Celebrate the Dandelions

I was born in 1945 when families were encouraged to keep secrets.  The rule, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, stems from this concept.  Unmarried and pregnant young girls were sent to visit their fictitious Aunt Martha, or hidden in the upstairs bedroom.  If your father beat your mother, you learned quickly to accept his behavior as the norm in all families.  What we now view as abnormal behavior was never discussed with friends, neighbors, or the authorities.

There were few laws governing family safety, no books telling you how to protect yourself, and no councilors to provide advice.  Silence ruled.

Sadly, this silence birthed a generation of people unable to cope with the misery and chaos in their lives. With no one to lead them out of the darkness and into the light, many were forced to find their own coping methods which, in turn, created new (and some not so new) psychiatric maladies such as Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

Abuse, all abuse, creates monsters of us all whether we want to admit it or not.

CHAPTER 1

The Big Red Rooster

"The human mind is an amazing thing. It protects us when we can't protect ourselves. Sometimes when we are holding pain and it gets to be too heavy or goes too deep, we have to give in to it, let it knock us over and pull us all the way down. Once we hit bottom, we rest in a quiet place for a while. Then, when the pain eases and we're ready to face the world again, we come right back up."

-- Beth Hoffman

Nineteen forty-five celebrated the end of the war and my arrival into this world. I grew up in a time when fear of strangers did not exist. I recall with great fondness the unlimited freedom my sister and I had to wander as far from home as our curiosity dictated and physical endurance permitted. The only restriction placed on our travels was to be home in time for dinner.

The neighborhood provided an impressive number of children my age to play with. Games of tag, hide-and-seek, Simon Says and Statue lasted for hours, filling the warm summer air with shrieks of laughter as we chased each other from one backyard to another. Play lasted long after the sun had disappeared. We went home when physical exhaustion robbed us of the necessary energy required to argue with our mothers, who called out into the dark night that it was time to come home. Despite my loud protestations, sleep was always a welcome friend.

Mommy was a great cook and an immaculate housekeeper, but her real passion was gardening. Red, yellow, pink, and white roses lined the picket fence that separated our yard from the neighbor’s. Towering over a wooden picnic table next to the house was a tall, soaring Snowball tree covered with a zillion large, round clusters of tiny white flowers. Red and white carnations, yellow daisies, fire-red poppies, lavender lilacs, and dozens of other flowers with names I had not yet learned, bloomed throughout the yard.

In the corner of the front yard was a large, bottomless pond filled with man-eating piranhas that lay hidden beneath a thick layer of green lily pads. Daddy’s vivid description of the flesh-eating fish lurking beneath the surface was more than enough to keep our curiosity in check.

Wild blackberries grew unchecked along both sides of the alley behind our house and offered a free snack to any passerby. A giant cherry tree in Frank and Edith’s yard next door provided my sister and me an ample supply of pocket money. A small paper bag filled with cherries sold for a nickel, more than enough to buy a vanilla coke at the local soda fountain a few blocks from our house. It was not unusual for as many as three lemonade stands to be set up on the same block at the same time, creating fierce price wars as each one tried to outsell the other.

Boredom was not in our vocabulary.

The fun I enjoyed with my friends, the world of games and laughter, was separate from a private world only I was permitted to enter. I discovered my secret world by accident after waking from a nap on a hot summer afternoon. I was five years old.

Still groggy from sleep, I stood in the kitchen doorway looking out over the backyard. Paying no attention to the mechanics of what I was doing I stepped down onto the narrow sidewalk that divided the backyard in half. As I lifted my foot, I noticed a tiny ant twisting its broken body back and forth on the hot concrete as it tried in vain to escape.

Words alone cannot describe the guilt that swept over me at that moment. I watched, helpless, as the twisting slowly ceased. The ant lay motionless. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I tried to contemplate what I had done. My chest swelled with a painful sense of guilt. Overcome with remorse, I began to calculate an endless list of ifs.

If I had paid more attention to where I placed my foot, or had delayed just a few seconds longer, the little ant might still be alive. Did he have a family? Had my reckless action sentenced his children to a slow, agonizing death by starvation? The shame I felt rose to an unbearable level. I knelt down and with my tear stained chin pressed against the thick grass, I whispered, I am so sorry.

