The Update to: Patches the Wonder Dog (Originally posted Aug. 23)

I always write about my five children but I very rarely write about my two dogs. Probably because if you have five children, you sort of emotionally neglect your pets or at least you don't pamper them the way you would if you didn't have a bunch of children.

We adopted Patches Peaches about ten years ago. She is a beautiful Jack Russel Terror, I mean Terrier. She was given to us by an older couple who had been unsuccessful at training her. OK, this should be a red flag. If a retired couple who spent all their time with Patches could not control her, why in the world would I believe I could do a better job when Adrian and I were both busy working people with two small children and a baby on the way?

We lived in a small apartment at the time and trying to exercise Patches was a nightmare. She tried so hard to escape every chance she got and the city we lived in would not tolerate dogs on the loose.

Well, when we finally finished building our house up here in the country seven years ago, we were excited Patches would finally have a fenced in yard to run around in and get her energy out without bothering people so much. Adrian and his friend spent a week building a pretty wooden picket fence around the back yard. I kept leaning over the top deck and hollering, "Those pickets are too far apart! Patches will squeeze right through them!"Adrian assured me the pickets were fine and that the way they were spaced out was all planned and did I have any extra money to buy more pickets? No? Then be quiet and quit being such a control freak wife always telling her husband what to do and bla bla bla.

Well, when the pretty fence was finally finished, we celebrated and let Patches out to her big, new yard! And what do you think happened?

Like a bullet, she leaped right between the pickets and ran off.

Damn.

Well, then Adrian and his friend went out and bought chicken wire or was it rabbit wire? I don't know. They spent another day and a half nailing wire all around the fence. It was back breaking work, really. I leaned over the rail on the top deck and said, "You should have listened to me..." But I don't think they really wanted to hear that. They also didn't want to hear me say the rabbit wire wouldn't work either. God, I hate always being right. It's a burden, really.

But the next day, we let Patches out again to her new, big yard and she seemed to stay in the fence, merrily running around and frolicking like the happy dog she was.I stepped out on the top deck to check on her about fifteen minutes later and I hollered for Adrian, "Um, honey! Come here! Patches is climbing the chicken wire and... Wow! There she goes! Right over the top of the fence! She's gone!

So, then Adrian went to the Home Depot and bought new pickets to put in between all the other pickets. He came back complaining how he just spent a fortune on new pickets and since Patches had cut her foot and leg on the chicken wire, we had also spent a hundred bucks at the vet to get her stitched back up. Plus, by this time, Patches had been out to meet some of the neighbor's dogs and no one seemed to appreciate a bleeding dog crawling under their fences to play with their dogs.

So, after Adrian went around nailing pickets between the other pickets, we let Patches out once more. I must mention Adrian had to nail the pickets on the inside of the fence this time so as to put a barrier on the rabbit wire so she wouldn't climb up it.

Well, Patches did great for about an hour. Then, when I went to spy on her from the top deck, I found her doing something pretty incredible. She was using her teeth to get out the nails, thereby allowing the extra picket to swing to the side, then clawing at the rabbit wire and jumping right through the pickets and running for the hills once more, busting stitches and all!

Well, this went on and on and Adrian spent a total of a million hours fixing this fence any way he could think of. Some days, Patches stayed in and some days she did not. I was beginning to think Patches really didn't like us. We brought her inside every evening, but we wanted her to have a yard to run around in too.

Well, to make a long story short, and I realize this is already a long story...we invested a lot of money in a radio fence. Patches wore a collar that would shock the hell out of her if she got near the fence. By this time, we had adopted a friend for Patches, a somewhat retarded miniature dachshund named Bailey.

We actually adopted two miniature dachshunds but the other one got ran over when a windstorm had blown open the gate and I didn't realize it when I let the poor little puppy outside to go pee. We "replaced" that puppy, which was Jolie's puppy, by the way, with another miniature dachshund but when she was about 10 weeks old, she ate some weeds outside that had been sprayed with weed killer and she died two days later. It was horrible.

