Roslyn Carter, President Jimmy Carter’s wife, would be visiting the small, two-year college where I was the Director of Public Relations and Alumni. My office was chosen for her to rest in because it had an outer office for her security, and a bathroom. A few days earlier, the Secret Service, and their bomb-sniffing dogs, preparing for her brief visit, searched and sniffed the entire campus to clear the way for her. Satisfied we posed no threat, they settled in my office to hang out with Charlie and me.
I suppose it would help you to know, sooner, rather than later, that Charlie is a plant stand. He was made for me by my kids’ babysitter and seriously resembles the bottom half of a gentleman, made with Charlie’s old jeans and his old hiking boots. I always kid that I saved the “best parts”.
Charlie and Cat
Appropriately fleshed out with poly-fill, stabilized with a skeleton of a wooden frame, and a set-in painted plywood top, he stands life-size, well half-life size, waist height, and at a very slight slant, not too dramatic a slant, though, because he sprouted a healthy philodendron plant in a pot, on top. He was a plant stand, after all. Charlie—well what I had left of Charlie—had been a beloved beau, but that’s another story.
While the Secret Service men were on their lunch break, I was working at my desk, and for the first time ever, the president of the college, a nun, in full floating garb and starched white wimple, came flying in my room unannounced, all a flutter screaming at me like a crazy woman! “What are your children’s paintings doing on your wall? And THAT, that, that MAN thing! Get it out of here! The President’s WIFE is coming! Get rid of all of that junk, now! What were you thinking?”
Dumbstruck, I couldn’t think for the shock of her vile reprimand! The bile was sourly working its way up from my gut and I wanted desperately to blast her, but I reined it in, and kept my mouth shut. I needed a job. Period. Charlie and the kids’ artwork were banished to the closet, my perky personality pierced by the humiliating slap.
That afternoon, the Secret Service came back, and stopped in their tracks. “Where is Charlie? Where are Amy and Iona’s paintings?” (They even knew about my family by now.)
“What can I say?” I said. “I need a job.”
“That happens everywhere we go, ” they said. “People paint, repair, scrub and spend money they don’t have to impress her, and she doesn’t care about or notice those efforts. She’s totally down to earth. In fact we told her all about Charlie, and she can’t wait to meet him! She loves stuff like that!” I shrugged, miserable. I’d made my choice.
When Mrs. Carter arrived the next day with her entourage, of course I was banned from my office, and I stood about three rows back in the hall filled with the colleges’ mucky-mucks as she was shuttled from her car to my inner sanctum. Then, the door opens a crack, and a Secret Service agent caught my eye and motioned for me, not the college’s president, to come in! Now, I’m doomed, here, and I know it! I was ushered in, and Mrs. Carter stood up, to not just shake my hand, but to give me a hug, and a heartfelt apology. “This happens all the time, and I am so sorry! May I please see Charlie?”
Grinning, I showed her Charlie in the closet, and she adored him! Then she asked to see Amy and Iona’s artwork! How endearing was that?
I returned to my place in the hall, eyes avoiding contact with anyone, lips zipped. Then our college president was asked to come in and meet her before she escorted her to the stage. I had to take care of the press, so missed her speech.
A few months later, I’d accepted another job, thanks to an award-winning ad series design (toot-toot), and as I was packing to leave my job, I received a call from the president’s office requesting an “exit interview”. Cringing, I quickly finished packing my last box, and put it and Charlie’s plant in the car. He would be last, but not least. Then I impulsively perched Charlie’s crotch on my shoulder, and walking at a slight slant, myself, to balance him, went straight past her secretary into the president’s office, and announced, “This is my exit interview. Charlie and I have nothing to say to you.” Then I turned around, left the campus, and never looked back. No one has ever messed with me again about my choices of décor.
(I might have given her a gesture, but I’d never mastered that. I tried it once in a ridiculous traffic jam, exacerbated by a pedestrian who caused the breaking up gridlock to re-grid. I went to flip her “the bird” only to give her a well-timed thumbs-up!)
NANCY McBRIDE: Why write?
I am an innate storyteller. I love the joy of crafting my interpretation of a concept, be it through art or writing. I’ve been called a “whimsical realist”. Once expressed, I am relieved of some niggling, often non-defined, concept that has finally escaped through my fingers into some observable medium! Mine are simple stories, often skewed by my amusing take on life—stories colored with a twist of lime, line, texture and color, or words—all with teased-out detail—all means of storytelling, as is stopping before an idea is overdone, such as now, with this “writer’s statement”.
