The Music Truck

The Story of the Music Truck
For My Beautiful Daughter Meghanne

Retaining some level of naivety in life isn’t necessarily a bad thing

Although I escaped the teenage mother moniker by less than 24 hours, becoming a mom midway through my sophomore year of college certainly had its challenges. For starters, I had no intention of going to work until Meghanne was in Kindergarten. Instead, I planned to finish my pricey private John Carroll University college education and then attend either law or graduate school. As such, living off my husband’s paltry  starting-out salary meant making a lot sacrifices. We lived with my mother and had cost-free family support when it came to childcare. We drove used, paid for cars, Meg wore hand-me-downs or gifts, and overall we cut corners at every turn to live within our means. And, while we certainly were not living the carefree party lifestyle of most of our 20 year-old friends, we didn’t really care. Meghanne was our whole life and we knew the sacrifices we were making would lead her to a better life and future.*

Meghanne’s dad, Gordon, and I, grew up in Cleveland proper with our backyards abutting the MetroParks—Me from OLA and Gordon from St. Pat’s parishes. If you are Catholic and from West Park you know what that means. If you are not, let’s just say we shared very similar upbringings and consequently, experiences. One of those commonalities was the sweet sound of the Ice Cream Truck trolling the neighborhoods on hot summer nights and the delicious refreshing, amazing, treats of bomb pops, nutty buddy or other tasty morsels.

I bought this ornament for Meggie for our Christmas Tree.
It lights up and plays music

When the Ice Cream Truck came through the neighborhood, The kids who got something were Rock Stars and the envy of everyone! The ice cream itself was really trivial. They achieved something we all wanted. They were finally able to convince their parents to spare a few coins on their tight budget to be THE KID, the center of attention, the envy of all those who watched, who ran out of their house, made the truck stop and said “yes, I will take…” whatever tasty treat they enjoyed in front of everyone else who just watched; hoping, that some day they would be standing in their shoes. See that was the great part of growing up in our neighborhoods.  We were all in the same boat.

So the first time I heard the Ice Cream truck come down our street when Meg was old enough to question its existence, (18 months) I panicked. Unlike our mean, tough, I walked 10 miles to school, uphill both ways parents….I knew that I could never say no to her. But, I also knew if I allowed her to get something from the truck, she would want it every day! Like most latch-key, gen-x kids, I wanted her to have everything that I could never have growing up. Even something as trivial as the Ice Cream Truck. And, I knew on our thin budget we couldn’t afford that. So when she heard the music and she asked, “Mommy what is that?” I did what any NOT-teenage mother would do. I told a little white lie. I simply said: “Honey, that’s the Music Truck. It drives around all summer throughout the city to play music for all the children in the neighborhood to make them happy.” Meggie, of course, bought it hook, line and sinker and believed every word I said!

This went on for the next few summers.  Fortunately, on most days we were in the backyard, on the deck sunning and swimming, surrounded by a 6 ft. wooden privacy fence. So she was shielded from the kids surrounding and chasing the “music truck.” Instead, Meggie would stop, listen and dance. I loved watching her happiness and innocence as she swayed back and forth to the music. 

In the summer of 1993, when Meggie was 4 years-old, my Uncle Ray would come live with us briefly. He was going through a divorce and needed not only a place to stay but also a place to bring his 6 and 8 year-old sons—Russell and Billy, respectively. I was in graduate school at the time and welcomed the addition to our household because Ray possessed the means and a plan to take us to the golden city of Rocky River—which call me a snob, but in my OLA mind, making it across the bridge to Rocky River—meant MAKING IT! (Hey don’t judge, I was young).

So, one day during that summer of Ray, after morning summer classes, my BFF, Tina, from college came home with me. We donned our bathing suits, slathered on sun tan lotion and took up residency next to Meggie’s baby pool, with Faulkner, to have a lively literary discussion. In the background, the music truck was playing and I barely noticed Meggie going into the house as Tina, debated some literary theme in The Sound and the Fury.  However, we were quickly interrupted by a wild-eye child careening through the deck’s screen door---“Mommy, MOMMY, MOMMY! You are NOT going to believe this!!” Meghanne declared at the top of her lungs with excitement I’d never witnessed before!

And there she was. My baby. Her face COVERED with green. Wide-eyed. Smiling ear to ear.  An, ERNEST in her face, a twinkle in her eye. She was bursting! She was on the verge of telling me the world’s GREATEST secret—Bigger than when the caveman discovered FIRE…..And she then spoke.

 “MomMY, you ARE NOT going to believe. BUT GUESS what is in the music truck!!! ICE CREAM!!!! it doesn’t just play music. it has ice cream!!!!!!” She said covered in the Nickelodeon green slime of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pop she was devouring.

My reaction?  With a cold stoned faced I asked Meggie: “Who got you that.” “Uncle Ray Mommy—Isn’t it great, Mommy? Look what is in the Music Truck!!!”

And, I walked inside and looked at Ray and said—“In a few weeks we move to Rocky River (where they don’t have Music Trucks). Until that time, you will buy MY DAUGHTER ice cream from the ice cream truck EVERYDAY!!!!”

Meggie & Russ Waiting for the Music Truck

_____________________________________________________

FAST FORWARD

I love this story and have told it time and time again—much to Meggie’s chagrin. I love it because I know all it’s listeners and now readers, think about their experience with the “music truck” and smile. I also love it because it shows my sheer brilliance in thinking up this story (one which other have copied) but at the same time demonstrates the sheer trust, love and loyalty a child shows to their parent and the lengths that parent will go to make sure that their babies have the BEST.

Fast forward 18 years…I use to joke with Meggie that the minute she graduated from High School I was putting a for sale sign on the house and moving.  I wanted to move to the beaches of Florida but soon realized how much I would miss my kids (in addition to Meggie, my husband Marc has three boys + grandkids), we settled for a house on the shores of Lake Erie.  Ironically between the time Meg left for school and the first time she came home from college we had in fact moved to Avon Lake on the shores of Lake Erie. That first summer when Meg came come, we were out sun tanning in the yard and we heard the “music truck” come down our street. And, I ran inside, got some cash, came outside and said “let’s go.” We flagged down the truck. I got a bomb pop (my favorite) and Meg got a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pop. And arm and arm, sitting on the breakwall…we watched the sunset.

*Meghanne’s father and I divorced when she was 8 years old. However, we remained the best of friends and raised Meghanne as “a couple” despite that I had became involved with someone else who I eventually married. In fact, at Meghanne’s high school graduation, when I introduced Meggie’s step-father to a fellow classmates parents who have known Meg since Kindergarten, they remarked, “Oh, I had no idea you and Meg’s dad were no longer together?” And, yes, 24 years later, we are still friends. 

We've Got a Thing That's Called Radar Love

Long before guitar hero, kids got together in their bedrooms, blasted the music and rocked out on their air instruments and sang at the top of their lungs. Marty and I were no exception.

