When Mom Is No Longer There C. L. Anderson

            This weekend we celebrate Mother’s Day. This is the day that phone lines stay busy half the day because everyone wants to call Mom and catch up for a bit. You can almost smell the flowers, can’t you? Moms put up with a lot of …. well, for lack of a better word…. CRAP. On top of the crap, moms deal with a revitalized upheaval of men telling them how much they should make, how long they should get maternity leave and what if any, of their basic rights they should be ALLOWED to have. For those lucky enough to still have their moms with them, for at least that one day, I hope they swallow those words and give their mom ALL the praise she deserves.

            We see the rhetoric against women every day, but do we stop to think there is a mom behind that person delivering such rhetoric? Do we stop to think of what she may be thinking or how she’s feeling? I know my first thought after listening to some of these people is how they can kiss their moms with those mouths; not only their moms, but their wives; the mother of their children (insert perfect family photo op here). To those long suffering, held in the background, BACK BONE of the family I say Happy Mother’s Day to you! These men know, without mom and wife, they wouldn’t be here. Let’s see them bear children, nurse them when they’re sick, show up at all school functions and a plethora of other things. Now, I do realize there are some men that do these things, sit down and shut up, I’ll get to you in June.

            On a serious note, this is the second Mother’s Day without my mom. Now, don’t get all sappy and start saying things like “prayers are with you” or “thinking of you” and whatever other cornball thing that is at the tip of your tongue. My mom and I had one of the rockiest relationships (again no cornball crap) and believe me; she found the most interesting ways to really mess up Mother’s Day. Growing up, Mother’s Day in our house consisted of going to our church and then going to church with my moms’ mom. It wouldn’t have been bad except, I hated sitting there listening to some bonehead lecture about what a wonderful blessing mother’s are and how they should be revered, yet they could have no active role in the church. Then the day would get worse at my grandma’s church, it was a Catholic Mass in Latin. What the hell were those people saying?!!!. All the kids had to go be blessed by the priest and this is where I tended to get in trouble. I refused to go up, not only did I embarrass my grandma; I seriously pissed off my mom in front of her mom. Of course, me being me, I loved every minute of it. I would simply say I refused to go up and have some guy, that was already half way to drunk, touch my forehead and bless me in Latin after praying to a frickin’ statue. Yep, stubborn way back then.

            My brother and I always had to make cards in school; it was interesting to say the least. My brother would always try to make something special to add to the card. He would tell my mom he was going to be an inventor. Of course, there I was standing there telling him what an idiot he was because he spelled inventor wrong. Ahhh family love! On top of making cards at school, mom would take us to the store to pick out cards for our grandmas. My brother would always find some pretty cool cards; me on the other hand, I just stood there staring at the Hallmark section saying I can’t find anything, I can write better sappy stuff than this. Now at that age, I doubt if I could write better sappy stuff, but it was a good case to try to present. My main arguing point (seems I argue about everything, huh?) was that my grandma’s never got me a card or anything so why am I standing here wasting my time looking for cards. Not only did I lose the argument, I think my behind was burning a bit when I went to sit down.

            It’s fun to recall childhood stories you’ve had with your mom. I think as we age we learn to appreciate them just a little more. Some are funny and some are depressing; they are all true and that’s what shapes us as moms to our kids. Sometimes recalling these stories does act as a quasi therapy, oooh free benefits! I often wonder what stories my son tells about me and what stories will he tell his kids. Oh to be a fly on his walls! Scratch that, he’d probably squish me and watch me splatter. I can only hope my son has fond, funny memories of his life growing up. I know I’ve laughed more than one parent should, but I’ve also shed some tears. There are times when I feel I have the most ungrateful, unappreciative son in the world. I’m sure all moms feel that at some point. Through the turbulence of watching some creature become a human being, then morphing into a man, I can happily say I have enjoyed being a Mother. Good, bad, happy or sad; everyday has been Mother’s Day and I’ve been very lucky.

