She was 6 or 7. It is early summer and she's back at the farm with her sister. She is standing in the middle of the dining room/sitting room. All the lights are off, and the only light is the late afternoon sun filtering through the trees and in the windows. The house is totally silent. She is alone.
Earlier that day, they had all gone to the little country church down by the creek. Afterwards they had come home for a traditional country Sunday lunch. Something happened over the dinner table. People began to yell and scream. The aunt and uncle first, she thinks. Then the cousin is yelling. Even the sister seems to be involved, although to a lesser degree. The little girl has no idea what the yelling is about, but somehow she is in trouble. Threats are made. "You can just stay home by yourself. We'll all go to the singing and leave you here. That will teach you." Teach her what?
Sometime later, after the dishes are washed and naps are over, she finds herself alone in the house. She stands perfectly still, as if rooted to the spot. They really did it. They left her all alone in the house, and went to the singing without her. What is she supposed to do? What is okay to do? How long will they be gone? If she moves will something bad happen? If she stays right here will they humiliate her when they come back?
In this house, it is never clear what the rules are. Some rules are fixed. "Do not get on the bed once it is made every morning." That one she is clear on, but others seem fluid. One day it is okay to do something, the next day it will get you in trouble and pain. Mistakes and accidents are viewed as malicious attempts to torment the aunt. Punishment is swift and severe. The cousin is even worse. Her mood turns on a dime. One minute she is happy and funny, and the next she is hateful and abusive.
The little girl stands as the panic seeps into her body. Something terrible is going to happen. She just doesn't know when, who or what. It will be bad and painful and she should have seen it coming and somehow avoided it.
They are singing all her favorite hymns at the afternoon church singing. The little girl loves to sing more than anything else in the world. But she isn't there. She doesn't get to sing. She is alone and begins to cry.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Saturday Poetry -- Pierre by Maurice Sendak
If you are not familiar with musical "Really Rosie" I highly recommend it. It is based on The Nutshell Library (1962) by Maurice Sendak, with music by Carole King. My kids LOVED the music and the books as young children. Since it's Sendak I think it holds up for adults as well. This is one of the songs from the show.
Pierre
[Prologue:]
There was once a boy named Pierre
Who only would say, I don't care!
Read his story, my friend, for you'll find
At the end that a suitable
Moral lies there
[Chapter I]
One day his mother said
When Pierre climbed out of bed
-Good morning, darling boy, you are my only joy
Pierre said-I don't care!
-What would you like to eat?
-I don't care!
-Some lovely cream of wheat?
-I don't care!
-Don't sit backwards in your chair
-I don't care!
-Or pour syrup on your hair
-I don't care!
-You are acting like a clown
-I don't care!
-And we have to go to town
-I don't care!
-Don't you want to come, my dear?
-I don't care!
-Would you rather stay right here?
-I don't care!
So his mother left him there
[Chapter II]
His father said-Get off your head
Or I will march you up to bed!
Pierre said-I don't care!
-I would think that you could see -
-I don't care!
-Your head is where your feet should be!
-I don't care!
-If you keep standing upside down -
-I don't care!
-We'll never get to town
-I don't care!
-If only you would say, I care
-I don't care!
-I'd let you fold the folding chair
-I don't care!
So his parents left him there
They didn't take him anywhere
[Chapter III]
Now as the night began to fall
A hungry lion paid a call
He looked Pierre right in the eye
And asked him if he'd like to die
Pierre said-I don't care!
-I can eat you, don't you see?
-I don't care!
-And you will be inside of me
-I don't care!
-Then you will never have to bother -
-I don't care!
-With a mother and a father
-I don't care!
-Is that all you have to say?
-I don't care!
-Then I'll eat you, if I may
-I don't care!
So the lion ate Pierre
[Chapter IV]
Arriving home at six o'clock
His parents had a dreadful shock!
They found the lion sick in bed and cried
-Pierre is surely dead!
They pulled the lion by the hair
They hit him with the folding chair
His mother asked-Where is Pierre?
The lion answered-I don't care!
His father said-Pierre's in there!
[Chapter V]
They rushed the lion into town
The doctor shook him up and down
And when the lion gave a roar
Pierre fell out upon the floor
He rubbed his eyes and scratched his head
And laughed because he wasn't dead
His mother cried and held him tight
His father asked-Are you allright?
