The Story They Won't Tell You

Have you ever heard the saying, “life is hard, but it’s harder if you’re dumb”?

I firmly disagree. My life would make much more sense if I were too dumb to know any better. The fact that the universe never gave me credit for the things I could be capable of is a little disheartening, but I suppose things could always be worse.

After two decades of searching for answers, I found my biggest clue on the front page of an old black and white copy of a Boonville Herald Newspaper. I was searching old news with my family last names and happened upon this gem. In big letters is my mother’s maiden name followed by, “TO WED”.

“Weird,” I thought. Especially considering the fact she’s only ever been married once, and that was in the year 2000. The man in the photo is very obviously not the dad I grew up with. This man was older than my mother by about 15 years. He was college educated and from out of state. I can’t make out much more than that due to the condition of the photo. A lot of detail was lost when they scanned the papers into the electronic system.

Very clearly though, at the top of the newspaper scan, I can read the edition date.

It was from May of 1990.

Strange.

Seeing how I was born in December of 1990 and all.

I’ll will be honest with you so that maybe you can understand how something like this feels. When someone close to me gets upset and wants to hurt my feelings, there are very few ways to achieve it. For that reason they will take jabs at how “alone" I am. I've had very, very few "close" relationships. Growing up I can remember a lot of times when my mom would drop me off someplace to chase my dad, and my dad would chase the NY Yankees. My maternal grandparents and my aunt never seemed to mind my being around all the time. I have very few memories of my first “home” and even less of my little sister and I being there at the same time.

Lizzy was born 4 1/2 years after I was. I don’t remember much that changed when she arrived, besides the constant screaming. While she was inside rocking away her ear-aches with our grandmother, I would be outside working with my grandfather. I would remember it this way until I was about 10.

One summer night my mother put my sister and I both in the backseat of her car. Dad ran after her yelling, but I couldn’t make out the words. For some reason my parents splitting up also meant I wasn’t going to stay with my grandparents any more. Adjustments were made and life went on anyways.

There was no family court. When dad called to see if anyone wanted to spend the weekend at his house, I would always go.... Most of the time Lizzy would skip. She was 3 1/2 when the split initially happened, but she would keep this stay away mentality up throughout her entire childhood. She’s 24 now. Dad never said anything bad about mom, and when I asked him details about their relationship that I couldn’t get out of my mom, he’d rarely answer me either. He did slip up once though and I found out that they first met at a local laundry mat. It wasn’t the fairy tale I had hoped for, but it was honest and that was good enough for me.

In middle school science the teacher was teaching us about punnet squares. The Punnett square is a square diagram that is used to predict the genotypes of a particular cross or breeding experiment. It is named after Reginald C. Punnett, who devised the approach. The diagram is used by biologists to determine the probability of an offspring having a particular genotype. It is fairly simple science, and I am an A+ student.

At the end up the week, I bring in my personal punnet square chart filled in with my parents genetic characteristics. Beside each chart I put what genetic traits I actually display out of the possible outcomes my parents could’ve made.

Mrs. Reed tells me I’m at risk of failing the assignment. None of my displayed traits are possible options off of the square of my parents.

All of Lizzy’s are shown though. Blue eyes...freckles...widows peak hairline...can’t roll her tongue..

I have no widows peak, my eyes are green and I can roll my tongue. I also have super double jointed elbows, and knees.

I debate telling Mrs. Reed that she’s obviously dumb and needs to do better research in biology. But, instead chalk it up to a misunderstanding on my part. Maybe I misrepresented things like my parents real eye colors.... I feel idiotic that I don’t even know either of them well enough to know that. I will never say it, but I envy everyone else’s punnet squares. They are all simple and make sense without struggle.

Like everything else in my life, mine is a shit show. What a mess. 

I will try to vent to mom about this misunderstanding after school, but at 4pm when I arrive, she’s obviously cracked open a Mic Ultra or two. Instead of asking how school was she told me to sit down at the table so she could tell me how her grandparents died.

“You don’t know how lucky you are right now, but you’re grandparents are going to die too.” I am 12 and the whole situation makes me uncomfortable. I can’t listen to her stories the way my little sister can. Even as a preteen I know people can’t live in perpetual darkness.

When she’s not talking to me about how everyone I ever love will die a painful death, she’s reminding me how often my father isn’t around and the workload he left her with. As I get older; the visits happen less, but still, he never talks bad about her the way she does him.

One Christmas I felt so worried that he was going to die alone that I went and took all of my change to the Boonville family dollar and bought him any house necessities I could afford. Toothbrush holder, soap dispenser, trash can. I know it probably wasn’t anything he wanted, but it’s what he needed and I wanted him to know that I knew that.

Once I’m old enough (about 17), I reconnect with my older half sister. Half sister on my dad’s side. Not my mom’s. She is 10 years my senior. She tells me stories over spinach dip of how my mother stole her dad away from her and her mother when she was young and that the whole town said he left his first family for a woman with a baby that wasn’t even his. 

This is news to me and I feel somewhat offended. I’m not sure if that’s what I’m supposed to feel, but there it is. I can’t help what happened between our moms and our dad. I feel badly for hurting her. Even if I was just a fetus at the time. I would make her feel better if it was possible. After we finishing our spinach and dip at Applebee’s I make a mental note to start researching all of these things.

Has anyone ever talked to me truthfully? It doesn’t feel like it.

A few more years will pass before I have the time to work at this.

I am 23 and on the verge of a nasty divorce when I finally find the newspaper article on the computer that I told you about earlier.

Everyone told me to let it be. That what I was chasing, was only in my head. Of course my father was my father. “Are you stupid?”, they’d say.

I took the printed out engagement announcement to my mother first. I calmly asked her if she could explain the person in the photo and the date in the corner. She lit a cigarette quicker than I had ever seen before. She takes a long drag. She opens her mouth. “Get the fuck out of my house!”

