Deborah Gilson Author Interview YouTube

Thank you, Shara Esbenshade, Wes and the entire Stanford University movie crew for schlepping all your equipment to Lone Pine Ranch, the former home to my rescued farm animals. You made and continue making us proud.

Deborah Gilson Author Interview YouTube

Howard, My Rescued Pig, and Me

Long may you run, my love

Murder on Hillview Road

          Witnessing a murder is only something you read about. My girlfriends and I were on our way home from an enjoyable evening. It was 2:10 in the morning. As a 32-year-old, it still felt great to be single and carefree. Lynn, my good friend since we were young teenagers, was driving her two-door Honda hatchback. Marie, our other childhood friend, fell asleep in the backseat. I dozed off in the front passenger seat.

Suddenly, I felt Lynn anxiously tapping my arm. She urged me to wake up and take a look at the scene on the corner. We stopped at a signal at the corner of Hillview Road and Connecticut Avenue. Several young men, appearing to be in their early 20’s, were involved in a fight with two other young men at the bank on the corner. I told Lynn we needed to help.

        When we rolled down our windows and started yelling, several of the men ran away. In spite of our hollering, two of the assailants continued to attack the other two and now threaten us.  Lynn and I responded with more shouting and screaming. As the victims attempted to back away, one of the assailants stabbed each of them several times. The two victims landed flat on their backs, on the street near my door. One assailant fell to his knees and continued stabbing.

I jumped out of the car and stretched my body across the two victims. With my head facing the ground and the bodies under me, I could clearly see an assailant’s shoes. He swiftly moved around me, proceeding to violently kick each of the two victims. Fortunately, he did not touch me. All of a sudden, he stopped his attack. Lynn jumped out of her car, grabbed her baseball bat from the trunk and chased the two assailants away. Marie, too terrified to move, stayed in the car.

            With the assailants out of the picture, I asked the two young men their names. They responded, “Bobby,” and “Scott.” As I kneeled between them, holding one hand in each of each my own, I continued talking with them in an effort to determine exactly why the attack happened.

Bobby and Scott were drinking heavily at a pub across the street near the bank. They ran out of cash and went to the bank for more drinking money. As it turned out another young man, of African American and Caucasian descent, was also at the ATM. Apparently, Bobby and Scott, both white males 23 years old, began shouting racial insults at him. They were unaware he was accompanied by several friends waiting for him in the car.

        Observing Bobby and Scott’s bloodied clothing revealed the severity of their wounds. I requested someone to call an ambulance and the police. Several cars drove over the sidewalk around us, quickly speeding away. A young woman with long blond hair came running up, pleading with me not to let Bobby die. I told her to get away; shortly thereafter another friend came to her assistance.

Scott repeated, “Please don’t let me die.” All at once, Bobby’s hand felt less firm in mine. I looked into his eyes, watching as he gazed into the distance. I wondered, “What is he watching?” His handsome young face became less drawn, somewhat softer. A slight smile curved his lips in an upward direction. I laid my head on his chest, feeling one final beat of his heart. Lynn came running up and as I pointed to Bobby, I told her he just died. In the background, I heard screams of the young woman with long blond hair. Later, we learned she was Bobby’s girlfriend, the mother of their infant child.

         The ambulance and police arrived shortly thereafter. The entire area, including Lynn’s car, was taped off. The sleeping bag, Lynn provided to cover Bobby and Scott, was confiscated as evidence. Detective Kathryn Anderson escorted us to the police station. There, we were asked to detail our story several times and finally, at 6:00 a.m., Lynn, Marie and I were allowed to return home. The night was long and cold. As I sat in a hot bath, the events of the entire evening played over and over in my head. I kept asking myself, “Did this incident of racially driven violence really happen?”

          A tremendous feeling of stress fell heavily on the shoulders of Lynn, Marie and me. We feared the assailants would not be captured, allowing them to be free after committing such a crime. Detective Anderson was able to piece together enough evidence to identify and apprehend the alleged stabber. She tracked the activity at the ATM that night, which led to his identification.

Despite his youth, he was 17 years old; Detective Anderson was familiar with his long-standing criminal record. Shortly after he was picked up, we were asked to identify him in a police line-up. The line-up at the juvenile detention center was disturbing.

A two-way mirror was not provided and the young men could clearly see us. In fact, one winked at Lynn. Lynn quickly and accurately identified the perpetrator, thereby confirming Detective Anderson’s findings. When the assailant was identified, the young men in the line-up were brought through the lobby, where the three of us were sitting. Naturally, we were the objects of their attention.