SONIA MARSH SAYS: You are one “Gutsy” and funny lady. I love your exit interview strategy. Also your artwork is so unique and whimsical.
“This is my exit interview. Charlie and I have nothing to say to you.”
This August we had FOUR OUTSTANDING “My Gutsy Story®” authors. Some of these stories will be included in our 3rd “My Gutsy Story®” Anthology, published in 2015. Thank you to all four authors. Your stories are all WINNERS.
1st Place, with 45% of the votes, goes toLeslie Johansen Nack, with, “I Wished Him Dead.”
SONIA MARSH SAYS:
Thank you for sharing your personal story and helping others who have been abused by their fathers. You made us wait to discover who you were talking about, which I found intriguing. I cannot wait to read your memoir and wish you all the best Leslie.
SONIA MARSH SAYS: Barbara, you look too young to be 79, and being active seems to be what makes you stay young. You are an inspiration to all of us. keep doing what you love. Perhaps you should join the Peace Corps next.
3rd Place goes to Gisela Hausmann, “My “Gutsy” Journey to the Dalai Lama’s Potala Palace-Lhasa Tibet”
Gisela Hausmann
SONIA MARSH SAYS: Thank you for taking us on a spiritual and historical journey through your Gutsy adventure to Tibet.
4th Place, goes to Maralys Wills, “Hang Gliding With My Son.”
SONIA MARSH SAYS: I know Maralys Wills from a writers’ group I attend, and can attest that she fits the “Gutsy” woman award in every way.
The main road flanked by small businesses and industry teemed with dark-skinned people getting ready for their weekend activities. Convenience stores displayed attractive arrangements of tropical fruit and produce on the sidewalk.
A barefooted paper boy waved copies of The Argus artfully dodging between densely moving traffic chanting, “Argie…Argie.” This was the brown people’s area, designated for them by the apartheid government. Even though Voortrekker Road was bustling, Michael and I were still conspicuous in his old Chrysler Valiant on our clandestine date. I noticed he kept switching his eyes from the road ahead to the rear-view mirror.
“I think someone’s tailing us,” he said calmly. He was not given to panic. I instinctively looked back and there he was, the hard-faced Gestapo-like policeman in his dark glasses and black leather jacket. We crawled along in the heavy traffic till I saw our chance to shake off our pursuer.
“Quick, turn down here to the right,” I directed, pointing my finger, being more familiar with the area than Michael. My voice was steady but my heart was beating wildly. He sped up and with tires screeching swung the car abruptly. Our stalker followed suit. Michael steered the car down a side road to the right, then left. The “Gestapo” man was still there, a few cars behind us. As we approached the railway crossing, the signal began to flash red and the booms to descend.
“Keep going! You can make it!” It was all I could do from keeping my heart jumping right out of my mouth, but externally I still remained calm. That’s the way I’ve always dealt with crises and when over, I’d fall apart. Michael’s next manoeuvre was worthy of the best Hollywood movie stuntman as we flew across the tracks. I turned around to see the barriers down and our pursuer blocked.
“Whew,” Michael blew out the air from his cheeks. That was his way – very low key.
We made our way along the back roads to our favourite secluded beach spot. The sun was just dipping below the horizon as we pulled into the deserted beachfront parking area. Table Mountain silhouetted in the distance struck its classic postcard pose across the shimmering Atlantic. But we were too shaken to appreciate the breath-taking vista before us. We sat in silence. We both knew that we were playing with fire. He was my first true love, but I knew that our “love affair” was doomed right from the beginning. I had wanted to call it off some months back, but when he begged me not to, I knew his feelings for me were genuine.
Several weeks later, we were parked again. This time under the dank, concrete underbelly of the spaghetti junction overpass. I had resigned myself to our relationship going nowhere. I saw no way out for our predicament.
“We can’t go on this way,” I said softly, my seemingly calm disposition belying the weight of anxiety pressing down on my chest. Michael had always treated me with utmost respect and dignity and I would handle the situation as such. After all, Mama had always taught me to conduct myself with poise, “like a lady.”
“What do you mean?” he replied, gazing sideways at me from behind the steering wheel. Concern was written all over his gentle round face just like the last time I had wanted to end our relationship.
