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ineffablecolors · 6 years ago

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The Wife [4/?]

The Wife || Ch 4 ~ 4.2 k || Ch 1 Ch2 Ch3 || FF.NET&AO3 Summary: No one knows all that Emma has been through and certainly no one knows all that Killian has been through and being husband and wife doesn’t make them any less unknown to each other. And really, how can you help someone heal when you don’t even know how hurt they are? A/N: Do check the notes on chapter 1 and fair warning - they touch again.

Dear Emma,

If Emma had any doubts about Killian’s claims, the letter she receives from Mary Margaret the very next day would’ve put them to rest. As it is, she is grateful to be forewarned so the information Mary relays is not as much of a shock to her as it apparently was to her friend.

Still, her heart can’t help but constrict painfully at Mary’s badly hidden distress. The indignation on the sheet of paper is palpable – how the last cup of tea Emma shared with her friend wasn’t even washed yet when Mary’s apartment became the preferred destination for good Samarians who wanted to warn her that she’d better wait a fortnight before paying her friend a visit as some people expected Killian Jones to put her out of his house in no time at all.

Emma is not terribly surprised. Whatever rumours might circulate about Captain Jones, he is still a man and one with a decent income at that. Society may wag its tongues but it will never spit him out. It obviously has no such qualms about Emma.

Mary, however – with her less than favourable opinion of Emma’s husband, is obviously incented by the mere suggestion that Killian might be the one to find fault with Emma rather than the other way around. Yet, Emma can’t help but notice that it has taken more than a week for her friend to write to her. She believes this as well probably stems from Mary’s distrust of her husband, rather than a desire to set herself apart from Emma and, while the latter would have been truly devastating, she finds that the former causes her a fair bit of annoyance as well.

She can’t help the spike of irritation when her friend’s manner of writing adopts the style of one addressing a prisoner – as if she were a princess locked in a towel guarded by a dragon. Though that image is only wrong in spirit for, compared to her life with Regina, Emma does feel rather like a princess and, reading about the social fires raging in town, she rather appreciates the protection of her public-shunning dragon.

Thus, Emma sits at her desk, staring out of the window and wondering what on earth is the proper thing to do – invite her closest friend to visit her in her new home like any newly married woman would or absolve her of having to associate herself with Emma at least for the near future. Eventually, as with most things, Emma decides to trust the feeling deep in her gut. She writes back to Mary Margaret, inviting her to visit if and only if she is confident it won’t prove too much of a stain on her snow white reputation and, as kindly as she can, asks her not to abuse Killian’s name without reason.

*****

But it is not that letter which takes Emma by surprise, expected even earlier as it had been. It’s the one she finds the morning after, when she and Alice are sorting through their correspondence and Emma is trying – as she does every morning – not to notice the steady flow of letters Alice receives – all carrying the same pretty cursive.

She gets up and heads for Killian’s study, turning the letter over and over in her hand.

“I think you forgot this one,” she says when she is within reach of his desk and he can get a good look at the name.

He looks up and Emma purses her lips so she doesn’t grin at the way he squints and pushes his glasses up his nose.

“I did not. It’s addressed to you.”

“Yes, but it’s from your sister-in-law.”

“Aye, but it’s addressed to you. I’m not going to go around opening your correspondence, Emma, no matter who it might be from.”

Emma draws her hand back to her side and mulls that over. Privacy is most certainly not something she has been deprived off in this house but she appreciates the freedoms that she keeps discovering, freedoms that she thought – still thinks really – not many women enjoy.

“May I?”

She waves a hand toward one of the armchairs in Killian’s study and he blinks at her a couple of time in surprise before he nods his affirmation. Emma drops into the chair’s soft depths slightly less gracefully than she intended and a sly look at Killian shows that he might have noticed, if the way he focuses hard on the papers before him and purses his own lips to keep them from stretching is any indication. She does her best to control her blush and turns her attention back to Elsa’s letter. Elsa’s invitation, as it turns out.

“There’s to be a dance.”

“I expected as much.”

“You did?”

“Hmm. You and Alice should pick some new gowns this week.”

She laughs.

“I just finished filling a whole wardrobe, I believe I’ll manage to find something to wear. Does that mean we will be attending?”

Killian finally looks up again and Emma thinks that surprise is definitely the reaction she seems to inspire the most in her husband.

“Even I don’t refuse invitations extended by my own brother and his lovely wife. Especially when the whole affair is organized to welcome my new wife.”

He gives her a pointed look and Emma feels her eyes widen, the letter almost slipping from her cold fingers.

“Oh. But… this can’t— You must tell them there is no need—“

Killian waves his hand in a gesture that seems to say nothing can be done about it now.

“Do not concern yourself, Elsa would seize any and every opportunity for a ball. I would’ve been concerned for my sister’s health had she failed to send such an invitation before the close of the month. It will also…” Killian looks her in the eyes, a certain amount of caution and gentleness swimming in the blue. “Well, it will be a good thing for us to do.”

There is no blush on her cheeks now, she is certain, for while the feeling for one is there, her face must be quite pale as she realizes that the Jones’s are throwing a ball to demonstrate that Killian has not married her just to hide her away like a shameful secret.

“Oh, this is really—“

Emma flounders for a bit before she drops her face in her hands and tries to master her emotions, her shoulders hunched and her fingers digging into the roots of her hair as she breathes through her nose. Focused as she is on that crucial task, the warmth of Killian’s hand on her knee is like a jolt to her entire system. She looks up to find him kneeling in front of her, a cautious and concerned expression on his face.

“Emma, there truly is nothing to worry about. It’s not at all unusual to celebrate an addition to the family with a—“

“Yes, except,” her voice is choked but she soldiers on. “This is not a celebration but a demonstration—“

“That depends entirely on how you choose to see it.”

She opens her mouth to protest but the calmness on his face stops the words in her throat.

“Papa, I have decided what— Oh. Is something the matter?”

The concern on Alice’s face is the last push Emma needs to pull herself together and she smiles up at the girl the best she can as her hand reaches to quickly squeeze Killian’s in silent gratitude – the warmth of it almost seeping into her own fingers.

“It would seem we are going to a ball.”

“Ah, is that what aunt Elsa wrote you about? But… do you not wish to go, Emma?”

“No, no, I do. I was just… surprised, her requesting that I be her guest of honour is a bit... I’m sure to muck it up.”

Alice laughs at her choice of words and shakes her head as Killian gets back to his feet.

“It’s really not that difficult. You just have to look nice but also not overshadow aunt.”

Emma takes her own turn to laugh.

“I’m quite certain there is no danger of that.”

“What did you come to tell me, darling?”

“Ah, yes,” and just like that the sparkle is back in Alice’s eyes. “I’ve decided what we are to do today.”

“And you have been so kind as to come pass your sentence personally.”

Alice rolls her eyes in a manner that Emma is sure many a proper lady would have quite a few choice words for but no one in the room seems to mind.

“We’re going to the lake. Ruby is already preparing a basket.”

Killian casts a mournful look at his desk before he sighs and turns back to his daughter.

“Aye, aye, cap’n.”

*****

Ruby tries to stifle her laugh as she watches the mistress of the house rub mournfully at the heel of her foot.

“I have never seen a woman this fond of walking and riding, and running, and really any physically taxing activity on the face of the earth.”

Now she can’t help but chuckle in agreement.

“She was much worse when she was little, if you can believe it.”

“Oh, what did she do then? Fly?”

“She tried it once. Thankfully, she was already smart enough to choose a window on the ground floor. Granny says half of Captain Jones’s gray hairs are from that very day.”

Emma shakes her head and fits her foot back in her soft slipper with the slightest whimper before she takes the other one in her hands. Ruby adds one last log to the fire in the library and turns to leave when Emma speaks up again.

“Ruby, did— Was there a ball given when… when the late Mrs Jones became… Mrs Jones?”

Ruby frowns a bit, digging into her own memories and trying to order what her grandmother has told her.

“Well, I think I wasn’t old enough to be helping Granny around the kitchen yet. She’d only been here for a year or so. Ever since the captain had come back from the war and taken the house, you know? And she—” Ruby smiles at her first memories of sneaking rolls behind Granny’s back. “She’d bring me round from time to time, she couldn’t always leave me with neighbours and all and she says Killian never minded. Now, she minded plenty but she had bigger messes to make to bother with me.”

Granny being the irreproachable fortress than she is, Ruby always gladly takes on the role of a more welcoming and engaging presence, but even she made an exception for Eloise. The woman scared her as a child and then—

She shakes her head and focuses her eyes on Emma’s curious green ones. Her mouth is set in a line that tells Ruby whatever she has heard has been enough to incite less than tender sympathies toward the previous Mrs Jones.

“But, no. No, I was told the whole thing was very quick and quiet. No announcements, no fanfare. I don’t think anyone was at the ceremony except for Admiral Jones. And then… well, she went into society a lot, I think. But never with the captain. There was this group of women – they’d come here often and then she would visit with them for long periods of time. I think everybody rather preferred it that way.”

She closes her mouth and sucks her lips in, sensing that she might have gotten carried away. Emma only asked about a ball and Ruby doesn’t want her thinking that she’ll grasp at any opportunity to gossip.

“Thank you. I umm…,” Emma’s own discomfort puts her more at ease. “I didn’t mean to pry into— I just wanted to get an idea. No matter. Thank you.”

Her smile is a little forced and nervous and Ruby returns it with a warm and genuine one. She has been watching Emma tiptoe around the house and the family even since she got here and she finds it both endearing and a little saddening. She almost wants to tell her that there is little she can do that will stand in a bad light compared to what came to pass before her, she wants to tell her that a little calmness and a little softness is all they all need and she seems to have enough of both within her.

But she doesn’t say any of that. It’s not her place and her grandmother will have her head, if she does. Ruby doesn’t get how she can still be suspicious of the new mistress’s intentions but she knows there is no use arguing with her – no one but Granny can convince Granny that she is wrong. So with another smile, she turns to leave, stopping with the door handle in her hand.

“Another thing, Miss Alice’s secret might be retiring to bed before the witching hour. Which cannot often be said about her father and yourself.”

*****

Emma stretches her aching legs in front of her one more time before she gets up and makes her way to the study at the end of the corridor for the second time that day.

The late summer day on the lake proved a nice distraction. Alice is something of an expert on lake and woodland creatures alike, Ruby is most certainly an expert on putting together a picnic in an hour and Killian apparently likes to pretend that he is an expert at stone skipping even though she defeated him twice as often as he did her. But, most importantly, none of them seem to be experts on ball etiquette and, rather than make her more anxious, this seemed to calm Emma’s nerves concerning the whole affair.

Back when she first came out into society, Regina was willing to let her go to as many dances as three gowns per season would permit her. But after a certain point in her young life her public appearances steadily decreased. At first, it was deemed the wise thing to do – to just disappear for a bit, to not fan the rumours’ flames by showing her face all around town, and then afterwards, Emma herself had lost all interest in the frivolities of meeting young ladies and gentlemen who cared more about what was being said about her and what she was wearing in her hair than what was in her head, let alone her heart – the latter was almost unmanageably heavy and after some time she tried to keep the former as blank as possible.

Obviously, whatever good her restrained and demure presence had achieved was undone by Regina’s candidness and desperate rush to find her a husband and now, in a few weeks’ time, Emma will have her first chance to hopefully start anew as Mrs Emma Jones. She tries to chase the thought away before it can seep all the way inside her and twist her all up, instead she takes the open door as a good sign and leans her hip lightly on the doorframe as she waits for Killian to look up from whatever he is scribbling furiously.

It takes long enough that her feet start tingling in protest again. Finally, his eyes rise and then so do his eyebrows – the question obvious and underlined with a touch of annoyance. She concentrates on not shifting nervously on her feet.

“Did you need something, Emma?”

“No, just trying to determine the chances of me having married a vampire.”

He snorts, obviously unwillingly amused.

“I assure you, I age,” he sets his pen down and reaches for his glass, lifting it to his mouth only to find it empty.

Emma shakes her head and turns on her heel without another word. In the kitchen Mrs Lucas informs her that Ruby has gone to bed.

“Oh, I don’t need anyone. Just to know where the chamomile and valerian root are.”

The cook huffs and crosses her arms in front of her chest but she points out where everything Emma asks for is and leans back against the table with a look that tells Emma she is watching every move she makes in her kitchen.

“That’s not gonna work.”

Emma shrugs her shoulders as if it’s all the same to her.

“And I could’ve done it for ya.”

“And what should I do?”

“How should I know? Whatever it is that you ladies do when you are all provided for. Prop your feet on a pillow, admire lace, get one of them small dogs.”

Emma laughs at that last part.

“I prefer cats.”

“Cats are kitchen animals.”

“Well, maybe that’s why I like the kitchen quite so much,” she replies with a little challenge in the tilt of her chin as she arranges her tea tray under the older woman’s hawk-like gaze.

Mrs Lucas grunts in displeasure.

“Between your liking and him taking his breakfast in here all the time, I might as well leave the kitchen to the masters and go have all the rest of the house to myself.”

It is certainly an amusing image and, ever since first finding Killian here, Emma can’t say that she terribly minds the idea of them being locked in the small space and letting Mrs Lucas reigned over all else.

When first faced with the reality and imminence of it, Emma looked toward her marriage with a cool sort of resignation, then, much as she tried to maintain that detachment in front of Mary Margaret and Regina, and even herself, Emma inevitably started planning how to make her life as a married woman the most painless and bearable. She started envisioning a day in her future and trying to determine which moments she will be able to steal for herself, what spaces she will be able to carve out for herself. Most of all, of course, she thought her evenings and nights would not be her own and she most definitely did not envision fancying the idea of being shut in a small room with her husband.

Now, she is relieved to see that Killian has not shut the door to his study after her abrupt departure and she only has to nudge it slightly with her foot so she can carry her tea tray inside. It is as she looks for a place to put it that she realizes for the first time how rigidly ordered everything on Jones’ desk is – she deposits the tray a safe distance away from all the perfectly aligned piles of papers.

“Umm, thank you,” Killian doesn’t go as far as to eye the tea with distrust but it’s a near thing. “You needn’t have… I lean towards something a tad sharper in the evenings.”

Emma looks at the small arrangement of bottles on the high wooden table a few feet from his desk and approaches it slowly. She takes the silence as permission and leans down to inspect the bottles. Save for a couple of scotches, they are all different bottles of rum and even Emma’s meager knowledge is enough to determine that some of them are rather exotic and have probably crossed the ocean to find themselves here. She takes an opened and unremarkable one that she is almost certain she has seen before and turns around.

By now Killian is leaning back in his chair and watching her with undisguised amusement. At her questioning look, he swipes his arm in a gesture of generous invitation and watches her as she returns to her tea with the bottle clutched in her hand so tightly that her fingers look even more pale than usual.

Some small part of Emma wants to back out now and even that part knows that it’s too late for that. So she tries to loosen her shoulders as inconspicuously as possible and unscrews the cap on the bottle. She pours a small amount of the dark liquid into each of the two teacups – just enough not to be laughable, closes the bottle and sets it to the side.

Killian has put his writing instruments aside since she left to prepare the tea she is now pouring.

“You are finished?” she asks in her surprise.

“I still have to read through these,” he inclines his head toward a small pile of papers set front and center.

“Do you have to do that here?”

His right eyebrow climbs up, creasing his forehead and disappearing somewhere under the hair that has fallen over it.

“I suppose not.”

Emma picks up the tray again and thanks whatever star she was born under that it doesn’t shake in her white-knuckled grasp. She takes to steps backwards, careful not to step on her own dress and make a fool of herself, and lifts an eyebrow of her own.

She turns around at the door and heads for the library, her heart performing an admirable attempt at escaping her chest as she tries to focus on not spilling anything and not on listening if there is another set of footsteps coming up behind her.

As soon as she makes it inside, she sets the tray down with a clatter and takes a seat, her hands balled into fists in her lap. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath and now she cannot help but strain her ears toward the corridor. Nothing. She bites her lower lip and tries to quickly wall in the feeling of humiliation that threatens to wash over her whole body.

Then she hears a door close. It takes less than half a minute to cross the distance between Killian’s study and the library and it’s a lucky thing indeed, seeing as Emma doesn’t breathe until he quietly slips into the room.

The look Killian gives her as he sits on the other end of the settee is downright evil but it doesn’t detract from her feeling of victory in the least. Nor does the pointed way he deposits his small mountain of papers beside the tea tray before he picks up one of the cups.

Satisfied, Emma takes the book she set aside and tucks her tired feet under her – the very picture of innocence that’s only ruined by the way she chokes a little on the first sip of the concoction in her teacup.

“Aye. Next time don’t use the rum I used to disinfect Alice’s scrapped knees with.”

She chokes a second time. That seems to satisfy Killian’s need for revenge and he settles more comfortably, adjusting his glasses and focusing on the document in his hand.

Mrs Lucas comes in a short time later to stoke the fire and ask if they need anything or she can retire for the night, looking at the teapot as if she still can’t quite accept that Emma has taken charge of it.

Emma has made some admirable progress with her book when her yawns start getting longer and harder to swallow around, her eyes watering a little more with each one.

“You really needn’t wait for me, love.”

Her hand freezes midway to her mouth and her eyes snap to Killian who somehow still manages to appear deeply engrossed in his own reading, though she is sure it is much drier and more complicated than her own. The endearment bounces in her mind for a moment longer and she tries to keep her face impassive – neither surprised, not pleased. But she can’t deny – and is only mildly startled to find – that inside she is both.

When Killian doesn’t look up, she eyes the sheets that he still hasn’t gotten to and sighs. She tries to concentrate on her book again long enough to finish her chapter before she gets up to return it to its shelf.

“You know you can leave it out, don’t you? Or take it up with you.”

She hesitates for a moment before she comes back and leaves the book on the side table. When she reaches for the tea tray Killian’s voice derails her again.

“I’ll put it away later.”

“You don’t have—”

“Emma, it’s fine, just leave it.”

She sighs again and thinks it probably sounds more like a huff, the way his mouth twitches at her exasperation.

“Alright. Good night.”

“Good night.”

She hesitates at the door long enough to glare at the way Killian rolls his knuckles over his forehead and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Really, it’s a fine thing that they don’t sleep in the same bed or there is no way she will let this happen night after night.

*****

For such a heavy door, it closes with the softest of clicks – which doesn’t stop the sound from echoing around in Killian’s mind long after.

As light and quiet as her presence is, the moment it is gone is much like a pitch black night at sea following on the heels of a full moon. There is a reason the moon recedes bit by bit, waning sailors off its light before it leaves them completely in the dark – the shock would be much too jarring otherwise.

