The Essential Question

A photo of one of the theater cards advertising the documentary Linda Ronstadt: The Sound of My Voice.

Last week I went to my local art-house film theater to see the documentary film Linda Ronstadt: The Sound of My Voice for the third time. Yes, I have seen this movie three times, and I thoroughly enjoyed it each time. The last time I saw a movie at a theater three times was the blockbuster Star Wars film, Return of the Jedi, in 1983. So you can see that this film really spoke to me.

Why did I love the movie so much? I have been a huge Linda Ronstadt fan since the 1970s, and count myself among the lucky concert goers who have seen her multiple times. The first time I saw Linda in concert was at the University of Tennessee’s Stokely Athletic Center on Saturday, November 5, 1977, during the tour she did for her eighth studio album Simple Dreams. The reason I know the date of the concert? I still have the ticket stub in my memorabilia binder.

The torn ticket stub for the Linda Ronstadt concert I saw on November 5, 1977, at Stokely Athletic Center on the University of Tennessee campus.

Funny how memories can be selective. I had always remembered seeing Linda Ronstadt when I was a student at UT. However, after studying the ticket stub carefully, I learned (1) I had a great seat on the 9th row (!), and (2) I gained admission via a student ticket for which I would have had to present a valid student activities card. The mystery here is that I was not a student at UT in 1977. I was an undergraduate student the year before, but in November 1977, I was 19 years old and working full-time at the university in the admissions office. Hmmmmm. Maybe whoever let me buy their Linda Ronstadt ticket also let me borrow their student activities card. I don’t remember; but I do remember that the concert was thrilling.

A photo of the reverse side of my husband’s copy of Linda Ronstadt’s second studio album Silk Purse.

When I saw the documentary directed by Rob Epstein (who has won two Academy Awards for Best Documentary Feature) and Jeffrey Friedman, I was reminded of Ronstadt’s powerhouse voice and phenomenal song choices that have been part of my life since I was a teenager. For the first time, however, I was able to feel as if I was spending time with her since she narrated a good bit of the movie. She told the story of her parents meeting for the first time when her father rode a horse up the steps of her mother’s sorority house. Her father had what Linda described as a “lovely baritone-tenor voice” which he used to serenade her mother beneath her window. Linda’s mother was educated, beautiful, and encouraged Linda, her third child out of four children, to follow her bliss and be an independent woman, even if her ambition did not include marriage. And Linda says she has never regretted that she never married.

Linda Ronstadt’s maternal grandfather Lloyd Copeman, Christmas 1916, at the age of 35.

Her mother’s father was the inventor Lloyd Copeman who invented the electric stove, the automatic toaster, the thermostat for Westinghouse, rubber ice cube trays, the pneumatic grease gun, a tamper-proof envelope, and a slew of other inventions. As Linda says in the movie, her grandfather was third to Thomas Edison in the 1950s in the number of useful inventions he patented. But during an 2013 interview with NPR she points out that her grandfather worked alone and that Edison had teams of men working with him. Although her maternal grandfather patented nearly 700 inventions and innovations, Linda said he was only intermittently wealthy since he spent much of his money trying to find a cure for his beloved wife’s Parkinson’s disease–the disease that Linda herself now suffers from.

The reverse side of my favorite Linda Ronstadt record Heart Like a Wheel, her fifth solo album.

Linda’s particular form of Parkinson’s disease, called Progressive Supranuclear Palsy (P.S.P.), has taken away most of her singing voice, caused excruciating back pain, required her to use a wheelchair to walk very far, and made it difficult for her to perform simple daily tasks. Sadly Linda has found her form of Parkinson’s is not improved by the use of traditional Parkinson’s medications such as dopamine.

Yet Ronstadt is not defined by her disease. She continues to define her life on her own terms just as she did throughout her more than forty-year-long musical career.

A section of a larger photo taken by photographer Jim Shea for the center spread of Linda’s Simple Dreams album in 1977.

Music was simply a way of life for Linda as she grew up and the range of music she heard in her home was wide. The family spoke English, but her father sang Mexican folk songs, so Linda grew up thinking that everyone spoke English but sang in Spanish. Her mother listened to Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, her sister loved country music, and one of her brothers was a featured vocalist in a nationally recognized boy’s choir. When she was a teenager she and two of her siblings sang together in a folk group in Tucson, Arizona, where she grew up, as Linda says, “on the last 10 acres of my grandfather’s farm.”

The inside cover of Linda’s 1976 album Hasten Down the Wind.

Linda did not get into the music business to be a star or to be the center of attention. She simply wanted to sing and make intricate harmonies with other singers. Some of the most electrifying harmonies she made were with her dear friend Emmylou Harris and their singing icon Dolly Parton. Together the three of them collaborated on the studio albums “Trio” (1987) and “Trio II” (1999).

Throughout her career, Linda wrestled with record company executives who wanted to confine her singing to what was the most commercially viable music to sell as many records as possible. In other words, her record company wanted her to continue making rock records that had made her internationally famous and had sold in the millions. Linda wanted to sing, could sing, and eventually did sing in more song genres (folk, country, rock, pop, opera, musical theater, Big Band standards, and Mexican folk songs or Canciones) than any popular singer has ever done. And despite the fears of her record company, she was successful at singing in all these genres.

A photo of my copy of Linda Ronstadt’s Prisoner in Disguise album, recorded in 1975 when I was a senior in high school.

Despite the debilitating version of the disease she has, Linda continues to enlarge our lives, not only through the startling range of her musical catalogue, but through her life story. She inspires by the example of her life: choosing to use her singing voice on the largest possible stage, choosing not to be defined by traditional female roles, speaking her mind, choosing not to be defined by the constraints of her disease, and inspiring others who have debilitating diseases.

At the end of the documentary, Linda distills the central question facing humanity to the simple words of a fellow Parkinson’s survivor who told her: “The question is not about life after death; the question is about life before death.”

Yes. We can beat each other up mentally and physically that only our beliefs are the correct ones. We can destroy each other’s sacred places and symbols. We can inprison people in concentration camps because they have a particular religious ancestry. We can consign human beings to slavery or second-class citizenship because they come from a different “tribe”, have a different color of skin, or speak a different language. We can argue until the cows come home about eternal life and which religion has the definitive answer to the pivotal question: Why are we here?

Linda Ronstadt’s life, her voice, her music, and the documentary about her extraordinary accomplishments inspire us to consider that what happens after we die is not our most important question. It is not whether we live after we die that is critical for us to know. The quintessential question is what we are doing with our lives now–before we are dead–that truly counts.

