For All the George's, Bambi Dads, & 'More for You' I've loved before..

Here B & I are doing the My Fitness Pal, well most of the time I am.  I haven’t logged in for a couple of days to be honest.  There’s no excuse, but to find an excuse.  The dog hasn’t eaten my homework.  My sister hasn’t ripped up my phone.  I haven’t lost it because I was walking up hill both ways, both home and then back to work, with flip flops (it would be a bigger fib if I said barefooted).  I haven’t got a sprained texting finger, or anything of the sort…I just plain haven’t done it.  It hurting no one but myself.  Today I will reinvent my super powers of logging in, and take hold of this fitness craze that I’d like to be wrapped in.  Really, I don’t know why I haven’t-because I even did crunches.  I felt something in my abdomen area, they might be muscles that have been lost and were thankful that I thought to look for them again?  I did the elliptical and paid attention to my intake of food.  I just haven’t logged it all in.  I just cleared my throat and felt those old abdomen reminders again.  Deal, I will log in today.

Speaking of food, I thought of how we ate as children.  It is quite the picture in my mind to remember how we ate.  The 70’s and 80’s were a transitioning period in the culture of America, and food.  There were Fry-Daddy’s, Shake n Bake, TV Dinners, Hamburger Helper,  Hostess anything, Pringles, New Sizzlean, Parkay, Velveeta, Idaho Potato Sticks, Tab & Mr. Pibb, Freshen-Up Gum, and don’t forget about “Hey! Kool-Aid!”.  We were kids who grew up in the transition of our mothers going into the work force, and our generation was becoming latch-key kids.  B & I were fortunate enough that for a long while our Mother was home with us, and I went home to she and my sister after school.  But, as times changed, we too were a part of the transition in a Women’s Lib world.  Such controversy, still does exist in today’s society with opinions of the need of socialization of our children outside of the home, to the misnomer  of wealth on the basis of a stay at home mother vs. a mother who ‘works’ outside of the home.  I would venture to guess that the majority of families where the mother stays at home have figured the finances down to a science, allowing them the ability to stay home with their babies.  There are some women who want to return to work due to the fulfillment that they receive at their position in the outside work world or the education they hold to bring them there, and that is what makes them a better mother.  What an idea, accepting all of the different forms of mothering and not passing judgment on another for their choices, as we do not walk in another’s shoes.  When it comes to the age old saying of ‘Always eat dinner together as a family,” that is a tradition that I still stand by, from when I was allowed the opportunity to be a ‘stay at home Mom’, to that of today, as a ‘working Mother’.  (Please Note:  My belief is that all Mothers are working mothers-period.)   Around the dinner table these days we experience the differences in ways of cooking, style, health consciousness,  to swiftness.  We pack our days and nights with activities, boy scouts, softball, awards, FFA, conferences, IEP’s, and the works.  Yet try to be as close to 100% at the dinner table together.  As a child, we had the same tradition, but the food was very different.  I think to no fault of my Mother’s cooking abilities, it feels that most all was fried.  It was fried steak, chicken, potatoes, you name it-it could be fried.  We did eat a lot of BBQ, also.  But, most remarkably in my memory was that of the freezer and the meats that were wrapped in white butcher paper.  Yes, we lived off the land as much as possible, in a civilized way. 

