you said we could post quick writes of our drafts, so this is technically not cheating right?
People die everyday from a host of tragedies, some die of incurable diseases, some from accidents but tragedies that are completely avoidable are the ones that cause not only heartache but total outrage. While some fight for life with every bit of strength they have, thousands have their lives snatched away instantly by a carless drivers every year. When a young life is cut short, or a mother is forever taken from her children by a completely avoidable offence, it is a call to action for the citizens of this county to cry out, loudly and persistently for change. The problem is drunk driving and if you think this issue doesn’t affect you, you are sadly mistaken, according to statistics provided by MADD three in ten people will be involved in an alcohol related car accident and 31.6 % of traffic fatalities are caused by a person with a blood alcohol level of more than .08. That means, chances are, you or one of your family members will be affected at some point in your life by the irresponsible decision of a drunk driver and the fully culpable, apathetic law makers. Every year in the U.S. 13,000 people die as the result of drunk driving. This is simply inexcusable, and it is avoidable. Simple strategies when applied would drastically cut down on the number of people killed but even if the new strategies and stricter laws saved one parent from grieving the loss of their child or one child growing up without a mom or a dad the cost would unquestionably be worth it. The currant laws we have are simply not tough enough and we must change those laws in order to save the lives of the innocent.
Currently in the state of California, on a typical Friday, people go out for a night of drinking and dancing and at around two in the morning the establishments toss them out in the streets in various conditions of intoxication; many get in their own vehicles and drive themselves home. According to statistics, for every person that gets ticked for drunk driving there were 87 previous incidences of drunk driving they committed before getting caught. That means that there are 87 times more drunk drivers roaming our streets in their steel death machines for every one that gets caught. When a bar stops serving alcohol there should be a mandatory one and a half hours wherein the bar is required to stay open and provide food and non-alcoholic beverages. Upon leaving a bar patrons should be required to point out a designated driver to law enforcement and that person should have to pass a breathalyzer test before they are allowed to leave. If no one in a given group can pass the test a cab should be on standby and if the person doesn’t have enough money for the cab they should have the option of being ticketed the cab bill and having to pay it back or spending the night in a drunk-tank. This strategy would cause people to plan ahead when heading out for a night on the town.
Car makers spend thousands of dollars ever year installing airbags, for safety purposes and perks like car stereos and such are common features in any vehicle, the cost to car makers of putting a sensor built into a vehicle that would prevent a car from being driven by a person under the influence of alcohol would save up to 13,000 lives a year. That is thirteen thousand families that would be spared the loss of a loved one. Surely with our technology this is no impossible feat. Law makers need to pursue these types of laws.
Stiffer sentencing on the first offence would also be a detour to those considering a un planned night of partying. Drunk driving should be treated as attempted manslaughter in the court system because that is what it is. The public is so well educated on this issue that there is simply no excuse to cry naïveté about the dangers of drunk driving. Every time someone hits the roads intoxicated they are taking innocent lives into their hands. It is time for our law makers to step u to the plate and treat this with the attention it deserves. It is also high time for a public outcry on the issue of drunk driving. If there was a fully preventable disease killing thirteen thousand men, woman and children in America every year, no cost would be spared to provide treatment and prevention. This issue is no different.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Chriastians?
Christians?
I recently found my bio father and after one conversation weeks ago I sent him the letter featured below. In the mean time one of his sons (Brent) was in the beginnings of embracing me as a sister, something I was over-joyed about. This letter was meant to be between him and I and he forwarded it to all his sons. Below the letter that his son, Brent, the only one who would talk to me, sent to me on behalf of the whole family. This completely broke my heart and I would like to add that the whole family claims to be Christians, with one of his sons even going on missionary trips.
Letter sent from Bio fathers son with all the family names placed at the bottom to show their alliance on this issue:
"I received your disturbing e mail April 21 and have decided that i don't
want to have any more contact with you. Please respect my families and my wishes
by not contacting use by email or telephone anymore.
Mark Johnson - Brent Johnson - Letti Johnson - Alan Johnson - Craig Johnson "
I would challenge every one of these people to take a couple minutes and completly imagine that they happened to be born as me and then see if there responce would be the same. If that has no effect on their behavior or they are incapable of accomplishing this task than they are all the furth evidence that needed to confirm my growing belief, based on many years of personal expierience that "sinners" are by far of a kinder ilk...
I recently found my bio father and after one conversation weeks ago I sent him the letter featured below. In the mean time one of his sons (Brent) was in the beginnings of embracing me as a sister, something I was over-joyed about. This letter was meant to be between him and I and he forwarded it to all his sons. Below the letter that his son, Brent, the only one who would talk to me, sent to me on behalf of the whole family. This completely broke my heart and I would like to add that the whole family claims to be Christians, with one of his sons even going on missionary trips.
Letter sent from Bio fathers son with all the family names placed at the bottom to show their alliance on this issue:
"I received your disturbing e mail April 21 and have decided that i don't
want to have any more contact with you. Please respect my families and my wishes
by not contacting use by email or telephone anymore.
Mark Johnson - Brent Johnson - Letti Johnson - Alan Johnson - Craig Johnson "
I would challenge every one of these people to take a couple minutes and completly imagine that they happened to be born as me and then see if there responce would be the same. If that has no effect on their behavior or they are incapable of accomplishing this task than they are all the furth evidence that needed to confirm my growing belief, based on many years of personal expierience that "sinners" are by far of a kinder ilk...
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Letter to Mark Johnson, Medford Oregon
above is my bio father and his wife, Mark C. Johnson and Letti (Herreras) Johnson from Medford OregonHi Mark,
I would like to build a relationship with you through letter writing, initially, if possible. Let me know what you think. At the risk of burning a bridge I am going to be totally frank with you. I am willing to suffer the loss that may be incurred. I have lived these last 34 years without my biological father and if my candor offends you than I am willing to live however many years that I have left without you. As far as I am concerned whatever is said between us, is between us, I respect your sons and will not distress them by telling them my feelings about certain things.
First I would like to commend you on your sons. I looked at Alan and Brent’s My Spaces the night before Woody called you. It is very unusual to see men, have such clean profiles on the internet. There was not a foul word, nor pictures of women, or anything else that would suggest that they are anything other than good, solid, young men. That is not typical in this time that we live in. When Brent started to write me, in just a few letters he impressed me with qualities like maturity, kindness and in his unpretentious nature. He also showed love, devotion and admiration for all of you. Adult children like this do not come about by accident, especially in a world were the responsible and honorable conduct among young people is lacking. The impression that I have is that you and Letti must be devoted parents.
That being set aside. I want you to know that if you should want a paternity test I am more than happy to comply. When my dad’s bio daughter (Candy) came along a few years ago I thought it was wise and told him so. Of course by then Peggy, her bio mom, was deceased and could not tell her story. They never ended up taking that step but all you have to do is look in Candy’s face and the features undeniably are my dads. My mother is 100% positive that you are my father. Even with all that being said, I would not be offended nor begrudge you if you wanted testing.
For my side of the story, I have been told by both of my parents as far back as my memory goes that a Mark Johnson was my biological father. They would tell me what they remembered of you and say that I looked like you. I always knew my dad adopted me and it was treated as a matter of fact, the sort of thing that none of us made a big deal of. I kind of felt special, in fact, because Woody and I have had a special relationship, he still often tells me that he married my mother in part because he fell in love with me and wanted me as his daughter. It made me feel special that he chose me. For his part he has been a great father, very attentive and involved. After my parents were divorced (maybe 1984 or so) I spent as much time as possible living with him rather than my mother. That wasnt always possible though because she needed a live in baby sitter for her exploits and as the oldest I was it.
As I got older, probably around 12, I would sometimes get angry that I did not know you. I went through feelings of desertion and such. Why didn’t you want me? Why didn’t you care enough to make sure I was taken care of? I understand not marrying my mother but never checking up on your own child, that I don’t understand, especially now that I know you went on to father and care for your other children so well. My mother did not mother me, after my parents divorced, when living with my mom, no one had my back, made sure I got help for my learning disabilities ect. I never was in a sport, went to a prom, or even have a “childhood”. I had to care for my mother, take a back burner while she had her affairs and did her thing. I watched all her children while she attended night school and never got tutoring or help with my education. Why did you never look for me? I always felt like there was some part of me that I could not understand, maybe you could have helped.
When you told me that you were contacting me because Letti told you it was the right thing to do, it was like a stab through my heart. After all these years… waiting, hoping, not kowing if you were dead, you were willing to let me know you BECAUSE YOUR WIFE SAID IT WAS THE RIGHT THING TO DO! I thought maybe YOU would want to know me. I want to know you. No, matter how much love I have gotten from Woody I wanted to know you, my father. My feelings were also hurt because you shared with me that Letti was jealous of me. Although she is certainly entitled to her feelings, some things maybe shouldn’t be said. Also, like it or not I was YOUR daughter and YOUR responsibility before you married her and had a family. Whether I was an unwanted mistake or not. If anyone has a true right to be jealous it is me.
