SKELETONS as in the closet kind

I really don't want to write this as it's very personal. (That would be a warning to anybody not looking for something awful to read.) I've been thinking a lot about family and the stuff that gets hidden and becomes damaging, the skeletons in my family's closet. I had been thinking about it quite a bit, because my daughter asks questions I have felt are not my business to answer, which leaves her hurt. Wynona Judd was on 'Oprah' the other day, she was telling how hurt she was to find out at 30 that the man she thought was her father and the folks she thought were her grandparents weren't hers at all, and that her younger sister Ashley knew, but nobody told had ever bothered to tell Wynona. . . I'm guessing there's a lot of that families do to each other. I don't intend to advertise this post, but I want you to understand, this is gonna get vile and disgusting. If you are my family reading this, I'm sorry, but maybe you should know.



My story is multi-generational. Nobody in my family will be happy I'm posting this, so I'm going to have to change some of the identifying points. I don't think that will matter, they will still not be happy with me. Of course, I've always been the loud-mouthed child, considered to be the one who didn't know her place. I will only tell what I know to be true, that was confirmed by other people, because what I know has been disputed as 'what I was brainwashed by my mother to believe'.

Most of this has to do with my mother. To me, every time there has been a major change in her life, she has had to become a different person. The person she is now is a lot like my grandmother was at the end of her life, sweet, humble, believing she is cherished (whether it's true or not) by all she loves, and completely dependent on others. Before she was married to my step-dad, she was very independent, made major decisions like when it was time to buy a house or a car, went where she needed to go and saw who she wanted to see, when she wanted to see them. (Part of the difference lately may be that she's retired, but to me that's only made it more striking.) When we children were all in the house still and she wasn't working outside the home, she seemed to be holding back from engaging in life too, maybe from depression. When we were very little, she seemed to be a bit 'Mommy Dearest' but that could have been due to the stress of where she was.

My mom was married the first time, I think, at 18 years old, had me at 19. She looks in the photographs of the time, to me, to be content with her decision, but not the overjoyed blushing bride you normally see. Many people are glad to get out of their parents home and be a grown-up, but I believe her motivation was beyond that. I believe the 'contentment' may have been due to the relief of being out of the house. What she has told me, and other family has confirmed, is that while her mother had been laid up due to back injury a couple of years before, she was molested by her father.

She didn't tell me this, of course, until I was very much adult, but it explains a lot. Her father has a hold on her and a couple other family members that is borderline sexual (which is stomach churning to watch when in his presence) and with his ability to manipulate others with money (their need for it and his having a little) has caused me to not want to be around and I have chosen not to when given the opportunity since my grandmother died, even if it means missing out on seeing other family members that I love. He has caused other kinds of pain to family members, some of which resulted in deaths of their children . . . That was not something my mother will discuss with me, she seems to want to cover it over. He has never apologized or been punished, has demanded love and respect as patriarch that I can't give. Of him I want nothing but to be left alone and will not encourage the association of others in my family with him. However much I miss my grandmother, however much I admire her dedication to her family by staying with him, when she must have known who it was she was married to, possibly believing there was no where else to go. I can't honor her by having anything to do with him.

Now, someone (religiously) may point out that this would be considered unchristian, or Biblically unrighteous, based on the commandment that we are to 'honor your father and mother', certainly I may have family members who would say that, and I would have to argue, being the loud-mouth child who doesn't know her place, I would have to stand up and say that would apply to individuals that were Honor-able. You can't honor someone who has no honor. The way that he would have earned honor would be to admit his sins, ask for forgiveness and worked to regain his honor even accepting punishment, which I have searched for and cannot see has ever happened. I don't wish to judge him, but to protect myself and those I am in a position to protect from life-changing hurt, I won't have anything to do with him.


If ever anyone thought that our life wouldn't be changed forever by that kind of hurt, I'd have to disagree with you, based on my own life.

My earliest memories are mostly being terrified of my father. When I was a preschooler, probably between 3 and 4 years old, he very nearly broke my arm. I had been standing on the floor between him and the television, and, with anger, he lifted my by that arm and carried me down the hallway and flung me onto the top of the bunk bed. It was three days before he took me to the hospital, my mom tells me, but what I remember was trying so hard not to cry over the pain of my injury that I nearly wet my pants trying to control my sobs. He spoke a different language from my mother, in that he could curse anything and everyone horribly, violently, where the memory of her voice at that time was gentler but anxious and worried. Later, when their were five of us, out of control and wild, her voice elevated to screaming, and that may be what my siblings remember. I had a fear of her, but I was terrified of him. He was so angry all the time that I did fear for my life. When I realized he was beating my mother, I feared for hers as well, and for us all if that did happen.

