Today 2

Today, I saw a man at least half of DJ's age with a sign stating, "Hungry! Need money." He was there when I dropped the kids off for school and was still there when I picked them up from school. I purposely went to the outside lane to speak with the boy. I told him of several places in town hiring, most of which are restaurants, and I offered to feed him at McDonald's or Taco Bueno, both were very close. He said he refuses to work a minimum wage job.

I asked if he would rather sit on the side of the road longer than a shift of work only to be bypassed time and time again by people who bust their asses every day, and many of which work for minimum wage. (I should tell you this is not the first time I have seen him out on the street all day.) He said, "Minimum wage jobs are for losers, and I'm not a loser. Just give me the money and leave."

I told him if he was not willing to go eat, then he must not be too hungry. I would give him food but no money. He replied, "Fine, go, b*tch!"

I wish I could have helped him, but he had all the signs of meth use. Yes, I have been thoroughly trained in recognizing the signs of meth use. I will never support anyone's drug habits.

Furthermore, it is difficult to give money to someone perfectly capable of working. The boy looks to be in his early twenties, at least half of our age. He looks to have no disability, which can be proven just at a glance of the bag he carries on his back.

All the while, DJ is fairly disabled and still insists on going to work everyday to support his family. At times, he walks with a limp because of the pain, but he still crawls under cars, in and out of cars, and works on cars. There are times that DJ cannot walk because his back is so twisted, but he seldom misses work. DJ's doctor never says, if you become paralyzed. Instead, he says, "When you are paralyzed, you'll be a candidate for surgery."

And this poor misguided child would rather beg for money than support himself. My heart is conflicted when I think of a boy that young getting mixed up in drugs.

Today, I felt the sting of higher taxes. DJ's check was $15 shorter than usual. That's $30/month and $390/year. I know that may not seem as much to many of you; but when you only have about $20/paycheck for in-between paychecks necessities (milk, medicine for Dyl, and bread) left after paying bills, gassing up the vehicles, paying medical cost, and groceries, then that is a lot. It's the difference of not having enough to sustain good health of the children and having enough to sustain their health. On top of all else, the cost of living is going up, rent will be higher, and DJ hasn't had a raise in over three years. Oh well, that just means more cutbacks at home. I don't know where to cut though. Suggestions?

Today 1

Today, I was parked across the street and a block away from two young men in their car while I waited for the boys to get out of school. Their bass was pumping so loud that I couldn't hear my own music on my stereo. I was kind of glad they gave me a reason to shut down the car. They really saved me some gas. Unfortunately, they didn't save any of their own because their engine had to stay running to keep a charge on their battery. Their car died when they tried to take off. I offered some help but was quickly turned away by the passenger, who said, "Shut up old lady. We don't need no help from you." I felt for the driver as he blushed and apologized. I told him, "Don't worry about it, honey. You gave me something to talk about."

Today, I saw a grown man holding a baby girl with his ass hanging out of the top of his britches covered only by thin, worn, and almost translucent boxers. Can you imagine how embarrassed his baby girl will be if he still dresses like that when she starts school? To all grown men, cover your asses. The world don't need to see that; and if you have children, they don't want to and should not see your underwear. Develop some self-respect. I'm glad DJ has enough sense to know I'm the only one (other than his doctor) who should see what should be kept private.

Today, a man carrying a satchel full of car stereos tried to sell one to me in front of my apartment. I thought this man has a lot of nerve considering my stereo had been stolen from my car parked in front of my apartment. I told him to leave or I was going to call the police. He hot-footed it out of there PDQ. I wonder if this means I met my thief today?

15 Day Blogger Challenge ~ Getting to Know the Blogger ~ Day 5

15 Day Blogger Challenge - Getting to Know the Blogger

This challenge is open to any and everyone who wants to get to know each other a little better in the blogosphere. I encourage you all to make this challenge your own. There is no special format to follow or rules on posting. Do your challenge in 1 day by answering all the questions at once or do it in 90 days. Just have fun!

Challenge Questions:

Who were your closest friends as a teenager?

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Friends?

