Weight Watchers Is Not a Diet – It’s A Community of People…

Dearest Readers:

This will probably be a short posting about something we learned at the Weight Watchers meeting Thursday, March 8, 2017. Two of my closest friends in Charleston are Tammy and Sara. Neither were at the meeting on Thursday…Just me, my shadow and other friends I’ve met thru Weight Watchers. Tammy moved to Florida a few months ago. How I miss her. Sara is out of town. We are keeping in touch and I need to send Tammy a text – something we do lately on Thursdays.

On Thursday, I lost .06 pounds. I’ll take it, I said – finally happy to be losing again. I hit plateaus that seem to last FOREVER. My goal was to lose 15 pounds by my class reunion in May. Since I lose so slowly, I do not believe I’ll achieve that goal, so now, I’m saying I’d love to lose five pounds by May. I’m hopeful the dress I bought two years ago will fit. I’ll let you know about that goal IF I wear it to the reunion. More on that – Later!

Looking around our meeting room at Weight Watchers I realized I joined this amazing group of ladies, and a few men, seven years ago. Back then, I wanted to achieve my ‘goal weight’ that year. Believe me, I’m still struggling to achieve that goal weight — WHATEVER the goal weight is for me. No one has mentioned I should weigh this ___, or I should weigh that ___! I realized it is up to me, and maybe my doctor, to select my goal weight; nevertheless, If (and WHEN) I reach that number, I will weigh less than I weighed in high school. I confess, during the four years of high school, I attended six high schools!  No, I wasn’t the kind of student to be kicked out of school. Changing high schools so many times was simply because my parents moved us as a family, and when I was 15, my parents separated and divorced, so we moved to Columbus, GA – to a mill village.

Needless to say, my teenage life was a life filled with stress, the inability to make friends, and many unpredictable situations I’ve written about on this blog. Fortunately, I graduated from high school and now, I’m happy to have a fulfilled life in Charleston, SC.

As mentioned, losing weight is not an easy task for me. Now, I’m back to working out and using the Freestyle of Weight Watchers.

During our meeting on Thursday, someone mentioned that Weight Watchers IS NOT A DIET…IT’S A COMMUNITY! How interesting and true that statement is. We have ladies (and a few men) wanting to lose weight. One special lady has been ‘lifetime since she was 17!’ She’s had many setbacks, but to look at her now, she is beautiful, slim and such an inspiration, especially to me. Other women have fought and struggled many times. Just like ME! Nevertheless, all of these Weight Watchers admitted they could not lose weight alone. They had to attend meetings! They had to face the scale once weekly, and they had to keep attending meetings. So like me! A beautiful lady sitting next to me stated she had her son’s wedding coming up so she understood my goal of ‘knocking ’em dead.’

I must confess, in high school I was a wallflower. My parents were divorcing. We lived with our maternal grandparents in a two-bedroom mill village house – with one bathroom. No washer, or dryer. No air conditioning. Simply a TINY house of brick and mortar. I did not make many friends in high school, nor did I date high school guys! Why would I? If I did, we as a family would pack up and move again. We lived like gypsies. Never having a home that would build me into the woman I am today. When I go back to my ‘home town’ I do not have any roots to remember. NOTHING. I thank God I survived and didn’t end up as a child with many problems. I credit that reality to my stubbornness, determination and independence and attending church regularly!

The one indiscretion I did have, and still have is the hunger for food. My grandmother made the most fluffy and delicious homemade biscuits ever. They seemed to just melt in my mouth and each time she made them, I ate my share. After my husband’s heart surgery in 1998, I changed the way I cooked, learning to cook healthier. Fortunately, I never learned to make Grandma’s homemade biscuits. Each time I tried, my husband called them hockey pucks. I do believe his description is correct!

My friends still ask me, “Are you STILL doing Weight Watchers?”

Yes. I’m still doing Weight Watchers and when I reach Lifetime, I will continue attending the meetings on each Thursday. I remind myself: This I do for ME! Nothing interrupts my Thursday meetings. I will miss my meeting when we go to my class reunion, but the next week I’ll get back on that scale again, still seeking “Lifetime!”

After all – for me, Weight Watchers IS A COMMUNITY. A community of encouraging women (and a few men) — haven’t I said that before? Even if we, as a community, have only five, 10, 20, 30, 40 or even 50 pounds to lose, together we can do this. I have anchors I use to remind me to continue. One of my anchors is a poem I repeat daily:

“It’s when things seem worse, you mustn’t quit,” and I say: “This too shall pass,” whenever I gain. I’ve learned not to beat myself up when I am not successful, and I keep reminding myself that Weight Watchers is what I do for me. No one else. No, I’m not working out daily and doing my best to lose weight for my husband, family, or shame. I am doing this for me. I look in the mirror daily. I wear makeup – DAILY. I style my hair – DAILY and now, I do my best to be accountable and to accept whenever I gain, or lose only “.06 of a pound.” A loss is a loss, I tell myself. Together, as a community WE can do this!

