My First “True Love”

He had the coolest car ever!!! It was an old ’75 Dodge Charger. Metallic gold. White vinyl top. Racing wheels. Black interior with white leather seats. Racing steering wheel. Pistol grip gear shift. Soft rumble of an idle that you could feel in your chest from the end of the block. *sigh* And, if he was gettin’ on it at the main intersection six blocks away, it felt like he was coming right through the living room. God, I loved that car!

He was pretty cool, too. In fact, he was the most awesome guy I’ve ever known. Sadly, no other man has ever even come close.

He was the older brother of my best friend’s boyfriend. They all lived at the opposite end of the block from me. I was 15 the first time I saw him, he was shirtless with his head stuck under the hood of that beautiful car. When he stood up to greet me, I locked in on those piercing, soulful blue eyes of his. Oh, and that GREAT smile. But, those eyes. The way he was looking at me, I never wanted him to stop.

He was 6’4″, lean, tan, really nice arms, blonde hair… and, those beautiful blue eyes. He had such a fun laugh, too. We could talk about anything at all… or, he could be really quiet and we’d just soak in being together. You know how when someone gets quiet all of a sudden and you wonder if you said or did something wrong? I never felt that way with him. When he was quiet, I knew he was just processing something internally and would share it with me when he was ready. And, even when he was quiet, he would still lean in for a kiss, or hold my hand, or tell me he loved me. I never had to wonder how he felt. He always made me feel as if I were the only girl alive for him.

We never argued. Even if we didn’t agree on something, we would take the time to listen to each other and either compromise, or one of us would realize it meant more to the other and would be willing to try the other way first. He NEVER raised his voice to me or talked down to me. He showed me I mattered to him in every way. He was patient, understanding, and loving in everything we did together.

He knew I loved that car as much as he did. He would pick me up and we’d drive for a bit before he’d ask me what I wanted to do for the night. I would tell him we were already doing it. I was happy just riding with him. I didn’t care where we went or who we saw.

Sometimes, there would be a gathering at a parking lot where guys would race their cars. The first time I was with him, he stood me by the biggest friend there and told me he’d be right back. He saw I was disappointed and asked wasn’t I scared to be in the car while he was racing. I wasn’t. I trusted him. I knew he loved me and the car, and wouldn’t take any unnecessary risks to hurt either one of us. I knew he was smart enough to never go faster than he felt in control. He was an awesome driver and I loved watching him drive, especially racing. I don’t remember him ever losing.

He knew I loved the water and would take me to this park by the river not far from our homes. We would sit on the rocks and listen to the water lap up on the rocks while watching the boats pass by off in the distance. Then, he would swing with me, or climb to the top of the ladder with me and just hold me in front of him while we sat there looking out over the water together. When he would wrap his arms around me from behind, I felt like nothing bad could ever touch me.

A couple times a week, he would drive me over to the beach, even if it was late and we’d only be able to spend a few minutes there before getting me back home. He knew how much it meant to me to smell the salt air (especially at night) and listen to the waves crash in while digging our toes into the cool white sand.

One night, as he dropped me off at home, he gave me an extra slow kiss, held me a little tighter in our goodnight hug, and told me how he’d love me forever. But, just before he drove away, he told me that I couldn’t see him again. I still don’t know why. Whenever I would visit my best friend, I would say hello to him, but all he would do is smile and turn away. He never spoke to me again. There would be nights I would get calls with no one speaking, but if I called my best friend back right away, I’d hear the same background noises from the call before. My best friend would tell me all the time how he still talked about how much he loved me, but wouldn’t tell anyone why we weren’t together. We had seen each other for two years.

They ended up moving to the next town and I started seeing who would become my first husband. I ran into my best friend a couple years later. She said Jim still hadn’t seen anyone else and pretty much spent his evenings coming home from work, having dinner and a shower, and then going for a drive. I would hear him drive by my house. She said if he was drinking he would talk about missing me, but would never say why he broke it off.

I hope he found someone to love and have a family with. I’m sure he did. I hope he still enjoys taking long drives. I miss them so much. And, I hope she is loving every moment spent with him like I did.

Sheri’s First Love

Two grandmothers lived next door to each other with each of their daughters expecting their first child. On October 19^th, Grandma Davis’s daughter gave birth to a beautiful dark haired baby boy with deep brown eyes and a gorgeous smile. On October 29th, Grandma Mulling’s daughter gave birth to a blonde haired baby girl with blue eyes. The two babies would love each other unconditionally from the moment they met. David and Sheri were adorable together walking around as toddlers holding hands and him putting his arm around her.

When Sheri’s dad was stationed at the Long Beach, California, Naval Base, even being on opposite sides of the country didn’t make them forget each other. When her grandmother would write letters to her mother, there was always a special note at the end that told of David coming over to ask if she was home yet. He would tell her grandmother to give her the message that he loved her and to hurry home. They were only 3 years old!

Luckily, when she did come home, they both spent a lot of time at their grandmothers’ homes. He would walk over each morning to spend the day with her. He would gently push her on the swing, help her climb the ladder to the slide, and run around to catch her as she slid down. They would run around playing and giggling most of the day. When Sheri would hear his grandmother calling for him to come home, she would pout from the sadness of having to end their day together. David would put his arms around Sheri and tell her, “Please don’t cry, Sheri. It hurts my heart when you do.” Awwwww. How could you possibly not love him? They were only 5 years old!

Her grandfather kept a ladder in the back yard propped against the roof of the carport. David loved climbing up there. That part of the roof was flat and covered by a HUGE oak tree. Knowing she was scared, he would always be right behind Sheri holding onto her and the ladder to make her feel safe the whole way up and down. They could see the entire neighborhood from up there and it was like they were in their own little world. One day, her grandfather asked her why she climbed up there with him if she was afraid of heights. She told him she had to because she didn’t want to miss seeing how much David loved it up there.

