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“My Gutsy Story” by Barbara Hammond

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Flying Blind on a Leap of Faith

 

My parents divorced when I was two.  My father wasn’t part of my life after that.  My half- brother was born when I was ten and my mother and step-father separated a year later.  Mom worked nights and I was the primary care giver for the baby.

One night, as I was making dinner, I heard a knock at the door.  We didn’t get visitors very often so this was curious.  I made sure the chain was on the door as I opened it.  There was a man with a grocery bag in his arms.  He said, “Hey!  Aren’t you going to let your dear old dad in?”

He looked vaguely familiar but from where?  He said, “Your mom told me it would be dinner time, am I too late?”

I searched his face and remembered seeing him briefly on my fifth birthday, he was, in fact, my dad.  Immediately I thought, “What the hell is he doing here?!”

I let him in.  He took his bag of goodies to the kitchen where my brother was sitting in his high chair eating cheerios.  As the stranger unpacked the groceries it was obvious he had no idea what kids like to eat, but then how would he?

Mom came home early that night, which was very unusual.  She was as giddy as a school girl and falling all over her ex-husband (twice removed).  I was actually embarrassed for her.

He stuck around for almost two weeks.  Most nights he hung out at the bar where my mother worked.  Sometimes he brought dinner home for us, and once he actually took us out to dinner.

Then he was gone.  Just when I got used to seeing him when I came home from school he was gone.  I wasn’t all that emotionally invested but it seemed odd.

Mom came home and informed me… “His other daughter is sick… he loves her more than he loves you so he went home to her.  It’s your fault.”

 

Fast forward eleven years… I’m married, living in New Jersey with my husband and two small children of my own.  I found a letter in the mail from Florida.  A letter from the sister I’d never met.  The sister my dad left us for because he loved her more than me.

She had just discovered she had a sister and nephews.  She wanted to know anything and everything about this ‘wing’ of the family.  The letter seemed heartfelt to me.  I answered her.

Soon after the letter was sent I got a phone call.  I heard, “Barb?”  I said, “Yes.”

“This is your dad.”

Stunned silence from my end.

“I saw the letter you sent your sister.”

That seemed so strange to me… my sister.  What the hell did I know about a sister except YOU love her more than me?

“I would love to see you and really love to see my grandsons!” he said.

Trying to think on my feet I said, “I really can’t afford to fly to Florida right now.”

“I’ll wire you the money!” was his answer.

Holy shit!  What do I do now??  I said, “That’s really nice of you but I can’t just pick up and fly to Florida right now.”

“Why?” he asked.

I had no answer.

“Think about it,” he said, “I’ll call you back tomorrow.”

Needless to say I got absolutely no sleep that night.  Why would I want to take my kids into this, potentially, hostile environment?  Hadn’t he proven he relegated me to second class?

But… there was a sister.  I had never had a sister.  She seemed genuine about wanting to meet me, learn about my life… get to know her nephews.  A sister.  I was intrigued… and I had never been to Florida.

My husband thought it was a good idea even though he couldn’t join us.  He suggested I leave the return flight open.  If I was uncomfortable when I got there I could return the next day.  That was my safety net.

I didn’t have an extensive wardrobe in those days but I had every bit of it on my bed trying to decide what to pack as a million questions ran through my head.  What if his wife hated me?   Would she be the shrew my mother said she was?  What if _____ (fill in the blank).  My stomach was in knots.

As it turned out I stayed a week.  His wife was lovely and I really enjoyed being with my sister.  Time with my father was awkward.  He kept trying to find common ground and the sad truth… there was none.

He had a horse… I’m not into horses.  He had a boat… I don’t swim and fear deep water so that wasn’t happening.  He played golf… I had just taken lessons.  Eureka!

So on a balmy and overcast day we went out to play golf.  I was terrible at it but we enjoyed a peaceable couple of hours.  It was a start.

I felt it was good for my kids to get to know their grandfather, since they had no relationship with my mother.  Unfortunately over the years my father has shown his true colors and we no longer have a relationship.

I’ve never regretted taking that leap of faith and flying blindly into uncharted territory.  I’ve always felt it’s best to know the truth than to wonder.