The first time I remember they were separated, came when I was in the first grade. I was surprised one day when someone from the office came to get me out of class with all of my things. My grandfather had come to take us to his home away from my father and all of my family and our belongings were packed in their trucks. My mother reconciled with my father about a month later, but I stayed behind at my grandparents house to finish out the school year. Later, I was told by a family friend that there had been irrefutable proof that I was being molested by my father. I don't remember that happening. I do know my mother was miserable. She was trying to do the right thing and being told by my grandfather that she was stupid and couldn't do anything right that she felt compelled to go back when my father said he was sorry and he would be better. She had to believe him, because the alternative wasn't a very nice option either.

When it was time for me to go home, too, I was surprised that it was only him that showed up to collect me. On the journey home, we stopped. That was the first occasion I remember him touching me inappropriately. However, looking back on it, I was not surprised by his actions, so perhaps it had been happening before and I was just not aware it was wrong until then.

As a child of a violent parent, I think there is a tendency to attempt to please, in order to direct the parent's anger elsewhere, or to calm the anger. Dogs do the same thing: a person can beat a dog mercilessly and the dog will turn and lick that person's hand. I believe that I tried to ignore it as inappropriate and tried to believe that by participating I was gaining his love. He told me so, and that this activity prepared me for adulthood and it was his job to prepare me for a husband.

When I was in the third grade, my mother got him out of the house, I think she had him arrested. I'm not sure now how she got him out, but for a while he was gone, and during that time we went to court. I had to testify in a judge's chambers, in front of a group of strange men (the only woman was my mother and the only other person I knew was my father) of how he had touched me and describe where and when. The result of all of this was that he had to see a therapist. My mother told me that this therapist basically blamed her for my father's actions and he came back home. I don't know really what the therapist's opinion was, but I know from my own experience that it is very easy to be made to feel that way.

Over the next few years, we made visits to my grandparents house. I have an uncle who was about six years older than me and an aunt a few years older than him who were both living at my grandparents house. My aunt was very hard-working and had many responsibilities, and we admired her for all that she did. My uncle was constantly in trouble. We kids thought he was just like us and we loved him too. Over those years, he starting taking me to hiding places around my grandparent's home and asking me questions about what my father and I had done (apparently he'd overheard some of the grown-ups conversation that I hadn't) and having me demonstrate on him.

In fact, I believed that sex was happening everywhere I turned. The neighbor girl who lived across the street and I were running around playing one day and we ran through the front door to her house. Her father had her older sister naked on the sofa and was on top of her. She must have been a teen-ager because I remembered seeing her pubic hair and wondered if she got it because her dad was touching her and then dreading when mine would start.

There was a place in the basement of the house where my father started digging a hole. It was about four feet by four feet and the depth eventually became about 12 feet, I think, as a child I thought it was incredibly deep. He had all of us kids working on it, believing it was for a swimming pool or a tunnel to China. The dirt was piled around the foundation of the house, in the basement. We worked on this hole for years, and it became wider at the very bottom.

After I was done with the fifth grade, the school district we lived in made some changes and I was assigned to go to a school hours from home by bus; desegregation. My mother was worried about me on the bus so far from home for so long every day, but my father's issue was that I would be going to school with black kids. So, my mother held me out of school and he searched out a new neighborhood to live in. Eventually, he found one about 30 to 45 minutes away, and they enrolled me in that school district. That meant I was in the car with him every morning and at night after school until we could get moved. I dreaded that time in the car every day, sitting in silence worrying about my new school and classmates, watching the cars pass slowly and the changes in the weather through the fall, listening to him cuss out the other drivers.