I don’t know if you are aware of this but I have had a highly traumatizing life. I have had so many people I love die. Some in front of my eyes. Other things have happened that I won’t go into. I saw a physiologist recently and was solidly diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. I am sorry if this letter traumatizes you but I feel I need to be honest and not white wash the truth.
Nichole
I would like to build a relationship with you through letter writing, initially, if possible. Let me know what you think. At the risk of burning a bridge I am going to be totally frank with you. I am willing to suffer the loss that may be incurred. I have lived these last 34 years without my biological father and if my candor offends you than I am willing to live however many years that I have left without you. As far as I am concerned whatever is said between us, is between us, I respect your sons and will not distress them by telling them my feelings about certain things.
First I would like to commend you on your sons. I looked at Alan and Brent’s My Spaces the night before Woody called you. It is very unusual to see men, have such clean profiles on the internet. There was not a foul word, nor pictures of women, or anything else that would suggest that they are anything other than good, solid, young men. That is not typical in this time that we live in. When Brent started to write me, in just a few letters he impressed me with qualities like maturity, kindness and in his unpretentious nature. He also showed love, devotion and admiration for all of you. Adult children like this do not come about by accident, especially in a world were the responsible and honorable conduct among young people is lacking. The impression that I have is that you and Letti must be devoted parents.
That being set aside. I want you to know that if you should want a paternity test I am more than happy to comply. When my dad’s bio daughter (Candy) came along a few years ago I thought it was wise and told him so. Of course by then Peggy, her bio mom, was deceased and could not tell her story. They never ended up taking that step but all you have to do is look in Candy’s face and the features undeniably are my dads. My mother is 100% positive that you are my father. Even with all that being said, I would not be offended nor begrudge you if you wanted testing.
For my side of the story, I have been told by both of my parents as far back as my memory goes that a Mark Johnson was my biological father. They would tell me what they remembered of you and say that I looked like you. I always knew my dad adopted me and it was treated as a matter of fact, the sort of thing that none of us made a big deal of. I kind of felt special, in fact, because Woody and I have had a special relationship, he still often tells me that he married my mother in part because he fell in love with me and wanted me as his daughter. It made me feel special that he chose me. For his part he has been a great father, very attentive and involved. After my parents were divorced (maybe 1984 or so) I spent as much time as possible living with him rather than my mother. That wasnt always possible though because she needed a live in baby sitter for her exploits and as the oldest I was it.
As I got older, probably around 12, I would sometimes get angry that I did not know you. I went through feelings of desertion and such. Why didn’t you want me? Why didn’t you care enough to make sure I was taken care of? I understand not marrying my mother but never checking up on your own child, that I don’t understand, especially now that I know you went on to father and care for your other children so well. My mother did not mother me, after my parents divorced, when living with my mom, no one had my back, made sure I got help for my learning disabilities ect. I never was in a sport, went to a prom, or even have a “childhood”. I had to care for my mother, take a back burner while she had her affairs and did her thing. I watched all her children while she attended night school and never got tutoring or help with my education. Why did you never look for me? I always felt like there was some part of me that I could not understand, maybe you could have helped.
When you told me that you were contacting me because Letti told you it was the right thing to do, it was like a stab through my heart. After all these years… waiting, hoping, not kowing if you were dead, you were willing to let me know you BECAUSE YOUR WIFE SAID IT WAS THE RIGHT THING TO DO! I thought maybe YOU would want to know me. I want to know you. No, matter how much love I have gotten from Woody I wanted to know you, my father. My feelings were also hurt because you shared with me that Letti was jealous of me. Although she is certainly entitled to her feelings, some things maybe shouldn’t be said. Also, like it or not I was YOUR daughter and YOUR responsibility before you married her and had a family. Whether I was an unwanted mistake or not. If anyone has a true right to be jealous it is me.
I don’t know if you are aware of this but I have had a highly traumatizing life. I have had so many people I love die. Some in front of my eyes. Other things have happened that I won’t go into. I saw a physiologist recently and was solidly diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. I am sorry if this letter traumatizes you but I feel I need to be honest and not white wash the truth.
Nichole
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Life
It is good to think somberly about life. One life, one opportunity, to love, to give,
The Bible says, “A good name is better than precious ointment; and the day of death than the day of one's birth.” (Ecclesiastes 7:1)
Or
“It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting: for that is the end of all men; and the living will lay it to his heart.” (Ecclesiastes 7:2)
1992- Grandpa Lloyd dies in a sudden car accident. I loved him but we had an adversarial relationship.
1994- My good friend Kathy dies a slow death. Right before Christmas, after she decorated the house with Christmas decorations, she went to the hospital for an IV because she had gotten dehydrated from the cancer treatment side effects. She never left. One month later they transferred her to hospice and she lingered dying slowly until February 26th at around three in the morning, then her suffering was over.
1996- My high school best friend’s little brother Thomas finally succumbed to cystic fibrosis. We were always pal-ed around with Thomas took him on camping trips and stuff because we never knew which one would be the last. He had an open casket.
1999- Grandpa Burt dies. This one really breaks my heart. I loved this man. My childhood memories are filled with him stooping to my level and playing imaginary games together.
2001- Beverly, my grand mother and the matriarchal glue of my whole family passes away. Once again slow death by cancer. She and I were very similar and shared and understanding that you don’t always get between people. Now the family says I remind them so much of her.
2002- Christine Russell dies. I am still not over this one. She was the only woman who ever hands on MOTHERED me, ever. From the time I dated her son in 1991- 2002 she was my true best friend, though I did not always know it at the time. We even shared an apartment fir a couple years, my two kids she considered her grand kids. One really was. She died of cancer.
I still dream that I am having coffee and talking with these two women on a regular basis.
2005- Jacob Brent Jeffries dies. My son. 8 pounds 6 ounces and five minutes old. I am ready to die now too only I will never kill myself and have all these children to care for.
2006- My Auntie Iva, sister to myGrandma dies rather suddenly. We were close. I spent summers at her house as a kid.
2008- My long time friend Denise Mason dies in a fatal car accident coming down old woman Srings Road across from Chevron.
The Bible says, “A good name is better than precious ointment; and the day of death than the day of one's birth.” (Ecclesiastes 7:1)
Or
“It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting: for that is the end of all men; and the living will lay it to his heart.” (Ecclesiastes 7:2)
1992- Grandpa Lloyd dies in a sudden car accident. I loved him but we had an adversarial relationship.
1994- My good friend Kathy dies a slow death. Right before Christmas, after she decorated the house with Christmas decorations, she went to the hospital for an IV because she had gotten dehydrated from the cancer treatment side effects. She never left. One month later they transferred her to hospice and she lingered dying slowly until February 26th at around three in the morning, then her suffering was over.
1996- My high school best friend’s little brother Thomas finally succumbed to cystic fibrosis. We were always pal-ed around with Thomas took him on camping trips and stuff because we never knew which one would be the last. He had an open casket.
1999- Grandpa Burt dies. This one really breaks my heart. I loved this man. My childhood memories are filled with him stooping to my level and playing imaginary games together.
2001- Beverly, my grand mother and the matriarchal glue of my whole family passes away. Once again slow death by cancer. She and I were very similar and shared and understanding that you don’t always get between people. Now the family says I remind them so much of her.
2002- Christine Russell dies. I am still not over this one. She was the only woman who ever hands on MOTHERED me, ever. From the time I dated her son in 1991- 2002 she was my true best friend, though I did not always know it at the time. We even shared an apartment fir a couple years, my two kids she considered her grand kids. One really was. She died of cancer.
I still dream that I am having coffee and talking with these two women on a regular basis.
2005- Jacob Brent Jeffries dies. My son. 8 pounds 6 ounces and five minutes old. I am ready to die now too only I will never kill myself and have all these children to care for.
2006- My Auntie Iva, sister to myGrandma dies rather suddenly. We were close. I spent summers at her house as a kid.
2008- My long time friend Denise Mason dies in a fatal car accident coming down old woman Srings Road across from Chevron.
2008- My Auntie Faye dies also sister to my grandma. Has a fall that unexpectedly leads to her death. This is the woman who was additional my moral compass as a kid. She is also the lady who jumped on beds with me when no one adult was watching.
2008- my husband almost dies of a heart attack.
“Time can bring you down
2008- my husband almost dies of a heart attack.
“Time can bring you down
Time can bend your knee
Time can break your heart
Have you begging please
Begging please”
- Eric Clapton, tears in heaven
I have had my knees bent. Its when you have no more strength to stand.
I have had my knees bent. Its when you have no more strength to stand.
Time with people is precious and short.
“twenty years from now,
you will be more disappointed
by the things you didn't do
than by the ones you did do”-Mark Twain
Love now,
Try now,
Live and give,
now,
nothing is certain
as children believe
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The baby in the meat grinder
Above is a picture of me on my third birthday.
