I grew up in a town in northwest Nebraska. The population never exceeded 7500, and as of now I believe the population is around 5500.  ( I’m sure someone out there will correct me on this.)  The Facebook page titled ” You know you grew up in ******* if…” has been a wonderful thing to participate in.  Reading everyone else’s posts gave my own memories a different perspective, a different and deeper dimension, and made me look at life as it was in a different way.

Someone started a thread on this page about bullying and/or being bullied when they were in school.  Memories of being taunted as a child, 20,30, 40 or more years ago still linger with a lot of people from my hometown.  With the postings of incidents of bullying, teasing, or physical abuse came postings of apologies and forgiveness.  But, on the other hand, there were some who were not as quick to forgive or apologize, and it makes me wonder; how long has this been angering that person?  How long has that been eating away at their souls? I posted the quote ” Holding a grudge is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.”  But after posting that, I began to think about all the poison I’ve swallowed, all the grudges I’ve held, all the jealousy and hatred that filled my soul at times… was it justified?

I come from a very large family….and not a well-to-do family.  For years I (and my siblings) were subjected to taunts and ridicule by our peers simply because of this.  We were a good, decent, family. We just happened to have a lot of siblings and our father, who always worked hard, simply could not afford the same kind of lifestyle as our classmates.  We wore second-hand clothes, homemade haircuts, and none of us got our own car on our 16th birthday.   Was this a legitimate reason to mock us?  Did money,social status, and size of family really make a difference?

I was never taught that I deserved better treatment, more respect.  I never thought to broach the subject with my parents, teachers, or counselors because I believed the bullies, the teasers, the taunters, because of their status, were correct.  Being shoved against lockers, ignored by classmates, and shunned by others in my school was something I accepted.  As much as I wanted to make my place in high school—and I could have, academically—my efforts were thwarted by my own thoughts of inadequacy, brought on by words and actions of my peers.

I had one teacher, Mrs. S, who took me aside and talked to me about my life, my future plans.  I thought it was funny….me? future plans? what kind of future was in store for me, other than making it out of high school alive?  She was sincerely concerned about me, a concept I could not comprehend.  No one, especially the schoolmates who scorned me, showed any concern for me, so why should I waste time on myself?

I didn’t finish high school with the rest of my class.  I got married, had children, and made a life for myself that I was proud of.   Over time, I learned that  the bullies in my life  were acting out of fear and insecurity. Fear of the unknown, the possibility that the person you are bullying may, in fact, be a slightly better person than you, thus a threat to your identity as top dog in that dog pile called school.

It’s silly to hold a grudge against someone who was actually weak, fearful, and unwilling to face the unknown.  Yes, I drank some of that poison, but as they say, what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. I have forgiven the bullies. I learned to be a better person, more open, more loving and accepting because of their actions.  I only hope they learned to same lesson.

My father was crusty, cynical, and at times, crude.  But when he was given the diagnosis of cancer and prognosis of death, he began to change.  Although he rarely, if ever, praised his children or told them he loved them, as he grew weaker from the illness, he allowed us to express our love for him, and he in return whispered the same words to us.

His illness changed him from a loud and eccentric man to someone who finally accepted the fact that he was, yes, merely mortal; someone who prayed silently for forgiveness and a smooth transition into afterlife. His pain and suffering smoothed the rough edges away and there–under that crusty, cynical, and crude exterior–was a brilliant, precious man.

I found the lyrics to a country song popular several decades ago.  This song had to have been written for people like my Dad,  if not for Dad himself.

I’M JUST AN OLD CHUNK OF COAL

Hey I’m just an old chunk of coal,

But I’m gonna be a diamond some day,

I’m gonna grow and glow ’til I’m so blue pure perfect,

I’m gonna put a smile on ev’rybody’s face.

I’m gonna kneel and pray ev’ry day,

Lest I should become vain along the way.

I’m just an old chunk of coal now Lord, But I’m gonna be a diamond some day.

I’m gonna learn the best way to walk,

I’m gonna search and find a better way to talk

I’m gonna spit and polish my old rough-edged self,

‘Til I get rid of ev’ry single flaw.

I’m gonna be the world’s best friend,

I’m gonna go ’round shakin’ ev’rybody’s hand

Hey I’m gonna be the cotton-pickin’ rage of the age,

I’m just an old chunk of coal now Lord, But I’m gonna be a diamond some day.

