I was reading a novel today and in the storyline they were mentioning how this young woman was frustrated because she was trying to be the” supermom”. I hardly ever hear that terminology anymore. In fact the last time that I was familiar with it was back when I was a young woman in the 1960s and 1970s when the feminist movement was singing their song and fighting their fight on every venue possible. I started to think how we have evolved so quickly as a culture which relationships are becoming more like partnerships and the” supermom” status has just become the normal life of a young woman’s motherhood and wife. I guess the good thing that has come out of this is all of the new advances in technology as well as home appliances and tools that do things quicker and easier. Vehicles that accommodate the children, pleasure driving and efficient on gas. It was very difficult to accomplish everything 30 years ago but it makes me feel the struggle was worth it because it obviously paved the way to new innovative inventions that at least opens up the opportunities for young women now. They do not have to choose career or home life but can blend them in ways I could only dream of when my family was young.
For a while we lived in a different world than most of our friends and family. We were happy but most people doubted that. We were homeless but we were survivors. We looked at crisis as an opportunity to see what you are really made of. It was an odd existence that most misunderstood like the classmates from my daughter’s school that called them “gypsy girls” echoing the adults disapproval. The reality is that our situation could have happened to anyone that lives paycheck to paycheck struggling to stay above water then one illness, one lay off, one expensive repair and you find yourself in a whole other world.
We preserved by learning how to get by. If we didn’t have the resources to buy something we would do what we called “wing it” and that applied to everything, our poverty line existence, the almost name brand shoes, our thrift store clothes, our underwear dripping dry in the dog size bathroom, our wobble legged dining booth that converted into a bed at night and the electric heater dangling from the ceiling testament to our pioneer spirit, our baby sized sink, bare light bulb dolls kitchen, the bottom line basics-—everything rigged, second-hand, cut-off and recycled. Two single threads held the family tapestry together, love and hope.
Clothes, shoes and make-up were folded, stacked and contained so precisely that the Marine’s would have been impressed, of course they would have been impressed just by the fact that six of us lived comfortably in a 20 year old 17 foot travel trailer, for five years. My Mother taught me that what ever you do in life, do it the best you can. We shined, polished and scrubbed that old trailer until it squeaked. The pride in our hearts always outshone the reality. It was very little in the way of a home but there were many people worse off than we were and we learned from them as they passed through our lives at the campground.
There was a young couple from Georgia who came to the Gulfport area with two babies to work the oil rigs. Hurricane Bob had blown through four days after they arrived. No housing was available because what was left livable after the storm was quickly snatched up by insurance men and contractors. They spent their housing money on a large tent and a month’s worth of site rental. The rest of their savings went for a camp stove, pots and pans, diapers and a week’s worth of food. The husband picked up small storm clean up jobs but it only sustained them from week to week. They never had enough to put in their small coffee can for gas money home. They were desperate, ready to sell everything including their car for bus tickets back home. It reminded me of the helpless animals that get a limb caught in a trap and would chew it off for the privilege of freedom. Eventually they did sell everything, the car being the last to go right before we took them to the bus station.
Then there was the sweet elderly couple from Iowa who bought a brand new trailer so they could spend their retirement traveling and visiting the grandchildren. It took him five tries to back into the site pad with any semblance of being straight. He was grinning when he stepped out of the van saying “see Mama? I told you this would be easy.” She would give him a gesture that looked like she was swatting a fly and throw her head back and laugh. Every morning she would step out of the trailer looking like she just came from the beauty parlor and he would come from the shower house smelling like Listerine and Old Spice. She would invite the kids to play Rummy and he would try to snag them for a checker game. Everyone loved them. It was clear they were in love and had been for longer than most of us were old. They were planning on leaving on the weekend to start their retirement adventure, as they called it, by visiting some of their children in Texas. That Saturday morning the sweet silver haired farmer was knocking violently on our trailer door. As I opened it, his shaking hands were trying to calm his quivering lips as he said, “She’s dead, must have died in her sleep, I don’t know what to do.” I thought to myself as I hugged him, forty years of hard work, one week of retirement. The daughter that came and picked him up was the same one that called a month later to inform us that he had died of a heart attack. “I don’t understand”, my youngest daughter said, “what attacked his heart?” “Sorrow”, I said.
Rita and Billy were monthly campers like us; actually yearly campers would be more exact. Rita was a divorced Jewish woman from Columbus, Ohio and Billy was a beer drinking, bar fighting Cajun that used to make a living on the Louisiana oil rigs before his back was injured in a scuba diving accident. Rita had been married to a Pharmacists in Iowa for over twenty years and was used to the “good” life, golf clubs, social benefits, influential friends. She fell in love with Billy while visiting a friend in New Orleans. As Rita’s story goes, they were at a nightclub when a drunk starting harassing them, Billy walked over and punched the drunk out. Rita said she had never been fought over before and right then and there she felt lust for the first time in her life. He was so different from her first husband, so wild and unstable but he was passionate. Billy was like a drug that she took in increasing doses until she couldn’t live without the feeling she had when she was with him. So despite the horror of her friends and family she married him in a small fishing camp in St. Charles, Louisiana. Now five years later she still praises his attributes even though she has never seen him sober. She handled his settlement money from the oil rig accident like an accountant, saving every penny she could and taking his mental abuse when he wanted a few hundred to go on a binge with his friends. She would happily go about her day preparing delicious food and cleaning the trailer and paying the bills. She made sure she was dressed perfectly for those one or two hours he was not sleeping off a thirty pack . He was good to her when he was awake but he did not exist in a real world, only a co-dependent one. They both loved it. They had no regrets.