Well Ms.Cheraz, I am sure you have guessed by now that this situation is not as exciting as I thought. Except the part about the little brother Brent, that is still good. But, hey I enjoyed my moment of optimism right? This is where my blogs are going to turn ugly so anyone who doesn’t want a little blood splatter on their clothes should move back a few paces.
This recent turn of events, finding my biological father, has opened the proverbial can of worms or maybe whoop ass, take your pick.
My bio father,
though now I am inclined to label him something along the lines of
malevolent sperm donor,
anyhow, his answer to my mother’s pregnancy was to have me chopped into the equivalent of baby burger, sucked out a bloody vacuum and thrown in a trash can somewhere.Then he proceeds to marry another woman and raise three smart, well adjusted, good boys, who are all well educated and seem grounded. I am feeling like an intrusion into their happy little exclusive family, with the exception of the one brother Brent. Thanks paps!!
So, I talked to him yesterday, oh, he is cordial, friendly, interesting, and smart, you would think that was nice, I suppose.
No!
Actually it made me mad, that someone so reasonable dumped my mom and never saw to it that I was taken care of but rather preferred me dead. Something was glaring in our conversation,
there was no show of emotion, no “I am so happy to hear from you”, no “I am sorry”. He told me that his wife told him I had a right to know him and that it was the right thing to do.
Ahhh... so I get a token.
He is just doing his duty,
guided by the moral compass
of his wife.
I am going to cut the bull shit here and hope none of his kids read this.
I find tokens insulting, I always have. Throw a blow at me, insult me, but don’t give me a cheap token and expect me to cherish your quarter machine ring and proudly wear it around my neck on a gold chain! When I was a waitress I was known to take a cheap tip, chase the offending customer down in the parking lot and tell them, “KEEP your lousy dollar, BECAUSE YOU OBVIOUSLEY NEED IT MORE THAN I DO!”
As a former fetus I object to the premeditation of my murder.
Some men want to go around screwing people and not take responsibility. I think the penalty should be vasectomy after neglected kid #1. No reversals of the vasectomy allowed until you take responsibility for existing children. A day or so ago I had some nice philosophical things to say about all this. I think I wanted everyone to feel better about the situation.
Not happening.
Final note: I am a Christian, unfortunately my experiences with fellow Christians have stunk
maybe they think I stink too,
but I think the lot of them are meaner than hornets and more dangerous.
It was Mahatma Gandhi who said,
"I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. ..."
Well Ms.Cheraz, I am sure you have guessed by now that this situation is not as exciting as I thought. Except the part about the little brother Brent, that is still good. But, hey I enjoyed my moment of optimism right? This is where my blogs are going to turn ugly so anyone who doesn’t want a little blood splatter on their clothes should move back a few paces.
This recent turn of events, finding my biological father, has opened the proverbial can of worms or maybe whoop ass, take your pick.
My bio father,
though now I am inclined to label him something along the lines of
malevolent sperm donor,
anyhow, his answer to my mother’s pregnancy was to have me chopped into the equivalent of baby burger, sucked out a bloody vacuum and thrown in a trash can somewhere.Then he proceeds to marry another woman and raise three smart, well adjusted, good boys, who are all well educated and seem grounded. I am feeling like an intrusion into their happy little exclusive family, with the exception of the one brother Brent. Thanks paps!!
So, I talked to him yesterday, oh, he is cordial, friendly, interesting, and smart, you would think that was nice, I suppose.
No!
Actually it made me mad, that someone so reasonable dumped my mom and never saw to it that I was taken care of but rather preferred me dead. Something was glaring in our conversation,
there was no show of emotion, no “I am so happy to hear from you”, no “I am sorry”. He told me that his wife told him I had a right to know him and that it was the right thing to do.
Ahhh... so I get a token.
He is just doing his duty,
guided by the moral compass
of his wife.
I am going to cut the bull shit here and hope none of his kids read this.
I find tokens insulting, I always have. Throw a blow at me, insult me, but don’t give me a cheap token and expect me to cherish your quarter machine ring and proudly wear it around my neck on a gold chain! When I was a waitress I was known to take a cheap tip, chase the offending customer down in the parking lot and tell them, “KEEP your lousy dollar, BECAUSE YOU OBVIOUSLEY NEED IT MORE THAN I DO!”
As a former fetus I object to the premeditation of my murder.
Some men want to go around screwing people and not take responsibility. I think the penalty should be vasectomy after neglected kid #1. No reversals of the vasectomy allowed until you take responsibility for existing children. A day or so ago I had some nice philosophical things to say about all this. I think I wanted everyone to feel better about the situation.
Not happening.
Final note: I am a Christian, unfortunately my experiences with fellow Christians have stunk
maybe they think I stink too,
but I think the lot of them are meaner than hornets and more dangerous.
It was Mahatma Gandhi who said,
"I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. ..."
Bio family
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Mrs. Cheraz,Something exciting has happened and I wanted to share it with you. I was adopted by my father when I was two and all I have ever really known about my biological father (Mark)is that he had alot of problems from the vietnam war. Anyways, my dad (Woody) and I have always been super close but even so I always wondered about my bio father and realy wanted to know if I had other brothers or sisters.A couple nights ago I went on the computer to see if I could find Mark and with my mothers help, we narrowed it down to one individual but I was not 100% that it was him so I had to wait untill the next morning and my dad called him for me. Woody and Mark used to be friends long ago and that is another odd side note. Back to the story. It was Him. I have three little brothers and the youngest (21 years) is a sweetie who has been e-mailing me and is very happy to have a sister. I will update more later but this is very exciting for me.
Mrs. Cheraz,Something exciting has happened and I wanted to share it with you. I was adopted by my father when I was two and all I have ever really known about my biological father (Mark)is that he had alot of problems from the vietnam war. Anyways, my dad (Woody) and I have always been super close but even so I always wondered about my bio father and realy wanted to know if I had other brothers or sisters.A couple nights ago I went on the computer to see if I could find Mark and with my mothers help, we narrowed it down to one individual but I was not 100% that it was him so I had to wait untill the next morning and my dad called him for me. Woody and Mark used to be friends long ago and that is another odd side note. Back to the story. It was Him. I have three little brothers and the youngest (21 years) is a sweetie who has been e-mailing me and is very happy to have a sister. I will update more later but this is very exciting for me.
Derek
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Derek (my husband) was raised in the isolated mountains of northern California, about one hour out of a small reservation town called Hoopa. To be exact he lived three miles north of mile marker 2141, he had no real “address.” His mother somehow bought 40 acres of land on the side of a mountain within the Hoopa Indian reservation. How she managed to do that is a long story and one I do not fully understand. Derek grew up without a telephone, sewage, piped in water, electricity or gas. They got their water from an uphill spring on the property, paid a truck to come out with propane, owned a small wood burning stove and owned a generator. He had his own gun at a young age, killed small animals, then cooked and ate them himself, including squirrel. Derek, can tell entertaining stories about his run-ins with the small black bears they shared the mountains with, getting ran over by a truck as a young boy, then getting driven on dirt roads through the mountains over an hour to get to the nearest hospital, hooking his own ear while fishing and getting snowed into their tiny trailer for almost two weeks. Honestly I do not know how he or his sisters survived. His mother gave birth to one other son, but he was still born, she buried him on top of the mountain with a rock for a grave marker. When he was three his Dad took the only car they had then deserted his mother, in the woods, for another woman, then raised the other woman's children. When Derek was 18 he went off to college with high hopes, he had a full scholarship Humboldt State University in Arcada, Ca. his grandparents were proud, they made him a deal that as long as he was in school they would send him money every month to help him out with living expenses. After less than two months, Derek had spent all his money on drugs; he took too many hits of acid and had a really bad trip. After that he quit school, enlisted in the Marine Corps, then went back home to sober up while he waited to be shippe to boot camp.Once he was out of boot camp he got stationed in Twenty-Nine palms California. A place who’s ugliness is a dead tie with Desert Hot Springs, only. He got into a little trouble in the marines and was assigned to mandatory anger management therapy. While he was in Twenty-Nine palms, a kind and elderly Christian man by the name of Ralph Porter befriended Derek, told him about Jesus and took him to chapel on occasion. Unfortunately, it was the young, fellow marine, informal “recruiter” for the church/cult who got his hands on Derek more firmly than Ralph. Within a short time Derek was a fully locked in member of the church, if you want to call it that. He was told to take his marine training, you know, "Semper Fidelis" and apply it to the church along with all his military training in obedience and to apply it unquestioningly to the pastor.To be continued…
Derek (my husband) was raised in the isolated mountains of northern California, about one hour out of a small reservation town called Hoopa. To be exact he lived three miles north of mile marker 2141, he had no real “address.” His mother somehow bought 40 acres of land on the side of a mountain within the Hoopa Indian reservation. How she managed to do that is a long story and one I do not fully understand. Derek grew up without a telephone, sewage, piped in water, electricity or gas. They got their water from an uphill spring on the property, paid a truck to come out with propane, owned a small wood burning stove and owned a generator. He had his own gun at a young age, killed small animals, then cooked and ate them himself, including squirrel. Derek, can tell entertaining stories about his run-ins with the small black bears they shared the mountains with, getting ran over by a truck as a young boy, then getting driven on dirt roads through the mountains over an hour to get to the nearest hospital, hooking his own ear while fishing and getting snowed into their tiny trailer for almost two weeks. Honestly I do not know how he or his sisters survived. His mother gave birth to one other son, but he was still born, she buried him on top of the mountain with a rock for a grave marker. When he was three his Dad took the only car they had then deserted his mother, in the woods, for another woman, then raised the other woman's children. When Derek was 18 he went off to college with high hopes, he had a full scholarship Humboldt State University in Arcada, Ca. his grandparents were proud, they made him a deal that as long as he was in school they would send him money every month to help him out with living expenses. After less than two months, Derek had spent all his money on drugs; he took too many hits of acid and had a really bad trip. After that he quit school, enlisted in the Marine Corps, then went back home to sober up while he waited to be shippe to boot camp.Once he was out of boot camp he got stationed in Twenty-Nine palms California. A place who’s ugliness is a dead tie with Desert Hot Springs, only. He got into a little trouble in the marines and was assigned to mandatory anger management therapy. While he was in Twenty-Nine palms, a kind and elderly Christian man by the name of Ralph Porter befriended Derek, told him about Jesus and took him to chapel on occasion. Unfortunately, it was the young, fellow marine, informal “recruiter” for the church/cult who got his hands on Derek more firmly than Ralph. Within a short time Derek was a fully locked in member of the church, if you want to call it that. He was told to take his marine training, you know, "Semper Fidelis" and apply it to the church along with all his military training in obedience and to apply it unquestioningly to the pastor.To be continued…
Derek's heart attack
It was a Friday night, my husband (Derek) went out for a late night trip to Del taco after the kids went to bed. The both of us were looking forward to “a date night” watching a movie and eating our taco’s all alone, while all the children were fast asleep. This was big excitement in the Jeffries home. Shortly after eating his tacos Derek complained of chest pain and a queasy feeling. I told him to take some baking soda and water. Derek’s mother had often told me "drink some baking soda! you’ll fart, burp or throw up but something will happen.”
