Let Go

My whole childhood was made up of letting go. 

Letting go of the things that mattered the most to me, the people I held close to me,  and the plethora of dreams ever little girl dreams about her future. I never hung onto them for long. Letting go so often to accommodate the “real” life that I was surrounding by became second nature, almost automatic; expecting anything different became, as it were, a dream in itself.

My life was chaotic at a very young age, and it was so unfair and unkind. It was a life where truth was relative to the situation; a truth to fit the moment. It was a place where truth was tarnished and not at all relevant, because everyone had their own version of the truth. 

And that is a tragic and scary place for a little girl.

It was confusing for someone so young;  and it was because of the uncertainty in my life that I believed my parents when they said, "it is all going to be alright,” and then life became even more confusing. Of all the people in the world, I trusted my parents first and foremost; and that is why I couldn't understand why life was spiraling out of control. At five year's old, that is a huge burden. 

My perfect family was one found only in my little girl dreams.

And so I had to grow up fast and furiously, and letting go was expected and considered normal. It happened much more often than was fair and reasonable.

I had to let go of the "Brady Bunch" mentality. Shows like that just messed up kids like me, and frankly, those families rarely existed. Instead of our family staying together and growing up together and getting out of the house, at the right time, with my sister and brothers, we instead drifted out the front door way before our time, and we never drifted back in.

Letting go of the “normal” things was the hardest; In hindsight, the way things played out in my life, and the lives of so many others kids I knew, was that that way of life was sadly considered “normal.”  

Divorce in the 1970's was like a Tsunami, and it wiped out my family, and so many other families with one swift hit. Divorce exposed hidden faults and unsettled argument and alcohol abuse and skeletons in the closet of unmentionable issues ...  all leading to D-I-V-O-R-C-E. 

In my families circle, there weren't too many families that made it out unscathed and still functioning from divorce, including my next of kin.  Even the kids I went to Sunday school with had been touched by it; or torn apart by it. It was one of those things that happens to everyone else's family, not yours. But then it does happen to your family and you find yourself, at a very young age having to hide and lie and let things go. You just didn't talk about it.

It happened more than I care to remember.

But lets get back to letting go.

The one thing, or should a say, the one place, that I lost during that time, that meant the most to me, was my childhood bedroom. It was my safe place, with all of my books and my secret hiding places. It was where I hid my journal and money and treasures like earrings and bracelets and samples of Avon's Red lipstick and random gifts of whimsy. 

It came with a complimentary escape route out the bedroom window to the yellow phone in the basement. It was the phone we used to make secret phone calls and get a hold of someone like my Grandma to come get us, for whatever reason. She was always there just in case something wasn't quite right at home. 

It was from that window I learned to jump 5 feet to the ground to get to the basement door to the phone. Five feet is high when you are only four feet tall and only 6 or 7 years old. 

I pretended I was Superwoman.

I let go of my collection of story books. My Little Golden Books, and Dr. Seuss and "Where the Wild Things Are." My collection of brown glass jars my Grandma started for me was left on the shelves in the order of their height to collect dust;  and my baby-dolls lost their Momma too, along with stuffed animals and picture albums and drawers full of cloths I never wore again.

The big window in my room was my favorite spot. It let the day and night in, but it also let me out if I had a need to get out, for whatever reason.

Home wasn't necessarily "Home Sweet Home."

I had the best vantage point of the night sky laying on my bed. I could lay there for hours and look out into the dark, clear night and see millions of stars on which I made millions of wishes and waited for them to come true. I remember how the stars twinkling at me, they seemed to have a special way of talking to me, a special language it seemed, letting me know everything was gonna be OK. It was like they were telling me "No matter what Amy, we will always be with you - just remember to look up." I remember falling asleep looking at those stars.

I did a lot of wishing on twinkling stars, but reality always reared it ugly head. I still had to let go of my family as I knew it. It seemed to happen in slow motion, and eventually, after about ten years, it was completely gone. There were no remains of a family anywhere to be found. 

