LadyBugs on My Panties

Deborah Gilson, Rhonda Platt, 9-2018

I was all dolled up with someplace to go: my 40-year high school reunion. My 13 beauty t’s were crossed and my i’s were dotted. My hair was colored and styled, my brows waxed with a shapely arch, my teeth whitened and the weird hairs on my chinny-chin-chin removed. Every nook and cranny had been addressed, including my shaved legs complete with tan-in-a-can color. After all, “tanned fat is always better than white fat”, advises Katy Cochrane, a close childhood friend.👍

Rhonda Platt, a dear friend since we were 13, was flying in from Alaska to stay with me. She always has the low-down on beauty secrets and I desperately wanted to be in the know. I emailed to let her know I was wearing a gown, which required a strapless bra.😮

Rhonda immediately responded and told me to purchase a silicone bra. “A what?”, I queried hesitantly? She sent a photo to better guide me.😉The moment I saw the photo, I knew I was in over my head mumbling to myself, “That flappy thing will never stick to my boobs.” I drove to Victoria’s Secret anyway and whispered to the young salesgirl, “Hey, I need one of those rubbery bras in a D or DD - if they even make them in that size.” I secretly hoped no such item existed, however, she returned a moment later with the unwanted item in her hot, little hands.😟

I drove home and thought I’d better have a practice session before Rhonda arrived. I wanted to seem in-the-know on her trusty recommendation. I yanked the blubbery cups out of the box and made sure there was no lotion on my skin, per the box's explicit instructions. I learned I could tighten the cups with the centerpiece to create cleavage, too! I was excited at the prospect of bringing my girls closer together.😁

With precision, I rolled the super-sticky cups onto each of my breasts while gripping the instructions between my teeth. With firm hands, I pushed the cups on and held them in place for a moment. Hesitantly, I let go and watched the left cup slowly roll off and dangle onto my stomach.😥

Rhonda arrived and boy did the good times begin rolling. The neighbors could hear screams of laughter from sunup til sundown. The first evening of our reunion was about to take place and it was time to get our attire together. I was wearing a fitted black skirt just above my knees and wondered whether any V.P.L.’s, Visible Panty Lines, could be seen. I peered over a shoulder at my backside into my full-length mirror, pulling an Elastigirl pose.🙄

I hollered to Rhonda who was also getting ready. I told her my concern of a rumpled butt and she suggested a pair of Spanx. I was instantly reminded of the time I wore a pair of costly Spanx to a black-tie affair. During the dinner, I felt the Spanx rolling down my torso and onto my rear. I knew I had to race to the ladies room. The moment I stood, they continued rolling down to my kneecaps. I hobbled to the bathroom where I tore the thing off and threw it into the garbage can.😬

“Um, I don’t think Spanx are for me”, I hollered back to Rhonda. I decided to wear my paneled granny panties, instead. Besides, they would also conceal my motherly tum-tum. Rhonda and I were dressed to the nines and excited for our first reunion evening. We were meeting Bernice McHale Corey and other friends there. We became reacquainted with several attendees and I began talking with Don, one of the guests. All was going swimmingly, I thought. I was poised, confident and relaxed while having a wonderful time. Don asked whether I looked familiar to him and I said I thought his hair was familiar.🤔

He rattled off several facts about me from my teen days and I became visibly perplexed. I asked how it was possible he could know so much about me while I knew nothing about him. He flatly responded, “You ran with various large groups of popular friends. I was a brainiac. You didn’t have time for me.” I cringed with shame and embarrassment at my once deeply shallow demeanor. The hot air emptied from my balloon and I sheepishly replied, “Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t give you the time of day. Hopefully, I’ve grown up a bit.”😱 Although I wanted the ground beneath my chair to open up, I nervously remained next to him with my tail between my legs.

