Debra Shiveley Welch's Blog: Debra Shiveley Welch - For the Love of Writing

Whereto should I express
My inward heaviness?
No mirth can make me fain
Till that we meet again.

Henry VIII
From Where Should I Express

Bridget Littleton raised her face to the darkening sky. Stars sparkled and shone, accentuating the soft feel of the salt-scented air. Leaning against the rail of her father’s luxurious yacht, she gave herself up to the gentle listing of the ship, enjoying the sound of the slap of the waves against the yacht’s steel hull. To her left, a seagull flew – just at eye level, so close that she could hear it pull the wind beneath its snowy wings.

Intermittently, the maritime bird would glide and soundlessly ride the air currents, like a silent phantom above the blue-green waves of the sea. Flap, glide, dip and climb, her airborne companion followed the yacht for a short time, then soared off in the quest of an aquatic snack.

She’d brought an opened bottle of red wine to the aft deck of the yacht. There comfortable chairs and couches were placed for the ease of her father’s friends and clients. She still wasn’t sure as to how she was able to convince her father to let her use his yacht, but she was grateful. The Bridget, so named by her late mother, was a large, well-appointed vessel, its primary use being for the entertainment of her father’s business associates. Somehow she persuaded him to lend it.

Bridge preferred this part of the large, luxurious yacht, preferred to see where she had been rather than where she was going. Bridge had always felt that way, felt the pull of a past she couldn’t quite bring into focus.

Lifting a crystal goblet to her lips, she drank of the Bordeaux she preferred, savoring the taste of black cherry on her tongue. She held the wine there for a few seconds, savoring the taste, then let it slip down her throat, enjoying the chocolate finish of the wine.

The evening was a little cool, pleasantly so, and there was a slight wind carrying the scent of salt, a briny perfume she found enticing, seducing. She loved the smell of the sea. To her, it was a fragrance that called up phantoms of memories she could not quite grasp.

The wind began to pick up, and as her hair lifted in response to its urging, she shook her head, reveling in the feel of soft hair moving against her neck and shoulders. She delighted in the wind in her hair – enjoyed the pull of it, the slight tug as hair and wind became playmates, dancing around her neck and cheeks, then billowing upward creating a silky parachute of silver and gold. Leaning her head back, she again looked up into the vast dome of sky above her. She loved to be at sea. She felt as if someone were calling to her; the pull of the sea was as strong and as insistent as a lover.

Footsteps caused her to turn from the rail. “Ah, Liam, good evening.” She smiled in greeting as one of her guests approached her – a second bottle of wine in one hand and a shawl in the other.

“I was afraid that you may catch a chill, Bridget. The wind is picking up.”
“Please, call me Bridge. Thank you, Liam. That was kind.” Both turned to the rail and observed the wake of the boat as it made its progress.
“Aren’t we in the Bermuda Triangle?” Liam asked.
“Yes, we are. Not afraid are you?” Bridge teased.
“Nah – not really.” Liam chuckled but finally admitted, “Well, not too nervous anyway.
“Say, this is some yacht your dad has here. Who named it The Bridget?”
“My mother did when I was born.”
“I see. Not bad to have a whole luxury yacht named after you.”

They fell silent as both gave in to the beauty of the night and the softness of the breeze. Bridge lifted her glass for another sip, and Liam noticed a ring on the middle finger of her left hand as she raised the goblet to her lips. The kiss of the moon’s ethereal rays made the stones dance with light as if the ring were enchanted.
“Wow, Bridge, beautiful ring.”

“Thank you. It was my mother’s. By tradition, it is given to the eldest daughter of the eldest son. There is some kind of mystery to it. My ancestress through my mother, Bridget Lyttleton, supposedly owned it. That is why I’m named Bridget, by the way. My father’s name is John, and he is also a Littleton, but my parents are something like seventh cousins. Anyway Bridget’s father-in-law was named John, as was her husband, Sir John, actually, and my mother thought it would be nice to honor her, especially since the ring originated with her. So Bridget I am, but of course it got shortened to Bridge.”
“Well, it certainly is a beautiful ring. The gold is exquisite and, those are rubies, right?”
“Yes. Actually, it’s a Tudor Rose.”

For the second time that evening she held up her hand. The moonlight again caressed the stones and they seemed to come alive. Set in heavy gold, the center gem was a perfect four grain (equivalent to a karat) pearl surrounded by five slightly smaller rubies which shimmered in the moonlight. It was stunning, but Bridget measured its value by the previous owner, her mother, who wore it on the same finger until she died of cancer when Bridge was three.
“Tudor Rose?”
“Yes, it’s a rather long story, but basically, a rose bush bloomed with both red and white petals signifying the union of two royal houses. Don’t get me started or I’ll talk for hours about it. My hobby is Tudor history,” she laughed.
“Oh, this may interest you,” Bridge said. Lifting the shawl she now wore and showing him an unusual brooch which was pinned to her gown.
“Hey, that’s an interesting piece of jewelry you have there.”

