That time I went to school drunk

When I was growing up, being grounded was the most horrible thing my parents could do to me. Wait! I take that back. It’s the second worst thing my Mom and Stepdad could have done to me. Sending me to my Dad’s every other weekend was the worst. But I’ve told that story before. ;)

I remember this one time, at band camp, I went to school drunk. It was a Monday morning of my 10th grade year, and I just wanted to know if school would be more interesting or exciting or anything different, if I was drunk. I drank Seagrams and 7up while I was getting ready, and then drank it on the way to school. Finished it just as I was getting there, in time for first period.

First period is a complete blur. I don’t remember anything about that class. Have no idea how I made it to second period, but I did. And that is where I got caught. My English teacher wasn’t real keen on students not paying attention, and when I couldn’t stop giggling and talking real loud, someone ratted on me. To the office I went. They called my Mom to come pick me up, then told me I was going to be suspended for a whole week. I was really excited about having a week off school, but not real thrilled about the punishment that would come down from my parents.

Let me tell you something, when my parents said I was grounded for four weeks, let me guarantee you, I was grounded for four weeks. No television, no phone, no hanging out with friends after school or on the weekends. I saw nobody and talked to nobody. I was literally only allowed to go to school, nowhere else. At all. For four whole weeks. And to add to that punishment, I missed two huge tests in two different classes, which caused me to end up failing both classes and having to retake them in Summer School. Not my proudest moment.

As I watch my son make mistakes trying to figure out who he is and what he wants to do with his life, I’m reminded about the troubles I went through. RJ hasn’t lived with me since he was five years old, so I didn’t have to ground him for anything as he was growing up. However, I have friends/coworkers/other family members that I see try to discipline their children, only to ‘give in’ and allow them to get a reprieve on their punishment. I just shake my head in disappointment.

This is where our world has gone. Parents today would rather be their child’s friend than their parent. Nobody wants to punish children and teach them right from wrong anymore. They just want to be friends and let them do whatever they want to do.

And people wonder why Millenials are such a problem.
Ding, ding!

When the love of a dog takes the pain away

Pain. It can be described in so many ways. A physical suffering. An emotional suffering. Or even a laborious effort that sometimes goes unnoticed. No matter the way you feel it, it’s real, and it’s in everyone.

I went in to the doctor for a female procedure yesterday, and the cramping it causes, is painful. Not so painful that I walk hunched over like an old man with weights in his pockets, but a pain nonetheless. An uncomfortable one that has mentally talked me into not going to work. This pisses SS off to no end, but ultimately it’s my decision, and when it comes to my body, I’m the boss. No matter what.

This handsome, freshly groomed Poodle, is the best bed cuddler ever. He sneaks in between SS and I, and when he lays his head on our pillows, we just can’t help but feel our hearts melt. (We only allow this when he is groomed and clean.)
While cuddling this morning, it made me think about the dog I had as a child. She was a Beagle/Lab mix, and saved me a number of times from a bad situation. You see, my Dad would throw his cigarette butts out into the lawn in the backyard when he was done smoking them. Me, not knowing any better and assuming they were okay because my Dad was putting them in his mouth, would find them and put them in MY mouth. That awesome dog, used to take them out of my mouth and lay on them so I couldn’t eat them. Smartest dog ever.

Here’s me with her in the doghouse…..

She really was the best dog ever. We were ALWAYS together.

When I was five, my parents sold their house in the Valley, and moved to a huge 2-story home in a newly developed city called Valencia. You might all know it as the home of Six Flags Magic Mountain. There was very little here at the time, but now, it’s full of cars and people and is ultimately just overcrowded. Definitely not my favorite city anymore.
Not long after moving into that house, the dog somehow hung herself with a leash she was tied off to that afternoon. I can remember coming home from 1st grade and hearing the news. It was heartbreaking for a five-year-old, and the first time I can remember feeling emotional pain.

As the years past, we had other dogs. Labs, German Shepherds, a Cocker Spaniel, and even a Dachshund. And with all those dogs, I never could get close. I never developed a relationship that said we were friends. Sure, I would feed them, and maybe throw a ball once in a while, but didn’t go out of my way to bond with them.

Then I met this guy, and my whole outlook on dogs changed. I never thought a Poodle could steal my heart, but every day when he looks at me with excitement and recognition, my heart flutters and I know it’s true love.

LOVE is a 4-legged word.