I repeated my apology several times hoping the sadness in my voice would convey the sincere sorrow and remorse I felt.

Drained of all energy and feeling too weak to stand up, I rolled over onto my back. Somewhere above I heard birds chirping. I smiled, wondering if they were warning each other of some impending danger or exchanging information on where the biggest and tastiest worms lived.

In the distance beyond the birds, I heard a dog barking. Straining to hear better, I shut my eyes and listened intensely. I recognized the familiar yelping of our neighbor’s collie. What was she saying? Was she calling out to her five new puppies or was she making meaningless noises?

Surrounded by so many sounds of life, I wondered if all the grunts, groans, howls and squeaks animals made meant something. Did animals talk? The question fascinated me and I quickly found myself following my train of thought to the next logical conclusion.

I surmised that when God made people, he gave them the ability to communicate. It made sense that he would do the same with animals. If animals talked, there was no reason I could not learn to talk to them. I smiled at my cleverness and wondered if anyone had ever thought of this before.

My skin tingled with excitement as my brain raced from thought to thought. I knew animals communicated emotions. I had seen this for myself. On more than one occasion I had observed Cecil, my dog, chase Bea up a tree, my cat shrieking in terror. I remembered when Buttons, Mommy is Chihuahua, fell down the stairs, and broke her leg. Her high-pitched whine had alerted us to her pain. But were animals capable of communicating complete thoughts the way people do? Could Cecil’s simple sounding woof, woof, woof, mean, Stay away from the boy who lives in the yellow house around the corner. He threw a rock at me today!

Suddenly faced with the immense responsibility of learning to talk to the animals, I wandered through the yard in search of a worthy subject. I stopped at the corner of the house and stared up at the large beehive hanging suspended from the edge of the roof. Ready to bolt at the first sign of danger, I strained to hear the sound of the bees hidden inside the hive. Their individual hums blended into a single, thick purr that filled the air above me. However, the danger they presented quickly eliminated them from the list of potential subjects for my study.

I continued down the sidewalk away from the hive absorbed in inspecting every rock, scrutinizing all evidence of life that I came across. Spiders were scary, worms were slimy, and slugs were plentiful, but disgusting. Birds were abundant, but impossible to catch. I dismissed Cecil as a potential subject. He spent most of the day trotting around the neighborhood and only came home at night to eat.

Bea slept all day and when she was awake, she never had much to say. Buttons had a lousy attitude and did not like to be touched. Frustrated at my lack of progress, I knelt down next to the lilac tree that stood guard beside my bedroom window.

All the wonderful sounds of life filled the air around me. Somewhere between the birds chirping above, a dog barking next door, and bees humming a few feet away, I heard chickens clucking. I gazed over at the large wire-covered pen in the corner of the backyard that housed a family of chickens. Months ago, soon after their arrival, I had lost interest in pursuing a relationship with them. They were too easily frightened and no matter how hard I tried, they would not let me play with them.

Determined to improve on my first failed attempt to make friends with them, I ran over to the pen. My sudden appearance startled the chickens, causing them to scatter in all directions within the pen. They quickly forgot their fear and went back to scratching the ground in search of grains. Confined and unable to run away, the chickens were the perfect subjects to study. However, how could I interact with them without triggering their quick-flight response?

I considered hiding inside a large box within the pen. However, my view would be limited and that would compromise my ability to observe the chickens. I searched the pen from top to bottom and side to side, trying to find a spot where I could sit undetected. Suddenly, my gaze stopped at the roof and I smiled at the thought of what I would do next.

Daddy built the pen up against a large mound of dirt that created a terrace or a second level to the backyard. Two rows of large rocks lined the terrace preventing the dirt from falling onto the lower level. Behind the pen, two empty wooden orange crates sat stacked one on top of the other. Standing on the boxes made climbing onto the roof easy.

Bursting with newfound enthusiasm, I jumped up and, ignoring the scattering of the chickens, I ran up the steps that led to the back of the pen and proceeded to climb up onto the roof. I got down on my hands and knees and crept across the roof stopping a few inches from the edge. From there I could view the entire enclosure below.

