Happy Halloween

I have a small collection of poetry and pick of various thing to read from time to time.  Yesterday, I picked up my copy of John Greenleaf Whittier and found :

Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin,—our lantern the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!

Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better
E’er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o’er its baking, than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!

                 final two stanzas from “The Pumpkin” by JGW

Today is the day for the ‘wild, ugly faces carved in its skin glaring out through the dark with a candle within’ – with the pie soon to follow.

Goodnight still wants to go trick-or-treating.  She has a friend she promised to take to our favorite place.  I guess I have a date with a ghoulish banker (GN’s costume).

BTW: Madame President of the Student Body successfully gained a mini-party and dance for the little kids at her school so that the bigger kids could actually have a scarier haunted house than they would have been allowed if the little kids had to join them.  So . . . she’s dancing to “Monster Mash” and “Thriller” with her wee little buddies today.  Music provided by the president’s gram.

‘Amelia Bedelia’ and Parsley

 

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month

Today is the last day of October, so I want to write one last passage related to Domestic Violence.

There is someone very dear to me who has been reading these passages this month, a friend of mine from the time after my escape.  In the ‘getting by and trying to make ends meet’ phase of raising Angel on my own, I had the good fortune to meet a woman who was an enormous blessing to me.  We shared laughter through the toughest of times.

My friend had a daughter Angel’s age, so when we could get together, the girls got to play.  However, as was often the case, we had our chats on the phone after the girls were tucked in for the night.  I lived across town from her and didn’t have a car at the time, so getting together was a challenge.

Once in a while, I would read to my friend over the phone.  Angel liked Amelia Bedelia books – probably because mommy laughed when she read them.  I’m not sure she understood the humor in the author’s use of literal and figurative language, but I thought Peggy Parish’s books were funny and so did my friend.  I would only read one book at a time when I had one from the library, but it broke the ice for other adult conversation that I so desperately needed.  I have fond memories of sitting on the kitchen floor, legs stretched out in front of me, balancing a book in my lap and trying to turn the pages with one hand while I held the phone in the other.

When the laughter subsided, we were able to hear each other out and we’d talk for a while.  I have always been so very grateful.

Once, my friend told me that she needed some parsley for something.  I had some to share.  A postage stamp was cheaper than a jar of the dried herb or the bus fare to deliver it to her, so I sprinkled some of my parsley into a paper that I carefully folded to hold it.  I sent it across town to her.  When it arrived in her mail, she gave me a phone call and asked me if I had sent her some marijuana.

At the time, I couldn’t even imagine why she had asked me that question.  I didn’t do drugs.  As it turned out, en route to her mailbox, my green dried parsley had turned a very different color.  We both had a great laugh over that, but I still think of it when I plant my parsley and dry it at the end of the season.

This post isn’t about Amelia Bedelia or parsley as much as it is about healing and moving on.  Healing doesn’t happen overnight and moving on can be total crap with every footfall for a while, but with friends who ‘get it’, there is always hope and a shoulder to lean on.

To my friend: a world of thanks to you.  I was just in your old neighborhood last week.  Who knew that I would later come to know that the building across the street from where you lived would be an important part of my career.  I don’t get there often, but when I do, I send you good wishes wrapped in gratitude and memories. We made a new ‘normal’ didn’t we?

To anyone who stops here and needs to know: “Hands are not for hitting.  Words are not for hurting.”  Neither is acceptable behavior.  I have a T-shirt with those words on it.  I bought it years ago from the Minnesota Coalition for Battered Women in a grassroots campaign to prevent battering before it starts.  I am not wearing that shirt today.  It’s black and I have it tucked away for safe keeping. 

Today, I am wearing purple . . . because it I like it and it looks good on me!

 

 

 

  

 

What We Tell

 

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month

I believe the potential for healing exists when a survivor of any violence speaks out.  There is a range of what survivors share, from nothing to everything and anywhere in between. 

What I share or don’t share has always depended upon with whom I was speaking as well as the circumstances.  In the medical clinics and hospitals, I shared things that related to the cause of my injuries.  When speaking with audiences concerned about Domestic Violence, I shared a variety of things highlighting different aspects of abusive behavior.  When speaking with other survivors, I tended to share only my similarities with those involved in the conversation.  When speaking in court, I shared what was necessary to achieve the result I desired.  When speaking with my family, I have shared enough to keep us all protected and enough to understand the danger at the time. 