Nothing happened.
Derek moved on to the Alka-Seltzer, still no relief. After that, we cut the movie short and Derek went to bed. We both assumed he was coming down with something or the tacos had made him sick.The next morning Derek headed out to Twenty-Nine Palms to walk a job and give an electrical bid. At the job he started to feel ill again, on the way home to Yucca he called me, “babe, I have a crushing pain in my chest and my arm hurts”“Which arm?” I said, feeling concern creeping up on me.“Umm, my left” Derek replied.“Where are you at?” I said, maintaining a calm voice.“Almost Joshua Tree” he replied. I could hear his voice straining; it sounded like he was getting worse.I instructed him, “Derek, pull into the hospital. Go to the ER and make sure you’re alright. It’s probably nothing but just to make sure, Ok?”
Derek agreed and set to work convincing myself he had a bad case of heartburn or maybe his first panic attack. For goodness sakes, he was only 30 years old, healthy, with good cholesterol, plus, he jogged regularly.At the hospital they took Derek’s blood to test for markers of a heart attack. I stayed at home with our five kids waiting for the results.
I had no babysitter because recently we left a cultic church that practiced shunning of ex-members. We lost ten years of friends, we had believed were our family . We lost our support system, it felt like the rug had suddenly been pulled out from under our feet. The only friend I had left had plans for the day.
The call finally came, Derek’s voice was quivering, “They say... I had a heart attack”The unthinkable had happened.
They were transferring him to the Palm Springs hospital by ambulance immediately.
I started shaking. Then I scrambled to find a sitter for my kids, my remaining friend cancelled her plans to watch my kids.
Derek ended up staying at Desert Hospital for five days, undergoing a battery of tests to determine the cause of the heart attack. They ended up sending him home on heavy duty blood thinners, nitro, beta-blockers, a referral to see a cardiologist at UCLA and no real answers.
The cardiologist at UCLA ultimately gave Derek a “diagnosis of exclusion” meaning every other possibility had been ruled out but one. A small hole was found in Dereks heart, it had gone undetected in regular doctor checkups. The doctor believed that a clot had traveled through the hole and into one of his arteries, temporarily stopping the blood flow to his heart. We waited another 1 and ½ months for the procedure to close the hole in his heart. While waiting for the surgery, Derek was hospitalized for another three days diue to heart problems.
Derek had the procedure about three months ago, he is recovering, but more slowly than we hoped.There are certain things that you assume only happen to other people, I am continually disabused of that illusion and my expectations of this life.Supertramp - The Logical SongP.S. “disabused” is a word I have learned to appreciate thanks to Ms. Cheraz.
Nothing happened.
Derek moved on to the Alka-Seltzer, still no relief. After that, we cut the movie short and Derek went to bed. We both assumed he was coming down with something or the tacos had made him sick.The next morning Derek headed out to Twenty-Nine Palms to walk a job and give an electrical bid. At the job he started to feel ill again, on the way home to Yucca he called me, “babe, I have a crushing pain in my chest and my arm hurts”“Which arm?” I said, feeling concern creeping up on me.“Umm, my left” Derek replied.“Where are you at?” I said, maintaining a calm voice.“Almost Joshua Tree” he replied. I could hear his voice straining; it sounded like he was getting worse.I instructed him, “Derek, pull into the hospital. Go to the ER and make sure you’re alright. It’s probably nothing but just to make sure, Ok?”
Derek agreed and set to work convincing myself he had a bad case of heartburn or maybe his first panic attack. For goodness sakes, he was only 30 years old, healthy, with good cholesterol, plus, he jogged regularly.At the hospital they took Derek’s blood to test for markers of a heart attack. I stayed at home with our five kids waiting for the results.
I had no babysitter because recently we left a cultic church that practiced shunning of ex-members. We lost ten years of friends, we had believed were our family . We lost our support system, it felt like the rug had suddenly been pulled out from under our feet. The only friend I had left had plans for the day.
The call finally came, Derek’s voice was quivering, “They say... I had a heart attack”The unthinkable had happened.
They were transferring him to the Palm Springs hospital by ambulance immediately.
I started shaking. Then I scrambled to find a sitter for my kids, my remaining friend cancelled her plans to watch my kids.
Derek ended up staying at Desert Hospital for five days, undergoing a battery of tests to determine the cause of the heart attack. They ended up sending him home on heavy duty blood thinners, nitro, beta-blockers, a referral to see a cardiologist at UCLA and no real answers.
The cardiologist at UCLA ultimately gave Derek a “diagnosis of exclusion” meaning every other possibility had been ruled out but one. A small hole was found in Dereks heart, it had gone undetected in regular doctor checkups. The doctor believed that a clot had traveled through the hole and into one of his arteries, temporarily stopping the blood flow to his heart. We waited another 1 and ½ months for the procedure to close the hole in his heart. While waiting for the surgery, Derek was hospitalized for another three days diue to heart problems.
Derek had the procedure about three months ago, he is recovering, but more slowly than we hoped.There are certain things that you assume only happen to other people, I am continually disabused of that illusion and my expectations of this life.Supertramp - The Logical SongP.S. “disabused” is a word I have learned to appreciate thanks to Ms. Cheraz.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
This picture was taken when my husband and I were raising baby chickens. The bird (Jerry)featured in this picture ended up being a rooster, despite all I had read about roosters, I knew he would be different. I could tame him, and he was very sweet for a few months. Then at around six months old he turned on me, viciously! Let us say he met an unsavory end and I felt the sting of failure.The following statements are made by an “expert” in failure. I flunked, kindergarten, second grade, and fourth grade then dropped out of high school. As a youth I had extensive school testing, my mother was informed the best placement for me was special Ed.I joined a cult, and then moved to the ranks of pastor's wife. In essence, I was an assistant cult leader. I could list all my failures, but I don’t think a single book could contain them all.I was thinking about a statement made in class last night::“Success is acknowledging that you may fail” (cited source) Ms. L Cheraz
I do think you are onto something, but if I could I would modify your statement:
“Success is embracing failure, learning its lesson, then getting up and moving on.”
Life is about a lot of things, I don’t claim to know them all. However, learning and applying learning are surely among those things. The more intense the pain of failure the deeper the message is driven home (if you let it).Although, at times other times, having an acute awareness of failure is not a good thing.Many people are paralyzed by the fear of failure. Others never step outside of their safety zone or go beyond their range of proficiency because the possibility of failure is so tangible to them and the need to retain the current state of their ego is simply overrides the desire to learn new things.andWhat do we tell our children about success?“You can be anything.”If they say they want to be president or an astronaut, we say “absolutely”We all fail. Failure gets our attention. Teachers know it, you can’t teach anyone unless you can:#1. get their attention.
#2. prove you know something of value that they don’t
or reveal a “blind” spot in understanding the student was previously unaware of.
#3. the student has a healthy respect for the teacher.
