Riders in a Stormy Sky

Today seems packed with memories and stories.

As I reflect back over recent years, especially the last 75, battle scenes drift across the landscape.

I often feel like I’ve come through several wars and as I age, the battle scars heal slowly.

I’ve stood against some formidable enemies and faced death several times.

As a Leo, born in the year of the Ox, I arrived those many days ago destined for battle.

There may have been real enemies hiding on the periphery of my consciousness and yet, it was those nearest and dearest to me who stabbed me repeatedly.

In my heart of hearts I understood that though they sometimes appeared to be the enemy, they actually loved me very much. Their actions, arguably destructive, reflected a warped sense of wanting only the best for me.

I was born to a woman who existed in deep grief.

Her enemy was Death and that villain had crashed into her world 2 months before I was born.

This formidable foe stole her beloved mother who’d fought somewhat valiantly against a broken heart. More precisely her heart had a hole that leaked out life energy. In medical terms she had a congenital heart condition. Born in 1902, there were few options for fixing this condition.

My grandmother compounded her defect by becoming a chain smoker. By 1949, her life hung by a thin thread. She did her best to follow doctors orders but her nicotine stained fingers told a story of resistance.

She had gone to stay with a favourite older brother in a big city with heart surgeons pioneering recent heart research. As she visited in the kitchen, she held the forbidden drug by a hairpin in an attempt to prevent yellow giveaway stains. Coffee in one hand, tobacco in the other, her heart stopped. She fell dead to the floor, her favourite sister in law, a nurse, desperately tried to bring her back to life. It didn’t work.

My mother, back on the home farm, received the news. She was an only child and 7 months pregnant with me. My arrival was a much anticipated event. As she heard the words that announced her mother’s tragedy, she also dropped to the floor.

Thankfully my grandfather and father were there to pick her up. They carried her into the bedroom where she spent the next 2 months desperately trying not to lose me.

My memory of this event is rather visceral and yet I still carry the scars of my mother’s fight to cling to life and bring me into the world. I longed to stay in that warm environment but knew it was no longer safe. 

There are many who would scoff at me recalling Johnny Cash singing “Ghost Riders in the Sky”, after all I was very young. 

What I know for sure is that I was always afraid of cows. I especially kept an alert eye for ones with red eyes snorting out fire as they thundered by.

I was in my twenties when Jim Morrison warned us about serial killers and other dangerous riders on the storm.

I was never sure which I feared more…mad, red eyed cows, or serial killers traveling around looking for victims.

In my worst dreams, the serial killers were riding those scary cows across a thunderous black sky.

Yes, fear came early for me.

It might sound like I’d been a fearful child.

To the contrary, I was actually ‘cautiously’ daring. 

My fears of those mad cows and killers looking for bones like mad dogs kept me on high alert and I was always ready to grab a sword and rise to the defense of the helpless innocents roaming aimlessly.

There were many years when I chose to see my father as the enemy.

Once, in my 50's, I was working on a lovely old pine cabinet. It was well weathered and like me, had seen better days. I’d decided to rejuvenate it and use it for storage.

I had not worked with wood for several years. I possessed enough tools to do the job but lacked a certain self confidence in my ability to use them without cutting off a body part.

Fear lurked close to the surface on that one!

As a young girl, I’d been somewhat restricted in what tools I was allowed to use.

Though given free reign with kitchen ware, even some of the more lethal weapons such as electric mixers, sharp knives and other utensils capable of inflicting fairly severe damage, I was forbidden to go into my father’s tool shed. I was certainly not allowed to touch or, God forbid, use any of them.

My father, a rather sexist male of that generation where patriarchy ruled supreme, drew a firm line. If you had a penis, you had access to the tools in his shed. If not, hands off.

He sadly missed his chance, for his male progeny were not in the least interested in working with him, using hammers, saws, screw drivers and other such implements.

I however longed to join him in his work. I itched to get my hands on equipment which I was sternly reminded, “were NOT toys and not suitable occupations for girls to pursue.”

If I pushed him on this subject, I would be firmly sent into the house to help my mother. 

I eventually overcame my resentments towards my dad. In that release I clearly saw that he was not the enemy.

He was a supreme protector and taught me much about how to protect those in my care.

My mother required a little more work.

She had an IMMENSE fat phobia (pun intended). Her fear of my becoming fat ran deep. In that fear she cultivated a lifetime struggle to manage my body weight.

Her attempts to control my weight, the food I ate and the shape of my body set the stage for many battles. 

I would eventually become exhausted and wave the white flag of defeat. It was easier to go along with her diet regimes than it was to resist.

I remember a dream where she and I were standing on a rooftop watching flocks of birds circling gracefully above.

I casually remarked how wonderful it would be to join them. My mother snorted as she ran her eyes over my morbidly obese carcass.

I of course had to test her further.

In my dream, I knew that I secretly possessed the ability to fly. With a calm assurance, I decided to swoop off the roof and join the birds overhead.

My mother was…shocked. 

I of course could not resist a parting shot as I prepared to head out on an adventure with my newfound friends. As I circled high above her, I shouted out, “I bet you didn’t think a fat woman could fly so well!” 

She was not impressed.

The years wore on, we eventually grew weary of the battle and made peace with one another.

There are moments when I’d love to fly back to a time where I could just sit beside my mom, hold her hand and put my head on her shoulder.

As I contemplated that dream about putting my head on my mother’s shoulder an old song began playing in my brain. I downloaded Paul Anka singing, “put your head on my shoulder “. As I was listening, a rather vivid visual explosion occurred, catapulting me back into ancient history.

It is 1965. I’m 16 and in grade 11.

Gym classes were segregated by gender.

Our two teachers got together and decided the classes should have a dance.

The teachers paired us all up and explained the physical exercise component of this experiment.

I looked longingly at the tall skinny nerdy guy across the room, crossing my fingers that he would be who I got hooked up with.

No such luck! I was not surprised when presented with my designated partner.

He was one of the “bad boys”.

His slicked back, greasy black hair reeked of brylcreem. He drove a motorcycle which I believe was a compensation for his short…stature.

I don’t think he was particularly thrilled with being forced into our dancing arrangement. I’m guessing he’d rather have been out riding up a storm.

He did however have a gleam in his eye as he advanced to where I was reluctantly waiting.

As the music started, he did the manly thing and began guiding me into a waltz.

As soon as the teacher’s attention was drawn across the gymnasium, he firmly pulled me close. Being several inches shorter than me, his head fell NOT on my shoulder.

Until the teachers made the circuit checking for protocol, my partner's head rested intimately on my bosom!

I was horrified when he’d gaze longingly up into my eyes and then lower his nose into my cleavage.

To this day I’m not sure why I didn’t slap him across the face and storm out of the gym!

The years have passed and so have many of my ghost riding companions. All of my enemies have disappeared and with some sadness I catch glimmers of one remaining adversary. Her face shimmers before me occasionally when I look in a mirror.

She disappears quickly as Joni Mitchell’s words of wisdom echo through my thoughts, “I've looked at life from both sides now, from win and lose, and still somehow, it's life's illusions I recall.”

I close my eyes, take a deep breath as peace and serenity descend into my being.

‘Tis with gratitude that I understand, “I really don't know life at all!”

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