If you recall I spent as much time at my Grandparents and would ride the bus ‘out’ there and make my candy run down the private drive to each house (each homeowner was retired or near retirement & home), reporting how my school day was and sit straight up, and hands folded in my lap to then be asked, “Would you like a piece of candy?”  “ME? Oh! Sure! Thank you.”  When in reality, my sweet report of the school day was simply my ploy to get a sweet!  On some of these after school, or weekend adventures to my Grandparents I would be introduced to an array of animals, mostly I speak of cattle.  I would be happy to climb carefully on the barbed wire fencing to climb up and see them out in the pasture.  I would figure out a good name for them, and skip down the road to collect my sweets.  Later on to sit and eat dinner with my Grandparents and, discuss the new addition to the pasture.  During that discussion, I’d let him know of the perfect name I had chosen, and hoped he’d pick the name I said rather than one of my cousins… “I think that George is so cute, I like his brownish red and white spots.”  My Grandpa would with a stern voice, simply reply “Don’t name ‘em.’ I was a kid and every pet needed a name.  Time would pass, and carrots and sweet grass would be fed to ‘George’ whenever I got the chance.  ‘George’ would know all of my problems, which boys I had a crush on, and if my cousins were mean and didn’t share I’d tell ‘George’, he’d always listen and look so intent.  Over and over my innocence over-ruled Grandpa’s wisdom, and my perpetual experiences of loss.  As over the dinner table, the meal would be served and my Grandpa would ask how I liked my burger?  It was good, he cooked differently than my Mom.  I don’t know what it was but, it was different.  He would then say, “How’s George taste?”  I thought I would DIE!  I would cry…to this day I don’t know why I’m not a vegetarian.  But, the meat in white butcher paper experiences didn’t stop at the George’s in my life…the rural town we grew up in , there are a lot of hunters and fishermen.  Fishing was a main industry ‘back in the days of or town’s history.’  We experienced it all, and at face value.  When it was hunting season, I would practically beg to go with my Grandpa.  Most of the time, the travel was silent.  There was an occasional AM radio station on, until we got to our destination on the back roads.  It was there, that I had to keep an eye out for a buck.  I was very keen when ‘road hunting’, I could see better than my Grandpa, and could always point them out, in the distance AND count how many points.  His successes were partly from a little girl who would have done anything to go on those quiet trips.  I loved the jerky!  But, one time we weren’t ‘road hunting’ we were on foot, we walked, and hiked, and traveled some distance…and came around a corner where we had been tracking prints, and there was a huge buck.  There was a bluff on the other side of the buck, and if you don’t know-deer are the best hikers and can pretty much go anywhere in steep ravines, and hillsides…But, for some reason this guy either thought he was a bad ass or didn’t think that he could descend the bluff to get away.  Pokey, Grandpa’s other side kick in hunting was barking and growling at this buck that was a bazillion times bigger than the dog…and the buck reared up and did this cartoonish rendition of what I imagine Bambi’s Dad would have done when in a pickle with a human….and then started to bolt towards us.  I froze!  My Grandpa was ahead of me and got into position and aimed right at Bambi’s Dad…and KABOOM!  I watched for the first time, the first step to my jerky I loved so much.  I burst into tears and fell to the ground.  My Grandpa thought I had gotten hurt by something…and I had.  I hadn’t really seen this before, I knew that he killed them…but, really didn’t think past the racks and racks of racks (antlers) that were on display in his garage…I was sobbing, and he said something to the effect that I was a baby and had to be strong, and he couldn’t carry me and the buck back on the hike to the truck.  He tagged it, Pokey and he were just so happy.  I’m sure when I reflect now, that the story he told to the fellas was that of the buck challenging him and running towards him…rather than having to shoot it and have to try to climb down or up to drag Bambi’s Dad out of the brush getting ticks and poison oak…this one delivered himself to him.  I bet he left out the fact that I was a wreck, and that I continued to sob the entire way back to the truck.  I’m also certain that it was around an hour to the truck…we were deep in the thicket!  Grandpa slung the deer over his shoulder and packed it, I was to follow.  At first I looked eye to eye, as the lifeless body was dangling over my Grandpas shoulder.  For a moment, I thought how strong he must be to carry the heavy buck…then that thought quickly left my mind, as his BIG BROWN eyes stared right back into MY BIG BROWN TEARY EYES, he never blinked.  I tried to squeeze the vision from my mind, but had to follow, and keep up with my Grandpa…Be tough.  Be strong. No crying. Don’t be a baby.  I don’t think I like jerky anymore, I thought.  I never really did like venison anyhow.  Now, I really don’t like it.  I survived and was silent the rest of the way home.  He dropped me off, and told my Mom what happened in an elated version, with the part about me crying.  My Mom asked me if I was okay…I was, I was home.  I don’t know how long I had nightmares; it feels like it was forever.  But, I don’t think it was.  Because the next time my Grandpa called to see if I wanted to go, I went.  I never had that type of experience again, there was nearly never a year he went without using all of his tags.  I would pray at night that he wouldn’t get one, but then point them out to him anyhow.  I think it’s funny how we just keep on keeping on with what we experience. 

