"I Wish God Would Take Me"

http://www.thetinboxtrilogy.com/discuss/entry/i-wish-god-would-take-me

I Will Be Your Wound

http://www.thetinboxtrilogy.com/discuss/entry/i-will-be-your-wound

How Daisy Lost Her Bark

http://www.thetinboxtrilogy.com/discuss/entry/how-daisy-lost-her-bark

What a Parent Should Let their Child Know

http://www.thetinboxtrilogy.com/discuss/entry/what-a-parent-should-let-their-child-know

Lt. Martin Andrews: A World War II Hero

http://www.thetinboxtrilogy.com/discuss/entry/lt-martin-andrews-a-wwii-hero

"In My Own Little Corner, In My Own Little Chair"

http://www.thetinboxtrilogy.com/discuss/entry/in-my-own-little-corner-in-my-own-little-chair

A Close Encounter with a Rabid Fox (As in Rabies)

http://www.thetinboxtrilogy.com/discuss/entry/a-close-encounter-with-a-rabid-fox-as-in-rabies

Find me at http://www.thetinboxtrilogy.com/

Stop by to see all of my new posts, they will be on:  http://www.thetinboxtrilogy.com/

MY NEW WEBSITE AND BLOG IS UP AND RUNNING!

MY NEW WEBSITE IS UP AND RUNNING!  COME STOP BY FOR A VISIT AND JOIN IF YOU WANT TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS NEXT!

THIS IS WHERE  YOU WILL FIND ALL OF MY NEW BLOG POSTS AND INFO ON MY BOOKS FROM TODAY ON:

http://www.thetinboxtrilogy.com/

Surviving with Scars

One night, a couple of  years ago, I met a young woman. She sat across the table from me at a restaurant. Her mother was a professor at my daughter's college and her family had joined us for dinner.  Sometimes there is a connection that just can't be explained.  I looked at her and I knew that I knew her soul and that she knew mine.  In the course of our conversation, I tried to discover what the connection was.  It didn't take me long.

She was only in her early thirties, but she had already survived a near-fatal car crash, a near-fatal illness, and a host of complications from both.  She had a beautiful face, but as she showed me the faint scars where her face had been patched back together, I could see then that she was even more beautiful than I had realized. She shared with me that she was writing her story and the stories of other survivors.  I was sure we would stay friends then.  Although on the outside, we looked nothing alike, I felt like I was looking into a mirror.

I recently saw a post she made on Facebook saying that she was going into the hospital again to have her pacemaker battery changed.  I thought, only old people should have pacemakers.  She came home in time for the holidays, but now she is back in the hospital again.  An infection developed in the area where the new battery was placed in her heart.  She needed to have another operation so that they could move the pacemaker to a new location.

I was not surprised to see her post this morning saying that her nurse had taken a special interest in her, after all, she is a very special person.  But the message that her nurse had left for her after her operation was also special, so special that I wanted to share it with as many people as I could.  This young woman may be an idol to many, but she is also a daughter to two wonderful people.  Her story may inspire many, but she is just a young woman who has learned to live through dying.  Her life and story may be special to many, but I am just happy to say she is my friend, Miranda.

My Very Much and Completely Improved Website!!!!!!!

So an angel named Angie (is that appropriate or what?) called me recently with an offer to improve my website.  Being the techno-imbecile that I am, I wasn't sure of what she was proposing.  But I decided to give it a shot . . .  and let me tell you, I am so excited for you all to see it soon!  It will be at www.thetinboxtrilogy.com, like my old website, but it will incorporate my blog, my books, and my TinBox facebook page.  A one-stop shop for everything that I do!

Let me explain how it will work:  The "Home" page will have all my latest blog posts on it.  But then there will be links to other pages so that if you are only interested in a particular subject that I blog on, you can go directly to it and find what you are interested in reading.  On "Family Stories and Genealogy" you can find all of the stories I have written about my childhood and the lives of my ancestors.  On "The Tin Box Secret Chapters" you can find the first five chapters of my book, the glimpse into Chapter 6, and my blogs about writing the Tin Box Secret.  Also on this page, as the other books are developed, and as my pursuit in getting them published continues, you will also be kept apprised of what progress I am able to make.  On "RaisingDrama" you can find all the other blogs about raising children and various other subjects.

Even more exciting is that it will be easier for us to communicate on this site!  There will be an area for us to have "Discussions" about different topics.  I am eager to hear your points of view and to share experiences and thoughts with you!

On the "Homepage," you will be able to follow my "ticket counters" for my blog views, facebook likes, and Followers on Twitter as they continue to,  hopefully, climb!  I am excited to include you in this because I know many of you are rooting for me, and in this way, we can share the adventure.

Before I end this blog, I want to say one more thing.  For those of you who have reached out to me in private and told me that I have helped you in some small way, thank you so much for letting me know.  Nothing heals me more than knowing that I have been able to help put someone else on the road to healing.   I recently received "Past Life" cards as a gift for Christmas (they are kind of like Tarot Cards, but they are supposed to tell you what previous life is affecting issues in this current life).  Anyway, according to these cards, it seems that in a previous life I was persecuted for a crime I did not commit (possibly witchcraft!)  Here is an excerpt from the interpretation given in the accompanying book:

 "In reality, you were a good-hearted person (as you remain to this day) who had the ability to see into the future, and to use energy for healing purposes.  That lifetime has made you very sensitive to gossip and rumors.  If someone falsely accuses you now, you become fearful and upset, because that's the behavior that led to your painful death in previous lives.  You may be afraid to openly admit that you're still a talented healer and psychic.  Unconsciously, you're keeping your spiritual skills a secret to avoid re-creating the pain of the past.  To heal from this, know that in this current lifetime, spiritual teachers and healers are revered instead of feared.  You agreed to incarnate at this time because your hard-won knowledge from previous lifetimes is needed in this world.  And the fact that you're back on Earth shows that no one can harm you permanently, or prevent you from pursuing your spiritual path."

Well, I don't want to offend anyone's beliefs, so whether if you believe in this or think it is just a silly game, the fact that I seek healing within myself and receive healing from others believing in me is absolutely true.  I have had times in this life (an issue when I was PTA President comes to mind here) where I have been accused falsely of trying to harm others.  I have learned that anyone can accuse, but if given enough time, people will see the truth as long as I stay faithful to being who I truly am.