After watching the chickens for an hour, a pattern in their behavior became apparent. The chicks stayed close to the hens and the two roosters kept a significant distance between themselves and their brood. If a hen or chick encroached on a rooster’s patch of dirt, he flapped his wings frantically and charged, beak first at the offender, chasing them away.

For several days, I continued watching the chickens from the safety of my perch on top of the pen. I practiced mimicking the chicks and hens. However, learning to crow like a rooster was far more difficult. It was impossible to get the roosters to crow on demand forcing me to wait patiently until one was in the mood to do so. By the end of the week, I was finally able to identify the sequence of notes. The first note repeated several times with a short pause between repetitions. The second group was the same as the first, but higher on the scale and repeated slightly slower. The third note was a loud, single, high-pitched screech that slowly trailed off into silence. I practiced for a long time perfecting my technique until I felt confident I could convince both roosters I was their long lost brother from the feed store.

The next morning I got up early and took my position on the roof of the pen. Standing alone in the center of the pen was the big red rooster. I counted one, two, three, then let loose with a flawless crow causing the chicks to scatter and the hens to freeze in mid-step. The red rooster snapped his head back and forth several times looking for the source of the sound. I continued crowing, changing the pitch and the order of notes to see what reaction I would get from the rooster. I had clearly struck a nerve.

The animated response from below was magnificent. I spent every day over the next several weeks interacting with the red rooster. I did not know what message I conveyed to the rooster, or what he said back to me. However, my determination never wavered. I ignored the cruel remarks from my friends about my strange behavior and pretended not to care when my sister, Teresa, told me I was crazy. As far as I was concerned, I was doing something important and nothing anyone said, no matter how cruel, would deter my dedication.

Long after Teresa started kindergarten, I continued to climb onto the roof of the chicken pen and crow into the wind. As summer turned to fall, bringing with it days filled with cold wind and rain, my visits became more infrequent. After a solid week of heavy rain, the sun came out for a brief appearance and I ran out to the pen but the red rooster was gone. Concerned, I informed Mommy of the rooster’s puzzling absence. She laughed and said, Sweetie, we ate him for dinner last night.

Words alone cannot adequately describe the horror I felt learning I had eaten my friend. I not only ate him, I had asked for seconds. I felt a sickening wave of nausea rise up from my stomach and stick like a chicken bone in my throat. Gasping for breath, I ran into my room.

I spent the rest of the day agonizing over the demise of my friend, my comrade, my partner. I dismissed all plans to continue with my scientific project. Even if I did learn to speak chicken, I could never tell them their fate lay in the hands of cruel humans who thought nothing of chopping off their heads, plunging their lifeless bodies into a pot of boiling water with a few carrots and potatoes, and eating them for dinner. No, I could not tell them that.

I never again stood on the roof of the pen and crowed into the warm summer wind and I never again ate chicken.

CHAPTER 2

Mrs. B

"Your greatest memories aren't always about where you are or what you are doing. Sometimes it's more about who shared that moment with you."

--Nishan Panwar

One of my cherished memories in a childhood otherwise beset by insecurity, stress and regret, was the time I spent with one of our neighbors, Mrs. Barnaby. She told me to call her Mrs. B saying Mrs. Barnaby was too formal. Mrs. B often looked after me while Teresa was in school and Mommy was off running errands.

Be a good girl and do what Mrs. Barnaby tells you to do. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.

Mommy kissed me on the cheek then climbed into the car and drove away.

Now that Teresa was in kindergarten, I got Mrs. B all to myself. She was my best friend.

Mrs. B loved to collect things, old books, dishes, furniture, and odd-looking things she called knickknacks. She proudly displayed her cherished items in three very large, very old wooden cabinets in the living room. One cabinet was for her china, one was for her huge collection of salt and peppershakers, glass vases, brass candlesticks, and beautiful antique dolls.

Large, thick photograph albums filled with pictures of people she did not know filled the shelves of the third cabinet. I asked her why she kept pictures of strangers

A photograph is more than just a picture; it is a moment in time captured forever. Too often when someone dies, their belongings are given away or worse, tossed into the garbage. When I look at an old photograph, I do not see a stranger. I see a mother, a daughter, a sister, or a son who once meant a great deal to someone.