Side note: memorizing and learning are, and I say this emphatically, are not the same thing. When you memorize you know the facts, when you learn you make something your own and you are changed.Failure, falling on our faces, accomplishes all three of these things. Tripping and falling flat on our face due to a pot hole, for instance: gets our attention, proves we were not aware of something, and creates a healthy respect. Now you have a learning experience.As for me.I am not done, yet. There is still air in these lungs and..
“ -a living dog is better than a dead lion.” (Ecclesiastes 9:4)
This picture was taken when my husband and I were raising baby chickens. The bird (Jerry)featured in this picture ended up being a rooster, despite all I had read about roosters, I knew he would be different. I could tame him, and he was very sweet for a few months. Then at around six months old he turned on me, viciously! Let us say he met an unsavory end and I felt the sting of failure.The following statements are made by an “expert” in failure. I flunked, kindergarten, second grade, and fourth grade then dropped out of high school. As a youth I had extensive school testing, my mother was informed the best placement for me was special Ed.I joined a cult, and then moved to the ranks of pastor's wife. In essence, I was an assistant cult leader. I could list all my failures, but I don’t think a single book could contain them all.I was thinking about a statement made in class last night::“Success is acknowledging that you may fail” (cited source) Ms. L Cheraz
I do think you are onto something, but if I could I would modify your statement:
“Success is embracing failure, learning its lesson, then getting up and moving on.”
Life is about a lot of things, I don’t claim to know them all. However, learning and applying learning are surely among those things. The more intense the pain of failure the deeper the message is driven home (if you let it).Although, at times other times, having an acute awareness of failure is not a good thing.Many people are paralyzed by the fear of failure. Others never step outside of their safety zone or go beyond their range of proficiency because the possibility of failure is so tangible to them and the need to retain the current state of their ego is simply overrides the desire to learn new things.andWhat do we tell our children about success?“You can be anything.”If they say they want to be president or an astronaut, we say “absolutely”We all fail. Failure gets our attention. Teachers know it, you can’t teach anyone unless you can:#1. get their attention.
#2. prove you know something of value that they don’t
or reveal a “blind” spot in understanding the student was previously unaware of.
#3. the student has a healthy respect for the teacher.
Side note: memorizing and learning are, and I say this emphatically, are not the same thing. When you memorize you know the facts, when you learn you make something your own and you are changed.Failure, falling on our faces, accomplishes all three of these things. Tripping and falling flat on our face due to a pot hole, for instance: gets our attention, proves we were not aware of something, and creates a healthy respect. Now you have a learning experience.As for me.I am not done, yet. There is still air in these lungs and..
“ -a living dog is better than a dead lion.” (Ecclesiastes 9:4)
Are we all potential Nazi’s??
Sunday, March 1, 2009
We watched a brief film in psychology class on “Milgram’s study of obedience.” This is a brief summary of his findings and my reaction:Stanley Milgram wanted to test the veracity of claims made by perpetrators of war crimes, that they were “just obeying orders”. He set out to test just how far people would be willing to obey an authority figure. Would people be willing to harm another person if instructed by an authority figure, how far would they go? The test was originally done in 1974 and has been replicated may times with the same results. The study revealed that approximately 65% of people will obey, even when they believed great physical harm was being inflicted on the other person, via electrical shock. People would continue to shock the other person, when prompted by the authority figure, despite cries of anguish and the eventual silence which made it appear that the other participant had died or passed out.
This is exceedingly disturbing to me? Is it to you?
Yes, this brings a partial conclusion to a question that has nagged humanity for years. It explains, but does not excuse the “why” of how otherwise “normal” people went along with Hitler’s genocide, why the disregard for virtue during the New Orleans crisis or the violence of the Rodney King Riots? What about the Salem witch trials or the ritualized sacrifice of humans? Humanities long history if infanticide and the slaughter of innocents over the ages? How could the white American frontiersmen brag about shooting little American Indian infants into pieces? Where was the outrage against these atrocities and how pretentious and audacious are we to think we are different? We fool ourselves into thinking that we are above these types of things? Yet, to over come, we must look in the mirror and stare straight in the face of this ugly truth and confront it, otherwise be overcome by it.If the advancement of a race is based on traits like altruism, then the ants have progressed well beyond humans, and perhaps even dogs have as well.
I am not impressed with our advancements in technology, or our trip to the moon. While we mindlessly live or self centered lives without care for humanity, idolizing those in power as if they were dieties. In the long run, without an operational, internal, moral compass in the hearts of people, the only thing our technology will ultimately accomplish is making us capable of even greater atrocities.Some say religion is the answer. I say religious people have proven to be among the most dangerous. Another may say strong government, will keep people in line, but history has proven that powerful rules are easily coruppted and overly immpressed with their own power. Quite frankly, I am disgusted, with us all.So I say, emphatically, it is not OK, to behave certain way because it is the "status quo", or because your "leader" (boss, teacher, parent) has modeled or endorced a cetain conduct. It is not alright because your friends or your coworkers think it’s alright. It’s not alright because your pastor or your president tells you it is. All of us must learn to put ourselves in the other mans shoes before we commit an act. This means that we must think not just of our own good, but the good of the whole of humanity. Until then, all our tools and technology are nothing more than the equivalent of putting a loaded fire alarm in the hands of an infant.The only people who should have this kind of power in their hand are those who can honestly put the good of the whole above their own self interest and even than we all have a responsibility for what we do and who we obey.
If another Hitler came along on what side of the fence would we sit?
We watched a brief film in psychology class on “Milgram’s study of obedience.” This is a brief summary of his findings and my reaction:Stanley Milgram wanted to test the veracity of claims made by perpetrators of war crimes, that they were “just obeying orders”. He set out to test just how far people would be willing to obey an authority figure. Would people be willing to harm another person if instructed by an authority figure, how far would they go? The test was originally done in 1974 and has been replicated may times with the same results. The study revealed that approximately 65% of people will obey, even when they believed great physical harm was being inflicted on the other person, via electrical shock. People would continue to shock the other person, when prompted by the authority figure, despite cries of anguish and the eventual silence which made it appear that the other participant had died or passed out.
This is exceedingly disturbing to me? Is it to you?
Yes, this brings a partial conclusion to a question that has nagged humanity for years. It explains, but does not excuse the “why” of how otherwise “normal” people went along with Hitler’s genocide, why the disregard for virtue during the New Orleans crisis or the violence of the Rodney King Riots? What about the Salem witch trials or the ritualized sacrifice of humans? Humanities long history if infanticide and the slaughter of innocents over the ages? How could the white American frontiersmen brag about shooting little American Indian infants into pieces? Where was the outrage against these atrocities and how pretentious and audacious are we to think we are different? We fool ourselves into thinking that we are above these types of things? Yet, to over come, we must look in the mirror and stare straight in the face of this ugly truth and confront it, otherwise be overcome by it.If the advancement of a race is based on traits like altruism, then the ants have progressed well beyond humans, and perhaps even dogs have as well.
I am not impressed with our advancements in technology, or our trip to the moon. While we mindlessly live or self centered lives without care for humanity, idolizing those in power as if they were dieties. In the long run, without an operational, internal, moral compass in the hearts of people, the only thing our technology will ultimately accomplish is making us capable of even greater atrocities.Some say religion is the answer. I say religious people have proven to be among the most dangerous. Another may say strong government, will keep people in line, but history has proven that powerful rules are easily coruppted and overly immpressed with their own power. Quite frankly, I am disgusted, with us all.So I say, emphatically, it is not OK, to behave certain way because it is the "status quo", or because your "leader" (boss, teacher, parent) has modeled or endorced a cetain conduct. It is not alright because your friends or your coworkers think it’s alright. It’s not alright because your pastor or your president tells you it is. All of us must learn to put ourselves in the other mans shoes before we commit an act. This means that we must think not just of our own good, but the good of the whole of humanity. Until then, all our tools and technology are nothing more than the equivalent of putting a loaded fire alarm in the hands of an infant.The only people who should have this kind of power in their hand are those who can honestly put the good of the whole above their own self interest and even than we all have a responsibility for what we do and who we obey.
If another Hitler came along on what side of the fence would we sit?