I doubt I will ever be able to pin down anyone I would consider a "closest friend" or a group of "closest friends" as a teenager. I was the kid that was on the outskirts of the average typical teen. I did not fit in with any clique, but I was friends with everyone. My school was small, so it was more of a matter of growing up with one another rather than being cliquish. I am not denying that we had our stoners and our preps, but we all, more or less, got along with one another. As you learned from before, I was very geeky. I still am.

Anyway, I had many friends that had a place in my heart. I guess, I did have close friends when I was younger, but everything changed when I was in high school. My home life was brutal, as the ongoing battle between my sister and my parents kept our household in chaos. For this reason, I pulled away from my closest friends. I still would hang out with them every now and again, but it was too embarrassing for me to be close enough to someone to let them enter my world. The one friend that I clung to the most was Priscilla, but I still do not believe that she knew and understood everything that I was going through.

Together, Prissy and I would listen to The Cure and explore our newfound 'Alternative' lifestyles. We often bought our dark depressing clothing with one another in tow. Prissy dreamed of being a clothing designer, and she would find new ways to make our clothing edgy and unique. One weekend, Prissy and I spent the entire weekend putting safety pins on a denim jacket I had bought. She taught me how to make my hair stand on end and how to make my dark eye makeup even darker.

Unfortunately, as the battles at home raged and my mother slipped into her depression, my depression began to creep in as well. I think that Prissy was the only person that knew that I cut myself on a daily basis. The darkness that invaded my life enveloped me, and I had grown numb. Night after night, I would drag the razor blade across my skin just so I could feel something, anything. When Prissy grew worried about the marks I hid under friendship bracelets, black rubber bracelets, and Swatches, I shut her out as well. Our friendship was never the same from that point.

I was still the perfect little student wearing a perfect little smile across my face in public. I was embarrassed to go around the friends I had gone to church with throughout my life because I was arrested  twice for running away so that I could go to church. Mom's demands on me were painful, as I felt time and time again I was being punished for my sister's wrongdoings. Not being allowed to attend church was the final straw. My rough exterior broke, and I dove into a depression that surpassed my sister's. I do not blame my sister or my mother for my reaction to the strict rules set before me. I understand, today, that my mom did not want me to make the same mistakes my sister had made, so she set up a stiffer regiment for me than my sister.

When my sister moved out of the home, I was shielded and 'protected.' I was only allowed to attend school functions, and church was not permitted. Then, I did not understand, so the harder my mother tried, the further she pushed me away. Not long after my sister left, my father left. A few months later, my brother was gone too.

Rebellion had become my middle name. By the beginning of my Senior year, I had no friends only acquaintences. I did not trust anyone at all. My depression peaked when I learned that the school board did not want me to be drum major. I started drinking, doing drugs, and smoking pot was my number one past time. However, cocaine was my drug of choice. I dated guys that were bad influences just to piss my parents off, as well as have easy access to drugs and alcohol. Soon, I was seeing less and less of my mother, and I, pretty much, had the house to myself.

One evening, the shift at the hospital was overstaffed, and my mother was sent home to work. I had snuck my sister over to hang out with me. I watched in horror, as my mother drug her out of the home by her hair, and the two equal sized women beat the hell out of one another. Mom, eventually, stopped coming home. I thought that I was abandoned and all alone. I only was able to eat at school because I received free lunches. The house was out of food, and I often found myself going to the convenience store my aunt managed to beg for food.

The electricity was soon shut off, and I used candlelight to find my way through the house. Although I was doing drugs and drinking, I still kept up with going to school, doing my homework, and making good grades. After all, I had an image to uphold. When I was not at school, band practice, basketball practice, or a game, I was out with my boyfriend doing drugs and raising hail. I remember being chased by the police one night. I jumped from the car and scrambled down alleyways until I found myself home. My boyfriend took off in the other direction. His sister came to the house later that night to tell me that he had been arrested and was in jail.

I had not seen Mom in a few days. I was still begging my aunt for food, and eating my free breakfast and lunches at school. When I had not attended school in two days, the concerned principal, who I had become a regular visitor to, called my grandmother's house, as she was listed as my emergency contact. My sister answered the phone and was notified of my failure to attend classes, and he voiced his concern. Knowing how my geekiness drove me to strive to finish school, my sister became concerned as well.