Lynn, Marie and I, provided a most admirable scenario for the police who acknowledged our contributions in bringing a criminal to justice. “Three young women came to the aid of victims whom they never met.” In the end, a murderer was sent to prison.

Each of us was honored with a letter from the Chief of Police, a Certificate of Valor, and a poster-sized acknowledgment, from the Office of the Attorney General, Department of Justice, and the State. This was for outstanding service to the community and state and for heroic action in support of criminal justice. We were also presented with a Resolution Award from the mayor, commending us for our exemplary and heroic citizenship.

            Lynn, Marie and I have known each other since 1973. Our families are very close. We were raised with the same set of values, adopting a sense of responsibility, motivating us to aid and assist when necessary. If given another opportunity, I am certain each of us would once again help someone in need. This incident helped shape me. I am privileged to be an integral part of life, understanding the domino effect we have on one another. 

Tootsie ~ Her Babies Were Killed Before My Young Eyes

I was seven years old, when my mother remarried and her new husband legally adopted Ross, my six-year-old brother, and me. A year later, we moved out in the country to a 165-acre ranch. The following summer, I was walking through our alfalfa hay pasture alone to swim in the creek. I’d just reached the water’s edge when I noticed a downed black sheep on its side, breathing rapidly.

Not wanting to scare her, I slowly walked closer. I was horrified to see bloodied wool from deep puncture wounds around her neck. I told her I would get my “Dad” and we would help. Racing back home, I told my Dad about the hurt sheep, knowing he’d help as I believed fathers do.

My Dad told me to show him where the injured sheep was located. We raced through our alfalfa pasture to the creek side to the dying sheep. I cried, “Look, Dad!” She’s hurt and we can help her get better.” My father was a large, well-built man who stood 6 feet 2 inches tall.

Without hesitation, he leaned his massive frame over the sheep, grabbed it by a front leg and dragged it to the creek. While I stood in horror, my Dad held the sheep under water. After several minutes, he dragged the drowned sheep out of the water and onto the bank of the creek. I collapsed onto the dead sheep’s body and cried hysterically. Without a word, my Dad turned and walked away. My trust for that man was forever broken.

By the time I was 10 years old, I’d collected 16 cats, however, it was with Tootsie, my orange and white barn cat, I’d formed an especially tight bond. Many of the calves Ross and I raised were taken away and slaughtered while we were at school. Tootsie gave birth to six gray and white kittens and I was overjoyed with my newly expanded family. I didn’t want my Dad to know they’d been born, however. I couldn’t bear to have anymore of my animals killed. Therefore, I secretly moved Tootsie and her babies from under the house to the second story of our barn.

To maintain Tootsie’s strength, I  woke up earlier than my family and quietly took fresh milk upstairs to the barn every morning. Not seeing any of my family members as I made my way, I believed I was alone on my secret missions. Tootsie and her newborn babies rested in the hay bed I’d made for them.

            Tootsie’s kittens were now 10 days old and still their eyes were naturally closed. I made it a point to hold each close to my heart, all the while making sure not to pay too much attention to one in particular. My babies were equally special to me.

One Saturday morning after spending time with Tootsie and her babies, Dad surprised me by saying to bring the kittens to him. I wondered how he knew about them. I went inside the house and pulled the Easter basket off my book shelf. Nervously, I slowly walked passed him to the barn and gathered the kittens. I gently put them into my Easter basket lined with a tiny blanket so they would stay warm and continue sleeping. My stomach felt sick as I carried my babies down the stairs of the barn.

As I was close to the front porch, I noticed my father using the garden hose to fill a green five-gallon bucket to the brim with water. Once the bucket was filled, he told me to hand him a kitten. Gingerly, so I wouldn’t wake the baby, I gently lifted one out. Trembling with terror, I handed him one of my six kittens. Still, I didn’t know why he asked for them.

With his massive fingers, he held the kitten under water with a first finger and thumb firmly around its tiny neck. One by one, as I was forced to hand them over, he drowned each of my babies. Within minutes a pile of lifeless, wet kittens was on the sidewalk. Without a word, my father turned and walked away.

            I kneeled on the sidewalk and wrapped my scrawny arms around the dead, wet babies. Silently crying, I put the kittens back into my Easter basket and covered them with the tiny blanket. Carrying the basket in the crook of my left elbow, I walked to a burial site and lay down in the dirt doubled over in heart-breaking agony.