Throughout the course of our lives Marty and I shared many musical moments. Seeing Paul McCartney and Pink Floyd at the old Browns Stadium. Seeing The Who on their “farewell” tour in 1982 and David Bowie on his “Let’s Dance” tour a year later. Listening to Genesis’ The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway and Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” and “Tuesday’s Gone” around a Tidioute campfire. Even dancing on the bar at the Public House to Guns ‘n Roses’ “Paradise City” on my 25^th birthday (and yes there is a video tape!).

But there is one song that every time I hear it—it stops me dead in my tracks and transforms me into a child—Golden Earring’s “Radar Love.”

The image is so clear like it was just yesterday. And it is in fact, one of my earliest childhood memories and indeed one of the most vivid. Marty’s bedroom circa 1973. So, I was no more was like 4-5 years-old and Marty, a mere 10-11. He had the back bedroom at our home on Allien. There were three twin beds in the room at the time—most likely occupied also by Timmy and Ray. Posters all over the wall and clothes all over the floor.

But these posters were circa 1970s and they were black light posters! And, that Christmas, Marty (or one of the boys) got not only a black light, but a strobe light as well! And, the 45 record (many of you don’t probably remember them) of Golden Earring’s: Radar Love.

Marty and I would go up to his room. Turn out all the lights. Turn on the black light and the strobe light. Turn the volume all the way up on our portable turn-table. Drop the needle. And then we’d take our positions, start jumping on the bed, play our air guitars and sing at the top of our lungs….

I’ve been drivin’ all night my hand’s wet on the wheel

There is a voice in my head that drives my heel

And my baby calls that she needs me here

It’s a half past four and I’m shifting gear…

We got a thing and it’s called Radar Love

We got a wave in the air

Radar Love…Radar Love

We did this over and over and over again until finally “mom” would come upstairs and say…“turn that down and stop jumping on the beds! One of you are going to crack your head open!” (she was right…eventually, one day while we were jumping on the beds, I did crack my head open! And I’ve got the scar to prove it! The one above my right eyebrow that drives my esthetician crazy every time I go in to get my brows done.)

Needless to say. Everyone time I hear “Radar Love” I turn it up as loud as possible and sometimes, I even jump on the bed.

Faith, Hope, Pixie Dust

All you need is faith, hope and pixie dust! ~ Peter Pan

On my first official date with Marc, we met at a tattoo parlor. I was 28 years old and ink free. And, Marc… well he was 39 and not exactly ink-free. He had about 14 or so at the time but on that day…he was about to get his “last” (if you know Marc—it was certainly not!). But for me it was my first. And since then, I only have one more. 10 years later in honor of my beloved Marty.

But there we met. I walked into Finest Lines in Euclid with a Disney VHS of Peter Pan in my hand. Marc and our artist looked at me…like WTF…a Disney movie? What did we get ourselves into!

I had wanted to get a tattoo for years but needles, blood, pain…not my thing. And, Marc had finally given me the courage, but I had seen so many stupid tattoos in my life so, I wanted to be sure.

Being inked and living with a man and family who is very inked-up.—I’ve learned every tattoo has a story . And certainly, so do both of mine. But this first would always mark a first date, with someone who I was sure, at that time, would NEVER work out. Therefore, I wanted to make sure that it was something that meant something very special to me.

So I thought. What is important to me? What would always be important to me?

I ultimately decided on something Disney.

My love affair with Walt Disney and animation probably started with a choice not made by me. My mother decided to do my nursery in Winnie the Pooh.

Yet, most kids have rooms in childish fantasy…so I really don’t think that is it.

For me…it was a dream (or more like a nightmare.)

It was shortly after both my grandparents had died. (If you’ve read my blog, you know my grandparents were very special to me and like my parents). I had the dream when I was 9 years old.

At that time, I had never been to Walt Disney World but from pictures, I knew exactly what it looked like.

In that dream, I was at Disney World and ran into my grandparents. I was lost, crying, running down Main Street and frantically looking for my mother. And, then, I met up with my grandparents. I was RELIEVED to finally encounter someone I knew. People who made me feel safe and would always help me. I hugged them and said: “Thank God! I’m so happy to so you! Do you know where mom is?” And, my grandmother, replied “She is with us. You need to go now. You’re not meant to be here with us. We’re leaving and you can’t come with us.” And, then I saw them turn, walk away, toward Cinderella’s castle, holding hands with my mother.

I stood there in Main Street, alone and I knew what that meant. My mother was dead….but I wasn’t afraid. And, I didn’t try to run with them and be with them. I knew that I was where I was I needed to be. I was going in a different direction and like or not, without any of them.

The magic of Disney World surrounded me and I felt at peace.

Needless to , say I woke up in a cold sweat and immediately went to my mother’s room and crawled into her bed and her arms. It was a dream (thank God) and she was still with me.

But, it was at moment that I learned that the only person you could ever count on was yourself.

Sadly that memory stuck with me and to this day, I consider myself one of the most self-reliant people on the planet. But, as vivid as that memory is to me, so is that feeling, standing in Main Street….alone. That amazing magic surrounding me and that feeling—that everything would be okay. Faith, Hope, Pixie Dust.

Life has certainly taken me on a magical journey…as it has us all. It’s called life! And, I’m certainly not alone. I have an amazing family and support system. And, I’ve had a lot of people help me along the way.

So, when I thought about my first tattoo and what was really important to me. I thought about that dream, Disney and Tinkerbell.

I was raised uber-Catholic and was taught that Faith, Hope and Love were the most important things in life…Kinda…like Faith, Hope, Pixie Dust!

So, I showed up with my Disney VHS (no DVDs or BluRays in those days ) and despite the strange looks, said, “I want this picture of Tinkerbell, on the cover of the box…with her magic wand and pixie dust tattooed on my hip. As a reminder, of where I’ve been, where I’m going, and the hope of what might be.”

Two days later, Marty got in his fatal accident. As my tattoo wound was still healing—a new wound opened. And, I’ve spent the last 14 years trying to heal that wound and, vacillating between emotions---anger, regret, love, heart-ache! I’ve even sought professional help.

And, then recently, I had a break-though. It was my best friend who said to me—after the conversation inevitability turned to tears and my grief of Marty-- “You know what Sharon. You will NEVER get over it. Stop wasting your time. You just have to learn to live it.”

It was so simple. Like those fictitious words from my grandmother when I was standing in Main Street….that made me feel so safe, secure, and at that moment, I was ready to take flight.

And, I touched my tattoo thinking:

Faith: Complete trust or confidence in someone or something.

Hope: A feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen.

Pixie Dust: Magic dust from a fairy that allows humans to fly.

I’m ready to fly, move on and LIVE.

Any Given Sunday

I love the Cleveland Browns. As Terry Pluto points out in his recent book Things I’ve learned from watching the Browns, this love is “completely, utterly irrational! If you were born after 1960…being a Browns fan makes no sense. None. Zero.” But, despite that, as his book chronicles, anyone’s love affair with the Browns is far beyond what they do on the field. If you’re a Browns fan you know that. Despite the endless Sundays that you’ve waited, hoped, and believed, you know that alas...you will have your heartbroken. My 18^th birthday was 1/11/87—we’ll get to that in a moment.