We can live our lives in a selfish vacuum, which is the example of our current national leader, or we can make a difference in the lives of others. For true happiness does not happen by staring constantly at our own navels and following our selfish whims down a rabbit hole. I have found I am the happiest when I share laughter, live my life with open arms, and take the risk to live passionately with at least two wheels on the ground. Sometimes four.

~ Anna – 10/6/2019

Posted in Autobiographical, Childhood, Courage, Creativity, Dolly Parton, Happiness, Music, Screen | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Attic of Our Lives

The cover of my grandmother Jerushia’s photo album featuring photos from the 1920s through the 1950s.

I thought I had gotten away from that long-ago house. You would think marrying when you are 18 years old would be enough to snap the thread, but I guess it is not so.

A few months ago I visited my adolescent self as I helped my mother clean out the home she had lived in for 49 years–the home I lived in for only six. The house with Mama’s beloved full-sized basement and large yard increasingly became a burden in her 83rd year, especially after she had a stroke a few years ago. She navigated ruthless steps in the front and treacherous steps from the washer and dryer in the basement to the living area. The journeys up and down had become perilous, and she was finally ready to call it quits on the house she loved.

My family moved into this house in 1970 when I was in the 7th grade. It was a newly constructed home in a small subdivision built quickly by a man whose name Daddy would use in vain many times as one thing after another needed fixing. Luckily in the early years, my grandfather was there to make everything work.

My room was painted blue, and my sister’s room was pink and both of our bedrooms had an extension phone with a loooonnnnnggggg cord. Yes, to those of you unfamiliar with the world of landline phones, the cat’s meow of the 1970s was having your own phone in your room, even if it was just an extension of the family phone line. The long cord allowed us the freedom to move around our rooms while we talked with our friends late into the night.

I am sure my sister Lisa was on the phone more than me because she had a boy friend every year she was in junior and senior high school. My time on the phone increased during my junior year of high school when I had three boy friends in succession–three months for each guy. My senior year Lisa could talk freely without negotiation with the blue room since my long-distance boy friend lived in Kentucky. It was Blue Moon of Kentucky for me because under no circumstances could I call him long distance and incur all those expensive long distance charges–another distinct difference from the call-virtually-anywhere-anytime-on-your-cell-phone capabilities of today.

After I married and left the bedroom that had been mine, Mama decided to store a huge, century-old baby bed in the middle of the room, making it difficult to clean out and pack. Inside the baby bed Mama had stacked gifts we had given her and Daddy as well as random flotsam and jetsam that was not needed anywhere in the house on a daily, weekly, or yearly basis.

Mamaw in the center with her girl friends Ida and Hettie, around 1925.

Basically my former bedroom had become the memorabilia room. Inside the chest of drawers that was once mine–now with broken drawers–was my grandmother’s photo album covering the years of her childhood, her courtship with Papaw, and of her children growing up. There were also photos of Mamaw with her childhood girl friends, her mother, and her siblings.

Mamaw (center) with her brother Clarence (left) and my grandfather Thomas (right), early 1930s, at the South Knoxville marble quarry.

There were a slew of photos with Mamaw with her brother Clarence who went away to World War II and never came back home–not because he died in the war, but because he decided he wanted to live in Washington DC with friends. I never met Clarence and family lore on his existence is slim. Recently Mama hinted there was another woman involved, from what she said I surmised that Clarence decided it was less embarrassing to live far away from home than to admit he was unfaithful and divorced the wife who waited for him while he was away serving his country. But in the 1940 census, I noticed that Clarence was already divorced before the U.S. got into the war, so his absence from his family after the war is a source of mystery and one of heartbreak for his family, especially his mother Madge. Perhaps the war simply changed him in ways he could not deal with around his family.

Also in the broken chest of drawers I found my diaries in a handwriting I did not recognize, written in a voice I do not recall. Could any version of me possibly have been so sheltered, so naive, and so worried about what her life would become without a boy to love her? Apparently so.

Mamaw: Jerushia Flementine Cunningham, very much her own person, around 1930.

The best part of the homeplace clean up was discovering Mamaw’s active and adorable early life. The photos show Mamaw surrounded by friends and family. And Papaw! What a striking young man he was with his soulful eyes and matinee-idol looks. One close-up photo of Papaw’s face looks like the silent film star Rudolph Valentino who, as Wikipedia states, caused “mass hysteria” among his many film fans and was a cultural phenomenon. The photo shows Mamaw with a small hat on her head and a big fever blister on her lower lip, but she is smiling enigmatically and seems not to have a care in the world. Though his given name was James Thomas and his friends called him Tom, Mamaw called him Thomas and he called her Boots. I never heard how she got that nickname.

During their courtship, a photo booth photo of Mamaw (Boots) with a big fever blister on her lip and Papaw (Thomas) with his soulful, matinee-idol eyes, 1932.

Mamaw’s family was very poor, living in what Mama describes as the chicken house at one point. The 1920 census notes that Mamaw was 7 years old and her father John Cunningham was a machine hand at a manufacturing company. A decade later, the 1930 census states that Mamaw’s father was a janitor with the city schools and that Mamaw, at the age of 17, worked as a thread clipper in an overall factory. Perhaps the overall factory could have been Levi-Strauss since the company had a textiles factory on Cherry Street in Knoxville until the 1980s.

My mother Arzelia, her sister Rheta, and their brother Bud with their Aunt Helen (Mamaw’s younger sister), around 1940.

Ten years later, the 1940 census–when Mamaw and Papaw had three small children at home–shows no income or assets for the family of five at all. The only indication of how they made a living is that they lived on a farm.

Mamaw (center) with her daughter (my mother) Arzelia, and her mother Madge, around 1940 in South Knoxville.

The 1940 census–with an innovation not found in the 1930 census–included a question for how many years of education each person completed. The education completed figures shown for my maternal grandparents and their families are bleak: Mamaw – 9th grade, Papaw – 8th grade, Mamaw’s father – 3rd grade, Mamaw’s mother – 6th grade, Mamaw’s brothers: 9th grade, Mamaw’s 17-year-old younger sister: 11th grade (perhaps still in school in 1940?), Papaw’s mother – 6th grade, and Papaw’s younger siblings – 7th or 8th grade.

Papaw, young and virile, when he worked as a janitor at Perkins School, early 1930s. The handwritten comments on the photos were made by Mamaw.