Anyway, Patches convinced Bailey, the surviving retard, to somehow eat the collar off of her and Patches would then dig her way to freedom thereby destroying the annoying- as- all- get- out- to- install- electric wiring. Adrian spent many an hour at Radio Shack buying spools of speaker wire to splice it and repair it on a regular basis. But eventually, we solved the problem and Patches stayed in the fence for like an entire week.

Then Patches started getting creative. Sometimes she would jump on the trampoline so hard as to catapult herself soaring over the fence, falling on the other side and then running for her life. If the kids left their big wheels in the back yard after racing down the hill, Patches would stand up on the back of it and push it to the side of the fence, climb up and jump over.

Presently, the radio fence is really broken. A gigantic rat who was as big as an opossum climbed up a bush and jumped up to the upper deck where the radio box was, ate up all our bird seed and ate up all the wires coming out of the radio electric fence housing as well. Damn rat. It scared the crap out of me one night. It was trying to stay dry under the grill and I had walked out there to get my shoes which I had left out on the deck. That thing looked at me, reared back like an attack cat and jumped three feet in the air, caught a branch on the big bush and ran away. My shoes are still out there 'cause I am scared of seeing that monster again. It's been two months.

Now, Patches is running amok. I could really care less except that she is known to terrorize the poodles who live across the street. She also chomped on my next door neighbor's cat's head when it was just a kitten and shook it up really badly. The cat is still living, but permanently brain damaged. I wonder if that is why they are moving to Florida? The poodle owners don't even talk to us. Can't say I blame them.

Oh, Patches! What are we going to do with you? Poor Adrian has no more energy left to fix the fence again. She got out today because she rolled a basket ball over to the fence, stepped on it and jumped over. I mean, really... she wants to be free. Is that so wrong?

Latest update: Adrian recently hammered in some nails all around the top of the fence so as to act as barbwire. The nails didn't bother Patches too much although the scraped up her tummy which was pretty pitiful, actually. I felt cruel. And Since Patches stays inside all the time now and just gets let out to go potty, you would think we'd be smart enough to just take her on a leash and walk her. Why don't we do that? Two reasons, really. Number one, we are lazy, I mean busy. Number two, Patches will NOT go potty in front of ANYONE. I am serious. She has always had real modesty issues.

Adrian spent so long hammering all those little nails around the whole fence and it was all for nothing. Patches learned a new trick to avoid scraping her belly. She freakin' learned to climb a tree and then just jump over to the other side of the fence. I saw her do it. Man.

So, then Adrian spent a small fortune on more wood and did some more fence work and cut down all the bottom limbs of the Leland Cyprus tree she was climbing. Patches has not escaped since. She is completely depressed. She has had her tail between her legs for days. She won't even come upstairs to hang out with us. She feels the agony of defeat for the first time in many years. (I am knocking on wood as I write knowing there is a good possibility I have spoken too soon.) And do you know what the moral of my whole long story is?

Adrian should have listened to me in the first place. Like I said, it really is a burden always being right.

P.S. BREAKING NEWS: We celebrated Fischer's 10th birthday yesterday and left the dogs outside. When we got back, we were greeted by a very muddy dog on our porch. Patches dug her way to freedom. At least we know she had to resort to digging (she doesn't normally like to dig because she hates being dirty) because she is unable to go OVER the fence. I know we should surrender but now it's a game. A game that has been going on for 10 years, I might add. I am starting to wonder if we are getting something out of this whole thing. Maybe we just like the challenge. Maybe we know if Patches didn't have a problem to solve, she would be too bored to live. Maybe that's true for us too. Hmmm... never thought of it that way.

Back to my Childhood Diet...Random Ramblings of a Fat Girl

This morning it was freezing. I don't know the exact temperature because I am not a thermometer and I don't watch the weather or the news. I simply cannot retain the information when it is commentated the way they do it. They go too fast and I get confused. I grew up watching Guy Sharpe the local weatherman as my sisters and I sat on the sofa eating something off the Hosford Breakfast Menu: honeybuns, SaraLee cheese cake, Morton's donuts (the frozen sugary ones that you heated in the toaster oven,) SaraLee pound cake, pizza bagels, or nachos, washed down with 12 oz of Coca- Cola.



