I’m trying, really I am. In fact, on average, I’ve been spending nearly ten hours a day on the computer during the week. Weekends aren’t much better. It’s a long story, but I’ll just do bullets for today, so I can get some housework done tomorrow.
I said I was back to Wednesday blog posts: and I meant it!
–But something happened.
There have been so many changes, that I couldn’t stay caught up. There was a big meeting that had to come first, and all the prep for that, kept me from focusing on this. I’ve many other excuses, some are good, but I’ve never liked excuses, so I’ll have to find another forum for them.
As I began to make just one change in preparation for all of the rest of the changes, I realized that the changes had to come first! So, what you are getting is just the blog post and no changes . . . this week, anyway.
This website is really old, and never has reached its full potential; it’s in desperate need of updating. So here’s what’s up:
New site theme
New organization
Logo, letterhead, and other visual updates
About us focusing less on beginnings and more on readers (If you’re reading this,
A new non-profit organization in the conceptual stages (Garden of Hope people needn’t worry, I’m not talking about Immanuel Inc.)
Cousin updates
New profiles for cousin connections, beginning with a man named Morris Coers.
Not really a change, but MANY new stories from the past.
A new page dedicated to stories from the Garden of Hope in Covington, KY
You will see changes every week, and I’ll be sure to keep you updated. Reverend Coers and Garden of Hope Pages will come first, but regular STFP posts will not resume until January.
Truth is often stranger than fiction. Maybe that’s why I like historical fiction. Even though the story line isn’t true, the background of the story is truthful and accurate. This is the case with most novel ideas that have come to me. In this case, the truth is that I developed a close relationship with a man fourteen years younger than myself. Josh had become my best friend. I warned him that I was falling in love with him, but he ignored my warning and the warnings of others until it was too late. Just over a year after we first met, Josh finally admitted that it wouldn’t be possible to marry me. He blamed the age difference, but I was angry with his mom for standing in our way. Although I knew that I should have blamed Josh, I was just sad, because he couldn’t stand up to her.
I learned so much about love with Josh. I was convinced that I had found my soulmate. I was hurt that he couldn’t see it. I am confident that this will make an excellent story, but I needed Josh’s permission to write it. Heaven forbid it should appear in print without his consent. Josh, being the understanding spirit that he is, read the story based on one of my journal entries as it appears in this multi-genre work, and gave me his blessing. It’s no wonder that I love him.
Any Man of Mine
Shania Twain
Any man of mine better be proud of me Even when I’m ugly, he still better love me And I can be late for a date that’s fine But he better be on time
Any man of mine’ll say it fits just right When last year’s dress is just a little too tight And anything I do or say better be okay When I have a bad hair day
Well any man of mine better disagree When I say another woman’s lookin’ better than me And when I cook him dinner and I burn it black He better say, mmmm, I like it like that.
And if I change my mind A million times I wanna hear him say Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, Yeah, I like it that way.
Any man of mine better walk the line Better show me a teasin’ squeezin’ pleasin’ kinda time I need a man who knows, how the story goes He’s gotta be a heartbeatin’ fine treatin’ Breathtakin’ earthquakin’ kind
Any man of mine.
First
Impressions
I had been married. Got divorced. After a controlled marriage, I had to be the one in control.
I went back to school. Something I wasn’t allowed to do– When I was married.
I liked my freedom. I liked being in control. I didn’t like men.
The absolute truth? I could trust no man with my heart.
Summer term, Students raved about the new math tutor– Said his name was Josh And he could do math in his sleep.
This man looked nothing like the typical 21 year-old Utah boy. He certainly looked like a math tutor, though.
“Are you tutoring, or can I sit here?”
“Please sit.”
“So Josh, how was your weekend?”
“… Marianne, just what is it that you’re after?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What are you after?”
“Um… I don’t know, Josh, what am I supposed to be after?
“My mom says that women like you are only after one thing, so what is it?”
“Maybe you should ask your mom, cuz I have no clue. Apparently you find this more amusing than I do; and how do you raise just one eyebrow at a time like that? Are you going to tell me?”
“Don’t be offended, but I really do think it’s funny. When I came home on Friday I was raving about you. When Jim came over on Saturday, I was still going on about you, and my mom finally asked, ‘So Josh, just who is this Marianne?’ So I told her about you.”
“And what exactly did you tell her?”
“Everything.”
“What did she say?”
“She didn’t say anything for a minute, and then she got mad. The next thing I knew, she was the one raving. By Sunday, my dad was trying to calm her down.”
“So she thinks I’m after something.”
“Yep. She told me I should stay away from you.”
“So what are you doing here with me, Josh?”
“You approached me, remember? Should I stay away from you?”
“I don’t know, should you? Tell your mom I’m after your body and your money.”
“I’m not staying away from you, Marianne.”
“You’re a glutton for punishment.”
“It’s all good.”
March 16, 2001
Dear Peppi,
I’m so confused. Josh knows that I’m falling for him, and he says that we’ll always be friends, but I think I want more than that. I have no clue what he wants, but everything he does points straight to eternity.
I tried to hide in a corner study room with my headphones and CDs today, but Josh found me. He walked in, closed the door, sat down next to me and raised one eyebrow. I burst into tears, and he pulled me to him. I wanted so much more than just a hug, but I didn’t do anything but lay my head on his shoulder. He let me go, and asked what was wrong. I shook my head and didn’t say anything for a minute. He just sat there with his hand on my knee and watched and waited. Josh is so patient.
I know how his mom feels about us, and it frustrates me that she gets so upset when she knows we’re together. It bugs me, because Josh and I really do spend a lot of time together, but most of the time we’re with other people, and we’ve never done anything that either one of us would ever be ashamed of. I’ve never even kissed him.
I finally told him that I was frustrated because he is going to be such an awesome husband. It hurts to know that I spent thirteen years in an abusive marriage, and now that I’m free, and have found the perfect man for me, the age difference seems insurmountable. It doesn’t matter who Josh marries, he is going to treat that woman the same way that he’s treated me and every other woman I’ve seen him interact with. I so want to be that woman, and I can’t see it happening.
Josh did nothing more than pat my knee and say, “I know.” Why can’t he just say Marianne, will you marry me? I would say yes. He says his mother’s opinion doesn’t mean anything, because she just doesn’t know me, but I know that if he wasn’t so worried about disappointing his mom, that we could get past the age difference. I know that if his mom knew me like Josh knows me, she wouldn’t be having this problem. She’s never even met me!
I left my CDs with Josh while I went to class. He likes my music, and I never mind sharing. When I came back, Josh had returned to the corner room. I walked in, and he pointed to the headphones on his ears and said “John.” He meant John Denver. I grabbed the headphones and said “Mine.” He grabbed them back and said, “Can’t you share?” I know that Josh understood I was teasing, but I was still hurting, and all I really wanted to do was sit with my CDs and feel sorry for myself. I gave up, and just sank into my seat. Josh put the headphones on my head and said, “Let’s take turns.”
I listened to a couple of songs, then passed them back. Josh loves digging through my CDs and listens to a variety of stuff. Sometimes he brings his own music and we share that too. Once he brought Michael Boulton, and I was thinking about How am I Supposed to Live Without You? It’s one of Josh’s favorites. I wanted to stick the music in, and make him listen to it, but he didn’t have it with him today. Why doesn’t he get it?
We studied, passing the headphones back and forth, for more than an hour. Maybe I should say that we tried to study, but most of the time we spent talking about music and comparing homework. Josh is taking a Shakespeare class, and he loves to tell me about it. I didn’t get much done, and now, I’ve spent the last hour writing in my journal. I hope I don’t fall behind.