After a "divorce" there isn't much left to do really, but to try and make what is "left - over" work, and that takes a lot of pretending too. Letting go of the "Brady Bunch" ideal was painful but necessary; so was finding a new reality, a new normal and  new place in the world; that was the reality after divorce. For everyone.

And so I had to let it ALL go.

There are no rules after divorce. Not for parents or for the kids. There are no right or wrong ways to "continue as normal" once divorce happens. Because divorce isn't normal, nothing about it is happy or nurturing. I was on my own to figure out how I was going to survive it, and I got to make up my own rules. Looking back; the effected it had on each of us was so different, I am only able to tell my version. 

I only know my truth.

I do know that it seemed like I had a mom and a step-dad that looked the other way as I walked out the door at 14, and I didn't come back for a long time.

Eventually they figured out where I was and would usually call to check on me, but it wasn't to see how I was. It was always about how bad I was and what I did or didn't do that prevented them from coming to take me, (or any of us) home. 

Those moments were so painful; being told those things by a parent really stung. But after a while of not seeing them, the words had less effect and they rolled off my back like water off duck feathers, and I learned to ignore them.

The words eventually started to sound like Charlie Brown's teacher; just a lot of noise. 

So who could blame me for being confused about a parents role? I never felt missed, or loved or even liked by them, and I always wondered if I actually mattered or if I was even valuable. The reality was that I only felt scolded and punished and alone, and after awhile you get good at hiding all of that stuff you have to stuff away, and life continues on, and all is well in the world.

I had to let go of what other families "seemed to be" and face the fact that my family had no definition. I had a mom, who though she wanted to, couldn't love her children the way she wanted to, the way she was supposed to when there is a NEW man in her house. A step-dad in the house. And this man was trying to be my dad. A man I didn't know or trust and frankly, didn't want to know. not at all. 



Normal was gone; and dysfunction moved in. Dysfunction became the norm; and there was plenty to pass around. 

Normal got tossed in the Let Go pile too.

One time when I was 13, I was told by my mother over the phone,  (who was surely influenced by more than her own thinking, and possibly drinking), that I couldn't come back because I was the one who left.

Honestly that stung worse than a back-hand across the face. I was 13, she was my mom? Even at 13 I though for sure it would go differently. I expected her to stick up for me. I had to let go of family allies, I was now on the opposing team. When I did go back home it was only briefly; and with great angst.

And my dad, he had a new family too. He left us for them. He was a truck driver, so all week long while he hit the road with his semi-truck, they were waiting on him to come home to them, and he skipped us(me, my sister and brother), and there was never enough of him to go around.

I never went to his house much. At first I did because of "visitation rights," but as I got older I tried to stay as far away from there as possible. My step-mom was not in my plans and frankly, back then, I felt torn in loyalty to my mom when I was around my step-mom. I never lived there. I really don't think I could have, not with my dad being gone all the time. I had to let go of ever living in the same house with my dad. 

There was only a short time right before my parents got divorced that I lived in the same house with my both of my parents. I was about 5 when they got divorced. I was too young to even remember what it was like to have him tuck me into bed, but I am sure he did. I remember vaguely him reading stories at his house with my step-sister around but I wasn't much on sharing my dad and I made sure she knew it. 

I was expected to share MY dad - I fought it every chance I got. 

And eventually, I had to let go of my dad, being MY dad, and let him be a dad to my step-sister and my new half-brother. I had to share him now; so I just let it all go. I didn't want to be the brat, the jealous one, so instead I was the peaceful one, even when on the inside I was dying.

Sharing my dad - what a crazy idea. There was no explanation for us either. No adult ever tried to help us understand, it just was and we had to let go of what was behind us, just because. 

Because they said so.

I eventually ended up lived with my Grandmother who, bless her heart, did all she could to provide for me and my sister and brother, but it was never like it should have been. I lived with her on and off until she died, in my arms, sitting on the back step of the trailer we lived in for so many years. It was the one place I think I lived the longest and could always "go home to;" but it was still a sacrifice for my Gram. How I wish I could thank her.