Perhaps as important as the telling, is the freedom not to tell.  When Power and Control act so hideously to dominate and harm, I’ve found it necessary to regain my footing by deciding when or if I wish to speak about what happened to me.  Angel knew more than Goodnight does, but Angel was older than Goodnight is now.  Angel knew enough for her circumstances and while Goodnight knows considerably less, she knows enough for now. 

I have never shared all of what happened to me and am not likely to do so.  As terrible as some of the things I’ve shared this month may seem, I have kept the worst to myself.  To live it was enough, to have gotten away from it was even better, to share it would run the risk of sensationalizing what I have put behind me.  To speak of atrocities, one must step closer to them.  In so doing, the atrocities loom larger and can block one’s vision of other things.  I choose not to give the atrocities the power to block my vision. 

When I began my blog, it was with the purpose of accomplishing several things: to freely share knitting patterns and/or advice to a craft community which has given me so much enjoyment and entertainment over the years, to provide a diary-type format in which to share some stories that Goodnight can hold close to her heart, and to otherwise generally make a positive difference on this planet.  Having escaped terrible violence and lived through unnecessary injuries has obligated me to pay it forward.  Over the course of this October, Domestic Awareness Month 2011, readership has risen dramatically, reminding me that our voices are still necessary as we speak to new generations coming into contact with Power and Control.  The nice thing about this format is that the stories will be here next year, the year after, and beyond. 

Because October draws to a close and I find myself ending my passages of abuse, does not mean I am done speaking about it.  Whispered words and muted conversations will find their way to me as they did three times in the last two weeks.  To all those in need of hope who find their way here, get the help you need to escape violence, speak as much of your abuse as you need to heal, may you have a Doctor Hope to help you like I had, may you know friendships that lead you to more peaceful lives, and know that I will wear a lot of purple in October as long as I have the power to do so.  There is so much more life beyond that first step you take to walk away.

It’s never too late to teach an old dog new . . . Brussels Sprouts.

Not long ago, I was in the produce aisle reaching for a fennel bulb, when a woman next to me began to speak.  ”Do you mind if I ask you what that is and what you are going to do with it?”

I explained told her it was fennel and that I was going to use it in a shrimp-cod soup.  I also explained my favorite way to cook it, with leeks and celery as a side dish “that tastes much better than anything you’re going to do with those things!”  She was scooping handfuls of brussels sprouts into a produce bag.

I’ve never cared for brussels sprouts.  I can’t even attribute my dislike to a specific reason.  As a child, I didn’t care for broccoli, cauliflower and cooked cabbage either.  As I got older, my tastes and cooking habits changed to regularly incorporate the latter three into my menu planning.  Not so, the brussels sprouts.

I tried.  When GN was in elementary school, she had a classmate who loved them.  “It’s his favorite meal,” she told me.  When I ran into the boy’s mother at church I asked her to tell me how she cooked them.  She verified that her son loved brussels sprouts, but she laughed at the ‘favorite meal’ part.  She told me she just bought bags from the frozen vegetable section of the grocery freezer and heated them in the microwave for her son.  I tried that and it won’t ever become my ‘favorite meal’.

The woman in the grocery store was not to be outdone by my comment to her.  I didn’t say it in a negative way.  I was teasing her by comparing her avid fondness to my long-standing dislike of brussels sprouts.

“Slice ‘em in half.  Put some good butter in a skillet and cook it slowly until it begins to brown.  Don’t burn the butter!  Put the brussels sprouts cut-side down in the  browned butter.  Cook them a few minutes and then turn them to cook on the other side.”  She had just shared her favorite preparation method with me.

I thanked her for her advice and decided to try one more time.  I walked to the bin, pulled a produce bag and gently placed six of the smallest green orbs into the bag. (I didn’t want to overdo in the experimentation process.)  My bag of six small veggies paled in comparison to the bulging bag of hers.  I turned to gather the other items on my shopping list, but as I walked away, I spotted her picking out a fennel bulb.  We had each given the other a new look to our dining.

I liked her brussels sprouts.  Goodnight liked them too.  She hadn’t told me how much butter to use and I may have overdone that part a bit.  I don’t generally use butter in cooking, but it helped me begin to revise my opinion of brussels sprouts.

Today is ‘brussels sprouts’ day at our house.  Goodnight and I are heading back to the same produce aisle to buy a larger quantity.  I’ve found recipes for a main dish, a salad, and even a cake that I plan to prepare for our Sunday dinner – all requiring brussels sprouts. 