Bridget glanced down at the pin and smiled.
“Yes. Actually, it has an amusing story behind it.
“Upon hearing that I was intending a cruise which necessitated my basically staying within the Bermuda Triangle, my friend Cynthia became frightened. It is superstitious nonsense, of course, but what can you do?
“So, she went to Tiffany’s and had it made for me as a good luck talisman.”
“What is it? I can’t quite see.”
“It’s a sixteenth-century ship. She knows of my love of Tudor history and this is a replica of one of Henry VIII's ships named the Mary Rose, after his favorite sister. Here, dangling from the figurehead is a diamond. Supposedly representing the North Star. Here on the back of the ship, on the quarter-deck, is a woman. I guess that’s supposed to be me.
“These scrolls along the water line are waves and represent that the ship is in a storm, but the woman will be safe because she has the North Star to guide her. She calls it the ‘Storm Tossed Ship’.

“Oh!” Bridge exclaimed as the yacht lurched. The wind, heretofore a gentle breeze, was picking up, and the sea was becoming choppy. The shawl which Liam brought to Bridge rose into the air. She made an attempt to catch it, slipped and almost fell into the sea, the goblet of wine crashing to the deck with a splintering sound of shattering glass as red wine coursed down the planks in blood red streams.

The wind increased and began to howl.

“Bridge!” Liam yelled. Grabbing her arm, he attempted to keep her from sliding over the rail as the yacht tossed and pitched as though it were deliberately trying to throw her overboard. Below her, Liam watched in horror as a whirlpool appeared starboard, and like a tornado, began to draw Bridge into its depths. He held on frantically, his eyes stretched wide as he looked into Bridge’s fear-filled face. Slowly her arm began to slip from his hands until the whirlpool claimed her and she was gone.

The storm quieted and the ship ceased its tossing. Crashing to his knees, Liam covered his face with his hands and cried out, “Bridge!”

Strands of hair dance about my face as a sweet, cooling breeze washes over me. I breathe in the scent of water, fish, ducks, geese, new mown grass and impending rain. It is a green day: green, and damp, and cool, and fragrant.

Fountains play music upon the water as white emir skim the surface like so many diminutive sharks, their dorsal fins jutting above the turquoise surface of the lake. A blue heron struts along the shore, searching for a quick aquatic snack while bullfrogs sing their baritone serenades.

The quacking of ducks blends with the honking of geese, merging into a soaring symbiotic symphony of sound. Birds twitter in the lacy, green canopy of leaves overhead, and the distant sound of a mower plays gently upon my ear.

I am in my temple; my deck is my pew; I sit and worship and am uplifted.

Gravel crunches. I turn my head. A neighbor walks by, lifting a friendly hand in greeting. I nod, smile, and return to my reverie.

Shadows shift; rain is imminent. I hear the distant sound of thunder. Soon the storm will roll in, and I will bear witness to the glory of Creator: Lightening! Rain! Thunder! My sister would say that the Thunder Beings are here. I say God is showing off.

There is a great noise to the West: honking and flapping, as 90-odd geese rise from the lake and in V-formed glory, mount, mount, mount toward the sky. They pass me at eye level. I am in awe! I cannot breathe!

Recently I read an email from a young mother of a one month old baby born with cleft lip and palate. Her tearful post recounted a scene in her local grocery store earlier that day. As I read her account of what had taken place, I remembered a similar incident, which happened to me and my son, and the anger began to build.

First, let me say that we mothers of children born with craniofacial anomalies are as proud and in love with our babies as any other mother. With today's sonograms and diagnostics, a mother often knows quite early in the pregnancy that her child will be born cleft affected. She has time during the pregnancy to mourn the loss of the child she envisioned, and to accept that the baby she will bear will not be "perfect." And so, as she labors to bring forth her child, like most mothers giving birth, she is mainly concerned with birthing a living, healthy baby.

To those of us who adopt, our image of our little one has changed many times with each attempt and failure at adoption until, finally, our baby is placed in our arms. When we first look into the face of our child, we see just that - our child. So it was with me when I first beheld my Christopher. To me, he was so beautiful, and I couldn't wait to show him off.

I remember the day I took my son to the grocery store to introduce him to my friends there. I had been shopping at this particular store for many years, and the employees and customers had gone through each adoption attempt and failure with me. I had received a call from the manager congratulating my husband and me on our good fortune, and was told that everyone at the store was anxious to finally meet the "Kroger Baby."

