Notes.07.28.09 - the beginnings

She was born on a Sunday. She had heard the story so many times, she could picture that morning as if she was there as observer rather than participant. Her mom, being rushed quickly to the hospital in the middle of the night, after preparing a fried chicken dinner with all the trimmings for dad and his business associates. The doctor arriving, the painkillers, the sterile white and institutional green of the delivery room. No husbands were allowed in those days, so her dad sat outside and smoked while her mom cried and whispered sweet nothings to the daughter she hoped to see.

Then, with light rain falling outside in a tender welcome, she arrived - all 7 pounds, 11 ounces of her. With a shock of dark hair and skin discolored due to a difficult labor, she didn't at all resemble the beautiful blonde who now looked at her in shock and refused to hold her. The effects of the painkillers blended with the misfortune of the baby, and her mom was convinced she was either Jewish or a turkey. Luckily, the misfortune didn't last long, and soon mom was swaddling her sweetheart as she rode in the car to her small castle on the southside of town.

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Mom had dreams - very big dreams - of ditching her quiet, uneventful farming life in the South and traveling with dad to the "big city," where he would lavish her with jewelry and a fine home and all the trappings that come with marrying a much older, successful businessman. Their relationship was scandalous in its day, with flirtatious beginnings in a dark, smokey bar and hastily packed bags tossed into a car within a few short weeks. She was only 19. He was 31, with two marriages under his belt and two children to show for it. Her family disapproved of the relationship, which fueled the fire within her to run.

The long car ride ended in Oklahoma City, where mom and dad quickly married in the living room of his boss. There was no party, no honeymoon. Dad was too busy launching a new business, and had no time for such things. Mom and he lived in that car for the first six months of their marriage, traveling from city to city as he negotiated business deals. Their home, a modest place in a nondescript neighborhood, was at once her sanctuary and her prison. It was there she learned the art of keeping up appearances, and there she learned to care for others with a good, hot meal.

Why a second blog?

Because.

I've been asked so many times to write my life story, from people who believe it might actually do someone some good sometime. So, this is the place those musings will happen, because I type faster than I write. This will be a raw, unadorned place full of notes, and written in third-person from here on out. Because I truly believe I'll be able to share my story better if I treat it like someone else's.

If you stumble upon this place, let me know. If you are curious about any of the writings, let me know.

That's why.