My mother tells me that Papaw worked as a laborer in South Knoxville’s marble mill and many of the photos in my grandmother’s photo album were indeed taken at the marble quarry. Papaw worked as a janitor in an elementary school when my grandparents were courting, and he was the head janitor at my school when I was in junior high.

My grandfather could fix anything. When the school’s boiler was not working in the winter, and we all (students, teachers, and administrators alike) went around in our coats without heat, it was my grandfather who fixed the problem. At basketball games and football games Papaw sold the tickets. At halftime of basketball games, Papaw cleaned the gym flour of debris in preparation for the second half. I was only in school for a few years before Papaw retired from working for the city schools, and in the years after I mourned not seeing him in the halls. I was always so proud of him.

Daddy’s New York Yankees baseball cap.

The hardest moments of cleaning out my parents’ home were finding my deceased father’s favorite things: his beloved New York Yankees jacket, his Yankees baseball cap, his basketball signed by the University of Tennessee’s legendary Lady Vol Coach Pat Summitt, and a framed copy of Daddy on the front page of the Knoxville paper looking at Lady Vol T-shirts just before the team was due to win their 880th game in 2005.

Daddy was one of the Lady Vols most devoted fans. For years Daddy and Mama went to every home game with my son Justin in tow. They traveled with the Lady Vols to Europe, Alaska, and Hawaii, as well as to many of the regional and national tournament games.

The front page of the Knoxville News-Sentinel featuring Daddy checking out Lady Vol T-shirts just before the Lady Vols were expected to get their 880th win, March 28, 2005.

Season tickets, you bet, ba-bay. Daddy had four tickets behind the basketball goal–yes, you heard me right–behind the basketball goal. My husband Kurt and I sat with my parents beside the University of Tennessee pep band and had a riotous time jumping around, slapping each other’s hands, hugging, and watching the Lady Vols’ mascot Smokey ride his plastic sled down every step of the arena in a fan-hysteria-causing slalom.

Daddy’s dream was to have tickets on the side of the basketball arena where the donors were seated, so my husband Kurt and I made significant (for us) gifts to the university in order for Daddy to have four season tickets near mid court. Oh, the days of wine and roses–and glory when nearly every year we won a national championship. We gloriously celebrated each win (and amazing play) and lamented each loss right there with Daddy.

Mama, me, Daddy, and my son Justin around 2005.

Something about seeing Daddy’s things without Daddy in them broke something inside me that I have not quite been able to fix ever since. That, and reading my diaries written in a handwriting I do not recognize, feeling ever so sorry for the young naive girl I was who had hopes of marrying just one time, having children, rearing them together with her husband, and living happily ever after.

My life has not been that simple. I left two unhappy marriages before I found the third time was charm, as people say where I come from. Although I have struggled to find my way in the wake of Daddy’s absence–let’s face it, it was my Daddy who gave me full license to be me and encouraged me to run with it–I live by the values he taught me. When I am troubled, I pray to him and my Mamaw Jerushia and my grandmother Darcus to help me find my way.

I draw strength from Mamaw and her joyous, jolly, nurturing spirit. My grandmother Darcus died when Daddy was only 4 months old so none of our family ever met her. Only recently, through our genealogical research, my husband and I were able to find some of her cousins in Utah. These beautiful women were kind enough to share with me a few photos of my grandmother and an abundance of stories about her that were handed down from their parents and grandparents.

I learned that through my grandmother Darcus Montgomery’s line of strong women, I have my independent spirit, my love of reading, and my sense of style. Last year one of my dear Montgomery cousins gave me the greatest treasure: an original photo of my father’s parents, probably on their wedding day, shown below. Now finally I have one item that was once my paternal grandmother’s.

My beloved grandmother Darcus Nickaline Montgomery, probably on her wedding day to Daddy’s father Hodge, 1934.

And of course, Daddy, Darcus’s only child, is my touchstone. He loved the hit Little Things Mean A Lot, by Kitty Kallen, that reached number one on the Billboard chart in 1954. Throughout our childhood, my sister and I (loudly) sang to Daddy’s 45 rpm recording of it–and of course, we knew, and still know, every word by heart.

Little Things Mean A Lot

Blow me a kiss from across the room
Say I look nice when I’m not
Touch my hair as you pass my chair
Little things mean a lot

Give me your arm as we cross the street
Call me at six on the dot
A line a day when you’re far away
Little things mean a lot

Don’t have to buy me diamonds and pearls
Champagne, sables or such
I never cared much for diamonds and pearls
‘Cause honestly honey, they just cost money

Give me your hand when I’ve lost the way
Give me your shoulder to cry on
Whether the day is bright or gray 
Give me your heart to rely on

Send me the warmth of a secret smile 
To show me you haven’t forgot
For always and ever, now and forever
Little things mean a lot

Writers: CARL STUTZ (music), EDITH LINDEMAN CALISCH (lyrics)
Copyright: Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC 

Here’s to you my dear ones: Daddy, Darcus, and Mamaw. May I continue to live honestly and proudly in the company of your strength and spirit.

~ Anna – 9/30/2019

Posted in Autobiographical, Childhood, Courage, Family, Home, Knoxville, Love, Music, Screen, Women, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

A Man of Value

This morning a watched a clip from a recent interview CNN’s Anderson Cooper had with Stephen Colbert of CBS’s The Late Show talk show. In the interview, Colbert and Cooper talked about their grief over the loss of their fathers when they were only 10 years old. Colbert‘s father and two older brothers died in a plane crash on September 11, 1974. And Cooper lost his father when he was 10 years old, and a few months ago, lost his mother, Gloria Vanderbilt, as well. Seeing this beautifully realized interview, of course, reminded me of the loss of my own father nearly three years ago.

My Daddy, looking soooo good looking, in 1956 on his honeymoon with Mama.

When Daddy died on December 3, 2016, I was not a child, thank heaven, but I think I understand some of the feelings they shared of their childhood grief because I feel similarly about the loss of my father: that nothing will ever be the same, that things do not matter in the same way they did before, and that the universe is aligned differently now for me after Daddy’s death. Curiously I also feel he’s close to me from time to time, and I pray to him when I need strength. 

At dinner last night Kurt and I were talking about Daddy‘s last Thanksgiving. Daddy had broken his hip and was in a rehabilitation center trying to regain his strength. We got permission to bring Thanksgiving lunch to him in the rehabilitation center’s cafeteria which was quiet and abandoned from its usual clatter of activity because the staff were away sharing Thanksgiving with their families. Daddy had bedsores and was in a good deal of pain, but the rehab folks had given him a shot so when he came downstairs in his wheelchair he seemed strong and very happy. In addition to a turkery and all the trimmings, we brought a birthday cake for Tracy, Justin’s wife, since we were celebrating her birthday as well as Thanksgiving. We all laughed as daddy ate the icing off the bottom of the birthday candles. It was such an ever-so-daddy moment! 

