YELLOW

Daddy was a trucker.

An overhaul, large freight, tractor-trailer. He hauled large pieces of equipment, supplies for major corporations, even once a "top-secret", super expensive car for a blockbuster action movie. No matter what it was, Daddy hauled it across 48 states. YELLOW was the first word I learned to spell. Y-E-L-L-O-W is what I'd spell when teachers asked what my Daddy did for a living. You see, he drove for YELLOW trucking company, and those letters were emblazoned  in large orange letters on the top and sides of his truck. Anyone from miles around could see who he worked for--YELLOW could be seen from miles down the road.

Seeing those letters still makes me happy. To this day, it gives me butterflies and makes my stomach all warm.

Daddy would be gone for weeks at a time working, so that left me and Mama alone a lot. But whenever Daddy was on his way home--after dumping his cargo across the country--he'd call the house just to let me know. The moment the phone rang, I always knew when it was him. I'd drop whatever I was doing and rush to the kitchen, clawing at Mama's skirt until she handed the receiver down to me. "ETA ready, baby girl," he'd say, wanting to let me know the exact time he'd be pulling back into town. Our house was only a few blocks from the highway and right before the exit for our town. There was a spot in the highway where the sound barrier had cracked and a small opening was visible. Daddy showed it to me once, and it was where I returned once a month.

On those days, I'd watch the clock on our kitchen wall like a hawk. I hovered in the kitchen, running back and forth from my room numerous times and willing the time to speed up. At the appointed hour, I'd rush out to the garage and jump onto my big-wheel. I paddled out of the garage and headed towards the highway--my feet never pumping hard enough.

My heart was always so light and happy. I thought about his face and smile and paddled faster. Being away from him for so long was cruel torture. All I wanted was to be wrapped in his arms.

The trees would thin and I could see the sound barrier stretching in front of me. I could hear the roar of the highway as I got closer and I slowed down my big-wheel. I pulled over on the side of the road, jumped off my ride and jumped over the safety fence that separated me from the highway. I crawled beneath the underbrush and stood up, sodden with grass and weeds. I inched through the crack in the sound barrier, and the wind from the highway would whip my face.

Horns blared, heat rose from the asphalt, and the smell of gasoline engrossed me. But my attention was to the north, where Daddy's truck would be any minute. I eagerly looked for him, excitement building.

And right on time--as he always was-- YELLOW appeared on the horizon. Daddy was a mere half mile from me. My heart leaped and I literally jumped for joy. I jumped, I hooted and hollered, and waved my Daddy into the home stretch. He knew exactly where to look for me, and as soon as our eyes met he bore down on his truck horn.

BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!was his welcome, for me and only me. It was the sound of  his love. I could see his hands waving, but he kept on beeping his horn until he passed me on the highway and drove on to the truck depot, where he'd drop off his truck and come home to me.

It was our tradition. Our secret way of greeting each other after weeks of separation. It was our special moment of love and something I lived for every month. Mama hated it, saying I was liable to get hit by a car or worse. Every time I left the house she rolled her eyes and told me to be careful. I always was and trusted Daddy with all my heart.

As soon as he was out of sight, I was back , crawling under the underbrush and hopping the fence. I'd race home with the adrenaline of a full grown man. The way home was always quicker, and I'd be firmly planted on my front porch before I knew it. I always waited for Daddy in this same spot. Even if it took all night, I'd wait and wait for that first embrace. Daddy needed to unload his truck, return supplies, collect his pay, and sometimes he stayed after to speak to some of his buddies--which sometimes was an all night affair and Mama would have to tuck my sleeping form into bed. Most nights, though, he'd race down the street like a bat out of hell, barely parking the car in our driveway. No matter how tired he was, he'd jump out of the car, we'd rush to each other and he'd swing me around into a tight embrace. After, we'd sit down on the porch--me cradled in his arms--and he'd tell me all about his latest trucking adventure.

"I drove all the way to California, Jenny. Do you know where that is?" he'd ask.

"Tell me, Daddy," I'd say even if I knew perfectly well where the state was.

"It's clear on the other side of the country. Had to drive through 9 states just to get there. It's where all the pretty movie stars live."

"Prettier than me, Daddy?'

"No one is prettier than you, baby girl."

I'd smile and lean back into his arms, as he continued to talk. Most nights, I'd fall asleep right there and he'd lift me up and take me into my room and to bed.