With tears in my eyes I watch from my car window as she runs to my step-father. I will find out later that she told him I fabricated the entire engagement story to try and make her drink more. He’s clearly upset with me. If she had been engaged in her past, she definitely would have told her husband about it.

There is nothing here for me.

I do not see dad often but he’s always been more honest than mom, and for that, I appreciate his insight. I call once I’m alone and tell him what I’ve found.

He sounds surprised and asks what my mother told me about it. I explain the episode to him and in return he tells me that, “This was taken care of a long time ago. It’s nothing you should be worrying about now.”

I don’t know how you’re feeling,

But, with replies like this, Houston we have a problem. 

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you..

Anger Management

This man looks how mothballs smell.

If you could see him, you’d understand.

They told me it would be “zen”. At best, the room reminds me of one big dusty book. It may hold treasure for someone. It’s just not me. Mr. Rowling was the embodiment of what I imagined an appropriate middle aged father was supposed to act like. Maybe I dodged a bullet there.

Mom never comes in.

If the floor is lava than the counselor's office is the volcano. It’d take a court summons to order her to talk to a shrink. She’s likely ventured off into one of the local shops. Pretending she leads a seemingly normal life I suppose. Maybe she’s making a hair appointment for the next time we’re obligated to be here. Or maybe she’s at the pub. I couldn’t blame her if she was enjoying an afternoon Budweiser.

Unfortunately, I’ll never know.

Perplexing as it is, neither of us can talk to the other one. Not even about how we spent our afternoon.

Shit.

Which brings me back to this bare bones chair bullshit. I’m to do 8 sessions with Mr. Rowling. 60 minutes each. “Anger management”, they call it. I’m 14 and I tend to think I’m fairly average. The puberty stricken boys I see putting dents in the school lockers are a far cry from my situation. Nonetheless, I am here. I am unable to tell you what it feels like to be "a little" mad. My emotions work as if controlled by a light switch. I'm either fine or I'm out of control. I once spilled a container of thumbtacks and got as angry at myself as I did when I blew the transmission on my first SUV. If I'm under the impression that there are Doritos in my cupboard, then realize that there in fact are none, there's a high probability I'll be as sad as I was at my cat's funeral.



In other words, my reactions aren't proportionate to the things I'm reacting to.

It's something I've been working on...



“It’s like hammering a square peg into a round hole every single day,” I say.

“I just want to know who I am.”



“No one knows who they are Samantha. Adults 5 times your age are still figuring out who they are. It's part of the process. Feeling enraged at the fact that you haven’t grown into your persona yet is unfair to those around you. And wrong to expect at a mere 14,” he scolds.

He doesn’t get it. The expensive paper hanging on the wall is supposed to be proof of his excellence in this field and show how qualified he is to handle little hiccups like me. And he literally doesn’t get it.

I can feel my cheeks going red.

The sheer frustration of knowing exactly what’s going on, while everyone else refuses to acknowledge you...

You’d get aggravated from time to time too.



Mom was late to pick me up. Against the protest of the lady at the desk, I swing the exit door and walk myself out. I don’t need to look back to see the expression on her face. I can feel her judgement. She’s wrong too.

Mom finds me a few doors down sitting on the large stone steps of the library. I secretly find myself hoping that the secretary is still watching; In awe of the fact that I wasn’t caught rolling joints or smoking crack. There’s no conversation on the ride home. I’ll run a mile, bike a mile and eat a bag of Banquet chicken tenders. I couldn’t even guess what the calorie count is on a bag of those suckers and truthfully I couldn't care less.



Fast forward a decade.

Work has brought me to Mr. Rowling’s doorstep. I recognize the name on the mailbox.

I want so badly for him to appear. For him to remember my face and my struggle that he could never solve.

I want to tell him that I’ve found all of the answers and that I was right all along. I need to tell him about the eyes I’ve looked into and the pieces of soul I’ve replaced. The places I’ve traveled and the love I have found. The searching I did for the answers I've sought. That he was ignorant in his old age and that my youthful self was justified in her quest....


I set down the large package and get on with my job.
Maybe he doesn’t deserve to know. For him, I was just a folder. This is my life.

Trying to make sense of other people's responses to us is a basic human activity. Accepting anyone's anger by concluding that it is justified, is a way of making sense of a difficult relationship.
But, this acceptance comes at a great cost.

The B-word

B is for Bitches, but today it's for Bomb.....

It's only my second day back to work after a pretty sweet vacation in the Caribbean. The first day back was a jam packed ten hours. Today was proving itself to be an even bigger beast.

I started working as a rural carrier about 7 years ago.
I promised myself I'd go and get my college degree if I didn't get hired at the USPS.
It was one of the only career paths that made sense for someone like me. With 4 young children, daycare can be hard to find. It's an even bigger task if you're only making minimum wage. Carrying mail would allow me to work outside of the home and still make a decent wage even after the

babysitting fees were deducted. Starting pay was $18/hour plus the vehicle allowance for your gas. I accepted the position the second they offered it to me. I've never regretted my choice and love many aspects of my job. With my schedule and support of my Postmasters I've also managed to go to college full time.
I now have a surplus of postal stories.
These are impossible to make up.

A few years back the Federal government was pushing the "See something, Say something!" initiative. Telling the public that with their help, eyes and ears, they could aide us in catching crimes or illegal acts in progress.
If there's one thing you learn quicker than anything else in the post office it's that you NEVER EVER say the B-word.
 B stands for bomb. And we don't mess with that.
Even the mention of it is like walking into the bank with a black ski mask on. You don't even have to make a threat. The word itself scares people shitless. We are all routinely trained and reminded of the things that warrant cause for concern or when red flags should be raised.
The public seems to be even more sensitive about mail tampering.
In the winter months I wear blue latex gloves because they actually keep my fingertips from freezing off. Much better than their fleece competition. It always catches me off guard when people ask if it's because,"I know something they don't" or "Anthrax is back".
They put things together that I can't even fathom.