After all, Weight Watchers IS my life now! Next Thursday, I’ll be at the meetings. And the next….and the NEXT….continuing my journey to lose my weight, and to look the best that I can look at the class reunion and beyond!

Yes, I’m vain. I want to look the best I can look – for eternity and ‘beyond!’DSC_0061


Remembering Sir Shakespeare Hemingway

035Today, March 7, 2018 is an extremely sad day for me. Today is the first anniversary of losing my precious mini-schnauzer, Sir Shakespeare Hemingway. Exactly one year later, I am still heartbroken over losing him. Over making the decision to allow him to go to Heaven so he would not suffer any longer.

On the morning of his loss, when he struggled to walk outside, his rear legs gave out on him again. Those precious little energized legs split apart. He fell down and looked at me, as if to say, “It’s time. I’m tired. I’m weak. I’m sick. Mommy, please do something so I will not ache anymore.” His legs were so weak he could not lift them like most male dogs do when they potty. He was pitiful, deteriorating right in front of my eyes.

Sir Shakespeare was born on April 11, 2003. On April 12, 2003, I met him. There were three newborn puppies. The female was promised to someone else. I touched both male puppies gently, rubbing their ears. Little Shakespeare, the “piglet” responded with a slight moan and I knew he was the pup we wanted. He fit into my hands and I kissed him on the nose while whispering his name: Sir Shakespeare Hemingway. We visited him weekly and when he was six weeks old, I was told he could go home with us. I wrapped him in a blue blanket and we brought him home. Little Shake n’ Bake squirmed from my lap onto my chest, and there he rested until we arrived home.

Independent. Affectionate, and a unique personality – that was Shakespeare. We communicated. He slept with me, always wanting to rest on my hip – touching me. Always. He did not like it if I asked him to please move over. He responded by scooting his little body over, grumbling the entire way. In the morning, he would climb on top of me. If I didn’t respond, he reached out with his left paw to touch me and awaken me. His eyes stared deeply into mine. I kissed his nose.

When I was sick with acute bronchial asthma, Shakespeare followed me around like a shadow. He would kiss me once, then he crawled onto my chest, sniffed at my nose and mouth and refused to move. He was my nurse, caring for me while he listened to the wheezing in my chest. He would not move away from me, even if I asked him to. He simply stared into my eyes, as if to say: “I’m taking care of you. You’re sick. You need me.” He fell asleep on my chest and when I awoke, he was there. My nurse. My loving, caring little Shakespeare.

Over the years together, we walked daily, until Shamus died. Shakespeare would lead us. Occasionally, he stopped to smell a flower, or to feel the fresh breeze blowing in his ears. Sometimes he would pick up a stick and carry it while walking. He had a phobia of darkness if he was alone. On one night my husband and I got home a bit late. The breakfast room was dark. Shakespeare and our other pups slept in this room if we were not home. On this night, when Shake n’ Bake heard the car, he was barking a loud and vicious bark. When we walked into the room, he jumped on my leg, still barking. He was reminding me that he was in the dark and he was frightened. Don’t ever leave me in the dark again. You know I hate being alone in the dark.

The next morning, I placed a lamp on a table in the room, turned the light on and never left it off. Shakespeare would not be in the dark again.

As he grew older, his appetite grew. He would eat his food and if another of our precious little friends hadn’t finished their food, he would attempt to move them over so he could eat again. During his yearly wellness check-up when he was 10-years-old, the vet suggested giving him green beans and less food. Shakespeare lost weight, weighing in at 24 pounds, losing six pounds.

In September, 2016, after grooming, I noticed Shakespeare was still losing weight. Occasionally, he turned away from his food and wouldn’t eat. I struggled to feed him from my hands. He wasn’t hungry. His legs began to give away and when he went outside, he would move to a corner of the back yard, ignoring me asking him to come inside. His hearing wasn’t as good as when he was younger. I noticed if I clapped my hands three times, paused and clapped three more times, while shouting “Come here, Shakespeare” after a few minutes, he would get up and move slowly towards the door.

Although I could see Shakespeare fading away, I refused to accept it. I wanted him to fight. I cradled him in my arms, telling him I loved him and I wanted him to fight. He responded by licking my face, jumping from my arms, and when his feet hit the carpeted floor, he whined.