I learned a lot from Rita. I started to see myself in so many of her actions. Although my husband didn’t drink, the co-dependent relationship was still there. I too, had traded my independence in a moment of passion. I too, walked softly, waiting for a few moments of attention. Our lives were so different but so alike. She was my awakening, my yearning to want more for my children and myself.
There was also a couple that came down every winter for three months during the cold Michigan winter. Vern and Helen were both retired from twenty-year jobs. He had been a contractor and she a phone operator. Vern was still husky built even though he was in his seventies and Helen was energetic, always walking the half mile around the campground every morning. We had looked forward to them driving in around October every year for the past three years. This year there was something different. Vern had a hole from a Trac in his throat. He said he had cancer of the larynx and the doctor removed his voice box. He said he was trying to learn how to speak with a voice synthesizer, as he would press the long metal tube against his throat. The voice sounded just like what it came from, a synthesizer. It took awhile to understand what he was saying but soon the kids and I could understand just about everything he said. He wore red suspenders that he would snap in order to make the kids jump. He was a teaser and loved playing jokes on them. The kids loved him and so did I. His wife was the caretaker but encouraged him to be independent as much as possible. Sometimes he would get so frustrated he would throw the long metal tube to the ground, shake his head and go back in the trailer. We all knew this was a difficult adjustment so we teased him back when he was in a stronger mood and pretended we didn’t even see the hole in his throat or the synthesizer. But the reality was we did and it was a very good lesson for us all.
There was the couple that came in every Friday night in an old brown pick up with a home made camper on the back, tires bald as eggs and the driver side front fender was tied on with wire that allowed it to flap in time with the rod knocking under the hood. The man was much younger than the woman. He had dark dirty hair and his face was always unshaven, he usually wore a faded black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a design on the front that said Hank Williams Tour 1985, a baseball cap with a rebel flag embroidered on the front. The woman had on bib overalls with one strap missing and a cotton blouse underneath. She was thin with long hair and from behind looked to be a lot younger than her face. They stayed to themselves. They were weathered people, wind burned and weary from heading straight into life’s storms. After they parked they would make a fire and start drinking until they fell asleep on blankets on the ground. I never saw them eat anything other than tuna with saltines and cheap pork and beans straight out of the can. By Monday morning they would be gone just to return the next Friday night. They had long forgotten how to set their sails into the wind. They didn’t realize they were captains of their own ships. So, like so many people we saw there, life happened to them, they did not happen to life.
There were so many more lives that weaved in and out of our lives during those years. And, believe it or not, our life got way worse before it got better. But, through it all we never lost our sense of humor, our compassion for others or our family loyalty. Eventually we clawed our way back up and never returned to living in a RV again. We not only returned to our previous life but surpassed it by leaps and bounds.
We will never forget how easily and quickly it is to lose it all. We will also never forget that together we can survive anything. When my grandchildren ask their mothers about what their childhood was like they respond “It was great, we were Gypsy Girls!
We are the wing of the crow that left never to return
Time calls and we fly swiftly pushing ebony feathers along blue sky
No stop to rest, no time to question fate as our souls do yearn
Harsh and strong they glide for they know the secret why
We are the wing of the crow our spirits free once more
Years of life pass by and still we travel far and wide
The wings of night searching for our destiny evermore
Longing not for what we’ve lost but seeking what we hide
We are the wing of the crow sleek and stealth and cold
Focused only on the distant sirens song our souls must find
A melody so mysterious it taunts us on, it’s message so very old
No eyes can see it sing for it lives inside the mind
We are the wing of the crow that left never to return
We are simple in our message though some would say we roam
But forever we will seek it, forever within us it will burn
It’s not the distance but the joy that will surely take you home.
I saw the little sparrow today
It was blustery, cold and wet
His wings glistened from the mist
as he clung to a bare skinny branch
too frozen to move to fearful to fly…
The gusts dipped him down and bounced him up
Tiny feet curled tight their desperate hold
Black eyes blinked then held their stare
Feathers fluffed like a warm down coat
I saw the little sparrow bird today
His beak opened once in protest but,
only silence came forth so he buckled down
closer to the limb and called on his strength
Then the Sun came running out and warmed his wings
He shook like a big wet dog
Then pushed hard against the little branch
that once sustained his fearful heart
Springing into a world of possibilities
The cold and rain forgotten
A survivor brave and bold
This little sparrow bird I saw today…..