I was actually relieved when he glanced at his watch and said, “Uh Oh, I’m supposed to be tutoring!” I thought I might finally get some homework done, but Josh grabbed the headphones off my head, took Shania Twain out, put the headphones back on his head, and stuck John Denver back in the CD player. He did it all so fast that I didn’t even have time to ask what are you doing? He started pushing buttons madly, then slowed down, listened for a second, took the headphones off and put them back on my head, pushed a couple more buttons and then ran out of the room.
There’s no way I could do any more homework today, anyway. When Josh left the room and the music started playing, the message came loud and clear; “Lady, are you crying, do the tears belong to me?” Obviously, Josh understands more than I think he does. Now I’m more confused and frustrated than before. Why would he want to send that message to me?
Josh knew that I had to leave during his tutoring session so I could get home to my kids. I couldn’t ask him what he meant. This is so not fair!!!
My Sweet Lady
John Denver
Lady, are you crying? Do the tears belong to me? Did you think our time together was all gone? Lady, you’ve been dreaming, I’m as close as I can be. I swear to you our time has just begun.
Close your eyes and rest your weary mind. I promise I will stay right here beside you. Today our lives were joined, became entwined; I wish you could know how much I love you.
Lady, are you happy, do you feel the way I do? Are there meanings that you’ve never seen before? Lady, my sweet lady, I just can’t believe it’s true And it’s like I’ve never ever loved before.
Close your eyes and rest your weary mind. I promise I will stay right here beside you. Today our lives were joined, became entwined. I wish you could know how much I love you.
Lady, are you crying, do the tears belong to me. Did you think our time together was all gone. Lady, my sweet lady, I’m as close as I can be. I swear to you our time has just begun.
How do You Love Me? Let Me Count the Ways
Apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning
You look at me and one raise one eyebrow.
You sing loudly and off-key in while assembling my new computer desk.
You play with my hair from the seat behind me in our Book of Mormon class.
You whisper John Denver lyrics in my ear as I catnap in the student union building.
You lead me by the hand to your secret hideaway to calm my nerves after I locked my keys in the car.
You try to hold my hand from the back seat of Sandra’s car while I ride shotgun. It’s awkward, but we make it work.
You ask a question that only my heart can answer while gazing into my eyes and replying with your own.
You lay your head on my shoulder until my tears slow.
You fold my laundry as you wait for me to get ready for a Michael McLean concert.
You bring me a miniscule piggy bank with my name printed in tiny letters from your weekend trip to California.
You interrupt a study session to drag me down the hallway to a “found” penny for my new piggy bank.
You present a downy duck feather to me halfway through one of our many walks around the duck pond.
You brag to our co-workers that you can outrun my ex-husband.
If outrunning him doesn’t work, you say you will hide under a table because he is six inches taller than you and won’t fit.
You sit quietly next to me without saying a word.
You nurse my injured foot on a broken-down pier while everyone else is splashing and playing in the lake.
You throw your arms around me saying “I missed my Marianne” when I come back from a month in Europe.
You say, “I’m right here.” in a voice so low only I can hear through the encroaching crowd.
You eat cherries with me and spit the pits in the bushes as we discuss more serious matters.
You lay next to me on the grass and watch the stars for 45 minutes after the post-fireworks traffic has cleared.
You play with my children as if I weren’t even there.
You hug a tree to show me you’re on my side because my family thinks I’m a crazy tree-hugger.
You stay with me as I wait for the last bus of the day, then hop on your bike for a seven-mile ride into an oncoming storm.
You call to tell me you’ve made it home safely.
When You Say Nothing at All
Ronan Keating
It’s amazing how you can speak right to my heart. Without saying a word, you can light up the dark. Try as I may, I could never explain What I hear when you don’t say a thing.
All day long I can hear people talking out loud, But when you hold me near, you drown out the crowd. Old Mr. Webster could never define What’s being said between your heart and mine.
The smile on your face lets me know that you need me. There’s a truth in your eyes saying you’ll never leave me. The touch of your hand says you’ll catch me if ever I fall. You say it best when you say nothing at all.
A Broken Pipe
It was Josh’s silence that caused so much trouble that summer. Josh was always willing, even eager, to listen to anything and everything that Marianne had to say, but when it came to revealing himself to her, he was disturbingly silent.
It took a discussion about a broken pipe in his uncle’s lawn to get Josh to open up. The pair sat at the top of a man-made waterfall on a large stone. Marianne’s children were spending the weekend with their father, so she had invited Josh to visit Utah State University with her. She had made it sound so innocent, but she desperately needed to talk.
Josh was going on about his uncle who wouldn’t fix a broken water pipe in his lawn. Marianne seized the moment, “I have a broken pipe.”
Curiosity piqued, “Is it a big pipe or a little pipe?” Josh asked.
Marianne swallowed. “It’s a big pipe.”
“That’s a real problem.” She could tell that Josh was thinking about a broken water pipe, and she continued to let him think that. She needed him to understand the enormity of her problem.
“You should get it fixed as soon as possible.” he said.
“That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“Is it inside or outside?”
Marianne was tempted keep the charade going and tell him that it was inside. Instead, she swallowed again, “It’s an emotional pipe.”
“Oh, I see.” Josh grew quiet. He could see where she was going with the conversation. “Do you need some help fixing it?”
“Josh,” Marianne choked, “I can’t fix it without your help.”
Another significant silence. She didn’t dare look at him; her vision was clouded by brimming tears.
“Did I break the pipe?” Josh asked.
It takes two to play in the game of love, and Marianne knew that she was not an innocent bystander, “You helped.” It still wasn’t easy to tell him, even though it was clear to both of them that he already knew the answer. She decided to get straight to the point by explaining that she needed to communicate, and he didn’t see the need. She reminded him of similar talks that they’d had in the past, and of the age difference.
“If I were fourteen years younger . . .”
“There’d be no question.”
Marianne was cut to the very core of her soul. “None whatsoever?”
“I’d marry you in a heartbeat.”
Ouch. That hurt. That was it. She had to tell him, but it was still so hard. Marianne was so sure that he already knew. “Josh, I thought that I had made my feelings for you very clear when we talked before.”
“You made them very clear.”
“Very clear?” From Josh’s recent behavior, she wasn’t sure she’d been clear enough.
“Very clear.”
“Well, I need to be sure, so I have to make them perfectly clear, okay?”
Josh smiled and sat back. “Go ahead.”
Go ahead. Just like that. She decided she was a glutton for punishment; “This is so difficult. . . “
“Marianne, just say it.”
She gulped. The tears were running down her cheeks, and she so desperately wanted to think clearly. She couldn’t. “Josh, I love you more than I have ever loved any man in my life.”
The truth of the matter was that she hadn’t even known what true love was until now. Why did it have to be this way?
Silence. Except for a few muffled hiccoughs.
“Was that perfectly clear?” She had her glasses in her hand, and she couldn’t see him through her watery eyes, but she looked at him anyway.
“Perfectly.” His reply was quiet as he wrapped an arm around her and laid his head upon her shoulder. The tears continued to flow as she laid her head on his.
“Josh, this has been the most difficult summer of my life.” It was the happiest, hardest, saddest time of her life.
“It’s because of me, isn’t it?”
“I tried to warn you…”
“But I wasn’t listening.”
“Is it possible that I was saying something you didn’t want to hear?”
“No, but it is possible that I just can’t figure out how to fast forward or reverse time.” They talked about time, eternity, and the age difference.
“Josh, you don’t see time the way I do. I don’t separate eternal time from worldly time.”
“I don’t see how you can live in this world without separating it from God’s time.”
“You think like a mathematician.” Thirty-six, minus twenty-two, equals fourteen. . .
“It’s not going to work, is it?”
“I don’t see how it can.”
Marianne was completely devastated. How was she supposed to live without him? Even though She had already learned that she could get along just fine without a man, she just didn’t want to get along without the companionship of her best friend. He wasn’t even gone but she was already missing him. For a while she just sat, snuggled in his arms until the tears slowed.