My sister arrived at the tiny apartment I shared with my mother to find me lying on the couch with 104 degree temperature. She ran to the store where my aunt was working and had her call my father because no one had any idea where to find my mother. My aunt gave my sister Tylenol and a bag of ice. She instructed my sister to run me a cold bath with the ice and give me the pills to help bring my temperature down.

My father arrived at the house in a couple of hours and took me to the emergency room in the hospital my mother worked in. While the doctor explained to my father that I had irreparable kidney damage due to the severe infection, a patient was wheeled into the area next to mine. The nurses and doctors were working frantically to save the life on the other side of the curtain when we heard one state, "Breathe, Sandy. Dammit!" My dad pulled the curtain back and their laid my mother on the gurney.

I had not known that the stress of raising a child with mental illness had become overwhelming for my mother. I never realized how it had broken my family apart and twisted each one of us into one another's worst enemy. Mom had been battling a battle of her own, and I was so absorbed in my teenaged angst that I had failed to see it. The loss of my sister in the family home and built wedges in-between each and every one of us. My father and mother separating had added stress to my mother, and the rebellion that forced my mother to send my brother to live with Dad had taken its toll.

The last thing this woman needed was to lose me too, and lose me she had. Her nervous breakdown had forced her to make a decision to enter a stress unit where she could heal and grow strong once again. Unfortunately, the teenaged me did not understand how hard life had been for mom, and I still carried resentment toward her for abandoning me until I had children of my own.

I moved to a much larger school in a much larger town where I knew no one but my father, brother, and several much older and much older cousins. No one in the school knew me, and I was able to get a fresh start. I was very reserved and timid, and I still did not want to let anyone in. However, two of the coolest people I have ever known had become my very close friends, Michelle and Shane.

Like me, Michelle was quiet and did not like to be loud or raise hell. She reminded me a lot of my friend Prissy. We hung out together, attended dances together, and even went to the prom together. I stayed at Michelle's house on occasion, but I never allowed her to stay at my home, as I was sharing a two bedroom apartment with my father and brother and had to sleep on the couch when my father was off of work. Dad worked the night shift; so when he worked, I slept in his bed. Not having a bed of my own, a dresser of my own, and living out of boxes was embarrassing to me. We did eventually move into a house after my mother was released from the stress unit, and my family was reunited. Michelle did not know a lot about my family.

Shane, on the other hand, knew everything about me as he recognized my behaviors because they we behaviors he and I shared. We were often in 'flight or fight mode.' Shane and I grew very close because his homosexuality helped me bond with a man on a level that I did not feel threatened or at risk for sexual advances. Shane knew about my drug habit, which I kept well hidden from everyone else, and he knew about my cutting habit. He did not judge me because of the scrutiny he had fought his entire life due to his more feminine attributes.

To date, I do not think that Shane really realizes how much he means to me, but Michelle is well aware. She and I are still in contact with one another and enjoy watching one another's families grow and change via the internet. I would love, someday, to have the opportunity to spend time with Michelle once again. I would also love to be able to find and contact Prissy. I think of her often and miss being her friend. Though time has passed, I know that we would be able to re-enter our friendship. Most of the other children I grew up with are my friends on my Facebook, and we are still acquainted with one another. Several of them I hold dear as they were my first friends and companions, which I foolishly pushed away my final school years. I would love, some day, to be able to let them know how much they meant to me as a child and how I still carry them with me, but that, my darlings, is another story.

15 Day Blogger Challenge ~ Getting to Know the Blogger ~ Day 4

What type of student were you in school?