“We have to face the inevitable, Michael. Things are just getting too dangerous. That man who followed us – I’m frightened. I can’t go on like this.
Let’s face the facts, we have no future together.” It seemed like an eternity before he spoke.
“You’re right, my darling. I know the strain you’ve been under and you’re right, we can’t continue this way. I’ve given the matter a lot of thought, and this is what I propose. I know I’ve procrastinated on a decision about our future which was remiss of me.” Michael took a deep breath.
“Jennifer,” he began, sounding exceedingly serious. He rarely called me Jennifer, always, Jen.
“I love you and want to spend the rest my life with you. Would you come away with me to England, where we can give ourselves a chance – in freedom? I know this is asking an enormous sacrifice of you, sweetheart, to give up your country, loved ones and friends.”
I couldn’t believe what he had just said, and not being one to think on my feet too swiftly, I was dumbstruck but my expression remained deadpan. What I really wanted to proclaim to the whole world was,
“Going to England? Yes! Oh yes!”
I couldn’t wait to get out of South Africa with its oppressive laws. I couldn’t wait to see the back of my dysfunctional family life. So at that moment, what I really wanted to do was to throw my arms around Michael’s neck and smother him with kisses. But even in my euphoric state, I was conscious that embracing him in broad daylight was far too risky.
“I love you too, and I too want to be with you for the rest of my life,” I said shyly.
“I can’t promise you a bed of roses, my darling. You don’t have to give a reply right away, but would you give what I’m putting forth some thought?”
Under normal circumstances anywhere else in the world, two people in love would pick out the best romantic settings Cape Town’s stunning scenery could afford.
The man would go on bended knee, produce an engagement ring and the air would be filled with jubilation. But these weren’t normal circumstances. In the eyes of the law, this was unequivocally an immoral proposal for which we could be imprisoned.
We had one of two choices: break off our relationship or leave the country. We chose the latter and have never looked back. Our journey took us all over the globe and we’re still trucking along as strongly as ever.
JENNIFER B. GRAHAMis a self-proclaimed global nomad who began life in South Africa, left when she was 19 and since then hasn’t looked back. She’s also lived in England, Canada, USA and New Zealand.
After earning her degree in communication/print journalism from the University of Mobile, Alabama, USA in 2001, she wrote freelance feature articles on topics such as food, health, travel and profiles for miscellaneous publications that include Destinations, Connections, The Press, The Citizen, The Fairhope Courier as well as Triond.com.
Jennifer is a member of the Writers’ Community of Durham Region. An Immoral Proposal is her first book. She lives with her husband near Toronto, Canada. Her five grandchildren split between New York and Regina keep her wandering.
SONIA MARSH SAYS: What a beautiful love story that truly portrays the emotions you felt at the time. I love the ending and am glad we connected online.
You have from now until September 10th to vote on the sidebar, (only one vote per person) and the winner will be announced on September 11th,and will select a prize from our generous sponsors.
Forgiving him was something I knew I needed to do. I couldn’t carry this weight around any longer. It was crushing me. But forgiving him was mile fifty and I was stuck on mile one. Hell, I was stuck on mile zero as I sat naked on the bathroom floor wrapped around the toilet seat waiting for the next convulsion. Mile one was a million miles away from me: publicly admitting I needed help, that I was slowly killing myself one line of cocaine, one drink, and one guy at a time, in an effort to avoid the sharp, stinging, dull, aching pain that pierced the very essence of me. I needed help. The clock read 6 am and I needed to get myself ready for work.
As I lay on the bathroom floor, I knew these days were numbered. I could feel it. Either I was going to die, or I had to get help. Something needed to change in a big way. It had to. He’d been dead for five years, so why was I still running? Why couldn’t I stay in one place? I must be destined to be disconnected. Why did I keep thinking those people over there, the ones who were laughing and happy, were the answer for me? Why did I keep comparing my insides to their outsides and conclude I would finally be happy if they would just be my friends?