“Josh, you’re going to go on with your life. You’ll get married, be a fantastic husband, make some lucky girl incredibly happy, and I’m going to remain single for the rest of my life.”
“How can you say that? You’ll get married again.”
“Josh, you can’t really believe that.”
“What do you mean? You’re an awesome lady; someone will want to marry you.”
“That’s not the point, Josh. I could easily find a man, but I don’t want just any man, I want the right man, and it’s taken thirty-six years to find him. I don’t want to spend another thirty-six years looking.”
“Marianne, you’ll find someone.”
“Yeah, when Hell freezes over.”
“I hear they’ve been having a cold snap…”
She laughed a funny little hiccuppy laugh spawned by a breaking heart. Then sighed, and said flatly, “Josh, you just go on with your life. I’ll be right here waiting.” She placed her palm over her heart.
“Right here?” He looked down at the rock and patted it. “This isn’t the most comfortable place in the world. Where will you sleep at night? It might rain or snow. You’ll get cold. You’re gonna want an umbrella and a jacket.”
“Oh Josh, you know what I mean. “For the next few days, the tears fell freely until Marianne had to admit to herself that the emotions she was experiencing felt too similar to the pain of divorcing Bob. Because she had loved Josh so much more deeply than she had loved Bob, her immediate fear was that the deep emotional pain would last a lifetime.
It was useless; that pipe was never getting fixed.
Right Here Waiting For You
Richard Marx
Oceans apart day after day And I slowly go insane I hear your voice on the line But it doesn’t stop the pain.
Wherever you go, Whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for you. Whatever it takes, Or how my heart breaks, I will be right here waiting for you.
I took for granted, all the times That I thought would last somehow. I hear the laughter, I taste the tears, But I can’t get near you now.
Wherever you go, Whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for you. Whatever it takes, Or how my heart breaks, I will be right here waiting for you.
I wonder how we can survive This romance. But in the end if I’m with you, I’ll take the chance.
Wherever you go, Whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for you. Whatever it takes, Or how my heart breaks, I will be right here waiting for you.
Profound Loss
Josh and I were introduced by one of the students he was tutoring. In fact, I would have to say that Jenni went on and on about Josh just about the same as he would soon be going on and on about me. Like me, Jenni was a single mom, and just a year older than me. And like me, she found him to be a good friend. Unlike me, her friendship with Josh never changed. Because I was also a tutor, I knew I would soon know him as well, so I asked her to describe him to me. From Jenni’s nondescript description, I really couldn’t figure who he was. But I ran into her a few days later on her way to her appointment with Josh while I was on my way to work, so I asked her to show him to me. The poem, “First Impressions,” appears exactly how I saw him, and yes, even though it’s a stock photo, the cover photo is pretty true to my first impression of Josh.
That was Summer Term 2000, and the “What are You After?” conversation occurred at the beginning of Fall Semester after I’d set him up on a lunch date with the hottest girl in the room. We had a strong bond, and soon found ourselves doing nearly everything together during our school hours. During winter break, we even went on a double date. I was with another tutor closer to my age, and I’d fixed him up with a younger friend of mine from the bus we rode. It was a weird date because by the end of the night, Josh and I somehow ended up together deep in conversation while our dates sat awkwardly at either end of the room. It was Josh that got the goodbye hug while I don’t think my date even got a handshake.
I don’t recall when my physical attraction to him changed, but I do know it was after I found myself falling in love with him sometime in midwinter of 2001. I remember when the sudden realization hit me. Josh and I were on our way back to campus after attending an LDS temple session together. We’d already been talking about the age difference because I knew his mom flew into a rage every time my name came up or she found out we’d been spending time together. We were stopped at a traffic light, and it hit me like a punch in the gut. That was the first time the tears fell, and even though I didn’t actually say the words, it was at that moment we both realized I was falling in love with him. It was also when I began to feel the pain from the well-found fear of losing him.
That summer I spent a month in Europe immersing myself in the German language. I’m sure I was driving the students in my group a bit nuts over the fact that I couldn’t help myself from bringing him up in nearly every conversation. Either that or talking about my kids. Although we’d gone together on the same plane, a large portion of the students extended their stay to visit other countries, while I was more than happy to get home to my kids. I was homesick nearly the whole trip.
I remember quite vividly my flight over New York City on the way into Newark. It was my first time seeing the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, and the Twin Towers. I’d never in my life been that far East, let alone to Europe, so I was more than happy to have seen them up close even though it was from the air.
When I came back on campus, I was pleasantly surprised at Josh’s welcome home hug. It was the first time he’d ever called me My Marianne.
I so wanted to be his.
But there was something in the air that day, telling me it was the beginning of the end. There were two new women in the room, both with their eyes on Josh. Sandra had been hanging out with Josh while I was away, and she had set her sights on him. Yes, she’s the same Sandra driving the car while Josh held my hand from the back seat. She was none the wiser. The other, I might describe as mousy but not in a derogatory way. She was quiet and I don’t know if I’d say shy, but there was nothing more than ordinary about her. Looking back, she was the kind of woman who deserved a man like Josh.
At the end of that summer, I found myself sitting on the rock talking about a broken pipe. It was my last attempt to make him put up or shut up. He did neither. I’d say the Broken Pipe story was the day we broke up, but Josh didn’t see it like that. For me, it was that day that I knew for a certainty it was over.
Fall semester of my senior year came a week later. I found myself weeping from a broken heart whenever I was alone. But I also found myself looking for hiding places where I could study alone. It was so tough for me because Josh seemed to know where to look and I had to get more creative as time went on, and the more I needed to be left alone. I still loved being with him, but it was torture for me to feel that tiny glimmer of hope all the while knowing it was hopeless.
Just three or four weeks later, I remember crying a bit in the early morning hours while the kids were still asleep. Wiping my tears, I headed down the stairs to start my morning routine of switching the TV on to the morning news, more as background noise than anything else, while I woke the kids up for school. Dressed and nearly ready to go, I started back down the stairs to find the TV screen filled with the image of the North Tower with a gaping hole and black smoke billowing into the beautiful blue September sky. The complete irony of that day was not lost on me. It is the only day I remember where the skies were blue, and the weather was perfect from coast to coast.
My daughter seemed completely nonplussed when I pointed out the billowing tower on the screen, so I didn’t bother to bring it up to her five year-old brother. I shooed them into the car, turned the TV off, and headed out the door where my next-door neighbor informed me that the second tower had been hit. By that time, it was obvious to everyone that it was a terrorist attack. I didn’t know what to do, so I dropped the kids off at school and decided not to take the bus in that day. I wasn’t sure if I’d want to turn back around and go home. Despite those blue skies and temperate weather, a gray pall hung in the atmosphere and there was absolutely nothing normal about the traffic.
Regardless of the complete lack of accidents, road work, or emergency vehicles, traffic was going at a crawl and no one, including myself, seemed to care; we were all transfixed by the narrative replacing the music on every radio station. The first tower fell about halfway through my commute, and I suddenly found myself in a quandary: Do I go home to my children who were already at school, or do I keep going even though I was already an hour late for work? I was sure the kids didn’t care one way or another (they didn’t), so I kept going. From the parking lot, I called the tutoring center to tell them I would not come in that day, and was told that everyone was cancelling, both students and tutors, so it really didn’t matter anyway.
On campus, TVs had been brought out from everywhere, and every screen, including the theatres, displayed the same scene. Passageways, though filled with students, were eerily quiet except for the commentary from the screens. Some teachers canceled classes, but most kept their schedules in case students needed to talk. It didn’t matter whether or not I’d done my homework; it was irrelevant that day. I decided I didn’t want to be alone, so I headed to our favorite haunt– the nontraditional student center. Josh’s age and marital status may have made him a traditional student, but there was nothing traditional about him. He was there waiting for me. He took me by the hand and led me to the theater next door where we sat with my head on his shoulder crying and watching the horrific aftermath unfold. I still feel the irony of that day with the two of us snuggled in the theater like lovebirds at the movies. I cried and cried that day as I felt the double loss over and over again.