Yes, that was the diet we were raised on. And don't go thinking that was what made me the fatass I am today. Actually, healthy food is what made me large and in charge. Ya see, I was a little kid and a small teenager. I only started packing on the pounds when I was pregnant with Jolie. My OBGYN asked me what I ate and when I told him, he about fell to the floor and explained that I was eating for two and needed to eat a more healthful diet. So, I beefed up on tuna fish (this was back in the day when pregnant women were encouraged to eat tuna fish. Now, pregnant women can only eat it once a month due to the high mercury content. If it was high back then, we didn't know it. Maybe that's what is wrong with my two teenage daughters. Maybe they can't help getting in those weird moods. Maybe it isn't the hormones. Maybe they were born with toxic levels of mercury 'cause I sure did eat the hell outta some tuna fish sandwiches before they were born. I couldn't help it. I was poor and I craved cans of tuna like I was a cat or something!)



I also ate lots of hamburgers because my iron was low and I needed to eat red meat. I suppose I could have feasted on lean fillets of steak, but my body was screaming for quarter pounders with cheese from McDonalds and if you eat one of those things, you just have to get a side order of french fries to compliment the meal. I got addicted to the quarter pound with cheese extra value meals. They had just come up with the extra value meal concept when I was pregnant with Jolie and I felt I was doing my civic duty to support such a good company. However, I would never order the thing by the menu number. I just could never roll down the window of my car and holler out at the speaker at the drive thru that I needed to have a NUMBER 2! That would have been embarrassing. Just like I never tell the gas station attendant that "I got gas on pump number 3." I don't have gas and if I did, Mohamed would be the last person I would tell.



Any way, so back to why I am overweight. Along with my cheeseburgers and countless cans of tuna, I started eating rice cakes, carrot sticks, peanut butter, macaroni and cheese, and meatloaf and mashed potatoes. That is what made me go from 125 pounds to 145 pounds. Well, that along with a baby in my belly. And once she was born, I kept eating for two. I was breast feeding which made me hungry. Don't buy into the myths that breast feeding will make you lose the baby weight faster. Don't kid yourself. Breast feeding is wonderful and I advocate for it, and it makes your boobs look like a porn star while you're doing it, but once the baby is weaned, your boobs sadly look like big tortillas which you can roll up from your belly button to your chin. But I digress...



I had another baby (Sydney) two years later and my weight went form 145 to 165. It stayed there for a long time but I got smart in preparing for my sister's wedding and was able to dance off 20 pounds. Seriously, that's what I did. I did ballet barre exercises every morning and then danced with my two little girls every afternoon for an hour. That, and I gave up soft drinks. I looked pretty hot in my matron of honor dress I must say. With the right bra, my tortillas looked like hot tamales.



Then, I got divorced and that is the best diet one can ever go on. Going through a divorce will curb your appetite. NO matter what the reason for the divorce, there is a little voice inside your head that will magically appear and will whisper to you, "The best revenge will be to look awesome and he will be sorry he ever treated you the way he did." And the voice will also say, "I know you've sworn off men, but somebody was checking you out at the post office and you know that felt good."



And then, two years later, I met Adrian. Being married to a nice man is bad for diets. I wanted to cook wonderful meals for my man and I enjoyed eating them a little too much. My first year of marriage was stressful and ice cream became my new antidepressant. Adrian didn't seem to mind. He kept telling me he would rather have a nice, sweet plumper than a skinny bitch for a wife. I took him at his word and became a very sweet, nice plumper and I also became pregnant with baby number 3.



With Fischer, I gained a lot of weight. I was pretty fat and happy. When I was in labor, my midwife asked me what my current weight was and I made Adrian cover his ears. He put his hands on the side of his head and I whispered, "220 pounds." And Adrian's hands dropped to his sides and his mouth fell open and he said, "Whoa, baby!" For being hearing impaired, he sure does have selective hearing!