I placed my two-week old son in the protective seat attached to the grocery cart and wheeled Chris and cart through the doors. I did not push the cart down the isles – I strutted behind it. I was a mother! Look at what I have! We did it! Isn't he beautiful! Isn't he wonderful! Isn't he glorious! Look! Already you can see how smart he is! Isn't he the most gorgeous baby you've ever seen?
Soon we were surrounded by stock clerks, baggers, the managers and shoppers with whom I often talked to in the store. There were smiles, clapping of hands, tears. All exclaimed over their joy in our happiness and insisted on holding or kissing my new son. My triumph was complete.

Slowly the crowd began to disburse as people returned to their duties. One of the managers was just turning to leave when a voice broke the spell: "What'd you bring that thing out of the house for? Haven't you got more sense than to make decent folks look at that thing?"
I was frozen to the spot where I had stopped to face the speaker. Mouth open, eyes wide in disbelief, I stared at what appeared to be a normal, middle-aged woman whose eyes glared with loathing upon my beautiful son. There was a gasp, a stirring and, still speechless, I watched the manager and two clerks escort the woman out of the store with the admonition to never return.
The faithfulness of my friends helped, but the pain of coming face-to-face with such ignorance and hate cut deep. Immediately I realized that my son, my sweet baby, would suffer because of people like this woman, and my heart broke. Years later, I still felt the wound from that encounter and now, here before me, was the anguished account of a mother who had suffered from the same cruelty:

"He said, 'Why didn't you abort that monster! Get him out of here!' Why would someone say that about my baby? Why would he do that?"

The wound in my heart reopened and bled as the memory of the anger and hurt I had felt resurfaced. I could feel her pain, her misery, her grief. How could people be so blind to the beauty of a child? Couldn't they see the large, beautiful eyes, the tiny, star-like hands, the soft baby skin, the fine, delicate curls? What was wrong with them that they could not see the glory of a new life?

I sat back from my keyboard. The tears were now flowing as they had the day it happened to me and Chris. I searched for words of comfort. I desperately needed to ease her pain, to tell her it was all right. But how can you tell a mother that things will be fine when you know the world is full of such meanness, prejudice and hate? What words can change the hard fact that many people cannot see loveliness unless it conforms to society's definition of beauty?

I began to compose an answer to her post and felt my anger slowly dissolve into sadness and even pity: sadness for the people who allow fear and bigotry to rule their lives; pity for the man blind enough to be unable to see the beauty of a newborn life; pity for the woman who, years ago, displayed her own stupidity, and a fear so consuming, that she could attack an infant.
I wrote to the young mother and told her of these things. I knew that soon her pain and sorrow would be replaced with determination and courage: determination to teach her son that he is beautiful, that true beauty cannot be defined in clumsy, grammatical terms, and that ignorance is a sickness. And courage - the courage to face that ignorance and say, "You are wrong!" and try to educate the victims of that pernicious disease.

Finally, I shared with her the quote that I wrote and placed on the adoption site I ran which encouraged the adoption of children with craniofacial anomalies:

"The Perfect Child is the One in Your Arms."

She agreed.

I could throw down statistic after statistic regarding child abuse. The numbers are heartbreaking. But, I’m not going to do so. I am not a statistic. I have a name. I have a face. I have a soul. I am a veteran of child abuse.

At the time of my travail, most people refused to help. They didn’t want to get involved, and there was the silent command, “Thou shalt not interfere with a family.” As I grew, and broke away from my torment, I began to ask questions, many questions, heartrending questions, and came to the terrible conclusion that somehow, I was not worthy to be saved.

As a mother, I find myself perplexed as to how anyone could harm a child, God’s greatest gift. I wonder why my love was thrown away, and I think of my compatriots who are enduring abuse now. Children without a voice, longing for love and deeply, deeply ashamed of what is happening to them.

Yes, ashamed. Somehow we internalize that we are defective in some way: no one can love us; no one cares about us. We take the blows, the neglect and the abuse as our due – “It’s my fault. If I could just behave better, be prettier, smarter, faster, if I could, if I could…if I could.” Nothing you do is good enough, so it must be your fault.

I used to walk at night in the hopes of avoiding the violence that was the makeup of my home. Peering into windows as I walked past, I’d see families sitting around a table, laughing, talking; a father lifting his little girl high above him as she squealed with delight; father and son in a tickling match, with Mother watching and laughing, holding her sides, face glowing. A clean house, a warm house, a house full of laughter, all underscoring the fact that mine was a dark, dirty, vicious hell. It was my fault. It had to be my fault, my shame, and so the hopes and dreams within me slowly died.