            Keep the stories and the laughter close to your heart. Appreciate what you’ve been taught. No matter how it was taught, trust that there was a lesson for you to learn and grow from. For those that had or have less than stellar relationships with your moms, there’s a lesson there as well. I think for me it was a life time of grooming me to become a better mother, to love being a mother and to appreciate being a mother. I think I was given 42 years to prepare for when mom is longer here and to appreciate that as well. To my son I say, I may not be perfect but ha ha, your scrawny butt is stuck with me! To all the moms out there, have a very Happy Mother’s Day! ~ Just my two cents

First Year Lessons Learned (Things That Smack You in the Head)

              

           

The first year of college is coming to an end. Did I survive? Did my college student survive? Short answer yes and that’s only because we aren’t in the same state, however; realistically it is a tad more complicated than that. We have these grandiose dreams that our kids are going to graduate high school and go off to a big name school. My grandiose dream schools were Notre Dame and Morehouse. My college students’ list included Drake, Eastern Il, Millikin and one other school. Notice my choices didn’t seem to match his. He got accepted to all schools he applied to and then it happened. Several schools started contacting him and making offers, one school gave him an open ended offer and gave him up to a year to decide, in case he changed his mind.  A small school in Iowa came a calling and Mister “I don’t want to go to a small school” answered that call. The letter of intent was signed October of Senior year and this is where my first year lessons started.

The very first wakeup call I got was when the high school coach botched the day of signing and the deadline was almost missed. That was one of many wakeups I’d had with this coach. The transitioning process from high school student athlete to college student athlete started to take shape. Attitudes started to change, extreme laziness kicked in (more so than normal) and everyone seemed to want a piece of this kid. Here I am standing on the sidelines screaming “You did nothing to help get this kid to where he is going, now step aside!” There was a personal battle between this young man and the head coach that no one could seem to figure out. This coach seemed to knock this kid at every turn; any extra team awards were always given to less qualified athletes, of course, after announcing that my student athlete is the one that should get it. Upon graduation, my student athlete was one of the most decorated runners to leave the district. Sure there were a few before him, but those athletes had competed in summer programs since they were small kids, so they included those awards with their bounties.

Summer brought another wakeup call. Just when you thought things were quieted down, the battles to get things done starts. The constant nagging to start packing up a room that wasn’t even slept in was only overshadowed with the constant nagging to start the college application process. Talk about epic word battles for the simplest of things. Of course, tired of listening to myself nag, I started the packing. When it came to that wonderful process of shopping for college, I eliminated the indecisive one. I just shopped and displayed the items when I returned home. I don’t think it was actually looked at until it was unpacked on the campus. Thank goodness for a summer program that provided a job, one of us wouldn’t have survived the summer. I can say with most certainty that 18 is a magical number and not in a good way.

Now, one year removed from high school and one year of college under my belt, these are the lessons I’ve learned.

·         The sweet young person that was brought into this world lost his damn mind when he turned 18. Someone needs to find it and return it

·         The transition period actually lasts the WHOLE first year; although I’m not sure for which one of us more so

·         No matter how many times I tell him to do something, he will either claim he forgot, didn’t have time (“it’s called college life mom”) or it just won’t get done period

·         College life is strange for both the parent and the student; the more you try to let go, the more they want you. The flip side is, the more you try to parent from a distance, the more they shut you out. Notice I didn’t say you win

·         Taking care of EVERYTHING may not be the best idea, gives the student a false sense of security; that and the attitude that if they don’t succeed as well as we think they should, we’ll be there to bail them out

·         Sometimes you have to step back, throw your hands up and watch the chips fall where they may…you may be surprised

Of course, these are my lessons and I’m sure there will be plenty more barreling down the pike kicking me in the butt. These four years will go quickly and the hope is to transform a young unpolished, wet behind the ears demon creature into a well rounded educated man of Clarke University. I’ve quickly learned it doesn’t matter that our timeframes for getting things taken care of is vastly different. It doesn’t matter that I feel he needs time management classes…maybe a few of them. Room dusty, when you know you packed a lot of cleaning wipes??? It’s trivial, let that go. Late nights but homework isn’t really the focus??? Let that go as well. Grades aren’t quite where YOU would like them to be??? Well YOU aren’t the one that is taking the courses, let it go.

While I have thrown up my hands to a lot of things, I have not stopped being the parent. Since I’m still footing the bills, he still needs a parent; just not so hands on or so vocal. When I turn on the news I’m hit with the stark reality that there are far worse things this young man could be doing. The reality of the matter is, he beat society’s statistics. He comes from a single parent home, didn’t drink, do drugs or bring home any babies and he graduated on time. Yep, there are much worse things that could be happening.