Our nightly ritual of cuddling in the chair no longer happened unless I picked him up, and when I reached to pick him up to cuddle with me, he wiggled, moving his back legs like spaghetti. He was in pain.

The vet said he was getting older. He reminded me that most schnauzers have a lifespan of about 14 years. Shakespeare was 13. He would be 14 in April. I wasn’t ready to lose him.

Over the next six months of his life, Shakespeare wanted to go outside less, and when he did go outside, he squatted. He could not lift those painful rear legs like most boys do. He would look in my direction, as if he was saying, “Don’t watch me. Don’t watch me fading away from you.”

In December, Shakespeare could not hold his bladder. He would urinate on the floor in the breakfast room. Sometimes he would do other business there. We placed puppy papers on the floor nightly since he was sleeping there now. I let him know I was not upset with him. I understood. His body was getting older and he was fading away. He licked my face to let me know he understood and he loved me.

On March 7, 2017, we made the decision to have the vet check him over and see if it was time to let him go. Our vet knows how much we love our animals. After examining Shakespeare, he looked at me with tears streaming down my face he said: “You’re making the right decision.”

I held Shakespeare in my arms. I told him it was time to see Shamus again. He lifted his left paw, touching me, and he kissed me one last time.

My arms were holding him as he went to sleep. The vet gave us a few more minutes together, then he asked if we were ready. Since Shakespeare was sleeping, I nodded. I heard Shakespeare’s last breath, and he was gone.

How I wanted to bring him back, but I knew he was suffering, weighing only 17.6 pounds on this date. He was so tiny now it was easy to pick him up. After losing him, guilt almost tore my heart out. I questioned everything while realizing we did the most humane thing by letting him go. I did not want him to die alone in the house with only his brothers around, nor did I want him to die in darkness.

I prayed that God would welcome him into the gates of Heaven and let him find Shamus so he would not be alone. I reminded God that Shakespeare did not like the dark, and I prayed for a sign to let me know he was ok and happy.

A few days later, I found a fly inside the house, flying around my desk. I was writing at the time so I did not pay attention to the fly until I found it floating inside my coffee cup.

“Shakespeare!” I cried. “You’re here. You’re letting me know you are OK.”

Through blinding tears, I smiled, remembering how Shakespeare detested when anything got in the water bowls, especially IF it was a fly. He would sit while taking his front paws, moving them into the water, attempting to remove the fly. After a few minutes, he would bark – his demanding little bark. He refused to drink any dirty water, or water that contained a fly.

Staring at the fly floating in my coffee cup, I picked it up, poured it out and washed the cup, while remembering my precious, silly, demanding Sir Shakespeare Hemingway.

A few nights later, I had a dream. Shakespeare was sitting on a hillside with the greenest pastures I’ve ever seen in life or while dreaming. He barked and wiggled and barked once more. In the brightness of the lights of Heaven, Shakespeare barked one more time, then he turned to run away while looking in my direction. Yes, Sir Shakespeare Hemingway Cooper was in Heaven, playing with Prince Marmaduke Shamus Cooper. Little Shake n’ Bake and Shamey-Pooh were together again.

Yes, today is a sad day for me. A day of remembrance and so much everlasting love.


Merry Christmas, 2017

Dearest Readers:

Today, December 24, 2017 is Christmas Eve. Today is also the anniversary of two of our dearest Friends, Joan and Jim Adams. May your anniversary be as special to them as they are to us.

If you are out and about in the middle of the insane Christmas rush, please DO NOT TAILGATE. I had too many careless drivers almost attached to the bumper of my car this week. So close, I could not see their headlights. Of course, if I had to stop suddenly all of you know what would happen. I simply do not understand drivers who love to drive that close.

Please, if you are driving, do not text and drive. Do not mess with your phone if you are driving. One never knows what can happen in the blink of an eye, or taking your eyes off of your driving.

May all of you have a safe and happy Christmas season. Yes, I say Christmas because Christmas is the holiday. The birth of the Christ child.  The ONLY reason for the season.

Enjoy your time with family and friends and please make every day special. We never know how long we will be here, so please do not take careless and foolish chances with your life or someone else’s life. Life is too short to rush it away.

May all of you have a wonderful Happy Christmas. I am hopeful 2018 will be a calmer, happier year for this household. Less drama. The years of 2015, 2016, and 2017 have been so stressful to me I have to remind myself to INHALE…EXHALE…BREATHE. INHALE…HOLD FOR EIGHT SECONDS…EXHALE…HOLD FOR EIGHT SECONDS…BREATHE.

At times, practicing the art of relaxation works. Other times, I want to scream. I simply must learn to relax again. After all, life is too short.

Merry Christmas to all of you, and Happy 2018. Another year is quickly ticking away.