I’m grateful to the woman in the grocery store.  We have another vegetable option at our house.  I normally wouldn’t bake a cake, but we’re coming up on a special day, so dessert is on the menu.

Do you like brussels sprouts?  If so, how do you prepare them?

 

Middle School Lunches

Every now and then, I take an assessment of how things are going for Goodnight as she lives with me.  I know things are different from what one would hope for a child, but we keep going.  She’s involved with sports, she just wrote an article for the school newspaper, she just auditioned for the Drama Club, she sings in the choir, and is on the Student Council.  Her grades are good and she’s working to her potential.  It’s all about fitting in to make up for that one big ‘difference’.

There’s one place where she hasn’t been a carbon copy of her peers – in the lunch room.  I’ve made my mistakes.  One day last year, GN came home and dropped her lunch box on the counter. 

 ”Gram?  Could we skip the tuna sandwiches for a while?”  Everyone knows it’s Tuesday when they walk by my locker because they can smell my lunch.”

If you’re wondering why Tuesday, that’s because Tuesday is garbage day at our house and if I make tuna sandwiches on Tuesday, the fishy smell goes to the curb right away and is gone.  I burst out laughing when she told me about her locker smell.  So did she.  I haven’t sent another tuna sandwich since then.

Recently she came home from school and looked down-in-the dumps.  Rather than ask questions, I just waited for her to tell me.  It’s more like volunteering the information that way.  Apparently someone was mean to her at lunch.  Kids get that way.  It can be chronic or occasional.  I see my job as getting to the bottom of it, but taking care of the blues and moving on.

I opened her empty lunch bag and cleaned out the contents as I replied, “Maybe that person isn’t really mad at you.  Maybe they are jealous that you are the only kid in school who brought a homemade chicken pot pie in a ramekin.”

She snorted out her laughter and the incident seemed to become a non-issue.  And hearing no dissention about either the pot pie or the ramekin, I keep sending her to school this time of year with things she can heat in the student microwave.

Today she had home-made mac and cheese.  We made it together last night.  She grated the cheese and I cooked the pasta.  We had some for dinner and then I portioned the remainder into a ramekin for her to take to school today.

I don’t suppose that ‘ramekin’ is all that funny a word on its own, but it helps her sort out her emotions and where to draw the line at being a carbon copy of her friends or being different enough to eat a hearty lunch from . . . Gram.

GN has a thermos to keep her soups and chili hot until lunch time, or for her hot chocolate once in a while for a winter lunch.  But they have a couple of microwaves at school this year and that opened up a few more options for hot lunches from home – hence the ramekin.

I suppose Quiche or a Soufflé would be going to far.

The Cost

 

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month

Throughout this month, I’ve been writing passages about Domestic Violence – mostly my own.  I have also suggested, as many others have, that Domestic Violence is a public health problem of enormous proportion.  Domestic Violence is refered to as Intimate Partner Violence (IPV) and has taken an economic toll in this country so much so, that Congress funded the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to collect data on the occurrence of IPV and the estimated health care costs.  The findings were published in 2003 and are currently used as the benchmark for the impact IPV has on society.  One caveat, the study focused on violence against women.

I already knew it was expensive.  I have a notebook at home in which I documented all the health care expenses that were directly related to the abuse and injuries I sustained.  I know it was a very unusual thing to do, but I kept track of the date, the invoice number, the type of service and the cost.  The health care expenses alone consumed 45 pages of my notebook.

So that I don’t minimize the impact of abuse, I want to mention that included in the health care estimate, are services for mental health care.  Power and Control can also impact a victim’s capacity to cope.  Degradation of the human spirit takes time to repair and adds to the financial burden of individuals as well as society at-large.

There are other costs, too.  The cost of lost days of paid work affects employers as well as victims.  Subsequently, loss of  paid work affects one’s lifetime earning power and retirement status.  Court and police time affect taxpayers.  Relocating residence is expensive.  The cost to replace material things damaged during acts of violence is more hidden than the medical expenses and primarily borne by the victims, but it causes a debit rather than a credit in one’s personal financial records.  The monthly fee for maintaining a non-published phone number pales in comparison to other debts rung up to violence, but the phone fee amounts to substantial sum after decades of such a minimal safety net.

I don’t pull my notebook out very often, but I did this morning, because I wanted to remind myself of a different progress I’ve made.  Additionally, I had recently viewed a FOXNEWS video about the cost of domestic violence and wanted to draw other people’s attention to it.  The high price of Domestic Violence is the reason I am wearing purple today.