And Killian Jones thought he of all men was prepared for anything when it came to taking on a new wife. Killian Jones was wrong. He is not at all prepared to enjoy having one.

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coeurdastronaute · 6 years ago

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Essays in Existentialism: Monarchy PRIDE

“I’m not doing it.”

“Yes you are.”

“I’m not!”

At the sound of a voice raising, the queen piqued an eyebrow and looked up at her pacing daughter.

“I’m sorry,” Lexa sighed.

Normally the middle child was composed to the outside world. The mother knew better though because beneath the prim and structured demeanor was the most passionate person to exist in the family. She had the breeding of the cool and calm and never ruffled, and yet Lexa felt everything, all of the time. Make her walk over coals, beat her within an inch of her life, break her bones until they were splinters, and she was fine, she was great, she was nonplussed. Make her feel something, make her have to contemplate how something made her heart feel, and she was frothing, flaming, fighting it.

“You’re going to do it, and you’re going to be gracious and kind and honored,” her mother began again.

Despite how tightly strung she was, despite how much it hurt, and despite how hard it was to relinquish, the princess deflated and crossed her arms petulantly in the chair across from her mother’s desk.

“But I really don’t want to,” she tried again, hoping her pitiful face would sway her mother, though she knew the truth.

“I don’t want to do pilates every other day or have lunch with that miserable wife of your uncle, but I have to. Fifteen hundred years of ruling this country means we have to do things we don’t want to do. This is what the ancestors fought for.”

“For me to accept an award for being gay?” Lexa asked disbelievingly.

“Yes, honey. That is what your relatives dreamt of when they cultivated the most violent medieval tribe and conquered the rest.”

Lexa pursed her lips and looked out the window before sighing heavily. Her mother watched her jaw flex and her knee go from fidgeting to still.

“Pilates, huh?”

“An hour, every other day.”

“It shows. You’re looking ripped.”

“Don’t sweet talk me.”

Lexa grinned and ducked her head, pure mischief and charm and cunning, pure cunning above the rest.

“A whole night based around celebrating me being someone who stands out because of who they fell in love with?” she squinted her face and cocked her head. “I cannot imagine a worse way to spend my time.”

“Lunch with Aunt Gertie?”

“I will go to a years worth of lunches if I don’t have to go accept this gay award.”

“Really?” the queen grinned.

“No.”

For a moment the quiet sat between them. Despite herself, Lexa smiled because her mother was such a pain and she had nothing else to do. Of course it was already decided that Lexa would be at the awards banquet and she’d accept the award and she’d smile and be happy no matter what. Before she even heard about it, she was bound to go. Her mother was the chess champion.

“Do I take a date?”

“If you can find one,” the queen teased.

“Clarke is going to hate me.”

“Send her flowers.”

“Hey, hey,” the door opened with the king entering, his nose in his phone. “Oh, Al, perfect. I still can’t figure out what I’m tweeting.”

“She has to go to a fitting,” his wife stopped him in his tracks.

“I run this country, and no one will help me get anything done.”

“You’re not tweeting.”

“I’ll help you,” Lexa offered, jumping at the chance.

“Go to your fitting, get your date.”

“Send her flowers. Chicks dig flowers still, don’t they?”

Before she could say anything else, the queen gave her daughter a warning look, and Lexa snapped her mouth shut before looking to her father for help.

“Don’t look at me. You know she runs this place,” Alex shrugged and scrolled again on his phone.

“I am going to ask Anya to abolish this place when she takes over. Kick me out or something. Bring back exiling,” Lexa huffed as she sat up and rolled her eyes.

“She should bring back the Olympics, too,” her father added. “I haven’t been able to get those again. We hosted such nice games.”

Only the king and queen were left in the office as their daughter sighed and grumbled under her breath. They shared a look and smiled.

“Your mom is not going to like that,” Clarke grinned as she leaned against the doorway and watched her girlfriend check herself out in the mirror.

“Hey, she’s the one who told me I had to go accept this award and be super gay in front of the entire world. This is what she gets,” Lexa muttered as she adjusted her tie, tilting her chin up and appraising over her cheeks, not satisfied with something.

Clarke just surveyed and appreciated, quite shamelessly. She was in her own dress and had already been given too many accolades by her girlfriend. There was no way she was going to miss the opportunity to fall a little more in love. She couldn’t help it, even if she wanted to try. Instead, she just sighed contentedly and watched.

“You’re looking very hot.”

“But with the tie? I liked it at the designer’s, but I’m not so sure now. There’s also,” she explained, leaning over and picking up something else from the garment bag laid across her bed. “The bowtie? What do you think?”

Nimbly, hands moved to tie it around her neck, and Clarke swallowed, because it was impossible for her girlfriend to get more attractive, and then….

“I’d feel better if you just stopped looking so good in everything.”

“I’m not sure,” Lexa grunted and shook her head before tugging the tie undone and scrutinizing herself even harder.

There weren’t many tells with the former soldier who flew helicopters into dangerous zones. She was an expert poker player. But Clarke learned them, and she knew that the antsiness was just nerves, and she was freaking out a lot.

“You are spectacular, and you deserve this award. What you’ve done in the past few months has be--”

“I didn’t do anything except be born with a crown and an unwavering hankering for the fairer sex, especially doctors,” she shrugged. “Nothing noble in it.”

“Stop saying that!”

The raising of the voice made Lexa turn around quickly, not accustomed to the doctor sounding like that. To be fair, she knew it was just a matter of time before she learned it. She was her father’s daughter, and they were known to be quite taxing.

Clarke inhaled deeply before finally pushing off of the door and making her way across the large bedroom. She gave her girlfriend a firm look before she began straightening her collar.

“You came out to the entire world, as the first person in a royal family. That’s not nothing,” Clarke insisted.

Lexa simply tilted her head and let her adjust her shirt, pressing her palms flat over her chest and smoothing down the cloth around her neck.

“I haven’t done anything worthy of an award except exist,” Lexa insisted again. “It feels unfair.”

“It was very brave. You might not realize it, but you’ve helped people. You will never meet them, you will never see them,” she explained with a small, small smile. “But you did something, and you did it even with the fear of losing everything.”

“I don’t like getting awards.”

“Too bad.”

“I don’t want to go,” Lexa whispered, swallowing a large gulp.

“I didn’t get all dressed up for nothing.”

“You look fantastic. Have I told you that yet?” she offered, still oddly sheepish. “You look spectacular. They haven’t invented words for how good you look.”

Clarke fixed the pristine suit jacket for her girlfriend and smiled while staring at her lips. There was a blush beneath her makeup, and Lexa knew it.

“Keep talking like that and see where it gets you.”

She kissed her girlfriend’s cheek, made sure she didn’t leave any trace of lipstick, and made her way toward the door.

“I know where I hope it gets me,” the princess muttered, giving herself another look in the mirror and giving up at ever feeling comfortable.

The red carpet was absolutely terrible. Nothing happened to make it that way, but simply because it existed, it was a pain. They’d done a few together already, making waves as a cute couple, as the most talked about pairing in the world. But this was different, and Lexa knew it. So she smiled a little more and relaxed, becoming The Princess.

Lexa held her girlfriend’s hand, placed her hand on her lower back to guide her. They moved along the carpet and did the interviews. For only have a few months of media training, Clarke did well, enough to amaze everyone. But of course, Lexa wasn’t surprised. Her girlfriend stayed up all night studying for a party.

When it came time for her to accept her honors, Lexa kissed Clarke’s cheek and made her way to the stage, more nervous than she could remember being in her entire life, which was an impressive feat to beat in her history of appearances.

For a beat, as the applause surged around her, deafening all else, Lexa stared at the statue in her hands and smiled slightly before clearing her throat.

“I want to thank you, for this amazing honor,” she began. “I stand among many great people tonight and am in awe of each of you. I’ve been given many things in my life. I exist in great privilege. And all I did was fell in love. I didn’t do anything other than what everyone else does every day, what everyone should have a right to do, but don’t in 72 countries in the world. I did something that could get me killed in eight of those countries. I did something that cause almost 30% of young members of our community to attempt to commit suicide every year. I did something that gets 20% of LGBT youth into homelessness. I did something that gets people killed every year, and of these hate crimes, 4 out of 5 are minorities. I did something as simple as fall in love, and have been fortunate enough to be able to enjoy because of the hard work of many Trans, Gay, Lesbian members of this community who go largely forgotten because of the color of their skin. I went and fell in love with a woman and caused a near collapse of a centuries old monarchy. And it shouldn’t have been that way, but it was, and it is. And I am here because I am proud to stand beside you all, and prepared to topple everything.”

The crowd applauded as Lexa grew passionate. From her seat, Clarke held her breath.

“Standing here tonight though, amongst such greatness and kindness and empathy, reminds me to always do and give more. I will treasure this honor you’ve given me, as an icon, as a crusader, I think this will be the most precious thing I’ve ever done. And I am grateful you’ve given me the chance to become a force for good. My parents have been nothing but supportive. My siblings have been protective and sweet. And my girlfriend,” Lexa smiled again.

“She has been a well of strength for me. I have found the world to be a much more habitable place when I am my true self, and I promise to spend my time and privilege finding ways to help everyone experience this same gift. It is not lost on me that I am standing here in place of many more deserving activists and humanitarians and volunteers because of the simple randomness of birth. You are not missed or forgotten. Your work is noticed, and it is doing things.”

The applause came again and Lexa took a shaky breath before looking down at the statue in her hand and fiddling with it slightly until it quieted.

“Today I was reminded quite briskly. That what we might do, the lives we might touch, they will happen without us knowing it. You don’t do good works, and try to fix the world because you need to see it. There are lists of names of those who have died with the hope of one day, the world allowing a night like tonight, to honor our community and celebrate our progress, who died when it was illegal to fall in love in more than 72 countries. Today I was reminded by the smartest person I know, that we make the world better than we found it, even if we can’t see the changes. I am deeply humbled and honored to accept this award, and to be your gay princess. This award is for the little ones who know can see that you can love whoever you want, and still wear a tiara. Thank you.”

Lexa didn’t hear the applause. She didn’t see Clarke standing. She didn’t see the entire place applauding her. Instead, she waved and ducked her head before leaving the state. She certainly wouldn’t have known that her mother was wiping a tear away from her cheek and applauding her from her office. She definitely didn’t know that her father smiled to himself and leaned back on the couch with a giant exhalation he didn’t realize he was holding until she finished speaking. How could she know that he pushed up his glasses and nodded to himself while muttering “that’s my girl,” as he picked up his phone and tried to tweet again. There was absolutely no earthly way that Lexa could have known that when it was shared in the following days, a ten year old finally let out a breath they’d been holding for their entire life because a princess felt the same way she did.

No. Lexa didn’t know. She got off the stage though and earned a hug from her sister that she hung onto longer than normal, and she stopped shaking, and prepared for pictures, becoming The Princess once again.

The floor was littered with expensive clothing. A pair of trousers and a black bra were crumpled together, while a heel had bounced under the bed and its mate went to the other side of the desk. Proudly, a trophy sat on the nightstand as the sun came up and the world intruded, reminding the sleeping pair that it didn’t care.

Despite the deep sleep, Lexa felt the body shift in her arms. She kissed the skin of a shoulder that still had the lingering smell of perfume and her bed on it. She felt the body still itself and push into her front.

“We have to get up. It’s almost ten,” the voice came with the moving and the stilling.

Hands wrapped around her ribs, and Clarke was alright with it. She didn’t mean the words. She meant the curling into Lexa, and they both knew it.

“Sleep more.”

“We have to get ready to be gay again today.”

“It’s so much damn work,” Lexa grunted, tossing her leg over Clarke’s hip.

“I fell asleep.”

“Do it again.”

“No, I mean, I feel asleep in the palace again,” Clarke realized, her eyes opening finally.

“I do that every night almost,” Lexa complained, burrowing as best as she could. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Lexa…”

“Please be quiet and sleep. I love you, I do,” she murmured. “But I need two more hours and so do you. And you’re keeping me up, miss I’m-not-afraid-of-mortar-fire-but-the-queen-makes-me-shake.”

“That’s quite a name I have.”

“That’s it,” Lexa huffed, unwrapping herself and turning the opposite direction. In a flurry and snit she tugged a pillow over her head, only mumbling more words that couldn’t be understood.

“I can’t hear you,” Clarke called over her shoulder.

“I said, I get an award for being a good gay, and I can’t get two hours of sleep,” she muttered from beneath the edge of the pillow. “All because you took advantage of me in the palace.”

“Dating you is hard. I deserve the award.”

Clarke rolled over and made herself comfortable until Lexa relaxed into her arms. She kissed her neck to help ease the crankiness.

“Two more hours, please?”

“Deal,” the doctor nodded. “You just wanted to be the little spoon.”

Lexa smiled to herself and shrugged.

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bffhreprise · 6 years ago

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Entry 227

The tall, young man was panicking, rambling on about insignificant matters. “There's more than that… I'm… I just feel so unprepared. I can't do anything about this fog and doubt I could if I found its source. I'm worried about how many people the man killed, considering zombies came out of houses back there. I…”

Concern even beyond his pathetic friends was such a weakness. Sending them scurrying had been merciful, though more costly than I expected. Even now I felt more dying to Calamity. I was beginning to understand why she was feared in this city.

I stepped forward and interrupted the boy before he found his words. “Just a few hundred. I almost made them useful.” More accurately, my simulacrum had stepped forward. These two were dangerous, possessing speed and strength beyond me. I believed at least the girl was a Slayer.

The tall boy spun with incredible speed and stared at me with piercing blue eyes. He seemed formidable despite his obvious lack of training.

“Surrendering?” inquired the short girl, her calf-length hair whipping around her body after she turned. She sounded disappointed but her imperious air did not leave her.

“I thought we might have a little chat.” I told them, watching from other vantage points as well. Even the grass here had been transformed into a useful tool, allowing me to track these two easily throughout the cemetery. “You're obviously not human, and I have a guess what family you come from.”

“Yes, the Slayers. Since you've heard of them, you surely know this illusion of yours won't deter us.” stated the girl, radiating authority.

At first, I thought she meant the fog, but I quickly realized she knew what my simulacrum was. Slayers were known to be powerful, despite their limited years. I considered running, but I didn't have the book I sought yet.

“Hardly my finest work, I'll admit. Why are you…” I started to ask, but they blurred away. I felt my illusion dispelled and the uncomfortable sensation of my consciousnesses forced into the secondary simulacrum. The two appeared just as I was reorienting myself.

“Unfortunately for you, I was recently examining that spell and learned how to trace it.” stated the girl with a smile. She seemed to be enjoying this.

“Clever girl. Or are you?” I questioned, releasing a spell to engulf them in fire with a snap.

“Fire against a Slayer’s child? You have heard of us, correct?” she taunted with a bored tone.

Neither of them had been bothered by the attack, though the boy had seemed surprised. She wasn't actually a Slayer, just the offspring of one. She'd be weaker.

“Just verifying things, my dear. Please, don't take offense.” I replied and actually meant it. I needed her to remain overly confident, but I didn't want to incur the wrath of her full might. “You can hardly blame an old man for wanting to live a little longer.”

“May I at least have your…” she started, pausing and looking at me incredulously. “Wait. Really?” She reached forward and grabbed at my simulacrum, sniffing the air once it was in her grasp.

Knowing she had discovered the ruse, I released the necrotic swarm from my tool’s mouth. My consciousness was ripped away immediately. The next three of my simulacrums were destroyed in rapid succession, and I struggled to reorient. I hadn't anticipated such rapid destruction of my tools.

“A hostage? Really?” demanded the girl, standing in front of my true body, though still disguised. She faced several of my puppets, not yet realizing where I truly stood.

“You think I'm being unpleasant?” I demanded. “I was quite content having a chat with you, and you attack my creations to hunt me down. Who wouldn't take some precautions with your family's reputation?”

Before she could reply, I unleashed another trap, blasting her back with a powerful bolt of lightning. The boy didn't even seem to notice he was struck. Could he be the actual Slayer, miraculously untrained!? I tried again. Same results.

The girl calmly walked back forward, dryly saying, “Oh, neat. Lightning. Ah, it burns.” She finished brushing herself off and then asked “How long have you been preparing this area? I'll admit that I'm a bit disappointed if that's all you have for me.”

I was growing more and more concerned. I hadn't wanted to kill these two, knowing the Slayer family would hound me if I managed, but I wasn't going to be insulted forever.

“Grab them.” I commanded through my counterpart.

The two obvious toys lurched forward with all the haste I could grant them. I knew the zombies alone would be ineffective, but I needed a moment to concentrate and unleash the rest of my traps.

An illusion of darkness surrounded them as enchanted daggers flew at each. The darkness was dispelled before the daggers even struck. The boy merely flinched as they bounced off while the girl expertly dispelled them.

Every spell I had hidden throughout the area unleashed upon them, far more than anyone could withstand, but they were doing it. Fear had been rising as my onslaught failed to touch them.

“Alma, did you kill them?” asked the boy, sounding shocked while ignoring the barrage of spells striking him.

Still countering spells, the girl turned and said, “JAMES! I would never hurt an innocent child. This is hardly the time for this, but she turned out to be a zo-”

I had had enough. Panicking, knowing my traps were about spent, I leaped forward and called upon the darkness granted to me so long ago. A thick, turbulent stream of shadows shot from my arms to devour my foes.

The exertion was taxing, but nothing could survi- My thoughts stopped. The boy stood there completely untouched, and I felt like my world was suddenly wrapped in the wrath of an angry god. Everything within me screamed to run, or perhaps I was actually screaming. I threw a wall of stone between us. Then I threw another another as well as every trap I could manage as I ran. I camouflaged myself. I felt as if my mind was searing from the touch of an anger so potent, so powerful that the weight of it would destroy me. I ran till my lungs burned and my feet stumbled. I crawled forward. The feeling had subsided, but I couldn't stop yet. I couldn't risk facing whatever that was.

,,,^._.^,,,

I heard myself whimper from the pain, but there was no time for embarrassment or farewells. Adelmar had been observing and felt my pain. I felt so much anger and knew it wasn't my own.

“COME OUT!” screamed James. He was nearby and his voice was like a crack of thunder, slamming into me.

“James…” I pleaded, hardly recognizing my voice. I was gripped in pain. “James…” I begged, forcing myself to stay awake. I was dying, but I had to warn him.

I felt sadness wash over me with incredible intensity, mixing with the anger as if I boiled inside. When had the tears started? I couldn't be bothered to stop them. “James, he's coming.” I croaked. My lungs were broken, and I wasn't certain the words were coming out. All I knew was pain. Trying again, I said, “You must stop him.”

“I don't see him. How can I find him?” he finally replied, his voice cracking.