I am so thankful for the chance to blog and write and to be able to reach so many more people than I will ever know!  I hope you enjoy my new website.  Stop by a visit a while, won't you?

The Road to Becoming an Author: It's Been Quite a Ride!

In my first year of college (1976-1977), I went back to visit my high school and met one of my English teachers, Mr. T, in his classroom.  I told him, "I'm going to write a novel."  He smiled at me, and I could tell that his smile meant that he had heard that before from others and didn't believe it for a minute that I would actually do it.  I wasn't the best of students before college.  I was more interested in "socializing" than learning.  So maybe I shouldn't have been hurt by his response.  But I had changed in the months since I had left high school and my education had become important to me.  I was taking a Creative Writing class and really enjoying it!  My college professor told us, "Write for yourself, not for publishing."  I didn't understand it then, but he was right.

As a high school student, I had gone on a field trip to McGraw-Hill Publishing Company on 6th Avenue in New York City, with my Stenography class.  I was a Secretarial Science major in college because I thought I could get my foot in the door that way.  So when it came time to get a real job, I asked my professor to try to set up an interview for me with McGraw-Hill.  I wanted to learn the publishing business and I wanted to make contacts in the field.  I had some high hopes for myself at nineteen.  She was able to get me an interview.  McGraw-Hill had a special program for their Executive Secretaries.  I was hired by McGraw-Hill for the program which lasted a week or two, and taught all about the company's forms and policies.  At the end of the program, I was sent on interviews for various openings within the 50-floor building.  I ended up getting a job with the Benefits Administrator who worked on the same floor as the Executive Secretary program.  I had already done some work for him while in the program and he offered me a position.  So that was where I started.  But I was determined to get into the publishing end of the business.

Over the next few years, I became a Legal Secretary for McGraw-Hill's Tax Attorney, the toughest boss I ever worked for.  He went through secretaries every few months.  But I outlasted them all and eventually left with a letter of recommendation from him, an extraordinary feat.  But while I worked for him, I was on one of two executive floors.  There was a spiral staircase that went between floor 48 and floor 49.  (The 50th floor was a restaurant and meeting rooms.)  The son of the owner of McGraw-Hill, Terry McGraw, had his office near the huge and luxurious mahogany desk/cubby area where I worked.  People would call out, "Terry!" and we would both answer.  It was funny, because he wound up knowing my name because of that.  I have to admit, I had a  private crush on him too. From my memory, he looked a lot like Robert Redford.  After working there for a year or so, I finally got my break into the publishing end as an Editorial Assistant in the College Book Division.  During my time there, I worked with mostly Science, Math, and Engineering textbooks.  I reported to a Sponsoring Editor, but much of the time that I was there was spent in-between editors.  Editors would leave and there was never a hurry to replace them.  After a while, I was able to handle anything that a Sponsoring Editor could do, but since I didn't have a bachelor's degree and hadn't spent time as a Book Representative (selling books to the colleges), I couldn't actually be a Sponsoring Editor.  A Sponsoring Editor was responsible for taking a manuscript through all phases of publishing until it became a textbook.  So I learned the entire process of publishing in my position as Editorial Assistant.  After working all day in the city, I continued going to college at night, plugging away at that four-year degree.  I had my dreams.  In the absence of an editor, one set of authors actually thanked me in the front-matter section of their book.  That was really nice of them.  I knew I wasn't going to get paid what a Sponsoring Editor was paid, but it was really rewarding to have the authors acknowledge that I had been the one who had done the work and that without me, their book wouldn't have been published on time.

The world was changing in 1984-1985 and computers were taking over for the first time ever. Suddenly, authors were sending in "disks" instead of manuscripts.  The publishing world was learning how to deal with this earth-shaking change.  We needed to get professors to evaluate chapters of manuscripts, but now they, and we, needed a computer to be able to view the manuscripts. However, neither they, nor we, had computers.  Then McGraw-Hill had to make the decision of which brand of computer to buy, because not all "disks" ran on all computers, they used different formats.  Somehow, the company figured it out and, not without mistakes, learned how to live in this new world.  First there were a few computers on each floor, but eventually computers replaced the typewriters at our desks.

I left McGraw-Hill in 1985, when I got married.  I worked at home for a year after that as a Freelance Permissions Editor for McGraw-Hill.   I wrote letters to get permission to use photos and "copy" from authors or corporations, to be used in new books.  Then I started working for Worldwide Computer Services as a Sales Support Administrator.  It was a good job for Long Island, but I missed the city. In 1988, I finally got my four-year degree after two years of college during the day and ten years at night.  And by 1990 I got a job at Arrow Electronics where I became a Marketing Communications Administrator.  As such, I did Desk-Top Publishing, a new field at that time.  I produced their catalogs, newsletters, yearbooks, and some of their direct-mail.  I was given the chance to be creative again and I loved it!  But then I had my first child in 1991 and decided I didn't want to miss a moment of being a mom.  So I left my wonderful job behind, and threw myself into the world of parenting. There was no time for writing anymore and I thought about my old high school teacher who had smiled at my ambitions.  Perhaps, I thought, he was right.

I started researching my family tree in 1993 and found a reason to write again.  I wrote down the stories that my aunts and uncles told me about our family.  I found a distant cousin of my husband's mother who was also doing her family tree.  We started to share information and stories through a new form of communication, e-mails.  In one e-mail, she asked me if I was a writer.  I said, "I've always wanted to be a writer."  She said, "You are a writer.  Your stories bring me to tears."  She suggested that I start writing for a local newspaper and I followed her suggestion.  I wrote Human Interest stories and they were published in the Suffolk County News.  I wasn't paid any money for them, but I received calls from people who enjoyed them and that was worth more to me than any dollar amount.  Suffolk County News finally hired me as a freelance reporter and the first article that I was actually paid for, was about the community wanting to build a new library.  It was published in January of 2002, while I laid in a coma in an intensive care unit on life-support.  But I didn't end up dying, I surprised everyone and I lived.

While still in the hospital, I asked my sister to bring me a notebook and a pencil.  I started writing down my near-death experience.  I still have that notebook, but I've never read it.  I haven't been ready to read it and fully go back to that experience.  Maybe someday?  But that near-death experience got me onto the path of writing my novel again.  I knew I had to try to do it.  It was on my very short bucket list.  In 2007, I finally knew what I wanted to write my novel about.  I told my daughter, "I know what I want to write now, but it's going to take time away from you and your brother.  I'm a stay-at-home mom, because I want to be there for you.  But when I start writing, the day goes by and I get nothing else done."  I thought again about my old English teacher and said, "I don't know if I can write a novel.  I don't know if I'm any good.  I don't know if I can finish.  So I don't know if I should even try."  My fifteen-year-old daughter said to me, "Then write it for me, mom." And so, The Tin Box Secret began.