Pierre said-I am feeling fine
Please take me home, it's half past nine
The lion said-If you would care
To climb on me, I'll take you there
Then everyone looked at Pierre
Who shouted-Yes, indeed, I care!
The lion took them home to rest
And stayed on as a weekend guest
The moral of Pierre is: CARE!
There was once a boy named Pierre
Who only would say, I don't care!
Read his story, my friend, for you'll find
At the end that a suitable
Moral lies there
[Chapter I]
One day his mother said
When Pierre climbed out of bed
-Good morning, darling boy, you are my only joy
Pierre said-I don't care!
-What would you like to eat?
-I don't care!
-Some lovely cream of wheat?
-I don't care!
-Don't sit backwards in your chair
-I don't care!
-Or pour syrup on your hair
-I don't care!
-You are acting like a clown
-I don't care!
-And we have to go to town
-I don't care!
-Don't you want to come, my dear?
-I don't care!
-Would you rather stay right here?
-I don't care!
So his mother left him there
[Chapter II]
His father said-Get off your head
Or I will march you up to bed!
Pierre said-I don't care!
-I would think that you could see -
-I don't care!
-Your head is where your feet should be!
-I don't care!
-If you keep standing upside down -
-I don't care!
-We'll never get to town
-I don't care!
-If only you would say, I care
-I don't care!
-I'd let you fold the folding chair
-I don't care!
So his parents left him there
They didn't take him anywhere
[Chapter III]
Now as the night began to fall
A hungry lion paid a call
He looked Pierre right in the eye
And asked him if he'd like to die
Pierre said-I don't care!
-I can eat you, don't you see?
-I don't care!
-And you will be inside of me
-I don't care!
-Then you will never have to bother -
-I don't care!
-With a mother and a father
-I don't care!
-Is that all you have to say?
-I don't care!
-Then I'll eat you, if I may
-I don't care!
So the lion ate Pierre
[Chapter IV]
Arriving home at six o'clock
His parents had a dreadful shock!
They found the lion sick in bed and cried
-Pierre is surely dead!
They pulled the lion by the hair
They hit him with the folding chair
His mother asked-Where is Pierre?
The lion answered-I don't care!
His father said-Pierre's in there!
[Chapter V]
They rushed the lion into town
The doctor shook him up and down
And when the lion gave a roar
Pierre fell out upon the floor
He rubbed his eyes and scratched his head
And laughed because he wasn't dead
His mother cried and held him tight
His father asked-Are you allright?
Pierre said-I am feeling fine
Please take me home, it's half past nine
The lion said-If you would care
To climb on me, I'll take you there
Then everyone looked at Pierre
Who shouted-Yes, indeed, I care!
The lion took them home to rest
And stayed on as a weekend guest
The moral of Pierre is: CARE!
Friday, January 14, 2011
The New Bathtub!
I got to christen the new bathtub last night.
Need I say more!?!
Get more Feel Good Friday @ The Girl Next Door Grows Up.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Thankful Thursday -- January 13, 2011
Today I am thankful for . . .
1. Being able to get my head back on straight.
I had a bit of a setback this week, but things
are looking up again.
I had a bit of a setback this week, but things
are looking up again.
2. Friends who lift me up to God our Father.
It is such a blessing to be able to call on others
when the pain is too great to handle by myself.
It is such a blessing to be able to call on others
when the pain is too great to handle by myself.
3. The blogging universe for allowing a place to voice my
feelings and frustrations.
I do better expressing myself in writing
than speaking as it gives me time to think
things through. Thanks to those of you
who read, and an extra helping of thanks to those
who post comments. It really does help.
I do better expressing myself in writing
than speaking as it gives me time to think
things through. Thanks to those of you
who read, and an extra helping of thanks to those
who post comments. It really does help.
4. Realizations regarding truth, brainwashing,
twisted thinking, etc.
twisted thinking, etc.
5. My dh for continuing to stand by me.
They were also to stand every morning to thank and praise the LORD. They were to do the same in the evening . . .
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
The Cousin
(Warning: Adult content)
When I was a little girl, maybe 4 or 5, my sister and I used to go and visit an aunt, uncle and cousin in the country. We went to stay on their farm. It was supposed to be fun. It wasn't.
