Motorola

I worked at Motorola for four years. I liked the job and was one of 300 new employees that started on the day the facility officially opened. I had just moved to Arlington with GW in fall of 2002 and my job at Motorola has finally begun after many weeks of waiting for a start date. I think they had some inventory issues that set back the opening date for the new facility just North of Fort Worth. It was a huge undertaking to move an entire warehouse from Chicago to Texas. The plan was to get Fort Worth up and running, and as our warehouse ramped up production over the next few months Chicago production geared down. It would eventually close after about a year of transition. The facility in Fort Worth would assume the role of main production for all cell phone kits. The parts would be manufactured in other places and shipped into Fort Worth. Then warehoused and packed into the kits that are sold to retailers. Each kit was inspected to verify contents, serial numbers and ensure it meet customer standards. Standard items in each kit included the phone, battery, manual, charger, and back cover. All were packed in to glossy retail boxes that all had the large Motorola symbol on them. Rule number one at Motorola was never cover part of the symbol. The company took pride in symbols and brand name. My new job role was to pick and process orders for bulk distribution to the retailers. I did not have to work on the pack lines. That was a good thing. Standing in one place was not easy and hard on your back. Our smaller group ran only one shift and shipped bulk items such as phone chargers to stores like Best Buy and Walmart. I had no idea why Walmart would want 1000 car changers, but we just filled the order. I learned fast and took a great interest in meeting the expectations of our retailers. Ann was the lead for our group. She was from Chicago and was in Texas for three months to train new employees and help the new distribution center take off. She was an older white woman with long blonde hair. She spoke with a northern accent. She was friendly and she and I had a friendship right away. She was a great trainer. The very first day, she took a group of 15 new people, explained the process and defined goals. She put us to work and we had a fairly productive first day. It was impressive. I could see why she had been with the company for 20 years and worked her way up to lead. She would answer questions in a way that was understandable. Ann led our group for a few months. Then when it was time return back to Chicago, she talked to me in private. She shared with me that the lead job was going to be passed to someone in our work group. Ann was in Texas only temporally. She was going to suggest me. I was happily surprised. She recognized my ability to learn and had observed good work habits that could be developed in to a solid Group lead. She made her recommendation and the next week I started one-on-one training with Ann. I would become the Group lead for the next two years at Motorola. I had 15 people working for me and was responsible for training, daily work assignments and meeting production goals set our supervisor. I also learned a lot about warehouse logistics, and inventory management. These are two skills that have helped me in my career path. I was promoted to customer order expeditor in for the entire warehouse while at Motorola. The position had come open I and I applied. I did not get it. I was so crushed that I was ready to walk. But I chose to stay because I needed to keep my benefits. The woman they gave the job to, was a total bitch. And they felt that he would be more demanding and controlling when it came to pushing order through the warehouse. Actually it just made everyone hate her. My approach to working in the warehouse was one of cooperation, and team work, not by being an overbearing bitch. “The bitch” eventually got fired for talking down to the wrong people. She was too abrasive to be affective. So after a few months the job came open again. I did not apply. Why would I want a job working for the same manager who didn’t want me before? I knew they had made a mistake with the other woman. But they would never admit it. I was approached by another manager. Apparently he was replacing the existing and he wanted me to come work for him one he was officially in the leadership role. This was great news, I could finally work for someone who really wanted me and appreciated my skills. I applied and went to work as the new Expeditor for the warehouse. My new job was tracking orders, contacting customers, and serving a liaison between operations team and the retail customer. Finally I had what I wanted, advancement. I used my considerable operations knowledge to my advantage and was able to address issue directly with the inventory teams, because I knew them by name. I liked my new role at Motorola. I tried very hard and it paid off. But sadly the company had some setbacks. They were always in competition with Nokia and Apple was emerging as a lead in phone technology. Blackberry was always right in the middle. The last big hit was the Motorola Razr phone, but it could not complete with the apple products which hit the market in 2007. So in 2008, I was laid off by Motorola. The operations of the facility would be taken over by a third party company who felt they could undercut over head by using all temp workers. Motorola executives went for it and left their employees without jobs. I hear they got bonuses for saving the company money with this new scheme. So I finished out my term and left the company with a small severance based on my service time. It really was not much. I felt like a slap in the face from the company where I worked for four years. I turned in my badge on my last day, signed my paperwork in HR and never looked back.