Sometimes, Mrs. B and I would spend hours looking at the photographs on the walls or going through the albums trying to imagine who the people were and what their lives were like.

One day, after eating lunch, Mrs. B disappeared for a few minutes, returning with two pairs of black rubber boots, one pair for her and the other for me. After stuffing my boots with several sheets of old newspaper to make them fit, she slipped them onto my feet. I stomped my feet several times until my toes pressed neatly into the crumpled paper. She then handed me a large cloth bag with handles, similar to the one she had. I waited silently as she adjusted her favorite yellow straw hat until it sat perfectly centered on her head. Finally ready to go, we marched out the front door hand in hand.

We walked up one street and down several more before finally arriving at the entrance to the alleyway behind the feed store. Still holding hands, we marched up to the three large garbage cans standing next to the back door. Mrs. B positioned a small wooden box in front of one of the garbage cans for me to stand on. I climbed onto the box and peered down into the can. An untrained eye only saw garbage. However, Mrs. B was an excellent teacher and I was a very good student. She told me I had an eye for the good stuff.

I reached down into the pile of clutter and grabbed a two-foot length of rope wound tightly into a figure eight. Without bothering to lift my head, I waved the rope in the air to get a yea or nay from my teacher. Hearing an enthusiastic yea, I stuffed the rope into my bag. In a matter of minutes, I found an open, half-empty package of wooden sticks Mrs. B called dowels. I also found a long black rubber tube and two small empty bottles.

Satisfied we had found all the good stuff, we headed down the alley toward the IGA Grocery Store two blocks away. Behind the store was a large metal container filled to overflowing. Mrs. B lifted me up and over the edge so I could stand inside and hand her whatever I found. This was where the boots came in handy. With very little effort, I found two heads of wilted lettuce, a large bunch of rubbery carrots with their wilted greet tails still attached, several un-shucked ears of corn, three brown bananas, and two red delicious apples. I was especially pleased when Mrs. B told me I could take the produce home to feed to the rabbits we kept in the backyard.

We ended the afternoon behind the local dress shop where I found two slightly soiled handkerchiefs, a packet of blue buttons, and a broken silver belt buckle. However, Mrs. B found the best item of the day. It was a beautiful pink straw hat with a large white ribbon tied into a bow in the back. She placed the hat on my head then and patting me affectionately on the shoulder, said, Keep up the good work kiddo, and pretty soon you will be as good as me.

I smiled with pride as we walked home hand in hand. Mommy stood beside the front door, waiting for us when we arrived. It was time to go home. After exchanging the boots for my shoes, Mrs. B handed me a large paper sack containing the rabbit food and gave me a kiss on my cheek.

On the way home, Mommy said, Valerie, that’s a very pretty hat you’re wearing. Did you thank Mrs. B for giving it to you?

I giggled, but remained silent. Mrs. B told me not to tell Mommy about our treasure hunts. She did not think she would approve. I kept my word and never told anyone.

CHAPTER 3

Secrets

"No one ever keeps a secret so well as a child."

--Victor Hugo

I heard Mommy in the kitchen making breakfast. Teresa was already up, dressed, and eating her cereal. She was so predictable. Teresa was smart. She liked school. I did not.

For a long time waited, eager for school to start, but now that I was finally in the first grade, I dreaded the coming of each day. I did not like my teacher, Sister Sarah, and I disliked Sister Superior even more. I pulled my blanket up over my head, closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

The clanging in the kitchen stopped, providing the signal for me to get up. Mommy usually let me sleep until the last minute, before coming into my room to get me out of bed. In about thirty-seconds she would pull the blanket back, tickle me until I begged her to stop, and then walk me to the bathroom where she would brush my hair while I washed my face and brushed my teeth. I hated getting up, but I liked the way Mommy greeted me every morning.

Dressed in my uniform, I sat at the kitchen table and ate my oatmeal as slowly as I could, as if that would stave off the inevitable - going to school. Mommy signaled with a clap of her hands that it was time to leave. She held my coat open while I slipped my arms into the sleeves. She kissed me on the cheek and told me to have a good day. I rolled my eyes. Sure, dogs can fly, too!