According to my mother, my love affair with football started in the womb. My uncle, Ray Somerville, was a senior starter on Cleveland’s Notre Dame Cathedral Latin’s football team in the fall of 1968 and my mother attended and cheered on every game with me growing in her belly. She is right. There really can be no other explanation. I was raised by a single mom (who outside of cheering on these games, could care less about football) and beyond Ray, I had no older brothers who played the sport or anyone who took me to games as a child. Yet, somehow, I grew into this rabid football fan.

I really can’t pin-point the day, time or place that I decided that this was my sport. And, my friends from high school will testify to my love for college football (especially Doug Flutie and his amazing BU “Hail Mary” pass to defeat the Hurricanes quarterbacked by future Brown, Bernie Kosar). I followed every college team, watched all the bowl games and even the Heisman Trophy ceremonies—which I still do today.

Of course, my true love was the NFL but, I knew, even at a young age, that watching college games was important. These were the future stars of the NFL who were playing their hearts out for no other reason than to make it big someday. This was pure football in my eyes and I loved (and still do) every minute of it.

Nor can I really pin-point the day I became a Cleveland Browns fan. But considering I remember Red Right 88 (I was 11) and my devotion to the Kardiac Kids (junior high)--it was pretty early on.

My love was deep. Like college football on Saturday, every Sunday, I followed every NFL team in the league. The quarterback was always key to me. (chicks dig the long ball—I know baseball reference but it still applies! Really anyone who can throw a spiral down the field melts my heart) The quarterback, in my opinion, makes or breaks a team. Eventually, Joe Montana would become my absolute favorite player in the league. Ironic. How many quarterbacks have the Browns had? Especially since “The Move.”

Maybe it was just simply rooting for the home team that made me a Browns fan? Or it could be the fact that my mom was a barmaid and I spent a lot of my childhood in the bar owned by my Uncle Ray watching football. Or was it that he knew Tom Cousineau and other players in the league, including Browns players, who would sometimes visit the bar and eventually our house? Who knows? One thing I do know is that even when I picked “my team”—I knew the Browns were not very good; but nonetheless, I watched and cheered for them every week by my calculations for 30+ years.

Maybe it was just bad DNA? In that case, I have passed on this genetic defect of loving the Browns on to my daughter—taking her several Browns games, including a trip to the Browns-Steelers game (in the Dawg Pound) when she was 12! Her father was livid at first—but he, too, is a Browns fan so he understood. When my daughter selected colleges a few years ago, the quality of the football team was equally as important as the quality of the program. She chose OSU and she’s a pre-vet major, so I think she made a good choice on both fronts.

I enjoyed reading Pluto’s book on Christmas (which my daughter bought me and was my favorite gift) and identified with every chapter. But, I still wondered why? Why am I a Browns fan? And, why did I have plans to attend a December game, the day after Christmas no less? He was right...being a Browns fan made NO SENSE!

For starters, I hate any weather condition under 70 degrees (I actually wear a sweater when it is that cold out) and wouldn’t dream of going out of my house on a day like I was preparing. Cold as hell, 20+ degrees and snow!! And, the wind, wicked! I live on Lake Erie so when I went to pick up the newspaper in the morning and felt the piercing cold winds, which left me breathless, I knew what was in store and thought WTF am I thinking?

But I walked back in the house and still could NOT wait to head down to Cleveland Browns stadium with my daughter, in my new Browns Santa hat and our new matching Browns jackets to freeze my A** off and watch the Browns which I know would lose! Why?

Well a few reasons. For starters I was invited by the Cleveland Browns to be part of the gauntlet as the players entered the field. That’s right, on field at Cleveland Browns Stadium! Wild horses could have kept me from that opportunity—especially with my daughter! And, that might have been one of the coolest things I’ve ever been apart of—outside of being asked to participate in the coin toss earlier this year! Then something truly magical happened. And, I knew I was destined to be there that day.

Marty’s youngest son, Andy (aka A.J.) and his beautiful bride to be April were also at the game. I knew this because we had chatted about it earlier this week on Facebook. So we texted them and told them to come over to our seats which they did.

Marty and I attended so many Browns games together and shared a deep love of the Browns! Okay, maybe he didn’t love the Browns? But I know he knew I did. And, as we all complained about the cold, I recounted for AJ and April, the story of my 18^th birthday--1/11/87—coldest game I’ve ever been to! In Browns’ history, it’s known as “The Drive.” I was happy to realize that AJ and April needed no other explanation of”The Drive” and that I had some Browns fans on my hands.

I did explain, however, how his father waited for hours (perhaps overnight, I don’t recall) outside of Cleveland Browns Stadium in the freezing cold to get tickets for me because that is all I wanted for my birthday. (There was no online ordering then!).

And, how we planned the PERFECT day. Fates aligned, It was my 18^th birthday. We were going to go to the game and then come back to Allien to have a wonderful feast (prepared by those who couldn’t to brave the cold or weren’t lucky enough to get tickets) and celebrate the Browns victory and my birthday. And of course, plan our trip to the Super Bowl--we were all going!.

It didn’t go that way, of course. NO ONE came to celebrate. Everyone went home. We were all numb. And not from the cold. My birthday ruined. It was probably the biggest Cleveland Browns heartache I ever felt besides The Move!

I recounted to AJ that I never heard such COLD CRISP SILENCE walking out of the old Browns stadium. Really it was eerie...80,000+ people and DEAD SILENCE. We were all so stunned. One minute we were going to the Super Bowl...We were really going and then "The Drive". I told him it was like a funeral march—sadly something AJ knew firsthand about. I will never, ever forget it.

In fact, when I first met Brian Brennan many years ago, I walked up to him and said, “you were a great player and I enjoyed watching all those years, but you know, you and the Cleveland Browns ruined my 18^th birthday! But I’m still a die-hard fan” He said, “How did we do that?” I replied, “My 18^th birthday was 1/11/87.” His face went still and he replied, “I’m sorry. You’re right. That would have ruined your day.” True Story!

For years, like so many Browns fan, 1/11/87 IS my WORST Cleveland Browns memory. But, today, sharing that story with Marty’s son and knowing that he probably never got to share that story with his son, it was an awesome experience to re-live!

Today, I walked out Cleveland Browns stadium with AJ and April, after another Browns defeat. And, as I kissed AJ and April goodbye, I felt the warmth of an angel on my shoulder. The cold suddenly went away. I was there with Marty’s boy at a Browns game! It warmed my heart. And, suddenly being a Cleveland Browns fan did not seem irrational or utter nonsense. It all had meaning.

About me…

So, there seems to be some confusion about me and rightly so. To set the record straight, I am an only child. And, so when I wrote my recent blog about my “brother” Marty there were many who said WTF? I thought you were an only child? And, technically you are right.