Anger and Revenge

 

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month

Tough words, anger and revenge.  It’s one thing to feel them and it’s entirely different to be encouraged to feel them.  The latter happened to me as I rested in my hospital bed after my first neck surgery.  The nurses knew why I was there and as they checked my vital signs and helped me walk, they were all curious enough to ask, “Aren’t you just so angry?” or “Don’t you want to get even with him?”

I honestly hadn’t had the time to be angry or get even with my abuser.  I was frightened, hurt, nervous, worried, sad, and then grateful to have gotten away and then hopeful about ‘ever after’ without abuse.  Anger is exhausting and I was already tired enough.  I made my statement about abuse without shouting or hitting.  I got away.

Revenge is such a harsh action.  To retaliate or take vengeance out of spite is something I couldn’t do because of moral and spiritual reasons.  I’m not going to preach.  It’s simply my nature to seek peace.  The distance I’ve kept between me and my abuser has been enough.

I lived.  I saved myself and I saved Angel.  I set Priscilla free.  I healed to the extent that I could.  Sometimes I limp a little and from time to time my heart does too, but none of what I went through was worth carrying the guilty burden of having done the same to another.  I didn’t turn my other cheek . . . I just relocated both of them.

It is not revenge to take action for injuries or wrongs.  It is revenge to inflict punishment in return for harms done.  I took action.  I didn’t hide  in a closet and pray for Power and Control to simply end my suffering.   I escaped.  I can walk and talk freely without fear of physical abuse.  I look for goodness and beauty in the world and I find them.  To have hated would have only inflicted hate into every free moment of freedom.  That doesn’t seem like freedom to me.  To have hated would have injected hate into Angel’s life and she was worth more than that.  I was worth more than that.

Angel and I lived.  That’s enough.

Officer Friendly (my late husband) lived a long time after he retired from the police department.  He earned much more from his pension than he paid in just by living.  I feel the same about each day that I wake up without the looming threat of violence in my life.  Today I am wearing purple to remind myself to continue . . . living.

Hope in a White Coat

Note:  For those who came to read this post because of the ‘knitting’ tag, hang in there.  It’s a sweet part in the middle of the passage.

 

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month

When I escaped my violent husband, I needed to start a new life, which really meant starting two new lives because I was pregnant with Angel.  I needed to find a doctor.

I remember walking into the clinic for the first time.  I was exhausted and emotionally spent from so much violence in such a short time.  Little did I know that the doctor I was about to meet would play a significant role in changing my outlook.

Dr. Hope* was a quiet man and a relatively new obstetrician.  I knew that when I saw how far down his name was on the list of doctors serving the clinic.  He was kind without being patronizing and he focused on what needed immediate attention.  I had mononucleosis.  That explained my exhaustion!

Dr. Hope did all the other appropriate tests necessary for a first obstetrical visit and we set up a schedule of appointments.  He also went far beyond when he needed to do.  He took the time to have a long conversation with me.  He listened to my story of abuse – the parts I felt he needed to know – and in the telling, it seemed to lighten my load.  Our conversation lasted four hours that first visit!

My monthly visits became weekly and yet I had received no bill.  The clinic was large enough that there was a billing department to handle everything.  I had some money, but because I had relocated, I suspect Dr. Hope knew my resources would be limited until after the delivery, when I could rely on a more steady income.

Amazingly, when I was feeling stronger, Dr. Hope found a family who needed their house cleaned once a week and asked me if I was interested.  I took the work.

Months passed and Angel was born.  Dr. Hope’s obstetrical obligations were nearly met.

When I went into the clinic for my final check-up after delivery, I thanked Dr. Hope for everything he had done.  Aside from listening, He offered insights to human nature and good advice.  What he hadn’t offered was a bill.

I pulled a package out of Angel’s diaper bag and handed it to Dr. Hope.  He opened the wrapping to find the sweater I had knit him during my pregnancy.  It was a brown and gold crew-neck pullover with a hound’s tooth pattern on the front.  He took off his lab coat and tried it on.  It fit.  I thanked him for everything and made my way out of the clinic.  I never received a bill.

As time went by, I returned to the clinic for periodic gynecological exams and I noticed Dr. Hope’s name was no longer on the bottom of the list of clinic doctors.  Time hadn’t changed him much.  He was always ready to sit down and catch up on life.