My uncle ran the farm, but was also a truck driver, so he was gone a lot of the time. My aunt was Scottish. How a woman from Scotland wound up married to a farmer in rural Tennessee I've never known. She was harsh and abrupt -- totally different from my other relatives. They had one child -- a daughter. In truth they were my great aunt and uncle, and she was my second cousin, but because of our ages . . . well you get the idea. She was 5 years older than I and 2 years older than my sister. Since she was an only child, we were intended to be her playmates, while the benefit for us was getting to spend time on the farm. City cousins and country cousin.
The primary memories of these times, which span perhaps 5 years, are horrific. The expectation was something of a cross between Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm and Charlotte's Web, but the reality was completely different. Even all these years later, as I sit and type these words, I feel my breathing quicken, my chest tightens, as do the muscles in my shoulders and abdomen. An ache begins low in my belly, and bile begins to creep up my throat. The headache begins as my hands start to shake.
The desire as always, is to escape. To get away from the events, the memories, the sensations. And yet I am driven to tell the stories.
Time is fluid in memory, and perhaps especially so in the memories of the very young. I can't tell you which episode occurred first or last. There is no scale to rate which was the worst, or for that matter the least painful. In truth there are only flashes, which over time have been pieced together to form a sort of timeline. Early on there is the suggestion of game to be played. It will be fun she says, or at least implies. But it's not. It is scary, painful, shameful and degrading. She touches me and makes me touch her. I don't want to, but I don't know how to make it stop.
Over time things escalate. It's interesting to me that when I sit down to write it all out, I invariably find myself rushing through it. Part of me wants to look at each incident and get it sorted out. But another part of me wants to move past or through it as quickly as possible. Which is better? Hard to know.
Later on there will be incidents in the chicken coop, the barn, the pig pen. More things will happen in her bedroom and the den. Where was my sister? Where was my aunt? How is it that no one knew? There will be soiled clothes (vomit, blood, whiskey, excrement). I will be reprimanded by her mother for creating extra work. My sister will later confirm that she remembers episodes of sickness, and yet no one ever intervened to say something is not right here. How is that possible?
I have never been able to put the episodes in chronological order. No one else seems troubled by this, but it eats at me. If indeed all these things happened, why can't I organize them correctly?
1. The game in bedroom.
2. The cat on the carport and later the swingset where she strangled it.
3. The box of small skulls.
4. The threat of being drowned in the well.
5. The Jack Daniels pouring down my throat as I am forced to hold a pistol.
6. The purse strap that strangles me.
7. The broom handle she uses to rape me.
8. The incident in the barn that involved much planning and time to be executed.
9. The episode at my grandmother's house with the scissors and the buttonhook.
10. The final (I think) episode in my own bedroom while my sister slept in the same room.
How do I come to grips with these memories? How do I move on beyond them? The short answer is by the grace of God. The longer answer is prayer, hard work, time, therapy, and acceptance that the memories won't go away. That I'm not a bad person for not being able to "forget" about it all. That it's okay to need to think and talk about it. These recent memories have been triggered by recent news events: the shooting in Arizona, the suicide of the Princeton grad student. There will always be triggers, because we live in a fallen world. The only hope for peace and contentment is in the love of God, which He extends to us all.
When I was a little girl, maybe 4 or 5, my sister and I used to go and visit an aunt, uncle and cousin in the country. We went to stay on their farm. It was supposed to be fun. It wasn't.
My uncle ran the farm, but was also a truck driver, so he was gone a lot of the time. My aunt was Scottish. How a woman from Scotland wound up married to a farmer in rural Tennessee I've never known. She was harsh and abrupt -- totally different from my other relatives. They had one child -- a daughter. In truth they were my great aunt and uncle, and she was my second cousin, but because of our ages . . . well you get the idea. She was 5 years older than I and 2 years older than my sister. Since she was an only child, we were intended to be her playmates, while the benefit for us was getting to spend time on the farm. City cousins and country cousin.
The primary memories of these times, which span perhaps 5 years, are horrific. The expectation was something of a cross between Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm and Charlotte's Web, but the reality was completely different. Even all these years later, as I sit and type these words, I feel my breathing quicken, my chest tightens, as do the muscles in my shoulders and abdomen. An ache begins low in my belly, and bile begins to creep up my throat. The headache begins as my hands start to shake.