He would help her climb the Japanese Plum tree and pick plums together. What they didn’t eat would become grenades for playing Army. They would throw them and roll down the little hill between the two houses. David would always cover her when they reached the bottom. God, that boy always smelled so good!

They would set up the laundry room as their “house” with dolls as their “babies”. He would walk through the door from the carport as if coming home from “work” and always pick up the “baby” and hug his “wife”. One day, as David walked in the door from “work”, Sheri ran up and threw her arms around him and kissed him right on the lips. He look quite surprised! He asked, “What was that for?” She said, “I’ve missed you so much! I hate when we’re apart.” Suddenly, he realized they needed something from the “store” and said he’d be right back. After that, he made a lot of quick trips to work and the store, always receiving a big hug and kiss from her when he walked in the door. They were only 8 years old!

As they got older, he spent less time at his grandmother’s house. But, every time they were together was like they’d never been apart. Their love for each other was unstoppable. Until…

About 6^th grade, David’s mother remarried and they moved away. Sheri was heartbroken!

She wonders often what became of him. She knows, without a doubt, he grew up to be a good man who is a loving husband and devoted father. Sheri had been spoiled by his sweetness and hoped whoever was lucky enough to have his love appreciated every moment of it like she did.

Father’s Day…

Happy Father’s Day to all the daddy’s out there… and, to all the men who step in when needed.

My father, stepfather, and grandfather have all passed and I miss them dearly.  In remembrance of them, I’d like to share with you a little bit about them.

I never knew my dad’s father, so when I speak of my grandfather, I always mean my mom’s father.  William C. Mulling, Sr. is forever known to me as “Papa”.  Born in Georgia, he was from a family of farmers and up to the day he died, could grow anything anywhere.  He was a tall man who towered over me and spoke with a stern and thunderous voice.  Many people thought of him to be too harsh, much too critical, and cold.  I, on the other hand, found him to be a man with a tender and gentle side who could be warm and loving in non-conventional ways.  He was very critical at times, but even though his words sounded hard, I believe he meant for them to be helpful… at least, sometimes.  He was very dedicated to his family, even though he always seemed to have the toughest time verbally expressing or showing his emotions.  Yet, I always remember him saying “I love you, too” in response to me when I said, “I love you” to him.

He was extremely patriotic and was always proud to exclaim that he had fought in WWII and The Korean War with the Army.  He was raised in a time where men didn’t cry… it was wrong for men to be anything but the breadwinner and protector of the family… if anyone was in need, you helped in whatever way you could… you worked hard, paid your bills, and if you wanted something, you saved up for it and paid cash.  He was also VERY intelligent.  And, I mean VERY BRIGHT.  You’d never in a million years have guessed that he never attended school higher than the 7th grade.

Papa could be quite frugal with his money.  But, I remember as a very little girl being in the grocery store with him and seeing a baby lamb stuffed toy that I just absolutely fell in love with.  I stood and stared at it hanging above me in the aisle while he shopped.  He’d call me to him, but I just stood and stared.  I wanted that little lamb sooooooooo bad!!!  I had stood there the entire time we were in the store and when he called for me to leave with him, he had a smile on his face and held the grocery bag down for me to see inside of it.  There was a little baby lamb that he had gotten for me without me even seeing… probably because I was too fixated on the one right above me in the aisle I was standing in.  I grabbed the baby lamb and hugged his neck so tightly that I thought my arms would snap in two.  On our way home, as he walked beside me, I merrily skipped holding his hand in mine and holding my new baby lamb tightly to my chest.

When Papa came home from work each evening, he clearly was ready for supper and then watching the news and game shows.  Yet, if I was there, he would happily invite me to stand in his recliner behind him as he sat with the TV on… letting me “do” his hair.  I would get my grandmother’s comb and curlers and somehow get those curlers to stay in his very, very short, slick hair.  He would let me do this for hours on end.  Looking back, I’m sure he must have wanted to just relax after a long day at work without me messing with his hair and digging my feet into his back.  But, if I disturbed him, he certainly never let me see it.  And, today it seems even sweeter for him to not be bothered in the least that pink curlers were tightly wound in his hair.

Papa would tell me over and over how it was such a waste of time to have to go back over something you had already done.  He said, “If it’s worth doing at all, it’s worth doing right the first time.”  (And, I believe that may be where some of my obsession for perfection comes into play.)

My dad, James Durell Dennis, Sr. was, in some ways, the opposite of my grandfather.  Dad was much more openly affectionate than Papa.  He was born in southern Alabama.  Dad was also much quicker with a joke or prank.  While Papa’s humor was dry and disguised, Dad’s sense of humor ranged from silly nonsense to vulgar.  He almost always found a way to make people laugh… even when it was more of a groan than a chuckle.

Dad fought for his country in the Vietnam War as a sailor.  I often wondered just what his part was as a Navy man, but he would NEVER discuss it.  He felt that his service entitled him to a certain degree of respect for doing what was asked of him, yet did not feel the need to share it in any way.

He would tell me stories of how his mother (GrannyBell) all but raised him and his 7 brothers and 2 sisters on her own.  As the baby of his family, he had a special closeness to his mother… and, she turned that affection to my baby brother when he was born… the baby boy of her baby boy.  He would tell me how she would make them cut their own switches from a tree if they needed to be disciplined.  And, I imagine with 9 children, there was a lot of discipline needed.  Dad would always end up telling me how if he had a tummy ache, she would mix a spoonful of gasoline and sugar for him to swallow.  Eeewwww.  He said it helped, though.  So glad he didn’t use that remedy on me.  Whew.

Dad was a very smart man.  Book smart.  And, street smart.  He probably had more common sense than anyone I know. He was great at logic problems and math.  Riddles were a favorite of his to share.  I can’t think of anything that he couldn’t figure out on his own.