I am serious, that was what I weighed. 220 pounds! Our son, Fischer only weighed 8 pounds 3 ounces. I have no idea what the rest of the weight was all about. I can tell you it was all in my backside. Some women carry high, some carry low, and I was all about carrying it in the back. I think it helped counter my enormous tummy. My feet grew a whole size too. I went from a narrow 7 to a medium 8. Yes, I am a freak. Too bad I didn't grow taller because I remained only 5 feet tall and to be 220 pounds is quite a sight, let me tell you. My tortillas were no longer flat, those babies were big, full and stood at full attention. They didn't even make nursing bras my size. I wore the extra large fancy spandex nursing and maternity bras and they were so tight, I would stretch them out by sticking my big clown feet into the front and pulling the straps all the way to my chin before I could wrestle that bad boy on. After nursing Fischer, I had to throw away all my old bras and buy the pricey kind at Intimacy at Phipps Plaza. (I had seen Oprah and knew I needed to have a proper bra fitting by the bra lady.) I cried when I came out wearing my new 36 double G and my mama said she was going to give me a breast reduction for Christmas.



I joined Weight Watchers weighing around 200 pounds and got to 180. Weight Watchers really works, but I was too cheap to pay 15 bucks to have someone weigh me each week. So, I tried to do it myself and I counted my points every day and managed to get to 175. It was so hard and I was still fat.



Then, I got pregnant with Mollie and my midwife told me to really be careful about packing on the pounds. She told me I only needed to gain 15 pounds and surprisingly, I did it. When Mollie was born, I weighed 190. Still, this was big, but I was kinda proud.



9 months later, we were in the family way again and I got up past 200 again. I never wanted to be that big, but there I was. What can you do? The weight doesn't come off magically and I was tired and had to eat to keep myself awake. Eventually, when Nicholas started sleeping through the night, I ate less and started walking and the weight melted off slowly but surely. I got back down to 170 and was happy. All together, I was 50 pounds lighter than my highest weight. Whoa baby.

Then, sadly, my father got really sick and he passed away two years ago. I medicated my pain with ice cream again. I ate everything in sight. Friends were generous and gave our family lots of food and I ate it. All of it. And I gained 25 pounds.

Well, over the summer, I started doing the Food Diary and walking and I lost 12 pounds. I was only eating 1200 calories a day and I guess my body got used to that number and I stopped losing. So frustrating to be starving and not see any results on the scale. So, I said, screw it. Just be happy, Abi. Really, who cares if you are fat? Mollie (age 6) calls me her Squishy. My kids love sitting in my nice, big, warm lap. It's comforting. Adrian likes it too but that's another story.

So, that's that. I am fat. I am not going to go on a diet and I am not going to wait to buy new clothes. Honey, I am wearing Jeggins as I write this and I am proud. And don't go telling me I need to lose 50 pounds for HEALTH reasons. I have no desire to live a long time. I do not want to be old. 75 is my personal age limit for myself and that is only if I can be a funny 75 year old woman. Not a creepy, grumpy 75 year old. I plan to go out with a bang where my friends and family can honestly say, "That Abi sure was a ton of fun!"

This is why I am going back on my childhood diet. I am going to eat Christmas candy, cheese cake, honey buns, and ungodly amounts of cookies. I will enjoy it all. I will not feel bad or guilty anymore. Santa Claus is fat and he is the coolest guy on the planet.

My driver's license states that I weigh 130 pounds. It's kinda sick, really. If I were to get arrested for a traffic violation, I am sure the officers would get a big kick outta that one! My license is due for renewal in 2011 so I am going to change that, finally. For so long, I've kept it at 130 thinking I would see that number on my scale in the not too distant future. What a load of crap. Who've I been kidding all these years? Like anyone would see my stats on my license and think, "I guess it's her outfit that is making her look heavy 'cause in reality, she only weighs 130 pounds!" I mean, really! So, I have decided on my new license, I am going to change the weight to 450 pounds. That way, if I get arrested, the officer will actually high five me and say, "Ma'am, I can see from your license, you must have lost a tremendous amount of weight! You don't look like you weigh 450 pounds any more. What's your secret?" And people who card me will actually see me as being quite skinny considering I used to weight 450 pounds according to my license. They will suspect gastric bypass surgery but I will say, "No, actually I lost nearly 300 pounds by roller skating across America last summer! And they will say, "Whoa Baby!" Amen.

Christmas Poem 2010

T’was just weeks before Christmas and all through my thoughts,
Is a whole lot of nothing ‘cause my memory is just shot.

I have two brain cells left in my brain,
Thanks to my family who has made me insane.

