Cause This Time May Mean Goodbye…

I saw Stevie in concert in 1984 at the Valley Forge Music Theatre…….I cried through the entire concert, so much so that I drew attention to myself and had my brand new Pentax camera confiscated.  And no, I did not get it back.  But the two hours of this man’s voice penetrating my soul and heart were well, well worth the cost.

This song ran through my head in the shower last evening.  I cried tears of sorrow and release, as I unwillingly mulled over the loss of most of my family.  Hours earlier, I was on a rampage-thinking thoughts I dared not dwell on. 

I want justice.  I want revenge.  I want God to pay her back, tenfold.”

What I really want?  After praying for His forgiveness, after realizing that I am not fighting flesh and blood, but evil and the Jezebel Spirit….after praying, again and again and again that she is safe and under the blood of Christ?  Well, it hit me like a ton of brickettes:  What I want is my family back.

And Jesus whispered in my ear-Want and need are two very different entities.

I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable,

racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that

just being alive is a grand thing.

-Agatha Christie



Scooter’s Had Enough……

I had my share of boyfriends in high school; as a matter of fact, despite my self-hatred, I attracted the captain of Upper Merion’s Crew team, and by that I mean I hunt him down and used every flirty trick in the book to get him to notice me.  I have always been the aggressor in relationships.  Fact is?  The guys never, ever asked me out, until Villanova-my  freshman year-I was out to prove I wasn’t what I truly believed I was-nothing.

My history with boys was this:  I would pretend to be whatever they were looking for, and in doing so, I lost myself.  I was a follower, a tag-along, a gypsy with no real tribe…but I always had a man in my life because I thought I couldn’t do without one.  To this day, I have dreams that I am man-less, and they are nightmares.  I wake up shaken, lost, and feeling an emptiness that cannot be put in words.  After so many years in therapy, I never quite grasped the reason, and to this day?  I’m thinking it was my need to have a man, any man, interested in and devoted to me only-father stuff if you will.  However, this was not the case on a college campus in the eighties.  The wrong men wanted me and I wanted what I couldn’t have… all came to an ugly head one afternoon, when I entered the apartment of my current boyfriend-he just happened to live with my ex.

“Hey Scooter!!!!!,” my last flame (and by that I mean FLAME, I was head over heels in lust, and our flame burned brightly, if only for a few months)

“What did you just call me?,” I asked.  Butch was an instigator, a character, a comedian, and that was part of the draw for me.

“Uh, that’s kind of your nickname in this house,” he responded, a smile creeping up on the right side of his face, he could hardly contain his joy at the time.

Butch went on to tell me that the name ‘Scooter’ was picked because I “scooted from one man to another.”  I had never had a nickname in my life, with the exception of my father calling me ‘Shoof”- apparently that is the sound I made when I sat down as a toddler.  I would sit down after playing and make this, I-am-so-exhausted noise, and it tickled my dad….Anyhooser, I was appalled. 

“Excuse me, but let me make this perfectly clear-you have seven roommates, and I have dated only ONE of these men.  How dare you?  Aren’t you the one who left me because of your desire to date a real whore?  I mean, who the hell are you to judge ME?”

Butch took me to the Senior Dinner Dance, where we danced to ‘Double Dutch Bus” at least ten times, making the DJ run for cover when we appeared, falling down drunk, to make a request.  He made me laugh at myself, and I needed that at the time.  He ended up leaving me for the town floozy, but we “dated” on and off for years.  Usually, we would run into each other at a party or bar, and being the doormat I was at the time?  I would fall for his persuasions each and every time.

I remained smitten, and moving on was hard.  Really hard.  Until the evening, years after graduation (he graduated, I did not) my friends and I went down to South Street, Philadelphia for a night on the town.  Butch was managing the bar we were in, and I saw him through my peripheral vision approaching us.  I will never, ever forget his outfit.  It was a silk jumpsuit with chains, heavy gold chains around his neck.  I had never seen anything so ridiculous in my life.  And that, my friends, is how Scooter got her groove back~






Nothing Compares……………

I don’t believe I have written about my deep state of grief following my father’s death.  I don’t even know if I can put it into words, but the gist of it is:  I mourn my parents day in and day out.  Yes, I had a complicated relationship with my mother, but I yearn for the days I could pick up the phone and hear her voice.  And Steve?  My daddy?  It still hurts so badly, from the bottom of my being.

Daddy could be difficult, during his last weeks with us.  I remember an argument over which bottle of salad dressing he wanted-my husband had bought him some generic brand, and he wanted WishBone.  We grew up with brand names, and I don’t think it absurd for him to want the salad dressing he wanted, far be it for me to deny a man who is dying his favorite salad topping.

But here’s the thing I am constantly rethinking:  dad had a huge heart.  Huge.  My brother has the same indwelling of spirit, the mercy, the compassion-it’s all there, even in his songs.  He may indeed still be living among us had he not met Pat Byrne, the woman I abhorred from the moment I met, who talked my alcoholic father who hadn’t had a drink in ten years into imbibing.

“Your father is NOT an alcoholic.  He drinks socially.”

Pat, I hope you read this one day.  I hope you know that he died from complications of pancreatitis directly related to his alcoholism.  Then again, you wouldn’t know this as you dropped him like a hot potato the minute he became ill.  I remember walking into my own home, to the sight of you and your children drinking champagne and listening to Vivaldi.  And I remember the Easter he was in the hospital and you resented me bringing him a slice of your ham.  I remember you giving your children my childhood furniture, and then arguing with me about it.  I hope you get what’s coming, and you can take that to the bank.