I couldn't write as often as I would have liked.  I had too much to do with my family and I didn't want to miss a moment of being a mom.  I had been given this wonderful chance to live longer, to be able to watch my children grow, to be able to be there for them.  I didn't take that lightly, in fact, it was everything to me, except, I still wanted to write my novel.  So I promised myself, I would take the years during the time that they were growing-up, to write, but not to put a schedule on it.  They were my first priority.  The "novel," turned into a trilogy.  I loved my characters as if they were my own children.  They gave me the chance to go back in time and make everything right with whatever went wrong in my own childhood and in the childhoods of friends that I had seen suffer.  I wrote it for me. I wrote it for them.  I wrote it for my own children and their friends who still suffered.  Parents sometimes get caught up in what I call generational dysfunction.  They raise their children just like they were raised or they raise them in the opposite extreme, which is just as damaging.  Many of these kids sat and cried at my kitchen table and told me about their lives.  I needed to write for them and for all the kids like them, whom I had never even met, so I did.  My writing has certainly improved.  There were times when I would go over what I had written and think, "How could I have thought that was good enough?"  So I've re-written and re-written and re-written, because I had the time.  I wasn't ready to publish yet, anyway.

In September of 2014, my son started college and moved away to live in a dorm.  Now it was time.  I hired a wonderful editor who was kind, but confident, in her suggestions.  Finally, I felt that someone was reading my novel who would tell me the truth.  I didn't want to make a fool of myself, trying to publish something that wasn't worthy.  Now that self-publishing exists, anyone can publish.  You don't have to wait for approval from a Literary Agent or a Publisher.  You don't have to have your hopes dashed over and over again by rejection.  And the whole process of self-publishing has changed drastically over the past five years.  But because of that, books get published that aren't ready for publishing.  Authors who have no clue how to promote their novels, watch their books flounder in a saturated market.  So I have decided, that although I will hold the security that I can always self-publish, I am going to try to find a Literary Agent who believes in my novels.  In my preparation for that, I have been blogging and hoping to develop an audience for my writing.  I have been carefully cultivating a foundation for the success of "The Tin Box Trilogy," and now the right time has come.

I am still fearful of the rejection which is sure to come.  But I am confident in my story and confident in my writing.  I won't let the rejections stop me from publishing, but I will listen to them so that when it is published, it is in the best condition it can be.  Just like when I was acknowledged in that textbook so long ago, the reward I most look forward to is the appreciation for my efforts.  I hope that you will read my book someday and that it will help young people and their parents make better choices.  I hope it will heal those who are still in pain over their own childhoods.  If it can do that, what more could I possibly hope for?  Well, Mr. T, my old high school English Teacher and current Facebook Friend, I did it!  I wrote it!  I hope to see you smile again and know that I have made you proud.

The Tin Box Secret - A Glimpse at Chapter 6

           As the last of the sun streamed into the tree house, something caught my eye among the old beams.  Intrigued, I inspected it further and found that a tin box was hidden in a crevice.  As I pulled it out, I noticed that some of the paint was worn off and it was rusted around the edges.  It was painted a pale yellow with golden crisscrosses and tiny pink and purple flowers.   

          One word escaped from my lips, “Wow!”  We all stared at the old tin box in my hands.  The box had some weight to it so I knew that there was something inside.  We sat back down on our plastic chairs and I handed it to Petra and said, “Open it.  It must have belonged to your mother.”  She gently lifted the small brass clasp and raised the lid to reveal a stack of envelopes wrapped in a blue ribbon.  Heather said, “Holy moly!  How old are those letters?”

          Petra picked up the envelopes and touched the old stamps as she read the addresses.  “These letters are from my great grandmother Charlotte and they are addressed to my mother.”  She looked at the stamps closer, “It looks like they are from 1943.  That’s the year that my grandmother died.” 

          Petra loosened the blue ribbon, took out the first letter, and placed the others back in the box.  Carefully, she unfolded the yellowed pages and glanced at the elegant handwriting.  As she looked it over, her eyes sparkled in amazement.  She handed the letter to me and asked, “Could you read it?”

          I could tell that the letter had been written with a fountain pen by the drips of ink that appeared here and there.   Slowly, I started to read,

The Tin Box Secret - Chapter 5

Chapter 5                                 The Tin Box Secret

The June sun warmed my skin, as I lifted my face toward the sky.  Sweat beaded on my skin and anger settled in my bones. Two days ago Bobby Kennedy had died, a day after being shot in Los Angeles, and directly after winning California’s Democratic presidential primary.  I thought back to five years ago and John Kennedy’s funeral.  Images had been caught on television of his children, Caroline and John-John, standing at attention as the cannons fired one by one.  Their small hands grasped in their mother’s grip, as she stood solemnly between them.  Instinctively, I shook my head trying to erase the image from my mind as if I was an Etch-A-Sketch.  Now Bobby was gone too. 

To stave off the feeling of hopelessness, I continued to fuel my anger.  After all the talk of peace and withdrawing from Vietnam, soldiers were still dying every day.  I had hoped that Bobby Kennedy would bring this war to an end.  I thought with self-disgust, this was a real war, not a movie, and it was deadly.  How could I go about my daily life and not realize the extreme danger Joe was in.  The reality of the war had finally been driven home when my brother’s friend, Steve, had come home in a wooden box last week.  When Steve’s little sister, Tara, returned to school, I didn’t know what to say to her.  When I passed her in the hall, I just lowered my head, afraid to look into her eyes, afraid to see her pain.  It was becoming more apparent, each day; that even the ending of a war could drag on beyond the endurance of all patience. 

As I looked at the sun, I wondered why everyone always drew the sun yellow when it was actually a blazing bright white.  I closed my eyes for a moment and saw the red blood vessels squish behind my eyelids.  The pounding blood sizzled and flamed into tiny explosions.  It reminded me of the large screen backdrop at school dances.  Blobs of colorful oils dancing on the screen would crash into each other producing a psychedelic scene for all to enjoy. The continuous liquid, flowing motion matched the beat of the drums in the band. 

