Bury the Weakness

Click here to read about an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction .

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I feel the nudge to write this morning.  Yet, I'm not sure what to write about.

I was reading more of Fred Poole On Writing.  I so enjoy reading his voice, and enjoy hearing it as well.  I hope when I am his age I continue with the enthusiasm and youthful vigor he has for life and discovery.  Perhaps as one is aging and has reasonably good health, perhaps that motivates a person to explore, for death becomes more eminent with age.

Doris is like that too.  She was one of my high school English teachers.  I recently got an email from her; she is headed to Morocco.  Doris lives in a cabin in the foothills of North Carolina.  She volunteers three times a week at the Habitat store.  Her age must be approaching 80.

If I want to live full as Fred and Doris are, contributing to life and society, it begins now.  One needs their health and mind agile to continue trekking.

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I didn't have a spectacular childhood.  What is a moment that stands out in my mind?  There are moments.

Like when I was around five years old and stood in the living room looking out the window in the front of the house, thinking of how very much I hated my father and praying he would die, die, die.  I don't know why, at that time, I felt such deep hatred for him.  It wasn't just anger; it was a hatred.

Up until at least five or six years old I would have temper tantrums.

I had a red Chiclet toy gum dispenser.  It wasn't like a gumball machine that stands on a pedestal but rather it was red and plastic, rectangular, and about twelve inches by eight inches by two inches.  I could hold it in my lap.  I'd load it with little boxes that held only two Chiclet Gum pieces.  I don't remember if I had to put a coin in to get the gum to drop.  I liked it, but not the same way I liked my stuffed animals.  I loved them; they were my friends.  They weren't 'things.' The Chiclet dispenser was a 'thing.'

I tore the plastic machine to shreds one day as I sat on the dining room floor. I smashed it on the floor over and over; I felt so much rage and hatred. I hated it.  At the time I hated them, my mom and dad. I don't need my parents.  I don't need anyone; I can take care of myself.  I will be strong. My mom was standing in the kitchen doorway, which connected to the dining room, observing me until my rage ceased.

I was sad and angry the Chiclet machine was destroyed. It's Mom and Dad's fault it's broken; it's their fault! 

When I was eight or nine years old and at a week-long Girl Scout camp, I wrote Mom a letter to come pick me up. Campers could mail and receive letters at camp; it felt very grown-up like. In my letter I begged Mom to come get me, writing part of my script really large; I think with all capitols. I was so homesick and I missed her and Daddy. I didn't want anyone to know that I was homesick nor the real reason I was crying.  So I faked that I had hit my head on a railing; that got me some attention until Mom and Dad got there.

When Mom and Dad arrived I was embarrassed and still didn't admit to being homesick, though I had clearly and emphatically written to them to come get me.  I don't think we discussed my letter.  I think I told them I had hit my head and that is why I had really written. I couldn't let people know, not even Mom and Dad, that I had feelings of weakness - like homesickness. That was for sissies.  I wasn't a sissy; I was a tomboy.

I didn't go home with Mom and Dad; I stayed at camp.  I had to be strong.  I could take care of myself.

The rest of the week at camp was fun, especially the sliding down the mountain waterfall cascades in cut-off shorts and old tennis shoes.

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Quadriplegia

Quadriplegia. "Quad" meaning "four" and "plegia" from the word meaning "to strike." Dad was struck in a head-on collision and, in an instant, life changed.

But oh how he was determined, determined to continue to live. To live. To live.

Dad was 62 when he had that wreck.  He spent sixish months in the hospital. He came back home when he was 63.

Mom had worked for Encyclopeida Britannica for decades; one of their top salespersons. An executive with Britannica called her and told her that if my brother would fly to Chicago, Britannica would sell us a van for $1.

We took them up on the offer. My brother flew up, paid the $1, papers were signed, and he drove the van back to North Carolina.