We were always sharing things with each other… especially candy.  As a little girl, I remember receiving a gift of some sort that was a bowl of little soaps shaped as roses.  I ran to Dad where he was napping on the couch and woke him up to see the cute little soaps that looked like flowers.  Except, when I handed one to him, in his sleepy stupor, he thought I was handing him a piece of candy.  Needless to say, he was NOT pleased when he bit into that soap!  Until that moment, I don’t believe I understood just how fast that man could move as he jumped up off that couch.  Somewhere, I still have that little bowl of soaps shaped like roses… one, with his teeth marks still clearly visible.

My dad loved to sing and write songs.  I found a notebook of his one day when I was in my teens.  It contained songs and poems he’d written.  I was so excited to see that notebook because it meant I could share with him my own notebook of poetry and songs.  We sang together a lot.  A lot!  He had a great voice and was not shy about it at all.  I guess he passed that musical talent to my brother and I… more to my brother than me.  As a very young child, I remember him singing to me whenever I’d get upset or sad.  The words I remember him singing the most when I was little is…

“Listen…  Do you want to know a secret?  Do you promise not to tell?  Whoa-ohhh-oh, closer.  Let me whisper in your ear.  Say the words you long to hear… I’m in love with you.  Oooo-oooo-oo.”

I’m no Beatles fan by any stretch, but to this day, I still love that song!  And, it still puts me at ease.

I remember being at parties with my parents and watching my mom and dad dance together.  They always had so much fun.  And, they were both REALLY good at it.  I always wanted to dance the way they did.  I still do.

When my dad was still in the Navy, he was stationed in Long Beach, CA, and we lived in the Navy Apartments there.  I was crying one day when my dad came home and when he asked me why, I told him that some boy had been hitting me and picking on me.  He asked if I had hit him back and when I said no, he marched me right over to that boy’s apartment .  When the mother answered the door, at first she refused to have her son come outside.  However, when my dad suggested that either I could handle this with her son or my dad could handle it with her husband, she had the boy come to the door.  My father promptly explained to me that if I did not whoop his butt for hitting me, he would take me home and whoop mine.  It didn’t matter how little I was, I knew that my dad’s whoopin’ would hurt a whole lot more than anything that boy could do to me.  I slugged him as hard as I could.  He ran into his apartment crying.  My father then told me that if anyone ever hit me again, I’d BETTER beat their butt.  He said to not EVER throw the first punch, but if I was defending myself, I’d better ALWAYS be throwing the last one.

Oh, and that boy?  He never picked on me again.  In fact, he was quite nice to me from then on.  (Is it bad that I just snickered?)

Dad probably gave me the best advice ever when he said to me, “Everything you do has a consequence.  ALWAYS think about the consequence.  If you don’t think you can handle the consequence, then DON’T DO IT!”  Those words have made me think things through more thoroughly.  Obviously, I sometimes thought I could handle consequences that I evidently couldn’t… or, didn’t want to.  But, I hope it’s helped me to make better choices.  I know it’s kept me out of a whole lot of trouble that looked like a whole lot of fun at the time.

My stepfather, George Prentice Bussey, III, was my mother’s second husband.  He was undoubtedly the most educated man I’ve ever known.  He was a Navy veteran like my dad.  George was born in Georgia and worked his way through Georgetown University.  He was a southern man who could talk circles around the best of the city businessmen.

He owned and/or managed night clubs, restaurants, hotels, and private membership clubs.  I took all business and accounting courses in high school primarily because of him.  He had me start working with him as a young teenager doing typing, layouts of brochures, pamphlets, menus, and management outlines.

Being much older than my mother, his children were all grown and had families of their own.  He was grounded.  He was solid.  And, even when sick with cancer, he still found a little time to pass the football with my brother.  I think I loved him more for that than anything.  As I pull into the driveway sometimes, I still hear him say, “Home again.  Home again.  Jiggity jig.”

George had traveled and seen places of the world that I’ll probably only ever dream of.  He was aware of his own mortality, yet chose to live his life – especially in his younger years – to the absolute fullest.

I learned more while working with him and watching him interact with people… employees, customers, contractors, and vendors… than from anyone else.  He would always walk through his dining rooms to greet customers as they were dining.  George made a point of stopping to speak with everyone he could to ask them how their meal or service was and would immediately rectify even the smallest of concerns.  He frequently gave out his business card with a handwritten note for a free meal to various customers even though very few ever had any complaints.  He believed that giving the customer a quality product at a reasonable price with outstanding personal attention was the key to success.  And, he made a believer out of me.

None of these men were perfect.  All of them had their shortcomings.

But…

They were all perfect in their own way.

And, they were all loved by me.

Happy Birthday, Dad… RIP

Today, March 8th, is my dad’s birthday.  In his honor, I would like to share with you a few of my memories of him.

He’s been gone less than a year now, but it feels like so much longer.

My father may not have always been in touch regularly and he was certainly not up for any Father-Of-The-Year Awards.  However, I choose to remember the good things about him since his passing.

My dad, James Durell Dennis, Sr., was a very intelligent, handsome, and witty man born in Atmore, Alabama as the “baby” in a family of 9 children, 6 brothers and 2 sisters.  He and my mother married very young and were a gorgeous couple.  He was a Navy man in the Vietnam War.  He worked for Weyerhaeuser, Schlitz, Stroh’s, and Pabst.  He loved music… mostly the songwriters like Neil Diamond, James Taylor, Bob Seger, and Johnny Rivers.  My dad had a great voice and loved singing and writing songs and poems.

I remember my dad singing “Listen, Do You Want To Know A Secret” by the Beatles to me.  (Probably the only Beatles song I even like to this day.)

I remember when we were living in the Navy apartments in Long Beach, California, I was only about 3 years old.  There was an older boy of about 7 years old that would always bully me.  My dad came home one evening and found me crying because the boy had hit me.  He promptly took me to the little boy’s door and told his mother to have him come out so that I could hit him back.  The mother, of course, refused… until he explained to her that if she didn’t allow me to retaliate against her son, he would personally take it out on her husband.  He explained that I’d better hit the boy hard enough that he’d never want to hit me again.  Apparently, I did because I never had any trouble with him again.  He said that from then on if anyone ever hit me, I’d better fight back as hard as I could because if I didn’t beat their ass, he’d beat mine.  He told me to not ever be the one to throw the first punch, but I’d better always throw the last to defend myself.  (I sure wish I’d held to that during my first marriage.)