Some people have said that growing up like I did and letting go of so much makes me a survivor. It clearly made me independent and able to handle life better; sometimes, but not always. It changed the whole course of my life and I so often wonder, what my life would have been like had my parents NOT been divorced?

If my life could be lived over again, my parents would have never divorced, and I would have lived my life so differently no one would even recognize me.  

Being a survivor is honorable enough I suppose, but its the thick skin I'm not always so proud of. It keeps me from feeling things sometimes. It keeps me in my own little world and I think sometimes people find me hard and unable to let them in.

I'm working on that.

Letting go all through my life has simply gotten me to a safe place where I can live and be happy. It is a place where I guard my heart and the people I hold close within it. I don't have to let go of anything I don't want to anymore. 

I believe the life we create for ourselves, with the help of a God who loves us more than we can ever imagine, includes the perfect family, and I finally have that in my life.

Psalm 68:6 says that "God sets the lonely in families, he leads out the prisoners with singing, but the rebellious live in a sun-scorched land."

I honestly can say that this is what he has done for me. He has placed me with people who are my family, and I will never be lonely, or scattered, or have a need to be rebellious for any reason; and I will never have to let go of anything ever again.

That is the way life should always be.

To everyone in my family ... I am glad you are part of my life.

My Unhusband

Sacrifices - I have made many.

They seem to be attached to love, and loving others, even when every bone in my body was saying “are you crazy?”

I had to dig deep at first; bit my nails and forgive, but it was all for the good, for the sake of a friend. 

A friend I married and then we divorced. It was actually my decision and he didn't protest.

Yes we are Unmarried;not ex’s and yes; some of my deepest sacrifices were to my Unhusband; Forgiveness being the hardest.

My unhusband … it is the name I have given the man I am divorced from. It was the word that Kristin Armstrong used for her first husband, Lance, after their divorce. It was in her book “Work in Progress.” I loved that book, it was a healing book for me. I was glad I had something so uplifting and positive and nurturing during my divorce. It was like a balm to sooth the ache in my heart and drew me closer to God. That book stuck with me. It made sense to me. I still pick it up once in a while for a refresher. 

My marriage was not all bad – in fact it was great most of the time, but then little foxes came in and stole the low hanging fruit. I just wasn't being attentive to the right things. So it wasn't entirely my husband’s fault; I played a part in my marriage and its demise, so calling him an EX is to biting. Unhusband is much easier on the ears and on the heart.

initially though, I did fall to pieces. I felt like I was floating around outside of my body – watching myself go through the motions of everyday. It took a long time before any day meant anything to me again. I just "was," and there were days I found myself crumbled in the corner in my friends office at my job, crying my eyes out.

It was all I could do to get up and go to work and make it home again to bed. I did remember to eat, most days. I just “did” it. I thank God for guiding me and being my co-pilot. He is the only real reason I made it out of the divorce pit with all of my wits about me.

Divorce is so biting and it cuts so deep, but our divorce was actually the beginning of healing for the two of us; and it brought us back to being good friend.

That didn't surprise me, really, I had always wanted to reconcile. The waiting is the thing that tries your heart and makes healing seems to take forever.

Or so it seemed like forever.

Until I woke up one day and I felt nothing but good about him again. That was what I had been waiting for. That day was a good day. That was the day I knew all was forgiven.

But by all rights I should have walked away for good, leaving him with the decision he made; I should not have acknowledge him, but I couldn't forget him.

In my humanness, I should have slandered him and made him pay for what he did, him and his Affair.

But Love requires MUCH more than that. Especially love for my Unhusband.

This divorce was an emotional divorce; conceived in outright, in my face unfaithfulness, full of lies and slander; and name calling and a “paradigm shifts,” as he called it … but from a Christian point of view, it still deserved and required forgiveness.

It tore my heart out. It was a tear to my soul, and to his, though his Affair soothed it by feeding him stories of how she could take care of him better than me and that I was outdated.