Fishing as I mentioned was another childhood experience, and one that I cherish to this day.  Also a quiet experience, that left a lovely impression on my memory.  I love and loved the cold waters of the rivers, the lakes, and the ocean.  I loved the challenge of getting the fish to bite…mastering the cast and being more patient than my cousins…and we always had a competition.  It was whoever caught the most fish, the biggest fish, and first fish.  Whoever got the most out of these three categories won.  We didn’t win anything, just were the winner until the next fishing trip!  For my birthday I would get new tackle, tackle box, fishing license, and then get to go fishing with my Grandpa.  It became a tradition.  I loved that he was predictable that way.  I caught my first Steelhead with him, many Rainbow, a few Brown’s, Red Tail Perch off of the beach, Cod, Rock Fish, and one’s I don’t even remember the names of…We went surf fishing, night fishing, and loved every single experience.  Admittedly so, I don’t like to eat anything from the water, because we ate a lot of it when I was a kid.  I didn’t like the taste or texture of it then, and unfortunately still don’t like it today.  I’ve always thought that, this means more salmon for you, more abalone for you, more fish-n-chips etc.  Doesn’t it?  I’m dabbling in it these days, and it’s still a difficult thing to get over…

There was a ranch we would go to that was a family members named Auntie Em, and they raised sheep.  I also liked going there as a child.  There was always something interesting and rustic going on, that didn’t happen in town.  Sheep look so sweet.  But, when in the pen with them, they were always so scared and would herd together…the baby lambs that didn’t take to their mother would be in the laundry room, and we could bottle feed them.  I loved that.  I loved going there because Auntie Em  ALWAYS had sugar cereal, like Frosted Flakes-Tony Tiger kind, we didn’t have that at home.  She also had a piano, and I wanted to learn to play and one of her grandchildren would always plop down and play, it was so beautiful sounding.  I would dream of learning to play some day.  We spent most of the time outdoors there and I saw a lot there, I watched the men when they’d sheer, or castrate the sheep.  The sheep would scream, and I’d cover my ears, but it was still too loud.  So, I’d run back across the road to go into the laundry room with the babies, or out to the pen with the Billy goats and sheep already sheered.  They looked so naked, and I didn’t understand why they had to do that!  It was so awful! I didn’t know what the castration was and knew enough when it was slaughter to leave and go to the furthest place I was allowed to go in the fields.   I quickly recognized the smell of the meat and would nearly refuse to eat it, for as long as I could at the dinner table-because of the vision I would get.  But, it was a way of life, it’s what we did, it’s what we had.  Each time, I returned and experienced the good with the bad…and cherish the good to this day.

I think food is interesting.  I think we don’t really pay attention to what we put into our mouths.  There was a time when preservatives weren’t the big deal that they are today.  There was a time when hormones weren’t used to the capacity and the reasoning behind their use in today’s standards… My Fitness Pal is a start to reminding myself to pay attention.

The garden was a HUGE part of my childhood.  My Grandparents had an absolutely beautiful garden.  They had corn, pumpkins, tomatoes, kohlrabi, cabbage, beets, radish,   peas, swiss chard, and variations of anything and everything.  They had fruit trees and canned, made jelly, made preserves, dried fruits and nuts…made soap…truly lived off of their land.  I wish we could do that.  I wish my children had been able to have these experiences.  I wish that I could today go to the freezer in the garage, and get meat wrapped in white butcher paper, or have a piece of jerky.  I’ll still share the foods from the water, like salmon, abalone, crab or any other slimy, yucky fishy item…and still stand behind the ‘more for you’ theory.  I’d like to think that the preparation I’d use with my Foreman Grill, or BBQ, or steamed, or baked might help me like Bambi’s Dad, or George…then again, I think I’ll take it the way I get it…I don’t know what their names are, or if they were bad ass before their demise. 

No trades, no take backs, I love the experiences above…and even though many of you know I’m a cry baby anyhow…now you know I’ve also cried over my dinner plate’s content.  Don’t even get me started on chicken!  I really would like to know how they raise those chickens boneless, skinless these days. (Insert wink!)

Love Deeply, Live out Loud & Live your Dash,

T

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Red Solo Cups

T and I grew up in a small town, lets call it FB.  When I say small, I mean population maybe around 5000 people when we were kids. You learn a lot of life's lessons differently in a small town than say someone who grew up in a big city.  Now I'm not saying one is better than another, but what I can say is that I am glad to be a part of the community we call "home."  However, as a teenager, I may have begged to differ with you. 

If you didn't know what you were up to, someone else most likely did.  One of the side notes of growing up in FB, is that some residents had little to do in their personal lives and made it their mission to meddle and share what "Sam Smith was doing last night."  I think that the gossip may have had it's advantages as well as disadvantages.  Our Mom was a school bus driver and knew a lot of the school aged kids, their siblings, their parents, their grandparents...which meant she almost always knew before we did, what we were up to.