Toby
Sunday, February 8, 2009
My first memories of Toby are when he was about two and we lived in South Dakota. I was the first born and Toby the second, as such he was my constant playmate and side kick. We had tea parties in the closet, with a huge stuffed bear that we named “Big Bear.” We took dolls out in a baby carriage and paraded them around our street. Toby and I were always having fun and coming up with imaginary games.In 1983 our family moved to Orange County, in a house directly behind the South Coast Plaza mall. When we lived there Toby was five years old and I was eight. My mom traded in Toby’s bowl hair cut for a crew cut. I vividly remember Toby with a crew cut, freckles and a pair of “pilgrim” shoes. We called them pilgrim shoes because they were black dress shoes with a big silver buckle across the top and they looked exactly like pilgrim shoes. Toby wore those shoes with everything and in the warm climate of Orange County that often meant he was dressed in shorts, Hawaiian shirts, and pilgrim shoes. The crew cut was my mom’s idea but everything else was Toby’s.Toby had a best friend named Frankie, he lived down the street. Frankie was also five; he was a cute little Asian boy who wore cowboy boots with everything. Frankie had a sister named Betty and it was Betty and Frankie and Toby and Jenny (my little sister) playing together all the time.One day Toby and I thought of creating a haunted house in the garage. The real perk was that this was not only designed to scare the neighborhood kids but it was also a money making scheme. I would be the guide and take people on a tour of the “horrors” in the garage; Toby helped arrange the displays on our Dads pool table and made scary sounds. We recorded, some of the frightening sounds ahead of time on our dad’s miniature tape recorder, to be played at the appropriate time. One of the main attractions was the “real” vampire teeth; they were really just a staples remover. we shut the garage door most of the way so that our patrons would have to slip thru a small opening to get in. the door being closed helped to create the spooky, dark, atmosphere we were after and maybe (we hoped) disguised the true nature of our displays in the shadows. We invited the neiborhood kids, and of course Betty and Frankie, all for a small fee. We had a great time leading the nieborhood kids on a frightening tour of the haunted house which was really a trip around our dad’s pool table that was in the center of the garage, with a bunch of our dad’s office supplies artfully arranged on the table.Another fun memory I had with Toby was after we moved out of that house. We moved around a lot when we were younger. There was a prank that Toby and I played at almost every new house for many years. I would dress Toby in one of Jenny’s dresses and put a scarf over his head to cover his perpetual crew cut. Then Toby would go knock at the door posing as a young girl. It went something like this, Toby would knock at the door and I would tell Jenny, “ You better go answer the door.”When she answered Toby would say “Hi, my name is Sara, can you come out and play.” Jenny would see the resemblance and ask if it was Toby in disguise. Toby and I would then go to work convincing her that he was in fact a little girl by the name of Sara. Eventually Jenny would always decide against her better judgment and play with "Sara" for the better part of the afternoon, then we would tell her the truth. We never ceased to get a good laugh out of it. I don’t remember how old Jenny was when she finally stopped falling for the prank.One thing I will never forget is that Toby would never go down easy in a fight, but I always won. Then one summer when Toby was about 14 we got into a fight, boy was that one a deusy! It all started when I threw a candle stick across the room at my brother, I thought he would take it in good humor. To our mutual shock it hit him square between the eyes. His face slowly turned the most awful shade of crimson, that shade was reserved for his worse temper fits. For the first time I actually got a little concerned, my brother had grown quite a bit over the last summer. Then he charged at me like a bull. We fought something savage for a long time, at last I had him pinned to the floor. I asked him if he would stop hitting me if I let him up, he said no. Finally after sitting on him for a while he finally agreed to stop hitting me. When he got up he came straight back at me charging, I had to pin him down again. We did this several times until we were both worn out. That day I knew that I had had a close shave with defeat but I was not about to let my brother know that.Now Toby is a school teacher and tutors troubled teenagers in the Portland OR area. Recently when I went out to see him we took the kids to the Columbia River Gorge. After walking down to the river and playing around in the sand, we took them to play at the adjoining park. I spotted a tether ball, something I hadn’t seen in ages, and challenged Toby to a dual. He never could back down from a challenge. We sweated, strained, jumped, and hit as hard as we could. Toby won the first game, so I challenged him again, only this time I came out victorious. That’s how I want him to remember me
My first memories of Toby are when he was about two and we lived in South Dakota. I was the first born and Toby the second, as such he was my constant playmate and side kick. We had tea parties in the closet, with a huge stuffed bear that we named “Big Bear.” We took dolls out in a baby carriage and paraded them around our street. Toby and I were always having fun and coming up with imaginary games.In 1983 our family moved to Orange County, in a house directly behind the South Coast Plaza mall. When we lived there Toby was five years old and I was eight. My mom traded in Toby’s bowl hair cut for a crew cut. I vividly remember Toby with a crew cut, freckles and a pair of “pilgrim” shoes. We called them pilgrim shoes because they were black dress shoes with a big silver buckle across the top and they looked exactly like pilgrim shoes. Toby wore those shoes with everything and in the warm climate of Orange County that often meant he was dressed in shorts, Hawaiian shirts, and pilgrim shoes. The crew cut was my mom’s idea but everything else was Toby’s.Toby had a best friend named Frankie, he lived down the street. Frankie was also five; he was a cute little Asian boy who wore cowboy boots with everything. Frankie had a sister named Betty and it was Betty and Frankie and Toby and Jenny (my little sister) playing together all the time.One day Toby and I thought of creating a haunted house in the garage. The real perk was that this was not only designed to scare the neighborhood kids but it was also a money making scheme. I would be the guide and take people on a tour of the “horrors” in the garage; Toby helped arrange the displays on our Dads pool table and made scary sounds. We recorded, some of the frightening sounds ahead of time on our dad’s miniature tape recorder, to be played at the appropriate time. One of the main attractions was the “real” vampire teeth; they were really just a staples remover. we shut the garage door most of the way so that our patrons would have to slip thru a small opening to get in. the door being closed helped to create the spooky, dark, atmosphere we were after and maybe (we hoped) disguised the true nature of our displays in the shadows. We invited the neiborhood kids, and of course Betty and Frankie, all for a small fee. We had a great time leading the nieborhood kids on a frightening tour of the haunted house which was really a trip around our dad’s pool table that was in the center of the garage, with a bunch of our dad’s office supplies artfully arranged on the table.Another fun memory I had with Toby was after we moved out of that house. We moved around a lot when we were younger. There was a prank that Toby and I played at almost every new house for many years. I would dress Toby in one of Jenny’s dresses and put a scarf over his head to cover his perpetual crew cut. Then Toby would go knock at the door posing as a young girl. It went something like this, Toby would knock at the door and I would tell Jenny, “ You better go answer the door.”When she answered Toby would say “Hi, my name is Sara, can you come out and play.” Jenny would see the resemblance and ask if it was Toby in disguise. Toby and I would then go to work convincing her that he was in fact a little girl by the name of Sara. Eventually Jenny would always decide against her better judgment and play with "Sara" for the better part of the afternoon, then we would tell her the truth. We never ceased to get a good laugh out of it. I don’t remember how old Jenny was when she finally stopped falling for the prank.One thing I will never forget is that Toby would never go down easy in a fight, but I always won. Then one summer when Toby was about 14 we got into a fight, boy was that one a deusy! It all started when I threw a candle stick across the room at my brother, I thought he would take it in good humor. To our mutual shock it hit him square between the eyes. His face slowly turned the most awful shade of crimson, that shade was reserved for his worse temper fits. For the first time I actually got a little concerned, my brother had grown quite a bit over the last summer. Then he charged at me like a bull. We fought something savage for a long time, at last I had him pinned to the floor. I asked him if he would stop hitting me if I let him up, he said no. Finally after sitting on him for a while he finally agreed to stop hitting me. When he got up he came straight back at me charging, I had to pin him down again. We did this several times until we were both worn out. That day I knew that I had had a close shave with defeat but I was not about to let my brother know that.Now Toby is a school teacher and tutors troubled teenagers in the Portland OR area. Recently when I went out to see him we took the kids to the Columbia River Gorge. After walking down to the river and playing around in the sand, we took them to play at the adjoining park. I spotted a tether ball, something I hadn’t seen in ages, and challenged Toby to a dual. He never could back down from a challenge. We sweated, strained, jumped, and hit as hard as we could. Toby won the first game, so I challenged him again, only this time I came out victorious. That’s how I want him to remember me
Jacob Brent Jeffries April 17 2005
Friday, January 30, 2009
Recently, I was listening to wild horse by the rolling stones. I know that song probably evokes romantic feelings and memories for most people but when I listen to that song I think of my children. One thing I have always imagined would kill me, was if one of my children ever died. I don’t necessarily handle the normal pains of life well, but I can keep standing. Ever since I had my first child I knew that the death of one of my children would take me clean off of my feet. It would be merciful for God to let me die with them. It was a situation I hoped I'd never face.
Three years ago, I was holding my 8 pound 6 ounce baby boy in my arms and felt his life slip away. I had made a deal with the physicians, since medically there was nothing they could do to save his life, he would be handed directly to me after he was born. I didn’t want him handled by strangers in the few moments he would have in this life. They warned me, that once born, he would only last a few minutes before he would pass away from lack of oxygen.
My water broke early; I hoped I had peed my pants but my husband took me to the ER in Palm Springs just to be safe. Once there, I was told they were going to do an emergency c-section. I should add; I was pregnant with twins, they were very concerned with preserving the life of the “viable” twin, it was his amniotic sac that broke.