One day, I remember my mom was really quiet and her eyes and face were puffy that morning when I saw her briefly. He was more silent than usual, not speaking to me or cussing out the other cars. That night, he picked me up and took me home and immediately left for work. It was then I found out he'd attempted to kill her the night before. There were horrible, deep scratches on her wrists and neck, and I remember a lot of bruises. Later, she said she understood what that hole in the basement was for: he'd made a pine wood box that would have fit into the bottom of that hole. We'd been told it was for the move but there was only one box, too small for furniture and too big to be filled with smaller household items, it would have been too heavy to carry anything at all. She believed it was to dispose of her body.

After the move, things became impossibly strained. My mom was going next door to make phone calls to her parents when he was gone, and grandma's letters were full of coded language. A couple of months later, right as I turned 12, she had a friend drive us to the bus station, each with a suitcase and we left him again, for the last time. I only saw him once after that, when he brought the station wagon filled with stuff we'd left behind.

I believed it was my fault that our folks split but I was too afraid of him to think of going back. I also thought that what had happened to me and what I felt was the same for my brothers and sisters. I couldn't have been more wrong, but didn't realize that until just the last few years. Our father has visited my brother and he has gone to visit him, and he has discussed his visits with our mom and my siblings. My mother, naturally, is horrified. The rest of my siblings are like him, don't understand why our father was taken away . . . When I try to explain, I am the 'one repeating my mother's words'. I think they are good people who think that our father is like them, all good people who try to do the best for their children. I really can't impress upon them enough without going into sickeningly, graphic detail, that this really did happen, he really was that way, I won't visit him, I won't tolerate his being told about my whereabouts or well-being.

My uncle, too, got into lots of trouble, beginning with breaking and entering, and getting into drugs. Eventually, he went to prison on multiple accounts of child abuse. Very early on, my mom and I had a conversation about him, when I told him of what he'd done, and when he was initially punished, I believed it was because of me, too. Later, my mom told me she didn't know and doesn't remember ever having had that conversation with me. It turned out that what I told her was universally unknown and he was never brought to account for it. Much to the detriment of others that I loved. I think some of the information about his child abuse case was hidden from me, purposely, so that I wouldn't get involved, open my big mouth and be the child that didn't know her place.

So. Three skeletons in this closet, accounted for. There's some other stuff but these are the only ones that affect me directly.

During my teenage years, I came to realize that I probably was damaged goods and no one that I admired would think I was marriage material. When the son of the elder in my faith said he needed me for his wife, I was very, very honored. So shocked, that I didn't question that he never said he loved me and refused my kisses. I also knew that he'd also had some inappropriate sexual encounters and was found masterbating by a parent. I have to call it the first two of the three 'sexual encounters' I knew about, not rape because they did not involve someone who knew better taking advantage of someone who didn't. The last one I would say was rape, he was molested by an older male. I was led to believe that these instances were something he looked back on with shame and sorrow and wished never to think about again.

Our relationship was not what I'd hoped it would be. My hope was that we would be able to work together toward a common goal. I couldn't understand why there was no intimacy ~ not sexual intimacy, but the kind where a couple in love are bound together, attachment, craving to be in each other's presence. Home. I tried everything I could think of, and studied ways I could make that happen. I really don't want to go into detail about our sex lives, but I will say this: I always initiated sex. When I realized this, I would wait to prove to myself I was wrong. Eventually, I would be so depressed and blaming myself that I would initiate again, but I knew I was not cherished in the way I should have been. For a while I saw a therapist, who had my husband come in once and they basically said my issues were my fault ~ the same as what happened to my mother.

Other odd things manifested over time. It became apparent over the twenty years that we were married that those sexual encounters that happened before we were married was not something he looked back at with disdain but with longing. There are things that disgusted me when I found them out that I have an issue sharing them here, but in the interest of identifying the skeletons in the closet I feel I have to. I found out when our daughter was about two years old that my knitting and crochet needles were being misused ~ I won't go into how that occurred, but I did entirely give up all of my knitting for about ten years, only to taking it up with the largest needles. The other thing was that one of those previous instances (before we were married) was with a dog. That craving did not go away as I would have hoped, because I found e-mails requesting that kind of porn (incidentally on our 18th anniversary) that included a very nasty account of the occasion, with the response that this request could not be fulfilled because it was illegal in this country. This happened when I had been refraining from initiating again for the three previous years and was about to capitulate again. Finding this convinced me to give up trying to be close to him, finally. It was not a surprise to me, however, that he found a boyfriend after we were separated. My shock on that score was that I thought he intended to continue to hide that side of him from his family and our daughter.