Every time I wish that upon myself,  I look back and recall when I first spent time in this fair city.  I lived in the land of dry heat, where everything was dry and crispy before the 4th of July, where raising a vegetable garden was to do battle with the devil himself, and we won’t even talk about raising a lovely flower garden.  It was in late May ( a thousand years ago) that I first came down to Lincoln to spend a few days with my younger sister.  I marveled at the traffic, the buildings, the fantastic supermarkets that actually sold individual potatoes, compared to the 25-100 lb bags I was used to buying.  My first night at my sister’s 3rd (gasp) floor apartment was spent watching a fantastic thunderstorm that included lightning bolts hitting the sower on top of the capitol building a few blocks away.

The next morning she and I walked the dozen or so blocks to a supermarket to get a few things for a hibachi barbeque she’d planned on the back landing of their apartment.  As we walked, I ooohed and ahhhed over the lush lawns of the stately houses we passed, marveled at the gorgeous flowers blooming along the route, and thrilled at the sights of the castle-like mansions that dotted the streets through a historic part of the city.  We entertained ourselves on the way by calling  ”here kitty kitty kitty” to the numerous cats lounging on the porches and stoops along the way.  Some actually came down to greet us, but most looked at us with lazy, sleepy eyes and chose to stay put.

Ah, the tall oak trees! The fireflies that blipped through the heavy night air!   The 24 hour supermarkets and convenience stores!  City bus service!   The internet at one’s fingertips! The sounds of the city–sirens, horns, trains, people passing..it was so exciting for me, a farm girl who lived in the sandhills where there were 3 people and 50 head of cattle per square mile.  I decided that, if life for me ever changed drastically, I would move to this Eden.

Thanks to that same sister (and other extenuating circumstances), my life did change drastically.  She and her husband had just upgraded their computer, and she gifted me with their old one.  When I got back to the Sandhills, I found that I could connect to the internet on that same computer, and by connecting with the internet, I also connected with the man who is now my husband.  One thing led to another, and I packed up everything I could say was mine into my Mercury Marquis and moved to this lovely city.  Two years later I married that man I met on the internet, and we now live in a lovely deep-porched bungalow with two cats and a dog, a huge back yard with a vegetable garden, blooming flowers, and a clothes line.  Everything I had dreamed of on that first visit to Lincoln.

Now, whenever I start complaining about the heat, about the humidity, about the noise, about anything, I take a trip back in my mind to the days of awe and wonder of this city, and it all comes back to me; fresh, new, and exciting.  And I am filled with awe and wonder that I am now actually living that dream.

We thought that having him neutered would calm him down a bit, and it has; he’s no longer humping animate or inanimate objects.   But he’s turning into a supreme smartass, which, I suppose can be attributed to the fact that, at 7 months of age, he’s the equivalent of that kid in your 9th grade class who was always tripping other kids in the hall, forging his parent’s names on report cards, smoking in the bathroom,  and spending most of his formative time sitting in the principal’s office.

Toby is a show-off.  This is one of the Dachshund’s most admirable (or annoying) traits.  He will play rocket dog in the backyard at 10:30 at night, grabbing sticks, rocks, or dirt clods from the garden and race around the yard, growling like some crazed monster, his long ears flying in the whirlwind he’s created.  When he’s satisfied that we’ve been thoroughly impressed, he’ll stop, walk over to a bush and piss like a dogly dog–hind leg raised, his eyes fixed on some invisible fire hydrant a foot above and slightly to the right of him. ( I’ve watched him enough to know exactly how he poses.) When he was just a little baby (a month ago) he would lift his back leg and pee all over his front leg.   His aim, although incorrect, was impressive.   It’s a long distance back to front on a Dachshund, and his ability (or talent, as it were) to consistently pee on himself still amazes me.

If, for some reason, his antics don’t amaze but merely amuse, he gets all embarrassed and tries to change the subject to distract us.  Like the time he tried to impress my brother with his jump-on-your-lap skills (comparable to nunchuck skills, which,  for the grace of God and lack of opposable thumbs, Toby will never achieve) and didn’t get it done in one giant leap; instead it turned out to be a scrambling of wiener dog legs and grunting and finally a helping hand from my brother to get him up. This caused too much damage to his psyche; with lowered head and drooping tail he jumped off the lap and slunk away.  But wait! A chance to save face!  There, just a few feet away was Bunny, the stuffed toy he’d had since we brought him home.  Bunny no longer has eyes, whiskers or tail, and Toby chewed most of stuffing out of its rear end.  Bunny is Toby’s whipping boy.  If Toby is embarrassed, ashamed, or just pissed off, he’ll grab Bunny by the hole in the butt and shake it as if it was a living thing.