At the last school dance in May, the pulse of the drums had brought an unconscious jerking movement from my body.  I thought of tribal dances and the raw communion an individual could feel with music.  It was such a release of spirit to dance in a crowd.  There was an anonymity that was produced by the pounding music, the flashing lights, and the colors on the pulsating colors on the screen.  To feel young and alive, with your friends around you, dancing in the darkness and laughing, was intoxicating.

I had been dancing in the crowd, rocking to the music, as my senses reeled.  In mid-dance, I opened my eyes to find Donny watching me from the side of the room.   He was casually leaning against the wall, but his stare was intense and burning.  At once, I felt self-conscious and all of the natural rhythm and movement of the moment deserted me.  Awkwardly, I bumped into Heather and almost knocked her over.  She opened her eyes as she shouted above the music, “Hey, what’s up?” 

"Nothing,” I said.  “I’m going to go get a cola.  Want anything?”

“No thanks,” she turned and started dancing with Petra.  I noticed another girl, Annie, swaying to the music on the dance floor by herself.  Even in the strobe light you could see the dark cast to Annie’s skin.  An Italian family had adopted Annie and her biological brother Mark, when they were younger.  When they first moved to Baldwin, Annie was in second grade and Mark was in third.  People started speculating about their natural parentage when it got out that they were adopted.  Mark looked more like the rest of us in Baldwin, but Annie’s hair frizzed when it wasn’t held back in a clip.  As her facial features matured, people started to whisper.   Although I had known her since second grade, it hadn't occurred to me until last year that she was a mulatto.  The other kids had often teased her about looking different.  It must be difficult to be caught between two worlds, looking like she belonged to one world, while living in another.  Her adoptive parents had tried to cover up the truth, but truth has a way of forcing itself out into the open.  Poor Annie found herself suddenly shunned by her childhood friends as their parents’ prejudices suddenly prevented her from being able to play with their children.   Even Mark was excluded in spite of the fact that his features looked more like everyone else’s.

At the dance, I had walked over to the refreshment table and bought a soda from Mr. Hunter, my social studies teacher.  Then I took a seat against the wall and sipped it slowly, just so that I would have something to do.  Sheldon Levy sat down next to me and asked, “Do you want to dance?”  Sheldon’s skinny frame, rather large nose, and huge brain made him a target for the “jocks.” Earlier in the year, I had felt sorry for Sheldon, so I made a point of talking to him and smiling when I passed him in the hall.  Now I seemed to be his only friend.  I didn't want to be nasty to him, but he really was a bit annoying.  I opened my mouth to say “no,” but he had these huge sorrowful eyes that were just pleading with me to say “yes.”  So instead, to my surprise, out came, “oh-h kay.”  We walked out to the dance floor and started dancing.  Someone produced a beach ball and we all started to pass it around, the crowd keeping it afloat as everyone’s hands reached toward the ceiling.  I was having a good time and even started to relax again.  But when I looked over to the side where Donny had been a few minutes before, I saw that he was gone.  I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.  I didn’t see him again that night; but the next week in school, I found a note in my locker.  It said “Good for you!  You made Sheldon’s night. D.”

Since Donny and I had never spoken to each other, I didn't have the guts to ask him if he had left the note.  At first, I had hoped that he would say something to me.  But as the days turned into weeks, I had almost forgotten about the note. 

As I walked toward the beach, and my special place, I wondered again if indeed it had been him.  I wanted to sit and just take a moment to think about things.  I kicked a stone as I walked up to the construction site.  Because I was concentrating on the stone I wasn’t really watching where I was walking.  Then I heard a voice yell, “Hey, watch out!”  I looked up to see Donny standing by the sand dunes.  Right in front of me, was the arm of a small bulldozer, the bucket just about at head level.  If he hadn’t said something, I would have walked straight into it.

Totally embarrassed and disconcerted to find Donny standing in front of me, when I had just been thinking about him, I blushed and started praying that a pothole in the ground would suddenly open up and swallow me whole. 

“What are you doing here?” He asked.

“Uh, just w-w-walking.”  Oh, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, I thought.

My throat felt dry and parched as I noticed that he held a guitar in his hands.  I tried to speak again.  “Do you play the guitar?” Mentally, I kicked myself again, Stupid, there’s nothing like asking the obvious.  He smiled as I drowned in embarrassment, “Yeah.  I like to come here sometimes and play.  Usually, it’s deserted,” he looked at me and smiled, “but these tractors are getting pretty close to the beach now.  I guess this place won’t be peaceful much longer.” 

I walked past him to the sand dunes and down to the shore.  There was a little mound of sand with a flat rock on it that made a natural seat.  I sat down on the rock and picked up some pebbles.  Automatically, I started to toss them into the water.  I didn’t know how I felt about sharing my special place with someone else, especially Donny.  I felt kind of exposed and vulnerable, yet it was exciting to be so near him with no one else around.  He walked up next to me and said, “You have to make them skip along the surface.”  He picked up a pebble and threw it so that it skimmed the water and bounced three times before sinking.  I stood up and tried to do it too, but the rock just sank. 

“You have to pick the right rock; it needs to be flat and smooth.  Then you have to flick your wrist like this,” he demonstrated.  It bounced four times than sank.  I searched for a smooth flat pebble and tried again.  This time it bounced once before it sank.  “That’s it, you’re getting the hang of it,” he said.  We continued to bounce pebbles on the water for a while until I got pretty good at it.  I started to feel more comfortable and relaxed as I gazed out over the bay toward Jones Beach. 

In the distance, I could see the mushroom-shaped water tower and the bridge leading to the small barrier island.  The seagulls were standing on the buoys out in the water.  Their cries filled the air as if to sound an alarm.  He said, “Do you know why all the seagulls are facing in the same direction?”

“No.”  I looked out over the water and noticed that, as far as I could see, all of the seagulls were facing west. 

“They always face into the wind because they are sniffing the air for food.” 

Seagulls were scavengers, wherever there was garbage there were seagulls.  In spite of the fact that most people found the seagulls to be pests, I liked them.  They weren’t graceful like other birds; they had to work hard to keep aloft.  Their wings beat continuously as they rose up toward the sky. They would soar for a short space of time and then they had to beat their wings again to keep from falling.  I watched as again and again they attempted to reach new heights, only to be reminded of their limitations. 

Noticing how many seagulls were nearby, I said, “A storm must be coming.”  I knew that seagulls flocked to shore when there was a storm out at sea.  