Our lives, experiences, kindnesses and even cruelties are like a set of dominoes, stood on end, waiting for the catalyst that will begin the pattern they will form as one touches the other, touches the other, touches the other. So my life was touched by an incredible woman who showed me that I was worthy, that I was intelligent, that I could have a life beyond the torment that could be clean, healthy, and satisfying. Had it not been for Mother Aquinas, I think that I may have been lost. But she cared, she helped, she saved me: me – not a statistic, not a number – me. Years later I adopted a little boy born with cleft lip and palate and was able to give him the love and support I didn’t have. I’m not sure that I would be the mother I am today had it not been for Mother Aquinas, now Sister Helen Marie. She helped me break the circle of abuse by helping me. Helping me, the individual, the battle torn.

I am not a statistic. I have a name. I have a face. I have a soul. I am a veteran of child abuse.

The Night I Died

I came to you on a winter’s day,
Clean, my soul unmarred,
Wanting only to be nurtured,
To be held,
To be loved.

I grew as did my love for you:
My parents;
My protectors;
My shields,
Against danger.

How was I to know
That you were the ones
Whom I should fear?
Silence became
My best friend.

Curled into a ball
In a closet corner,
I wept,
I yearned,
I died.

Now I mourn
The death of me;
The death of the woman
I might have been –
She died.

Last night I opened a box. Taped, tied with string and lovingly put away, it lived in an attic for 68 years. On the lower right corner, “HIGBEE’S” was stamped. In the center of the lid, a date: “August 8, 1942.” Above it, big letters scrawled in pen announced, “Betty’s Wedding Dress.”

I slowly untied the yellowed string and picked away the now brittle masking tape. The box began to fall apart, its long vigil ended. The lid came off in pieces, revealing tissue paper. I lifted a paper-cocooned bundle and slowly, reverently, peeled the layers away. For the first time in over half a century, the dress gave pleasure to admiring eyes.

Now aged to the color of cream, I could still appreciate its beauty. A cap-sleeved lace bodice flowed into a floor length skirt of chiffon under which a crystal satin underskirt shimmered in golden lamplight. A band of lace near the waist of the A-line skirt echoed the bodice. I turned the dress around. The Sabrina or Boat neckline dipped demurely into a V-shaped bottom edge. Running from the V was a series of lace-covered buttons. The dress was stunningly simple and magnificently elegant.

How like my mother-in-law this dress is, I thought to myself. Mom was never ostentatious, and her simple way of dressing gave her a panache that few women achieve.

I held her dress carefully to me. In my mind’s eye, I saw her rush to the door of her mother’s house. I heard her cry of excitement as she accepted a brown, rectangular box, her giggle as she signed her name, Betty Harr, realizing that it was probably the last time she would sign her name so.

I could see her dressing for her wedding, twirling in front of her childhood mirror – the last time she would gaze into it as an unmarried woman.

I could almost hear the peal of an ancient organ as it rung out Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. I could see her smile as she placed the wedding ring upon the finger of her groom, feel her excitement as they left the church and began their lives as husband and wife.

Later, she would take her lovely gown and wrap it in tissue paper, smiling as she remembered her wedding, happy with the new life she was beginning with her husband.

The box would lie safely in an attic until, 68-years later, a devoted daughter-in-law would once again appreciate the beauty of the keepsake protected within its crumbling nest.

I carefully re wrapped the gown, pondering on the promise it held, thinking of the bride who wore it. Young and vibrant, her entire life before her, she could but imagine the happiness she would find with her groom, which would last for over 50 years. She would bear three sons, each successful in their chosen careers, happily married to loving women who give them daughters and sons to fill their hearts with joy and pride – happy lives, good productive lives. She could only envision the six grandchildren she would know and the great-grandchildren who awaited her in the future. She could but imagine the birthdays and christenings, the Thanksgivings and Christmases…the Mother’s Day celebrations. Mom would have a rich life, a good life, a useful life and at her passing, would be mourned completely, lovingly, leaving precious memories of her sojourn upon this earth.

I replaced the crumbled lid of the box, covering the gown until I could find a better receptacle for its priceless treasure. Perhaps, someday, my future daughter would wear this beautiful gown – this stunningly simply, magnificently elegant wedding dress of love fulfilled.

Published in USA Today


I sat for a minute, looking at the counselor who had requested the meeting, trying to decide if I had heard her correctly. I felt my left hand press against my pounding heart.

"Did you say, 'incapable of learning’?” I queried. "Yes," she responded, and proceeded to mouth paragraphs of jargon, which my confused brain was powerless to comprehend, let alone translate.

Stupefied, near panic, I fought for coherent thought. Slowly, however, a heat began to rise from my trip-hammering heart and to suffuse my face. Rage replaced terror.

"Incapable of learning?" I cried! "Incapable?" I repeated loudly. "How can you say that? How can you doom a child of three years of age to that kind of diagnosis? He taught himself the alphabet at two! How can you say that?" I raged.

