The Black Dwarf by Walter Scott (books to read for 12 year olds TXT) 📕

after that visit, but it wasn’t for very long.  It seemed like he spent more time IN the hospital, than home.

I went to school that Monday and I remember being called out of my classroom to the office of my elementary school.  My mom and aunt Wina were there with huge sunglasses on.  And I just knew.  I was in the 5th grade and my dad was dead.  I don’t think I even cried right then.  I had never seen my mom or aunt look so sad and empty.  And I just felt numb.

I saw my cousin Todd as I was walking back to my classroom.  He was being checked out too.  When I got back to gather my things, my best friend Wendy just looked at me and asked, “Did it happen?” and I nodded yes.  Then we went to the junior high to pick up my older cousin Treg.  I had turned 11 in August and on Monday, October 11th, 1976 my dad died.  Without so much as a kiss from me that morning, or a hug.  He was gone.

I wasn't allowed to go to the funeral home and help make arrangements and that upset me. I understand now, as an adult, why. But the little girl whose daddy had just died NEEDED to feel included.  I NEEDED to be with my mom, my family.

Instead, I was sent to my Girl Scout leaders house with her daughter.  I just laid on the bed and quietly cried to myself silently wondering why God, in all his infinite glory, could let this happen?

Chapter 4

The Aftermath

I got to pick out a song for my dad’s funeral.  I chose, “In the Garden.”  I’m still not sure why that particular song, but I had always loved that hymn.  My friend Wendy and her mom came to the funeral.  I was glad she was there.  It made me feel loved by her and understood.  When I touched his hand in his casket and I was shocked at how cold it was.  My mom explained to me why and that upset me.  He was my dad.  And I didn’t want to leave him.  How could we just leave him there?  I didn’t want them to close that lid.  THAT’S MY DADDY!  Don’t shut him in there.  But I knew his soul was with Jesus because I believed.  That didn’t help my little girl heart from breaking.

I don’t remember getting back home, or what happened after the service.  But I feel like everyone was there at the house. And mom let me have the little blue box from the funeral home that held his watch, the cards people sent and the remainder of his service announcements.  I kept it under my bed.  I still have his watch and one announcement.

When I went back to school, I told myself, “If I act like I'm okay, everyone will think I'm okay." I was 11, what the heck did I know about internalizing? But that is EXACTLY what I did, and admittedly continue to do in stressful, hurtful, scary, situations.

I just acted “normal”.

When one day was harder than the next, I would go into the “rumpus” room (as mom called it, we’d call it a den now) and find my music.  Music would allow me to express (in melody) what my heart was feeling. The record player was in there and I would sing my heart out.

The Carpenters, Olivia Newton-John, Bread, Helen Reddy, Linda Ronstadt.  I always felt better after singing.  Like some magical spell bestowed upon me, when the music ended, I felt better.

In junior high, I was part of a barbershop quartet in addition to our show choir.  I loved it!  And I was now at the same school as my cousin Treg who I looked up to so very much.

Treg was VERY popular.  And I was jealous.

I wanted the attention that Treg got.  And not just from his parents, but people in school, at church.  Everyone loved him!  Some of the church folks came to see Treg in a play at school but didn’t come to mine and that crushed me.  My feeling of abandonment BIG.

I wanted someone to love me the way I felt everyone loved Treg.  He was so dang easy to love anyway.  Full of mischief, fun, with a heart of gold.  Secretly, I was glad when he went off to high school before me.  I could never be as fun as him in my eyes, with my peers.  And for some reason, that was important to me.

I was student body secretary, on the yearbook and newspaper staff, but I was never one of “them.”

“Them” being the popular girls.  Cheerleaders, pretty, wealthy.  The ones who were the first to wear Calvin Klein jeans and clog shoes or whose parents dropped them off in their Mercedes.  Who didn’t just drive up to see the Orange County Mining Company, but actually got to eat there too, who wore their ski lift tickets on their ski jacket.

I can easily recall telling one of my friends (while practicing for cheer tryouts) that I weighed 150 but didn’t look like it.  She said, “Yes, you do.”  Or my uncle telling me my thighs should be half the size they are.  Or my cousins telling me I should be like our music ministers’ daughter and only eat a pickle for lunch.

And I wanted so badly to fit in and feel included.  So here’s this girl, who’s dad has been sick ALL her life, who’s fat, whose dad died, who didn’t let anyone know how she felt (because I didn’t really know how), whose mom needed her more than ever, being ridiculed, not just by peers, but her own family.  My nieces (who were 3 years younger than me) were both gorgeous, little bitty things too.  So even though I was older, in my brain, they were better.  I