These individuals are not people I will seek to have contact with. I will be civil if I am ever unavoidably required to be in their presence but I will not share anything about my life with them. Others in my family who would defend them or attempt to force me to associate with them are not individuals I will seek out either. The ones I love won't force me and never have and have always been honest with me when I need to understand, which makes me love them more.

I doubt that these skeletons will every truly change their location, as in out into the open, but they don't scare me. I know that they will receive their judgement someday. I know I won't be standing next to them when it does, because the loud child who doesn't know her place is the squeeky wheel that gets the grease and gets on with her life.

Hockey jacket, hooray!

My husband's grandson attends NHL Minnesota Wild Hockey games fairly often. So I thought I would create a jacket for him. Using the same seamless raglan pattern I've often used and Lion Brand Wool-Ease worsted in the Cranberry color I started at the neck.
This was the end of the first day. The safety pin marks where increases in the pattern went a particular way.

The second day I made fairly good progress.

I think this was the fourth day, I had a little stripe of the gold color and working into the hunter green at the bottom, with the sleeves on hold. I decided I would create the logo on the back at this point so that I wouldn't have to try to manipulate it later when it was finished and have the full bulk of the sweater working against me.

I found the logo that I wanted to use, and then searched the internet for a FREE chart generator.

I used duplicate stitch to create the logo on the back of the sweater. When that was finished, I worked to the end of the body. I believe this was the progress by the eighth day.

I picked up stitches along the bottom of the front to create pockets. Here is the finished left pocket and the beginnings of the right.

Pockets weren't part of the pattern and neither was the hoodie. I picked up the neckline stitches, the same as for a collar band, added a few for a casing and along the center back to the top then kirchener seamed the crown. I created an i-cord and used spring toggles to finish the hoodie.

Then the left sleeve and the right, with ribbed cuffs.

Try as hard as I might, I wasn't organized enough to sew the zipper in myself, so I called around and found a nice lady at the dry cleaners who sewed it in for me. I think she did a very nice job, as good as I would have done for myself, double stitching the zipper both near the teeth and at the edge of the band, and took care to match the colors. Her meticulous care really finished the whole project.

I took pictures of it and we boxed it up and sent it off to Minneapolis. On Saturday morning, we got a call from a very happy sounding ten-year-old.

It looks like it fits him pretty well too.

Self Storage Manager, Pros & Cons

I really do like my job.

There are some really cool aspects. For one, I'm home all day. So, I can do all kinds of housewifery things that I've never really been proactive at, like laundry. I'm constantly on the look-out for crockpot recipes and wondering if it's nuts to think I need more than one. I'm not big on baking but the occasional pot on the stove cooking all day is pretty cool. Not having to rely on convenient fast food feels healthier too and probably less expensive. Also, I have two dogs, so they get a walk during the day whereas if I worked somewhere else that may not ever happen.

A lot of people see the commute as the big advantage, which is pretty cool, I admit. My favorite part is that my husband is also here with me and so we keep tabs on each other health-wise and mental-wise. We get lots of affection and can show each other all the affection we crave as long as we aren't making customers or the dogs sick!

In this particular situation we also have all the utilities paid, so don't have the worry about the power bill or the water/sewer/garbage. We take care of the cable and phone bill, but I know in some companies, that's paid for. Not much that I need my car for, occasional runs to the bank or post office, so that cost is greatly reduced too.

One thing that I really love is that on occasion, I'm right where I need to be. So many people are struggling, and this is technically an unnecessary bill for most people. I am able to help somebody, whether it's a listening ear in times of trouble (an elderly woman came in who'd lost her spouse to cancer the night before ~ I had to give her a hug), or directions to the nearest location for FREE moving boxes. A few weeks back, a prospective tenant was confused about what size unit she would need as she needed to get rid of a few pieces of furniture and didn't know how to go about that. I was able to help her photograph and post those items on internet want ads, which sold almost immediately, and she was able to get on with her plans right away.

My tenants have become my community, my neighbors. I get to visit with them regularly and even when they no longer need storage, we have smiles and get caught up when we run into each other in the store, or out walking the dogs.

There are times when I wonder if Self Storage as a career choice was really the best decision I could have made.

