had with my mother was all-consuming to him. She came first without question, which left me feeling empty a lot of the time. He tried to support me, but for the most part, this didn’t happen.

I believe the main reason for me choosing this lifetime, in particular, was to heal, once and for all, the longstanding karmic relationship that existed between my mother and me. We both agreed to this and made a spiritual contract with each other regarding this. This arrangement, of course, was on a spiritual level, and neither my mother nor I were consciously aware of it. It seems we had spent many lifetimes together, playing out various roles, and neither one of us wanted to go through it again. It was time for both of us to move on spiritually. It would take a lot of work, though, and ultimately, a great deal of forgiveness on both sides. We did manage to heal this longstanding drama to our satisfaction, but not without a lifetime fraught with heartache and tension leading up to the final act.

When I was quite young, I started having flashbacks of previous life experiences, which were intense and alarming to me for a long time before I gained an understanding of their meaning. The one that I remember most vividly was of being whipped. I became terrified that I would see a scene of this happening to someone on TV or in the movies because it made me sick to my stomach. My mother and the rest of the family knew about this fear I had. They laughed at me because of it and thought it was quite funny. It wasn’t humorous to me, though. It was like it was happening to me each time I witnessed it even on a screen. I had the same gut reaction if I read about it in a book. I believe in a previous life, I was captured in Africa and came over to America in a slave ship. I think I was a slave and that my owner in that lifetime was my mother. I remember once as a child telling my mother, “you don’t own me,” and she emphatically replied, “Oh, yes, I do.” It also explains why I instinctively like people from Africa and why I identify so strongly with the black experience.

If this relationship did exist in a previous lifetime, it also explains why I was afraid that my mother would pin me down and beat me for something trivial. This scenario happened when I was a child. My mother became furious with me because I embarrassed her in front of one of her friends. The offense was jumping up and trying to grab a lollypop out of her hands. My sisters were also doing the same thing. She took me upstairs to my younger sister’s bedroom, pinned me down on the bed, and beat me with her hands on my butt. I felt helpless and kept begging her to stop. It hurt, but the feelings of powerlessness and injustice were overwhelming. My mother did not punish my two sisters at all for the same “crime.” I believe when I was a slave, I never knew when my owner was going to punish me.

I recall the intense yearning throughout my entire life of trying to “free” myself from my mother’s grip. Just as my father did, I had a hard time standing up to her. I was afraid of her, but strangely I also felt responsible for her. It was what psychologists refer to as an “enmeshed relationship.” She wanted me to feel dependent on her, but then put me down for this very dependence. It was confusing to me. The first time I fled was when I was 18 years old, and I married the first boy who asked to get away from her. He was in the Air Force, and so I lived for two years with him at Edwards Air Force Base in Southern California until the marriage broke up. I returned to live with my parents, so I was right back where I started.

Another lifetime explains the relationship my mother and I had. We were identical twins in this lifetime. My mother believed that I was the favorite. My mother had the belief that I was the favorite child over my sisters and conveyed that message to them. She would become enraged if she thought one of my relatives was favoring me over them. I may have been the favorite when I was little and cute, but this soon dissipated when I was in about the third grade. Instead of being the favorite, I became an outcast in my own family. I went through a very lonely childhood because of it. But to this day, my two sisters insist that I was the favorite. My mother managed to drive a wedge between us, which I believe will continue for the rest of our lives.

There were most likely many other lifetimes that my mother and I shared, but I am not aware of them. I am also not aware of other lifetimes that I might have shared with either of my two sisters that may have affected this lifetime. So when you add everything together, it makes for many possibilities of why we all ended up having vastly different perspectives of our lives. The exciting part about that is that we all can tell our own stories and our views. All three of us have excellent writing abilities. My sister, Phylis, was an English professor with a Ph.D. and has done vast amounts of writing during her life. If we were all to write about the same theme, each one would be different even though we grew up in the same house.

I have always been labeled “sensitive” by my family, and I have experienced deep emotions about different experiences that my sisters had. I remember an incident where my father was very angry with Joyce for going to a friend’s house, and he yelled at her about it for a long time. I felt terrible for her because I didn’t think she deserved that kind of treatment. I remember another incident where Grandpa Atwood was unkind to my sister, Phylis, for something that she said that he blew out of proportion. I remember crying about that and was angry with my grandfather. I don’t know that either of my sisters ever felt compassion for me, though. My mother had pretty much convinced them that I was not a very good person, and they believed her.

When there is an odd number of siblings in a family, it leaves room for a two-against-one situation to develop. I was usually the odd one out. With my mother’s covert consent, Phylis and Joyce used to gang up against me. It was a lonely life much of the time. True, we all faced our demons, but we did it without support.

I used to believe that I was the one who suffered the most in that family. I have come to realize that none of us had it easy and that we all experienced trauma. Given what we had to work with, it was inevitable that this is how it would be. What is sad is that we have not found enough common ground to be of much support to each other. I have spent a large part of my life coming to terms with the lessons I came here to learn. Forgiveness was one of the big ones. I also learned that talking disparagingly about any of my family behind their back is counterproductive to healing. I love both my sisters and wish them the very best that life has to offer. I am genuinely sorry that my mother felt the need to try to turn everyone she could against me. I’m sure she feels the same way now that she is on the other side. I am also totally grateful that she and I were able to heal the longstanding issues that we had experienced over many lifetimes. That is what we both came here to do.

DADDY’S LONG STRUGGLE WITH ALCOHOLISM

My father, Deane Frederick Atwood, was born on February 19, 1925, to Clarence and Marjorie Atwood. He was their second son. I don’t know if he was a disappointment to them at the time, but as time went on, he eventually became labeled as the black sheep of the family and seemingly could do nothing right. His older brother, Howland, on the other hand, could do nothing wrong in their eyes. Daddy became the scapegoat of the family and got blamed for anything and everything. His father didn’t seem to have much use for him and, from what I understand, tried to straighten him out with trips to the woodshed. When his two younger sisters came along, his parents and three of the four children would go on extended summer vacations. Instead of taking him with them to enjoy the fun, they dumped him off at Uncle Fred’s farm for the summer. He only learned about these trips much later when the family would talk about the vacations from which they had excluded him. It’s hard to imagine how painful that must have been for him.

The family dynamics most likely did not improve as my father entered puberty. If anything, they must have worsened. Daddy most likely started drinking beer at a young age whenever he could get away with it. Grandpa Atwood got fed up with his teenaged antics and sent him off to a private boarding school in New Hampshire called Kimball Union Academy. If Grandpa intended to straighten him out and turn him into a young gentleman, this had the opposite effect. He became a full-fledged alcoholic while he was attending Kimball Union Academy under the influence of the other students. Daddy told his father that a French teacher sexually molested him, and that was the end of Kimball Union Academy. Grandpa Atwood did not send him back but instead enrolled him in Windsor High School.

I’m not sure of exactly what happened at Windsor High School, but he didn’t graduate. He most likely continued to drink and get into mischief. My grandfather had a milk delivery business, and I know Daddy worked for him driving a truck. Also, World War II was going on, and Daddy tried to join the Navy. He made it through boot camp. However, the Navy honorably discharged him because of sleepwalking and talking loudly at the time. The Navy was afraid that they might put him in a situation where this behavior could warn the enemy. Daddy was proud of making it through boot camp, but I’m sure he felt like a failure because of not making it further in the military, especially during wartime.

When Daddy was 18 years old, he was working as a taxicab driver. One of his duties was delivering casualty telegrams to the families of fallen soldiers. Many of the telegrams that he was required to provide were for young people that he had known while growing up. This job was heartbreaking for him, especially since the Navy had recently released him. He would pick up the telegrams at the Western Union Office in Windsor, Vermont, where my mother was working as a Western Union relief operator. She was 21 years old at the time.

They must have met around November 1943. Sparks flew when they met. They had a whirlwind courtship and ran off to get married in early January 1944. He was still 18, and so they got married in Whitehall, New York, on January 3, 1944, because Vermont required a parental signature before the age of 19 for marriage. He undoubtedly continued his habit of drinking beer throughout this time.

After Mother and Daddy got married, Grandpa Atwood tried to set them up with a general store in Hartland, Vermont. Daddy and his brother, Howland, were supposed to be partners. Mother and Daddy lived in the upstairs apartment. Daddy continued to drive a taxi, and Mother tended the store. She was also the postmistress as the post office was in the store. Their first child, Phylis, was born on November 13, 1944, followed by me on September 20, 1945. I’m not sure exactly what happened with the store situation, but I do know that Daddy wanted to be a farmer.

When I was about a year old, Daddy (with the financial help of Grandpa Atwood), bought a farm in Orange, Vermont and set out to be a farmer. I don’t know that it was much of a farm and that Daddy amounted to a farmer, but he tried. What got in the way, of course, was his alcoholism. I remember many times my mother screaming at him for staying in the “beer garden” in Barre. Unfortunately, he let us all down frequently. My mother tried to shape him up by nagging, and that just seemed to make things worse. By May 25, 1947, my younger sister, Joyce, was born, and now he had the responsibility of a farm, a wife, and three children. Mother used to say that he was like her fourth child, that he never grew up.

We were not doing very well financially while on the farm in Orange. Grandpa and Grammie Atwood had moved to Florida in 1943, and they had an orange grove. He used to ship crates of oranges and tangerines to us. My mother says that kept us all healthy because of vitamin C from the delicious fruit. I especially liked the tangerines, especially after Mother carefully took out the seeds for us. The oranges were juicy and sweet, too. Grandpa Atwood used to come up in the summertime, and help was getting the hay in. I’m pretty sure he sent Daddy money from time to time to keep us going.

We kept the farm in Orange until about 1951. We did go to Florida for a few months in 1950, where we stayed on a trailer at Grandpa and Grammie Atwood’s home. I’m sure Daddy worked there also, but as soon as the weather got hot, we headed back north to our farm in Orange, which we had left in the care of the hired man. I don’t know if Daddy got in trouble with alcohol while we were in Florida, but if not, he made up for it when we went back to Vermont.

By late 1951 after I had finished the first half of the first grade and Phylis finished the first half of the second grade, we sold the farm in Orange. I’m not sure why we sold it, but it could have been a combination of Daddy’s drinking and not being able to make a living on the farm. He went to work for about six months for the Farr Farm, where he was one of the hired men. I’m sure Daddy drank while we were there, but I don’t remember any big arguments about it. Phylis and I finished the first and second grades there and then moved with the family to Pompanoosuc, Vermont, where Verne Drew hired Daddy to do farm work and deliver milk. He must have been drinking while he worked for Verne Drew, but again I don’t remember any fights at that particular location.

By about 1953, my father had spotted a house a few miles from where Verne Drew’s farm that he wanted to own. We did buy the house. I was in the third grade, and my two sisters and I rode the school bus to Norwich Elementary School every day. Daddy continued with the milk route, but then he decided he wanted to have some chickens to raise so he could sell the eggs. He always wanted to be raising animals. When he suggested to my mother that she could take care of the chickens, she said, “No, thank you. If I’m going to earn money, it’s going to be my way.” She got a job at Cross Abbott Company in Hartford, where she worked for at least ten years.

Year by year, Daddy’s drinking got worse. There were many arguments between my mother and father over this issue. My mother nagged and tried very hard to control her wayward husband. I remember when I was about 8 or 9 years old, fervently wishing that no one had ever invented beer in the first place. I saw beer as the root of all our problems. One Sunday morning, after a night out drinking, I spotted Daddy sitting on the couch reading the bible. That was highly unusual because Daddy was not a religious man, and that’s the only time I ever saw him open this particular book. Maybe he was feeling guilty and thought he could get some guidance on how to get his life back on track. It didn’t work, though, because he was soon right back at it. The glimmer of hope I had faded fast.

The drinking got worse, and the fights continued. Daddy would come home drunk and not want to go to work. He worked nights for Gay’s Trucking Company by now, and there were many nights when my mother forced him to go to work even though he wasn’t fit to drive safely. Mother was always threatening to leave, and one time also went so far as to start packing. I wanted some peace and was hoping she would go through with it, although I worried what would become of Daddy if she did. Of course, she never did leave him.

Every summer, when we lived in Norwich, Grandpa and Grammie Atwood would arrive and stay the summer in their mobile home. Grandpa was pretty disgusted with my father’s drinking and took my mother’s side against him. He was even willing to hire a lawyer and have him declared incompetent. My mother was not ready to go that far and told me she just couldn’t do it to my father. I’m so glad she couldn’t because it literally would have destroyed him. I do remember my mother asking me if I thought he was an alcoholic. What did I know? I was just a kid. Of course, he was an alcoholic, but my mother didn’t want to admit it despite all the evidence.

After I graduated from high school, I was pretty fed up with life at our house, and I wanted out. I thought that an early marriage would free me from the drinking and the nagging. I got married at 18 to Ronny, who had joined the Air Force. I became pregnant immediately, and after I gave birth to my daughter in August 1964, I hightailed it out of Vermont to Edwards Air Force Base in Southern California, where my husband was stationed.

I was scheduled to fly with my daughter to California from Boston, Massachusetts, and would need a ride there. My father went on a bender the night before and barely came home in time to go with us to the airport in Boston. Of course, he was drunk. After I left, his drinking intensified to a very unmanageable level. He even started running around on my mother with another woman. It got so bad that they decided the only solution was to leave Vermont and move to New York State to start over. They sold everything in probably 1966 and move to the upstate New York area.

Daddy said he always wanted to be a meat cutter and so he went to meat cutting school in Toledo, Ohio. He tried several times to get a job as a meat cutter. A store would hire him, and at the end of the week, they would always tell him that he was just too slow and fire him. Each time this happened was very demoralizing for him. He couldn’t seem to be successful at anything. He did work as a truck driver for the Teamsters for many years, though. He was reasonably successful at that.

By 1966, my marriage had failed, and I came to New York State, where my daughter and I lived with my parents for about three years. I didn’t get along with my mother as she continued to be overbearing and controlling over every aspect of my life. Daddy’s drinking continued, and so did the nagging and fighting. It was about 1969 when I finally moved out on my own.

In 1970, Daddy made one final attempt at securing a position as a meat cutter. As usual, after a week-long trial, he was fired on a Friday afternoon. He called my sister, Phylis, to pick him up at the bus stop in Albany. She asked him what he was planning on doing, and he said, without hesitation, “Get drunk.” I guess he couldn’t take the rejection anymore, but getting drunk was not a reasonable solution either.

Somehow he ended up in Troy, New York, at a fried chicken place where Phylis’ husband, Harold, worked. He ended up drunk and passed out in the bathroom of the fried chicken place. Harold called Phylis to come and get Daddy. Phylis and Mother went to pick him up. They agreed to not say a word to him because nagging hadn’t worked before, and they were tired of it. They somehow got him in the car and home. He ended up passing out in the bathtub. So they left him there all night and never said a word to him. It’s hard for me to believe that Mother refrained from nagging, but this time she did.

It was a pathetic spectacle that he made of himself. When he finally came to the next morning, he was so ashamed of himself that he decided to stop drinking.  He didn’t entirely stop drinking though this time. He went on at least one more bender. The final one almost was the end of him. He went on a drinking binge for a weekend and ended up in Dr. Insel’s office (his family doctor). His blood pressure was so high that Dr. Insel personally drove him to the emergency room. Your heart rate can’t go over 200, and he was dangerously close to that. He’s lucky he didn’t die at that time. It was that close.

He never picked up a drink from 1970 on. He was 45 years old. He lived to be 74 years old, and so that gave him about 29 years of sobriety. He did it on his own, cold turkey. He never sought treatment or went to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, which means be most likely never dealt with the underlying issues that caused alcoholism in the first place. Instead, he developed a pretty intense gambling addiction. Whether he ever came to terms with some of the heartaches that he had suffered over the years, I will never know. But at least he stopped drinking, which is something I don’t think any of us ever really expected.

POOR KIDS IN A RICH TOWN

My two sisters and I were born in Vermont between 1944 and 1947 to a young couple named Deane and Evelyn Atwood. When my older sister, Phylis, and I were born, we lived in the small town of Hartland, Vermont. By the time my younger sister, Joyce, was born in 1947, we had moved to a small farm in Orange, Vermont.

I have a lot of happy memories of living in Orange; I don't remember too much about the town or how the other inhabitants lived, whether they had more or less money than we did. That thought never occurred to me.

My first school experience was attending a one-room schoolhouse for half of the first grade. I would say that we were probably poor judging by the way we dressed, including the brown shoes that laced up to the ankle. The only people that I knew very well at all were my extended family on my mother's side. They were farmers and were probably barely getting by financially speaking. I do know I was happy as a small child and seemed to have what I needed.

I had finished the first half of the first grade when we sold the farm in Orange and moved to Waterbury, Vermont, where my father worked as a hired man for the Farr Farm. We lived in a two-family house where the hired help's family stayed. I finished the first grade there but have no memory of going to school in Waterbury. Again I did not notice any difference between people who had a lot of money and those who did not.

The father next got a job as the hired man for Verne Drew, who had a dairy farm in Pompanoosuc, Vermont. We lived in a two-family house down the road from the Drews' house. Besides being the hired man, Daddy also had a milk route where he delivered milk produced at the dairy farm. I remember being quite content there. I was a tomboy and liked to play outside with the boy who lived in the other apartment, Butchie Maxfield. The Drews had two daughters, Dixie and Dottie, and they paid a lot of attention to us.

I first started to notice that some people had better homes than we did. I recall the Drews farmhouse as being quite large. At Christmastime, Irene had a huge Christmas tree that had unique icicle ornaments that lit up and bubbled that fascinated me. It was always fun to go to visit her.

I went to school at the Marion W. Cross Elementary School in Norwich, Vermont, from grades 2 through 8. At first, I liked going to school, and I seemed to fit in just fine with the other kids. In the third grade, some of the kids in the class liked to have parties at their houses. The other kids always invited me to these parties, and that didn't seem odd to me. Whether I noticed that some of the kids were better off financially than we were, I don't recall.

By the third grade, things started to change for me. I recall my mother sitting me down and demanding to know why the other kids were inviting me to their parties. She couldn't seem to fathom why my classmates would include me. I found that very confusing. Up until then, I just took it for granted that I was one of the gang. Why did I have to justify this to my mother, who should have been on my side? It seemed to annoy her, though.

I came up with some ridiculous reason that went something like this: "They have to have a certain number of kids to go to the parties, and I'm the last one they choose." Why couldn't I have just said, "Because they like me, that's why"? Anyway, my excuse seemed to satisfy her. It left me perplexed as to what she thought of my value as a human being. That was just the beginning of her putting me down every chance she got.

By now, it was starting to become clear to me that we were poor kids living on the outskirts of an affluent town. Norwich, Vermont was a bedroom community to Hanover, New Hampshire, the home of Dartmouth College. A lot of wealthy people lived there. By about the third grade, we had bought a rundown house a few miles outside of Norwich. We had about five acres of land, and the setting was lovely, but the house was a dump.

Up until about the third grade, I was a very active child who was eager to learn how to do everything. We had a skating rink on the field of the elementary school every winter, and I would spend hours trying to learn how to skate. I never got very good at it, but it wasn't for lack of trying. I also wanted to learn how to ski.  That was a trendy sport in our town. I only remember having one lesson at school where I had a pair of skis on. It didn't take me long to figure out that this sport was way too expensive for my family to afford. Getting a pair of skates was one thing, but the equipment needed to ski was quite another. I never did learn to ski.

A distinct memory I have about skiing is that after the winter break, some of the wealthier kids would come back with broken legs and have to spend the entire spring recovering from ski accidents. I guess it was a high price to pay for having the luxury of skiing vacations. Pam Hussey and Chris Stern seemed to be on crutches every winter.

What happened to me in the third grade was devastating to my self-esteem. It plummeted rock bottom and stayed there for a long time. One day I happened to put my tongue up to my top teeth and noticed what seemed like a hole. I looked in the mirror and was shocked to see that my front teeth were rotting out and had black holes in them. It wasn't pretty. I was so ashamed that I vowed that no one would learn my secret. I promised myself not to smile, showing my teeth, and revealing this dreadful secret.

For some reason unknown to me, my mother did not take us to the dentist for many years. My teeth stayed like that until I was in the 10th grade. It was bad enough to be a poor kid in a wealthy town without having rotten teeth. That only seemed to confirm to me that we were indeed inferior and couldn't even afford to go to the dentist. It seemed to me that only low-life people had teeth like that. I don't know if anyone ever noticed my teeth, but no one said anything to me. I was hypervigilant, making sure that I didn't show my teeth. I was afraid someone would call me "rotten teeth," but that never happened. Still, it was a challenging situation to live with, especially surrounded by classmates who were well off financially.

When I asked my older sister, Phylis, about the experiences she had living in Norwich, she described that classmates bullied her relentlessly. She turned those experiences around, though, and used them to her advantage. She became a more influential person and an advocate for the underprivileged. She never let those experiences define her as a victim. I do not recall others in my class ever bullying me, but the inner turmoil I felt was excruciatingly painful to me. I guess you could say I bullied myself. I withdrew within myself, cried a lot, and became quite depressed. I became ashamed of who I was.

I will relate one experience that I am not too proud of, but it does reveal that the students who went to Norwich Elementary School knew full well that some of the kids were wealthier than others. When we went out for recess, we would call numbers out for who would be the pitcher in softball. I remember Chris Stern getting ahead of me one break I said to her, "You think just because you're rich, you can go ahead of me." She backed down, and I got to pitch, but I wish I hadn't said that. It was very unkind of me.

There was a wide disparity between the income levels of my grandparents. My mother's parents, the Phillips, were subsistence farmers in Vermont and seemed to be just scraping by. On the other hand, my father's parents, the Atwoods, were well off financially. Grandpa Atwood had a successful business delivering milk in Hartland, Vermont, which he sold at a profit and retired at age 40. He was a wise investor in the stock market, so he amassed a good-sized fortune, which he managed very well.

Every summer Grandpa and Grammie Atwood would drive up from Florida in a fancy Buick towing a shiny mobile home that they parked on our property and stayed for the summer. The comparison between the Phillips family and the Atwood family was evident. It became clear to me that there were the "haves" and the "have-nots" in our society. It also seemed strange to me to have a beautiful mobile home with a brand new Buick parked on the same property as our rundown, dilapidated house. The contrast was blatant. Grandpa Atwood was always trying to help Daddy fix up the place, but it never amounted to much. Mother was often painting and wallpapering and did her best to make it look presentable, but no matter what you did to it, it still looked rundown to me.

So those were my first experiences learning firsthand of the disparity in wealth between the citizens of the United States. Like my older sister, Phylis, I have chosen to let these experiences be a lesson to me and how I want to live my life. I have deep compassion for the underprivileged and will always root for the underdog. I know what it's like to feel "less than" because of some of the experiences in my life. I also know what it's like to overcome these feelings and triumph over adversity, after all.

FISHING WITH DADDY

I used to live on the Vermont side of the Connecticut River in the Upper Valley of Vermont and New Hampshire. I lived there from about second or third grade until about one year after high school when I got married and went off to live in the Mojave Desert with my husband, Ronny, who was in the Air Force and stationed at Edwards Air Force Base. There was the Connecticut River, and then there was a pretty good-sized field beside it that was our land. Then there were the railroad tracks, then the road (Route 5 going out of the town of Norwich), then our house sitting right next to the pavement, just a few feet away from the highway. Our family had about five acres of land, including some woods that were on a hill, and a big field behind the woods that went down another hill. As I look back at it now, it was a beautiful setting. I especially remember the hundreds of birds chirping in the springtime.

One of the activities my sisters and I occasionally had the opportunity to do was to go fishing with Daddy on the shores of the Connecticut River. I remember this being great fun. Daddy was not the most hands-on father a child could wish for, and taking three little girls fishing was not always top on his list of priorities. He liked to drink a lot and also to gamble, so I am sure these were things that he would have rather been doing. I do remember Mother being quite a nag, though, and she would sometimes convince him to take us fishing.

In retrospect, though, I do realize it was a significant undertaking. I vaguely remember that we each had fishing poles. I believe they were dark blue. The day of the fishing expedition would begin by gathering the bait, which meant we had to dig in the ground for earthworms. I thought that was fun. I was quite a tomboy when I was growing up. We crossed the road and headed down to the river with our worms and fishing poles. No sooner would one of us get our line in the water when we would get a bite. Daddy would have to help us reel the fish in, and also put another worm on the book so that we could start over again. It was quite exciting.

This process happened in rapid succession over the time that we were fishing. One right after the other kept my father hopping. I don't ever recall myself or my sisters putting the worm on the hook or pulling the fish out. So if the fish were biting, Daddy was a busy man. I believe the fish we were catching were perch. When we got a good supply of fish and Daddy was tired of the constant running between us three girls, we would head back to the house.

Mother was in charge of cleaning the fish. I don't remember Daddy ever doing that. Off would come the heads, and then she would make a slit up the middle and clean out the guts. She was good at it, and I don't think she minded doing it at all. After all, she grew up on a farm. We could look forward to a delicious meal of fried perch for supper. Mother would bread the fish and fry them in a frying pan on the stove.

It was time to eat. Perch have lots and lots of small bones in them. The fish is delicious and had a sweet, delicate taste, but you have to look out for the bones. As busy as Daddy was pulling in the fish, Mother was just as busy checking our fish to make sure there weren't any small bones hiding inside to get stuck in our throats.

These are some of my best memories of my childhood. I didn't stick with fishing or develop a life-long passion for the sport, but I do remember when we did go fishing, it was great fun.

THE BATTLE OF THE WEEDS

I wouldn't say I like weeds. I find it very gratifying to pull an offending plant out by its root because I feel like it's gone now. I started doing this when I lived in California. Don had left me to return to New York State, and I was still living in the house we bought together when we got married. There was a big back yard, but it was mostly weeds with very little grass. I liked to pull the weeds. It seemed to be an excellent tension releaser.

This penchant for pulling weeds stayed with me when I moved back to New York State and lived for about a year-and-a-half in the condo in Rensselaer before moving to Cohoes in 2007. There is a small backyard behind the two-family house in Cohoes where I now live. At first, I lived upstairs and didn't use the yard. A year or two later, I moved downstairs, and the backyard became my responsibility for mowing. The landlord left an electric lawn mower behind for me to use.

The backyard was always very green, some of it was grass, and a lot of it was weeds. I eventually got a hammock for the patio in the back and liked to go out there and relax. A couple of years ago, I started enjoying the peace I found out there. The lawn was green, but not pretty because of the weeds. Still, it was a lawn.

Then along came the couple upstairs with two huge dogs. Between their dogs and mine, they decimated the lawn from all the pee. Not only did the grass start to die off, and there were huge patches of brown dirt, but you could smell the pee I the air no matter when you went out. So needless to say, I didn't spend much time out there last summer.

I tried to reestablish the grass by planting grass seed. As soon as came up, most of it would die off. I finally managed to get a large patch to grow towards the back. What started to bother me were the weeds. I made it my mission to dig up every single last one in the backyard. It was a huge undertaking.

Luckily for me, the couple upstairs with the two big dogs moved out. After I pulled up the last offensive plant, I planted grass. It started to come in pretty good, and then I noticed there were brown spots here and there. I was no longer taking Daisy for walks because of her penchant for pulling me down. Still, there were some brown spots. Then the weeds started coming back. I was glad to see them. They started filling in the empty spaces. I also realized that they are much hardier than grass. Even if you pull them up by the roots, they still come back.

I was relieved that the two big dogs were gone. I was hoping the new neighbors wouldn't have a dog. Unfortunately, they got a puppy, and that summer, the lawn was again destroyed. Now I was fed up. The new owners didn't even pick up the dog poop. I told my landlady that I was no longer going to use the backyard, and after living there 12 years, she started mowing it. She wouldn't allow either dog to use the yard. Finally, at the end of the summer, the upstairs neighbors moved out. The lawn was a mess, but I had pretty much distanced myself from it.

In the winter, my new neighbor moved it. No dog, just two cats. At the beginning of summer, the lawn was green except for a few dirt spots. Since it was green, I decided I could live with that, even though I knew most of it was weeds. I even relented and told my landlady I would go back to mowing the lawn. Then we got a dry and hot spell. No rain was forecast for days on end. Huge patches were turning brown.

I recently retired after working for almost 60 years at various places of employment. I would sit out on the patio and look at the ugly patches. After a few days, I started watering the lawn again. I couldn't seem to help myself. I started digging up the nasty-looking brown spots. If an area was green, I left it, even if I knew it was only weeds. Once I get rid of all the brown, I am going to reseed the lawn. This time, I am going to play it smart. My dog will not be allowed in the yard, just me, and the water hose. My dog, Daisy, likes to go for walks anyway.

So the battle between me and the weeds continues. I'm not sure where my distaste for these offending plants originated. It could be in my DNA since my grandparents, and lots of relatives on Mother's side of the family were farmers. Daddy always wanted to be a farmer, too. Or maybe I worked on a farm in one of my other lives. Perhaps I tended a garden and keeping it weed-free was my passion. I guess I'll never know for sure. One thing I am certain of is that I'm not too fond of weeds.

THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL

When we lived on the farm in Orange, we didn't have television or anything like that for instant entertainment. Mother was our primary source of fun and joy. She did many things to keep us busy and happy. Still, one of the activities that I particularly enjoyed was sitting in her lap or by her side when she was reading a fairy tale or a fable or a nursery rhyme. We had a big book of fairy tales, and my mother read in such a way that the stories came to life. My mother would have made an excellent grade school teacher.

Some of the stories she read included Rumpelstiltskin, Hansel and Gretel, Goldilocks and the Three Bears, the Three Wolves, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Cinderella and many, many others. Mother and Daddy always made sure we went to the movies to see the latest Walt Disney movie, such as Cinderella. Seeing these characters on the big screen made the stories come to life.

Mother also had the habit of using stories, especially fables, to impart specific life lessons to us. One of her favorites was "The Boy Who Cried Wolf," which is an Aesop's fable. A boy called Peter lived with his parents in a village on the hillside. His parents, like most of the others, were sheep farmers. Everybody in the community took turns looking after the sheep. When Peter was ten years old, he was considered mature enough to take his turn at shepherding.

But Peter was too easily bored, and he found it very tiresome being on the hillside with only sheep for company. So he'd find ways to amuse himself, running up rocks, climbing trees, chasing sheep, but nothing kept him entertained for very long. Then Peter hit upon a brilliant idea. He rose to the top of the tallest tree, and started shouting towards the village: "Wolf! Wolf!! Wolf!!!"

One of the villagers heard him, and got all the other men together, and armed themselves with axes, hoes, and forks. They ran out of the village to chase away the wolf and save their herd. Of course, when they got there, they merely found Peter perched high up in his tree, laughing, and the sheep grazing peacefully. They were very annoyed with him. That night Peter got a spanking from his mother and was sent to bed without any supper.

For a while, life went on again as usual, and people forgot about the incident. Peter managed to behave himself whenever it was his turn to mind the sheep until one day when he got bored again. He picked up some sticks and ran through where the sheep were grazing. He started hitting the sticks together and shouting: "Wolf! Wolf!! Wolf!!!"

Sure enough, somebody in the village heard, and before long, the men all come running up the hill armed with their sticks and axes and hoes and shovels, ready to chase away the big bad wolf and save their sheep and the poor shepherd boy. Imagine their dismay when they arrived in the field to see their herd grazing peacefully, and Peter sitting on a big rock, laughing uncontrollably.

That night Peter got a good telling off, and even better spanking from his mother, and was again sent to bed without any supper. For a few days, people in the village went around moaning about Peter and his tricks, but before long, things settled down again, and life resumed its uneventful course. Peter had to do his turn at shepherding occasionally. He decided he should behave himself, since Peter didn't want to upset everybody all the time, and he especially didn't want another one of his mother's spankings!

Then, one afternoon when Peter was in the fields with the sheep, he noticed some of them were getting nervous. They started bleating and running around. Peter didn't know what the cause of this strange behavior was, with the sheep running all over and making an ever louder racket. He climbed up a tree and balanced on a sturdy branch and looked around. What he saw almost made him fall out of the tree. There was a great big hairy wolf, chasing the sheep, biting at their legs, snapping at their tails. For a few seconds, Peter was speechless. Then he started shouting: "Wolf! Wolf!! Wolf!!!"

In the village, an older man heard the shouting. "Oh no, not that Peter again," he said, shaking his head. "What's going on?" inquired another villager. "It's that Peter again, he just can't help himself." "That boy needs to be the center of attention all the time," said another. 'Wait till his mother gets a hold of him," added yet another. Nobody believed that this time there was a wolf, and nobody got their hoe out, or their ax, or their shovel. They left all the sticks in the sheds, and nobody rushed up the hillside.

Much later that afternoon, the boy sent to take over the shepherding from Peter found dead sheep's bodies strewn all over the hillside, and Peter still up there in his tree, whimpering, the villagers found out there really had been a wolf this time. At last, Peter learned his lesson, that if you always tell lies, people will eventually stop believing you; and then when you're telling the truth for a change, when you need them to listen to you, they won't.

Whenever mother thought we were exaggerating or trying to get attention or whatever the situation might be, she would say something like, "Remember the boy who cried wolf." Then she would launch into the story all over again. I used to roll my eyes and think to myself, "Here we go again." Another life lesson!!

She also used to read or recite nursery rhymes to us including, "Jack and Jill," "Diddle Diddle Dumpling," "Humpty Dumpty," "Little Bo Peep," "Old MacDonald Had a Farm," "Three Blind Mice," and many others. One of the nursery rhymes mainly sticks out in my mind even today many years later. It was "There Was a Little Girl," by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The first verse goes like this:

"There was a little girl,

And she had a little curl.

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good She was very, very good,

And when she was bad, she was horrid."

I must have done something that annoyed my mother, and so she recited the first verse to me. I know I was a very active child and probably wore my mother out, but this verse seemed to have a prophetic ring to it. As time went on, my mother made it clear to me that instead of being very, very good, that there was something inherently wrong with me.

That was the first of many indications that my mother thought I was bad person and didn't mind expressing that feeling to me or anyone else who would listen to her. And what is the meaning of horrid anyway? It's about as bad as it can get. Some of the synonyms are horrifying, horrible, horrific, horrendous, dreadful, frightful, fearful, nasty, awful, very unpleasant, or disagreeable.

Honestly, Mother, was I really that bad? This was not a good seed that was planted in my mind. Unfortunately, this was reinforced over and over again in the years to follow. The sad part is that I internalized this and came to believe that there was something irrevocably wrong with me.

I recently discovered an alternate verse that my mother never heard of, or if she did, it wasn't part of her lesson to me. It goes like this, and I like it much, much better. It's all a matter of perception after all.

"Then one day that little girl

Brushed away that little curl

Away from the middle of her forehead

Now she is good

She is very, very good

And nobody thinks she is horrid!"

WHAT IF I NEVER GET UP AGAIN

I have a huge hang-up about lying down for a nap and never getting up again, just lying there. Sometimes when I take a nap, I will think, "what if I don't get up again, what if I just lie here forever." You might think that's an odd hang-up to have, but it makes perfect sense (like almost everything else) when you put it into context.

I came from a family on my mother's side, who believed that certain people were "crazy" and that being "crazy" meant that you were evil somehow and defective as a human being. This side of the family was Grandpa Phillips' family. I'm sure Grammie Phillips never let him forget about his family being "crazy." At least that's the feeling I got based on the stories told, and the whispers about Gratia, Aunt Helen, Mark and Agnes, all of whom suffered from some form of mental illness.