I remember as a small girl having a piece of soap shaped as a flower and wanting to show him.  I woke him from his nap on the couch, and since I was always sharing candy and food with him, in his sleepiness he thought the soap was a piece of candy.  Biting into it woke him up in a hurry.

I remember him teaching me how to swim and dive.  He, my baby brother, and I loved the water.

I remember him teaching me how to play sports.  He’d throw a football with me for hours on end until I could throw a pass perfectly “hitting the numbers” from the other end of the courtyard at his apartment complex.  He had me doing a perfect hook shot even though I hated basketball.  His favorite was golf and he’d take my brother and I to play Putt Putt often.  There were times he’d call me to tell me about his golf game… each stroke of every hole of the game.  Bored, I only half listened, but I guess I should have been happy that he wanted to share it with me.

I remember him being a big beer drinker… but, don’t ever remember seeing him “drunk”.

I remember that in one apartment he lived, he had me draw on the walls of the living room.  My brother loved Sesame Street at the time so our dad had me trace pictures of Big Bird, Elmo, Bert and Ernie, and Snuffleupagus on the wall and color them in so that he’d have his very own pictures of them to see whenever we were there.  (Wonder what the next tenants thought.)

I remember my dad telling jokes incessantly that were so bad you had to laugh anyway.

He would say things like “For shits and giggles”, “Squeeze me” (instead of “excuse me”), “Kiss my go to hell”… and, countless other nonsense sayings that you came to expect only from him.

He taught me that every action has a consequence and that BEFORE you act, you should figure out what the consequence will be.  If you’re willing to face the consequences, then by all means, take the action.  He would tell me that I could do ANYTHING I wanted to do… as long as I was willing to pay whatever price came with it.

Even though my brother and I didn’t talk to him often, he always made sure that we knew he loved us and was proud of us.  And, I believe that he did and was.  I just wish he’d been around more.  I wish my brother had been able to spend more time with him.  I don’t think my brother ever knew how much our dad adored him.  And, I always felt bad about that.  My brother does things and says things so very much like our dad and I’m sure he doesn’t even realize it.  But, I do. So, I guess our father will continue to live on in him.

Yes, there are memories that are not so fond… but, I choose to let those go.  I choose to forgive those… for me.

So, Dad… if you’re seeing this… I love you.  I miss your voice… your laugh… your wisdom… and, even your dumb-ass jokes.  😀

Was He Really A Famous Race Car Driver?

As I was relating the previous series of events to Scott, we became curious.  Very curious.  Was my kidnapper really a famous race car driver?  Scott, being an avid NASCAR fan, had to know.

So… we began a little research.

Why hadn’t I thought to look into this guy more on my own?  Was I just settling for thinking that he must have been lying the whole time?  Or, did I just not care?

Looking up this person online, it was hard to tell from the pictures.  Of course, what happened was almost 19 years ago… and, all the photos we found of the man we were researching were much more recent.  But…

It did look like him.

His hair wasn’t buzzed and he had a moustache 19 years ago, but… It did look like him.

We found that his marital status, etc. matched.  Hmmm….

We also discovered that the person we were researching did live in Florida during that time.  Hmmm….

Scott looked up the schedules for that weekend and the driver didn’t participate in any races during that time.  Hmmm….

We found videos of the driver and his voice did sound the same.  Hmmm….

Oh… and, he even raced IROC for a while which looked very similar to the car this man was driving that night.  (And, of course, I could have mistaken a Firebird for a Camaro.)  Hmmm…

There was other more personal information we found that coincided.  Hmmm…

There were so many coincidences.  Too many similarities.

Circumstantial?  Of course, it could be.  Could this man have been some sort of psycho fan impersonating the driver?  Sure.  Was he someone who worked for the driver and that’s how he knew some of the information he did?  Possible.

Was he really this famous race car driver?  I definitely couldn’t rule it out!

No matter who he was, what made him do an about-face so suddenly?  Did sleep clear his mind?  Did seeing his wife bring him to his senses?  Did he sober up and realize what he had done?  Did I have a lucky break?  Who knows?  Whatever it was, I was thankful it didn’t end up much worse.  (Especially with all that my family was going through that weekend.)

Was he really a famous race driver?

Hmmm….

A Nightmare Plays Out In Real Time – Part 4 – “The Day That Our Lives Changed Forever”

Monday morning was kind of a blur for me.  I was drained emotionally from all that had happened that weekend.  I’m not even sure the order of events that day.  I know that after we checked out of the hotel, at some point we went to the courthouse to get a restraining order against Harold.

I spent most of the day filling out papers for the order of protection.  There was so much information to give.  I was terrified that it wouldn’t go through in time.  But, then… would he even follow it?

I then bought a packet for filing for divorce on my own.  I went home to complete the packet.  I was feeling sad that it had come to that.  I fully believed in marriage and my vows.  I had wanted so badly for it to be different.  I believed that marriage was meant to be forever.  But, then… I also knew that marriage was not supposed to make you miserable and broken.  And, it certainly wasn’t supposed to endanger your life or the lives of your children.

I was feeling relieved that nothing else bad had happened while we were at the hotel.  I was feeling thankful that my children and family were safe.  I was feeling hopeful that after having the weekend to come down off of whatever drugs he had taken, that maybe Harold had come to his senses and wouldn’t cause more trouble.

As soon as we got home, I found the phone number for Harold’s doctor and called to let him know what happened and ask him to find a way to get him help before it was too late.  His response to me was puzzling.  He said, “Sheri, I guess you haven’t heard.”  Heard what?  Was he not listening to me?  His reply took my breath away.