The loss of Tootsie’s kittens was the first of many disasters in her life. She loved to sleep in the wheel well of Big Red, our large tractor. One morning the tractor was fired up for work, however, this time Tootsie didn’t jump off at the sound of the engine. Instead, she remained unseen in her comfortable sleeping position. When the tractor rolled out of the barn, Tootsie’s hindquarters were crushed.

Locating her to say good-bye before heading to school, I lifted Tootsie’s mangled body to my chest and raced into the house. With his stern expression, my Dad flatly announced Tootsie needed to be destroyed at once. Noting the terror in my eyes, my mother told him she’d take care of it. As my Dad did every Monday morning, he left for his weeklong business trip to the Bay Area. Unfortunately, he returned late every Friday night.

            Heading down our long driveway, my Dad’s car faded from view. When I was certain he was gone, I asked my mother what she was going to do. I always trusted my mother as she, too, was an avid animal lover. She picked up the telephone and called the veterinarian in town. He told her he’d stop by later that afternoon.

Ross and I left to catch the school bus. I wondered what news I’d have when I returned later that day. Sadly, it turned out the vet said there wasn’t much he could do. I told my mother I’d take care of Tootsie. I knew I could help her recover from this injury.

A week later, Tootsie’s backend was infested with maggots. Once again, my mother called the vet. He said to flush the infected area with a rinse and keep Tootsie inside away from the flies. While my father was away on his weekly business trips, Tootsie was kept in the laundry room next to the kitchen. Before Dad returned home every Friday night, I moved Tootsie to the second floor of the barn.

She was unable to walk therefore, I brought her plenty of food and water. While my Dad was home, I didn’t visit Tootsie. One month later, Tootsie was healed, however, she lost her tail. This made no difference to me. Truly, a miracle had taken place. We never mentioned Tootsie’s outcome to my Dad.

The following year, Tootsie was pregnant again. Unfortunately, because her backend was so badly damaged in the tractor incident, she was no longer able to pass kittens through her birthing canal. Tootsie and her kittens died under the house and the smell is how I located them.

My Dad had to pull up the carpet in the office, cut a hole through the wood floor and gather their bodies to put into a plastic bag. I stood silently next to him as he removed the last of Tootsie and her babies and then carried them away. He didn’t realize it was Tootsie’s remains he was scooping out of the crawl space and I didn’t breathe a word about what I knew.

Many animals, and for that matter many people, don’t have a choice regarding where they live, with whom, and how they’re treated. Ones circumstances are often not their choosing, resulting in tragedy. As an adult, I’m the vital force for my family, our animals and myself. I vow to surround us with tender loving care. My life experiences taught me to accept nothing less.

Hi, My Name is Crystal

I was five years old attending nursery school in Richmond, California in 1965 along with Ross, my four-year-old brother. Except for the few hours a day, I went to kindergarten down the street, Ross and I spent the majority of our weekdays at nursery school. Our parents divorced earlier in the year and our mother worked full time. Being a year older than Ross, a chain link fence dividing the play yards of nursery school separated our age groups. In order to be together, we would stretch our fingers through the holes in the fencing. At nursery school, I wanted to be with no one else.

Debbie & Ross Patterson, 1965

Courtesy of Frances Chapter, Our Mother

One day Ross’ class was called in from recess. I turned away from the fence and noticed sitting alone in the sandbox the most beautiful little black girl ever. I was taken with the brightly colored beads covering her braided hair. I walked over to the sandbox watching as she built sandcastles. “I’m Debbie,” I announced. Without looking up she replied, “Hi, my name is Crystal.” I sat down in the sandbox next to Crystal and we began creating a strongly bound friendship.

Photo Courtesy of SloDive

One night after school my mother was preparing dinner. I casually walked up to her and asked, “Mama, wha’ chall fixin’ for dinna?” She looked at me curiously and asked, “Honey, do you have a new friend at school?” I replied, “Yes, Mama, her name is Crystal.”

As days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, Crystal and I became inseparable. I was left-handed and she right handed. We sat in the sandbox, with Crystal always on my right. This way we could hold hands and still have our dominant hand free for other purposes, such as eating sand. I marveled at how incredible our fingers looked woven together, her brown with my white.