Merry Christmas!

Happy Birthday, Walter Perkins – My Dad

Dearest Readers:

On December 19, 1914, two identical twins were born in Michigan. Lewis Eugene and Walter W. Perkins. Never did I have the honor to know Uncle Lewis. He died at 26-years-of-age from Bright’s Disease. I believe it is an inflammation of the kidneys. After his death, my father reportedly changed to a sad, miserable man. He and his identical twin were inseparable until Uncle Lewis died.

I lost my dad to esophageal cancer on July 6, 1999. I confess, a part of my heart died on that day. My dad and I were bonded. During his terminal illness, I visited him daily at the convalescent center and hospital, unless I was sick with my episodes of bronchial asthma.

Today, I would like to wish my dad and Uncle Lewis an early happy birthday in Heaven. No doubt, tomorrow will be a sad day for me; nevertheless, I will focus on the memories we made. Singing together. Teaching me to harmonize. Sharing my poems and other stories with him, and hearing him say on WCSC Channel 5 during an interview, “No. I’m not the writer. My daughter, Barbara, now she’s the writer!” My heart melted when I heard him say that. Finally, he was proud of me!

Our life together during my childhood wasn’t a good one. From the age of five-years-old, until I was 15, I served as the referee between my mother and my dad. Their marriage was a volatile marriage, filled with “I hate you…How I wish you were dead…I wish to God I’d never married you… You’re nothing but a bastard!” From both parties the hatred poured from their lips like steaming hot volcano ashes rolling vibrantly onto the grounds. Poisons. Poisons from lips without love or any form of happiness. During my childhood, I believe their angers, hatreds and tumultuous physical battles were protected within our home. I do not believe my grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins and friends of the family knew about the dreadful, dangerous domestic battles my parents fought. Secrets. Protected, never to be shared, until now. I knew not to say anything. If I did, my mother would come after me, slapping, knocking and pulling my hair out. If I wanted to live, my lips must remain closed.

Finally, at fifteen, I stood between them for the last time, telling them one of you needs to leave this marriage and this house. You’ve always hated each other… The next day, my father packed up and left. My mother spat at me telling me she hoped I was happy now. Their marriage was over and it was all my fault.

I rushed into my room. Never confronting her. Never calling my dad. I pondered my heartache inside while praying I would see my dad once again, and I would sing with him again. He visited us after the divorce. He rushed to hug me, something he never did until the bitter divorce. Gone were the shouting and fighting matches. My father had finally found out he was a ‘better man,’ as for my mother — her poisonous tongue spilled hatred to me every time she could. Shouting matches. Slapping my face. Pulling my hair until clumps of my hair fell into her hands. Never did I share these shattered, horrifying days with anyone.  I was taught to be seen, but not heard. How I detested whenever we visited family members. I was told to “say hello. Give a hug and keep your damned mouth shut.”

And so, I did!

To escape the misery of my teenage years, I married at 17. After moving to Charleston, Dad and I became much closer. When he was 68, in 1982, we moved him to Charleston to be closer to a family member. I delighted in caring for him and visiting him in his apartment until 1988 when I had to find a job to save my home and family. My job was demanding, working 40 hours plus, including weekends.

In 1997, during the holidays, Dad became ill. In December, he was diagnosed with esophageal cancer. He chose to battle the debilitating cancer until his death in July, 1999. During that time, we made wonderful memories. I changed jobs, so I could spend more time with Dad. I watched the wonderful, happy man he became and I loved him even more than he, or anyone, could imagine.

The week before his death, he sat in his room at the nursing home, reading his Bible, praying for God to ‘take me home.’ He was spiteful with me. Almost cruel, according to his roommate, Mr. Dudley. Dad would move his hands, telling me to leave his room. Although it hurt, I swallowed my pride and listened to him doing his best to detach from me. He did not want me around when he died.

On July 6, 1999, as I walked towards his room, I met a nurse, pushing an oxygen tank. “Oh no,” I managed to say, “that isn’t a good sign.” She nodded and when she and I placed our hands on the door of Dad’s room, I knew the moment of his passing had arrived.

I screamed. Cried. Hysterically, I sat in a chair, across from Dad’s room and I listened. The nurse wanted to know if I wanted them to ‘bring him back.’ I said No. He’s a DNR. Please do not resuscitate him. Let him go. He was praying to die soon.

Nineteen years ago, according to birthdays, my father celebrated his birthday now as an identical twin. No doubt, he and Uncle Lewis have caught up and replenished their lost years. I can picture them singing in the Heavenly choirs, inseparable and happy together.