Everything happened so fast. When they handed Jacob to me he was beautiful in every way except his overly extended stomach, the glaring evidence of the disease that had ravaged his little body. I held onto him with all my might, wild horses could not drag me away but he was being taken away, against my will, by a force greater than that. I watched his pink shade slowly turn to blue, from the fingertips up. He opened his eyes one time, squinting, he looked at me, as if to say “I don’t understand.” I told him I loved him, I prayed and I held on with all I had. He started to go limp and I thought the struggle was over, but then he would tremor again, for a while he continued to erratically heave, making attempts to gasp for air. Finally after he had been still for a while, the doctor came over with a stethoscope and pronounced that he was gone. He was born April 17th at 6:00 pm and he died at 6:05 pm.
After a few minutes passed, the nurses took him from me to clean, diaper? and wrap in a blanket. Meanwhile, I was moved to another room. Then they gave his little body back to me in the other room. The nurses said that my husband and I could spend as much time with his body as we wanted and to call them when we were ready to give him up. A good friend came and dressed him for me, in an outfit I had carefully picked out for him ahead of time, because of the spinal block, I could not get up and do this simple motherly task myself. He was handed to me again, only this time I held him for the next six hours or so. I would not let him go except to let my husband hold him. Of the life I had nourished and the soul I had loved for 8 months; this was all I had left, a little broken body. Sometimes in those hours, I would hold him tight and refuse to look at his face so I could imagine he was alive and this nightmare had never happened. Other times I starred straight at his face, I wanted to memorize every feature, he was perfect, but gone. Sometime after midnight I noticed he was getting very stiff and his skin was mottled. I talked to my husband and we decided it was time to let him go, physically that is. I asked the nurse what they were going to do with his body. She said they would take him downstairs to some refrigerated place until we arranged for the mortuary to pick up his body. I thought of my baby being alone in the dark in a refrigerator unit. As a mother I agonized over this, but what choice did I have?
Later, we took him home for good, his ashes, in a little blue urn, with a small teddy bear etched into it. Sometimes I would sleep with the urn at night. I had slept with my other children, why not? I did not tell people I did this; I knew they would think I was crazy. Many times I shook the urn and I would hear rattling in there, I imagined it was small fragments of his bones. Often, I would hold the little blood speckled blanket they wrapped him in and search for some smell of him, but never for long because I didn’t want to replace it with my own smell. Then I would put it back in the airtight plastic container where I keep all his things, his outfit, his blanket, his birth and death certificate, his foot prints, and a tiny lock of his hair.
Life went on, for everyone else but me. I kept my hurt deep inside, it was like a buried treasure that I could take out when I wanted to. The pain was mine and no one could take it away, it was all I had left of him. I would go to the market or see people driving down the road and think "they don’t know what’s happened, their lives are going on" but mine had stopped. How could the world go on like nothing had happened? My son was dead.
Jacob had Polycystic Kidney disease; he wasn’t supposed to have it. It runs in my family but it only kills us as adults. I have the disease, I was told it was impossible for him to have gotten the recessive form that kills infants. The doctors said that Jacob could be a case study because what happened to him was almost unheard off.
Jacob's kidneys stopped working when I was five months pregnant. That meant no amniotic fluid. Without amniotic fluid a babies lungs become like two little pancakes glued together. They did extensive ultrasounds through-out the pregnancy. About two months before he was born the doctors told me that nothing could be done to save his life because his lungs were not only glued together, but the cysts on his kidneys had pushed up on his lungs, not giving them enough room to grow.
When I was pregnant I would rub Jacobs back and talk to him, he responded like all my other children with kicks and such. I dreaded the day of his birth, it would be the day of his death. His umbilical cord, was our connection, his life-line, which kept him alive and supplied with oxygen from my blood stream. Once that cord was cut I knew it signaled the beginning of his death.
This story has no way to be tied up for a neat ending.
I have no profound words for you.
I have no little piece of wisdom I can share with you, the reader.
Writing this doesn't even make me feel better.
I just want the world to know he lived.
In memory of:
Jacob Brent Jeffries
6:00pm-6:00pm
April 17, 2005
Recently, I was listening to wild horse by the rolling stones. I know that song probably evokes romantic feelings and memories for most people but when I listen to that song I think of my children. One thing I have always imagined would kill me, was if one of my children ever died. I don’t necessarily handle the normal pains of life well, but I can keep standing. Ever since I had my first child I knew that the death of one of my children would take me clean off of my feet. It would be merciful for God to let me die with them. It was a situation I hoped I'd never face.
Three years ago, I was holding my 8 pound 6 ounce baby boy in my arms and felt his life slip away. I had made a deal with the physicians, since medically there was nothing they could do to save his life, he would be handed directly to me after he was born. I didn’t want him handled by strangers in the few moments he would have in this life. They warned me, that once born, he would only last a few minutes before he would pass away from lack of oxygen.
My water broke early; I hoped I had peed my pants but my husband took me to the ER in Palm Springs just to be safe. Once there, I was told they were going to do an emergency c-section. I should add; I was pregnant with twins, they were very concerned with preserving the life of the “viable” twin, it was his amniotic sac that broke.
Everything happened so fast. When they handed Jacob to me he was beautiful in every way except his overly extended stomach, the glaring evidence of the disease that had ravaged his little body. I held onto him with all my might, wild horses could not drag me away but he was being taken away, against my will, by a force greater than that. I watched his pink shade slowly turn to blue, from the fingertips up. He opened his eyes one time, squinting, he looked at me, as if to say “I don’t understand.” I told him I loved him, I prayed and I held on with all I had. He started to go limp and I thought the struggle was over, but then he would tremor again, for a while he continued to erratically heave, making attempts to gasp for air. Finally after he had been still for a while, the doctor came over with a stethoscope and pronounced that he was gone. He was born April 17th at 6:00 pm and he died at 6:05 pm.
After a few minutes passed, the nurses took him from me to clean, diaper? and wrap in a blanket. Meanwhile, I was moved to another room. Then they gave his little body back to me in the other room. The nurses said that my husband and I could spend as much time with his body as we wanted and to call them when we were ready to give him up. A good friend came and dressed him for me, in an outfit I had carefully picked out for him ahead of time, because of the spinal block, I could not get up and do this simple motherly task myself. He was handed to me again, only this time I held him for the next six hours or so. I would not let him go except to let my husband hold him. Of the life I had nourished and the soul I had loved for 8 months; this was all I had left, a little broken body. Sometimes in those hours, I would hold him tight and refuse to look at his face so I could imagine he was alive and this nightmare had never happened. Other times I starred straight at his face, I wanted to memorize every feature, he was perfect, but gone. Sometime after midnight I noticed he was getting very stiff and his skin was mottled. I talked to my husband and we decided it was time to let him go, physically that is. I asked the nurse what they were going to do with his body. She said they would take him downstairs to some refrigerated place until we arranged for the mortuary to pick up his body. I thought of my baby being alone in the dark in a refrigerator unit. As a mother I agonized over this, but what choice did I have?
Later, we took him home for good, his ashes, in a little blue urn, with a small teddy bear etched into it. Sometimes I would sleep with the urn at night. I had slept with my other children, why not? I did not tell people I did this; I knew they would think I was crazy. Many times I shook the urn and I would hear rattling in there, I imagined it was small fragments of his bones. Often, I would hold the little blood speckled blanket they wrapped him in and search for some smell of him, but never for long because I didn’t want to replace it with my own smell. Then I would put it back in the airtight plastic container where I keep all his things, his outfit, his blanket, his birth and death certificate, his foot prints, and a tiny lock of his hair.
Life went on, for everyone else but me. I kept my hurt deep inside, it was like a buried treasure that I could take out when I wanted to. The pain was mine and no one could take it away, it was all I had left of him. I would go to the market or see people driving down the road and think "they don’t know what’s happened, their lives are going on" but mine had stopped. How could the world go on like nothing had happened? My son was dead.
Jacob had Polycystic Kidney disease; he wasn’t supposed to have it. It runs in my family but it only kills us as adults. I have the disease, I was told it was impossible for him to have gotten the recessive form that kills infants. The doctors said that Jacob could be a case study because what happened to him was almost unheard off.
Jacob's kidneys stopped working when I was five months pregnant. That meant no amniotic fluid. Without amniotic fluid a babies lungs become like two little pancakes glued together. They did extensive ultrasounds through-out the pregnancy. About two months before he was born the doctors told me that nothing could be done to save his life because his lungs were not only glued together, but the cysts on his kidneys had pushed up on his lungs, not giving them enough room to grow.
When I was pregnant I would rub Jacobs back and talk to him, he responded like all my other children with kicks and such. I dreaded the day of his birth, it would be the day of his death. His umbilical cord, was our connection, his life-line, which kept him alive and supplied with oxygen from my blood stream. Once that cord was cut I knew it signaled the beginning of his death.
This story has no way to be tied up for a neat ending.
I have no profound words for you.
I have no little piece of wisdom I can share with you, the reader.
Writing this doesn't even make me feel better.
I just want the world to know he lived.