He told me that Harold was dead.

Dead.

My knees buckled and I felt sick.

He was still talking.  He was telling me that he got the call from a detective earlier in the day that Harold had killed himself.  How could that be?  He was staying with his sister.  Surely knowing the state he was in, she wouldn’t have left him alone.  And, how?  How would he do such a thing?  Did he take the gun with him?  My head was spinning.

I’m not sure if anything I said to the doctor after that was even coherent.  I think I was gasping.  I think I almost dropped the phone.  I was so confused.  This couldn’t be real.

What would I tell my children?  How would they ever understand?  Why would he leave them like that?  I certainly couldn’t tell them that he was threatening to kill them just days before this.  What would I say?

I remember sobbing to my dad that I never wanted this to happen.  I only wanted him to leave me alone.  What he said sent chills down my spine and I think it finally all sank in.  Everything.  All of it at once.  He said, “Better him alone than him taking you and the kids with him.”  He also said that he now knew me and the kids would be safe.

But, it isn’t what I wanted to happen.

Until that weekend, he had been a good father.  He really had.  As messed up as he could get sometimes, he was good with them.  He took good care of them.  There was no doubt he loved them as he should.  What happened to this man?  How could he do this to our kids???

I was angry.  I was hurt.  I was confused.  I felt so much pain for my kids.  At that point, I was able to forgive him for everything he’d done to me over the years.  I was able to let it go knowing that he couldn’t even deal with his own pain, much less what he created for me.  All those years of hell were forgiven.

The one thing I could not bring myself to forgive was that he left my children to grow up with this.  They were so young.  How would they cope with knowing their father committed suicide?  What would they feel knowing that he took his own life?  I hated him for that.  I hated him for many things before that… but, now… I only hated him for that.

I went through the motions of making calls to the sheriff’s office for information.  At first, they would tell me nothing.  Evidently, Harold’s sister told him we were divorced and that I had no right to know anything about the case and that I was not to have any of his belongings.  I had to convince them that we were NOT divorced.  I had picked up the papers to file… but, had not done so yet.  It was just that day even.  They finally started telling me everything and wanted me to come pick up his personal items that he had on him when he died.

His sister had taken him to her house in Zephyrhills.  She had spent the weekend with him sleeping the days away.  She had told the detectives that she knew he was severely depressed.  That morning, she went to work and her daughter went to school.  Her daughter came home to find him dead laying back on the bed with a gunshot to his chest.  I was told he used a rifle to shoot himself in the chest.

What rifle?  His sister’s rifle.  Why would he be left alone with a gun in the house knowing his state of mind?  That’s something only his sister can answer… and, live with.

I didn’t know what to think anymore.  I was tired of thinking.  I was exhausted from trying to make sense out of nonsense.  Was this really my life?  Widowed at 27 with a 6-year-old little girl and a 3-year-old little boy.  Was this who I was now?  It had to be a nightmare.  The whole weekend.  One big drawn out nightmare.

When I finally went to pick up his things from the sheriff’s office, there was only his wallet and watch.  The wallet didn’t have much more than his driver license in it.  There were pictures of our kids missing.  I’m not even sure that his bank card was in there.  No money was in the wallet, I’m certain of that.  Not one single dollar.  Not even change from his pocket.  Where had all the money gone that he took from our bank account?  Where were the pictures of our kids?  The detective told me that’s how it was given to her.

The next couple weeks were difficult enough without his family blaming me for what he did.  They didn’t even ask about the kids.  They wanted his wallet and watch.  In fact, they wanted all of his stuff.  Did they forget that I had his children to raise… now, alone?  I was asked to send his body to North Carolina so that he could be buried next to his father who had died May 8th, 1985.  I had no problem with their request except that I had no money to pay for the transportation of his body.  They somehow thought that I had taken all Harold’s money.  What money?  Did they not realize that I was left with all these debts to pay by myself?  They said they would cover the expenses of transporting the body if I would sign the release forms.  I did.  I was told to not show up at the funeral.  My kids didn’t even get to attend their own father’s funeral.  Over the years, not one member of his family ever called, wrote, or sent a card to the kids.

When I told my children about their dad, I only said that he had died.  I couldn’t bear telling them that he killed himself.  My little girl understood more than I thought she would.  She was a “Daddy’s girl” through and through.  It broke my heart into a million pieces having to see her so devastated.  I remember sitting my little boy across my lap facing me.  I reminded him of what it meant to be dead.  I then had to tell this sweet baby boy that his father was dead.  He asked me if he died in the truck.  The truck?  My mind flashed to the crash Harold had when he was trying to run us off the road.  I couldn’t dare let my son think that the truck he would be riding in is where his dad died.  I explained to him that he died from a gunshot.  I reminded him of the talks we’d had about guns and I knew he understood.  They didn’t know until years later that he committed suicide.  And, even longer before they found out that he had threatened to take us with him.

They both had trouble from time to time dealing with what he did.  But, they’ve both grown to be beautiful individuals.

Our lives could have been very different had Harold lived.  But, in what way?

For better?

Or, for worse?

A Nightmare Plays Out In Real Time – Part 3 – “Escape… or, More Imprisonment?”

I awoke to a loud banging on the front door.  As soon as I opened my eyes he was jumping out of bed and putting on his pants.  He whispered to me that I’d better not make a sound or come out of the room as he pointed the gun at me.  He left the bedroom door open just a  little and I could see the front door from the bed.  He opened the front door to a woman yelling at him about money.  He said something about his kid or kids and I got the impression that this woman was his wife.  I couldn’t hear everything they were saying, only bits and pieces of things here and there that I was trying to put together. From what I could tell they were separated and had at least one child together.  He never had the front door opened more than 6 inches or so… just enough for him to talk to her and hand her money out of his wallet.  I wish I could hear more.  I wish I could understand more of what I was hearing.

