Fruitcake

Good morning, my neighbor, and Merry Christmas to you! I’m here with a gift for you and your family! Yes, it’s fruitcake again, just like every other year, only before it was left on your porch by a woman whose name you never bothered to know.

Who, you ask? But you must have seen her a hundred times walking the street in front of your house—tiny thing, ruddy cheeks and shaggy white hair. She always wore a gauzy tie-dyed skirt and a Cardinals jersey—Pujols, number 5. Sometimes she danced for no reason and sang old Beatles songs at the top of her lungs. 'She loves you yeah, yeah'...yeah, that’s her. Don’t you remember? Every time you saw her you called for your kids to come in. Crazy’s the word you used—off in the head.

For ten years straight that crazy little lady baked a fruitcake for you and your family and left it on your front porch on Christmas morning. And every year, when you walked out your door you kicked it aside “Damn thing’s like a brick,” you said.

I never told my Lizzie this because it would’ve crushed her soul, but last year I saw you feed it to your dog. “Look,” I heard you say, laughing. “He won’t even eat it.”

This Christmas I thought I’d hand the cake to you, personally, because with your gift I have some news I think you’ll be glad to hear. There will be no more fruitcake. No fruitcake ever again to clutter your porch and block your door; no fruitcake to feed your dog. And you can rest assured that you won’t be seeing the crazy slip of a lady anymore, dancing in the street, singing her songs. No one will ever see my Lizzie again.

Why do you look so sad my neighbor, my friend? There’s no need to ruin your Christmas by feeling bad. After all, you’re not the first to turn fruitcake away; not the only one afraid to take a chance on its colorful fruits and nutty texture, choosing the smooth chocolate sheet cake instead.

Running With Scissors

On a warm Saturday morning, this past October, my husband decided it would be a good time to go out into the backyard and clear away some dying tomato plants from our vegetable garden. After breakfast, he selected a pair of garden shears from the garage and immediately began the task.

I’m not a morning person and wasn’t feeling nearly as energetic as he was, but I poured myself a second cup of hot tea and went outside to sit in a nearby hammock  and watch him work. It was a quick job, and in a matter of minutes he was done and ready to leave the garden. As he began to walk away, somehow his feet got tangled up in the mesh fence he had put up to keep wild animals out,  causing him to trip.

I should probably point out that we have a raised garden bed, and that my husband was still holding the shears, which were the kind with long, pointy blades. To be perfectly clear, he was falling headfirst with a sharp object aimed directly at the main artery in his neck—a trip to the emergency room trifecta.

Now on my feet, across the yard, I was watching the whole thing, helplessly. As he hit the ground, he instinctively jerked his head back just as the shears made contact with his neck. I ran to his side, expecting the worst, and discovered that he had, in fact, jabbed the shears into himself.

The good news is there was no squirting blood. By the grace of God the shears missed his jugular vein. When he jerked his head back he prevented the blade from penetrating deep into his neck. He was cut, though, and there was some blood, but the wound was superficial. Nothing that a tetanus shot and a butterfly band-aid wouldn’t fix. The worst of his injuries was a bad sprain in his neck, for which the doctor prescribed steroids, and physical therapy.

Later on that night, he found himself in quite a bit of pain, and as with most men who’ve been injured, he needed babying. As for me, I was pleased with the minor wounds he sustained and happy to have him alive and in one piece. If you ask me, all in all, it was a pretty good trade-off—a little whiplash for a life-threatening stab wound. I told him he should’ve bought a lottery ticket on the way home.

His accident got me to thinking about when I was a kid and my grandmother told me not to run with scissors. Or a pencil. She used to say, “Stop running with that pencil or you’ll fall and put your eye out!”  Why couldn’t she have simply said, “Stop running with that pencil” ? Why? Because that alone wouldn’t have been enough to get my attention, but by adding the part about poking my eye out, she conjured a gory mental image that I could not ignore.

