I Had a Daddy

"I had a daddy, didn't I? He wasn't perfect and he certainly wasn't the one I'd dreamed he would have been, but I had one all the same. And I'd loved him as much as I'd hated him, hadn't I? All that distance, all that time wasted, but the fact that he'd inspired such passion in me meant something in itself. I can honestly say now that I think that's special. Screwed up and turned inside out, we were special, him and me, and I am so thankful that I can say that I had a daddy and that he mattered. All his faults and failures mean nothing to me now.” ~ Melodie Ramone, After Forever Ends

Happy Heavenly Birthday and Happy Father's Day, Daddy.

I remember you.

My Easter Lily

My grandmother's favorite flower was the Easter lily. She was a woman of God, and He blessed her by taking her to heaven on Easter Sunday, 1980. The date was April 6th. Every Easter, when I see the lilies in the church, I see my grandmother smile.

In memory of Martha Marie Deislinger Woltman.
I remember you.

My Revolutionary War Ancestors

These are my ancestors (that I've located so far) who have been vetted by the Daughters of the American Revolution to have served in the War for Independence (spellings per DAR):

Minute Man Jesse Street, Connecticut
Private Hieronimus Carnrike, New York
Colonel Thaddeus Cook, Connecticut
Private Joel Hall, Connecticut
Lieutenant Joel Potter, Connecticut
Private John Potter, Connecticut
Patriotic Service - Asahel Hall, Sr., Connecticut - Member of Committee
Patriotic Service - Aaron Harrison, Connecticut - Member of Committee

These ancestors are through the line of my grandfather, Leslie J. Canright, Sr. Based on the evidence I've obtained, most of these men never met. Yet here I am, celebrating the creation of The United States of America. Wherever you are, gentlemen, thank you for your service.

I remember you.

To My Sweet Cousin

I think about you so often, Kathleen! I've missed you so much since you've been gone. Lately I've been doing several things that especially remind me of you: visiting old cemeteries, cleaning headstones, and I recently saw a book about ghost towns.

 

I remember not just our Cemetery Weekends and our Ghost Town Weekends but also little things that happened on those trips. Like in that one extremely rural cemetery when we heard a strange wild noise up in a tree; you immediately headed away from it and I immediately headed toward it. I was under that spindly tree, craning my neck, and finally you convinced me to get away. Later we found out it was a bobcat!

And the time we finally made it to that really small old cemetery, the one we'd been wanting to visit for almost 2 years, and a funeral was in progress. You said, "The nerve of them! Having a funeral on the one day we could visit!"

Remember when we snuck onto the posted property of that abandoned high school, and you became apoplectic because I went inside to take pictures? You peeked in from the small, hidden door, and you kept up a running monologue. You called, increasingly louder, "Don't go IN there. You know we're trespassing, right? What if there's snakes? Watch out for that glass! There might be dangerous squatters in there. We're hours from home - who's gonna bail us out? You're gonna need a tetanus shot! Don't go up those stairs - are you CRAZY? You'll fall through those boards! That's it - you come out RIGHT NOW." I finally realized you were really in emotional distress, so I came back outside. It had been so dark inside, and you hadn't let me go very far. So all that for one photo. It was an okay photo, though, of the stage at one end of the gymnasium; the only well-lit area I found.

And somewhere we saw that child's grave, Bonner Boone Brown. For years afterwards, out of the blue, you'd say, "I still want to know who would name their kid Bonner Boone Brown!"

Remember that cemetery where a huge block of family graves was surrounded by a cement curb? We approached, as we always did at blocks of graves, planning to work through the familial relationships and the order of deaths. But at this one, we just stood and looked in disbelief. One man, surrounded by 8 wives whom he had outlived. In the great silence of nature, you finally whispered, "Do you think he murdered ALL of them, or just some?"

Last week I ran across the photos from that ghost town with the huge football stadium that had risers made of cement. We were so lost in the past as we looked across those ruins that had melded with the desert. I miss those moments.