I was pulling into my second office of the day. Many mail routes and offices had to merge together when the USPS started losing volume due to the increase of things like email and UPS. So, many routes consolidated to also include any small neighboring town's mail.
I have to go into my second office, case the mail and packages, lock up and start delivering again. It is fairly simple and rhythmic once you get a routine down.
 I'm already behind time because it's Monday. Upon trying to pull in I have to maneuver around a couple pick-up trucks. I know I shouldn't be irritated by something so minor, but it hasn't been my day.
(Whatever)
I park and do my usual dismount anyways. One of the older gentlemen stops me before I can get to my office keys....

"Ma'am, I've been here about a half hour now and I've already called 9-1-1. I noticed the package shortly after the window clerk left and didn't want anyone to get hurt! They're sending the Bomb Squad. It's right there by your door!"

I am initially disoriented. I'm trying to internally process the situation, "Shit. He said the B-word. There is a "suspicious package" ten feet away. There are people all over the parking lot. The office closed an hour ago so there's no other employee here. Keep it cool. Keep it cool. You've been trained to deal with this......Shit!"

I inhale deep and assess the situation for myself.

I then notice that the "bomb" is in fact the door stopper that the office workers use to get the mail carts in and out of the building. It is typically left right inside of the heavy door. Our clerk is somewhat new and unfortunately his habits are different than those of the girl that worked the office before him. One of these habits is leaving the door stopper outside. (Shit)
A simple mistake. I would show you what it looked like, but of course this all had to happen on the one day I'm not carrying my cell phone. (It took a dip in the Caribbean Sea)
It is the size and weight of a cement block. A bit uneven though because it's filled with metal slat dividers and then wrapped like crazy with red and white postal tape that says "Priority mail" all over it. There is no address on it and is a beaming example of exactly what a danger package looks like as described by the US Government.
Today is not my day.
Certain of the fact that someone just left the door stopper outside, I (semi-embarrassed) grab the suspected bomb and rush into the office. Of course it is lunch hour at my main office and I didn't have my phone to text my traditional Post Masters. I called the nearest clerk with management experience and sought out her advice and made the situation known. I think she thought I was joking at first. She took care of the other phone calls for me. I'm trying to call my family (that has scanners) to let them know I'm not in any trouble since I can't answer anyone's text messages. Before I can make my call, the huge siren down the road starts to blast the sound of it's people. Emergency Services are in route.
 It doesn't matter if there's an emergency or not...
We are raised on the notion that siren=bad. I was starting to feel bad.
To save myself the pain of customer questions I remained behind my locked office door until the State Troopers came knocking. They needed to see the "device" and all employees...there was only me. They seemed somewhat skeptical of my door stopper story. Somehow the 9-1-1 dispatched the emergency as if it was called in by a postal employee and a confirmed bomb.
I didn't even have a phone, and the clerk had been gone for at least an hour. Something they were able to pull up and see that it was in fact called in by a civilian. They watched as I took the corner off of the thing. Just as I thought....a bunch of wrapped up case dividers. We fill out the necessary paperwork and exchange the necessary numbers. I call management...who's instructed me to make sure that thing never sees the light of day again. I'm pretty sure everyone ended up with an email about what constitutes a proper door wedge.

There's another light tap at the door. The people who called it in were waiting for the explanation they deserved. While I instantly knew what the object was, they did not. And they were right to call it in. It's exactly what they've been asked to do.
It looked so believable that two men stayed over a half an hour in 90 degree heat just to keep any customers that showed up away from it.
I explained it all to them in the most delicate way possible. It was a simple error on our part, but we would always rather have people looking out for each other than turning a blind eye.
"Keep up the attentiveness and thank you for all of your time!!"
There wasn't much else I could say to make it all seem worth their efforts. The crowd starts to disperse once they share the news that the door stopper isn't going to be exploding anytime soon.
I'm finally back inside. Alone. Safe. And very late.
If chaos is a necessary step in the organization of one's universe, then I am well on my way.

I am Sam: Piece Four

           There were horse ranches of immense size all around us. I never would've guessed crop farming and animal husbandry would be such a big theme outside of upstate New York. Small side roads cut in between the agricultural masses. Curvy and cracked, we manuevered our way to the designated coordinates on the GPS. We affectionately call her "Karen". At times Karen tells us to, "....get out of your vehicle and finish walking to your destinaton". That's either a really good or really bad thing to hear. Dependent upon which kind of adventure we're having of course.
This morning isn't one of those adventures.
 I've got very little information to go on. An online website, two addresses and some input from Eric was about all I needed to deem it worthy of at least, an attempt.
   The last driveway at the top of the hill was where we needed to park. I am sweating bullets inside. No matter how skilled you are at small talk; convincing strangers ~that do not know you're arriving, to share personal information with you, is a bit intimidating.
 I will start with what I know best, "I am Sam." Eric convinces me that exactly that will be enough. We turn the jeep off and head for the door.
   At one time I think someone loved the property. There is evidence all around of gardening and typical miscellenous home projects left unfinished. Bird feeders hang sideways from willow trees.  All appear empty. A wood splitter hiding under blue tarps, ripped and frayed. Such a cute little home, drenched in abandon. After the initial walk up nerves, I finally settle into my skin after no-one answered the door. Eric, a bit more cautious, advices me to get out of the windows.
Still, he asks what I see inside. It looks as if someone had vacated the place back in 1980. There are shades of brown on everything. The floor, the couch, the wallpaper. It's all super retro. "This" would be the perfect house for a single cat lady.
Interestly enough though, that's the exact opposite of what I am looking for. I am seeking an aged man. Big stature and about 60 years of age. His parents were immigrants from Poland. I had found the records from Ellis Island. An attribute only rare names can offer.
I traveled a long ways to find an abondoned house with a "bird sanctuary" surronding it. Adjusting from the varying levels of anxiety and curiousties, we both plop a spot on the steps of the failed house. There's something okay about taking this break. Maybe while we sit someone will come along and claim the property. At this point I'd even take a tresspassing risk to get another lead. Stubbornly defeated, I rise to make my departure. I feel somewhat at a loss. Eric again- ever so clever, has a last ditch attempt to make sure someone knows we were here and what we are looking for. Even though we don't know who will find our note of desperation, I attach it to the squeeky front door. Head down, I take a big breath and clear my mind for the next address on my list.
         This time we are looking for a woman. I have no idea what she looks like, nor how old she should be. I have only a name...which indicates to me that she is married and a news article about events in the area that she lived in. The drive is not far. Maybe 20 minutes from our current location. We are coming down from horse land into what appears to be a more developed area. Churches stand ornate and strong, on many of the street corners. I wonder if this is how everyone feels when they're searching for something.
An unexpected sadness creeps in.
I do not know these places. I have never been to this state.
But, it feels as if I've missed them.
People would say that you can never miss that which you never knew. I disagree. With enough subconcoius proof now to back my beliefs up, I will find everything that's been buried here. In college once a professor told me that, "...a lie stuck to, is as good as any truth." Getting to this point has been like seperating salt from ocean water. I believe that as long as you're in control of the lies, you can shape them into whatver you like. But, it takes only one other person to unbind it all. Human error can be vile and atrocious. At the right time however, this will lead to something beautiful and tragic. This time the stories are me.