Grandma also used to tell me if I crossed my eyes they would stick that way, and if I played with fire I would wet the bed. I’m pretty sure neither of these things have actually ever happened, at least not in the said sequence, and even then, I doubted the validity behind her statements, but at the time I wasn’t willing to take the chance.  

She used the word “death” a lot when she wanted to get me to stop doing something of which she didn’t approve. Some of her favorites were “Don’t eat so fast or you’ll choke to death!” and “Get in out of the cold or you’ll freeze to death!” But the one that scared me most of all was “Zip your coat and pull up your hood, or you’ll cough your head off tonight!”  That really made for a grizzly nightmare for a kid with an overactive imagination. I pictured myself in bed hacking away, face red, eyes bulging, unable to catch my breath to scream for help, hacking, hacking, hacking, until my head is thrust from my neck with a spurt of blood and rolls across my bed, onto the floor, disappearing into the darkness.   

When I grew up and had kids of my own, I used the very same tried and true phrases on them that my grandmother used on me—for their own good, of course.  Do you know of any more such phrases used to manipulate a kid’s behavior? If so, I’d love to hear them!

Until the Spinning Stops

For those of you who visit this blog regularly, yes, I've changed the name. But there's a good reason. I did it because lately, I've found that "every other Tuesday" has been coming around a bit too quickly.

Nobody hates excuses more than me, and I can't believe I'm doing this, but here goes. We are entering our busiest time at work (I work at Macy's), plus, I'm trying to get my stepdaughter ready for college. Between those two things, promoting the book, and trying to be a half-way decent wife to a man who's used to a hot meal on the table at 5 o'clock every afternoon, and has a pile of sewing repairs for me to do...well, to make a long story short, blog Tuesday rolled around this week and I completely forgot about it. Completely. Forgot. Never even entered my mind until about twenty minutes ago. So I decided, for the time being, I will post when I can.

I truly appreciate everyone who follows this blog, and please know that I'm not giving up, I'm just slowing down for a while until my world stops spinning around me.

Do Your Kids "Feel" the Love?

When it comes to disciplining kids, things have really changed, haven't they? I guess it never dawned on me just how much until a few days ago while waiting in line at a Subway in the mall. Standing behind me was a young mother with her two sons of approximately six and eight years of age. The boys were arguing about something--I think it was because they were going to have to split a foot long. Anyway, they were pushing and shoving one another like brothers do, while their mom seemed oblivious to what was going on. Then, out of nowhere, the youngest boy spit on his big brother, at which time Mom finally responded. "Jacob!" she said, wiping the spit from the older boy's face with a napkin she'd plucked from a dispenser on the Subway counter "That wasn't very nice!"

That wasn't very nice? I thought. That's all the punishment Jacob gets? My grandma would have skinned me alive if I'd ever spit on anyone in her presence! And little Jacob gets by with nothing more than a scolding?

For those of you who have read some of my previous blog posts, or my book, Call Me Tuesday, which is based on my own true-life experience, you know that as a child, I was severely abused by my mother, and for that reason I spent all my summers at my grandma's house. Any healthy discipline I received during my childhood came from her. When I was going through the abuse at home at the hands of my mother, I didn't know there was a name for it. All I knew was something didn't feel right about the way I was being treated.

Unlike when I was growing up, kids these days know the word "abuse" all too well. Some of my friends have told me that their kids have even threatened to report them to the authorities. Thank God my own children never did that. If they had it would have probably sent me into hysterics. I didn't give them a chance, anyway, because I was so afraid of turning into my mother that I left most of the discipline to my ex-husband, which, looking back, I now realize was unfair to him. But that's an entirely different blog altogether.

I remember when I was about ten, while I was at at my grandmother's house for the summer, one afternoon I decided to walk to a nearby grocery store for an Orange Crush. I had been playing in an old washtub Grandma used to fill with cool water on really hot days days, so all I had on was a two-piece swimsuit. I scraped up some change from my room, put on some flip-flops, and without telling Grandma I was going, headed down the street to the grocery store.