This year we went to the beach twice with all 7 of us, it was so grand,
But while traveling, I contemplated running away or just jumping out of the van.

Mollie was learning to whistle, Jolie and Sydney wanted to listen to rap,
Fischer sang 100 rounds of the diarrhea song while I tried to read the map.

Nicholas had an explosion in his diaper and Adrian was trying to drive,
I vowed to never travel again as long as we made it alive.

But oh, what a time we had once we got to Fripp,
Fischer caught a 5 foot barracuda on a deep sea fishing trip!

We swam and biked along with my sisters, their families, and my mama,
We stayed up late, played games, cooked, and frolicked in our pajamas.

Always wear your sunscreen, ‘cause when we got home we had a scary discovery,
Sydney had a spot, it was atypical, and was removed by a doctor of dermatology.

And speaking of doctors, this year we’ve sure visited a few,
Trying to figure out what the heck is wrong with our kids, well, at least two.

Sydney went to a neurologist; Nicholas went to an endocrinologist,
And after many trips to Emory, I think I need a psychiatrist!

Nicholas has stopped growing; he’s two or three years behind,
But if you traveled around the world looking, not a sweeter 4 year old you would find.

And boy is he smart at certain things like computers and fixing things mechanical,
He is in preschool but is heading to M.I.T. He really is incredible.

Mollie is 6 and is quite the charmer with her witty and clever ways,
She’s smart as a whip, too much for her own good, but makes me laugh every day.

Jolie is the only girl in the Chess Club and is still involved with Thespians and singing,
She is sweet 16, a junior in high school, and of graduation she is dreaming.

Sydney started a new school called Ava White Academy this fall,
She’s is doing so well, I believe it’s my reward for not killing her when she was small.

Fischer is 9 and pretty soon he’ll be taller than me, he’s such a wonderful young man,
He’s fascinated with science and books and is constantly learning all that he can.

And then there is Adrian, the love of my life who sticks by me through all of this,
Architecture is still going slowly, if only he could get paid to fish.

Adrian’s new hobbies include: rolling sushi, gardening, preserving, and canning,
He has plans to focus more on his art work, his oil paintings are outstanding.

“Finding Hope the Journey of a Battered Wife” is my newest book published this year,
I’ve been doing lots of public speaking about domestic violence live, on TV, and on air.

I still write my weekly newspaper advice column called Ask Lula Belle,
If you need any help, just write me a question and send in an e mail.

I have ventured on to a Children’s TV show and am in the midst of shooting the pilot,
With my partner Jordan White we have created a terrific show so funny it’s a riot.

The whole family is involved from acting, set design, singing, and puppets,
It’s called “Pickle Street” and is inspired by Mister Rogers and the Muppets.
Though I stay so busy and I sometimes feel like I am going to lose my mind,
I think of all I am grateful for and it gives me hope that everything’s going to be fine.

I never believe these annual poems will get written but it looks like I’ve done it again,
I am happy to share our news and wish a Merry Christmas to all our family and friends!

Mollie's Christmas List 2010 (age 6)

Dear Santa,
I would like a REAL baby. And 70 Littlest Pet Shops. And 100 stickers that are Littlest Pet Shop-like. I would like a Pillow Pet Turtle and a REAL Chihuahua. I would also like an icecream cake. You can just put it in the freezer when you get here. And I want a little real pink fish. This year, I don't want any books. I have lots of books and getting books is too boring so bring me money instead.

Love,
Mollie

Me: Mollie, Santa can't bring a real baby or a Chihuahua.

Mollie: Ok, we can change Chihuahua to a Pug. I've always loved Pugs.

Me: I don't think Santa can bring dogs or live babies.

Mollie: But I love Pugs. And I love babies.

Me: Where would Santa get a baby from any way? It's not like the elves can make one.

Mollie: Well, if there's a girl elf that's old enough to have a baby, she could have the baby and if she can't take care of it, she could send it to me and then I'd have an elf baby and I already have clothes that would fit it because I have doll clothes. This is what I've wanted all my life: a pug, pug, pug, pug! And a real baby!

Me: Well, you can have your very own baby and your very own Pug when you grow up! But Santa just brings toys. Not live people or animals.