Photo Courtesy of The Times UK News

As we continued bonding, I introduced Crystal to the joys of eating Elmer’s Glue. I showed her how the application stick and lid were one unit. Twisting off the lid and scooping up some thick glue onto the stick, I enjoyed a mouthful of this tasty treat. Crystal followed suit, scooped up some glue onto the stick and she, too, delighted in all Elmer’s Glue offered.

Kindergarten began at 9:00 a.m. Supervisors walked our group several blocks from nursery school to the grade school. Crystal and I would protect one another from the bigger kids. One day, someone across the street threw a rock at us. It hit me in the head, causing me to bleed and cry. Crystal saw the boy who threw the rock, pointing him out to one of our supervisors.

Another day when we were walking back from kindergarten, I noticed someone deliberately set a cherry bomb on the sidewalk in front of us. Fortunately, I saw it, alerted Crystal and kicked it off the sidewalk. With Crystal always on my right, hand in hand, we walked to and from school.

One particular sunny afternoon, our group was walking back to nursery school. Crystal and I managed to dillydally behind the others and our supervisors. Suddenly, I looked up seeing an older black boy’s head peeking around a fence corner. I quickly recognized the tip of a gun. Our eyes locked and then, he immediately pulled himself back behind the fence.

I glanced at Crystal, seeing her eyes grow wide as saucers. Crystal placed her arms rigidly by her sides and opened her mouth preparing to scream. I put my hand over her mouth, dragging her back to our kindergarten classroom. I told our teacher what happened and she instantly notified the police.

Photo Courtesy of Vintage Police Cars

Two police cars arrived 10 minutes later. In one car they took Crystal back to nursery school and in the other car they took me to the “scene of the crime.”  The Caucasian police officer held my hand while we walked to the back door of a poorly constructed trailer home. Sitting on the officer’s lap, I was encouraged to tell an all black family what the boy with the gun was wearing. I could barely speak. 

As I finished describing his clothing, the strongest voice sitting next to me yelled, “Rodney, get yourself out here this minute!” Moments later, I was face to face with a 16-year-old young man wearing the same attire I described. After I identified Rodney, the officer carried me to his police car and then drove me back to nursery school. There, I was reunited with Crystal.

Unfortunately, I do not remember my last time with Crystal. Did I move away? Did she? How long were we together? My sense is my mother, brother and I moved again. Crystal and I were not given an opportunity to say good-bye.

I wonder about my special friend and envision seeing her again. I long for the opportunity to thank her for showing my blue eyes the beauty in her brown eyes and the mutual warmth in the different colors of our skin. Because of our compassionate and caring relationship, despite the differences in our physical appearance, I know we are one in the same people. Crystal, where are you? Are you still alive?

Several decades passed since 1965 when Crystal and I last shared a handful of sand and a stick of Elmer’s Glue. At age five, we taught each other everything we needed to know about life. The lessons I learned during the course of our short yet meaningful relationship serve as the foundation for my philosophy of life. These lessons depict my acceptance and respect for the diversity in the human race. To this day in my mind, heart and soul, Crystal and I continue building the sand castles of life.

Courtesy of ChooseYourMetaphor

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

London Calling ~ Running for My Life

        One way or another, I was going to Europe. Entering my fiancé’ and myself in the 1996 London Marathon, I told my friends I was finally going abroad. 

The only trouble with my plan was I AM NOT A RUNNER. Never have been, probably never will be. I began my training by walking around my block a couple times after work. B-O-R-I-N-G. I trained for a month before my fiancé’ and I took flight to Europe. I mean, how hard can it be running 26.4 miles?

            After landing in London, we went straight to the marathon headquarters and obtained our runner’s packet. The day arrived for the big race. Carrying a sack of essentials while I ran, it wasn’t long before I was throwing these items off my fanny pack. The heat was relentless, the millions of other runners had no idea of personal space and my old “running” shoes began to hurt my feet before the one-mile marker. Still, I continued jogging until I thought I would faint from exhaustion.

            Seeing the back of a friendly-looking man’s head, I struck up a conversation with Joe, from England. He was running for the National Meningitis Trust, in an effort to create awareness of this disease. I told him I’d never heard of it. Speaking of hearing, the disease took the hearing from one of his ears. Having to repeat myself often to Joe, I began running on the side of his good ear.

            Joe, determined to raise awareness for his cause, continued running while I stopped cold at the 10-mile marker. It was there I met Vicki, from Wales, who was also taking a running break. I told Vicki I’d heard of Wales as I followed whatever Princess Diana was doing. “Where in the heck is Wales anyway?” I asked Vicki. Thinking I was joking, she gave me a gentle push. Puzzled, I continued walking with Vicki, my new best friend.