I have to admit that there were times when I believed I was either unable to understand what was going on in my son's little head, or reluctant to admit that there was a problem, but this I knew: Chris could learn. He had indeed taught himself the alphabet. I had purchased a wooden alphabet puzzle in lower case letters. Christopher would bring them up to me, one-by-one, and I would say, for instance, "a - apple." It didn't take me long to realize that he was actually learning the alphabet.

Then, I purchased an additional puzzle with upper case letters. Sure enough, within a week, Chris was able to bring me the “a” or the “d” or the “m.” I would designate the big A or the little c and he was correct every time.

Of course, I realize that I was teaching him. But, the "game" was started by Chris, and it demonstrated a desire on his part to know, a wish to learn. This initiation on his part was indeed a form of self-teaching. Chris made the move. Chris wanted to know.

Incapable of learning! As my mother used to say, "bull hockey!" I thought of my friend Sue and her daughter Gretchen. Born with Williams Syndrome, Gretchen was an adorable, pixyish young woman with a sweetness of soul that made her a joy to know. At birth, Sue was told that Gretchen would never be able to dress, feed, or take care of herself. Sue had refused to believe it, and proceeded to patiently teach her daughter as she would any child. The end result was a charming young woman, who admittedly was mentally challenged, but was happy, had friends, married, and held down a full time job, far from the diagnosis her mother was given at the time of Gretchen's birth.

"Where are the people who know where the people are?"

Joan Plowright as Eva Krichinsky Avalon 1990
written and directed by Barry Levinson

I removed Chris from the school and entered him into a church-run pre-school. Chris began to show progress. It was in Pre-Kindergarten that an inability to focus caused his teachers to mention the possibility of Central Auditory Processing Disorder. CAPD affects the ability to process what you hear. I set up an appointment immediately to have him tested. The results were negative. Chris passed with flying colors.

Next came testing for Attention Deficit Disorder. Although diagnosed with ADD, none of the medications, covering everything from Adderall to Welbuterin, had any effect whatsoever.

More years passed and still we tried to understand Chris' particular issues. Aspberger's was mentioned as well as epilepsy. We didn't know where to turn until, finally, an educator suggested we take Chris to a neurological psychologist. Chris was diagnosed with ADD, Dysgraphia, Working Memory Deficit and Executive Function Deficit.

Dysgraphia is a neurological disorder, which interferes with the fine motor skills needed in the physical act of writing. For instance, when Chris puts pen or pencil to paper, some letters will "float": they will be too high or too low, and his penmanship is generally too large or too small, and very difficult to read. In addition, because it is so difficult, Chris cannot write his thoughts with as much fluidity as he can when dictating or typing.

He used to confuse some words, using "tell" instead of "ask," and "never" instead of "ever," and had trouble tying his shoes, but though hard work on his part, these issues have been resolved.

Math is problematic still because of difficulty in seeing the numbers in columns and graph paper is used to help his eyes see the columns of numbers.

Working Memory Deficit affects short-term memory, and Executive Function Deficit can manifest in problems with test taking.

At last, we had a diagnosis. It was not easy to accept, but coping strategies have been taught to help Chris learn, and that is the key word! Learn! Yes, he does learn!

Learning Differences - Not Learning Disabilities

You are a beautiful cookie jar, full of the most delectable cookies.

We just need to learn how to get the lid off to enjoy them! - from Son of My Soul - The Adoption of Christopher

Christopher has worked hard to overcome his learning differences - yes, differences. It isn't that he is not able to learn, he simply learns differently.

We have worked with our son by being active in his school work, at school and at home. When necessary, tutors are hired.

Chris plays guitar and is now the proud owner of an acoustic, six string electric and a bass guitar, a classical Gibson and a mandolin. He plays excellently after a mere eight months of lessons. Chris wants a harp guitar. I told him, “when our ship comes in, honey.”

Chris is an excellent swimmer, gardener, is becoming an accomplished cook and is working with me on a cookbook.

When Chris finished the ninth grade with glowing reports, not one teacher referenced focusing problems. A master speller and a budding essayist and poet, Chris has received excellent grades in his written assignments, which are typed. The following is from his teacher Megan Mosholder: "Chris, you are receiving the passing grade of Exceeds Expectations. Wow, Chris! Excellent job on this class! I am so glad you were able to figure out what works best for you because you have really excelled. I think that you did a great job on your sketchbook and I think the drawings you created in class were also really good. You have shown to me how well you can do when you put your mind to it. Oh, and you also did an excellent job on those reading assignments. Nice work, kid! I very much hope that I have the opportunity to work with you next year."

In addition, this was the year Chris’ second book, a memoir titled "Just Chris" was accepted by a traditional publishing house.

I think back and can't help but send out a thank you prayer to my friend Sue, whose example helped me to help my son. She taught me to listen to my heart, to believe in my son and his abilities, and to trust in his desire to learn and to grow.

