Sunday, August 29, 2010

Not to be Published...Oh what the heck...



My blog reminds me of my life in prison. When I was 17 years old I fell madly in love with the first guy that ever noticed me. We immediately got married, and he packed me up and took me 2000 miles away from my family. I was stuck in a little tiny house on the back of the landlady’s property. It soon became a prison cell to me.
My man in the shining armor went off to his job before daybreak and usually didn’t return until 12:20 AM. His job ended at 5 PM, but he nearly always made a stop over at the Pastime Tavern to play poker until the tavern closed at 12 AM. During these hours I looked out the window, cleaned up the house, opened a can of soup for lunch, wrote my family a letter, went to the mail box., took a nap, listened to the radio, walked up to the landlady’s house and visited with her. She was an old lady and knew how to knit. She said she would teach me how. She was not patience with me so the knitting lessons soon ended at my request. I’ll just have to find something else to pass the time of day.
I didn’t have a clue when my sentence would be over or if I would ever be able to get a pardon. I didn’t have 15 cents to my name. Not one single friend to talk to and no mode of transportation or communication with my family. I had made a friend, but she and her master moved back to Arizona. To pass the time, I would write letters to my family. I very seldom received a letter from them. When I did receive one, I would read it over and over until it was threadbare. I thought if I made my letters more interesting or funny it would induce an answer. So I wrote and wrote and wrote. At least we had money for postage. We didn’t have a phone. All the letter writing didn’t encourage anybody to write back or when I finally received a letter, no one ever answered any of the million questions I had been asking about everybody.


One time when we went back for a visit, I found that they had a fire on the property that they fought like crazy to keep it from getting to their house. That event didn’t even provoke a letter. They had never mentioned anything about the fire. My family included my mother, dad, four brothers and one sister. One brother had left home for a hitch in the military. My sister was only three years old when I left home so she was too small to write and so were the little brothers.


I built up such a momentum writing those letters that I still find myself with a pen in my hand constantly writing in a journal or just writing about stuff that irritates me, and then I shred it so nobody can ever read it. You should read one of those tirades.


I told my oldest son the other day that I sometimes think his Dad and I should not have been married. He looked at me like I had just cut off his lifeline or something. I felt really bad so I said, "Well, I mean we didn’t have to get married that very minute". We could have waited a week or two or a month or so.
Then I discovered blogging and I have written about everything under the sun. Writing in this blog is just like writing into thin air. Or writing to my family.