As I am a resident, on-site manager, there's a lot of people in the world that think our office is also open 24/7. The other day, a perpetually delinquent tenant pounded (literally with his fist) on all the doors to the office and apartment because he couldn't get in, which got the dogs all riled up and disturbed our dinnertime. For them, this quantifies as an emergency, I guess. There doesn't ever seem to be a time when I am considered off duty, which can make it hard to be social with family, or to get things done for myself that requires I leave the facility like grocery shopping.

Also, I seem to be viewed by people who don't know me as out to steal what's stored here (intent to keep what's here for my own), or to use their personal information maliciously. Nothing could be further from the truth. I really loathe the extra stuff that gets left here, there has been very little of value that I've acquired, and most of that I've purchased because someone said they couldn't use it anymore and it was something I needed. I have a nice, real wood dresser upstairs, and a oak rocking chair that were in units on the facility and became mine that way ~ pretty minimal acquisitions in three years. (Oh, yes, many people see me knitting at my desk and bring me yarn ~ lots of acrylic stuff I can use in blankets or something.) Somewhere in the world, some person in my position must have stupidly done things like that, because I get a lot of ridicule for it.

The absolute worst part is having to auction someones things. I work really hard, beyond what my company asks me to do, to maintain good contact with tenants, and to make sure they are aware what's happening with their account. Even still, I've had to auction a unit or two this year. People treat me as if I'd stolen their things, when nothing could be further from the truth. It amazes me that the people who attend the auctions are so cavalier about it, too. They start calling days and weeks before the scheduled date, trying to pick me for information about the size or contents of the units and when the day arrives, they sign-in at my counter with eyes glazed and dreams of treasures making their cheeks glow. I suppose it's just like with any number of business ventures, people trying to make a living off the misfortunes of others. It makes me very ill during those days leading up to it and until it's over, and resurfaces when the individual who's lost their things calls to ask about it.

I do wish my facility was two or three times bigger than it is, we would like to be busier than we are, but for the most part, I am pretty content with where I am. Especially afternoons like today, where I'm sitting at my desk admiring the sunshine and the initial autumn colors outside my window, with my knitting in my hands. I feel like a contributing member of the human race. And I have the chocolate on my counter and a smile on my face ready for anybody that walks through my door.

For the baby

I'm waiting for a phone call about a sweater we mailed off a few days ago, so while I hold off posting about that, here's a different project that was recently completed.


A co-worker is having a baby in the next couple of weeks. Well, she's due in another week but she's being induced for health reasons on Monday. Last weekend, a few of us from the company got together with gifts for the, as yet unidentified gender, little one.

A couple of months back I showed you a simple garter stitched afghan, you may remember I referred to another one on the needles. Well, here it is.

Started on August 4th and finished on September 3rd, this is the same square knit from corner to corner with a lace edge. I was using up sport weight in my stash, but still I ended up needing to purchase the lighter blue (I chose blue, not because I suspect the baby will be a boy, but because mommy's got an affinity for it ~ when I filled in for her last spring, it was blue all over the office . . .) because I didn't have the quantity I thought I had and also two skeins of the white to finish the square and complete the edge. The edge, by the way, was from the book 'Victorian Lace Knitting Today' that I have borrowed repeatedly from the library but this was the first time I attempted any of the patterns.

Apparently I didn't get a completed shot of the back of this, so I may have to post the in-progress shot, if I can find it.
Anyway, this is the same raglan sleeve top-down that I've done many times, again adding the collar. I thought I would do the whole thing in mini cables, but then realized it would be too snug and not make the gauge. I began to think of a sleeper I had for my daughter that was a tuxedo style that I loved because it seemed to celebrate her introduction to the world. (In fact, it was the outfit I dressed her in for her first studio portraits at 4 days old.) So I sort of went with the bib design in front and tails in the back. Moss stitch for the bottom, to keep him rooted to the earth and stay with us a long time. This was worsted weight acrylic, and I know you can't see it but I made the button with some of the leftover and one of my stitch marker rings.


Socks, in a fine, possibly lace weight acrylic. I've made this pattern a few times, blue ones for the UPS guy, pink ones for the grandbaby girl my husband's friend was blessed with. And I have just made some yellow ones for the bank teller's baby, who doesn't know if its a boy or girl either.

