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There is a time in my life that is dark. So much so that I am finding it difficult to write about.
My mom was an alcoholic. Dad told me when I reached teen years just how bad it had been. I still cry when I think about how much of her was wasted. I see these people who are crack heads and it literally makes me want to throw up. I'm not saying that i'm better than anyone, all I'm saying is that they have not realized how much any addiction affects everyone that person knows.
Enough of that or I will cry right here in front of this computer.
I have about decided that mom was sick for three or four years before she died. I really don't know because dad never talked about any of that. He just told me that he had paid off her medical bills and the funeral expenses.
Here I was, nine years old, and had no clue that mom was sick. So when she died it really tore my heart out. Mom was an alcoholic but she was a good mom. She loved to read. It was the days before TV. Radio had programs all day. "Fibber McGee and Mollie-Dick Tracey-Abbott and Costello-baseball games--Guiding Light--Stella Dallas" and during the war nightly reports about what was going on in the Pacific and Europe. Mom had her programs she listened to, and then in the afternoon she would read.
I, on the other hand had a lot to say and wanted answers as soon as possible. She would be reading and I would run to her to ask a question or whatever, and she would pull me close, put her arm around me and hold on until she got to a stopping point in her book.
The love that showed me still fills me with contentment. I did the same when our kids were younger. They knew I loved them but I had something to cook or fix or whatever mom's have to do. My kids, who are now adults with kids of their own, call me almost every day. They mow the yard and fix things for me, and all because I showed them when they were little just how much they sere loved.
And then mom died. Wheeeew. It's hard even to type that.
Mom died when I was nine. In the Summer. Grams and Aunt Lillian and Uncle Bill came to LA to be with dad during the funeral and then when they went back to Dallas--Phil and I went too.
I was mouthy. I didn't like being away from all that I knew, but, at nine you don't have much of a say so, especially in the 1951.
We moved in with Grams and Dad was in LA getting the house sold and all the other things that had to be done. I don't remember when he got to Dallas, but he did YouHaul and all.
He unloaded the trailor, on a Saturday and Phil and I helped. I kept looking for Sally, my beautiful doll. I asked dad where she was and he told me that he didn't have the space to bring her with him. I was so upset.
My baby was left in LA. My mom was not with us she was gone too. I didn't know until I wrote the book that on that day I put a wall up because I didn't or couldn't handle life without Mom and Sally. They were both taken from me in the same year.
And now I can cry about it because the wall is not there anymore.
More tomorrow
My mom was an alcoholic. Dad told me when I reached teen years just how bad it had been. I still cry when I think about how much of her was wasted. I see these people who are crack heads and it literally makes me want to throw up. I'm not saying that i'm better than anyone, all I'm saying is that they have not realized how much any addiction affects everyone that person knows.
Enough of that or I will cry right here in front of this computer.
I have about decided that mom was sick for three or four years before she died. I really don't know because dad never talked about any of that. He just told me that he had paid off her medical bills and the funeral expenses.
Here I was, nine years old, and had no clue that mom was sick. So when she died it really tore my heart out. Mom was an alcoholic but she was a good mom. She loved to read. It was the days before TV. Radio had programs all day. "Fibber McGee and Mollie-Dick Tracey-Abbott and Costello-baseball games--Guiding Light--Stella Dallas" and during the war nightly reports about what was going on in the Pacific and Europe. Mom had her programs she listened to, and then in the afternoon she would read.
I, on the other hand had a lot to say and wanted answers as soon as possible. She would be reading and I would run to her to ask a question or whatever, and she would pull me close, put her arm around me and hold on until she got to a stopping point in her book.
The love that showed me still fills me with contentment. I did the same when our kids were younger. They knew I loved them but I had something to cook or fix or whatever mom's have to do. My kids, who are now adults with kids of their own, call me almost every day. They mow the yard and fix things for me, and all because I showed them when they were little just how much they sere loved.
And then mom died. Wheeeew. It's hard even to type that.
Mom died when I was nine. In the Summer. Grams and Aunt Lillian and Uncle Bill came to LA to be with dad during the funeral and then when they went back to Dallas--Phil and I went too.
I was mouthy. I didn't like being away from all that I knew, but, at nine you don't have much of a say so, especially in the 1951.
We moved in with Grams and Dad was in LA getting the house sold and all the other things that had to be done. I don't remember when he got to Dallas, but he did YouHaul and all.
He unloaded the trailor, on a Saturday and Phil and I helped. I kept looking for Sally, my beautiful doll. I asked dad where she was and he told me that he didn't have the space to bring her with him. I was so upset.
My baby was left in LA. My mom was not with us she was gone too. I didn't know until I wrote the book that on that day I put a wall up because I didn't or couldn't handle life without Mom and Sally. They were both taken from me in the same year.
And now I can cry about it because the wall is not there anymore.
More tomorrow
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