Rascal's

I used to do shows in a bar called Rascal’s. I was much younger then. Many people referred to it as “little Rascals” in Wichita Falls. It was the only bar in town and the first one I had ever step foot in. I was 19 and a freshman in college. The social group on campus has arranged for a college night. The arrangement had been made with Rick and Carlos the owners. They were partners and opened this bar on Indiana Street. I was told it was once a restaurant. It had parquet wood floors and black walls. There was a front entrance and a back entrance that was used on the week nights. It was a good bar set up with a large front dance floor and back bar/lounge area. There was a game room in the middle of this down town building. There was a paved parking lot on the side of the building so a queen would not mess up her shoes on gravel or mud. I remember the night we all went to college night. We had met at MAC’s house. She was a lesbian who was the head of our student lead group. M.A.C. was her initials so every one called her Mac. She looked like a short man with boyish features and a mullet under her rainbow pride ball cap. She was out and proud. She was instrumental in allowing us new kids to be out and proud too. Sometimes the best way to lead is by example. MAC kicked down the closet door and said “follow me I know the way”. We all carpooled to the bar. I had only seen the outside, but had never actually been inside. The group arrived and made our way to the front entrance. We were met inside by a man in a wheel chair. I later found out his name was “Blue”. He was the door man who checked ID’s and took money. He had a white beard and wore a white shirt, black leather vest and a black cowboy hat. He seemed odd but spoke with a soft friendly voice. He sent someone to get the owner, when we walked in. Our group was very young and innocent looking. It was a dead giveaway that we were under age. The owner, Rick, made is way to the front. He advised “Blue” the door man, to give us all wrist bands. They knew we were coming and wanted to be sure that no one under age would be served alcohol. If anyone was caught, our group would not be welcome again and I am sure MAC would have kicked our ass. We finally made our way to a large party table that was set up on the corner of the dance floor. I admit it was very uncomfortable. Regular patrons just stared at us like we were on a field trip. I looked around a saw people laughing and sipping drinks. The music was provided by the DJ, Carlos. He was the other owner. From his perch in the DJ booth, he could keep an eye on the place and jump down to break up a fight when necessary. He played a mix of hip hop, pop and country. After all it was the only bar in town and catered to a diverse clientele. The hip hop people would quickly leave the floor when a two-step country song came on. Most of us college students sip our non-alcoholic sodas and watched people dance. We only ventured a few times to visit the restroom. I just sat there with my jacket in my lap while male couples spun around the floor in pairs I had never seen before. It was the first time I had ever seen men dancing together. I had never danced with a man or held a man’s hand. I had never thought I would. Secretly, I wanted to know what that would be like, but it would be a few more years before I would have anyone ask me. I was a virgin in several ways. I had no sexual experience, had never been to a bar, had never drank a beer and never danced with a man. I was shy and hardly spoke, unless directly spoken too. I was observing a whole new world that I knew nothing about. We ended our night at 1 am and I drove back to the dorms on campus. I didn’t I sleep much. I could not help but reflect on the people I had seen at Rascal’s. Who were they? What kind of people were they? Do they have real lives? Are they out? Are they accepted? I had a million questions and no one to talk with about my experience. Our college night was just a one-time adventure, but eventually I would return. Within a year, I had met my cousin’s friends who were dressing in drag. I soon started too and realized that being in drag was a great disguise for going to the gay bar. I was just one of the girls. Eventually I became a regular contestant in the open talent night shows at Rascals. They made us get dressed in the bar office. It was little more than a big closet. I would try to mimic the performances of the other girls. I tried to move like they did. I wanted be emotional like they did. I also tried to gesture in a way that would win the audiences approval. I didn’t always win. It was good practice and allowed me to learn. We were raw but it was fun. I probably looked like a boy in a dress, but really, that is what I was. For the first year I didn’t even have a bra. I had two Nerf foam ball stuffed in to a tube top under my clothes. We would sometimes go around the corner to the straight bar. We only went in groups. We were pushing our limits of what would be tolerated. No one would bother a herd of drag queens as long as you didn’t try to use the bathroom. We were not crazy, after all. We would stand and sip our cocktails and talk. Then leave without making any waves. Sometimes a straight boy would smile. But that was as far as it went. Sometimes we would lie and say we were from Dallas when actually we were from Rascal’s around the corner. My drag mother pictures of me from back then and maybe one day I will share them. The first night a Rascal’s changed my life and made me wonder what the world could be if I was gay and did drag.

