While Driving North on Federal Boulevard

Driving north on Federal, or east on 38th, or along Speer, or any where in North Denver is like pushing the rewind button in my head.The chronicity of events is all blended together as I drive through certain intersections, or pass by certain buildings, or see certain places:

 
That is where we waited in the car while Mom went inside to get the restraining order. That’s the basement where Paul Smith lived. Over there is where I let Bobby McFadden feel inside my bra. We drank Cynthia Caranza’s stolen rum here. We smoked Dave Sullivan’s weed there. There's the lot where those two guys grabbed me that one time. There’s the church where I first spoke in tongues.

I slept on the back porch of that house with white awnings on Shoshone Street, thinking my sister Nancy still lived there. 
She moved to Omaha by then, but I didn’t know it. 
Her house was vacant, but I didn’t know it. 

I remember nearly every little shit-hole place my oldest sister Nancy ever rented. Her revolving door of places she called home were often my safe haven from the anger and violence that permeated my own home. 

I remember events from grade school side by side with events as a young adult. That’s where I fell off my bike and got my first concussion. That’s where I got my first period. That’s where we buried our cat. That’s where I hid after I called the cops on Dad. That’s the store where I got caught trying to steal yeast infection medicine. The security guy searched my backpack then, once he found what it was I took, let me go home saying, "I think you forgot to pay for this."That’s the alley where they found Jayne’s strangled body. Over on either side of that hill is my old Rocky Mountain News paper route. I delivered forty-two newspapers, six days a week for over two years to my neighbors living on the west side of Wyandot, three blocks west, to the east side of Beach Court. The paper even ran a human interest story about me, complete with a photograph of me on my bike, and everything. But that newspaper clipping, along with all of our other belongings were stolen in one swift haul when someone backed up their truck to Nancy’s garage on Shoshone Street and emptied it out. 

All of our clothes, furniture, small appliances, photographs - - and newspaper clippings - - that we stored in that garage while we were between homes was all taken. It was like losing our history. No old photographs, no scrapbooks, diaries, or mementos of anything prior to this theft exist. My past exists primarily through oral history. And this history is triggered each time I drive down Federal, or along Speer, or west on 38th Avenue... A cacophony of memories assault me.

Sorting through this noise is like picking up the contents of a box full of old photographs someone turned over on the ground. The difference being that, photographs usually capture, store and help recall special memories. The good times.

But my mental barrage of memories is mostly of the darker events. Moments when I felt alone, confused and or frightened. The rush of cortisol that filled my veins back then so I could survive those times now hold me captive. And, how distorted is this memory of mine? I recall these memories through the filter of who I was when they transpired. Not as I am now. Much of what I think I recall, makes little sense to me now. Am I forgetting a detail? Did I not know something then that I know now? How to turn off this noise? How to feel differently about these darker moments? The more I think I recall, the more I wonder what is really my truth? 

Some days, I want to wrestle with the noise; unravel the memory; reveal a true truth.

But most days all of this noise only makes me want to move to someplace new and different.

23rd and Irving

I was fifteen when I walked early one fall evening to my friend, Charlotte’s, house. Puberty had taken over my body seemingly overnight. In a matter of months my breasts ballooned from an A to nearly a D cup. I was not accustomed to my new body. I was even less accustomed to the attention my mammary glands now bestowed upon me. Unknown men in cars now honked and yelled words about my breasts. Boys sat behind me in class so they could pop my bra straps. One boy got a quarter from the other boys for each time he successfully copped a full-hand feel of my breasts while I walked down the hallway. My button down shirts no longer buttoned. Even my girlfriends teased me about my copious breasts.

But that evening, the boys who called out to me from across the street didn’t say anything about my boobs. They crossed 23rd Avenue to walk with me. They said they went to the same school as me. And they may have, although I questioned if the younger of the two was old enough to be in high school yet. They joked with me about something or other. They asked me where I was going. I kept it vague. “To a friend’s,” I said. I was getting comfortable walking with these two, and even a little grateful for the company, when it happened. As we approached a vacant lot on Irving and 23rd, the larger boy stepped behind me and grabbed me by my crotch, lifting me up off the ground and started carrying me into the vacant lot. I was so surprised. It took a few steps before I began to squirm and object and try to wrestle free. The other boy grabbed at my flailing arms trying to contain them. “Put me down.” “Let go of me.” “Stop,” I said over and over and over.

Once in the tall weeds of the vacant lot, they began to force me down to the ground. I could, maybe, wrestle myself away from one of them, but having the two of them working together, I felt my ability to control what was happening slip away.  (When processing this later, it seemed to me that this wasn’t the first time these two had done something like this. They had too much of an unspoken system already worked out between them.)

