COLD COFFEE
Coffee lovers will agree that there's nothing better than that first steamy hot cup of coffee in the morning. Whether it's brewed or instant, black or sweet, it's just something you really look forward to. It becomes an enjoyable "kickstart" for your day. But have you ever fixed it just the way you like, savored your first sip, put it down for a moment, and then got sidetracked or called away? Sure you have ... and when you finally get back to it, you can bet that it's just not the same. It's what I call a "lukewarm letdown."
Well, life is full of such "letdowns." We've all had them. We get excited about something; and with high hopes, we prepare for it. Then along comes an unwelcome interruption or a reaction we didn't foresee; and before you know it, disappointment, anger, and sadness set in, and we become a victim of our own expectations. And when this happens, we need to take a good look inward. The greatest hurts are from our own family and friends; and if we don't forgive, it's easy to hold on to resentments caused by these experiences. That's what SOUL wants to overcome. These experiences are simply "catalysts" for growth; and in forgiving, we release the karmic value associated with these events. And the more we forgive, the easier it becomes to do.
I thought long and hard about writing some of these stories because it's not my intention to upset anyone ... I'm simply presenting examples of my own life situations that were painful and taught me the importance of forgiveness. I once told my good friend about one of these situations, and she said, "Wow, yes, that must have hurt ... but did you tell them that it hurt you?" I said, "No, I didn't want to cause any trouble." To which she replied, "But you should have told them. How would they ever know?" I said I believed they would find a way to justify it, would say I'm too "sensitive," and wouldn't try to understand me at all ... so what was the point? To which she said, "You shouldn't hold that pain inside. Let them know, and move on!" But the problem with that is that not everyone is capable of seeing through another person's eyes, especially if they feel that you are "pointing the finger" at how they treated you. Defense is the natural human reaction. So, in any situation, you have two choices ... get it out into the open by telling them, which could cause the resentment you're trying to avoid, or hold the pain inside and simply walk away.
For years I tried to "not feel hurt" by the actions of others. I thought I must be lacking spiritually if others had the power to cause me pain. I should be "above" that, right? But, guess what? I AM HUMAN. I have feelings and emotions, especially when it comes to family and friends; and maybe I AM just a little more "sensitive" than the next guy (it's the empath in me). You tell me from reading my stories if you, too, wouldn't have felt the same hurt. Nowadays I just try to operate from a place of "Do Unto Others." What I pretty much practice is this: I allow my bruised EGO to experience the pain, I voice it from a place of love, I detach and draw boundaries, and I move on. As long as I'm being honest and transparent, I'm not responsible for what others feel in these situations ... that's on them ... but I do try to understand what makes them "do what they do."
This page is for sharing those "cold coffee" moments. This page is NOT for placing blame. There is no ill will towards anyone, recognizing that I/We too, at some point, have been guilty of causing hurt or disappointment to another. I'm sure that my own family could write a book about the pain I've caused over the years, especially when I was drinking. Try to consider that in many situations, like these, it's not due to a lack of caring ... sometimes it is simply a lack of awareness.
Is there a past event that is still causing you pain? Let's share it and "let it go" together. Is there a past situation where a SOULFUL outlook brought about forgiveness? Please share it. Sometimes it just helps to vent, to know that others have experienced similar hurts, and to express those emotions. It is hoped that by sharing, we can "file away" these memories as learning experiences, rise above the victim consciousness, and take charge of our future thoughts, actions, reactions, and expectations.
Please take time to share your story ... and send it to sandra@soul-in-control.net.
ROUTE 120
During the last few years of my dad's life, when driving was more difficult for him, I'd chauffeur him up Route 120 for his hospital and doctor appointments. We'd chat, listen to music, and count the cupolas and house stars along the way. After his appointments, we'd go to The Fort for breakfast 'cuz dad had been fasting and would really be missing his coffee by then. Those are fond memories, and such a vivid picture comes to mind of my dad during those years ... his trusty "captain's" hat, his cane, and his "old man shuffle."
Route 120 was a scenic, secondary road in New Hampshire, and it was also my daily commute to work. It was a 25-minute ride with average speeds of 50 to 55 mph on the long stretches, 35 or 40 approaching the small towns, and 30 or less through them. It was a tricky "speed trap" of a commute, but it was a beautiful drive, especially in the fall when the colors were "popping."
Some days the traffic was light and some days the traffic was heavier. You just never knew with Route 120. But for the most part, drivers kept a pretty consistent pace and there weren't too many problems. Oh, sure, you'd get the occasional speed demon who just had to pass you doing 75 or 80 while you were moving along at a respectable 60 miles per hour. "What's your damn hurry?" I'd shout!
But the worst, the ABSOLUTE WORST, of the offenders on Route 120 was the "Sunday driver." You know the one ... going 40 in the 55 mph zones, just ignoring any and all opportunities to pull over while a dozen cars fell in line behind him. That type of driver really had a way of getting under my skin.
Well, on this particular Monday, yes it was a Monday, I was running a little late getting to work. So as luck would have it, I came up behind one such "Sunday Driver" who was barely doing 40 in the 55 mph stretch. There were cars coming the other way, so I couldn't pass him. "Pull over, you bum." I thought. Three more cars came up behind me. Then two more. Then another two. I can only imagine that they were all feeling the same frustration. And I thought to myself, "Can't you see there are cars piling up behind you? Don't you use your rear-view mirror?" As I continued with my angry thoughts, a wicked plan began to take shape in my mind. "If this guy stops at the deli up ahead, I'm going to pull in there and give him a piece of my mind! I might not be able to get all of these slowpokes, but at least I'll give one of 'em the business!"