Petty Payment

Today, I'm dwelling on my own stupidity and the only way to make any good sense of it seems to be to share it.....Let's start where I should have.

~~~~A prenuptial agreement can be obtained at almost any law office and is defined as an agreement made by a couple, together, BEFORE they marry, concerning the ownership of ALL respective assets should the marriage fail.~~~~

Boom! Plain and Simple.
It's a preplanned divorce! No surprises, no big burns!
Mature Sam loves this idea!
(Young and dumb Sam would've asked what the sense in getting married was if we were already betting on divorce and gotten defensive.)
Big..Big.. slip on my part at 18.
But don't mark me down as being bitter and spiteful just yet!
 I LOVE weddings!! The excitement, the emotion, the flowers, the food..the chance of uniting a relationship meant to last. It's big stuff! For two years now I've been an ordained minister and I've enjoyed EVERY wedding.
My only personal advice I can give to couples though, that is without a doubt- tried and true is that if you do get married; get a pre-nup as well. It's not about not loving that person at that time. It's not even about money. It's about having the safety and security of a document that states how you'll dissolve your marriage while you still have a SHRED of respect for that person. I promise you, no matter how well you can think you know someone....divorcing that same someone could be hell on earth. There was enough tension at any one of my court appearances that even the judge needs therapy afterward. There's a reason so many people applaud the survivors of a contested divorce.

This isn't necessarily a "fun" discussion to have but----

 #1 - if this person really is your "true love" neither of you should have to worry about this pre-nup            ever coming up again!
and
#2 - if you really plan to go through the entire rest of your life with this person then one awkward              discussion about break-up technicalities isn't going to through a wrench in your plan.

Pre-nuptials can also give a clear and land out plan for any existing assets and any new ones that may come. Men will say their ex-wives "took them to the cleaners", but never once did they think of using this simple piece of paper for the "what-if" protection. Women will say they were left high and dry by an irresponsible ex-husband but, it was those women that didn't need a pre-nup because they'd never "need" a divorce.
I know people and situations are each unique.....I promise my divorce was not the norm regarding the demands put on the woman, but it was worth every penny to get that "Freedom Decree".
It can cost as little as $100.00 to file one of these agreements together. Without it you could pay thousands for years to come.
(If you want to get really in depth, technically, you can put things like "cheating" or "excessive weight gain" clauses in the document as well. The world is your oyster BEFORE the wedding. After the vows, that freedom of simplicity is all taken away by governmental garb.)

Oddly enough I am a believer in the human heart and all things love and gush, but I've also seen the dark side of someone you think you know and I wouldn't wish that shit show on anyone....
While I sit here filling out my FINAL alimony payment, I am as disgusted with myself as I am relieved to not have to write another one of these checks. After this blog post, this requirement will be dead and gone to me.
It's about time.

You are not weird for needing a pre-nup. It doesn't make your love any less or your wedding a complete flop.
 Love yourself enough to know that a nasty divorce is in NO-ONES best interest. Life's not always fair and sometimes people just suck.

I didn't have anyone's advice when I was 18 and signed that one paper. I wished so badly that I had.
So for any of my local friends that need a connection but don't know where to start:

My divorce attorney, Krystal was one of the best. I highly recommend her as a lawyer and as a person. You can even use my name as a reference! I know she does Pre-nups because she lectured me on them after every nasty courtroom battle we had to go to! Use my bad examples as the reason you are there PRE-wedding. She'll applaud your decision.

The Rupert Law Firm is located in Lowville, NY and her phone number is 315-874-4173.

I Am Sam: Piece Two

I haven't seen my father in months. Seasons and holidays have come and gone. Strangers show up at the door more than my kin. The last day was a hot summer evening in August. Unannouced, but always welcome, he showed up while Eric's family was visiting and roasting marshmallows in the fire pit. The kids always enjoy the antics he encourages, but before he could leave one of the girls had snatched, and broken, a small piece off of his sunglasses. We searched and searched but, the tiny part was never found. He was awfully upset. Part of me felt guilt. It was like being five years old again, I might as well have done it myself for how bad I felt. He left without the piece. The girls didn't understand. I wasn't sure how to explain it.
My little sister is a lot like my dad. Even though she's on the other side of the country their traits they carry are eerily similar. Not that these were bad. I've had to learn and adjust over time to the fact that we're just different. They need their own space. They don't need people, and desire very minimal social interaction. The more commitments they feel pressure from, the more unhappy they are. It's funny. I don't think they see it from each other. Only from the outside looking in, could you tell how identically they choose to live. For years I have been the bridge between the two, passing bits of information here and there. Letting one know that the other is alive and well when I talk to them. At first I'd think it odd to not see a (living) father for more than half a year. Then I start to realize it's probably been 2 years or more since he's seen my sister. Her moving out of state even put me down to just a beach vacation with her once a year. I grew up with an immediate family that preferred to be the exact opposite. The less immediate we all were, the better everyone's lives seemed to be.


I had always felt like the sponge placed in between them all. I was the only one absorbing anything. And anything I retained, had no other place to go. I have years of useless information banked away. I am in the game, but I was never one of the main players. Something more like a silent referee. Watching everyone's choices and keeping a tallied score. I prefered it this way. I am not an active part in the story, I am simply the story teller. Out of all the traits my family members got that I did not, I was the only one given words.
Everyone else values the actions (or lack thereof). I value the story.