Mollie: It's not fair. Jolie and Sydney got puppies for Christmas when they were little.

Me: Oh, yeah. You're right.

Mollie: I already have the name picked out: Coconut.

Me: (sigh)

Finding Hope...The Journey of a Battered Wife Part 2 (see part 1 below)

Every summer of my childhood, my return address on the dozens of letters I sent home read: “Flintlock Camps, Zirconia, North Carolina.” I was never homesick but in my earlier letters, I always wrote that I was. I missed my family but looking back, throughout my entire childhood and beyond, I have been more camp sick for the remaining eleven months every year than I ever was homesick during that one, precious month. I celebrated eight birthdays there with fifty of my best friends complete with yellow cake topped with creamy, chocolate frosting. I can still hear the squeaky screen door to the mess hall and all the picnic style benches scooting out from under the tables in one big scratch across the ply wood floor. I can hear the Happy Birthday song and see the candles lined up like soldiers across the massive sheet cake. I see the giggling girls reach for pieces of cake as it was plopped on small, white, round paper plates on top of the red and white checked table cloth.

I may have held the 1984 world record for friendship bracelets for I was showered with these as gifts. Every color of embroidery thread decorated my wrists and ankles, never to be removed as a solemn agreement of my commitment to the girl who gave it to me. Of course, by the time the month was over, too many hours splashing in the muddy lake caused each bracelet to rot off and float to the bottom, spied by curious fish, never to be seen again.

Flintlock had an outhouse with three toilets, three shower spigots, and a rustic metal trough where everyone gathered at night to brush their teeth, smear on some Noxema, while sharing a cloudy 8x10 mirror. The trough was also where we washed our socks and underwear once a week. This open air building was one of only three places which had electricity on the entire 150 plus acres of land. It was a luxury to gather at the outhouse every night to be serenaded by a chorus of crickets, katydids, and frogs before we turned in for the night to snuggle up in our blankets on our bunk beds which were on platform tents in the middle of the woods.
For several of the summers, my big sister was there with me and the summer I turned fifteen, my little sister was there too. Jennifer was a counselor, I was a Cabin Girl, which is like a counselor in training, and Rebecca was a camper.

Every summer we rode horses, swam in a cool, muddy lake, canoed, played softball, tennis, volley ball, four corners, soccer, endless card games, Indian Rock games, and capture the flag. We hiked our tails off, went tubing down the Green River, had encounters with snakes and mosquitoes, played flash light tag, and were members of The Polar Bear Club because we were willing to jump into the lake first thing every morning. (Sometimes that was our only hope of getting clean.) We built fires, roasted marshmallows, sang about twenty songs a day, read worn copies of Judy Blume books, stayed up late whispering about getting periods and boobs, performed in plays and skits, clogged, break danced, and made a million and one macramé bracelets.

I am forever grateful my sisters were there during the last camp session there ever was. It is a comfort to always have witnesses to bear testimony Flintlock really existed.

Though I wasn’t necessarily a religious person, my favorite part of camp was Chapel. We had the most beautiful chapel service in the middle of the woods every Sunday evening by candle light. There was a trail which began at the mess hall, went down several silvery slate rock steps, skimmed by the Quiet Benches, around a big oak tree, followed the round rim of the lakeside, past the canoe and kayak storage area, through a natural gate of dogwoods, and further and deeper into the woods under a canopy of hundred year old Maples, Hickories, and Elms. The tree roots offered steps up and down the slight hills and finally we would enter a small clearing which was surrounded by such magnificent fauna and flora on all sides. There were rustic wooden benches where we sat and cool, soft earth to kneel upon.

Bootie, the camp director, would read from the Good Book and we would sing. She always read the story about letting your light shine and not to put your light under a bucket. Even as a young girl, I understood what the message was and I would squint my eyes tightly, then open them, and there in the middle of the dark woods, I would see The Light.

Bootie stood before us in her plaid cotton button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a knee length denim skirt, penny loafers on her feet, and her long silver hair wound into a bun with errant wisps lightly touching her beautiful face. She appeared to be a cross between a wise, old mountain granny and a child. Though she was slender, her face was round and cherub like. She spoke with a unique Appalachian dialect and I can still see her and hear her voice in my head when I read the book of Matthew.