However, a bit about me. I was born to Donna Somerville, the 4^th oldest of Ruth and Ray Somerville of the legendary family from Westpark, Ohio with 13 kids. My mom was 21 years old when she had me. Unwed and NO plans what so ever to marry or even involve my father in my life. To this day, he knows nothing about me; we’ve never spoken; we’ve never met; and, in fact, to my knowledge he has NO idea I even exist—let alone that I’m a girl or that I have a beautiful and amazing 21 year-old-daughter, Meghanne, which I consider truly the greatest accomplishment of my life. He knows nothing about me and I don’t even have his name.

Instead, I’m a Somerville—through and through. I’m so proud of that fact that personally and professionally my name has ALWAYS been and always will be Sharon Somerville with an added last name—first McGuire and now Boyes.

In 1969, when I was born, being a single parent was not the norm and coupled with the fact that my mother—well… had issues and still does. My grandparents, Ruth & Ray, took me in and raised me as their own. At the time of my birth 10 of their 13 kids still lived under their roof and Marty was in kindergarten, Peggy 10 years old, Annie 11 and the remainder of the kids up Ray (7^th oldest) were under the age of 18. So yes, I was just another baby in the house and treated as such. I was number 14. There was no distinction. I was just another Somerville under the roof of Allien Ave.

My grandparents cared for me like their own and honestly, although I knew I had a different “mother,” since my mother was hospitalize for much of my early years for her mental illness which she still battles today, I don’t think I realized she was my “mom” until I was five years old when she took me out of the house to live with her, my “aunt” Patty and her daughter, my “sister” Michelle. Michelle was also another “niece” raised in the Somerville household. In fact, I know I didn’t fully realize this fact, until my grandparents both died in 1977 and 1978 respectively, and Michelle moved to Florida with her “parents.”

For the record. I LOVE my real mom, Donna, and will until the day she dies—and sadly, I know for a FACT that I will be the one to bury her given her fragile mental state. I am so fortunate to have had a few really good years with her and right now she is in a good place and we have a good relationship. I cherish that every day. But, I’m a realist.

My point is this. There is an old African saying that “it takes a village to raise a child.” And, I was so blessed to be born into the village of the Somervilles….they really did rally around me to raise me as a family—and that family cannot be defined by traditional words like “sister,” “brother,” “niece,” etc.”. I will always consider, Peggy, Annie, Ruthie, Marian, Karen and especially my beloved sweet Michelle to be my sisters. Patty & Jim to be my second parents, who took me in when I had terrible postpartum depression with Meg; Ray, Jerry and Timmy who were those father figures I never had. JoAnne, who took me in to her home, the oldest, pillar of strength, an amazing guiding force in my life. And, I will always & forever, to the day I die, consider Marty to be my brother—in the truest sense of the word.—because he was and always will be. For those of you who have read my blog…he was my everything and made me the person I’ve become…I am so grateful for my life thanks to him....and you don’t even know the half of the story.

Thanks for reading.

Flashes Before Your Eyes

They say before you die—your life flashes before your eyes. Every year leading up to the anniversary of Marty’s death….I experience Flashes of our life together before my eyes. Weird, it’s not memories because I think about him every day…a song comes on the radio, things Meg has told me, seeing what amazing men his boys have become, stupid things that happen to me, and even my life with Marc who he never met… these are things that I would love to pick up the phone and share with him. I’m pretty sure with all my years of study of the English language, that the emptiness of him not being here that pierces my heart—is called grief.

But this is different. And it happens to me every October. Flashes. A moment in time of the 27 years of memories I had with him. (That’s how old I was when he died.). Like I said it’s not a memory, it’s a Flash … Hard to describe—even for someone who is never at a loss for words. Perhaps my LOST friends will understand….but let me try…

Okay so it’s not the big things—graduations, births, birthdays, weddings, or sitting in the ICU saying goodbye to him. It’s little, subtle, it’s a feeling. Like tonight. I came home from work in a foul mood all day. And finally I just sat down and cried. Marc asked what’s wrong? I said “nothing” and he said “seriously, you’re crying”, and I said tomorrow’s the anniversary of Marty’s death…and he said “oh.” Like he didn’t even want to go there. But, he did give me a hug and say "I'm sorry. I know how much you loved him."

It was a similar look and reaction I got earlier today with my co-worker when she asked me if something was wrong because I had been melancholy all day and starting crying when we were shopping for the office in Wal-Mart. I really think she thought I was crazy. I mean who cries in Wal-Mart with all these low prices?!

When she questioned me about my state, I said “oh tomorrow is just the anniversary of my brother’s death.” She’s new…and from the expression her face, I don’t think she was prepared for that response, and she said, “I’m sorry. How long has it been?” I said, “13 years…(sigh and pause).” She gave me a puzzled look. I think she expected me to say a much sorter time.

Okay trust me, I know it’s been 13 years. And, I’m over it…I’ve spent many hours on a therapist’s couch and am definitely at the “acceptance stage.”

But, what she didn’t know was I had a “Flash” in Wal-Mart. Walking past the Halloween decorations and costumes. I saw a princess costume, had “Flash” which prompted my crying… What happened was I suddenly was Flashed to the two of us sitting in the living room of our house on Allien Ave. with our haul from Halloween candy and we were trading ..like we use to do when we were kids…me in my princess outfit…Marty in his superhero outfit (mom made him the cape!). But here is the FLASH part…

We weren’t kids…I was 41 (like I am now) and Marty was 48 (like he would be) and we were just normal…Having a conversation that adults have: “I will trade you a snickers bar for a reeses peanut butter cup”—our childhood favorite trade. (Okay laugh now at the two of us in those outfits at our age or even at 6 years old+!). Mundane. Like he was still a part of my life. A feeling …that he never has left me. It was real. We were there together today; trading candy!

The same thing happened tonight when I got home. Flashes! Marc was copying music on our I-Tunes because our computer recently crashed and we lost all our music…All of a sudden Tiny Dancer by Elton John played, I LOVED Elton John when I was a kid and so did Marty. I remember the one Christmas we both got Elton John Albums….I’m pretty sure it was Madman Across the Water…and we went wild!!! And I remember that Marty was mad because I got a poster too! And, while this is a strong memory in my life with Marty, at that moment, hearing that song….I was just sitting there, painting my nails….mundane…And, instead of Marc looking at me, it was Marty, saying "I love this song" as "Tiny Dancer”played in the background.

Make sense??

Next song Jamaica Jerk Off….

When she gets up in the morning

It's enough to wake the dead
Oh she turning on the radio
And dancing on my head

It's no good living in the sun
Playing guitar all day
Boogalooing with my friends
In that erotic way

Come on Jamaica
In Jamaica all day
Dancing with your darling
Do Jamaica jerk-off that way

Come on Jamaica
Everybody say
We're all happy in Jamaica
Do Jamaica Jerk-off that way

I was married in Jamaica. A "Flash" of Marty was there with me that day, too. Conscience?

I love you Marty. Always and Forever!

RIP Marty A. Somerville. January 27, 1962-October 27, 1997.