The big cargo van was never plush, sort of make shift. But it served well those thirteen years. It contained a driver seat, but not for Dad. He never did promote to chauffeur. The front passenger seat was removed so that Dad could steer his electric wheelchair into where the passenger seat previously had been. Part of the wheelchair arm would then hook into a latch that anchored the chair, and thus Dad, into place. There was only one other seat - a bucket seat put toward the back of the van; it wasn't too comfortable but served the purpose. Mom found a local handyman to put a power lift in the van so Dad could be lifted in and out.

One of Dad's favorite songs was the old hymn, "Love Lifted Me."

Even though Dad never drove the van he did get what Mom called a surrey. It was open-aired and gas-powered. I have no idea where Mom or Dad found that vehicle. I'd never seen one before, nor since.

The surrey had four wheels with a small flatbed on the frame. The flatbed served as a platform that Dad could drive his wheelchair onto via a ramp that came down on the back of the flat bed. Blue steel rails went around the two sides and back of the surrey. Motorcyle handle bars controlled the cart. On the rear a tall flexible thin pole rose about eight feet into the air. On the end of the pole an orange triangular flag would warn folks that something was approaching or ahead on the road.

After Dad drove aboard, we would lock the wheels of his wheelchair. We would put a helmet on his head and some fingerless velcro gloves on his hands. Dad then placed his hands on the handle bars, like when one rides a motorcycle. Since he couldn't bend his fingers, we would secure his fingers and hands with the velcro gloves around the handle bar grips.

Though Dad couldn't grip, he was able to move his wrists. With his right wrist and hand he controlled the stop and go of the surrey.  Wrist down, and the surrey would move forward. Wrist up and the surry would stop. I don't recall what he did to cause it to back up.

The surrey didn't go very fast; I think it was slower than his wheelchair. Yet he looked liked a race-surrey driver aboard that cart.

The farthest Dad ever drove the surrey was around 30 miles, from Hickory to Lenoir. He took Old Highway 321A, the two-lane folks used to drive before the four-lane was built. Mom followed him in the van just in case Dad ran into complications. She was a nervous wreck; Dad was thrilled. He drove to Green Mountain, the camp ground where Mom and Dad had a trailer in place.

They bought that trailer and had it equipped so Dad could sleep there and Mom could care for him. There had to be room in the trailer for Dad to maneuver his wheelchair. Like the van, it wasn't plush but met the need. The bed had enough room under it so that the bottom of Dad's lift could go under the bed. Mom would get confused and call the lift a "tilt."

The lift was a piece of equipment we used to get Dad in and out of bed, and other places. He would sit patiently in the swing like structure on wheels as we got him into position before lowering him into place. He was always thankful for the help.

The song he used to sing in the mornings at home as our wake up call? "Love Lifted Me." He'd typically have breakfast in bed. Then Mom, or whoever was on morning shift, would put the "tilt" (the lift) to work. During the day, Dad would have to be laid down a couple times and then gotten back up to help prevent pressure sores.

Though most of the time Dad simply drove his wheelchair around Hickory, he also drove the surrey at times.

Two different times when he was driving his wheelchair, without the surrey, he fell into creeks. Someone helped pull him out. I think they called the fire department; Dad and his wheelchair were heavy. Yet he never let his wheelchair mishaps slow him down.

He'd drive his wheelchair to the library or to downtown Hickory to shop. On the back of his wheelchair was a large bag attached as a carry-all. That's where he carried his wallet. When he needed to pay for items or retrieve his library card, he'd ask with a smile to someone in line or to the clerk, "Could you help me out with my wallet?" The volunteer would pull Dad's wallet out of the carry-all and hand it to Dad. Then using his chin and the back of his hands and his chest, Dad would open it up. Sometimes he would use a lame thumb as a tool to scoot a bill out of the wallet. Other times he'd use the heels of both his hands, wallet secured between them, and stretch his arms forward so that the clerk could get the money or library card from his wallet. Someone would then put the items or books in Dad's carry-all.