 It wasn't until my 23rd year that I realized I was more than an absorbant center piece between all of these people. I needed to learn their stories to learn my story. Without these big pieces and the reasons people did what they decided to do, the little pieces never would've made sense. Unlike many, I had to dig for the truth behind mine. A lie stuck to well, is no different than the truth. I had my work cut out for me.
If you could know the exact way you will die, would you want to know?
It's kind of like that.....
If you could know exactly who you are and how slim the likelyhood of your existence was, would you want to know?
For years I could not tell you much. I am Sam. I am here and I enjoy living. I am a teller of stories, and a seeker of truths. I fought harder for my truth than any one person should ever have to. My journey has given me a respect for all. The good, the bad and the ugly. It's all of value and it's all necessary. Life is similtanously more complex and more simple than you could ever imagine. Digging for skeletons that aren't your own may very well lead to your destructive ruin.
This didn't bother me anymore. Constantly turning a blind eye led to a rattling in my heart.
I needed to know who these people were. I needed to know what they've done.
It's on me to take over and carry the story. These will be my discoveries, cruel and beautiful. I can't look away. Like witnessing a fatal car crash, you know there's a good chance someone has died, but you can't bring yourself to turn away. You need to understand. You're personally invested in the disaster now. The outcome of everyone involved will have an effect on all of the bystanders.
Maybe you should go inside and close the drapes....

I wake Eric gently. We slept in the jeep again. It's never easy on the human back. Fairly normal when we are on a non traditional adventure though. He packed the survival snacks and hunting knives, I pack the data and information necessary for what we are trying to find. We drove all night through a mountainous region we could only imagine. The massiveness of it hid well in the darkness. We parked ourselves near some type of water. Only when the sun rose did we get to see the lake beside us. I was too anxious to sleep well. This time we needed to use a different skill set. We weren't hunting waterfalls. We were hunting people. People that could very well end up being ghosts. Armed with nothing more than a few papers and the names I had memorized we began my search. To find the stories I desired I needed to find elders. The closer somebody was to the truth in "real time", the more accurate the information would be. For the first time in years, I felt what it was to be truly nervous. I lacked my typical confidence. In exchange for the new information I was seeking, I had to leave my old perspectives on the waterbank. I had to let go of the rhyme so that I could find the reason.
The next 12 hours would change many peoples lives.
Regardless of anything cooked up, I had to stir the pot.

At the Mouth of a Monster

I was only a girl. Maybe about six years old. My grandparents would kick me out into the mud and fresh air, only to come back when called in for dinner. I had been claimed by a mother killdeer this week. She had five healthy, happy babies, who traveled behind her as well. Up until this time my memory remains somewhat neutral as to the potential evil in the world. There was nothing that provoked ill feelings in me. Somewhat confused about the end goal of life sometimes, I was genuinely content.

 Until this day.
I was following behind my adoptive family. There was a whole forest to cover. Halfway through our trek we circled my grandfather's three ponds. He had each pond dug for a type of fish. A particular habitat for particular creatures. We were on the banks of "Trout Pond". The dry heat of summer made for thirsty babies.

Without notice, a giant head gulped out of the water and into the air.
It took one of her babies. One swallow.
Tachycardia immediately took hold in my little heart.
There was nothing I could do.
I waited and waited to see bubbles, signs of a fight, or even a way to grab that baby eating demon and yank the bird from its belly.
The surface again grew still. Momma killdeer had finally seemed to understand that her baby was gone. It felt like an eternity, but after about five minutes she seemed ready to trudge on with the surviving offspring.
In my afterthoughts, I began to wonder if grandpa could come save my friend. I then worried that he would blame me for being with the animals in the first place.
Or worse, he wouldn't even be hurt by what happened to baby bird.
That's if I could even get him to believe me that a giant mouth came out of the water and on to the bank just to eat that baby in one gulp. I was  mortified.
I spent the rest of the day on the bank of that pond, alone.
 What good was a world where the babies get eaten and the monsters are real?
To this day my developed adult brain cannot fathom the true identity of the killer. Giant trout, rouge muskie, homicidal turtle....I couldn't pick him out of a line-up. This small afternoon occurrence scarred me for life though. It's something I'll never really let go of and it was my first instance of realizing how terribly wrong things can go. 
My heart was broken and nobody understood. Best to work through it myself than babble nonsense to my elders. (They were savage. My grandpa had been in the war and traveled the world. I'm pretty sure they'd eat the dog if they had to. I can't throw a rock at a nuisance squirrel.) I wasn't upset that the bird had to die, I was upset that I could do nothing to change what happened.
A horrifying realization, but a necessary truth. Fast forward twenty or so years.

Another year has gone by and my struggle of dealing with small minds, continues to grow. Complacency makes me ill. My eternal patience grows thin.
People who see no deficiencies in themselves, are not my kind of people. I myself am fully flawed.
Regardless of your god or belief system, you must know by now that negative people and negative interactions are as toxic as drinking a self made poison.
If I do not guard my weak spots, the rot will get in. I have gotten good at this over the past few years. What I thought was a phase of life, has actually turned out to be an immense period of growth.
I am "shedding skin" again.
 I can feel it.
While I am no fan of constant change, I do believe in necessary change. My life is best when I embrace it, rather than fight the pull.

But there's a nagging realization that I am just a baby on the shore, and there's monsters just waiting to pull me in.
My absense would only be noticed temporarily. While the belly of my enemy will be full. Everyone else around the pond will say,
"That's the price you pay...."

Inner strength creates the outer foundation and I'm in the midst of a big build. Ironically after all the things I've seen, I do not fear death.
The fact that I am mortal gives me no anxiety.
There is clarity in permanance.
This is part of the fuel for my drive.
I have no time to waste.