Rhonda and I screamed with laughter on the way home. We exchanged stories we gathered from the evening’s events. We could hardly wait to see what the next reunion evening brought. The 100 attendees looked magnificent in their gowns and dress coats. Again, I dressed for success in the hopes stories of my teen shenanigans was complete. However, Lady Luck was nowhere to be found.😧

Robin, Bernice, Me, Rhonda, 9-2018

Someone pulled my graduation photo from their phone. I was horrified to see my full set of teeth, complete with big, blue eyes squinted shut. The owner of the phone questioned my obvious glee and asked about the elation on my face. I admitted during the day of the graduation practice, I buried a bottle of booze under my chair for the evening’s event. The group of listeners was hanging on my every word when finally their memories began flooding in. “Oh, my God! That’s right! The bottle was passed up and down our row!”🍾

Deborah Patterson-Gilson, 7-1978

I nearly escaped another’s horrifying memory of me. In the desperate attempt to present a healthy, mature and respectable image for my son, I buried countless treasures in my sub-conscious. “Hey, Debbie! Remember the time you snuck out your bedroom window and couldn’t get back in?”, someone shouted?🤨

I straightened my shoulders and told of that evening’s adventures. In 1978, the band Boston released their debut record ‘Don’t Look Back’ and I threw a party in their honor. I had a 10 P.M., curfew and left the outdoor party to dutifully head home. I told Bernice McHale Corey's brother to pick me up at 11:00 after my parents were asleep. With a thrill, I climbed into his white pickup and we headed back to the party. At 3:00 in the morning, he dropped me off at my parents’ home and drove away. It was then I realized I hadn’t given my plan enough thought.😖

I was petite and my bedroom window was 12 feet higher than the flower bed. I couldn’t even jump high enough to reach the bottom of the window. After 30 minutes of failed attempts, horror became a reality. I’d have to ring the doorbell with a lie. My mother let me in and I explained how my horses escaped their paddock.🤥With her finger pointed at my bedroom door, she uttered through gritted teeth, “You’re grounded for a month, young lady.”😭

The reunion evening continued swimmingly until Bud Dangl said he, too, had a funny story about me, although he preferred to tell me in private. “Aw, come on, Buddy. After all, how bad can it be?” He shrugged his shoulders and began another cringe-worthy tale of when I was 17. He relayed what Robb Hüebner, his cousin, told him years ago. A party was in full swing and the bathroom was crammed with attendees. Robb was using the bathroom when I charged in saying I had to pee. Robb pushed everyone out and turned his back, however, not before taking a sneak peek. He then held the door closed until I finished while the Steve Miller Band blared “Jungle Love” in the background.🎤

It seemed highly improbable I’d be carefree about my privacy with a male present, however, I knew the story to be true as I treasure ladybugs to this day. I wanted to holler, “Holy crap, stop with this story, Buddy!” However, I feared my late mother’s Baptist-reared finger staring me in the face. Instead, I silently thought, “WTF?”😵

The other morning I awoke and 40 years passed. A few days ago, I was a fresh-faced young girl wobbling through pastures wearing platform wedge sandals and a stuffed bra. Although I’m where I longed to be as a full-fledged woman, I secretly snicker thinking back to the years when I wore ladybugs on my panties.🤭🤫

Jesus: The Teacher of Love

I heard this handsome man's name a thousand times throughout my life. He is an icon to approximately 1,800,000,000 people around the world. How could someone who lived only 33 years leave such an indelible mark?

I dreamt of him swimming naked in the warm waters, surrounded by tiny waterfalls. I watched as he pulled his tall, lanky body out of the water to lie next to his forever lady love and soak up rays from the brilliant son.

I dreamt I walked with him through a cave  and discovered a drawing in the stone of him next to a similar carving of Ross, my late brother. In the dream, I could not help notice the physical resemblance of Ross to him, down to their crystal blue eyes.

With his posture straight and standing tall, he walked miles of hot, dusty earth until he finally reached his destinations. Of Jewish decent, he was born in the spring to a loving mother and father. He left home during his teen years to begin his calling. Instinctively, he lead by example.

His steely-blue eyes, auburn-colored hair and trim stature represented hope. Faith and prosperity of the heart embraced Jesus' warmth. He did not need to meet anyone in person for them to envelop all he offered. One merely opened their hearts, souls and awareness to receive the restorative powers he spread like a ripple effect upon calm, clear, aquamarine waters.

His short-lived life ended when he was only 33-years-old. Those outside his mindset were deeply enraged by the fierce loyalty of those who followed him and his beliefs. The antagonists were in far greater number than those who followed him. His powerfully intoxicating personality threatened those outside his group. Their fear was that they, too, wished to follow him. 

On a snowy December night, he was killed. As his loved ones gathered at a site on the Mount of Olives, they shed tears in agony at what could not be prevented. While his mother lay crying at her only child's feet, his father attempted to comfort her and in his own suffering, he continued the pride of his heroic son.

As I ponder life and what Jesus means to me, I take comfort having a friend known only to my heart, soul, consciousness and dreams. To this day, I think the world of him, the teacher of love.