Dad was never robbed in thirteen years. He knew the risks, yet his freedom was worth much more than his wallet.

I can still hear him sing in his deep voice, "Love lifted me. Love lifted me. .... When nothing else could help, .... Love .... Lifted .... Me....."

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entry ~ heritage ~

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December 31, 2009 - 12:10 AM

I haven't written in seven days?  I think that's correct.  Why haven't I written in seven days?  I don't know.

Christmas happened; it was a good day.  We went to my brother's new home for the day.

Hmmm....this isn't what I really want to write about. Remember that I don't have to write to please anyone; nor do I need to write to publish my writing. Yet for some reason I probably will throw this entry up on a blog.  I'll tweak it a bit; I usually do.  I keep the original though; I have learned to keep the original. I had a piece once that I tweaked so much, the original got lost in the midst; the essence of what I wanted to express became almost empty, like a shell housing hollow facts.

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As of 12/30/09, we have new floors on the lower level of our house.  John and Joshua and I packed up all the collection and remnants of life that were stashed in various corners.  John and Joshua moved lots of furniture out of the rooms that were getting the new floors; I felted the bottom of the furniture we didn't move out.

Now the hardwood is laid and I need to dust, vaccuum, wipe down, and rearrange the furniture.  I imagine I will leave most of the packed remnants in boxes for now. Most of it I've not used or touched in a couple years.  I have the boxes labeled.  I won't toss or sale those remnants yet.  I have time to go through them over the next years to discard what will be discarded and to preserve what will be preserved.

I found a TWI banner in the closet.  It's white cloth, about eight inches by twelve inches, with green tasselling at the bottom. The bottom has two edges that come down at an angle to a center point.  I think there may be gold trim at the top of the banner and perhaps at the bottom, right above the green fringe.  A wooden rod with decorative horizontal mosque-shaped ends slips through the top of the banner, like a tiny curtain rod.  A gold entwined cord is tied to each end of the rod; that is how the banner hangs. The banner states The Way International in the circular emblem which I think also has The Way Tree symbol, a tree trunk with an open Bible as the tree crown.  I used to draw those regularly when I'd doodle. I always liked trees, still do. "The Word of God is The Will of God" is written in block letters across the banner, I think in three lines with "is" sitting alone on the middle line.

I didn't toss the banner; I rolled it and placed it in a box with some other stuff, and then labeled and taped the box.  I'm not sure why I kept the banner.  In an odd way, I feel it is part of my heritage.  I can't just throw it away; not yet.  Maybe never.

Nor did I toss the framed print of Craig and Doctor.  I didn't know I still had it.  I thought I had tossed it, but there it was in the back of the closet, sticking up out of a box.  It surprised me and I thought, "Oh..."  I felt a bitter sweetness amble through my heart.

I had once truly believed The Way to be the Household of God and The Way Corps to be the highest calling.  I believed I had been trained with the finest training on earth and that I had turned my back on my Way Corps calling. Yet I still tried to live up to it; Craig had encouraged me after I dropped to continue using my training, that there weren't enough of us for any to sit on the sidelines. The belief system and the structure were the fabric of my life.  I had loved Craig as a brother and Doctor as a father; both as my spiritual teachers, guides, protectors of hearts and pillars of integrity.

Yet I have no doubt that Craig and Doctor and other past and/or present leaders have abused.  I don't think the sexual abuse goes on anymore in The Way; but I do think spiritual and emotional abuses continue.  The doctrine over person and heirarchy system will probably always be standard opertaing procedure within The Way.  Those two aspects seem regular fare in fundamentalist-type groups.

Sometimes I wish I could feel the anger and rage toward Craig and Doctor that others feel.  I feel guilt that I don't feel that 'righteous anger.'  With that guilty feeling, I have an image of Ralph or some of the Greasespot Cafe judge and jury hollering at me, telling me what scum those leaders were. Shouldn't I be angry?