 

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Barbara Hammond is an Artist, Writer/Blogger and Published Author and illustrator of The Duffy Chronicles, her first children’s book.  Blogging made her realize we all have a story.  Sometimes we don’t want to expose the underbelly of our story but that is often where the true lessons come from.  Our circumstances do not define us.  She is a true optimist and living proof that a good sense of humor can get you through almost anything.

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Barbara, I admire what you did. You rose above the heartache of hearing your mother say, “His other daughter is sick… he loves her more than he loves you so he went home to her.  It’s your fault.” I cannot imagine the impact of such cruel words on a small child, and the fact that you were willing to give a chance to your sons to get to meet their grandfather, and to yourself to meet your half sister is heroic.

Please share your comments with Barbara below and she’ll be over to answer. I met Barbara online, and know she’s very giving and caring. You can connect with her on Facebook and Twitter @hammondart.

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Do you have a “My Gutsy Story”?

To submit your own, “My Gutsy Story” you can find all the information, and our sponsors on the “My Gutsy Story” contest page. (VIDEO) Submission guidelines here.

Please share the “My Gutsy Story” series with others on Twitter using the #MyGutsyStory. Thank you.

VOTING for your favorite February 2012, “My Gutsy Story” starts March 1st through March 14th. The winner will be announced on Thursday March 15th.

“My Gutsy Story” by Brooke Bridenstine

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Sometimes it takes a Five-year Old

 

One thing to keep in mind: gutsy is relative. I am reserved by nature, I get that from my grandmother, who readily admits it is not necessarily one of the better traits she handed down. Allow me to illustrate:

  • The riskiest activity I participated in during those crazy high school days was forking. Forking is exactly what it sounds like; we stuck plastic forks in the ground of the front yard.
  • I took a job at the first company that gave me an offer because, as a pre-Obama 22-year old, I was concerned about my health insurance. That was a job in insurance administration, not something I ever dreamed of doing, and yet four and a half years later I am still in that line of work. I use line of work because I refuse to call it my career; insurance administration is not my career.
  • I paid off my first big purchase, a new car, in less than two years because I did not want to keep paying through the nose from the high interest rate.

As you can see, I express traits that more closely align with those of a conservative middle-aged man rather than a woman in her twenties. So it came as quite a surprise to everybody who knew me that this past November I spent a great sum of money (a figure I have not totaled yet) to see the musical Wicked thirteen times. After one of the performances, several things were offered as incentives to donate to the organization Broadway Cares/Equity Fights Aids. I made a quick decision to make a sizable donation to go backstage and meet the stars and snap a photo. It was a blast; I was shaking afterwards from the adrenaline coursing through my blood. I saw the show again the next day and actually waited at the stage door to talk to the stars again and have them sign my program and snap a couple more photos. When I relayed the story to my dad, he asked me to send him the photos so he could take a look. Later that week when I was having dinner at his house, his five-year-old son said to me, “Brooke, in the pictures of you with the people from Wicked you look really happy.” Kids, they have a gift for getting right to the heart of the matter. I looked really happy because I was really happy.

If going to the theater and writing about theater makes me happy, shouldn’t I go after that? I had started a blog a few months earlier, after thinking about it for over a year, but I was not committed enough. That moment crystallized what we all know, but can have difficulty executing: nothing will change if we don’t do anything differently than what we were doing before. Now I update at least once a week. And, though it is hard for me to swallow this fact, there is no way to know where it may lead. I won’t be able to see a show on stage every week, but if I want to change the direction of my life then I have to start somewhere. There are going to be more pictures of me looking really happy.

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Brooke’s Bio

I graduated from Iowa State University with a Liberal Arts degree. I currently work in benefits administration. I have a passion for Broadway shows and want to follow that passion. I started blogging last year as a first step to hopefully making writing my full-time job. Thanks for following my blog

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Brooke, your story is a perfect example of someone who is following what makes her happy. I wish you all the best in achieving your goals, and keeping that feeling of being really happy, alive within you.

Please share your comments with Brooke, who will be coming over to respond.

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Do you have a “My Gutsy Story”?

To submit your own, “My Gutsy Story” you can find all the information, and our sponsors on the “My Gutsy Story” contest page. (VIDEO) Submission guidelines here.