 

Scratch & Sniff

 

         

Do you remember scratch & sniff stickers? They were some of my favorite stickers. My awesome sticker book was FULL of an assortment of stickers. I used to take my awesome sticker book to school and share it with my two bff’s. I was so proud of it. My awesome sticker book might be packed away in a box. Perhaps one of these days I’ll go through a box or two and see if I can find it. Until then, I’ll just continue to post some awesome photos of what made me smile as a child.

A Monster or just a Sad Man?

It's been a while since I've written about something more important than just a photo a day, so lets chat about my dad.

As far back as I can remember, my Dad has been my biggest fear. When I was little, my mom spent more time protecting me from him than she did herself. This resulted in lots of bruises to her arms and legs, even her face at times.

He was a drunk. A very angry drunk. I specifically remember one morning, when I was in first grade, my Dad had gotten up in the morning and gone directly to the recliner in the living room where he proceeded to drink a few cans of beer while watching something he'd recorded the night before on his fancy new VCR. Me, being the innocent little girl I was, said something along the lines of Don't you have to go to work? You can't go with THAT smell. Unfortunately, I didn't make it to school that day. After my Dad stopped yelling at me to mind my own business, Mom stepped in to once again, protect her little girl. That was the last time I mentioned drinking to my Dad.

A few years later, the divorce that was inevitable, began to haunt me. Dad would try to play me against Mom. By doing so, he shaped me into a vindictive, hurtful person. He taught me that this behavior was okay. Acceptable even. It was years before I was old enough to understand what was happening, and unfortunately, so far into a hole of unhappiness and rage, that digging out wasn't even an option. At the time.

Through the years of every other weekend visits, I managed. There were more bad times than good. The older I got, the more irritated I became at my mother for forcing me to spend the weekends with him. I was unhappy there. I would develop an attitude about everything. I counted down the hours until we would go back home on Sunday evening and didn't care if it hurt his feelings. I had started to develop a shell around myself that I didn't want him to be able to break through or even see through.

Once I was in high school, I had hoped things would be different. I prayed for it to be different. High school was a big deal. It was my first taste of real independence. I looked at this as being a new chance for him to be the "dad" that I actually needed. It was a chance for him to help me deal with real teenage girl stuff. I was on the girls basketball team and in the Choir. We had several games throughout my high school years and a number of different choir concerts. I was excited to invite him to these things. You know, fresh start and all. He came to one concert early in my Freshman year. It was okay. He laughed at us and gave us a hard time about the hideous outfits we wore, but it was all in good fun. Finally! Positivity from Dad.

A few months later, I invited him to one of my basketball games that was going to be at a local high school by his house. A bus ride for us, but just down the street for him. I wasn't the star of the game, but I did manage to put up a few points for the team. I was happy. My coach was happy. The team was happy. Dad wasn't so impressed, and went so far as to tell me that men prefer women that aren't "Amazon Women". That was the last time I invited him to attend one of my games, and the reason I began to pull away once again. :-(

The every other weekend visits became more of a nuisance during my high school years than anything else. I dreaded it even more than I did in years prior because it was taking time away from my friends. I wasn't allowed to make phone calls to my friends while I was visiting with him, so I always felt completely out of touch with what was happening in my important high school social life.

After I graduated from high school, the relationship I had with my mom and step dad wasn’t great. I was 17 and knew it all. I didn't have respect for my parents because I felt they had all ganged up against me. The years of hate I had for my dad, coupled with the irritation I had with my mom and step dad for sending me to Dad's, brought on some pretty heated arguments. At 17 years old, I was asked to leave my parents house.

Because I didn't have anywhere else to go, and staying at a friends house wasn't a positive option, I moved in with my dad. He drove me so far into a fit of rage, that I packed all my stuff up and moved to Texas. Alone. I couldn't take one more second of being around that man, and I knew anything that happened to me in Texas couldn't be as horrible as it currently was. Enough was enough.

When I got married a few years later, people asked me if my parents were going to fly to Texas for it. Mom did. I asked Dad not to. It was a decision I mulled over for weeks, even months. And it was a decision that I made all on my own. And everyone supported that decision. When RJ was born, The X was in school full time and I didn't have any other family around to help. I gave in to my dads request to come visit solely based on the assumption that I would need help.