But, he was my husband … the one I had waited for (through several other UN-relationships), he was the one who swept me off my feet; quieted all of my fears and put a smile on my face every day; he gave me a skip in my step and hope in my heart of all good things to come.

And in an instant - it was over. I saw a side of him I didn't know existed. None of the by-products of unfaithfulness were ever seen in the man I knew.

That is when I hit a brick wall, flat faced, unable to go on. NO one understood; how could anyone have possibly understood? I could have listened to a hundred testimonies of couples who had been divorced and to me, no one understood.

Your divorce is always the worst; no one else’s can compare.

But when it first happened; I despised him, to his core.

The energy used to fuel such hate; hate that can produce deadly venom; venom needed to back-bite and fuel the blaming that is caused by such an act of betrayal, to keep rekindling the “junk” that need to be left behind is exhausting.

It devastated me. This man that I loved so much and that loved me; how does one suddenly “shift” on a dime, throwing years, and me under the bus?

It was utter betrayal, and how do you love and forgive that? 

Is it really humanly possible?

I hated him and his Affair. She was shorter than me and had darker, longer curlier hair, with dark skin and more endowment than I had been given; and she was pushy and prickly and very abrasive and intimidating, a bully for sure … and beguiling enough to tempt a married man away from his wife.

I had dreams of doing terrible things to them, like, running them over with my school bus or running head-on into them at the red light in town. Or a variety of other things that are probably better left unsaid.

I chose to not cause a scene. I chose to be a woman of virtue and put my fists down, put my head up high, my shoulders back, and walk away from both of them.

I didn't look back.

I NEVER felt such passionate, intense feelings of hatred and bitterness toward two people ever in my whole life.

The Affair, you can expect that part of the equation to hate you, because when it gets right down to it, I was a threat to her; I was his wife; But my husband turning on me? That I didn't understand. He was not a hater. Having both of them turn on me … my humanness did not understand.

How does someone turn so quickly?

I will never wrap my mind around it.

And the hateful feelings I had, they were getting worse. I began to spiral backward. I was developing a biting tongue and I didn't want to live like that; life is too good and too short to be bitter and base.

I needed to do something, and I needed to do it fast.

SO … I called on my pastor for advice and a few women who had been through divorce to see if they had struggled with these things and how they dealt with it, and every person I talked to repeated what the one before had said … that I had to forgive them.

And to that I just said … “

, you are kidding, right?”

I was totally caught off guard with that response; but I took their advice and I started my forgiveness journey.

I was sure there was a lot in the Word about it, so I went there first.And sure enough, right there in black and white it was written that we must forgive.

REALLY – was Paul kidding? How did he expect me to do that?

So I read up on it some more, and prayed for understanding and sure enough, this is what I found.

Ephesians 4:31-32

31 Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. 32 be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving each other, just as God in Christ also has forgiven you.

Also in Colossians 3:13 he says again;

13 bearing with one another, and forgiving each other, whoever has a complaint against anyone; just as the Lord forgave you, so also should you.

I meditated on these verses for many, many days; days that turned into weeks; and weeks into months; and months into a few years. Meditating on the Word made me think about the kind of person I wanted to be, because I sure didn't want to be a nasty, unforgiving, bitter, slandering person going forward in my life.

I thought to myself, “Being that way could put me in my grave,” so I got to work.

I wanted peace in my soul. I wanted to be happy again and smile, not let the enemy steal my joy and take away my chance to be happy in my life.

I really believe that un-forgiveness is something the enemy uses to destroy people and I was NOT going to be destroyed. I had always been happy and joyful and I was bound and determined to be that way again.

Friendship with my Un-husband was my main goal. To talk with him and laugh with him again; To me, that would be a great reward.

And four years later that is exactly what happened. 

My first and only instruction on forgiveness from my pastor was to just start saying, “Jesus, I forgive them, and I am sorry for my part in it too.”

I prayed for their lives to be blessed and for him and his girlfriend to be in safety. I prayed they would realize that God does want them to know that he loved them, but mostly, that I did too. I spoke no ill will toward his Affair, and the fire of hate I felt toward her began to go out.