I wasn’t sure if either of us would survive this first year, I’m sure later I will look back and have a good laugh about it. I raised a strong minded young man, believe me, I’m reminded of that every single time I talk to him. I firmly believed he would be a great attorney, but since he has integrity, maybe that isn’t a good choice for him. Graduation is always the day before Mother’s Day, I can’t wait! May 2015, as I watch this person that has provided me with enough fodder for a book, enough tears to form a liquid salt mine and enough pride to cover the globe; I will have gained a new perspective of both of us. We share a mutual respect now, yes folks there are teenagers that still show respect, but that day will bring respect for the MAN he will have become. These are my lessons learned after the first year. ~ Just my two cents

Mom’s Manifesto (Time to Let Go) C.L. Anderson

When motherhood beckons, and that call is answered, there are a few milestones that are greatly anticipated. The first day of kindergarten, 8^th grade graduation, driver’s license and high school graduation are some of those milestones. A college graduate is a bonus we hope for, but ultimately we know it’s up to the individual and the choices they make. Some mothers go through post partum and slowly start to enjoy what they have been given; some jump right out of the gate and enjoy it to the fullest. We are all different and we celebrate those differences. Then there are those of us that feel like we popped a pup for a second time later in life and suffer greatly from post partum symptoms, or at least post traumatic stress syndrome. I fall into the latter category. These latest bouts of oh oh’s have come to be known as “I’m off at college and I think I’m grown syndrome”. This is that time when I personally wonder what happened to my part in the circle of life, I didn’t eat my young. Can I get a do over? Moms, welcome to the college years! Stand up, clap your hands, and shout for joy. Ok, sit down now.

Welcome to the Mom’s Manifesto today! I am the voice that says what you are thinking and won’t say because you don’t want your “I think I’m grown now” son/daughter to be mad at you. Try to find your backbone as you read this and then stand the hell up and say something. Let’s break this down slowly…. College tuition rounds out to about $35,000 not including incidentals. Now, for this very large number this is what you get; room, board, use of the library,  multiple computer labs, medical on site, counseling, mail services, dining halls and a café; also, use of a weight room, gym, game room, bookstore and career services. Finally, you get life’s necessities (as if a bed and food weren’t enough), basic cable, wireless internet service, heat and maintenance. What good are these services when the only thing being utilized are not the things to help guide you on your path!!!! Explain how NOT using career services is going to help you find a job or help with your resume, or NOT talking with financial aid for YOUR tuition is going to get you closer to that degree! Notice I didn’t include the cost of insurance or books or items necessary for the room.

Let’s look at what happens if your son/daughter ends up right back under your roof. Remember, the goal is to keep them out and push them to succeed. Coming home should not be one of their options; have you heard “I got this”? Then let them “get it”, a hard lesson to learn for any mom. Anyway, back to them coming home; let them know they will be paying some type of rent, they will clean up after themselves and wash dishes, they will pay their own phone bill and the biggest one of all they will find a job in a timely manner. Stipulate that finding a job does not entitle them to the use of your vehicle; they will utilize the same two feet they used to stand on yours to dance when they were little OR learn how to use public transportation. Also, since they chose to put their tails between their legs and come back to you, make them realize that the freedom of hanging out all night walked out the door when they walked in. Finally, let them know in 6 months time, THEY will be responsible for repaying their own student loans. Remember, they got this!

Suddenly coming back home doesn’t seem a viable option anymore, huh? That’s the point! While we as moms love to embrace and brag of the successes, very few of us talk about what happens when that embrace is not wanted at this time. We don’t talk about what happens when your son/daughter turns on the only support system they’ve had their whole lives; we don’t talk about the hurt that comes with that. Somehow we allow them to take their lack of foresight and turn it into one of our faults. Now, we moms have faults of our own, our sons/daughters failures will not be one of them. While we never turn our backs and our hearts as well as our doors are always open, they should be open with the stipulation that things are not free and you still have to earn what you want. While they feel they can skate through life and do whatever they feel and you don’t need to know, we sit back through our tears and KNOW in the long run, yea; WE (the moms) are the ones that actually got this! We never let it go and we won’t start now. Sometimes we have to let them flounder in the wind and “smell their own ass”. We have to learn to sit back and watch them let their attitudes include or exclude them from the positives in life. We’ve given them the basics, it’s up to them with they do with it. I’m sure they don’t forget what they’ve been taught, I’m POSITIVE they don’t know how to use it once they leave home.