Today, I would like to celebrate Walter and Lewis Perkins, better known as the Perkins Twins a wonderful Happy Birthday. Now, 103 years-of-age December 19 will be a joyous celebration in Heaven. I can hear my dad singing harmony with Uncle Lewis, probably singing Amazing Grace together while celebrating their reunion and Christmas.

As for me, I will be busy wrapping Christmas packages and maybe going out to get more Christmas goodies for our pups and for Phil. I always keep myself extra busy on December 19. While I am happy for my father to be reunited with Uncle Lewis and with God, I miss him.

Angel Oak Tree, a gorgeous tree embracing Johns Island, SC

Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday to the Perkins Twins. Oh, Dad — how I miss you!

In memory of:


Lewis and Walter – Identical Twins

Separated by death at age 26;

Reunited with God’s love at 84.

Holding the gates to Heaven’s Door.

 Missing and Loving you both —

Walter’s Daughter – Barbara



Sexual Assault/Molestation – My Story #MeToo

Dearest Readers:

Today I am writing about a topic close to my heart. A secret. Well, not after today’s post.

Listening to many current events, I am finding the courage to come forward about a subject, once closed. Another of those topics considered “a family matter.” Maybe I am finally finding the courage to share these experiences now since the issue is in the news. If you follow current events, I’m certain you’ve heard the accusations regarding Harvey Weinstein. Allegations of molestation…Rape…Sexual assault. And on…and on.

Many of these stories I haven’t read thoroughly. I get angry, and then, I have dreams, actually nightmares. Nightmares I want to toss into the trash, or delete from a keyboard. It is a bit difficult to delete these tragic events from one’s mind, so for many, many years I kept quiet. Never mentioning my sexual assaults.

Last night, I awoke, talking in my sleep. While I do not recall the entire “nightmare” I heard my voice saying “Stop it! Don’t touch me. Let me go! Stop it. STOP IT!”

When I was fifteen-years-old, I was sexually molested. I remember it just like it was yesterday. My parents were in the middle of a bitter, volatile divorce. My mother would tell me to “Never trust a man. They only want you for one reason, and when they’re through with you, they’ll toss you away like yesterday’s trash. That’s just what your daddy is doing to me. Throwing me away. I hate him, and I hate you. See what you’ve done. Your daddy wouldn’t divorce me now if you left us alone. I hate you and Him!”

Yes. It’s true. I caused my parents to divorce, after separating both of them while in a tumultuous fight. Arriving home from school, I heard shouting. My bedroom was across from their room. Leaving my bedroom door open, I listened to them shouting words of hatred to each other. The fight continued for a while, then – silence. I knocked on their door. No one responded, so I opened the door.

My mother was gasping for breath. Her face was blue. My father had his back turned, then he threw a pile of mail at my mother.

“What’s going on?” I said. “I heard the fighting.”

It wasn’t the first time my parents fought. I had served as their referee since I was five-years-old. My mother stumbled to a chair.

I picked up the mail, noticing “Past Due and Final Request” stamped on some of the bills.

“She’s gone and spent money again. Money I don’t have. There’s a letter from an attorney. If I don’t pay these bills, my wages will be garnished.”

I wasn’t surprised. My mother could not handle finances and when she wanted something, she purchased rings, and other items on credit cards.

Suddenly my mother rose from the chair, heading in his direction. She balled her fist, shaking it while cursing him. Dad rushed to her, hitting her. She fell. I rushed to her aid, shouting at my father, telling him he needed to stop hitting her. If he wanted to hit someone, he could hit me. I’ve seen my father’s anger many times, but today was the worst.

I stood between them, hands extended like a referee. “Don’t touch my mother again. If you keep doing this, one of you will kill the other one. Then, you’ll be in jail. One of you needs to leave.”

The next afternoon, I came home from school excited to share I had the lead in a musical. When I walked inside the house, my mother was scantily dressed in a torn, thin gown. Her hair was messy and her eyes were filled with hatred and rage.

She jumped towards me.

“I hope you’re happy now,” she shouted. “You stupid girl. Your daddy’s left and it’s all your fault. He’s divorcing me. You can consider him dead now!”

Three days later, we moved in with our grandparents in Bibb City, the mill village of Columbus, Georgia.

One of my great uncles took a liking to me, always telling me I was pretty and sweet. He invited me to ride with him on his dry cleaning deliveries. He said we’d have a ‘good time.’

Little did I know what his definition of ‘a good time’ really meant.

It was early springtime when I rode with him. He packed a variety of Tom’s snacks and Nehi orange soda for us to enjoy on this warm Saturday. Driving along, he talked about Papa and fishing and music. He knew I loved music. He played musical instruments so he invited me to sing with him at his house.

“You’ll love the music we play,” he said. “Good ole gospel music.”