Ben Franklin's 13 Virtues

In 1726, at age 20, Benjamin Franklin created a system to develop his character. I long to create such a system by sharing in-depth, deep and meaningful conversation. I continue searching for like-minded individuals with whom I may learn. Let's converge to discuss Ben's 13 Virtues and incorporate them today for the betterment of tomorrow's World:

1. Temperance. Eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation. In other words, eat to satisfy the stomach, however, not to overstuff it. Drink alcoholic beverages in moderation and refrain from destroying brain cells.
2. Silence. Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversation. In other words, speak when there is something of importance and/or relevance to share, not merely to hear the sound of one's own voice. 
3. Order. Let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time. In other words, put the crud where it belongs, give away unwanted items and throw away the rest. Make time for what is needed in life. 
4. Resolution. Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail what you resolve. In other words, make a To-Do list and do what is on it.
5. Frugality. Make no expense but to do good to others or yourself; i.e., waste nothing. In other words, treat others well. If unable, do everyone a favor and find something constructive to do. Share a wealthy consciousness. Use every part of the apple. 
6. Industry. Lose no time; be always employ'd in something useful; cut off all unnecessary actions. In other words, if Facebook and other Social Media sucks you into their vortexes, close those accounts and write a story or better yet, a book.
7. Sincerity. Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly, and, if you speak, speak accordingly. In other words, give others the benefit of the doubt and speak with respect. If this is impossible, close your mouth and leave.
8. Justice. Wrong none by doing injuries, or omitting the benefits that are your duty. In other words, cause emotional, mental and/or physical pain to no one, especially those in your direct care. 
9. Moderation. Avoid extremes; forbear resenting injuries so much as you think they deserve. In other words, stop and think before acting out against anyone, even if you believe they deserve it for, they do not. 
10. Cleanliness. Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, cloaths, or habitation. In other words, wash your body and clothes, while maintaining a presentable home.
11. Tranquillity. Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable. In other words, what anyone says about you is none of your business. Life happens, peoples' and animals' feelings get hurt. Seek to soothe when the unexpected takes place.
12. Chastity. Rarely use venery but for health or offspring, never to dullness, weakness, or the injury of your own or another's peace or reputation. In other words, kick the Friends with Benefits to the curb. There are no benefits here. FB's only result in painful, empty and broken hearts. When you are ready to begin a family, join in love. 
13. Humility. Imitate Jesus and Socrates. In other words, imagine what Jesus, the teacher of love, would say. How would Socrates, the classical Greek philosopher, respond? 

     After reviewing Mr. Franklin's 13 Virtues and taking them to heart, I'd better get crackin'. I still have a lot of work to do.

Straight from the Horse's Mouth

    In my mind's eye and heart I'm a mare, an adult female horse. I have all my basic needs met with fresh water in my trough, shelter from Mother Nature's harsh elements and plenty of whole grains. For these blessings I finally attained, I give thanks. 

     However, I'm prevented from experiencing the life I see happening around me. I longingly watch horses rolling onto their backs while kicking their hooves into the unobstructed air. I see them running free in the pastures, grazing, basking in the sunshine and nuzzling each other.
          

   Can a mare use her muzzle, the mouth and nostrils, to open the stall door latch? Perhaps the stable master will show mercy and open the stall door for her? What needs to happen before she, too, may experience all she sees? Others have visions in their mind's eye. Perhaps they, too, long to leave their grueling day quarters and are prepared for more. 

       I eagerly await the moment the stable master or hired hand hears my muzzle nudging the latch on the stall door to my tiny quarters. I envision this being, whether human, spiritual or the figment of my subconscious, proudly say, "Your spirit has been locked up long enough. You're mentally, emotionally, physically and spiritually prepared to join forces with the herd of your kind." You've heard it straight from the horse's mouth.

    

Naked in My SwimSuit

One’s coming-of-age can happen any time, most often when least expected. It doesn’t discriminate depending on how well mannered or how feisty the youthful individual. Tain’t no big, gnarly deal, right?

My loving, caring and always-patient mother made another futile attempt to prepare me for the awkward, delicate topic all tweenage girls should know: that time of the month. I was after all, 11 years old and my knowing mother tip-toed around the topic the past year, where her gentle words fell on deaf ears. Still, I was still a child at heart.