When I Am Old
When I grow old I shall wear golden clips
in my silver hair and soft blue comfort clothes.
I will spend my social security checks on good books,
junk food, and special feed for my beloved animals.
I will sit in the evenings in my living room and
watch crazy people on TV and listen
to my Dogs snore.
I will rise before dawn when everything’s asleep
and take my strong coffee and my dogs outside to
watch the birds and squirrels wake up.
I will wear my rainbow colored socks and my
soft old house shoes as I feed them all
until their bellies hang.
When people come to visit I will smile and nod as
I show them my special friends that await my
first movement every morning with eyes full of love.
I know I am getting older but I am not afraid for
they will love me and keep me smiling.
They are a part of me and they understand
what words can not say
They ask for nothing in return except
love and food
They appreciate my presence in their lives
When I am old they will be pearls
upon my neck
The old man walked slowly and softly. Limp hands hung motionless beside the large pockets of his coat. They had no intention now. No need to clutch them in response to stress, no need to jingle keys from anxiety, no need to swing them to a fast paced rhythm. There was a leisurely pulse to his song, interrupted often by an attempt to balance. No urgency now. Stress lines in his crinkled face have been replaced by deep lines of consignment.
He has finally lived long enough to know his wisdom, only no one can see it beyond the wrinkle of his skin, no one hears it between the spaces of his memory, no one feels it beyond the shaking of his hands.
I see him and I know.
But for the grace of God, go we all.
Song of a Soul
Have a relationship with a rich man
But don’t stay until you get hard
Have a relationship with a poor man
But don’t stay until you are soft
Don’t misunderstand love as weakness
Don’t misunderstand weakness as love
Honor your dreams regardless of
What people say
Don’t crush another’s dreams for
The sake of reality
Never take hope away from another
It may be all they have
Never hope more than you are
Willing to work
Remember the Cheetah that lives in your heart
But know that it is there only to save you
Remember the Dove that lives in your Soul
But know it will not protect you
Blazing The Trail
Ever notice how subtle change is sometimes? You know, like a new building appears where you were sure there was a field yesterday? That’s how I felt when I started researching this article about access to people with disabilities in our community. I found many things I had forgotten weren’t always there and now I see more and more access every day. Almost all the large department stores have electric carts. Even five years ago this was very rare. A few stores had one, now the average is four. Accessible bathrooms are being remodeled to include an accessible stall, lower sink and dispensers and larger turn around areas for wheel chairs. Automatic doors are becoming more common as are entrances with no steps. All of our city buses are equipped with lifts. If you don’t live close enough to a bus stop, and you qualify, Access Express will pick you up at your door. OATS provides vans with lifts outside the city limits. Everyone benefits, people with disabilities, people with baby strollers, and seniors with canes or walkers.
The community is finally realizing that the more they respond to the customers need, the more money they make. It has started a mind set in entrepreneurs to offer more and more convenience. For instance, pizza isn’t the only thing you can get delivered to your door. A growing number of grocers will take your order over the phone and deliver it to you. Many pharmacies are doing the same. There are even people who will holiday shop for you or run errands for a fee. Homes can be built already accessible now so it will be ready as you grow older when remodeling is usually too expensive on a fixed income.
There are approximately 54 million people with disabilities in the United States and now communities are watching this sleeping giant wake up and demand equality. Slowly but surely, it is being granted. The Americans With Disability Act is a great liberating piece of legislation but it sits silent until you give it a voice. Success has happened because of people’s perseverance and determination to set things right. Freedom is the responsibility of all people who enjoy it. We must be ever diligent, ever watchful. When you observe no access, grocery carts parked in a disabled parking space, electric carts broken or not even available, bathrooms inaccessible, entrance doors too heavy to open; speak up, write a letter, make your requests be known. You can call Southwest Center for Independent Living (886-1188) and we will assist you in pursuing it. But, your voice is the most important. You are the customer and all of us have a right to all the services our community offers. Do it for yourself, do it for you grandparents, your grandchildren, do it for freedom.
Like lemmings to the sea
I have worked for a disability organization serving all disabilities for over 26 years. So many success stories through empowerment and knowledge but just as many failures because of the medical fields incessant need to stop the complaining and whining by over medicating. People come in ready to charge ahead and get their life back on track after a sudden disability or progressive illness diagnosis only to succumb to a zombie life after some minor ailment that the doctor prescribed drugs such as morphine or OxyContin. The next month they come in and you can hardly recognize them with their slurred speech and apathy attitude. They show you the additional six or seven pills they now needs treat the side effects. They don’t complain though because it feels so good. They start to look just like the people in nursing homes which is where their destination will be within a year when they can no longer make logical decisions and finally get hot lined by some “do gooder” case worker keeping them safe.
What was needed was intervention and a holistic approach. What you see before you is not always medical but the result of it.
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