The Senior Ball was coming up, when I was 16.  Underclassmen could attend and I was looking forward to it.  My boyfriend (who is now my husband) and I were planning on going to the dance for a short time and then "head out" to a friends house afterwards for a party. Our friends lived North of town about ten miles.  If you haven't been to a high school party in FB, you may have missed out.  A party usually consisted of lots of lifted trucks, a pallet or tire fire, beer in red Solo cups, and people of all ages.  They would be at a persons house, or most often held at places called "Top of the World", "Sherwood", or "The Bark Dumps."  At these parties, commonly you had the high schoolers, the just out of high schoolers, the few siblings of high schoolers that may have been in middle school, and don't forget the dogs that hitched a ride in the back of someones truck. These parties included locals with nicknames that referenced fruit, bodily functions, and others.  It was a sight to be seen and you were bummed if you missed a Saturday party "Out Sherwood." 

Back to my story, and the party...So I asked my parents if I could stay the night at our friends house.  I purposefully left out the part about my boyfriend going to stay out there too.  Somehow, some way, my Mom knew better and allowed me to go "out" to the friends house but definitely not stay the night.  My guess is that she had heard somewhere that there were going to be more than just girls staying out there.  I will never know, but most likely it was one of her "sources".  I did go out there after the dance, and we hung out, the guys drove their trucks through a mud bog and there was a tire fire, good times!  Looking back, the enviromentalists would have keeled over if they knew how much smog the high school kids were causing with their weekend parties!

I didn't get my drivers license until I was 18.  My take on it was that I didn't have a car anyway and between my boyfriend and best friend I always had a ride so why bother?  Well to set the scene, my boyfriend always drove lifted trucks, that usually had a stereo you could hear from three blocks away at least.  One of my friends had ridden somewhere with us at one point, and said she felt like she was getting a "back massage" from the booming speakers behind the seat.  At this particular time, he was driving a bright yellow lifted 1978 Ford.  He had taught me how to drive it, and I had convinced him that I could take it to school after lunch and bring it back afterwards.  A few of my friends and I were loaded up in his truck, deemed "the yellow banana", and headed back to the high school.  As we were driving onto one of the side streets..who do we see!?  My parents!  Man, I was busted.  You couldn't miss his bright yellow truck for anything.  I just waved and continued driving to the high school as quickly as possible.  When I got home, I slinked in with my head down and waited for the reeming of a lifetime.  My Dad said, "What's your problem??"  I told him I knew that they had seen me at lunch.  His response was, "I don't care, just get your license!!"  Now tell me, if you lived in a big city, what would the chances be that you would see your unlicensed teenage daughter driving anywhere?

As an adult I recognize the numerous benefits of raising our children in a small town.  Besides knowing what your children are doing "most of the time" by networking with other locals, you also make close friends that you have for life, you learn the values of creativity, and using your imagination when growing up and playing outside.  You appreciate the simple things.  If I said I didn't love visiting the city I'd be lying.   I love the hustle and bustle, the many restaurants, music, and shopping.  But when it comes down to it, I would prefer that we raise our son and daughter in a similar environment that we grew up in.  If they experience a few tire fires in the woods, and drink out of a few red Solo cups we will have to learn how to take each situation as they come.  But I wouldn't trade the advantages over the disadvantages for anything.

Embrace Your Sparkle,

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Lies, Broom Handles, & Guardian Angels

Another great part of growing up is innocence.  I love the innocence and honesty of a child, and found that there was a time that innocence was a huge portion of my life also!  I think it was a partly of the era I was raised, where I was raised, how I was raised, and that I was interested in all parts of life - As long as it wouldn't get me into trouble. 