When The X and I split for the second and final time a few years later, I was found without a place to go. The police made sure I stayed away from what I had already comfortably called home, so I made a desperate phone call to my dad. "Can I come stay with you?" I whispered into the phone. There was no hesitation in his voice. He said yes without even thinking about it. I was determined to have a relationship with my dad, no matter what I had to do.

I tried. I honestly tried. I even had RJ visiting on the weekends hoping they would develop a relationship. Then the night came when Dad had RJ pinned down on the ground, choking him. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. RJ, being all of about five years old, didn't want to eat the spinach Dad had made. No surprise, cause I wouldn't eat that crap either. I leave the room for two freakin' minutes, and I come back to RJ balling his eyes out, choking on spinach he'd been trying to chew, all while being choked. Oh My God! I did a LOT of screaming, Dad got up, and RJ went and hid in the bedroom closet while I packed some clothes. I called my mom to come pick us up, and off we went. I think she got there in record time. I did not allow RJ to be around my dad after that. And it wasn't until Sis's wedding last April, that they saw each other. And naturally, the first thing RJ said to me when he saw him was, "Do I have to say hi?"

The next couple of years didn't get any better. Finally, in December of '08, I walked away for the last time. I threw my hands up in the air and admitted defeat. He had won. He had bullied me so much, that it finally pushed me away. And I didn't look back. No regrets.

For thirty-two years, I have gone back and forth emotionally, trying to fight the feeling of hate for him. It's my Dad. I'm not supposed to "hate" him. But I do. I did. Because he is a monster. A monster who refuses to fix what's broken. A monster who finds joy in the suffering of another. A monster who will not haunt my dreams anymore.

g’night y’all!

Getting to know an absent parent

I can remember sitting in the judges chambers some room at the courthouse at the age of 7 with my sister and mom. I can also remember sitting in the judges chambers some room at the courthouse with my sister and my dad. I remember dad getting down on the floor with us and mom keeping her distance as she watched over us playing alone together. I can remember hearing the man conducting the session say dad plays with the children more. At the time, I just assumed he was thinking out loud as he wrote his notes down, but 24 years later, I’m not so sure. Why did that man say those words out loud? Those six words have run through my mind every single day since. Haunting? Perhaps.

I remember on the drive home from school one day, asking my mom did the judge decide we should live with you or dad? Secretly I was hoping she’d say dad, because I was NOT fond of mom’s new boyfriend, but she didn’t. We were on one of our last drives to the ‘family’ home, and for the first time I can remember, I experienced true sadness. I wanted to cry. Why was someone other than my parents allowed to tell us who we could spend our time with? Why couldn’t we just spend equal amounts of time with each parent? Why, at the age of 7, was I having to think about this stuff, when all I wanted to be doing was comparing sticker books with Doreen and Nicole.
As the weeks, months, and years went on, we saw less and less of dad. He was a ‘weekend father’ and had become sort of a background parent to mom and the boyfriend who had now become “the husband”, AKA: The Stepdad. He very rarely attended events we had (band competitions, basketball games, choir performances, etc), but was it because we had grown so far apart from him that we didn’t invite him or even want him there? Or because we knew he wouldn’t attend? Or was it something completely different? Am I holding a grudge about this for the wrong reason?

As I start to think about what it’ll be like if I get to have weekend visitations with Ryan, I have to admit, I’m scared of one thing, and ONE thing only. He’s 10. Is he already at that point that I had reached with my dad? Has he become so close to his father and so far from me, that he’s already developed a sense to push me away? It doesn’t seem that way by the way he acts around me now, but how can one tell when nobody will let me be around him for longer than two hours? Grrr @ the whole situation.

I have so many other questions that bring on other questions and – knowing my history of anxiety – will bring on fears. I can’t let that happen. That’s not who I want to be. Where is my best friend when I need her?

The Raisins

Remember these guys? The California Raisins were popular when I was younger. I had several, that I think I got from cereal boxes, and can remember being saddened the day I got rid of them. But, I moved on.

Nicknames

Someone asked me the other day if I had a nickname. Immediately, I thought back to my childhood days and said, “Bones” or “Nose”. Let me explain.

Bones: Growing up, I was skinny. I know, I know, I’m still skinny. What I’m talking about is really skinny. Standing in front of the mirror, a clear view of my ribs was possible. Hip bones stuck out farther than my chest, and my arms and legs looked like pencil sticks. From the age of 8, I was known around my circle of friends as “Bones”. During Halloween, a skeleton hung on our front door, and when anyone in our family saw it, they affectionately called it “Val”. Still, 23 years later, my family calls me “Bones”.