Happy Father's Day

So father’s day, like mother’s day, is an awesome holiday. Celebrating your parents! The people who bore you, loved you and nurtured you. They rock! Or so I’ve been told. I’ve never had the joy of celebrating father’s day and sometimes mother’s day…I hate father’s day. Of course, I’m a mom, so I appreciate the day to be celebrated as a mom, but my mother…well issues. Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother. But, we have many, many issues. And, some years have been good and some not so good.

But, father’s day. It has ALWAYS sucked for me. It’s the day I’m reminded that I don’t have one. My father took off before I was born…didn’t even stick around to find out if I was a girl or a boy…We’ve never met. He knows nothing about me. He doesn’t even know my name. But I know his.

I’ve often thought about looking him up and with the internet, I know EXACTLY who he is and where he lives. But, I’ve never taken that step to contact him. Why? Because quite honestly I don’t think I could handle the rejection AGAIN. Clearly, he wants nothing to do with me…or he would have found me. I still go by the use the name Somerville. (initially hyphenated with my married name, and now it’s officially my middle name). I’m proud to be a Somerville and always will. And, I’ve never strayed from the Westpark area of Cleveland. Sure, I moved to River and then Avon Lake, but I’ve never left the area. His loss and worse, he lost out on the GREATEST thing I ever accomplished, his granddaughter, Meghanne.

But despite the fact that my father is a total asshole—no I’m not bitter. I’ve been lucky to have several wonderful “fathers” in my life. First my grandfather, (read my blog “I Named Him Marley Anyways” about my grandfather—more to come about him), my uncle Ray—who is AWESOME, my “brother” Marty, whose boys have grown into to amazing men, despite the fact that he left them way too early, my ex-husband Gordon, who is an great father to Meg, and of course, my husband, Marc, who adores his boys more than anything. One of the things I fell in love with Marc was what a great father he was. I love this quality in men, since my father was a total turd.

So happy Father’s Day to all those who have chosen to be a “FATHER” and a big F-U to the too many deadbeat dads that are out there.

Summer Vacation

It amazes me when I meet fellow Clevelanders who have NEVER been to Cedar Point. In fact, when I was dating my husband (also a native Clevelander) , we took our three children (at the time ages 10, 8 and 6 ) to Put-In-Bay for the day, and upon leaving, I suggested that we should stop at Cedar Point on the way home (it’s cheap after 5 p.m.). The end to the perfect day on Lake Erie. I was shocked to learn that he (nor his children) had NEVER been there! Upon hearing this news, of course, we made a stop at America’s Roller Coast and had a fabulous time.

Growing up I came from a family with a ton of kids (13+ plus including me) so “family vacations” to the places I took my kid, as a single mom, (Outer Banks, Virginia Beach, Disney World, Miami, Bahamas, Punta Cana,) were never in our future. Instead the annual trip to the Local 120 Pipefitters Picnic at Cedar Point was our summer vacation. And, despite the “local” venue, we were just as excited! We marked this day on our calendar, counted down the days until it got there and of course, like Christmas, didn’t sleep the night before.

The drive to Cedar Point was also one of the most thrilling parts of our “vacation.” Hard to believe but when I was young I-90 didn’t exist! So, it was like a 2-hour trip to get to Cedar Point and you had to take Route 6 (Lake Road) the whole way there.

Lake Road. The endless steam of beautiful homes on the LAKE (and not the kind you see now—which have been raised to build modern colossal mansions that “celebrity” athletes live in or people with a butt-load of cash; Big Z and Mo Williams of the CAVS are my neighbors now along with Indians Player, Travis Hafner). They were the “classic” homes, the kind you dreamed of living in and could envision your family actually calling “home”. They were within your reach. Something to aspire to if you decided to be a doctor, lawyer or mogul of industry. (some of these homes still exist, but sadly they are becoming a thing of the past)

So, in addition to “punch buggy”, the “license plate game” and singing “99 bottles of beer on the wall” (a classic children’s sing-a-long) picking out our house on Lake Road was a game we all played.

So imagine my excitement when I got my first Lake Road address. The first home I owned was in the “low rent district” on Lake Road in Rocky River (I like to call it my Baltic Ave/Lake Road House). I was so proud of that home and delighted in the fact that I while it wasn’t on THE LAKE, I had a Lake Road address and I could actually afford it. I arrived. Stupid really, petty and materialistic but nonetheless it meant a great deal to me at the time. (I was only 26).

All those years of living in River, and walking my dog every night along the shores of Lake Erie, I realized I was a water person and was bound and determined to someday get my “real” Lake House.

So my second home, that I bought three years ago, while not a Lake Road address, the address wasn’t important as it was for my first home, is actually on the Lake and I have a Lake view from 90% rooms of my house. No longer proud; I cherish every moment I live here. After 3 years, I still wake up every day and pinch myself that this is my home. Each day, I thank God that I’m fortunate enough to live here and say a pray for all those who helped me achieve my dream.

Of course one of those people is Marty. Fondly, one of the Best Memories I have of Marty is our annual summer vacation to Cedar Point the year I found out I was pregnant with Meg. It was days after I had the conversation with Marty about “adopting” my baby (see blog “raised by another”). At this point I hadn’t told anyone in our family or circle of friends that we would see about my “situation”. I almost didn’t go because of course, roller coasters were out of the question and how was I going to explain that I didn’t want to ride when EVERYONE knew I was the first in line?

So when I arrived Marty announced to our usual “group” of riders that him and I would catch up with them later, as both of us were out the night before and we were really hung-over and would need some time recover before we hit the big rides (everyone looked at us...what were they thinking the night before the Pipefitters Picnic!). A brilliant cover considering that several people witnessed the toll morning sickness was taking on me.

Marty hung -out and stayed behind with me the whole day. 12+ hours of just me & him—despite the fact that his wife and young children were there. We talked, and talked and talked, ate our way through the park (yum...chocolate covered bananas!), dodged the right people, and rode the appropriate rides. At the end of the day we finally caught-up with everyone for the last ride of the night: the “Iron Dragon”— thankfully a pregnant woman safe ride. As I lowered the shoulder harness, I looked over at Marty and said “if you promise me you will help me achieve all my dreams, I think I can do this, I’m going to keep my baby.” Of course, he said yes. And strapped in, we took off on the ride.

Raised by Another

I went to Marty’s the minute I got home from Dayton. Crap…what the hell were we going to do? But, he promised that he had the answer and that he would help me.

I was so nervous on the drive over there. How could I screw up like this? How could I have been so stupid? A smart, ambitious girl like me didn’t let something like this happen. I ruined everything! How was I going to tell everyone? What would they think of me? What the hell was I going to do?

But, despite my anxiety, I knew that Marty would have the answer. I trusted him. He loved me unconditionally and would never judge me. And, after all, the same thing happened to him and for that matter a few other people in my family. Actually, I was more concerned that that would give me the obvious answer, Gordon & I would get married, have the baby and life would go on. That plan worked for everyone else (Patty, Marian, Marty, and my mom (okay she missed a step). But, I was different and I wasn’t sure that was the best solution for me. Plus, everyone had hopes, dreams, and expectations of me. And, I had those for myself.