Liar, Liar, I Wish your Pants were On Fire!
I had graduated High School and moved away from everything that I knew and our little community of trust.  Similar to the circle of trust that is on Meet the Parents...Our little town held the circle of trust, but it was probably more like an octagon of trust.  You knew everyone, what they did, what their parents did for work, if they had affairs, if they left their house open, or car keys in the ignition...Definitely more of an octagon than a circle.  Moving to the big city was a treat.  It was almost like you could reinvent yourself, yet be the same person, but with no history.  Like every 18 year old, I was ready for anything!  Nobody could stop me, today was my canvass & it mattered how I would color my own world for the day to set myself for the following day and days to follow that...So, I went to school at a Junior College and was taking it all in.  One day I drove my car to the grocery store.  I saw a man walking through the parking lot asking for money.  I'd like to think that I was observant with a flair of small town naivety. I got prepared and put the change from my ashtray into my pocket and was so proud of myself.  I got out of my car, and walked towards the door of the grocery store.  I was shortly approached by the man I had seen earlier.  He handed me a card, said nothing.  I looked at the card, and read something like this:  "I'm a deaf, mute, going to college, and it's difficult for me to find work. Could you help me out with whatever you can, in trade the sign language A-Z alphabet is on the reverse side of this card."  Oh, my heart just fluttered, I'm in college too!  Poor guy!  I proudly prepared gave him what was in my pocket.  He smiled and kept walking.  My heart still feeling badly for the guy, I ran back to my car and found more change.  He was some ways away from me, and I called out to him.  "HEY! Excuse me!!  I found some more change."  He I remind you was literally 50 yards from me, he turned around.  I ran over to him, and gave him a handful of quarters, I was saving for the laundromat.  He smiled again, and said "Thank you."  I turned around and started walking to the store, pleased as punch.  It took me nearly half the rest of the parking lot to stop in my tracks..."Wait, he didn't speak to me before, and his card said "deaf, mute" and when he spoke there wasn't difficulty in speaking, AND he heard me when he was 50 yards away.  My heart sank, what a dummy!  That man was a liar, liar, and I wish his pants were on fire!  Really?!?  Little Miss I'm Prepared...and not only that you went back and gave him MORE money!  Well, I guess I learned that there could be times where you give and what you receive is a lesson that there are bad people out there who take advantage of others...Man I was mad at myself...and mad that I couldn't do my laundry until I got paid!  But, I did have on hand a constant reminder in my ashtray-the card of the A-Z sign language alphabet. 

When Broom handles Don't work-Face the Music
I lived in an apartment when I turned 19.  I had moved out of my Grandmothers, and then my Godmothers who had both taken me under their wings to help me get kick started in the big world.  I was ready- So I thought, to live in an apartment.  How exciting!  It seemed as if I was the youngest person in the complex, and that didn't seem to bother me.  It was a lower level apartment and dealing with the footsteps of the neighbor above seemed to be the least of my worries.  I would have rather heard that than what I did hear on a constant, daily basis!  Sometimes it happened, several times a day and into the night!  Fighting!  It was summer time, and I could hear exactly what she and her husband said, and the slapping, and the slamming up against the wall, floor, you name it.  I could only handle it for so long, and I'd take the broom handle and bang it up to the ceiling to remind them, that people could hear, and yell out the slider "Knock it Off!" or "Stop!" 
I'd see her the next day as we both went to our cars for work, she looked sad to me and a complete wreck!  Her clothes were just hanging off of her, and I wanted to so badly to talk to her and help her...see if she wanted me to take her to get help.  She was not approachable!  She gave me a mean side glare, and marched to her car...off we went for the day.  One weekend, I just couldn't take it.  I was watching a movie and it started again.  She was screaming, "Stop! (I could hear the sounds of slapping!)  Don't!!" Other sounds I can't find ways to type and then the thunking, and what sounded like a head slammed up against the wall!  I yelled out the slider, like usual.   This normally would stop them or they'd close their slider and not thunk around anymore.  But, this time it got worse.  That's it!  I'm going to go up there!  I stormed up there, and I was ready to take her somewhere else and help her out, and deal with the wrath of the guy-the fall out-the after math...Knock-Knock on the door, she flings the door open and is buck naked and sweaty!  She says to me, all pissed off, "You know you can really ruin a persons sex life!  Can you just leave us alone?"  Then he comes to the door, standing behind her, naked and sweaty...and nods his big head (the one on top of his neck people!).  Boy oh boy!  I was speechless!  I didn't know what to say.  Well, I never!  I went back to my apartment and sat there for a few minutes...then got up and went to the manager's office to request an apartment change.  To this day, I laugh...I wonder if he was slapping her batootie?  I learned it takes all kinds, and no wonder she looked at me with a side glare...Did she think I knew what was really going on in there?