As the great Revs. James Cleveland and Clay Evans once sang “This Too Shall Pass”. Our nerves will be tested over and over, we will shed many tears and yet it will pass. I think once the “I think I’m grown” phase passes and the real maturity kicks in; we can sit back and say “Peace Be Still”. Until this all comes to fruition, sometimes we just have to learn that it may be time to let go. ~Just my two cents.

            

Do We Really Need Validation? C.L. Anderson

            Memories, those hidden treasures tucked away in the bowels of our brain that very readily seem to enjoy defying us at the most inopportune time. Stories of the things that happened when you were younger, a few years ago or even a few days ago can seem fuzzy at best when you’re trying to recall a really great story. Sometimes you’re left thinking if only someone, anyone was right here and could back up what you’re trying to say. This would at least prove you’re not making up some farfetched story or remaking some story someone else told you. That someone you’re looking for is called validation. Although, validation isn’t a person, a lot of people spend a lot of time looking for it.

            I know some of you are probably thinking “Oh no, what did Carla do now” ha, I haven’t done anything. I am that validation tool! I don’t seek out anyone to validate events that have taken place; I have the uncanny gift of total recall. Before you say, that’s cool, or I wish I did; let me tell you, sometimes it plain sucks. If you happen to be someone that actually knows me or has known me for a long time, you know what I’m talking about. For those that don’t know me, I am a person’s worst nightmare. I will remember names, faces, what you did wrong, who you did it to and the outcome. If you’re someone that did something to me, believe me when I tell you I remember it all like it was yesterday.  See, I am my own validation tool!

            When I ask if we really need validation, the simple answer could be not unless you are a psychic making money by prompting questions that require validation. We don’t really need it, but sometimes it’s nice to have. I have told many stories about when I was younger and the crazy things that have happened. Sometimes, I’ve had people look at me like there is no way this could have happened. Jaws drop when there’s someone around that knew me from the “glory” days and they recall things that happened and wondered whatever became of me. I used to tell stories of things my parents did prior to getting divorced, I told a lot of these stories to my son. I don’t think he fully believed it until we ran into a friend of mine from my old neighborhood. I saw a little light bulb go off and it confirmed his mom was a nut job for a reason. Sometimes validation comes when you aren’t seeking it and that validation can be a bitter pill.

            There are many stories I have told about my childhood and how I was treated by my parents, grandparents and that other part we call extended family. It’s no secret that I think very little of my family on both parents side. Knowing I’m the honest, put it in your face type of person, I’ve taken a lot and bottled it up. It was like having a whole world watch what you go through and act like it wasn’t happening. Telling the stories is cathartic and at times funny. I’ve always known that people knew what was going on, but no one listened. Unless you were someone that actually hung around me on a constant basis, you had no clue. Those that were around me and knew/know firsthand, it’s still embarrassing but life moves forward. Just adds to the more funny stories I conjure up.

            So, here’s where the bitter pill comes in. Imagine a moment when you lose someone in your life that you didn’t particularly rate a 10 on the Richter scale of personalities, parenting and breathing. People call thinking they’re offering kind words and you’re sitting there hearing the teacher’s voice from Charlie Brown in your head; yep, you all know that sound. Then you talk to someone you haven’t spoken to since the last time Rip Van Winkle was awake and they drop a bombshell. “Your loved one was a nice person, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why she hated you so much and treated you so badly” Bam! A validation you for darn sure weren’t looking for. Ewwww, can you taste that bitter pill? Well, at least now there’s confirmation that a mind wasn’t slowly being lost into a spinning world of mediocrity and sarcasm for no reason; but did it have to come at that moment?!! Some people have no tact at all to say the least.

            That was the first unsolicited validation to come my way, there have been more after; but none that packed that sort of punch. Recently, I’ve had a validation that for some reason I always seek out and it’s not really a bitter pill. It’s more of a healing process; those are the ones you’re grateful for. When you know without a shadow of a doubt that you aren’t the only one that lived through a waking resemblance to hell and survived, the stories come out of your head and are pushed into the universe. Knowing that a superficial bubble shaped many lives the same way and many of the floating bubbles inside the bigger bubble had the wherewithal to know that things weren’t right is surreal. We all had the same thing in common at that time, no voice of our own and no one to speak up for us.

            Do we really need validation? No, not really. I think it can turn a person into one that is always searching and trying to please others before themselves. Can we all use a little validation? Absolutely, that may be the one thing that keeps us sane and reaffirms we haven’t totally fallen off the deep end. Perhaps, if more of us had been listened to when we were children, a lot of issues we see in this day wouldn’t be issues.