stop and smell the tomatoes

Tomatoes have a distinct smell when you grow them. It’s an earthy, plant smell. And when I smell tomatoes still on the vine in the produce aisle, I remember growing them as a child. I guess certain smells can bring back memories of places we have been, or things we remember. I was four years old. My parents lived on Ave B in a large two story house. We always referred to it as the Old House. It was old but cheap and we called it home. I wish this house still existed, so I could go back and see it. In my mind it was large, with cracked windows and yellow peeling paint. The only flowers that grew were the honeysuckle along the side of the house and a spray of purple iris at the corner of the house. In the spring the bees loved exploring the blossoms. We had space beside the house that was grass with a few small bushes. But one spring my mother was motivated to plant a garden there. It was the sunny side of the house too. Plants could get plenty of the warm Texas sun. I don’t know the exact reason, but my mother just started digging and turning the soil. She told me to follow behind and break up the clumps of grass and release the dirt from their roots. The dirt would fall and the grass would be raked up and disposed in the far corner of the lot. We did not have a motorized gas tiller, so the digging and clearing was done with a shovel and a hoe. She would purchase seeds and seedlings at the feed store in town. It was not a big plot, but it would be enough space to grow some okra, squash, cucumbers and tomatoes. We planted the seeds and placed the tomato seedlings in rows. My mom would cut the bottom of old milk jugs to use to cover the plants and help hold in the warmth around the plant at night. I remember sitting on a bucket while watching my mom water and weed her little garden. I would walk in the warm wet dirt and then have to rinse my feet with the hose before going back inside the house. The plant needs sunshine and water, but began to show visible growth. Eventually wire cages would be used to help support the growing tomato plants. The smell of tomatoes plants would soon be infused with the smell of okra and squash. Once the tomatoes starting to grow, my mother would pick them and let them ripen on the window sill. I remember red natural luster of the fruit. She even had some extras to share with friends and neighbors. It was a lesson in life that if you can turn a small plot of nothing into a home garden I think of that small garden every time I see vegetables in the grocery store. I always stop to smell the tomatoes.