Please share the “My Gutsy Story” series with others on Twitter using the #MyGutsyStory. Thank you.

“My Gutsy Story” by Anne Schroeder

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A Thank You to the Universe for our  Zihuatanejo Connection.

 

The flight was on time as it descended over the basin rim into the desert. Phoenix in mid-April was green golf courses and swimming pools surrounded by alfalfa fields and sprinklers. I pulled my eyes from the magazine I was pretending to read. My hands were trembling from the apprehension of meeting my oldest daughter, Sam, to board a plane to Zihuatanejo. I knew she had not agreed to this trip without persuasion.

The trip itself was the result of many hands. God had a plan.

In the taxiing plane I heard my friend’s stern voice two months earlier brooking no dissent:  “Just hear me out before you say anything. I’ve booked you into a writer’s retreat in Zihuatenajo for late April. You need to go. You’re not writing and you need to be. Go and let it change your life.”

That phone call had frozen me with apprehension. Mexico—alone? From the way my stomach dropped at the idea I knew I was not brave enough to go alone. My heart, my instinct called for my daughter.

She had objections: a single week of vacation built up, not enough money, but beyond her objections I recognized her apprehension about spending a week together. What if we hated each other?

She had left home at seventeen for college and never returned. What if after all the years of living apart—of chasing separate dreams and missed connections—this was our only chance and we blew it? But if we didn’t try we would never know.

But maybe knowing wasn’t all it was cracked up to be!

She stalled. I fussed to her father about her indecision when secretly I was doing the same thing. It was her father who negotiated the truce, the man who didn’t really want me to go because it was southern Mexico—he hated Mexico—and he would have no power to save me if something went wrong. This husband of mine called his daughter without me knowing and told her I wouldn’t go without her.

Fast forward to Zihua:

Fate had decreed it was time.

Miles from home, the novelty of adventure freed us. Tears turned to laughter as we struggled to find common ground, mother and daughter, offspring of my teen years when I had little to offer her except my love.

Laying on our beds that first night we began to talk, first of inconsequentials, then of the disappointments we had each suffered at the other’s hand.  When exhaustion claimed us my firefighter daughter demanded that we make an evacuation plan. She placed a flashlight and our shoes by the door while I scoffed, not yet ready to relinquish the parent role to this adult daughter who had grown tenacious in the missing years.

In the middle of the night when the first temblor rocked the hotel I accepted the small earthquake as a sign that flexibility and respect would be a good thing. By joint agreement she became the leader of the expedition.

Seven days later we were friends in a way we had never before managed, our hearts healed of the nagging fear that we had somehow missed our connection. Here’s what I wrote to celebrate our week.

Thank you, Zihua’

The week was productive and inspirational. My daughter and I left our mark on the little town. I asked questions of every bartender and waiter, every vendor and taxi driver who would tolerate our Spanish. We rode a bus with broken windows to Petatlán and were taken in hand by a couple of eager seventeen-year-olds. We caught the stench of freshly-butchered pigs, ate cow head enchiladas, and brushed off flies and proposals of marriage with equal adroitness.

We adored Lenore and Veronica and Elsa and her husband. We dined with an opera singer from Mexico City and advised her in her marital distress over a bottle of wine at midnight. We rose at dawn and ate cerviche at the fish market, and enticed Jose the cantina owner into telling us his story of lost virginity at the hands of a Greek goddess who was nineteen to his seventeen.

Sweet days. We made friends with the geckos on our wall and nodding acquaintance with the iguana in our tree. We toted home fresh cocos and pinas and laced the shells with rum. We tossed Else’s bougainvillea into the sea at midnight and made a wish to return. We bought Latina sandals that made our legs look long and hootchie- mama dresses that made us feel great.

We danced to a Bolivian CD in the dark and watched the houses on the hill swell with the afternoon light. We bought morning coffee for the Indian woman who carries flan on her head, and turned down an offer of product from the local drug dealer. We taxied to Ixtapa and ferried to Las Gatas and attended Easter Mass at the church of the Virgin of Guadalupe. (And knelt in reverence at the cathedral at Petatlan) and saved our sunburn for the last day.