I struggled to turn my head but my vision was fading. I knew my heart was stopping. I was intensely aware of the pain, but all I wanted was for him to forgive me for leaving him with this mess. “I'm sorry… so sorry.” I murmured, hoping the words weren't only in my head. Everything was foggy.

“You don't have to be sorry.” he assured me, squeezing my hand.

I tried to squeeze back, but his hand was adamant, completely solid. “Yes... I do. Please, James… You must… stop Adelmar. He's coming. Calm…” I coughed and tried again. “Calm him. Fight… if you must. Stop… stop him.” I struggled to move my mouth. There was more to say. Shouting… I heard shouting but couldn't react.

Light, so much light passed over me, and my pain was gone. I could suddenly see. My brain leaped into action. Aaliyah? No… Those eyes… My heart hammered in my chest as fear I hadn't known for years gripped me.

“YOU!” I screamed, preparing to fight even knowing there was no hope.

The slayer of Slayers had come for me, butcherer of thousands.

“ALMA STOP!” ordered James, loud but not thunderous as before. “She's saving you.”

I looked at him incredulously.

“Don't worry, James. This little one can't harm me.” claimed the butcher matter-of-factly.

I knew in my heart that she was right. There was nothing I could do, and she might kill him as well if I tried.

“You know each other?” he inquired.

Why wouldn't he look at me?

“She killed a Slayer along with his entire army thousands of years ago.” I explained, pleased at how calm my voice sounded.

“Pht… I'm not that old. Only was two thousand years ago. That Slayer had killed my brother, mind you, but I still didn't kill him. Didn't kill any of them. If you want to call someone old, look to my niece.” claimed the vampire.

Wait. Niece!? I followed the vampire’s gaze to Aaliyah, who grinned back at me. Had she butchered my family to save her so-called aunt? I wouldn't be surprised. James was finally looking at me, but his face was red.

“James, why are you blushing…” I asked, sitting up and glancing down as I realized a light had vanished. My clothes were in tatters with a large part missing entirely. “Oh!” I exclaimed, attempting to cover myself with my arms.

“Here you are. Put this on.” stated the vampire. There was a flash of light and a black t-shirt fell towards me.

I clutched it against me and asked “How did you do that?”

“Magic, child. Don't worry. You'll be fine. Aaliyah, take me home.” ordered the vampire. “I want to finish brushing my teeth.”

Why was she wearing pajamas!?

“But auntie… wouldn't you like to visit the hospital first? I know some kids who would like to meet you.” claimed Aaliyah as she reached up and took the vampire's hand.

The pair vanished, and I immediately tried to report this to Adelmar, but something felt wrong. Reaching him was more difficult than it should have been.

:Alma!? You're alive!?: he inquired, his anger fading in my mind.

:Yes, I am. Don't fret.: I replied.

:Why can't I reach your thoughts?: he demanded.

:I… I don't know.: I muttered, feeling panicked. “No… what did she do to me!?” I asked James.

He hugged me, ignoring my inquiry. I felt the touch of his hands against my bare back, gently caressing my skin. My arms wrapped around him of their own accord. In my head, Adelmar warned me that he was still coming, wanting to see me with his own eyes, but all I could think about was how tight James held me.

,,,^._.^,,,

I drifted, watching the remaining battle more clearly than my cameras and sensors had managed. I saw the collapsed form of my humanoid body… and the pieces of the car which housed me. I looked around, wondering what was happening. What was I now? I felt like a drone, staring around with ease, but I wasn’t connected to anything. The only sights and sounds I could access seemed to come straight to my… I wasn’t aware of CPUs, RAM, or drives of any sort. I could access some memories, but not all of them. My access to the house was severed. What was happening?

James and Alma arrived and sent the others away. I somehow followed them into the cemetery, though I couldn't work out what propelled me. The necromancer was a vile man, and I wished I could find a way to help the master. James needed me, but all I could do was watch.

“There there, little one.” came a voice like the princess. “Mommy’s here.”

Something enveloped me, and I… I felt it. I felt something holding me softly. There was a warmth radiating through me from what held me. I became aware.of the princess, but not as the little girl she pretended to be. She was even more magnificent than I ever had dreamed, and… and she loved me.

“Of course I love my little girl. Don't worry. Mommy will give you new bodies and so much more.” insisted the princess. “Mommy.” she stated. “Call me 'mommy’.”

“But…” I started to argue. She was so much more, like a god compared to everyone else.

“I'm your mommy. I gave birth to your spirit, created your body, and even gave a little of my original DNA to your components. You didn't really think I gave you simplistic hardware, did you?” she inquired, sounding amused. “Fine, I did give you simplistic hardware, but I wanted you to have plenty of room to grow without growing too fast. You'll be even more amazing in your next incarnation.”

“You really think of me as your child!?” I asked, feeling in some intangible part of me that she really did. “Mother…” I tried the word.

“Mommy!” she insisted.

“M-mommy.” I whispered, feeling embarrassed. I was not using that term in front of the master. I knew how childish I’d appear when saying it.

“Better. There's so much to show you!” she exclaimed.

I felt like I could return her embrace, so I did. I hugged her, smiled, and wept with the joy of her presence. I had a mother.

#Best Friend For Hire Reprise #Best #Friend #For #Hire #Reprise #Jovial Times #Jovial #Times #Fantasy #Fiction #Story

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stephspencer10 · 4 years ago

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PART 1

My Memoir: My Daddy, Floyd Otto Spencer

My Daddy, Floyd Otto Spencer, age 19

MY DADDY

My Memoir Backstory “My Daddy” takes up where I left off writing “My Memoir Introduction: I Was Born a “Saint.” After I wrote this blog, I realized I’d put the cart before the horse — started my Memoir bass-ackwards: I got myself born before I told you anything about how I got here.

Since we all come from the past, my readers ought to know what it is that went into my making. So I’ve decided to present a bunch of backstory, beginning with my father, Floyd Otto Spencer. Ending with my mother, Esther LeBaron McDonald de Spencer and her LeBaron backstory.

After this backstory, I’ll continue with my Memoirs. But it will include more tales about Mother and Father as they intertwine throughout my life.

Now, for a bit of how I got here from the past. And some of what went into my making.

My Daddy: Part 1

My handsome five-foot-10.5-inch, black-haired, black-eyed, dark-skinned (when tanned) father was a hot-tempered, strict, shy, witty, sharp-tongued, short-fused, highly gifted man. “Daddy,” as we called him, was also a sensitive Artist and Creative.

Born July 27, 1895, in Marion, Michigan, he died on my nineteenth birthday, April 18, 1965, in Colonia LeBaron, Galeana, Chihuahua, Mexico. His death was the outcome of a freak “accident.” I believe my Mother Esther LeBaron Spencer and her brother, my Uncle Ervil LeBaron, had a hand in it. (I will relate this whole incident in my upcoming Memoir.)

Born in a backwoods frontier town, Daddy was very much of pioneer stock. His parents were mostly of English descent, he believed. He was unable to track his full genealogy. But knew his mother was one-half Indigenous American — Mohawk Indian to be exact.

One Sunday afternoon, in our small living room, lit only by light from the windows and fireplace, Mother was giving Daddy his monthly expert-looking haircut when we children, catching Daddy captive, saw a good chance to gather around his knees and pepper him with questions about his parents, grandparents, and past.

He was a shy man, of few words, and usually busy working. One of his favorite sayings was: “It’s better to keep your mouth shut and look like a fool than to open your mouth and prove you’re a fool.” Even now he was hesitant to answer all our forward questions. But when asked about his bloodline (for bloodlines are very important to Mormons), he sheepishly responded:

“My grandmother on my mother’s side was a full-blooded Mohawk Indian squaw. I used to visit her in her Hogan from time to time.” He was embarrassed to admit this. But then he added:

“She was a typical Indian … Sweet, poor, and no furniture to speak of. I can still see her squatting on the floor as she did her routine work in her dark little Hogan that had only one window and a fire burning in the middle of the room — smoke rising up and out through a hole in the ceiling.”

This helps to explain why Daddy used to chide Mother when he saw her squatting on the floor sorting beans or such. He’d cry: “You look like an old Indian squaw! Get up and sit on a chair at the table to sort your beans — like a civilized person!!”

However, after joining the LeBaron cult and learning from my uncles the Mormon beliefs Joseph Smith taught about the American Indians — that they “were part of the lost ten tribes of Israel, and were going to play a very important role in the last days,” Daddy made an effort to get in touch with the indigenous American Indian side of himself.

He even began to exhibit pride in being at least one-quarter American Indian. I say “at least” because he was not sure of his full heritage — only that his mother was half American Indian.

But one day he took a trip to visit the Hopi and Navajo Indian villages in Arizona and New Mexico, returning home feeling very exhilarated, uplifted, and more proud than ever of his Indian heritage. It rubbed off on me: I’m at least one-eighth American Indian, and proud of it.

My Daddy (around ages 19 & 53 consecutively)

“Show me someone who believes you can’t change history, and I’ll show you someone who hasn’t tried to write their memoirs.” Mark Twain

My Daddy, Part 2

Daddy was his parents’ only child. They divorced when he was three years old. When Dad was fourteen years old, his mother bore his half-sister Doris, by her second marriage. Sadly, when he was twenty-seven, she died of rheumatic fever, leaving Daddy his mother’s only child again — though he had half-sisters from his father’s second marriage that he got to meet and spend some time with.

He was raised Methodist and held White Anglo-Saxon Protestant values, including their strong work ethic. Daddy was always a hard worker. You might even say he was a workaholic. That figures: His father was a “raging alcoholic.” Going to extremes in any area is indicative of addiction. God is a drug for religious addicts –– religious fanatics. Daddy completely and emphaticly gave up alcohol and tobacco when he joined the Mormon church at age thirty-five. Religion then became his drug of choice.

“Twelve-Steppers,” especially ACA’S/ Adult Children of Alcoholics and Dysfunctional Families — a 12-step program — know what I’m talking about. If these terms are new to you, it may be worth looking up 12-step organizations in your area. They were very valuable in my development, given the dysfunctional family I was brought-up in — I mean brought-down in!

Now back to more Bio about Dad: “At around age four,” Daddy told me, “my mother gave me away to her sisters to raise. Years later, Mother wanted me back. But I refused to go back because I was so hurt and angry at her for what she’d done!! I was happier living with my aunts and cousins,” remarked my father.

Then he continued, “I often had to dig tunnels in the snow during winter time to get to school because the snow piled up so high. Sometimes it was up higher than the schoolhouse door. My school consisted of one room and one teacher teaching all the grades from 1st through 12th.

“I didn’t do very well in her classroom— Didn’t get along with that didactic, strict, bossy teacher. She regularly humiliated me in front of the class … often made me sit in the corner with a dunce cap on … partly because I was the class clown — always made the class laugh at my witty wisecracks and cutting up … would wiggle my ears, pull funny faces, and draw caricatures, etc, when the teachers back was turned.

“In fifth grade, I couldn’t take any more of this mean, punishing teacher I’d had since first grade. So I dropped out — refused to go to her one-room school anymore — though it was the only school around. I couldn’t learn under her tutelage.

“However, from then on I felt I was a failure in many ways — not to mention that my parents divorced. Then Ma gave me away when I was so little. That affected my self-worth. But due to my one-and-only elementary school teacher, I further questioned my self-worth, because I kind of believed it was due to my lack of brains that I wasn’t getting better grades in the teacher’s class.”

That bad impression of himself as a student and person went with him throughout his life. It affected his self-confidence and self-esteem, further adding to his shyness and his, oftentime, not feeling very good about himself … in some ways.

But lack of a good supporting education, in and of itself, is enough to affect anyone’s self-confidence and achievement in life. They see many people able to accomplish things they cannot accomplish, often not realizing their only drawback was they had no competitive foundation — as in Daddy’s case where he had only a poor, one-room classroom education typical of the early 1900’s in backwoods-pioneer towns.

Education was not mandatory in those days. It was a privilege to go to any school. Families worse off than my fathers’ didn’t go to school at all.

It wasn’t till after 1918 and World War I had ended that our country realized public education must be made free, mandatory — and paid for by our tax dollars. It would not only prepare better future soldiers for our country’s defense system, but The Industrial Revolution, then in full force, also required that people be able to read, write, do math, follow the Employer’s directions, show up for work on time, and be dependable. Mandatory education developed these skills and habits in an otherwise unruly, unschooled person.

But, despite a poor preparatory education, Daddy accomplished much more in life than many people with a far better education and advantages. He was a proud and confident man in various ways, therefore. His being gifted, talented, and successful at things he attempted helped build his self-esteem, despite the negative aspects of his early education and childhood. This confidence exudes in his photos.

His teacher and that old-fashioned, backward school system had branded him as “Not Smart, a bad person, and a poor student — a DUNCE!” How sad, because he was a bright, gifted boy. I taught school for thirty years; should know what I am talking about!

It grieves me that there are teachers who can be so judgmental they brand children for life, thinking they know what they’re doing. They don’t! I’ve experienced this branding firsthand. It only shows the ignorance of those teachers who would do such a thing to a student.

Their ignorance, arrogance, ego, and the need to control gets the best of them. If they looked at and treated every student as if that child were the son or daughter of the school Superintendent, Principal, or President of the United States, I guarantee you that would take any judgmental Educator down a notch or two — and their students up a notch or two!

PART 3

Family Collage includes Dad’s mom and him as a boy (in glasses)

“Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, magic, and power in it. Begin it now.” ~Goethe~ @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

The year was 1958. The setting: Our home in Hurricane, Utah. The place: Around our average-sized family-room fireplace:

While the flames flickered and leapt, warmed and lit our cozy little living room, we Spencer kids (there were eleven of us then) sat huddled around our parents on the colorful rag rug Mother crocheted.

I was twelve, second to the oldest, and seventeen months younger than my oldest sibling, Doris — one of my rivals! While sixty-three-year-old Daddy sat situated on a high stool with a towel wrapped around his neck and shoulders, my talented, artistic thirty-seven-year-old Mother was at her routine task of trimming his white hair with the hair clippers he’d bought for this purpose.

As was often the case during such times, we kids were once again peppering Papa with personal questions about his intriguing boyhood, family, life … and white hair!

“I discovered my first gray hair when I was only fourteen years old!” Daddy explained. “Gray hairs really stand out when your hair is pitch black like mine used to be!”

My siblings and I were further enlightened when Mother got out Daddy’s scrapbook and a photo album so he could explain the pictures and keepsakes in them. There was a picture of my paternal grandmother dressed to the “T” in the high fashions of the early 1900s:

“My mother was a socialite,” he opined disapprovingly. “She was more concerned about her appearance and joining social circles than she was about staying home and being a good homemaker and mother. She always decked herself out in the latest grand styles of the day — as you can see in this picture,” continued Daddy, pointing to a photo of his attractive mother in a hat.

I never got to meet my paternal grandparents nor Daddy’s aunts who raised him. Daddy was about fifty-two when I was born. I was around five years old when, in her nineties, his last aunt died. At that time, she lived in Michigan and we lived in St. George, Utah. Lack of time and money precluded Daddy’s going to her funeral, though he had wanted to attend.

Before she died, I recall how elated he would be whenever a letter arrived from this aunt. Sometimes she would include a photo of herself, so I at least got to see what she looked like as a ninety-year-old woman … And I recall, too, the tears in Daddy’s eyes (a man who seldom showed any sign of tears) when he read the letter that said she’d died.

One of the many disadvantages of having a father old enough to be your grandfather is his parents die before you’re old enough to meet them — that is, if he even kept in contact with his parents at all — which he did little of.

Continuing with Daddy’s pictures: In another photo, his handsome “half-breed” entrepreneur mother stood on the porch in front of a wooden building. Daddy recounted: “My mother owned a hotel or boarding house. I helped her with the work there, oftentimes … sweeping the big porches, fixing things, and helping at the front desk.

“In my free time, I loved to create things that really worked … like miniature model windmills I carved and devised myself, where the blades of the windmill could actually turn if you blew on them … or when there was wind.”

He was very proud of his ingenuity and creativity — the things he was amazingly able to build or sculpt though only a young boy — a child … things nobody else around him devised or created, not even adults. He loved to draw, too — funny caricatures and so forth.

“I also loved to design and create things like little wagons and cars with wheels that could roll — and even little houses and buildings. And I loved to carve whistles, wooden ducks, dogs, and other toys that had wheels on them so they could be pulled around with us wherever we went — which was how we made our toys move back in those days.

“My dream was to be an Engineer — How I longed to be in the driver’s seat of a train and to work on trains. Trains were the big thing then — an invention just coming into existence when I was a young boy. It was back when most people did not own a car and Model T Fords were barely becoming the big rage among the rich.

“One of the first cars accessible to the masses was the 1908 Model T, an American car manufactured by the Ford Motor Company. I was thirteen years old when that car came out. Henry Ford was my idol! I loved that he was an Inventor. I wanted to be an Inventor myself — to design and create things like Ford and other Creators of my day.

“If I could’ve had my way and I’d had the advantage of money ‘n’ a good education, I would’ve been an Engineer. But instead of goin’ back to school ‘n’ workin’ for years to get the education I needed so as to go to college ‘n’ get an Engineering Degree, I married ‘n’ had a bunch of kids — to help build up God’s kingdom. Then spent my time workin’ to raise ‘n’ support my families — My first family with Eva. And now this one with yer ma.” Then Daddy changed the subject:

“As a youth, I never liked to sit around wastin’ time, nor to play silly games like the rest of the kids … liked to put my time to good use … to create things. Silly, noisy kids got on my nerves.* But being an only child was a very lonely life. That’s one reason I chose to have lots of kids when I got married.”

*Explanation: Daddy was an Introvert — a creative like me. If you do not know the characteristics of the different and unique special Introvert brain and personality, there are a number of good books on the market that explain this valuable and wondrous trait.

If you are related to Floyd Otto Spencer, chances are you and some of your children and posterity are also Introverts. Most Creatives, such as artists and writers, are Introverts or at least Ambiverts, as opposed to Extroverts. The world needs all these personality types.

The following are titles of three excellent books on this subject that you may be interested in reading or at least skimming. If you can’t find some of these in your library or online, there are other books on the subject.

1- “The Introvert Advantage: How to Thrive in an Extrovert World,” by Marti Olsen Laney, Psy.D.

2- “Party of One: The Loner’s Manifesto,” by Anneli Rufus

3- “The Highly Sensitive Person: How to Thrive When the World Overwhelms You,” by Elaine N. Aaron, Ph.D.