“I like jazz,” I said, sipping my drink.

Carefully, I watched the directions of his driving. I’ve always been one to look for landmarks on the road. Little did I know how smart this little game of landmarks would become. We rode around to Smith’s Station, Alabama. According to roadmaps, Smith’s Station was exactly ten miles from Columbus, Georgia.

My uncle made a right turn on a dirt road. I glanced around, looking for homes, or maybe a farm. All I saw were dusty, red clay fields and another dirt road. He made another right onto another dirt road. I glanced behind me, noticing the dust from the roads created a thick, red fog.

“There aren’t any homes around here. Where are we going?”

My uncle smiled a devious smile. He reached his right arm over to me. “Come here,” He said. “You need to sit closer to me.”

I did not move. He thrust his arm my way, pulling me to him. My body tightened.

The interior of his truck was dusty. Freshly cleaned clothing hung on one side of the truck, covered with plastic and delivery orders attached. Still, I could see the red fog, now so thick I wasn’t certain anyone could see us.

“Where are we going?”

My uncle grinned. “Just relax. We’re going to pick blackberries.”

All I could see was a dirt road. The fields were freshly planted. I doubted blackberries were ready to pick. Something frightened me.

My uncle turned right again, pulling into a thick pile of brush and leaves. Tall pine trees grew in a line, so tall I felt I could reach the clouds if I climbed them. I wasn’t a tree climber. My uncle parked the truck, turning the motor off.

He laughed a horrifying, wicked laughter I did not like to hear. He pulled me closer to him.

“Stop it,” I said. I don’t want to get close to you.”

“Don’t you miss your daddy?” He asked. “Your mama said you cry for him. Come closer to me. I can be your daddy.”

“No,” I shouted, knowing no one would ever hear me. We were in the middle of a deserted field of red clay and pine trees.

“I want to get to know you better.”

“There are no blackberries around here. You lied to me.”

I remember crying. I was so horrified. Just what was my great uncle planning to do with me?

“I wanna go home,” I said, wiping my tears.

“And I want to know you better. You’re such a pretty girl. Your mama knows how pretty you are. She said I should be closer to you since your daddy left.”

His hands gripped my legs hard, moving up my thigh. He moved his right hand to my chest. I pushed away, but he was strong. Now, he was moving his entire body towards me, getting on top of me.

I screamed again, only I knew no one would hear. If I had any chance to get away from this monster great uncle, I had to fight for myself.

Since I was only 15-years-old and did not have any brothers, I had no idea how to fight, but I did all I could. My mother had never discussed sex with me, or what a girl could do to fight back. My arms were hard to move since he was on top of me. I heard the sound of a zipper, realizing my shorts were loser now. His hands rushed all over my body, moving into my genitals. I bit his arm. He pulled away for only a moment. My right arm was free now, so I moved my hands in the direction of his crotch. I had no idea what I should do, but I remember grabbing his crotch and I squeezed as hard as I could.

He screamed in pain. His body went limp. I pushed him away and I grabbed the door. Rushing outside, I ran as hard as I could. I knew the way home. I could walk. Smith Station and Columbus were only ten miles away. I was suddenly thankful I had strong legs and could walk the distance. The dirt road was almost an open field, so I could not find a place to hide. In the distance, I heard his truck. He was coming after me.

Raised in the Assembly of God Church, my grandmother had taught me to pray. Tears streaming down my face, I ran. When I saw his truck, I darted into a dry field with trees. Just maybe he could not drive his truck into the trees.

“Please, God. Help me. I don’t know what he wants to do with me, but I don’t like it. Please, God. HELP ME!”

My uncle saw me. He stopped the truck, opened the driver’s door and got out.

“You need to come back. We’ve got to pick blackberries.”

“You’re a liar,” I shouted. “I’m not getting back in the truck.”

He laughed. “Just how do you plan to get back home?”

“Walking,” I shouted as loud as I could scream. “I know the way.”

He rushed towards me. I noticed he was moving slower. Just maybe I had hurt him a little bit. Good. He deserves to hurt.

He moved closer to me, and when he did, I kicked him as hard as I could, right between his legs. He fell to the ground. I ran.

“Please God, guide me home. And please don’t let him catch me.”

A bit later, I heard the truck. My uncle gunned the engine, catching me. I looked behind me. The truck was getting so close I panicked, remembering when I was hit by a car at nine-years-old. I stepped to the side of the road. My uncle stopped the truck.

He was holding one of his hands by his crotch, and he moaned as if he was in pain.

“You get in this truck. I’ll take you home.”

“I’m walking,” I said.

My uncle jumped out of the car, picked me up and opened the passenger door. Kicking and screaming, I remember fighting as hard as I could to get free. He threw me in the seat.