Daddy eating the icing off the candles on our daughter-in-law Tracy’s birthday cake, with Mama in the background.

Kurt had set up a tripod to get a group shot of all of us on that Thanksgiving day. And I am so grateful that he did. The photo shows daddy holding hands with Kurt (who he adored) and showing his great joy and happiness for just being with his family. On December 3, a few days later he died with a sudden heart attack, and I sat beside his bed at the rehab center touching him repeatedly and trying to say goodbye.

When I see these photos from Daddy‘s last Thanksgiving, I am ever so grateful to be reminded of his beautiful spirit. I pray to him now in my hours of need and feel him close to me. I call out to the part of me that came from him so I can find the strength to live passionately as Daddy did.

Our family sharing Thanksgiving together in November 2016 at Daddy’s rehabilitation center.

Colbert says that grief is a gift because we can understand the pain in other people and reach out to them because of our own grief. I hear the truth in that. There is a fragile beauty in grief that reminds me of the sweet and terrible connections of life that I must never take for granted. Singing, laughing, comforting, encouraging, loving.

And yes, crying. I do hate to cry, and I have been doing too much of that the last few months as we moved Mama from the family home where she lived for 49 years to a condo which is a better home for her to management now. Cleaning out the house reminded me of Daddy in all his glorious complexity and eccentricity. I know I am very much like him and not only in my family’s gastrointestinal issues!

Two Claire Austin white roses in my kitchen window.

Daddy did not make a great deal of money in his life, in fact he lost jobs throughout my childhood–probably from being his own obstinate, couldn’t-stand-to-be-disagreed-with self. When I was a senior in high school, he told me clearly that he did not have the money to help me with college. But when I was able to go to school part-time while working full-time at the University of Tennessee, he was my greatest cheerleader.

Daddy and Mama a few years before they married. This photo was probably taken in 1953.

He encouraged me to be myself and he lived long enough to see me do just that, for which I am grateful. How do I live without him? I take refuge in the small, beauty things of life; I open my arms fully to sing passionately and share my joy for music when I get the chance; I tell Daddy’s story; and I doubly love my grandchildren: for myself and also for Daddy. My father never got to meet his great-grandchildren who were born in 2017 and 2019, but I know he would be ovecome with their bright eyes, their gorgeous, innocent faces that are full of joy and wisdom that we adults have too often forgotten or left behind.

Kurt and I were at a car dealership this weekend for a test drive to replace my 11- year-old Honda Accord. To my surprise, this dealership, Toyota of Knoxville, has quotes from politicians, scientist, and writers framed on their wall. Many of them speak directly to our times–and to all times–but this one reminded me of Daddy.

A photo of a framed quote on the wall of one of our local car dealerships, Toyota of Knoxville. Note the reflection of the car’s wheel in the upper right-hand corner.

Yes, Einstein knew a thing or two what was important in life. Daddy was a man of value, and I am ever-so proud to be his daughter carrying on the tradition of placing values above riches, caring more about people than things. Here’s to Daddy, Roy Rotha Allen, formerly of Knoxville, Tennessee, who now lives large and free in my memory.

~ Anna — 8/26/2019

Posted in Autobiographical, Beauty, Blooming, Childhood, Creativity, Dementia, Family, Freedom, Happiness, Ideas, Knoxville, Love, Music, Tribute, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Coming Home to Myself

For the ones who had a notion,
A notion deep inside,
That it ain’t no sin to be glad you’re alive . . .

Bruce Springsteen, “Badlands”, 1977

A few months before Bruce Springsteen wrote his elegaic anthem “Badlands”, I left my parents’ home, two weeks shy of 19, to marry a man I barely knew. When Bruce wrote this song, he was fighting his record company and personal management for release from a contract that took away ownership of his music and stifled his creative freedom. I was metaphorically on that same train, wanting to take the reins of my life and escape the strictures of growing up poor within the boundaries of my mother’s imagination.

The sky over Mama’s crape myrtles.

In the year that followed, Bruce and I achieved our objectives: he produced what I believe to be his best album, “Darkness on the Edge of Town”. And I escaped my childhood home. Frying pan into the fire, actually, since the man I married was emotionally abusive, but it was a beginning, and I was on my way.

At least one of my parents lived in my South Knoxville childhood home for the next 49 years. Daddy died in 2016 after suffering from the mental and physical effects of dementia, but Mama was still adamant to continue living in their home. My sister and I feared Mama would never agree to an easier living option. But a few weeks ago, the impossible occurred when my sister called to say Mama had finally admitted the burden of keeping up her house–by herself, at the age of 83–had become too much.

Luck was in our favor when we heard that a condo was coming available just a stone’s throw from Mama’s house. Lickety-split we were clearing out 50 years–and in some ways, we were clearing out a century’s worth–of our family’s collection of dust and memories.

With the installation stickers still attached, here is the Jacuzzi tub Daddy had installed in the basement beside Mama’s washer and dryer.

My mother was a pack rat, and Daddy had some difficult years near the end of his life when he collected things for no discernible reason–such as a Jacuzzi-type tub he put in the basement near Mama’s washer and dryer. Inexplicable also was an exercise bike that looks as if Daddy got it second hand. Let me just state the obvious: neither one of these items were ever used by either of my parents.

Among all the detritus of the upstairs and the basement of the house were treasures I had never seen. The most amazing find was my grandmother Jerushia’s photo album which was filled with snapshots from the 1920s, ’30s, and ’40s. This album included photos of Mamaw’s childhood, her courtship with Papaw, and snapshots of their three children: James Thomas (Bud), Arzelia (Mama), and Rheta. Mamaw had never shown us, her grandchildren, any of these photos. Perhaps she thought these glimpses of her life when she was young were irrelevant to her later life of cooking three meals a day, washing and ironing Papaw and Uncle Bud’s clothes, breaking green beans from the garden, and attending church three or four times a week.

When I was small, Mamaw still had a party line phone that she shared with another family or two. Thus, when Mamaw was having a conversation with one of her friends from church, she could be interrupted or overheard by her neighbors. If she needed to use the phone, she sometimes had to ask these folks to please get off the line so she could make a call. People were very much into each other’s business then, gossiping about who was doing what to whom. It was a very small world with small-town values.