She would dip her candle to the one burning on the stacked rock altar beside the wooden cross. The light in the darkening woods flickered behind an old tin can of beans of which the label had been stripped off and someone had taken a hammer and nail to make the shape of a cross. Next, Bootie would light the little white candle of the oldest Camp Spirit Girl, and they would pass the light on and on until there was a small flame waving light across each girl’s pretty, pure face. And we would lift our voices high and sing to the heavens above: “Seek ye first the kingdom of the Lord and His Righteousness and all these things shall be added unto you, Hallelujah!”

In single file, we would leave the chapel and follow Bootie back down the trail careful to avoid tree roots and rocks but still singing in pitch perfect harmony with every step we took. Counselors had scurried on ahead and stopped at all the perilous areas of the trail and shone their flashlights over sharp rocks and dangerous drop offs on the trail. We collected the dripping white wax on our hands and fingernails as we sang and marched along.

When we would come to the part of the trail which followed the lakeside, I cannot tell you in words the way it made me feel to be singing with the voice of 50 young girls as our candles flickered in the reflection of the lake which mysteriously looked like glass on those nights. It was my favorite part. Fifty candles glowing in the lake with the moon. The bullfrogs were always welcome in our chorus and they merrily thumped out the bass of our songs and the crickets and tree frogs carried out the treble. It takes my breath away even now.

After trekking up and down the trail, we would eventually end our brief journey at the counsel ring where we would form a circle around a blazing fire. The camp hands (college boys who mowed the ball field and did a lot of heavy lifting and snake beheading), licked the fire pit with gasoline and would ignite the fire just as we were arriving sending the flames nearly sky high. We would sing a few more songs and then one at a time, blow out our candles, say our bed time prayers and be excused to the outhouse and then on to bed in silence.

The summer I was a Cabin Girl, I was even busier than usual. I had new responsibilities and new opportunities. We arrived earlier than all the campers and left later too so we could help get the camp ready and then clean it all up for the boys’ camp which would be taking place after the girls’ session was over. My first job was to scrub the chapel benches. I had never seen the chapel in day light before and I felt as if I had just walked in on my mother as she was dressing. Seeing the altar bathed in sunlight made everything appear smaller and simpler. Candlelight was obviously magic.

Finding Hope...The Journey of a Battered Wife (part 1)

While nestled in the womb of the Appalachians directly at the foot of Hogback Mountain, I found the place where light and darkness are one. Without warning, I slipped into it and it enveloped me in its perplexing blanket. Its shadows invited me inside and then allowed me fall hard into its depths. As a small fifteen year old girl, I didn't have the ability to keep walking though it to the end. And though I physically left Zirconia, North Carolina in July 1989, I remained in the shadows, intoxicated for the next ten years of my life.

The town was named for the zircon mines which sustained the small community decades before I was there. Zircons were used as a source for the incandescent light and Thomas Edison himself visited this previously thriving mining town more than once. This place was a paradise and when I think of what my heaven looks like, I can only visualize it as my view from the Mess Hall front porch overlooking the lake and the hills. My heaven is bedecked with Mountain Laurel, Rhododendron, Crow’s Feet, Sassafras, Devil’s Walking Stick, and hundreds of towering Hickory, Cherry, Hemlock, and Pine Trees. The trees are so close together they seemed more like one rolling green swath of fabric being shaken out by some immortal goddess on top of the mountain. The waves of the fabric swept across my view with every whisper of wind.

The Green River meanders through my Great Reward, babbling over slippery, moss covered rocks and fallen trees rotting into new life. My heaven has fields of daisies and clover, bumble bees, and ant hills. According to Professor Pratt’s Geological History of Western North Carolina, he says it is clear that all the rocks there are amongst the oldest geologic formations on earth. My paradise occupies land that is more ancient than that of the Euphrates, the Nile, or the Jordan River. Flintlock Camps was my Eden.