What happened next surprised even me. What happened next is that I screamed. But it wasn’t my scream that surprised these boys. They were ready with a hand to muffle me. But it was the words that I screamed, I believe, that surprised them. I screamed the most unexpected nine words ever to come out of my mouth. I never said them before, nor I have said these words since. But I don’t want what I screamed to detract from the point of why I am finally writing down this event. I screamed these unexpected words, and the boys both let go of their hold on me, and ran away.

There I was. In the dirt. In the dark. About eight blocks from home. What did I do next?

I got up, brushed myself off, and continued walking to Charlotte’s.  

I guess I was stunned. I didn’t know what to call what had just happened to me. I understood rape at the time to mean when a man unknown to a woman forces his penis inside her vagina. That clearly had not happened in this instance. And, I didn’t get hurt. I mean, there were no marks or bruises. Now, some 46 years later, I realize I was hurt - - but not in a physical way.

I continued on to Charlotte’s, where after several minutes of usual teenage girl chit chat, I confided in her what happened on my way to her house. Charlotte’s face grew serious. I was grateful for that, because I hoped it meant she understood the fear I starting to feel. Then she asked me in a low, hushed tone, “Did they touch you? You know, down there?” Her face looked a little horrified. I wanted to soothe her concerns. “No," I said. "Not directly. Just over my clothes.” Such a look of relief Charlotte had when I reassured her that my vagina remained untouched. “We should tell George,” Charlotte said next. George was her older brother. He drove a car, had a job, and was regarded as a stand-up kind of guy in the 'hood. I was both willing and unwilling to share my story with George. Willing, in case he wanted to defend my virtue. Unwilling, if it meant he might think less of me. But, in the end, I did tell George. After hearing my story, George sat pensive, looking down at his hands for a long while. Finally he spoke. “Why were you out walking after dark all by yourself, Patty?” he asked.

I was crushed. It had been my fault! Poor judgement on my part. Foolish risk taking. And this sense of shame stayed with me. I haven’t told more than two or three people since about this event. I can go weeks, even months without thinking about this night. But every time I find myself on the corner of 23rd and Irving, and see the small flower garden behind the wrought iron fence that has since replaced the vacant lot, all the details about that night come rushing in.  

Every. Single. Time.

Adventures While Camping Solo

I recently found myself camping in bear country. Alone in a canyon with just my dog
and a small air horn that I bring for emotional protection. After a series
of campsites flooded with people, I was happy to find this empty site located alongside
a babbling creek a few miles up a canyon off a gravel road. Zoey (dog) and I arrived in

early afternoon just as a mountain rainstorm began to descend upon us. We sat in the
van, me eating my chicken salad and Zoey wishing I'd share, waiting for the rain to
stop. Once it did, we set up our camping spot in quick order, explored a path as far as
it would go in one direction and then back to the van. Not another vehicle passed on
the road. No other camper arrived to share our large group site. It was only 3 pm - -
still hours before dark - - and we were already quite bored. I decided to head back to
town for a quick tour of its cemetery, and to pick up a bottle of tequila.

A few hours later, back at our solitary campsite, I sipped on the tequila as I prepared
and ate my evening meal. After dinner, I took a couple more sips of the tequila and
was enjoying its warmth ooze through my veins when I noticed the scratches.

Tell tale vertical scratches on the trees. Bear scratches. Fresh bear scratches. The
bark was shredded in places well above my head. The nail marks left deep grooves in
the tree's soft exposed flesh. A large bear, no doubt.

"Oh sh*!" was my first tequila-clouded thought. It was almost dark and my brain was
racing. What to do? What to do?! Somehow I extracted from my foggy memory a host
of bear safety skills. I put all food, cooking gear and the clothes I had worn to cook in,
inside a two man tent I had brought along, "just in case". Then, I set the ice chest
outside of the tent, and rigged it with every metal pan or chair I had so I'd hear the
clanging of an intruding bear. Next, I moved the van, where Zoey and I planned to sleep,
to the furthest end of the campsite and turned it around so I could shine the headlights
on the offending bears as they crashed and clanged their way into the ice chest and
nylon tent.

Then it was time for bed. I carefully stowed my glasses in the center compartment. I kept
the airhorn within easy reach. I studied one last time the exit path I would need to navigate
in the dark to reach the road. I hung the van's keys on the turn signal. And then I laid down
to sleep.

Or not.

Images of a large ban of marauding bears kept sleep at bay for most of the night. When
I looked at the clock for the 100th time and saw it was nearly sunrise, such a sense of relief
washed over me. I was still alive and our campsite intact.