One of the fascinating characters that I remember hearing about, but never actually met in person since she died at Waterbury State Hospital in 1939, was my great grandmother Gratia Phillips, Grandpa's mother. I don't know for sure what the mental illness in the family was. I have a feeling it was major depression, chemical imbalance and mood disorders, and bipolar disorder, perhaps with psychotic features in some cases. Aunt Helen was admitted to Waterbury State Hospital in 1939 and was alleged to have had schizophrenia after having suffered a total breakdown after the birth of her last child. She had given birth to nine children in eleven years. Whether she had schizophrenia or was misdiagnosed is a question I ask myself, but will never definitively know the answer.

My great grandmother had given birth to eight children, Clayton (my grandfather), Clyde, Esther, Don, Clara, Helen, Mark, and Agnes. Clayton was born in 1895, and Agnes, the youngest, was born in 1911. Gratia was a farmwife as her husband, Don Emory Phillips, owned a farm in Duxbury. The responsibilities and work involved in this role were undoubtedly daunting for her. Perhaps she had underlying depression caused possibly by stress and maybe even a chemical imbalance, which made these duties seem overwhelming to her. This possible diagnosis is mere conjecture as no one will ever know for sure.

At some point after the children were born (perhaps somewhere between 1915 – 1918), Gratia is alleged to have had a breakdown. The doctor advised that she be put on bed rest for a couple of weeks until she could get back on her feet again. For some strange reason unknown to me or anyone else, Gratia went to bed and never got up as an ambulatory and functioning member of her family. She became a self-imposed invalid, and members of the family and, eventually, Waterbury State Hospital cared for her as such until she passed away in 1939.

I often wondered why Gratia opted for this kind of life and why she was allowed to become an invalid when there was nothing physically wrong with her. I can't imagine being bedridden for a day or two, to say nothing of 20+ years. It is beyond my comprehension. I have often been afraid (sometimes consciously and sometimes subconsciously) that whatever made Gratia decide not to get up again would afflict me. What if I had a complete breakdown (unlikely to happen as I am a strong person and have overcome many, many difficulties during my lifetime)? What if something happened to me that didn't kill me but left me helpless (a stroke perhaps)? I certainly would never want to be in a position where someone had to care for me. No one in my family would be willing or able to do this. At any rate, I wouldn't want to burden them.

Gratia must have been quite depressed and felt immobilized by it. I doubt if she set out to become a burden to her family by staying in bed for 20 years. At one point in my life, after I became sober, and before I the doctor put me on an antidepressant, I became so depressed that it was challenging to function. I was between jobs and was afraid that I wouldn't be able to take care of myself and didn't know what was going to happen to me.

However, as taught, I kept on moving, didn't give up, and eventually got a job that turned my life around in a different direction. At about this time, the doctor put me on 20 mg of Prozac, which has kept me stable and not suffering from depression for over 30 years. Perhaps 20 mg of Prozac would have done the trick for Gratia, but of course, it was not available at the time. Maybe if her family had not been quite so willing to care for her, she would have forced herself to go on despite her difficulties and forged ahead. Even so, she would have suffered.

If Gratia were sitting beside me today and we had the opportunity to have a heart-to-heart talk, she would tell me never to give up believing in myself, that life is what you make of it, and that she is very proud of me for my achievements. Gratia is part of my legacy, and I have gained much wisdom in recalling and coming to understand her story and the circumstances she faced.

THE PIED PIPER

I have always known I have a special gift with children because they are drawn to me. I also have many other qualities, which I have denied through the years or squelched or ignored. Why did I acknowledge my unique gift with children, but deny the others? I recently realized why, and it has to do with my mother and the story of the Pied Piper.

For some unknown reason, my mother never seemed to have a very high opinion of me as a person, least of all a person with many gifts. We had a very complicated relationship and were entangled emotionally from the start. I wanted to please my mother and meet her needs, and I ended up following many rigid rules that she laid out for me. I never did anything or obtained anything without her approval.

Some of the rules were: You will not be more successful than I am; you will not go to college; you will not be in a successful romantic relationship because you are too fickle; you will not compete with me; you will have no friends; you are not loveable, and no one loves you; you will not be anybody's favorite, and on and on and on they went.

The one thing that I have always been aware of throughout my life from a very early age is my love for children and their love for me. I loved to be around my younger cousins so I could play with them. One day my mother noted and acknowledged this gift by saying to a group of relatives, "Barb is just like the Pied Piper." I can still remember the look she had on her face, and it wasn't one of pride, but one of resigning to the fact that I had this gift, and she begrudgingly had to admit to it.

I took it as a compliment, though, because I thought of the Pied Piper as a magical person who dressed up in bright and colorful clothes and charmed children with his magic. I thought it was a good thing to be considered like him. I never really thought of looking up the story, but took it all these years as such a good thing that even my mother had to acknowledge it.

Through the years, I came to believe that I was not a loveable or even likable person, that there was something inherently wrong with me, even evil and crazy. The one thing that I held on to through this time of self-loathing was that since children loved me and saw something magical in me that I couldn't be all bad. I believed that, and I thought my mother felt it, too. Finally, she acknowledged something good in me.

For whatever reason, I decided to look up the story of the Pied Piper on the Internet, thinking it would confirm my idea of what the story was all about, a magical person who charmed children and had extraordinary fun with them. I was astonished when I found out the real intent of the story of the Pied Piper. It goes something like this.

Many years ago, there was a town called Hamelin that had become overrun with rats, and something had to be done about it. The Lord Mayor said that he had a solution to the problem and offered a reward of 1000 gold guilders to any person who could rid the town of the rats. The very next day, a stranger dressed in colorful clothes with a silver pipe appeared. He told the Mayor that for a thousand gold guilders, he could rid the town of the rats. The Mayor agreed, and the Pied Piper stepped outside. The Pied Piper blew notes on his silver pipe, and the rats by the thousands danced out of the town. They splashed into the river and drowned.

The Pied Piper went to the Mayor for his reward. The Mayor said that all the Pied Piper did was play on his silly pipe and the rats drowned themselves and gave him only 40 guilders. The people of Hamelin agreed with the Mayor, and they all laughed at the Pied Piper. The next day the Pied Piper came back into the town and played his flute, and the children started to run and jump and skip out of the houses towards the Town Square. The children all disappeared into the side of a mountain because they had been lured away by the sounds of faraway places, clean air, and sparkling rivers and fun and games and whales and dolphins and bright colored parrots. The moral of the story was always to pay your debts in full and on time.

I was stunned to find out that the Pied Piper lured children away to their doom and that being like the Pied Piper was probably not an honorable trait in my mother's eyes. I wonder if I had realized this was a putdown at the time if I would have cherished my love of children as a special gift or just another evil thing about me. I'll never know. But I do know that the belief that children loved me kept me going through many years of thinking no one else loved me.

I now know that this gift is my ability to see the pure essence in children and their ability to see mine. I am glad I held on to it these many years. Maybe it was good that I waited all those years to learn the real story of the Pied Piper. Whether my mother saw it that way or not no longer matters to me. It doesn't take away from the love I will always have for children. It brings me joy beyond measure.

MY BIGGEST FEAR

Not so long ago, I would have said my biggest fear was going crazy. Growing up in a family that stigmatized mental illness, I wondered if I would lose the ability to function or might even be committed and lose my freedom. I have pretty much eliminated that fear from my life. My mental health is better now than it has ever been. I know I'm not crazy, and if anyone else thinks I am, that's their problem, not mine.

I used to think that death was what frightened me the most. I have had several panic attacks in the past, where I thought I was dying. I even went to the emergency room a couple of times in an ambulance only to find out that I wasn't dying but suffering from severe anxiety. The last time I rushed to the ER in a panic, the physician on duty told me that this could become a habit. I thought about it and said to myself that there was no way this was going to become a habit. Since then, when I have such a feeling of dying, I can talk myself down from it and no longer send myself to the nearest emergency room. The last time I went to the ER was many years ago.

I have been thinking about the fear of dying lately, and I realize that is not what frightens me. I have a deep spiritual belief that death is not a bad thing or the end of anything, that life goes on, and that death itself nor to be feared. My sister, Joyce, had a near-death experience many years ago and explained it as a feeling of tremendous peace and love. She recalled being greeted by many people on the other side in a receiving line. I believe this will happen to me and that there will be many souls meeting me, and it will be a joyous time. So when the time comes, I will be ready.

Another reason I am not afraid of dying is that I did not have a strong religious background. I don't believe in hell, never did, and I know when I die, I will be going to a beautiful place. I also believe in reincarnation. I have lived many, many lifetimes in the past. The lessons in each lifetime have added to my spiritual evolvement.

I finally realized that what I fear is not dying, but of being half alive. What does this mean? What if I had a stroke, lived through it, but could no longer take care of myself? I grew up knowing that I had to take care of myself, that no one was going to do it for me. My mother left me with that strong message. She told me I had to make it on my own because she was not going to help me. I had to be self-sufficient but not too successful. I had to take care of my basic needs, but I wasn't to outshine her.

Another message I was given was that I wasn't strong, that I was too sensitive, that I wasn't very healthy, and that I needed to be protected. That's an unusual combination of having to be independent, but also needing to be dependent on someone emotionally. My mother convinced me that I needed her, that I couldn't live without her, but on the other hand, condemned me for being that way. It was very confusing.

Quite a few years ago, I took my dog, Sheba, for a walk. I had on shoes that were slippery on the bottom, and my feet slid out from under me. The back of my head slammed very hard on the pavement. I was stunned, and the first thing I thought was, "Am I going to die today?' I prepared myself mentally for this and waited to feel the overwhelming peace and light that I expect to happen when I die. I waited to see Daddy at the beginning of the receiving line to meet me.

When this didn't happen, I immediately thought, "Oh my God, I'm not going to die. I hope I will be able to keep working." I was a medical transcriptionist at the time and knew that a blow to the head like I had sustained could be severe. I was very disoriented and could not get off the ground. Someone called an ambulance, and the paramedics took me to the ER, where I had a skull x-ray and a CT scan. Luckily I did not do any permanent damage but had a severe concussion. I was dizzy, and the room was spinning at first, but I recovered fully over the next few days with no permanent damage. I was still self-sufficient. And I still am today.

MY SPECIAL GIFT

Throughout my entire life, I have always known that I like children, and they feel the same about me. I have felt a special connection that I have perceived many, many times between myself and the child with whom I am interacting. As a youngster and teenager growing up, I looked forward to the times when I would be around my younger cousins so that I could play with them. I loved to go to Grammie's house because Marion's kids were always there since they lived with Grammie and Grandpa. Even when all the adults in my life seemingly turned against me, the children were still there for me.

When I was in the about third grade and going to school in Norwich, Vermont, at the time, I was popular with the other kids and got invited to a lot of parties on the weekends. It seemed that almost every weekend someone in my class had a party. We were on the lower side of the social scale (Daddy was a truck driver, and my mother worked in an office) and lived in a rundown house outside of a bedroom community for Dartmouth College. Many of the residents of Norwich were on the upper side of the social scale. Even so, I was one of the kids who always got invited to the parties. So I was relatively happy and content with my life.

That all started to change when I was in the third grade. For one thing, that's when my teeth started decaying at a rapid rate, and my front teeth had ugly black holes in them. I was so incredibly ashamed of how this looked that I made a vow never to let anyone see my teeth and never smiled again with my teeth showing. It took a considerable amount of effort and concentration to hide this horrible condition from the people around me. So my world started falling apart then.

One day I had been invited to a party of one of the kids. I remember my mother sitting me down and asking me why they invited me to the parties. She seemed to think that it was odd that the other kids always included me. I was confused and didn't know what to say, but I came up with something like, "they need to have a certain number of kids at the party, and I am the last one they choose." That explanation seemed to satisfy her, but it certainly didn't make me happy. She said something like, "Oh, so that's why. I couldn't figure out why they would invite you." I started to realize then that my mother didn't want me to have friends and didn't want anyone to like me. Did she think I was that unlikeable? I guess so.

Between this conversation with my mother and the fact that I was ashamed and humiliated by the way I looked, that was the beginning of the end of my having real friends at school. I started becoming depressed and every day struggled to get by . Where I was a cute little girl when I was young, I sometimes started to look disheveled. It was a challenging existence.

My mother spent a lot of her energy convincing me and others that I wasn't a very likable or loveable person. The one thing I believed she couldn't deny about me was how quickly and easily children were attracted to me. At one time, she even said I was like the Pied Piper, which I took as a compliment.

Another thing I have noticed lately is that my sister, Joyce, took over where my mother left off as far as her negative feelings towards me. I guess I was the only one who saw "my gift" as something special. One time when I saw Joyce, she sneered at me and said, "yeah, I know you love children." Sometimes they would say, "well, if you love children so much, why weren't you a better mother." That is an issue I have faced for many years. I was not a good mother, and I will admit it, especially to my daughter, Deana. I treated her the way my mother treated me, and I'm not proud of that. However, I realized this many years ago and tried very hard to make up for it.

For a long time, I didn't realize what my gift was. I would be amazed at how children would gaze at me and look at me like I was the best person in the world. They saw something in me, and I didn't know what it was. I finally determined what it is. I have the gift of seeing their divine essence (their real being), and they see mine. I am drawn to all children because I see beyond their issues and see their soul. I love my special gift and, I know it's real.

THE ONE WHO WAS LABELED CRAZY

With the stories of family craziness circulating on the Phillips side of the family, it was only a matter of time before someone in the family was labeled as the "crazy" one, to take the focus off the other members. The one chosen was likely to be "sensitive." It was around this time that my mother started labeling me as sensitive. My grandmother and aunts went along with this label. I found out later that this was a more delicate way of saying someone was crazy. As time went on, the idea of me being the crazy one took on a life of its own, and I assumed the role of the family outcast.

This role was terrifying to me as this phenomenon began to take hold and solidify. I believed that the very people who I knew loved me had "changed their mind about me," and no one seemed to care about me anymore. What had I done wrong? I was perplexed.

My mother seemed to be behind the idea that I was crazy. She spread it around to anyone and everyone who would listen to her. These included not only family members but also her friends and coworkers. She couldn't say anything wrong enough about me. She was both verbally and emotionally abusive to me. No one came to my rescue or believed in me. They either accepted her opinions of me or looked the other way. I began to feel like a damaged and evil person, the black sheep of the family.

My mother suffered from depression, for probably most of her life. She often cried as we were growing up. She would become easily embarrassed and humiliated. One day while shopping in a supermarket, she was buying my father a 6-pack of beer. The beer slipped from her hand and smashed, with beer spilling all over the floor. My mother stood helplessly by as a store clerk clean up the mess with tears streaming down her face. I felt pity for her.

My mother thought crying was a weakness. This belief was likely fostered by her very stoic mother, who seldom cried, even at funerals. I cried a lot as a child, too, mainly because I was so incredibly sad about the way my family now felt about me and the fear of what might inevitably happen to me because I was, after all, crazy.

YOU ARE NOT CRAZY!

I was in the early years of recovery from alcoholism and was struggling with anxiety and depression, along with confronting feelings that I had long tried to squelch with wine and vodka. I still believed I was "crazy," as this concept had been deeply embedded in my consciousness since I was a young girl. I was in a lot of emotional pain and many times felt overwhelmed and afraid that I would not be able to go on.

I woke up in the middle of the night in an extraordinarily panicked and agitated state. I thought I was dying and that I was either having a stroke or a heart attack, although I didn't feel any physical pain. At the time, I was dating Don, who was also in recovery, and I called him to come over and rush me to the hospital before it was too late. I thought this was the end. With every fiber of my being, I believed I was dying.

We got to the emergency room, and I told them to hurry. The ER personnel quickly did an EKG (electrocardiogram) and, to my surprise, found nothing at all wrong. There were no physical findings, and I was caught up in the middle of a full-blown panic attack. This incident was one of the most frightening things that I had ever happened to me. It was all created by the deep underlying fear that I had lived with for years and years—that is of being crazy and ultimately not being able to take care of myself, knowing that no one else would take care of me.

I was lying on the emergency room gurney thinking about my life and the circumstances I found myself in and wondering how I got to be in this state when an emergency room physician came in to talk to me.

"What's going on," he said in a very nonjudgmental and kind way that made me feel a little more relaxed than I did when I arrived.

"I'm a recovering alcoholic," I told him.

He seemed very interested in this and said compassionately and sincerely, "You really should be proud of that. Many people try to stop drinking and can't do it."

He went on to say, "I'm sorry I can't talk anymore, but we're swamped here tonight."

He then looked me straight in the eye and stated with such honesty that I took what he said to heart, "You're not crazy. I don't know who told you that you were, but don't believe them. There's nothing wrong with you."

Those few sentences were just what I needed to hear. How did he know that someone told me I was crazy?   It was as if this emergency room doctor was the messenger and was delivering a message to me. I don't know for sure where it came from, but I do believe it was a message from God or the angels or my spiritual guide. The ER doctor delivered in such a way that I sat up and took notice of what was being said.

This simple declaration made with such sincerity was the beginning of the end of my believing that I was "crazy." I realized that there was nothing wrong with my mind or my heart and that I needed to believe in myself and my abilities to recover and go on to live a meaningful life. To this day, I have never again succumbed to the belief that I was crazy.

Of course, it wasn't easy. I still had depression. I went to work in the morning at Albany Ladder Company and felt drained for the whole day. Luckily I was in a place where I could be myself, and I didn't have to pretend. I got through that day and many days following.

It was soon after this experience of the panic attack that my family doctor put me on 20 mg of Prozac, and my depression lifted. I have been on Prozac for many years, and I have never suffered from depression since then. I no longer believe that I am crazy (even though there are members of my family who still believe that about me and probably always will). I know that I am mentally stable and robust. That is a marvelous feeling.

MY FLIGHT TO CALIFORNIA AND FREEDOM

Somewhat likes the Joads in The Grapes of Wrath, I have thought at times that if I could make the long journey to California, things in my life would be different, somehow better. However, instead of looking for economic freedom, I wanted to live life on my terms instead of under my domineering mother's disapproving eye. I have made two such trips to California in my lifetime to be away from what I considered my mother's negative influence. Both times I eventually came back, and each time my mother was the main reason for my return.

My first escape to California and what I thought would be a new and better life was in 1964. A theme that came across loud and clear when I was a teenager and started dating was that I was fickle I'm not sure where that came from, if my mother planted the idea in my head, or if I indeed was the type of person who couldn't have a boyfriend and stay with him for long. In the back of my mind, I guess I would always wonder if I was missing out on someone better. That led to a series of boyfriends throughout high school.

I didn't see anything wrong with my actions in this regard; however, one day, my mother sat me down to have a serious talk with me about the situation of my fickleness. She told me that Daddy was sure that I would never be able to get married because of my fickle ways. After all, Mother went on to say that Daddy and I liked the last boyfriend you broke up with and wished you had stayed with him. I was stunned and frightened all at the same time. I was only in high school, and I had no idea that I had to find someone to marry, or I would be doomed to a loveless life. Fear struck my heart. Was I a flawed person who would forever be alone and unhappy?

I didn't want to disappoint my parents. I started thinking I wanted to get married and have a family of my own. That would be the solution to my happiness, wouldn't it? More than anything else, though, I wanted freedom from an oppressive and tyrannical mother who tried to control my every wish and dream and render me dependent on her.

My senior year in high school was particularly difficult, mainly because of depression, family difficulties, and abscessed teeth that went untreated and flared up frequently. The pain was excruciating, and my face would swell. I kept the reason for my agony a secret from my mother. I told her I had headaches. She would often be called upon to leave work and pick me up at school because I couldn't make it through the day. She would give me a look that said to me how pathetic I was. She long ago had pronounced me crazy and assumed that this was my problem now.

The reason I kept the abscesses a secret is that I was terrified that my teeth would be extracted, and I would have false teeth or worse I would be toothless. I wouldn't say I liked the idea of this happening, and I was willing to tolerate any amount of physical pain to prevent losing my teeth. And I endured pain, unrelenting, and excruciating.

I graduated from high school in 1963 with honors. I even enrolled in a college in Massachusetts. My mother had instilled in me the idea that I must be able to make a living on my own, that I probably wouldn't be successful at marriage, and that I needed to learn to type. I signed up for typing and shorthand courses, practical courses that would enable me to survive in the world on my own. I didn't stay long, though, because my abscesses were causing me so much pain I couldn't concentrate. My mother came down to pick me up. I still remember her standing by the car with one of those "aren't you pathetic" looks on her face that seemed to say that she knew I wouldn't be able to make in college, and now what was I going to do?

Back to Vermont I went, and I solidified my plot to escape from my mother by hooking up with the first boy I met. His name was Ronny Bruce, and he was 17 years old at the time. My parents liked him right away and treated him like the son they never had. Of course, he had issues, but I overlooked them because I had problems, too. We fought a lot and made up often as I had often seen my parents do, so it seemed like a perfect match. Mother and Daddy always took his side. I had found someone I could marry who they liked and who would rescue me from my pitiful existence. I also wanted to prove to them and myself that I wasn't fickle.

Ronny and I got married on December 7, 1963. My mother commented several times after that this was a perfect day for us to get married as it was "Pearl Harbor Day," the day the Japanese bombed our naval fleet during World War II, and, after all, we had an explosive relationship. Ronny immediately joined the Air Force and was stationed at Edwards Air Force Base located in the Mojave Desert in Southern California. Immediately upon getting married, I found myself pregnant.

I more than ever wanted to fulfill my desire to start my own life with my new husband and away from my increasingly unhappy existence at home in Vermont. I planned to join Ronny in California as soon as our baby was born. While waiting for this to happen, I got my first job as a secretary at a building supply company in White River Junction, Vermont, and dreamed of the day when I would have my own family away from the prying eyes of my mother.

Of course, I still had my issues to deal with, but I had a rather pleasant pregnancy when my abscesses did not flare up the entire time. I had a lot of energy and hope for my future life in California, which would soon come to pass. I recall standing on the patio of my home in Norwich every evening in the summertime, staring up at the stars, and longing for a happier life. I believed with all my heart, as the Joads did, that my future happiness awaited me in California, the land of freedom and endless potentiality.

My baby was born in August, and just after I turned 19 years old, I booked a flight to California for what I believed to be the most important journey of my life. I was an adult now, a new wife and mother, and I was going to have my own family at long last. What would I take with me? Well, since I was flying I took only a suitcase full of my clothes and baby clothes and that was just about it. I also brought with me the hopes and dreams of what I believed would be a new fantastic life without my mother always telling me I couldn't do this, or I couldn't have that.

Unfortunately, besides the one suitcase of clothing, I also took with me years of emotional baggage that I had been accumulating over my lifetime. I believed I could run away from my unhappiness and discontent and leave that all behind. As it turned out, that was an impossible task. When I arrived in California, I tried to make a success of my marriage and my new life. It wasn't going to happen. Not only did I have emotional issues and depression, but the abscesses that I had left untreated and I thought I could ignore away came back with a vengeance and caused me excruciating pain. Still afraid of losing my teeth if I went to a dentist, I endured the pain.

Couldn't I leave the unresolved issues with my mother behind? No, they came with me. I believed that getting married would solve everything, but I went "from the frying pan to the fire." My husband, who had unresolved issues of his own, became emotionally and physically abusive. As my mother had predicted, putting two young people with problems as profoundly rooted as ours were, became as explosive a situation as the bombing of Pearl Harbor. I was as unhappy with this relationship as I was with that of my mother. Being in California, instead of being a land of joyous new beginnings, became a nightmare.

After about a year-and-a-half of unrelenting drama, my husband and I separated. I still thought I could make a life for myself in California and was going to try to do just that on my own. When I told my mother on the telephone that I was going to stay in California, she said, "you're just trying to hurt me." She knew what to say to draw me back into her control, and that was it. I felt overwhelmed with guilt, and so I said I would come back. By this time, my parents had sold our house in Norwich, Vermont, and had resettled in upstate New York. They, too, were trying to start a new life. 

I joined them and went back to the life I had tried to escape with my controlling mother, having failed not only of having a successful marriage but of being true to myself. California, after all, was not the answer. I found out that when I went to California, even though I traveled light in the physical sense, I took all my unresolved issues and emotional baggage with me. They returned with me on my return flight, and I faced an uncertain future.

THE DAY I STOPPED SMILING

My teeth have always been a significant issue in my life. Growing up in rural Vermont, I saw a lot of people who had either no teeth at all or decaying teeth. Once when I was a little girl, Grammie Phillips played a trick on me and took out her teeth and then put them back in. She laughingly tried to convince me that I could do the same thing. I didn't know what was going on. Did teeth always go in and out so smoothly? Would mine? From as early as I can remember, I detested the idea of not having teeth, having decaying teeth, or being able to take them out. It became a real hangup of mine.

On my mother's side of the family, most of the adults I knew had their teeth pulled as young adults and then had false teeth. Being from a low-income family, my mother and her siblings probably did not have access to dentistry. Their teeth decayed, and when they were old enough and could afford it, they had them replaced with dentures. The boys who were raised by my grandparents had their teeth extracted when they joined the military.

Crooked teeth also seemed to run in the family. My mother had very crooked teeth, as did my older sister Phylis. Knowing that the trend was to lose your teeth at an early age caused me much fear. For some reason, the last thing I wanted was to lose my teeth.

When I was in the early grades of school, my mother had all her upper teeth extracted. Her teeth were not only very crooked but also decaying. I still remember the shock I had the first time I saw her with no upper teeth. It drastically changed how she looked. She went without dentures for what seemed like forever to allow the gums to heal. She finally started wearing false teeth, much to my relief. Going without upper teeth didn't seem to bother her at all, but it solidified in me the strong feeling that I never wanted this to happen to me.

In about the second grade of school, Mother took us all to see Dr. Harold, a dentist in Hanover, New Hampshire. We had a checkup and fillings, but I don't recall going to the dentist after that. My teeth were surprisingly straight. I wasn't afflicted with the crooked teeth that my mother or sister had. My mother told me how lucky I was to have beautiful straight teeth. I was a happy and active child, and I loved to smile and laugh.

In about the third grade, when I touched my tongue behind my front teeth, I thought I felt a small hole. When I looked in the mirror, I was shocked to see that my front teeth were beginning to decay and getting black holes in them. I was horrified. Had anyone else noticed the condition of my teeth when I smiled? No one had said anything. I was so ashamed at how bad they looked I vowed that I would not let anyone see how ugly they were. I was also afraid that I would have to get my teeth pulled the way my mother and grandmother and other relatives did. I would have done anything to prevent this from happening.

That was the day I stopped smiling so that no one would know my secret. My teeth, though rotting away, would remain in my mouth. Once my mother did notice how bad my teeth were and offhandedly remarked that she really should take me to a dentist. I was terrified of what would happen if I did go. For some reason, my mother forgot about it, and my teeth remained in a rapidly decaying condition all through grade school and the first year of high school. Because of my teeth, my self-esteem plummeted to a rock-bottom low.

Finally, when I was a sophomore in high school, the day of reckoning came, and my mother finally decided it was time for us to visit the dentist. She sent me to see Dr. Jones, a dentist in a small town where I went to high school. I went by myself after school. Dr. Jones was shocked at what he saw the first time I opened my mouth. The decay to my teeth was extensive. He did the best he could to fill my teeth and patch me up. I was able to smile without fear for the first time in a very long time. It felt good.

AFTER THE FIRST SMILE

I finally was able to smile again, no longer ashamed at how my blackened and decaying front teeth looked. What a relief! It was so tricky being careful so as not to reveal my secret. My sophomore year in high school turned out to be the best year I had experienced since the third grade when I first became depressed and ashamed. With the ability to smile again, my depression lifted. I lost some weight and, with my babysitting money, I was able to buy some new clothes. It seemed like my life was starting anew. I looked and felt better than I had in years. I was better able to deal with my mother's overbearing attitude. I had hope for the future.

Unfortunately, this sense of well being would stay with me for only one year. Things had been going well for me throughout the summer of my sophomore year of high school and into my junior year when something happened that drastically changed the course of my life over the next few years. My two front teeth, one tooth each on the bottom and top right jaw developed abscesses because the cavities in them were so deep as to damage the roots.

My face swelled up, and the pain from these four abscesses was excruciating, almost unbearable. Instead of telling my mother I had tooth problems again, I went into denial and secrecy mode. I was still petrified of losing my teeth, and I wanted to hold on to them at whatever cost to me. I bore the pain until the abscesses subsided. Instead of questioning me about why my face was swollen and what the problem might be, my mother concluded that I was "crazy" and left it at that.

The rest of high school proved to be very challenging. Even though I could now smile, because of the constant pain of the abscess recurrences and the fear of losing my teeth, I completely withdrew within myself and didn't have any reason to smile. Mother continued to conclude that I was crazy and told anyone who would listen what a loser I was. I cried a lot because I was in pain (both physical and emotional), and I didn't have anyone to turn to for help or consolation. No one seemed to understand what was going on or why. I avoided contact with people, and they avoided contact with me. It was a lonely and frightening way to exist. I even started to believe I was crazy. Why else would all this be happening to me?

I managed to graduate from high school with honors even though I missed a lot of days of school my senior year. Instead of going on to college, I opted for an early marriage as a way to escape my mother's tyranny and to start life in a more positive direction. I immediately became pregnant, and my husband joined the Air Force. After I had the baby, we planned to move to Edwards Air Force Base in Southern California.

In the meantime, during my pregnancy, I got my first secretarial job and stayed at home waiting for Deana to be born. After I got over the initial bouts of morning sickness, the remainder of the pregnancy agreed with me. I felt fantastic for the first time since I was a sophomore in high school. My abscesses went into remission. I did have my bottom right abscessed tooth removed during pregnancy. Unfortunately, immediately after the birth of my daughter, my remaining three abscesses flared up with a vengeance. I looked terrible in the first picture that was taken of my new baby and me. It was a black and white photo taken at Grammie's house with Grammie and Grandpa Phillips and my mother in the picture. My mouth was swollen, and I looked grey. I was in tremendous pain.

Deana and I did fly to California to be with Ronny, my new husband. I got a secretarial position at Space Labs on the base. However, my abscesses continued to flare up from time to time causing excruciating pain. I still was trying to keep my teeth, and so didn't get them treated. Ronny was emotionally and physically abusive to me, and about two years into the marriage, I decided to leave him and return to New York State to live with my parents with my daughter.

I got another secretarial position with Dr. Robert Green, a neurologist at Albany Medical Center. Luckily for me, I was able to be treated at the Dental Clinic at Albany Medical Center, and the problem of my abscessed teeth was solved. I was 21 years old and had suffered from abscesses for about six years. The dentist there performed apicoectomies (retrograde root canal treatments) as simple root canals would not have been sufficient. I had the abscessed tooth on the top right removed. At long last, the abscessed teeth were cured, and I no longer had to endure intermittent excruciating pain. I was able to keep my teeth, which had been my goal from the time I was a little girl.

I was sure that had my mother taken me to the dentist when this problem first started, my teeth would have been extracted, and I would have had dentures. I couldn't tolerate this happening to me. I have always had a hangup about my teeth and fear of losing them, and I don't know why. I still remember the first time I saw my mother without top teeth when she was waiting to get her dentures. It shocked and horrified me. If my teeth had been pulled, would I have had to go to school with no teeth? I could not bear that idea.

I was very fortunate that I didn't suffer permanent damage from the amount of infection that was present in my system for those six long and painful years. I have had a heart murmur since birth. Eventually, that infection did cause subacute bacterial endocarditis, an inflammation of the aortic valve. I ran a high fever, and all my joints were stiff and painful. I was in the hospital for a week. The problem cleared up, and I didn't have any lasting damage from it. I could have died from it or had irreversible heart damage. I do have aortic regurgitation from my leaky aortic valve, but it has not changed in years and doesn't cause me any adverse symptoms.

I was very angry with my mother for a very long time for not taking care of my teeth as a child growing up. Why she didn't continue taking us to regular dental appointments after she had started remains a mystery to me. Even though my parents didn't have very much money, they did have my grandfather on my father's side who had considerable resources and would have been glad to help them if they had asked. I could have been spared the many years of shame and pain that I endured over my teeth. My mother never did admit she was wrong, and I finally got over the entire issue with her.

I did accomplish that one goal I set as a little girl. I still have my teeth even though I have invested many thousands of dollars in root canals, bridges, and crowns. I don't have dentures. I do have a problem with gum disease and go to a periodontist, and I am still trying to hold on to what I have left.

I still don't know where the hangup regarding my teeth originated. It must have something to do with some past life issues. I do have a lot of concerns regarding being crazy or not being crazy, being perceived as insane, and labeled as such. I have done research on how mental illness became such a stigma in not only my family but also throughout society in general. I have read about how people who were deemed insane were treated throughout the United States and the barbaric treatments they endured. One of these treatments involved extracting their teeth. I don't know if this has anything to do with how I felt about it. There has to be a reason for such a strong hangup. Maybe I'll never know for sure where it originated. And perhaps it doesn't matter after all.

LEARNING TO DRIVE

With three daughters less than three years apart in age, when it came time to learn to drive, someone would have to teach us one right after the other. Who would have enough patience and skill to take on such a task? That would be my mother, who trained all three of us to drive.

My mother firmly believed that a beginning driving student should learn to drive a stick shift, which would give them the capability of driving any car. My sister Phylis was about 15-1/2 years old when my parents traded in their automatic car for a new one with a clutch. That was the car that we three sisters, one by one, learned to drive on.

After Phylis learned to drive and successfully obtained her license, it was my turn. One of the most pleasant experiences during my high school years was my mother teaching me to drive. Although there were many areas in my life where she didn't want me to succeed, driving was not one of them. I had often wondered why my mother didn't want me to have friends, didn't want me to go to college, didn't want me to be anyone's favorite, and wanted to control and dominate my every thought and action. It would not be for many years before I figured it out. I believe she wanted me to learn to drive because she wanted me to be independent enough to get around on my own without her having to drive me everywhere. We lived a couple of miles from Norwich and six miles from Hartford High School, which is where we went to high school.

My mother was a natural-born teacher. During her last year of high school, she moved with her family to Waitsfield, Vermont, where she attended Waitsfield High School. Because she was such a good student, she won a 4-year scholarship to the University of Vermont, which she attended for two years, studying to be a teacher. Somehow she lost money that she had in the bank and felt she could no longer continue with college despite having a scholarship for the full four years. She did go on to work in several office jobs over the years, but the fact that she did not become a teacher was a loss not only to her but to all the students she would have touched with her patience and caring.

My mother was very organized and patient in the whole process of teaching me to drive. We started slowly. She clearly and carefully explained each step and didn't get upset or nervous when I didn't catch on right away. I don't recall her ever losing her temper or yelling at me. I learned from my mother to be a cooperative and considerate driver in traffic and not a competitive one. I never saw my mother have any form of road rage, and neither do I. This trait has served me well over the years.

Even though my father drove truck for a living, I don't recall that my he ever took me out for driving practice. He was far too impatient for that. I did give myself one driving lesson though using my father's big and bulky cattle dealing truck. Somehow the vehicle was parked out our driveway, and I had access to the keys. I decided to go for a joy ride one night. I guess Daddy was sleeping, and Mother wasn't home.

Not only did I not have much driving experience, but I certainly had never driven a truck before. It was windy that night, and as I was going down a hill, the cab was flapping in the wind. I thought I was going to flip the truck over. It didn't take me long to realize what a mistake I had made. To my great relief, I finally got back home safely with no damage to myself or the truck. I never did that again, and as far as I know, no one found out about my not too well thought out adventure.