And I remember the time we drove to visit the graves of our great-grandparents. We couldn't find them in the first cemetery in town, and you said, "This cemetery doesn't look right. This isn't it." Being older than me, you remembered more. So we went to the other cemetery in town. "This is it. This looks just like it. They're somewhere over - there!" But we still couldn't find them. So we went to the town library and asked the quite elderly woman how we could find the graves of our great-grandparents. She helped us look through a large number of cemetery records but kept asking us, "Are you sure that's the name?" And you just kept saying, so politely and patiently, "Yes, we're sure that's the name." Finally, long past the realization of futility, I said, "We'll just ask our mothers exactly where their grandparents are buried and then we'll come back some other weekend." The old lady sighed with relief and began to close the books and files. "Yes!" she said, "That's good! You come back with another name." You managed to make it all the way to the outside steps before busting into laughter. "That's right!" you choked out. "We just need to come back with ANOTHER NAME! Then we'll find out where they're buried!"

We never had the chance to go back with another name.

 (That's me in the background,

wearing black and standing with my arms folded.)

I haven't been to your grave since the week you were buried. You were only 57 years old. It gives me comfort, though, to know that you're buried next to my mother. Anne frequently puts flowers on your grave and the graves of our mothers. I sometimes wish I didn't live across the country now, because it would give me some temporary peace to visit all three of you. Even though I know you're all in Heaven and I'll actually see you again some day; in Heaven I'll have real peace.

My dear, precious, funny, interesting, and loving cousin Kathleen, I remember you.

"Double Depression"

I saw my new psychiatrist this week, and I really like her. I think this will be a good fit.

She asked me how my current meds were working. I floundered a bit, then said, "I've about come to the conclusion that I need to lower my expectations, that I need to accept that I won't ever be the person I used to be."

She said, "You do realize, don't you, that you have dysthymia as well as major depressive order?" I told her that, about a year ago, I noticed dysthymia as a diagnosis on my chart, but when I looked it up, it seemed to be contradictory to the diagnosis of major depressive disorder (dysthymia is defined as "mild, chronic depression;" I certainly knew that what I suffered with most of my life was NOT mild).

"Not at all contradictory," she stated, and she began to explain the impact of having both disorders. "Essentially," she said, "you have double depression." I was astounded. It explained so much. "So, yes, unfortunately," she continued, "you may need to lower the bar."

I've since researched her explanation, and now, dear reader, I will explain it to you. (Sorry, I just had a brief Brontë moment there).

Dysthymia is a chronic, depressed mood that lasts at least two years. Sometimes referred to as a "veil of sadness," this low, dark mood occurs nearly every day and persists for years. Dysthymia often begins in childhood. Since dysthymia is a chronic disorder, sufferers may experience symptoms for 10 to 20 years before being diagnosed, if diagnosis occurs at all. As a result, they may believe that depression is a part of their character, just who they are.

Symptoms of dysthymia include low self-esteem, a low capacity for pleasure, withdrawal from stressful situations, low energy, overeating, too much or too little sleep, feelings of hopelessness, poor concentration, chronic pain, headaches, and stomach disorders. People with dysthymia usually find little pleasure in regular activities and pastimes.

As time goes by, greater than half of people with dysthymia experience worsening symptoms that lead to the onset of major depressive disorder on top of their chronically depressed mood. This is known as double depression, a serious, potentially life-threatening condition. Double depression is under-recognized and harder to treat than either dysthymia or major depression by themselves.

A small study published in the Journal of Affective Disorders found that the distinguishing symptom of double depression, as opposed to a major depressive episode or dysthymia alone, seems to be hopelessness. People with double depression have given up on ever recovering from their condition and have a bleak outlook on life. It's difficult to motivate them to have treatment, such as medication and therapy. 

Symptoms of double depression are similar to both dysthymia and major depressive disorder but are greater in degree and impact. Extreme fatigue, feelings of guilt, withdrawal from family situations, delusions, and hallucinations are additional symptoms.