More cars continued to fall in line behind us as we came into the 40 mph zone approaching the town limit. He slowed down to 25 and I continued to hope that he would stop at the deli so I could confront him there. I watched with anticipation and let out an exhuberant "Yes!" as he pulled into the parking lot. "Okay, this is it," I thought ... "the moment I've been waiting for." "Now I can ask him why he won't drive the proper speed, why he won't pull over, and why he ignores the traffic behind him. Yessiree, I'm ready!"
So I sat there in my car watching to see what manner of human being would step out of that old sedan. "Come on, man, what's taking so long?" I thought. "He must know what he's in for!" A minute went by, then another, and finally the driver-side door opened. I got ready to get out of my car so that I could meet him at the deli entrance ... BUT ... but just then out of that car, with a slight degree of difficulty, came a little old man with a captain's hat, a cane, and an "old man shuffle." I watched as he slowly made his way to the entrance where some "nicer than me" gentleman opened the door for him. "He's just like DAD," I moaned, as I sat in my car, frozen and ashamed. Cold Coffee.
SEVENTY
In 2002 I was living in California with my youngest son, who was still in school. We had a great little cabin on 5 acres and a busy cafe just 10 minutes down the road. On my dad's 70th birthday, I called him, as I always did, to wish him well. That's when he told me that "the family" had thrown him a big surprise birthday bash at a nice restaurant in New London, NH, and that EVERYONE had been there ... his classmates and friends, all the cousins, the aunts and uncles, my two sisters, and my brother. He'd had a wonderful time!
As he described the events and named all the people he had seen there, I listened in disbelief as the tears rolled down my face. "Dad, I didn't know anything about this party. Why wasn't I told? Why wasn't I invited?" Of course, he wouldn't have known anything. I was asking the wrong person. "I didn't realize that they didn't tell you," he said. "Maybe they just assumed you couldn't come?" I could tell that he was feeling bad and I didn't want to rain on his parade, so I dropped the issue and got off the phone.
My sisters had planned the entire party. When I asked them why I hadn't been included, they just kind of hemmed and hawed and denied any responsibility. To this day I have never been given an explanation that makes any sense. I mean my brother also lived out of state at the time, in Delaware, but he was at the party. Why not me? I would have been there in a heartbeat! Actually, it was the one time in my life that I could have made the trip and had good coverage at my restaurant ... but I was never given the chance, and I missed out on a good memory. It's as if they forgot I existed! Cold Coffee!
TZATZIKI
I owned a food trailer for a couple of years in New Hampshire. We sold burritos, wraps, sliders, gyros, chili, desserts, and beverages. It was hard work but a real fun gig as well. One particular weekend during the summer, my brother and youngest sister were visiting. I was excited for them to see my operation and I told my partner, Debbie, "We'll take real good care of them tonight!" They were all up at my other sister's house and had given us a big order to have ready for them to pick up at 6:30 and bring home. It was going to be "tricky" to fit that in during our dinner rush. My little sister had indicated that she loved gyros, and I was real proud of ours. I made my own lamb and ground beef mixture and my own tzatziki sauce. I couldn't wait to dazzle her!
As luck would have it, right at 6:15, when we were getting ready to prepare their order, the cars started coming in and a line formed at our window. "Why is this always the way?" I said to Deb; and we laughed, cuz anyone in the business knows that when you've got a big order to do, that's when you're gonna get busy! But we managed to squeeze it in while taking care of our other customers, and I took particular care in preparing my sister's gyro. I put a generous amount of tzatziki in the bottom of the pita, added the meat, pickled onions, lettuce, and tomato. Then I looked over at Deb and said, "Here's some extra tzatziki for my little sister, just because I love her!" And with a flourish, I squeezed another big dab of tzatziki onto the top of the gyro. It was squishing out all over the place, but I wrapped the gyro carefully and put it in the top of the bag so she would get hers first. I even threw in some free desserts!
Well, a couple of hours went by without a word from my family ... usually they call, express gratitude, tell me how delicious it was, thank me for the free desserts, etc. That's what us cooks live for ... hearing that we've made everyone happy. But nothing, not a word from the family. So when the night was almost over, I called my little sister. "Hey, how was your gyro?" I asked. "Well", she said. "I could have used a bit more tzatziki. There was just a dab on the top." OMG! She didn't even realize that the dab on the top was the "extra love" I had added, and that there was even more than usual on the bottom. She only knew what she saw when she first opened it up. You would think she would have tasted all that tzatziki when she took a bite, right? It would have been "oozing." I looked over at Deb; and when I told her what my sister said, she just rolled her eyes and shook her head in disbelief. Cold Coffee. (My sister and I had a good laugh about it later!)
THE VISIT
My oldest son and his wife were coming to stay at my house for a long weekend in June so that they could attend his class reunion and spend time with dear old mom. I was so excited .... so much to do! But there was a bit of a curve ball when my youngest sister informed me that she would be visiting that same weekend. So I had to do a lot of juggling to accommodate everyone and make sure they were all comfortable.
First thing I did was move all of my sister's things to the smaller bedroom so that my son and his wife could use the bigger bedroom, the one my sister normally used. I was sure she would understand, given that there were two of them and they would need more room for luggage, etc. I made my sister's bed up with all of her favorite blankets and created a nice vanity area for her to do her makeup, complete with candles and extra electrical cords for her blow-dryer and anything else she might be using. I moved and hung all of my sister's clothes and pictures in her temporary bedroom, and it all came together nicely. After I was done, I looked around the room and thought, "Okay, my sister's all set. Now on to the bigger task!"