 ~Just my two cents

Of Fears and Cutting the Proverbial Cord

            Those of you that have followed my musings on Facebook know my fear of the dentist. I call it my heart attack; can hardly get out of bed fear. When I worked construction, the knowledge that at any moment, working at the heights I was working my life could end didn’t instill any fear remotely close to my fear of the dentist. A guy once rear ended me on the Dan Ryan on my way home from work. Instead of having any type of fear, I jumped out of my truck with a tire iron in hand yelling at the idiot that I was late to pick up my son’s new bowling ball. Hmm, had he had a white lab jacket on that said Dr. Anybody, I probably would have taken a step back or stayed my happy butt in my truck.  Watching commercials about dentists even causes some type of anxiety, yep I’m pretty bad.

            I can trace the dental fear back to when I was a kid. I’ve always had soft teeth and my brother and I weren’t allowed to eat a lot of candy. It’s true, that’s why there are old pictures of us with candy in our multi colored over the knee socks….in Alabama with my granddaddy. So anyway, I had a mouthful of cavities and the dentist my mom took us to had no concept of Novocain; at least that’s my long held belief. This short elderly woman with the long white coat and Dr. Anybody written in black script across the top decided to save time, she would fill all the cavities at once. It would be faster to do it without Novocain as she wouldn’t have to wait for it to kick in. I bet you can guess, that didn’t work out too well and my mom had to drag me kicking and screaming on the next visit. Once a dentist gave me laughing gas and we had gone to my grandma’s for a bit, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory was on and I laughed through the whole movie.  I was sick for three days once those effects wore off, not pleasant for a kid when all your friends are outside playing and you’re stuck in bed.

            As I’ve aged, the fear is still intense; intense enough that my son laughs about it. Lucky brat, I’ve always had someone else take him to the dentist so I wouldn’t pass my fears on to him. I’ve just recently, in the past couple of years, been able to take him myself; I have to have ear buds in listening to music while he’s back with the dentist. I’ve started to develop my own theory about fears and the proverbial parental cord. It seems that when my mom was alive the pervasive fear of the dentist, failure, sometimes just breathing was highly intense and finally the fear of success. Whew that’s a lot to carry on ones’ shoulders, but I did it. When my mom passed, and that proverbial cord that I had been trying to cut forever and a day was finally cut, a bit of relief washed over me. Now before you say what a bad daughter for feeling that way, understand that my mom and I had a hate dislike relationship. I’ll just say she was an excellent grandmother to my son and he was blessed to have her; some people can be the greatest person around but that doesn’t make them great parents.

            Now, once that cord was cut, I felt like I could put on my big girl bloomers and rock the world. There’s still a little problem….the darn dentist. It’s almost comical to think that a middle aged woman (Dang, middle aged? When did that happen?!!!) can let a childhood fear almost paralyze her. The upshot is I’m not the only one that has this fear as an adult. There are some stories that are worse than mine, I wish I hadn’t heard them, but they’re out there. There should be a gathering of people that endured sadistic dentists that were embedded in draconian times, I’m sure that gathering would fill a few rooms.

            I guess the next chapter of life will be me trying to let go of that fear, I’m off to an ok start. I had my front tooth pulled recently and I didn’t go into a massive panic attack. There’s a whole story behind that tooth and it died a noble, smelly death. I didn’t even bother to remember the dentists’ name because I wasn’t expecting to go back. She is good, so I guess I’m going back. That was the first time ever that I didn’t have any pain at the hands of some sadist in a white coat. I have two more teeth that have to be yanked, so while this leaves me walking around temporarily missing a front tooth, finally having a healthy mouth is on the horizon. To the teacher that laughed when I ran into a wall and cracked my dearly departed tooth, I’d like to thank you for helping to instill some of that fear. Standing in front of a nine year old, in a fake guffaw and saying how much that’s going to hurt to get fixed in front of the whole class did wonders. I say that ever so sarcastically.