“Don’t you move!” He said. “I’m taking you home.”

“I don’t want to be with you. I don’t like you anymore.”

“You just sit still. We’ll be back to your house before you know it.” He drove off, driving as fast as he could.

“If you tell one person I touched you, you’ll be sorry.” He said. “I’m a deacon in the church. No one will believe you.”

Tears were pouring down my face, and I tried to speak but my words were only garbled. Inhaling, exhaling, and slowly breathing, I calmed myself down, managing to speak.

“If you move one finger over here towards me, you’ll be sorry,” I said. “I know what to do now, and I’ll do it again if I have to. After today, don’t you even speak to me again. I hate you!”

Arriving home, I rushed to my bedroom. My mother asked why I was home so early. I ignored her.

I gathered some clothes and I rushed to the bathroom. I wanted to get the red dust off of myself. Scrubbing my body hard with Ivory soap, I cried and cried until there were no more tears left.

My great uncle came to the house a few days later. When I saw his truck, I rushed away.

Still, to this day, I can still hear his words, “I’m a deacon in the church. No one will believe you.”

Maybe now, someone will. I was victim at fifteen-years-old. Never did I report his sexual molestations of me. Why? Simple. Back in those days, who would believe a fifteen-year-old? They would say, You were asking for it. You wore shorts and T-shirt and you have a nice chest. You were just asking for it.

No, I wasn’t. In the dark of night while sleeping I still hear his words echoing to me.

“I’m a deacon in the church. No one will believe you.”

When he died, my mother phoned me, encouraging me to come to his funeral. I remember saying to her, “He can rot in Hell for all I care. He molested me.” That was the first time I shared his attack with anyone.

Regardless who or what a man is, there is no excuse for anyone to molest, rape or sexually assault any child or woman. Even if he is – a deacon in the church.

Now, people are under the impression a woman should always come forward; however, unless you are a victim, you cannot understand why it is so difficult and painful to “come forward.” It takes courage.

Victims are made to feel dirty, cheap, with a lack of self-esteem. I’ll not share how many years it was before I came forward and shared my story about my great uncle. When I did, I was told he had a history of ‘liking young girls.’

Looks like he got away with what he did, at least with me, after all – He was a deacon in the church.DSC_0032_edited










DSC_0062Dearest Readers:

Seems I am collecting an abundance of people to call when and IF we are “ordered to evacuate” for Hurricane Irma.

I detest being ordered. I’ve checked with many of my friends. Many of them are staying. At the moment, this household plans to stay too; nevertheless, I am preparing to leave – IF Irma doesn’t weaken.

Personally, I pray Irma realizes she is not welcomed here. Hasn’t the USA had enough challenges, contributions and headaches after Hurricane Harvey?

I’m watching The Weather Channel again. Seems that channel is my new, favorite TV station now. Their corporate office is located in Atlanta, GA. Are they under evacuation orders?

Probably NOT!

Meanwhile, to maintain my sanity after a horrible day yesterday where the two B’s in my name kicked in way too much, I am attempting to INHALE…EXHALE…BREATHE…!

But for now, I still have things to do to prepare my home IF Irma (isn’t that a really old name?) comes to town.

I do not think the powers that be in Charleston, SC will roll out the red carpets for her, and neither shall I! Local schools will be closed tomorrow (Friday) – thru Tuesday.

So, for now – I must get busy. I have files I need to transfer to a thumb drive so I can still have documents I’ve worked on. I’ve vacuumed and that was a challenge yesterday when the stupid handle of my vacuum broke. Imagine bending over to hold the broken handle just so one can vacuum. My back was killing me.

Today is a new day. The sun is shining and humidity is low. Perhaps the ‘calm before the storm.’

Maybe I’ll just go rest my stress-filled body on my bed. Maybe I’ll play with the dogs, or maybe I’ll cover my new vacuum in plastic, in hopes IF Irma comes to town, she will leave this home alone. I still remember the nightmares I had to fight just to get my home repaired after the “100 Year Storms” in October, 2015. Believe me, I canceled my coverage with State Farm after that losing battle!

Who knows what I’ll have to battle this time. I think I need a vacation – to Hawaii, or maybe the moon!

Until you hear from me again, please say prayers that all of us will be AOK.

Inhale…Exhale…BREATHE! This too shall pass!

Steroids…Weight Gain…Weight Watchers…


Dearest Readers:

Have you ever gotten so ill that your doctor prescribed steroids? Years ago, my doctor prescribed Prednisone to me. After taking it, I noticed my cognitive abilities were affected. I could not sleep. During the day, I was wired, and while driving, I drove off the road! Fortunately, no one was nearby!