Mamaw (center) with her girl friends Ida and Lettie, late 1920s.

Yet the photos show that Mamaw flourished in it when she was young, with her friends and family around. Papaw called Mamaw, Boots, and that is the name she uses for herself most often in the front of her photo album. Occasionally she used her initials, or her first name, but usually she proudly used Papaw’s chosen name for her. How did she earn that name? Mama doesn’t know, so neither do I.

As a young man Papaw worked at the marble mill in South Knoxville and many of the photos in Mamaw’s album were taken at the mill. In the basement I found a small rectangular slab of marble honed to a smooth finish. I imagine Papaw probably brought it home for Mamaw. They were both dirt poor, so perhaps this was one of his first gifts to her.

Here are my grandparents Jerushia (he affectionately called her Boots) and Thomas around 1931. In this photo booth shot, Mamaw has a big fever blister and a direct stare that does not reflect her rollicking sense of humor. Papaw has movie-star-quality eyes to swim in.

Who knew Papaw was ever so young and good-looking as in a photo of the two of them that Mamaw had in a tiny frame. It was taken in a photo booth and is the only photo that shows a close-up view of their faces: Mamaw with a good-sized fever blister on her lip and Papaw with hynotically beautiful eyes.

There are no photos of their wedding in 1932, but plenty of the resulting children: the first child, my Uncle Bud who was born with one leg shorter than the other and a pronounced speech impediment. The doctor wanted to give up on him straight away, but Mamaw wouldn’t hear of it. My mother, the middle child, came along a year and a half later, followed by my Aunt Rheta, the youngest, a few years later.

Mama looking ever so fetching in her graduation dress, 1954.

When Mama and my husband Kurt were cleaning out the basement, they found a tiny New Testament Bible that I was given in the 4th grade. My parents named me Anna Marie, that’s what I was called, and that was the name written in the front of the Bible. However, when I was in the 6th grade, I decided I wanted to be called Anna. Perhaps I thought a one-word name was more grown up. I could only smile when I saw how my elementary-school self had marked out my middle name on the Bible’s “Presented to” page. In the back of the Bible, I had written beside the Serenity Prayer that I wanted to be a writer. For the life of me, I cannot remember wanting to be a writer from such a young age. Although I confided the information in a postscript to myself, I do love how I phrased it, “For I want to be a writer!”

Beside the serenity prayer, I confided that I wanted to be a writer.

I wanna find one face that ain’t looking through me
I wanna find one place,
I wanna spit in the face of these badlands.

Bruce Springsteen, “Badlands”, 1977

In the bedroom that used to be mine, I found one of my high school diaries in a chest of drawers. I looked at the scrawl and couldn’t believe it was my handwriting. Nor did I recognize the girl that wrote the words. I had written about a young man I met in Kentucky when our church youth group went to Prestonsburg, near the West Virginia border, to hold Vacation Bible School classes for the children of coal mining families. I fondly recall the children we met there who were wonderfully sweet. We held our Bible School classes in a small building near their homes beside the muddy, unpaved hollers that ran up the hillsides–just as Loretta Lynn sang about. I never forgot the strange juxtaposition of ran-down shacks, each with its collection of old appliances and rusting car pieces, but nearly always a shiny, expensive-looking car or truck beside it.

The young man I met in Prestonsburg, named Dell, was the Baptist preacher’s son, unlike any other preacher’s son I have ever met. And yes, I would go on to date another preacher’s son latter in my life. But this young man was a gentleman, the quarterback of his high school football team, the most popular guy in his school, but he was inexplicably a sweet, humble guy who really liked me. That is, the me that spent years not dating because I was considered too brainy. And there was the guy who broke up with me because I was too religious. Good points taken on both accounts. At that time I was too religious and I did have my head in a book as often as I could get away with.

A framed front page of the Knoxville News Sentinel, showing Daddy trying on Lady Vols shirt after one of the Lady Vols’ national championships.

The preacher’s son and I wrote fervent letters back and forth for awhile. My family went up to meet his family, and we saw him play a football game. I dreamed of marrying him, of course. Because my family was so poor and I was 7th in class, I had been given a full scholarship to Berea College in Kentucky, and Dell wanted to be an engineer and attend Eastern or Western Kentucky University, I cannot now recall which.

But it was not to be. I had remembered receiving a “Dear Jane” letter, but forgotten it was because he had found someone else: that he had begun dating the minister of music’s daughter. And with that dream shattered I did not pursue my education at Berea College where I could have received one of the best educations any young, poor girl could have had. What a loss! I stayed in Knoxville, had two scholarships to the University of Tennessee, lived at home, made no friends as a commuting students, and dropped out of school after a year. At my first job I met a divorced guy who had some anger issues, married him after three months, and escaped my childhood home. From the frying pan, into the fire.

A stained-glass star I found in the window of what was my bedroom during high school.

Besides the birth of our son Justin in 1980, my first husband gave me one other gift that has stuck with me for all these years: a love for Bruce Springsteen’s early music. I have lived many years in that darkness on the edge of town. I have ended many days proving it all night. I have sucked the marrow out of many long nights and days of yearning to live freer than my girl nerd self (who worried too much about what other people thought) ever really could.

I found pieces of that girl scattered throughout my parents’ house. In some ways I was a stranger to my younger self. And I became a stranger to myself indeed, full stop, as I cleaned out my parents’ home. It was inconceivable to me that all their years together had become dust, a spider in the tub downstairs, mothballs in the upstairs closets, empty plant containers in the outside shed, no basketball net on Daddy’s basketball goal.

And I certainly can’t say I have the same faith I had as a teenager, for myself or my country. These days are full of more hatred and division than I have ever experienced in my life–an America I never thought I’d live in.

Poor man wanna be rich
Rich man wanna be king,
And a king ain’t satisfied,
till he rules everything.

Bruce Springsteen, “Badlands”

It would be encouraging to think we could pause long enough from hatred and division just as the Union and Confederate soldiers did when the soldiers would sing their battle songs the night before battles. Many times they would be on opposite banks of a river, with the Union soldiers singing “Hail, Columbia”, and the Confederate soldiers singing “Dixie” (or as some of them called it, “Look Away”). After the military bands on each side of the river piped down, a soldier on one side or the other would begin singing “Home, Sweet Home”.

Dear Sister, a song by Claire Lynch, written from the letters of a young Confederate soldier from Alabama to his sister Lucinda, was my first hearing of this bit of beautiful reconciliation. It brought tears to my eyes when I first heard that the Civil War soldiers from opposing sides often would sing together before battles. Songs about home. A longing for home. And their loved ones.