After that day, I marveled at the fact that my first time flying over New York came so close to the day when the towers fell. I wondered about other students doing study abroad who suddenly found their way home blocked by closed airways. I’m so glad it wasn’t me. I was so glad to be home with my kids when it happened, and even happier to know that I had gotten my chance to see the towers in person, even if it was from the air.
By the end of Fall Semester Josh was dating that sweet quiet girl, and I was looking even harder for better places to hide. I didn’t bother to deny the fact that I was hiding from him when he confronted me, and I was glad that to have finally found one place where he never looked in the Art building.
At the end of Spring semester, 2002, Josh and I went our separate ways. Josh married that girl the next year and they moved to Logan to finish school at Utah State. I did the graduation walk, with one incomplete class and took a two-year break while trying to focus on family issues. It was a disaster, and I fell into a deep depression. When I came back to Weber State, I completed that class, entered the teaching program, resumed work as a tutor, and tried to get used to the old familiar places without the old familiar face. I was grateful that I no longer thought of him on a daily basis, but the familiar places and faces often brought back raw hurt.
Loving Josh was sweet, beautiful, and painful. I fought that depression for another three years, but finally found my way out when I moved to Chicago for grad school and met and married Tony. Tony read this story before I married him, and said he’d love to meet Josh someday. That was when I knew I’d found a great guy. I haven’t shed any tears over Josh for more than fifteen years, except when one of those songs catches me unaware. Even then, I think I’m finally truly done with the tears.
Why They Call it Falling
Lee Ann Womack
It’s like jumpin’ It’s like leapin’ It’s like walkin on the ceiling It’s like floatin’ It’s like flying through the air It’s like soarin’ It’s like glidin’ It’s a rocket ship you’re ridin’ It’s a feeling that can take you anywhere
So why they call it fallin’ Why they call it fallin’ Why they call it fallin’ I don’t know
There was passion There was laughter The first mornin’ after I just couldn’t get my feet to touch the ground Every time we were together We talked about forever I was certain it was Heaven we had found
So why they call it fallin’ Why they call it fallin’ Why they call it fallin’ I don’t know
But you can’t live your life Walkin’ in the clouds Sooner or later You have to come down
It’s like a knife Through the heart When it all comes apart It’s like someone takes a pin to your balloon
It’s a hole It’s a cave It’s kinda like a grave When he tells you that he’s found somebody new
So why they call it fallin’ Why they call it fallin’ Why they call it fallin’ Now I know.
Ooh, why they call it fallin’ Why they call it fallin’ Now I know.
Music is a powerful memory keeper. My husband Tony, who is six years older than me, likes an oldies station, and when we are in the car together with the radio on, we inevitably end up talking about his college years or old beaus and my high school football games. Queen was big in my high school years; Another One Bites the Dust and WeAre the Champions always pull me back to the stadium and cool autumn evenings.
I was a single mother in my senior year of college when the twin towers fell. That particular day was doubly hard on me because it happened at the tail end of a failed relationship. We stayed good friends, and on that day in 2001 we sat together in the college theater watching the whole thing unfold in real time with his arm around me and my head on his shoulder because good friends comfort each other. I cried so much that day, not only from the devastation appearing on every screen, but for my lost love.
There was no music on the air that day, and when my favorite country station returned to music in the following days, One More Day by Diamond Rio featured heavily on their playlist. Every time I heard it, I not only went back to the people who lost so much on 9.11, but the love that I had lost just two weeks before. Even writing about it today brings a lump to my throat and I find myself pausing to wipe my eyes, take slow deep breaths blowing the air out in a whoosh in attempts to release the pain in my heart from so long ago. AND I’M NOT EVEN LISTENING TO THE MUSIC RIGHT NOW!
I wrote the story in my journal as it happened. I had hoped that somehow putting pen to paper might force our relationship in a better direction. I turned one entry into a short story regarding our “break up” discussion. I titled it Love Lost on the Rock. I asked him if he would mind if someday I put our story into a full-length novel. Surprisingly, but not surprisingly if you know Josh, he gave me his consent.
I did finally write that story about three years after it happened. I was back in school two years later to get a teaching certificate when I was given the assignment to write a multi-genre paper. Given the amount of music Josh and I shared in that one year, I thought it would be the perfect bridge from one genre to the next, but as I wrote, the tears fell freely and abundantly. A myriad of emotions filled me with each word or phrase I put to laptop screen, from frustration and sadness to happiness and comfort. I don’t know if you can call pain an emotion, but I felt it from beginning to end of that assignment. I got an A, but I knew a full-length novel would be put on hold for some time.
Six years after the multi-genre story I met Tony. I love him in a different way than I did Josh, and even though a part of my heart still belongs to Josh, I didn’t have any problem telling Tony. Even though he’s never met Josh, he says he would like to meet him someday.
I was alone driving on the freeway when the familiar piano solo leading into Richard Marx’s song, Right Here Waitingfor You came on. I didn’t realize it was an oldie, but I was catapulted back to that Day in August 2001 when I finally knew our relationship was irrevocably over. It was suddenly like it happened yesterday. My heart skipped a beat, and I really wondered if I should just turn it off. My right hand seemed frozen on the wheel. I was sure I was going to cry, but as the song went on, my eyes stayed dry. Instead, I felt searing pain starting at the roof of my mouth, meandering through my sinuses, and down my throat filling my chest and settling in the pit of my stomach. It was then that I realized that this was one story I did not want to tell again. This was the result of that one time in my life that I had truly madly deeply fallen in love (apologies to Savage Garden).
The date? September 11, 2023.
The irony was not lost on me.
On that day, I knew it was time to publish the story in its original form and move on to other stories. I tried to do it yesterday, but I’m still struggling with WordPress’s new editor. It did not turn out the way I intended, so I trashed it. I’ll try again later today If I get my work for the Garden of Hope done. If not, I’ll post it tomorrow.
After 22 years, I wonder what would happen if Josh and I suddenly found ourselves single again. Would I still be right here waiting for him?
Burgenland is a state of Austria encompassing the entire eastern border adjacent to Hungary. The Bucklige Welt, or Hunchback World, is a region of foothills situated in the southeastern corner of Lower Austria particularly suited to hiking and biking. Also called “The Land of a Thousand Hills,” Bucklige Welt shares the northern corner of Burgenland. As an American “tourist,” I’d describe the area as Austria’s best-kept secret.
The secrets to my Semitic past have been left behind in the remaining homes, synagogues, and cemeteries of the Austrian Jews from the former Austro-Hungarian Empire. The unfortunate tides of history have forever altered access to those secrets. Homes and synagogues were torn down and aryanized while cemeteries were desecrated and/or destroyed. Larger cemeteries in key cities were often lost to the ravages of war. Many of those cities, such as Wiener Neustadt, have made quite successful attempts at restoring their historical town centers to their former glory, despite the loss of vibrant and thriving Jewish sectors. (more…)
I knew there was something different about my husband (Tony) on our first date. By the time the date was over, it was also clear that whatever it was that made him different, it had gone unacknowledged and without diagnosis for all of his 49 years. But I could also see that whatever it was that made him different had also given him a kind heart and an extraordinary amount of patience. These qualities, coupled with the fact that he has a bachelor’s degree (proving that he’s no dummy), led me to agree to a second date.
People like Tony have most often gone down in history without any sort of acknowledgement. They have either been ignored or isolated so as not to cause embarrassment. Those with more severe symptoms were institutionalized and considered insane. In fact, it was the outward appearance of Tony’s disability that nearly caused me to end the relationship on several occasions before I finally agreed to marry him.