All of a sudden he was back in the room ordering me to get out of bed and telling me I had to leave.  Leave?  Hell, yeah!  That’s exactly what I had been wanting to do since he grabbed me.  He put the nightie back in the closet and made sure the living room was straightened up and plugged the phone back in the kitchen as he told me to call my mother to come get me.  I happily made the call and he gave her directions of how to get to his house.  I was finally going home.  I could finally see my kids.  Thank God!

As we waited for my mother to come get me, he was talking very sweetly about how happy he was that he was able to rescue me.  He kept telling me how lucky I was that he came along when he did.  He wanted to cook me breakfast, but I just wanted my mom to be there so I could get as far away from this man as possible.  He kept me busy with small talk and the time passed quickly.

As soon as my mom came to the door I was ready to walk out, but he had her and my kids come in.  What the hell?  He was being so sweet to them and it was making me sick not to scream out what he had done, but I had no idea how he’d react and now my children were in this house with him, too.  He had my mom so convinced that he was such a great guy that she was actually thanking him for helping me.  Thankfully, we were finally leaving.

As soon as we got in the car, I began telling her how I had no idea who he was and that he just “took” me in the midst of all the commotion.  I was so busy talking to her about what had happened that I didn’t bother to look at the address or even the name of the neighborhood we were leaving.

Soon we were talking about Harold and I wasn’t thinking so much of the race car driver.  In fact, with being able to focus on Harold again, I forgot about my kidnapper altogether.  That seems strange to me now, but I guess I was putting my energy where the most CURRENT threat was.  It was the last time I saw that man face-to-face.  But, his name would come up while watching a race and I would always wonder.  I settled for thinking that it couldn’t be him… that the man who kidnapped me was just using his name to try to impress me or something.  But, will I ever know for sure?

Mom and I thought it best that we take the kids to a hotel and hide out for the weekend so that Harold wouldn’t be able to find us.  I went to the ATM to get cash for the hotel, but Harold had already emptied the bank account.  We ended up at a hotel in Brandon far enough away from home that he wouldn’t think to look for us there, but close enough that if something happened we could get home quickly.

It was Mother’s Day weekend and I was spending it hiding out in a hotel room with my mother and children.  That day and the next I went to pay phones to call Harold’s family in NC telling them what happened and asking them to help.  Help us… and, help him.  Maybe if he went for a visit with them, it would help clear his mind.  Maybe they could talk to him.  Maybe they could convince him to get away from the drugs.

Apparently, he had already given them a very different version of the events that took place.  He had them convinced that even though he did what he did, it was MY fault and that I deserved it.  They wouldn’t even believe me that he was threatening our kids and my family, too.  How could they not believe me?  How could they think this was my fault?  I had always been extremely close to his family.  In fact, they kept in touch with me more than they did him.  I loved them so much.  I never thought of them as in-laws.  I thought of them as MY family.  They knew him.  They knew me.  How could they not believe what I was telling them?  How could they ignore the fact that he was so messed up on drugs?  I guess it didn’t matter.  I felt so lost.  I felt so hopeless.  I thought if nothing else, I could always turn to them for help.

Each time I walked out the hotel room door for food or anything else, I was scouting for Harold.  We spent that weekend in fear that he would find us.  Scared that he would carry out his threats.  There was no way for me to know that he was, in fact, about to carry out one threat he had made for years.

No way for me to know how drastically my life would be changing forever.

A Nightmare Plays Out In Real Time – Part 2 – “The Race Car Driver”

It was late.  I was thankful that I hadn’t had more than a few drinks but, I was still disoriented from all that was happening.  I didn’t even notice what exit we took from the interstate.  Finally, we were inside a garage and he was leading me into his house all the while telling me again and again that he was a famous race car driver.

Inside, I wanted to immediately use the phone to call my mom and check on my kids.  For some time, he refused to let me use the phone.  After begging, pleading, threatening, yelling, and then crying, he broke down and let me use the phone to call home.  He stood right there with me as I made my call.  The information I received during that phone call chilled my blood.  Harold had gone to the house and was threatening to kill my family… even our children.  My God!  I had to get home.  I had to go to them right then!  Why wouldn’t this man listen to me?  Why was he refusing to take me home or let me tell my mother where I was so that she could come get me?

He took the phone from me and turned on the sweetest voice you’d ever heard.  He told my mother that he had rescued me and that he would keep me safe and that he thought the last place I should be was at home.  He said that Harold didn’t know where I was and couldn’t get to me.  No shit.  I didn’t even know where I was.  But, I knew where I should be.  I should have been home with my kids protecting them.

Why was this man so hell-bent on keeping me with him?  Was he really trying to help me?

I was so confused.  I kept replaying the night’s events over in my head.  All the while this man is insisting he’s a professional race car driver and that he was going to keep me safe.  I knew the name he gave me and was wishing I’d paid more attention to what the guys looked like instead of just their cars.  He talked about racing… cars… other drivers.  Was he really who he said he was?  Harold’s brother-in-law worked for Kyle Petty so I knew a little information about some of the drivers… but, I’d never focused on anyone’s face.  This guy did seem to know quite a bit that coincided with what my brother-in-law had shared with me.  Things that only the drivers and pit crews see and hear.  Could it be?  I had no idea what to believe.

All I knew for sure is that I was worried sick about my kids and mom and brother.  Harold had told them he’d kill them all.  I was scared.  I wanted to be with them.  I wanted to believe that he was only messed on up something and wouldn’t really hurt them.  I wanted to know that they were safe.  I wanted to know that he was coming down off of whatever he was on.

What had Mom said?  Harold had called her saying he needed her to pick him up.  She did and that’s when she found out about the wreck.  Why did the deputies not arrest him?  Why did they IGNORE the fact he was reeking of alcohol and obviously hyped up on some drug?  Why did they let him go?