Even though my mother was a great driving teacher, I didn't turn out to be such a good driver some of the time. When I moved out to California to join my husband, who was in the Air Force and stationed at Edwards Air Force Base, I was required to take a road test to get my California driver's license. I got nervous the first time I took it and failed. I also failed the second time. Ronny, my husband, took me out for a few driving lessons, and on the third try, I was finally able to pass. I'm not sure why I had such a hard time.

Ronny and I had a tumultuous relationship. I wanted to get away from my overbearing mother and got myself into a worse situation. Ronny was cruel to me, emotionally and physically. We had a big fight one day, and I fled, taking our car. He had been cruel to me, saying hurtful things, and perhaps telling me to get out of his life. I was upset and distracted and got into an accident. I was not severely injured, but the paramedics brought me to the base hospital in an ambulance. I stayed in the hospital for a couple of days for observation. Ronny felt terrible when he found out what happened and came to the hospital in tears. He said he was sorry about what happened, but the same scene played out again and again until I could take no more and left him.

Over the years, I had several fender benders, which were mostly caused by my not paying enough attention to what I was doing and becoming distracted. I never had a severe accident where I was injured. The last accident I had was in 1990 before I left New York State to move to San Bernardino, California, to get my education. This time it wasn't my fault as someone ran a red light and caused the accident. The other driver's insurance company paid me about $6000, which I used to move to California to start my life anew.

My father passed away in 1999 at the age of 74. He had been unable to provide me much support in life because of his demons. For a long time, I was angry with him for not being there for me, with no idea that it was not too late for us to have a mutually supportive relationship. I was angry with him because he died without our having resolved our misunderstandings that occurred during this lifetime.

At the time when I was living in San Bernardino, I had been attending meditation sessions where a woman by the name of Reverend Blanche was able to get messages from people who had crossed over to the other side. Something kept telling me to try to contact my father in this way, but I didn't think much would come of it. I thought he felt the same way about me on the other side as he did during our lifetime together, not paying much attention to me and certainly not coming to my defense over any issues.

I gave Rev. Blanche a picture of Daddy, which, when touched her, enabled her to achieve communication with him. To my surprise, he told her that he was watching me from the other side. Since he was not able to support me while he was alive, he is now making up for it. He told her that I was careless at times. I think he meant when I am driving, I don't pay enough attention to what I am doing. Over the past several years, I have realized that when I am not as careful as I should be, Daddy is watching out for me and keeping me safe. A couple of times, a car has slowed down or stopped in front of me, and I have suddenly realized it and braked just in time. I believe that is one of the ways Daddy is helping me.

I recently went for a psychic reading at Among Angels located in Clifton Park, New York. The medium was in touch with Daddy, who said that he had prevented me from having several accidents. Thanks, Daddy, for helping to keep me safe. I love you.

I am a much safer driver now than I ever used to be, which I owe in part to my mother's excellent driving lessons and my angel, Daddy, who is ever vigilant when I am on the road. I feel their presence and appreciate it.

MY MOTHER'S ESSENCE

Every spring in Norwich, Vermont, I looked forward to hearing my mother proclaim, "The lilacs are in bloom." We had two lilacs bushes outside our dining room window, one purple and one white, and for two weeks, we enjoyed their lovely fragrance wafting through an open window and from bouquets spread throughout the house.

Growing up on a farm in rural Vermont in the 1920s and 1930s, my mother naturally had a love of flowers. Every year she would faithfully buy several pansy plants of different colors and plant them by the house in Norwich. Mother and I both loved them as they seemed to have faces

Another favorite flower was the wild honeysuckle, which grew at the edge of the woods and had a delicate and haunting fragrance. It was fun to find these flowers as they were so beautiful.

One of my favorite flowers as a small child was the daisy. One of my aunts taught me how to determine if someone loved me by pulling off the stems of a daisy: "he loves me," "he loves me not." I was happy when the last stem said that he loved me and not so glad when the final stem declared that he loved me not. It was a fun game.

My older sister, Phylis, and I spent many summer days in the front yard of Grammie's House picking dandelions, a pretty ordinary flower, but one we thought was unique. I don't recall that they had a fragrance, but the color was bright and pretty.

I took care of my mother during her last few months of life. She was in a rehab program at a nursing facility in Troy, New York, for about a month, relearning to walk as she had inexplicably lost that ability. She did not have a stroke, so that was not the reason. After leaving the facility, she moved in with me at my home in East Greenbush, New York. I had recently moved from California to care for her in the remaining months of her life. It was an opportunity we were given to heal a longstanding karmic issue that had been going on between us for several lifetimes.

I had known throughout my life on some level that Mother and I had issues that went back far beyond this current lifetime. Our relationship was just too intense for it to be otherwise. I also came to believe that the relationship was unsalvageable this time around and had pretty much given up on any resolution.

I believe we choose our parents before birth. It is an agreement that we had before I was born. Both of us wanted to heal this relationship once and for all. I also knew it was going to be very challenging. My mother and I played out a power struggle throughout most of our lives. My mother wanted to have total power over me. She wanted me to believe that she was all-powerful, and I was fragile and depended on her for my very existence. \

One of the earliest messages that I received from my mother was that I needed to be with her at all times, and I was afraid to be without her. This fear was especially real when it came to me having the opportunity to spend the night at a girlfriend's house. I was afraid to be away from my mother overnight. Of course, this did not apply to Grammie's house because I loved to stay there. I also remember struggling to have my power and telling my mother, "You don't own me." "Oh, yes, I do," she would say with a defiant look on her face. She had a way of making me feel powerless. She also believed that for her to have power, she had to render me helpless. This belief came obviously from our karmic relationship in other lifetimes because she did not treat my sisters this way.

I recently had a reading with a medium. I addressed the question to her regarding my karmic relationship with my mother. She said that my mother and I had been twin sisters in a previous lifetime, and I was the older twin by 4 minutes and 28 seconds or something like that. My mother felt that I was the more powerful one and also the favored one, and she competed with me. This prior experience explained why she was co competitive with me and went out of her way to make sure that no one regarded me as their favorite. She would become extremely angry with other family members if she thought they were favoring me over my two sisters and told them about it.

In early November 2005, my mother had just returned from the hospital from a bout of pneumonia. The doctor in the emergency room had told me that he didn't think that she would make it. My mother's precarious health situation made her eligible for hospice treatment in the home. She returned to my house by ambulance on Thursday afternoon. November 3, 2005. The hospice nurse came and helped to get her settled.

The hospice nurse ordered a hospital bed, which the company delivered on Friday, November 4, 2005. My mother's sister, Lena, her daughter, Nancy, and son-in-law, Sean, came from Vermont to see my mother. On Friday morning, she took a turn for the worse. Her breathing became labored. I called hospice, and they came over and said that she was in the process of dying and that it would not be much longer. Her doctor put her on morphine to make her comfortable. The hospital bed was delivered, and the hospice nurse settled her in.was settled into it.

Lena had a chance to see my mother briefly before she died. They went to stay in a motel for the night. Chris came to see my mother for the last time. My mother was in the hospital bed, and I fell asleep in her bed next to her. Something woke me up quite suddenly around 4 a.m. when my mother took her last breath. She died quietly and peacefully. I called the hospice line, and they came over and got my mother ready for the undertaker to take her body away.

Almost immediately following my mother's passing, I began to sense the most beautiful fragrance of flowers that I had ever smelled. It was strikingly beautiful and lingered in my home for a couple of days. I believe this aroma was my mother's spiritual essence and was a gift given to me at her passing. The scent was coming from her spiritual nature because there was nothing else in my home to cause it. There were no flowers there, no room fresheners, and no candles. It was my mother's true essence, and it was beautiful and refreshing. I knew that she was free of her earthly afflictions and joyous in her surrender to divine love. I also know that she did not cross over alone. My father was there to accompany her, and it was him that woke me up at the time.

I had recently asked my mother what she thought was going to happen when she passed away. She seemed afraid and said she didn't know. Maybe nothing would happen, and she would just be gone. I told her that she was going to be in for a huge surprise because I believe crossing over to the other side is a blissful and tremendously peaceful experience. "Do you think so?" she asked. I said, "yes," and she seemed content with that answer.

I hoped that I would sense the fragrance of my mother's essence again, and that would be her way of thanking me for helping her pass over and that I was right after all. I was meditating a few weeks later, and I smelled the aroma. It was the most beautiful fragrance I had ever sensed. It was probably an exquisite combination of flowers, maybe even some lilac essence in it since she loved the scent of lilacs so much. She gave me the gift of smelling this aroma many times since her passing, which makes me happy.

MOTHER AND ME: A SHORT SUMMARY OF OUR LIFE TOGETHER

How can I sum up what I considered to be an exciting, complicated, challenging, but ultimately reward and fulfilling life? When contemplating this dilemma, I thought of the book "Big Russ and Me," by Tim Russert, moderator of Meet the Press from 1992 until he died in 2008. Tim Russert wrote an inspiring book about his father, Big Russ, who he admired tremendously and who had a very positive influence on his life and helped him become the successful person he was. I lamented the fact that I did not have a "Big Russ" in my life who I could write about, that is, a supportive parent who encouraged me to do my best.

However, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that my mother, in many ways, played a significant role in helping to shape the person I have come to be today, however, in a roundabout and sometimes painful way. It was a very complicated and bittersweet relationship, but I would like to focus on just one aspect of it.

I was born in 1945 in a small town in rural Vermont. I was the middle daughter of three girls born to Deane and Evelyn Atwood. My father was only 20 years old when I was born, and my mother was 23. I remember the first eight or nine years of my childhood as terrific. We were poor, but I did not realize it at the time. We lived in the country, before television, and we entertained ourselves in simple ways, going on picnics, pulling taffy, putting jigsaw puzzles together, and playing games. My mother came from a large farming family, and we spent a lot of time on the farm, eating fresh vegetables from the garden, spending time outdoors, riding horses, swimming in the lake, and skating and sledding in the winter.

Looming in the background, however, were "family secrets," that seemed to affect how family members felt about themselves and treated each other. One of these issues was the fact that on my mother's side of the family, there was a lot of mental illness. Two of my paternal grandfather's siblings committed suicide in their 20s, and one family member spent 17 years in a mental hospital before release. My paternal grandfather's mother became depressed, basically "went to bed," and stayed there for well over 20 years before she died. Also, family members described some of my grandfather's siblings as "peculiar." My grandfather most likely suffered from depression as well, but it was hard to tell because he had some health issues that left him frail appearing. If he did suffer, it was in silence. I would imagine that most of these people had a chemical imbalance that would probably today be quite successfully treated with medication. At the time, they were labeled as "crazy" by the family.

My mother went on to develop bipolar disorder, which was not treated until I was well into adulthood. Her doctors treated her with lithium and an antidepressant, which mostly controlled her symptoms. However, when I was a child, she was untreated. She did the best she could to survive and cope with an untreated chemical imbalance. I know it was tremendously difficult for her. I now realized that one of the ways she used to deal with it was through her relationship with me. So that she would not have to look at herself and her problems, she made me the scapegoat. She blamed all the insecurities she had about her life on me. We developed an intense love/hate relationship. She wanted me to be dependent on her, on the one hand, but then put me down because of this dependence.

One of the ways this manifested was in how I viewed my ability to achieve an education. I was always an outstanding student in high school, was elected to the Honor Society, and graduated with honors. For some reason, though, my mother did not want me to go to college, discouraged me from it, and encouraged me to take typing in high school so that I could get a job. So this is what I did. I took typing, became a secretary, and made my living that way for many years. Occasionally, I would think that I would like to get an education, but never really thought I could do it.

Years went by, and the relationship with my mother was as intense as ever. I wanted to make my way in the world, to be true to myself, but also to gain my mother's approval and acceptance. Gaining her support was not possible, and I later learned that the only person's consent and acceptance I needed was my own. I have always been a seeker, trying to figure out where I fit in and what my purpose in life was. I always knew I had a specific purpose but was not sure if I would ever determine what it was. But life has a way of giving you what you need and opening doors for you if you are open and receptive.

I was between jobs about 1989 and took a position as the company secretary at Albany Ladder Company in Albany, New York. Surprisingly, this turned out to be the catalyst I needed to change the direction of my life, to hone in on what my purpose was, and to fulfill it. At that time, Albany Ladder Company was owned and operated by a wonderful man named Lester Heath. He was a recovering alcoholic and had developed some self-realization programs, including "Choices," and "The Best I Can Be," which I attended.

During "The Best I Can Be" program, I had the opportunity to write my mission statement, which helped me determine my purpose in life. I wanted to become a social worker and help others heal from life traumas so that they could go on to live productive lives. I realized that I needed a college education to do this. I was 45 years old.

I decided that I needed a change in scenery and get away from the negative influences that were keeping me entrenched in the past behalf that I would not be able to go to college. I subsequently moved to San Bernardino, California, in 1991, graduated Summa Cum Laude from Cal State University at San Bernardino with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Sociology in 1998, and then obtained a Master of Social Work degree from the same school in 2001. I went on to become a Foster Care Social Worker and worked with many foster children, their birth families, and foster parents for four years. I found this work very rewarding. The experiences I gained from my childhood were invaluable in helping me work with children who were experiencing similar problems.

Throughout the years I spent in California, the relationship with my mother was about the same. We kept in contact by telephone several times a week, but I realized there was still healing that was needed. I believe she, on some level, understood this, too. Around 2005, I started to think it was time to return to New York State, which I felt was my home, and I wanted to be closer to family. My mother's health had been declining. The years of being on lithium and struggling with bipolar disorder took their toll. She and I both knew that she probably didn't have many years left, and if the healing was to occur, it needed to happen soon.

Somehow my mother seemed to know that her life was winding down even though physically, she did not have any life-threatening medical conditions. She was getting tired. I began making plans to return to New York State. I bought a condominium and planned to start my drive home in August 2005. It was becoming evident that my mother would no longer be able to live by herself. I came to believe that the best way to heal this relationship would be to help my mother in the last few months of her life. I told her to hold on until I got home, and she could come and live with me. She seemed happy about this arrangement. She told me that since I was coming back, she would wait until I got here. She did not want to die alone in a nursing home.

In the meantime, my mother was developing nerve damage and muscle atrophy, and her neurologist thought it would be a good idea to take her off lithium. Unfortunately, this exacerbated the mania part of the bipolar disorder, and she had a psychotic break. She was in a precarious state. I got a frantic phone call from my daughter that my mother was not able to walk. My daughter and son took her to the hospital, and it was unclear how much longer she would live. I left almost immediately (July 19, 2005), not knowing if my mother would still be alive when I got there. The doctors said that my mother was in such poor condition that she would need to go to a nursing home. She could not walk and would be unable to be cared for at home.

However, my mother is a strong and determined woman and pulled herself together enough within a day to qualify to go to a rehabilitative facility where she learned to walk again so that she could go home with me rather than to a nursing home. She stayed at the rehab facility in Troy, New York, underwent physical therapy, and could ambulate with the assistance of a walker. She went home with me to my new condo in early September 2005.

We were able to heal our relationship, and the two months that we spent together before she passed away of pneumonia were the best two months we had together since I was a young child. She became very child-like, in a sweet and precious way, and many of the hang-ups, insecurities, fears, and preoccupations that had plagued her throughout her life had mercifully faded away. Her personality and ego were gone, and all that was left was her pure spirit. We laughed a lot together, and it was a gratifying experience for both my mother and me.

She died peacefully at 4 a.m. on November 5, 2005, with me at her side, the end of a very complex and bittersweet relationship. She was free, and finally at peace. I was free, too. There was a lot of pain in that relationship, but so much love. I have come to realize that my mother had a profound effect on my life, that I have the strength and determination to persevere, and never give up no matter how difficult life seems to be.

This power s the legacy my mother left in me. I have become a much more compassionate and understanding person, and this has served me well in working with people who are going through struggles also. It has helped me to realize how meaningful family relationships are, that even though we do not have the choice of who our family will be, that we can make the best of it. Once the difficulties I faced were overcome and healed, I used the lessons I learned to help others. But most of all, I have come to believe that once all the fears and negative were gone, the only thing left was love. And that is a gift.

STIGMA OF MENTAL ILLNESS continued

Being admitted to a mental hospital in those days for many was a shameful thing. The book Empty Beds, page 100, succinctly stated this: "If a person received a lengthy commitment to VSH (Vermont State Hospital) it was a given that to be there was to be, by definition, an unfit member of society to be removed from the Vermont gene pool. It is no wonder that being committed to Waterbury was one of the worst things that could happen to a person or that person's family."

At any rate, it was abundantly clear to me as I grew up as part of the Phillips extended family that being "crazy" was a bad thing. I certainly didn't want that label, nor did my mother or anyone else in the family. I recall the stories about Gratia and Mark and Agnes and Helen that were whispered and talked about in hushed tones, but a frequent topic of conversation. Sometimes Grammie Phillips would say something like, "Did you hear about Don (Grandpa's younger brother)? He's having mental problems". Also, Aunt Clara and Aunt Esther were designated as I "odd" or "weird" at times by Grammie Phillips. She might have even used the word "crazy" to label them. It was almost a given in Grammie's mind that if you belonged to Grandpa Phillips' family that you had something distinctly wrong with you mentally.

I grew up with this mindset, as my mother had adopted this attitude toward mental illness. She would often relate the story of her grandmother, who "went to bed and never got up again," Aunt Helen, who was in an insane asylum for 17 years, Mark, who committed suicide, and of course, then there was poor Agnes. I often wonder if Grammie Phillips planted these ideas in her mind and hinted that she might be "crazy."

I grew up hearing such things as: "Do I have to take you to a psychiatrist?" (meaning I'm crazy, but the last option in the world she would even consider doing was taking me to a psychiatrist). Or "you're going to give me a nervous breakdown!" (my mother had mental health issues including depression and later bipolar disorder with psychotic features, but she was way too strong a person to have any kind of a breakdown). Or I would hear the phrase "You're just like your Aunt Helen," which was flung at me in disgust many times during my childhood. That led to the fear in me that she would have me committed to a mental institution like Aunt Helen and that I must be a very evil, awful person.

Last January 2015, the last of my mother's sisters (Aunt Lena) passed away. I had an on-again/off-again relationship with Aunt Lena, and she was often quite mean to me as I grew up. She was one of the ones who thought of me as "crazy" and didn't mind telling me how worthless I was and telling everyone else who would listen.

Even so, I have some fond memories of my earlier years with Lena when she used to pay a lot of attention to me. I remember one lovely summer where I went up to visit for a week, and she was quite pleasant to me. One of the things I remember doing was picking fresh raspberries. At any rate the last few years of her life, I made it a point to visit her. She lived longer than I would have expected given the state of her health, and every time I would plan on visiting her, I would inwardly wonder if she was still alive.

The last time I was going to visit her, I called her phone number, and no one answered. An hour later, Tom Brazier (Aunt Lena's son) called me, and I assumed that he had noticed my phone number on caller ID and was calling me back. Aunt Lena had just passed away, and he was calling me to tell me. Interestingly, I had called her within an hour of her passing.

I traveled to Vermont to attend her funeral. I felt I was the only one of my sisters who would be able to make the trip, and I wanted to represent our side of the family and also respect my mother's memory. I'm glad I went because I was only one of a few from the family who was there. Denise (Aunt Marion's daughter) was there. Eleanor (Aunt Virginia's daughter) was not there.

Soon after I sat down in one of the front pews of the church, a nice-looking gentleman walked in. He looked familiar to me, but I didn't quite know who he was. He introduced himself to me as Don Phillips (his father was my grandfather's brother), and so he was my second cousin. He also didn't recognize me as he didn't know my mother, Evelyn, and didn't get to know Aunt Lena or Aunt Marion until much later in life, having only rarely visited their side of the family when he was growing up.

Don Phillips got up and told about how important family was to him and how he had gotten to know Aunt Lena in the last maybe 20 years. I was touched by what he said and decided I wanted to touch base with him before I headed back home near Albany, New York. It was snowing heavily, but I made it a point to sit down with Don. I wanted to find out how he dealt with the stigma of having so much mental illness on his side of the family and how he felt about Aunt Helen. He surprised me to no end by talking about Aunt Helen in a very positive way and not in a stigmatizing way as I had heard my whole life.

I knew that Don had lived in Waterbury (location of Vermont State Hospital), and I felt that he surely had heard about the stigma of being "crazy." I didn't know that his mother, Ruth Phillips, was an R.N. and worked for 28 years as a nurse at the Vermont State Hospital. He was proud to tell me that his mother had been instrumental in achieving the goal of having Aunt Helen be one of the first 100 patients who were placed in a rehabilitation program and successfully discharged from the hospital. He said that Aunt Helen went on to get a job (taking care of an older woman and housekeeping) and maintained her living quarters with the support of her son Phillip who lived in Burlington, Vermont.

When I asked him about the stigma, he said he never felt any disgrace, that his mother was very understanding about people with mental illness. She didn't ever talk disparagingly about Aunt Helen or anyone else who was mentally ill. She never used the word "crazy." He also said that his father was a very kind, soft-spoken man who never said an unkind thing against anyone. Not having been exposed to my grandfather's family growing up, he had no way of knowing how his wife (Bertha) felt about mental illness and was surprised to hear that she felt as strongly about the subject as she did.

I was glad I had the opportunity to connect with Don Phillips and to realize that not everyone feels the same way about a particular issue, even one like mental illness, and not everyone is stigmatized. He was able to give me a more balanced view of Aunt Helen, and I became curious to find out more about her life, both as an inpatient at a state mental hospital for 17 years, and her rehabilitation. I had only heard negative things about Aunt Helen, and I was hungry to hear about her recovery, so I embarked on a journey to find out all I could. I am pleased to be able to tell such a fascinating story.

If my mother were to say to me today, "You're just like your Aunt Helen," I would have to say thank you. That is because I came to learn that Aunt Helen overcame great difficulties to rebuild a life for herself and that above all else, she was a survivor. No longer stigmatized by her, I am proud to have her as one of my ancestors. I believe I gained some of the strength I acquired along the way during my tumultuous life from her.

STIGMA OF MENTAL ILLNESS

I grew up in rural Vermont with a marked stigma of mental illness, although "crazy" was the favored term used. Being crazy meant that there was something intrinsically wrong with you, that you were an evil, defective person, not deserving of understanding, love, or respect. For this reason, no one wanted to be labeled "the crazy one," but it was inevitable that someone would be. That person was me. Ever since I can remember, my relatives considered me "sensitive," that I couldn't handle things, that there was something wrong with me, that I was "crazy."

Of late, I have begun to wonder where this stigma originated. Did it start with my grandmother Phillips, my mother's mother? I know she felt that someone who was "crazy" was not a fit member of the human race, that they were not to be respected or understood. I know that she thought there was something wrong with her husband's side of the family, the Phillips family, that many of them were "crazy" or at least a little odd or different. But where did this originate?

Grammie and Grandpa Phillips got married on June 8, 1921, at Grammie's family home in Warren. Grandpa's younger brother, Don, was the best man, and Grammie's sister, Celia, was the matron of honor. At the time of their marriage, did Grammie think there was something wrong with the Phillips family, or did that feeling evolve?

I have a photograph of Gratia and Don Emory Phillips taken in 1920 in which Gratia was standing by her husband, which might have been one of the last photos taken with Gratia standing. At around the time of Grammie and Grandpa Phillips' marriage in June 1921 or shortly after, Grandpa's mother, Gratia, had taken to her bed and began living as an invalid. She was to continue bedbound for the rest of her life. Gratia had experienced a breakdown and was unable to cope with being a farm wife and the mother of eight.

She was undoubtedly profoundly depressed and had difficulty functioning. Her doctor advised bed rest for a couple of weeks. Gratia took to her bed and never got up again to lead an active life. She became a self-imposed invalid and remained that way for almost 20 years. She was taken care of by her children, including Esther and Don, and later on by various married children, including Grammie and Grandpa Phillips, who took her into their home. She eventually ended up in Vermont State Hospital until she died in 1939.

So around the time of their marriage in 1921, there were visible signs of some kind of familial mental disorder in Gratia, perhaps in other members as Grammie Phillips frequently remarked that Gratia's daughters, Clara and Esther, were "a little odd." Also, in Vermont and the United States as a whole, there was a definite stigma towards mental illness. The eugenics movement, which was active in the 1920s, exacerbated this stigma. Dr. E. A. Stanley, superintendent of Vermont State Hospital in Waterbury from 1918 to 1936, was a member of the Advisory Committee of the Eugenics Survey of Vermont. The American Eugenics Society defined eugenics as "the science of the improvement of the human race by better breeding." (p. 99, Empty Beds: A History of Vermont State Hospital).

The purpose of the Vermont Survey was to gather information to determine if individual families in Vermont had taken up more than their share of the attention and money of the state for poor relief and institutional care. Genealogies were collected and published listing offenses, defects, and names. The entire purpose was to protect society from the "unfit." The unfit included those deemed insane or those "endowed with less than enough brains to make their way in the world." (p. 100, Empty Beds). So this was the mindset in Vermont at the time, pretty negative stuff about being mentally ill, that is, being an unfit member of society, which partially explains to me where the stigma may have originated.

According to Mad in America, there was a belief at the beginning of the 20th century that the severely mentally ill were carriers of defective "germplasm," and therefore posed a dangerous threat to the future health of American society. The book described the mentally ill as "a degenerate strain of humanity, 'social wastage' that bred at alarming rates and burdened 'normal' Americans with the high expense of paying for their upkeep (forcibly committed to state mental hospitals in ever-higher numbers up until the 1960s)." Americans believed that insanity was inherited, and American eugenicists wanted to prevent the mentally ill from having children and thus began the practice of segregating the insane into asylums.

Shockingly, I read in Mad in America that the United States had once entertained the notion of killing the insane as a way to handle the problem. This idea was first raised in 1911 by Charles Davenport. Although he generally argued against killing the unfit, he wrote that if society had to choose between allowing mental defectives to procreate and killing them, the latter would be the preferable alternative.

Five years later, Madison Grant, a founder of the American Eugenics Society, stated in his book The Passing of the Great Race, "The Laws of Nature require the obliteration of the unfit, and human life is valuable only when it is of use to the community or race. A great injury is done to the community by the perpetuation of worthless types." Grant characterized the mentally ill as "social wastage," "malignant biological growths," and "poisonous slime." It is little wonder that Grammie Phillips had such a negative view of the mentally ill. I wonder when she fully developed the belief that the Phillips family was defective in such a manner.

My sister Phylis recently sent me an e-mail that Aunt Marion (my mother's youngest sister) had sent her in 2003 expressing concerns about mental illness coming down five generations from the Phillips' side of the family. The e-mail reads as follows: ". . . new evidence is coming in which might suggest that my great-grandmother Gratia Phillips, who is the 'genetic funnel'" (my term) through whom a propensity for neurological and psychiatric illness come down through five generations, suffered from early-onset Alzheimer's disease, as well as depression. I have known about her since 1995, but it was only recently that I realized the dates of the onset of her problems were wrong. I also didn't know, until this past weekend, that Gratia died in a state mental hospital, where I'm hoping there are some records which will tell me more than I now know. Without going into detail, let's say that this latest piece of medical detective work has been a real challenge to me. There are few people still living who remember what she was like, and even fewer with memories for exact historical details (year of birth, death, etc.). Luckily, my lifelong fascination with cemeteries and cemetery art has given me some of that information."

So it is clear from that e-mail that there was great fear among the family of inheriting a genetic predisposition for mental illness. An interesting side note is that Don Phillips inquired about the records from Vermont State Hospital. The personnel of Vermont State Hospital told him that personal information about particular patients would never be released, not even to family members. So exactly what happened to Gratia and Helen at the Vermont State Hospital will never be revealed to interested parties.

In 1932, Mark Phillips (Grandpa's younger brother) committed suicide by shooting himself. Grandpa was 37 at the time. Don Emory Phillips (Grandpa's father) had passed away in 1928, and my grandfather was probably there on the farm, helping to keep it going. Mark wrote a note and left it for my grandfather, "I'm going to go shoot at a mark" (a play on words as he shot himself). My grandfather was the one who found him, and it was a shock that he never talked about, but never quite got over either.

Later on, unclear how long after Mark's suicide, but in the same year, Agnes (the youngest of the children in Grandpa's immediate family) was so distraught over Mark's suicide that she threw herself in the Mad River in an attempt to end her life. She was rescued and revived, went on to develop pneumonia, and having given up on life herself stopped eating and reportedly died of a "broken heart."

It is unknown what led Mark to end his life and Agnes to give up, but they must have been in a tremendous amount of emotional pain to resort to such drastic measures. Perhaps they were depressed and just couldn't see a reasonable way out or any hope for the future. It fueled the flames of seeing members of the Phillips family as "crazy" with something genetically defective about them. I certainly heard about Mark and Agnes since I was a child, mostly in whispers and hushed tones. Grammie Phillips did not portray empathy about them, just regarded as having something drastically wrong with them.

At least once during the period of Grammie and Grandpa Phillips' marriage (possibly more than once), Gratia moved into their home, and it was Grammie's responsibility to care for her. She had nothing but disdain and disgust for Gratia, who was a very demanding person and wanted everything "just so." My mother often said that Grammie would try to keep her away from Gratia because of her domineering ways so as not to upset my mother.

The family also suggested that Gratia would get up at night when everyone was asleep. Everyone in the family knew there was nothing physically wrong with her and that she was a self-imposed invalid. She was a burden, but she somehow compelled others to take care of her. Gratia eventually ran out of options and became confined to Vermont State Hospital. She died there in 1939, probably after wearing out her welcome at the homes of her children.

The same year as Gratia died, my grandfather's sister, Helen, was admitted to Vermont State Hospital after suffering a complete breakdown (she had given birth to 9 children in 11 years, and this may have contributed to the collapse). She was confined to Vermont State Hospital for 17 years before being released in 1957. If there was ever any question in Grammie Phillips' mind about the mental status and genetic makeup of the Phillips family, the fact the authorities admitted Helen to a psychiatric hospital put the finishing touches on it.

NOT EVERYONE STIGMATIZES MENTAL ILLNESS

I grew up with such a strong stigma of mental illness and the fear of either being crazy or being perceived as such, that I assumed that everyone on the Phillips' side of the family most likely felt the same way. I thought this would be especially true for those who were the most closely involved with the mentally ill member of the family. I also believed that everyone that was genetically linked to anyone named Phillips would have, by default, mental health concerns. I was wrong.

A few years ago, I attended the funeral of my Aunt Lena. She was the last of the five daughters of Clayton and Bertha Phillips to pass away. She was the middle girl of the family. She was also one of those in the family who felt there was something wrong with me, in more ways than one, but definitely that I was "sensitive." I have on more than one occasion heard her refer to one or more of her sister Betty's children as "crazy" with a disgusted look on her face. When asked to describe this further, she said, "well, he's just plain crazy."

I have come to believe that this strong feeling about being "crazy" that permeated my life must have started with Grammie Phillips. After she married Grandpa in 1921, one by one, members of his family began to exhibit signs of mental illness. It wasn't too long after their marriage that Grandpa's mother, Gratia, became overwhelmed by life's circumstances (raising eight children and being a farmwife) and had a mental breakdown. Her doctor advised her to have bed rest for a couple of weeks. She never got up again, and her children and family and later on, Vermont State Hospital took care of her. Grammie Phillips was one of those who cared for her in her home (even though everyone knew that there was no physical reason why she couldn't get up and take care of herself). She was already busy raising her family of five girls and performing the chores of a farmwife, which was hard work back then in the 1920s.

In 1932 Grandpa Phillips' brother Mark committed suicide by shooting himself and arranging for Grandpa to find him out by the barn at the home of Don Emory Phillips (Grandpa's father). Shortly after that, Agnes was so distraught that she threw herself into the Mad River in an attempt to end her life, was rescued, but later perished after a bout of pneumonia and refusing to eat. These events added fuel to the belief on Grammie's part that there was something wrong with the Phillips' bloodline.

In 1939 Aunt Helen was admitted to Waterbury State Hospital after suffering a psychotic break following the birth of her last child, Jack. So with all this background about the mental health of various members of Grandpa's family, the stigma was born. This stigma was apparent in the part of the family that I knew. I grew up with the beliefs and attitudes of Grammie Phillips, my aunts, and my mother, who were all disgusted by and afraid of being "crazy." This fear became a part of my belief system and what I dreaded the most. So I naturally thought that all members of the family felt the same way.

Fast forward to the time when I attended Aunt Lena's funeral. Don Phillips (Grandpa Phillips' nephew) was there. He is Aunt Helen's nephew. Don also grew up in Waterbury. I felt he was close to the situation of what was going on with Aunt Helen. After the funeral at the reception, I was anxious to talk to him and get his perspective on the family's legacy of mental illness, thinking that it would be the same as mine.

When I asked Don about Aunt Helen, I was surprised at what he said because it was something I had never heard before. He did not act as if there was something inherently wrong with Aunt Helen or anyone else in the family. He said that she was committed to a mental institution for a long time, but he stressed the fact that she was able to be rehabilitated back in the community, held down a job, and lived a productive and happy life for 25 years.

He also told me how his mother, Ruth, was an R.N. who worked at the Vermont State Hospital for 28 years and was there during part of the time that Aunt Helen was there. Ruth was instrumental in recommending that Aunt Helen be part of the first 100 patients at the Vermont State Hospital who participated in the rehabilitation program who were released from the hospital. He also went on to say that his mother, Ruth, held many Sunday dinners at her home in Waterbury after Helen was released to help Helen integrate back into a life on the outside. Several of her sons were in attendance at these dinners.

Meeting Don was the first time I had ever heard anything positive about Aunt Helen. Where Grammie Phillips talked about her, she focused on the fact that she was in a mental institution for 17 years but then dismissed the value and importance of what she did to be able to live life outside of the institution. After 17 years, she was quite institutionalized. She was required to do certain things to get along in the hospital and was told every move to make daily. She had to do these things because of where she was.

But no one in my immediate family ever admired her for being able to leave the institutional setting and behave as every other person does. This truth was astonishing to me. I finally learned the truth after so many years of hearing negative talk about her. Don didn't hold a negative view of Aunt Helen but truly respected her.

He also talked about Aunt Helen's mother, Gratia, and the fact that she went to bed for almost 20 years. He acknowledged that this was not normal, but understood that she was in a great deal of pain, and this was how she chose to deal with it, to withdraw from life, and be taken care of instead of being an active participant. However, he did not judge her.

We also talked about Mark and Agnes and the fact that they were so disappointed with life that they felt it was not worth living, and they both chose to end it rather than face their demons and go on. I have been in a lot of pain many times in my life, but I can honestly say that I never even thought about taking my own life. So the pain they felt must have been beyond belief. Don realized that and conveyed that to me. He is a very kind man, understanding, and nonjudgmental.

It became quite apparent to me that Don and his side of the family thought entirely differently about this whole issue of mental illness than the part of the family with whom I was most familiar. And the intriguing thing about this is that there seemed to be two distinct parts of the Phillips family. They didn't interact much with each other throughout the years. Don Phillips did not know his cousins, my grandfather Clayton's daughters, including Lena and Marion. He somehow got connected with them later in life, and they developed a lovely relationship later on. That is the reason why Don Phillips was attending Lena's funeral and also why I didn't know him very well myself. When asked if Don knew my mother, he said no, he didn't, nor did he remember my father. So the two families didn't interact with each other for many years. I wondered why.