By the end of my freshman year at Dayton, I had gotten anorexic-like skinny (no freshman 15 for me!). Instead the stress of losing my step-father to suicide a month before I left for school and my mother’s legal troubles (subject for another blog) began my lifelong stomach and digestion issues which didn’t allow me to eat much of anything without getting violently ill. (sadly in my 30s and 40s this totally screwed my metabolism and despite hitting the gym several times a week…well.) Plus, I was 19 and benefited from a youthful metabolism that was fueled by 7 months of not drinking, eating right, and exercising daily. Then add to that, two solid months of morning sickness (okay given my stomach issues, all day sickness) and more stress of being pregnant. I’m 5’8 ½ and by the end of my freshman year, at two months pregnant, I only weighed 110 lbs.

By the time I got to Marty’s, he said, “are you sure you’re pregnant? You look like shit! When was the last time you ate?” I said “months” and then with tearing streaming down my face; he swallowed my skeletal frame into his teddy bear body and all I could say was “I’m so sorry. I totally fucked-up!”

He let go and said, “well what are you going to do?” I stood there; I didn’t expect a question! I expected an answer or at the very least advice. I waited. Nothing. So, finally I broke the stare and silence and said, “for the first time in my life, I have NO idea.” “Well, what do you want to do?” he said. Again, I said “for the first time in my life, I have NO idea.” I’m pretty sure I added, “I have no fucking idea.”

We went inside. And, much to my surprise he didn’t have the answers. We talked for hours, about my beliefs, my thoughts, my fears, my dreams, etc. He questioned my beliefs, (were they genuine? after all I had a good Catholic upbringing and I was taught abortion was the most evil word in the English language) and reviewed my ambitions and my vision for the future (are you 100% sure a baby couldn’t fit in?) He also asked me who else in the family knew. Of course, he was the only one I told. And, at the end of the day, we still didn’t have any answers or any plans, he stuck firmly to his guns that this was my decision, not his; He wasn’t’ going to tell me what to do—but wasn’t that why I was here???? What we did have was an understanding. That we would work this out together. And, that he would love me, support me…no matter what.

Over the next few weeks, my thoughts and decisions vacillated. We all know what those options are…so I won’t elaborate.

And, then one day, I thought I had finally and ultimately made my decision. So, I called Marty, it was late, but never too late to call him, and said “I’ve decided. I’ll be over first thing in the morning.”

When I arrived I did all the talking. I was resolute and determined. In a way that only I could be. I told him that I decided that I was going to give the baby up for adoption. It was the best option. I wasn’t ready to be a mom, I wasn’t ready to be wife to a man I wasn’t 100% sure I wanted to marry and I wasn’t able to terminate the pregnancy—I couldn’t live with myself. And yes I truly felt that to my core, it wasn’t the years of catholic brainwashing. Adoption was the best option. I would carry this baby to term, give it to hopefully a good family and then I would go on with my life. It was the best and only alternative as far as I could see.

And, then after sitting there silent, listening to me, for what felt like an eternity. Marty said, “After you called last night, I kinda knew this was going to be your decision. So, I talked to Diane (his wife), and we decided, we can’t let that happen. This baby is a Somerville, our family, our blood, and we’ve lost so much already (referring to “our” parents”) to let that happen. We can’t let this baby be raised by some stranger. But, if that (adoption) is what you really want to do, then Diane and I are going to adopt the baby.”

Now to this day, I don’t know for certain if this indeed was what he had discussed with his wife or it was a split second reaction to my decision; but, I do know one thing for certain, that at that moment he had totally made his mind up and there was no going back. Marty was committed to raising my baby.

To be continued.

Really? Stalkers Suck!

Honestly. I'm amazed by the idiocy of people some time. I was recently sent a "love letter" from someone who obviously has no life and has spent way too much time and brain power thinking about what I should and shouldn't think. What I shouldn't or shouldn't feel. Or what I should or shouldn't feel grateful for. They called me an idiot more than once but in fact, they are the idiot. They were in my life a short while and barely knew me...but after they wrote me off as a "cold hearted nasty bitch"--their words--and then obviously, based on the content of their "love letter" spend hours researching me....this blog, my Facebook page, my LinkedIn profile, my divorce/ marriage records, property records and where I grew up and the friends I have. In the end, they concluded they had me all figured out. And, even took it upon themselves to offer me some advice. (one correction...no congrats in order...the stuff I wrote about finding out I was pregnant was 21 years ago!)

Okay I don't mean to pass judgment but until you've walked a mile in my shoes...well you just don't know me. My thoughts, actions, feelings and passions shape my reality--just like everyone else. I've had a tough life, a shitty childhood, experienced great loss (my father [before I was born], my grandparents, my step-father [to suicide], in many ways my mother, a baby I planned after Meg [only to learn after that, I could never have any more kids], and of course, Marty) and have seen and experienced things that I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy and yes...they have scarred me for life, I have dealt with things that most people have been fortunate enough not to have had to deal with. But, make no mistake, I don't pretend to think for one second that I'm better than anyone. Or even think that I've had it harder than anyone else. Everyone has their own "pizza" (inside joke).

And I believe that is true for anyone. If your rich or poor, loved or abused, happy or miserable, we all have problems. And, regardless of the situation the are your problems. And, yes someone always has it worse than you. No matter how small or insignificant your problems may seem to someone else, on a daily basis, they are your problems and people are people and problems are problems.

It's all in how you deal with them. Am I perfect? God NO! I've made a TONS of mistakes. But, I've had a choice. I could blame everyone else for my problems and use that as an excuse and be a loser for the rest of my life....or deal with them...I choose to deal with them. And, I have no room in my life for people who are going to blame others or worse judge me for how I deal with mine Are my issues, still issues?...Hell yes! Does my ability to cope make me better than anyone. Hell NO! Does this make me a cold-hearted nasty bitch? Well yes....if you pass judgment on me.

Happy Mother’s Day Part II

So, I had the best mother’s day EVER this year!!! It was my husband’s 52^nd birthday. Wow as I write that, it sounds old to me, of course it’s not—but, considering that my early marker of what was “old” is my Grandparents, that’s not an odd statement. My grandfather was 50 when I was born and my grandmother 49 and growing up they were the oldest people I knew.

We spent the day with Marc’s family and grandkids who probably also view their grandfather and his wife, “Mimi”, as old. This alone would have been a great day. Spending time with family is everything, especially on mother’s day. But, it got better!