Update 2014

Since first writing this article, my son has accomplished many things. He is now a sought after bass player and has been since age 16. He plays nine instruments. He graduated high school and is now attending Columbus State.

In 2011 Chris was hired as a sushi chef. Trained by a master, he is highly respected both for his artistry and his work ethic.

His memoir Just Chris, a companion book to my Son of My Soul - The Adoption of Christopher, has been a best seller on Amazon many times.

Update 2016

Chris now attends college majoring in photography. He is an A and B student. We recently received word that he is a finalist in a photography contest for college students.

Guess that tight ol’ lid on the cookie jar finally came off! Oh, and he can tie his shoes.


A small note: it was during first grade when we noticed that Chris had trouble reading. He was way behind most of his other classmates. I had volunteered to tutor the children and it soon became clear that there was an issue. Mark saved the day with an idea so simple, yet so genius, that I have to share. He turned on the captioning on the TV. That’s it. That’s all he did, and Chris was reading within a few weeks.


To learn more about Christopher and our family, take a look at my latest book, Swinging Bridge.

At my recent annual visit to the doctor, I found out that I had shrunk and entire inch. There I was, in my bare feet, standing as straight as I could beneath the intimidating arm of the height rod, when I hear the shocking announcement. Mouth open, eyes wide, I gazed confusedly at the nurse.

“I’ve shrunk an inch?” I croaked. “Yes,” she affirmed, bustling off to lead me to a severe, antiseptic cubicle where, clothed only in thin paper, I would await my turn with my doctor.

I sat gingerly atop the black pedestal-like piece of furniture provided in these types of environments. Like a Swiss army knife, you never knew what was going to pop out next: stirrups, sonogram equipment, exam lights, paper towel holders. I wondered if someday my doctor would pull out something better than the paper-towel-like robe that I kept clutching about my shivering form. Or maybe a coat! Now that would be nice. Or maybe it could turn into a rack and I could get my inch of height back.

My father always loved multi-purpose gadgets and I often speculated as to what he would think of one of these contraptions and what kind of alternate use he would come up with. Never into functional fixedness, he would have had a blast with this puppy.

I sat and contemplated my future. I’ve shrunk an inch, I thought, a whole inch! Terror seized me as I envisioned my future. The last time I was this height I was 13. Shivers ran down my spine.

Not too many years ago I wore spike heels to augment my diminutive stature. I gloried in reaching coffee cups, various Tupperware containers and coffee filters. But I hadn’t worn spike heels for years! I was afraid of falling off them and breaking a hip.

I’ve shrunk an inch! I was too short already. Now I’m closing in on my grandmother. Grandma Shiveley stood a whopping 4’9”. Remembering the story where she had to fetch a chair and climb on to it in order to box my father’s ears, I considered the ramifications. I mean, who was the dummy here, the person who thought their 21-year-old WWII veteran son would still be there after she dragged a chair across the room to cold cock him, or the son, who actually was?

It’s hopeless, I thought. Not only am I getting shorter, I’ve probably inherited some idiot tendencies as well!

I shivered with cold. My paper “robe” was barely covering the goose bumps that had formed all over my body. I’ve shrunk an inch! I thought wildly. And here I thought Chris was getting taller. I guess I’ll have to buy another growth chart, I reasoned. One going up for Chris, and one going down….

Various scenes ran through my trembling brain. Me, wearing an apron pinned to my house dress, wearing rolled up stockings and black “old lady” shoes, my gray hair sticking out of a bun resting upon my dowager hump.

Me, walking through the grocery store, my chin leading the way as I clutch the grocery cart like a walker.

I decided to calm down. Chuckling to myself, I decided that the doctor would probably come in, greet me as usual, and laugh at my terror in becoming the “incredible shrinking woman.”

There was a rap on the door. I called, “yes!” and she entered. “Oh my. I see you’ve shrunk an inch!”


I'm doomed!

Excerpt from Swinging Bridge

Swinging Bridge

Once upon a morning dreary,
As I pounded my keyboard, weary
Over some poem with which I was bored,
Slowly sipping, my coffee cooling,
Thinking to end a stanza unruly,
I dropped a participial upon the floor.
Oh, ‘tis nothing, sugar rushing,
‘Tis a mistake and nothing more.

Still I continued with my tapping,
Unceasingly typing, my work unraveling,
Using comma after comma evermore.
Now my brain whirling with my writing,
Adjectives dazzling, so inviting,
Tapping tapping at my keyboard,
My editor crying “Nevermore!”

The sun now moved upon my window,
Silhouetting a stately willow,
Creating in my memory stored,
A lust for wordiness galore.
Still I was tapping, my mind unscrambling,
Quelling spelling evermore.
Quoth my editor “Nevermore!”