When I asked Don why this was, he said that they were busy working on the farm in Waterbury and had to be back home in time to milk the cows and so couldn't go off far away to visit other relatives. I do recall growing up and not seeing this part of the family at all. I vaguely recall that Grandpa had a younger brother named Don but don't remember seeing him much. At one point, my family and I lived in Waterbury for a short time while Daddy worked as a farmhand on the Farr farm. It was probably in 1951 and maybe 1952 at the latest.

I do also recall that we went to visit Uncle Don and his family at their farm in Waterbury at least once. I have a vivid memory of this visit etched in my mind. I recall a large, pleasant white farmhouse on the right of the driveway off the road. I remember that the farm and house seemed to be a cut above what I was used to when visiting Grammie's house. Right across the driveway, there was a large playhouse for Rita (Don's sister and Uncle Don and Aunt Ruth's daughter). I was so totally impressed with the fact that someone had their private playhouse that I never forgot it. I can still see it in my mind (even though I am not a very visual person).

I also thought Rita (who was a few years older than me) was so beautiful and wonderful. Wow!! I remember sitting in a large sitting room and talking to the family. I do not remember meeting "Donnie" (my second cousin, who is about one year younger than me – I would have been about six and he about five). But that's the only memory I have of interacting with that family during my growing up and later years until I met Don in early 2015.

It was enlightening to me to know that not everyone felt that mental illness was a stigma and that being "crazy" was not synonymous with being evil, miserable, and hopeless. I also got a new look at an old story—that is the story of Aunt Helen. I became very interested in this story and determined to find out what life was like for Aunt Helen. I embarked on this journey wholeheartedly and was delighted to find many sources of information concerning Aunt Helen's stay in the hospital and what her rehabilitation might have been. I will gladly tell this story in the pages of this memoir. It is her story, but it also my mother's story, and mine, too.

AUNT HELEN

I've heard whispers about my great Aunt Helen (Grandpa Phillips' sister) as long as I can remember. Nothing positive that I can recall was ever said about her in my presence. I heard that she spent 17 years in Waterbury (Vermont State Hospital) because she was "crazy." She was "locked up in a loony bin," "in a crazy house," and was kind of a pariah, someone who was talked about and then dismissed as unimportant, just another "crazy" person that came from the Phillips side of the family. At least that's how it appeared to me.

Grammie Phillips, my mother, and her four sisters did most of the talking. Every once in a while if I got too far out of line, my mother would very disparagingly say to me, "you're just like Aunt Helen," or "do you want to end up like your poor Aunt Helen," as if that is as low as anybody could sink.

Of course, I was afraid I was going to end up like Aunt Helen, locked away in an "insane asylum" because everyone seemed to think I was crazy. I was afraid I was heading in that direction also. I came to believe that I was mad, and everyone else seemed to think I was. Indeed, I might as well have been. It took me a long time to realize that I am perfectly healthy mentally. I did have a lot of problems I faced as a teenager and young adult growing up. These were not necessarily because of mental illness (although depression and chemical imbalance certainly played a role), but due to some life circumstances that I was facing.

Of late, I have become quite interested in Aunt Helen's story. I want to tell it in a balanced way as it related to my mother and I. We all faced the stigma of mental illness in the family. It affected all of our lives in profound ways. A few years ago, I met Don Phillips (my second cousin and nephew of Aunt Helen). He relayed an entirely different view of the circumstances of Aunt Helen's life. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that not everyone in the family viewed her in a negative way that I had often heard.

Don's mother, Ruth Phillips, was a nurse for many years at the Vermont State Hospital in Waterbury. She had understanding and compassion for those with mental illness who were confined, away from friends and family. She indeed never viewed them as "crazy" or "throwaways." She was Aunt Helen's sister-in-law and was very supportive of her.

Aunt Helen was born the third to the last child out of eight to a farming couple, Don Emory Phillips and Gratia Freeman Phillips, on January 8, 1907. Not much is known about her childhood, although when she was about 13 or 14, her mother Gratia became somehow overwhelmed by her life, working as a farmwife, and raising eight children. She most likely became quite depressed and was advised by her doctor to have bed rest for a couple of weeks.

Gratia, however, never got up again as a functioning member of her family. She became a self-imposed invalid at that time, necessitating her children, particularly Aunt Esther, her oldest daughter (eight years older than Helen) and Uncle Don, her third son, and born after Aunt Esther to care for her. The dynamic of the family changed with Gratia becoming dependent, and the older children needing to take on more adult roles. This situation must have been challenging for everyone concerned.

When Helen was about 18 years old, she met her future husband, Winfield Dalley. I wonder if Helen may have seen him as a way out of a stressful family situation; however, this is mere conjecture on my part. At any rate, when Helen turned 19, she and Winfield got married. They quite possibly eloped. Helen wrote a note to her parents, brothers, and sisters, apologizing for the marriage and stating they "Mr. and Mrs. Winfield Dalley” were leaving for their honeymoon.

Over the next 11 years, Helen gave birth to nine children (her oldest Winfield was born in November 1927, and her youngest Clayton (Jack) was born in June 1938). She had eight living children to care for (a baby girl named Dorothea died at birth in August 1935). Like her mother before her, she became overwhelmed and unable to care for these children. Few details are available as to exactly what happened, but Helen had a complete breakdown. Her husband, Winfield, was a drinker and away from home a great deal of the time as a truck driver. He was, therefore, not much support.

Her illness reportedly began after Eugene (her next to the last child) was born in September of 1936. It will never be known definitively, but I believe that she had postpartum psychosis. Symptoms of postpartum psychosis can include delusions and strange beliefs, hallucinations (at one point, she thought she was a polar bear), decreased need for or ability to sleep, etc. This type of illness is rare, but the most significant risk factor is a family history of bipolar disorder. (My mother had bipolar disorder, and this undoubtedly occurred in previous generations of the family.) The doctor warned her husband that if she had any more children, she would lose her mind. My mother and Aunt Virginia visited her once before Jack was born, and she was acting strange even then, wandering around during the middle of the night, etc.

Robert (her second to the oldest son) recalls sitting on the steps of their home when he was ten years old, and "they" (the state) came and took his mother away to Waterbury (Vermont State Hospital). The eight children were divided up among relatives and other families to be taken care of, and Aunt Helen began a 17-year stint at the Vermont State Hospital. She was undoubtedly diagnosed with schizophrenia as she had experienced a break from reality and the inability to care for herself or her children.

I believe schizophrenia was a common diagnosis at the time (1939), and many of those admitted to Vermont State Hospital were diagnosed with it. I'll never be able to prove this, but I believe that she had postpartum psychosis. Today postpartum psychosis is recognized as a temporary and treatable condition that is considered an emergency and requires immediate professional help.

I do not believe Aunt Helen had schizophrenia. One of the reasons is that after she was released from Vermont State Hospital, she was able to be rehabilitated and participate as an active member of society. Helen wrote letters at that time (some of which I have read) and did not show any signs of disordered thinking. I think the symptoms she exhibited when she was admitted to Vermont State Hospital were similar to someone with schizophrenia. Helen could have been misdiagnosed and may have instead had a short-lived illness. Unfortunately, she spent 17 years of her life in confinement at a mental hospital before being released back into society.

GROWING UP PHILLIPS

For the most part, I had a delightful and fun-filled early childhood and have many happy memories of it. My mother was the oldest of five daughters born to Clayton and Bertha Phillips, who owned a small farm in Berlin, Vermont, where they eked out a subsistence living. Also, three boys lived there, my mother's cousins, and helped out with the farm work. My best years were when my mother, father, myself, and two sisters lived on a small farm in Orange, Vermont, about 15 miles from my grandparents' farm which we lovingly referred to as "Grammie's House" where we happily looked forward to visiting often.

With four teenage girls left at home after my mother and father got married, when we visited Grammie's house, everyone who lived there showered us with love, affection, and attention. Our aunts and second cousins played endlessly with us. We spent many hours romping outside in the fresh country air. There was no doubt in my mind that everyone loved me, and some people even believed I was the favorite child.

Holidays were especially meaningful as many relatives, including great aunts and uncle, filled Grammie's house. Grammie Phillips could put on quite a feast consisting of roast turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, canned or fresh vegetables from the garden, pies, and puddings. Everyone appeared happy and seemingly got along well with each other.

This family togetherness was somewhat of a façade. Deep-seated fear permeated the undersurface of this family, a fear of being labeled "crazy." Gradually long-kept Phillips family secrets revealed themselves. Stories were told in hushed tones in the evening when the adults gathered together. Lying in bed before sleep, coming from the living room, I could hear a loud buzz of many people talking at once and seemingly no one listening. Occasionally everyone would stop talking and pay attention as one of the secrets came out.

Grandpa Phillips had already gone to bed as he had to be up early to start the chores. The stories I remember most vividly always seemed to be about members of his side of the family. Grammie Phillips believed that they were all "crazy" and my mothers and aunts seemed to agree. The term "crazy" was used in a very derogatory way, denoting evil, disgust, and hopeless cases. None of the people who talked about it ever referred to the kinder and more accurate term of "mental illness."

The stories went something like this. Grandpa Phillips' mother had a large family and couldn't cope with taking care of them. She was depressed and advised bed rest by her family doctor for two weeks. She never got up again, became a self-imposed invalid leaving family members with the burden of taking care of her for many years, and finally ending up in The Vermont State Hospital for the Insane in Waterbury, Vermont until she passed away.

"Wasn't that something. Dad's mother didn't want to take care of her family, so she gave up and went to bed for the rest of her life," said my mother.

"Yeah, and I was one of the ones who had to take care of her," lamented Grammie Phillips.

Another story concerned Aunt Helen, one of Grandpa's sisters. She was married to a truck driver who was on the road much of the time. Aunt Helen bore nine children in 11 years. She became incapable of caring for them and had a complete nervous breakdown. She undoubtedly had postpartum psychosis. The authorities detained her, and they admitted her to The Vermont State Hospital. The personnel at the hospital diagnosed her with schizophrenia, deemed her incompetent, and unfit to live in society. They confined her there for 17 years.

Three of her sons, Robert, Eugene, and Jack, came to live with Grandpa and Grammie Phillips and helped my grandfather with the daily farm chores until they each graduated from high school and joined the military. Poor Aunt Helen was labeled crazy by Grammie Phillips's side of the family and vilified.

Then there was the story of Mark, Grandpa Phillips' younger brother.

"Do you know what he said to Dad? 'I'm going to go out back and shoot at a mark,'" whispered my Aunt Virginia.

"Yeah, then Dad went to check on Mark and found him dead after he shot himself in the head. He shot at a 'mark' all right," replied Aunt Lena.

"Poor Dad. That's when his hair turned white overnight from the shock," Aunt Betty continued the story.

Aunt Marion finished the story off by adding, "As if that wasn't bad enough, his sister Agnes threw herself in the river. That didn't kill her, but she got pneumonia from it, quit eating, and starved herself to death that very same year. What a crazy family."

Hearing these stories again and again had a profound effect on me. As I started school, family members who I thought loved me seemingly changed their minds about me. I began to be labeled as "sensitive" by my mother and aunts, who seemed to think I was mentally fragile somehow. The label given to Aunt Helen left me convinced that I didn't want to be labeled that way.

Around the third grade, I began to become depressed. The first time my mother accused me of being "just like Aunt Helen," I knew I was in trouble. I became very fearful as I didn't know what would become of me, and I felt so alone.

MARK AND AGNES PHILLIPS

Mark and Agnes were the two youngest children born to my great grandparents, Don Emory Phillips and Gratia Freeman Phillips. Mark was born in 1909 and Agnes in 1911. It is sad to say that they both met untimely deaths, the entire circumstances of which are not now known.

My grandfather, Clayton, was 37 years old and was helping out on his father's farm. Mark had left a cryptic note which read something like this, "I'm going out back and shoot at a mark." Wondering what he meant by that, Grandpa went out to check and found that Mark had committed suicide by shooting himself. My grandfather was so shocked by this experience that within two days, his entire head of hair turned pure white. No one knows for sure why Mark decided to end his own life, but my feeling is that he suffered from the same chemical imbalance as many of the people on the Phillips side of the family and became so depressed and sad that he saw no other way out. Maybe there was another precipitating event, but no one knows for sure. Mark was only 23 years old.

Agnes, his younger sister, was so upset by this that she too tried to commit suicide by jumping in the river. She did survive this but soon developed pneumonia. I recall hearing in whispers that Agnes gave up and stopped eating, essentially starving herself to death. She was 21 years old. She, too, could see no reason for going on and was brokenhearted over what Mark had done.

So Mark and Agnes became a part of the fear that permeated the family on my mother's side regarding mental illness, which was always referred to by Grammie Phillips and others as being "crazy." They were part of the legacy I faced while growing up, of being afraid of being the one who was labeled "crazy" and what that would mean for my future.

THE THINGS WE CARRIED FROM ORANGE TO FLORIDA

When I was a little girl, we lived on a small farm in Orange, Vermont. That was the first place I recall living in and the first place I remember leaving behind.

My mother, father, two sisters Phylis and Joyce, and I were going to drive down to DeLand, Florida, to live with my grandparents. I must have been about five years old at the time, and Phylis was six, as she was in the first grade, and I hadn't started school yet. This trek was one of many times that Daddy changed locations and jobs to try and find out where he fit into the world.

We had a big driveway, and we had spread many of our possessions out over the grass. Mother was picking things up and looking at them. "Should we bring this or leave it behind?" Like the Joad family in The Grapes of Wrath, we had a lot of junk that probably wasn't worth much at all. I recall my mother picking up a child's teapot from a tea set and wondering whether to bring it. I'm pretty sure it got left behind. I don't recall having many toys, but we probably brought a few with us.

Our clothes were humble, also, probably well worn and threadbare. In the photos of me as a little girl, I wore ugly brown shoes that were high-topped and laced up in the front of my ankles. They served the purpose but weren't very attractive. Mother brought her house dresses and aprons, Daddy, his work clothes. My sisters and I brought a few outfits each, some simple dresses.

We struggled in Orange, trying to make ends meet as we were quite poor and probably made quite a sight traveling down to Florida in a used car full of meager belongings and the hope for a better future. I was a very active child and quite a handful. It seemed that my parents worried less about what we were going to bring and more about keeping me occupied on a long trip to Florida.

Hard as it is to conceive of now, their solution was to let me bounce back and forth from the front seat to the back seat for exercise and to keep me busy. I don't recall doing that (I hope not), but I distinctly remember the discussion, which was a common issue for my mother. That is, how to keep me still in situations that required it and finding it quite a challenge.

I AM MY MUSE

I recently read a quote from Frida Kahlo, who was a painter in Mexico, and spent much time alone because of polio as a child and later sustained devastating injuries from a bus and trolley accident. "I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone because I am the person I know best." She used her alone time to her advantage and became a famous painter.

I had what I considered to be a happy childhood up until about the third grade. I was active and full of energy. I was the middle daughter of three girls. We lived on a small farm in Orange, Vermont, and had a large extended family in the area that we all felt particularly close to and loved visiting. I knew my grandparents, aunts, and cousins loved me, and they showered me with attention.

Life seemed magical to me. Everything fascinated me from wildflowers, animals, playing outside in the fresh Vermont air to the people in my life. My mother was particularly good at entertaining us with simple activities, such as reading fairy tales, pulling taffy, sledding in the winter, and my world seemed fantastic. I knew who I was when I was a happy little girl.

That all gradually changed. All the members of my family who I knew adored, one by one, seemed to change their mind about me, which baffled and frightened me. Of course, there were problems in the family of which I was not aware. My father was an alcoholic from his teenage years, and this was very problematic for my mother. They used to fight about this and other issues endlessly.

There was a strong history of mental illness on the paternal side of my mother's family. At the time, there was a stigma attached to this by individuals and society as well. No one in the family wanted the label of "crazy," and so they gradually assigned this label to me, which was subtle at first, but became more intense as time went on. My mother and aunts would say that I was "sensitive."

Unfortunately, in about the third grade, my teeth began to decay at a rapid rate. I was so ashamed that I stopped smiling with my teeth. I became depressed and withdrawn. Gone were the happy, carefree days of my childhood. My family seemed to have turned their back on me. They told me there was something wrong with me, and I believed them. Otherwise, why would they have stopped loving me?

So instead of getting to know me as a worthy person, I thought there was something inherently wrong with me. There must be. Why else would everyone change their mind about me? I stopped seeing myself for who I was and took on the persona my family had assigned to me. I became the scapegoat of the family, the black sheep, the one who caused all the problems.

I played the role of scapegoat to the hilt. If that is what it took to be accepted by my family, then the sacrifice was worth it. I didn't like myself much. I developed addictions, first to work, and then to alcohol. I would try anything to keep me from feeling the pain buried deep within my psyche.

I was trying to numb the pain and find a way to cope with not loving myself. I kept trying to get my family to accept me, but for the most part, they never did. I was utterly alone in the world. I didn't even have me. Ever since I was in the 20s, I have been drawn to spiritual programs. I thought if I could find out what I was wrong with me, I could fix it, and then my family would start loving me again.

When I was 40 years old, and my alcoholism was clearly out of control, I went to a one-month rehabilitation program. I was a mess from the addictions and deep-seated issues that I needed to face. That was a very long time ago, and I have remained sober for many decades. Gradually over the years, I have come to terms with a lot of my childhood heartaches, which has been a slow but steady process for me.

In my early 40s, after getting sober, I kept getting an inner knowing that I should write a book about my life. I have had fits and starts, but always put it down without completing a writing project. Over the years, I have tried to get permission from my family to write about my life (it took me a long time to realize I don't need their permission). Of course, they never gave their okay, so that I would put the whole idea on hold. Another reason I didn't write is that I didn't want to present my story from a victim's viewpoint. It took me a long time to release the past, learn to live in the moment, to forgive myself and anyone else involved. We are all on a journey, and I have gained many insights into this. I feel I am now ready to be a muse to myself. The missing link all along was a lack of love for myself, as well as a lack of compassion.

When I started loving myself and genuinely forgiving myself, I became a much happier person. From this perspective, I came to understand that everyone else was in pain, too. The way they treated me was not personal, after all. What a relief that was! I now know who I am, and I see myself for the sweet, loving, kind, and compassionate person that I am. It is from this viewpoint that I am free to write my stories. I am my muse at last!!

CLICKETY-CLACK CLICKETY-CLACK

High school was a particularly difficult time for me for several reasons. First and foremost, I was ashamed of the way I looked. My front teeth had started decaying when I was only in the third or fourth grade. I was very ashamed of this and wouldn't smile an open smile for fear that someone would see my ugly teeth. I was conscious all the time of never revealing the secret of my black teeth to anyone. For someone who loved to smile and laugh, this was very difficult. My mother knew that my teeth were like this, but for some reason that I have never quite been able to understand, she didn't take me to the dentist but instead let them rot away.

When I finished eighth grade in Norwich grade school, it was time to move on to high school. As Norwich was a small town and did not have a high school, most people went to Hanover, New Hampshire, to high school as it was just across the river from Norwich. However, my mother worked in White River Junction and so my two sisters and I attended high school there. My mother would pick us up in the afternoon around 5:15 after she finished her job at Cross Abbott.

The first year I attended the ninth grade was at the middle school at the top of the hill. I found the high school experience stressful for me as I had to meet all new kids, and my teeth were terrible at that point. The last thing I wanted to happen was anyone to discover that I had rotten teeth. I was so ashamed. Also, adding to the difficulties of how I looked was how I felt inside. I started suffering from depression around the same time my teeth started going bad. I had been a very energetic child, interested in all kinds of physical activities, including swimming in the summer and ice skating in the winter, always on the go, brimming with enthusiasm. I started to lose my energy and interest in life and slowly withdrew within myself.

My family life was a mess also. My father was an alcoholic, and my mother, a screaming co-dependent, trying to control my father, who was careening out of control. I came from a family who needed a scapegoat to provide a distraction from the real issues in the family. My father was the scapegoat of his generation. I became the scapegoat of mine. I was the one that the family felt ashamed of and didn't expect to amount to much. I assumed this role, I believe, because I was the most sensitive member, and that is why I felt such tremendous hurt. My mother's side had a history of mental illness that was highly stigmatized. Because I was withdrawn and depressed, my mother labeled me as "crazy," and the whole rest of the family seemed to agree with her.

By the time I entered my sophomore year of high school, I was going to school down at the bottom of the hill. My mother finally decided that we needed to go to the dentist. She arranged for us to go to Dr. Jones in White River Junction. We had to go by ourselves. I remember the first time I opened my mouth, Dr. Jones was shocked at the state of my teeth. He did the best he could to drill them and fill them, and actually, they looked pretty good. I could finally smile with my teeth again. That joy was short-lived, though, because the cavities were so deep that he hit my nerves, and this caused abscesses in the teeth. I now know that he should have performed root canals on the teeth, and that would have prevented them from developing. I had at least four abscesses, one on each front tooth, one in the back on top, and one on the bottom.

These abscesses made my mouth swell and were excruciatingly painful. Instead of telling my mother about them, I said nothing because I was afraid I would have to get my teeth pulled, and I didn't want that to happen at all costs. I suffered for years with these abscesses. Sometimes they would calm down for a while but would always come back eventually. As I look back now, having a heart murmur from my aortic valve, it's a wonder that these abscesses did not cause permanent damage to my heart. I could have died from the poison if it had gone into my blood. I was struggling to get by, depressed, and in pain. My family thought I was crazy and, frankly, after a while, so did I. My mother did not try to find out what was wrong with me. She just assumed I was a nut, and that was all there was to it. I suffered endlessly in silence. I never confided in anybody.

Despite all of what was going on, I managed to keep my grades up. My parents expected my sisters and me to get good grades. I usually got A's, sometimes a B. One of the things I was good at was writing. I remember Mr. Budlong, my English teacher in my sophomore year, announcing to the class that "Barbara has an apt writing ability." Because of my grades, according to my guidance counselors, I was college material and should take courses that would prepare me to enter college. However, my mother and most of the rest of my family believed that I would not go to college.

A common theme of my mother was "You're too depressed to . . . . . " She discouraged me from thinking about college at every turn. At one point, my grandfather from Florida asked my mother if I could move to Florida, live with them, and go to college there. My mother said to me, "You wouldn't want to go to Florida to college, would you? Don't you think it would be too hard to do that? You don't want to leave me, do you?" Of course, I agreed. Because of my health and mental issues with depression, I could barely get out of my way, much less consider going to Florida and college.

Being the scapegoat of the family, no one expected me to accomplish anything of significance; however, I was supposed to support myself and not become a burden or nuisance to anyone in the family. My mother's solution to that (since, of course, I wasn't going to college) was that I learn to type so that "you can at least get a job." I was allowed to take one year of typing in high school along with my college courses, My mother didn't think I needed to take college courses, but the administration did which created quite a conflict in my mind.

At the time of my learning to type, the high school was equipped with manual typewriters. That's what I learned to type on. The clickety-clack of the manual typewriter is etched in my memory. I became an expert typist. I was so isolated from other people in high school that I relished the idea of escaping to the typing room after school and hammering away until my mother came to pick us up. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack echoed down the hallway of the school every afternoon of that school year.

After finishing high school, I didn't go on to college. Instead, I got my first job as a secretary, mainly because of my typing skills. For many decades, every position after that revolved around this typing skill. (In my early 20s, I finally had apicoectomies (surgical root canals) on my two front teeth and no longer suffered the excruciating pain that flare-ups of the abscessed had caused me.)

At my first secretarial job, I used a manual typewriter. At my next post, I used a Selectric, which was an electric typewriter with a typeball that rotated and pivoted to the correct position before striking. After hammering away on a manual typewriter, it took me a while to master the lighter touch of the keyboard of the Selectric. Once I did, though, typing was much smoother and also much quieter. Gone forever were the sounds of clickety-clack, clickety-clack to be replaced by the electric sounds of the Selectric, and more of a click-click-click noise.

I had developed my typing skill to the level where I was always able to get a job. After all, that was one of the few things I did that my mother approved. Deep in my heart, though, I knew I could do more than type. I knew I had other talents. Finally, in my mid-40's after years of searching for my purpose in life was and discovering it, I knew it was time to go to college and develop these other skills. My mother still held a powerful and negative influence over me. I decided to put some distance between us and chose Cal State University in San Bernardino, California, as the educational institution to first obtain a Sociology Degree and then a Master's of Social Work degree.

I applied to Cal State and was accepted, and in June 1990, I packed up my car and headed west to pursue my dreams. When I arrived there, I found a small studio where I could live. The lady who was renting the apartment asked me, "How do you expect to pay the rent?" Quite frankly, because of my excitement of finally going to college, I hadn't given much thought to how I would support myself through this long endeavor or pay for tuition, etc. "Well, I guess I'm going to have to get a job," I replied and told her about my typing skills and many years of experience. She was impressed with this and rented the apartment to me.

The next thing I did was to get the local newspaper the San Bernardino Sun and looked in the employment section. I was shocked to find only half a column of job listings. I discovered there weren't many jobs in San Bernardino. There was one listing though for a medical transcriptionist with experience and training. Even though I had minimal experience as a medical transcriptionist and no training as one, I decided to apply as there were not any other possibilities. I took the test, which consisted of transcribing two doctor's reports. I did well on the transcribing part, but my knowledge of medical terminology was lacking. However, the owner of the company, in the process of expanding her business, needed several new people. She said she was willing to give me a chance and would train me on the job.

Thus began my career as a medical transcriptionist. It was difficult going, but I was determined to succeed and gradually learned medical terminology from every field of medicine imaginable. My fast typing skills paid off. At the time, medical transcriptionists were paid by the line, and the faster you could type, the more money you made. In my first year, I earned $40,000, which was more money per year than I had ever made before. I was able to cover my cost of living, tuition of $3000 a year, as well as books and other college expenses, without the necessity of taking out any college loans at all.

I finished my two degrees (which took about ten years) and worked for a few years as a social worker with foster children. By now, I had made peace with my mother and was able to admit to her that she was right. Learning to type did give me the ability to support myself. Although this was not her intent, I found fulfillment in obtaining a college education and ultimately living my life's purpose. I came home to New York State a few years ago to assist my mother in her last few months of life. We had forgiven each other and realized how much we loved each other. She was with me in my home when she peacefully passed away in November 2001.

It's strange sometimes to think of where life leads you and how you get there. The sounds of clickety-clack are nothing now but a faint memory, but it was a beginning, and turned out to be the means to an end. I no longer type for a living anymore. I worked for several years as Program Coordinator of the Adult Services Day Program, and that did not require any typing at all. Now all the typing I do involves writing stories. Chronicling my life brings me much pleasure and satisfaction. With all the experiences (good and bad) of my life, it seems I have a lot to say.

IF I ONLY HAD AN OLDER BROTHER

I was born into a family of three girls. I was the middle child of the three, although not much time separated any of us. My sister, Phylis, was ten months older, and my younger sister, Joyce, was 20 months younger. I would say my childhood after about the third or fourth grade was pretty miserable for a lot of different reasons, well detailed in other sections of my memoirs.

I can remember thinking to myself over and over again throughout my years of growing up that if I only had an older brother to look after me, things would have been different and so much better. This desire was not just a passing thought now and then, but a deep yearning from within the very depths of me. I would often wonder what he would look like and whether or not we would do things together or if he would protect me and look after me and if we would have fun together. I often wondered why I had such a yearning.

Would my brother be like my father? That would have been interesting. Was it because I didn't get along with my mother, who had little use for me other than to put me down and talk about me to anyone who would listen? Was it because I didn't get along with my two sisters, either? My mother's side of the family didn't like girls or women all that much and put boys and men up high on a pedestal. My mother came from a family of five daughters. This fact was not very practical for my grandparents because they had a farm and needed boys to help work it. Grammie Phillips always said that the miscarriages she had were probably boys.

Robert, Eugene, and Jack, their nephews, were taken care of by my grandparents when their mother, Aunt Helen, was institutionalized at Waterbury for many years because of mental illness. They finally had the boys they wanted and needed. Grandpa Phillips and Grammie Phillips idolized them because they were boys. Especially Robert, who I don't remember all that well because he went off to join the military when I was still pretty young. They seemed to make heroes out of the male members of the family. The girls, however, did not appear to be valued all that much.

My parents had three girls, and I guess they always wanted a boy because every time one of us got married, they pretty much accepted the husbands as their sons, often treating them better than they treated their daughters. All this could explain why I wanted an older brother so much, but I knew it was more in-depth than that. I just couldn't quite put my finger on it.

I am what I would consider psychic. In other words, I get inner knowings about certain things, and most of the time, they turn out to come true. I also get feelings. However, I am not very visual, and when asked to visualize something in meditation, I am never able to do that. In other words, I don't see pictures. The more I try to see images, the more I get into my head. Anyway, a friend of mine told me about a woman who did past life regressions. My friend and her boyfriend went back to a lifetime in which they were lovers or married or something, and one of them abandoned the other. I have always been interested in my past lives and have always believed in reincarnation. I decided to go to this woman and see if she could regress me to a previous lifetime.

She went through the procedure of trying to relax me and asking me what I saw. Well, because I am not visual, I never came up with anything. However, she told me what she had pictured. The period was maybe the late 1800s, early 1900s. It was probably the lifetime I had before this one. It took place in Norway or one of the Scandinavian countries. I was not yet born, but about to be. I was a girl in this lifetime. My mother was pregnant and about to give birth (apparently, my father had already abandoned her). She was by herself in her bed, and the delivery was difficult and complicated.

I had an older brother who was still a child, maybe 6 or 7 years old, but certainly not much older than that. Knowing that my mother's health and mine too were in jeopardy, he walked to town (several miles) by himself and got help for us. We did survive, thanks to him, and if it hadn't been for him, we might have perished. He was very proud of himself for what he was able to do for such a young child. My mother had to work hard to take care of us. We had a farm, and there was a lot of farm work and chores to do.

My brother worked very hard on the farm, and wherever he went, I went with him. He would even take me out in the fields with him. I was like his shadow, and he not only looked after me, but protected me, and I loved him with all my heart. Life went along like this for several years. I was contented walking in my brother's shadow. However, as with all of life, nothing stays the same forever, no matter how happy you are, and there came the time when my brother was a grown man and had other responsibilities other than taking care of me and helping my mother.

I'm not sure if there was a war going on, and he was called to military service or what it was, but he felt obligated to leave the farm and us. I begged him to stay, pleaded with him, cried, but to no avail. Duty called, and he had to leave. I felt abandoned and couldn't understand what could be so important to take him away from me. He was, after all, my lifeline.

It was lonely on the farm after that, and my life was never really the same. I know it was tough for me. That's all that the person doing the reading gave me. I don't know if he perished in a war or whether I ever saw him again. He was my life. He saved my life, and now he was gone. I may get some more memories of my own, but it truly resonated with me as what actually happened to me in another lifetime, and why I yearned so much for an older brother to love me and take care of me. Even writing this right now evokes deep feelings in me. I believe my father in this lifetime was my brother in that one.

MOTHER'S POTATO SALAD

My mother raised me on her potato salad. Nobody could make it as tasty as she could. She loved to pack picnic lunches, and, of course, potato salad was always on the menu.

I don't recall that she had a secret recipe or anything like that. She would boil the potatoes and let them cool. Then she would dice them up, add sliced boiled eggs, chopped up onions, and salad dressing (she insisted on salad dressing rather than mayonnaise). She would smooth out the top into a little mound in the middle, take a boiled egg, slice it up, and spread it around the top for decoration. Then Mother would pop it back in the refrigerator to get nice and cold. It was simply delicious.

Now, I'm not much of a cook myself; in fact, I don't like to cook, detest it. I beat myself up for years. I thought I was a failure in life because I was not particularly eager to cook. I often wonder if I subconsciously sabotaged my cooking ability because I didn't want to compete with my mother. Cooking was her thing. It certainly wasn't mine. After many years of soul-searching, I have forgiven myself for not being able to cook. I finally realized that not everybody likes to cook, and that's okay. As the saying goes, different strokes for different folks. I do have my unique abilities and talents.

When I was living in California, I was going to a potluck picnic at church. I had the bright idea that I could replicate my mother's potato salad and be the hit of the picnic. Admittedly, I had never attempted to make a potato salad before, but how hard could it be? I knew all the steps from years of observing my mother make it.

I soon found out how difficult it turned out to be for me after I boiled the potatoes and cooled them off. I started to cut them up. They didn't seem right for some odd reason. They were soggy, and instead of having chunks of potato, the potatoes fell apart. When I combined the ingredients (just like I had seen my mother do many times), the salad didn't seem to look the way I wanted. The only difference that I could determine was that I used mayonnaise instead of salad dressing.

But I think it was more than that. I had a picture of a potato salad imprinted in my memory, and this was not it. I did bring it to the picnic, but it wasn't the hit I was hoping it would be. No one loved that pitiful potato salad. When I look back at it now, I realize that my mother had devoted years of her life to becoming an excellent cook. She wasn't a one-hit-wonder like I had hoped to be.

SUGAR ON SNOW

Born and raised in Vermont until I was 18 years old, I still consider myself a Vermonter at heart. I have many happy memories of my childhood, where life seemed somehow more straightforward, and entertainment was the pure joy of getting together with family. I was a member of a large extended family. My grandparents, Grandpa and Grammie Phillips, lived in rural Vermont on a small farm in which they barely managed to eke out a living.

My mother had four sisters, Virginia, Lena, Betty, and Marion, and three foster brothers, Robert, Eugene, and Jack. When we got together, which was often, there were lots of family members, including aunts, uncles, and cousins, and the house was filled with adults catching up on the latest gossip and children playing and having fun.

Like a lot of farmers in Vermont, my grandfather had a large grove of maple trees. An essential part of his livelihood was the production of maple syrup each winter for sale. Every year in early March, when the days would warm up and the nights were still cold, the sap from the maple trees was ready to flow. Grandpa tapped the trees and hung buckets to catch the liquid.

Harnessing up his team of horses, Babe and Polly, to a crude wooden wagon, he went around and collected the sap every day. He then went through the long and tedious process of boiling down this fluid in his little sugarhouse until it became maple syrup. It took about 40 gallons of maple sap to boil down to one gallon of maple syrup. Although he sold some of the maple syrup, a specific portion of it was put aside for the family's use.

Most people know that maple syrup is delicious on pancakes, but it is also the main ingredient in a delicacy known by us Vermonters as "sugar on snow." So in late March, the whole family would get together at "Grammie's house" for a sugar-on-snow party, usually on a Sunday afternoon. After a big delicious meal of food cooked by Grammie, all attention focused on the treat that soon would be enjoyed by us.

"Jack, go out in the woods and get some clean snow and bring it back," Grammie said.

Soon Jack would come back with the snow that hadn't melted yet. The snow was tightly packed in dishes that were for the "sugar on snow."

Next, the syrup was heated to the perfect temperature--too hot, and the snow would melt too fast; too cold, and the sugary mixture would become watery and sink to the bottom of the snow. Grammie knew how to do it just right on her kitchen stove that was fueled by wood. The perfectly heated syrup was poured thinly on top of the snow and formed a lacy pattern across the snow as it quickly hardened into a delicious taffy.

The easiest way to eat it was to wind it up with a fork and let it melt in your mouth and slide down your throat. Grammie always had homemade donuts and sour dill pickles on hand to counter the intense sweetness of the candy. I preferred to eat the maple syrup all by itself because as its delicious sweetness melted in my mouth, I knew that all was right in my world, and I was a satisfied little girl indeed.