            I taught my son to have no fear of anything, not sure if that’s good or bad since he believes he’s invincible. What he should fear is mom knocking the hot mess out of him when he decides he thinks he wants to be grown at my expense, other than that, nope no fears. For those of you that have little kids, don’t laugh about their fears, they’re real. When parents make fun of their kids’ fears, especially like my mom did, I think that is a form of bullying. My generation and my parents’ generation come from a long line of bullying. We’re now in times when it’s ok to have fears and to be nurtured through those fears. That’s how you make the fears go away. So many health issues can be caused because of tooth problems. In my case, because of the fear they wouldn’t know if I had a heart attack because of bad teeth or out of fear of the dentist. Either way, I’m not trying to go in that direction. I think I just earned another pair of big girl bloomers J ~ Just my two cents

Four Word Epitaph

            Somewhere, in our educational journeys, we have been asked to write our own obituary. You can always think of what you would like to be said about you until you actually have to sit down and really think about it.  I still have mine from my days at Columbia College; it took me a week to write it. I was the first one that thought I was going to have fun with it and be goofy about it. Then we were given the guidelines that we would have to adhere to as we wrote what would be the last words written about us. I got serious with a quickness, with a side of snarky of course. I thought if you really know me, there won’t ever be last words about me. I know, I know, slightly presumptuous. At the “ripe old” age of 19, I was being asked what I would want people to remember me for. That became a sobering thought and something that was really hard to put into words.

            I wasn’t a mom yet, so loving mother was out. I couldn’t stand my parents, so loving daughter was out. I thought my best friend was an idiot (some things don’t change I guess), so thoughtful friend was out and I thought my brother was the dumbest piece of *oops* walking the planet.  I guess that just completely wiped out compassionate, dang. So thus began my journey to find some humanizing quality I could write about. I think that’s why it took me a week. I told my instructor I didn’t want to write the “typical black obituary”, not sure if that was the right thing to say. My instructor was famed WFLD TV journalist the late great Les Brownlee. Oh yea, he was black. I thought the guy was going to fall out of his chair. After calmly, but firmly ripping me a new butthole, he told me I had the potential to be one of the greatest black writers to come out of Columbia. Note, I didn’t say Chicago, neither did he. His next statement was that I should promptly explain what on this green earth I meant by that statement. I had two days to conjure up some explanation that may or may not be acceptable.

            It didn’t take long for me to figure out what to say and have some proof to show my instructor. I had an obituary from a relative and one from a friend who was white. I pointed out that in an obituary for a black person it always says “so and so” accepted Christ at an early age, survived by a relative from whatever city. In the obituary of a white person it never says if or when they accepted Christ, no one cares. No one cares where the relatives are located, it’s not like people are going over to find them. I explained I wanted to be somewhere in the middle, not so mainstream on either side. My instructor bought what I was selling and I was off the hook for a minute. I almost humanized myself and wrote a pretty good obituary.

            Well over twenty years later, I am a mom, I have written both my brothers’ and my moms’ obituaries and yes they were both written in that “typical” fashion. Some of my views are still the same, I still can’t stand my parents and my brother didn’t smarten up much before we lost him. The world of journalism lost Les Brownlee a few years ago, but the lessons he taught are still with me. When faced with constraints you’d be surprised what you can produce and that definitely made me step up my writing game. Somewhere in my writing there has to be truth, I don’t live in the world of make believe, besides, I have no imagination. Without having much of an imagination, I think I could still be quite creative. I would change the whole “write your own obituary” to Four Word Epitaph. The writer can come up with four words to describe themselves; the catch is they have to have an explanation. So here, I present to you my four word epitaph with explanations.

            Mom: In June 1993, this skinny little kid with smelly feet was born. That little bundle of parental dependency has become a young college man of parental dependency with smelly feet. Having such a lovely bundle pushed through the nether parts of her has allowed Carla to earn the “mom” moniker. Being a mom allowed Carla to humble herself and open her heart…well at least to her son.

            Brash: Carla definitely and some say defiantly raced through life heedless of the consequences. For some strange reason, Carla felt she was oblivious to rules and managed to find ways around everything. In the Carla wording, she could tear down a person without thinking twice, at the same time a Carla word could make a person feel like a thousand bucks. If Carla didn’t like what you said or did, she wouldn’t come right out and say it, but you would sure read about it later.

            Honest: It is said, if you don’t want to know the truth don’t talk to Carla. She was known to tell you about yourself whether you wanted to hear it or not. She lived her life teaching her son that being honest will get you places, always tell the truth. Carla was unapologetic about her willingness to hold a grudge. If you crossed her anytime in her life, you best believe she’s turning over in her grave thinking about it and waiting at the pearly gates to make sure your book of deeds has the truth and is spelled correctly.