Unmoved, I continued with my tapping,
Tapping until my fingers sore,
Thrilled me with their swift endeavors,
Using clichés evermore.
Faster, faster, typing now,
Sweat upon my fevered brow,
Ending sentences with prepositions evermore,
Quoth my editor, “Nevermore!”

And my editor, never flinching,
Sits at her computer convincing,
That I am doomed in grammar evermore.
As I tap tap out my sentences,
Semicolons and commas inventive,
My editor shall trust me nevermore.


Excerpt from Swinging Bridge

I want to encompass all the knowledge I can in my brief span.

Toby
What's span, Vin?
Judy

It's a bridge.

Mrs. Miniver 1942 William Wylar Director

Life reminds me of a swinging bridge. We begin on firm ground, and as our life progresses, we experience the sometimes thrilling, sometimes terrifying and sometimes tranquil passage to the other side – our future.

As we traverse the fragile path that is our own, personal swinging bridge, we find that some of the boards along our journey are strong and firm, while others are weak and fragile; still others may be broken or even missing.
The ropes that we grasp to steady our passage are sometimes strong, and at other times they are frayed, causing us to be more cautious in our journey and at times to walk alone.

On bright, sunny days, the journey is pleasant as we revel in the surrounding beauty in which our bridge is set, while on stormy days, the boards can be wet and slippery and our path precarious as the bridge swings to and fro, seeming to want to throw us from its fragile deck to raging waters and rocky cliffs below. We hang on with all of our might to the ropes and cables which suspend our bridge, and strive to keep our footing and reach our destination: the end of the bridge, a beacon which calls us forward to safety.

This is the story of my swinging bridge, summed up in a collection of poems, essays, writing exercises some of you may recognize, short stories and excerpts from my memoir "Son of My Soul – The Adoption of Christopher." Some have been fictionalized, but are taken from actual events of my life as I walk to the end of the bridge – to my destiny.

Lila Pilamaya – with many thanks.

"Swinging Bridge" can be found on Amazon and other online and brick and mortar stores.

Let’s start with the second question: why is Anne Boleyn a popular icon today?

I have been studying this fascinating family for 48 years and have never tired of the subject. I believe that what strikes us in today’s world is the fact that, what happened in Henry’s lifetime was, in fact, a family dynamic gone horribly wrong due, in great part, to the head injury Henry suffered in January of 1536. Anne, the key figure in this tragic time in history, fell victim to someone she trusted – her husband.

Throughout time, spouses have had to deal with the prospect of losing their mates through death, infidelity, or a simple case of disenchantment. Anne dealt with all three. Some would argue that she got what she deserved, but Henrician politics was an entity unto itself, and it fueled a lot of what was to happen. So here Anne was, a young woman, and the king wanted her. Are any of us sure that we wouldn’t jump at the chance to become queen, or first lady, or a celebrity? Anne was forbidden to marry a man she truly loved, faced with no marital prospects, and the king wanted her. Add to that the fact that her father Sir Thomas Boleyn and her uncle the Duke of Norfolk were pressuring her to nab the king as a husband, not a lover, in order to further their own agendas and gain power, money and titles through Henry. Enter the “Home Wrecker.” So Anne dances her way through time, happy at first, gives birth, miscarries at least twice, takes care of her husband, trusts him, and then out of the blue comes the sword.

We have here a woman who is considered to be glamorous, witty and determined, who stole one woman’s husband and then lost him to another woman. This isn’t your neighbor next door, this is a queen who was the first queen to be beheaded. Add to that Henry’s proclivity to marry – often, and you have yourself a somewhat fairy tale-like story.

I believe that the final answer to the question is simply one of celebrity. Her story got out there and made her famous. We remember few queens, or kings for that matter, let alone study them and display the kind of obsession we exhibit toward, say Angelina Jolie, today. She is a 16th century celeb, and like other iconic celebrities, we will continue to be enthralled with her story.

Who was the real Anne Boleyn?

I can only conjecture, but here are the conclusions I have come to over the years:

Anne entered the court at a pivotal time in Henry’s life. It was 1522 and Henry had been married to Catherine of Aragon for 13 years. They had only one living daughter, and Henry’s dream of having a son seemed to be unattainable. Henry was only 31, but Catherine was 37 and had not become pregnant for four years. He wasn’t weary of her – yet, but after her final miscarriage in 1518, and with no subsequent pregnancies, Henry was ripe for seduction. As Anne became more prominent in court, he began to watch her. She was elegant, she was young and she was attractive. She’d lived in the court of Louis XII as attendant to Henry’s sister Mary during her short reign as queen of France. When the king died, Mary returned to England, but Anne stayed behind to attend Claude, the new queen. She remained another six or seven years and acquired what the French call je ne c'est quoi: that special something that makes a person stand out. She was loaded to the eyebrows with charisma, and she knew it. Anne was also a gifted musician, poet and lyricist. She, a simple knight’s daughter, captured the court and Henry wanted her. What person wouldn’t feel the power laid before their feet?