BLUEBERRY MUFFINS

My mother amazed me. I remember many times waking up in the morning on a school day to the inviting smell of homemade blueberry muffins. Did the smell of the muffins awaken me, or was it my mother's cheerful voice, "Time to rise and shine!" It was hard to tell which came first, the smell of the muffins or the sweet sound of my mother's voice, or what amazed me the most about her. How she could be so energetic the first thing in the morning and why she was willing to get up at the crack of dawn to have such a delicious treat ready for us before going to school.

But now, as I look back at my childhood, I realize that cooking for her family was something that my mother loved to do. It defined her and made her happy—maybe that's why she sounded so cheerful the first thing in the morning!

THE CHAUFFEUR

When my two sisters and I were growing up, Joyce had a penchant for getting carsick and so was always allowed to ride in the front. Because of this, I automatically jumped in the back seat, whether the front seat was available or not. I never thought much about it.

Mother used to pick us up after school at Hartford High School, and she supposedly would want to hear about what was going on with me and how my day was, etc. I was going through a horrendous time in high school, especially the last two years because of my abscessed teeth and depression, that I didn't want to talk to her. Besides the fact that she was always talking behind my back, trying to turn people against me, putting me down, laughing at me, etc. etc. Yet she wanted me to share my life with her. She wanted it both ways. Anytime I did share anything with her, she would turn it around against me anyway. So I became very withdrawn and didn't interact with her or anybody else either for that matter. It was a lonely and pathetic existence.

I didn't know how much my sitting in the back seat of the car bothered my mother until a year or two before she died. My mother told me she wanted to talk to me about my life (huh), and when I sat in the back seat and didn't converse with her that she felt like she was my chauffeur, and I was too good to talk to her. I was stunned by that, literally stunned. She had no concept at all about what was going on with me, how difficult my life was surviving, and she only thought of how it affected her. She was always holding a grudge against me for something, but this took the cake.

Perhaps in another lifetime, she had been a subordinate to me, and my sitting in the back brought this up. I don't know. I have been told that I was a queen in other lifetimes, and maybe she was my chauffeur then. But the last thing in the world I ever thought was that I felt that I was too good for her. I tried my best to be what she wanted me to be or to stay out of her way. It was a never-ending battle. A chauffeur! Really. Couldn't you for just this once see my perspective? Would that have been asking too much?

MY LAST DAY SLEDDING

As a young girl growing up in Vermont, I loved being outdoors in the wintertime. When we got our first good snowstorm of the winter, my mother would bundle my sisters and I up in our snowsuits and mittens and boots so we could go outside and play in the snow. After a while, we would get cold and want to come in only to beg to go out again a little while later. My mother patiently bundled us all up each time so we could enjoy the snow.

We liked to make snowmen and snow angels and all of that, but what we enjoyed the most was going sledding down the hills just outside our house in Norwich. One Christmas Daddy went out and bought us each a brand new shiny saucer sled, which we thoroughly enjoyed. I never thought I would stop going sledding and believed this fun would go on forever.

I started having problems with depression when I was in about the third or fourth grade, which gradually deepened. I was trying to deal with my teeth rapidly rotting out and turning black. When I got to high school, my decayed teeth were filled, but by then, the cavities were so deep that the dentist hit the nerves, eventually causing abscesses. I had a real hangup about losing my teeth and having to be toothless or to wear false teeth. I could not tolerate the thought of not having teeth. So instead of telling my mother what was going on and possibly getting the abscesses treated, I elected to ignore them and the pain associated with their frequent recurrences. My face would swell up, and the pain was excruciating.

Instead of trying to determine what was wrong with me, my mother ignored my swollen face and assumed that I was descending into madness. After all, this is what she had predicted since I was young. Coming from a family with a long history of mental illness, including prolonged hospitalizations in a mental hospital and suicide, I assumed that this was my fate.

I wasn't sure what would eventually happen to me, would I be put away in a mental institution, would I be able to function at all in the real world, or would I exist in a crazy state of mind? I didn't know, but I knew I was terrified. There was no one to talk to, nowhere to turn. I was alone in a fog of depression and fear.

We were on Christmas vacation in my junior year of high school. We had a lot of snow that year. Behind our house in Norwich, we owned a few acres of land. If you went through the woods behind my house, at the top of the woods was a big hill.

I put on my snow pants for the last time and climbed through the woods to the top of the hill, carrying my beloved saucer sled for what I believed to be my last day of sledding. I was saying goodbye to an activity that I had thoroughly enjoyed, but I knew would soon be in my past. I believed it was over because I felt it was a matter of time before my "craziness" progressed to the point of no return (I wasn't sure where it would lead).

As I went down the hill and trudged back up again a few times, I said goodbye to my childhood because I knew it was over. Was my life over too? What was going to happen to me? I did not know.

THE BROKEN MIRROR

My father had an uncle named Deane Howland, who was a very successful telephone executive in Worcester, Massachusetts. He was a frugal man who saved and invested his money wisely, amassing a fairly sizeable fortune. Uncle Deane did not have any children of his own. Thus the estate was due to be distributed to my father and his cousins. Knowing this and the fact that Daddy was named after him, Daddy used to faun over Uncle Deane more than he would the average person and tried to impress him whenever he could.

One summer Uncle Deane and his wife, Aunt, Verna were having a family gathering at his vacation cabin in the Windsor, Vermont area. Going to visit Uncle Deane and Aunt Verna was always stressful. Even though it was a cabin, it was a lovely one, and there were many expensive and breakable objects abounding.

"Be careful. Don't break anything." My mother warned. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was break anything at Uncle Deane's cabin.

Also invited were my cousins Gary, Ehrick, Tom, and Gene. We were in the living room, and my cousin Ehrick was fooling around and shoved me up against a mirror. Oh, no, as I heard the shattering sound of glass breaking and falling to the floor. Why did this have to happen to me?

Of course, my father blamed me for breaking the mirror. He kept apologizing over and over again to Uncle Deane, who kept telling him it was okay and to forget about it. I remember sitting in the back seat of our car, crying my eyes out, humiliated, and embarrassed. Daddy kept reaching for his wallet, saying, "Let me pay for the mirror." "No, no, it's okay," Uncle Deane tried to reassure him. That should have been the end of it.

But Daddy kept it up--one, two, three--I don't know how many times he asked to pay for the mirror, each time Uncle Deane telling him to forget it. The more he asked, the more embarrassed I got. I couldn't stop sobbing. I'll never hear the end of this, I hopelessly thought to myself. Now I've done it. And it wasn't even my fault.

THE DAY JFK WAS SHOT: THE END OF A DREAM?

Growing up in the 1950s, like many American people, especially young children, I was afraid of the world coming to an end as the result of nuclear war. Whenever the civil defense warning tests went off on the radios, we stopped and wondered if this was just a test of "the emergency broadcast system" and not a "real and actual emergency"--the announcement of a nuclear war. Looking back now, I realize the absurdity of such fears, but they were real at the time. By the time 1960 came along, and John Fitzgerald Kennedy was elected President, America seemed to become more hopeful about our future. This hope began with the inspiring inaugural day speech in which President Kennedy declared, ask not what your country can do for you - ask what you can do for your country. The sky was the limit for everyone.

In 1960 when Kennedy was elected President, I was a sophomore in high school at Hartford High School in White River Junction, Vermont, and struggling with many issues. My high school years were difficult for many reasons, not the least of which was a tumultuous, love/hate relationship with my mother. Around the third grade, my teeth began to decay at a rapid rate. My front teeth had ugly black holes in them by the time I started high school in 1959. For whatever reason, I still do not understand to this day why my mother did not take me to the dentist. I was ashamed and embarrassed about the way my teeth looked and would not smile because I was afraid someone would see my teeth. I went for eight long years this way.

When I was a sophomore, my mother decided to send me to the dentist. I went by myself to Dr. Jones' office after school. I remember his shock when he looked at my teeth. There was barely anything left of my upper teeth, just ugly holes with black pits where teeth used to be. He did the best he could to patch up my teeth, filled them. They at long last looked presentable. I could finally smile again with my teeth.

My sophomore year was the best year of high school because I was more comfortable with myself and my appearance. I didn't have to feel ashamed anymore about the way I looked. That was short-lived though. Because of the depth of the cavities in my teeth, when Dr. Jones drilled the teeth, he hit the nerves. Eventually, abscesses developed in at least four or five of my teeth, the two front teeth, and several others.

Dental abscesses are excruciatingly painful. My face swelled up, and I was in a tremendous amount of pain. However, instead of taking me to the dentist, my mother chose to ignore what was going on. She instead thought I was going crazy. For some reason, I was afraid my teeth would be pulled (I could not tolerate the thought of not having teeth), so I tried to ignore the abscesses the best I could. The infection would eventually subside and become tolerable, only to flare up again. I went through the remainder of my high school years with these untreated abscesses. The pain at times was unbearable, and I withdrew within myself to try to cope. I continued to have a strained relationship with my mother, who was very domineering and controlling. I wanted more than anything else in the world to get away from her. I wanted to be free and to have a life of my own.

I graduated from high school and met a young man named Ronny Bruce, who I thought was my ticket to freedom from my mother. Little did I know that I was getting out of one complicated relationship, only to enter another, but at the time, I had hope and a dream for a better future. Ronny was in the process of joining the Air Force, and we were going to get married. I was going to join him at whatever base he was stationed. The world looked rosy with a handsome youthful president, an irresistibly appealing young family, and a glamorous first couple who brought grace and elegance to the White House.

On the afternoon of November 22, 1963, I was driving in my beat-up black Ford sedan doing some errands in Hanover, New Hampshire (right across the river from where I lived in Norwich, Vermont). The shocking news came on the radio that President John Fitzgerald Kennedy was killed by an assassin's bullet in Dallas, Texas. I could hardly believe my ears. I had my dreams and my whole life ahead of me, and I wondered if the world could be coming to an end. Who could have done this? If the Russians were responsible, could this be the beginning of an all-out nuclear war? Was this the end of my dreams for a better future?

As the days following the assassination went by, everyone seemed riveted to their television sets for any further news. After Lee Harvey Oswald, a crazed lone gunman, was arrested for the assassination of JFK, and it became apparent that the United States was not under attack by the Russians or anyone else, I realized that destruction was not likely to happen anytime soon. Was the dream over? In watching the lone, riderless horse during the funeral procession of President Kennedy and seeing the poignant salute of little John-John, it was evident that the brief, shining moment of JFK's presidency was over. However, after all these years, nearly five decades, his legacy lives on and has endured the test of time. He continues to be considered one of the most significant political figures in the world.

I still had a dream. It did not end with the assassination of JFK, as I feared it would. I did marry Ronny Bruce on December 7, 1963. I did escape from my mother when we moved to Edwards Air Force Base in Southern California. I wanted to be happy and to overcome my childhood difficulties. I wanted to be free of my mother's overbearing influence. I wanted to have a life of my own. I wanted to be successful and to make a contribution to the world.

Getting married to Ronny Bruce was not the answer to my dreams, and I went on to struggle for many years to find myself and my worth as a person. It took a long time and much soul-searching, but that dream is coming to fruition. It has been a long journey, with many bumps along the way, but through it all, I have persevered and never gave up on myself. I have accomplished many goals that, 50 years ago, I would not have considered possible. I am finally living my dream.

THE THREE-LEGGED DOG

On my mother's side of the family (the Phillips), especially among my grandfather's mother and siblings, there was a relatively high level of mental illness including suicides, institutionalization in a mental hospital for years, as well as major depression leading to staying in bed for years on end. I recall this reality was always floating just below the surface of everyone's consciousness and was the subject of gossip. Mental illness back in those days was a real stigma that no one wanted to think they had that led, I believe, to assigning someone the role of scapegoat. There would be a person in the family who was designated "crazy," and that meant that everyone else was "okay." Who would that person be?

It would have to be someone willing to accept the designation, or at least be unable to defend against it. This person likely would be the sensitive, tenderhearted type who would take what other people said to heart. In my family, this person was me. Yes, I was vulnerable. I didn't like to see anyone, person or animal, suffer. Yes, I did cry a lot. I was sad because of what was going on around me. I had started to become depressed around the third or fourth grade. People who I knew used to love me seemed to be turning against me, thinking there was something wrong with me. But because I was sensitive and depressed, did that mean I was crazy? I guess in the eyes of many of my family members, that is what it meant.

I remember one summer when I was in about the fourth or fifth grade. I was visiting my grandparents at Grammie's house on their farm in rural Vermont that was a tradition that my sisters and I carried out every summer. Each one of us would go up for a week and stay. It used to be great fun until attitudes started to change toward me. I felt ignored a good deal of the time. There was undoubtedly a lot of talking about me behind my back. I didn't feel very welcome there anymore. That was quite sad because it used to be my favorite place to go.

One day Grandpa was out in the field haying with his team of horses, Babe and Polly, pulling his wagon and cutting the hay. Somehow the family dog, Smoky, got his leg caught underneath the cutting mechanism, and it cut his leg right off. Hearing all the commotion, I asked my Aunt Lena, who happened to be there at the time, what had happened. Without so much as blinking an eye, she quickly said, "Smoky got his leg cut off, but don't worry. It will grow back."

I was stunned at that. Did Aunt Lena think that I was so dumb or naive to believe that this dog would grow another leg to replace the lost one? What I guess she thought was that I was too "sensitive" to handle the truth of the situation. She was trying to protect me, but from what, going off the deep end in some way or other?

Yes, I was sensitive. No, I didn't like to see animals suffer. But was I going to cave in over it? No way! Even though I was sensitive, I was then and still am one of the emotionally most robust people I know. I'm great in a crisis. I don't fall apart. I have an inner strength that allows me to handle any situation. I get inwardly calm when something goes wrong. So when Aunt Lena suggested to me the ridiculous idea that the dog's leg would grow back, I didn't say anything. What could I say? There was no reasoning with people who thought I was crazy.

For many years, I thought that being this way was a weakness, and I wished I wasn't quite so sensitive. It would have been easier on me, I thought, if I didn't care so much. But I couldn't change. That was who I was. Now, after many years of reflection and contemplation, I have come to believe that this trait is one of my greatest strengths. It has allowed me to interact with many people lovingly and helpfully, and to help them become the best they can be. I have found that the traits of sensitivity and inner strength have been an unbeatable combination in allowing me to become the person I am today, someone who can see the courageousness in other people, rather than their weaknesses, and draw on that.

MEASLES

When I was a young girl back in the 50s before measles and mumps vaccines were invented, part of my childhood experiences was enduring various childhood illnesses. My sisters and I had them all--chickenpox, mumps, whooping cough, and measles. Of all of them, measles stands out in my memories. I especially remember how awful I thought I looked with red splotches all over my body. I spent this particular illness in bed in my bedroom on the second floor.

My mother was an amazing and loving caregiver who devotedly nurtured me during this bout of the measles. Up and down the stairs she would climb, bringing me comfort foods such as hot lemonade (a special treat she made for me when I was sick) and tomato soup. I'll never forget the tenderness she showed me on one particular afternoon.

My mother had brought up a tray with steaming hot tomato soup. It was an exceptionally sunny day in Vermont, and the sun was streaming in my window. The room was very bright. I could smell the tomato soup, and I wanted to taste it. Yet, somehow, I found myself facing a dilemma. I not too fond of the way my arms and hands looked with the red, mottled skin, and if I brought my arms out, I would see them.

I wanted the soup but did not want to look at my arms. I somehow conveyed this to my mother. Instead of laughing at me or ridiculing me for being so silly, my mother let me keep those red, itchy arms safely hidden under the covers. She fed me the soup herself, loving spoonful by loving spoonful. It touched my heart and is something I clearly remember to this day.

It may seem to some like an inconsequential thing, but it was one of the few times I can remember my mother being that loving to me. I have a lot of memories that were not so pleasant, but I wanted to balance that out with the true nature of my mother that she demonstrated to me that day.

A few weeks after my sisters and I recovered, my mother came down with the measles. She had somehow escaped them as a child, and they hit her with a vengeance. She was so sick that her mother, my Grammie Phillips, came and stayed with us and cared for everyone while she recovered. My sisters and I loved having her stay with us, and it is one of the few times she ever did. We had her all to ourselves and relished every precious moment.

ONCE UPON A TIME MY MOTHER AND I WERE TWINS

I've known for a very long time that my mother and I had a history that went back further than this lifetime. Our relationship was just too intense, too complicated, and too enmeshed to have become that way in only one lifetime. I've also always believed in reincarnation even before I knew what it was

My mother and I had an intense love/hate relationship for as long back as I can remember. Much more so than the relationship my mother had with my two sisters, one older and one younger. I felt very close to my mother in my younger years, but as time went on, my mother seemed to change her mind about me, and I couldn't understand why. No one was going to consider me their favorite in any way if she had her choice. If she thought one of my family members showed any favoritism at all, she went after them with a vengeance.

My mother seemed jealous of me at times and was very competitive with me. The message came through loud and clear that I was not to be more successful than she was, and she didn't want me to be successful at all. I got the feeling that she felt that if I were successful that this would be a betrayal of her. And I thought that I was disloyal, but I didn't quite understand why.

My sisters and I always did well in school and got mostly A's. It was just something that I did, and it wasn't all that difficult, either. Intelligence seems to run in my family on both sides. My mother's cousins were brilliant (I recall my mother talking about her cousin Melvin who scored 100 on a chemistry final at UVM before World War II). My mother was also intelligent. Members of my father's side of the family were also sharp (as they were always willing to tell us) and so it came naturally to us.

I don't recall my mother ever telling me that she was proud of me when I came home with an excellent report card. Once when I was in one of my earlier grades, I gave my mother my report card and asked her if I passed, and she just gave me a look and kind of a smirk but never told me one way or the other. I don't recall if I was apprehensive about passing (probably not) or wanted my mother to say to me that, of course, I passed and was my way of fishing for a compliment that never came. It's a pretty vivid memory, though.

When I was in high school, I was inducted into the Honor Society. A small ceremony was scheduled in one of the classrooms. It didn't even occur to me to invite my mother. It was in the afternoon of a workday, and my mother didn't like taking time off from work if she didn't have to, especially for something like that. Anyhow one of my teachers asked me to invite my mother to the ceremony, and so I did. I guess the teacher thought she would be proud of me and want to be there. Nothing could have been further from the truth. She did come, but she never smiled and sat during the short ceremony with what I knew as a "pickle puss" look on her face. She couldn't wait to get out of there and go back to work. I don't think she ever mentioned it to me again.

Even though I was a good student and my guidance counselor and teachers felt that I should be college-bound, my mother was dead-set against me going to college and made this crystal clear to me. She did want to make sure that I was able to make a living because she was not about to support me past high school. She insisted that I take a typing course so that I could get a job, and I did. I didn't go to college after high school, but I typed for a living for a very long time. It was one of the few things that my mother approved.

Another aspect of the competitive relationship that I had with my mother had to do with my looks. I was attractive when I was in high school, and I remember at one time a friend of my parents, Ralph, told my mother that I was beautiful. I could tell that she was angry by this and didn't respond to what Ralph said, but I knew she didn't want him to think I was more attractive than she was.

So for a very long time, I couldn't figure out what it was about my relationship with my mother that led to her being so competitive with me, and her inability to tolerate the idea that I could be more successful at anything at all than she was. I especially wondered why she didn't want anyone to favor me and, in fact, went out of her way my whole life to convince anyone who would listen that I was not a very nice person at all and that I had all kinds of defects. The people she talked to seemed to be influenced heavily by what she thought of me, which hurt me deeply. I felt alone in the world. She expended a significant amount of energy in this endeavor.

I have spent a great deal of my life searching for answers. I have from time to time had psychic readings, and one such reading revealed to me why this particular dynamic existed between my mother and me. She told me that in a previous lifetime, my mother and I were twins and that I was the older one by five minutes!! After that knowledge, a lot of puzzling aspects of my relationship with my mother made sense.

I do know that twins (particularly those of the same sex) can have intense relationships, and while they are usually close that these can sometimes be competitive, which is what I believe happened in the previous lifetime when my mother and I were twins. I also think that we carried a lot of those feelings with us into this lifetime, which greatly influenced how we felt about each other. I believe in the previous lifetime, my mother felt somewhat intimidated by me, and she felt I was more successful than she was, which is why during this lifetime, my mother didn't want me to be more successful than she was. I felt like I would be betraying her if I was more successful.

It also explains why we had such an intense love/hate relationship. No matter how angry I was with my mother for the way she treated me, I could not walk away from her and turn my back entirely on her even though I was advised to do so by more than one therapist. I just couldn't do it. The bond was too intense.

The way my mother couldn't tolerate the idea of anyone favoring me in this lifetime also made more sense as she felt I was the favorite when we were twins. I might have felt that way, too, and therefore felt guilty about anyone favoring me. It's all very fascinating and very confusing at the same time. When I meet twins, I often find myself saying, "You're so lucky you have a twin." Now I understand why.

There were many times that I felt my mother didn't love me, didn't even like me, and, in fact, sometimes I thought that she hated me. If she felt that way about me, why couldn't she let me go? Why did she care when I moved to California twice in this lifetime to distance myself from her. It was such a push/pull kind of relationship—come here, no go away. It was very bewildering, indeed. I didn't know where she ended, and I began.

Had my mother been nicer to me, she may have achieved what she wanted, to have me under her total control her whole life, and to be dependent on her. However, because she was mean to me, that led me to crave to be free from her and to establish my own identity. So I guess I'm lucky that she didn't smother me with love, but instead bombarded me with what seemed to me like hate.

I lived in California from 1990 to 2005. I had finally decided I was going to go to college. I needed to distance myself from my mother so that I would not be unduly negatively influenced by her intense feeling that I should not receive an education. Even deciding to do this was a big deal for me because I felt like I was betraying my mother, but I did it. It took me ten years, but I first received a B.A. in Sociology and graduated summa cum laude and then an MSW graduating with high honors. Of course, my mother tried to discourage me every step of the way, but I had made up my mind that this was something I was going to do, and nothing she did or said was going to stop me. I was 45 years old, and this was a long time coming.

When I set out in my car, hauling a trailer behind me with some of my possessions for the long drive to California, I was ready. I didn't know how I was going to make a living, where I was going to live, or any details other than the fact that I was accepted as a freshman to Cal State University, San Bernardino, and I was on my way.

I remember the first time I called my mother to tell her how my trip was going. It was a couple of days into the trip, and she acted like she thought I was going to fall off the face of the earth or something. Of course, she never did have much faith in me or my abilities, and she made it clear to me that she didn't think I was going to make it. As usual, she was worried about me. I did make it California, though, but that's another story.

While in California, my mother and I were in pretty constant communication. We couldn't seem to break away from each other for more than a day or two before one or the other of us was calling. She wanted to talk to me as much as she could. I found that pleasing and puzzling at the same time because she certainly didn't feel that way about my two sisters. She sometimes would go weeks at a time without talking to them, and that didn't bother her at all. When I asked her why she said it was because she knew they could take care of themselves. Now I understand why she felt that way. We had that tight twin bond between us (okay, it was another lifetime, but it might as well have been this one because it was that intense).

Towards the end of my stay in California, maybe two or three years before I moved back East, I decided to stop calling her so much. Enough is enough. As soon as I did that, she made a concerted effort to call me very frequently, almost every day. There was a three-hour time difference between the east coast and the west coast, so when it was 9 a.m. for my mother, it was 6 a.m. for me. She would force herself to wait until 9 a.m. to call me and then say, "Well, I knew you'd be up" (which I was because I am a habitual early riser). If she somehow missed talking to me for a day or two, she would get very anxious and be ready to call the police to do a welfare check on me. I thought that was strange because she didn't feel that way about my sisters, but that's just the way it was between us. Now it makes sense to me.

I finished my schooling from Cal State University in June of 2001 and went on to work as a foster care social worker for several years. In the year or two before I returned to the east coast in 2005, I started thinking that it was time for me to return to the east coast because that is where I felt my real home to be. I also started getting a distinct impression that my mother wasn't going to live too many more years, and this was confirmed to me by a medium that I had consulted.

In July of 2005, it became crystal clear to me that my mother did not have much time left. If I was ever going to heal this relationship between the two of us (not just this lifetime but the karma that we carried from previous lifetimes), it was now or never. My mother was quite ill and was getting ready to make her transition. She needed me to help care for her because she didn't want to die in a nursing home. I eventually found out that she wanted to make peace with me before she died.

I was in the process of getting my affairs in order in California and packing up my stuff when I decided that I would immediately leave iso that I could spend some time with my mother before she died. I told her I was departing California and would be home in a few days. I'll never forget what she said, "Oh, you're coming home. Well, I'll just wait until you get here." What she meant was that she would wait to die. It was that close. I arrived in New York State in late July 2005, and my mother passed away in early November 2005. We had finally made peace with each other.

A GOOD OLD-FASHIONED TAFFY PULL

When I think of candy, I don't think of penny candy at the corner grocery store. That is because, as a young child, I lived in rural Vermont on a small farm set about a mile off the main road. I don't recall having much store-bought candy as a little girl. What I do think of are the taffy-pulling parties my mother used to have for my two sisters and me on cold wintry nights in the kitchen of our farmhouse. Long before we had a TV set or a telephone, our mother was our source of entertainment.

My mother, who happened to have quite a sweet tooth, was very creative in thinking of ways to entertain three lively little girls and keep us busy. One of our favorite activities was pulling taffy. To start, my mother would cook up a batch of molasses taffy mixture over the stovetop in front of my sisters and I while we watched fascinated. I remember it was quite a process. The candy cooked and cooked and cooked. About five minutes after she started cooking it, the candy suddenly bubbled up dramatically. It looked like it was going to boil over, but it never did. Eventually, about ten or so minutes later, after much stirring and cooking, the whole gooey mess was ready to be cooled for the pulling part.

After it cooled off sufficiently, we would put generous amounts of butter on our hands so that the taffy wouldn't stick to our fingers. The flavor of the butter, when mixed with the taffy, was delicious. Usually, we would partner up, my mother and older sister, and my younger sister and me, stepping back from one another to stretch out the taffy. Using only our fingertips to lift the edges of the warm, flowing candy up, we'd string the taffy out thin and then rope it together to pull it out again about 12 inches, then quickly fold the taffy back, catching the center, and then pulling again.

There would always be lots of laughing if the taffy slipped off our hands, or we pulled it into funny shapes. The pulling process seemed to take forever. "Are we done yet, Mommy? Are we done yet?" We were anxious to taste this delicious treat. My sisters and mother would pull and pull for about 20 minutes, to smooth out the candy until it turned to a light honey color. When the taffy became cold and hard and would no longer stretch anymore, it was then that my mother cut the taffy into bite-sized pieces for us to savor. I remember the taffy melting in my mouth. It was so good.

I sometimes wondered why we had to pull the candy for so long before eating it. I thought maybe it was something my mother thought up to keep us busy for a few minutes. My mother later told me pulling the taffy made the candy lighter and chewier and was a necessary part of the process. I also remember this being a very messy endeavor, but I do recall my mother being relaxed and patient and allowing us to enjoy ourselves. It was as much fun to make the candy as it was to eat it. Recalling those taffy pulling parties from long ago are some of my most precious memories. I remember hearing a lot of giggling while the pulling was going on, and "oohing" and "aahing" afterward when we were able to taste the taffy and were finally rewarded for our efforts.

MY STUFF

For a large portion of my life, I felt empty. I believed no one loved me, and I certainly didn't love myself. For many years, I tried to fill my emptiness with acquiring "stuff." For a very long time, I filled my life with craft supplies. I couldn't seem to amass enough to fill the void. When I lived in California, I had a whole room that I filled with craft materials, particularly beads. I had what seemed like billions of them. When I moved back to New York State from California, I spent a small fortune in shipping costs moving all my stuff from the West Coast to the East Coast. I kept acquiring more and more. The empty spot seemed like a vast crater, which I could not fill.

I give myself credit, though, for one thing. I never gave up. I began having dreams about "my stuff." In the nightmares, I would try to organize my possessions, and the more I tried, the more my stuff multiplied over and over again. I realized in my dreams that my belongings were taking over my life and strangling me. I never got to the point where I would consider myself a hoarder, but I had the mindset of one. If I didn't take control of the situation, it would soon overpower me. I would not only feel empty, but I would feel lost.

By the time I did take control, I had a spare room that I had filled with craft materials that I had collected over the years. Also, I had the basement filled to overflowing. I decided it was time to part with these things. They were becoming burdensome to me. I didn't want to throw everything away because much of it was very usable. I searched the Internet for where I could donate large amounts of supplies. I found the perfect place called Crafts Bits and Pieces. I happily donated craft supplies. They were resold to benefit the Senior Living Council, a cause dear to my heart.

I loaded up my car four times with stuff and delivered it to Crafts Bits and Pieces, which was located in Rochester, New York, a 3-1/2 hour drive each way. I was relieved when I arrived home from the fourth trip. I also donated a lot of my stuff to the Holy Trinity Catholic Church in Cohoes, three carloads full. I gave a lot of cloth and art supplies to the Art Room and Up-Stitch located on New Scotland Avenue in Albany, New York.

Over the years, I had accumulated several bookcases full of books, more than I could read in my lifetime. The purchase of books was another compulsion I had developed. I donated boxes and boxes of books to the Albany Public Library system. I now only have two bookcases full of books, and I have stopped buying new books. I do have a lot of books on Kindle, but these don't take up any space.

I finally had three truckloads of my possessions hauled away by a local company called Joey's Junk. I can finally breathe a sigh of relief. I am no longer overwhelmed by too much stuff. What a relief! My goal is to end up with as few possessions as possible. I eventually want to move to a smaller, cozier apartment and not have to worry about dragging along all these things. They were such a burden. I feel lighter now and happier than I have ever felt before. My life is no longer filled to overflowing with "things," but with my self-love and positive regard. Nothing can compete with that!

"As a new world pronounces itself to humanity led by the divine feminine, it introduces a powerful new role for you as an emerging powerful woman. You are clear. You are relaxed with yourself. You have a boldness and a softness. You settle for nothing and know that nothing is out of your reach." (Quotes in italics came directly from the recording "How a Powerful Woman Awakens," Maureen Moss, www.maureenmoss.com.)

When I read this quotation from "How a Powerful Woman Awakens," I contemplated what it meant to me to be a powerful woman. I grew up with a lot of strong women that served as role models in my formative years. I saw my mother as a powerful woman who tried to exert total control over me. I saw her strength. She saw my weakness. Being powerful to her seemed to mean that someone else had to offset it by being weak. My father played that role quite well. She overpowered him, and he never could effectively stand up to her. It seemed inconceivable to her that they each could be powerful in their own right.

As I grew up, my mother gave me some subtle and not so subtle messages that I was weak, that I was "sensitive," that she had to protect me because if she didn't, I would fall apart. She had me convinced that I could not tolerate being apart from her. It wasn't enough for her to be in complete control of my father. She had to be in total control of me also. I remember once rebelling and saying to her, "You don't own me." Her prompt reply was, "Oh, yes, I do." I thought to myself, well, maybe she does own me. That was a moment for me of utter resignation. I felt trapped and afraid.

When I look back at these events now, I realize that they were not a sign of power in my mother, but a sign of fear and weakness. Being powerful at someone else's expense does not make you potent. Instead, it makes you a bully. It offers you a false sense of superiority over someone else. My mother did not seem to realize that she and I could both be equally strong at the same time. That I was not a threat to her, and there was enough strength to go around. One did not need to take away from the other but could add to it.

I often wondered over the years why I was so afraid of revealing my true nature to my mother. I feared that it would make her feel inadequate in some way and would threaten her. So I hid my true self, even from myself. I was so afraid of abandonment by my mother and my family that I would have done anything to hold on to what I thought was necessary for my survival. In doing this, I lost myself. It is with sadness today that I realize I was clinging to something I thought was my security. I spent a whole lifetime trying to get my family to love me, and I found out that I had to love myself instead.

I am on a spiritual journey, and because of this, I am aware that I have lived many lives before this one. I have shared many of these lives with my mother. The events from them have affected what is happening in this life. She and I came into this life with a heavy karmic load, and I believe we made a spiritual contract that we would heal this karma during this lifetime. I knew before being born that this life was not going to be easy, and it has not been. Of course, we did not remember this at a conscious level at the time all the drama played out.

I had a reading with a medium concerning my past lives a few years ago. She told me, to my great surprise, that I had been a queen in several of my other life experiences. This knowledge shocked me, and it was the last thing I wanted to hear. But it does explain why I have been reticent to show my innate power to others. It also explains why my mother and sisters did not want me to be considered the "favorite" by anybody in the family. This desire seemed out of proportion to what was happening in the family. In reality, I wasn't the favorite. Instead, the family shunned me. It became apparent that I was the only one who saw what was happening to me.

Listening to this tape over and over again has helped me to realize it is time to reveal my true essence. It is needed in today's world that is quickly changing and evolving. Right now, as I am writing this in 2020, the world is experiencing the coronavirus pandemic. There have been over 100,000 deaths, and this number is climbing. The United States is also embroiled in civil unrest related to the most recent senseless death of a black man at the hands of a white police officer. People have had enough.

People have taken to the streets in cities across America to protest the underlying power differential that exists between the "haves" and the "have-nots." For the most part, these protests have been peaceful and lawful, with citizens exercising their rights to freedom of speech and assembly. This is true power, and I admire it much. This represents boldness and softness, as mentioned in the above quotation. These are American citizens who will settle for nothing less than equality of power. They believe that nothing is out of their reach, and they are reaching for it. The peaceful protests are carried out in the spirit of Martin Luther King, Jr., a personal hero of mine, who I think would be very proud of them. Peaceful, nonviolent assembly is tainted, however, when the crowds resort to looting and damage of personal property.

I am so glad that I have finally decided to step into my role as a powerful woman. I now realize that I can be bold and soft at the same time and that being "sensitive" is not a liability, but a gift to be shared with others. I am powerful, and so are you. My power does not diminish yours but adds to it. I am relaxed with myself. Nothing is out of my reach!!

A THOUSAND BUTTERCUPS

I was given a gift today of a thousand buttercups. The supply of buttercups is endless and will stay with me for the rest of my life. Let me explain. There is an organization called Among Angels in Clifton Park that includes a store and several mediums who offer psychic readings and also healing circles on Friday and Sunday evenings. I had been to a couple of healing circles before but not in a while. I almost always received a heartwarming message from either Mother or Daddy, and I thought maybe tonight I would receive another one.

The medium, Lori, went to me first. She started by saying that I was surrounded by thousands of beautiful yellow buttercups. They were woven all around me. There were so many of them that she could barely distinguish one from another. The buttercups represent happiness and love, and I can pick a buttercup anytime I want to and ask for whatever I need to feel loved and to help me move forward in my spiritual journey.

The supply of buttercups is inexhaustible. The buttercups were a spiritual gift to me. Lori said that she has never seen the magnitude of such a gift before. The buttercups represent spirits, and there are spirits on the other side (thousands of them) that are willing to help me. They also represent happiness and love. Contentment is something I have been thinking a lot about lately. There have been long, long periods of my life where I was not only unhappy, but I felt unloved. I have once and for all concluded this sad period of my life. It is time to express my love and happiness forever.

The symbol of the buttercups is also interesting to me because, as a little girl in Vermont, I was fascinated by the wildflowers that grew in abundance surrounding Grammie's house (my favorite place to go). There were daisies which we tried to make into daisy chains and dandelions. I especially remember the buttercups and putting them under our chins to see if we could see the color yellow. The glossiness of the flower causes this to happen, and it is a fun activity for children. I remember doing that with my aunts and my sisters, so the gift was appropriate in many ways.