Disneyland, CA. 1971

My mother could no longer stand my cold shoulder therefore, one afternoon she said she needed to talk to me and asked me to sit down next to her in the living room. My adopted father and Ross, my 10-year-old brother, weren’t home. Ross couldn’t interfere, interrupt or heckle me.

I noticed a 10” X 8” box on my mother’s lap. She gingerly opened the box and to my horror I observed a wide assortment of feminine pads known to woman-kind. There were pads for this day, ones for that day and various sizes for those just-in-case days. My mother looked at me out of the corner of her eye and discovered my arms rigid at my sides. Seeing the angst in my eyes, she attempted to soften the ear-piercing silence by slowly sliding the box onto my lap.

In one quick move, I flung the box into the air with such force, pads went sailing throughout the living room. I ran out the front door and raced to the barn where I pitched my humiliation onto a bale of hay. I tried to understand why my mother would torment me with such a horrifically embarrassing topic. There wasn’t one strand of personal hair growth, for which I’d secretly searched, while holding my mother’s magnified, lighted make-up mirror to each arm pit.

A year passed when the dreaded topic became the hottest topic among my girlfriends. They’d begun getting their periods and were deliriously excited to share the great news. They were growing up and still, I wasn’t. I’d listen painfully to their in-depth details and I’d shrink into the background. I had nothing to share and didn’t fit in.

When I was 13, my family moved and I began 8^th grade. I soon learned the hot topic was at my new school, too. I was taking the required Sex Education class and the teacher threw me out more times than I can count, however, that’s another story.

Still, I had nothing to offer and became unusually quiet when the school girls asked, “So, did you get yours yet?” I’d wave my hand and roll my eyes into the back of my head as if to say, “Duh. Yeah.” I thought about my mother’s tender-hearted conversation a couple years prior and then, wondered what was wrong with my rail-thin body. By now at this ultra-late stage in life, I knew I’d never get my period. Not only was I frustrated, I was downright afraid, too. It was as if I’d never witness the tiny sprout of life from my Dixie Cup filled with fertile soil.

My tomboy, neighborhood girlfriends had older brothers and therefore, learned to keep anything personal to themselves. I was relieved nothing private was mentioned between us. I followed their lead, however, had adjustments to make as I’d been an easily-read, open book since birth.

 Disneyland, 1974

In my 9^th grade freshman English class, I was seated next to Stephanie and we became fast friends. The boys’ eyes bounced back and forth from her beautiful face to her exceptionally well-endowed breasts. Why was I built like an 11 year old?

I felt privileged, although admittedly uncomfortable, in the company of a mature peer. Perhaps then, as if by magic I would become more grown-up and the boys would notice me, too. I was still built like a waif and therefore, concealed my budding raisinets, while learning heart-racing life facts from Stephanie. During class, she’d relay hair-raising tales of her dates. We were only 14 and Stephanie experienced more than Anna Nicole Smith.

One morning, Stephanie arrived late to class and I could see by her expression something terrible happened. While the English teacher babbled on about conjunction’s functions, I mouthed to Stephanie, “What’s wrong?” She whispered her mother found her diary. I asked what she’d written and she confided she’d been sneaking a senior boy into her bedroom window each night. My innocent and naïve eyes flew wide open with astonishment. This was more information than my virgin ears could handle.

 Did Stephanie just tell me she was having S-E-X? Did she and a boy really see each other naked? Who in their right mind does that? I looked at her out of the corner of my eyes and mouthed, “Wwwaaahhhttt?” She quietly repeated she’d been sneaking Michael into her bedroom window after her parents went to sleep. I nervously and ignorantly asked, “Are you and Michael having S-E-X?”

I looked straight ahead to regain my emotional footing. I tried to grasp what I’d just learned. I hadn’t seriously thought of a boy yet or God-forbid gone on a date. I wasn’t allowed to date until I was 16 and my 14-year-old English class bestie was already entwined in midnight rendezvous. Were they using protection? The class bell rang and Stephanie grabbed my arm. She dragged me into the hallway where she further confided her mother was going to take her to a psychiatrist to have her head examined. Stephanie begged me to help her figure out what to do.

My mind raced and I felt my head would spin off my shoulders. Stephanie’s face was in mine as she waited for my response. In a panic I blurted out, “Tell your mother what she’d want to hear!” Stephanie’s eyes widened with relief. She said she’d tell her mother she made up the sex-capades because this was what she wished would happen.

Stephanie continued sharing her evening dalliances while my eager ears awaited the next juicy details of her adventures involving the Birds and the Bees. I didn’t hear a word our English teacher spoke and frankly, didn’t care. Honestly, would you?