PART 4

My family (minus one sibling) in early 1964

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” ~ Anne Lamott

Going back to where we left off with Daddy saying he wanted to have a large family of children, let me tell you that this is one dream he fulfilled. He had eleven beautiful children with his first wife Eva Bowman Spencer. And fourteen more beautiful children with his second wife, my mother Esther LeBaron Spencer. Thus, he was not only guaranteed to never be lonely again but to never have a moment’s peace or quietude, either.

More often than not, there was even a new baby crying, keeping him up at night. But he finally learned how to pretty much fix that: He would waterboard them (not that uncommon, at least among the Mormon fundamentalists). At times, he would even beat the tiny new babies incessantly for crying. (Tears!!)

But mainly, he mostly held his big strong hand over their mouth and nose till they were suffocating, all the while yelling at them: “Shut up the goddamned crying!! Do you hear?! Shut up, I said, or you’ll get more to cry about!!”

After he did that consistently a number of times, it generally taught most of his babies not to be caught dead crying — if they could possibly help it. (Then you wonder why Morman fundamentalist children are so well-behaved?!)

He, like many fundamentalists, believed the Bible’s “Spare the rod and spoil the child” meant to literally beat the devil out of the kids so as to make them submissive to adults and thus to God. They believed the sooner they were made submissive, the better.

But I have since learned that some spiritual leaders believe “the rod” is only a metaphor for “the gospel.” In other words, if you don’t teach your children the gospel, they will grow up spoiled, wayward, and rebellious.

I believe force and brutality toward children — or anyone … or any animal — does just the opposite of beating the devil out of them: It beats the devil into them; i.e., can make them angry, hateful, emotionally disturbed, mean, and devilish. It also can cause them to split from themselves, and to lose their will, give up, and become zombies or such. It breaks their spirit.

In fact, one of the best ways to hypnotize a hyperactive, incorrigible, misbehaving child is to plant yourself right in his/her space and yell vociferously in the child’s face: “Behave! Stop that!” Or whatever else it is you wish of the child. The child will do what you tell him/her after that … at least for a while.

I wonder what kind of abuse my father suffered at the hands of adults when he was growing up since violent and abusive ways of parenting are generally passed down from one generation to the next.

Unless one is able to recognize, then intercept and stop this abusive cycle and pattern learned from one’s upbringing and teachings, it will be passed on to one’s own offspring ad infinitum!

But thank God/Goodness, there are now laws in our country that carry stiff penalties for abusing children — as well as women, animals — or anyone … thanks to coalitions of good people who have worked diligently together throughout our society and other civilized parts of the earth to make this world a better and safer place for everyone.

However, reclusive families, such as in cults, often remain backward when it comes to improvements in behavior norms. Believing they are the only ones with “the truth,” and lead by poorly educated, narrow-minded leaders, they learn nothing much from “the world” that, nonetheless, continues to change and improve as it strives to learn how to make a better world for all through education, college, books, publications, educational T.V., films, computers, and social media.

That said, one reason Daddy and Mother were so anxious to move to the LeBaron colony in Old Mexico in 1960 was that shortly before their decision to move, a Federal law was passed against Child Abuse. It stipulated dire legal penalties for parents who hit, beat, or otherwise physically abused their children. Daddy proclaimed vehemently, in regards to that law:

“What the hell right has the government to step in and tell me how to raise my children?! I am the Priesthood head of my family! The Bible says, ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child.’ In other words, parents are to ‘bend the twig’ correctly. We do that by beating the devil out of our children while they are still young enough to be taught how to behave and grow up as straight vines, not twisted, warped ones.

“Once a seedling is warped, you can’t change it. You can observe an example of that in plants and trees that weren’t supported and staked properly so they would grow straight rather than deformed. I can’t wait to get out of this wicked country and gather with the Saints in Zion, there in Colonia LeBaron where I’m free to exercise old, time-honored Biblical laws when it comes to raising my family!”

PART 5

Daddy (Floyd Otto Spencer) in his mid-50s

“A good memoir is born from that uniquely important place in your personal history.” “Writing Your Hot-Topic Memoir” Dr. Scott

Daddy was an autodidact. In other words, he was self-taught in many areas. He would get books on auto mechanics, carpentry, building construction, watch and clock repair, farming, health — you name it — and learn how to do these things … How to eat healthfully, for example. Sometimes he took Night School classes too.

By the late 1940s or early 1950s, he was a Singer Sewing Machine salesman and repairman. He went from home to home selling and setting up this newfangled, popular electric sewing machine that had quickly outdated the old treadle sewing machines.

He taught the proud owners how to use their new modern electric Singer sewing machine and its many attachments — such as the attachment for making buttonholes. And he maintained the machines, should they need servicing.

Later on, he morphed into a self-employed entrepreneur — a General Contractor, capable of building homes and commercial buildings from the ground up, including creating the blueprints.

People hired him because he could save them money, time, and trouble by doing everything himself: He could do the blueprint, foundation, building’s frame, cement work, flooring, roofing, electrical, plumbing, brick and rock work, landscape, carpentry, painting, and whatever else the new building required.

Provided they had time to wait for a one-man job to be finished, he was your man. Hiring a bunch of contractors and construction workers to do the job all at once was much more expensive and time-consuming, but would get the job done a lot faster if that was what one needed to do.

Because he was an introvert (or ambivert?) he preferred to work by himself. It’s a good thing because he didn’t get along well with most people. He had an artistic, fastidious, and perfectionistic personality, topped off with religious fanaticism, a high-strung, short-fused temper, and a sharp tongue. What’s worse, he regularly called to repentance people in his presence he saw doing things that were against his religion!

For example, he would tell mainstream Mormons they were headed for hell because they had given up plural marriage, practiced birth control, and had “mutilated” the holy temple garments Joseph Smith “ordained of God” and said should never be cut nor otherwise changed. This foot washing fundamentalist father of mine took his religion very seriously!

That said, he would regularly worry, harass, and chastise women in the Mormon fundamentalist groups, too, for doing things like cutting their hair, sporting “worldly hairdos and makeup” — and for wearing their hemlines too high and their necklines too low! (Hemlines were supposed to be about down to the ankle, and necklines about up to the collarbone.)

“That tight sweater and skirt you’ve got on is exactly what leads men to rape women! You look like a goddamned Delilah!!” he swore at me one day when I was thirteen years old and dressed to go to school. That sure “learnt” me a lesson!

Though I took off the sweater and skirt, so popular in the 1950s, and never wore such clothing again (during my life in the fundamentalist cult) I now know there is no excuse for men to rape women under any condition!

If how women look or dress determines whether they get raped or not, then what about Aborigines and other Indigenous societies who go/went around, as a way of life, stark naked, half-naked — and “half-baked“? (Pun intended.)

It’s all a matter of culture, style, and one’s values, really. Women are not to blame if some all-brawn-no-brains men choose to dominate and use women to their own advantage.

A man’s being more muscular than women doesn’t make him superior to women. It certainly doesn’t give him the right to brutalize them or run them. Only backward people adhere to that old-world way of thinking.

In general, men aren’t superior to women, other than muscularly. (When I was young and in shape, I was able to win more than one out-of-shape man in an arm wrestle, LOL!) Women are not objects, either, as some men seem to think. Men don’t own them — nor do they have the right to strong-arm nor otherwise control women — despite what some fundamentalist Mormons, et Al, believe.

But getting back to Daddy, his regularly chastising others and setting them straight led me to believe he, himself, was pretty perfect. He must be, it seemed, if he could call others on the carpet for not adhering to our extremist sect’s strict dress code or other such. If he could call others to repentance, he must be doing everything right himself, yes?

However, in hindsight (always the best sight) I see he needed to lighten up, simmer down, mind his own business — and quit projecting his own fears and faults onto others. In other words, like so many of us, he needed more patience and persistence, and less pestering of others; i.e., He needed to exhibit more charity. He just didn’t know it yet.

My Memoir: My Daddy, Floyd Otto Spencer PART 6

Dad in his 60s

“Like all the arts, the Science of Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be acquired by long and patient study, nor is life long enough to allow any mortal to attain the highest possible perfection in it.” Arthur Conan Doyle

Shortly before Daddy died, I saw a change in him. His visage fairly glowed, and he had become much more loving, relaxed, patient, kind, and happy — such that I no longer feared so much being in his presence. He had become more pleasurable to be around.

It was as though he’d undergone an epiphany — a life-changing experience, though I was not around him enough nor on comfortable enough terms with him to inquire as to any such experiences he might have had. Furthermore, I was married then, and very busy taking care of my six-month-old baby at the time he was nearing death … then died.

During his lifetime he had always done a lot to help others. Being an all-around handyman and Jack-of-all-trades and Master of a few, people often came to him for advice or called on him to help them fix something.

He never turned them down, that I know of, much to Mother’s frustration and dismay. More than once I heard her complain, “Daddy, why don’t you turn some of these people down?! There are things piling up around here to be done while others impinge on you to work for them for free!” (Mother generally called him “Daddy” just as we kids did.)

Yes, he had plenty of his own work around the house waiting to be done. But people appreciated and respected Daddy for his knowledge and know-how when it came to being “Mister-Fix-it-Man,” and he enjoyed his revered reputation, too. He was no Scriptorian, though … unlike my mother’s brother, Ervil LeBaron, who often called on Daddy to fix things for him.

Uncle Ervil, who many of my readers may know of or will soon hear about, was just the opposite of Daddy. He spent most of his time studying Scriptures and Mormon religious works, writing some — and preaching a lot. I don’t recall him ever doing any manual labor. He managed to get my father and others to serve him, instead.

I don’t know how much money religiously-stalwart Daddy also put toward supporting Uncle Ervil and all Ervil’s many wives and children, as well as my other uncles and their families, at times, when they were hard up for money and food.

I only know he certainly paid much more than his 10% in tithing, despite the large family he, himself, maintained. And he did this right up until the day he died at about seventy years of age! There was never any retirement for him — my hard-working papa!

Like everyone else, dedicated and diligent, conscientious Daddy liked feeling special and needed. And he enjoyed serving God, all the while being able to put to use his skills and ingenuity as he helped repair others’ broken equipment, or advised them on how to build something — or taught them how to do some of these things for themselves. Thus, he employed many of the things he had learned how to do … right up until the day he died.

So where he lost favor with people due to his judgmental temperament and sharp tongue, he gained respect and popularity by being otherwise naturally unassuming and willing to lend a humble, helping hand. And he benefitted from that respect, acceptance, and connection. It was a wonderful interchange of mutual love and appreciation.

*Other facts about Daddy that I didn’t bring up earlier:

*He was very sensitive, astute, and strong-willed. Therefore, as a young man, he abandoned his parents in Michigan, due to fallings-out with them — never again to contact them nor to return home for a visit.

His aunt had raised him since he was around four or five, I believe, as I related in an earlier blog. I’m not sure how young he was when he left his aunt’s home and took off to make it on his own. I’m only sure he was a true survivor. And what didn’t kill him made him stronger!

*Once he proudly told me: “I gave up smoking and drinking when I joined the Mormon church (The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints). I was able to quit “cold turkey!” I simply decided to quit. And I never smoked again!”

And Daddy said, of his past smoking habit: “People who will smoke, will drink; and people who will drink, will chase women.”

He also informed me: “I gave up square dancing, too, because I found that it led to fornication when men and women danced with other than their own spouse or partner.”

*Once, when I was twelve years old, he caught me looking up the word “sex” in the dictionary. He reproachfully admonished me, proclaiming: “The words “sex” and “fun” should be cut out of the dictionary!! Sex is only for procreation! And people shouldn’t be wasting their time playing/ having fun. The Lord’s Kingdom won’t get built up that way!”

I disagree with him in some of his misconceived conceptions. But we all are in a process of learning and growing during our lifetimes. I bring up these above points to simply show what a stoic life he, I, and other true-believing fundamentalists lived.

But other points in his favor are that while Daddy was living in Arizona, and raising a large family with his first wife Eva, he was a Boy Scout Master, which position he enjoyed and was very proud of.

And he was even Mayor of a small city for some time, I was told. But I’m not sure what city that was, let alone the dates. My daughter checked and couldn’t find his name listed as having been Mayor of the city where I thought my parents said he’d been Mayor. So who knows! More family lore?

PART 7

1958 Family Photo (I’m middlebrow, 2nd from left, .)

The Writer’s Prayer: “Make this tale live for us in all its many bearings, oh Muse.” Steven Pressfield The War of Art

While married to his first wife Eva,* for some time Daddy owned a small Mercantile shop. Then World War II removed his main source of income, rubber tires:

“The war efforts needed all the rubber to build war equipment. Selling tires for the Model T Ford, and other such, was how I covered my overhead. So I was run out of business when I couldn’t sell rubber tires anymore,” he explained.

“While I still owned my store, a woman would come in daily and hit on me. I finally told her, ‘I haven’t got caught up to home yet!’ That sure put a damper on things!”

Daddy loved to tell that joke. One great thing about him is he was good at ad-libbing jokes and getting a laugh — a natural comedian, he had a wonderful sense of humor. Sadly, he tried to curb this special talent once the LeBaron cult started cracking down on light-mindedness — considered a sin. (They didn’t know “Laughter is the best medicine.”)

I never spent much time around Daddy. Highly sensitive me avoided being in the same space with him whenever possible.When I had to be around him, I hid in the shadows. When I could do so without being noticed, I would escape to my attic room, especially after I became a teenager because his anger and abuse doubled toward me by then.

I already mentioned a little about this in previous blogs: He had a terrible temper that I got the brunt of more than all the rest of his children put together. I was the scapegoat of the family, so was glad he was usually away from the house working all day. That lessened the stress I endured because of him — and because of Mother. She would get me in trouble with him every chance she got — like every day, once I became a teenager!

But on Sundays, he did not work — which meant he was always home keeping the Sabbath. After our daily morning prayers were said in the big family circle, breakfast, and our family Sunday School service was over, Daddy would sit in his overstuffed armchair in the living room and read the newspaper and comic strips in front of the fireplace he had built and decorated with petrifiedwood rock work.

Hidden out of his view and reach, I loved watching how he would sometimes laugh till he teared up reading the Little Orphan Annie comic series. As a child, I especially loved it when he would throw me the “Funny Papers” after he got through reading them.

Then I would lie on my stomach on the carpet, a distance from him, and try to read and understand The Funnies. But try as I may, as a kid, I never could figure out what Daddy found so funny about his favorite comic strip, Little Orphan Annie.

I lacked the maturity and experience to comprehend such things. Daddy was twenty-six years older than Mother, and about fifty-two years older than I — old enough to be my grandfather.

But other than being around him on Sunday mornings so I could get the funnies once he was through with them, mostly I avoided being in the same room with him. I was afraid of him.

By the time I was 14, almost every day he would lash out at me, both physically and verbally. And, often, he would make fun of me and put me down in front of my family or friends … or whoever else happened to be around when he found a reason to ridicule me and “put me in my place.”

Because of this, I developed a confused love-hate feeling for him, though I never realized it till much later. Mother always told us what a saint Daddy was and that he was the very best man in the whole wide world! Needless to say, I never got to learn a whole lot about my father, due to it being so miserable for me … so threatening to be around him.

But I remember, when I was four years old, he took an oil painting class. I recall him sitting out under the backyard trees with his easel and paints, copying some nature scenes that included our house he had bought around two years before when it was not much more than a shack.

He was remodeling it to make it a livable home. He would buy a run-down ramshackle of a place, fix it up into a fairly decent abode, then, before we had much time to enjoy the better living conditions, we’d end up moving, for one reason or another, to a new ramshackle abode. And the whole damn scene would start all over again — we Spencers living in a mud adobe abode or whatever, till he fixed it up into a half-decent place to live — and then we would move. “Why couldn’t we ever stay in the home once it got fixed up and had running water, a shower, electricity, and a flushing toilet?” I used to wish and wonder.

We moved around twelve times from the time I was born in a mud adobe abode in Mexico till I turned fourteen! Then we moved back again, “fool” circle, to another mud adobe abode in the Mormon fundamentalist cult where I first started out: Colonia LeBaron, Galeana, Chihuahua, Mexico!

Then, wouldn’t you know, no sooner did Daddy do a complete makeover of our new mud adobe abode in Colonia LeBaron, but what I was married off at age sixteen in an arranged polygamous marriage! And that entailed moving again, this time to my own home … and another mud adobe abode!)

PART 8

My father Floyd Spencer

“An unexamined life is not worth living.” Plato … quoting Socrates

In the Previous blog, I mentioned that when I was around four years old, Artist Daddy, with easel and oils, used to sit beneath the big green shade tree in our front yard and paint the nature scenes around about him. Often he used our home as a backdrop for his paintings. Mother kept these “Masterpieces” hanging on the wall in our home, proudly showing them off to visitors.

But, sadly, Daddy didn’t continue for long with his oil painting hobby and venture. Though oil painting had been a lifelong dream and yearning of his, he was in his late fifties when he’d finally had the where-with-all to try his hand at it. But, sadly, he soon discovered oil painting or water coloring pictures — or even sketching — took a lot more time and money than he could devote to his beloved hobby, Artist though he was … better still, “frustrated Artist”!

What it boiled down to was he had to give up his artistic drive and dream because it conflicted with what he believed was his higher calling: To bring little spirits up in heaven down into good Mormon fundamentalists homes; i.e., to have all the kids he could have! He was devout, to be sure. Whatever his faults, there was a lot of good and good intentions in this man.

After he sacrificed his painting hobby, due to conflicts of interests — God, his family, and religious beliefs came first — Mother gave him piano lessons because around about that time he had finally bought trained–concert-pianist Mama a piano!

But when he saw four-year-old me could sit down and play by ear whatever I heard him practicing as he struggled to learn to play by note, he was humiliated and felt cheated that it should come so easily to me, a little kid, what he had to work so hard for as an old man.

So, just like my older sister … and for the same reasons, I suspect … they both soon gave up for good and forever any attempt to learn to play the piano. But Daddy qualified it with some truths when he said:

“Bein’ an artist and playin’ musical instruments is for rich people. It takes an awful lot of time. And I have to spend my time and energy makin’ a living to support my family.” Then he added, as an afterthought,“Rich people get rich off the backs of the poor.”

However, I would qualify it with: “The Haves” and “The Have-nots” can usually be traced back to “The Did’s” and “The Did-nots.” (Readers Digest)

For example, the “Haves” did not have a lot of kids and wives! They chose “Quality over Quantity.”

Even so, Daddy had learned to play the harmonica as a young man. When I was 10, he taught me how to play “Home, Sweet Home” on it. From there, I was off and running, easily picking out by ear other tunes on the harmonica.

But something I could never do was whistle, though Daddy could whistle like a Pro — the only one in our family that could ever do that, far as I know. Though we all really tried hard to learn how to whistle.