It was in those moments that I knew how much my Daddy loved me and never wanted to leave me. The separation was torture for him, too. The visits were always short--never more than a week--and eventually Daddy was back out on the road. But I knew our tradition would keep me with him always.

Eventually, the road-trips got longer, the phone calls got shorter, and his days home were virtually nonexistent. I heard them fighting a lot--Mama and Daddy. On the phone, in person, the screaming was constant. Then the front door would slam and the house would be silent again. Mama cried herself to sleep almost every night and Daddy started sleeping on the couch. His affection never waned for me. He was as attentive and loving to me as he'd always been. But our house became uneasy and the air was hot with tension. Something was changing. My family was changing.

Then one day, after an extremely long and loud night, Daddy didn't come home. Not for breakfast. Not for lunch. Not even dinner. Days passed and he never called or came to pick up clean clothes. I waited on the porch all day, knowing he'd be back any moment. Mama had to put me to bed that night, after I fell asleep on the hard wooden planks.

Daddy never came home after that. Never came back to us or his house. Mama told me he had left us for his other family.

"Other family?" I asked.

She looked at me long and hard and answered me truthfully. "Daddy has another family, Jenny. Another little girl with another Mama. In Oregon."

She kept talking, crying eventually and then clinging to me like I was the adult. I didn't understand. I didn't understand how my Daddy could have another family. I comforted my Mama as best as I could but I was far from understanding what it all meant.

I convinced myself that Mama was wrong and that Daddy was just on an extra long haul. He'd be home any day--jumping from his car and swinging me around in a warm embrace. I started staking out the crack in the highway--our special place and where I always felt most secure. That's where I spent my Saturday's and my after school hours. I peered down the highway until my eyes hurt from the strain. "Any minute now," I'd whisper to myself, kind of like a prayer.

But he never came back.

Most nights, Mama would come get me from the highway as it started to get dark. She'd beep the horn and I'd wordlessly admit my defeat and retreat back to her car and home. Never once did she roll her eyes as I climbed into the passenger seat. She was silent and rarely looked at me. I know in her heart she was hoping YELLOW pulled onto the highway that day, but she never said a word. She just kept driving.

The last time I saw my Daddy was 10 years ago. He would call every once in awhile-- on the weekends, birthdays, Christmas. But eventually those calls happened less and less. He made a lot of empty promises about bringing me out to see him. I cried to him, begged him to come home and love my Mama again. To love me again. He always said he loved me to the tip of his toes but I'd understand one day why he couldn't come home.

I never learned to understand why he couldn't come home. Why my Mama and me weren't enough. Why he would never sweep me into his arms again. Why our love didn't fill him the way his new family did.

But I have never stopped looking for him. To this day, every time I pass a tractor-trailer on the highway I steal a glance at the driver, hoping to find my Daddy.

And Y-E-L-L-O-W still makes my heart skip a beat.

Never Love

Broken down from your hard looks
And uncaring affection,
Took my happy and left
A girl stripped of innocence and  worth.
Your hugs were tight but lacked warmth,
Never true, you only loved you.
You swatted me away,
My love an unwanted pest.


I lost myself in you,
To your hate and paranoia.
Eggshells and broken glass
Was the floor beneath my feet.
Tears and pain I shed
With you listening on the other line.
Never once did you better it.
Never once did you see me.


Wasted smiles and kisses
On a man who cannot feel.
I was a fool to ever see beyond it.
To see who you might be
Instead of the cruel monster
All warned about.
I see you and all you are
Never again will you be a prince and savior


I hate you, for all you did,
For the lies, the cold looks, the screams you inflected.
The frustration you took out on me
Because no one else cared.
I hate you for the girl you left behind,
The girl unable to trust, to love, to open up.


I am stronger without you
Never looking back to the past.


I wish you well
That you find peace and happiness within yourself.
One day I will forgive you,
But not today,
Never today.
Free from your hold at last
Moving to the future
Only hoping for love.

True Love.

The Year of the Pyromaniacs

“You go first.” 

 “This was your idea!”

 “Your house is closer."

“Just go. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Yeah but if they’re in there, they’ll get me and you’ll run!”

Frozen in space and time, Lyndsay and I stood at the entrance to the woods behind her house, arguing who would take the daring first step beneath the trees. Neither of us wanted to be the sacrificial lamb sent to the slaughter, so we stood, dead still, waiting and hoping the other would get some nerve. I looked ahead, peering into the wooded distance, hoping to see any sign of movement or reason for us run like hell. Nothing moved and, although my 11 year old eyes were weakening fast, there was no sign of the notorious KB gang.