wash away the gray

I was talking with Scott the other day about my mom. She would have liked him I have no doubt. But sadly they will never meet because she died more than ten years ago. I still talk about her and see a lot of my own characteristics directly related to the type of person my mother was. I am my mother’s child. I also see similarities in my sisters as well. One of the last true memories I have of my mother happened when she was undergoing dialysis treatment. She had been in and out of the hospital for months and going to dialysis three times a week. It was a treatment that would prolong her life, but could not save it. The hospital had put a port in her neck that looked like tubes coming out. Each one capped and taped to keep them clean. This would allow them to clean her blood when she was hooked to the dialysis machine. For dialysis, a catheter is inserted into a large vein in either the neck or chest. A catheter is usually a short-term option; however, in some cases a catheter is used as a permanent access. With most dialysis catheters, a cuff is placed under the skin to help hold the catheter in place. Catheters have a greater tendency to become infected than the other access types because the device is both inside and outside of the body. A catheter must always be kept clean and dry. Even getting dressed was a challenge so as not to disturb the catheter at the exit site. Each session would last for hours and my mom had a special bag with a blanket, snacks and sometimes books or magazines to read while she was hooked to life sustaining machine. I remember taking her to treatment when I was in town and seeing firsthand the suffering of my mother and others like her. I was affected by the ill people I saw there. Each one had their own struggles. It was difficult to see my mother so dependent. My mother had a habit of talking to strangers. I remember her making friends at the center and she trying to comfort others with her smile and friendly conversation. My mother hated having those ports in her neck. It looked awful and was easily noticed by others. She would try to hide them with her hair or sometimes a scarf. My mother had them capped and taped to her neck at all times. She could not shower completely and had to wash her hair with a damp rag every day. The doctor advised her not to get the ports wet. The opening in the skin was held closed with sutures and tape. The doctor had tried to put a fistula into her arm as a more permanent means of accessing her blood for dialysis. A fistula used for hemodialysis is a direct connection of an artery to a vein. Once the fistula is created it is a natural part of the body. This is the preferred type of access because once the fistula properly matures and gets bigger and stronger. After the fistula is surgically created, it can take weeks to months before the fistula matures, it is ready to be used. My mother had one, but it never matured and left her arm virtually useless and drawn up. She lost all strength in it and could not even pick up a glass to drink. It was tough to see my mother turning into an old lady right in front of my eyes. Luckily one of my sisters was there to provide assistance to my mother on a daily basis. I came to visit her for the weekend. I had driven from Dallas back to Wichita Falls. My mother lived outside of the city in a small community called Kamay. She had moved there when she and my Dad separated. He remained in Electra. My mom was great at pretending she was not sick, even though I could tell she was faking happy. She still wanted to cook for me when I visited, and tried to do lighthouse work even though she was physically limited. My goal was to enjoy time with her, and I didn’t care if she played hostess. I was not a guest. I love her cooking, but that was not my reason for coming to visit. We sat at the kitchen table to talk. She updated me about her treatment and we did a quick run down of the local gossip. I think she missed me not being there all the time, moving to Dallas just a few months before she got sick really made her miss me. To be honest, it tore me up inside, not being closer to her too. I noticed the white in her hair had grown out round her temples. I was used to seeing her hair colored in a brownish red color. Even though like me, her natural color was dark brown. She told that it made her feel old to look in the mirror at gray hair. She couldn’t wash it nor color it. I knew exactly what to do. I pulled the hair color from the bathroom cabinet, and mixed up a batch. Put it on would be the easy part, but rising it out might be more challenging. I put on gloves and told my mother to put on an old shirt and grab the old towels. I applied the color cream all over her head and we waited for it to set. When it was time to wash it out, we wrapped two towels around her neck to guard the ports and keep them dry. We placed pillows on the floor in front of the tub. My mother kneeled down over the tub. I used a large plastic cup to dip warm water over her head to rinse the color down the drain. Imagine me, coloring my mother’s hair and her loving every minute of it. The best reward was blow drying it and her smiling when she saw the gray was gone. She was so happy to be looking like her old self. It lifted her spirits and it made me happy to see her smile again. It was also a story that she could share with her new friends the dialysis center.