The constant stress causes changes in the brain and the body. Those with double depression are at a higher risk for heart disease, diabetes, and other major medical conditions. Double depression can also worsen other chronic diseases, such as rheumatoid arthritis and diabetes.

So. Now I have a much clearer picture of my depression, and hopefully my family will understand a bit better, as well. I'm always letting them down. I commit to things then cancel at the last minute. I get excited about family visits then back out. I've let down my little great-niece, age 7, so many times (including today), in both minor and major situations, that I worry constantly that she'll only remember me as an irresponsible person that was never there for her.

Guilt, worthlessness, fatigue, guilt, lethargy, hopelessness, guilt (did I mention that already?), withdrawal, self-loathing...

The battle rages on, but I'm a weary soldier.

Sources: WebMd, Mayo Clinic, National Institute of Health, Psych Central, Right Diagnoses, Florida State University, Depression Place, Wikipedia, and eHow.

Broken Girl

Although statistics vary by source, in the United States approximately 1 in 4 girls and 1 in 6 boys are sexually abused in their childhood. Approximately 95% know their abuser. That's about 135,500 reported cases. Studies indicate that only 12-20 per cent of such cases are reported, indicating the actual number could be as high as 650,000.

"Broken Girl"

by Matthew West

Look what he’s done to you
It isn’t fair
Your light was bright and new
But he didn’t care
He took the heart of a little girl
And made it grow up too fast

Now words like innocence
Don’t mean a thing
You hear the music play
But you can’t sing
Those pictures in your mind
Keep you locked up inside your past

This is a song for the broken girl
The one pushed aside by the cold, cold world
You are
Hear me when I say
You’re not the worthless they made you feel
There is a Love they can never steal away
And you don’t have to stay the broken girl

Those damaged goods you see
In your reflection
Love sees them differently
Love sees perfection
A beautiful display
Of healing on the way tonight
Tonight

 This is a song for the broken girl
The one pushed aside by the cold, cold world
You are
Hear me when I say
You’re not the worthless they made you feel
There is a Love they can never steal away
And you don’t have to stay the broken girl, girl
You don't have to stay the broken girl, girl

Let your tears touch the ground
Lay all your shattered pieces down
And be amazed by how Grace can take a broken girl
And put her back together again

This is a song for the broken girl
The one pushed aside by the cold, cold world
You are
Hear me when I say
You're not the worthless they made you feel
There is a Love they can never steal away
And you don't have to stay the broken girl, girl
You don't have to stay the broken girl, girl
You don't have to stay the broken girl

This song is for all my friends and family members who have been victims of child sexual abuse. May God restore your childhood. I remember you.

Erased from History

"I'm the girl who is lost in space, the girl who is disappearing always, forever fading away and receding farther and farther into the background. Just like the Cheshire cat, someday I will suddenly leave, but the artificial warmth of my smile, that phony, clownish curve, the kind you see on miserably sad people and villains in Disney movies, will remain behind as an ironic remnant. I am the girl you see in the photograph from some party someplace or some picnic in the park, the one who is in fact soon to be gone. When you look at the picture again, I want to assure you, I will no longer be there. I will be erased from history, like a traitor in the Soviet Union. Because with every day that goes by, I feel myself becoming more and more invisible..."  ~ Elizabeth Wurtzel

Semper Fidelis

I continue to applaud the United States Marine Corps. My Uncle Robert, a retired career Marine, put into motion a wonderful gift for his brother-in-law, my Uncle Gordon, another retired career Marine. Uncle Gordon is 86 years old and spent 20 years as an active Marine and another 10 years as a Marine reservist. The Marine Corps League is replacing, at no cost to my Uncle Gordon, all his ribbons and medals that were lost over the years. This is a befitting homage to a wonderful man who spent his life serving his country, and it is a great privilege for his descendants.

Always faithful.