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Not Just a Band Geek

Growing up, school was my life. I loved school and strived to be the best I could be no matter the cost. I often spent my days learning everything that I could learn. After school would let out, I would walk home, do my chores and start on my homework. Unfortunately, due to my slow writing speed, poor penmanship, and dyslexia, it would often take me all evening to finish my school work. I often fell asleep trying to finish, and I got up extra early to finish what I had not completed the next morning. I would often ask the teachers to allow me to stay inside during recess to finish what I had not completed the night before. I struggled intensely trying to make the A's that were the results of all of my hard work. In the third grade, I received my first and only C throughout my school career. I had broken my arm and was not able to complete the required pull ups to pass my P.E. class. The teacher told my mother that my doctor's note meant that I did no work throughout the six weeks, and she felt that her giving me a passing grade was more than generous for the laps I walked around the school while everyone else ran. The following six weeks, my arm was still weak from misuse, and I received only a B in the P.E. class. These were my only non-A grades I would see on my report card through my completion of high school.

In sixth grade, I found my passion, band. I loved playing the clarinet, but did not do as well as I would have liked due to my fine motor skill difficulties. The band director noticed that I had great difficulty keeping up with my peers, so I was moved to bass clarinet. I excelled and was eventually capable of picking up my speed. I competed in UIL solos and ensembles, where I received medals at each competition. I earned a spot in the UIL District Band, Regional Band, and 1st Alternate for State Band. I played the clarinet, bass clarinet, alto clarinet, and contrabass clarinet. I had always loved music, and the feeling I received from playing the music was monumental as I allowed the music to fill my soul.

Although I was a big band geek, I was geeky in other areas as well. I excelled at math and loved working with numbers through algebra, geometry, and trigonometry. I must confess, I do math for fun and break out my college trigonometry book when I am bored. Being able to work so well with numbers, I was able to put together computer programs quickly and with very little work. I was able to figure out efficient short cuts that cut down the time I put into programs. I excelled in both subjects and was named Most Outstanding Geometry, Trigonometry, Computer, and Band Student over the years in high school, as well as making Who's Who In America.

I also enjoyed writing and won many writing contests and scholarships for both my poetry and prose. I was the editor of the year book, wrote stories for the school paper, and photographer for both yearbook and the paper. I was quite surprised, however, when I competed for and won the spot drum major, I was told by the school board that they did not want me to take the spot.

Having a sister with mental illness, our family had been run through the wringer. We were judged on the actions of her, which was  fair to neither us, nor her. The school board stated that I was not a suitable representative for the school. This was not the first and would not be the last time that I was judged on the actions of my sibling.

My freshman year of high school, I was excited that I would be in high school. I went to my second class of the day, English. As I was walking into the classroom with my friends, the teacher put her arm across the door blocking my entry into the classroom. With a snotty inflection in her voice, she asked, "You're Cassie McGhee's sister?"

"Yes, I'm Pam." I put out my hand for a handshake.

The teacher snarled her nose and did not except my respectful offer. "I will not have you acting up in class the way your sister did last year. Will I?"

With tears in my eyes, I answered, "No Ma'am. I'm not like my sister." I was both ashamed and embarrassed to the point that I had difficulty making eye contact with the teacher all four years of high school. I was actually relieved to be moving in the middle of my senior year because I was able to have a fresh start.

My senior year was the year that everything fell apart. My mother and father had separated. My brother moved away to live with my father, and my sister had moved out of the home the spring before. Towards the end of November, my mother had a nervous breakdown due to our stressful lives. I was moved away to live with my father, and my mother joined us once my parents reconciled the following April. In the new town, I did not have to fight the image that people had of my family due to my sister's bipolar disorder. I excelled in my new school, and raised my grades to where I graduated number 8 out of 400 students. I had friends that had no idea of my family's past and my past life did not haunt me. I did not feel the need to drown myself in school and activities. However, I did remain in band and competed in an ensemble competition where I won one more medal. I also remained in Yearbook and was made co-editor of the yearbook due to my ability to quickly learn the computer program. The editor was glad to split the load, as she was overwhelmed that year.

When I attended university, I carried the study skills I had refined over the years with me. I worked in the library, tutored other students in college algebra, trigonometry, and calculus, and I was the co-founder of The Writers' Guild, our creative writing club. I earned Dean's and President's lists each semester as well as Alpha Chi. I graduated Magna Cum Laude. I had the grade point average for Suma Cum Laude; but since I was a transfer student, I was not awarded the title.