 Adventure is calling and I must go.
And for the first time in all of my years, I know my head and my heart are in the right place.
If  I am to be swallowed, I hope it's in one gulp.


   

I am Sam : Piece One

      West Leyden is a small town. Only about 1,500 people are here living ordinary, small town lives. The school is not far from my house. We never do it often, but this evening must have been special. My parents have brought me down the street so that I could swing. I didn’t need anyone to push me. I’m not sure if I ever did. The sun is fading fast. It casts a golden hue over everything it’s touching for these last few minutes. My mom is abnormally happy. Dad’s got an arm around her waist, twirling her about. The oddity of it all makes me feel awkward. Displaced.

I kick my legs harder at the knee and imagine doing a full flip on the swing. How crazy that could be. My hair is as long as my legs. I bet it would get caught.

They’re walking together on the pavement, hand in hand. I’d hate to feel judged for my lack of sensitivity, but it’s the first time I remember seeing such gross displays of affection from them. A lot of the time that I’m not right here at this school is spent with my Aunt Joy or my grandparents. Mom works days. Dad works nights. In between they argue about who should or shouldn’t be out drinking with friends. 

 I have a half sister on my dad’s side. She is ten years older than me. Ecstatic to think I had a gender ally that could teach me all the things I needed to know as a girl, I was somewhat disappointed when it didn’t turn out that way. I’m pretty sure her childhood self, hated my existence as much as my mom disliked hers. Both sides arguing greedily…. Who needs the paychecks more? Who should get child support less? How can someone be so ungrateful?

I remember mom arguing with dad once that “we don’t even have money for Sam to get breakfast cereal, but Amanda got new basketball shoes!”

I didn’t want them to argue about me. Honestly, I can’t even stomach cereal. The milk turns my belly sick. I’m fairly petite for my age and I could go without needing breakfast. Amanda is older, and bigger. She probably needs more things. I don’t play basketball. I bet the shoes are cool though... 

I would never hear the story from my parents, and I still haven’t. But the story went that dad left Amanda’s mom for my mom, and to many in town, that wasn’t allowed in this aged out society. Either way, I was too young to ever be valued for my opinion. I never hated Amanda though. I never held bias towards her mom. I understood why people would hurt in different ways than others hurt. 

I believe my mom tried…. she just couldn’t let everything go. 

I believe dad tried…. he just wasn’t meant to operate that way under immense pressure.

You can’t change people. You’re far better off changing your expectations of them.

 I came to understand at about the age of six that Amanda wasn’t going to be my “super close, awesome, big sister”, instead she was just trying to survive her parental drama. I could respect that. There was a huge blow-out during a family camping trip. Mom and dad would argue in the tent over who he took preference to and defended more. I can’t recall all the details, but it would be 15 years before I ever saw Amanda again. Her high school prom picture would sit on the mantel forever. She wore a beautiful, floor length gown and had long dark hair. I imagined how things could’ve been if people weren’t so self-serving and if parents didn’t need to spill toxins into their child’s ears. It’s hard to understand why adults would set their children up with unnecessary dilemmas. We are much more resilient than any of them. We are also less spiteful and petty.

 In an alternate set-up Amanda and I could’ve been closer. I thought of her often, and always hoped that she wasn’t sad. I'd always felt like I ruined her expectation of how she pictured her life. For that I was sorry. 

A few months after that odd day at the park, my aunt is taking me to the hospital in the near-by city. Mom and dad were already there. Rushing through the parking lot my aunt tells me I have a baby brother. In utter shock at all of this news I try to hide my immense disappointment, but I start to cry my eyes out.

 In some sick turn of events this causes my aunt to laugh and tell me it was only a joke. I am indeed a big sister to a little sister. Pride swallows my whole heart. I don’t know if there was ever a greater feeling than this. I will finally get to be the sister I know I can be. Elizabeth is beautiful and healthy. She screams obnoxiously loud, but it’s okay. We’re both new to each other. We are learning. I don’t care where she came from. I smother her with promises. My instinct takes over almost immediately, no one is going to take this one away. 

Laying Love Down in the Driveway

"What weird people.", I said as I slammed on my brakes. This crazy old man and woman were veering in and out of their driveway on bicycles. I waited, somewhat annoyed, for them to complete the action and be roadside but no such luck. Even with the multiple chances I had given, they stayed glued to their paved driveway. I was about 5 miles from being done with my work day. I didn't have time for this nonsense.
 I was on my favorite mail route, about five years ago that I first met Mr. & Mrs. P. Before I came to know who they were they seemed awful strange from the outside, and trust me, I shouldn't even judge! My first run in with them was brash and quick. The second time I ended up there was for a bit longer....
   My old blue mail jeep strikes many peoples interest. With her steering wheel on the opposite side and odometer tipping 250,000 miles she's of novel curiosity. Mr. P caught me one day while stuffing bicycles are us magazines in his mailbox. I wasn't fast enough to get away without the introductory conversation that becomes necessary when a mail customer flags you down. It's never easy to be a speed demon, like headquarters desires and to be your neighborhood Mr. Rogers like your customers deserve. I accepted defeat and put on my best "I love new people" face. I could tell by the bicycle incident that this guy was going to be a weird one.
      Mr. P was in his 80's and nothing like the conclusions I had jumped to. He and Mrs. P moved here to be alone in their latter years. Which was going fairly well until I came along. For being in a town where there are more bovines than people they lived a fairly secretive lifestyle. Besides their daily bike charades!
 Mrs. P was his true love and that was about all I knew of her. He was a coastguard, a mathematician, a mad scientist and a mechanic. He talked of philosophical beliefs and scolded me on my cold views of humanity.
"There's good people and there's bad people Sam. Don't ever let the bad guys win.", he'd say.
Instead of using my lead foot, I began to slow down in hopes that Mr. P would be outside to entertain me with a new story of living and learning. My young brain enjoyed the tales of travels these two had made since the 1950's.