This event became a metaphor for me. This isn't the first time I've turned an idyllic scene
complete with babbling creek, into a band of marauding bears. How often am I afraid of what
might happen? How often do I have the skills to navigate a potential hazard, but then doubt
my own abilities?

Yet, in this instance, I put together a plan. And executed it. And, for all intents and purposes,
I survived. Maybe not as gracefully or as confidently as I might've liked. But I didn't go back to town looking for a motel room. Good for me.

Anticipation

I am filled with a sensation not familiar to me - - anticipation.  
I wonder why that is.

I am more familiar with dread. Or to brace myself. Dig in deep. Hang on. 

But anticipation evokes a more positive sensation. It's almost excitement. 

Almost.

I am beginning a new chapter of my life. Early retirement. My only poorly formed plan for how I might spend this time is about to unfold. I intend to travel. Road trips. With my dog, Zoey.

To that end, I have purchased a small cargo van that I intend to live from while on the road. I promised myself that I'd hit the road by 1st day of spring. I have campground reservations for March 22 - 25.  I'm doing it.

We are doing this.  Me and Zoey.
And the unfolding of these long laid plans has filled me with such 
anticipation. Luscious, life-affirming, terrifying and oh-so-welcome anticipation.

I have no idea what we might find or what might happen while on the road. 
And, for the first time in a long, long time, I'm okay with that.

The Dance of Anger (excerpts from book by Harriet Lerner)

subtitle: A woman's guide to changing the patterns of intimate relationships

Anger is something we feel. It exists for a reason.
Ask: What am I really angry about?

If feeling angry signals a problem, venting anger does not solve it. Venting anger may serve to maintain, and even rigidify, the old rules and patterns in a relationship, thus ensuring that change does not occur.

Those of us locked in ineffective expressions of anger suffer as deeply as those who dare not get angry at all.

We cannot make another person change his or her steps to an old dance, but if we change our own steps, the dance can no longer continue in the same predictable manner.

Many of our problems with anger occur when we choose between having a relationship and having a self. This book is about having both.

Sometimes...

Sometimes, late at night, or when I find myself suddenly awake in the middle of the night, I can feel how insignificant I am in the grand scheme of things.  It is more than a feeling, it is a knowing.  I know.  Deep in the recesses on my mind, I know that my life has no significance whatsoever.

Sometimes, when such thoughts and knowings are saturating my consciousness, I realize I am not sad.  But I do feel alone.  Terribly alone.  My sweet daughter. The man who I thought might love me. That friend I adore, or my sisters who connect me to my past...they all fall away.  And I am left alone.  So fucking alone.

Sometimes, when I accept how alone we each are in this world, and how futile is our effort to make a connection with another, I can sense my mind hurtling through space and time.  I am tumbling.  There is no place firm to land.  As I free fall, my heart races, my breath is shallow and I wonder if "this" might be it for me.  There is nothing holding me here on this side of the infinite darkness that surrounds me.  I am lost, yet found, at the same time.

Sometimes, as me and my nothingness hurl thru space and time, one of my cats will jump up on the bed and burrow in close to me.  The soft fur, the breath falls, the warmth of the cat's body...all bring me back.  I'm no longer hurtling into nothingness.  I am here.  With a soft warm purring cat lying next to me.

And sometimes, this is enough.

Potty Brown Creek Ranch

I walk with the dog across the pockmarked drive still moist with dew.  The musky sweet scent of sage, dirt and autumn’s dried leaves fill the air.  Birds are chirping gleefully in distant trees.  The dog stops her eager trot long enough to lift her nose.  I’m certain whatever she smells is much more than morning dew and dried leaves. 

Sunrise streaks across the endless sky, casting its brilliant colors far and wide.  It is possible to see the curvature of the earth out here on the high plains.  I stand at the end of the drive, looking west down the road.  This narrow strip of bare dirt travels in a straight line, piercing fields and pastures and dipping down into arroyos only to rise again to crest another hill.  Power poles dot the horizon.  They and this lonely dirt road are the only signs that maybe there are others out here in the sea of grass and stubble. 

I am filled up by this nothingness.  I drink in the orange streaked endless sky and wrap my body in the barren fields that surround me.  My insignificance, so ardently felt now, somehow nourishes my soul.  I am filled with wonder and hope. I want to drink in the sky's colors and swallow the sweet musky air.  I want to lie down and be absorbed whole by this barren land.  I want to feel it in my bones, and have it course through my veins. 

I don't know why this empty place feels so familiar to me.  Yet, it does.