This gift came at just the right time in my journey. It was confirmation that I am going in the right direction and that I am evolving spiritually. I have been aiming for this as long as I can remember. Lest I despair of my progress and wonder whether I am loved or supported, I have thousands of buttercups to remind that I am loved. All I have to do is reach out and pick one.

"You are being given all of the omniversal support from the divine mother aspect of God to love yourself fiercely, softly, and honorably but you must take note because you must protect yourself from your own mind in order to awaken." (Quotes in italics came directly from the recording "How a Powerful Woman Awakens," Maureen Moss, www.maureenmoss.com.)

Now that I look back at my life in any objective way, I realize I was wrong when I thought I was alone, and no one loved me. I was born with a whole team of spiritual guides who were always ready to guide and protect me. The same is true for everyone else. Of course, no one in my family ever talked about anything like that. I doubt that anyone even thinks that is a possibility, but I do, and I am so grateful for that understanding.

Towards the end of my mother's life, she was going through some frightening experiences. She had bipolar disorder with psychotic features, and she was having a flareup of it. Because she felt comfortable talking to me about what she was experiencing, she told me, "I am seeing people." I asked her what these people looked like, and she described them as a man and a woman who wore old-fashioned clothes. She asked me if I thought she was crazy. I immediately recognized them as her spirit guides and told her not to worry, that they were here to help her. She was comforted by that. Anyone else in the family to whom she had confided this would have thought she was hallucinating. This incident confirmed my long-held belief that spirit guides are always with you, and you are never alone, even in your darkest moments.

I was born with the spiritual understanding that this life is but one of many in every soul's long journey toward spiritual evolution. I have always believed in reincarnation, and I have recall of some of my previous lives as they relate to the lessons I am here to learn this time. I also believe each person makes spiritual contracts before being born and tries to fulfill their purpose while here. That is why some relationships are more complicated than others as each person plays out their roles. I also believe in karma and that some people have intense karmic relationships and are trying to heal them, so they don't need to continue from one life to another. When you are born, you don't remember all this, but as life progresses, it sometimes becomes apparent. Behind the scenes of all this are spirit guides ready to assist. All you have to do is ask. Tremendous amounts of spiritual guidance and support are always available.

A few years ago, I attended an "Angel Circle" at Among Angels in Clifton Park, New York. At these gatherings, a medium gives messages from the spiritual world to those attending. Tonight the medium, Lori, came to me and said a woman was standing in front of me. She said I didn't know this woman, but she was here to help me captivate and entice people. Her name was Judith, and she lived in the early 1900s. Judith loved people and loved to teach. The people that she taught always returned to her eventually.

I have always had a way of captivating and enticing children, and that has been one of my gifts. I related to adults in a different way. As I grew up, I thought there was something inherently wrong with me and that I turned people off. I now realize that I saw myself as a scapegoat and projected that vibration to people who treated me that way. I was told by a medium many years ago that I was very talented with people. I didn't envision myself in that way. My family always relayed to me that there was something wrong with me and that no one liked me. I lived with that belief, and it made interacting with people very difficult.

Judith helped me to drop that faulty belief and to see myself as I am, a warm, loving, and kind person who loves people. Changing this belief changed my vibration. Now the interactions I have with others are very positive and satisfying. I have the same reactions from most people that I typically received from children. Judith has helped me to love myself fiercely, softly, and honorably, and in doing that, I see the goodness in the people I encounter. I realized that I had stopped judging other people, and I am so much happier because of it. I always know when Judith is close by because I often feel nudges to give compliments that are often warmly received. I want to show love and compassion to as many people as I can. Judith guides me every step of the way. She understands my needs as she has walked this way before. In a sense, I am carrying on her tradition.

I know that I have all the support I need for this journey, probably more than I can comprehend. The second part of the statement, "protect myself from my own mind," is where I can get tripped up. I have to remain vigilant and aware of my thinking at all times so that I don't veer off in a negative direction. It is easy for an old belief to crop up, "you're not good enough," "it's all your fault," "you can't do anything right," "nobody loves you," and on and on and on. The trick is to catch it before it throws me off. I can tell when my thinking is off because I start feeling depressed and scared. The second I sense that is the time to change my thinking back to a more positive vibe, and stop the negative thinking right in its tracks. Changing my thinking requires patience and understanding on my part. It is so worth it, though, and I know I am not alone. I have all the support I could request. I need to remember to make that request.

I DON'T WANT TO LOOK LIKE YOU

Throughout my life with my family, they remembered and repeated all the negative things I ever did or. I did a lot of positive things in my life. But the family chose to disregard, minimize, or ignore them. They certainly did not recount them over and over again to whoever was willing to listen.

One of these incidents was when I supposedly announced to my Aunt Priscilla, "I don't want to look like you," and running away and pulling my bangs back so that I wouldn't look like her. She never forgot that or forgave me for saying it, and she repeated it to my mother and father and anyone else who would listen. Throughout the years, my family threw this up at me at every opportunity. If my hair looked a certain way, my sister would say, "You look like Aunt Priscilla." That was supposed to bother me. I don't recall that it did bother me, just that everyone thought it did.

My mother would frequently remind me of it also. "Remember when you told Aunt Priscilla that you didn't want to look like her," and kind of sneer about it. I don't remember saying it, and I always thought that maybe it was when I was a teenager living in Norwich, and Aunt Priscilla was on one of her trips to visit us. But I honestly don't recall that it was a big issue with me.

Aunt Priscilla is an interesting woman. In her 80s, she is still very healthy and full of energy. I also always remember admiring her. She joined the Air Force, and I thought that was neat. She became a lieutenant. I always thought of her as a very successful and fascinating person. While she was in the service, she married a man named Louis Knox. At the time, she was stationed in Africa. She desperately wanted to be with him and so somehow arranged to have herself released from the military. The marriage didn't work out, and they ended up getting a divorce. She tried to get back into the Air Force but had created such a fuss about getting out that they wouldn't allow her back in.

She was a teacher and taught school in Florida for many years. She doesn't like black people and never did (a typical sentiment on my father's side of the family). She didn't like having to teach black children and had to do so because there were many of them in Florida. She has very definite ideas about everything, and like most of the members on the Atwood side of the family is a staunch conservative in her views. Politics is not something I would want to get into with her because my views are the exact opposite, tending to be more liberal.

After she retired from being a teacher, she bought an RV and traveled around the country, sometimes on her own, and sometimes with a male companion. She was always on the go and interested in many things. She liked to go to museums in the various locations they visited. Anyway, I thought she was a pretty neat person, and I truly admired her even though I didn't always share her opinions about things. I guess I naively thought she felt the same way about me, yet through the years, I was reminded often of the inconsiderate declaration I had made.

A few years ago, my family gathered in Vermont for my Uncle Howland's memorial service at the Hartland Library. It also happened to be Aunt Priscilla's 80th birthday, which we were celebrating. I took the opportunity to tell my Aunt Priscilla how much I always admired her because I genuinely felt that way, and I wanted her to know that. To my surprise, she didn't miss a beat, and quickly replied, "Really, well, when you visited us in Florida someone said you looked like me, and you ran away saying 'I don't want to look like you,' and tried to pull your bangs off your forehead."

So there it was out in the open. I was amazed that the family still talked about an incident that happened when we lived for a short time in Florida. It was before I was even in school and must have been when I was four years old. No wonder I didn't remember saying it. I barely remember anything about living in Florida. The remark happened over 60 years ago, and it has lingered in my aunt's and everyone else's memory for six-plus decades. I had felt bad about saying this because I thought it was when I was a teenager and should have known better than to say something like that. Instead, I was an innocent little girl who made an impetuous comment that ended up haunting me for a very long time.

I was taken aback when I found out that I was only four years old and managed to reply to my aunt, "But I was a little girl then, only four years old, and I certainly didn't mean it the way it sounded." This was one of the first times I was allowed to defend myself and give my point of view about something, and honestly, it felt good. Aunt Priscilla went on to say that the way she and Grandpa Atwood look is right because they don't show their age as quickly.

I went on to say that I don't have any problem with how I look or the fact that I look like other members of the family. I don't know if that sunk into Aunt Priscilla or not, but it made a difference to me because I no longer had to feel guilty about something I had said long ago. I was able to forgive myself for this at long last. The story most likely still lingers on as most family myths do, but it's no longer my problem.

I recently visited my younger sister Joyce in Vermont. She and I have always had a problematic relationship, and she is one of the people in my family who liked to remind me that I did look like my Aunt Priscilla. She also has a very close relationship with her, and they are great buddies. Aunt Priscilla even came up to help take care of Joyce when she was going through the recovery from one or two of her spinal surgeries.

This past year I have stopped dying my hair and let the gray show through. It is also cut short. Joyce reminded me that this made me look like Aunt Priscilla. I replied to Joyce that I didn't mind looking like Aunt Priscilla, and actually, I liked it. Joyce looked stunned for a moment. I also went on to tell her that this incident happened when I was a little girl of four, not when I was a teenager in Norwich, as she said she believed it did.

I also went on to say that I am like Aunt Priscilla in other ways too. One way is that I am a very healthy and energetic person. I don't have any health problems and rarely get sick. I am not afraid of anything and have a great sense of adventure. I have driven across the United States twice by myself and wouldn't mind doing it again if I had the opportunity.

I spent many years trying to be accepted by my family but never achieving this. I now realize that there was a reason for this. Had I been validated by Aunt Priscilla or anyone else in the family, I would have retained their mindset. In the long run, becoming one of them would not have served me. They tended to be was very judgmental and stubborn in their thinking. They liked to talk about other people and judge them harshly. I don't want to sit around talking about someone else when I can better use my time living my life and becoming the best and happiest person I can be.

I DO NOT NEED A PSYCHIATRIST

The concept of "being crazy" was a part of my psyche for as far back as I can recall. I remember much fear and paranoia around this on my mother's side of the family. This fear stemmed from the prevalent history of mental illness, including long psychiatric hospital admissions, suicides, and depression. Mental illness was highly stigmatized when my mother was growing up, and to some degree still is. No one wanted to be the "one" who was labeled this way. It seemed that someone had to be though to defer attention away from everyone else and focus it on the unfortunate member of the family who bore the label. Since I was the most sensitive one and the person most vulnerable, I was given and took on this label and persona.

When my sisters or I would get upset about something when we were growing up, and we got to be more than my mother was willing to tolerate, she would often say to us, "Do I have to take you to a psychiatrist?" It was an empty threat because she had no intention of doing so, no matter what the problem or issue was.

Another common refrain was, "if you don't stop that, you're going to give me a nervous breakdown." I wasn't sure what a nervous breakdown was, but I knew it was something that I didn't want to happen to our mother. I much later realized that my mother was way too strong a person to suffer a breakdown of any kind, much less a nervous one. But at the time when I was younger, it was something that concerned me. What would happen to us if she did have a nervous breakdown? What was a nervous breakdown anyway? I was confused.

I knew my mother had issues. She cried a lot, for instance. She would also take things that people said to her the wrong way. One time we were at Grammie's house. Marion, her sister, and her husband Howard were there, along with my parents and my two sisters. Out of the blue, my mother said to Howard, "don't talk about my girls like that." Howard had not said a thing. It made no sense, and Marion got upset, and Howard took off, walking down the road. Marion was mad at Mother and couldn't figure out what had set her off. I couldn't either.

Mother was ultra-sensitive about what was said to her and took a lot of things personally that were not intended that way. I now realize that her thinking was a bit off, and this had to do with her eventual diagnosis of bipolar disorder with psychotic features. She was diagnosed with this much later in life after the three of us had grown up, but it cleared up for me a lot of the misunderstanding I had about comments she made about anything related to mental illness.

Since Mother was so concerned about what people thought about her, the last thing she wanted to happen was for anyone to believe she was mentally ill. She focused on me being "crazy" from about the time that I started getting depressed in the fourth grade and was unrelenting about this from then on out. She would tell anyone and everyone who would listen, including relatives and friends and people at work.

She tried to convince me that I was weak and that I needed her to survive, that I couldn't tolerate being away from her, that she had to protect me because I was so sensitive, that if she didn't protect me, I would fall apart. She wanted me all to herself. Then she would use her perceived weakness of me to call me crazy. I truly believe she thought I was insane, and most of the family thought it too. There are still people to this day who say that I am crazy and refuse to see me as I am. In this context, crazy meant evil, a person who didn't deserve love or respect, not someone who was suffering from a mental illness.

When Mother and Daddy moved to the Albany, New York area in 1965, Mother got a job at Montgomery Wards doing the paperwork for the contract installation department. She worked there in Menands, New York, until the late 1970s when that store closed. My mother had been struggling with depression for a long time. In the 1970s, her family doctor, Dr. Insell of East Greenbush, New York, prescribed an antidepressant, which helped for a while. Her situation deteriorated, though, and at one point, she started taking a bottle of aspirin, which I believe was a cry for help. The emergency room doctors admitted her to the psychiatric unit of Samaritan Hospital as a danger to herself for stabilization. The antidepressant had triggered a manic episode, and the psychiatrist diagnosed her with bipolar disorder with psychotic features.

My mother had suffered from depression for many, many years. It had gotten intense when she was in her 50s. She was still able to go to work and perform her job, but she was struggling. The manic part of her illness was masked until she started taking the antidepressant. While at Samaritan Hospital, the psychiatrist gave her a prescription for lithium carbonate to control the manic phase. He also continued her on the antidepressant Tofranil.

The psychiatric team discharged her from the psychiatric unit of Samaritan Hospital with prescriptions in hand and instructions on how to take them. The team also gave her an appointment with a psychiatrist who would manage her symptoms and control her medications. This appointment did not please my mother, given her fear of seeing a psychiatrist.

My mother hated being in the psychiatric unit. She felt like she didn't belong there because after all, she wasn't crazy. Also, there were psychiatrists on the ward, and the last thing she thought she needed was the aid of a psychiatrist. She went to see the psychiatrist once or twice after she was discharged from the hospital, but was quite annoyed with him when he asked her about her relationship with her mother. She wasn't about to tell him or anyone else how she felt about her mother (which I am sure was a complicated relationship for her because of Grammie Phillips' feelings about the people on Grandpa's side, many of whom were mentally ill).

Once my mother found out that she could get her prescriptions for her medications filled by Dr. Insell, she decided to go that route instead of seeing the psychiatrist. She thought she was smart by getting what she wanted without having to divulge any of her deeply held secrets or admit she had a mental illness. She also believed that if she went to a psychiatrist that meant she was crazy, and if she didn't go, she wasn't. Dr. Insell prescribed her medications for her and had her lithium level tested every few months to avoid lithium toxicity.

This arrangement worked pretty well for my mother for many years. My mother readily admitted that she liked to be in the manic phase of her illness. She felt a sense of power that she enjoyed. She was flying. Of course, she couldn't sleep, and she talked endlessly, but she liked the feeling of it. I guess it was like being high. It didn't take her long to realize though that the higher she went while in her manic phase when she crashed (which was inevitable), the lower she would go in her depressive state. She realized that she needed to take her medications to keep herself on an even keel. She just could not tolerate sinking into a deep depression after a manic phase even though it had been enjoyable to her at the time. When my mother was properly medicated, she appeared to be normal.

Since the time she was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder, medications to treat this illness had been developed. Because of not being followed regularly by a psychiatrist, these medications were never prescribed to her. These new medications have lesser side effects than lithium carbonate. While lithium did pretty well to control her manic and depressive phases and rendered her in a reasonably level state, she eventually paid a high cost for its continual use over many years.

The side effects of lithium carbonate include neuromuscular changes of tremor, painful muscles, and loss of ability to walk. It also causes central nervous system changes of increased thirst. These are all side effects that my mother eventually developed. While Dr. Insel did regularly check my mother's serum lithium levels by doing blood tests, this alone should not have been substituted for clinical observation by a knowledgeable psychiatrist.

About a year before her death in 2005, my mother started having difficulty walking manifested as neuromuscular changes, which I believe resulted from years of taking lithium. My mother was having problems dealing with her bipolar disorder and was again admitted to the psychiatric unit of Samaritan Hospital. The psychiatrist who saw her concluded that lithium was causing her problems with walking. He took her off the lithium with the idea of starting her on a more conventional drug for treating her mania known not to cause such severe side effects. The sudden withdrawal of lithium, unfortunately, resulted in thrusting her back into a manic phase in which she could not sleep for days on end, became psychotic in her thinking, and talked endlessly. It was too late for the neuromuscular changes to be reversed and to start a new medication. She was put back on the lithium to control the mania.

I was in the process of getting ready to move back to the east coast in July 2005 to take care of my mother and make peace with her before her passing. My mother was at her mobile home on a Sunday afternoon when she fell and could not get up. She thought she had a stroke (which was a fear of hers since her father had several and was disabled for many years). My daughter, Deana, and son, Chris, called 9-1-1, and she was taken immediately to the emergency room and admitted.

I made arrangements to leave California immediately as no one knew for sure whether or not she was going to die. I wanted to get back to see her one last time if she was indeed in the process of dying, and if not, I was going to take care of her until she did. As it turned out, she did not have a stroke, but she had somehow "forgotten" how to walk. While in the hospital, it was initially felt that she would not be able to return home and would need to be admitted immediately to a nursing home. My mother was also resigned to the fact that she might be dying and, at one point, told my daughter and the nurse that she was ready for the pill. I guess she thought they would give her something to "put her to sleep" permanently. The nurses told her that it didn't work that way.

I left California with my dog Sheba and headed to the East Coast. My plan was to drive 750 miles a day for four days and hopefully would get there before she passed away. However, while I was still on the road she "perked up," and the doctors treating her felt she might possibly be rehabilitated enough to be able to return to a home setting. She would be admitted to a rehab center for one month and would be taught how to walk again. I arrived at the hospital a day or two before she was scheduled to go to the rehab center. At first when I saw her, she said to me, "I'm waiting for my daughter to get here from California." I said, "It's me." She said, "Oh, but you look different."

My mother paid a high price for her stubbornness in refusing to go to a psychiatrist. Had she been followed regularly by a psychiatrist, she might have been prescribed a more effective medication for her manic symptoms with less pronounced and severe side effects. She did need a psychiatrist, not because she was crazy, but because she had a clearly defined mental illness. The bipolar disorder would have been better managed by a psychiatrist and not a family physician (who eventually lost his medical license because of malpractice not related to issues with my mother).

BIO OF EVELYN PHILLIPS ATWOOD

Evelyn Bertha Phillips was born on September 2, 1922, in South Duxbury, Vermont. She was the oldest daughter of Clayton and Bertha Phillips, farmers in Vermont, who went on to have four more daughters, Virginia, Lena, Betty, and Marion. During her last year of high school, Evelyn moved with her family to Waitsfield, Vermont, where she attended Waitsfield High School. Because she was such a good student, Evelyn won a four-year scholarship to the University of Vermont, which she attended for two years, studying to be a teacher. Somehow she lost money that she had in the bank and felt she could no longer continue with college despite having a scholarship for the full four years.

After college, Evelyn became a Western Union relief operator and traveled around to various locations, including New Hampshire and Washington, D.C. While she was a Western Union relief operator in Windsor, Vermont, she met her future husband, Deane Atwood. He was a taxi driver who delivered casualty telegrams that came through Western Union. You might say it was "love at first sight," because only six weeks after meeting, Deane and Evelyn got married and started raising a family. Phylis was born in November 1944. Ten months later, Barbara came along, and then 20 months later, their youngest daughter, Joyce, was born.

Deane and Evelyn ran a general store in Hartland, Vermont, for a while, then tried farming. For several years, they had a farm in Orange, Vermont, then moved to Waterbury for a while. They then moved to Pompanoosuc, Vermont, where Deane worked for a couple of years on Verne Drew's farm. Up until this point, Evelyn stayed at home and cared for her three girls. In Pompanoosuc, Evelyn took a part-time job as a bookkeeper at Southworth's Garage in Norwich, Vermont. She also had a short-term position as Postmistress of the Norwich Post Office, filling in for someone who was on sick leave.

Deane and Evelyn then bought a house on the outskirts of Norwich, Vermont, where Deane thought it would be a good idea to raise chickens and have Evelyn take care of them. Evelyn emphatically told Deane, "If I'm going to work, I'm going to work on my terms." She then was hired for a full-time position in the offices of Cross-Abbott Company in White River Junction, Vermont, where she stayed until Deane and Evelyn moved to New York State in 1965. Once in New York State, Evelyn obtained an office position at Montgomery Wards in Menands, New York, from which she retired after they closed the store in the late 1970s.

Evelyn was an excellent cook and loved to cook for her family. Her potato salad was beyond compare. Another specialty of hers was "raisin-filled sugar cookies," which were especially enjoyed by her father-in-law, Clarence Atwood. After her own three daughters were grown, Evelyn spent a good deal of time helping to raise her grandchildren, particularly Deana and Chris. She had a great sense of humor and was a very kind and loving woman. Children loved her and were drawn to her easygoing nature. She was especially fond of her great-grandchildren.

Suffering a decline in health for about a year, Evelyn passed away peacefully in November 2005 at the home of her daughter Barb. She is greatly missed by all who knew her.

THE LIE

We always celebrated New Year's Day at our house, not only because it was the beginning of a new year, but also it was Mother and Daddy's wedding anniversary. Through the years, Mother told us the story of how she and Daddy met in Windsor, Vermont, in the fall of 1943, one and a half years before World War II ended. She was a Western Union operator who received telegrams informing family members that their loved ones had been killed in action. He was a taxicab driver who delivered the bad news. She was 21 years old, and he was 18.

According to Mother, they were intensely attracted to each other from the start. Even though they had only known each other for a couple of months, they were anxious to get married. They went to the Justice of the Peace in Windsor, who performed the civil ceremony on January 1, 1944. They then went to spend their "wedding night" with Mother's parents in Berlin, where they were allowed to sleep together.

Every year for 55 years, this story held up. We celebrated their wedding anniversary with no questions asked, although I occasionally thought it was odd that they got married by a Justice of the Peace on a holiday. The truth only came out after my father passed away in February 1999, and my mother applied to the Social Security Administration for her share of my father's benefits based on their marital relationship. My mother provided the information about the date and place of their marriage as January 1, 1944, in Windsor, Vermont.

My sister Phylis was visiting Mother in March of 1999 when she received a call from Social Security They informed her that her claim for benefits had been denied because there was no record of their marriage on January 1, 1944, in Windsor, Vermont. According to Phylis, Mother became flustered, started talking in hushed tones, and tried to get as far away from her with the phone as she possibly could. She heard my mother explain that they were married on January 3, 1944, in Whitehall, New York.

The legal age for marriage without parental consent in Vermont was 21 at the time. Daddy's parents wouldn't sign for him, so they tried to elope to Whitehall, New York (just over the border), where the legal age for marriage for men was 19. They went to the courthouse on New Year's Day, which was closed not only because it was a Saturday but also a holiday. They would have to wait until Monday, the 3rd. Daddy lied about his age since he would not turn 19 for two months.

Mother said, "Your father thought it wouldn't go over too well with my folks about sleeping together, so they decided to fabricate the lie about the date." She said, "It was just as easy for him to tell a lie as the truth, so we stuck with it all those years." (Blaming my father was typical of my mother who liked to portray herself as a saint and him as a sinner). Phylis observed a sheepish look on her face when she said, "I've been living a lie."

Her image was paramount to my mother. She projected herself as a morally upstanding woman who would never sleep with a man before marriage, an expectation that she passed on to her three daughters. She also led us to believe that she wouldn't lie about anything and expected us to be truthful regardless of the consequences. Mother often repeated an early lesson throughout my childhood that concerned "The Boy Who Cried Wolf," the moral of the story being no one believes a liar.

My mother faced a dilemma--which would be worse, sleeping together before marriage or lying about the actual date? She didn't want to reveal either about herself and so decided to stay with the original story. This decision was my mother's choice as my father didn't care what people thought about him nearly as much as she did. She chose to perpetuate the lie because she thought no one would ever find out. The falsehood ended with the call from Social Security in front of Phylis. Faced with the possibility of losing my father's benefits, she finally opted to tell the truth.

Finding out that my mother lied so quickly and continuously about something as inconsequential as this makes me wonder what other lies she might have told me. Maybe I'll never know.

BORN WITH A "V" FOR VICTORY

After Mother and Daddy married in January 1944, they lived in Hartland, Vermont, where Daddy and his brother, Howland, jointly ran a small store for a short time. Mother tended the store most of the time and was also postmistress as the post office was located there. Mother had left her job as a Western Union relief operator, but Daddy was still delivering casualty telegrams. They lived in a small apartment upstairs.

On November 13, 1944, my sister Phylis was born. Mother and Daddy were settling in as newlyweds with a newborn. Mother had intended not to get pregnant again right away. She thought she was safe until her first period came after birth and so they resumed their sex life. To my mother's great surprise and dismay, she never did get that initial period. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Atwood, you're pregnant again," the doctor gave her the startling news.

I was born just ten months after Phylis on September 20, 1945, a few weeks after the Japanese surrender, which ended World War II. Following the end of a long and bloody war, patriotism in the United States was at a high point. My mother loved to tell the story that I was born with a "V for Victory" on my forehead, a large red "V," which gradually faded. She claims all the babies were born with a similar sign.

My mother was none too pleased about having a second baby so quickly after the first. Because her image was essential to her, I am sure she was embarrassed by the fact that she got pregnant so quickly. My grandmother and her four sisters likely gossiped about this behind her back. "Well, you would have thought they could have waited," was something they might have said.

Phylis had a professional baby portrait done after her birth. I didn't. I have a picture of Mother holding her as a baby, looking contented and peaceful, and smiling sweetly. There is no picture of her holding me with such a demeanor. The only picture I have as a baby is Mother holding me on her hip outside at our farm in Orange, Vermont, where we moved less than a year after I was born. She had on a housedress and an apron and looked thin and tired. She had gone from postmistress and respected businesswoman to a farm wife.

Just twenty months after my birth, my younger sister Joyce was born. Now Mother had her hands full. I have a picture of my mother sitting on a chair in my grandparents' front lawn, holding Joyce as a baby, with a look of resignation on her face. Since I was a very active child from the start, it was natural for me to be spinning around like a whirling dervish beside her, which I was doing in that photo.

Mother's life was difficult in those early years. She was stuck on a small farm in a remote area of Vermont, working hard and barely managing to get by. She not only had three little girls to raise, but she always considered Daddy as her oldest child. Only 18 when they married, he never really grew up and was irresponsible much of the time. He was an alcoholic, and some of my earliest memories are of my mother yelling at him about frequenting beer gardens and not behaving as he should, trying desperately but unsuccessfully to get him to shape up and be a good husband and father.

Throughout my childhood, the touching story about the "V" was repeated often by Mother. Mother would also say that when I got tired, the V showed up on my forehead. I enjoyed hearing the story because it made me feel special since she was otherwise clearly not overjoyed by my arrival. I never really questioned its validity until years later when I saw a copy of my birth certificate listing my weight as 8 pounds and 14 ounces. Since Phylis was only 6 pounds at birth, I came to believe that Mother needed a little assistance via forceps in delivering me, and the red mark that faded was probably a result of that. It no longer made sense to me that a "V for victory" would be placed on babies' foreheads after the war by some unknown force. When I asked my mother if I was delivered by forceps, she shrugged but never told the story again. Maybe I should have left well enough alone.

DADDY'S FORMATIVE YEARS

Daddy was born on February 19, 1925, in Hartland, Vermont, to Clarence and Marjorie Atwood. He was the second of two sons. His older brother was Howland, about four years his senior. He has two younger sisters, Priscilla, who was born in 1931, and Marjo, who was born in 1935.

They lived in a big white house in Hartland Four Corners. Interestingly, this house still stands and appears much the same way it did in old photographs. The basement has been converted into a bar and restaurant called Skunk Hollow Tavern. Some of my family and I went there for lunch a few years ago, and the new owners were kind enough to give us a tour of the house. Daddy had shared so many stories and adventures about his childhood that it was fun seeing where they occurred.

The family was well off financially due to Grandpa Atwood's shrewd acumen as a businessman. He ran a milk company during the depression in Hartland, Vermont, which was profitable. After all, everyone needed milk. The company was successful because pasteurization had not yet been a requirement for the milk industry. Grandpa retired when he was just 40 years old and lived comfortably for the rest of his life. He knew that getting out of the milk industry at that time was a good move. He had invested wisely in the stock market, which also yielded a good income.

Daddy painted a picture of an ideal childhood. In many ways, it probably was. He lived in the country and enjoyed many outdoor activities. He had lots of cousins, and they enjoyed fishing and swimming in the summer and skiing in the winter. However, if you listened attentively to the stories, you would hear about the sadness that also permeated his life from an early age. His brother, Howland, was regarded as the "perfect child," who could do no wrong, and Daddy was the "bad child," who could not seem to do anything right. It was apparent that he was the scapegoat of the family, the "black sheep."

The family liked to travel and see the country. Every summer, they would go on an extended vacation for fun and adventure. But not everyone went. Instead, the family dropped Daddy off at Uncle Fred's farm for the summer. He probably thought it was a treat to go there. Little did he know that everyone else in the family was going on an exciting vacation destination. He didn't even know this had happened until years later when he would hear family members talk about different places they had visited in the summer. Daddy relayed this many times with great sadness. It is hard to comprehend the depth of the cruelty and loneliness he felt as a child growing up.

Daddy and Grandpa had a very complicated and challenging relationship. Daddy tried very hard to please him and gain his favor throughout his entire life, but never achieved it. Besides the emotional abuse that happened in his childhood, he was also physically abused. Grandpa and Grammie Atwood both treated Howland as the favored son, and they held their two daughters in high esteem also, but Daddy was the one left out of everything. He was the scapegoat and bore the brunt of all the antagonism in the family. He carried that label in the family throughout his entire life.

Although it was apparent to me that this originated from Daddy's and Grandpa's love/hate relationship, the whole family joined in. They viewed him as a troublemaker and seemed to think of him as a burden. They were probably embarrassed by him. To this day, his sister Priscilla does not have a good thing to say about him, more than 20 years after his death. There is one story she likes to tell in which she set him up, got him in trouble, and walked away laughing quite pleased with herself. Howland was the skinny one, and Daddy was fat. Howland liked to sneak pies and other treats and blame it on Daddy. When Daddy objected, his mother would say, "Well, it must have been you. You're the fat one."

As Daddy got old enough for high school, he must have been getting into mischief, probably sneaking out drinking beer and partying. This behavior infuriated his father and was probably the cause of many a trip to the woodshed. Daddy tells about one such punishment by his father that was so severe that his mother intervened because she was afraid he was going to injure him severely. It must have been pretty bad for her to stop it as I doubt she rarely stood up for him. She was undoubtedly worried about possible repercussions.

Grandpa was a man of means and thought the solution to his son's bad behavior was to send him away to school. He sent him to Kimball Union Academy (KUA), a prestigious private boarding school in New Hampshire, another way to get rid of him. Grandpa probably hoped this would shape him up and turn him into a gentleman rather than the ruffian he felt he was. It had the opposite effect on him. He continued his wayward ways and developed into a full-fledged alcoholic while he was still a teenager. He must have felt like a misfit, and this was his misguided way of coping.

Daddy liked to tell stories about his days at KUA. Not only did he start drinking heavily, but he also played poker. He was proud of the fact that he knew F. Lee Bailey, a renowned defense attorney from Massachusetts, who attended the academy at the same time. A French teacher at KUA allegedly molested Daddy, and when he told Grandpa about it, he wouldn't let him return to KUA. He went back to Hartland and attended Windsor High School for a while, but did not graduate.

Next, Daddy joined the Navy, and he made it through boot camp. He was proud of this accomplishment; however, it was short-lived. Because of sleepwalking and sleep talking (more like sleep screaming), he was honorably discharged. It was during World War II, and the military thought he would be a liability in certain situations because he might alert the enemy. Again my father returned to Hartland.

He worked as a cab driver in Windsor during the war, and one of his jobs was to deliver casualty telegrams. My mother worked as a relief operator at Western Union, where he would retrieve the telegrams. They met around November 1943, when he was 18, and she was 21. They had a whirlwind courtship and were married six weeks later. (In retrospect, I believe that Mother and Daddy had made a spiritual agreement for this lifetime. They were not going to have a good relationship, but he agreed to help her navigate this lifetime, which was very difficult for her.) Three little girls followed in quick succession.

Grandpa's and Daddy's tenuous relationship continued until the day Grandpa died in 1972. Even though he seemed to have great disdain for my father, he continued to play a significant role in his life. My grandparents had moved to Florida but returned to Vermont every summer. Every year Grandpa bought a brand new Buick. They would arrive at our house in Norwich, hauling a fancy mobile home, where they lived after parking it on our lawn. My grandfather gave my father money whenever he asked for it, and financed some of his failed ventures into capitalism.

My father's family favored my mother over him. He was a full-fledged alcoholic by the time they got married and continued on this path for at least 30 years of their marriage. His family always took my mother's part, and she became a real martyr. Of course, it was difficult for her, but it wasn't easy for him either. He always tried to get her approval but never did. She disapproved of him throughout their whole marriage, always wanting him to change to suit her, just like his father had done. I seemed to be the only one in his entire world who understood him and accepted him no matter what.

I felt that Grandpa Atwood betrayed my father in many ways, but the most blatant was when he offered to have my father declared incompetent. All my mother had to do was say the word, and he would take care of it. Mother told me she couldn't do that to him. I'm so glad she didn't. It would have destroyed him. I also hope that she never confided this to him.

I often wonder why my grandparents spent so much time with us every summer because they held my father in such high disdain. Grandpa thought he was one of the biggest losers going. It was a complicated relationship that shaped my father's life. I wonder if he ever came to terms with it.

DINNER AT HOWARD JOHNSON

Growing up in the 50s in rural Vermont, going to a restaurant meant a drive from our farmhouse in rustic Orange to Howard Johnson's, located in downtown Barre. We didn't go out to eat often for a couple of reasons—my parents were young and had three little girls, one right after the other, and so there was the cost factor, and also my mother would obsess about how she was going to get the three of us to sit still and not embarrass her.

My mother worried a lot about what she thought other people were thinking about her, and this caused her quite a bit of nervousness, especially if we were going to be out in public, such as to Howard Johnson's Restaurant. I was the middle girl and quite a little "live wire," so I knew that my mother was the most concerned about me. She tried to devise strategies ahead of time to keep me still enough not to spill something or wiggle around too much or take off running away from the table, all things that would have embarrassed my mother to no end.

"Sit still."

"Don't squirm around so much."

"Don't kick your sister under the table."

"I wasn't."

"Yes, you were, I can tell by the look on your face."

"Don't wiggle so much, or you'll spill your drink."

And on and on it went throughout the meal.

Another thing we all liked about going to a restaurant was getting to eat something that we would not get at home. A favorite of my mother's and mine was fried scallops. And what would fried scallops be without a delicious order of hot french fries? Another problem with eating out for me was having to adapt to different table manners that may or may not be clarified beforehand. At home, it was okay to pick up your french fries with your fingers and eat them, but not if you were eating out.

I picked up my first hot, yummy french fry and had it almost to my mouth when it took my mother about a split second to say:

"Don't eat with your fingers."

My mother told me with a disapproving look that only my mother could muster, and with that withering look on her face, I knew she wasn't happy with me. I was embarrassed, my face flushed beet red, and the rest of my meal didn't taste so good because I was afraid of doing something else wrong.