My 9^th grade school year was sailing by like the wind and I was learning more in class than one may anticipate. One blustery winter’s day, January 10^th, 1975, against my wise mother’s wishes, I wore my white bell-bottom pants to school. Why was she so uptight about what I wore?

I’d bundled up with a turtle neck sweater and a blouse underneath. I told my mother not to be such a worry-wart and raced out the door to the bus stop. During English, Stephanie and I were yakking away when all of a sudden, I stopped speaking in mid-sentence.

My eyes grew huge and my stomach turned upside down as I felt unusual warmth where I sat in my wooden desk. I knew I peed in my white, bell bottom pants. I grabbed Stephanie’s arm and with horror whispered, “I just peed myself!” She calmly shook her head and said, “No, you didn’t. You got your period.” She asked whether I had anything in my backpack. I nervously replied, “No!” I lied and told her I forget them. I didn’t want her to know this was my first period. It was then visions of feminine pads sailing through the living room air danced in my head.

Stephanie jolted me out of my visionary when she firmly whispered, “Debbie! Take off your sweater and tie it around your waist.” I did as she instructed and as soon as the bell rang, she walked behind me to the girl’s bathroom where I raced into the last stall. She had only tampons, of course. With my teeth clenched, I whispered through the stall door, “Just get me one of those stupid pads out of the machine!” I angrily thought to myself, “Karma’s a nasty mother.”

The glow of growing up and finally becoming a young woman didn’t hold the charm it did for my girlfriends. Seemingly overnight, I’d gone from a fresh-faced 14 year old girl to the pimply-faced backside of a Nestlé’s Crunch bar. The following month, the dreaded Junior Lifesaving class began.

 Ms. Comer, the Physical Education instructor with a manly voice, showed no mercy for wimps like me. Besides my personal apprehensions, when the girls and I were in the locker room, we feared Ms. Comer peeked at the girls while they changed or showered. I changed into my one-piece swimsuit while holding a gym towel around me with my teeth. I’d think of an excuse not to shower in front of anyone.

I was scared out of my mind to participate in the required Junior Lifesaving class. Everyone would know I was only beginning to develop. Too, I feared my period would come while I was in the swimming pool and no, I wasn’t even close to the tampon-using stage. It was still the wintry months and the cold temperature would draw unwanted attention to my teeny high beams.

I tried to hide behind a cement pole when I heard Ms. Comer’s gruff voice holler, “Debbie Patterson! Get in the pool right now!” Frozen with terror, I slowly walked out and slid into the pool. Russell, my brother’s kind and handsome friend, swam over to me, however, I couldn’t look him in the eyes. He said he’d be my partner and I frantically shook my head from left to right while staring into the gutter of the pool. He said we’d take turns being the rescuer and being rescued to get a good grade in the class.

I silently begged for the sky to fall or for thunder and lightening to begin. When my prayers were ignored, I slowly turned to Russell and said, “Okay, but I think I’m going to die. I mean, seriously. I think my heart’s going to stop beating.” I was too emotionally and mentally underdeveloped  having a boy near me. He chuckled and said, “Then, I’ll get an A for rescuing you.”

Russell went flat on his back and I put my arm around his neck as I couldn’t reach across his chest. I began dragging him across the length of the Olympic-sized swimming pool. He was much taller than me and it felt I was hauling a log. I was dog-paddling with one hand while doing the scissor kick and still moving only inches. He knew I was struggling therefore, he let his feet sink and began kicking his legs. I sailed across the pool with my rescue.

When we reached the other end of the pool, Russell and I talked for a moment under the high dive while I caught my breath. I knew it was my turn to be rescued and I was dragging my feet. I told Russell there was no way I could lie back while he had his arm draped across my chest and under my arm pit. He said to lie back and close my eyes. I finally felt comfortable enough to suffer through and we began the long journey back. All of a sudden, there was a massive blast of water in my face and I bolted up.

Mark, who nick-named himself Spanky, from “Our Gang”, had done a cannon ball off the high dive next to my head. He was in a fit of hysterics while pointing at my terrified expression. Before I could call him every name in the book, Russell quickly dragged me to the other end of the pool while I kicked and screamed. Ms. Comer dutifully marked the paper on her clipboard signaling, Russell and I completed the exercise.

Someone Up Above heeded one of my pleas during the Junior Lifesaving class. Thankfully, my unpredictable period didn’t appear for another couple months.

