Ten year old twin Peggy and I took care of our
alcoholic mother. I hated my life. That’s when I got hooked stealing my folks
"ciggies”. 25 years later, after trying/failing/
quitting a gazillion times, I submitted to success. Submission to Mom was
NOT an option.
1950s Los Angeles was golden. Orange groves,
strawberries, singing cowboys 'n movie stars. Daddy bellowed a lot. "Whadya think? Money grows on trees? I got five kids to
feed.” He was a railroad Conductor with a Napoleon complex. A small man needing
to be big and powerful, but not, so he took everything out on us. Today he’d be
jailed. Submit to our father? A must. We sorted tickets and played cards.
Biggest thrill was between railroad cars hanging on as clanging and clatter
roared with the wind. We loved the dining car where old black Porters would
give us anything.
Then came the ‘60s. Yelling and crying were
our life. Hippies! "Peace, love, and rock 'n roll!” Nobody submitted
to authority, but rebelled it. Shawls, hip huggers, patched jeans. Long blonde
surfer hair with bangs over our eyes. Made it hard to see, but who cared?
Sometimes I wished somebody cared. Daddy was gone all the time and mom, well,
you know… We went to
Huntington Beach several times a week. Cokes 'n strips on the sand, and
singing with guitars made us happy.
“Teenage-dom” didn't
change life like I thought it would. I refused to submit to teacher
authority. My diary was my outlet. I wrote everything I did and felt. I was soooo mad at our parents. Why couldn't we have life like
everybody else? Our house was a mess. We couldn't bring anybody home. No
food---just bologna sandwiches and vanilla wafers. I hated my parents! I hated
my life! I hated... myself.
The last entry, before I burned my precious
five-year diary, was that one, awful, unforgettable line,
"I
wish she'd die!"
And she did. I was 14. Daddy died when we were
16.
My orphaned heart felt heavy with guilt. I
couldn't sleep, eat, or think. People helped. We grew stronger,
courageous, and could handle ANYTHING life threw at us and submit at last.
Folks didn't know what to say, but were "there" for us. God watched
over us, through we didn’t know it. As for me wishing Mom would die, (and
secretly Daddy, too), I know that was an emotion coming out because I loved
them and I didn’t want to hurt anymore. I've been forgiven of that diary entry
and know I didn't cause their deaths. It was okay to feel that, and to face one
of the hardest things a kid can go through in life, losing your parents.
But life is good. We were infused and enthused
by Jesus Christ and now submit to Him! That’s
joy, and what life is all about. So, Bring It On!
Patti Iverson writes from Medford, Oregon. Randpi2@charter.net