I could hear thunder in the distance.  The sound reminded me of the war.  I thought of Bobby Kennedy, of JFK, of Steve, and of my own brother, and my shoulders slumped. 

“What’s wrong?”  Donny asked.

“My brother . . . he’s in Vietnam,” I swallowed hard.  “We haven’t heard from him since Easter.” 

I pulled out a little troll doll from my pocket and straightened its yellow hair, holding it close to my heart.  “On the day Joe left, he gave me this.  It’s a Wishnik.  He told me that if you hold it close and make a wish, the wish will come true.  As soon as he drove away, I wished that he would come home safe.  But that was almost two years ago.”

“He hasn’t come home in all that time?” 

“He could have come home last year, but instead, he re-upped for another year.  I don’t think he wants to come home.”

“Does he write to you?” 

“Sometimes” I thought about the presents Joe sent to my sisters and me.  We didn’t have much, my dad worked hard but he didn’t have the money for extras.  Even at Christmas we only got one present each.  Getting gifts from Joe was a real treat for us.

“Joe likes to send us gifts from foreign countries.  He’s sent us banks carved out of coconuts that look like monkeys, dolls from different countries in Europe, and my favorite present, kimonos from Japan.” 

         

“That’s pretty cool.”

I sighed in frustration, “I just don’t get why we have to fight this war.  When is it all going to end?”

Donny sat down on the sand dune next to me and started strumming his guitar.   As he played, I watched the tide beat against the shore, ever so slowly creeping closer to my feet with each surge.  I had taken my sandals off and squished my toes in the sand.  When Joe had left for boot camp three years ago, no one had realized how horrible this war was going to get.  I hoped that whoever was elected president, they would get us out of Vietnam in time to save Joe.  I wiped my naive tears away and knew that there was nothing anyone could do but pray. 

                  

Donny reached out his hand and almost touched my hair before he let his hand fall back down to his guitar. 

He said, “You know, it’s only by living through the difficult times that we learn to appreciate the good ones.  When people around you are filled with hate, you learn to value love even more.”

“You sound like you know a thing or two about that” I said.

“Let’s just say, my family passes down anger and hatred like they are the family heirlooms. They fuel their own egos by hurting others.  What they haven’t figured out yet, is that sometimes, it’s only when someone is ground into the dirt that they finally get the courage to stand up for themselves.”  He started to grind his heel deep into the sand.   

His entire body seemed to have tensed up and it sent out the message that this was not something that he was ready to talk about.  As much as I wanted to ask him to explain what he meant, I felt like I was intruding on his thoughts.  There was this wall up all around him and I sensed that it was hard for him to let it down. 

Instead of talking, I focused my attention on a horseshoe crab.  It was crawling over a rock, but then it flipped off and fell on the hard shell of its back.  Its tiny legs wiggled in the air, as it tried desperately to right itself.  The mouth convulsed in the center of its soft underbelly when it found its vulnerable side exposed to the sun.  I used to think that horseshoe crabs were little monsters.  As a small child I had been afraid that they might bite or sting me.  But the menacing-looking tail that stuck out behind it was not a stinger after all, it only helped the horseshoe crab move through the sand.  The truth was they were harmless.  I stood up and walked over to it.  Gently, I picked it up and placed it on its legs.  It just stood still, terrified to move, trying to blend into the sand, and hoping I wouldn’t hurt it. 

“Poor little guy, there you go,” I said. 

Suddenly, Donny’s mood lightened and he smiled as he started strumming on his guitar again, this time playing a happier tune.    

When he put the guitar down, he was watching me, “That was really nice of you to dance with Sheldon.” 

“Then it was you who left that note in my locker!” 

“Yeah, I just thought you should know that not everyone thought you were crazy for dancing with him.”

While we were talking, the wind started to pick up and the waves in the bay grew rougher.  The sun sank behind an angry-looking cloud and a chill ran up my arms.  I hugged myself and stood up.  It must be getting late; I’d better get going. 

“I’ll walk you home,” he offered. 

I hesitated for a moment, but then said “Okay.” 

Donny slung his guitar over his shoulder.  His bicycle had been on the ground, so he picked it up now and walked it as we crossed the construction site together.   We had just made it to the road when the clouds unloaded their burden and the rain poured down on us. 

“Hop on the handlebars and I’ll give you a ride.” He saw me hesitate again, “It’ll get you home quicker if we ride.”

I didn’t mind the rain and I didn’t want to get home quicker, but I couldn’t think of an excuse to say no.  So I hopped onto the monkey bars and we drove through the rain.  I didn’t even notice the rain anymore; his arms were on either side of me, guiding the bicycle.  I directed him to my house.  The closer we got, the more nervous I was.  Luckily when we got there, my father’s car wasn’t in the driveway. 

He pulled up to the curb and I jumped off.

“Can I call you sometime?” he asked.

“Sure.”  I didn’t know what my dad would do when a boy called the house, but I decided I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. 

He took out a pen from his pocket.  “So what’s your number?”

I told him the number and he wrote it on the palm of his hand.

“See you in school on Monday,” he said. 

“Yeah, see you in school.”  I waved goodbye and ran into the yard, behind my house.  I didn’t breathe again until I got to my room.  I looked out the window, only to see the empty street below.  But for the first time in my life, my heart was full.  

The Tin Box Secret - Chapter 4

Chapter 4                                        The Tin Box Secret

Heather and I walked down the block toward Petra’s house, Heather swinging her Instamatic camera from its string.  Mrs. Conner waved “hello” as she meticulously washed the window on her front door.   I could see her father-in-law sitting in his wheelchair by the bay window and staring out at us as we passed their house.  A while back, he had had throat cancer and had to have his voice box removed.  I don’t know how he communicated with his daughter-in-law, but I suppose she did enough talking for the both of them.

As we neared Petra’s house, I felt a ripple of trepidation tingle up my spine.  The high Gothic windows embedded in the Victorian façade seemed to be watching us as we approached. For twenty-five years this house had been left to languish and it was in sore need of repair. The worn roof drooped low, exposing gaps where lost shingles had long ago blown away.   Dark moss crept up the steep angles of the roof line.  Ivy grew on the tall chimney, choking the bricks as it wound its way up; the ivy’s appendages beseeching release into the sky.  This certainly did look like a house where a ghost would feel at home.  For the first time, I thought perhaps I should have listened to my father and met Petra at the library.