My daughter, Meg, who lives in Columbus where she is pursuing her undergraduate studies at The Ohio State University in animal sciences and chemistry, and will go on to Veterinary School, came up to spend the afternoon with us and then go with us to the Pearl Jam show. My love of PJ is subject for another blog, but for her entire 21 years, Meg has been subjected at nauseam to every prolific, soulful word Eddie has ever written. Oh and that voice! She actually came to resent my incessant obsession with all things PJ….and, as a result, they became her least favorite band. But this mother’s day she couldn’t think of a better thing to do with her mother than go, on mother’s day, to a PJ show. Why? Because when she was 16 we went to Disney World for our birthdays (Meg’s birthday is the day after mine). She had to keep up with me running from ride to ride and collecting autographs. And, when we returned she said to my husband, that the best part of the trip was seeing a smile of pure joy of her mother’s face for an entire week straight. She knew she would see that smile on my face again at the PJ show. (ironically PJ took an audience fan request that night…a song called “smile”)

One thing I didn’t do this mother’s day, was visit my own mother. For once, in a long time, it wasn’t because I didn’t want to, but rather because it just didn’t fit into the day I had been planning for months. That might sound selfish but one thing that I’ve learned after years of trying to do it all to the point of my own mental and physical health, is you have to learn to say no. Given the physical toll the day was going to take on my handicapped husband, and myself assisting him, I knew our limits to the days’ activities. So something, the visit with my mom, had to give.

Quite honestly, a few months ago, when I made these plans, I couldn’t even imagine that I would want to see her on this day. I have a very strained and complex relationship with my mother. My early childhood memories of her consist of her buying me pretty things--fancy dresses, shoes and accessories and styling my long straight auburn hair—basically making me up like a baby doll. But, damn do I look good in my baby pictures!

Essentially, during this period, I was a plaything to her and for the most part, I don’t recall her being there. Might be because she really wasn’t. She was institutionalized for a better part of my early childhood and in retrospect, those “baby doll” memories were special occasions—Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving or rather, days she was allowed to participate in “home visits.” And, even when she was home for extended periods of time, she was more a babysitter. Most of my “mother” memories from this period are of my grandmother.

My grandparents obviously knew that my mother was sick. Seriously sick. Not her fault. She had serious emotional problems that in her young adulthood, she tried to escape through alcohol; then adding a baby to the mix, with no father in sight, when she was just 22 years old, certainly didn’t help matters. As luck would have it, my mother was diagnosed with MS when I was a year old. Needless to say in her fragile emotional state, she didn’t handle it well and made her first of many attempts to take her life.

Tough choices. My grandparents took me in as their own, but they still did try to do what was best for their daughter, get her the help she needed, and as a result gave her the space and autonomy they felt she could handle. After 13 kids, I can’t imagine they were particularly interested in adding one more to the bunch. They had good hearts, faith in God, and like most parents tried to nurture, guide and support their daughter as she struggled to recover and make a stable life for herself and their granddaughter.

So, when I was around four-years old, after they felt that she was stable enough, they let take that step toward autonomy. They let her take me out of the house and move out with their daughter Patty, who by that time also had an infant daughter, Michelle. My grandmother continued to watch both babies during the day and on weekends, as her daughter’s worked and partied like 20-something year-olds should. The best thing I can say about this “experiment” was that Michelle & I grew up sisters.

When I was eight, everything changed. On February, 13, 1977, during one of the worst blizzards on Cleveland record, my grandfather’s second stroke, at the age of 57, claimed his life. In October, eight short months later, my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer and lost her life on April 5, 1978, also at age 57. And, from that point on, I was left solely to the care of my mother.

All the Best Princesses have Mommy Issues

Fittingly, on the heels of Mother’s Day, LOST devoted an entire episode to the relationship a mother has with her children. The LOST community of believers was as divided about this episode as the pitting between good and evil which has played this season. Some called this episode an epic failure…jumped the shark….too many unanswered questions. Or more succinctly, too many new questions raised without any answers and we’re only a few episodes away from the SERIES finale!

“Others” like me, were mesmerized by this episode and ranked it among the best ever. Although I will agree that the casting was horrible, the acting flat (I mean seriously if Terry O’Quinn doesn’t win the Emmy this year—they should just cancel that award show), and the dialogue at times was forced. However, the very “fabric” of the piece intrigued me and I spent the 45+ minutes watching absolutely glued to screen and the donkey wheel in my head was spinning.

Maybe it’s because I have a TON of mother issues. But, for a very long time I’ve had a fascination with the mother figure or more pointedly, the absence of strong mothers, in popular culture.

In fact, my first published and public work as a Shakespearean academic scholar was on this very subject. Hard to believe given his status and influence in English Literature, but Shakespeare, in his time, was considered a low base “artist” and rose to the status of a “pop icon.” Oh what People and US Magazine would do today to the Bard. His barroom brawls, mistresses, subject matter and cross-dressing at the theater!

One common theme in his works is the conspicuous absence of “mother.” There are only few “mothers” in his works, most notably Gertrude (Hamlet) and Hermione (not the Harry Potter character, the mother in the Winter’s Tale). Not very flattering characters.

More than a century or two or three later (okay I’m into words not math!), another low-base artist (animator) named Walt Disney rose to “pop culture” icon status…Is Disney not the GREATEST pop icon brand ever! In all of his works the mother is conspicuously absent as well. Bambi’s mom dies. the evil “step-mother” looms in Snow White and Cinderella, and where the hell is Ariel’s mother to warn her of the dangers of falling in love with a human in the Little Mermaid? And, those mothers who do exist, Aurora’s mom in Sleeping Beauty for example, are marginalized.

And, then there is LOST. Arguably the best show in today’s popular culture whose writers certainly don’t occupy the status of a JK Rowlings, Stephan King, or Dan Brown (the best sellers of our times). In the first episode there is the pregnant Claire who was warned about her having a baby raised by another, Rousseau who had her baby stolen from her and then went crazy, Eloise Hawking, a mother who seriously has some f-ed up motives, and the mystery of why woman can’t carry to term on the Island, etc.

Ironically, LOST devoted an entire episode (and a series to, Christian Shephard, Ben Linus, Anthony Cooper, Pierre Chang, and Charles Widmore) to “all the best cowboys have daddy issues” but it seems to me that all the best “princesses”—yes that is what all us daughters have been conditioned to believe we should become—have mommy issues.

Happy Belated Mother’s Day. Can’t wait for the finale.

Writing

When my mom was a teenager her father read her diary. I don’t recall her exact age or the consequences of that reading, but let’s just say it didn’t turn out too well for her and scarred her for life. So, when my mother discovered I had a gift for writing, she had this advice: “Don’t write down anything that you don’t want someone else to read.”

In college I took an essay writing class. My professor, Dr. Klooster, the toaster—that is how it is pronounced, after reading my first essay, which sucked, offered me this advice: “Sharon, write about what you know.” I’m not a JK Rowling, a Dan Brown, or a Stephan King---I can’t make up stories.

My next essay was about a sick visit I took my 18-month-old daughter that still to this day is one of my favorite essays. (I’ll publish that someday).

For many years, I have written—reams upon reams, journals upon journals and of course, as an English major, paper upon paper. Much of what I’ve written, I’ve thrown away, in fact burned, because I never wanted anyone to read it for a variety of reasons---fear that I would hurt someone, fear that I would be ridiculed, fear that I would be judged, and fear that it wasn’t really that good. And, as a result, I didn’t write for a very, very long time.

I wish I had all those words back. But the past is the past. And, as I’ve started writing again, and most importantly publishing those words, I’ve tried not to let fear filter those words and have written from the heart.