Today, I miss being a student more than anything. I think that is why I received my degree in my multiple majors, Secondary Education, English, and Special Education. I just wish the job market was not as tight as it is. Regardless of my education, I have not been able to find adequate employment. But, that is another story.

15 Day Blogger Challenge ~ Getting to Know the Blogger ~ Day 3

What's some of your favorite memories from childhood?

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Matriarchs

The women in my family are my most favorite memories. I was blessed with wonderful grandmothers and great-grandmothers. Because my mother had just turned eighteen years old before I was born, my older sister and I were fortunate enough to not only know all except for one of our natural grandparents but also know all of our great-grandparents. The one grandparent I never knew was my maternal grandfather, who passed away nine years before I was born. I love all my family members, but I learned so much from  the women in my family.

All of my grandmothers were endowed with a strength that I have driven myself to emulate. My great grandmothers were Thuller Othell (Collins) McGhee, Velma Twilight (Fraiser) Kinney, Stella Mae (Butler) Bartley, and Nancy May (Essary) White. Thuller was the mother of seven children, Roy Lee (Lee Roy), Letha, Alfred, Billy Ray, Doris Marie, Dean Wayne, and Mary. Lee Roy was my grandfather. From Thuller, one of my Irish grandmothers, I learned how to stand firm on principles and beliefs. Of the four great grandmothers, I feel I favor Thuller the most in my appearance.

What I remember the most about Velma Twilight, affectionately known as Granny Kinney, is the stories that she shared with me. Though I did not live close to Granny Kinney, we did write back and forth to one another over the years, and I treasure the pile of letters that I keep in my family tree album. I often pull the letters out and reread how my great-great grandfather was a cowboy that rode in cattle drives in Texas and New Mexico. I read how he lived during the civil war and was once mistaken as a renegade. Her letters spin stories of a family struggling to survive through the early 1900's and over the last hundred years. Velma also shared stories of how she raised her five Native American children, Novalee Ethel (my grandmother), Peggy Joyce, James Kenneth, Billy Lyndon, and Patricia Ann. From Velma, I learned how to document the history of my family, and how important stories of the past are to helping people understand their culture and where they come from.

I also learned a lot about my ancestry from Nancy May. As a child, I would sit at her feet and listen to stories as her tiny body rocked in her rocking chair. She spoke of working in a speak easy in the 1920's, working in the cotton fields, and being the mother of her nine children: William Thelon, Minnie Lee, Benjamin Franklin, Emery Alvin, Katherine May, Lorene Ann, Mary Francis (my grandmother), Harvey Chester, and Flossie Marie. Grandma White also told me stories of  how it was like growing up as a Native American in a white man's world. Some stories were somber and made me think about who I am and where I belong in this world. From Grandma White, I learned that the world can be a tough place to live, and how I need to walk strong in the world. I also learned from her that we are not only mind and body but also soul. I learned that family is bonded together in a manner that is difficult for many to understand. I, like her, can sense when a family member needs me, and how to give them a strong shoulder to cry on.

Strength is the definition of my Grandma Bartley, Stella Mae. She was the toughest Irish woman I have ever known. I think she had to be tough raising three rough and rowdy boys, Clyde, John Cleveland (J.C. my grandfather), and Clyde. I remember Grandma Bartley more than I remember my other great-grandmothers. Perhaps, this is due to the consistent contact I had with her. She and I attended church together, and I spent time alone with her after. We trampled together in the fields picking black eyed peas and shucking them on her back porch. She still had one of the early washing machines with the hand cranked rollers to squeeze the water from the clothes. Grandma Bartley always had a garden that required tending, and I loved eating the fresh fruits and vegetables that grew there. This woman would take off under the house to fix her own plumbing while well into her nineties. From her I learned pure determination and that the power of the world was mine if I wanted it. Grandma Bartley's strength was unmeasurable, as she had to grow the tough exterior after losing two of her children, J.C. and Clyde, at a young age.