Think starving shark, fat swimmer.

While he is whipping his head back and forth in his effort to snap the spine of a spineless toy, his eye is on his audience.   When he hears a warm and loving “Blah Blah Blah Toby..Blah Blah Blah”  he’ll finish his performance and wag his tail in appreciation of our adulations.  (Note: ‘ Blah Blah Blah’  can mean anything from ” What a strong handsome dog you are! Such talent!”  to ” Knock it off, you little bastard, you’re shaking Bunny stuffing all over the carpet!”, but to a dog, it’s all good, unless the words NO! or BAD DOG! or F**KING DOG CHEWED UP MY NEW CORDANI’S!” are included.)

Bunny has had a better life than most of Toby’s other toys.  The sacred burial ground of doggy toys is scattered with the sad remains of squeaky toys that he chewed until he got the squeaker out ( thus rendering them useless to him), “indestructible ” balls made from old tires and kryptonite, completed destructed; frisbees, gloves, slippers, cardboard boxes, planks, chew toys passed up for designer shoes, and designer shoes.  It’s common knowledge that puppies chew…they are teething, and just like a human baby, and they need the massaging effect of chewing on something to ease the pain of those erupting teeth.  Unlike a baby, who gums up a biscuit or sucks on a cold teething ring to sooth the way for their pearly whites, dogs have snarly fangs which require massive amounts of gnawing to bring them out.  You can set a teething  baby down in an aisle at DSW and nothing will happen.   Set a  puppy down in a room where you have a new pair of pricey pumps tucked away on a shelf in a closet, and the animal will have them destroyed within seconds.

Toby is not my first Dachshund. There was Scratchy, the “ranch hand” dog who grew up with my daughters.  Scratchy was a legend in the neighborhood, adventurous and daring but basically useless for anything but companionship and entertainment. He lived (or I should say survived, considering how many times he’d encounter a wild animal, been rolled by a pickup or kicked by a horse) to the ripe old age of 15.  That was nearly 20 years ago, and the girls still get teary-eyed reminiscing about him, and the neighbors  still laugh about Scratchy’s shenanigans.  I have been yearning to get another Dachshund ever since, but my husband has always balked at getting a dog, especially a Dachshund because he was bitten by one when he was a child.  He finally caved and now he and Toby are inseparable, by Toby’s design. My husband is discovering the personality and traits of Dachshunds and now knows why one bit him years ago: bottom line; they are assholes.  Little jerks that bark when there’s nothing there but will wag their tails and lick the faces of strangers entering your home.  Their idea of being a guard dog is to lie on their backs under a piece of furniture and bark and snarl ferociously, wanting to prove their worth but too lazy to get up to do it.   They will find, and proceed to roll around in, any rotting animal carcass or garbage then offer to share the exquisite stench with you. They will stand in your way and act offended when you trip and fall over them. They will dig holes all over your lovely back yard lawn, eat acorns and puke them back up on your carpet, taunt cats, and chew up your shoes.

But there is something about a Dachshund I haven’t found in any other breed of dog.   No matter where you go, or who you meet, someone will squeal “Oooo, a Wiener Dog!” And every one has a Dachshund story to tell, a loving memory of  Uncle Jim’s little Trucker or Grandma’s Trixie.

And that is, in my opinion, the only thing that has kept us from eradicating the breed from the face of  this earth.

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Our organization depends on the sale of good, reusable donations to fund our vocational rehab and employment training programs.  Do you seriously believe we can resell moldy clothes and unwearable shoes?   And as for other donations, such as old toys that have been recalled by manufacturers, non-working electronics, broken dishes and other household items, wouldn’t it be easier for you (and your conscience) to just throw them in a dumpster? Separating this garbage from the good items takes up more time, money, and energy than you would spend hoisting a bag into a garbage bin. 

There are many people who donate clothing that is clean, nearly new, and obviously well taken care of.  People who donate household items that anyone would be proud to own and excited to purchase at a fraction of retail cost.  Most of our customers are folks who know the value of the little money they have, and shop at thrift stores for Christmas gifts because they want to stretch their last dollars to see smiles on their family’s faces on Christmas morning.  When I go through donations consisting of dog-shit filled shirts, filthy thong underwear,  blood-and/or-other-body-fluid-stained bed linens, mud caked shoes, and terminally broken toys, it makes me want to hunt you down and re-gift them to you.