The woods that divided our development from The Franklin Mills Mall and the wild streets of Philadelphia were notorious. These woods protected our little suburb from the “big bad city," but it was into these woods that the underbelly of society fled. Thieves from the mall frequented the trees, dodging cops and mall security who were hot on their trail. It wasn’t uncommon for the inhabitants of my development to see helicopters flying overhead, shining beacons of light into the wooded area below or cop cars slowly driving by at night. But for us kids, something more sinister lurked inside.  For the KB, or the Kick Butt Gang, the woods were their “home away from home." Mostly teenagers, they went back there to drink, get high, or cause some sort of mischief. Everyone knew a friend of the kid, who knew someone, who got dragged back there and beat up. No one went back there alone, expecting to come out again in one piece.

Me and Lyndsay were different.

Best friends and kindred spirits, we wanted to venture inside. The allure of those tall trees that stretched on and up, tickled our imaginations. At night, the trees whispered, pleading for us to take the plunge. We didn’t answer their call, at first anyway. We weren’t stupid; we heard the stories about the KB Gang. We didn't know what “to be raped” meant, but we convinced ourselves that this would be the consequence if they ever caught us. We knew it was bad--the word just emoted fear in use-- and that was enough.

 For us, it didn’t matter; we could no longer avoid the call.

“Fine, we’ll go together!” I said after realizing Lyndsay was not going to budge. We clasped hands and after a reassuring nod, stepped onto the path beneath the trees. 

A vacuum sucked the sound out of the woods. There were no birds, squirrels, or even the sound of falling leaves to pacify the overwhelming quiet. The quiet made us cautious. Every step was thought out and our eyes darted from tree to tree, looking for concealment. Our hands formed one, solid bond that urged us on. We followed the path, knowing it would be foolish to leave it. The path widened and we stepped into a small clearing. We found the KB gang’s hang out; the remainder of a tree house created a wooden, solid floor beneath the leaves, an old couch, worn from the weather, sat in the middle, with beer cans and cigarette butts littering the ground.

            “What do we do now?” Lyndsay asked. 

A twig snapped and without a second thought, we darted to the left path. We ran, still clutching each other’s hands, never daring to look behind. We followed the path down and around, getting closer and closer to the small creek that ran through the woods. Eventually after a few minutes of running like maniacs, we realized we were being stupid; no one was following us. We stopped to catch our breaths and look around. We stood on top of a sort of cliff that overlooked the creek. Across the creek, we saw a small clearing, surrounded by trees with an open space in the middle.

“We need to get down there," I said, feeling drawn to it. With some difficulty, we managed to climb down the “ravine.” We crossed the creek and stepped, for the first time, onto the little space.

The trees seemed to separate in a perfect circle, growing everywhere but in the small dirt space where we now stood. The grass was the greenest I had ever seen; nothing like it grew in Philadelphia or in any of its area suburbs. We walked around in wonder; peering through trees and branches, walking slowly on the pebble beach that led to the creek, and running our hands through the cold stream that led us here. It was perfect. The clearing had been waiting all this time, dreaming of the day we would come and claim it.

 KB Gang or not, this was ours.

The next few weeks, we dedicated to fixing up our place. Every spare minute was spent in the woods. We ran from school to the trees. Weekends were no longer our own; they were used for one common goal--to block in our little clearing and make it our own. Figuring we needed some help, we told Lyndsay’s brother, Michael and a few others from the neighborhood about what we found. Naturally, we bound them by secret oath. And we found it necessary to blind fold each new member on their first trip down, which was very tricky when crossing the creek but an essential in the long run. We no longer feared the KB gang; we passed through their hangout without a second glance. We found freedom in the woods that not even the KB Gang could take away. A freedom like nothing we had ever experienced. We could scream and run, and every day we learned something new.

We discovered fire in the woods.

It had been raining all day, but we had a commitment to the woods. A little rain could not stop us. Once we stepped beneath the shade, we felt immune to the outside world; inside our hideout, nothing could touch us. The woods gave us super-human strength, or so we thought. The trees above did not protect us from the elements and within a half hour, we were soaked. But to call it a day wasn’t in us.

                       

“Hey! Let’s make a fire!” Lyndsay yelled, as if this was her first brilliant idea. She quickly dashed back to her house to get matches.