When I drive along the dirt road to my house, I always remember driving down the bumpy road to camp and the sound of the sparse gravel crunching beneath tires with anticipation of what was in store for me at the end. When it rains in the summer, I roll the windows down and I smell it. I taste it. It tastes like the color green. The melodies of the old camp songs rock my children back and forth until they are there too, in my Eden. To their ears, it is their mother’s voice, but in my head it is a three part harmony with fifty other girls. The loblolly pines and the kneesocked girls in pigtails are always just a spitting distance away from my real life even though I haven’t stood on that sacred ground in over twenty years.

Teenagers in the Summer

I keep thinking the summer is wrapping up, coming to an end but then I realize we still have a full month to go before school starts. Excuse me while I go stick my head in the toilet and flush it. I am so sick of summer it is not even funny.

For one thing, there are just too many people in this house all day. And I believe teenagers count for at least two people at each. And when they have the letters, ya know the ones that start with P and end in S and have an M in the middle...well, I think they count for four people each if you take in account all the mood swings and personality shifts.

I swear, I know I have great children and I love them and I am proud of them but sometimes I wonder what the heck I was thinking to have five of them. And it's not because of the little ones. I just think every mother should experience parenting a child going through a complete round of puberty BEFORE she decides how many children she would like to have. I am now asking myself if I can go though puberty three more times. I am thinking not.

I really thought I would be a cool mother to a teenage daughter. I really did. I thought this because I was so cool. But it really doesn't matter how cool you were or are because your children will think you are a total dweeb-o idiot from the time they are 13 until they have children of their own. Then they will feel very sorry for how ungrateful they were.

Adrian says we should write a hard core rap song called, "Shut Up and Give Me Your Money" 'cause that is what it feels like sometimes.

And you will actually say crap you vowed never to say like: "Do you think money grows on trees?" I am serious, the first time I said that, I vomited.

But then you end up feeling sorry for them. They do something retarded and you are forced to ground them which I swear is much more of a punishment for the parents than for the little smart- ass, disrespectful brat. Honestly, every chance we have to send you off with friends for the day or evening, we take it. When you leave, Daddy and I usually high five each other and sneak into the closet to make out knowing you are not going to be raining on our parade of happiness and harmony.

But grounding you means we are stuck listening to you mope around about how horrible your life is and how much we suck at parenting and how we don't understand you and how we must not love you and how you really don't love us anymore and how unfair we are and so and so's parents let their daughter do bla bla bla.

And then we say, "Well, if so and so jumped off a bridge, would you?" And then we vomit again.

Then there are other moments which are much worse. Having two teenagers, sometimes we get tag teamed. Two against two in this scenario is almost deadly because the manipulating power of fourteen and sixteen year old girls is like way out of our league.

It really is a shame you have to grow up and become people, making a pit stop along the way as a devil's spawn. But I digress...

When teenagers stay busy, things go much more smoothly and I can say we really get along quite well. But these dog days of summer are really doing a number on me. We are home way too much staying inside because I mean, really, how can we function in 104 degrees? Little children are easy to entertain because you can play games, build forts, go swimming, fishing, hiking, make treasure hunts, play dolls, games, puzzles, let them outside in their underwear and tell them to turn on the hose, whatever, but to attempt to entertain your teenagers....HA! Forget it! They will laugh at you and start singing that hard core rap song, "Shut Up and Give Me Your Money!" Don't even try. Just leave them at home. 'Cause if you take them in the car all hell will break loose. Apparently, adolescents are very sensitive to extreme heat combined with small children who are learning to whistle and like to practice all the way to the swimming pool.

Also, in the car, there is the issue of the car stereo. Who gets to listen to what and when? Well, it's my car so you'd think I'd get to pick but sometimes I make sure my choice is what the person capable of killing me would choose. I don't want to get shanked on my way to grandmama's house just because I tried to let the 9 year old little brother listen to his favorite Mexican station so he could belt out La Coca Rocha for thirty miles.

I must say, though, when all is said and done and the day is finally over, I do tip toe to their rooms to check on them just like I always have. They look the same as they did when they were babies. So sweet and peaceful. And I take a deep breath and say, "Wow." 'Cause if you are raising teenagers, that's about all you can really say.

I cannot wait until school begins. Then, everyone will be back to their busy little selves. Even though I will have to pretty much live in my car and have no time to write or put on a bra, there will be such peace. Hallelujah!