The only thing that became apparent...besides how wrong I was to judge this couple by first impression, was how much he loved Mrs. P. I had actually wondered if maybe he was in the beginning stages of dementia with all his repetitive elaboration on how wonderful his wife is. I swear her rosy cheeks were some form of permanent blushing caused by sharing a life with this man.
She was a woman of few words and many smiles. Mr. P would visit with me whenever I could make an appearance. Some days though they'd both kindly wave me by. If they were both on their bikes and riding in their weird ritualistic circle in the driveway they were not to be disturbed. Not that I ever understood this, I always respected it. I also began to pull a little farther away from their mailbox so not to scare Mrs. P into thinking I was about to put her under my jeep tire.
 A couple years had passed. Old Blue and I were still delivering together but this day was a bit different. I'd been overheating for about an hour now. I knew my time before complete disaster was limited but I was down to my last 5 miles! Sure enough my radiator blew it's top at Mr. P's. No one was riding bike in the driveway today, which seemed strange because it was beautiful out. To my relief Mr. P came out to their garage when I rang the door bell. I noticed his bike in the garage on the ground. Mrs. P's was hung up in the rafters. For safer keeping I imagined.
Sure enough I was right. Paul confirmed it. For the time being though, he said I could take whatever stopleak brand radiator crap he had along with however many gallons of water I could fit into the back of Old Blue. Everything combined should be enough to get me up and down my last hill and back to the post office. Success! That's all I could ask for. While we were filling jugs from the garden hose that's when he told me. Mrs. P had died. It was so unexpected that I managed to maintain my composure and focus on the tasks at hand while he told me what happened.
     I blanked out bits and pieces though....it was much easier on the heart to focus on the water jugs. She had gotten sick since my last visit and I hadn't been back to deliver mail there in so long that I never even knew. Immense guilt washed over me. Not that we bonded much, but I loved Shirley indirectly because of how much Paul loved Shirley. I needed a sidelining topic. This was a conflicting time for me...I told Paul of my beginning stages into the abyss that is divorce. I currently despised life and any type of "investment" into another human being. What a waste. I waited for his disapproval. Without a tear in his eye or a frog in his throat he said,
 "There is no divorce in love. There's not a thought or action towards it. You cannot come close to dissolving someone that is your entire existence. You don't know what I speak of Sam because you obviously didn't have it, but do what you need to do and get it done because that is not the kind of love you live your life for. No ma'am. It's unfortunate that you didn't know this sooner and that children have been brought into it but thank your stars for the chance to get it right because if you get it right you will find someone that would literally die for you if they had to. I always thought that I'd go before Shirley. I had everything set up for her so that even though she'd have to carry on without me she could do so without any worry about who was going to take care of her or that she wouldn't have the means to get by. I took care of EVERYTHING to make sure she would be okay when the last thing I'd ever want to do is leave her and now in some sick joke life has taken her from me.
Do you know why we rode the bicycles Sam?? We'd ride here in the driveway because our plan of traveling the country after my retirement was halted by the risks of Shirley's declining condition. She'd always say we could go but it was never worth her health. So instead of biking the big roads we circled the driveway. We may not have seen all the sights the world had to offer but just seeing Shirley's bike wheel right behind mine was enough for me. She was enough for me. The world can have all of it's glory. The best time of my life was the love we laid down in this driveway. I am not a simple man Sam, but I can tell you I have found beauty in the simplest of things. Do not have sympathy for me for I know what true love is. I will hope that it finds you someday. Only then will you understand what it is."


We put 5 gallons of water in the back of my jeep. The stopleak in the radiator seemed to be holding. I tried to pay Paul $20 for all of his help and supplies....he wouldn't take a penny. He shook my hand and told me it was a delight as always, even in the darkness of both our situations.

I cried softly the remainder of my mail route. I actually didn't even realize it until I saw the dampening dots on the front of the farm magazine I was holding. Oddly enough I didn't know if the tears were for me, Shirley, Paul or something completely unrelated. I just know the realness of what I just drove out of shook me. I would never see Mr. P again.


He died shortly after I saw him. It was November of 2014. He plugged the exhaust to his car and let it run inside the garage with all the doors closed. He was an intelligent man and I imagine he made it as painless as possible. He had hung his bicycle up with Shirley's.
People called it an "unexpected suicide".

There was a request for no donations, no service. No goodbyes. Paul didn't believe that he was going to a pearly gate to be united with his long lost love in heaven but a world without Shirley in it was not a world he wanted to live in. Although any chance at seeing her again, through any means possible was worth whatever sin was in his way. Death was not going to stop him from trying. There is no divorce in real love and there's no way to dissolve it. There was more love in that driveway than there had ever been in my heart in 23 years. I did not cry for Paul the way I did for Shirley. I'd been holding on to this story for a couple years now. Maybe it's taken me that long to actually appreciate the depths of it. But when I passed their driveway today on the mail route my heart "pinged" and I realized  how much their example meant to me and that just maybe you needed to hear it because it could mean something to you too. This really happened and the people are real. The love even more so...

Wrecking Children and Mom-belts

              I'm eight years old. My mother put me into black stockings because "Samantha you need to cover up those bruised legs! People will think I beat you!"
She didn't.