“I wonder which window belongs to Petra’s bedroom.” Heather mumbled.   She lifted her camera and started snapping pictures. 

“I just hope it’s not in the turret,” I replied.

Even before I knew that Petra’s grandmother had been found dead in the granny attic, this house had given me the creeps.   Miss Tandy’s simple clapboard farmhouse sat next to the daunting Victorian structure.  The cozy screened-in porch filled with piles of magazines and old newspapers was a sharp contrast to its imposing neighbor.  Miss Tandy had a hanging porch swing that she and I would sit on during hot summer days. There was always a cool pitcher of iced tea on the wicker table next to the swing, waiting for any guest who might stop by for an afternoon chat. 

Heather snapped a picture of the turret.  “What’s wrong with the turret?” Heather asked me.

“I thought you knew.  Petra’s grandmother poisoned herself in the granny attic.”

“No way!  Do you know why she did it?” asked Heather.

“I don’t know, but Petra’s mother was just a girl when it happened.  I heard that she found her mother’s body when she came home from school.”

“How horrible!  Who told you what happened?”

“It’s just gossip from the neighbors.  My mother told me about it, but it happened before my family moved here.”

“Wow.  What a shame, it’s such a cool house!  Just look at all the property around it.  I bet you could have a mean game of ‘kick-the-can’ and there are plenty of places for all the kids in the neighborhood to hide out.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I tried to take my mind off of the tragic history of the house and, instead, concentrated on spending the day with my friends. 

As we walked up to the house, Petra came bursting out of the screen door.  She ran across the front lawn and collapsed in front of us in a fit of giggles.  We tried to help her to her feet but she wound up pulling us down on the grass with her.  Lying on her back, Petra pointed up to the sky, “Look at that!  It looks like Pegasus!”  Heather and I lay down next to her and looked up.  Large white puffy clouds broke the blue expanse that greeted our eyes.  Petra was pointing to a cloud that resembled a horse with wings flying across the sky.

“Wouldn’t you love to fly!” she exclaimed.

“Sometimes I dream that I’m flying above trees and buildings and I’m not afraid at all.”  Heather sighed.

I thought about my own dreams but didn’t know how to explain them.  Instead I just said, “But then you have to land. That doesn’t scare you?”

“No.  Whatever goes up; must come down!” giggled Heather.  Petra stood up and then said, “And whatever goes down; must come up!”  She pulled our arms until we were standing again.  “Let’s go inside and I’ll show you around.”

Behind the front door was a large entrance hall and, beyond that, a stairway reaching up into darkness.  But the entrance hall was full of color, as the sun found its way through the old stained glass in the large windows.  There were beautiful urns and vases in a multitude of colors decorating the hall.  Statues from ancient cities stood guard on either side of the imposing stairway and it looked more like a museum than a house.  Petra’s mom came walking into the hall from a back room that I guessed was the kitchen. Delicious smells from the oven followed her into the room. She had an apron on and was wiping her hands on it as she approached.  She put out her dried hand and said, “I’m Lydia, it’s so nice to meet you girls.”  Lydia’s touch was soft, warm, and confident as she enclosed my small hand in hers.

She had fine laugh lines around her mouth and her eyes, where the skin crinkled when she smiled.  Her large eyes were a deep dark brown and she had lush auburn curls that hung to her shoulders and framed her pretty face.  Her dimpled full-lipped smile exuded a comfortable confidence that drew me to her.

I wasn’t used to people touching me, so I looked down at her hand holding mine with uncertainty.  After an awkward pause, I stammered, “I’m Julie and this is my friend, Heather.”

Heather tilted her face up toward Lydia and let go of one of her brilliant smiles.  As Lydia released my hand, I felt bereft of the energy that had flowed from her hand into mine. Lydia took Heather’s hand in hers and said, “Pleased to meet you, Heather.  You girls make yourselves at home and when you are ready, come into the kitchen.  I already made some sandwiches, and I have some chocolate chip cookies baking in the oven.”   Lydia walked behind her daughter and put her arms around her.  She caressed Petra’s hair and gently kissed the top of her head before walking back to the kitchen. When she left, it was as if the air had been sucked out of the room with her.  I felt a pain deep in my chest and a burning behind my eyes.  I looked at Heather and recognized the same agony in the rigid lines of her face.  Neither of us knew what it was like to have a mother like Lydia.

“The library’s upstairs; come with me,” directed Petra.

Reaching out to Heather, I grabbed her hand and together we walked up the stairs.  Petra explained as we reached the second floor that this was where her bedroom was but we continued to climb up to the third floor.

“Half of this entire floor is the library and that door leads out to a veranda overlooking the backyard.  The other half of this floor is my parents’ bedroom.  Above us, on the fourth floor, is the granny attic with the turret.  There’s a cool widow’s walk looking over the back of the house.  My mom says that you can see the bay from there.”

“What’s a widow’s walk?” Heather asked.

“The story is that long ago, an ancestor of mine who was a sea captain had this house built.  The wives of sea captains often had landings that they could walk on, high on the outside of the house, near the roof of their homes.  When their husbands were at sea, they could look out over the bay and watch for their husbands to return.   Being a sea captain was very dangerous in those days, and often the men and their ships were lost. So landings like these became known as widows’ walks.”

We walked into the library and saw walls lined with hundreds of books.  Relics from foreign lands were placed on display, scattered around the bookshelves and hung on the walls. There were African masks, jewel-encrusted ornaments, and lengths of exotic fabric made splashes of color throughout the room.  Soft-cushioned dark brown leather chairs were placed beside small reading tables with green-shaded desk lamps.  Petra had turned all of the lights on and a warm glow filled the large room.  I walked to one wall and gently ran my fingers over the bindings that read, Bronte, Browning, Crane, Chopin, Dickens, Flaubert, Hawthorne, and Hemingway.  A light film of dust covered my fingertips and the smell of old books filled my senses.  Walking across the room I saw books by Shakespeare, Shelley, Steinbeck, Tennyson, and Whitman.  What treasures were accumulated within these walls!

“Have you read all of these books?”  I asked in awe.

“This library has been here in this house for a long time, but my mom has always had plenty of books.  She says she can never feel at home unless there are loads of books surrounding her.  She’s been reading some of them to me since I was a little girl.  But of course, I haven’t read all of these books; although, I think she probably has!  My mom says that these books have the answers to all our questions. Like, once I asked her what it was like to live during the depression, the next thing I knew we were reading Grapes of Wrath; not my favorite book.  But just bring up a question to her and she’ll have you reading a book searching for the answer.”