If you are on Ravelry.com, the pattern for the socks were free. Look for 'Baby Cable Bootie Socks by Dawn Brocco'. Actually there is such a wealth of patterns there, for free and to purchase (some are purchases with profits to charities) that I would recommend anyone who is not already on Ravelry and who knits or crochets needs to get themselves over there.

Hope your fall is starting off smoothly and I will be posting again with the latest project in just a couple days so don't forget to stop back by.

Oh, and just a note about all the acrylic used here: I have been knitting for about 30 years and, while I would prefer to knit with some of the finer fibers, I really can't fit what I would easily consume into my budget. That may be the primary reason but even if I could afford it, I would probably still use acrylic for such as blankets and kitchen potholders (I have crocheted many and my husband loves the ones in our drawer) but for new mommies, I feel very comfortable with making items of acrylic for them. New mommies can get easily overwhelmed, remembering as you toss the little things into the washer 'How was I supposed to wash that?' is not where I want them to be focused. Also, until any allergies the baby may have can be determined, acrylic is less likely to cause problems. I would hate to be the auntie that gave my kiddo that nasty rash.

My nightmare, two years ago

I very nearly lost my dear Superman, two years ago today.

This was part of a note I sent after that happened.

At 7 am, he woke me. He was ash gray and hurt all over, couldn't really speak to me. We called 911, they were here in about 2 minutes. They took us both by ambulance to a hospital a little further away because they had a CATHlab. Amazing but true: people don't get out of the way of ambulances. We got to the hospital, they were asking me all kinds of questions I couldn't answer like his SSN, his family's health history. Finally, I told them we haven't been married a year yet, I just didn't know. They got him through ER quickly and into that lab for a stent. At 9, just two hours later, I got to see him when they finished with him, he was no longer in pain, had good color and wanted to go home, in contrast to earlier he was VERY talkative and joking with everybody, almost wouldn't shut up!

His stay in the hospital was painful for all of us. Our little rat-terrier, Maggie, has had it tough, at one point I put the phone on speaker and let dad talk to her. That was almost cruel, she perked up but then she ran back and forth from the garage where the car is parked to the back patio door where his truck is parked for almost 20 minutes. I kept the office closed Monday, but I got up pretty early Tuesday to see him before coming back to open the office. Felt like I was running frantically to get back up there in the evening, early again Wednesday. On my way home that morning, he called to say they were sending him home.

He has been full of energy since he's been home. Not too many restrictions since his procedure did not include anything invasive. Our chiropractor came by today, his visit with him was about the longest he was in one place all day today.

Now, the uphill struggle: We need to apply for financial assistance to pay for all of this (we don't have medical insurance), not really sure who will help with what. Also need to find out if his stent will prevent him from flying, he goes to visit his daughter Monday for his grandson's birthday.

A lot of this seems overwhelming to me. The shock of almost having lost him when we'd only been together for so short a time hasn't completely worn off. Occasionally, it comes back to me and starts the tears again. This whole thing wasn't nearly so serious as some heart attack stories we've heard. Or some other stories for that matter. How in the world did they keep it together as well as they did when their loved ones first got sick? I was there with my mom when my step-dad had his by-pass surgery and with my good friend years ago when her husband had his. I was the one keeping everything together and organized in those situations but this time nearly broke me and that surprised me too.

So, I try to focus on the good news parts and the pieces of joy. I try to keep him from being frustrated with anything and keep him calm. I thought I was getting lots of hugs and kisses all day long before but now I can say it's almost constant, we are both so happy he's home. Yesterday, I was as happy as I can ever remember being, it was all I could do not to run outside in the sunshine and dance in the parking lot!

Remembering that day and thinking about all that's happened since, or what wouldn't have happened like getting to meet his grandkids and his daughter, meeting his friends, or adopting the second dog, or even remaining at this facility ~ none of those things may have happened if I had lost him. Losing him so soon after we were married, just two months short of our first anniversary, would have been a tragedy. I remember that they let me talk to him for a moment before he left the ER and headed to surgery and all I could think to tell him was not to leave me already. . . .

We still don't have medical insurance and we are still paying on those bills. Life has not been easy since then but it would have been unbearable if he hadn't been here to march through with me. I try not to think about that, but every day I do. Especially when we get stressed, or things are discouraging, I worry for his heart.

If you had a Superman in your life, I'm sure you would too.