The first few prayers I felt like I had sand in my mouth, but after a couple of days the prayers got lighter and easier. And forgiveness felt less and less like a sacrifice and more like a gift.

I don’t know how God does the things he does, but within the last year my Un-husband and I have become good friends again; and he has ever stopped living with the woman he left me for. 

To me that is proof of answered prayer.

Forgiveness is a spiritual as well as a command. Jesus wants us to forgive for a reason, and that is for reconciliation, and to stop living in the past, because staying in the past will eat a hole in your soul. 

And no one gets anywhere when they keep looking backward.

I had to understand that Jesus forgave me when I sinned, and he forgives with no hesitation. And for me as a Christian; I had to forgive and love my Unhusband even when I still felt so terrible toward him, it is just amazing how it works.

I can honestly say today, I love my Unhusband with a love like no other; a pure love, a friend love, an “Agape” love. One that isn't selfish or unkind or full of expectations.

 It just is.

Praying the prayers for forgiveness that I prayed was a sacrifice. It was very hard to begin a forgiveness journey, and it took a long time (to me) to reap the rewards of them; but it was something I needed to do to make myself whole again, and my unhusband too. 

Forgiveness has allowed me to love someone I found very unlovable at one time, and that is a great gift from God, a sacrifices worth making.

One closing thought:


"Not forgiving someone is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die."

~Unknown

Whoever Unknown is ... they were a very wise person.

Bald Eagle Guide

Bald eagles and I, we have a very peculiar relationship. It seems, sometimes, like I know where they are going to be on certain days, or I spot them flying suddenly, and most times I spot them with ease. It can be near the lake or in town near the creek or driving down the road, unexpectedly, I find them – or they find me?

Whatever it is, I am amazed with them, every time I see one, or one sees me ... I'm not too sure of the order.

It is like I am seeing them for the very first time, all over again.

We also have a long history, Bald eagles and I. It started about 11 years ago when a very special Native American friend passed away and a group of us at the funeral had an encounter with one of the most spectacular eagles we had ever seen.

I have never seen another like him since, and I have seen a lot of Bald eagles.

The Native America’s believe in Spirit guides, and one of the most prestigious is the Bald eagle. Being characterized as a creature of nobility and honor – and learning that they only select those who are honest and noble in action and thought, I understood why this amazing Bald eagle was in our presence.

There was no denying that the manifestation of this awesome bird was a Spiritual one – no matter what religion or belief one may have had; It was on the edge of the Supernatural.

A Funeral for a Native American last three days, with their body being viewed at their home for that amount of time and then on the day of their burial they are taken to their final resting place.

My friend would be laid to rest in his family cemetery along with all those who had gone before him; The coffin was placed in its designated spot, and family stood close together along with other relatives and friend, and the service was commenced, in Seneca, in ceremonial fashion.

No funeral is a happy occasion, and this man, this patriarch who loved his family and cared so deeply for so many, and who believed in honor and justice and truth; created a loss indescribable with his passing; a loss different, deep, and as individual as all of us who loved him.

To leave that day was to lay to rest the Cornerstone of a great family, and the permanence of his physical presence being gone was just beginning to sink in.

It was hard to break away when it was over.

We all wanted to stay as long as we could. People lingered for some time afterward, talking, reminiscing and just spending time together.

As we began to trickle slowly out of the cemetery toward the parking lot, suddenly, out of nowhere a majestic Bald eagle, like no one there had ever seen before, landed and perched in the tulip tree right above us. He was literally 25 feet away from us, sitting in that tree, looking at all of us; we could see him blink his eye he was so close.

The Bald eagle on that day ... perched and looked exactly like this!

My young niece screamed when she saw the eagle, a scream so piercing it sounded just like the eagle's call, and the sound went through all of us. It was like we were all struck dumb, and when everyone finally noticed him, we were all speechless. We just stared and pointed at this magnificent bird who had come to guide our friend to his new world – it was surreal. We just stared at that eagle ... at his presence and his beauty.