It’s been 43 years since the life-altering incidents during my freshman year. I wonder what happened to Stephanie and whether she’s still alive. Would she remember all the down and dirty details she experienced? Russell recently ended his corporate career and is now happily retired as a full-time rancher. Mark “Spanky” was killed in a head-on collision while riding his motorcycle through the park late one night. He was a dare devil until his short-lived, bitter end.

 Shasta Lake, CA. 1975

The youth-filled years have come and gone since I felt naked in my swimsuit. Never again will I experience the growing pains, which seemed insurmountable four decades ago. As a middle-aged woman, I know one’s coming-of-age is a big, gnarly deal. Sadly, it only happens once upon a lifetime.  

I Want a Bidet Today

I’ve been fascinated with bathrooms since I was child. As a five year old, I’d convince Ross, my four-year-old brother, it’d be fun to swing from our Aunt Audrey’s and Uncle Ron’s bathroom towel racks like monkeys, even though doing this pulled the racks out of the walls by their screws. On another occasion, I told Ross to help me gather apricots from Aunt Audrey’s and Uncle Ron’s backyard to fill their toilet with the apricots and watch them go down, which they didn’t. 

On family road trips, I caused delays at the gas station bathrooms. On one occasion, my family waited in the Winnebago for me to come out of the gas station bathroom, however, I was engaged in conversation with another 10-year-old girl. My frustrated mother marched into the bathroom and even though my hands were still covered with powdered soap, she yanked me out by my shirt collar while I waved good-bye to my newfound friend.

As I grew into adulthood, I always made sure my bathrooms were clean while proudly displaying beautiful towels in blues and greens. At 35, I became engaged and joined my fiancé on one of his business trips abroad. He’d been traveling abroad since he was a young child to visit relatives and therefore, was accustomed to every custom, however, I’d only traveled from one end of California to the other. My sense of being an ignorant American was about to be replaced with a fresh outlook on life. 

We landed in Paris, France and headed for our hotel. I was delirious with exhaustion to the point of nausea and thought only about the comfort of a soft pillow. Even though I could barely see straight, I spied the bathroom door and instinctively made a beeline to see what Europe’s facility offered. I walked in and noticed an odd-shaped toilet. It had different handles, was lower to the floor and there was no toilet seat cover. I figured it must be their version of a men’s urinal, however, I was perplexed as to why a men’s public toilet was in this luxury hotel. To make matters more mind-boggling, there was a hand towel draped over the side of this men’s urinal with soap balanced on the towel!

I walked over to the urinal and peered into the bowl, noticing there was no water in it. Yes, there was water in it. All of a sudden, I heard a knock on the bathroom door and my fiancé asking, “Are you okay? You’ve been in there quite a while.” I bolted upright and said, “Um, there’s a weird toilet in here. Come take a look.” I opened the door so he could see the oddity of my discovery.

He walked in and while I pointed to the funny-shaped urinal, he paused in silence. With furrowed eyebrows, my naturally-quiet and extremely proper fiancé thoughtfully gazed into my anxiously-awaiting, perplexed, blue eyes. With obvious discomfort, he found the words to say, “That’s a bidet.” I asked, “Is it for men?” He said, "It's for both men and women. It's a cleaning device." I asked, “Is there supposed to be a lid and toilet seat?” He shook his head from left to right. I said, “I don’t understand then, what this thing is or why it’s here.” He explained its purpose in as few words as possible and then, said he needed to head to his business meeting.

I couldn’t wait for him to leave so I could begin the investigation and experimentation, free from interruption or distraction. I noticed a variety of soaps from which to choose. “Oh”, I thought, “lavender would be nice, however, there’s also rose, honeysuckle or jasmine.” I decided to try them all. I straddled the bidet this way and then that. I made the temperature this and that while enjoying this new-found bathroom gadget. After 30 minutes of flushing the ignorant American aspect of myself and feeling fresh as a daisy, I was rejuvenated. Instead of conking out, I decided to walk along the Champs-Élysées and become one with the French.