This could be my last letter,
I may never see the cotton fields of home again
I miss you, Dear Sister,
Tonight I never felt so all alone

And the fog was so thick that the Stone’s River stars
Could scarcely invade the dread and the dark
And all that I could see when I closed my eyes to dream
Was home, sweet home.

In the camps of Round Forest
the midnight coals were glowing through the haze
The Union boys sang Hail Columbia then
we sang Look Away, Look away
Then a hush in the rain and there rose a sweet refrain
In the dark before dawn, instead of battle songs
The enemy and we all sang a melody
Of home, sweet home.

So if this is my last letter
and I never see the cotton fields of home again
If I fall here at Stone’s River
I know that God will bear away my soul
to be with him

And I’ll wait for you there where all is bright and fair
Where the light of his face outshines the blue and gray
Where all of humankind, yes, every man will find
His home, sweet home.

Claire Lynch, “Dear Sister”

When Daddy was in the hospital and going downhill, my husband and I decided to travel to Virginia in search of Daddy’s mother’s grave in Carroll County. Daddy’s mother died when he was 4 months old, so he never knew her. And Daddy was not able during his lifetime to see a photo of her.

We did not have much to go on. Kurt and I found ourselves in a fenced-in area in the middle of a cow pasture where we did not find my grandmother’s grave. Instead we found the grave of one of my Montgomery relatives who fought for the Confederacy surrounded by a few of his family. On that trip we also found out my great-great grandfather fought for the Confederacy as well. I am proud that my forebears fought for what they believed at a time of great division in our country. I wish there were more I could do now to save our country from a leader who fans racial tensions that take us back to the Civil War days. Must we keep refighting past hatreds?

During our Virginia trip after searching through four Montgomery family cemeteries, we finally found the right one and were able to come home to Knoxville and show Daddy photos of his mother’s grave–and the graves of her family.

A few years after Daddy died, Kurt and I visited my cousin Linda in Salt Lake City, Utah, and she gave me the first photo anyone in my family had ever seen of my dear grandmother Darcas Nickaline Montgomery Allen. Oh, so long dead she was, but so lovely. I look a lot like that young woman who died at the age of 31 giving birth to Daddy. So many dreams she had of having her own family. She did not live to see the family she gave birth to, but because of her, Daddy was born, and my sister Lisa and me, and our children and their children.

My dear sweet grandmother Darcas Montgomery just after she married Daddy’s father Hodge in 1934. Daddy was born in April 1935, and in August 1935 she died.

In many ways I have nothing in common with the girl that lived in my parents’ house some 40 years ago. But I am indeed the girl that had a notion deep inside that it ain’t no sin to be glad you’re alive. And for my Daddy who encouraged me to be that girl, and my dear grandmother Darcas who gave Daddy and me life:

I believe in the love that you gave me,
I believe in the hope that can save me,
I believe in the faith
and I pray, that someday it may raise me
Above these badlands.

Bruce Springsteen, “Badlands”

~ Anna — 7/31/2019

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The Day the Music Lived

A long long time ago
I can still remember how
That music used to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they’d be happy for a while

But February made me shiver
With every paper I’d deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn’t take one more step

I can’t remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
Something touched me deep inside
The day the music died
So

Bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die

“American Pie” – Don McLean (1971)
Here I am in 1972, the year “American Pie” was released.

When I first heard Don McLean’s American Pie, I was in the 8th grade. This was the time in my life when everyone seemed older and wiser than my own awkward, not-yet-grown-into-my-body self. Maybe since I grew up listening to Daddy’s 1950s-era, 45-rpm records, I was just old enough to understand the loss of great musicians in plane crashes as well as the loss of innocence as we grow up.

With its over eight glorious minutes of rollicking storytelling, American Pie was probably the only song to hit number one on the charts with that length. Don McLean effortlessly captures what it’s like to be young and hit between the eyes by rock-and-roll. Then to learn about the death of one its most stellar visionaries, Buddy Holly, in February 1959 at the too-young age of 22. The opening lines of American Pie refer Holly’s widowed bride, Maria Elena Santiago-Holly, who did not attend his funeral because she had just miscarried their first child.

Holly never saw the 1960s, but his records did. He was such a prolific songwriter and spent so much time in the studio recording them, that his record company was able to continue to release his songs throughout the ’60s. What an innovator he was as he is credited with establishing the quintessential lineup of a rock band: two guitars, a bass, and a drum kit. He pioneered multi-track recording and influenced musicians who came after him such as the Beatles, Bob Dylan, Elton John, the Everly Brothers, the Rolling Stones, Bruce Springsteen, and countless others.

Buddy Holly in the recording studio. Photo copyright, The Guardian.

I was reminded of Buddy Holly a few weeks ago when I read The Day the Music Burned, a New York Times Magazine investigative article chronicling the loss of Buddy Holly’s master tapes in a 2011 fire of the warehouse on a movie-studio lot where the archival recordings were stored.

And not just Buddy Holly’s master recordings were lost, but an enormous treasure-trove of other artists’ master recordings including: Elton John, Ella Fitzgerald, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Bing Crosby, Judy Garland, and Billie Holliday’s recordings for Decca. Also lost were masters by Etta James, Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Ray Charles, Chuck Berry, Eric Clapton, REM, No Doubt, Sheryl Crow, Nirvana, the Eagles, the Police, Sting, Janet Jackson, George Strait, Aerosmith, the Carpenters, Gladys Knight and the Pips, the Mamas and the Papas, Neil Diamond, B.B. King, Kitty Wells, Loretta Lynn, the Weavers, Mama Thornton, the Four Tops, Benny Goodman, Joan Baez, and probably thousands of other musicians.

Why didn’t we hear about this terrible loss of our musical heritage? The record company that owned the tapes had stored them in a warehouse on a movie-studio lot. In their official statements after the fire, the record company downplayed their losses and stated that no master tapes were lost in the fire. Of course, the loss of a master tape is an incalculable one. In the early years, record companies thought of master tapes as a money-out-the-door issue since storing them safely and archiving them for retrieval cost money. They did not fully understand the inherent value of the master tapes. It was only decades later when recording technology progressed far enough where original recordings could be used to create pristine versions of the artist’s work that were actually better than when the original recording was released on vinyl.