Nose: I was also known as the neighborhood watch. I could be seen, on any given day, peeking out the blinds in my room to see what was happening at the neighboring houses. I knew exactly when everyone got home from work, when they went out for dinner, when the kids got home from school, when the babysitters came over, when someone would go shopping, when the teenage boys next door brought girls over, and when someone brought home a new car. I knew everything about everything.  Our neighborhood was full of kids, so there were always people around. I would stay up late just to watch the people outside. To say the least, I was nosey.

One day, my nosiness paid off. An old friend turned enemy of mine, pulled up to my house, got out of his car, and quickly walked to my stepdads truck, punctured one of the tires, and drove off. Grrr. I was so irritated, and couldn’t WAIT to tell my parents.

Maybe in my next life, I’ll be a spy.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAID!

Saturday Housecleaning

On any given Saturday, getting up early and cleaning house was not the way I, as a 15-year-old teenager, wanted to spend my day. I wanted to be sleeping in, curled up under the covers of my heated waterbed, until noon.

I can remember so clearly, my stepdad opening up my bedroom door so that eventually the noise would be too much and I’d have to get up. Haha @ them. Didn’t they realize I could sleep through anything? Mom would eventually come in, reminding me that if I got up, she’d make Cream of Wheat and bacon before we got started. Mmm. Nothing like Cream of Wheat and a pound a bacon to get my bones in gear.

By the time I was 15, my mom had figured out that if she didn’t start the day off with a list, my sister and I would conveniently forget things. This resulted in a big list, separated into rooms (living room, kitchen, bathroom #1, etc.).

Armed with a list of 7-10 things to do in each room, I turned up the stereo, and began cleaning. With such artists as Willy Nelson, Toto, Tim McGraw, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Elton John, and many, many more screaming from the stereo, the 4 or 5 hours it took to clean didn’t seem so horrible.

Happy Saturday and happy housecleaning day!

It’s that time

It’s been two years. Two long years. Since I’ve been camping. Growing up, probably the only thing I enjoyed about summers with my dad, was camping. He made sure we went every summer, and as often as possible. There were some summers where we’d go three or four times, but there were summers we’d go only once. I loved packing up the truck and driving the long windy roads to secret hideaways nobody knew about. I can remember my grandparents coming along once in their RV. Waking up in a tent, anxious to sneak out before Dad woke up. During any normal school year, getting up with the sun was something I never did. When camping, getting up with the sun was something I looked forward to. It seemed as it was a game. Who could be up first, Val or the Sun? I assure you, the sun always won. I loved sitting on a rock in front of the campfire, watching the last of it crackle from the night before, secretly wishing my sister was up too, but scared to death to go back into the tent and get her, for fear of waking up Dad.

My mom loved to camp, too. Her and my stepdad often took us camping during the summer. Oh the stories I have. One time I got to be on stage and sing Elvira by The Oak Ridge Boys. That was fun. It left one of my BFF’s and I with a memory we’ll share with our grandchildren. She’s having a baby next month, and I CAN’T WAIT to tell her little girl about how for 15 minutes, me and her mommy were superstars. I ♥ you, D!

As I grew up and started a family of my own, The X and I made sure we took the kids camping. We had some great times, and no matter how much bad blood there is between The X/his daughters and I, I promise that anytime one of them thinks about riding Sea Doo’s, they’ll giggle and flashback to the fun times we had on Kern River. No amount of hate can block the memories that weren’t so bad. :-)      (unless you count crashing them, flipping them over, and having to be towed back to land as bad times, they’ll still giggle.)

Every child needs a camping memory. Every adult needs a camping memory. I, as an adult, need more camping memories. I love camping.

I do, however, have one bad camping memory. When I was about 5, I had a favorite blankie. It was the bestest blankie ever. Hands down, no arguments. My dad tossed it and it accidentally landed on top of the heater. An instant hole the size of a cantaloupe was burned into my blankie. Oh Em Geeee @ the amount of trauma this caused me. I refused to get rid of it after that, and still toted it around wherever I went until I was about seven, burnt hole and all. Mom was pretty relieve when I finally gave it up. It had gotten pretty ratty after that.