I don’t think that Henry initially thought of marriage. He wanted her as a mistress. It wasn’t until the years passed, the queen aged and did not conceive again and doctors told Henry, sometime around 1525, that Catherine was unlikely to conceive again, that Henry began to think of marriage. Many feel that Anne was driven by pure ambition, but I believe it to be more than that. First of all was the pressure brought to bear upon her from her father and uncle. Even a woman as strong as Anne Boleyn would feel coerced into obeying. Remember, this was the 1500s. Also keep in mind that, at this time, Henry was considered the most handsome prince in Christendom. He was lean, with red gold hair, blue eyes and a physique that made women swoon. He was a rock star. Anne fell deeply in love.

We get back to Henrician politics at this point. Revolution was in the air as far as religion was concerned, and Henry, who was used to always having his way, was enraged when Pope Clement VII wouldn’t do his bidding and grant him an anullment from Catherine. The split occurs and Henry breaks from the Catholic church, establishes the Church of England, and parliament reinstates his title of Defender of the Faith (of the Church of England), given him by Pope Leo X in 1521 for his treatise defending Catholicism against the new Protestant faith, and rescinded by Pope Paul III following Henry's break with the "true" church. By now Anne, very much in love with Henry, was moving forward on the belief, which I believe was with the aid of her father and uncle, that Catherine was not Henry’s legal wife. Ann gets pregnant. Henry, by his own decree, head of the church he has established, grants himself a divorce, and she and Henry wed on January 25, 1533.

There are reports that Henry and Anne often fought, but there are also reports of their devotion to each other, of their “making merry,” dancing and even holding hands. They were a good match as far as compatibility goes: both accomplished musicians, both poets and lyricists, both ambitious and both considered very attractive. This, however, did not stop Henry’s advisors from putting the pressure on. When Anne gave birth to a girl, and subsequently miscarried at least twice, the final one recognized as a boy, Henry's advisors began to nag and press the king into having a son. They needed a son for the succession; Henry must divorce Anne and give England a male heir. When the king hesitated, out of his still active love for Anne, they began to conspire. At this point I believe that the Seymours were very much active in this plotting. With Anne out of the way, Jane, who the king had been flirting with, could be queen and her family would raise to new heights. Then came Henry’s accident and everything changed.

We hear reports of professional athletes sustaining brain injury and going through a complete personality change, often becoming abusive. I believe that this is what happened to Henry and Anne. Thomas Cromwell, Henry's Chief Minister, began to plot against his one time protege, and playing on Henry's intense paranoia, another side effect from the head injury, Cromwell built a case, which even then people recognized as extremely weak, if not false, against Anne. When the trumped up charges were presented to Henry, his damaged brain prevented him from making rational decisions, and he acted. Anne would die within a few weeks.

Anne: can you imagine what she must have felt? At first disbelief, probably followed by confusion, and then a period of “Oh, he doesn’t mean to do this. He’s trying to teach me some kind of a lesson.” When she finally realized that she was going to die, she had to have been devastated. Keep in mind that she was a mother as well, and had to face the fact that she would leave a three-year-old daughter behind. What would happen to Elizabeth? She must have been crazy with worry.

Finally, I believe that Anne came to court excited by the opportunity for a new life. She found herself a much sought after addition to the scene, and was probably somewhat drunk with her success. Reports say that she truly loved Henry Percy and was devastated when her engagement to him was annulled. She was young, in love, and her dreams of a happy life with Henry Percy were smashed. Following this bitter disappointment was the attentions of none other than the king. It had to be a heady feeling to know that the king was courting her, and it must have assuaged her disappointment and hurt over the broken engagement. Acting out of obedience to her father and uncle at first, ultimately she fell in love, and eventually married that love, after a tumultuous affair in which all of Europe watched and waited. Sounds a bit like the Kardashians, doesn’t it?

A woman in love; an ambitious woman, whose love just happened to be the most powerful man in England. Her rock star, her celebrity, and he wanted her. They married, had a family, and she lost that family. Indeed, like many women who are victims of partner abuse, because this is what it was in my opinion, she lost her life, leaving her baby behind.

Reports say that, even as she stood on the scaffold deck, her eyes searched the crowd. Those who were with her in those last moments reported that she never believed the king would go through with it. Not her Henry. In those final moments, she scanned the crowd for her husband or his emissary, convinced that he would not do this to her.

I’m glad it was quick.

To find out how I believe it really happened, read "Circle of Time," available on Amazon and soon to be in audio.