just a dog

When I was a kid, we had several dogs. My dad liked German shepherds. He felt they were good protectors and would bark if someone entered our yard or passed too near our property. We had numerous pets including cats, rabbits, chickens, goats and turkeys. Dogs were my favorite, and still are. They were pets, but stayed outside most of the time. In the summer we would chain the dog under one of the big trees and used wash tubs for supplying plenty of water. We would use old hub caps as dog bowl to put food or scraps. Our dog had houses that were really little more than plywood boxes with left over tar paper for roofs. My dad would build them from scrap lumber that he would find in or near the dumpster behind the lumber yard. After all, it’s just for the dog,. “we are not making movies out of it” my dad would say. We never bought a dog, but would get a puppy free if someone local was giving them away. We never took our dog the vet, and rarely did they get a dog license. I remember once our dog got loose and was picked up by the dog catcher wile roaming the back alleys in town. My dad had to go claim him, or he would be put to sleep. The only way to get the dog back was to promise to register the animal and get his shots updated and present the documented proof to the city. My dad only did this once I think. And when that dog died, he would simply “transfer” the collar to the new dog. That was another advantage of having the same kind of dog. They all looked alike. We had one dog named Gypsy. I think my mom named her. She was very loving, but also very protective. She was a mix. My Dad only lets us have her because they claimed she was part German Shepard. She was black and had white on her chest. I don’t know why, but she had a bob tail. That is something that you don’t usually do to a German shepherd mix dog. She came that way. Gypsy loved to play and she liked when we could would her for walk around the block. She lived most of her life on a chain, so exploring the neighborhood on a rope was a better deal. I think now a days using a tie out stake is considered cruel. My dad insisted she be tied up, because Gypsy would climb over the fence in the back yard. Where was she trying to go? My dad would get mad and threaten to shoot her if she got out. That always scared me. My dad kept a 22 rifle under the seat of his pickup and bullets loose in the glove box. I had seen my dad shoot rabbits, turtles, and snakes out in pasture. And we didn’t want that to happen to our beloved pet. If she did get out, we would try to put her back so my dad wouldn’t find out. She even had puppies, although I don’t think we kept any of them. In the winter time, we would put old blankets in the shed and keep the dogs in there to shield them from the cold. They didn’t have a great life, but after all, they were only dogs. Gypsy had gotten pregnant and had puppies in the shed. Her litter was only four pups. My friend Michael had stopped by on his way home from school and I took him to the shed to look at them. They were so cute. They were like black balls of shiny fur that whimpered when Gypsy got up to eat or get a drink of water. Unfortunately Gypsy tried to bite him for getting near her pups. She had never tried to bite anyone. She would only growl and bark if a stranger was in our yard. My dogs today have it so different. They sleep all day, enjoy treats, toys and live indoors. I take care of them when they are sick and treat them like my own children. They are each special and precious. And I glad they have a better life than Gypsy. Gypsy suffered a deep cut on her neck from the old rusty chain. It got infected and we tried to keep it clean with hydrogen peroxide and clean gauze. We didn’t have money for a vet. But she was ok. But it eventually healed and left a large scar. She got old and lived a few more years. We eventually buried her in the back yard near the old shed. She was our dog and I have not forgotten her.

summer in Electra

We lived on the edge of the city limits of Electra for many years. The house my parents bought was three lots that included several small outdoor buildings including a chicken coop.  We had a huge yard to play in and it was large enough to play baseball.  I remember playing with my brother and sisters occasionally neighborhood friends.  The large open lot was great for running and hitting.  We could play for uninterrupted.  Except when my mom heard the ball hit the house.  Luckily no windows were broken, but she did make us move home plate so that the ball would fly in the opposite direction when struck by the wood bat.   We would each take turns hitting.  I was always good at hitting, but slow at running.  It didn’t take much to tag me out at first.  Which was fine with me, because if you made it to first, that meant you would have to run again to make it to second!  I just wanted to hit and spend a few minutes catching my breath.  And there was no milk create to sit on at first plate, so getting tagged out would suit me fine.  

There was also a bus on the opposite corner of our property.  It was really just the shell of an old church bus that was completely gutted with no seats, no engine and no axels nor wheels under it.  It was basically a body that sat directly on the ground.  We used it as a club house.  Us kids, had put ply wood over the broken windows and hung curtains over the ones that still had the original heavy glass.   We would even run an extension cord during the summer so that we could have light or radio when we camped out there in the summer time. We also used to play games in the bus.  We played school, charades, or cards in the bus.  Or we would sing songs.   It was fun to play in there and often times the girls would lock us boys out and claim it as a girls-only retreat.  My brother and I would circle the bus hoping to catch the door open or hop through a half open window. It was kind of a game that was sometimes settled by my mom’s intervention. She would threaten to make us all come inside or play right. You didn’t argue with my mother.  We had some good time in our club house, some days it was just a place to escape to it rained. 