I know eating out in a restaurant was supposed to be fun, but it was stressful too, not only for me but also for my easily embarrassed mother. Outward appearances meant everything to her. It was way more fun to eat at home—there weren't so many "don't's." Also, my mother was a great cook, and Howard Johnson's menu couldn't compare to my mother's home cooking—even if we did get scallops and could choose one flavor of ice cream out of 28!!

STRANDED

When I was in the first grade and my sister, Phylis, was in the second, we lived on a small farm situated a few miles outside the town of Orange, Vermont, a farming town with a population of about 400. We went to a one-room schoolhouse located in East Orange, with only ten students in all eight grades. Our modest farmhouse sat at the top of a hill at the end of a quarter-mile dirt road that met Route 25. Every school day, Phylis and I walked down to the main highway, where a bus picked us up for school and dropped us off at the end of the day. We then walked back home together, happily talking about the events of the day.

This arrangement usually worked quite well, however on a particular day in the dead of winter, a blizzard was forming. We went to school, as usual, that morning, but because of the dangerous winter conditions brewing, Mommy was worried about us walking home. She told us to wait at the side of the road, and Daddy would pick us up in the car to assure our safe arrival. By the time the bus dropped us off, there was a dangerous combination of wind and driving snow. We weren't able to see much beyond our noses.

As instructed to do by Mommy, Phylis and I stood by the side of the road dutifully waiting for Daddy. When he didn't show up, I said:

"Where’s Daddy? He’s supposed to pick us up."

"He'll be right along.”

"Maybe he forgot us?”

“I don’t think he would do that.”

We waited for what seemed like forever. The snow showed no signs of letting up, the wind blew sleet in our faces, our winter snowsuits were starting to get soaking wet, and the snow was going down our boots. We were freezing and undeniably scared. Still, no Daddy. Where was he? My sister and I, having faith in him and wanting to do what we were told, kept on waiting.

"He's not coming, we'd better start walking," said Phylis finally.

"But Mommy said to wait here," I said as I started to cry.

"No, we'd better get moving.”

Trudging along in snow that seemed to swallow us, we were trying to make it home when we looked up and saw Mommy. She was a welcome sight, determinably heading down the dirt road now covered with snowdrifts and pulling my younger sister, Joyce, behind her on a sled. Tears were streaming down her face because she was so afraid of what might have happened to us and furious at my father for letting us down.

"Just wait until Daddy gets home," my mother said as the four of us slowly made our way through the snow to our house. We were glad to get inside, out of our wet clothes, and relieved to be safe. We huddled by the woodstove. My mother was waiting for Daddy to come home. I knew only too well what that meant.

As Daddy walked through the door, obviously drunk, my mother let him have it.

"Where have you been? You promised to pick up Phylis and Barbie. You knew it was snowing."

"I was just getting ready to leave.”

"Well, you were too late. The girls could have frozen to death for all you knew or cared."

"Well, they look okay to me."

"No thanks to you. You're no good. All you want to do is sit in the beer garden, play cards, and drink. You don't care about anybody but yourself."

"Well, I have to get away from you, don't I? Stop nagging me."

"You're nothing but a drunk.”

"Oh, shut up."

And on and on it went into the evening until Phylis, Joyce, and I finally drifted off to sleep in a warm, comforting bed, safe, thanks to my mother, but the sounds of Mommy and Daddy fighting echoed in our ears.

"BE GOOD AND YOU'LL BE HAPPY"

I have a photograph of Grandpa Phillips perched high on the roof of his farmhouse in Berlin, Vermont, in 1949. It is one of my favorite images of him. He was most likely cleaning out the chimney as a wood fire was always burning at Grammie's house. It was the source of heat for the home. It also served to cook the delicious meals Grammie used to make.

I would guess he was about 50 years old in this photo although he looked much older. They say that when his brother Mark shot and killed himself, he had arranged it so that Grandpa would be the one who found him. Mark had told Grandpa that he was going to "shoot at a mark," the Mark being himself. After Grandpa found him dead, the story is that his hair turned white overnight. Whether that is precisely true or not, I'm not sure, but I do know that was one of the many things that traumatized him. Also, Grandpa's sister, Agnes, was alleged to have committed suicide shortly after Mark's death by first throwing herself in the river, and eventually starving herself to death.

Grandpa did not have a carefree life. There was much mental illness within his immediate family. It was probably major depression, with maybe some bipolar component or psychosis mixed in. At any rate, medications were not available as they are today to treat these conditions, and those who had these afflictions suffered as well as family members. Grandpa's mother became depressed. She was advised bed rest for a few weeks. Well, that period stretched on for years and years with various family members taking her in because she was bed-bound for no other reason than she thought she wanted to stay in bed. She was so difficult to deal with that she was moved from house to house as she wore out her welcome.

Grandpa also had a sister named Helen who was institutionalized for 17 years in a state mental hospital. Helen gave birth to eight children in rapid succession. She had a psychotic break after the last delivery, and this led to her confinement. She was diagnosed with schizophrenia, which was likely instead postpartum psychosis. She was declared insane. This condition would have been managed more appropriately if it happened today. Three of her children went to live with Grammie and Grandpa Phillips until they finished high school and joined the service. Some of Grandpa's other siblings also had mental issues.

So the black cloud of "coming from a crazy family" permeated Grandpa's psyche. I believe that Grandpa probably suffered from depression, but it was hard to tell because he was slow, had a familial tremor, and looked way older than his years. Back in the 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s, and maybe longer, being mentally ill was a real stigma. Those with mental illness were called "crazy" and were also at times deemed to be evil. The whole family was affected by the stigma associated with this label. I remember a lot of gossip about this issue in the family, and I'm sure Grandpa was troubled by all this. If it bothered him, he would not have had anybody to talk with about it. Grammie Phillips was a determined and domineering woman and probably overpowered Grandpa. He did the best he could and worked hard, but the living he made was subsistence at best.

A couple of things I remember about Grandpa were being bounced on his knee and hearing him sing "diddle-diddle-dumpling my son John" (a nursery rhyme). He used to chew tobacco and always had tobacco juice dribbling down the corner of his mouth. He also used to carve little wooden pitchforks so that we could "help" him with the haying in the summer, which he accomplished with a team of horses, Babe and Polly.

He had ulcers on his legs, and he used to put salve on them and bandage them up. I'm sure they were very painful, but he never complained. He was a kind and gentle and loving man, who was not judgmental. I remember he would never directly say goodbye when you left, but instead would say "good day." Goodbye to him meant forever, and that was a bad omen. "Good day" was his way of saying "see you later."

The thing I remember most of all about Grandpa, who was generally a man of few words, was the first affirmation that I ever recall hearing in my life. He liked to tell his daughters and granddaughters, "Be good, and you'll be happy." I don't know if that was an affirmation or rather a warning not to mess with boys. I know it annoyed my mother to no end when he said it. I, however, liked it.

Over the years, I have chosen to believe that "be good and you'll be happy" was a positive affirmation coming from a man who was surrounded by a sea of negativity and just doing the best he could to get by. If you tweak it just a bit, it has even more power and meaning. "Think good thoughts, and you'll be happy" is one of the tweaks I envisioned. "Be good to yourself and others, and you'll be happy" is another variation.

I have been on a spiritual path for most of my adult life, searching for the meaning of life, trying to find a way to live a happier and more satisfying existence, fulfilling my purpose, and making a contribution toward making the world a better place. One of the many tools that I have come across and used are affirmations and using positive thoughts to create a better life for myself and those I encounter. I like to think that just maybe Grandpa Phillips, without even knowing it, was one of my earliest influences in this regard, and for that I am grateful.

MYSTIQUE OF THE RAISIN-FILLED SUGAR COOKIES

I thought my mother was the best cook in the world. Because she especially loved sweets, she was an excellent baker. She made everything from scratch. One of her specialties was raisin-filled sugar cookies. I believed no one else in the world could make them as delicious as she could.

She didn't make them often because of the amount of work and time involved. When she did bake a batch of them, I had the feeling she was doing something extraordinary for us. As the aroma of the baking dough and raisins finally reached my nose, I knew something special was happening.

My grandparents on my father's side drove up from Florida every summer and parked their mobile home on our property. My grandfather simply adored these treats, and enjoying them was one of the pleasures he looked forward to each year. He would often rave to my mother about how good they were in a blatant attempt to persuade her to make them.

"Evelyn, I've been thinking about how good your raisin-filled sugar cookies are. No one can make them as good as you can," my grandfather would often say.

Finally, my mother would give in to Grandpa's pleas and go through the involved process of making them. Grandpa predictably made a big fuss over how good they were. "These cookies are the best in the world. Thank you so much for making them," my grandfather would go on and on.

Mother would say, "Oh, do you think so, it was nothing, really," but she thoroughly loved the attention.

When I was in the fifth grade, my mother made up a batch of these cookies and packed a couple of them in my lunch for dessert. While eating lunch with one of the girls in my class, Jean, I shared one with her. She loved it and wanted the recipe.

I was surprised by her request. Didn't she realize that no one but my mother could make these cookies? You typically wouldn't even think of a fifth-grader wanting a recipe in the first place, but Jean was not typical. She had to grow up fast because her mother abandoned her and her younger brothers and left them with their father to raise; however, Jean was responsible for running the household, cooking, and childcare.

I went home and told my mother, "I gave Jean one of the cookies. She liked it so much she asked for the recipe." I never thought my mother would agree to this.

"There's no way she can make them, but if she wants to try, she can." She wrote out the recipe, and I delivered it to Jean the next day.

"Oh, thank you," Jean excitedly told me, "I'm going home tonight to bake them. I'll give you one tomorrow."

Both my mother and I wondered how they would turn out, not being the easiest recipe to follow. Whether or not they could compare to my mother's cookies went through my mind several times until the next day at school. Could a fifth-grade girl possibly make them as tasty as my mother could? It isn't possible, I concluded. But still, I wondered, could she achieve the impossible?

No, she couldn't.

These cookies in no way resembled my mother's raisin-filled sugar cookies. The raisins sat on top of a sugar cookie and did not fill two layers. I was, however, proud of Jean for trying to do something that my mother had to work hard at achieving.

"Well, I knew she wouldn't be able to make them the way I do." Jean's failure to follow my mother's recipe only reaffirmed my belief that no one could make them as she could. My mother thought so too. I was so convinced of her extraordinary abilities that I never once tried to duplicate them, and the recipe has long since vanished.

I grew up and left Vermont, and the raisin-filled sugar cookies disappeared from my life. Nonetheless, the mystique of them and all that it meant to me is something that will forever remain as a delicious memory of my childhood and the mother I loved so much.

A LETTER TO DADDY

In the spring of 1990, I moved to San Bernardino, California, to pursue my education, first a Bachelor's degree in Sociology, and then a Master's degree in Social Work. Going to California was a big move for me, not only because of the distance but also emotionally. I knew that if I wanted to continue with my education and my spiritual evolution that I would have to move far away from the negative and constant influence of my mother.

I was hesitant to go and was making up excuses. I was in a spiritual program and was actively trying to determine my purpose in life. My spiritual advisors assured me that it was now time to do this. One of the reasons I came up with for not going was, "If I go to California, my father will die." (He did die while I was in California in 1999). The advisors replied, "Is it your responsibility to keep him on the planet?" I realized it wasn't.

So after a few more feeble reasons not to go, I headed west in June 1990. I had been in California for maybe a year or two, three at the most, when I was inspired to write Daddy a letter expressing to him how I felt about him and how I believe I got some of my better traits from him. It was a genuine letter coming from my heart. I told him how I always admired him and that I realized how alike we were. We had both overcome alcoholism.

It takes a great deal of personal strength and commitment to get sober and stay sober for years at a time. The number of people able to achieve this milestone is comparatively low. Drug and alcohol rehab statistics show that the percentage of people who will relapse after a period of recovery ranges from 50% to 90%. Then there are those many alcoholics in the country who don't even consider trying to get sober. I know Daddy had well over 20 years by the time he passed away, and I am in my 35th year of continuous sobriety without even coming close to a relapse.

One of the things that I felt my father and I had in common was the fact that we were both perceived as the "black sheep" of the family. We were not the only ones in the family who had a drinking problem. For example, my cousin on my father's side loves to drink, and I doubt that stopping ever crosses his mind. Then there is Jimmy, my cousin on my mother's side of the family, who has a significant alcohol addiction and was struggling with it at the time of my aunt's funeral. So achieving long-time sobriety is quite an accomplishment.

I remember my father telling me he liked the letter. My mother was even impressed and told me what a beautiful letter it was. I think she wished I had written it to her. I secretly wondered why she thought I would have communicated that to her in the first place. I attended Conifer Park for a 30-day rehabilitation program in February 1984, which is not that far from where my parents lived. They never came to see me or offered me even one word of encouragement. My father later regretted that, and one of the few things he said to me regarding it was, "I know I didn't say anything to you when you were getting sober, but I want you to know I was praying for you."

You would think that one black sheep would support the other one, but that's not how it was. I don't think anyone in my family believed I would achieve society except my son, who came to visit me in the hospital when I was in detox. Maybe family members didn't want me to get sober either because that would upset the dynamics of the family. After all, they saw me as "the problem" in the family. If I didn't play that role, who would?

At one point, a few years before my mother died, I tried to make her feel guilty about not supporting me during my struggle with getting sober. This attempt was a futile pursuit on my part. There was no way she was ever going to take responsibility for any of her actions toward me. She said flippantly and with a look of satisfaction on her face, "Well, I guess you didn't need my support, because you got sober anyway." Maybe she would have preferred I had either drunk myself to death or committed suicide. Then she could have said to anyone who would have listened, "I told you so. I always knew she was going to end up like this."

Daddy never did answer the letter, but I didn't expect him to. It was just something I felt I needed to say to him, to express how I felt, and how I admired him. I'm glad today that I wrote that letter to him.

BLUE DENIM

Some things were off-limits and not to be discussed with my mother. High on that list was sex or anything else that had to do with the female reproductive system.

Growing up in Norwich, Vermont, in the 1950s, we did our grocery shopping at Dan and Whit's General Store on Main Street. Most of the time, my sisters and I would go in with my mother while she selected her purchases. Once a month, though, like clockwork, when we would pull into the parking lot, my sisters and I were told to wait in the car while she surreptitiously went in to buy something. She quickly came out with a brown paper bag in her hand and a mysterious look on her face. She promptly placed it in the backseat behind the driver's seat where prying eyes could not see it. Once we arrived home, she safely tucked it away at the top of the closet near the bathroom.

Thinking the whole process rather odd, I dismissed it as one of my mother's quirks. I sometimes wondered what she purchased from Dan and Whit's that was worthy of all that deception. It was much later that I realized that my mother was buying a box of sanitary napkins that she used during her "monthly," and she didn't want us to know anything about it.

At a weekly Girl Scouts meeting in the fourth grade, a leader scheduled a talk to teach us what to expect as we began maturing. Being at home due to sickness and unable to attend, it fell to my mother to inform me about the facts of life. Uneasy and nervous when she sat down on the couch, she had a difficult time articulating what she was about to say. Finally, she stammered out: "When girls grow up, there are certain things they have to tolerate. It's not pleasant, but it's just something you have to learn to live with." That was it. Growing up was still as mysterious as it always had been.

Throughout high school, I was naïve and knew nothing about how a girl got pregnant. I just knew that once I hit puberty, my mother and my aunts were always concerned about this happening to me. As a freshman in high school, I had a crush on a boy in my class. I foolishly worried that if I accidentally brushed up against him in the hallway in the crowd of kids leaving class, that maybe it would cause me to become pregnant. I did not know any better.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I overheard some of the girls talking about a movie playing at the Lyric movie theater in White River Junction called "Blue Denim." Being curious, I wanted to see it. I asked my mother to take my sisters and me, and she agreed. Had I realized the plot involved a 16-year-old girl becoming pregnant, I would never have asked my mother to take us. I worried about the consequences for the rest of the movie.

Squirming in my seat, I realized there was no way out of this one. Occasionally glancing at my mother's profile during the movie, I knew she was not happy. Driving home, my mother disgustedly said to me, "Why would you ask me to take you to see a movie like this?" I had nothing to say in my defense, and the rest of the ride home was quiet, too quiet.

Even though my mother was concerned about me getting pregnant in high school, I now know there was no chance of that happening. I had some boyfriends, but a few kisses and hugs were the extent of my sexual experience. I was headed for early marriage, though, because I desperately wanted to be free of my mother's control and to live my own life.

Then along came Ronnie right after graduation from high school. We had a whirlwind romance of about three or four months before deciding to get married on December 7, 1963. We were 18 years old. Still totally clueless about what sex was all about, Ronnie was only too anxious to teach me everything he knew. He relentlessly tried to get me "to go all the way," which I resisted to the best of my ability. Finally, about three weeks before the wedding, we had our first sexual experience.

"Is that it?" I incredulously asked, finding the whole process quite unfulfilling. Not wanting to take another chance of getting pregnant before marriage, we only "did it" one time. I thought I was safe, but I was wrong. To my surprise, a couple of weeks after the wedding, I started having morning sickness. My sex education had now commenced.

THE DOLL

I was on one of my yearly visits to Grammie Phillips' house. The three of us used to do this every summer for a week. I was probably in the fourth grade. I wasn't the happy go lucky and carefree little girl that used to visit when I was younger. I had begun to be depressed, and my front teeth had started to decay, which caused me great shame and embarrassment. My mother and sisters thought I was the favorite. Maybe I was when I was little, but by this visit, I certainly didn't feel much like a favored child.

My mother's youngest sister, Marion, and her four children lived at Grammie's house. Her husband, Howard, who had been in the military, was discharged home the very week that I was visiting. Howard had a wad of cash from his discharge and was itching to spend it. He loaded up Marion, the four kids, and me, and we went downtown to Barre, Vermont, to J.J. Newbury's to spend it. Howard invited me to go along, not because I was the favorite, but because I just happened to be there.

I remember Howard and Marion and the kids going up and down the aisles, loading up their carts with what to me seemed like tons of stuff. Howard told me I could pick out something, too. We were there for a long time, and I couldn't seem to find anything I wanted. I don't think I cared one way or the other whether I chose something for myself, but I didn't want to leave emptyhanded either. I finally settled on a baby doll for $4.

I don't know why I picked this toy, but I couldn't seem to find something that better suited my personality. I was a tomboy, and I don't even really recall playing with dolls much. The last time I can remember getting one as a gift was from Santa Claus when I was in the second grade (I recall Santa's handwriting just happened to look exactly like Mother's and thought that was odd).

When I got home from the shopping trip, I wondered what the heck I was going to do with this doll. I do remember Marion saying that she thought I was too old to have such a toy. I held it a little bit and then promptly forgot about it. I took it home. I don't recall Mother saying anything to me about it, but I found out much, much later that she was furious about this. If she had asked me about it, I could have explained the circumstances. I found out long after the fact that she told my two sisters that she was not going to allow anyone in the family to treat me as a favorite.

I also found out that she confronted Marion about this and told her in no uncertain terms to never again give me special treatment. Marion didn't bother to explain to her that Howard was on a shopping binge and that I just happened to be along for the ride. It could have been either of my two sisters who were there at the time. It is not that they bought me a doll because they liked me so much or that I was their favorite (by this time, no one in the family favored me if indeed they ever did). I found out what an issue this was for my mother when Joyce, Don (my husband at the time), and I went out to dinner. Joyce brought up the subject of "the doll." Joyce said that Mother was not going to allow me to be treated better than the other kids. I was stunned. The same thing would have happened to Joyce or Phylis if they had been the one who was present when this shopping trip occurred. The difference would have been that Mother would not have thought either one was being treated differently or was a favorite and wouldn't have pitched a fit about it. It is just one more example of how my mother perceived me as being regarded as special. It also made me realize how much went on behind my back that I was not even aware of at the time.

There were many times when I thought Joyce was treated better than I was, especially on the part of Aunt Lena. I remember Joyce visiting her and helping her with mopping the floor or something like that. Aunt Lena thought that was thoughtful and gave her a $20 bill and told Mother how wonderful she was. I was hoping for the same treatment when I visited, but when I helped her, she gave me $4 instead. I told Mother about it. She dismissed it with a toss of her head, apparently not giving it another thought, and certainly didn't confront Aunt Lena about it.

These events in my youth life left me confused and bewildered as to what I could have done to turn my family against me and why they had such strong feelings of dislike toward me. My family, particularly my mother and sisters, continued to treat me in similar ways over the years, ever vigilant that no one favored me in any way, and talking about me behind my back. I am still not aware of the extent that this went on, but what I did know was very traumatizing to me.

DADDY AND THE LOST GLASSES

In the last couple of years, I have lost my glasses twice. Of course, I misplace them all the time and usually find them quickly, but these two times they were truly lost, at least I thought they were. I wear my glasses all the time except when I am sleeping, so you would think it would be almost impossible to lose them permanently. They have to be in my home someplace, and usually, they are.

The first time this happened, I was home from work because I didn't feel well. I was lying on the couch when I had the sudden urge to throw up. I rushed to make it to the bathroom in time, and in the process, the glasses flew off my head. I came back and rested on the couch for a while until I regained my strength.

I'm not sure how long it was before I decided to put my glasses back on, probably a few hours because I didn't feel well and was relaxing. Mysteriously the glasses had vanished. I searched every inch between the sofa and the bathroom. I looked under the cushions. My first thought was that they had fallen into a box of craft supplies containing flowers. These boxes were sitting by my couch. In my haste to get to the bathroom, they could have slipped off. When I didn't find them there, I abandoned that idea.

I could not find my glasses. I was in a panic because although I can see distance quite well, I cannot read without my glasses, and cannot perform my job without them either. I was due to go back to work the next day. I had to find my glasses. There was no choice in the matter.

I reasoned that if I asked Daddy (who is on the other side and is watching over me) to help me find the glasses, he certainly would. I put out an impassioned plea to him and waited for an answer. Nothing! I still could not find them. Admittedly I was in a panic state, but I wasn't getting a response from Daddy. (To clarify, I don't hear Daddy's voice, but I get an inner knowing of what the correct answer is. It comes through as a thought, not an audible voice.)

As the evening wore on and I still could not find my glasses, I became desperate. I searched through my belongings and found an old pair of glasses. The used pair of eyeglasses was worn out and not very comfortable. The lenses were scratched and not as strong as my current prescription. But since I had to go to work in the morning, I made do with what I hoped was a temporary solution.

Since I definitely could not locate the eyeglasses, and since I know they didn't get up and walk off, I went into my reasoning mode to come up with an answer. The day I went back to work, I discarded a bag of trash that was retrieved by the local sanitation department. I convinced myself that somehow in my illness, I had thrown away the glasses without realizing it, and now they were irretrievably gone. I reasoned this must be why Daddy did not help me find them. Maybe he was the one who told me how I had lost my glasses, which explained to me why I hadn't located them. I went to Wal-Mart that day and ordered a new set of eyeglasses. I told the salesclerk what I surmised had happened, absorbed the loss, and moved on with my life.

A few months later, I was downsizing and getting rid of the craft supplies I had accumulated over the years. Luckily for me, I thoroughly examined every box. To my surprise, at the very bottom of the container of flowers was my pair of eyeglasses. That was the same box I had looked in. Had I dug a little deeper, I could have saved myself valuable time and money. I had not thrown them away, after all. Now I had two pairs of eyeglasses!

In the intervening time, I had a new prescription for lenses that I had placed in the frames that I purchased when I thought I had lost the other pair. I tucked the older eyeglasses away for safekeeping just in case of emergencies. I wasn't going to take any more chances.

The second incident occurred about a year after the first. I was feeling nauseated again and had a sudden need to vomit. I rushed to the bathroom. With my head in the toilet bowl, I emptied my stomach of all its contents. It was late in the evening, so I went to bed, and when I got up the next morning, I could not find my glasses. I looked high and low again but did not find them. I asked for help from Daddy again. I remained in a panicky state, and I did not receive an answer.

I had not gone anywhere, so they must be in my apartment somewhere, but several searches did not reveal them. Once more my reasoning mind took over. I had not thrown away any trash, but I thought maybe while my head was in the toilet bowl, they had slipped from my face and were accidentally flushed away. Sounds preposterous, but that is what I thought. Again, I reasoned that Daddy didn't help me find them because they were not there, and he supplied the reason why.

I had to work that day, so I searched around and found my spare set. My vision was kind of blurry because the old pair of glasses did not work well for me anymore. I called Wal-Mart to see when my next appointment was for an exam. I had vision insurance coverage, and I could not get a follow-up visit for over a year. Because I could not see very well, I asked her how much it would cost to replace the lenses. She told me $250 and asked why I wanted to know. I told her I had lost my glasses, and my old lenses did not work well anymore. I didn't tell her how I thought I lost them (I realized it was just too bizarre). She told me to keep looking, which I thought was futile.

I work as a phone representative, and as I was sitting there waiting for my next call, the thought came to me, "Do you believe you lost your glasses that way?" In the meantime, my next call was in the queue, and I answered it. The thought was now crystal clear, "Go to the couch and look under it. You will find your glasses there." I couldn't wait for the call to end so I could check it out. Sure enough, there were my glasses. What a relief!

I am sure the thoughts I got while on the phone came directly from Daddy. I didn't have to make up excuses as to why he didn't find the glasses before. In retrospect, he did tell me to look in the box of flowers. I didn't look deeply enough. I most likely would have received the message about the couch yesterday had I been in a more relaxed state. More than ever, I realize I am never alone. He is always with me. I have to learn to trust and have more faith. I heeded those valuable lessons, took a deep breath, and relaxed. Everything will be okay.

"You are free to love and be loved once you inflame your powerful self into an awakened state and refuse to betray yourself ever again." (Quotes in italics came directly from the recording "How a Powerful Woman Awakens," Maureen Moss, www.maureenmoss.com.)

It has been a long journey to this point where I truly feel free to love and be loved without condition or concern about whether the person I choose to love can be trusted not to disappoint me or to change their mind about me. When I decided to love myself unconditionally, I took the first step in this process. I came to realize that it is when I love myself and see myself as the magnificent person you are that other people begin to see you the same way. You can't expect someone else to see you as a person worthy of love unless you first recognize that in yourself. If you believe in the depths of your being that you are a loveable person, then no one can diminish that or take that away from you. I finally stopped letting someone out there determine my self-worth.

It has become of utmost importance to me to look back at the events and incidents in my life in an objective way to understand why I came to believe that I was not a loveable person. That is the reason I am writing this blog. The story of my life has been quite complex and fraught with much heartache and regret. I waited to write the story until I no longer saw myself as a victim. I wanted to understand why my life took the direction it did and what I learned from it. Looking at the interactions I had with significant people in my life is helping me to release a lot of the shame and sadness I have felt for a long time.

Some people go into analysis or therapy to sort out their past and come to terms with it. I tried that a few times, but it never really worked for me. There is a long history of mental illness in the family, and my family always told me I was crazy. I was deeply depressed a great deal of my life. I remember my sister Joyce asking me what I thought my diagnosis was. Did I think I had schizophrenia or manic depression? I internalized that and carried it with me. When I was in my 20s, I decided to go to a psychiatrist. I wanted to find out from an expert what my diagnosis was. I also thought my family would applaud me for taking this step, but instead, they scoffed at me.

The psychiatrist that I chose was an older woman who was very skinny and very serious. I only went a few times. I would sit there and talk, and she would never say anything. Once I asked her whether I was schizophrenic or manic depressive. I had to be one of those, didn't I? She just laughed and never gave me an answer and or gave me a diagnosis either. What was the point? I wanted answers. I must be crazy, right? My whole family said I was.

The event that finally ended my relationship with the psychiatrist involved a phone call I made to her asking for help. I had developed "ocular migraines." Occasionally, my vision became disturbed with flashes of light, zigzagging patterns, and blind spots. These symptoms typically lasted for about half an hour and then resolved on their own. This phenomenon frightened me because I thought it was a sign of mental illness. Maybe I was having a "nervous breakdown," something my mother always told me I was going to give her. I called my psychiatrist and told her I couldn't take it anymore. She very coldly and brusquely said to me, "Well, why don't you kill yourself then?" I certainly wasn't suicidal, and through all the heartaches, trials, and tribulations of my life, I never thought of killing myself even though my mother always believed I would.

I went to a therapist who also treated me the same way my mother did. An example of this was when she had everyone stay after the therapy session, and she asked them to tell me what I did to offend them. Her point was to teach me the effect my actions had on other people. I found this devastating, and after I listened to everyone, I rushed out of the room without hugging anyone or saying goodbye. My mother ambushed me in much the way quite often, and this brought it all back. How was I ever going to believe in myself if everyone kept pointing out my flaws?

I was in recovery for alcoholism at the time and was fragile, but instead of drinking alcohol again, I found a couple of people from AA and talked with them until I had calmed down. It was that event that made me realize how strong I was and how determined I was to maintain sobriety (which has been continuous for 35 years). The members of the group regretted what they had done and called the therapist to make sure I was okay. I continued to go, but always had issues with her, and finally stopped seeing her altogether.

I never really felt that therapists understood me. I have always wanted to understand my life and found more help through my various spiritual endeavors. I have had several readings over the past many years from mediums, which I found quite helpful. I believe that each person comes into their present life experience to learn specific lessons so that they can evolve spiritually. Past life experiences are part of this process, and you often meet people in this life who have played a role in prior lifetimes. In my case, my mother and I had a longstanding history of lifetimes together and came in with a heavy karmic load. On a subconscious level, we had entered into a spiritual contract to heal this karma. Of course, we were not consciously aware of these things, and so they led to a pretty dramatic lifetime, but ultimately a beautiful ending.

I also now understand that the reason why therapists didn't follow me is that they generally don't give credence to all this talk about spiritual journey and karma and past relationships. They have a lot of education and adhere to the scientific method. That is fine for them and a lot of people, too, but it just didn't answer my questions or resolve my issues.

In my case, the events in my childhood and interactions I had with significant others made more sense when looking at them through this kind of lens. Also, the memories I had from other lives that haunted me and sometimes frightened me had meaning. I also learned from my spiritual quest that the only lifetimes I remembered were those that related to this lifetime regarding the spiritual lessons I was here to learn. That made sense because otherwise, it would be pointless to know them except out of curiosity. It is my understanding that a soul has had many, many lifetimes in their spiritual journey, more than we can imagine. The purpose of all of them is the evolution of the soul towards a higher perspective.

With all the issues I faced in this lifetime, the one that brought me the most heartache was my inability to have meaningful relationships. I am a person who naturally loves people, and I found this very disheartening. From a very young age, I did not know how to have a relationship of any kind, including romantic relationships, friends, teachers, bosses, coworkers, or even my children. I was not able to be emotionally open and accessible to anyone and left behind me a trail of broken marriages and more heartache than I can comprehend. That is why it is essential to revisit my earliest relationships, to understand them and forgive, and move on. I am finally ready to do that in earnest.

When I first began this journey, it wasn't toward understanding myself. I was trying to find a way to change myself from an evil person to an acceptable person so that my family would love me again. I finally realized I was on a journey to learn to love and accept myself above all else. I also needed to forgive myself and to have compassion and to ease up on my criticism of myself. Once I did that, I freed myself up to love and be loved. I learned to honor my journey and my choices, along with honoring the decisions of others, whether it led them back to me or not.

I feel I am already making progress. One way I can tell is that I have found myself being less judgmental of myself and others. There are many times when I have an encounter with someone, whether I know them or not, and I see the goodness in them. I will often say to myself, "I just met the nicest person." I was always that way with children, but now I am finding that I am that way with everyone. It's a marvelous thing to see a person in their true essence. That was how I was as a child. I just naturally loved everyone and found everyone I met to be fascinating. I guess that is what I mean by being free to love and be loved. Now that I have momentum, the only way I could betray myself would be to stop the process before completion. That is not something I am willing to do.

DADDY AND ME - IT'S NEVER TOO LATE

You often hear about people talking about their father, my dad did this, or my dad said that.  Instead of having a dad, I had a Daddy. For some reason, my two sisters and I have always called him that, and probably will until the day we die.  Maybe it was because he was a wounded child who never actually grew up.  But, for whatever reason, we never switched over to dad. I never had a mom either.  I had a Mother.  Since my mother seemed rigid and overbearing, we always called her the formal name of Mother, never Mom. Interesting, one extreme to the other.

Daddy was not a hands-on kind of a father.  I don't think he had much interest in being a father, either.  One of my earliest memories of Daddy was of him wiggling his ears.  He loved to wiggle his ears, and he knew how to do it very well.  Another thing I remember when I was very young was him telling my sisters and me that he used to be a little girl before he grew up.  I haven't the slightest idea of where he came up with that one.  I used to wonder if he believed that he once was a little girl.  I certainly didn't.  He liked to doodle a kind of rudimentary cartoon drawing of a face, always drawing the same one, never varying it at all.

Mother had three kids by the time she was 25.  My older sister, Phylis, was born in November 1944.  I was born in September 1945, ten short months later, and a month after the end of World War II.  Then in May 1947, my younger sister, Joyce, came along.  My mother's hands were full.  Especially with me because I was notoriously a very active child.  Mother also used to regard Daddy as her fourth child in a demeaning sort of way. He was three years younger than she was.  She had a dominant personality and used to boss my father around or at least tried hard to.

I first remember Daddy at our farm in rural Vermont, a small town called Orange.  Daddy was always trying to figure out a way to be successful.  He wanted to be a farmer, but really didn't have what it took to succeed as a farmer, and that's usually just a subsistence living at best anyway.  I remember one time he was out in the woods cutting down trees, and he cut his leg quite badly.  He had to go to the hospital to get it repaired and came home on crutches.   can still envision Daddy to this day, walking through our front door on those crutches.

Daddy was the black sheep of his family, and they all treated him like he wasn't worth anything at all.  He tried his whole life to gain their approval and never succeeded.  His father, Grandpa Atwood, was demanding of him as a child.  I heard about one beating that was so severe that his mother, Grammie Atwood, had to intervene because she was afraid he was going to hurt him badly.  My father's older brother, Howland, who was about six years his senior, was the favored child.  Daddy was fat, and Howland was skinny, but Howland could pack away the food and never gain an ounce.  He used to steal pies and stuff, but Daddy would get blamed for it because, as Grammie Atwood used to say, "well, you're the fat one, it must be you."

The whole family went away every summer on vacation, that is, Grandpa, Grammie, Howard, Priscilla, and Margie, Daddy's siblings, but would dump Daddy off at Uncle Fred's farm because they didn't want to be bothered with him or were embarrassed by him.  He never found out about this until years later when they would recount different adventures they had on vacation while Daddy was down on the farm, probably working his butt off, and thinking what a treat it was to spend the summer with Uncle Fred. Daddy and his father, my Grandpa Atwood, had a very odd, but intense relationship.  If Grandpa didn't like you, he could make your life pretty miserable. He was a judgmental man, very stubborn, always thought he was right about everything.

Daddy was an alcoholic, probably since he was a teenager. He liked to stay down at the "beer garden" and play cards instead of coming home and tending to chores or helping Mother take care of us.  Mother was quite a nag and used to yell at him, trying to get him to be the kind of husband and father she thought he should be but never was.  I remember many, many fights over the years concerning the issue of my father drinking too much.  My mother would threaten to divorce him if he didn't shape up but never did leave, not even for one night.  I remember many times wondering why someone invented beer in the first place and how much better my life would be if my father would only stop drinking.