I shared these side effects with my doctor, telling him I would refuse any prescriptions for Prednisone. What I should’ve told him was I will not take steroids! After my steroid consumption in June, I will let him know the side effects and I will not take ANY STEROIDS again! I mentioned to him how I struggled to communicate a simple sentence while taking Prednisone! Since I am a writer, my cognitive abilities must be sharp! For the life of me now, I cannot recall what the name of the drug was, although I do remember it started with a D. I took this drug faithfully, anticipating I would be better within a few days. I finished the medication and was still so weak, so ill, and coughing so hard, so I phoned my doctor. He refilled the same prescription.

Two weeks later, I was still sick, but getting better. My breathing meter said I was stronger, in the green area of the meter, and I was feeling better, with one exception.

I wanted to eat anything and everything within my home. I actually felt as if I would eat the kitchen cabinets IF they were flavored and edible. During one day, I went to the pantry, finding Ritz crackers. I took a sleeve of the crackers out, eating them in one sitting. Eating like this is NOT something I do. I joined Weight Watchers years ago. Before getting so sick, I had two pounds to lose to hit my first goal. Not the official goal at Weight Watchers to become lifetime, but my official first goal since it would be the number I weighed when I graduated from high school.

What is wrong with me? I am so hungry and I cannot stop this ridiculous eating! 

I phoned my husband. “Ice Cream. Ice Cream. I want ice cream.”

That evening, he brought ice cream home. I was eating everything I should not eat, and I was not tracking anything.

I glanced at my calendar, recognizing I had missed three Weight Watchers meetings. When I returned, I gained almost five pounds. At first, I blamed the gain on the steroids. Believe me when I say they have a serious side effect. Constant hunger and weight gain!

I was furious with myself. I cannot blame the steroid for making me gain weight, after all, I am the one who controls what goes into my mouth. Meanwhile, I’m still eating. Finally I realized I had to get control.

According to the Mayo Clinic website, http://www.mayoclinic.org/steroids/ART-20045692?pg=2, oral steroids, commonly referred to as Corticosteroids, some of the side effects are:

  • Elevated pressure in the eyes (glaucoma)
  • Fluid retention, causing swelling in your lower legs
  • High blood pressure
  • Problems with mood, memory, behavior and other psychological effects
  • Weight gain, with fat deposits in your abdomen, face and the back of your neck

My eyes were affected with blurred vision. I did not notice fluid retention in my legs, but I certainly gained weight and I was furious with myself. My blood pressure increased, along with my blood sugars. On several mornings, my blood sugar was over 200.

I was definitely moody. Snapping at my husband over the least little thing, and when the phone rang when I recognized it was another telemarketer telling me I had won another cruise…Would I like to attend a seminar about hearing issues, time shares, how to invest retirement funds, blah…blah…blah. Well, let’s just say I used a bit of colorful language telling them to stop calling this number! I started blocking almost every phone number, including two of my best friends. Fortunately, I’ve learned how to correct these errors. It certainly is quieter in my home now, without the constantly ringing telephone. Maybe we should cancel our landline!

Yep. You guessed it. Steroids were making me a B-I-T-C-H! Funny, the phone isn’t ringing much now! Thank goodness!

August 7 was exactly seven weeks since I took the last of the steroid prescription. When I see my doctor in October, I will tell him I cannot take steroids OF ANY KIND now. For me, it isn’t worth the risk. I find it interesting that medical professionals will tell us when we need to lose weight; nevertheless, when we become ill with an acute illness such as acute bronchial asthma, the professionals will prescribe steroids. The side effect of steroids is weight gain, only I’ve never had this side effect until June when I was so weak and ill.

How I pray I will remain well for a bit. I find it a bit funny that I was scheduled for ‘clinical testing’ to see if my asthma would respond to new medications. When I went for the clinical testing, my breathing was ‘too healthy’ to be considered for the clinical testing.

Suppose I’ll be happy now that I am able to breathe so much better and I can walk and exercise again! Thank you, God!

What did I learn after taking steroids? Simple. I learned that my body cannot accept them or allow them to be taken orally. For me, the side effect of weight gain and being such an arrogant maniac just isn’t worth the risk. I like myself when I am the real me…Not the B-I-T-C-H I become, thanks to steroids. Once, while in California, I saw a bumper sticker on a car. I loved it, wrote it down and practice it. It revealed:

I’m a Bitch.

B = Beautiful

I = Intelligent

T = Talented

C = Charming

H = Honest — in all honesty – the H = horny, but I changed that! There’s no need to advertise when hormones kick in!

Yeah. I suppose I could say I’m a Bitch…but a Nice One!