When Angel was nearly a teenager, we were riding a metro bus into the city and I overheard a conversation between two women seated behind me.  The first woman mentioned that her daughter was old enough to see a gynecologist and asked the other woman if she knew any good ones.  The second woman’s easy reply was, “Make sure you send her to Dr. Hope.  He will take good care of your daughter.”

True, I thought to myself.  Very true.

Dr. Hope retired a few years ago.  I had the good fortune of seeing him as he approached his retirement.  As we reminisced, he remembered my journey of abuse and I remembered his journey to the top of the list of doctors on the clinic.  What I remember most poignantly was how much he respected his white coat and the gentle dignity with which he used the authority it gave him. 

Dignity begets dignity and can lift people out of their circumstances.  I had the good fortune to meet Dr. Hope long before some of the physical effects of Domestic Violence showed up.  I measured my future health care against his high standard.  Because I had a good example by which I could judge, I received just the right medical attention at the right time from the right people:  neurologist, orthopedic surgeon, neurosurgeon, physical therapists, etc.  Today I am wearing purple in gratitude for Dr. Hope.  I had to turn the corner of abuse on my own, but when I did, he was there to offer hope . . . as well as one way to measure it.

*Dr. Hope was not his real name.

“Please Rise for the Singing . . . ” is in the Mail!!!

I had to wrap up my Star-Spangled Banner Super Scarf quickly and send it off to Indianapolis . . . . . before the temptation to keep it got the best of me.

I had one last photo shoot first, because I realized I had only taken photos of portions of the scarf.  I guess my table isn’t long enough to show off the full scarf, but below you can get the idea of how the anthem text is laid out.

Another ‘pose’ for the camera shows some of the books I’ve collected about the Battle of Baltimore and the historical events related to the national anthem of the United States.  It really is my favorite song.

One last ‘pose’ before I headed to the Post Office . . . but before you see the photo, look at the graphic below and then look for the design on the scarf.  It’s toward the bottom right of the photo.  That is how I represented the West Fork of the White River that flows through Indianapolis.  The West Fork is 312 miles long and is considered the main fork of the river.  My graphic appears several times in the Fair Isle side of the scarf.

The Peace Officer

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month

I can’t write a post about Law Enforcement and how they handle Domestic Abuse calls.  Some have gotten a bad reputation for ignoring calls or taking abusers for a walk and a talk and then sending them back in to abuse some more.  I also know that some officers have lost their lives when handling Domestic Abuse calls .  I never called the police (we didn’t have a phone) and no one called for me, so I have no personal experience to share.

Officer Friendly loved his twenty-year career.  He took it seriously.  I didn’t meet him until well after he had retired but what he did for me underscored the term ‘Peace Officer.’

Early into our marriage, I attended a work-related conference in another state and asked OF if he wanted to tag along.  He didn’t think he would mind hanging out in the hotel hot tub or swimming pool and then putting his feet up to watch television, so he decided to accompany me on the trip.

The conference was held within driving distance of where I lived out the nightmares of my first marriage.  OF knew some of the some of the stories and he offered to ‘take a drive’ to see things in a different light.

He drove me to the little town where I had lived – and nearly died.  It had changed after so much time.  It took us a while to find the house where I had lived: the house with the big yard where  ’Priscilla’ romped; the house with the one-room heater that took us through a terrible winter, the house where my hand-made Christmas ornaments were stomped into the floor.  I barely recognized it.  The outside had a fresh coat of paint and the lot had been divided so another house stood closer than the nearest neighbor we had.  It just looked normal.

We drove around the town and I looked for the store where ‘Priscilla’ would block the door as she waited for me to shop.  I went into the store.  It had changed, too.  It was no longer a grocery store, but a bait and tackle place with some souvenirs.  The town had recently celebrated its centennial, so they were selling some T-shirts.  I bought one.  I didn’t buy the shirt because I had fond memories of the place.  I didn’t.  I bought the shirt because OF took me there and going back was a good thing.

We drove around the town, up and down the main street, and then around the town again.  He just kept turning the steering wheel in the direction I pointed.  Finally, I had seen enough.  The town had changed, but so had I.

I can’t say that going back was healing.  I did all that work in between my surgeries.  There were no enlightened moments or sudden bursts of tears.  It was just quiet and peaceful – everything I had longed for in my first marriage, but everything that I got in my second.

OF was a Peace Officer – even long after he retired.