I put up with, or ignored, most of Tony’s irregularities for several years into our marriage. Occasionally, I would even think about asking him to get a formal diagnosis, but he was just fine with himself the way he is, and I had fallen into a routine of putting up with it. That is, until we rented the movie, Rain Man.
We talked about it a bit after the movie and came up with several shared characteristics, but Tony was reluctant to think of himself that way because the Rain Man (Raymond Babbit) had been institutionalized to keep others safe from his unexpected anti-social behaviors. But Babbit was also a savant; he had an extraordinary memory. We might have even discussed it in the days and weeks following. I do know I thought about it. I asked Tony, “Do you think you might be Austistic, you know, like the Rain Man?” We started talking about it and I said I thought Babbit was an extreme version of what I saw in Tony, but I had seen a whole lot of similarities.
Tony agreed, and that was the end of it for him. From that point, I thought even more often about trying to get him to agree to a formal diagnosis. But whenever I brought it up, Tony would say, “I probably am autistic, but what good would a diagnosis do?” So I let it go. That is, until I met Claire.
I met Claire in my LDS ward after we moved to Kentucky. We get together occasionally for a short walk or chat. The first day we talked, Claire told me about her son whom she had recently identified as high-functioning autistic using DSM-5 criteria. So I looked it up.
That evening, we went over the criteria, I read it aloud; Tony responded, “Yep. Yep. Yep.” And for Tony, that was it.
DSM-5 criteria for adults is divided into five categories which are further subdivided into sub-categories. Autistic behaviors must be present in all of the main categories for a positive diagnosis. Here’s how it breaks down for Tony:
Persistent deficits in social communication and social interaction across multiple contexts. (Diagnosis requires person meets all three criteria.)
Verbal and physical cues are often ignored in social situations. Tony is not self-centered, and he hates the idea of hurting anyone, but he will always be more focused on what he is trying to say in a conversation than listening to the other speaker. If I try to get my piece in before he is finished, he won’t recognize that I said anything. Even then, I have to repeat what he said back to him, before I can respond. Sometimes I need to remind him of my response two or three times before he will process it. Telephone conversations? Fuhgeddaboudit. If it’s important, I send a text.
He talks too loud. When he is nervous, he talks even louder. In fact, I didn’t think he even knew how to whisper for several years. He does much better now, but I still have to remind him in church or at the library.
Tony spends most of his free time away from people. At home he interacts with the family for about twenty minutes, and then he just “disappears.” The man-cave thing is much more pronounced for him. He spends hours alone in the bedroom, often just sitting with the lights off.
At work, he avoids situations requiring supervisory or management skills. He’s fine working as part of a team, but will always avoid taking the lead and waits for specific instructions instead of taking initiative. It’s not because he can’t, it’s because he doesn’t understand social-behavioral cues, making him extremely uncomfortable when asked to take a leadership position.
Restricted, repetitive patterns of behavior, interests, or activities. Diagnosis requires person meets at least two of four criteria, but I think Tony meets all four in about a hundred different ways. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but this particular set of criteria is extremely pronounced in Tony’s life. Examples:
Echolalia: It’s a cool word to describe Tony’s; continuous repetition of sounds, words, or phrases once he’s ended his part of the conversation. He usually just walks off muttering the same word or phrase over and over again.
Greater than expected degree of distress with changes in routines or expectations: We have moved several times in the past ten years, but the first big move from Illinois to Utah was so hard for him that it almost caused a divorce. Now we have become accustomed to Tony’s extreme need for home and routine to be established as quickly as possible after a move.
I have had to learn to take the initiative to get him to perform simple activities like finding the grocery store and gas station, and even using the transit system for the first time. If he needs to drive, I must come with him and have him drive the route at least twice before he is okay with attempting it alone.
He must perform daily rituals the same way each time, which includes using shampoo on his freshly shaved head every day when showering. He did it when he had hair, so it must be done now.
I have learned to not share the bathroom with him, but to give it up completely for a full 45 minutes on a daily basis, or his day is completely ruined. Except on Saturdays. It’s the one day when he doesn’t begin the day with a shower. He has his rituals, and they must not be interrupted. Fortunately, he only needs about fifteen minutes to get ready for bed.
Intense special interests–this one’s the hardest for me to understand.
He talks incessantly of the need for a standard transmission in any car he drives, and cannot understand anyone’s preference for automatics. We once bought a car with an automatic transmission. It was a great car, but he constantly talked about getting a mechanic who would be willing to remove the automatic transmission and replace it with a standard, essentially ruining a perfectly good car. If I had a dollar for the many times I’ve heard, “Get a stick!” I wouldn’t need Go Fund Me to get to Austria.
He loves the Andy Griffith show and can tell you just about anything you want to know about the actors and characters on the show. He watches reruns almost daily, often the same episode where Barney joins the town choir and ends up singing “so-low” (so low he’s actually lip-syncing for another singer).
He has nearly memorized the schedules of each bus route he uses of the Northern Kentucky public transportation system, but can’t tell you anything about the purpose of Stories From the Past, or why I’m going to Austria.
He collects bus schedules, old receipts, old mail, and maps (including atlases and Google Maps printouts), keeping them all in drawers while using a bucket for his clothes (because his drawers are full of his “collections”).
He also collects baseball caps, random coins and Chicago Bears memorabilia, but I can easily put those into hobby categories. I mean, my ex-husband collects matchbox cars, and my dad collects coins too.
And then there’s the giant jars he tried to keep for pennies. He put a handful of coins in the jar and then deposited them in the bank the next week. Although I gave him several smaller containers more appropriate for his handful of coins, he would look for a much bigger container, and stash the smaller one away. I threw several of his big jars away, and even most of the smaller ones, but he would just hide them from me. That was until we found a piece of Bears memorabilia in a local antiques shop: a great-big football shaped bank that was probably sold with popcorn in it. The bank is nearly gallon-sized and fits in well with all of his other bear-memorabilia, so now I don’t have to keep trashing his stash of jars. The bank is never full, but it’s well-used and only takes up space as decoration. I can accept that.
His strangest collection is not random papers or jars but bank accounts. A couple of months ago, we had a huge argument over his opening a FIFTH bank account. We have our joint account, and each of us have personal accounts, but Tony had three others, and kept saying he wanted more, because they’re “cool.” He had less than 20 bucks in each of his four individual accounts, and was keeping one simply because he’d had it since he was a kid. But that one account was forcing him to spend money five times a month in order to avoid a monthly surcharge which was less than he was spending to keep it, not to mention that he was making tiny deposits every Saturday so he could use the account to fund his Diet Pepsi habit for the next week. After we both calmed down, he finally agreed to close that account and one other that he wasn’t even using. Now he has accounts in three different banks/credit unions. One is our joint account, another he uses for spending (it only allows cards–no checks, and he likes that), and the third is a savings account. I can live with that.
He is often confused and/or overwhelmed by sensory stimuli. Holidays are particularly tough. He’d rather take his plate and sit alone in an empty room (usually the bedroom), than try to sort out the commotion of conversations, children playing, movies on the television, and food preparation, especially when guests are over.
Symptoms must be present in the early developmental period (but may not become fully manifest until social demands exceed limited capacities, or may be masked by learned strategies in later life)
I can’t answer for this one, as I did not meet Tony until later in his life, but I do know that a change in circumstances will disrupt his coping strategies and make characteristics more pronounced. When he is relaxed and among familiar things and people, many of his socially affective characteristics are easier to manage and become less obvious.
Symptoms cause clinically significant impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of current functioning.
There is a significant mismatch between his educational attainment and occupational history. Tony has a bachelor’s degree in graphic arts, but has spent most of his occupational career in shipping and receiving.