I believe there is a very special place in hell for people who donate their garbage to organizations such as mine.  Think twice next time you bring it to our donation center.  Think about the misery you inflict on a stranger when you think nothing of dumping your trash off at our door instead of just putting it in the dumpster.
 And, to add insult to injury, you demanded a tax receipt from us.
Merry Christmas, you filthy slob; you greedy, thoughtless asshole.
I hope you get audited by the IRS.

He has been such a great help around the house, and a great source of support for Dr K as he searches for employment.  As for me, having my brother around give me the incentive to cook and serve sit-down meals, and we have a blast reminiscing about the old days when he lived with me and The Rancher back in the ’80′s.  I didn’t realize how much I needed that comradery.

We are still trying to keep the wolves at bay.  But this bit of good news, my brother’s new job, makes that light in the tunnel a bit more believable.

I am signing up for insurance (for myself only, per Dr K’s orders) through my work, but that too is so expensive that my take home pay would be a double-digit number. That’s double-digit as in @#.00.  The man of the house has applied for unemployment, which will take a few weeks, and will help enormously to keep one or two wolves away from the door.

On another note, or maybe a similar note, my brother, who is in worse financial straits than we are, exhausted his stay at the local homeless shelter.  He would have been able to stay indefinitely if he had been given a job, but is still looking.  He is pounding the pavement daily but has only one nibble, so to speak, and this morning should bring good news.  I’ve invited him to stay with us until he has been employed long enough to qualify for low-income housing via the V.A.   So…I have two unemployed guys living with me.  When I am not working at my physically and mentally exhausting job, I am online, helping the two of them with their resume’s and job search.  Yes, I have to admit I am somewhat enabling them. Ok, totally enabling them.  I could just throw it into their laps and wait for them to do it, but I kinda like having a roof over my head and food on the table and, oh, health insurance. So sue me.  And for the sake of brevity, I won’t go into how I really want to take both of these men and knock their heads together, drop kick their butts out the door, and then murder the person who invented game apps for Facebook.

I have to admit, I have never been this destitute. That is, as an adult. 

 As a child, in a large family with a Patriarch who favored his alcohol and his own comfort over that of the rest of us, we lived hand to mouth and sometimes without running water, electricity, or decent food.  But when you’re a child, you tend not to think of life like that as anything but normal.  You learn how to build a fire in a wood stove, gather eggs, milk cows, grow vegetables and can them in mason jars.  You sew your own clothes, knit hats and gloves out of yarn ravelled out of an old sweater, and master the art of butchering chickens, hogs, and an occasional wild animal.  You think that a gourmet meal is lettuce and mayonnaise sandwich with “boughten” bread.  You learn dozens of ways to turn eggs and milk into a meal.

  You learn to survive. 

These survival skills sure come in handy when you find yourself  poor again after years of a fairly well-off life.  I pity the person who was never forced to learn survival skills like those I was forced to learn.

I can survive.  I hope.

I may even have to change my name and have plastic surgery to alter my appearance.  I never thought this would happen to me; I’ve seen such things on the tv but thought it was all made up by people who want other people to think that with the help of the FBI and a  Board Certified Plastic Surgeon, they can start a new life.

First, let me give you a little background information.  Due to naive trust in a mechanic who speaks no English, drives a junk heap of a car, and has two pit bulls guarding his “office” in a run down quanset, my husband’s car has been out of service for almost 3 months, although he has sunk nearly 5000 pesos  $350 dollars in repairs on Sir Edward.  Each time the “mechanic” calls to say Eddie is ready, he’s proven wrong when the car stalls on the way home.  Meanwhile, Dr K has been using my car, Lola (whose “service engine soon” light is constantly on, and the engine races when put into “park”) to get back and forth to work while I take the bus to my work.  Not too much of a sacrifice on my part; I enjoy riding the bus.

So, the day before yesterday (Thursday, according to the calendar), as I was riding the bus after getting off work at 5:00 pm,  my blood sugar plummets.  I am a diabetic, and for some reason I took too much insulin to cover the carbs of the roast beef sandwich and handful of grapes I had for lunch.  Anyone who knows the symptoms of low blood sugar can relate.  Cold sweat, shakes, light headedness and panic.  I searched my purse for that omnipresent snack sized  candy bar–not there.  I was about to yell a desperate request to the other riders for something with sugar in it, but at that point the bus arrived at the main terminal.  I knew I had 15 minutes to wait till my transfer bus came, so I stumbled up the street to a coffee shop to get something to keep from going into diabetic shock.