Oh yes, I finished twenty-five pages of most excellent prose for a total of seventy-five pages on my novel. If we missed anything we’ll be glad to retrace our steps. We have found paradise.

When we returned My husband wanted to know why I looked so relaxed. I told him it was the humidity.

In a lifetime a mother should be so lucky to share such a trip with a daughter. We were both profoundly touched by our experiences. A Norwegian reporter from New York told me she was reading Willa Cather and my book, Branches on the Conejo at the same time and found herself lost in the similarities between us. I read Cather’s My Antonia in Zihua and I found a part of my whole. Thank you, Universe, for your part in my journey.

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Anne Schroeder writes about this trip and other experiences of the Social and Sexual Revolution in her baby boomer memoir, Ordinary Aphrodite, available through Amazon and e-books. Her social history of Southern California, Branches on the Conejo: Leaving the Soil after Five Generations is available at Amazon. Her books are also available through her blog: http://anneschroederauthor.blogspot.com

She describes her husband as a stallion running in circles around her, trying to keep her in the corral while she pushes to expand the circle. After 44 years it seems to work for them.

Anne has nearly a hundred short stories and essays published in print and e-magazines. She has won multiple awards, including a LAURA award for Western short story, the NightWriters Gold Quill, Writer’s Digest, AAPW, and WIN-WIN Persie.   Connect with Anne on her Facebook link.

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 Anne, Thank you for sharing your honest story about reconnecting with your daughter who left home at seventeen. This question, “What if we hated each other?” and “What if after all the years of living apart—of chasing separate dreams and missed connections—this was our only chance and we blew it? But if we didn’t try we would never know.”That one week together worked its magic and I know there are many mothers and daughters out there who will thank you for sharing and I know your story will make a difference in someone’s life.

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Please leave a comment for Anne and I know she’ll be over to respond. Also share her story with others you think might enjoy reading it.

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Do you have a “My Gutsy Story”?

To submit your own, “My Gutsy Story” you can find all the information, and our sponsors on the “My Gutsy Story” contest page. (VIDEO) Submission guidelines here.

VOTE for your favorite January “My Gutsy Story” You can read all five here. The winner will be announced on Thursday February 16th.

Please share the “My Gutsy Story” series with others on Twitter using the #MyGutsyStory. Thank you.

“My Gutsy Story” by Larry Jacobson

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How I Chose Passion Over Fear and Sailed the World

 

How many people do you know who have actually made their dream come true—their dream based on passion and desire, not practicality or career advancement. It could be a dream of anything from travel to weight loss, from a new career to a new relationship. It starts with, “I’ve always wanted to . . .” and often ends with, “It’s just not practical,” or “Maybe someday.” At what point do we say, “Someday is here!”?

Reaching a new goal often means letting go of something, but would you give up a secure business career for your passion? What if you had spent the last 20 years building a highly visible company with a stellar reputation, loyal clients, and a steady flow of business, and you were surrounded by friends and family who admired your achievements and your perfect career? Could you walk away from all that to pursue a dream?

I did—or rather, I sailed away. I traded it all for the opportunity to make my lifelong dream of sailing around the world come true. And though some called me crazy at the time, I’m happy with my choice of seeing the world during six years of adventure on the high seas. Though I now drive a Honda rather than an Audi, fly coach rather than first-class, and live in an apartment rather than a house, I feel as though I’m the richest man in the world, because I’ve lived my dream.

Perhaps you’re a high-tech executive who’s a master pastry chef at home, and you’ve always wanted to open a bakery. Would you be willing to bake late into the night, spend your mornings serving fresh croissants, and pour your earnings back into the business? Or perhaps you’re a sales manager who takes writing classes at night because you’ve always wanted to write a great novel while living in a country village in Italy. There goes your chance to be V.P. of sales, as you spend your evenings developing characters rather than staying late at the office. In the end, you get to decide what you’re willing to sacrifice. Andre Gide said, “Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.”