The tension between accumulating money versus artistic creativity, getting rich versus aesthetic beauty is one I have been thinking a lot about lately as I have been driving around my hometown of Knoxville, Tennessee. I have been cursing as I see new apartment complexes going up near downtown Knoxville, most of them meant for university students not for long-term housing and the lack of aesthetics goes along with it. These new buildings look like manufactured housing with facades of a little bit of brick here and there to spiff it up.

All the buildings I see share a common theme: a small amount of brick edifice, and a great deal of cheaper material that is not made to last or look beautiful. Just one time I would like to see new construction in my hometown that is awe inspiring, aesthetically pleasing, and worthy of note. Just one time. The old buildings at the University of Tennessee have the fine architectural details around their windows and doors, railings with decorative filigree, form married beautifully with function.

Snow on the University of Tennessee campus in 1934–showcasing an elegant building with its defined and glorious details.

Buildings that are graceful and elegant, that will stand the test of time are really not what we build here in Knoxville–maybe in America–anymore. Before I was born, public buildings, hotels, banks, and other businesses were designed with distinction and built by bricklayers with old-quality construction and craftsmanship. I guess that quality and craftsmanship got lost somewhere around the time people began to be called employees instead of workers. If you are an employee, you are one that is being acted upon by your employer, you do not own the action. If you are a worker, you own the action, you produce the work. The words we use to describe things are subtle, yet they are powerful. I would much rather be a worker than an employee.

Maybe the word worker became too closely identified with Communism in the wake of World War II as the Soviet Union gobbled up country after country in its quest for as much of Europe as it could take. I don’t know. It would seem obvious to me that Communism lost out in its competition with Capitalism somewhere back in the Reagan-Gorbachev years. Maybe that’s why Putin is trying to regain Russia’s lost glory and build another empire in the world today. But Russia is not exactly known for its innovation as America has been known in the past.

Some of the best things about what it means to be American have inspired people around the world: especially through our music such as in the blues and rock and roll, both steeped in African roots. Because we are a country populated with an amalgam of different people from all over the world, our music was stirred together with bits and pieces of magic from musical traditions from all around the world.

Waylon Jennings and Buddy Holly.
Waylon Jennings and Buddy Holly clowning in a photo booth in the late 1950s. Waylon Jennings, a member of Holly’s band in 1959 was suppose to be on the plane that crashed killing Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper, and Richie Valens. He gave up his seat to the Big Bopper because he had a bad cold.

Certainly Charles Hardin “Buddy” Holly, born during the Great Depression in Lubbock, Texas, wanted to make money in the music business. But what drove him was not to be an employee of a record company, waiting for a songwriter to write him a hit record, a public relations man to tell him how to dress and act, and a producer to make his music sound like what other musicians were doing. Buddy wanted to be a complete artist, write his own songs, perform them in his own idiosyncratic way with his distinctive black glasses (that he bought from an optician in Lubbock, of course!), and produce his records himself. He saw what was there and he wanted to make it better. His music, his way. So quintessentially American.

So Buddy Holly died in a plane crash in 1959, his master tapes were burned in a warehouse in California in 2011, but his music did not die. It is the music that gives us the strength and fight to go on even in our darkest times.

~ Anna 6/30/2019

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Win By Losing

In my former life of working eight-to-five, I would have given my eyetooth to sit outside on my backporch steps and simply watch it rain, hear it rain, smell it rain. I suppose when I was a working stiff I could have stared out my office window to see the rain landing on the parking lot of the administration building six floors below. But my working-woman life was ever so helter skelter. Watching the rain would have been a luxury too far, and hey, babe, don’t even think about it because remember your office windows don’t open anyway—so, get back to work!

Now I can sit out back as it rains, hear the drone of traffic in the distance, and remind myself how freeing it is to choose what I do, to smell the rain as it lands on leaves and stones, and to hear a few birds who have decided this rain is about to end.

Rain itself is dear. We have runs of it when we get way too much, then far too little. Tennessee is a land of gentle mountains that are too old to give the taller peaks a run for their money. You cocky Rocky Mountains, you traffic-jam-of mountain-climbers Mount Everest, you erupting volcano Mount St. Helen’s. Over here in the slow lane, we can watch it rain.

I’ve been musing about losing for a few years now. Being a thinking woman on this planet has given me advanced field study in the fine points of losing. Points of reference:

Live? Love? Leave?
  • The sociopathic first husband who stalked me for 8 years after our divorce.
  • Being sexually harassed at work by my boss’s boss, but when the man (finally) leaves to take another job, becoming the target of his enemies.
  • Being forced to retire a year after being awarded an outstanding employee award for helping my employer raise $1 billion.
  • Watching the loser of the popular vote win the Electoral College in 2016, and my father die three weeks later. And finding that the greater tragedy was the former rather than the latter because Daddy is now out of pain and suffering and our country and world is not.

Recently I have found solace in the truth and wisdom of the book I bought for my nephew who has embarked on a new job. Despite its title, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck: A Counterintuitive Approach to Living a Good Life, this is a book to be reckoned with. Its author Mark Manson parses what is important in life from the dregs of what is not.

An impromptu “floral” display at a London Underground station.

Look, this is how it works. You’re going to die one day. I know that’s kind of obvious, but I just wanted to remind you in case you’d forgotten. You and everyone you know are going to be dead soon. And in the short amount of time between here and there, you have a limited amount of fucks to give. Very few, in fact. And if you go around giving a fuck about everything and everyone without conscious thought or choice—well, then you’re going to get fucked.

Excerpt From
The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck
Mark Manson
https://books.apple.com/us/book/the-subtle-art-of-not-giving-a-f-ck/id1071409887

Hello, World. I am Anna, and I have been giving a f*ck about way too much that has not been worth my time.

However, in my stead has always been my Daddy’s hard-fought wisdom that little things mean a lot. And he underlined the importance of it in his sentimental 1950’s generation way, by playing us the 45 rpm record Little Things Mean A Lot by Kitty Kallen, and, of course, we—Daddy, my sister, and I—all sang it together. Loudly.

Another Kitty, Cadi Kitty exploring the bedside lamp.