(Just a note: when a diabetic’s blood sugar plummets, they lose all control of rational thinking. All they want is sugar.   Not a sandwich, like the one my husband tried to feed me a while ago when I found myself in the same situation.  Panic and anger made me knock the sandwich out of his hand and scream “NOT A SANDWICH! CANDY! I NEED CANDY!’ The poor man has never since made me a sandwich like that one, thin slices of ham and swiss cheese on perfectly buttered bread with the crusts removed, and cut into small triangles.  Took him about 10 minutes to prepare it. Meanwhile I was sinking, sinking….)

But I digress.

I run into the coffee shop, order a medium “Carmelicious” iced coffee and grab the first sugary treat in sight, a 3 inch square chocolate caramel brownie.  I explained to the girls behind the counter what I was going through, so one  chirped “Ooo, then you need extra whipped cream!”

I know, I know, I should have just had the “Carmelicious”, there was enough carbs in that drink to revive a legion of  Low Glucosians.  But, as I said, we diabetics lose all rational thoughts when we are trying to pump up our blood sugar.  So sue me.

I walked out of the coffee shop, munching that heavenly brownie and slurping my drink,  and right in front of me a brawl was ensuing.

Not just any kind of brawl. This was about 2 dozen people, male and female, the baby mammas and baby daddies and baby babies  that hang around the bus terminal all day, looking for drug deals instead of jobs.  Bragging about their latest tattoo or cell phone instead of bragging about making the dean’s list.  Just as I encountered the melee, I saw one young woman, about 6 ft tall and about 400 lbs, snatch a young mans hair and  beat him about the face like a punching bag.  Her girlfriends were kicking him and yelling into their cell phones at the same time.  Talk about multitasking.  The guy managed to sneak in a few wallops himself, smacking his attacker in the mouth and eye, causing blood and the F-bomb to flow.

The few of us not involved quickly got out of the way and observed from the safety of the bus shelter furthest away from the excitement.  Suddenly an older model Buick (snort) with spinners screeches up and 6 gentlemen  hop out and throw themselves into the fray.  Then one of my fellow observers said “Gun!” and we all crouched down out of the line of possible fire. Moments later 3 police cars pull up, the 6 guys hop back into their car and tear off, nearly hitting a large woman  riding a  scooter through the cross walk.  One cop chases and stops the car a few blocks down the street.  Meanwhile, a half-dozen men in blue break up what remains of the fight; the minute the fighters saw the flashing lights, they all took off in different directions.

One police officer was asking us (the bystanders) what had happened, and I was the unfortunate one who had witnessed most of it.  As I was describing the scene, the Amazon, trying to hide her bloody face with her knock-off designer handbag, and her entourage walk nonchalantly by us. I pointed them out to the policeman , and when they heard and saw me, they took off running around the corner only to be stopped by a couple other cops who were waiting for them.

Screaming, accusations, and handcuffing ensued.  A bus pulled up; not my regular bus, but I hopped on it anyway. I was not going to stick around for anything.  The bus took me about 4 blocks out of  the way of my usual stopping off point.  I was never so happy as I was  to walk the extra distance just to get away from the riot.

The next day I related the experience to one of my co-workers, who was horrified at what I had done.  She had at one time been a tough street fighter but had since cleaned up her act, removed most of her piercings, and got a full-time job and her kids back.  “You know, they’re going to hunt you down now, don’t you?” she said.  “They’re going to get their revenge, and they know what you look like and that you take the bus to work!  You better not go there anymore!  Do not take the bus, for Christ’s sake!”

Well, if I don’t take the bus, I have no transportation to work, unless God is kind and gives our “mechanic” the skills he needs to do his job.  Then we can once again become a two car household, and maybe, in time, Amazon Man Beater will forget what I look like.

Wish in one hand and crap in the other?  I doubt that our mechanic will suddenly learn the difference between a socket wrench and a light socket.  Plastic surgery would be a more realistic alternative.  Maybe they’ll trade that face alteration for a boob job, tummy tuck, and butt lift.  Sure, Amazon Man Beater will recognize my face  and get her revenge.  I can accept that.  But if I’m going down, I’m going down lookin’ GOOD.