One of his biggest difficulties at work is in leaving dead-end jobs and finding better employment. He nearly always waits until he is laid-off or until temporary employment comes to an end before looking for another job, even if that employment is unsteady, unreliable, and/or inequitable. When he is job-searching, he will always take the first job offered; no negotiation, and no questions asked.
His social life is extremely limited to family and just a couple of friends he has known since childhood. Everyone else, to him, are “mere acquaintances,” having nothing to do with him.
These disturbances are not better explained by intellectual disability or global developmental delay.
After considering the DSM-5 criteria in Tony’s life, I can’t think of any other possible explanation.
Of course, I am certainly not a mental health professional, and I would find more comfort in getting a professional diagnosis, but knowing that my husband fits “like a glove” into the DSM-5 criteria for adults with autism is very helpful to me. I think it can also be helpful for co-workers, and other acquaintances. It helps me to be more accepting of odd behaviors which can often be maddening, and I can find better ways to cope than getting angry. As for Tony, it doesn’t change a thing. It’s part of who he is. He’s lived with it for 60 years without a diagnosis, and he doesn’t see the need to compartmentalize himself or his behaviors. I agree. It works for him, and I just need to work with it.
In fact, the words we use make such a difference that governments around the world have dedicated specific agencies to research and education regarding people with disabilities and how we speak to, and about, them.
There’s a good reason for that. Terms used to describe people with disabilities quickly turn from well-intentioned and helpful to mean-spirited and hurtful. For example, we once said dumb. We now say speechless. We once said simple; then we said slow; then we said retarded; and now we say mentally challenged. Even the word special has been misused as a derogatory form of the term relating to the mentally challenged.
Every word has a story.
In case you were wondering about the reason for this vocabulary lesson on Stories From the Past, here it is:
Words are not just used to tell stories. They have stories of their own, and often those stories tell of a conscious turn from light to the dark side. There is even a word for the study of word history; it’s called etymology: the study of word origins.
I originally wanted to tell my own husband’s story for the second story in the Raising Voices series, but I realized that to tell his story, there needs to be an explanation of the etymology of words often used to describe or disparage the marginalized.
So first I’ll be talking about the history of terms often (mis)applied to describe people like my husband, who has recently self-diagnosed as being on the high-functioning end of the Autism spectrum. I’ll tell his story in the next edition of Raising Voices here at Stories From the Past.
Stories of misused words:
Consider the stories of these commonly used terms that have fallen into misuse:
This one’s pretty straightforward. Retard in all its forms (retarded, retardation, retardate, retarding), first appeared in the English language in the late 15th century. Borrowed from the French retarder, or Latin retardare, it was used only in its verb form meaning to “make slow or slower.”
It took three full centuries for retard to appear in American English as a noun representing the condition of cognitive retardation or delay. It was usually used in clinical format followed by other forms of the word directly delineating mental incapacity in the mid 20th century as retardate (1956) and retardee (1971).As with term describing any form of cognitive incapacitation, it was quick to be abused. By 1970, it had fallen into misuse as purposeful offense and verbal abuse. Shame on us.
I came to understand retard in its benign form as a student of music in my adolescence. The abbreviation of ritardando: ritard, or rit., means to slow the tempo. However, it wouldn’t be a far cry to use the vulgar form of the term on me as a sarcastic reference to the fact that I can follow the treble clef vocally as a soprano or alto, but I don’t recall the notes easily. In fact, I can barely read the treble clef, and use chord notations on the only musical instrument I have any sort of ability in: the guitar.
We still know the term as it relates to functions of the mind and intellectual qualities, but the move to sarcastic repartee has been well underway since the early 20th century. The first definition in the dictionary still reflects the common functions of the mind as it came into the English lexicon from the Latin mens, meaning “to think” in the early 15th century.
Beginning in the early 19th century, mental was combined with terms such as health (1803), illness (1819), patient (1859), hospital (1891), and retardation (1904), offensive use of the term quickly followed (by 1927). Rather than pairing the term with it’s less favorable partner, speakers opted for the lazy way out, simply saying “mental.”
I’ve always had a hard time with this one. Probably because I am a mother. Before I entered my study of the English language, I was told about the origins of the word monster by a friend. Classic monster movies don’t horrify me nearly as much as the imagining people calling babies born with any sort of deformity monsters. The mental image rears its ugly head every time I hear the word since that fateful conversation.
Taken from the Latin monstrum meaning “divine omen,” the term first appeared in early 14th century English describing both human or animal abnormalities, specifically birth defects. Both human beings and animals were given equal status as far as the use of the word goes. The necessity to explain birth defects without the aid of science led to the belief in witches casting spells, demons casting curses, and angry gods pouring out their wrath upon mere mortals and sinners. Encounters with previously unknown creatures and folklore also led to the belief in magical half-humans, half-animals born to devils, gods, or other magical beings including fairies, nymphs, sprites, and full-on monsters such as dragons and werewolves.
How could anyone call their child a monster? Were people actually afraid or of their own children? Or worse, repelled by them? Did they actually dispose of them? Jessica Thomas, a Masters student at Auckland University studying human health and healing in Anglo-Saxon medicine, answers these questions in her essay, Medieval Monsters: Deformed Birth in the Medieval Period.
Unfortunately my friend was right. Children born in the dark ages were quite often labeled as monsters. Both human beings and animals with physical abnormalities were included in the same category as dragons and werewolves. Birth defects, or so-called monstrosities, were said to have been caused by sin or witchcraft. Most often, the mother was blamed. This still happens today in religious circles where mothers or onlookers may question whether “sinful” thoughts or actions may have caused birth anomalies.
On the “medical” side, a pregnant woman coming into unpleasant sights or stressful situations could also give birth to a “monster.” Of course, she may even find blame in something she ate, which might be closer to the truth. Science now reveals that the ingestion of various substances can cause birth defects.
Men were not fully exempt from blame, however. Domestic violence was also blamed for birth defects, as well as not following “correct” coital procedures. Hmm, how were they to have known what was “correct” or not? Let’s not go there.
And let us not forget those witches and demons.
Parents may have occasionally feared a child born with monstrosities, but a study of skeletal remains from the dark ages shows that many of them survived to adulthood. Once again, it was more often the mother who was the object of consternation.
Thomas’s essay delves much deeper into the subject than I do, so if you find it fascinating, it’s worth a read. I’m just grateful that we no longer call our children monsters, except in jest.
I saved this one for last because it is the term I have most often heard ignorantly and quite unkindly applied to my husband. Apart from my husband’s pronounced stutter, he seems like your average Chinese-American upon first meeting. After some time, though, you may begin to notice things like his overly-loud tone of voice, and his insistence on daily routines like showering (Camping drives him nuts–“Where are you gonna shower?), washing his bald head with shampoo, brushing, flossing and rinsing with mouthwash every morning and night without fail, leaving for work at the exact same time, recounting events and conversations over and over again, putting his belongings in the exact same place in the exact same way, and being so intensely private as to avoid any any sort of notice by his “superiors” to the point of purposely circumventing promotions at work. In his defense, he has far fewer cavities than I do, he has NEVER been late to work, and he never loses anything.
I’m sure you can guess that as his wife, I can find some of these behaviors maddening. I usually disagree with the label idiot, but knowing a little bit about the etymology of the word, I secretly agree that the word aptly applies.
The Latin form of the word, idiota, is even more benign, meaning ordinary person, layman, or outsider. So if you’re living in ancient Italy, the term village idiot might apply.
Your village called; their idiot is missing.
The term actually originates in ancient Greece where all members of society actively participated in public affairs. People who were not vocal about their political opinions were considered suspect. The Greek term, while considered an unfavorable reflection upon the individual, literally translates into “private person”. Simply put, no one was expected to keep to oneself, so anyone in the village who preferred to stay away from the public eye, was a “village idiot”:.