Fear of what a change might bring is one of the main reasons many people never let go, and so miss the opportunity to become something different and transform their lives. It’s a double-edged sword, facing the anxiety of walking away from the old while embracing moving into fear of the new. Even if your dream is just to get back into shape, the fear of failing may prevent you from trying. Take to heart the words of Gen. George Patton: “There is a time to take counsel of your fears, and there is a time to never listen to any fear.” Let your passion guide you. Don’t let the weight of the past or fear of the unknown get in the way of your vision. And realize that it’s not only fear and apprehension that prevent us from doing great things. Often, the good in our lives is what gets in the way. Many of us have a home, partner, family, career, and income—and who would watch the cat if I traveled to Europe for a year? Why risk the comforts and joys of our lives for a chance at a dream? Because, as Dale Carnegie said, “Take a chance! All life is a chance. The person who goes farthest is generally the one who is willing to do and dare.”

You have to be the one who makes your dreams come true, and nothing happens without action. Make your decisions, make your plan, and then take the first step. If you make no choice, you’re only fooling yourself. No decision is a decision.

I’ll admit that my own decision-making process was a scary mixture of excitement and cold feet. I reached the choice to leave my secure life when there was no more information to help me decide one way or the other. The fanfare and cheering crowds never materialized as in my dream. There was no line to cross that made it official. It was simply time to go. But I remembered that, as Emerson correctly said, “Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen.”

Was I brave, blind, or foolish? No, I was driven by passion. Yes, I was choosing an extreme change of course in my life, but I was drawn to it with a pull I couldn’t resist. And though I had been sailing nearly all my life, I wasn’t prepared for the magnitude of the challenges and fear that would come with sailing around the world. Still, passion trumped fear. It can for you too.

I untied my dock lines and followed my heart. What I hope you glean from my experience is that it’s possible to follow your passion and make your dream come true. Don’t wait for someday. Address your fears, make your plan, and take the first step. Untie your lines—whatever they may be—and go!

(This story was originally published in Forbes, with written permission by the author)

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Larry Jacobson, a California native, is a motivational speaker, executive coach, and sales trainer. His circumnavigation is documented in his book The Boy Behind the Gate: How His Dream of Sailing Around the World Became a Six-Year Odyssey of Adventure, Fear, Discovery, and Love. For a free download of the first chapter, go to http://larryjacobsonauthor.com and sign up for his mailing list. Larry welcomes new friends, colleagues, and feedback at: larry@larryjacobsonauthor.com.

 

I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Larry in March 2011 at the Newport Beach, California,  library when his book The Boy Behind the Gate, first came out. You can see a short video and our interview Want to quit your job and travel around the world?

Larry Jacobson is the real deal. He is the perfect example of someone who follows his passion and puts fear to the side. I’ve heard him speak and watched the reaction of those listening to him. He truly inspires and motivates people to follow their dreams. Please post your questions and comments below for Larry. he’ll be over to respond.

Do you have a “My Gutsy Story”?

To submit your own, “My Gutsy Story” you can find all the information, and our sponsors on the “My Gutsy Story” contest page. (VIDEO) Submission guidelines here.

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Please vote for your favorite January “My Gutsy Story” You can read all five here. The winner will be announced on Thursday, February 16th.

Please share the “My Gutsy Story” series with others on Twitter using the #MyGutsyStory. Thank you.


My Gutsy Story by Kenneth Weene

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“Being a Hero”

 One thing I have to admit – I’m a coward. So what the heck was I doing with my fingernails digging into the tiny crevices of the slate roof? What the devil was I doing crawling along the peak of a roof five stories above a parking lot that was rapidly filling with police, fire fighters, and gawkers?

No, I wasn’t drunk or high. And I certainly wasn’t suicidal. I wasn’t, but the young woman teetering on the far edge of the roof was. She had somehow made it out of the psych ward, slipped through a window onto the roof of the chapel – that huge vaulted wing of the hospital — and had walked the crown of that building to the far edge, where she now stood screaming at the world that she was going to jump.

Even as I edged towards her, part of me was hoping she’d go off. Then I could wait patiently until I could be rescued by those experts who now impotently stared up at her. There was no way I wanted to keep moving forward – no way this story could end well. Still I moved ahead, inches by inches, slate capping stone by slate capping stone.