Then I started putting together the other bedroom for my son and daughter-in-law. I bought fresh bedding and made up both beds, one of them with the NBA Lakers blanket that my son had given me as a gift years ago. I put together collages of pictures of my son, from his youth and later years, of his time spent in New Hampshire. That took quite a while and I proudly hung them around the bedroom along with a wooden "moon" painting that he had made for me and that I knew he would recognize. I collected everything I could find that was from my son and arranged it all around the bedroom ... a hummingbird candle holder, a set of Lakers shot glasses, a salt lamp, etc. The bedroom was a homage to my son and our memories together. I finished with two tables for their luggage, some sweet-smelling candles, some new towels for poolside, and chocolates on the beds. It looked like a beautiful motel room, and I couldn't wait for them to see it!
I got busy outside too ... made sure the pool looked nice, raked and weeded the yard, mowed all the lawns, stacked wood near the firepit, and made long skewers so that they could make s'mores if they wanted. The yard was ready for them to enjoy, to entertain classmates, or to just hang out with mom. I made a grocery list and picked up lots of snacks and all the items I would need to make my son's favorite meals. I was ready, and so excited!
Then just two days before they were to arrive, my son called and cancelled their trip. He said that it was due to a theft that had occurred at his workplace a few days prior and that required a lot of work with the insurance company to recover the stolen items. Ugh! I was immediately torn between feelings of utter disappointment while at the same time trying to have an open mind and understand what they must be going through. Should I tell them how much work I had done to prepare for their visit? Should I just be quiet and acquiesce? I did the latter, of course, even though I really couldn't understand what harm a weekend visit would do ... I mean how much are you going to get done with an insurance company over a weekend anyhow? But I kept my mouth shut and then cried my eyes out after the phone call. My sister and I had a nice visit. She appreciated her "new room" but I knew she felt bad for me. We made the best of things, ate all the food, and simply enjoyed being together. The whole situation was hurtful at the time ... but here's the real "kicker." Just one week later, my daughter-in-law posted pictures on Facebook while they were up in Idaho visiting her father. OUCH! Cold Coffee!
WEDDING GIFT
My niece was getting married! Everyone was in a dither, and the preparations went on for well over a year, maybe closer to two. I knew that I wouldn't be able to make it for the wedding, and I felt bad about it ... so I put together the RSVP with a nice little note and a check.
From what I understand, my brother was to be an important part of the wedding. He had been given some tasks and would be contributing to the occasion in a variety of ways. Like mine, his first name begins with an "S" and we both have the same last name. Well, when my niece got my RSVP declining to come, she saw the return address of "S. with the same last name; and she immediately became upset. She assumed that my brother was not coming and that he was shirking the responsibilities he had pledged to do at the wedding.
So my brother called me and said, "Why did you put "S" ______ on the return address?" I was baffled and replied, "Duh, cuz I am "S" _____?" He said, "Well, that's the signature I always use! She thought it was from me and that I wasn't coming! This has caused a lot of trouble!" I'm telling you ... I was just dumbfounded. I was literally getting berated for putting my own name on the RSVP! I guess there was quite a bit of drama and upset phone calls between my niece, my sister, and my brother ... all unbeknownst to me!
This is laughable, right? The return address was California, which is me, not my brother. She never saw beyond the name on the envelope. And if she had looked at the check and read the note, before all the drama, she would have seen my name and signature on both. I've heard that brides can be very frantic and prone to anxiety ... I get it, there's a lot going on ... but geez. I was hurt by the lack of recognition and the fact that the money I sent was dear to me at that time in my life ... and ... they never even cashed my check! Cold Coffee.
BELL BOTTOMS
My daughter was about 12 years old and still in school at the Junior High in Claremont, NH. She had "California" written all over her ... tan skin, blonde hair, and a "sunshine aura" that really made her stand out. That was her last grade of school in New Hampshire as she decided to stay in California where she really belonged. It hurt, but I understood. It was her "aura" that the other girls didn't like, and they began to bully and pick on her. She would come home from school all upset, and it was breaking my heart. I wanted to speak to the mothers of these girls, but my daughter was adamant that I not get involved.
One particular day, while I was at work, I just couldn't concentrate at all. I kept playing images in my head of my sweet daughter walking home with these mean girls following her, heckling and threatening her. It was actually making me sick to my stomach. So I told my boss that I was going to take a late lunch, and I headed over to the school to pick her up and get a look at the girls who were causing her trouble, maybe scare 'em a bit.
I was excited as I parked my car because I was sure that my daughter would really appreciate the surprise "pickup." And I don't remember exactly what I was wearing that day, except for my bell-bottom jeans. But I got out, stood by the car, and waited anxiously. When my daughter appeared, I waved and gestured for her to come over to the car. As she crossed the street, she looked at me with disgust; and when she was within earshot, she said, "Did you wear those jeans to embarrass me?" Cold Coffee.
PIGEONS
It was a cool, sunny spring day in New Hampshire, and my little blue Toyota was filthy from a long winter of snow, ice, and salt on the roads. I couldn't wait to wash it! I got out my bucket, towels, soap, Windex, and garden hose, and I went to town. I cleaned the inside and outside with great abandon; and two hours later, I stood there admiring my shiny, clean car. It looked brand new!
Just as I was putting the last of my cleaning supplies away, I heard a soft "splat" coming from the direction of my car. "Oh, no" I thought. "It can't be!" But I knew that sound. I had heard it before. And when I turned around, lo and behold, there appeared a huge splotch of white pigeon shit on the top of my car, dripping down the window and onto the door. I suppose I should have been thankful that it landed on the car and not on me. My life in a nutshell! Cold Coffee.