We also made up games ourselves. We loved to play a game called handicap people.  My mom worked for a nursing home and my Dad made extra money by selling scrap metal.  The nursing home had given my dad some old walkers, and old wheel chairs that were thrown on the junk pile in front of the old bus. They did stay on the junk pile.   We would take the wheel chairs and put a scrap of ply wood across the missing seat and push each other while the other pretended to be crippled and retarded.  Oh my gosh, my mother was furious when she heard us acting out our crippled characters.  She thought we were making fun of handicap people.  And she put a stop to us playing this game anymore. Really, we were just kids having fun.  We continued to play with the wheel chairs and used them instead to race each other on the street. We would start by the big telephone post directly in front of the house all the way down the block to the group of mailboxes.  That was fun.  It got bumpy when you had to drive the chair into ditch to avoid approaching cars.  If you hit the slope too hard it would send your rider flying into the tall weeds.  And the pothole streets made for a jittery ride on its own.  Especially when all you had between you and the chair was a makeshift seat of rough ply wood. 

The summers in Electra were hot. We would also walk across town to the city pool. It was only a  dollar for kids to get in.  We were able to go without a mom or dad because my older sister looked older than she really was.  She was about 13 but looked 16.  My mom would give us five dollars send us all to enjoy a fun afternoon at the pool.  We were like a mini-mob of brown kids walking down the gravel covered brick streets.  We would venture down the street and up to the rail road tracks and veer diagonally through empty lots to reach the pool that sat in conjunction with the only city park. 

Once we were there, we paid our money dropped our shoes and towels.  We did not hesitate to jump right in.  We would splash and play together, even at the pool.  Sometimes we would get up the nerve to jump off the low dive.  My little sister used to always jump toward the wall, because she was afraid of not being able to reach the bottom with her feet.   Our least favorite was the fifteen minute mandatory swim break. They seemed to last forever.  I don’t know why they would do that, but we dreaded hearing “everybody out of the pool!”  My mom trusted us to look out for each other. She had taken us there and taught us all to swim well when we were younger. Plus being in a small town the life guards all knew you by name and would call our house in there was to much horseplay.  You didn’t want any one calling my mother. It would not turn out well.    Mom would tell us, “you better be dry when you get home and don’t sit on my furniture if you are still wet”.  The Texas summer sun would dry us out, and many times we would have tan lines on our feet from walking home from the pool in flip flops.  

dress



I made a few new dresses. I had pruple thread on the serger, and it lead to making another purple gown so I would not have to change it over to a new color.

one of my dresses

Melody Lane of Fort Worth wearing a Mattie Madison Original Design

I saw one of my dresses on FB today.  I wanted to share it. I love when I see my work on display. 