“Which is your favorite?” I asked.

“Definitely, Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, and also, the series of ‘Little House’ books by Laura Ingalls Wilder.  I’ll never forget reading The Long, Long Winter with my mom.  We called it the Long, Long, Long, Long, Long Winter.” Petra started laughing and shaking her head.  “I didn’t think it was ever going to end!  But it really made you think about how it must have been back then to live without all the modern comforts we take for granted now.”

“That brings us to the topic of inventions,” I added.   She picked up a pile of books, "I found these books on inventions.  Here, let’s each take a couple and look through them.  I thought that maybe they might inspire our thought processes.”

She handed me copies of The Fabulous Story of How American Dreamers, Wizards, and Inspired Tinkerers Converted a Wilderness into the Wonder of the World, by Mitchell A. Wilson and The Picture History of Inventions, from Plough to Polaris, by Umberto Eco.

Petra pointed to some notebooks and pencils on one of the tables.  “Let’s jot down some ideas and see what we come up with.”

After poring through a dozen books among us, and reading about the inventions of edible tie pins, an automatic hat-tipper, bed-wetting alarms, and an electrical bedbug exterminator, we started to get really silly.

I said, “How about a soap called ‘cheese’ that’s in the shape of cheese and lasts for exactly 365 days.  You only need to buy one bar a year!”

Heather chimed in, “And the smell drives all the girls crazy like in the Aqua-Velva commercials!”  She started going wild, attacking an imaginary guy who had just used our cheese soap.

Petra laughed and looked forlornly at her blank notebook, “Maybe we should be a little more practical.  How about inventing a machine that does your school projects for you?  All you have to do is just tell it what the topic is and it gives you all the information that you need and puts it all together.”

“Far out!  Then we wouldn’t have to waste time in the library and we could play outside.  It’s spring and I want to be out there!”  Heather walked over to the window.  “Hey what’s that?”

Petra and I joined her at the window overlooking the backyard.  There was an old wooden structure perched in a giant maple tree.   It was cradled in a web of huge branches.  Tiny green buds appeared along the maple’s outstretched limbs.

Petra explained, “It used to be my mom’s tree house when she was a little girl.  It’s been a long time since it was used so my dad wants to make sure it’s safe before I climb up into it.  He said he has to add extra supports and replace some weak boards.  Maybe, after he’s finished, we can decorate it together.”

“Count me in!” I screamed.

“This is so cool!”  Heather was so excited she tripped over a chair.

“Let’s go have our sandwiches, we need fuel to think.” Petra led us downstairs.

The kitchen had an old white enamel table with cold matching chairs placed around it.  Lydia set out a tray of plastic-wrapped sandwiches and glasses of milk as we sat down.  I looked around a room that seemed to be suspended in time.  The white cupboards and big farm sink were from a different era.

Lydia saw me looking at the kitchen and said, “We have a lot of renovation to do on the house, but I kind of like this old kitchen.  Although we have to update the appliances, I think I will keep this early 20th century look.”  She looked wistful for a moment as if happy childhood memories were passing through her mind.  I started to realize that Lydia had good memories of this house as well as the sad ones.  This is where she had been a child, where she had lived with her parents.  This was her home.

We sat at the kitchen table, enjoying our lunch.  Heather asked Lydia, “Would you take a picture of us?”  “Of course!” Lydia replied.  We smiled at the camera as the flash blinded our eyes.  Just then, a man and little boy walked in.  Through the dots in front of my face, I saw the shape of a man, his dark hair frosted with gray.  He wore glasses over his huge round blue eyes and he had a handsome strong jaw and a warm smile.

Petra jumped off her stool and ran over to the man for a hug.  Putting her arm through the crook of his, she introduced us, “Hey guys, this is my dad, John Racine, and this is my little brother, Jack.   Dad, these are my friends Julie and Heather.”

“Hello ladies!” her father spoke with a dreamy French accent.   He came over to me and took my hand and kissed the back of it.  He did the same to Heather and she giggled because it tickled.  Little Jack, who was a miniature replica of his father, proudly said, “Hi, I’m Jack.”

“How old are you Jack?”  Heather asked.

He took in a deep dramatic breath and shouted, “I’m five!”  He then ran over and hid behind Petra.  She picked him up, carried him over to the kitchen counter, and placed him down on a stool.   She announced, “Jack is the sweetest boy in the world!”  She protectively placed her arm around his waist to keep him from falling off the stool.  He turned in his seat, kissed her cheek and giggled.

“I didn’t know you had a little brother,” I said.

“Yeah, well, we try to hide him in the attic but he keeps breaking out.” Petra teased.

“No I don’t!”  Jack took her seriously.  “I don’t like the attic!”

Lydia stepped in now, “You know I don’t like you teasing your brother” she admonished Petra.   Lydia picked up Jack, gave him an Eskimo kiss and placed him down in front of his sandwich and a glass of milk.

Petra shrugged, smiled at Jack, and blew him a kiss. Jack who had been glowering at Petra stopped sulking, smiled, and blew a kiss back to her.

Lydia spoke to Heather and me, “I tell Petra and Jack all the time how lucky they are to have each other.  I know sisters and brothers like to tease but . . . it’s . . . so hurtful when teasing comes from someone you love.”  Lydia tilted her head and looked pleadingly at her daughter.

“Sorry mom.”  Petra looked up at Lydia.  Lydia came over to Petra and placed her hand on Petra’s shoulder and gently squeezed her, “I know, honey.”

That was the end of it.  I couldn’t ever imagine a scene like that at my house.  For my sisters and me, teasing was a competition that we took part in daily.  As hurtful as it was, you just got caught up in the cycle.

Mr. Racine asked, “So what are you girls doing inside on this beautiful day?” 

“We’re working on a project for school.  We have to come up with a product or service to present to our English class.  We've been looking through the library at books on all sorts of inventions but we haven’t been able to come up with anything that would really work,” explained Petra.

"You said it could be a service, right?” asked her dad.

“Yeah.” We all shook our heads.

“Why don’t you develop a research service where you girls would use our family library as the source for your research?  You could offer it as a service to your classmates.”

“Dad, what a great idea!”

“Yeah, the public library is pretty far from here and the school library is closed on weekends.  We could be the local weekend library research center.”  I liked this idea; spending time around books was no hardship for me.