In the time it took her to run back, we both could have been snug and dry inside her house, but that was too easy. We were ruffin’ it, or at least we convinced ourselves we were. When she got back, I had made a little fire pit out of stones and had collected  dry sticks and leaves for a fire. We knelt down over the pit, and struck the matches. One, two, three matches gone. Our age showed we did not know what we were doing--this was before either of us had thought of smoking. And before Girl Scouts had taught us how to properly construct a fire. We wasted almost half the book until, finally, we got a spark. Throwing it down into the pit, we watched as the leaves slowly ignited. They shriveled and contorted in shape and smoke rose from their ashes. The sticks were too wet and there were no flames, but that was enough. That one spark had triggered something in us both.

 

We were addicted to the flame. Smokey the Bear had warned us about the “danger of forest fires," but the smell of burning wood had consumed our senses. We craved it like a drug. The remedy for every problem was to light a fire; “It’s been a long day….let’s light a fire, ” was our favorite excuse. When it got hotter, and the sweat poured down our faces, we still lit fires. Now, we went to the woods to be pyromaniacs and not a day went by that we weren’t striking matches into a waiting pit of twigs and newspaper.

Because of the constant fires, our clothes reeked from the smoke, and our new fear was of our parents smelling it. Our parents really did not know we were going down there in the first place, let alone starting fires. We had a few remedies to mask the scent; we tried standing outside for a while, before going into Lyndsay’s house or we scrubbed the stench from our hands in the stream. But, some thing’s we could not control- like the smell of fire outside. One night, after a long day of lighting fires in the woods, Lyndsay and I were sitting in her room getting ready for bed. Her mom came in to say goodnight and said, “It smells like something’s burning outside. Goodnight girls." With eyes bulging out of my head, I tried to remain calm. I waited until she left the room, and then reacted.

“Are you sure we put that last one out?” I asked, running to Lyndsay’s window, expecting to see flames leaping from the woods.

“I think we did,” she answered, questioningly.

We did not sleep a wink that night. We expected to hear fire engines at any moment, or the cops coming to arrest us. Every hour, one of us got up to look out the window, just in case we needed to warn the neighbors.

Scared is an understatement; we imagined life in prison and prayed for morning.

           

The fire engines never came. The woods were still in one piece the next morning and so was our sanity. There was a huge sigh of relief when we looked out the window at 8 AM, still seeing the green from the trees. We were saved and for us, it did not change a thing. We went down that very day and started another blaze, like nothing happened.

 Then the bottom really fell out.

           

A few weeks later, a small group of us were down in the woods. Lyndsay’s cousin Ally was visiting for the weekend and we needed to “initiate” her, which involved Ally lighting her first fire. We handed her the matches and told her what to do. Before long, she had a small flame going. I turned my back on her for a second, and when I turned back , she was holding what looked like a fire ball. She found a dried out bush and when she held it over the fire, it instantly ignited. Fearing she would burn her hands, she dropped it into the small fire, causing a huge flame to burst from the pit. We stood around in wonder, hypnotized by the dancing flames.

“OH MY GOD! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” we heard someone scream. We looked up, and saw that a woman was standing outside of her house, which sat directly in front of us. We never realized, in all those weeks, that her house had a perfect view of our hideout. We quickly put the flames out and, like prairie dogs, hit the ground. I looked up and saw that the woman was trying to navigate her way down to us.

           

“Run,” I screamed.

Everyone shot up and started to run towards the entrance of the hideout. As we sprinted across the creek and up the other side, Ally tripped, causing a domino affect of everyone who was behind her. “Get up! Get up! Do you wanna get caught?” I yelled. The panic had sunk in, and I could only imagine what would happen if that woman found us down there with matches and smelling of soot. Jumping to our feet, we ran up and out of the woods. It was a mass exodus; kids ran this way and that, trying to put as much space between them and the woods as possible. Lyndsay, Michael, Ally, and I ran into her house and slammed the door behind us--slamming the door on our days in the woods.

It is now ten years later, and we have yet to return to the woods. That experience scared us straight, and it was our last fire. Not long after that day, green signs were posted at every entrance to the woods. They read;

“ENTRANCE PROHIBITED BETWEEN THE HOURS OF

4PM AND 6AM. $1,000 FINE FOR ANY PERSONS FOUND

DURING THESE HOURS.”

To this day, whenever Lyndsay and I see those signs, we laugh. We are not sure if the KB gang is the real reason for them, but we like to think we played a large part in it. Afterall, the KB gang had ruled those woods for years, but the signs only appeared after one of our fires got out of control.