In memory of:
Jacob Brent Jeffries
6:00pm-6:00pm
April 17, 2005
My Daughter, a coffee suprise
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The other morning I was sitting in the living room recliner, drinking my coffee while over seeing the general chaos that is routine to our home every weekday morning. With five kids and four of them heading off to school, I need the coffee just to make it through those first few hours. In the middle of all of this, my oldest, Kaylee (13 years) approaches me with a look of great earnest and says, “Can we talk?... Woman to Woman?” For a moment my whole world stops. "Woman to woman?!" When did this happen? When did we become two women? I braced myself as well as I could for what was about to come, “Sure honey” I said, secretly dreading what she was going to ask. What could a "woman to woman" talk mean anyway? The birds and the bees? Boys? I realize that I am not ready for this but I put on the most composed face I can muster up. She then turns to the side so I can get a better look at her profile and says, “Do these boots go with this shirt?”
"Do these boots go with this shirt?"That’s it.
A wave of relief passes over me. “Sure,” I said “They look good together.” My relief is short lived however because it soon dawns on me that she is growing up and that more serious kinds of talks are going to become more and more inevitable.The next thing I know, though I am sitting in the living room amidst a flurry of activity, in my mind, its ten, twelve years ago. Here is this towheaded, pig tailed, little girl carrying around twin baby dolls. All these memories start coming back. Kaylee: a little baby taking her first steps, a curious toddler smelling the wildflowers. It can’t have been that long ago but it was.She is my first born. I was only nineteen when I was pregnant with her but I wanted her with all my heart. While the other young expectant mothers would make comments like, “I can’t wait to get this kid outta here.” I, on the other hand, felt sadness that soon we would be two separate people instead of the one we had been for almost nine months. Then when she was born all that sadness was crowded out by the joy of this new precious human I was holding in my arms. I couldn’t wait to get to know her. Now she is growing up and I can’t stop that anymore than I can stop anything else. Once her life set in motion it had a momentum all it's own, that I have less and less control over.As a teenager, Kaylee is so different than I was. She is even tempered, well rounded and she gets good grades. She can hold her own. Heck, she can even hold court with her peers. She’s so many things that I am proud of. She exhibits a genuine concern for people but not a sickly codependence. Did I mention that she gets good grades? What’s more than that is that she is beginning to show signs of integrity, insight and maturity that make me wonder at the kind of woman she will turn into.I know that one day she will grow up and leave this house, leave me. That the day of her departure is sure even as the day of her birth was. I really don't feel prepared but I will muddle my way thru this, like I have muddled thru everything else in life. She is not mine really. She never was. I knew that from the day she was born. I have had the privilege of “borrowing” her, of getting to know her. Soon she will belong, not just to herself, but to the rest of this world, to the man she will marry, the children she will have and the lives she will touch. I only hope that some of them will realize, as I do, what a privilege it is to know and to love.
The other morning I was sitting in the living room recliner, drinking my coffee while over seeing the general chaos that is routine to our home every weekday morning. With five kids and four of them heading off to school, I need the coffee just to make it through those first few hours. In the middle of all of this, my oldest, Kaylee (13 years) approaches me with a look of great earnest and says, “Can we talk?... Woman to Woman?” For a moment my whole world stops. "Woman to woman?!" When did this happen? When did we become two women? I braced myself as well as I could for what was about to come, “Sure honey” I said, secretly dreading what she was going to ask. What could a "woman to woman" talk mean anyway? The birds and the bees? Boys? I realize that I am not ready for this but I put on the most composed face I can muster up. She then turns to the side so I can get a better look at her profile and says, “Do these boots go with this shirt?”
"Do these boots go with this shirt?"That’s it.
A wave of relief passes over me. “Sure,” I said “They look good together.” My relief is short lived however because it soon dawns on me that she is growing up and that more serious kinds of talks are going to become more and more inevitable.The next thing I know, though I am sitting in the living room amidst a flurry of activity, in my mind, its ten, twelve years ago. Here is this towheaded, pig tailed, little girl carrying around twin baby dolls. All these memories start coming back. Kaylee: a little baby taking her first steps, a curious toddler smelling the wildflowers. It can’t have been that long ago but it was.She is my first born. I was only nineteen when I was pregnant with her but I wanted her with all my heart. While the other young expectant mothers would make comments like, “I can’t wait to get this kid outta here.” I, on the other hand, felt sadness that soon we would be two separate people instead of the one we had been for almost nine months. Then when she was born all that sadness was crowded out by the joy of this new precious human I was holding in my arms. I couldn’t wait to get to know her. Now she is growing up and I can’t stop that anymore than I can stop anything else. Once her life set in motion it had a momentum all it's own, that I have less and less control over.As a teenager, Kaylee is so different than I was. She is even tempered, well rounded and she gets good grades. She can hold her own. Heck, she can even hold court with her peers. She’s so many things that I am proud of. She exhibits a genuine concern for people but not a sickly codependence. Did I mention that she gets good grades? What’s more than that is that she is beginning to show signs of integrity, insight and maturity that make me wonder at the kind of woman she will turn into.I know that one day she will grow up and leave this house, leave me. That the day of her departure is sure even as the day of her birth was. I really don't feel prepared but I will muddle my way thru this, like I have muddled thru everything else in life. She is not mine really. She never was. I knew that from the day she was born. I have had the privilege of “borrowing” her, of getting to know her. Soon she will belong, not just to herself, but to the rest of this world, to the man she will marry, the children she will have and the lives she will touch. I only hope that some of them will realize, as I do, what a privilege it is to know and to love.
Freedom
I had been struggling for a subject for my first blog entry ever since the day I stepped foot in Mrs. Cheray’s English class and was informed that a weekly blog entry would be in the best interest of my grade. My struggle to come up with a topic was certainly not due to any lack of turmoil or excitement in my personal life, yet still I remained stumped. Until this morning. I decided to work on reading my English book hoping for some guidance or inspiration. I ran across the story A Boy’s Life and while I found it humorous, what really struck me was one little quote in the story, it was more of a comment really, “Power can be enjoyed only when it is recognized and feared. Fearlessness in those without power is maddening to those who have it.” I thought about why fearlessness towards those in a position of authority is absolutely vital to the preserving of human rights while at other times this fearless quality is dangerous.For example, I am a mother of five children, my children, though greatly loved are still my subjects. Yes, I am aware that some will think I am outdated and archaic for holding this opinion but I like to think of our family as more of a dictatorship than a democracy, albeit a benign dictatorship with a kind and loving King and Queen. Besides, if four young boys had an equal vote, we would be eating cake for dinner every night and be on a continuous schedule of back to back Sponge Bob marathons. To clarify, when I say we are a dictatorship, I am not saying my children don’t have any rights, also being in power never gives me the right to abuse them, it gives me the power to protect them. Also, I have respect for them as humans, people with feelings and needs ect. but without a little fear (certainly not terror) it would be utter pandemonium in our home. There is nothing quite like trying to get compliance from an utterly fearless toddler in a grocery store, near a busy street or with a metal fork about to be inserted into an electrical outlet. It’s outright dangerous for the child to have no fear of authority. Healthy fear of authority, as children keeps us from being run over by a car, as adults it keeps us out of prison. Really, I think when the Bible talks about fearing God, this is the kind of fear it is referring to, not the terror of a sadistic tyrant but the fear that would keep us from self destruction.Then you can look at the atrocities committed against the powerless throughout human history. With out this fierce quality, without fearlessness in the face of tyrants there would be no liberation. People have shuttled slaves through the Underground Railroad, others hid the Jewish people in their own homes during the rein of Hitler, and this they did knowing the penalty could be death. Even our nation’s founders stood against the tyranny of Britain at the possible cost of forfeiting all that they had. Without this tenacity the world would be over run with those who would victimize those they perceive as weaker.On a personal note I have another perspective on the whole idea of being fearless against those in power and it comes from my own experience. I spent almost a decade in a church that taught that obedience and compliance with my leaders was the path to acceptance by God. To not comply, to not submit meant (to them) that I was a rebel. I was taught that rebellion is the sin of idolatry and idolaters are rejected by God and don’t go to heaven. This kept me in perpetual fear of my pastor and the church leaders. Even my thoughts were controlled. We were taught that any doubts or criticism against the practices of the church were brought on by a demonic spirit. So I became afraid even of my own thoughts and reasoning. Fear became a tool to entrap me. It was only when I began to realize that God had not called me to fear men, that He in fact called me to liberty, that I could begin to even grasp the possibility of freedom. Then I assessed the veracity of their threats. What would happen to me if I chose to leave? I found that most of their threats were unfounded. Unfortunately some where, the threat of loosing credibility among people I love was real, the threat of loosing a support system I had come to depend on was real and the threat of rejection even animosity from my peers were both very real. I eventually came to a point that I can not say was truly fearlessness but instead I was willing to face the consequences of rebellion in order to be free. I would like to tell you it’s been easy but it hasn’t. Some times I even feel worse than before I had my “freedom.”People seem to always speak and dream of freedom in glowing terms and I think it is a victorious thing. Freedom, however, often comes with a steep price and a heap of responsibility. For me it was worth it.Nichole Jeffries
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