Oddly enough, though, I never really blamed my father for what was going on at home, although my two sisters certainly did.  I don't even recall being mad at him except one time when he left me at school, and I had to find a ride home for myself.  I thought my mother was so fault-finding and so overbearing that no wonder he drank.  I believed I was the only person in the world who understood Daddy and accepted him, no matter what. Sometimes when Mother would threaten to leave him, I secretly kind of wished she would so we could have some peace for a change, but I wondered what would happen to Daddy if he didn't even have me.  Would I ever see him again?

Daddy eventually was able to stop drinking.  He did this on his own.  I believe he was sober between 20 and 30 years before he died in 1999. He and my mother stayed together.  My mother still nagged and domineered him even after the drinking stopped, which made me realize the problems they had were more complicated than just the issue with alcohol.  Daddy always tried to please my mother, but never could. She was embarrassed by him.  Although everyone thought Daddy was to blame for their marital woes, I always thought it was Mother who continually berated him and negated his value as a person.

I don't recall Daddy ever telling me he loved me.  Neither do I remember him calling me on the phone or writing a letter to me even when I lived in California.  I'm not quite sure he knew when my birthday was because I never got a card from him. My mother initiated all contact with me on their behalf.

When I was struggling with my own addiction to alcohol, Daddy never once encouraged me to stop drinking or congratulated me when I finally became sober. It was almost as if I didn't exist.  I guess he saw me as the black sheep of the family, much the same role he assumed in his family.   do vaguely remember a few years before he died, he said to me, "I know I never said anything to you to encourage you to get sober, but I just want you to know I was praying for you."  Those were the only words of encouragement I got from Daddy.  Today those words mean a lot to me.

When I lived in California pursuing my education, I got to thinking about how much alike Daddy and I were.  I sat down and wrote him a letter, telling him that I believed I got my inner strength from him because we both were able to achieve lasting sobriety--not an easy thing to do even under the best of circumstances.  I told him how proud of him I was and how much he meant to me. We did have a lot of similarities in our lives as we both were the scapegoats of our nuclear families, the black sheep, perceived to be nothing but losers by the rest of the family. When either of us achieved something positive, it was either ignored or disregarded.

I longed for Daddy to understand how I felt about him and how I comprehended what kind of life he had led as a child.  I also wanted him to know that I understood the difficulties he faced being married to Mother.  I wanted him to appreciate that we had lived the same kind of life and I understood him and loved him unconditionally.  Whether he ever grasped that is a mystery to me as he never told me anything that would indicate how he truly felt about me.

Daddy had a plethora of health issues, mainly from years of abusing his body with smoking and drinking, which had left him with an irreversible irregular heartbeat and breathing difficulties.  He had a heart attack in 1987 that nearly ended his life, but he did manage to live until 1999 when he died at the Veterans Administration Hospital of congestive heart failure.  He passed away in the middle of the night after a code blue, and he was not able to be resuscitated.  I would like He died as he had lived—alone. I was not able to get back from California in time to say my last goodbye to Daddy. I did arrive in time for the funeral. I concluded the time for Daddy and me to understand each other had passed. I felt it was over. He was gone.

For quite a while, after I went back to California, I was vaguely annoyed with Daddy for not having much of a relationship with me while he had the chance. While I never really was angry with him in life, now I was resentful, and it kept eating away at me. It was too late now, or at least I thought it was. But I soon found out that it's never too late for understanding and closure and to have a meaningful relationship.

As I have been on a spiritual path for many years, I attended a meditation group at my church every Wednesday night. Reverend Blanche, the medium, gave a talk, and then opened the rest of the evening up for messages from the other side. Reverend Blanche got communications from those who have passed over, which were to people in the audience. If you gave her a photograph, she could touch it and get in contact with that person and relay messages from them to you.

Even though I was afraid of being disappointed at the results, one night, I decided to bring a photo of Daddy and have her try and get in touch with him. What did I have to lose at this point? Nothing. I thought I had already lost everything. However, I was surprised at how easily she made contact with him. To identify who he was, he told her how he had died by choking and gasping for air (a result of the CPR no doubt).

His statement to Blanche (which she could hear but no one else could) was, "don't put your pants on backward." She thought she had heard him wrong and so asked him to repeat it. He repeated the same statement. Even though it didn't make sense to her, it did to me. Daddy was well known for many odd utterances such as "here today and gone to breakfast," or "what's that in the road – a head?" What I felt he was telling me in his peculiar, but trademark way, was to slow down and take my time, as I tend to be careless at times. He also told Blanche some things that she would otherwise have no way of knowing, that would mean something only to me, to identify himself as Daddy. I knew it was him.

Daddy told Blanche that he was watching over me on the other side, helping me out. I was stunned but excited by the news that my relationship with Daddy was not over after all. He realized he had not been supportive of me during our life together, but that he was trying to make up for it now. He stated that if he had just once been able to stand up to Mother that all our lives would have been more comfortable, but he was not able to do that. I went home that night from the meditation service, feeling more lighthearted than I had for a long time. It was gratifying to know that Daddy was in a safe place and that he was only a veil away. He wasn't truly gone after all.

He also relayed to her that when I moved back to New York State (which I was planning later in the year),  I would finally find the peace of mind I was looking for, and I would be happier than I had been my whole life. Daddy was right.  Since moving to New York State, I have finally found peace of mind, and I am happier than I ever have been.  I am coming home to myself.  I know that Daddy is protecting me and guiding me.  I yearned for this when we were both here together, and now I have it.

One of the things he does is remind me of things that I have forgotten and helps me to find lost objects.  After a few minutes of looking for something, all I have to do is ask Daddy, and my eyes will almost immediately fall upon it, sometimes in the oddest places. He also helps me keep my eyes on the road when I am driving, as I do tend to be careless at times.

About a year ago, my son Chris was upset because his basset hound, Fred, had gotten loose and wandered off. Basset hounds are well known for getting lost because they will follow a scent until they can't find their way back home. Josh, my grandson, was at my house while Chris was desperately looking for Fred.  It had been many hours since he had disappeared. Unfortunately, Fred didn't have a license tag on, and so it was looking pretty bleak about being able to find him.  I told Josh I was going to ask his great grandfather (Daddy) to help guide Fred home. Within about a half-hour, Chris called and said when he went back to his house,  Fred was there waiting for him.  A coincidence? I don't think so.

Daddy has been helping me out in similar ways for the last 12 years and will continue to do so. He is encouraging me to write my story, and I have been putting it off.  I'm doing that now, and Daddy is looking over my shoulder, guiding me.  He and I both realize that it is essential to make sense of a lifetime while here and to look unflinchingly at the lessons we have come here to learn, especially the difficult ones.  Thanks, Daddy, for your unwavering support . I love you.

A MESSAGE FROM MOTHER

I was on vacation from the Adult Day Services Program the week of March 30 to April 3, 2015, and on the spur of the moment attended a healing seance at Among Angels on Friday night. I was drawn there for some inexplicable reason. I knew I wanted to receive a message from a loved one who had passed over, but I was not sure who, if anyone, might come through. Usually, my father showed up and gave me some comforting words of encouragement. For this evening's session, Dawn, a medium I had never met before, narrated the circle.

The circle consisted of about 8 to 9 people, mostly women with one man. Dawn went around randomly and gave each person a surprisingly long message. I was the last one to receive a reading, and I began to wonder if I was going to get one. Finally, she came to me and said there was a mother figure standing behind me. She said the person had blue eyes, so at first, I could not comprehend who it might be as I do not recall any mother figures in my family with blue eyes. My mother had brown eyes. The last person I expected to have a message for me was my mother.

I finally realized that the person standing behind me was indeed my mother, and she said she loved me very, very much. We had experienced quite a tumultuous relationship during our lifetime, and there were many times that I wondered if she ever did care about me. I finally decided that she did not, and I learned to live with that reality. I do not recall her telling me she loved me after a certain age, say around 6 or 7.

The gist of the message that I received from my mother the night of the circle was that she was very sorry that she had not treated me better. She apologized for all the many mean things she said to me and regretted many of the words she said to me and about me during my lifetime. She did not exactly come from a warm, touchy-feely family, and I doubt that her mother ever told her she loved her either.

She had experienced an unfulfilling relationship with her mother. I knew that because toward the end of my mother's life, she started lamenting that Mom (that was what she called her mother) did not love her. It was sad because this was something she had kept bottled up for decades. My mother had always tried to vie for her affection and, in her eyes, was never able to get it, which was the first time my mother ever confided in me about how this made her feel. She would go to family get-togethers and try to find time to "visit" with her mother but didn't think she was able to get her full attention. My mother had four sisters, who most likely also wanted some time with their mother.

My grandmother was an exceptionally judgmental and strong woman. There is no doubt that she was the matriarch of the family. My mother also was a determined and domineering woman, so the apple didn't fall far from the tree. My grandmother frequently gossiped about what she perceived as other people's defects and weaknesses, in particular, the mental problems of my grandfather's relatives who she believed were "crazy" and expressed this opinion often. I'm sure this was very difficult for my mother as she was a "sensitive" person who cried frequently. Her sensitivity would have made her an easy target for my grandmother, who I never saw cry. She suffered during her life from hypertension, most likely from stuffing her feelings.

My grandmother, being obsessed with my grandfather's side of the family being "crazy," probably told my mother things like, "You're just like Aunt Helen," etc. Aunt Helen was my grandfather's younger sister, who had spent 17 years of confinement in a state mental hospital. My mother accused me on many occasions of being "just like Aunt Helen." She didn't want to be the one who was labeled "crazy," and so ended up putting this label on me. I was also labeled "sensitive." For many years, I thought this was a weakness, but in retrospect, I now believe it is one of my greatest strengths. I do know that my mother had a difficult time during her life because she did struggle with mental illness. She had suffered from untreated depression most of her life. When she was in her 40s, her family doctor prescribed an antidepressant to alleviate her depressive symptoms. The effect of the antidepressant unmasked her underlying diagnosis of bipolar disorder with psychotic features. This official diagnosis of mental illness was troublesome for her because of the extreme stigma of being "crazy" that was prevalent in her family.

My mother refused to be treated by a psychiatrist because she thought that meant she was crazy. Instead, her family physician provided her with the medications she required to manage the disorder. Many people who have bipolar disorder do not like the effects of the medicines to treat it, and so do not take them regularly. My mother admitted to enjoying the manic phase because it made her feel powerful. She soon realized that the higher she went in the manic phase, the lower she went when depressed. For this reason, she took the lithium faithfully because it controlled her mania as well as the depression. She paid a high price for not being treated by a psychiatrist because the lithium that she took for years ended up destroying her nervous system to the point that towards the end of her life, she was unable to walk.

The fact that my mother admitted she was sorry about our strained relationship was fulfilling for me to hear. It was surprising because she never acknowledged she did anything wrong when she was still alive. A couple of times, I tried to get an apology out of her but was not even remotely successful. She just kind of shrugged it off and wasn't about to go there.

Back in 2005, I had received a reading from a medium when I still lived in California. It seems that my mother was getting ready to make her transition. I was told in no uncertain terms by her spiritual guide, Steven, that my mother wasn't going to pass over until I told her I loved her. He told me that I was a very stubborn person who was hanging on to past hurts and refusing to forgive her. That floored me because number one I didn't think she loved me and, number two, I didn't think she cared one way or the other whether I loved her. If anything, I thought it was her place to tell me she loved me, since she was the mother, and I was the daughter.

I went home that night after the message I had received in the circle about telling my mother I loved her. I said to myself, "well, I might be stubborn, but I'm not stupid." I did not even know what the reaction would be from my mother because she certainly didn't act as if she loved me, but I went ahead and said it anyway. I called her up and said, "Mother, I know I don't say this very often, but I just want you to know that I do love you, and I always have." To my great surprise and relief, she seemed delighted to hear that from me, and she told me she loved me, too. From then on out until the day she died, we told each other that we loved each other. That was when she initially shared with me that she didn't believe her mother loved her. She ended up treating me the way her mother treated her, and it became an intergenerational thing, with me passing on these traits to my daughter.

I remember a lot of times when my mother said unkind things about me behind my back, but I also remember many occasions when she was extraordinarily kind to me. One of the most considerate things she did was when I couldn't eat strawberries because of an allergy. My mother made absolutely the best strawberry shortcake in the world with sweet, juicy fruit, fluffy and flaky homemade biscuits, and fresh whipped cream. So that I wouldn't feel left out, she took a ripe and delicious peach, cut it up in small pieces and put sugar on it, and made a special peach shortcake just for me. It was so good!!! One of the things the medium mentioned during the circle was peach pie. I believe my mother was referring to the peach shortcake. My mother also said that she preferred tea over coffee and that when we spent time together, she enjoyed a cup of tea.

Another thing that the medium brought up was a yellow housedress with buttons. I could not make a connection with that, but then the medium changed the buttons to snaps. This incident took place during the time that my mother was in the rehab part of a nursing home in Troy, New York, where she was learning to walk again so she could go home with me. I realized it was the plastic bib with the snaps that I would put on her before she ate lunch. She liked the attention. All the residents of the nursing home wore this type of protection at lunchtime. My mother didn't even seem to mind wearing it. We laughed a lot during our lunches together. She told me how much I helped her.

My mother also mentioned through the medium that I was a worrywart and that I was worried about something going wrong with my hands. The medium asked if my mother had arthritis in her hands. I said that she had an extreme familial tremor that she absolutely hated and that her head shook and bobbed also. I have two sisters, and it has been an ongoing question among us who would get the tremor. Every once in a while, I will look at my hands to see how still they are and remark to myself, "well, you're still steady as a rock." My mother said not to worry that she would not let me get this, but that I had to stop worrying about it because if I worried about it enough, I might end up with it. It was touching to me that my mother did not want me to suffer in the same way she did. I didn't realize that I was worried about it, but I've vowed not to give it another thought. Thanks, Mother!! Still to his day, I do not have a tremor.

My mother also said that I am a lot like her, which I am. One of the ways we are alike is our love for children., especially in the way we draw children to us. Children were attracted to my mother like a magnet. She didn't have to do anything; they just liked her energy. I'm the same way. I love children, and they, in turn, generally love me. That's one of the gifts I received from my mother and which I cherish.

We are also both strong women. What both of us went through in our lifetimes would have destroyed people who were not as strong as we were. I believe I get that strength from her. She also had a sense of joy and wonder at times, and I have shared that quality with her. She, at one time during the reading, lamented that she had taught me how to experience joy more fully. It is comforting to know that she is now fully experiencing that joy on the other side of the veil. However, there were many times when she did demonstrate joy to us, especially when we were young. These experiences remain fixed in my consciousness, for which I am eternally grateful. Her true essence is joy. I am glad I know that now.

She somehow got lost along the way with mental illness, feeling stigmatized for being "crazy," dealing with an immature and alcoholic husband, and three young girls to raise, among other difficulties.

Another thing that she relayed was that I needed to let my father off the hook, that he was a difficult person to deal with when I was growing up, but that he has changed. I thought I had forgiven him and let him off the hook, but maybe not. I guess I still think he should have been there for me, but I really and truly believe that he did the best he could under the circumstances.

One of the mediums that I went to told me that people chipped away at him so much that there eventually was nothing left. That's true. No one had a high opinion of him and didn't mind letting him know. Mother was always at him, belittling him, and overpowering him. His two sisters still don't have a good thing to say about him, even years after his death. I think that's sad because he just wanted to be loved and accepted and cherished for who he was. It didn't happen. I would have loved to have been able to do that for him but could never get close enough. A few years ago, I wrote him a long letter telling him how I felt and how much I admired him and felt that I was a lot like him, but I do not know how much of a dent that made in his psyche. I know my mother wished I would write a letter like that to her, but I just did not feel that way about her at the time.

The next thing the medium mentioned was the time of 4 a.m. I frequently wake up at 4 a.m. and then go back to sleep. The medium wanted to know if my mother died at 4 a.m. That is the time that she took her last breath. She was lying in her hospital bed, and I was in a bed next to her. I had fallen asleep, and something abruptly woke me up at the time she took her last breath. The medium said that my mother was not alone, that my father was there with her.

I feel my father is the one who woke me up. He is apparently with my mother on the other side, and I guess they have made up with each other. I always knew they had a deep connection on a spiritual level. I am glad that Daddy was there to help her at the time of her passing. Mother once told me that she frequently saw him sitting on the bed after he had died.

I believe my mother had strong spiritual abilities, and that may have been one of the reasons that Grammie thought she was "crazy," and mother shut down these skills because they probably frightened her. She also told me that she saw people who she knew were not there and that they wore strange clothes. The woman had old-fashioned clothes on, and the man (turned out to be Steven, her spiritual guide) wore some sort of unusual sports outfit. She wanted to know if I thought she was crazy. I told her that they were her spiritual guides, and they were here to help her. She seemed to accept that. She said she would be sitting down, would look up, and they would be standing there in front of her. She would say, "excuse me," and then they would be gone. I envied her for being able to see spirits, and I secretly wished I could see my spiritual guides. (I have never been able to.) I believe she had visualization abilities that she could have further developed had she been so inclined. I also felt honored that she was able to confide in me. She somehow knew that I would understand and that I would not judge her, nor would I accuse her of hallucinating as most people would have. I felt both honored and humbled.

“It was long ago ordained that the return of the shining feminine goddess with all of her magnificent possibilities for herself and the world would rise up in the third millennium on planet earth. With promise intact you journeyed to earth and the veils of forgetfulness covered you as you slept. The veils have been lifted and now you are free to awaken fully.” (Quotes in italics came directly from the recording “How a Powerful Woman Awakens,” Maureen Moss, www.maureenmoss.com.)

I was a happy little girl and did not seem to have any problems or heartaches until about the time I was in the third grade. I loved life and I enjoyed being part of a large extended family in rural Vermont. Everything seemed perfect at least in my eyes. I believed everyone in my family loved me and I loved them.

This gradually changed though. I started to have a very intense and difficult relationship with my mother. She was overly domineering towards me. The first issue that I recall was when my mother did not want anyone in the family to see me as the “favorite” or to be regarded as special in any way. She went out of her way to assure that no one favored me over my two sisters. Not only did she not want me to be the favorite she also did not want anyone to either like me or love me. I became an outcast in my own family. I could not understand why she felt this way and what led her to talk badly about me to anyone and everyone who would listen.

There is a strong history of mental illness on my mother’s side of the family and I started getting the messages from my mother and everyone else that I was “sensitive” (an insidious way of calling me crazy which became a prevalent label of me over the years). The family that I once believed loved me all seemed to change their mind about me. I became very depressed and isolated. My childhood had become very difficult. Everyone seemed to be against me. I had indeed fallen asleep.

I felt I was responsible for her happiness and fulfillment and she felt she was responsible for keeping me from going over the deep end. She was also extremely competitive with me and seemed to get jealous when I achieved anything. One example of this is when I was selected for the National Honor Society in high school which was an honor bestowed on the best students. One of my teachers suggested that I invite my mother to the ceremony. It was in the afternoon on a school day which was also a workday for my mother. It would not have occurred to me to invite her. She worked at Cross Abbott then and she did come but she had a very disapproving look on her face the whole time and never did congratulate me for this achievement. She was probably annoyed that I was validated in this way and also that I dared to disrupt her workday. I became vigilant not to do anything that would cause her to feel jealous of me again. I felt it was too high a price to pay.

She was so domineering towards me all my life especially during my grade school and high school years. She had such a strong and forceful personality that I was never really able to stand up to her in a meaningful way but resorted to passive-aggressive means such as pouting. If I could have effectively challenged her and made my real feelings known, things might have been better. I just could not do it. I yearned to get as far away from her as I possibly could. I thought that would be my salvation and my only hope for a life of my own. This led to an early disastrous marriage when I was 18 in which I moved to California for about two or so years. I did get away from my mother physically, but her presence in my life was still there. To make matters worse, my husband treated me exactly the way she did so I went from the frying pan into the fire so to speak.

My mother had always told me that I couldn’t go to college (ostensibly because I was too depressed but I believe she didn’t want me to show her up). I made my second escape to California when I was 45 and went to San Bernardino, California to pursue my education. I stayed there for 15 years, achieved a Bachelor’s degree in Sociology as well as a Master of Social Work degree. I am to this day very proud of these accomplishments.

Even though my mother said negative things to and about me, I was never able to cut ties with her. As I said we were thoroughly enmeshed. When I was in California if she didn’t talk to me at least every 2 days she would threaten to call the police and have them check on me to make sure I was okay. She did not do this to my sisters, just to me. I could not understand why because I didn’t think she loved me but just could not let me live in peace. I still carried a lot of baggage from the past and resentment towards my mother and the things I felt she did to me to make my life miserable. Of course, I thought I was justified in this and was quite self-righteous about it. I was still asleep and the veils of forgetfulness still covered me. But that would gradually change. I was about to wake up.

Even though I came from a family who was not spiritually inclined (or at least never expressed it outwardly for fear of being laughed at or ridiculed or seen as a little off), from an early age I felt the compelling urge to pursue my spiritual purpose for this lifetime. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, there lingered the nagging feeling that I had made promises and that I had a purpose and I needed to find out what these were and fulfill them. I wasn’t sure what these promises were, but I knew I had made them.

I remember once when I was a young person, someone asked me if I believed in reincarnation. I readily said that I did, even though at the time I didn’t have a good concept of what it meant. I did come into this lifetime (I now know in retrospect) with a lot of karmic issues to resolve and I somehow knew that it was going to be a difficult journey, but that I would resolve them once and for all. That was a promise that I know I made to myself. So indeed I did come to earth with promises intact and the veils of forgetfulness covered me as I slept. I didn’t have total amnesia though because I had glimpses of what some of my other lifetimes entailed. Being spiritually minded, I have had several sessions with mediums over the years and have gained perspective as to why this happened. Also, my spiritual guides have helped me to understand why certain events and relationships played out the play they did.

Because of the very intense and enmeshed relationship with my mother, I have come to realize that she and I had karmic issues that had spanned over many lifetimes before and that both of us intended to resolve them this time around (this was all on a subconscious level of course). Our relationship was so difficult and tenuous and fraught with drama and heartache, that at times I despaired of ever resolving it.

I am convinced that we had a spiritual contract together in which we would heal our relationship in this lifetime. I believe this is something we both agreed to. However, when I arrived on the scene I was not welcomed by my mother. She was a young war bride and had just given birth to her first baby in 1944. Just ten short months later about a month after World War II ended, she gave birth to me. She had mistakenly thought she couldn’t get pregnant so soon but found out the hard way that she could. I always felt that she blamed me for this and threw it up in my face whenever the opportunity arose. I internalized the fact that I was “a mistake.” She was probably embarrassed at having two babies in such quick succession and resented me for it. So needless to say, I didn’t get off to a very good start. (I sometimes wonder why she was so mad at me because in my mind (conscious or subconscious), this was something we had agreed to. Maybe I saw a perfect opportunity to make my entrance and seized it, I don’t know for sure.)

So that was the beginning of this lifetime between my mother and me. As time went on the issues we were faced with started to become apparent. (These were things I wondered about when I was young and they caused me great pain. They didn’t make sense to me then, but they do now. As time goes on, I am more able to see the big picture whereas when I was going through them I was just sad and depressed most of the time.)

It seems that my mother and I were identical twins in a previous lifetime. In this lifetime I was older by a few minutes. Somehow my mother perceived me as being the favored one and so this time around she was determined to not let this happen again. When she felt that someone in the family was favoring me, she had the unreasonable belief that this was not justified and she was going to protect my sisters at all costs. This was very puzzling to me and it drove a wedge between my sisters and myself who to this day feel that I was the “favorite,” when in reality I was shunned, not favored, by almost everyone in the family. I felt that I lived almost my entire life without my family seeing me for the person I am, but rather a projection of my mother’s negative view of me.

The scenario of being identical twins in a previous lifetime is only one of many lifetimes that we spent together. There were times when she was the dominant one and had power over me and controlled my destiny. I think that is part of the reason why I was afraid of her. There were most likely lifetimes when I had the upper hand. Some of these lifetimes I have a vivid recollection of and some only a vague remembering.

Even though my mother said negative things to and about me, I was never able to cut ties with her. As I said we were enmeshed and we couldn’t seem to extricate ourselves from each other. It became a very troublesome bond that glued us together. When I was in California the second time if she didn’t talk to me at least every 2 days, she would threaten to call the police and have them check on me to make sure I was okay. She did not do this to my sisters, just to me. I could not understand why because I didn’t think she loved me but just could not let me live in peace. I still carried a lot of baggage from the past and resentment towards my mother and the things I felt she did to me to make my life miserable.

At times I thought she was trying to destroy me and everything I stood for. Of course, I thought I was justified in this belief and was quite self-righteous about it. I was still asleep and the veils of forgetfulness still covered me. But that would gradually change. I was about to wake up.

It was about 2005 in late winter or early spring. I was still living in California and working as a social worker with foster children. I knew my mother was having issues with her health, both physical and mental, and life was becoming very difficult for her. She had starting expressing to me that she didn’t think she had long to live. I again went to a medium for insight into my mother’s situation as it related to me. It seemed like everything in my life revolved around her, no matter how far away I moved. I did get a reading and what the medium said took me by surprise and caused me to finally wake up and take notice of what was going on. It shook me out of my slumber quite abruptly.

Anyway I had gone to a spiritual meeting at my church where a medium was able to receive messages and spiritual insights about your loved ones and how they are doing. I asked about my mother and how she was progressing as I was aware of her recent and escalating struggles. I was told that she was getting ready to cross over and that it would probably be in the spring, but that she wasn’t going to leave until I told her I loved her. Her spirit guide, Steven, said through the medium that I was stubborn because I wouldn’t forgive her. I was taken aback first of all because I didn’t think she loved me and if I told her I loved her she would most likely laugh at me. And then I self-righteously told myself I had a right to be angry after all she had done to me!

But then I got to thinking about it and said to myself, “well, I may be stubborn, but I’m not stupid.” So I took a big leap of faith and called her up and said to her, “I don’t tell you this very often, but I just want you to know that I love you very much.” To my utter amazement, she was so happy to finally hear that from me and told me she loved me too. I think she wanted me to tell her this for a very long time and didn’t want to be the one to tell me first probably for the same reason that I hesitated telling her. This was the start of our healing process and we did forgive each other before she passed over a few months later. It turns out that she wanted to heal these longstanding karmic issues with me as much as I did with her and she wasn’t going to leave this earthly plane until we had reconciled them. She was most likely every bit as tired of going through these things lifetime after lifetime as I was and both of us agreed on some level that enough was enough and it was time for both of us to move on.

“Once upon a time, a beloved feminine essence—me—was born into a world of infinity possibility. Inside of me the seeds of my magnificence, my powerful magnificence, were planted. Before I left for my earthly sojourn, God asked me to remember that the seeds of my powerful magnificence were my responsibility to harvest during my earthly lifetime and by my own love.” (Quotes in italics came directly from the recording “How a Powerful Woman Awakens,” Maureen Moss, www.maureenmoss.com.)

I was born very shortly after the bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, effectively putting an end to World War II. Looking back I realize I wasn’t born into a very ideal situation. My parents were a young couple who got married during the war. They were poor but had the financial safety net provided by my grandfather (my father’s father) who was a successful businessman in his own right and had amassed enough money to retire at a young age, live comfortably for the rest of his life and also help his children.

When my mother and father first met, my mother was working as a Western Union operator in Windsor, Vermont and my father was a taxicab driver who delivered the telegrams to those families who had lost their sons in combat during World War II. They were drawn to each other like magnets and married soon after they met. When they got married on January 1, 1944 Daddy was 18, and Mother was 21. Their first child was born in November and this was very exciting to them as she was the first grandchild in a family of five girls and three boys.

Mother had the mistaken belief that she could not get pregnant after the birth of her baby until she had her first period and they felt it was safe to resume sexual relations. Well, the first period never did come but instead 10 months later, I was born. They just were not prepared to have another baby so soon and I always felt my mother resented me for it. And to further complicate matters, 20 months later their third daughter was born giving my parents three little ones to raise. By the time my sister was born, Daddy was 22 years old and Mother was 24. They had their hands full.

Complicating the number of children and the young ages of Mother and Daddy were the issues that they each brought with them to the marriage. Mother came from a family with a long history of mental illness and she suffered from depression most of her life which manifested into bipolar disorder with psychotic features brought on by taking antidepressants when she was in her 40s. She suffered this affliction for the rest of her life. Daddy was the scapegoat in his family, the black sheep, and he had developed alcoholism at a very young age. He was also very immature (after all he was only 18 when they got married). Mother and Daddy had a volatile relationship. She was very domineering and tried to control him and his actions, and he was passive-aggressive in return. She often said that she had three children to raise, three daughters and a son. They fought fiercely from the beginning of their marriage until its end after more than 50 years together. She always dominated him and he never dared to stand up to her.

Despite this backdrop, as a little girl I remember my life being very happy. We lived on a small farm in Vermont and went to visit my grandparents (on my mother’s side) and extended family often where I felt love and constant attention. I saw the world as a magical place to be and it seemed at least for the time that I had remembered my magnificence and was well on my way to becoming a powerful woman.

Of course that didn’t last. Around the third grade, things in my life and the relationships with my family deteriorated. One by one, starting with my mother, they all seemed to turn on me. They could no longer see the good in me and for many, many reasons that will become clear as I proceed in this blog, I could not see the good in myself either. Life went from a joyous experience to a real ordeal that required every bit of strength I could summon just to survive. But the seeds were there, just deeply buried and lying dormant for a long, long time. I had to regain the love of myself before I could begin to harvest the seeds of my own magnificence.

I have always wanted to write about my life and my experiences, but for a very long time I saw myself as a victim of my mother in particular and many of the members of my family. I have concluded that it very important for me to drop the victim mentality and to look at things from my unique perspective (which of course will be different from that of members of my family). I don’t want to write the kind of treatise of “poor me, look what they did to me,” and to try to assess blame to everyone in my life. That is truly not a productive way to react to my life or to assess it.

There are many, many reasons as to why certain events happened the way they did, why I reacted to them in my way, and why others saw them differently. I have always had a spiritual understanding of my life from a broader perspective than the one I am living right here and now. For instance, I believe in the concept of reincarnation and that people who have relationships in this lifetime have had previous lifetimes together. They may come together in this lifetime to heal karmic issues and to learn lessons together. These relationships can be very intense as some of my relationships were, especially with my mother. I believe that we came together in this lifetime to heal some longstanding karmic issues. This is most likely why the relationship was so complicated. Of course I will go into that in greater depth later on.

I also believe that once we cross over to the other side, we have a life review and look at how things played out and what we could have done differently and what we learned from the lessons. I believe it is in my best interest to do a life review now while I am still here so that hopefully I don’t have too many regrets when the time comes for me to assess this life when I am on the other side. I have often felt that I wasted a good deal of my life agonizing over relationships and events and spinning the tale of a victim. This blog will hopefully help me to assess my life without totally blaming myself for everything or completely blaming others either. After all it takes two to tango and no one is completely wrong all the time or completely right. Blaming and shaming will not bring any positive results. Forgiveness is the key—forgiveness of self and forgiveness of others. Most of all I want to come to a deep understanding of my life and the lessons in it. I believe I am well on my way. 

For the longest time, I never saw myself as a powerful woman. I saw myself as weak because that was how my family saw me and I thought if my whole family sees me that way, then that is how I must be. It all started with my mother as these things quite often do. I saw her as a powerful, strong, dominant personality. It began with her insidiously at first and then the rest of my family took up the charge that I was weak, including my two sisters, my father, my aunts on both sides of the family, my grandmothers, anyone and everyone who was influenced by what my mother had to say about me.

Not only was I seen as weak (sensitive, totally dependent on my mother, off balance, and eventually labeled crazy), I was also depicted as bad, that there was something deeply wrong with me at the very core of my being. My mother went out of her way to try to convince anyone and everyone of what a worthless human being I was, including my own daughter and granddaughters from whom I am sadly now estranged.

I spent a good part of my life trying to find out exactly what was wrong with me so that I could fix it and somehow become acceptable to my family. I thought I could make them love me and accept me if only I could make myself into a better person. Little did I realize over all those years that this was a futile undertaking on my part. They were never going to see me any differently and it was up to me to see myself for the person I actually am. My family does not see me as the person I really am but only the negative persona of me that has been created and perpetuated over the years.

I am finally able to write about these things that have been very painful to me because I have been able to forgive them and to forgive myself for what I used to see as a lot of heartache and wasted years. I now realize it was all part of a growing process that took time, a lot of time, and persistence on my part to achieve. I will say one thing for sure, I never, ever gave up.

Over the years I have been drawn to many ways that I thought would help me become a better person. It finally then dawned on me that I didn’t have to become a better person, I just had to see and accept myself for the person I already am and have always been, buried beneath the many layers from which I have been extricating myself. It’s quite a process and worth every single minute of it, every false start and premature stop, everything I experienced because I can honestly say that I am now coming home to myself as a powerful woman. This is regardless of what anyone else may think of me or say about me.

One of the ways that I have been able to see myself as a powerful woman and to determine in my own mind what that actually means has been listening to a tape (I initially found it as a CD about 15 years ago). It resonated with me at the time, but I put it aside for quite a few years and then reintroduced myself to it about 2 years ago. The words on the recording seemed to be speaking to me as I understood and internalized the message. I put the CD in my car CD player and whenever I go someplace, the words of the CD ring true with me and give me a little boost reminding me to be ever vigilant about the thoughts I have about myself. I also have it on my computer as an MP3 recording and listen to it often. I never get tired of listening to it because honestly it feels like the narrator is speaking to me, understanding everything I have gone through, my struggles, insecurities, my starts and stops, and the message on the recording has become a part of my life. Therefore I have decided to start a blog and write my experiences in my journey to becoming a powerful woman based in part on the words from this recording.

I would like to give credit to Maureen Moss, who is the narrator on the CD. She can be found at Maureen Moss, A Catalyst for Evolution in the Human Soul (www.maureenmoss.com). The name of the recording is “How a Powerful Woman Awakens,” and it can be purchased in a CD format from Amazon.com for $39.95. The description from the Amazon website is as follows, “’No longer a slave girl fastened to your past or your future, you are being summoned by the Holiest of Holies to climb atop the 'story of your life' and take your rightful place as a Powerful Woman. Take this to heart: You have already been designed to succeed.’ This powerful CD promises to return you to your magnificence. In it you are given: * Wisdom from the Feminine Hierarchy * Unobstructed pathways guiding you to retrieve your glorious self * Alchemical ways to awaken your innate power immediately * 13 life-changing commitments honoring the Divinity and grandeur of YOU, always * A meditation that delivers you to your fully awakened state. ‘The veils have been lifted woman and now you are free to awaken fully!’” In my opinion the CD delivers mightily on these promises.

This recording is also available in an MP3 format as a download from maureenmoss.com/products/audio for $10.95. Here are some words of support for the CD. “This CD is so powerful, so life changing, so important for every woman.” — STACEY ROBYN, FOUNDER GO GRATITUDE CAMPAIGN “Your CD How a Powerful Woman Awakens is the most powerful and helpful CD I have ever listened to. Thank you!” — LIDEKE

Maureen Moss is a well-respected spiritual leader and she offers many other programs and recordings that you might also be interested in utilizing in your journey to your powerful self. Again her website for her products is www.maureenmoss.com.

As part of my healing process and my own personal journey to seeing myself as a powerful woman, I am going to break down the recording by sentence or maybe paragraph and give my comments on how that particular part of the recording has resonated with me. I hope you find it as helpful in your journey as I have found it in mine.