Years have passed, but that inner longing for the woods has not diminished for either of us. I run by it on a nightly basis and when the weather is especially nice and I can smell the trees, I still hear the woods calling my name. To return to those wild days. One day, I know Lyndsay and I will venture back there again; hands clasped and hearts aching for some new adventure.

                       

Warrior Defined

I have a thing for words and their different uses. Obviously, stringing them together is a passion of mine but words on their own--just one word--are pretty awesome, too. You can create whole worlds with sentences, but uttering one word can create just as much. They have just as much mystery and power. The most fascinating thing for me with words is that one syllable can mean different things to everyone. Every word has different connotations across the world or even to people living next door to each other--it's the whole nature versus nurture thing but with verbiage. Once uttered, a picture is created in the hearers mind and they associate that word with that picture--like the flashcards our parents used to jump-start our educations. No flowery descriptions are needed, the word can simply emote the emotion or thing wanted by the sayer.

The most powerful words emote the strongest description worldwide.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the word "warrior". A pretty short and regular looking word, but it seems to be thrown at many these days. It is definitely one of those power words I am referring to. So I decided to do a little research in regards to this seemingly "normal" word.

Looking to my handy dictionary, I find the word "warrior" comes from the Old Northern French werreieor, from werre war.Very french sounding--even if the French aren't what I would consider "warriors". I found one simple definition

warrior: A person who engages in or promotes war.

Then looking to my trusty thesaurus, I found the following synonyms:

           warrior: champion, combatant, fighter, fighting man, gladiator, man-at-war, soldier.

Both are pretty straightforward definitions. It doesn't go into detail about bravery or fortitude, so much is left to ones own perception. In this way, all nations and societies can have their own distinction on what qualifies a warrior. So, who is to say that little boys playing in the streets, pretending sticks are swords, aren't warriors in their own way?

Turning back to my available resources (this time being the internet), I decided to Google "warrior" and see what happened to pop up. Here is what I found;

Martial arts or a samurai are pretty synonymous with warrior-like behaviors. I think the Japanese actually wrote the book on warriors and warrior-like behavior. It was actually a disgrace for samurai's to be taken captive in battle--most would commit suicide with their own swords, rather then be taken alive.

If you don't know, this is Xena: Warrior Princess starring Lucy Lawless. A show on the WB network (now the CW for you youngens) in the early/late 90's. She was the female version of Hercules (another show on the now de-funk WB network starring Kevin Sorbo). She was pretty badass and I'll admit I did actually watch this show. By the way, does anyone know what ever happened to Lucy Lawless?

Obviously, this needs no explanation.

I've never actually seen this movie, but this is a picture from Mad Max: Road Warrior starring the oh so charming and young Mel Gibson. This is pre-drunken, antisemitic, wife beating rant days. And he was pretty damn gorgeous here too.

Native Americans are warriors by nature and this quote from Sitting Bull--arguably the most famous Native American--pretty much sums up the mantra of a warrior. There is an aspect of humility to warrior-ship. It's not all sword-yielding and gun-slinging.

So the fruits of my research have given me much food for thought. Warriors are brave to a fault, not afraid of death, self-sacrificing, humble, work hard, and never give up even when all seems lost.

With all this in mind, there is one person in my life who is synonymous with a warrior; my aunt, Ann Ford.

She is not your typical warrior.She has not been to different countries, killed a man with her bare hands, wielded a weapon of mighty power, defended her people against aggression or invaders with no hope of survival.

But in the same sense, she is a "champion", "combatant", " fighter", "gladiator" and a "(wo)man at arms." She has the bravery and fortitude of most grown men. Has faced adversity and sadness with a calm and level head. For 5 years, she has fought the fight of her life, not for herself but for her family, friends and all those who love and care about her. She has defeated every opponent that has crossed her path, and has learned a lesson from each. She fought to victory with a smile on her face--an epic battle that most men who runaway, screaming with their tail between their legs--and always cared about others before herself. But through all of this, she knows in her hearts of hearts that her fight is not over--it has merely just begun. Her enemy will rear its ugly head again and again. It is only a matter of time, as her opponent is a relentless beast who cannot be contained. Knowing this, she lives each day as her last, but will never give up her fight to survive.

Most warriors wear coats of arm, medals or show some sort of distinction on their person, so all those around them know that they are "true warriors". My aunt does not ask for notoriety or fame. She is too humble to admit what she has been through. But she proudly displays her "ribbons of honor" in her heart to announce to all she knows

 that she has fought and come out a survivor.