The desire as always, is to escape. To get away from the events, the memories, the sensations. And yet I am driven to tell the stories.
Time is fluid in memory, and perhaps especially so in the memories of the very young. I can't tell you which episode occurred first or last. There is no scale to rate which was the worst, or for that matter the least painful. In truth there are only flashes, which over time have been pieced together to form a sort of timeline. Early on there is the suggestion of game to be played. It will be fun she says, or at least implies. But it's not. It is scary, painful, shameful and degrading. She touches me and makes me touch her. I don't want to, but I don't know how to make it stop.
Over time things escalate. It's interesting to me that when I sit down to write it all out, I invariably find myself rushing through it. Part of me wants to look at each incident and get it sorted out. But another part of me wants to move past or through it as quickly as possible. Which is better? Hard to know.
Later on there will be incidents in the chicken coop, the barn, the pig pen. More things will happen in her bedroom and the den. Where was my sister? Where was my aunt? How is it that no one knew? There will be soiled clothes (vomit, blood, whiskey, excrement). I will be reprimanded by her mother for creating extra work. My sister will later confirm that she remembers episodes of sickness, and yet no one ever intervened to say something is not right here. How is that possible?
I have never been able to put the episodes in chronological order. No one else seems troubled by this, but it eats at me. If indeed all these things happened, why can't I organize them correctly?
1. The game in bedroom.
2. The cat on the carport and later the swingset where she strangled it.
3. The box of small skulls.
4. The threat of being drowned in the well.
5. The Jack Daniels pouring down my throat as I am forced to hold a pistol.
6. The purse strap that strangles me.
7. The broom handle she uses to rape me.
8. The incident in the barn that involved much planning and time to be executed.
9. The episode at my grandmother's house with the scissors and the buttonhook.
10. The final (I think) episode in my own bedroom while my sister slept in the same room.
How do I come to grips with these memories? How do I move on beyond them? The short answer is by the grace of God. The longer answer is prayer, hard work, time, therapy, and acceptance that the memories won't go away. That I'm not a bad person for not being able to "forget" about it all. That it's okay to need to think and talk about it. These recent memories have been triggered by recent news events: the shooting in Arizona, the suicide of the Princeton grad student. There will always be triggers, because we live in a fallen world. The only hope for peace and contentment is in the love of God, which He extends to us all.
The Simple Woman's Daybook -- January 11, 2011
FOR TODAY
Outside my window... it is snowy. We got over 3 inches on Sunday night and what little melted yesterday refroze into black ice over night.
I am thinking... that hibernating seems like a good idea on a day like this. I like the idea of sleeping until it gets warmer.
I am thankful for... my warm home; plenty of food to eat; warm clothes; a gas fire; and knowing my family is safe, warm and sound.
From the learning rooms... My son's school is the only school not going in late or completely closed. He is not amused.
From the kitchen... yesterday was a new recipe for Taco Soup. Tonight I think it will be Cranberry Chicken and steamed broccoli.
I am wearing... still in my robe and flannel jammies. It's yoga day, but I may have to take my father in law to the dentist this morning.
I am creating... lots of "beginnings". I keep starting projects and not being thrilled with them, so they get set aside while I start something else. Does anyone else have this problem?
I am going... to get a haircut today . . . I think. It all depends on the weather.
I am reading... The Girl Who Quit Swimming by Joshilyn Jackson.
I am hoping... for the "pretty" aspect of the snow to linger, but not the "problem" aspect.
I am hearing... little doggie paws and the furnace warming the house. That's about it, now that ds has taken his complaining and left for school.
Around the house... I see an end in sight to the bathroom renovation! The TOILET is back in the bathroom! Hallelujah! The contractor came last week to talk about the vanity and shelves. Dh got the beadboard up over the weekend. I see light at the end of the tunnel!
One of my favorite things... is doing nothing. I know right. There's so much I could be doing, but sometimes it is pleasant to sit by the fire and watch football, an old movie, or an old re-run, and just do nothing.
A few plans for the rest of the week... much depends on the weather, but small group for Beth Moore on Wednesday night, Precepts class on Thursday morning, date night on Friday, and maybe a welcome home/holiday party on Saturday.
Here is a picture for thought I am sharing...
This is the view from my sewing room door yesterday afternoon.
Over 3 inches of snow in less than 24 hours
(which is a lot for us!)
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