All night long I couldn’t stop listening to Take it to the Limit by the Eagles over and over again as I snorted line after line, poured myself wine from a gallon jug, glass after glass, in a sad pathetic state, all alone, trying to be quiet so my roommate wouldn’t hear me up for the entire night again, peeing in the Mexican ceramic pitcher so I didn’t have to walk to the bathroom across the creaky floor, claiming this song as my mantra:
You know I’ve always been a dreamer
Spent my life running ‘round
And it’s so hard to change
Can’t seem to settle down
But the dreams I’ve seen lately
Keep on turning out and burning out
And turning out the same
So put me on a highway
And show me a sign
And take it to the limit one more time
I should just hit the road; leave him behind, leave everything behind. The only problem: he always comes with me like a tape on continuous loop, “You’re stupid, worth nothing. Nobody will ever hire you. You’re doomed to fail.” When I slept, I dreamt about the eyes. The eyes were also his, staring me down, undressing me and wooing me.
I had been running for five years, and now, as I got ready to call my little sister and beg for help, I felt like a complete and utter failure as a person at the ripe old age of twenty-four.
Why can’t I be still? Regret? Self-loathing? No, self-hate. I am worthless. I hate myself. Nobody will ever love me. He’s right. I played Wasted Time over and over again, thousands of times, lying with my head up to the speaker the night before, the wine glass in my hand, a mirror in front of me with my last half gram:
So you live from day to day,
And you dream about tomorrow
And the hours go by like minutes
And the shadows come to stay
So you take a little something
To make them go away.
I could have done so many things baby
If I could only stop my mind
From wondering what I left behind
And from worrying about this wasted time.
My life was a waste. Oh God, maybe I killed him. I wished him dead so many thousands of times. I screamed it, whispered it, yelled it, and got on my knees and prayed for it with complete earnestness. My prayers were finally answered. I did this. I am responsible.
Oh God, I killed my father.
Maybe when enough people want you dead, when say, one thousand people wish it, you die. Maybe it’s a rule. Maybe family members’ prayers for death hold more weight than just regular, everyday people who wish you dead. Monica and Karen wished him dead too, I’m sure of it. And Mom, of course she wished him dead. She’s been praying for his death for at least twenty-five years now. I’d only been praying for his death since I was thirteen. How does this work anyway? God was sick of hearing me whine and finally killed him. Am I that powerful?
My life was empty, like a room that lost its air out the windows incredibly fast. Stillness. Now it’s getting ready to draw in new air. That’s where I was in life: in between. Something was going to happen. Something big. But the room was empty, silent, dead. I hated myself. I don’t deserve to be happy. How could I have sunk so low? How did I become a cocaine addict? Dad would be so disappointed.
“Bjorn Erling Johansen” Leslie’s dad
No! He wasn’t really dead. He can’t be dead. He was faking it. Interpol and the CIA were behind all of this and they made him disappear for a while. Recovering stolen boats around the world was dangerous and he needed to hide. Yes, that must be it. Tomorrow he’ll come around the corner in his cut-offs, brown floppy hat, feet spread apart just enough to make a stance, like the King of Siam, with that all-knowing bearded face, arms across his big belly, his blue hawk-eyes drilling holes in my skin. He wasn’t really dead. He couldn’t be. He stalked me my entire life. He was larger than life. He was my entire life until I escaped from him at sixteen, ran away in order to save myself from his predatory eyes, hands and mouth.
But now I needed to dress for work. The nightmare could wait, like it always did, for me to return and stoke the endless fires again.
SONIA MARSH SAYS:
Thank you for sharing your personal story and helping others who have been abused by their fathers. You made us wait to discover who you were talking about, which I found intriguing. I cannot wait to read your memoir and wish you all the best Leslie.
LESLIE JOHANSEN NACK is currently working on her memoir. She is a graduate of UCLA with a B.A. degree in English Literature as well as being a member of the National Association of Memoir Writers and San Diego Writer’s Ink. She lives with her two children and husband of twenty-five years. You can visit Leslie at http://www.lesliejohansennack.com/
Please Join Leslie on the following social media platforms:
Maddie Margarita organizes a wonderful monthly event called: Lit Up: A Conversation with OC Writers and Readers.
“Another fun night at Lit Up! Thanks to Kean’s Coffee and to our talented authors Sonia MarshPJ Colando and Lance Charnes – Author for rocking the house! Three very different stories told by three very different writers. It was outstanding!” —Maddie Margarita
PJ Colando and Maddie Margarita
If you’d like to participate, Please read below. You will get to read in front of an audience and practice your “public speaking” skills. It’s a ton of fun.
“We are accepting fiction and memoir submissions up to 3,000 words for the upcoming months so if you’re a writer and are interested – submission guidelines will be on purefictionleague.org within the next few days!”