I have felt anger toward Way leaders, but not to the extent that I have felt rage toward certain ex-Way followers who 'self-righteously' judge ex- or current-TWI leaders (or other TWI followers), all the while excusing or being blind to their own abusive past (or even present) words and deeds.

It confuses me at times.  I then breathe deeply and tell myself that my confusion is understandable.  I'm responsible for me, not for them.  And if I sit in self-righteous judgement, I could be guilty of the same.  I don't know; if there is an eternity and so-called judgement day, I imagine we are all in for some big surprises.

Well, I didn't expect to write those last five paragraphs.  I wanted to write about the print of Craig and Doctor and the bittersweetness I felt upon seeing the print.  But now I don't want to; I feel kind of sick to my stomach.

I'll just say it is the print of the painting by the artist Tom Cowan, portrait busts of Craig and Doctor; they appear to be seated. Doctor is wearing a green ball cap with "The Way Corps" in green letters on a white background, a squared-oval patch on the front of the green cap.  Green and white were the Way Corps colors.  With his left hand Doctor is holding an open Bible, probably to Ephesians. His right hand is placed on the Bible pages like he is pointing something out as Craig is looking where Doctor's fingers are pointing. Doctor's eyes are also focused on the page where Craig is focused. Doctor has his mouth open slightly, like he is teaching or showing Craig a scriptural or spiritual truth, "the eyes of his understanding being enlightened."

Doctor's holy spirit ring on his right fourth finger is prominent; it is a ruby color which is similar to the background color of the painting. His wedding band is seen on his left fourth finger.

Craig appears to have the fingers of his right hand on the fourth finger of his left hand, like he is touching or twirling a ring.  Is it a Corps ring or a wedding ring?  I don't remember.  It seems we were told once.  Craig has on a wrist watch.  I recall Craig once stating with a chuckle something like, "If you ask me what time it is, I'll end up telling you how the watch works."  An example of how he was always "apt to teach," as the scripture commands of overseers in the Church.

"The Teacher," a poem apparently written by Doctor as his signature is under the prose, is calligraphied on the right side of the print. Doctor called himself "the teacher."  He instructed new graduates of his Power For Abundant Living Foundational Class that wanted to write him, to address their envelopes to "The Teacher."   That's what I did when I first took 'The Class' in December, 1977.  Doctor wrote me back; I was thrilled and stunned.

All the Way Corps were called to be teachers.

The Teacher

The teacher of God's Word is one of a kind

Who loves God with all his heart, soul, mind, and strength;

And who loves nothing more than to teach His Word.

The teacher of God's Word is an artist

He works alone ~ reading ~ thinking ~ praying ~ studying

Believing to share his product with all the world.

The teacher of God's Word is a giver

One who gives without the gaurantee of being received;

One who rejoices without knowing if anyone else will joy;

One who corrects the irresponsible and careless;

One who gives, gives, gives, and keeps on giving.

The teacher of God's Word lives only to teach

to receive, to weigh, to discard, to develop,

to learn, to treasure, to give, to motivate,

to enlist, to stabilize, to encourage, to direct.

And may I add, and to build equipped believers,

   abassadors strong and wise

Who teach because they love the teacher's task

And find their greatest prize

In eyes that open, and in minds that ask.

                                                                                                Victor Paul Wierwille

I used to think that was such a humble poem.  Now it creeps me out, and makes me feel dirty.

I notice in this above entry that I use the word "Doctor" for V.P. Wierwille. That is how I felt about the print when I saw it; it wasn't VPW, the man, but VPW, the beloved teacher and "doctor" of the scriptures.

Why did it end up such a lie?  It causes my heart to ache, and that's o.k.

Living is a hard thing, sometimes.

I hope I'm making a new tapestry; one that is more real. Surely I am? Surely I am...

It's 1:55 AM now.  Goodnight...

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