When they had gotten back to her house, she said he went wild insisting that she tell him where I was.  She didn’t know.  Hell, I didn’t even know.  But, at that point she really had no idea what had happened or where I was.  He then ranted about killing us all and that he would wait across the street at the school to see when I came home.  My poor brother and his girlfriend waited up all night watching out the front window for him.  Thank God they were able to make him leave the house… but, I hated that they weren’t sure if he’d be back or not.

Meanwhile, I was taken to the living room where tapes of pre-qualifying and such were playing on the TV.  I noticed mail sitting on the coffee table in front of us and he snatched it up before I could read the name or… address.  *sigh*  He pointed to the TV and told me to watch.  There was a lot of footage that made the tape appear to be “home-made”.    It was mostly of the cars, though.  From time to time he would say, “There I am” as a car would come into the shot and talk about how the car was loose or hot or whatever.  I was only half listening as I was trying to make sense of everything.  I felt like I was caught in a nightmare and this couldn’t possibly be real.

I remember realizing all of a sudden that he was talking about my husband again.  I told him I didn’t care about anything and I just wanted to go home.  I wanted to go home!  Home!  He reached beside him and pulled out a small pistol to show me.  Where did that come from?  When did he put a gun by his side?  WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON?  He alternated between telling me how I was NOT going home, and then telling me how he would protect me.  My head hurt.  I was scared.  I didn’t know what to think… about anything… anyone… anymore.

How did this night get so screwed up?  What did I do wrong?  Did I create this mess I was in?

Hours passed as he continued to talk about racing and keeping me safe… keeping the gun either in his hand or on his lap pointed in my direction.  Even the couple of times I had to use the bathroom, he was standing just outside with the gun and would only let the door close enough at an angle that I wasn’t in full view.

After several hours, he finally said that it was time for us to get some rest.  He had me go with him as he pulled a nightie out of the closet.  (Who hangs up nighties?)  It was completely sheer except for small patches over the breasts and crotch area.  Did he think I was putting on this thing?  I refused to wear it.  At first he was angry and waving around the gun a little more wildly.  But, then… he calmed down and told me to just get into bed as he stripped down to his underwear.  I told him that I was not sleeping with him… or doing anything else, for that matter.  I told him he’d just have to go ahead and shoot me.  After arguing for some time, he finally told me to just get in bed and go to sleep.  I laid down on top of the covers still fully clothed and on the edge of the bed furthest away from him.  He laid facing me and with the gun still in his hand.  I questioned what if he accidentally fired the gun in his sleep.  He took his finger off the trigger, but still held a tight grip.  I laid there waiting for him to fall asleep.  I didn’t know exactly what my plan was for once he did, but I waited.  I laid there thinking about how the doors had keyed deadbolts on them that he had locked as soon as we arrived and put the keys… where?  Where were the keys?  Grrrrrrrrr… I didn’t know where the keys were.  I could at least use the phone … no, wait.  There was only the phone in the kitchen and he had taken that off the wall after he let me use it.  Where did he put it?  *sigh*

I was so tired.  I was exhausted and sleepy.  I just wanted to close my eyes and sleep.  I just wanted to rest for a bit.  I would close my eyes to rest but only for a minute.  Oh, that felt so good.  Closing my eyes felt good.  I opened them again only to find him still staring at me.  I would just rest my eyes until he fell asleep and then try to figure out what to do.

I would just… close my eyes… long enough… for him… to… fall… asleep.

A Nightmare Plays Out In Real Time – Part 1 – “Darby’s”

May 7th, 1993, was a very disturbing night for me… on so many levels.

My then-husband, Harold, and I were separated.  Harold had a long history of verbally and physically abusive behavior.  He also had a long bout of being manic-depressive, an alcoholic, and a drug addict.  We had two small children together and were trying very hard to keep things as healthy for them as we could.  With all the problems he had, he really was a good dad (up to the very end).  He had been sticking with therapy this time and it seemed to be helping him.

He had been trying insistently to get me to go out with him for a drink for quite some time.  When he said that friends would be joining us and that there would be no expectations, convincing me that our night out would be strictly platonic, I finally caved in and agreed and had my uncle go along just so I’d feel safer.

We ended up at a local pub called “Darby’s”.  It was a small place with a bar, pool tables, dart boards, a stage, and a dance floor.  They had THE best wings EVER!  They also made a great Bacardi and 7.  My uncle was a local favorite among the patrons and staff and seemed to know just about everyone that frequented the bar.  Brandon, Florida, didn’t have much to offer at that time in the form of entertainment, but this was a great place to hang out.

When we first arrived, I walked over to the bar to sit with my uncle’s best friend, Lynn.  Harold and my uncle proceeded straight to the pool tables.  The friends that were supposed to meet us never showed up, of course, so I was very glad to have my uncle keeping Harold occupied.  He came over to me frequently to see who I was talking to, but wasn’t causing any trouble… yet.  He and my uncle seemed happy enough drinking and flirting with the girls they were playing pool with.

Lynn and I ended up sitting at a large table with several of her friends that she introduced me to.  She and I sat across from each other with 3 men to my left and 2 men and a woman to my right.  Everyone was laughing and having a great conversation.  A new man sat down at our table beside me that I was not introduced to.  Everyone seemed very nice and was having a good time as we enjoyed the music.

As I was coming out of the restroom, Bill walked up to me and put his hand on my shoulder as he was talking to me.  This was a completely innocent gesture on Bill’s part but, apparently, Harold saw it quite differently.  He ran over to us from the pool table area so fast that I wasn’t sure at first where he even came from.  He flew into a rage and was screaming at Bill causing a scene.  Two very large bouncers were quickly ushering Harold out the door and asking me if I was alright.  They told me he was still screaming obscenities and threats as they pushed him out the door and asked if I had a safe place to go until he calmed down.  Before I could answer, he had forced his way into the side entrance by the dance floor to my right and was lunging for me.  Three more bouncers tried to hold him back as the first two were on either side of me helping me to the front exit.