the real me

Scott and I have been very busy in the month of July. We started out the month with a big step in our new relationship. Scott moved in with me. He sold some of these things, and stored the rest. Together we moved him in. It happened sooner than I expected, but it would have happened eventually. There was some stress on my part, because some of my things I had to part with too. Plus I physically had to make room for him in my apartment, in my closets and in my life. I packed away old pictures and cleared out drawers for him to take up space in our new home together. Lord knows I had held on to some things way longer than I should have. Once we got him moved in, the reality sank in quick. Scott was feeling like it was not his home. We had both made sacrifices to join our lives. But why would he feel this way. He was exactly what I needed in my life. He is the only man I wanted to share my life with. I kept saying that to him, but was I show it in my actions. After a few strained days, we finally were able to work things out. I told him that I would have gladly moved in with him if the table had turned. I also could empathize with feeling out of place and like you are living in some one else’s home. I had those similar feeling back in 2000 when I came to live with my last partner. I wanted to do whatever I could to make Scott feel that he is my equal partner and the home we have is ours together now. I think that is part of loving each other. It made me so happy to see him display some of his family items in our home. I need to let go of my need to coordinate everything. I was so used to trying to “hold” my life together and make things work. I had forgotten what it is like to let someone else offer suggestions, or a better way of doing things. The first few weeks of living together I ran the kitchen, I did the house work and I handled the bills and such. I needed to stop treating him like a guest and more like my partner. I let him cook. I found it hard to resist the need to check the food cooking on the stove. Instead I would wander into the kitchen, peek at the stove and steal a kiss as I left the room. Obviously he is a good cook, he impressed me the first time I had d inner at his house. He knows the way to a man’s heart. I just need to leave him alone and let him cook. I still do most of the laundry at home. Actually, It is the one thing I enjoy doing. I don’t mind doing it. And I am sure Scott would handle it if it needed to be done. Scott and I have also been able to do some things together that once seemed like luxuries to me. I am not sure if he understands what it was like for me over the past few years. I got used to buying only what I needed, counting my pennies and juggling bills in order to survive. I was lucky to have support of friends when times were really tough and often relied on my sewing skills in order to make some extra cash when needed. We spent the day at the Fort Worth Zoo. That was fun. But all the walking always gets to me. I am not as young as I claim to be. But the weather was comfortable that day and I always enjoy being with Scott. Sometimes it is nice to get lost in your adventures. I wish there were a service that would bring your car to the end of the Zoo. They should bring your car up to the front after your hike through the Zoo. Scott and I also traveled to Oklahoma City to spend the weekend with my family. That was a great weekend. I had not seen my family in four months. We took my sister and her family to see a Historic Mansion. The Overholster Mansion in Oklahoma City is a 20-room, brick-and-stone Victorian mansion was built lies in Heritage Hills District. It was built in 1903 and passed through the family until it was transferred to David Perry, the husband of Overholser's daughter, after her death. In the 1970s, the mansion was donated to the state and is currently maintained by Preservation Oklahoma through an agreement with the Oklahoma Historical Society. It is a museum and historical home all in one. It was some place we could all go as a family and learn about the history of OKC. My nieces had a great time. Scott and I both love antiques and such, so being able to introduce the girls to something new was awesome. We also had lunch and all went to the movies. They loved Scott and he fit right in. I only had to playfully scold him once for talking about boys with my 12 year old niece. By the time we left, they were calling him Uncle Scott. We even took a day trip to my home town of Electra. I wanted to go, but was nervous about what Scott might think of me. I had not been there in over ten years. And have not lived there in 20 years. I knew that the house my parents once owned was gone. It was condemned and the property was seized by the city in lieu of back taxes. The property was then sold at auction and now belongs to a local man. It is an empty lot now with the remains of sidewalks like islands in the grass. Most of the large trees are now stumps. The large cedar tree along the front walk are all that remain of the front yard. The entire town is in poor shape. I drove and narrated to Scott, stories of my parents and childhood. I showed him the school I attended, the building that was once Paul’s market and told him about what it was like growing up in such a sad place. I noticed how dry and brown everything looked. I also noticed how narrow the streets were and made mention about how odd it was to see streets with now curbs or neighborhoods with no sidewalks. I shared stories about how we used to walk from out house to down town or across town to the city pool. My mam would give my sister five dollars and tell us to put on flip flops and walk to the pool. She would also tell us to make sure we were dry by the time we got home and don’t sit on her furniture if we were wet. Memories like that happened every summer. I wanted to share with Scott a piece of who I really am. Maybe by seeing how I grew up, he would understand why I act, say and do thing I do. And why holding on to things are important to someone who grew up with nothing. I felt I needed to go there. I sometimes feel like I am still that little Mexican kid, trying to get out of the shadow of that small town. I was feeling a lot of emotions that day, but I only cried once. When I drove out the cemetery, the place my Dad dropped us off and made us walk home in the dark. The dirt roads are just as I remember them. Parallel tracks with grass growing in the middle. Only this time it was daylight and not dark.