     Honestly though, I'd rather show them the bruises than sport these things ever again. I haven't felt my belly button in three hours. My little sister Liz is riding in the back seat with me, along with Abby, the neighbor girl and her grandparents. They let us use their big astrovan just so we all could go! Everyone came out for me. It was the night of the local elementary chorus concert and being the eldest, it was my honor to have the first concert ever for anyone to attend. Thus, making it a grand event.
       Velvet from my holiday dress rubs on the bottom of my palms. It tickles. A weird satisfying tickle. Being new to this winter holiday custom I thought my outfit to be unique and special. Little did I know, every young girl had been stuck in one of these monstrosities at some point in their adolescence. Of course the bottom is plagued by assorted snowflakes...or are they swirls?

"Don't peel off the glittery shit!"
My mother was always full of unconventional wisdom.
I stop picking at it.

   We're only about five minutes from home when the car veers head on into our van. My step dad had tried everything he could with only seconds to react to the oncoming vehicles behavior. I saw my mom turn out of her seat with the speed of a superhero. Liz is only four years old and in the 90's, car seats weren't given the levels of importance they so desperately deserved. I gazed out my window to try and understand the commotion. My curiosity was answered when my brow bone rapped off the glass. My mother had made a security sacrifice to get to my little sister. She torques both of her arms. One more so, due to the metal plate that was placed in it years ago from a bicycle collision on a steel deck bridge. For the first time in my childhood I recognize my first feelings of empathy for all the passengers in our van. When the ambulance arrived my mom had to sign a paper just to keep me from being taken to the hospital. With how I acted they were worried I had more serious injuries than just the bleeding scrapes, swelled brow and expected bruises. Everyone fared about the same.
           

 Between us though, I was broken. Deep inside me a part of my childhood gave way to reality. In an unforeseen event I could've lost my entire family and our friends without a moment's notice. I sobbed to see real fear in my sister's eyes and panic on the faces of all these people I cared about. I'd never seen my mother react so seriously.

I couldn't stop it.
Hell, I couldn't even see it coming.

            Within the following weeks I will learn that it was a middle aged couple from Maryland that struck us. There was no insurance on their vehicle and neither of them would tell who was actually driving. They weren't drunk. They were hammered. By the time police had shown up the car unhinged from us and maneuvered itself into the nearest telephone pole. It would come to rest there while they hastily threw beer cans out the windows and climbed into the back seats to await their impending persecution.
    The medics say my little sister's soft skull wouldn't have been able to take the blow on the window like my thick head did. The sacrificial seat belt my mother had made was in fact, necessary. Abby was between us....being BOTH of our friend, and right between both of our ages it was only natural that she also have the middle seat. She is also slightly bruised and scared, but unharmed. Everyone was wearing their seat belt. Abby's grandparents will never buy a van again. They begin purchasing SUV's....they will say it's for the look. To this day I think it's because they feel safer driving anything that resembles the strength of a tank. We'll never ride to a concert together again.
Coincidence? Most likely, but to eight year old Sam it was because of what happened this night.

Jump with me to present day:

I am a rural mail carrier for the United States Postal Service. I've done this for five years and enjoy it greatly. I spend much of my time alone on the back roads of my home towns. Along side the many positives of my career rides a few negatives though. With all of the miles I travel, you wouldn't believe half of the things I see. Today was another one of those days.

       It was a great morning in the office. I'm now out on the road and making great time. The ice plated mailboxes warn me to take it slowly. I've got a much stronger distaste for ice or sleet than any amount of snow. Ice is much deadlier, much faster.
   Traffic starts to block on one of my main roads. I accept the situation as a necessary delay. My jeep's mail signs allow me to wait off to the side to wait out the clean up of a wreck so that I can continue on with my appointed route after. Fairly common situation. Any detour will just cost me more time and more miles. I can't help but wonder if everyone's okay, and if ice was in fact the main culprit, not typical human error. Air bags are visible and both cars need to be towed. Crushed metal and fiber glass pepper the way. I make a mental note to avoid those spots because today would be a nasty one to have to change a flat. An ambulance leaves with it's lights on in the direction of the closest hospital.
 I can be patient because life has made me immensely empathetic. I'd much rather be here, in this delay, than in that ambulance. It is after these thoughts that I notice you coming. It's not hard to spot speed when everything else is idle. A tractor trailer has already began slowing down because he sits high enough to see what you cannot. Your little blue honda is nothing compared to what awaits you around the icy blocked bend. I watch, skeptical, as you try to pass the tractor trailer. You're young and transporting very special cargo. You have no idea that anything is going on and are totally unaware of all the warning signs around you. There's a toddler leaning in between the two front seats to get your attention. I see a phone in your right hand and the carrying arm and canopy of a baby car seat popping up behind you. You appear to be yelling. Whether it's at the phone or the little girl, I cannot differentiate. I lay on the horn to get your attention. Feeling somewhat guilty for the scare it must've given the accident crew and other vehicles, I am satisfied with my action when you hit your brakes and drop your phone. The man in the big rig makes a motion as if he was wiping sweat from his brow and gives me a wave. It was as if time slowed, and now I'm seeing from the eyes of an adult mother instead of a child. An accident within an accident would be seemingly careless.

Reckless.
Somebody would've missed you all.
You never would've been able to embrace your babies in a security grasp to save them.
You'd never get to make up that argument you were having.
I wish so badly to talk to you. You're holding your hand over your heart, obviously startled.
Life did not care that there were 3 children in our van.
Life does not care that your babies are in that car.
And if life's not going to care about your babies, you have to!
We are each other's safety belts.

The accident clears. You drive away. I finish delivering my route.
Life doesn't care that we were there today, but I do.