As I reached the door, Bill and his friend took me from the bouncers and told them they’d see to it that I was safe.  Everything was spinning completely out of control.  I was frantically searching for my uncle and Lynn.  They were nowhere.  Where did they go?  Why would they leave me like that?

Reaching Bill’s Corvette, a man was pulling on my arm and literally putting me into his Camaro.  I didn’t even know where I was in the parking lot at that point.  I was still looking around for Lynn or my uncle.  I was trying to find where the bouncers were.  They were still trying to hold down Harold at the door to keep him from getting to me.  I could still hear him yelling.  I look over at the driver’s seat and realize that it’s the same man who sat beside me at the table that I wasn’t introduced to.  I tried to comfort myself thinking that he must be a friend of Lynn’s… and, probably a friend of my uncle’s.  Before I could even ask what he was doing, he sped out of the parking lot.  I told him to turn left at the stop sign so that he could take me home.  He turned right.  I told him at the next light to turn left to take me home.  He turned right.  Before reaching the next light I told him to turn right.  All of a sudden we ZIP into the left turn lane and a truck smashes into the car that would have been in front of us had we stayed in that lane.  He was saying something about being a race car driver and that my husband had just wrecked trying to run us off the road.  As the light turned green he tore off down the highway.  I looked back and only got a glance of Harold’s truck crashed into the car.

I kept telling this man that I needed to go home.  I had children that I needed to get to.  I needed to let my family know what was happening.  He wouldn’t listen.  He just continued to say over and over that he was a professional race car driver and that he would out drive my husband and keep me safe.  We headed south on Interstate 75 from Brandon.  I had no idea where he was taking me and he didn’t seem too keen on answering any questions.

In all the commotion, I wasn’t sure whether this man was saving me… or, kidnapping me.  He insisted that he was my savior, but I lean much more toward the kidnapping.

How Did We Survive?

Those born in the 60’s will likely be able to identify with today’s musings.

As kids back then…

We were allowed to play outside ANYWHERE in the neighborhood for hours on end without supervision.  Even without a fenced in yard, we’d run in circles with our dogs with no worry of them straying.  We would walk over to our friends’ homes without a care, even if our parents didn’t know them.  If we had change in our pockets, we’d walk to the store for candy… or, stop the ice cream man if we were lucky enough to see him.

If you were having a sleepover at a friend’s house, come Sunday morning you went to whatever church they attended without prejudice.  There was no talk of “But, I’m THIS religion” or “I don’t believe the same faith as you”, and especially no “My faith is better than yours” or “You can’t go to heaven because you’re not the same religion as I am”.

We walked barefoot through puddles, ditches, and mud.  We dug in the mud and weeds to make mud pies and weed stew.  We drank from the garden hose if we got thirsty, and picked fruit from a neighbor’s tree if we got hungry.  We shared drink, food, hairbrushes, along with clothes and shoes with every friend we had.

We rode our bikes without a helmet, with rubber bands tying our pants’ legs to our ankles to keep them from getting greasy or stuck in the chain, and without shoes.  We rode these same bikes over ramps, through ditches, and all through empty parking lots.  We climbed every tree we could and played any sport with whatever we could find to use as gear.

As babies, while riding in the car we were held in our mothers’ arms or fell asleep in the floorboard at their feet.  We stood in the middle of the front seat or hung our heads out the windows.  We rode in the back of pick-up trucks while flying down a bumpy old country road.

We came home from school and did our homework BEFORE being allowed to play games, visit with friends, watch TV, talk on the phone, or play outside.  We did chores like washing dishes, mowing the yard, doing laundry, washing the car, cleaning our rooms, and taking out the trash.  Most likely, we did not receive an allowance for doing these chores… the help was expected of us, and rightly so.

We had one phone in the house and you took your turn using it.  You “dialed” the number you were calling and if someone was on the phone already, it rang busy.  There were no cell phones for parents’ to keep track of us or for us to call for a ride.  We were home when told to be.

When visiting a friend, we were expected to treat their parents with the same respect as we treated our own.  We did what they said and obeyed their rules without question… and, our parents demanded this of us.  When our friends visited us, the same was expected from them for our parents.

As parents today…

We don’t let our children out of our sight without supervision for fear of our worst nightmare coming true.  Our pets aren’t allowed outside without a leash if the yard isn’t fenced in.  Our children don’t go to anyone’s homes without us knowing the child and having spoken with the parents.  And, now it takes more than change to buy candy and gum… and,  we don’t dare let our children near strangers selling ice cream without carefully watching them.

We can’t take a chance on offending anyone so we don’t dare take a child to church unless they are a family member or with permission of parents attending the same church.

We practically sanitize everything our children touch.  We discourage “sharing” certain items so that they don’t spread germs.

Our children have a varied array of safety gear whenever riding a bike or playing sports.  They ride their bikes on sidewalks or in bike lanes only.

Our babies aren’t allowed to be taken home from the hospital without the properly approved child safety seat.  They are never allowed to ride in the back of trucks and we certainly don’t let them ride in any vehicle without being buckled in.

Some kids have way too many things to do that keep them inside like video games, movies, computers, iPods, texting, etc.  Some don’t spend nearly enough time outdoors playing and being active.  And, most children don’t help out enough with basic household chores.  Almost everything our children do requires money so we’re constantly handing it over whether “earned” or not.

We now have phones that are equipped with voicemail, call-waiting, and call-forwarding.  Our kids probably wouldn’t know what to do with a phone if it had a rotary dial.  And, now cell phones are commonplace so that we can keep track of them wherever they may be.

A lot of children are unaware of common courtesy and manners.  And, we don’t dare correct or punish another person’s child without fear of being treated as if we abused them in some way.

It is, to say the least, very different from our childhoods to that of children of today’s generation.

Were we completely careless?  Did our parents not care?  Did our parents not know any better?

Are we overprotective?  Do we place too many limits on our children?  Are we not giving them the credit they deserve for having common sense by babying them?

Or…

Was it just simply a safer place and time back then?

And, yeah… just how did we survive all that?