I  miss waking up in a hot tent. I miss turning over, saying “i wish i hadn’t slept on the ground”. I miss the smell of a campfire. I miss complaining about the bugs. I miss sitting around playing Spades or Dominos. I miss walking over to an ice chest and having my hand freeze while I search around for what appears to be the only Water left. I miss leaving the campsite and going for a hike and not being afraid someone will steal whatever we’ve left behind. I miss peeing in the woods. I miss playing in the creek as it splashed past our campsite. I miss cuddling up with someone, trying to stay warm, as I fall asleep in my sleeping bag.

It’s summer, and that means it’s camping season. I think it’s time for a trip, deep into the woods. Want to join me?

Fear

Someone asked me the other day where my fear of public restrooms came from. Well, here ya go…

My fear of public restrooms started when I was about 4 or 5, and I was shopping with my mom and sister at Target. I had to pee real bad, so mom let me go to the bathroom, alone. [Yay for big girls.]

I went in, did my thing (as any 5-year-old would), and when I flushed the toilet, I heard the loudest, scariest growl noise coming from the toilet/pipes. It scared me so much, that I walked out of the restroom so fast, I didn’t even wash my hands. (This was a big no-no. Mom always made sure we followed all appropriate hygiene rules. After all, we were girls.) I searched around for my mom, and when I finally found her, I was crying. The horrible noise had scared me so bad, I wanted nothing more than to be safe from the sound.

I avoided public restrooms for many years after that. I finally gave in to the fact that sometimes, you just gotta go no matter where you are, but let me tell you something…every single time I use a public restroom, I cringe just before flushing the toilet, because I know, that somewhere in those pipes, is a monster that has been trying to get me since that day in Target, some 26 years ago.

And now you know…

Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, Zip-A-Dee-Ay

“OHMYGOD! I WANT A PICTURE OF THAT LICENSE PLATE. CAN YOU TAKE ONE FOR ME WITH YOUR PHONE, PLEASE?.” Picture taken and sent. Ha. Ha. Success! She loved it.

 

Okay. Let me start at the beginning. As I was growing up, I had some hard times as my parents got divorced. I know, I know. Who doesn’t. I get that. Divorce is hard, especially on the kids. I’m not saying it isn’t, I’m just saying it was hard for me. Moving on …

It was the typical divorced parent/child setup. Saw dad every other weekend, whether I wanted to or not, starting at the age of 7. As I grew up, I felt like I needed daddy there for me, but he wasn’t. Or was he, and I just didn’t initiate the contact?

Contrary to popular belief, and what I’ve lead others to believe in the past, not ALL the times I spent with my dad were bad. Some, but not all. I remember going to a city bbq and pigging out on ribs and potato salad and helping my grandparents hand out rosaries, and Halloween parties at the local park, restaurants that had fun trains bringing us our food, places that taught about God and about how drinking alcohol and/or doing drugs ruined their lives, going camping and seeing my first skunk , laughing at silly jokes that I probably shouldn’t have been allowed to hear at such a young age, going on one weekend vacation where my sister left her baby blanket in the sheets-maid had already changed the sheets by the time we got back and they said they didn’t find it. I remember going to restaurants and laughing at people for making grammatically incorrect sentences, and playing darts at a local landmark that was one of the first buildings in my home town, and singing songs in the truck as we drove the freeway on a Friday night, and praying with him at night before bed-he’d always make sure to mention Mom & Frank’s names, no matter how much it hurt to bite his tongue. I remember going to the fish hatchery in Ventura and learning about how that whole thing works. I remember going to the beach and swimming out so far that it worried everyone but dad-he knew i enjoyed the excitement of being out so far and under the wave, so he let me enjoy it. I remember going to Jack In The Box and being able to get whatever we wanted, but only as a special treat. I remember going to family functions before everyone hated everyone else and being proud to say to the new member of the family I was meeting, “Hi. I’m TK’s oldest daughter.” I remember dancing with him at a birthday party for one of his friends and another time at a party for a family members birthday. I remember him taking us to church, even if we didn’t want to go because he thought it was important.