Blow me a kiss from across the room
Say I look nice when I’m not
Touch my hair as you pass my chair
Little things mean a lot

Give me your arm as we cross the street
Call me at six on the dot
A line a day when you’re far away
Little things mean a lot
Don’t have to buy me diamonds and pearls
Champagne, sables or such
I never cared much for diamonds and pearls
‘Cause honestly honey, they just cost money

Give me your hand when I’ve lost the way
Give me your shoulder to cry on
Whether the day is bright or gray 
Give me your heart to rely on
Send me the warmth of a secret smile 
To show me you haven’t forgot
For always and ever, now and forever
Little things mean a lot

Give me your hand when I’ve lost the way
Give me your shoulder to cry on
Whether the day is bright or gray
Give me your heart to rely on
Send me the warmth of a secret smile 
To show me you haven’t forgot
That always and ever, now and forever
Little things mean a lot

Songwriters: Carl Stutz / Edith L Calisch
Little Things Mean a Lot lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Mark Manson reminded me of my core belief in little things when he wrote:

You will have a growing appreciation for life’s basic experiences: the pleasures of simple friendship, creating something, helping a person in need, reading a good book, laughing with someone you care about.

Sounds boring, doesn’t it? That’s because these things are ordinary. But maybe they’re ordinary for a reason: because they are what actually matters.

Excerpt From
The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck
Mark Manson
https://books.apple.com/us/book/the-subtle-art-of-not-giving-a-f-ck/id1071409887

What matters? In the grand tradition of my father’s ranking of important things (such as movies and people instead of money and material things), my husband Kurt and I took our 19-month-old grandson for his first ever experience in a movie theater. The movie? An hour-long classic set of Bugs Bunny cartoons at Knoxville’s only independent theater, Central Cinema . . . and it’s within walking distance of our home.

Rain, movies, smiling into the eyes of my grandchildren, learning how to say no to what is not important in lieu of what is. And I have never been good at saying no.

So yes, I have been losing all my life, but I have also been winning. I have been extraordinary and I strive to be ever-so (in the way of little things and tiny humans) ordinary. To the wee ones—and to the wee one in us all.

~ Anna // 5-31-2019

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Secrets: An Inheritance

If it wasn’t thought, it wasn’t so. If it wasn’t spoken, it hadn’t happened. Except that secrets, particularly the most deeply held ones, have a way of leeching into everything surrounding them.

~ Dani Shapiro, Inheritance
The late afternoon sunlight through the shutters in our bedroom.

I am constantly reminded of how critical light is, not only to our lives–let’s face it, we need the sun to exist–but to our imaginations, our creative process, our mental and emotional well-being, and the health of our relationships with those closest to us.

In my family, as in the author Dani Shapiro’s family, withholding truths about the past and never speaking about one’s feelings was as integral to our existence as breathing. Mama never explained the complicated relationships in her father’s extended family; she just said, “Papaw has half brothers and stepbrothers.”

In my white-bread, no-one-ever-gets-divorced, 1960s childhood, I had no idea what half brothers or stepbrothers meant. No one I knew had them. What did they mean? Papaw had a “full” brother who lived two doors down from him on the same street as my grandparents, yet I never saw the two of them together when I was a child. Mama took us to Woolworth’s 5 & 10 (my parents pronounced it five and dime) store where Papaw’s sister Vera worked as a Woolworth’s lady, but we never saw her or her family at holidays. And I only met Papaw’s mother two times that I can remember. The few times I saw them I was struck by how sweet, loving, and kind Papaw’s mother and his sister were.

One year old me with my Papaw

Mama did not explain Papaw’s lack of connection with his family until many years later when I was an adult and even then the information she shared was in disparate dribs and drabs.

I learned that my grandfather’s family was torn in two when his mother got pregnant with another man’s child at the same time that his sister, who never married, was pregnant as well. Papaw, who was probably a teenager and the eldest in his family, left home with his father and never completely reconciled with the rest of his family. I imagine my grandfather felt shame, anger, resentment, grief and loss. For decades he acted as if his mother, sister, and brothers did not exist.

Papaw segregated himself from the family members he judged harshly; he refused to associate with the ones who had, in his reckoning, sinned and come short of the glory of God. Although he could repair any machine or appliance, built most of his own house, kept bees, farmed, was the bulwark of his church, and could be kind to those in need of his help, he also could be a hard man–hard as the Tennessee marble he quarried to make a living when my mother was a child.

Riding a bike at a church youth outing, around 1972.

Talking about feelings was just not done in Mama’s family. My father’s family was the same, but worse, since his mother died when he was 4 months old and the grandmother who reared him died when he was only 5. He grew up with alcoholism, neglect, and abuse, so dodging slings and arrows not talking about feelings was the best Daddy could hope for.

My sister and I found our way by binding together as we navigated the slippery narrows of our family’s meandering ways. Not for us the open communication, not for us the answers to simple questions.

For the author and memoirist Dani Shapiro, she discovered in middle age that the beloved father she adored, and felt closer to than her mother, was not her biological father. Her parents had sought the help of a pioneering fertility “specialist” who helped low-sperm-count men by mixing their sperm with donations from sperm donors who were usually medical students. The true biological father could be masked behind a Russian roulette of possibility. For Dani she was devastated that no one in her family had told her the truth about her birth.

Isn’t it often the way that it is as much the hiding of it as the cataclysmic event that destroys the soul. If humans could bury their secrets in their backyards as they do their pets, leave them there and move on, the damage would be less. But secrets held and hidden, pushed down and denied, are like cancerous tumors that grow larger, infect healthy tissue, and kill. So much better to remove the tumor when it is small, before it grows, metastasizes, and destroys.

I have many friends who were sexually abused as children or adolescents by members of their family or extended family. I was sexually abused by a neighborhood boy when I was 5 years old. I have always diminished my abuse because it was with a stick instead of with his penis, but was it different? I have always thought so. At least he was not a family member or a clergyman, which would have been even more of a violation.

If I had been a member of a family who talked openly about unpleasant things, would I have been able to talk about what happened to me? Would I have told my mother and found a way to think it that did not feel as if it was my fault for being so compliant and not screaming and running? Maybe. Perhaps. At least I would not have been alone with my pain and guilt and shame.

In reality, if I had found a way to tell Mama–who came from her own home of shame and denial–I would have found my shame multiplied and magnified as she blamed me too. Shame in the shadows was the way in my family–as was for the majority of children I grew up with it and as it continues now in the 21st Century.

The sunlight of the truth is my answer. Speaking honestly what has been happened or is happening–as much as possible–has been my way since I became old enough to speak the unpleasant truths in my family. But let it not be said that a family truth teller’s road is an easy one or easily defined. Some truths are especially messy. It always seems easier to deny them, especially when the secrets have been denied for years. Toxic secrets in the Catholic Church, nasty big and little secrets in our federal government, poisonous secrets choking the life out of families across the country and the world.

Drain the cesspools of the soul. Speak when you are able. Write your story and share it, even if you are not fully heard–at least you are not alone with your pain.

~ Anna – 4/30/2019

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