My Life As A Box Of Rocks

To the readers of this book: You have to realize that when I wrote this story, I was reliving, and feeling the moments of the past. It is written in the same manner that I speak; however I don’t use profanity anymore. It would be demeaning, degrading, and unacceptable, however the passion is the very same passion that I felt when I was tripping along the road of life.

When a child comes into this world, it has to depend upon its parents, or other adults to take care of them. To love, care, feed them, and keep them from harm. Think about it. It is very scary, to have your life in the hands of another human being. To know that you’re every breath, your very life is in their hands.  The same hands that will hold, and caress you, or beat the living hell out of you for little, or no reason.  

There are those children that are fortunate, and born into loving, caring families, and then there are those, that are just born. Those that are left to fend for themselves in the best way that they can, they are survivors.  I was one of these children, and if there is such a thing as reincarnation, I don’t want to come back as a human being, but as an eagle, or even a pine tree, but not as a human. 

Sex, some, murder, almost, lies, not if I can help it, and scandals. It all depends on how you interpret what you read.  However, this book is packed full of sixty years of confusion, excitement, a little love, a bit of hate, many betrayals, pain, laughter, and sorrows, and all the things that make life worth living, and some things that made me wish at times, that I was never born.

I wrote this book in hopes that someone would benefit from my experiences, and not make the horrible mistakes, and decisions that I had made. I was not lucky enough to have someone to guide me, or even to lead me in the right direction. I was like tumbleweed, for 63 years, gathering life as I rolled along. And the only thing I gathered was two husbands, several lovers, bills, and a ton of problems.   I also gathered eight children, several grandchildren, and two great grandchildren. All of this is in my story.

When I started to write this book, I was going to call it,” Longing For Avonlea”.  However, once I started to write I realized that it had nothing at all to do with Avonlea, and everything to do with stupidity on a grand scale, and Avonlea was just a fictional place embedded in my heart.  And then I finally settled on, “ My Life As A Box of Rocks “ which describes the majority of my life.

When I look back over the past 62 years I have come to realize that any man that was in my life was just there to take what I had to give.   Except for my first love.   There was never real love or intimacy, (in-to-me-see) with any one else after my first fiancée broke our engagement.  Finally, at age fifty-nine, I learned about the meaning of the word intimacy in my Criminal Justice class, and knew then, I had never really experienced it. There was never any real communication between men and me. I always had to be a mind reader.  My husband of thirty years usually answers any questions I ask with a grunt. I have to interpret the grunt to figure out the reply.    I would like to tell my female readers, especially the younger ones, please…think, think, think, and don’t be as “dumb as a box of rocks.”  Know in your heart that what you are doing is really what you want for yourself, and don’t be duped or swayed by sweet talk, or crocodile tears, into changing your plans. My grandmother once said, “that a man will promise you the world with a gold fence around it to get his way.” I think I was only ten when I heard it, and didn’t have a clue.  “What gold fence? Where?”