GHOST
Shortly after my dad died in January of 2021, I bought his house and decided to build a food trailer. It was the only thing left in the food industry that I had not done, and I wanted to try it. I had a friend in Washington State who I had reconnected with, and we had worked together at my restaurant in Claremont, NH. I knew she was very skilled and was also at a turning point in her life and looking for something new. So I invited her to come live with me and work the food trailer together. We spent many hours on the phone making plans and talking about all the things we would do. It was exciting for both of us!
I put together a room for her in my basement so she would have privacy and a place where her three little dogs would be comfortable. I spared no expense and I bought bedding, curtains, a television, candles, shelving, a dresser, and string lights. When I was done, it looked pretty nice; and I was sure she would be happy in her new space.
We continued to talk every other day or so for about three months ... until she just stopped answering the phone or returning my calls and texts. She literally disappeared. I thought something might have happened to her, so I reached out to her ex-husband who told me that she was fine, he had seen her recently, and that she was okay. I explained the situation to him, but he really had no idea as to why she wasn't responding to me anymore. He could only say that she was "elusive" and we both knew that she struggled with her own demons from time to time.
I never heard back from her as it got closer to opening the food truck, so I found someone else and moved forward with the business. But a year later she called to tell me that she was moving to Vermont where she would be the caretaker for a beautiful farm property. She wanted to know if I would come and visit. There was no explanation, no apology, no mention of the plans we had made or the work and expense I had gone through on her behalf. A real "Ghost." Maybe someday she will tell me why. Cold Coffee.
BEES
There were three times that I was stung by bees on my dad's property ... no one else, only me. We used to joke about it because it seemed like these beautiful, busy, ornery creatures just had a thing for me.
The first time it happened I was mowing the lawn in the front yard and went over a spot near the hydrangea where, unbeknownst to me, was an underground nest of honey bees. Out they came in full force; and before I even understood what was happening, I got stung at least five times, maybe more, in the legs and arms. Not only that, the "Queen" continued to chase me around the driveway ... I swear she was after me ... and I couldn't run fast enough ... all the while my dad stood outside the porch door laughing at my peril. If you've ever been stung, you know what I mean when I say, "It stings!" I went running into dad's house, all upset and writhing in pain, while he continued to laugh and then went to get the baking soda and ointment. (Dad had been a corpsman in the Navy/Marines and he took a great deal of pleasure in administering medical services). The next time I mowed that front lawn, I wore my dad's white "meat-cutting" overalls that covered me from head to toe. I looked funny as hell, but I didn't care. I wasn't taking any chances!
The second time it happened, I think it might have been the following summer, I was mowing along the perimeter in the back yard. Right along the border, where it's nothing but overgrowth, I hit a wasp nest. I don't know if it was in the ground or in the growth; but, again, before I knew what was happening, I felt the stings on my legs and arms and came face to face with an angry wasp looking right into my eyes. I mean I could feel his anger. I went running into the house and, once again, my dad got a good laugh before going for the ointment and administering medication to sooth my numerous stings. I then demanded that he finish mowing the back yard 'cuz I wasn't havin' it. He got on his rider and went right around "ground zero" never even seeing an angry wasp. What the heck? More fodder for his laughter!
Dad passed away, I bought the house I grew up in, and I pretty much forgot about the threat of bees around the yard. Then one day I was weed whacking around the pool and was quickly reminded when out of the planter box came a hoard of bees in a fury. I got stung another five or six times before jumping into the pool to get away. When I came up for air, they were still waiting for me; so under the water I went and swam to the other end. When the coast was clear and I got out of the water, I looked up to the heavens and said, "I hope you had a good laugh this time, but who will administer the ointment?" I miss my dad. Cold Coffee.
(Note: Right now I am in California visiting my children. I was at a park to run my dog. I was wearing sandals and got stung in the foot, under my toes, by a bee that was in the grass feeding on clover. The very next week I was stung in the other foot, again under the toes, at the same park because I forgot that I shouldn't wear sandals in the grass. My roommate had a good laugh about that. Then just this past Sunday, while swimming in my son's pool, I was stung on the left shoulder as I held my grandson in my arms. I really believe that it's God's funny way of saying, "Here's a little "nudge," a little karma for that negative thought you had!" And when I have a negative thought now, I try to correct it immediately before I see anymore bees!)
BASEBALL
When I told my youngest son about the website I was building, and especially about the Cold Coffee page, he challenged me to write about his cold coffee moment, one when mom (that would be me) did the disappointing. Like I said, it goes both ways, and he remembers this event quite clearly.
My son was, and still is, an avid baseball player. When he was about 12 years old, he was catching for the GIANTS, a Pony Express Little League team in northern California. Baseball was everything to him, he practiced every day, and he never missed a game. I was, in return, a very proud mom; and I was always in the stands cheering him on, a little too loudly I've been told.
At this particular game, a boy from the other team was running toward home plate to score; and my son reached out to tag him. Somehow during that play, my son injured his left thumb; and when the coaches took him out of the game, he looked over at me with agony on his face. Thinking a sore thumb was no big deal, I gave him a look of disgust (he remembers it well), and I probably said something like, "Suck it up, buttercup!" Well, I guess he took that to heart and told the coaches he was okay to continue playing. But in the next inning, he had trouble getting his glove on and seemed to be in a lot of pain. When a ball was thrown to him at home plate, he made a half-hearted attempt to catch it as it went flying past; and he sat the bench for the remainder of the game.