What propelled me. Not a personal concern. I didn’t know her name. I didn’t want to know her name. I didn’t work in the psych ward, not really. I was just a summer intern in the community mental health unit. My job description – do little, stay out of the way, and on occasion make a fool of myself. I also carried papers around. That was why I had been at the same floor as the psych ward, why I had been passing that window as she tightrope walked her way along that roofline.

For her it must have seemed so simple. Bare feet on either side of the peek, walking as easily as if she were in a meadow; perhaps in her head she was. Her robe was flying about in the breeze. She paused for a moment, took it off, and dropped it on the slates. It slid down the roof, gathering speed as it went.

I watched her move gracefully towards the end of that roof, and I slipped out the window after her, dropped to my knees, and then to my belly. I’m not particularly good with heights. I get vertigo when I look down any distance. I’m fine when I look out, but looking straight down – perhaps it’s my astigmatism. I clung to the roof and inched forward.

In my head there was a constant refrain: Talk her off the roof. Get her back to safety.

She reached the end of her journey and looked over the edge. It had seemed only seconds, but the watchers and rescuers had already starting assembling. She began a colloquy with them. She wanted to die. She had nothing to live for. Nobody cared.

That, finally, was my opening. “I care,” I yelled. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be out on this damn roof trying to get to you.”

Another inch forward.

She looked back, saw me, and asked who I was.

“Your friend,” I answered hoping that she would accept my word at face value. A summer psychology intern would hardly instill trust and acceptance; a friend might.

“You could get hurt,” she called to me.

“So could you.” There was a pause. “Let’s get the hell off this roof.”

“I want to die.”

“Why?”

“Because nobody cares.”

“I care,” I tried again, “or I wouldn’t be out here.”

“Oh.” She came towards me.

“I lost my robe,” she said as she came closer.

“We’ll get you a new one.”

I inched backward. Suddenly there were strong hands grabbing my ankles and pulling me back through the window. The young woman was right behind me.  They helped her through the window, gently oh so gently. Then, once she was through, they wrestled her to the ground, stuck a needle into her, strapped her into a straightjacket, and hauled he back to the ward.

“What the hell were you thinking of?” my supervisor asked.

“It just seemed that I had to do—“

“Don’t ever do it again. Do you realize how lucky you are?”

“Believe me I do. I was terrified I’d fall the whole time.”

“Who’s talking about falling? If she had jumped while you were out there talking to her, we could have been sued. In which case, young man, you would have been better off if you had fallen.”

The next day in the cafeteria one of the aides came over to me. “That was great what you did yesterday.”

Maybe, maybe not.

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Kenneth Weene Bio

Life itches and torments Kenneth Weene like pesky flies. Annoyed, he picks up a pile of paper to slap at the buzzing and often whacks himself on the head. Each whack is another story. At least having half-blinded himself, he has learned to not wave the pencil

A New Englander by upbringing and inclination, Kenneth Weene is a teacher, psychologist and pastoral counselor by education. He is a writer by passion.

Ken’s short stories and poetry have appeared in numerous publications including Sol Spirits, Palo Verde Pages, Vox Poetica Clutching at Straws, The Word Place, Legendary, Sex and Murder Magazine, The New Flesh Magazine, The Santa Fe Literary Review, Daily Flashes of Erotica Quarterly, Bewildering Stories, A Word With You Press, Mirror Dance, The Aurorean, and Empirical.

Ken’s novels, Widow’s Walk and Memoirs From the Asylum, and Ken’s newest novel, Tales From the Dew Drop Inne, which should be out January, 2012, are published by All Things That Matter Press.

To learn more about Ken’s writing visit: http://www.authorkenweene.com

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Thanks Kenneth for being a hero and for saving this woman’s life. I know readers will praise you for what you did. I am curious if this woman ever spoke to you about your heroic deed later on.  Please check out Kenneth’s new book and book trailer on his website.

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Our second POLL starts February 2nd-February 15th to VOTE for your favorite JANUARY “My Gutsy Story” of the month.

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Do you have a “My Gutsy Story”you’d like to share?

To submit your own, “My Gutsy Story” you can find all the information, and our 9 Sponsors on the “My Gutsy Story” contest page. (VIDEO) Submission guidelines here.

Please leave your comments and questions for Kenneth Weene below, and click below to share his story with others.

 

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