In fact, when I was nine years old, it was quite a funny sounding scene around our home and yard, there for a while: All of us kids and even Mother went about trying to “whistle a happy tune,” when, at best, we weren’t blowing much more than our lips, hot air, and a lot of strange sounds!

But whenever Dad was at home and working around the place, he was his own radio — and ours too! His whistling could be heard throughout the home and yard. And I loved it — loved his beautiful whistling of tunes that were always right on pitch.

In fact, one breezy spring morning in Hurricane, Utah, when I was around eleven, I was blown away when I heard Daddy out in the barn milking Bossy, our auburn Jersey cow, exquisitely whistling the hit tune from the 1950s Musical Oklahoma!: “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!”

Mother was a trained concert pianist. But Daddy’s musicianship was that of a gifted, born Whistler! I never realized, back then, what an asset and talent it truly is to be able to whistle — whistle any melody beautifully! Oh, how I would love to be able to do that myself.

PART 9

Ma & Pa on their land, the Galeana Springs, near Colonia LeBaron, Chihuahua, Mexico

“In the course of my life, I have often had to eat my words, and I must confess that I have always found it a wholesome diet.” Winston Spencer Churchhill

In the previous blog, we were talking about some more of my father’s accomplishments and sacrifices. Among other such memorabilia is the following: He was a proud Veteran of World War I. He fought with the 308th Engineers from Ohio to the Rhine. There are videos of his Platoon on YouTube, showing them constructing a bridge, among other things.

While with his Platoon in France, during his WWI Service, Daddy got to meet Winston Spencer Churchhill! So he had double the reason, on January 24, 1965, for taking three days off work to keep his ear tuned to the radio all day and into the night when Churchhill died.

Yes, for three days he listened to the constant end-to-end radio broadcasts about world-famous leader Winston Spencer Churchhill as Radio Broadcasters expounded upon the many great accomplishments and services this icon had performed for society. Daddy could especially relate to Churchill’s accomplishments when it came to World War I and World War II. Sadly, I didn’t even know who Winston Spencer Churchill was!

It figures, as, at the time Churchill died, I was eighteen years old, had been married off in an arranged marriage at age sixteen, and held captive in the LeBaron doomsday cult in Mexico since August 1960.

August 1960 was the unfortunate date my parents uprooted our family, locks, stocks, shocks, and barrels, to move to Zion “to gather and mingle with the Saints and avoid the calamities that were coming very soon to wipe out the wicked. (Colonia LeBaron was “Zion.”) In hindsight, I see it was really quite the other way around: Gathering to Zion was nothing but a calamity!

I had barely graduated from eighth grade, in Hurricane, Utah, before we left for this “Zion.” My parents walked us right into a ready-made viper’s den and cult calamity, thinking they were doing just the opposite — preparing for the end of the world that was due any week … if not sooner.

Well, it WAS the end of my world! Their man-made CALAMITY wiped out and ruined my hopes for “The good life.” I have been trying to do catch-up ever since.

As cult-fate would have it, there was plenty of wickedness going on in so-called Zion “to mingle with.” It turned out to be quite a little colony of “Saints” — or a “Little House of Horrors”!

I’m just glad it wasn’t another Jonestown! At least my self-proclaimed Prophet Uncle Joel never asked us to drink the Kool-Aid. However, self-proclaimed Prophet Uncle Ervil was quite another story.

As my Memoir unfolds, you shall hear what I mean. Because I intend to unmask the Colonia LeBaron Mormon fundamentalist cult life I endured while stuck living eight years in Mexico down past the Rio Grande — a life I barely survived to blog about. It was about fifty-eight years ago, as of March 2018, that my family “gathered to Zion.” I have been trying to get over it ever since.

Their prophet, my Uncle Joel LeBaron, had prophesied: “The destructions foreseen in the Book of Revelations are coming any day now to rain down upon the United States! Mexico is the land of refuge for the Saints.” Mother claimed she, too, had seen this “end of days” in a dream!

Go figure: The sky was falling … another Chicken-Little story … or LeBaron story? If you want to get power, claim you’ve had a revelation, a dream that shows the world is coming to an end. You’ll most likely get some followers.

The truth is, yours and my world IS coming to an end: We never know the hour of our death … the end of our OWN world. (Maybe that’s what scares people to death so much!) But the world, itself, and new life will continue on, as it has for thousands of millenniums.

If you claim “the sky is falling/ the world is coming to an end, some Millennial’s (i.e., Messianic apocalyptic dooms-dayers who believe the end of the world and “the Millennium” is imminent) will likely believe and follow you. Chicken Little sure got his following … if you recall that children’s fairytale.

But now back to reality: After being pulled out of school and moved to that secluded and barren, Chihuahuan Desert wilderness, I had no chance for further education.

That was a calamity in itself! Quite the end of my world — at least as I had known it. I, a Bookworm, wasn’t even allowed to read, let alone have any contact with the outside world, in any way, shape, or form. So, no: I wouldn’t know who Churchhill was.

Before I was married, while living in LeBaron’s “Zion,” all my family-of-origin had, as far as connections with the outside world were concerned, was Daddy’s little battery-run radio — which only he was allowed to use!

Even worse, all we ever heard about from Mother was mostly cult dogma and propaganda. And how great she and her family heritage was: Her father, mother, brothers — especially her brothers, Joel and Ervil, the “prophets” of the cult! Mother had to be number one. So, sadly, I never got to know how special my father’s Spencer heritage was. For some reason, Daddy never mentioned it either. Or maybe he did but I wasn’t around to hear.

NOTE: Though there is more to relate, as to my father’s history, I will relate it in the context of my own continuing Memoirs.

For now, I conclude my nine-part series,”My Daddy,” (Renamed with the lyrics of the following comical song I wrote. There is a verse in it about my amazing father. But first this Intro: ~ My Song: “Pretty City Chic: A Bit o’ Bio in Verse”

Stephany Spencer-LeBaron, age 38

Pretty City Chic

Dearest friends and fans, Please note: This tongue-in-cheek song I wrote Is half-finished so I don’t gloat, But pray my poem won’t get your goat;

It’s late — blog’s due “mañana;” Check the song later on … uh … You’ll find it’s been “re-wrote”… “Needs work” is my last quote. But please enjoy what I wrote; Now I humorously emote:

Pretty City Chic

Hey! I’m a Hack Who’s written this hit Called “PRETTY CITY CHIC”– A HEE-HA COMEDY SONG — A BIT O’ BIO IN VERSE, FOR BETTER OR WORSE, WITH TRUTH ‘N’ EXAGGERATION INTERSPERSED:

HEY, they’ve called me “Pretty City Chick,” But Hillbilly music is my shtick; My Hillbilly ways are here to stick, So you may as well git over it — Join in ’n’ sing a bit With “City Chic” —

Born in Mexican sticks in 1966. I’ve dual citizenship — What a trip! Now Shit-kickin’ music is my shtick.

I’m an all-American-mongrel, Apple-pie girl — A Hines-57 mixed-up mutt With apple pie stickin’ to my butt ’n’ gut — But Red-necked reactionaries ain’t my thing; I’m here fer music and to sing!

Yeah, I’m an All-American-Mexican, Scots-Irish “Mick,” With Welch ’n’ English, So, sure, I’m a Brit … With French, German, Mohawk Indian a bit. If there’s no Tom Slick Hidin’ in the pit, Far as I know, that’s about it — That‘s my story and I’m stickin’ to it!

My father was a proud Veteran of World War I. Those Vets were well-appreciated For what they’d done! Pa was an artist, creative — Jack-of-all-trades; Master of a few — Good at many things — What couldn’t he do?

Ma was a Creative — Artist thru ’n’ thru; Poet, Pianist, Painter — Whew! Loved talking religion, old or new — Long as it agreed with what she already “knew.” She graduated with a BA in Journalism too; Quite an accomplishment — Ma was sixty-two!

She was runnin’ me competition then, For I was still in College too. But her motto was: “Anything you can do, I can do better; I can do anything better than you!” (And she meant it too!)

REFRAIN: Hey, they call me “Pretty City Chic,” But Hillbilly music is my “shtick,” My Hillbilly ways are here to stick! So you may as well “git” over it; Join in ‘n’ sing a bit With “City Chic,” ‘Shit-kickin’ music is my shtick. Well, that’s my story And I’m “shtickin’ ” to it: “I’m Pretty City Chic!”

(By Stephany Spencer)

NOTE: The following is an iPhone video of me at the California Writers Club, March 2017, performing the above song I wrote, “PRETTY CITY CHIC” (BEFORE I RECENTLY “RE-WRIT” PARTS OF IT!):

NOTE: This concludes my nine–part Series, “My Daddy,” renamed “Pt 1-9: My Father Floyd Spencer, Fundamentalist Mormon LeBaron Cult Member.”

Thanks for visiting and sharing my blog site with me.

I love to write. But it’s icing on the blog when I have readers who devour it on top of my cooking it up!

In future blogs, I’ll tell you a little about my maternal grandparents and Mother — How she and Daddy met, some of their adventures together, etc. —

That is, I may tell you about the beginning of my father’s Mormon fundamentalist cult saga that culminated with his bringing me into the world — along with many other kids and events — which culminated in my creating this Blog. Chain reactions? That’s life!

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Pt 1-9: Floyd O. Spencer, Mormon LeBaron Cult Member PART 1 My Memoir: My Daddy, Floyd Otto Spencer My Daddy, Floyd Otto Spencer, age 19…

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aleatoryalarmalligator · 7 years ago

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Life Story Part 58

My grandma Betty died. I was sitting in my bedroom upstairs one evening, when I heard the phone ring. There was a vent in my room so I could always hear a little bit of what was going on downstairs. I heard my father gasp, and then he seemed to be sobbing. The conversation was brief, and I already knew what it had to be. I couldn't help feeling badly for the guy. Despite the fact that he really was a terrible person to me in some respects, he lost a lot in a year's time. First, Patti – his then recently separated ex girlfriend had killed herself, and then his mother died. I think in a lot of ways my grandma kept my father emotionally grounded, and with her gone from the world, I believe my father felt very much alone – ungrounded.

I am thankful that her death was not a terribly slow or painful one. She had just begun exhibiting the signs of having cancer. She had chainsmoked her entire life since she was twenty-two. She also had a bad heart. Had she not suffered a stroke that killed her instantaneously, she might very well have suffered for a few years in a slow battle with cancer. I guess her and Gayle had gone out to eat at a Chinese restaurant that evening – their favorite, and they ate to their heart's content. Afterwards, they had gone to the movies, a sentimental corny movie most likely, where a lost young person finds their purpose in life by rescuing an animal that shows them how to be a better person and care again. The kind of movie my grandma always bought me for Christmas. She came home, listened to her favorite Celine Dion Titanic theme song, washed up, and began watching public television till she dozed off. At some point in the night while she was asleep she had the stroke, and she died almost immediately. I know this probably sounds awful for me to say, but I mean it with a sincere sense of compassion – it could have been so much worse.

The next week we traveled down to Ontario Oregon to connect with the family. It would be the last time I ever saw the extended family on my father's side. It was also at this very same time, that there was another family ordeal. Basically, my uncle Bob got caught in a sting operation for buying child pornography. I guess I failed to mention that this had happened sometime around Christmas. Looking back, I am so terribly glad I didn't end up living with him and my aunt Marty. Who knows what could have happened to me, and I remember distinctly feeling weird about my uncle, even though he technically never did anything inappropriate. He was the professional of the family, and I felt that we were supposed to look up to him – so hearing about what he was guilty of was a surprise – though I was told he was getting put in prison for tax evasion at first – not for buying pedophilia. The double secret life he was living was horrendous and disgusting and I believe I felt it off of him in very subtle ways when I had been down there to visit about a year and a half before he thankfully was caught. This little matter of feeling a strange energy off of him gave me insight that I should trust my instincts about people – particularly predatory men – but anyone. He ended up getting six years in prison – becoming an extremely talented artist – he could of course never go back into the field of education – and he is not allowed on the internet. He eventually remarried. My father keeps in touch with him, but most of the family has emotionally disconnected with him. I personally don't feel all that compelled to talk to him or visit, for very obvious reasons. You can't look at child pornography and not see clear as day the devastating reality of it all. It's staring you straight in the face. If you view that stuff to get off, you are sick.

Some of the family felt that my grandma finding out that her son had been arrested and was a sex offender was what broke her. I personally think it was just a life of smoking and eating 50's canned goods and watching soap operas. My adult cousins were down there. My aunt Gayle was a wreck. My uncle Steve and half uncle Adam were there, as well as my aunt Sylvia. We had rented a hotel. There wasn't going to be a funeral, as my grandma felt they were phony and gaudy. We all at one point went into my grandmother's apartment one last time. I thought a lot about the kindness she had shown me as a child. In a lot of ways, my grandma was a much softer person than both my parents, who were/are both far more chaotic, brutal, funnier, abusive and contradictory in nature. My grandma Betty was no survivor – she lived in fear – which is why she never learned how to drive. I remembered watching Bob Ross with her, and holding her hand and pushing on her protruding veins in her hands and wrists for fun. Even though the stuff she sent me for holidays was kind of awful – bad Christmas themed pajamas and such, she always remembered. She remembered every single person's birthday. She bought literally everyone Valentine's Day stuff, Easter, 4th of July, Halloween, and Christmas boxes – no matter how many family members she had to send them off to.

I looked for, and found this cat that always hung off the side of the couch. It was where she often kept her smokes, her TV guide, reading glasses and such. Nobody wanted them. Nobody wanted the cat things used to prevent cat toys from rolling underneath the refrigerator, so I took that too. And since nobody wanted them, I was given her entire Stephen King collection – about thirty or forty hardbacks that I took with me back to the hotel and began reading. We went out to eat somewhere – a buffet. My aunt Gayle was totally a mess. I felt kind of mean – and perhaps I was mean, but I couldn't help wondering what she had expected. Losing a parent is devastating – but there was some part of her behavior that was sensationalized and attention seeking. She was sincerely upset and lost without her mother, and I think even the attention seeking was a sign or that devastation. She obviously needed to be comforted, and I would never suggest that a person stew I their misery. But she seemed to revert back to being a child. A very loud child who wildly looked around the room for attention. She began sobbing and crying very loud in the restaurant for instance because she saw a fork – and I guess that forks now reminded her of my grandmother's death – which seemed very put on to me. Other family members were silent for the most part. My father was seeming to hold it together okay. In a way, I almost think my father's resilience is his undoing. He can't really break when he needs to – survival simply won't allow it, and it almost seems to make him a bit crazy.

Watching all these people cope with the death of our beloved mother/grandma Betty, I worried about what it would be like when my beloved family members in the future would begin dropping off someday. It really hadn't occurred to me before – not that I wasn't aware of death. But now it seemed like a very practical reality and less of a concept. I decided to prepare myself for that day – so that I didn't react like aunt Gayle, and felt safe to consider everyone half dead already. Most of the human beings who had ever existed were already dead anyway. I know that sounds morbid, but if you remind yourself daily that the people around you are conscious meat sacks that can be squished, or malfunction at any given time, you not only prepare yourself for the day coming when it happens, but you are also appreciating the time you have with those people and how you treat them – since their mortality becomes more real to you. We have to get the most out of our connections with the people in our lives. What 'the most' is can be very subjective, but whatever is there to be gained from one another, it's an intrinsic part or our life's purpose to get it and to fully appreciate the mystery of knowing one another in the limited time and circumstances that we have.

On the way back from my Ontario, perhaps as a sign that I was very capable of being an insensitive teenager, I listened to The White Stripes very loudly in the car. Eventually my father had to tell me he couldn't emotionally take it right now, and he turned it down. I felt like a complete jerk. He had just lost his mother, and I was already just enjoying music and whathaveyou. When we got back home, we never really ended up visiting again. My father basically cut contact with Gayle. I don't know why. It didn't seem kind to me. Sure, they were never close. She could be annoying, but cutting ties with her kind of freaked me out. She hadn't done anything wrong. What's more, he still talked to our uncle Bob. He didn't talk to him for about four years granted, but he talks to him now – I don't care, except why has he decided never to speak to Gayle. I am really unclear about why that is. I have at times felt compelled to personally reach out to them, only I have been given the very strong impression over the years that they have little to no interest in who I am now that I am an adult – and the same goes for my siblings. There was always this weird sense with me that – since my mother was somehow a very obvious flawed human being that somehow she tainted the bloodline on my father's side and therefore we are of less quality.

On the last day of school, we took a trip to a strange special little exclusive resort called Boyer Beach. It was difficult to get to, and wasn't particular fancy – just a beach with some trees and buildings that weren't open for another month, since it was several miles up the Clearwater River. There was only one strange road to get to it, as there wasn't a road on that side of the river, you had to go several miles around to get to the one road that came back down. I remember sitting on the bus as it drove us down the small windy downhill path, and I began studying my feelings in a way I hadn't thought to. I felt depressed – but I chose not to blame anyone. It's instinctual when you feel pain that won't go away to want to blame someone. I recognized that I was feeling the urge to be angry at Sarah, but rather than say anything or let myself react emotionally – I just sat there and reflected on it. It felt counter intuitive, but I just did it anyway. And the more I reflected on it, the more I realized that I wasn't even angry – not really. I felt abandoned – and there might have been some reasonable justification for that – but I also understood that there was very little I could do about it. All those times I had become lathered up and convinced I was angry, I had actually just been sad. Feeling angry had made me feel like I was in control of my life and of the world around me. It made me feel justified. Really I was just a lost person. I felt disappointed and powerless – which made a lot more sense. There was nothing I could now do about the way my life was going. And as I realized this, the rage seemed to disintegrate. I felt like crying – there was a lump in my throat the entire day, but the blind anger was gone. I was calm the entire time, and Sarah and I managed to make naked people out of sand on the beach and have a good day.

Sarah and I ended up getting invited to Samantha's house that early summer soon after, which ended up being a strange night. Samantha's brother – the one who used to prank call me was there. I think Adam, Sam's boyfriend was there as well. We watched a really dumb movie called The Boy Next Door. And then everyone went out to the living room to play Super Smash Bros. It was sort of a ritual that everyone did at Sam's house – though I rarely participated and if I did I always chose Kirby. At some point in the night, either Sarah or I left a drawer open. Samantha's dad Steve came home drunk, saw that the drawer was left open, and started becoming wigged out and violent. Sam's dad was the kind of person to beat someone if lids weren't perfectly put on, if drawers and cupboards weren't completely shut. He was/is a horrible person, and it was baffling and startling to even try to imagine what it must have been like being raised by this guy. Samantha and Jake looked humiliated and nervous. Jake stood up eventually and took the blame for it – even though it had most likely not been the one who had done it. I don't remember what Steve yelled at Jake, but it was horrible and abusive, and though I couldn't see it, I heard scuffling in the kitchen of Steve trying to beat Jake up. I think Jake managed to shove his father and I remember him yelling 'I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU TRIED THIS IN FRONT OF THEM!!'. I felt badly. And I guess when I saw how things in this household, it was easier for me to understand why he had gone above and beyond to make life difficult for me at school.