And, then this week panic struck. My mother, who has spent the last six +weeks in physical and mental recovery, after her last suicide attempt, is being released from the hospital. Much to my surprise, due to her willingness to work on her issues, is returning home. Six weeks ago I didn’t even think this was possible! I thought I was going to have to probate her, send her away and throw away the key. But, that is not the case. Although I am still skeptical about her ability to take care of herself—I’m willing to give her one more chance—make no mistakes though, it is her last.

I started thinking about her coming home. She talked about coming home googling something and getting on Facebook. And, my immediate thought was—“OMG, what if she reads my Blog?” Certainly, I haven’t painted my mother in a particularly good light. But, the fact of the matter is, while she might take issue with me or have a different version of my memories; it is what I know. And, I’m not ashamed and I don’t feel any guilt. And, yes, mom, despite it all—I do love you.

Unlucky 13-more to the story

Prior to Marty’s death in 1997, every single significant and insignificant moment of my life was shared with him.

First some insignificant ones. In our large family, it was understood that the older kids looked after the younger kids. And, even though Marty was the baby of the family and enjoyed 6 years of everyone looking after him, when I came along he, too, despite his young age, was charged with looking after me. He was no longer the baby, I was.

So every time I came home crying (I skinned my knee, someone was mean to me or excluded me, or I lost at kick-the-can—girls do cry over that), Marty got in trouble for not looking after his “sister.” Of course there were more serious incidents—kids will be kids—like the time he coaxed me to jump on the bed and I fell and hit my head and I required stitches; or the time he dared me to put my hand in the flywheel of the exercise bike which chewed my middle finger up so badly that all they could do was let it heal into a nasty lumpy scare that I still bare to this day. Sadly, Marty was physically abused for these more serious transgressions, not me; but never held it against me and throughout my life was always was my biggest cheerleader. He cheered the loudest at my grade-school graduation as I received the Benny Bonano resolution (Hev, you’ll remember that one), at my high school graduation and sobbed with pride and joy the day I graduated top of my English class at John Carroll University (JCU).

I have so, so many memories of our bond….But the one that sticks with me the most, was the day that I got the life-changing news that I was pregnant with Meghanne. Crap! How did a smart girl like this let this happen? 19 my whole life ahead me and I had a plan.

I always excelled at school—okay I spent those 4 years in high school partying, not living up to my potential, but I made up for it when I went to the University of Dayton. Two months into my college experience I totally quit partying and directed 100% of my energies into school. After all, I was determined, I had a promising law career in my future. A party girl couldn’t achieve that. So one drunken night in my friend Katie’s room I took a hard look in the mirror and didn’t like the reflection. I quit cold turkey, and didn’t touch a drop of alcohol until four ½ years later, the day of my last final senior year at JCU—that night is a whole other story.

Back to CRAP! Positive. I’m pregnant! After I told Meg’s dad, my next phone call was to Marty. CRAP! Fortunately it happened at the end of the semester and I’d be home in a week. Marty's reaction… don’t worry “Sha”—pronouced Shea, my family nickname, we’ll figure this out together. Always looking out for his sister.

So I came home and Marty lived up to his promise…we’ll figure this out together…and we did.

To be continued.

Unlucky 13

2007…the year my daughter graduated from High School…the first time I felt true pride and joy; but also experienced the loneliness of an empty nest.

1997…the year that changed everything…the first time I felt genuine anguish and pain.

1987…the year my step-father died….the first time I felt the sting of suicide and substance abuse.

1977…the year my grandfather died…the first time I experienced death and questioned my existence.

1967…fortunately, I wasn’t born yet.

Lucky 7? I think not. Unlucky 13? Absolutely!!

I was born January 11, 1969 at 9:53 p.m. My mother was 22 years-old and an unwed, single mother by “choice.” My father, as my mother tells it, I have no firsthand knowledge at all, claims she told him that if he couldn’t be a full-time father, than he shouldn’t be my father at all. She didn’t want me waiting on the doorstep for him to show up for weekly visits and then to see the disappointment in my eyes when he didn’t show. Apparently, he knew he wouldn’t live up to his part of the bargain. So he chose to walk away forever. We’ve never had any contact, ever, and I’m not sure he even knows he had a daughter. He’s never known the daughter who would grow up to be someone who was amazing. And, I’m not being conceited, boastful or proud, but given everything in my life, I am amazing. I have an amazing ability to think, to reason, to write, to love, to imagine, to cope and most important…to survive. But, maybe if he hadn’t walked out on my, I wouldn’t be these things? So, maybe if he stuck around, he wouldn’t have missed a thing?

It might seem like a noble choice to protect her child on my mother’s part, but considering that she drank through her entire pregnancy and often loves to tell the story about how drunk she was on NYE, just 12 days before my birth, I don’t think so! Plus, who knows if that is even the real story.

But, whatever the case, as a consequence, I became a Somerville true and true.

My grandparents, Ruth and Ray Somerville, took me in and raised me as their own. Knowing that their unwed daughter (a taboo in 1969) couldn’t adequately care for me of her own. And, their children (JoAnne, Jerry, Karen, Patty, Jack, Ray, Tim, Marian, Ruthie, Annie, Peggy, Marty) embraced me as their “sister” and I became the 14^th Somerville.

Most of the older kids were grown and out of the house. But, I thank Ray for my love of football. A senior in high school, he was one of the stars of the NDCL football team and my mom attended every game when she was pregnant with me. Marian & Ruthie, also both in high school, greeted me each day as a child they were here to babysit. They made sure I was fed, had fresh diapers and clean clothes. Annie and Peggy, the two youngest girls, as I would learn years later, harbored jealousy toward me for the attention that I received, especially from their father. And, then there was Marty. The youngest, a kindergartener, a mere 6 years older than me. Number 13. Who from the day I was born was my kindred spirit.

When Marty was born, my mother the fourth oldest, was the oldest girl in the house. JoAnne and Karen left the home at a young age to join the convent. Marty and my mother also shared a deep bond and she always treated him special. She was 16 when he was born and like Marian and Ruthie did with me, she made sure he was fed, had fresh diapers and clean clothes. The difference was my mom was a working girl at the time. Instead of high school, she opted to attend “beauty school,” as they called it then, and became a teenage working cosmetologist. With the money she earned, she dotted on Marty and the younger kids, showering them with gifts, buying them clothes, shoes, soda, candy and toys that were luxuries outside of holidays in a family of our size.

Although living at home, mother was able to hide her pregnancy from the family until she was 8 months pregnant. The large smocks she wore for work and her larger size allowed her to conceal her growing belling. She also wore an old school girdle everyday which may explain why I was born with my forehead smashed in. When she finally told the family, she told Marty she was bringing him home a “big surprise.” He thought I was going to be a new football, but instead he got me. I’m sure he was initially disappointed, but little did he know, I would turn out to be one of the best gifts he’d ever been given. And, unlike my father, he choose to unwrap it, embrace it unconditionally love it, play with it, and nurture it until the day he died, October, 27, 1997.

To be continued.