Memories, Sweet Memories

When I look back on my childhood, the global memory I have is one of happiness even amidst financial and emotionial hardship. My mom and dad divorced when I was about four years old and my little sister was just a wee baby. I only have a few memories of being a family, all of us together which included my three older half brothers from my dad's first marriage. Vague snapshots buried deep in my mind and continue to fade with time.

As a very young girl I couldn't understand why mommy and daddy didn't want to live together anymore. Too young to understand...but this meant that I couldn't live with daddy either. I missed my dad and brothers so much. I saw them a couple times a month, we didn't move very far away from them. My mom worked hard to provide a roof and food for me and my sister. At one point I remember we had to move into this house behind a liquor store on Placer Street. It was a scary house for a five year old. The front door didn't close all the way. There were already tenants living there and they didn't like the fact that the three of us moved in. They showed their unhappiness by chirping as loud as they could and scurrying about on the floor hoping to scare us out.

We didn't have money for a TV so my entertainment was watching the walking skeletons with wiry hair come and go from the store on the corner. Drinking from a brown bag then coming out with two more. The people living beside of us didn't like each other very much. Often we'd hear them yelling bad words, the kind five year old girls shouldn't say let alone hear. I don't remember any rooms in that house besides the living room. We had no furniture. Only a blow up mattress and a couple of blankets mom managed to collect from co-workers. Mom, my baby sister and me would bundle up together at nighttime trying to keep warm in a room with a front door that never closed all the way. I felt unsafe. My mom cried a lot.

Then suddenly things would got a little bit better. Mom saved up enough money for a security deposit for a fancy apartment complex on Echo Lane. Blue shag carpet, clean white walls and a front door that didn't only close, it locked! I felt safe. Still we didn't have much furniture and we had even less money. My mom was rather creative. She fashioned a beautiful bookcase out of square cement blocks layered with long pieces of wood she brought home from the hardware store where she worked. This bookcase was the only piece of furniture in our living room and it was the altar of our home...many framed snapshots of me and my sister. One with us dressed in matching white and green polka dot jumpers that my mom made. It was more economical for her to make our clothing.

When I was pretty little, I had sudden nose bleeds. It always so scary. That amount of blood pouring non stop from my little nose, soiling everything in site. I was afraid all my blood would leave my body! My first nose bleed was in the blue shag carpet apartment. Thankfully it was dark blue. I thought my nose was drippy with allergies so I wiped it with my sleeve, like any other six year old. However, I became absolutely frantic when I noticed the bright red color all over me and running down my face. I screamed bloody murder! My mom came flying from the kitchen to see her oldest daughter sitting on the floor covered with blood and with terror in her eyes. Panicked, she swooped me up and placed me in the bathtub, constantly yelling over my scared crying, "it's okay, honey. It's okay!" But I didn't believe her. I saw fear in her eyes and that made my cries louder. My poor sister who was three followed us in the the bathroom, saying over and and over again, "what's wrong with sissy? Mommy, what's wrong with sissy?" As you could imagine, it was complete chaos.

All of a sudden there was four people in our tiny apartment bathroom. The neighbor, who we shared an adjoining wall with with us, heard the racket and came right over. He was standing there behind my mom as she leaned over the tub telling me to lay back and keep my nose up to stop the bleeding. I don't remember this man's name and I had never seen him before that night. But he was the nicest and most calming man I've ever met. Tall and handsome, now that I look back and recall. His soft confident voice assured us that everything would be fine. He took a washcloth and ran it under cold water from the sink. Then came over to the tub to relieve my mom of so she could call the family doctor. She left the bathroom to make the call from the kitchen, no cordless phones in every room of the house back then.

Laying there in the cold hard tub looking up at a stranger who was tenderly cradling my head of endless blood-matted blond curls in the palm of his hand gave me a comfort I hadn't experienced until that point in my short life. My body, tensed with fear, slowly began to relax as he used another washcloth to gently wipe away the tears from my eyes. My little sister stood in the door way looking on to make sure I was okay. When he attempted to sit me up blood would again rush from my nose. So, lying me back again, with another washcloth filled with cold water, he showed me how to hold it on my nose, slightly pinching the bridge, evidently slowing the blood flow.

After speaking with the doctor, mom entered the bathroom, now much quieter, filled with knowledge pertaining to my situation. This strange man picked me up, still laying flat to avoid another flood, and with my mom's guidance he placed me on my bed, the top bunk. They propped so many pillows under my neck that I was practically looking at my head board upside down. The salty taste of blood oozed down my throat. It was horrible. He got me a drink of water with a bendy straw so I could sip without having to sit up. The doctor instructed that I lay like this with a cold cloth under my neck and another sopping up any run away seepage from my nose for an hour. I was much calmer, but still scared that something serious must be wrong with me. This man and my mom stood at eye level with my top bunk watching over me. I remember him asking if I knew how to spell Mississippi. I gave it my best shot and came up wrong. I'm not sure my mom could even spell it correctly. He proceeded to help me learn by saying the letters to a catchy little tune. To this day when I hear someone mention that state my thoughts take me back to that very moment..."Miss - iss - ippi" over and over and over again.

This man was a genius. I was so enthralled with my new talent that I had forgotten about why I was laying there flat on my back in the first place. I grew sleepy after all the evening's commotion and I must have fallen off to dreamland.

I don't think I ever saw that calming stranger again. A man who came at just the right time, to bring peace to a frantic situation. Calmly handling me with care and soothing the fears of my mom and little sister. In the midst of my trouble, he distracted me from myself and taught me a new song. I was so comfortable that I fell asleep in his presence.

He was my Jesus.