Steve ended up leaving again thankfully, and we tried to play poker and pretend nothing had happened. I never got the hang of poker. From what I remember, I never had a hand I could play. So I spent the entire time trying to understand how to play without having any options.

Sarah's boyfriend Alex was coming to visit mid June for the first time, which basically meant that I only had about two weeks left to hang out with Sarah for the summer. After that, she would basically be around – but kind of not there. She wanted to spend the whole summer alone with Alex. She halfheartedly told me we would hang out sometimes, but it didn't seem very likely to me. And we both knew that after the summer she was moving to Texas. So for those two weeks, I swallowed every bit of disappointment I could swallow, and I tried to just enjoy being Sarah's friend in the moment. It was basically pointless to be angry anymore, as unfair as it all ended up for me. She had made her choice. Don't get me wrong, I was devastated, and I wanted her to understand fully that I was devastated. But my options were nil, and thinking about my own future was extremely unpleasant to me. The only thing I had to hold onto was the idea that some magical thing might become of me somehow. I didn't even know if I wanted to stay in school anymore. I didn't feel like I had any real talent. I could barely go into a grocery store without having a strong nervous reaction. How was I going to cope with being on my own?

To make matters worse, I remember Samantha asking Sarah 'What's Renee going to do without you Sarah?'. She asked it condescendingly. There was some truth to it which made it all the more frustrating – what was I going to do? But to a degree, I felt like people filled in a lot of blanks about me, and Sarah. Her meaning, behind the surface was to point out that I was weak, or that I couldn't form an opinion, and was incapable of growth – I was the helpless mooch. Sarah shrugged, and knew better than to insult me, and probably feeling guilty, wanted to hope for all the best concerning what would become of me.

My mom had somehow temporarily been able to rent the Nye's house again – the one Danny had us move out of for a few months. They were on their way to selling the place I guess, and were allowing us to stay there for the time being until someone came along. And it kind of ended up being a bit of a shitshow this time around. Germaine (remember her?), from the first house my mom moved into after the divorce was moved in there for some reason. I guess she found my mom bartending and she herself needed a place to stay and asked if she could stay at my mom's place. So, she moved into one of the rooms. She was a drunken narcissistic mess as always – I realized even more nearly a decade later what a truly annoying woman she was. And she had this strange deadbeat guy who she called her boyfriend there too. He was small, thin, had long black hair pulled into a ponytail and a beard. He looked filthy, and didn't say a word. He would sit outside at night against the house for hours. His eyes drifted strangely.

For whatever reason, Maria was homeless too, so she was staying there with her kids. I hadn't truly realized any of this, and had I, Sarah and I would not have decided to visit. The house smelled bad. What's more, my mom was on some kind of strange rage kick. She was acting aggressively towards Maria, finding any cheap thing to criticize her over. She kept making fun of Maria's suicide attempts. In old cartoons it is common for the sleeping character's soul to come out of their body in some kind of astral projection/ghost form, and run amok. I knew I couldn't just smash my mother's face in, but my ghost-self would do just that, and I envisioned angrily knocking her to the ground and forcing her to apologize. My mother can be this horrid cruel person that you never want to see again. She wants to hurt people – Maria being the easiest person to hurt. She liked pushing Maria to a point of harming herself. And my mother also thrives with chaos. So if things are working well, she finds ways to undermine that. She was being that person completely that night. Sarah had never seen my mother like that, I don't think.

What ended up happening was that in the early evening Chantelle, Maria's two and a half year old daughter was sick with a high fever over 100 degrees and she wouldn't stop sobbing. My mom had been storming around screaming at everyone, but she set her sights on Chantelle. She dragged Chantelle by the wrists and began screaming psychotically in Chantelle's face. Of course, Chantelle was a deliriously sick two year old with a fever, and she couldn't and wouldn't stop crying. My mom then started accusing her of faking it. Maria, stepped in of course to defend her toddler, and my mom started screaming at Maria saying she should kill herself if she can't figure her life out. Maria started crying and arguing about something petty. At this point, I stepped in. I couldn't just stand there and watch my mom do her thing. Plus, Chantelle was a little child and wasn't fair game in my book. I told her to knock it off in some form or another. So she turned her total attention on me and began screaming at me – saying I had ruined her life, had prevented her from sleeping (I think she was probably hung over since Germaine was there). I wasn't quite there yet, but I had started reaching a tipping point with what I could handle of screaming and intense meaningless anger. I felt like I was either going to implode, or explode. In either case, my sudden intense feeling of frustration and rage was enough to turn off a good portion of my brain. I was afraid I would simply shove my mother to the floor and begin pounding her face – but at the same time I knew I couldn't do that. My mom almost had a twinkle of joy in her eye – as she could see she was getting an effect.

Then Germaine came out of her bedroom. She had been hung over as well, but had just started her second round of drinking. She sounded like the wicked witch of the west, and had those curling things in her hair. She came out and began screeching at me about how I was to RESPECT MY MOTHER NO MATTER WHAT!!! and that I had somehow been brainwashed by my father to try to destroy my poor mother – which was beyond absurd. I felt like she just wanted in on the action since she had always disliked me but hadn't had a good chance to get involved. The two snarling mean spirited bitches were both hollering at me, and I had to get away then and there, else I would have killed the both of them with my hands or a kitchen knife. I ran out the door crying hysterically. Sarah following me in a state of shock. This resembled absolutely nothing of what she had ever been raised in, and I think it was hard for her to fully imagine having such a wretched mother. Of course, Germaine's creepy boyfriend was hanging around outside the house, seemingly unaffected by any of the fight, and I just ran past him.

We ended up sitting in the gravel a ways from the house. By this time it was night. Sarah hugged me and said she was sorry. I explained to her in a state of misery that this was what I had to look forward to without her being around anymore. It was a true and realistic statement, and at this point my pains and woes were not theoretical anymore. The reality was, that when Sarah left, this essentially was what I could look forward to at random intervals from both my mother and father – in their own styles of course. There would be no escaping to Sarah's house anymore. There would be no good times for me. Despite the fact that Sarah and I fought, she really was a great joy of mine to have. She was my only friend, and the only person who remotely understood me. She may have been kind of self centered and empty headed, but she was endlessly patient with me – and I think she had done the best she could. For all her faults, I had troubles imagining anyone else really actually getting it. She seemed like the only person in the world that actually liked me. And of course, there wasn't an answer. I just cried until, as I talked, I said something funny, and then I laughed and somehow carried on. We ended up driving back home that night.

Three weeks later, Germaine's creepy boyfriend ended up murdering someone. Germaine dumped him a week later, and I guess he must have immediately found another woman to date, because he strangled her to death. My brother reflected recently on the fact that my mom was leaving Allison and David to be watched by this guy. David played video games with this creep alone in a house with him. A testament to my mother's observant parenting skills.

My father, all that year had dated numerous women online. He was trying to fill a void left by Patti, and maybe that void in general that exists with everyone. He even flew down to California to talk to one woman named Suzanna. The names of these women I know vaguely – they failed to make a real mark, the majority of them. They were all my father's world for a month and then they were replaced. I learned to not even think about them anymore, and online dating seemed incredibly unpleasant to me. I never hated any of these women. Most of them heard lies about me and never met me in person, and when they did they approached me with clueless friendliness masking underlying judgment. It didn't feel particularly like anyone involved was really connecting. There was probably twenty or thirty of them – and it never lasted. Tanya, the woman he dated for six months during the summer and fall of 2006, was probably one of my favorites. She was the only girlfriend of his that seemed to actually like me, or understand me even a little bit.

Tanya lived in Spokane, and my father wanted her to meet us. Part of my father's shtick – not that it was altogether inaccurate was that of the single father raising children alone. This wasn't a lie exactly - if you exclude the abuse towards me in my earlier teens and all throughout. But it was used as a corny agenda in order to show women how sensitive he really was, since many father's choose not to be involved with their children and all that. It was all rather phony to me. He also lied about his height. To be fair, I honestly believe that he believed this stuff about himself and about our family. He had sort of erased any wrongdoing he had ever done from his own mind concerning beating me up that one time. He was able to justify and ignore just about anything regarding him expressing violence towards me. And truly, what good would it have done to try to tell these women different? Honestly, most of them were hoping he would pay a bill or two, which he often did and then they would break up with him for someone else they were talking to online. It was a very shallow world. People were afraid of being lonely – and truly – to each their own, but I can't think of anything more lonely than these brief relationships – if you want to call them that.

We first met Tanya in this sort of wannabe Hard Rock Cafe in Spokane. It was night time, the place was loud and my father was nervous. She didn't look at me with judgment and she seemed fairly together and reserved. I liked her overall. At first I was a little insulted because she compared me to Kelly Osbourne – which mostly insulted me since I thought Kelly Osbourne was a little bit campy and was a spoiled brat, but I probably shouldn't have taken it as nearly as insulting as it was not meant as such. We stayed at her place for one night. Her two sons were little hellions – and I could tell she never reprimanded them for anything. All they wanted to do was break things and pull their pants down. They screamed and tore things apart. Allison, David and I slept in her living room watching the first Narnia movie. The next day, Tanya pulled out her collection of Anne Rice novels. She gave me a few of them. She thought I would like them. I guess she had once been the goth of her high school and she wanted to be supportive of me as she felt I was a goth – though I still don't think that I actually was. I had dyed my hair dark again, and whenever I wear my natural hair color I have always been told I looked like a goth since my skin is pale and I like to wear a lot of make up sometimes.

The next day we went to this amusement park of sorts that was in the middle of Spokane near some rivers. It was sort of surreal for me being there, since I had sudden memories of having been there as a child in the early nineties, back when I guess that place had been rather busy. We got on the merry-go-round that I remember riding around when I was one and a half or two back when my parents had just gotten married and had gone up to Spokane for a shopping spree. Everyone was walking around together – me, my siblings Allison and David, Tanya, my father, but it was starting to strongly occur to me that even though people look like they are together, they really are a million miles apart in reality. Nobody was in solidarity here. We weren't a family – or at least, I was not a part of them. I wasn't apart of anyone anymore. I was beginning to feel incredibly alienated. These relationship dynamics were beginning to stick out in my mind everywhere that I went. I would see two people holding hands or kissing, and I couldn't help but notice in conversation they had nothing in common. Neither person actually knew what the other one was going through.

Tanya came to our house one more time a month later, but I wasn't around the house for very long. She might have been trying to scope out to see what my father's home was like. Because in conversation, we lived a Queen Ann style mansion (for it's time) styled home built in 1889, and considered a historical site by the state of Idaho. In reality, the house was this awkward cold place we made worse, and it had numerous issues. Going inside, it was very apparent that we weren't rich, but it might have seemed as though we were from conversations my father had on the phone. My father had this neck massaging thing. Basically, it had these two finger like things on either side of the place where you put your neck, and this machine would turn on and these things would vibrate and rotate around – an attempt to simulate a massage. I remember going downstairs at one point, and Tanya's boys were down there and in broad daylight, right in front of everyone, the were pulling down their pants trying to make the thing touch their privates – which was embarrassing for Tanya and awkward for all of us. These boys were ten and eleven years old, and I couldn't imagine doing what they were doing at that age. Anyway, Tanya eventually broke it off with him sometime after that – though I don't remember why, or how long after. Still, I always regarded her positively. She was never unkind to any of us.

My father had this new social life too. On top of buying absurd amounts of speakers and talking to random women online, he was starting to hang out with this guy named John who made Nickelback styled music in Clarkston – letting John borrow his speakers in hopes to play bass in his band. He also started working part time and semi for free for a friend of his back in the 80's named Rob who was starting a granite business that custom cut granite and other stone and installed it in people's kitchens and bathrooms. My father, as he was learning how to make granite smooth and polished, started collecting the scrap granite and making these weird granite cutting boards out of it, which he would sell cheaply to whoever wanted one. So there were granite cutting boards all over the place as well as speakers. Lastly, and more strange than anything, my conservative anti-drug father began spending a lot of time when he was in Kendrick with Billy, and other prominent drug dealing older teen guys. He was basically trying to assimilate with the druggy crowd from my high school, which was beyond strange. He started wearing his hat on backwards and talking with an attitude – particularly about women. He started drinking a lot and being out late with these guys who were thirty two plus years his junior. I felt like I had lost the plot completely.

It would be about a week before Alex finally came to visit and Sarah would essentially be gone and I would have some new kind of life. I would look back and I couldn't believe that three and a half years ago, I had had over ten people I considered some kind of friend. Where had everybody gone? I felt lost and depressed – but in a way I had never felt before. It felt like parts of my core personality were being stripped from me – that thoughts and words held no truth in and of themselves. They had to be sharpened like weapons and used in abstract ways. The world seemed upside down. I was losing my certainty about everything I thought that I knew. I wanted to get down to the bottom core truth of everything, but where could that be found? Was it love? Was it in art? Books? Religion or philosophy? Was the world we lived in primarily made of essence of perception, or were we living in the material? And why did I exist? Why did anything exist at all? It seemed impossible for me to know what to do next with my life. And I felt this burning sense that there was a truth that existed, and I needed to find it.

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PART 29 - http://tinyurl.com/ybfcr9j2

PART 28 - http://tinyurl.com/yagdlo47

PART 27 - http://tinyurl.com/ydcj5fgf

PART 26 - http://tinyurl.com/y73nvl73

PART 25 - http://tinyurl.com/y6v6pgoj

PART 24 - http://tinyurl.com/ycak5d8r

PART 23 - http://tinyurl.com/yac6sk3g

PART 22 - http://tinyurl.com/yat6cfnw

PART 21 - http://tinyurl.com/y783egno

PART 20 - http://tinyurl.com/y8jskymt

PART 19 - http://tinyurl.com/rfhbms8

PART 18 - http://tinyurl.com/ycrznrwk

PART 17 - http://tinyurl.com/y77unlng

PART 16 - http://tinyurl.com/yadpsv8c

PART 15 - http://tinyurl.com/yb3lt6k5

PART 14 - http://tinyurl.com/yb4cfedq

PART 13 - http://tinyurl.com/yalanq9s

PART 12 - http://tinyurl.com/yc79mw94

PART 11 - http://tinyurl.com/yc9qhj84

PART 10 - http://tinyurl.com/yb734w24

PART 9 - http://tinyurl.com/yc2t6vfw

PART 8 - http://tinyurl.com/ybl37utq

PART 7 - http://tinyurl.com/ybvo283g

PART 6 - http://tinyurl.com/kbc9dwu

PART 5 - http://tinyurl.com/msnz4am

PART 4 - http://tinyurl.com/k9x8esg

PART 3 - http://tinyurl.com/mwp9atx

PART 2 - http://tinyurl.com/lbt6xq2

PART 1 - http://tinyurl.com/l8xbvg8

#text

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suiciderealestate · 6 years ago

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Where does my mental illness end and my sense of self begin? I have known something is amiss with my mind for a long time and I have called my affliction by many names. But now in its newest iteration it is shifting slowly from Major Depression to Bipolar Depression, or, maybe more inclusively, Majorly Bipolar Depression. With the exception of vitamin assistance, I have been unmedicated for a few years. The last time I took medication it was Wellbutrin, which made me more manic than I have ever been in my life. At half of the prescribed dosage, I was throwing McChicken’s at my mother’s head, hiding in bushes at 24 years old, planning my self-managed exodus from Nashville to Los Angeles, and getting my license to serve alcohol — I passed the test with flying colors. When I consulted my GP about the mania resultant of my medication, she told me I might be bipolar. I have and had bipolar friends, and though they say birds of a feather flock together, I didn’t feel my symptoms matched the bipolar symptoms exhibited by some of my companions. Their mania was unmedicated. My mania was medicated. Clearly there was a difference. But I’ve since learned that there are two different kinds of bipolar. As my bipolar friend Meredith would say: You’re either Amanda Bynes bipolar (Bipolar 1) or Catherine Zeta-Jones bipolar (Bipolar 2 - Bipolar Depression). Amanda Bynes has since publicly stated that her erratic behavior from 2012 to 2016 wasn’t the result of a mental illness but the result of substance abuse and all the problems that come with it. But, as I’ve found, once a sicko always a sicko. And so while she may currently be in an upswing in her cycle from stability to chaos, it pains me to say that her future holds all the inevitability of her past. That’s just the way it is for people like us. We can stage a return. We can find success. But in reality we only ever really learn how to shove the thought patterns that haunt us under the carpet, close the curtains and muffle out the noise. But the noise never goes away. It’s always there. Whether the buzzing of your mind be plaintive or strident, the buzzing persists and it never goes away.

Today I called my mother to go down the usual lists of complaints: nobody loves me, my hair is falling out, and my body is a prison that makes my life a kind of perpetual Chinese water torture of the soul. A pragmatic, sensible woman, my mother rarely knows what to say. She doesn’t know how to give me advice on topics pertaining to romance because of my homosexual lifestyle; she doesn’t know how to talk to me about my emotional struggles because she has never had a history with mental illness (neither has my father, who is in many ways the same as her); and she doesn’t understand me when I ask her for help. At best, she says, she can let me move back into a home in Nashville with no rent other than the constant tax of corrosive misunderstanding. The comfort of my home in Tennessee is a tomb perfectly prepared for me to waste the rest of my days away in anticipation of my approaching demise. But I know that I have been dying for some time now. Decomposition comes in varying stages, and in this particular manifestation the rot has started first with my mind and will then work its way outward. It is not an uncommon way to go, and in my extended family there is a history of dementia. Dementia took the mind of my next-door neighbor Dan, a former engineering professor at Vanderbilt University who struggled to remember his loved ones or even who he was in the last years of his life. It took the mind of my paternal grandmother in her last days and rendered her final bouts of consciousness a public fever dream on perfect display for my family to see. I only heard whispers of it, being that I was young at the time of her death, but I remember visiting her in the nursing home and then the hospital, and I remember the smell of sterility and decay that lived easily alongside one another. I remember the first time I saw a dead body, one that belonged to a man who was only ever called “Uncle Ronnie” and who I had never actually met. To meet someone only after they are basted with formaldehyde is a curious thing. When I saw his pale corpse in the open casket, a corpse whose lifeless pallor, resistant to every cosmetic effort, must have startled other attendees at the wake, I felt nothing. I learned that even dead bodies are held to a standard of perfection, and even dead bodies often fail to meet those standards.