My grandmother, Novalee, also had a tough exterior that she had developed throughout the years. She was the mother of nine children, Lynda Ann, Brenda Carol, David LeeRoy (Daddy), Susan Lavonda, Anthony Darryll, Aaron Glenn, Jana Renae, Mark Edward, and Melonie Lynette. Granny was the hard working Native American grandmother that spent her life working in truck stops as both a cook and a waitress. I remember watching Granny take care of her customers, who were often regulars, as she made sure that they were happy. Granny always had a smile on her face, and I cannot remember ever seeing her unhappy. She was dedicated and devoted to my grandfather and loved both him and her children intensely. And, this is what I learned from her. I learned that love is everlasting, and people can die of a broken heart, as she passed away less than a month after we lost her love.

Love emanates from the very atmosphere surrounding my Grandma Kierepka. Of each grandmother, she is the one grandmother I still have with me. My memories of Grandma are infinite, but I remember the songs the most. My grandmother would dance through the house and sing, though off-key, feeling the air of her home with happiness and joy. She taught me how to dance, and we would jitterbug throughout her house. Grandma's laugh is infectious. She is the poet and artist, and from her I learned how to infuse my words and art with power. I can honestly say that Grandma Kierepaka is one of my best friends, and having her living so far away, now, is very difficult on both my boys and me. Grandma taught me that money does not make happiness, and happiness comes from love and family.

I love each of my grandmothers very much. Although Grandma Kierepka is the only grandmother that I still have with me, I carry all of my grandmothers in my very heart and soul. They are my strength and power, my creativity and discipline, and my heart and soul. From each grandmother, I learned how to be a woman and what a woman was meant to be, which is why I feel that my best childhood memories stem from my relationship with each of them.

15 Day Blogger Challenge ~ Getting to Know the Blogger ~ Day 2

Where did you grow up? Small town or Big City?

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Small Town, USA

I could tell you a thousand lies about where I grew up, but I do not feel that I should try to deceive you. Therefore, I will tell you the truth. Most of the time, I feel that I grew up in the depths of hell, but there are other times, I feel that I grew up in a happy place.

The fact of the matter is that I grew up in a very small town deep in the heart of Texas. As a child, the town had a resident population of approximately 2,500 people, and I knew each and every one. Although we were only 2,500 strong, we were the county seat and the largest town for 60 miles south, 92 miles west, and 100 miles north, much further east. I lived in a smaller town 10 miles to the west when I was first born, but I was born in the county seat and spent most of my childhood there.

I am a great-great grandchild to two of the three original families that settled the town. The three Irish families took a wagon train from Ohio to Texas in 1848. As a child, I was kin to most of the residents in the town one way or another. For a matter-of-fact, I believe I am kin to half of the county now.

The area I grew up in is a farm area with some oil field work. There were three types of people in my small town. 1. Those who worked the farms and owned the farms. 2. Those who worked in the oilfield. 3. Those who worked in the local stores and businesses. My father started off working the farms with his father as a child. They were day laborers, not farm owners. However, he went to work in the oil field when he became an adult, and he never went back to farm work.

The wealthier children in school were children of farm owners or business owners, most of which were related to farm owners. The rest of the town lived at or below the poverty line. I grew up being called oilfield trash, white trash, and many other hateful words. I would sit in the corner crying because the boys in my school could be so cruel. Most of the girls were nice regardless of their socio-economic status. One boy, in particular, teased me on a daily basis. His family happened to be one of the wealthiest farm families in the region. Everyday, this boy called me oilfield trash, and every day, from kindergarten to sixth grade, I cried.

Because our school was guilty of tracking the students, I was in class with my nemesis every single year. In sixth grade, I started thinking about how miserable the boy had made my school career, and I grew tired of the constant torment. He walked by my desk, knocked my book in the floor and bent over to call me "oilfield trash" as he picked up my book. The book was an excuse to get on my level, so I would hear the degrading insult. The picking the book up was so the other students and teacher were unaware that he was actually being mean. I stood up from my desk and yelled, "If it wasn't for people like my dad, your family would still be using horse driven plows!"