It’s been 20 years since the experience with my best bidet friend. I’ve researched on-line to see how to have one of my own. I told Aunt Audrey my desire and she said to absolutely have a Toto bidet. I haven’t figured out how I’d get my current facility out of my bathroom to have the Toto one installed therefore, I’ve attempted make-shift bidets all these years. Water goes everywhere and it’s not the same as having the real deal. Too, sometimes I apply self-tanning lotion onto my legs to camouflage my jiggling thighs therefore, I can’t get water splashed on them. In these middle-aged years since my pheromones dried up, I put extra effort into my beauty regime making sure I feel as youthful as possible. In the wise words of Katy Cochrane, a trusted and knowing friend, “Tanned fat is better than white fat any day of the year.”

At the tender age of 56, I continue learning all life offers, however, one thing’s for sure: I want a bidet and I want one today.

Independence Day ~ Bruce Springsteen Sang to Me, "Just Say Good-Bye"

          On the evening of July 4, 2001, I finished the holiday celebration with friends. On the drive home, I put in Bruce Springsteen’s CD, “The River.”  Having listened to this record a hundred times, the songs were familiar. On this night for some reason, I was drawn into the lyrics of his song, “Independence Day.” Bruce, in his soul-filled style sang, “So, won’t you just say goodbye, it’s Independence Day.”

          On July 4, 1999 my mother and my stepfather were hosting a barbeque for friends at their home in California. At 9:00 p.m., with no warning, my mother quickly stood up, vomiting her entire meal. It was 10:00 p.m., Colorado time. The next night, a chaplain came to their door.

I was at my home sitting in bed reading when at 11:09 p.m., on July 5 the telephone rang. My husband answered the phone and said it was my mother. Concerned, I walked to my desk and sat down to answer the call. My mother’s voice shook in agony and despair as she told me, “Ross committed suicide last night.”

          I fell off my chair, fainted. With my husband stirring me, I regained consciousness. I could hear my brother’s voice telling me, “I’m free, Debbie, I’m free.” During the afternoon of July 5, I was driving alone in my car, not yet consciously aware my brother’s life ended. I began crying unexpectedly, needing to pull to the side of the road. I apologized to my brother, for all the terrible things I did to him while we were growing up. I begged him to forgive me for being such a horrible sister. After 30 minutes, I began driving again. Somehow, a part of me knew what my brother did last night.

          One year before Ross’ death, I dreamed of his death. In my dream, Ross was shot in the heart. He was wearing a blue and green Pendleton shirt, Levi’s 501 blue jeans with a brown leather belt and brown leather lace-up work boots. It was an extremely painful dream. My mother and I carried Ross’ body to the coroner’s office in the middle of the night. I remember being overcome with fatigue and grief, causing me to drop Ross’ ankles to the ground. After awakening, I was tremendously upset. For weeks, I cried about the dream. At the time of Ross’ death, I realized my dream warned me what would become a painful reality.

          July 7^th, my mother and I flew to Colorado to gather Ross’ belongings and have his body flown home. When we arrived in Colorado, we spoke with Mike, my brother’s roommate. Mike told me about the dinner he and Ross attended on July 3^rd, with his parents and a few friends. Mike said Ross was having a great time, laughing and sipping a cold beer.

          Ross began a new job as a machinist and was excited to begin. Peter, his friend, helped him get this job. Mike’s father told Ross his new company might not pay for this holiday, as Ross was a new employee. Ross leaned his tall frame back in his chair and with outstretched arms announced it did not matter because, “Tomorrow is my day of independence!”

          One week earlier, Ross telephoned Russell, a longtime friend, back home and asked about his plans for the July 4th holiday. When Russell asked Ross what he would be doing, Ross responded, “July 4th sounds like a good day to die, don’t you think?” The day before Ross’ funeral, I learned of this conversation.

          My mother and I went to Ross’ previous place of employment, where he’d worked several years. We thanked his former boss and employees for the condolence flowers they sent. I toured the windowless machinist warehouse with Mike, who also worked there. I took mental note of the untidy, drab and depressing surroundings.

          Mike led me to the back of the warehouse, showing me where my brother sat at a table alone, for hours into the night, pounding on tiny bits of metal. Ross performed this tedious work for a penny per piece, trying to make ends meet. Picturing my large, strong, proud brother bent over this table for hours into the night, instead of sleeping for his next day’s work, was more than I could bear. I turned and silently walked away.

          From there, my mother and I drove to Ross’ new place of employment, where he worked just one day. His new supervisor was dumbfounded with my brother’s decision to end his life. Steve, my brother’s new employer, told us he searched for years for the person with Ross’ machinist capabilities.

          When Steve met Ross, he hired him instantly. He made sure Ross had the “best seat in the house”, with his work table directly under a skylight. On Ross’ desk was his very own coffee mug, engraved with his name. Steve made sure the mug was sitting on Ross’ desk the first day he began work.