On the way home, I berated him for giving up. "This mom didn't raise no "pussy!" Yes, he says I called him that. And I didn't take too kindly to the fact that he had succumbed to the pain, didn't just put his "big boy pants" on and finish the game. When we got home, I had him rinse his thumb under cold running water. "It'll be better tomorrow," I said. But it wasn't better tomorrow. In fact, it was black and blue and quite swollen; so I got him in the car and headed for Urgent Care. I do remember that on the way there, I was filled with worry about how much the visit was going to cost. I had very little money and struggled just to pay rent and afford his baseball. As we waited in the office, I looked over at him and said, "It better be broke!" To this day, he remembers those words more than anything.
Well, they took the obligatory X-ray; and, sure enough, his thumb was broken. They splinted it and bandaged it and we went home without saying too much. My son was very gracious and didn't rub it in my face. But those four words, "It better be broke" will always haunt me ... my son will make sure of that! Cold Coffee
YARD SALE
My high school class was celebrating its 50th alumni the following summer and we had a year to raise money for our parade float and class party. We had meetings beforehand, and I offered to hold a yard sale at my house on Memorial Day Weekend, selling items donated by class members and friends. I even offered to provide the services of my food trailer and sell breakfast items and coffee during the event.
Our class secretary did a great job keeping track of our funds, but she was a very stoic person, not easy to read; she seldom smiled and kind of kept to herself. I never gave it much thought, just accepting her for who she was; but from the time we decided on the yard sale, she had an attitude. She fought me tooth and nail on every detail of advertising the event, and I was not allowed to post it on the class page. "Okay," I thought, "Be nice. She needs to be in control, so just let her be."
Our classmates were generous and donations came to my house for weeks before the event. I cleaned out my garage, set up hangers for clothing, and made lots of room for things that needed to be under a roof if it rained. Everything else would be positioned up and down both sides of the driveway. The day before the sale, about a dozen of my classmates came up and helped put things out and tag the items with prices. I set up my food trailer and purchased groceries for our breakfast menu. It was a lot of work, as yard sales are, and I had the bruises and sore muscles to prove it!
The yard sale went well, and we sold quite a bit. But, after the event, there was still a whole lot left over; and I let everyone know that I would need help getting it out of my garage, off the driveway, and down to the front yard to be marked FREE for people driving by. Well, the next day only one person, he knows who he is (thank you, my friend), showed up to help me with the arsenal of leftovers. We must have made a hundred trips, between the two of us, back and forth, up and down the driveway to the front yard. It was grueling. I kept waiting for others to show up and help, but no one did.
In the meantime I was getting phone calls and texts from a lot of the classmates who had donated items or helped out with the yard sale. "How did we do? How much money did we make?" they all wanted to know. And they had a right to know as they had all been actively involved to some degree and were excited about the results. So I contacted our class secretary and asked her to let everyone know how we did by posting the numbers on our class page. She told me that she did not think it was proper to reveal the numbers, and I disagreed. "They're not asking how much money we have in our class fund," I said. (even though that's their right). "They just want to know how the yard sale did." A couple of days later she begrudgingly posted the results on our class page, but there was no mention of how the food trailer contributed to the funds. I had donated the cost of the groceries, the profits, the tips, and paid my partner out of my own pocket; yet there was no mention of it or any gratitude expressed for the donation or the hard work involved. Also, there had been two situations between me and the class secretary (our secret) involving her grandson. Needless to say, I had a real "sour taste" in my mouth over the whole event.
But this is how God "nudges" me and exhibits His wonderful sense of humor in my life. I love doing crostics; and after that challenging weekend, the very first crostic I did revealed the following solution: "Reach back and help, and expect neither reward nor even thanks. Reach back and help because that is what spiritual beings do." I just looked inward and said to God, "Okay, okay, I get it. Thank you for reminding me!"
And the story would end there, with me just being okay with having done my best with little help or recognition for it. But a couple of months later, I received a check in the mail (no name on the envelope) reimbursing me for the money I spent on the groceries, just a part of the total I had gladly donated to the class. What a kick in the teeth! I never asked for or wanted that money, but I hope it made the class secretary feel better! Cold Coffee
ALASKA
I had just sold my restaurant in California, I think it was in December of 2003, and I set my sights on Alaska. I had been dreaming of going there my whole life and now was the perfect time. I looked online for summer jobs and found a great opportunity at a place called Gwin's Lodge in Cooper Landing on the Kenai Peninsula. We held a SKYPE interview, and I was hired to manage their restaurant. The position included housing for the summer. My friend, who worked for me in California, was hired along with me, and we both got our passports and started making travel plans. We were ecstatic!
At the same time we were making plans, my father informed me that he needed surgery ... I can't remember which surgery it was, possibly a nodule on his lungs. For a fleeting moment I thought I should go home to New Hampshire and help; but my sister lived next door to dad and I figured she would be there for him and help out as needed. I really didn't want to cancel my plans for the summer.
But God saw differently, I suppose. Almost immediately after learning about the surgery, New Hampshire started popping up everywhere in my life. I turned on the television, and there was a special about New Hampshire. I turned on the radio, and there was some newscast about New Hampshire. I drove down the road and spotted a license plate from New Hampshire. I walked across the street and saw a man wearing a New Hampshire T-shirt. I mean this was highly unusual. In California you just don't hear much about New Hampshire, but it seemed to be everywhere I looked. And I was paying attention.