I was immediately sent to the principal's office and disciplined by paddling for disrupting the class. The boy did not stop teasing me, but I did not let him bother me as much as I had before sixth grade. That was up until tenth grade when I was punished after slapping him for calling my sister crazy and my mother a whore. I knew that my sister had mental issues, but I did not understand them. Often, I would be the first to call her crazy because I was not educated on bipolar disorder, and I truly believed that she was able to control her actions and her behaviors. I know now that she could not.

As for my mother, my father and she had split up. This was no surprise to any of us that knew my parents. They had always argued and fought with one another. They did eventually get back together, and they never stopped loving one another. They just needed time apart as they had been married when my mother was still a child, 16 years old. Rest assured, my mother was not a whore. She was a nursing student working hard doing her internship in the next town over.

Anyway, I did love my town too. I loved that I could go anywhere, and I was not a stranger. I loved that I could walk from one end of town to the other in twenty minutes. I loved that all of my grandparents lived in the area, and I could see them whenever I wanted to. I loved that when I wanted to run away, Grandma's house was not that far to walk. I loved that I could go swimming at the local pool every day except for Monday during the summers. I loved that there were so many neighbors willing to allow me to do odd jobs and babysit their children for a little extra money. I loved that no matter where I went, I felt safe. I loved my school most of all.

Although I had the bullying throughout the years, most of my peers were nice to me. Most of us were raised together. We would take turns hanging out with one another, and we would take turns throwing slumber parties. I was never as cool as the other girls because I was one of the biggest nerds in the school. I loved creative writing, and I loved math. Numbers and computers were what I got, and I often understood them more than human nature. I actually received awards for my math and computer skills. I was a band geek and became the drum major my senior year of high school. I was in the district band and regional band, and I often received medals in UIL band competitions. I was also the president of the pep squad, played basketball, and ran track. I never took homemaking, as I was in 4-H and learned how to cook and sew there. I took shop class my senior year and built my father a wooden tool box. I competed yearly in the talent shows and was often cast a leading role in plays due to my memorization skills. I think the best thing about going to a small school is that the students get the opportunity to try everything that they want, so they can truly know their individual talents and abilities.

Every year, my town put on the Wild Horse Pioneer Days. We would ride horses in the parade and join in the rodeo festivities including the dances. I love to dance and had been attending local dances since I was a little girl. I looked forward to the yearly fair and competed in the fair queen contest throughout my high school years. Our town was really big on parades as well. We had a parade for the Wild Horse Pioneer Days, a parade for the fair, and a parade for Christmas. I, of course, was in each parade because of band, GA's, 4-H, Girl Scouts, or the church choir. One year, I rode on a friend's float for her mother's local western store.

Every Saturday between Thanksgiving and Christmas, a stranger to town would swear they were in the middle of a Shirley Jackson story had they driven through the downtown area of town. Every resident would be crowded into the street for the grocery store drawings. They gave out cash prizes and gift certificates for local stores. If you shopped in the small grocery store, you would receive a ticket for every so many dollars you spent. We would chase after the people handing out free hard candies and climb upon Santa's lap to fill his head full of our wishes and dreams. Afterwards, we would return to our heated homes, or travel sixty miles south to the 'big city' (I often laugh when I think about how big the city was when I was a child. I know, now, that the 'big city' really is not that big. It is where I live and am raising my children.)

What I liked about my home town, I hated as well. It was small. I could not do anything without anyone knowing about it. The children, young adults, and adults in the town do not seem to have any privacy, as many people gossip, spread rumors, and make your business their business. As I grew older, I grew to yearn to be free of the pain and sorrow that stifled me.  I have visited my hometown on many occasions since I left it behind 23 years ago. I only attended one homecoming game, as it was made quite clear to me by a couple of my old classmates that I no longer belonged there.

I did move from the town in the middle of my senior year. It was no choice of my own. My mom was ill and in the hospital, and there was no money for the rent. We had been evicted from our apartment, and the only place I had to go was my father's home almost 100 miles west. I am sad to say that I no longer fee that the town I was born and raised in I no longer consider my home. Most of my family members have moved far, far way, and there does not seem to be anything in that tiny Texas town for me anymore.