No one knows how long he perched there in that tree watching us. Five minutes, but probably less ... it seemed much longer than it actually was.

What he looked like as he began to fly away.

And then suddenly, he flapped his wings a bit, which had to have been 6 feet in length from tip to tip, cocked his head and with one powerful downward swoop, he turned his head and he flew, in slow motion it seemed, to a height where he could still see us clearly and we clearly could see him.

He circled and watched us for about ten more minutes.

He would glide and dive, ascend and descend, all the while keeping watch. He was beauty and power and grace all wrapped into this bird of such enormous size. Even in flight, we could not stop watching him. He was mesmerizing.

Right before he flew to a height where he would seem to vanish, a small Red-Tailed hawk joined him, and it followed him around as he circled, keeping up quite well, like it was an invited guest. Eagles and hawks don’t usually get along too well, but oddly enough, these two seemed content.

A few years prior my friends daughter had died too, and it was said that this little hawk was her – she was finally with her dad again, where they could fly and be free.

(All of this still makes my me cry).

Who is to say the hawk wasn't her?

They finally stopped circling and departed, hawk behind eagle, slowing gliding up as far as the hawk could go and then out of sight, suddenly vanishing into thin air.

We stood there, speechless, my cousin and I, and everyone else, not believing what we’d seen. I know for sure that I will never - ever forget it. It was one of those things that is forever etched in you memory.

I can’t say I don’t believe in the Bald eagle Spirit guide – who am I to say? I am not Native American, and I do have my own beliefs – but I have many friends who are Native American, and they were satisfied, and not at all as surprised as I was that eagle showed up. It was agreed it was a very special sign.

It was Spiritual to them and was a symbol of great meaning, so who am I to argue with that?

I know for me it was hands-down my most amazing experience of seeing a Bald eagle, and ever since then I see them more than I ever thought possible.

It seems that ever sense that day I am more sensitive to their presence - I even feel connected to them, oddly enough.

They fly so high above everything - they can see a fish from a mile, into deep water, and catch it every time. That is just one of their many skills. They can also fly up to 10,000 feet in the air and up to 35 miles per hour is steady flight ... all I can say is WOW, what a bird.

I can just imagine his perspective of the crowd of people below who had gathered to watch him fly? If only I could have been a passenger on his wing. I bet he wondered what all the fuss was about.

God even speaks of eagles, encouraging strength like eagles wings if we wait on him. In Isaiah 40:32 it is written;

32 Yet those who wait for the LORD Will gain new strength; They will mount up with wings like eagles, They will run and not get tired, They will walk and not become weary.

After watching the eagle exit that day I must confess, their strength is unmatched by any other bird I have seen take flight before that day, or since. 

Admittedly, there is something powerful and good and spiritual about an eagle - no matter what you believe in. I know that seeing one stirs the soul to excitement, like finding a rare jewel in the sky; they are a wonder to behold and the sight of one lifts a person's soul immediately.

I could not have asked for a more special ending to a long and mournful week for my family ... it seemed the eagle flew away with my friend in tow, taking all of our sadness and tears with him.

The feeling we were left with was pure amazement, at least for me it was amazing; I can't speak for everyone else.

Now I always have my eyes to the sky, watching for eagles, they can be hard to sight sometimes. One never knows when one of these beautiful birds will be out flying, waiting to be seen, they are beautiful to behold.

I hope one day everyone get a chance to see one of these magnificent birds.  And when you do, I promise it will a something you will want to share, and you will cherish that moment for a very long time.

Thank You Summer School - That's Why I Write

Buffalo Botanical Gardens - 2013

I was asked the question recently of why do I write?

Here’s the answer.

I write because at a young age, (14) I realized, through a huge fail, (failed 8^th grade and I was doomed with Summer School) that I had something to say, and that people did want to hear my stories. I just got caught up in life and pushed it aside for others, (except for a few years when I worked for a Newspaper as a writer/reporter) until the 500 word challenge came along.