The final straw occurred when I went to bed and had a dream about New Hampshire. I should have been dreaming about Alaska, but there it was in big bold letters in my dream ... NEW HAMPSHIRE, NEW HAMPSHIRE, NEW HAMPSHIRE. I couldn't ignore it; and when I woke up the next morning, I had already made up my mind to go back home for dad's surgery. I was rehearsing what to say to my employer in Alaska when my phone rang. It was the father of my employer, and he informed me that his son had committed suicide and had left him with a mountain of debt. The restaurant would not be open in full swing and he couldn't afford the same wage or perks that I had been promised ... but I was still welcome to come, just in a different capacity. I was absolutely stunned and so very sad for the father. I offered my condolences and graciously declined the invitation. "The final sign," I thought. "There is no doubt about where God is leading me." So my friend went to Alaska, and I hightailed it back to New Hampshire. For me, Alaska would have to wait (God willing). Cold Coffee
MANIC ATTACK
This is just another story about how God was once again watching over one of my own. One day, when my youngest son was about 13 years old, he had just finished baseball practice and was sitting in my restaurant enjoying a quick lunch. When he was done, he said, "See you at home," and left to walk across the meadow to our apartment. It was closing time, about 2:30 pm; and I was in the middle of cashing out the days receipts when my phone rang. It was the call that every mother dreads ... my son was screaming and crying that he had just been stabbed and beaten while walking home.
I left the cash drawer open, ran out the door, got in my car, and drove around the corner. As I ran up to our second-floor apartment, I saw a trail of blood all the way up the stairs; and something inside of me just "snapped." I felt a rage that I can't even explain ... I can only compare it to what's been defined as the rage of a mother bear protecting her cubs; and maybe only another mother who has been in a similar situation could ever understand it.
My son had been stabbed in the left arm with a broken 40-oz. beer bottle and kicked in the face and body. His arm was bleeding profusely, and he had a swollen eye as well as black and blue areas all over his face. He said that he had been walking across the meadow when he came upon five guys, in their late teens or early twenties, who were standing in a circle drinking beer. He knew these boys from the neighborhood, especially the one named "Blackowl" who lived next door and had from time to time played basketball with him. He wasn't afraid and didn't feel that he was in any danger as he approached them.
He explained that the boy named "Blackowl" had a distant look in his eyes and did not seem to recognize him at all. He asked my son why he was wearing blue ... his shirt and shorts were blue ... and my son replied questioningly, "because I like blue?" Apparently this kid was of a gang mentality and only wore red ... blue was the rival. And that's when Blackowl broke the beer bottle and swiped at my son, knocked him down, and began kicking him. It was only when one of the other boys said, "Stop it, Blackowl, the kid's okay," that he refrained and let my son get up and run home.
I tied a bandage around my son's arm, got him into the car, yelled "You're not gonna die!" and drove over to the meadow in a blind rage to look for these guys. But they were nowhere to be found. Everyone who knows what happened that day tells me that I was lucky I didn't find them because I could have been hurt myself. And I say, "Four drunk guys and a bipolar manic versus one very angry mother bear .... ha! I think they were the lucky ones!" (There's some ego talking for 'ya!) I called the police, we exchanged information; and they continued to search for the five guys while we drove to emergency. My son was pretty beaten up and required quite a bit of care; but even with all his cuts and bruises, his only concern was, "Can I still play baseball tomorrow? It's a playoff game, and I can't miss it!" While we were in the emergency room, another cop came by to take pictures of him and get his official statement. Meanwhile, the occurrence had been broadcast over the police scanner, and his coaches started showing up. We had a good crowd in his cubicle! It was a testament to how much they cared for and valued him as a person and a team member.
After emergency we drove home and I walked next door to Blackhowl's apartment, where his mother answered the door. I told her what happened and that the cops were looking for her son. "Oh, please don't be hard on him," she said. "He's on medication for bipolar disorder. He's really a good kid." Apparently, he had not been taking his meds and was drinking on top of that, and had lapsed into a "manic" state, which explains why he didn't know my son at all. The cops found him later that evening and my son identified him. What I remember most is that, as he sat in the back of the police cruiser, he was sneering and laughing at us. There was no remorse, not one ounce, and I never hated another person more in my life (yes, I was capable of hate back then). "How could you do this? You almost killed my son!" I screamed as I held my fist in the air.
A court date was set and a "victim advocate" was appointed to deal with any trauma my son might have and to recommend action and sentencing to the court. My son told her that all he wanted was a letter of apology from Blackowl and a promise to take his medication. At court Blackowl handed in a letter, which he had written from jail, and which was passed on to my son. The letter was a narcissistic commentary on his own life and situation ... not one word of apology, remorse, or even an understanding of what he had done and the effect it had on my son's life. However, he had done what the court asked for, and he was given a "Johnson year", which consists of exactly one year of jail time commencing on the date of sentencing, no time served.
But less than nine months later Blackowl was released, stopped taking his medication, beat another kid into a coma, and landed back in jail or prison, not sure which. We have no further knowledge of his life or deeds. Cold Coffee
ACCIDENT
During this incident I was living with my three children on Lane Ridge Road in Claremont, NH. I had just left a mediocre job to take a position as a secretary at a law firm in town. My health insurance from the prior job expired on a certain day in January (can't remember the exact date), and my new coverage began two days later; so there was a one-day lapse where we had no coverage at all. I said to my kids, "Be very careful today ... we don't want anything to happen while we have no health insurance!"
Later that day, sometime in the afternoon, I was working at the law firm when the phone rang. On the other end was my daughter frantically screaming, "Mom, Ryan just got in a snowmobile accident! You gotta come home!" To which I replied something like, "Nice try, my dear, but not funny!" And I hung up the phone. She called back and said she wasn't kidding, but I didn't buy it. "Stop calling me! This is really not funny! I'm working!"
