Newlywed Widow

Copyright © 2012 by Beverly Short

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ISBN: 978-1-4525-4680-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-4678-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-4679-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012901798

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Front Cover- Karman Kruschke Photography

Author’s photo -Will Cullinan

Photo credit -Zizzer Cheerleaders - Roy H Hathcock

Printed in the United States of America

Balboa Press rev. date: 02/24/2012

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

In Memory of

Bob Short

and

Eldine Weaver

People, who wait for the dream to become tangible, pay a higher price than those who believe without seeing.

~ HOLLY TAYLOR

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Though writing a book is something that is done completely alone, I have found a large amount of support from my family, friends and neighbors.

I’d like to thank Amy for her heartfelt friendship, honesty, enthusiasm and support. You truly are a kindred spirit. And to Kiley; keep writing, girl!

Thank you to Chad Houfek, my twin heart, for keeping me centered and grounded while pointing to the stars.

Holly Taylor, thank you for being such a dear, sweet friend by lending your insights and constructive guidance during the writing of this book.

Winter Melgar, you are the spark in my heart. Your open mind and heart has an integrity that shines greater than any diamond could.

Will Cullinan, your kindness and generosity of spirit has come to me when I needed it most. Thank you for my author’s photo! I’m a lucky gal to be your friend and neighbor.

Thank you to Karman Kruschke, with your magic circle of photographic talent in shooting the cover of this book. You saw inside my soul.

Thank you, Jack, for your support by reading the early drafts of this book.

Many thanks go to Lys Chuck, for being a trusted ally in publishing. I’m inspired daily, by all that you do.

I like to especially thank Barbara Smith-Wiley for insisting that I use your real name. Your bravery, honesty and integrity are what I admire most about you.

To my parents, Dale and Peggy Bunyard: Thank you for making me a strong, independent woman.

There is wisdom in all that we do, regardless of how it’s judged by others. You eat what you bring to the table in this life. And my life has been a Smorgasbord, being your daughter. Your support and faith in me and in this book, has been immeasurable.

Thank you to my real sister, Jeanne Winkler, for being so, supportive as I began this journey.

I’d like to thank my sons, Grant and Weston, for listening to me and hearing my advice on life lessons. I know that you heard me. I’m proud and grateful to be your mom.

CHAPTER 1

It Was Just a Dream

THE GOLDEN ROPE FELL slowly onto the glossy, black record album spelling out, Newlywed Widow. I woke up gasping for air as if I’d been fifty feet under water and I’d just made it to the surface. Our waterbed sloshed and shifted beneath me with each attempt to sit upright. And just as I succeeded with my hands planted firmly and my fingers spread wide to support myself against the warm vinyl of our bed, I looked down at Bob who was peacefully dozing away.

It was just a dream. It was just a dream, I kept saying to myself as I tried to slow my breathing and calm myself down enough to get back to sleep. But my mind kept searching out that image; Newlywed Widow. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this dream wasn’t like any other nightmare I’d had before; it was a solid premonition. I could still see it in my [mind]; spelled out beautifully in cursive, golden rope. The letters stretched diagonally across the front of the glossy, black album cover as if it had already happened and this was the soundtrack from his life. In this album we would hear his hopes and dreams, his frustrating teen years, his longing to be a musician and his goofiness of character. This album would be his epitaph and it was right here in my head. I was immediately angry at myself and frightened for Bob. I hated feeling so certain.

I tried to get back to sleep, but my mind keep bouncing back and forth from present to past, which came flooding into my head and, into this life with Bob. After a lifetime of premonitions, I knew this gut feeling so well, that there was no denying it. The Lady in the Mirror told me about this when I was six years old. So, it must be true. My mind kept going back to my early childhood with all its trauma and dimensions of an unlived innocence. After a few long deep breaths, my heart began to beat at a regular rate and my breathing calmed as my memory went back to the time of my first encounter with the Lady in the Mirror…

CHAPTER 2

Short, Deaf and Cross-eyed

UNUSUALLY SHORT FOR MY age, I often ended up on the lap of an adult at most gatherings. Though I was uncomfortable sitting on laps, I was obedient when asked to do so. The bridge of my nose was so wide that my mom used to squeeze it together in public to illustrate that I was not cross-eyed. I greatly appreciated this. Because my hair was so blond and fine, I was four years old before I actually looked like I had hair. But there was hope for me yet, because by the time I was five years old, my hair was long enough, that I had to wear one of those plastic headbands lined with sharp plastic teeth that poked me in the head for most of the day. One of Steve’s favorite pastimes was to slam his fist on top of my head, thus driving the teeth even further into my scalp. Older brothers are fun that way.

Steve, my only sibling, was one year and fifty-one weeks older than me. Our birthdays were generally celebrated together on his birthday. He was a lanky, pigeon-toed, blond haired boy with deep brown eyes that gave away very little information. During my preschool years, he was an ideal protective brother being adventuresome and fun to be around; just the kind of big brother you’d want to look up to.

Our family lived in a small town, just outside of Kansas City, Missouri; close enough for occasional trips to J.C. Penney when a new Scout uniform or a new shirt for Dad was in need, but far enough removed from the big city to give us the quaint, Victorian enchantment that only Harrisonville could afford.

As Harrisonville was the historic seat of Cass County, I sensed an air of nobility in being one of its citizens. It was alive with charm and dignity having survived the Civil War years inheriting the face of a seemingly untouched past. I gleaned my lessons from its bricks and mortar learning, early on, how important it was to show a good face in the wake of trauma. The Harrisonville Hotel sat prominently on the north side of the square and it seemed to be the central touchstone for everyone in town. As a kid, I observed that folks just hung out there for coffee and gossip but, it felt more like home to me as we lived in that old hotel for a few months while our duplex was being built. Our room was on the second floor, with its windows facing the courthouse, which stood in the center of the square. I could see the yellow brick courthouse through our two slender windows that ran from floor to ceiling. My parents took the bed closest to the windows, protecting us from the winter’s draft. It was in their bed, that I would be calmed after my nightmares, which were the direct result from the pain of my ever constant earaches. Over our door, was a transom through which you could hear other guests settling in for the night. During the day, I roamed around downstairs, considering the hotel my very own Victorian mansion with its three-story, Mahogany banister, which wrapped the stairs like a fancy ribbon all the way up to the top. Steve would slide all the way down the rickety banister, from the third-floor; (which was not open to hotel guests). We knew we weren’t supposed to go up there, but that didn’t stop my brother. He went anyway and talked me into it (once), which was enough.

Worthy, the hotel manager, would serve me Pepsi in a plastic amber-colored tumbler and then hold his finger over the dancing fizz so that my drink wouldn’t spill over. I could have lime or orange sherbet whenever I wanted. And sometimes, for dinner, I’d only have mashed potatoes with a