I found the 500 Word Challenge on Facebook and it has changed everything for me. My expectations of myself have gotten higher in writing, and the endless stories that have begun to pop into my head that I thought were long gone are back and begging to come to life.

My ability to actually SIT DOWN and write them down now, instead of letting them float off into the wild blue yonder, has been the biggest hurtle of all and to me shows the beginning of a renewed desire to create and write.

I know now I will never give up writing again. It really was foolish to quite in the first place. I have found I love getting up every day with fresh ideas in my head. There are so many possibilities I have to offer to whoever I happen to conger up that day; I can create whoever I want and I can do whatever I want to do and go where ever I dream; so I would say that’s pretty good for someone who had been a huge procrastinator, and wasn't even writing in her journal. I have begun to go to places I have been dreaming of – and they are beginning to “breathe” and that shows progress.

I give an applaud to writing as an oasis, a retreat to the center of the imagination; writing every day has fueled a old flame for me. And if an idea begins to smolder, I just have to blow on it a little to get the flames burning again. 

That is what writing every day has done for me.

The writing could be my blog, or it could be a comment, or developing a character’s charm or disgust; or weaving the scene of Southern Charm and mystery of the Antebellum South, but its productive and I loose myself in another place and isn't that what writing is about? Transporting someone to another place? I am learning that I have not lost the ability to transport – it was just dormant, just waiting for a spark. Thank goodness its back.

I am weaving these stories in my head and getting them down permanently and that is a great, GREAT accomplishment for me. And to see the scenes and the people develop and to anticipate and then relish even one comment on my blog or fuel one dream for someone else, that is why I write.

I do it for myself but I do it mostly for others. Because writing isn’t about me, it’s for everyone who reads it. Isn't it? 

I will never regret that I failed 8^th grade or the summer I sacrificed to go to Summer School. I can honestly say I am glad I had to take English over and write Essays, those were some of the most creative stories I have ever written.

I don’t even have them on paper anymore, just in my mind. Bits and pieces come back from time to time to tempt those memories. I remember giving the stories to my Great Aunt, she was so proud I did so well, not just because I needed to pass, but because she knew how much I loved it by the grades I got.

One of my first stories was about a man who had gotten stranded in the dessert, It was so hot during the day, and at night he would bury himself in the sand as deep as he could with only his face sticking out so he could breath and he wouldn't freeze. He had holy sneakers and Levi jeans and no idea what direction to go, he just knew if he gave up he would die. I can’t remember the end; I think he lived, but barely. I do remember he had blue eyes and red hair, and the rest, I am at a loss for.

I also remember the awesome red A+ on the top of the page from the grease pencil my Summer School teacher used to show my success. He thought my Essays were great too and he couldn't believe I had such a hard time in English. That mark was a badge of honor for me and I kept it up on every new Essay I did for the whole 6 weeks of Summer School.

That school experience really inspired me; and I think I started to journal that year. My great Aunt was such a motivator and she loved to build me up and encourage me in all I did, she wanted me to shoot for the stars. She was a very successful single woman – a trail blazer for her time (she’s a whole other story!) and to get a compliment from her was better than any pat on the back from anyone else I knew.

I think today I have over 30 journals that I have hung onto and there is always one in progress. I am neglecting it a bit, due to my 500 Word Challenge, but they are still full of story material and just reading one sentence can bring a whole new world to life.

I am not bitter from my Summer School experience. It sparked a flame that has never gone out, not completely, and it is starting to burn brighter than ever and that is progress.

I have more than one book inside of me – I could write one just on Summer School, the new friends I met there and never saw again, the hill across the street where we would go to smoke cigarettes before our first class, the struggle to get up all summer at 7 a.m. to make it to the bus … and the laughs.

Most of all I would have to say the best part about Summer School was passing. My Aunt celebrated by having “Congratulations Amy” put on the Dairy Queen sign in a town, I wasn't surprised, not at all. She loved a celebration and my success, to her, was well worth a celebration.

So  a Thank You goes to my Great Aunt Grace and to 8th grade Summer School and to all of you whom I am writing for,  it is because of these things that I write.