A couple minutes later an ambulance and a fire truck went speeding by the office, lights flashing and sirens blaring. "OMG ... what the heck?" I thought. I got up from my desk to watch where they were headed; and as they rounded the corner by the Junior High School, headed in the direction of my house, I got a sinking feeling in my gut. "It can't be! Oh, God, it just can't be!" I got in my car and hightailed it home.
Sure enough, my son had gotten off the school bus and hopped on the back of his buddy's snowmobile to give him a ride up the meadow to our house. He hadn't tied his boot laces, and one of them got stuck in the snowmobile tread, pulling his foot right in. I guess when he realized what was happening, he yelled and got his buddy to stop the snowmobile; but by then, his foot was already caught. I believe my daughter witnessed the entire incident; and that's when she ran home and called me. But like the adults in "the boy who cried wolf," I didn't believe her. She still says it was one of the worst moments of her life. So, so sorry, my dear.
The fire department used the jaws of life to extract my son's foot from the snowmobile tread, and he ended up in surgery where they repaired his bones with pins. It took me years to pay off the $8,000 medical bill, and all because it happened on the ONE DAY that I had no insurance coverage. Now, what are the chances of that happening? And what was the GOD lesson in it? It's ancient history now, but I would still love to know the answer! Cold Coffee
DUI
This is an extremely hard story for me to write 'cuz it's probably the worst experience of my life and one that I am very ashamed of ... but this whole website is about being "transparent," so here it is.
Take a good look at the picture here. Not a pretty sight, is she? And, yes, that's a very accurate depiction of how I must have looked at one point during this story.
At the time I was living in Cameron Park, CA, with my youngest son. I managed an Italian restaurant in Shingle Springs and I was making pretty good money. It was Memorial Day weekend, 1999, and I decided to take my son down to Ocean Beach in San Francisco for the holiday. I packed a tent, camping gear, a cooler, everything we needed for a good time. My son had baseball practice that day, and we planned to leave right after. I had recently purchased a 1995 Toyota truck, teal blue, 5-speed manual, with a mini cab and fold-down seats in the back ... and I loved it. I couldn't wait to take it for a drive.
I was helping a friend out and she was staying with us at our apartment. She also had the day off from work; and she said, "Hey, we never get to spend time together. How 'bout when Ian is at practice, we go downtown, walk around the shops, and play some pool at the local bar. You can take me home before you head down to the beach." "Okay," I said, "but only one drink. I've got a long drive ahead." DING, DING, DING ... BAD IDEA, right?
We dropped my son off at baseball practice and headed to Main Street in Placerville to kill some time. Window shopping lasted all of 15 minutes 'cuz we knew the bar was close, and the pool table was just calling to us. It was really hot that day, so we each ordered a gin and tonic, something bubbly to refresh. But while we were playing pool, someone bought us another round, and who am I to refuse such generosity? After pretty much chugging that one, I said, "We gotta get out of here. I can't be having anymore drinks."
We stepped out into the daylight and I was definitely feeling the effects of two pretty strong gin and tonics. We headed to my truck and still had about 20 minutes to kill, at which time my roommate pulled out a joint from her purse and lit up. "Just one hit," I said; but I took two, maybe I took three. Then I started up the truck and headed for the baseball field. On the way there I knew I was in trouble. "What was I thinking to mix gin and weed?" I thought. "When we get there, I'm going to walk around and shake this off!" But it didn't really change my condition much; and after my son got into the back seat, and my roommate on the passenger side, we headed home. "It's not too far," I thought. Once we get home, I'll take a short nap till I'm good and sober. Then we'll head down to the beach."
So up to this point it's obvious that I had already made some pretty bad decisions, no denying that, but it gets worse. Instead of being careful, because I was in such a hurry to get home, I greatly exceeded the highway speed limit for about ten miles; and then I rudely cut through traffic to get to the exit that would take us to a shortcut, hoping to get us away from a lot of people and the possibility of cops. The shortcut, Meder Road, was literally less than a mile from our apartment ... but about halfway down that road, I nodded off for a second, just a second ... but long enough to graze a telephone pole on the right passenger side of the truck. I quickly tried to correct it by steering a sharp left; but I cranked it too hard and sent us across the road and into a ditch where we landed sideways. All I can say, looking back, is "Thank God no one was coming the other way. And thank God, aside from a few minor bruises, not one of us got seriously hurt."
My son opened the back slider window and squeezed through it to get out of the truck. I had to hoist my roommate up through the passenger-side window where she was able to climb out. But then, when I popped my head up through the passenger-side window, there, to my disdain, were two cops waiting to grab me. Someone on the highway had called and reported a teal-blue Toyota truck driving erratically, and they had followed me onto Meder Road to make sure the cops could pinpoint my location. It all happened real quick from there. My son and roommate were taken to the other side of the road and I was immediately handcuffed. "I want to see my son!" I screamed. "I need to make sure he's okay!" "Oh, you're not going anywhere near your son," one of them replied ... and I proceeded to KNEE him "right where it hurts." I was still screaming, "I want to see my son! I want to see my son!" as they hog-tied me and threw me into the back of the cruiser. Yes, my son got to see the whole disgraceful thing. If CPS was around back then, I probably would have lost my son, for a long time anyway.
As I laid all tied up in the back of the cruiser, I thought back to a time when I owned a restaurant in Claremont, NH ... when I had three children, worked long hours, and was extremely tired. A friend of mine had been incarcerated for some minor infraction ... I don't remember what it was. But I do remember flippantly saying to my employees, "Boy, I wish I could do a little jail time ... at least I'd get a rest!" BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR. I got two months for this DUI, resisting arrest, and endangering a minor child, my own son, GOOD GOD.