This is not the idiot you’re looking for. Move along. StarWars.com
Unfortunately, idiot came straight into the English language in its current offensive form. Instead of being borrowed directly from Greek or Latin, it was borrowed from the French idiota where it was used offensively, meaning “uneducated or ignorant.” The English speaking world further corrupted it. First appearing in the English language in the early 14th century, it meant one who is “incapable of ordinary reasoning.”
I first learned about Edward Wightman from David Damron, a member of Stories From the Past‘s Facebook group. Wightman is Damron’s 12th great-grandfather, and holds the dubious distinction of being the last man burned at the stake for heresy in England. But if there’s any justice in this world, Wightman’s great-grandson Valentine was it.
Edward Wightman was born in 1566 in Burbage, Leicestershire, England. Edward’s family were members of the Church of England, the approved church in England at the time, but Roman Catholicism was at least tolerated, if not accepted. The family had no special leanings outside of the church.
In a time where it was uncommon for a married woman to hold a job, both of Edward’s parents were employed. Edward’s mother was a draper (someone who sells cloth), and his father, a schoolteacher. As Wightman grew into adulthood, he followed his mother’s footsteps and moved to Shrewsbury to apprentice as a draper.
It was in Shrewsbury where Edward was introduced to, and began exploring, a radical type of Protestantism rejecting the divinity of Jesus Christ and the holy trinity. Wightman was admitted as a master draper into the Shrewsbury Draper’s Company in 1590, and he opened his own clothing business at Burton-on-Trent.
Edward’s puritanical turn from both the Church of England and the Roman Catholic church would have been problematic anywhere in England during the early 17th century after King James I took the throne. King James tolerated Catholics while pushing for a more liberal Church of England, but puritans were looked upon with scorn and suspicion. But Edward wasn’t alone in his change. Many of the town’s other business leaders had become involved in a town-wide transformation to puritanism despite the greater established, “acceptable,” religious community.
In the late 1590’s England hit an economic downturn, and Edward’s clothing shop was no longer able to turn a profit. Edward then opened an alehouse, likely borrowing money for it. And although Edward was still looked upon as a community leader, by 1603 he was completely impoverished.
Five years later, Edward’s luck in the religious community also began to change. In January 1608, Edward told guests staying in his home that it was his belief that the soul stays with the body even after death, and will only be released upon Judgement Day, when all souls will stand before God and be assigned either to heaven or hell. This was Edward’s first step away from the religious community of Burton who barely tolerated puritans in the first place, and took a solid stance of either Catholicism or Anglicanism.
Edward continued to voice his disagreement with established theology, and quit attending services at the Burton Parish Church. Religious leaders of the area began meeting with Edward privately in an attempt to convince Edward of the “wrongness” of his ways. But Edward continued to persist in openly challenging the crown’s religious norms. It was not long before Edward became locked in public heated exchanges with community religious leaders. Those same leaders began writing and preaching sermons in opposition to Edward’s views in attempt to quell the exodus of their own followers.
As Edward’s public outcries continued, so did his determination to share his beliefs. Although he was never anything more than a lay leader, he developed a following which further enraged the officially recognized religious leaders in the area. He spent large amounts of time writing manuscripts detailing his views. It was even said that he would never leave home without his books which he would preach from whenever he could find a listening ear.
Because of Edward’s refusal to align with both Catholicism and Anglicanism, he was seen as a direct opponent to the King. Knowing he was borrowing trouble, Edward compiled a detailed explanation of his theology, and delivered copies to the clergy. It was most unfortunate that he even chose to deliver a copy to King James himself. While open exchanges of opinion and peaceful demonstrations are part of the human discourse in the 21st century, the only opinions that accounted for anything in 17th century England were those of the King and his trusted advisers. Edward had just handed the king a detailed summary of evidence to be used against him.
None of Edward’s many writings survived to tell Edward’s side of the story. It is unknown how much is actually accurate, but at least sixteen charges were leveled at him:
There is no Trinity;
Jesus Christ is not God, perfect God and of the same substance, eternity and majesty with the Father in respect of his God-head;
Jesus Christ is only man and a mere creature and not both God and man in one person ;
Christ was never incarnate and did not fulfill the promise that the seed of the woman shall break the serpents head;
The Holy Ghost is not God, co-equal, co-eternal and co-essential with the Father and the Son;
The three creeds of the apostolic church are the heresies of the Nicolaitanes;
He, Edward Wightman, is the prophet spoken of in Deuteronomy 18 in the words “I will raise them up a prophet” and in Isaiah “I alone have trodden the wine press” and in that place “Whose fan is in his hand”;
He was the Holy Spirit, the Comforter spoken of in John 16;
The words of Jesus on the sin of blasphemy against the Holy Spirit refer to him;
The fourth of Malachi refers to his person (the prophecy of Elijah);
The soul and body does sleep and this sleep is the first death, and that the soul and body of Jesus did also sleep in the sleep of death;
The souls of the elect departed (that is dead) are not in heaven;
The baptizing of infants is an abominable custom;
The practice of the Church of England in reference to the Lords Supper and baptism are incorrect and baptism of water should be administered only to those with sufficient age and understanding;
God has ordained and sent him, Edward Wightman, to do his part in the work of the Salvation of the world, (to admonish the heresy of the Nicolaitanes); in comparison to Christ who was sent to save the world and by his death to deliver it from sin and to reconcile it to God;
Christianity is not wholly professed and preached in the Church of England, but only in part.
I actually agree with at least a couple of Edward’s “heresies,” but whether one believes or does not is of no consequence today. Our world today is full of varying opinions of God or of no God. Most subscribe to the belief that all people should be allowed to worship, or not, according to the dictates of their own conscience. Perhaps I would have joined Edward’s funereal pyre if I had lived back then.
The Sentence
Edward’s sentence was pronounced on December 14, 1611. He was to be burned at the stake on March 20, 1612. On that day, Edward was tied to a post in the midst of a pile of fast-burning sticks. As the fire licked at his legs and feet, he cried out in pain, begging to recant his heresy. People in the crowd waded in to relieve Edward, pulling at the burning wood to reach him. Several were severely burned in the process, but Edward, also badly burned, was released from his scorching prison.
Edward’s relief was only temporary. While he recovered, a recantation was written and Edward agreed orally. But when he could finally use his burned hands well enough to put pen to parchment, he refused to sign. He was sent back to the fire on April 11, 1612. Once again, Edward screamed out in pain as the fire reached him, again begging to recant. This time, the sheriff was having none of it and ordered more bundles of sticks to be added to the raging inferno.
Edward was reduced to ashes, but he’d just been made a martyr for the puritan cause. King James was quickly learning that the threat of death meant nothing to the religious rebels, and that martyrdom increased uprising. With more and more puritan sects arising, it was decided that it would be better send the guilty quietly off to spend the remainder of their lives in prison rather than make a public spectacle of the outspoken believers. After Edward, it was agreed that convicted heretics should no longer be burned at the stake. However, it took another 65 years to finally secure an act of Parliament forbidding the burning of heretics.
Edward was married to Francis Darbye during his early years as a draper. They had seven children, two boys and five girls. Little is known about the fate of most of Edward’s descendants, but Edward’s oldest son, John Wightman, emigrated with four of his five sons to Rhode Island Colony in America in 1654. John’s wife, and mother to the five sons, most likely died in England before the family’s departure.
John’s youngest son, George Wightman (1632–1722), had at least four sons and one daughter. Most of George’s children remained in Rhode Island, but George’s youngest, Valentine Wightman (1681-1747), struck out on his own, making a name for himself and his family in both Connecticut and New York.