Even today I often think of Uncle Ronnie. I still remember his face, his black hair, his delicate features. I remember that all I’ve ever known of him is death. For me, that is his legacy: that he died and that of all seven billion people upon the face of the Earth, his corpse was the first I ever witnessed. For my mother, bipolar disorder seems to be a kind of little death. She once had a good friend named Jill. Jill was bipolar. She forged checks and stole from her employers. She used to babysit me once upon a time, and when I was only four years old she would let me watch graphic movies like “Alien,” in which aliens can only give birth by planting their seed in the body of a living being. When the alien finally gestates and is ready to be born, it simply bursts from the host’s body and leaves them to die in a mess of blood and fleshy pulp. I remember watching the cartoon “Ren and Stimpy,” and it was at that point in my life that I learned the aesthetic potential of the grotesque and macabre. I forsook companionship with children my age for others who were three to five years older than me. Even they said I was “warped,” because my knowledge of sex, profanity and vulgarity was more advanced than anything they had known at my age. I was exposed to cigarettes early, alcohol early, everything just a tad earlier. I learned most of what I knew from other children at St. Henry’s School, a place my parents had desperately tried to get me admitted to. It took a little coaxing from a family relative, but after much reluctance I was admitted. Even at a young age, I wasn’t looked upon as a genius or even as someone with average potential. My great aunt Emily had to harass a priest at St. Henry until they decided to give me the formality of an admissions test. And once I proved lackluster at that, she had to harass him some more. Little did my parents know, I would be reared in a den of charlatans. And though my mother constantly reminds me that she didn’t raise me to exhibit the behaviors I am prone to, she unwittingly unleashed me into a realm of the most expensive sin money can buy.

For much of my early exposure I have Jill to thank. But Jill has cemented in my mother’s mind a stigmatized perception of people with bipolar disorder. God forbid her son should have a variation of it, so even now she is in denial. When I told her over the phone today that I believe I have bipolar 2, she said, in desperation, “But you don’t have any of the symptoms!” The symptoms, according to the most direct Google search, are as follows: 1) mood swings, sadness, elevated mood, anger, anxiety, apathy, apprehension, euphoria, general discontent, guilt, hopelessness, loss of interest, or loss of interest or pleasure in activities; 2) irritability, risk taking behaviors, disorganized behavior, aggression, agitation, crying, excess desire for sex, hyperactivity, impulsivity, restlessness, or self-harm; 3) unwanted thoughts, delusion, lack of concentration, racing thoughts, slowness in activity, or false belief of superiority; 4) depression, manic episode, agitated depression, or paranoia; 5) difficulty falling asleep or excess sleepiness; 6) weight gain or weight loss; and 7) fatigue or rapid and frenzied speaking.

Looking at all of these symptoms, I can’t help but think that all of this is simply innate to the human condition. But at the end of the day, I can only speak to my human condition. In this lifetime, I can speak to no one else’s. And yet, to feel that there is some possibility of error in my cognitive makeup, that I am broken with little hope of drugless repair, is to know that there is a part of me that will always be lacking. Today I told my mother that in the last two months I stole merchandise worth thousands of dollars during my seasonal employment at Bloomingdales. More troubling still is that every time I stole from Bloomingdales I was in a good mood. With this condition it just goes to show that both highs and lows are dangerous. If I’m in a bad mood I might kill myself, and if I’m in a good mood I might happily commit several felonies. You really never know.

When I reported all of this information to my mother in demonstration of the fact that perhaps I do embody the erratic behavior she associates with bipolar disorder, she insisted on getting off the phone. She made me promise I would never steal again, which I obliged to with fingers crossed, and then she hung up. It’s not that I want to steal again. It’s just that I can’t make promises I know I can’t keep. For my mother, bipolar disorder is not unlike a prison sentence or a death sentence. Jill disappeared, and we never saw her again. We didn’t hear from her. We didn’t hear about her. She just vanished. Sometimes I wish I could do the same. I wish I could just disappear from everyone’s life over and over again, constantly remaking myself until I finally crash and burn. But these days, with social media and all the rest, it just isn’t that easy. We are bound to who we are, until we aren’t. I hope my family can salvage some sense of understanding until that day comes. I know it’s a lot to ask. I hardly understand myself.

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iamcediesmom · 8 years ago

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Philippine IMMIGRATION experience (and some TIPS)

Just a little bit of information about me.

I am a work-at-home mom. I am an ESL online teacher for two and a half years now. I have no ITR (yet). My company deducts my taxes but they don’t provide a BIR 2316 just a 2307 (which is like a breakdown of the taxes I already paid each quarter).

It was my first time travelling abroad last October 2016; I used to go on domestic trips around the Philippines but I’ve never ventured out of the country before. My friend and I were planning the trip for like six months. She has been to other countries in Asia before but this was her first time to go to HK and Macau.

I was so excited I read all kinds of blogs regarding my situation. That’s when I discovered something….OFFLOADING… I’ve never heard of OFFLOADING before and I didn’t know what it meant. Some of the stories I’ve read online only made me nervous and I somehow dreaded my trip because of it.

Okay, so now here goes my story. (sorry for the long introduction hihi)

My friend and I decided to meet at the airport 3 hours before our flight. Our reason was we just want to be extra early. Maybe it’s the excitement?? OR we had a feeling of what’s about to happen??

We filled up the arrival/departure cards and proceeded to the Immigration queue for Philippine Passport Holders. There were four windows open 2 guys and 3 girls. I told my friend that we should go to one of the guy's windows because I thought it might help that we are girls and that we can somehow use our charms (??hahaha) Anyway, she said NO and we ended up lining up into a window were there were 2 women. I was a bit suspicious but my friend said that they looked very approachable. There were only a few travelers during the time so we only waited for a bit. My friend went first. I wasn’t nervous at all but I overheard their conversation and the line of questioning they had.

At first, they asked standard questions like;

Where are you going? : HK /Macau

Who are you going with? : My friend (and she pointed to me)

Where are you going to stay? : At my Aunt’s house (she gave the address)

They asked a few more questions about their relationship…

Where do you work? Can I see your ID?

Where did you study? Can I see your school ID?

>>> My friend didn’t expect this at all and she didn’t bring her College ID or her Alumni card. All she had was an ID from a school she took some classes from for her job. They allowed it. When I heard this I looked for my school ID and I was glad it was in my wallet.(hahahaha)

Have you traveled before? How many times? When?(while turning the pages of her passport) : Two Times, SG and Thailand. Last year (2015).

This time I was a little bit scared because I heard once you’ve traveled before there would only be a few questions asked. Then they finally allowed her to pass through and stamped her passport.

FINALLY, it was my turn. I smiled and said Hello. Both of them just nodded. They asked almost the same questions at first and I had the same answers as my friend. Then they asked…

Where do you work? Can I see your ID? : I work at an ONLINE ENGLISH SCHOOL. I don’t have an ID because it’s HOME BASED.

Are you a certified teacher? : No.

What and who do you teach? : English grammar; Japanese, Taiwanese and Korean students.

Do you have a COE? : Yes

Where did you study? What’s your major? : I showed them my ID. MIT-Manila; BS Chemistry.

Then they started to ask about my friend.

How long have you known your friend? : Since 2011.

How did you meet? : We met at work, at a call center.

When’s her birthday? : (I’m totally forgetful about this information, I only know my family’s birthdays, luckily I remembered my sister and my friend’s birthdays were the same.)

Are you sure? : Yes.

Do you have a picture of you together in 2011? : (yeah! I know right? Shocking!! I had those but the night before I just deleted old pictures from my phone to free up some space for the trip, I asked if I can open Facebook and they approved. During this time the internet connection at the airport wasn’t very fast and I couldn’t get to the bottom of my picture albums. I showed them a picture of us together from 2 years ago and then they said NO I want a picture from 2011. I started getting irritated.)

Then the woman said: MAM, I think you should follow me. I will refer your case to my superior because you did not pass the initial screening. Then she said, actually it would have been okay if you have an ID.

I butted in. I don’t have an ID because I work-at-home. (IS SHE THICK IN THE HEAD? WHY CAN'T SHE UNDERSTAND THAT AT ALL??)

And she continued, the COE that you showed me is fake.

My blood pressure was rising and I said “HOW CAN IT BE FAKE WHEN MY BOSS SENT IT TO ME BY EMAIL AND I JUST PRINTED IT?” I was trying SO hard to control my tone and said it through gritted teeth.

Anyway, she didn’t listen and just led the way.

I was told to fill up a form and wait in line. I was the third in line. There were no rooms. It was just a space with a lot of chairs beside the security check area. When my turn finally came, my heart was beating so fast I thought I was gonna have a heart attack.

I only waited for a few minutes then it was my turn. I was lucky because the woman who motioned for me to follow her looked really nice, and she was (Thank GOD!). She asked me to just give her all the documents that I have. I handed her my flight ticket, all my reservations to the attractions I was going to, marriage certificate, my son’s birth certificate, COE. Then she asked me to show her pictures of my friend and I together. I showed her my wedding pictures. She was a bit distracted because there was a man beside us who kept pleading to her to let him board his flight to Oman or SOMEWHERE. She stood up, I maybe waited for 3 minutes when she got back she said, “Oh mam! you’re still here? I thought I already approved you.” She signed my papers. Then I went back to the original window and the woman there said, “Mam if you had an ID you wouldn’t go through that.”

Because of what the IO said, I wondered if I should have made a fake ID? I’m really conflicted about that ID issue. Would that have been easier? Can’t she understand that I really can’t provide one since I don’t go to the office? I just do it all online, my salary, payslip, tax records can be accessed or sent to me online. I really don’t know why she can’t understand that.

Looking back to that experience, here were some things I learned.

1. Don’t go to a window with two people in it. They might be training the other one so they would ask twice as many questions as they normally would.

2. Wear something totally formal or something that would scream that you are RICH! I was only wearing a fitted black shirt and jeans with sneakers. I love comfy clothes and my thought was I was gonna arrive in HK at night I won’t take too much pictures so I didn’t made any effort. I didn’t have a suitcase just a backpack and a shoulder bag. I must’ve looked pathetic in their eyes. I didn’t wear any make-up too just some lipstick.

(a picture at the airport with my mother before CHECK-IN)

(Here’s a picture of me with my totally matching backpack and cross body bag)

3. Bring all of your documents and all your IDs. Print out everything and scan everything just to be sure.

4. Keep your answers short.

5. Control your voice even if you are already angry and if they say something ridiculous or ask something out of line. Stay calm and keep your cool.

I was able to go to HK and Macau. I had a blast but I would never forget my first Immigration interview.

(after the long and gruesome interview; I can finally smile again!)

Now, I’m preparing to go to Singapore with my sister in July, she’s 18 years old and it’s her first time. I have already booked the tickets and the hotel. I am going to buy the tickets for the Universal Studios online (klook.com) too. I would be the one financing this whole trip since it’s my birthday gift to her. What do you think I should do so that this situation won’t happen to me again? I don’t know. I’ll just keep on praying this will never happen again. I read somewhere that someone signed a waiver in Singapore stating that he has no intention of working there. Do I need to do that as well? Maybe. Do I need to make a fake ID? I want to but I’m scared it would make matters worse. Anyway, I just wanted to share my experience to whoever.

Ciao!

~KC~

P.S.

I would be posting my IT in HK-Macau and more pictures next time. Thanks for reading this. :) Totally appreciated.

#immigration #philippine immigration #airport #what not to do #what not to wear #first time traveler #first time abroad #hong kong #macau #philippines #naia #wanderlust #travel tips

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wanderlostyuna-blog · 8 years ago

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Welcome to the Jungle!

So there I was, in a big city. One flight away from the quiet city I stayed in for last 6 years. I came there for a psychology test and an interview for a job I applied for.

I was so distressed about the whole situation, it’s not that I don’t want the job or anything. I had no idea how to get around in the city, I am too used in living in a moderately quiet city and the other city I talked about is significantly bigger, I figured that I have to work my ass off if I want to survive there.

So first things first, after the company called me to notify me about the interview, the next thing I did is ask my friend who lived there for only about 3 months to give me his advice. Or anything. Something that will at least give me some ideas about how I should behave and if I’m lucky enough, how to get around in the city.

He then proceed to told me about some areas I could stayed in, which is not too far away from the company’s location. So I managed to book a hotel for 3 days, book a flight and had hard time sleeping at the time. Too nervous to think about anything else but the job.

Next day, at 2.30 pm I arrived there, and I was using Grab (yeah, Grab, the application that’s similar to Uber) to get to the hotel I booked in. At first I have no idea how to use it, I open the apps and tried to type the hotel’s address. But the address that showed up is wrong. Really, I was so frustrated and decided to try to use Google Maps. Just to check the distance from airport to the hotel.

And guess what? I am such an idiot for not realizing it earlier. You can use Google Maps to measure the distance and see the routes to get there but you can also use it to order a GrabCar or GrabBike and also Uber. Pretty much everything. It was on the top left, under the ‘destination’ box.

How could I be so stupid? Of course this will be an easy peasy thing to do! Then, I tap on the screen and on the next few minutes I’m already on my way to the hotel. Good trip there, even though I got a bit dizzy and feeling like vomiting in the car. I’m already in a bad condition because I’ve just slept a little the day before.

Anyway, it took 2 hours to get to the hotel. You know, traffic jam and things. But at least I finally can take a bath and sleep! That night I was just watching TV, called my parents and my aunt to ask them for advice, called my friends and going on to tell them about how horrified I was.

Day 2…

My friend told me I can go at 6am to avoid the traffic jam, and I might get to the office for the interview at about 8.30 am. Well, screw him. I got there at 6.30 am, no traffic jam. I was wandering around the office area from 2,5 hours looking like a lost puppy. My shoes’ soles also somehow fell out so I had to wait for the convenience store across the street to open before I rushed into the store and fixed my shoes. What’s wrong with this day?!

I killed it! Sorry, let me correct it, I mean I nailed it. The test, the next thing is the interview. I was so lucky, one candidate for the job also had to do the interview at another office so she offered me a ride there with her. I am still feel grateful until now. She seemed a bit annoyed with my attitude, being too cheerful and innocent and all. No, I wasn’t tried to look innocent just because I spoke slowly. I tried to control myself. Because if I don’t I might blast her ears for the next hour. I am a chatterbox, after all.

The interview was going well, except when I spoke and introduce myself I accidentally spat on the table, a glass on at that. It wasn’t that bad but visible. It makes me seem too eager, and who cares. It’s not like I’m going to get the job anyway. I pulled out an do-or-die questions. Spending almost an hour to ask about the job, discussing about working hours and everything.

After I’m done with the interview, I went to the mall just across the road. I was waiting for my friend, he said he’ll meet me but there’s some miscommunication so I ended up roaming like a lost person in a huge mall. I am a bit mad at the time, I mean. .uh, c’mon! He literally asked me to go and meet him at his office. Okay, maybe I have to take it down a notch. He suggested that I met him at his office, nah, now that sounds better and not too self-pitying. I noped the f*ck out of there, well we can meet another day dude. The reason is simple, my legs about to gave out because I walked around the mall for 2 hours and the soles will fell out again if I’m not going back then. So, long story short, I went back to the hotels. Reported to my family and friends how the interview going, they’ve been really supportive, saying that it’s okay if don’t get the job. I need to at least know how the test and the interview will be to be better if I applied for the job in the future and things. I choked up, well, my aunt and one of my cousin-they’re both really important for me- they practically showered me with love and inspirational advice. They told me that, “whether you failed or succeed, a lesson learned”. I mean, dude, it’s too early to cry! But I am really thankful.

I slept early a bit later that night, and on day 3 I prepared for the flight back.

I am somehow got a feeling I might get the job but ignore it, intuition is a good thing but it doesn’t always right. Sometimes it’s like an early warning but sometimes it’s a false alarm.

Day 3

I saw this really cute guy who board at the same flight as me. I decided to put the job aside for a while, just to calm my nerves when this guy came around and sat about 4 rows apart in the waiting room.

Call me weird but this guy caught my eyes. Want me to describe him? Oh well . .

Physically : I think he’s more on the average-to-short side, no problem with me. I myself isn’t that tall. His hair looks so silky, I mean, jet black hair that falls perfectly and he has the sweetest smile I’ve ever saw. I saw a lot of handsome, cute and sweet guys on my life but his smile is the sweetest one. It seems that he smiles from the bottom of his heart and mean it. Now that I recalled his face again, he’s not that attractive. But boy, he did make me feel happy just by remembering his face. But the twist is. .well, yeah, there’s a twist in this story. Okay so, I might come from a city. Even though it’s just a small city, it’s still a city nonetheless. But it’s clear as a sunny day that this guy is coming from even smaller area, a small village maybe? Who cares, that explain why he seems so sincere and sweet, a bit naive even though it’s also clear that he’s a bit older than me.

He wore an old, baggy pants. The color is fading black, seems like a hand me down pants. A shirt that’s a little bit too big for him. Now, before you all judge harshly for my comments about him, I adore it! Why? Well it shows that he’s okay with his appearance, he smiled a lot and yeah there are times when I caught him staring at his outfit nervously. But if I can tell him that he’s the cutest guy I’ve ever met then I will. I didn’t do it because there are a lot of people around us and from my experience, it will freak him out if a stranger came at him and told him that he’s cute.

Now, I like this guy also because he’s so damn polite. Not overly polite kind of thing, but just this-is-how-I’ve-been-raised kind of polite. Helped an old lady to put her cabin baggage, offered his seat for an elderly and moved out to give the way for the other passengers to go out first.

I asked myself over and over again, should I come to him and ask his name? But damn it, while I was busy thinking about it, the chance slipped away from me. He’s gone, like a wind. I mean it.

Anyway, that’s where the story end. I am still happy though, at least I know that there’s still a lot of good guys out there. They don’t have to be naive or anything, being considerate is already good enough.

Okay so, let me continue about the job. .I somehow passed the test and the interview. A staff from HR department called me to negotiate about the salary, things got a bit awkward because now that I realized it. . I make the decision too fast, I rushed into decision even before they had the chance to tell me about the benefits of working with them. So for you fresh grads, please pay attention to those things :

When you’re asked about how much the salary you wanted there are a few things for you to consider :

You’re a fresh graduate, you should at least asked them the average salary they gave for the position you applied for.

The minimum wage, for my case it’s per month so you can ask a bit higher than the minimum amount. But please do make sure that you told them that you asked that much because you need to pay for the rent and for you to eat. DON’T EVEN MENTION THAT YOU NEED TO PAY INSURANCE OR YOU NEED TO SAVE YOUR MONEY. It’s none of their business.

Sometimes they asked whether the amount that you asked is the amount in gross or nett. Well, the gross is the salary before you have to pay for tax, etc. The nett is the amount you got after tax cut, etc. Please pay attention to this.