I heard the front door open and slam shut. Teresa had left without me again. I gave Mom a quick kiss and ran for the door, hoping to catch up with Teresa before she got too far ahead. She knew how much I hated walking to school alone and enjoyed teasing me by leaving before I was ready. I usually caught up with her, but a few times, I had to walk all the way to school alone and unprotected.

I opened the door and ran down the steps, up the sidewalk, through the front gate, and out onto the street in front of the house. Teresa had disappeared. Frantic, I looked up the street then across the street toward the vacant lot. Which way had she gone? I did a quick eny, meeny, miny, moe, and then ran across the street and up the bank into the vacant lot. Cautiously, paying careful attention to every step I took, I followed the well-worn path across the lot, keeping an eye out for the giant hole hidden beneath the thick patches of knee-high grass and weeds.

Daddy showed me the hole a long time ago, when I was a little girl. Once, he held me upside down with my head dangling a few inches from the hole, saying, The dirt around this hole is very soft and the slightest pressure from a single step will cause it to open up and swallow you alive.

As if that was not enough to fill me with terror, he would continue teasing me, saying, This hole goes all the way to the center of the earth where it is cold, dark, and very scary. If you fall into it, no one will be able to save you. You will be forced to live there forever, alone except for the giant man-eating rabbits lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce on you.

He added to the horror by saying the terrible creatures in the hole belonged to the family of rabbits we kept in the backyard in the chicken pen He said sometimes, when the rabbits had too many babies, he would toss them into the hole saying that was the best way to keep their number manageable. His description of the horrors below the surface frightened me beyond description. Whenever I walked along the path, I always gave the hole a very wide berth.

I paused at the edge of the lot before crossing the street. I ran past the drug store and the IGA. In the distance, at the end of the block, I saw Teresa standing at the traffic light with her back to me. I ran as fast as I could and reached the corner just as the lights turned green.

Teresa pretended not to notice me. We crossed the street in silence. As we passed the Feed Store, I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. I stopped abruptly.

I asked Teresa to stop for a minute. In a voice filled with irritation she said, I am not stopping because I don’t want to be late for school. If you cannot keep up with me, you are on your own.

Can’t we cross over to the other side and go around the block? I’ll walk fast so we won’t be late.

No! There is no reason to go around the block. What are you scared of? You are acting like a baby.

Ignoring my pleas, Teresa crossed the street, leaving me standing on the corner alone, frozen with fear as I watched her disappear around a bend.

My heart beat so loud I could hardly hear myself think. Only a hundred feet away from where I stood, loomed the Ruth School for Girls, intimidating, hidden behind a huge iron fence backed by a high, thick hedge.

A long time ago, Daddy told me that was where they sent little girls who did not keep their secrets. His terrifying description of the school frightened me so much, I dreaded being anywhere near the building.

The girls who live there told secrets they promised to keep and are being punished for not keeping their word, he said ominously.

To make sure he had my attention, he let me know how horrible a place the Ruth School promised to be for these bad little girls.

The school makes them sleep together in a large room with a single candle for light. They have only one meal a day consisting of a single piece of dry bread and a glass of water. A sick grin covered his face.

Worst of all, no one is allowed to have visitors. If you tell anyone our secret, you will never ever see Mommy or Teresa again. They will not even know where you are. Once the door shuts behind you, you will disappear forever.

Trembling, I opened my eyes and looked up at the giant, ugly, three-story brick building staring down at me. Three even rows of blackened windows looked out onto the street. Although I could not see anyone, I knew someone was watching me from behind the shadows. I wondered if they would conclude that the fear in my eyes was a sign that I had broken my promise.

Convinced that someone hid behind the large oak tree next to the gate, waiting to grab me, I crossed over to the other side of the street and began to run as fast as I could.

I ran all the way to school, up the stairs and down the empty hallway to my classroom door. With my heart beating frantically, I leaned against the wall to catch my breath. When I turned around, Sister Superior stood in front of me, tapping the heel of her shoe on the floor. She stood with her arms folded across her chest, her eyebrows pressed together. Her eyes fastened on mine with