“Kids could pay us to look up the information they need for reports.  Then we hand them the information and they write their own reports.  We could even loan out books.”  Petra was getting excited.

Lydia frowned, “I thought this was supposed to be a hypothetical business?  I don’t know about loaning out our books for money.  You’d have to keep track of the books and what would you do if someone didn’t return a book or if a book got damaged?”  

“It is just hypothetical!  We just have to develop the whole concept.  But you’re right.  Even hypothetically we’ll just offer to do the research for them.  We could charge by the hour or by the project, what do you think?”  Petra asked.

“I’m not sure about this, it sounds an awful lot like plagiarism.” Lydia commented.                  

 “Oh, mom!” Petra admonished.

Heather cut off Petra’s protest, “I think we should develop a price list for research that takes an hour, half a day, one day, or the whole weekend.”  Lydia smiled knowingly then walked over to the sink to wash some dishes.  I decided that I would ask Mr. Cabot about whether this really constituted plagiarism.

“Good idea, let’s do it!” Petra ran up to get her notebook, and after we wrote down all of our ideas, we took the tray of cookies out to the backyard to have a picnic.

Lydia gave us a blanket and we laid it down on the grass.  The birds were singing and tulips and daffodils were blooming around the edges of the house.  The trees around us were also budding and forming the skeleton of a canopy above our heads. 

“How should we decorate the tree house?” I asked.

“My favorite color is purple,” said Petra.

“So is mine!” said Heather.

“Mine is pink!” I offered.

“Okay,” said Petra, “Then two walls will be pink and two walls will be purple.”

“Neat!” exclaimed Heather.  “How about sticking some glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling?”

“Cool!   We could use some posters too.  I have a Peter Max poster,” I offered.

“Does the tree house have electricity?” asked Heather.

“I don’t think so.”  Petra answered.  “But we can bring up battery-operated camp lanterns.”

I asked, “Do you think maybe your mom would let us use an extension cord or even string some Christmas lights from the attic window?  Then we could get electricity to the tree house.”

“Great idea!” exclaimed Petra.

We spent the rest of the afternoon planning how we would decorate it.  When it was time to go home Heather and I thanked Lydia and John for letting us use their library.  “Anytime you need to use the library, you’re welcome to come over.  And if either of you ever wants to borrow a book to read, that would be fine too.”  Lydia gave each of us a hug and said, “Come back soon for a visit.”

Heather and I walked home past Mrs. Connor who was now weeding the garden in her front yard.  “Hi girls, did you have a nice time today?”  “Oh yeah, it was a great day!” Heather gushed.

“You spent all day in there, what’s the inside of the house like?”

I nudged Heather to walk faster, “Sorry, we have to get home.  No time to talk right now.”  I whispered to Heather, “Don’t even start with her, all she wants is gossip.”

Miss Tandy was rocking on her porch swing.  She called, “Hello girls!  Enjoying the nice day?”

I spoke loudly so that she could hear, “Hi, Miss Tandy! It’s nice out today, but I can’t wait for summer!”

“Me too, be sure to stop by for some iced tea!”

“Okay, see you soon,” I replied.

We got to my house first and I ran up my front steps, “See you in school on Monday,” I called.  Heather waved goodbye as she continued on her way home.

Inside, my mother was getting ready for dinner.  I watched her as she set the table and I thought about my family.  My parents provided us with a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, food on our table, and a good education.  So much more than Heather had.  And yet, still I felt so numb?  What more did I want?  But now that I had glimpsed the kind of love that families could share, I felt cheated.  It was hard to acknowledge this because I felt guilty about not appreciating what I did have.  Many nights I sat at the table and pushed the vegetables around on my plate and was told that “children were starving in China!"

I washed my hands and went to sit at the kitchen table. My father sat down, took off his belt and laid it across his lap.

“Mary, your mother told me that we’re almost out of shampoo again.  Are you still washing your hair twice each time you take a shower?  If you insist on doing that, then I’m going to take the cost of the shampoo out of your allowance.” My dad was annoyed with Mary.  Mary tried to explain that she had read the directions on the shampoo bottle that said you were supposed to wash your hair twice each time.  But considering that her allowance was only 25 cents a week, it would take two months to pay for one bottle of shampoo.  So she gave in and said, “I’ll only wash my hair once from now on.” 

My mother tried to change the subject as she placed the chicken cutlets on the table, “So how was everything at Petra’s house?”  

“Petra’s parents are really nice and she has an adorable little brother named Jack.  We decided to use a service for our English project.   We can use Petra’s library to do research for the kids in class.  By the way, Lydia said I could borrow books from the library to read.”

“Really?”  My dad was impressed.  My love for reading had been inherited from him.  One time he said to me that the worst thing that could happen to him would be to lose his sight.  He couldn't imagine not being able to read anymore.

Mary said, “You’d better clean your room before you start borrowing books.  You’re bound to lose them in that mess.”  Annoyed, I glared at her.  Why did she have to bring that up?  I was having such a great day, but now she had to ruin it for me.  I looked at my father to see if he was going to add to Mary’s criticism.

Angie added sarcastically, “More books!  That’s just what you need!  Like you don’t spend enough time buried in the ones you have.”  I felt like it was a physical blow.  This is what we did to each other.  In order to save ourselves, we threw each other to the lions.  Angie shook her head in disapproval and then reached for the bread across the table, “Juliana, you’re a cross-eyed bookworm.”

Every night, I automatically kissed my mother and father on their cheeks before heading up to bed.  It was expected and it was necessary.  Inspired by Petra’s family, tonight I felt bolder than usual.  My parents were watching television in the recreation room.  My mother was sitting on the couch and my father in his recliner.

I walked over to my mother and put my arms around her in a hug.  She pushed me away with a nervous uncomfortable laugh and rubbed her arms as if to rub off my touch. Flustered, she said “Good night and don’t read too late, we are going to ten o’clock mass in the morning.”  She dismissed me and looked back at her show. 

After that, my courage abandoned me.  I dutifully walked over to my father and kissed his cheek.  As I walked up to my bedroom, I brushed quickly at my eyes so that Angie wouldn't see the tears.   I wondered how I could feel so lonely when I was surrounded by my family, but the fact was, I did.  I said to myself, at least you have them, Heather doesn't really have anyone.  But in spite of that knowledge, I felt the emptiness engulf me.