Chocolate Chinese

Szechwan Pavilion was a great Chinese restaurant; probably still is. Two long buffet lines of entrees, and also lines of salads, desserts, and a soft-serve ice cream machine. Whenever my sister and her family were in town, my mom and I, along with my aunts, uncles, and my cousin Kathleen, would arrange to meet there for a meal. We all loved the food, and we were able to get in maximum quality visiting time. So we ate there every couple of months or so and absolutely enjoyed the vast variety of entrees and other delights.

Then there was that one time. That one memorable time. That time that went down in history...not only my family's history, but the history of Szechwan Pavilion. Yeah, that time. For all I know, school children are now studying about it.

You have to know my family. We all have a quick wit, an easily tickled sense of humor, and the tendency to get out of hand with both. So, as usual, that time in 1994, we were all WAY out of control by the time we finished grazing from the entree buffets and started thinking about the dessert bar.

My 11-year-old nephew and I decided we wanted soft-serve ice cream, so we went together to the end of the dessert bar where the machine and assorted toppings were placed. It was about three yards from the END of the main, double-sided, entree line, which was probably about twelve feet long. The rest of our group was either still at the table or had their backs to us at the dessert bar.

Daniel and I both wanted toppings, so we finessed the machine and put the soft-serve vanilla ice cream in cups. I got my ice cream first, and moved to the side of the counter, next to the hot fudge pump.

You can see it coming, can't you?

My nephew waited while I attempted to work the pump that would anoint my ice cream with hot fudge. He was standing in front of the pump, but a little to the side.

That hot fudge just would NOT come out. So I pushed down harder. And harder. I was so distracted by the humor of the entire dinner that it never occurred to me that the pump was filled with dried and hardened hot fudge. So I put my entire upper body into it and pushed down one last time.

It unplugged.

Faster than the eye could see, hot fudge shot out of the pump. I gasped, my hand flew to my mouth, and I looked up at my poor nephew. He had hot fudge in his hair, dripping from his eyebrows and chin, down the front of his shirt, across his jeans...

I doubled over in gasping laughter. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop laughing. Even when my stomach and my back started to hurt. Even when I could no longer breathe. Even when I almost vomited. I couldn't stop laughing. Not for a million dollars. I kept looking up at him from my doubled-over, grabbing-onto-the-counter, knees-failing stance.

And Daniel? He just looked at me. Completely deadpan. Hot fudge across his ear, the slogan on his shirt obliterated, he just looked at me. And finally he said, still deadpan, "Thanks. Aunt. Faith."

By now we had drawn a crowd. I looked around and saw about six employees hustling around the very long, double-sided entree bar. My hand flew back to my mouth in horror, and Daniel turned to look. Hot fudge had completely missed the protective plastic shield, shooting down the length of the steam table and somehow managing to add itself to entrees on both sides.

There was hot fudge fried rice, hot fudge chicken chow mein, hot fudge beef and broccoli, hot fudge jalapeno shrimp, hot fudge pot stickers... Everywhere I looked, pans were being pulled out of the steam table and taken to the kitchen. Soon the magnificent entree bar contained just empty holes with water beneath and a few pans of food here and there. It looked so sad.

I almost fell to the floor with laughing. My nephew headed to the restroom, leaving hot fudge in his wake. (Okay. Maybe that part is an exaggeration).

I looked down at my cup of ice cream. Nary a drop of hot fudge on it. Nor on me.

I managed to make my way back to our dining table, only to discover that not a single family member had seen the performance. I tried to tell them, I really did. But I couldn't breathe. Employees were coming by our table just to look at me. Patrons made detours so they could check me out. And a huddle of hungry people had already gathered at the empty steam table. I feared the development of an angry mob.

Finally my nephew returned from the restroom, and I totally lost it again. He apparently had washed his hair (though it was still streaked), washed his face, washed his clothes...and he had a cup of naked ice cream in his hand.

I still say it was the restaurant's fault for not keeping their hot fudge pump clean. And they should have had to pay for Daniel's shirt, which couldn't be salvaged. And they probably should have paid for me to see a doctor, because I surely had internal injuries from laughing. I certainly have never been the same.

