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Perhaps it was a bit of old moral Navy nostalgia misting from Dad's brow as he taught us moral just rule.
At times in my life, honoring my father and mother; one of the ten commandments-- a must though it seemed when my father passed when I was a teen was the hardest thing to do. Living with these regrets of sin, and my uncle Bink introduced a slow gin fizz over dinner with my Aunt, to ease the tension of not shedding a grieving tear the day he passed or after. After all, the veterans were at the casket and someone had to represent.

Living in sin, leaving the foothills of Appalachia at the age of sixteen (not more than six months after I talked to God in that cornfield and was so angry with Him for taking my father when he needed to be here to protect me).  I set out on my long journey to see the world and need and come back to serve Him (was my only hope) when in fact, my highest scores of the states district Sat's were repelling from a C average grade school girl. 
Dad said on his dying bed he wanted me to be a nurse, or rather as the “humanitarian” I became at eighteen; perhaps someones distraught, personal nurse.

The three children, two of which were planned by a Common Law husband. I was a responsible, nurturing mother and wife. Perhaps, it is what held my emotions together after all the drunken beating he offered up.  It seemed as though emotionally  I could not do anything by myself. Tattered and scattered was I.

Dad taught my brother and I old school military boxing; my brother three years older and touched with the fever (a crying little girl not wanting to hit my brother at first) I excelled to a losing champion, still today. I never won a fight with a man, and that includes two officers I seriously accidentally hit in reflex order.

Today, I know my writing is a gift.
I know motherhood is a gift as well as being a daughter of my dear Mom that is frail now at 80. I somehow don't measure up and shall never to her just honesty always paying her bills on a limited income, before they are ever due.
Murmurs etched in my heart and soul, of a common advice from her frantic yet stern voice, “You'll never make anything of yourself with that writing; as my pen steadily purges and flows a steam of blood rights of an United States Citizen, on Veterans Day.
When will my ship come in? (perhaps it was pirated, and sent with the barges of plagiarist  rhyme, sold off by a romantic)

 Here's to the rich and famous that can't pass through the of a needle-- as I light a Camel Wide, and pray for them all a rich blessing.
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