          This new place of employment was immaculate, complete with white shiny floors. Steve rolled Ross’ large Snap-On toolbox from the warehouse and handed my mother the keys. He said he would have it shipped free of charge to the location of her choosing. I took Ross’ mug with us.

          Ross gave Peter a work apron, thanking him for setting up his new job. Ross dropped the apron off at Peter’s front door step on the afternoon of July 4^th. Peter was not home at the time, however, when he returned, he found the apron and card.

          As I walked into Ross’ bedroom, I could feel his presence. I stood at the side of his bed, gazing at the indents still on his pillows. I struggled with the knowledge he recently laid his strong, seemingly indestructible body at this very spot, sleeping.

          My mother and I donated his clothing to charity. I neatly folded his clothing, which was still in the dryer. Over the years, my mother sent Ross many Pendleton shirts. As I touched each one, I could feel my continued connection to Ross. On his leather belt, looped through a pair of Levi’s 501 blue jeans, I found his old high school belt buckle. Being less than one year older, I instantly envisioned this same belt buckle as my brother walked with determination down the halls of our former high school.

          Finished tidying Ross’ bedroom, I rounded the corner of his office, stopping dead in my tracks. The brown leather lace-up work boots, Ross was wearing in my premonition dream, were in the doorway to his office, facing me. I called to my mother, who was in the living room with Mike. I pointed to the boots and she said, “These are the boots from your dream.” 

          I walked into Ross’ office and in front of his desk pinned to the wall, was the letter I sent him two months prior, April 30th. My letter was written in response to awakening out of a sound sleep. Out of that sleep, I was compelled to send Ross the following message: “Dear Ross, You are frequently on my mind and I could not let another day pass without telling you how much I love you and how much I miss you. I am proud to have you as my brother. I am looking out my window at the brightest of stars, (it’s actually a planet), and wondering if you see it, too. I have asked it to watch over you. Love, Deb.” Included with the card was a photograph of Spencer, my son. Ross stapled Spencer’s picture to the top of my letter. I removed the card from the wall and put it in my pocket.

          My brother estranged himself from the blood relatives he’d known since his birth, seven years prior. When the urge to write him awakened me in the middle of the night, I didn’t realize the vital importance of reaching out to him. From then to the time of his death, we corresponded by mail weekly. I could hardly believe we once again made a connection therefore, I anxiously awaited the arrival of his letters.

           Saturday afternoon, June 26th, Ross telephoned at 2:10. He said he was calling to say, “Hello.” Given the fact we had not talked in over three years, this was unusual. Ross, fascinated with animals of any kind, was excited to say he and Peter were going to see live tigers. The tigers were brought to town for a promotional exhibit at a furniture store. Eight days later, my brother was dead. After he died, I realized he actually called to tell me, “goodbye.”

I believe Ross died of a destroyed heart. His marriage ended three years prior and for whatever reason he was unwilling or unable to seek help for his emotional devastation. When     Ross married at age 22, he told me he would never divorce. Taking his own life was Ross’ way of fulfilling his promise.

          On the night of July 4, 1999, Ross drove his car to a secluded area in Salida, Colorado, two hours from his home. The Spanish translation for Salida is “exit.” He duct-taped one end of a pliable hose into the rear driver side window of his car and attached the other end to the tailpipe. Sitting in the driver’s seat, Ross neatly placed his wallet next to himself, setting his watch on the dashboard. He laid his book, We the Living, by Ayn Rand, on the passenger seat. With a full tank of gasoline he started the engine, kissing his life and his loved ones goodbye.

          I drove my brother’s car back to his apartment, marveling at the smoothness of the ride. I followed my mother, who drove the rental car in front of me. My mother could not handle seeing me in the driver’s seat of Ross’ car. I couldn’t figure out how to turn on the heater of his classic car, so I called to his spirit for help. A moment later, I could feel the warmth of his spiritual arm around my shoulders. He kept me company during the two-hour drive back to his doorstep.

It took two years to just say goodbye to my brother. July 4^th will never have the same meaning to me. Although finally saying goodbye to Ross was horribly painful, I know one day we will be together again.

In loving memory of Ross Edwin Patterson,

My brother

Born: March 30, 1961, Martinez, CA.

Died: July 4, 1999, Salida, CO.

Photo courtesy of Mike Peters, 1986