So since 1994, our family has called the restaurant Chocolate Chinese. We don't even know what it's really called anymore: I had to Google the hospital across the street and check what was near it to even find out the restaurant's real name in order to write this blog entry. But we met there many, many more times. (Yes, they actually continued to let us in!)

But have I been able to live it down? Oh, no!

Several years later, I took my niece, Sarah, who was at Chocolate Chinese when the incident occurred, to the movie theater. Before the movie started, we bought drinks and popcorn, then headed to the self-serve condiment bar. As I reached up to pump melted butter into our popcorn bucket, she said, "Stop!" Confused, I turned to look as she scampered behind a concrete pillar about ten yards away. Then her eyes peeked around and she called out, "Okay...GO!"

And just two weeks ago, Daniel, now 27, emailed me this link.

Oh, well. I guess sweet memories are made of such as this.

Day 18 - Family Portrait

"A picture of my family."

Daddy and Mommy, I remember you.

Day 17 - Last Summer

"A picture of last summer."

My grand-nephew/godson, my niece,

and my grand-niece.

Day 14 - Isaac

"A picture of someone I could never imagine my life without."

 My grand-nephew/godson!

Day 5 - Driving Vacations

"A picture of my favorite memory."

  "See the U.S.A. in your Chevrolet"
And that's what we did every summer, took a road trip,
eventually to 48 states, Canada, and Mexico.

Kathleen Marie

Today is my dear cousin's birthday, and she's celebrating it in Heaven for the first time. I've been thinking about her all day, wanting to write something in her honor, not knowing what to say or if I'm strong enough to say it. I have so many funny memories of our times together. She had a fabulous sense of humor.

Kathleen came to visit me once when I was living several states away. It was her first airplane ride, and although she was scared, she enjoyed it. One day we went driving down many country roads so she could see the area and so I could take pictures with my new Pentax camera...I fancy myself a photographer. After a while, she told me we needed to stop for a restroom; she said she'd waited as long as she could. I told her we'd stop at the next available one.

Meanwhile, I continued to find things that I just had to take a photograph of...like a close-up shot of a shed with gray wood planks that had ears of corn showing through the openings. (I still love that photo...wish I knew where it is). And Kathleen said, "I REALLY need a restroom!" And I told her we'd stop at the next available one.

Miles came and went, no civilization. Then I rounded a curve and hit a chicken that was crossing the road. (Yes, I know, but hold the jokes). I immediately stopped in the middle of the road and looked under the car from all sides. Kathleen finally opened her door and said, "I'm sure your car's okay. It was just a chicken." I looked at her in disbelief and said, "I'm not worried about the CAR, I'm worried about the CHICKEN!" She just rolled her eyes and said, "I REALLY REALLY need a restroom!" And I told her we'd stop at the next available one. (There was no sign of the chicken, so I still tell myself that she escaped unharmed).

Then we came up by a farm with a large pig pen right by the road. Kathleen said, "Look at that pig, it's huge!" As I pulled to the side of the road, she said, "Look at that pig pee!" Our jaws dropped as we watched that pig pee. We'd never seen anything like it. And Kathleen said, "Okay, now I REALLY REALLY REALLY need a restroom!" And I told her we'd stop at the next available one. By now it had been over two hours since she had said she'd waited as long as she could.

More miles went by, no civilization. I suggested that she just go in the bushes by the side of the road, like my family used to when we were kids on long driving vacations. Kathleen wouldn't hear of it.

Finally we saw signs of life. I stopped at a popular fast-food restaurant that has clean restrooms. Needless to say, Kathleen went in first while I waited in the hallway. I don't want to be indelicate here, but let's just say that the restroom wasn't very well insulated. I listened in amazement.

When she finally walked out, she shook her head and said, "That pig didn't have nothin' on me!"

Happy birthday, Kathleen Marie! I remember you.