Trying to get past the past

Before I unload, I would like to say a couple of things.  

The first being that I am considering taking a hiatus from blogging.  I feel like the things I am writing about are no longer funny, no longer substantial to anything, and no longer meaningful.  Over the course of a day, I think of over a hundred things (easily) that I could blog about.  I rarely blog about any of those things though because when I try to draw it out in my mind, it fizzles. 

Maybe it's just writer's block.  Or maybe it's because I bore myself.  Or maybe it's because nothing is going on with me these days.  For whatever reason, I may take a break.  It could be long or it could be short.  And I may not even take a break.  Heck, I may stop altogether!  As we all know, nobody knows what my next move is going to be.  Sometimes not even me.

Secondly, I would like to say that what I am writing about tonight is very sensitive to me.  I am going to offend some people but I will not use names. I could though because this is my space to do whatever the hell I want to do.  But I'm not.  I don't feel the need to.  I don't think that I need to put the spotlight on anybody here.  I just feel the need to get something off my chest.  I expect my Facebook to get a little lighter after this and if it doesn't, I will make it lighter myself.

Here goes.

I have told many stories of my life growing up.  Well, me or Princess Amelia have told the stories.  Maybe she needs to come back and blog for a while so I can have a break.  (What do you think?)  I have to say that I had the most fantastic and amazing childhood anybody could have.  I do not have ANY regrets about how I was raised or where I was raised and definitely not by who raised me.  

I am so blessed to have had the most amazing parents on the face of the planet.  And if you can say the same thing, I am happy for you.  My parents didn't always approve of my choices.  Matter of fact, the older I got, the more disapproval I got.  My parents didn't always like my friends or my husbands, or my grades or the way I handled money; but they always loved me.  

They may have gotten angry with me, but they never......for one second......didn't love me.  And they loved my brothers and sisters the same way.  They didn't always approve of whatever they had gotten themselves into but they always....ALWAYS...loved them. 

On May 23, 2012, I wrote a blog about my sister Marla.  I wrote about how guilty I always feel that I don't have a memory of her.  About how her death occurred.  About how my parents each had their own set of situations about their guilt of her death and how they carried it with them.  (My tears are already falling steadily and I haven't even gotten to MY point yet!) If you haven't read that blog yet, go read it.  It is titled "Marla."  

Moving on to the future a little bit, something that maybe people don't think about unless you have lived in a situation like it.  If I had a dollar for every time someone has said to me "I remember your dad.  He put me in jail for (insert whatever crime here)."  or someone casually saying "Your dad was a good man but he gave me a ticket for (insert whatever offense here) and I didn't really deserve it because it wasn't even my fault."  Well.....if I had a dollar for every one of those times, I would have a heck of a lot of dollars.  And I mean a lot.  

I suppose that just comes with the "territory" of being a child of a cop, huh? My dad retired from law enforcement in 1987.  That was 27 years ago. TWENTY SEVEN YEARS AGO.  
Now...my dad has been gone since 1996.  That is 18 years ago.  EIGHTEEN.
If you had a problem with how my dad handled something while he was in office, maybe you should have told him when he was in office.  Or even after he was out.  Hell, he would have listened to your side before telling you what you are about to hear here.

I almost feel bad for even bringing this stuff up.  Almost.

When my dad was the Sheriff, the world was a different place.  Things were handled differently.  And here's a news flash:  I was a child.  I was a child the whole entire time my dad was in law enforcement.  He didn't let me make one damn decision about what he did, who he did it with, or why he did it.  He didn't ask my opinion and he didn't really care.  And I'm okay with that because like I said, I WAS A CHILD!

Moving on to current day events.  I have had some people "approach" me about how my dad handled his prisoners, his friends, and his business.  And now I am sick and tired of it.  A person can only take so much.  I have talked with my trusty sisters about this and they both know how people can be sometimes when it comes to this situation.  

So.....one day I was at Cindy's house and I was telling her a story about a recent conversation I had had in regards to what I have been talking about and she went to her closet and pulled out a box.  It was full of different things.  Keepsakes from years gone by, that our parents wanted to keep.  Papers regarding all sorts of things.  Marriage papers, divorce papers, death notices, funeral bills, pins of different natures.  I mean this box was one of the neatest things I have seen in my life.  So many stories were in this box.  A lot we know and for every one we do know, there are at least five we don't know.  

I have a point here, I promise.

Among these treasures, there was a little notebook.  And inside that notebook my dad had wrote down every man, woman, and child that helped, day after day, fix and remodel our home after it caught on fire.  After our sister died in that fire.    After all of us had to be "farmed out" to other people's homes to live because ours was no longer livable.  

Inside that book were those names.  And each day my dad noted who was there and how many hours they worked.  And let me tell you that there were many, many people that gave up most everything they had, to help us.  And I know, in my heart....just because I know how I am.....that my parents knew there would never be a way to pay those people back.  There would never be enough money; never enough thank you's; never enough dinners or baked goods; never enough days in the year; to say how thankful and blessed we truly were.  

So for those of you that want to throw in my face how "terrible" of a Sheriff my dad was....well you can take a long walk off a short plank.  I know what kind of a man my dad was and you don't deserve to even have a thought of him in your mind.  You do not deserve the memory of him.

I had a person let loose on me recently because my dad let a family member of theirs, eat at our dining room table when he was in jail (probably 30 years ago!!!).  I know why this person was in jail but I don't even care. You know why?  

Because that family member's name is listed in that little notebook; amost EVERY DAY until the house was completed.  Not livable.  Completed.  See, that person could have just stopped by once in a while and picked up a hammer for a few minutes and left.  But that isn't what happened.  That person came over every single day.  Days off, after work, holidays.  It didn't matter.  They came everyday and helped our family so that we could grieve and we could cope.  They didn't stop working until the sun went down.  

So the next time you want to beat me down because my dad let prisoners come to our diningroom table to eat, you just might want to take into consideration that even if your name isn't in that book...or a family member's name isn't in that book...maybe, just maybe, he was trying to show some compassion.  Because that is what we got by the bucket fulls after one of the most horrific times in our lives.  

You can like this or you can hate but I am sick and tired of carrying this around with me.  I honor my mother and father every day of my life and I try to live my life according to what my parents taught me.  If you don't like it, step off.  I refuse to be your little punching bag because your life wasn't how you wanted it to be.  That. Is. Not. My. Fault.  Bitch.