I can hear the question rambling around in your head right now. Don’t lie. You’re asking yourself, “How can she hate the man she describes here?” Because I also remember… the yelling, the screaming, the accusations, the hate, more yelling, the being called names,  the fist-in-the-face “almost” punch he thinks is so funny, the throwing of things, more yelling, and the black & white way life had to be. I remember the anger I would get in return if my opinion was different than his. If I caught him in a bad mood, and I needed to say something on any subject, it was 9.5 out of 10 times, a negative statement I’d get in return. With a 28 year age difference, we are guaranteed to not have things in common. His interest in guns, women, politics and star trek, didn’t appeal to me as a 15 year old teenage girl. My interest in NASCAR, country music, boys and cars, didn’t appeal to him…and still don’t…and he lets me know, sarcastically and angrily. I remember him going to one basketball game of mine, and after we lost the game, his comment was, “It’s okay. You don’t need to be Amazon Woman to get boys to like you.”

One of the most wonderful memories I have is of my dad teaching my sister and I the song “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah”. We’d sing it all the time. When things were tough at Mom’s, and I would call dad, he’d tell me to just sing our song and things would be fine. I can remember times during high school when I’d secretly sing it to myself, only to have Dad ask me the next time I saw him, if I had in fact sang our song lately. It was sort of a strange connection. Perhaps the only connection. Or was it just coincidence? Was I desperately searching for a positive connection with him? I don’t know. He took my sister and I to see the movie “Song of the South” and I can remember being so happy and cheerful as I sang that song out loud every time it played during the movie.

         

Almost every day on my way to work, I see the same exact car (color and all) my dad has, going in the opposite direction as I, at the same part of my drive. Every time I see it, I think to myself, “Stop! Stop thinking about him.” But… you know, you just can’t sometimes. I had to be given a ride home a few days ago by a guy I work with, and he has the same car only a different color. As I was riding in it, I couldn’t help but think about all the fun stories we shared driving to/from the store or meetings, up/down the freeway, and then the times I’d be sitting in the backseat because I just couldn’t bear the thought of sitting next to him in the front seat, or afraid he’d put his arm very quickly in front of my face as if he was going to hit me but doesn’t, or the times he’d be yelling at me because I hadn’t done something he thinks I should have. I hated every moment of the ride, and couldn’t wait to be dropped off at JK’s house that day. It brings back more bad than good vibes, so I will think twice before asking him for a ride in the future, even though he lives a few streets from me.

So today, as I sit here and ponder what has become of my life and where it will go, I now see, very clearly, that I will, one day, be the person sitting on the cream colored recliner, playing on my laptop and watching my favorite TV shows. No friends to call, no family to visit. Just the company of a dedicated dog, a prissy cat and the occasional drop by of my son, if I’m lucky. This, is not who I want to be. This is the result of an unhappy life, and I have way too many things to be happy about, to let myself fall this far and fail in life. I’m happy when I’m happy, and I’m unhappy when I’m unhappy. Why in the hell would I want to be unhappy? It’s not fun. It’s not something I look forward to every day. WTF?

I remember…

I remember this one time, at band camp, when I was about four, my parents just wouldn’t stop fighting.

We lived in The Valley, and my grandparents (my two favorite people in the whole world, at the time) lived less than one mile away. They came over often and vice versa. I remember the fighting being so bad, that I guess it was mom that called my grandparents and told them to come take my sister and I away from the situation.

They got there, my grandmother, in all her motherly instinct, came immediately to calm my sister and I’s cries. Grandpa, well, he was a bit more like my dad, so he had to get in on the action. I’ve heard stories about how mean of a person he was to his family members, but that’s just not the same man I knew. The grandpa I knew, loved to hold our hands in the store, enjoyed telling all his Knights of Columbus buddies about the apple’s of his eyes, looked forward to sharing a bowl of popcorn with us late at night while watching The Golden Girls or Mr. Belvedere, or even enjoyed working in the yard together a bit more than he led on.

So, grandpa tried to talk to mom and dad and tried to pray the rosary with them. My grandparents were extreme Catholics who attended church more often than most people ate, so it seemed the only thing that got them through any times at all, was praying the rosary. Maybe that’s how their marriage lasted 52+ years before he passed.

I don’t know what ever happened that day, because if I remember correctly (and at the age of four, that’s a bit tough), we ended up going to my grandparents house and staying the night. I don’t know if mom and dad continued to fight, but I’m pretty sure my grandpa was able to smooth things over. At least for that night.

Moral: Today, I prayed the rosary, and thought of all the times I prayed with my grandparents. It’ll help me. I’ve seen it’s power.  :-)

Remembering When

I remember rushing home from school so I could go roller skating before it was too dark to be outside.