When I got back, Grandma was standing in the front yard, holding a length of freshly peeled tree twig in her hand. I knew I was in big trouble. She whipped my hind end all over the yard that day, and it hurt like hell. But after it was all over, a strange calm came over me. I believe somehow I instinctively knew I deserved every stripe that switch left on my legs. For reasons unknown to me then, the boundaries Grandma set for me made me feel safe, cherished. Something terrible could have happened to me walking down the streets of Nashville all by myself wearing nothing but my swim suit. Simply scolding me wouldn't have been punishment enough. Grounding me wouldn't have driven home the point either. What I needed was a good old fashioned whipping. As much as it hurt Grandma to have to do it (I can remember, the whole time she was thrashing me there were tears streaming down her cheeks), she wanted to make sure I didn't wander off again. And, you know, I never did because every time I took a notion to, I remembered the sting of that switch.To this day, I can still feel it, still hear it whistling as it sliced through the air.

My point is, sometimes a whipping is the only discipline that will do. When fear really needs to be instilled, when the consequences of what a child has done needs to be branded into her memory. But now, because child abuse awareness has gone from one extreme to the other, parents today don't feel at liberty to spank their kids. And that's a pity, because I think when done properly, a good old fashioned whipping has a way of making a kid really "feel" the love.

Murder at My House

My husband is on a business trip. I am home alone. It's about ten o'clock at night. As usual, I curl up on my bed with my laptop.

All of a sudden I get an uneasy feeling, you know, the one you get when you think someone is in the house. I'm just being paranoid, I think. But to be safe, I tip-toe to my bedroom doorway to take a look. That's when I see him, his larger-than-life shadow projected on the wall.

The realization washes over me that I'm going to have to deal with this alone. Ouickly, I back-pedal and sink into the closet for a weapon. I find a five pound dumbbell. It'll have to do. I clutch it with a death grip, assuming attack position.

As I make my way back to where I spotted the intruder, I try to remain calm, but fear is beading on my forehead and upper lip. I take a deep breath and lunge out into the hallway only to find he's already vanished from sight.

Now he has gained the edge, because nothing is scarier than that which I cannot see. My heart starts to pound like crazy; I can feel it in my throat. I search around me in a panic. Where is he? For the love of God where is he? 

He's behind a door, or under a piece of furniture, waiting for me to seek him out. And I will seek him out; I have to, because the very thought of him lurking in my house somewhere is too much to bear.

I race through every room, flinging furniture aside. I spot him in the kitchen crouched beneath the table. He is there, staring at me, in plain sight as if he's daring me to come after him.

And I do--go after him--swinging the dumbbell as I go. A miss! Damn it! I grab a skillet from the stove (thank God I had a grilled cheese sandwich for supper and didn't do the dishes) and strike him again, giving the blow everything I have. He's seriously wounded, I can see this, but I don't stop there. I continue to beat him over and over, startled by my own violence, by how much I am enjoying the killing. Yes, by now, it is officially a killing. When I finish with him he is nothing more than a black, pulpy spot on the linoleum.

Spiders are particularly bad this year. And freakishly big too. Don't you think?

To Daddy, With Love

My previous blog post was supposed to be a tribute to dads, which I thought would be appropriate since I'd written one to mothers around Mother's Day. But when I sat down with my laptop to write it, I couldn't bring myself to type the words--it was too close to Father's Day, always a difficult time for me ever since my dad was killed in a car accident years ago.

Although my mother is still very much alive, it feels to me like she's dead too, like she died when I was a child. Still, it wasn't hard for me to write the blog about mothers (This is For You), even though I've never really had one, not for any length of time. When I began writing, I just thought of all the sweet, nurturing mothers I've known in my lifetime, and what my friends have told me about the way these special women have made them feel. I thought of my own mother-in-law, of how much she means to me, and the words came easy.

Now that Father's Day has come and gone, and the deep ache for the loss of my dad has softened, I have something to say.


For those of you who haven't read my book, Call Me Tuesday, a story based on the true events of my childhood, I was abused and tortured horribly by my mother, and although my dad was aware of most of what was going on, he did little to stop it.