            Leader: Carla led the way with anything she did. She led the way when she worked as a carpenter and a single mom. She led the way in education by earning her MBA and showing her son that anything can be accomplished. Carla was an early adopter with pretty much everything in technology and watched and complained when others started following her. I can guarantee you right now Carla is leading the way to the pearly gates because the rest of the people are trying to catch up to her before those books of deeds are opened.

            That about sums up my epitaph; of course lying in a box, we won’t be able to control what someone may or may not say, but if we could…..talk about the liberty we could take with other people. Ok, that wasn’t nice, but it sure would be fun. Of course this is all tongue and cheek, but to a certain extent it really describes me…for now. Think about your four words, would your friends agree with them? Heck would you even care if they agreed? Oh no, here comes the brash part of me…I could care less what people would think. Unless your persona is of glass, no one will see what’s really inside. Put out your four words~ Just my two cents

           

Before Puberty Struck- C.L. Anderson

                                                              

            Remember those days when as children our only cares were can we go out and play with our friends? Can we go to the beach tomorrow? Can anyone spend the night? Man, I miss those days. I remember when I was in the first head start program that was offered in this state, that’s where I got my first concussion. I remember my mom trying to get me in school when I was four because I was already reading; she was told I had to be five by a certain date. Woot, woot, thank goodness for January birthdays! Those days I was living in the town of East Chicago Heights. We didn’t know we were poor in that town, we just knew life was good.

            The one constant in those days were the friends I had at school. We started kindergarten together and graduated eighth grade together.  Something I didn’t realize until I was much older is the fact that a lot of people still have some type of relationship with the people they started grade school with. These were the friendships that were formed before the quirkiness of hormones kick in, before puberty struck. Your personalities and beliefs are carved out of the same institutional stone and you come to the realization that you really haven’t changed that much from when your tiny little feet walked through that kindergarten door and the collective tiny voices first learned the pledge together.

            It seems no matter what other people we all meet later in life, those that started grade school together still have a bond. By the time you hit that huge high school hallway and meet other people, hormones have kicked in full gear and puberty has started reshaping that nice little demeanor you used to have. No longer are you protected by the small groups you’ve known since you were five. You’ve entered a cesspool of personalities that have converged in a new world where everyone struggles for some type of attention. Life just started to really suck. In my case, I saw people I hadn’t seen since I was ten and boy were they different. I went to a different high school than my grade school friends. A lot of them got to stay together in high school, I had one person go to the same school; and that person ended up transferring out.

            Fast forward through life and look at the life you’ve led. You may keep in touch with the people you went to high school with, but sometimes you get hit with a dose of reality; they’re still the same way they were when you all walked the same crowded halls. By this time in your life, you may have reconnected with your grade school buddies. A light bulb goes off over your head, there’s something about returning to where you started, even if it’s only in the realm of your mind. There’s a familiarity that is very comfortable. The conversations are all about catching up and pictures of the kids. Reconnecting with the pre-pubescent part of your life also puts a lot of things you had at the back of your mind in better perspective.

            Think about this; are you more likely to react to bad news about your high school classmates or grade school classmates? For me I would honestly have to say anything relating to my grade school classmates would resonate stronger. I guess because we are a group of people that have known each other at face value, prior to putting on our individual masks we wore to get through high school. We are at the age to where we are experiencing losses in our lives that we never thought of when we were younger. When you come from a small school and you hear bad news from your classmates, it will hit you a little harder. Coming from a small school affords you the chance to have a second family and when part of that family goes through issues, it is felt by all.

            Before puberty strikes should be called “life at face value” Those that have known you during those times saw you being the best and worst of yourself. You struggled learning the same things in classes. You shared grade school crushes together and, in my case, we got our first taste of wine together. Yep, only in a private school can you expect an adult to legally contribute to the delinquency of a minor and put it under the guise of the Bible. Hey, that wine was pretty good!

            Even though I hate the school I went to, I do have to admit, that was definitely my foundation to rest my butt on and the cornerstone to model my life from. In that crappy environment, I learned my values. I learned to treat others the way I wanted to be treated. I learned that any one of my grade school friends are a phone call or an email away and we can pick up a conversation like we were still together. Now, that’s not saying I don’t appreciate the people I’ve gotten the pleasure to know since grade school, it’s been a fun ride for sure. I’m just saying that there’s always time to reflect on those that knew you before puberty struck. ~Just my two cents