I’ve been assigned the task of writing an autobiography, the story of me, an obituary of sorts. Daunting but cathartic, I’m told. How does a person who is reluctant to talk about herself write the story of her life? By looking at it through the eyes of an outsider, I’m thinking. It’s more than I was born, I grew and I live. It’s about feelings, beliefs and the courage to act upon both. And so I begin.
I was born a farm girl, second youngest of six (so reminds me of the line in The Jerk…I was born a poor, black child). We had little money but food was plentiful thanks to gardens and livestock. Love was also plentiful. Mom was gentle and caring; Dad tough but fair. Work was most plentiful of all. I grew up in the garden, the hayfield and the barn. Throwing bales of hay and pulling weeds. Picking and canning vegetables. Chasing cows and pigs. Ever try to rope a pig? Not easy, I assure you. And dreamed of the day I could get out. My fondest memory of it all was my dreams, not realizing that someday I would look back on it all and appreciate what I was given.
From my father, I learned the value of hard work and developed a love of sports. He worked the steel mill during the day and the farm in the evening to provide for his large family. He never stopped as long as there was something that needed to be done. And we all joined in, willingly or not. I remember watching sports with him from a very young age. We went to a lot of Pirate games with my father and they were the greatest times. I wanted to be the first female member of the Pittsburgh Pirates when I was a kid. Together we enjoyed the glory days of the ‘70’s Steelers and Pirates, along with the incredible Lemieux years with the Penguins.
From my mother came my love of music and the basis for my faith. Mom was a concert pianist, a member of the church choir and a fantastic example of how faith can positively mold you. She led by example. She was mild mannered and just a wee bit ditsy. Not much of a cook, but she could make you cry when her fingers touched the piano keys. When things got her down, she relied on prayer. In her later years, after all six of us had moved out, Mom had a chair upstairs in the old farmhouse where she sat when life got to her. She called it her crying chair. It had sagging springs, with an old cover over the cushion and desperately needed refinishing. I don’t remember where it came from but when she passed away, I went to the chair and did my own crying.
I think, of the two of them, I resemble my mother in next to nothing other than musical aptitude and strong faith. I work hard, like my father, and have little tolerance for anyone who doesn’t. Those who know me would tell you that I inherited my father’s disposition, although whether that is a good thing or bad depends mostly on the situation at hand.
As a child, I had the usual lessons, piano and gymnastics, baton for which I had no coordination. Together, my younger sister and I were in local parades twirling our batons (more of a weapon in my hands) in our little purple suits with the fringe on the butt or tumbling on the pavement to the detriment of our knees and hands. As I grew older, I had my clarinet, piano and singing in the chorus. Music and dancing had become the two most important things in my life. To a certain extent, they still are; a calm island in the storms of life. I have since added a guitar to my repertoire although my lessons there go slowly.
When I was a teen, I discovered my love of the written word. I began with sappy, miserable poems full of angst, my anger at the world in general. Because I also loved music, my next genre was song writing, equally foolish and melancholy. I believe my mother thought I was suicidal when she read it all, although nothing could have been further from the truth. Except the day that John Lennon was shot but wasn’t every teenager that day? Writing had become my passion and so upon graduation, I headed to college with the dream of some day becoming the first female sports writer to enter the hallowed halls of the Pittsburgh Steelers locker room. That didn’t happen but I did make it in when my young daughter, full of love and awe for Bubby Brister and Merril Hoge of the ‘80’s Steelers teams, followed them in after a practice game. They were both very kind as we were kicked out.
Life is what happens when you are busy making plans or so I’ve heard. I didn’t graduate from that esteemed institution of higher learning, much to my father’s great disappointment and infuriation. But although my college experience was brief, I learned well in my brief sojourn there from several very dedicated and talented professors, both of whom I remain in touch with to this day. Instead of being a world famous reporter, I fell in love and became a wife and mother at a very young age. And a mother again several years later to a second daughter. While that sounds cliché and banal even to my ears, that is basically what happened. Although my tumultuous marriage took the way of my reporting dreams, I have no regrets as I have the love of two beautiful young ladies, both of whom I am very proud. I had a son for a short time, a handsome sprite who loved to play basketball and pretend he was Michael Jordan. I guess God figured he needed him more than I and took him away after only four years. And finally, a grandson, who is just rowdy and resourceful enough to make my life both challenging and exhausting. And I wouldn’t change a thing about any of it, even if I could.
I have my little quirks, as most people do. Most of them revolve around my dream. How many people do you know edit every novel they read as they read it? I do it unconsciously. I can’t help myself. It is also a habit to wake up out of a sound sleep to write on the notepad I keep beside my bed. Or halt a conversation to do the same thing. People who know me have come to expect it. Hey, if it isn’t written down, it’s forgotten. I speak to strangers constantly, although now, almost everyone is a stranger. I listen to everyone’s problems without judgment. My friends from back home say I like to adopt people and perhaps I do. Children most of all. I may be more like my mother than I thought because I feel an incessant need to help people.
I spent almost twenty years behind a desk at several different companies, each as diverse and, to be truthful, boring as the other. While I made some really awesome lifelong friends, I had a constant feeling with each job that I was only there on a temporary basis, as a means to an end. I had no idea where I was supposed to be but knew that I’d get there in time. I lived in several different states, enjoying my time in Texas most of all. And knew that I would move on, whether I liked it or not. My younger daughter calls me a flight risk. And now, as I sit in the place I have chosen (or was chosen for me), I am almost back to the beginning. Utilizing my love for writing and hoping, despite my ocean of self-doubt at times, that I can succeed where I didn’t before. My dream changed as I got older, but became no less grandiose. And now, as I venture on in my writing, my only goal is to become better than Danielle Steele and almost as good as Nora Roberts.
How will I be seen when I am no longer around to see? A Christian who, more often than not, walked the walk. A loving mother, most assuredly. An adoring grandmother, most definitely. But hopefully also a loyal friend and confidant. These four things are worth more than as a talented writer or even a successful one. I’d like to see my legacy as children and grandchildren who are secure in who they are and fully free to show their love to whomever they choose. To follow their dreams wherever they might lead them. And that, for better or worse, is the story of me.
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