Guardian Angels
At one of the places of my places of employment, the surrounding area was not in a good part of town.  Actually it was a very bad part of town.  Across the street was the Senior Center, which I always worried about the people coming and going, and made sure I paid attention to my surroundings.  Each morning I would get to work and after a while, I noticed that the people who were leaving the Senior Center were not Seniors...rather all walks of life.  I listened and observed for a few days and realized that it was people attending AA & NA meetings.  Having had an intimate experience as a child with a family member going through 'the program', I was very sensitive with this subject.  The weather changed, and the rain came.  I noticed that there was a car that remained in the same parking spot for some time, it may move slightly forward, or slightly back, but never far.  One day I saw a man go to this car, and put a pamphlet inside, lock the door and walk away.  Maybe he worked nearby?  I don't know. But, I was paying attention.  There became a time, when our paths crossed and I said hello or good morning, and he never responded.  I thought, well maybe he couldn't hear very well.  So, I'll say it louder the next day, not like yelling, just louder by volume.  I said it louder the next chance I got, and he looked at me as if something was wrong with me, and replied with the appropriate answer, just accompanied with a quizzical look, "Good Morning."  I was pleased.  At the end of the day, I saw him for the first time.  He was going to his car again.  He got into it, and didn't drive away.  Oh no! Maybe he lived in his car?  No, that couldn't be...I became a naive detective in a bad neighborhood, and came to work early the next day.  I parked down the street, and walked by inconspicuous and everything, and looked in the windows of his car.  There were boxes and books, crossword puzzles, and a thermos.  Not a lot to someone, but the world to him.  My mind was whirling!  I needed to help him.  I needed to get him blankets and a pillow!  I went home directly from work, and ripped apart my house.  I lived with my boyfriend, and so, I went through his closet and found items he no longer needed, or used any more.  You know Pendletons, jackets, and guy stuff.  Oh, he might beg to differ with you that he needed these things, but he wasn't homeless.  I went through the linen closet, and got him blankets, and a pillow.  I went through the bookcase and found crosswords, and books, and things of interest that didn't take a source of energy like as in batteries or electricity.  I went through the pantry and bagged cans and a can opener.  I piled it all in my car and could sleep, knowing that tomorrow, I was going to give these items to my new friend who could now hear me.  My boyfriend, was ready to kill me, and I laugh because we didn't have food to eat-We actually ate the sausage that you get at Christmas from Pepperidge Farms or something...the one's you never eat...and I made some goulash that lasted until the next pay period.  My boyfriend wasn't exactly pleased as punch like myself.  So, I went in to work like Santa and his sleigh.  My Honda was piled to the top and overflowing.  I couldn't even carry all of the bags that I had stuffed for him.  I got there early and filled my arms, billowing with the goods.  I was walking up to him and had a smile on my face from ear to ear.  He motioned to move out of my way as I approached him with my oodles of bags.  I said, "Good morning." in a regular volume sort of way.  He replied, "Good morning."  I followed by sayings, "Um, Hi, I'm T and I was going through some things and I thought maybe you might know of someone who could use these things?"  He simply said, "No." and shook his head.  I felt like I was punched in the stomach, and that if I were a sailboat, the wind was knocked out of my sails.  In a squeaky voice I then said, "Ok."  I turned and probably looked absolutely pathetic, tail between my legs, I walked back to my car, which still had things in it to share, and started to put the stuff in there. Punched in the gut of goodness...Before I put the last bag in, the man approached me and said, "I might know someone who could use that blanket and pillow."  I turned embarrassed with my tear stained cheeks, smiled and told him sure.  But, he could only take it if he could find someone else who could use the other items too.  He stretched out his hand and said, "I'm Don, it's nice to meet you T.  I don't know why you're doing this, but thank you."  I helped him carry the goods to his home.  We stuffed it all in there, and I went off to work.  I didn't see him the next couple of days, but when I did, he waved at me before I even got up to greet him verbally.  I never did get one single item returned to me.  He must have found a friend to use them.  Over the next couple of years I got to know Don, and he watched as I got engaged, married, and had my first child.  We talked nearly every single morning, he watched over me in the bad neighborhood, and was my guardian angel.  I remember one night we had leftovers, we had had a BBQ and I told my husband that I would be right back.  If I told him that I was going to the bad neighborhood at 8:30 at night, he would tell me I couldn't go, it wasn't safe.  So, I packed a plate, and went to Don's house.  He wasn't in there.  I put the plate on the windshield and didn't leave a note.  