Facebook

I was finally convinced to try this relatively new way of "staying in touch". Unfortunately, I've found that I don't really have a whole lot of friends. Hell, I even have family members who don't acknowledge me. I guess, as my Dad used to say, "you made your bed, now lay in it". Trying to make up for past mistakes is more difficult that I thought it would be. It seems as though no matter how hard you try, some people never forget mistakes that were made. My greatest comfort is I now have my best friend in the world with me, and his family and friends have been more support to me than my own family. I know that what is wrong with me physically cannot be cured, and I am looking at the end. I had just hoped to make amends with some.

Disengaged Families

I was checking the obituaries yesterday, both locally and from back home, to make sure my name was not listed. It's something I do on a daily basis. In my hometown newspaper, there it was; my last name in big, bold print. It was my half-brother's obituary. This was a man I had had no contact with in nearly thirty years, but yet, the tears still came. Sure, he and I shared the same father, but there was more in common then more people will ever know; but he and I know. He was the black sheep of my father's first three children; in and out of jail, hell raiser, but a really good guy at heart. He helped me more than once. We shared a bond. He knew he was the outcast of the family, and when my father married my Mom and I came to be, there was talk that my father had married a woman younger than his oldest child. Please understand that this family was made up of devout Catholics who couldn't grasp the fact that my father would marry so soon again. And then, here I was, a child conceived by a fifty year old man; heck. I was soon to be labeled 'my Vickie Marie". Of course, my mother had never had any intention of having another child once she married my father. My father had adopted her son, born out of wedlock, and she was content. And here I come. We grew up playing parental favorites; I was Daddy's little girl, and my brother , according to my mother, was the one to concentrate on. I was told more than once by my Mom that I wasn't supposed to happen. I apologize for the trip down memory lane, but I guess that's why my half-brother and I sort of bonded. He knew what I went through growing up, and I know the same about him. God bless you, Carmen. In spite of all your failings, you'll always be in my heart.

Life in the City

I grew up in a small, ruraltown in upstate New York, where crime was negligible, except for the occassional barfight on Friday night (we had a lot of watering holes in town). The village police, who knew nearly everybody in town, and I believe knew who to target., made their rounds , and the usual suspects were picked up. I had the unfortunate opportunity to fall under their scrutiny(I was quite the party animal in those days) and was picked for DUI. I went to court, paid my fine, and had my license revoked for a year. We had a small town paper called The Review, who apparently had no breaking news to cover, but did enjoy posting the names and charges of those who appeared in village court. Kind of a public humiliation I guess. Needless to say, I learned my lesson from that experience. I now live in a large city, and the rampant crime here is frightening. Seems like everyone has a gun (I don't, but am seriously considering it), and the majority that do are not supposed to have one. I just find it sad that disputes are settled with violence. The words revenge, drive-bys, and regaining street respect appear in our headlines daily. Growing up, we never worried about leaving the front door unlocked, leaving the windows open at night to capture the fresh air, or even locking the car door. As it is, we keep our front door locked at all times, keep the blinds closed, and make sure the car alarm is engaged. It's a sad state of affairs, and I guess the older I get, the more I yearn for the good old days.