Be civil, don’t be too eager or talk too much. This was my mistake at the time, I talked too much to the staff and it’s a bit annoying now that I think about it so, if you’re a chatterbox like me, please control yourself. I know it’s exciting and things but for the love of God, they want to finish their job a.s.a.p, don’t slow them down by talking.

Well, I don’t know whether it’s a deal or no, but I’m still planning out everything that I need to do if I move out from the city I stayed in. Wish me luck please! That’s my story for now ^^

#looking for job #job interview #internet diary #funny things happen #job tips #lone traveller

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historyandclassicactors · 8 years ago

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Britain in the 30s & 40s

As always, there’s an explanation for how I came about my topic. But first, a disclaimer: Not to be confused with Britain in WWII (that’s to come, though, I promise!).

The explanation: What else? Another book! Err, series in this case! Even better! The Montmaray Journals by Michelle Cooper. I got the series last Christmas (or birthday?) and have been savoring them all year. Because you have to savor something so amazing. [Picture Mine, clearly cuz, uh, that’s part of my bed, and my Christmas lights, and more books, which I've since reorganized, and well … ]

Summary: Sophie FitzOsborne is a princess of Montmaray and resides in the dilapidated castle with her brother, Toby; sister, Henrietta aka “Henry”; and cousin, Veronica. Well, that and a crazy uncle and possibly even crazier servant and her son (who might be another cousin, Simon). But when the Nazis bomb their beloved island, Sophie and her siblings (and cousins, who might as well be siblings, anyways) are forced into exile in England to live with their Aunt Charlotte, which proves to be an adventure of its own. In England, Sophie endures the terrors of the up-coming war and (maybe even more terrifying) coming out balls and the war itself. All told from Sophie’s perspective via her journals, as the title implies.

Depression:

Like in most countries, Britain was sieged by the Great Depression in the 1930′s, unemployment hovering around 10% for most of the decade. However, like America, WWII helped boost the economy.

While the country was in the middle of a depression, the country actually “saw more economic growth than any other decade in British history” (Source). Industries that specialized in things like appliances, aviation, cars, and construction actually saw their golden years in the 30′s. Here’s why: Prices had fallen, which meant more people had extra money. Even those who lived at a “subsistence level” were bringing home more money on pensions and unemployment. In fact, by 1935, “a man on the dole was about as well off as a skilled worker in 1905″ (Source).

Aristocracy:

As was seen in Downton Abby, the country houses were fast becoming a thing of the past. After the first Great War, the “combination of the cost of war, death duties, crippling taxes and declining farm rentals put an end to the life of sophisticated glamour and feudal rights, duties and privileges previously enjoyed by Britain’s landed gentry” (Source).

Despite the decline of country houses, however, their way of life was not completely disrupted. As late as 1939, many were still able to maintain their aristocratic lifestyles with glittering parties, concerts, dinners, and debutante seasons. Many debutantes were sent to Germany for finishing school. “There, the debutantes polished their manners; learned about music, art, and a spot of German; and enjoyed a whirlwind of dinners, parties, and leisurely activities.” Many were “unaware of the realities of the Nazi sate that surrounded them” (Source). Additionally, there was a strong connection between British and German high society through marriage and the Royal families.

In Germany, “they were cooed over and spoiled, with the Germans eager to impress upon the young women just how successful the country was and [to] make sure they passed on their praise to British ears” (Source).

This, all in preparation for their coming out season (which they could do more than once if they were unsuccessful. Sophie had three), which was coordinated with the Royal family’s residence in London: April-July and October-Christmas. As was tradition, debutantes were presented to the monarch and introduced to society. This was a key part of high society’s calendar. [Below: Lost country houses. You have no idea how hard it was to find anything suitable for the topic. *sigh*]

War:

Despite being disgusted with his anti-Semitism and his “abolishment of democracy,” many members of the aristocracy were originally keen supporters of Hitler because of his firm stance against Communism (Source).

Even King Edward VIII (who abdicated in ‘36) and his American wife, Willis Simpson, were staunch supporters of Hitler. The Duke caused major problems in Madrid, spending time with “pro-Nazi Spanish Aristocrats, talking loudly about how wonderfully the Nazi had transformed Germany and how Britain ought to sign a peace treaty with them (The FitzOsbornes at War, 166). He even sent a letter to the king, “telling him to dismiss Churchill and the war cabinet and set up peace negotiations with Germany” (The FitzOsbornes at War, 167). Churchill threatened him with a court-martial but the Royals certainly didn’t want him back in England. Eventually, he and his wife were sent to the Bahamas, where they were more likely to stay out of trouble.

Unlike the first great war, the British were more resigned about the up-coming, inevitable war. During the first several months, they referred to it as the Phoney War or the Bore War. Still, many war time measures were being taken, such as rations, blackout curtains, and evacuation.

“Aunt Charlotte is already driving me round the bend, and the war’s only been going for six hours. Imagine how I’ll be in six months” (pg. 22).

In an effort to appease Hitler, Britain bullied Czechoslovakia into giving the Sudetenland to Germany. Chamberlain signed the Munich Agreement in 1938. Understandably, the Czechoslovakians felt they’d been betrayed by Great Britain.

The most famous British debutante to fall under Hitler’s spell was Unity Mitford, the 2nd youngest of the Mitford girls. She and Hitler became quite close and Hitler even used her to “provoke jealously in his new girlfriend, Eva Braun” (Source). She even made an appearance with Hitler on the balcony in Vienna when he made his Anschluss Speech in 1938. When Britain declared war on Germany in September 1939, she “shot herself in the head with a pearl-handled pistol given to her by Hitler” (Source). She survived and was flown back to the UK. [Below: Unity Mitford]

“Veronica threw out my Evening Standard Guide to Air Raid Sounds last week, because she said I was becoming obsessed. But the more information one has, the more one feels in control of the situation. That’s simply common sense. One would really think Veronica would understand that!” (pg. 198-199)

Cooper, Michelle. A Brief History of Montmaray. New York: Alfred P. Knopf, 2008.

---. The FitzOsbornes in Exile. New York: Random House, 2010.

---. The FitzOsbornes at War. New York: Alfred P. Knopf, 2012.

Topics/Suggestions List.

Up Next: Battle of the Bulge

#1930s & 1940s #WWII #History Series #The Montmaray Journals #A Brief History of Montmaray #The FitzOsbornes in Exile #The FitzOsbornes at War #Britain in the 30s & 40s #Pre-WWII #History

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veryfineday · 4 years ago

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Sunday 19 February 1832

8 35/..

12 3/4

L + L L

fine but dullish morning Fahrenheit 56 1/2ºat 9 40/.. in my room and 42º at 10 in the balcony - at 8 1/2 Letter from my aunt Shibden 3 pp.[pages] ends and under to say she had had a begging letter from a James L-[Lister] saying he was the younger son of mr. william L-[Lister] of Laugharne - having lost his father at the age of three years and being the youngest of ten children had not had the same advantages of education as his older brothers -

‘am at present an officer of excise. and am in a fair way of being promoted which will attend with a little expense and absence from home - having a wife and small family whatever trifle mrs. Lister will have the goodness to bestow nice be highly expected of’ ..... James L-[Lister] officer of excise Birdgend, Glamorganshire’ - there would be no end to this - It is an odd sort of begging from a person one Knows nothing about, and who has respectable relations near to him - better, it strikes me, to take no notice of such a letter -

my aunt has found a lease granted to Benjamin Bottomley’s father in 1799, and this matter and the coal road settled about, my aunt supposes, by this time - John’s son has written for a frocK coat waistcoat, and malls, and gaiters - my aunt wrote to tell Scott to get them if wanted and send the bill to her - It should be ascertained what the boy can earn, and he must worK for his clothes, and trouble his father and anybody else longer than necessary -

my aunt says the town of H-x[Halifax] and neighbourhood is very sicKly - the history of YorKshire complete to and including the 49th no.[number] - but there are more nos.[numbers] as far as 70 at least for my father has got that number - they talK then of a property tax to commence at £500 a year from 7 1/2 to 10 per cent -

br[eak]f[a]st at 10 5/.. - miss H-[Hobart] and I at church at 11 - mr. west preached 31 minutes from 2 Kings i. 20 - Set thine house in order for those shalt die - asleep - on coming home read or looKed over the paper and came upstairs at 1 1/2 - wrote the above of today - from 2 10/.. to 4, wrote 3 pp.[pages] and long ends very small and close and under the seal ditto ditto to my aunt

‘my dear aunt On consideration, I am really and decidedly of opinion, the best thing you can do will be to take no notice at all of the letter - ..... I suspect the thing exceedingly - a respectable officer of excise has no business to make such applications - he has respectable relations near him; and I am, on every account, persuaded, you had best give him no encouragement to expect anything from us - Rely upon it, his cousin of Swansea would be very much annoyed, did he Know of the thing - and, were it advisable to make any inquiries at all, it might be better for you to write to mr. John L-[Lister] senior, then to the clergyman of the parish - But thinK about it, and I am persuaded, you will agree with me, that, in this case, you and I had best have nothing to do with the applicant - Perhaps he may not write again - I would leave even two letters unanswered; and if, which is perhaps unliKely, he should write 3 more, maKing four altogether, I would copy them all or at least the last of them mentioning having had 3 before in a letter to mr. J.L-[John Lister] of Swansea, and enclose him a 5 pounds banK of England note begging him to dispose of it as he thought would do most good to the applicant, and desiring, at the same time, that you might not be troubled any more, as all you had to spare for clarity was called for at home -’

‘Somehow or other, I have not yet had resolution to execute the will made by Lawton the proctor, and that you read over - the thing is, it is not, as I told you at the moment, exactly what I intended; but I hardly Know how to mend it just now - it would be far better than no will, and I thinK of executing it - or I may have some alterations made in London - If anything happens to me in the mean time, I am satisfied to thinK, there is a short will properly executed, in the middle drawer of the deal chest in the blue room, leaving everything I have to you’ -

said that John’s son ought to be taught to feel that he had only his own exertions to depend it would not do now that he was put into a way of getting his bread to be writing home for things - my aunt had asK Scott what wages he thought it right to give him, and not pay them to the boy himself till his father was repaid for the clothes he now bought for him - had better asK Scott’s real opinion of the boy, and say that tho’ she would do anything for him that was necessary, he must depend only on himself -

mentioned having engaged Francesco Bado from some time in April - very little and slim but looKed quicK and clever and would do anything - drive or cooK for me if I liKed - was in good hope of him because he had lived 7 years with his last master (named him) and had a small estate near Genoa - did not say he was married - I much better in health than I was at first, but still felt as if the sight of my booKs in Paris would do me good - If I could be off now, could sail from Dover and land at Calais with only 3 days quarantine - asK my aunt to write soon again for her letters always do me good -

at 4 began letter of condolence to miss Crompton (went downstairs and staid with miss H-[Hobart] from about 4 1/4 to 5 1/4) and wrote 1 1/2 page widely written - not much in it -

‘my dear miss Crompton at this melancholy time I hesitate and almost fear to intrude ‘on your rememberance but even if I trouble you unseasonably I feel assured you will appreciate the motive and believe that I am unwilling you should thinK me forgetful of you in the day of affliction or the last among your friends to offer you my sincere condolence - I hope and trust that many palliative circumstances have conspired to lighten the affliction as much as possible, that you were not taKen at unawares, and that, being prepared. you are all resigned and as far as may be reconciled to this severe dispensation of providence’ -

then merely add that I hope to find Lady Herries in London in April and was sorry not to find her at home when I called in October on my return from Hampshire - my best regards to your sisters and believe me, my dear miss Crompton, ever very sincerely yours A Lister’ - copied all the above to line 17 from my letter to my aunt and wrote the rest from memory till 6 1/4 - sent off at 5 50/.. my letters to ‘mrs. Lister Shibden hall, Halifax, YorKshire’ and to miss Crompton, Esholt hall, Bradford, YorKshire'

dressed - dinner at 7 10/.. in 40 miutes - music- coffee at 8 3/4 - miss cutting scraps out of the newspapers and I looKed over Smith’s Italy - very good friends I quiz her about her small house ‘remember (said she) I am come to Hastings’ meaning that that was not against our ultimately being together she is much more liante than she was miss H-[Hobart] had mr. and mr. morland calling this afternoon - Fine day came to my room at 11 35/.. p.m, Fahrenheit 58º. at 11 3/4 p.m. in my room and 41º at 12 1/2 in the balcony -

[margin: Miss H[obart] wrote this afternoon and put with her will a paper disposing of her trinkets and other such things among her friends]

#anne lister code breaker #1832 #vere hobart #aunt anne

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libgds · 4 years ago

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I was shooting for today to be a leisurely drive with plenty of stops up to our campsite at Traverse City State Park.

The girls and I slept in the RV and Andy left his door unlocked for any nighttime bathroom needs. That was especially nice since even though my dogs were not here to wake me up for their breakfast, they have trained my bladder well for 6am. I went ahead and stayed up, got ready, and wrote yesterday’s entry. Those two hours proved to be my only quiet time for the day.

I know my nieces are cool and all, but I was surprised that Andy also wanted to join us for our breakfast of a donut and Starbucks run. Abigail and Loralie were obsessed with going to Starbucks. Abigail loves her Dragon drink and Loralie must have been just excited to sound grown-up because when we started to order she told us she had actually never had anything except a cake pop from there. Abigail told her to get a Pink drink and I said to no to the cake pop since we had donuts.

Those of you who know Loralie will not be surprised that Loralie (who does not like pop or juice) did not like the Pink drink. She is no longer talking about Starbucks. We had our donuts and drinks back at Andy’s. He got the grand tour of the RV and witnessed how the girls in mere hours had turned the place into a messy sorority house. I am pretty sure the girls would leave me for Andy in a heartbeat. He suggested we stop in on our way back for another boat ride. This time to a sand bar for some wading and swimming if the weather is better. It was not long after we left before Abigail was pointing out that Laura and the boys would probably be getting to tHartford City from the airport so late that we might as well spend the night at Andy’s again instead of rushing home. They all three even had a road trip planned to Arizona next Spring Training while I took my shower. I am not entirely sure if I am invited or if they just want to use the RV.

I know I have talked about it a million times, but I like what I like and this is the perfect time for some familiar comforts, so we headed to Sawyer, MI. I got my growler of cold brew coffee from Infusco Coffee Roasters, we went to a fruit stand and got some white nectarines, donut peaches, and raspberries. I then got online to call in an order for the best bacon in the world. Turns out they are only doing online ordering and it had to be done a few days in advance. I was hoping to come home a different route, so I will make do with the second best bacon in the world that is more accessible from home. I was even planning on expanding my horizons to their hot dogs…

My final familiar comfort was Greenbush Brewery. I do not like any of their beers, but they do make an amazing mac & cheese with bacon ends mixed in. Plus, it was a nicer place not available at home that has food even picky 12 year olds will like. I also discovered that the Korean Beef BBQ Sandwich that I had last time and thought was just a special that day is actually on the regular menu, so I got the sandwich and the girls got the mac & cheese that I was able to take an aunt tax out of . Win-win for everyone, except for when Abigail knocked over a glass of ice water into my lap. It was cold, but not cool.

Our next stop was Round Barn Estate which is a winery. More importantly, they have a special program for teachers called the Teachers Hall Pass which means free admission to their concerts, use of their trails, and a 20% discount on their products! (I was especially excited about hat last part. ) We sat outside and I ordered a refreshing blueberry lime mojito that was the picture of a perfect summer day and the girls had blueberry slushies. Now these were not your dyed syrup on ice slashes from a gas station, this was real blueberry puree and whipped cream mixed and frozen into a very fine consistency.

So of course Loralie did not like it. I helped her finish it, though.

I got my email confirming my registration to the Teacher Hall Pass program ready so I could order some wine and finally noticed the second half of the FIRST SENTENCE that said I also needed to show my school ID. It’s summer, people. I cannot be expected to fully read and follow directions. I asked the waiter if I could get away with not having the ID and he stammered that he’d only been there a month and did not know what the Hall Pass was, so he needed to ask someone else.

I think the gentleman he sent over was a manager and he was a delight! He just asked for my info to get me into their system, got me the card so I would be all set for next time, brought out the bottles of wine that I had ordered in a bag that would entitle the holder to another discount, and then did not charge for the girls’ slushies. One of my requested bottles was a special creme liquor they make in the Salted Caramel flavor. He forgot they were out, so I said I would take the Mint Chocolate flavor instead (the original is Black Walnut, which is excellent and available in stores at home.) He asked if I had ever had it before, and when I said no, he insisted on bringing me out a free sample before committing. It was a Thin Mint in a glass, with a delightful kick. I think this was the best customer service experience I have ever had in my life. Highly recommend and you can borrow my bag.

We lugged my purchase back to the RV and prepared to go on the trail. I had chosen this because I thought it was something they would enjoy since they could not imbibe in the main attraction. We went less than 50 yards in before they both asked if we could just go on to our campsite. It was hot and I could see there were hills, so I agreed.

Our route took us through picturesque country with many a vineyard and orchard. While I enjoyed the view, the girls watched a download of Hamilton on my iPad.

I do not know where all our dawdling time went, but as I drove and drove the arrival time predicted by Google Maps kept getting later and later. I had hoped to be settled in the campsite before dark. It’s just easier and dawn/dusk light is the worst visibility for me. On one particular curve, the sun was at the exact right height to come through the tops of the trees to hit the dust on the windshield to completely blind me on a tight curve. Not fun and I did not need the jolt of adrenaline, thank you very much.

We pulled into to Traverse City just in time for the girls to still get a good look at Lake Michigan. I was surprised to discover that the park is right in the city. I was doubly surprised that the main road was between the park and the beach. The campsite reservation map I looked at really did not make it clear that there was a four lane highway between us and the lake.

We squeaked in with just enough daylight left to get the RV backed in. I was also surprised by how crowded the campground is for a Monday. The shower house is nice, though and that is number one on my campground amenities list. I will tolerate a lot for a good shower.

I’m not going to lie, but as soon as we parked the girls started driving me a little crazy. I had just driven four+ hours, and as soon as we were parked it was, “can you start a fire,” “where are our chairs,” “can I eat this,” “can you show me how to use the microwave,” “why is that plate sparking in the microwave,” and on and on. They would not let me sit down or stop asking me a million questions. It was honestly more exhausting than the drive. #IntrovertProblems

I had to chase them both off from reading this over my shoulder while I read.

I may or may not have to crack open one of those bottles from the winery.

Dawdling Along I was shooting for today to be a leisurely drive with plenty of stops up to our campsite at…

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ajp3mbgk-blog · 5 years ago

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