In the wake of the publication of the book, I have been accused, many times, of being blind when it comes to my dad. Kirkus stated in their review of the book, "... hard to take is her father’s passiveness, partly because Byrne is too easy on him. He tells Tuesday that intervention “could break up the family...”  http://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/leigh-byrne/call-me-tuesday/#review .


And what they say is true. But Daddy tried to do something early on; there were fights--serious ones.  He said he kept hoping Mama would stop on her own. He had faith that she was a good person because she had been when he married her, and he was so insanely in love with her. Then, before he knew it, things had gotten out of hand. He was sure if social services intervened, all of us, kids would have been placed in different foster homes. Truth be told, he was probably right. That's what he said, anyway. And I guess I bought it because I wanted to.


He should have turned her in, you say. But don't be so quick to judge. Take a look at your own spouse, your son, or daughter, brother or sister. How easy would it be to send him or her to prison, or to a mental facility for abusing only one child? What if the other children involved were begging you not to take their mama away? If you thought you could possibly stop the abuse on your own, wouldn't you at least try before you tore a family apart?


I know my father was a weak man where my mother was concerned. But because he was a wonderful man in so many other ways, it's  hard to hate him. Believe me, I, of all people have reason to and I've tried, but I can't. I think it's partly because he owned up to what he did--or didn't do--apologized and tried to make things right between us. And yes, I forgave him because he asked me to, and because he's my daddy, and because somehow, in the midst of all the madness that was my childhood, he was one of the few people who made me feel loved.

Nowhere to Hide

Up until my book, Call Me Tuesday, was released earlier this year, only my family and a few close friends knew about my childhood abuse. For years, I went to great lengths to keep it hidden because I feared people might think I was mentally ill, somehow damaged by the horrific abuse I had suffered.

Now, because I made the decision to publish my story, and openly admit the book is based on my own true-life experience, hundreds of people--most of which I've never even met--know I once had to dig around in the trash for food, and drink from the dog's water. That I had to defecate on a piece of notebook paper because I was locked in a room and had nowhere else to go. They know I've had my face smeared in vomit, was made to eat disgusting food and do degrading things.

Don't get me wrong, I am thankful so many people have shown an interest in my story, and the feedback has been both rewarding and therapeutic. But the last thing I want is to be defined by my abuse, nor do I want to be labeled a victim. And anyone who knows me can tell you that I am a proud and private person.  

Why then, you ask, would a proud and private person reveal such humiliating truths in a book? 

More than anything else, I love to write. From the first essay paper read aloud by my teacher in grade school, to the recent publication of my  book, writing has been my strength, my go-to in times of stress. It's the one thing I have always been able to do well. The only thing I've ever done that made my daddy proud.

I was taught in school to write about what I know. My childhood abuse left me with this really bizarre, yet compelling story to tell, so it kind of made sense to make it my first serious endeavor as a published author.

But, I naively thought I could hide behind the word "fiction." Change all the names, locals, time lines, some of the details of what happened, give the story a happy ending, and no one would ever know it was really about me. And I probably wouldn't have even included the words, "based on a true story" in the description, if my best friend (I'm convinced she's also my guardian angel) of over 20 years had not implored me to reconsider. She said that without the element of truth, the story would not have the power to help as many people. And that's the point of the book, right? To purge my soul of poison, and to help others.

Well, partly.

Like I said before, I love to write, and I just so happened to have had this strange and unfortunate childhood that I thought might make for pretty good reading. Sure, the writing of it was cathartic. Sure, the book might possibly help some people, But, in all honesty, I wrote it because that's what writer's do. They write.

When I had finished the book, which is slightly fictionalized, I realized the pain in the words was so raw, so frighteningly real, it was obvious that I, the author, had been the one who had endured it, and there was no use trying to hide from the truth any longer. There is nowhere to hide. 

The Kirkus Review of Call Me Tuesday pretty much says it all:
"Byrne conveys a horrifying story inspired by true-life experience, according to the jacket copy, and though it’s well-written, it’s also very hard to take because the prose so vividly and evocatively portrays suffering."