            Seven hours passed and I was still a participant in the London Marathon. At least I still had Vicki by my side. We learned each other’s entire lives during our walk. When we would see television cameras, Vicki would jump up and down, waving to her family back home in Wales, who were watching for glimpses of her.

            My fiancé’ planned completing the marathon in a little over four hours. It occurred to me he finished three hours ago. Positive he was back at the hotel resting after a hot shower, with perfect-feeling feet, body, mind, heart and soul, I nearly collapsed.

            At long last, I saw the finish line. Grabbing Vicki’s arm for reassurance, I pointed to the only remaining people involved in the race: the volunteers. A vicar (priest) walked in between us, holding each of our arms in his. He walked us over the finish line as the timer displayed: 7: 15: 30. Yes folks, that’s right. It took Vicki and me a mere 7 hours, 15 minutes and 30 seconds to complete the London Marathon.

            Vicki taught me I’d better learn geography, humor under duress, perseverance, the meaning of the word vicar and confirmed it’s possible to instantly feel I’ve known someone all my life. Her parting words to me were, “Remember, Debbie, it’s not how fast you do the race that counts. It’s the fact you finished what you started.” 

Cut the Cake ~ An Award Winning Story!

        It was my fifth birthday. Mom headed to work in San Francisco, California after dropping Ross, my four-year-old brother, and me off at nursery school. From the instant I awoke, I waited for the day to end. At nursery school I told Crystal, the most beautiful black girl ever, I had a cake coming that night after dinner. 

The magic moment arrived for my mother to pick Ross and me up from nursery school. On the front passenger seat of our red Volvo station wagon, I saw my cake box. I asked Mom if she could drive home a little faster. Looking at me from her rear view mirror, she said she would try.

Ross pulled a funny trick on the way home and began making siren noises while we crouched on the floorboard of the back seat. Ross told her she was speeding and would probably get a ticket. Mom pulled the car over to the side of the road and waited. When no police car appeared, she heard our muffled giggles. Reaching her 12-foot-long arm into the back seat, Mom could not grab either of us. Exhausted from another day’s work as a single mother, she slowly put the pedal to the metal and continued the drive home.

Standing in our tiny kitchen, my mother asked me, the birthday girl, what I wanted for dinner. With tremendous excitement, I declared, “Dinner shot out of a cannon!” This meant breakfast-style food for dinner, the fastest meal in town.

After dinner, Ross and I cleared the dishes from the kitchen table; my grand event finally arrived. Out of the box came an elegant, small lemon cake with cream cheese frosting. The edges were lined in pink and yellow rosettes. My mother intentionally handed me a spatula, instead of a knife, and said I could cut the cake. My mother began washing the dishes; thankfully, her back was turned away from Ross and me.

With Ross standing as close as possible, I held up the spatula as a sword for his big blue eyes to see, translating my deafening non-verbal message, “Don’t you even think about coming near my cake!” Without saying a word, my mother sensed my selfish and greedy demeanor, so she interjected over her shoulder, “And Ross gets to choose the first piece.” With disbelief and even bigger blue eyes, I screamed, “WWWHHHAAATTT???!!!”

            Grabbing my cake from the kitchen table, I gingerly placed it on the kitchen floor. So I would be eye-level with it, I laid down flat on the floor to get a bird’s eye view for the precise cut. Ross laid down next to me, resting his chin on his folded hands. I measured where to cut the cake into pieces so Ross would not have even one granule more.        

           Finally, I felt secure knowing I cut the cake into equal portions. Using the spatula as a serving tool as well as a knife, I gently put a piece of cake onto my plate and walked to the kitchen table with my mouth watering. Again, my mother knew inappropriate behavior took place and told me to hand my piece of cake to Ross.  Tears began to well up by now; I was positive I would have no birthday cake.

            Being me has never been easy, however, it is the memories of how I treated my younger brother while growing up, which are difficult to swallow. With Ross no longer living, I think about my birthday night and wish I had done things differently. I long to go back to the evening of April 2, 1965. If this were possible, I would hand the spatula to Ross and say, “It’s my birthday and I want you to cut the cake.” 

Me and Ross, 1965

* Today, March 30th, Ross, my late brother, would be 55-years-old. 
Memoir Contest Winner: Deborah Gilson for "Cut the Cake"