Edward’s great-grandson Valentine turned out to be Edward’s saving grace. Like Edward, Valentine had a passion for both politics and religion, and at just 18, found himself in the midst of a political uprising in North Kingstown. At 20, Valentine joined the Free Will Baptist Church of Kingstown. The next year, Valentine married Susannah Holmes, granddaughter of the well-known Baptist minister, Reverend Obadiah Holmes who refused to quit his Baptist ways and had been publicly whipped for his “heretical” beliefs.
When Valentine was just 23, he was called upon to lead a small group of religious dissenters from Groton Connecticut. Valentine agreed, becoming Connecticut’s very first Baptist minister and initiator of the colony’s lasting Baptist heritage. In return for his service, Valentine and his new family were given twenty acres of farmland and a house which served as the first Baptist parsonage in Connecticut.
Like his great-grandfather, Valentine became a leader in the face of political oppression. Puritanism was the only accepted religious order allowed in Connecticut Colony. He was subpoenaed in 1707 to answer charges of heresy, and ordered to leave the colony. Valentine refused, and was once again called to court where he was fined 20 shillings for his obstinacy. The harassment continued until 1708 when a law was passed banning religious itolerance.
For the remainder of his years, Valentine found favor within the religious community and spent much of his time as a traveling minister. He established baptist churches throughout the area, and is even credited with the establishment of the first Baptist church in New York City.
I think Edward and Valentine would have found much to disagree with on the subject of Christianity, and had they known each other, there may have even been some animosity between them. But Edward’s great sacrifice was the beginning of a new era in Anglican Christianity, and Valentine lived to see the rewards of it. It’s quite possible that Valentine held his great-grandfather’s determination and commitment in great respect, and vowed to follow his example. Valentine lived to be an active participant in the Great Awakening, and by the time he died in 1747, religion was no longer compulsive by law but a personal freedom.
Last month, one of my readers commented on my newsletter that readers are an audience, and that I can do what I want without consulting them. Please don’t get me wrong, it is valuable advice for many blogs, but when I started Stories From the Past, I meant for it to be something bigger than that. I wanted this to be a place to revive the stories of “average” people who slipped out of this life and into obscurity. While their lives may have seemed unimportant and mundane to them, following generations don’t necessarily agree. There are stories of heroism left unwritten, lessons to be learned, entertaining insights, and great ideas that are otherwise lost to the world if they are not put into words and made accessible, so input from my readers is extremely valuable to me.
For history nuts like myself, reading and telling stories of bygone days is fun, but I am repeatedly told that telling the true stories of past generations is a valuable service. There are plenty of biographical tidbits all over the internet, in books and other published media, but I wanted this to be a place where otherwise untold stories could find a home.
What I really want is for this to be an interactive site where I am not only telling stories from my own family’s past, but incorporating stories from readers, collecting stories from friends, inviting others to submit their own stories, and reaching out in search of lost stories. It’s done well by me so far, and I want to do well by my contributors, so the monthly newsletter will continue to act as a way to reach out to family, old friends, new friends, and new-found cousins for feedback and more stories. And, of course, it will always continue to function as foundation for accountability on my part.
What am I Doing Wrong?
Last month I set up a Go-Fund-Me fundraiser to help me get to Austria. I was so excited when less than five minutes after publication I had a $100 donation. Great! I thought, I’m on my way. Then nothing. I posted to Facebook, LinkedIn, made an individual Facebook message for many of my friends, and still got nothing other than that one original donation. I would really love for someone with Go-Fund-Me experience to give me some advice. I must be doing something wrong . . .
In the meantime, my Fundraiser will stay open until I have received enough donations and/or saved enough to go to Austria. Even if I have to go later. I may miss the museum inauguration, but I can still go when I can afford it.
Still in the Race
I didn’t get a whole lot done last month, but I am still plugging along on two or three hours a day, five days a week. I’m definitely not moving at Stephen King pace, but I am happy that I’m still going.
February 5 is Chinese New Year. I don’t want it to be forgotten. In fact, I intend to include a series of stories for my husband’s Chinese family. However, I have rarely mentioned my husband. This is mostly due to the fact that my husband is a high-functioning adult with autism. Anyone with autistic family members may be quite aware that people with autism have little to no interest in thoughts, ideas, activities, or events that do not directly affect them, so when I brought up the idea of researching his ancestors, he told me, “Why don’t you just leave them alone? They’re dead. They don’t care.” LOL. I ignored him and kept on researching and writing.
So in honor of my husband, I intend to make this month’s Raising Voices about something that directly affects him: disability, and the misuse of terms like idiot, retard, and even disability. In the future, I’ll be focusing more on stories from his Chinese background.
So here’s what’s going on this month:
January Review:
Mary Eynon ancestor profile page (not a post) -incomplete
Living in Northern Kentucky, the lap of the Underground Railroad, has been an eye-opener for me. Since moving here I have learned that Kentucky has the unique distinction as the land where the civil struggle between the Union and Confederate states reaches much deeper than North vs. South.
Kentucky was a slave state before the Civil War, but it never fell to Confederate control. In fact, it was the first of the four “border states” between North and South to succumb to Union control. Because the commonwealth of Kentucky had both a Union and a Confederate constitution, the struggle between the opposing forces reached not only into neighborhoods, but into the very hearts of families where brother fought against brother, and cousin against cousin. In fact, Kentucky’s most infamous family feud, Hatfields vs. McCoys, is said to have begun over family members fighting on opposite sides of the Civil War.
Isaac Johnson, 1844-1905
Some families were even further divided by race. Isaac Johnson’s autobiography, Slavery Days in Old Kentucky. A True Story of a Father Who Sold His Wife and Four Children. By One of the Children, is the story of a child born into a family with a white father and a black mother. Isaac’s family began in the traditional sense with a mother and father living as a happy family in nearly every sense but one: Isaac’s parents were never married, and even though they lived as husband and wife, Isaac’s mother, Jane Johnson, was actually Richard Yeager’s slave.
Yeager had originally desired nothing more than a simple family life with his common-law wife and their four boys, but he eventually gave in to the social constraints bearing down on him and made the fateful decision abandon pretense and sell off Jane and her children. Isaac’s oldest brother, Louis was nine and Isaac was seven years-old at the time.
The auctioneer continued his cry for bids and Louis was at last sold for eight hundred dollars. By this time we had taken in the situation, and it seemed as though my mother’s heart would break. Such despair I hope I may never again witness. We children knew something terrible was being done, but were not old enough to fully understand.
Isaac’s youngest brother was just two when he was separated from his father, mother, and older brothers for two hundred dollars.
Following his separation from his family, Isaac went through several owners and even made a couple of unsuccessful attempts to escape. His second escape attempt was met with the torture and murder of his fellow slave and good friend who was blamed for inciting the attempted escape.
It was the Civil War that offered Isaac his third escape attempt leading to his freedom. He found refuge with a Union regiment marching through Kentucky, and eventually enlisted in the First Michigan Colored Infantry which became part of 102nd United States Colored Regiment. Isaac stayed with his regiment until the war ended.
Upon war’s end, Isaac’s desire to see his final master amidst the destruction of his livelihood as as a slave owner led him to return to Kentucky one last time. He found his former master paralyzed and bedridden, but despite his debilitation, the master was happy to see his former slave. He welcomed Isaac as an old friend, telling him that he was the first of his slaves to leave and the first to return. He even offered Isaac a job with wages if he were to stay. Isaac. of course, could not forget the murder of his friend, and turned down the offer.
Despite his service to the Union, Isaac believed he would never be free until he left the States behind, so he moved to Ontario, Canada where he married Theodocia Allen. Isaac did finally return to the States, albeit just across the St. Lawrence river from Canada. Isaac stayed as a free man with his wife and seven children in Waddington, New York, where he worked as a stone cutter and mason on Waddington’s Town Hall.
He talks too loud. When he is nervous, he talks even louder. In fact, I didn’t think he even knew how to whisper for several years. He does much better now, but I still have to remind him in church or at the library.
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