And to add insult to injury, I had already purchased plane tickets for myself and all three of my children to fly back to NH in June so that we could visit family and I could attend my 25th class reunion. I had to disappoint my children, and I also had to make the dreaded phone call to my father and tell him that we weren't coming because "Yeah, Dad, I'M IN JAIL!" Talk about embarrassing. And, oh, if my classmates could see me now, in all my incarcerated splendor. I don't think any of them knew, not until now, of course ... but that's why this girl never made it to the 25th!
It was the longest two months of my life. Humiliation and disappointment barely describe it ... the visits from my children, the circles around my youngest son's eyes (thank God my friend took care of him for me ... thank you, Susan). My truck that I bought just two weeks earlier was totaled. I lost an opportunity to buy the restaurant I was managing. Fines, rehab, and renewing my license cost me a total of $10K. And as I lay in my cell during those long nights, tossing and turning, I thought over and over, it never let up ... "Why did I have those drinks? Why did I drive? Why did I do any of this?" I had such good intentions when I woke up that morning ... but I just got "sidetracked" ... oh, boy, did I get sidetracked. IN A BIG WAY! And isn't that just so typical of life ... well, my life anyway. Cold Cold Coffee
A DOLLAR
When we were young, my sister and I would walk down to the local Magnet Theatre for the Saturday matinee. It was a great way for mom and dad to get things done while we met up with friends to watch some old "B" movies. As I recall, they often featured Vincent Price and were quite macabre.
On this particular Saturday, my sister and I were fighting over who was going to carry the "dollar" that would pay both our admissions and get us some popcorn as well. "I wanna carry it!" I said. "No, I want to carry it!" said my sister. And on and on it went.
When my dad was fed up with the shouting, he simply looked at me and said what he always said to me when my sister and I were arguing. "You be the bigger one!" he whispered. Why he didn't say that to my sister I will never know. "But I don't want to be the bigger one," I cried. "I'm sick of being the bigger one!"
"Okay, then!" my dad shouted. "Here's what we're gonna do." We watched in disbelief as he ripped the dollar down the middle and gave us each a half. Well, you can probably imagine what was going on in our little 11-year old minds, right? How are we going to go to the movies now? They won't take this damaged dollar! We looked at each other and burst into tears!
Point made, dad. I still don't remember who ended up carrying the dollar that day, perhaps my sister does. But we agreed to "take turns" ... dad taped the dollar back together, and we went on our merry way, lesson learned. Still, I have wondered from time to time why my dad didn't just give us each our own change to carry. I mean ... we had change! Cold Coffee
SATURDAYS
I never knew anyone who worked as hard as my father. During this time he was a vendor, had his own stepvan, and delivered Table Talk Pies. He got up most days at about 4 or 5 am and hit the road early. I felt especially bad for him on winter days when it was 10 below or colder and he had to make deliveries in snowy, freezing conditions. He'd be out working all day and not get home until well after dark. He'd come in out of the cold, eat dinner, lay on the couch and fall asleep. As I watched him snoring loudly, I remember feeling a mixture of sympathy and admiration.
When springtime came and the grass was green, I woke up one Saturday morning with a "plan." I was going to mow the lawns, wash the car, and clean his office; and I was going to get it all done before he got home. I'd have to hurry because Saturday was his "short day" and he usually pulled into the driveway by mid afternoon. As my siblings watched Fat Albert, I snuck outside and started up the mower. It took a couple hours, but the lawns looked mighty nice when I was finished.
Then I got busy washing the car. I hosed it, scrubbed it, rinsed it, dried it, and windexed the windows. I detailed the inside and made the dash and seats all nice and shiny. I remember wishing the car wasn't quite so big! It took a couple of hours, but it looked brand new.
Mom called me in for lunch and I panicked because I wanted to get the office cleaned before dad got home. "What if he gets home earlier today?" I thought. "That would just be my luck!" I gulped down my sandwich and headed down cellar to his office in the corner. What a challenge! Sales receipts everywhere, dirty coffee cups, cigarette butts, overflowing trash cans. I didn't know where to start! But with time and patience, I got it done, and he still wasn'tt home yet. I was in the clear ... the surprise was in tact! I said to my mom, "Don't you dare tell Dad! I want to see the surprise on his face!"
Well, Dad got home, walked in, and got busy talking with mom and getting ready for their Saturday date night. He didn't say a word about the lawns or the car. And, of course, he didn't even go downstairs to his office. "Well, darn," I thought. "This sure didn't work out the way I had hoped." I could tell my mom felt bad, but she honored our agreement and didn't say a word. They had a cocktail and left for their night out.
The next morning, Sunday, dad was up having coffee when I came downstairs. We all got ready for Church; and when we piled into the car, he said, "Who cleaned the car? It looks great!" "It was me," I said halfheartedly. It was supposed to be a "triple surprise" and he was just now noticing the car? Geez. My best laid plans were foiled! After we got home from Church, he got his yard clothes on and went outside. "Did you mow the lawns?" he asked me. "Yeah," I said. "Well, they look great. Thank you!" To which I mumbled, "You're welcome", got on my bike, and rode off. It wasn't until Monday night that he even noticed the office, and by then I had forgotten about it. "You cleaned my office too?" he asked. "Yeah" I said and started to walk away. "Hey, come here," he said. " Did you do all of this on Saturday?" "Yeah" I said. "Well, you sure were a busy girl, and I appreciate it very much." That was it, no bells and whistles, no big expression of surprise on his face ... not what I had hoped for at all. Cold Coffee
But you know what ... the following Saturday, and many Saturdays after, whether alone or with my brother, I got up and did it all over again.
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