I went to work the next day and he met me at my car.  "You may not come down here at night, it's not safe! That BBQ'd chicken was the best!  Thank you my dear."  I don't think I heard him, he should have knocked it up in volume like I had, cause I didn't stop.  I brought him many dinners from that point on, my husband caught on and scolded me from time to time...but, he knew that I wasn't going to stop, my friend needed help. I became pregnant with my first child, and I can remember telling Don.  He was so excited.  It was then that he told me a little of his story.  He told me that he was a Vietnam Vet and that before the war, he was married with two children.  He spoke with pride as he talked about his son and daughter.  While away in the service and in active duty, he received a letter.  A 'dear John' letter.  His wife was divorcing him, and she was remarrying.  Upon his arrival to the US, he tried to reconnect with his children, but they were connected to his ex-wife's new husband, and he didn't want to 'mess them up' anymore.  But, he longed for them, I could tell.  I asked if he was ever able to see them?  He said his son owned a restaurant and was local, he was able to talk with him once or twice a year.  But, he was too embarrassed because he had become an alcoholic and drug abuser with all of his challenges of the war and loss of his family.  It was easier to escape.  Don and I were connected.  I saw him at a Longs Drugs, one day after work.  I didn't want him to know I saw him, so I crept through the store and followed him, again using my detective skills (I think I missed my calling) and every single item he picked up, I put in my basket.  Yes, every single item he examined, touched, looked at practically...I put in my basket.  I had forgotten why I was even there.  I went through the check stand, and I recall it was $85 dollars worth of goods.  I didn't have an extra $85 dollars but, Don needed this.  I came out with my bags of surprise stuff, and I couldn't find Don.  He must have hopped a bus.  I needed to get home, and knew I'd be in trouble for spending the PG&E money, and so I went to the bad neighborhood and did what any girl in trouble would...I shoved it under his driver door, so that either someone would have to stand in the traffic to steal it, or he'd get it when he opened his car door.  I went home with my tail between my legs AGAIN and had to tell my husband what I now done.  I was in trouble.  The next day I went into work and he met with me at my car door.  He was mad.  What are you doing?  You can't spend this money, AND HOW IN THE HELL did you know what I looked at?  I laughed and said that I saw him at the store and wanted to surprise him.  He wanted me to take it all back to the store and get my money back.  I refused, and said don't make me late for work.  He sighed and shrugged.  A little later on, the gal at the front desk at work, announced that the creepy weird guy was coming to the front door.  I hopped up and ran to the door to greet him, so that he wouldn't feel weird with the rude people at work.  We walked outside, he handed me some money, it was like $3 and some change.  He said, this is all that I have and I'm going to figure out how to pay you back.  I pushed his hands back to him and said, you will hurt me if you don't accept my gift.  He held my hands.  I don't know what he gave to me, but he was true, sincere, and wanted nothing from me.  We went on for about nearly 5 years, and yes he lived in his 'house' that entire time.  I left my job and still brought things to him.  Time passed and he wasn't there anymore, I asked the people I knew if they heard where he went, and I went to the AA & NA and not a soul knew.  I was saddened.  But, life goes on.  It was about ten years later, I was going through my divorce.  It was a day I was to meet my soon to be ex in a public place.  We were walking, and a man passed us.  I knew his face, but I couldn't place it.  I was searching my brain index and I turned and yelled, "DON?"  The man turned, it was Don!  I went back and met him.  He and I exchanged a hug.  He was cleaned up, shaven, and older.  I had so many questions! He told me that he had his own apartment, and a running car, and a job, and most of all he wanted to share that he had rekindled his relationship with his children.  HE HAD GRANDCHILDREN!  He then turned to my ex and said, "I know that I put you both through hell at times, and that I put you out.  But, your wife was my guardian angel.  There were times that I wanted to die.  Times that I didn't want to think anymore, and she was there with a smile, or a word, OR MANY WORDS, and she reminded me that it was all worth it.  You treat her with respect, I owe her my life."  We again parted, and tears were streaming down my face...for he did not know what I was going through, and all I could do was share photos of the the two oldest children and tell him that I had adopted as well.  When we left the impression that he left on me I cannot describe.  So, people you are some one's guardian angel, and someone is yours...and all you need to remember is time heals everything.  Hold on to those dearest to you for tomorrow is another journey and you don't know loss until you truly loose someone you love.  So, here's to my Guardian Angel Don, I will never forget you.

Love Deeply, Live Outloud & Live your Dash-
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