Are You Hard of Hearing?

Did you hear what I heard?  There are many different degrees of hearing loss, from slight to profound. I know I’m lucky that mine, although more than slight, is not profound. The hearing doctor believed it’s a side-effect from having the Measles when I was about eight years old.  I say “about” because my eighth year was the most tragic year of my life. It was the year my dad died, just two months after my eighth birthday.

Until recently, I believed the line between the “before” and “after” periods in my life was caused by the loss of my father. However, I’m now convinced the horror of the time that followed was due to being consciously unaware of my hearing loss, failing to understand. Do we refuse to accept our handicaps in order to cope?

Many years later, in my thirties, I was married with four children when my husband remarked on my hearing. I decided to get tested. Not that I hadn’t been accused of  it before, the crucial difference being “accused”, as though I was willfully refusing to hear. My mother’s most famous line was “You hear when you want to!” Other remarks were more critical “Why don’t you pay attention!” Some remarks were more derogatory.

I’d heard the derogatory remarks aimed at my eldest brother and only sister, the first two children in our family, as both suffered from severe hearing loss. I witnessed people being rude to them and decided I would NOT be hard of hearing. This was more subconscious than not, of course, as I simply incorporated lipreading and close attention in my interactions with others. In fact, the hearing doctor pointed out the soreness in my shoulders, which I thought I’d always had, “Your whole body strains to hear.”

My mother had keen hearing but she thought our dad’s hearing suffered somewhat. If we had a hereditary weakness toward hearing loss it likely came from his side of the family. When the next generation (at least three grandchildren, one deaf in one ear, two others profound) suffered hearing losses, the hereditary factor seemed evident. Of course as children, all of us suffered colds and ear infections, as children tend to do. It appears that for some, they may have led to a degree of deafness. My own son, who as an Air Force Officer, served twenty-some years as a Navigator, near retirement suffered a mild hearing loss. Those planes made a lot of noice!

But, on to the consequences of the hearing loss in my own life, which I can’t claim to be a common occurrence. It’s taken me years to come to these conclusions but I’ll share them as I believe them to be true. Before my bout with the Measles or my dad’s death I was a “straight A” student, afterwards my grades fell drastically. I know that sometimes I didn’t hear the teacher correctly. I also remember somebody talking to me on a phone. I heard a voice but could not understand what it said even though it kept repeating stuff. I was embarrassed and began to withdraw socially.

Think about it, you who are not hard of hearing. You’re embarrassed at having folks around you repeat things to a point that you may pretend to understand (“understanding” wrongly!). They may think you are (gasp!) retarded. Although I worked part-time during high school as a waitress, or in the movie-house as a ticket-taker or usher, and worked in offices later, earning good reviews in all of them, my attention and lip-reading being a big help, I often questioned what I heard. I often repeated myself, not sure if the other person heard what I said.  My hearing loss changed me before I ever knew I suffered from it.

As far as hearing aids go, it’s only been within the past few years that a new one came along which  worked  well for me. I was grateful from the time I began wearing them that they helped but my older siblings were not so lucky.  For years there were no good aids for nerve loss, which is undoubtedly what they also suffered from. They are quite expensive and many lower-income people can’t afford them.

I believe all our life experiences work together to help us become who we really are.  If so, both my love of reading and loss of hearing have led me to express who I really am.

Memory From Good Old Days

Once, when I was a young girl at the age of nine, I dreamed I wrote a book. When I saw the title on the cover with my name beneath it, I was amazed! For days afterwards I would try to remember the title, but couldn’t. Although the dream had planted the idea in my mind I told nobody about it. I believed it was foolish to even think I could do such a thing. Others would shame me if they knew of my conceit, that I even dared to dream I had written a book! Who was I to think I could write something others would want to read?

Forward thirteen years to age twenty-two. I had recently married and was also expecting my first child. I confided in my new husband, telling him I’d always wanted to write (the first time I’d ever dared to tell anyone!). “Then why aren’t you writing?” he said, as if what I’d said was not outrageously ridiculous! Duh! Don’t ask me why I didn’t know that if I wanted to write I should be writing! Perhaps it was the result of an inferiority complex. But after that I began taking pen to paper. When I later read what I’d written I blushed with embarrassment. The writing was full of cliches. As much as I had read, and I’d always been an avid reader, I knew too many cliches meant poor writing.

Forward to age thirty-three, the mother of four young children, all in school. I dared to enroll in a writer’s workshop. We had this wonderful teacher who had us put our writing on a large blackboard and the class would critique what we’d written. Thankfully, sharing our writing with the class was not required. Perhaps Mr. Young (bless his heart!) knew I was very insecure about my writing and did not draw attention to me or pressure me. I remember thinking one evening that my writing was just as good as some of the other writings on the board and I began posting mine.

That’s how my first written piece (besides all the ones I’d rejected and thrown away, of course) was written. Mr. Young told me it was publishable and to send the mss to Good Old Days magazine, a nostalgic publication. My piece was called “The Log Train,” a short story about my siblings and I watching for the log train to come out of the hollow where we lived in the Kentucky Mountains, how we played in the meadow beside the old tracks and called “Log Train’s Coming” when we heard the screeching of the iron wheels on the metal tracks. It was during a glorious yet short time in our young lives after our dad had died leaving a widow and eight children, the older children caring for and providing for the younger ones, my baby brother age six and me age eight.

March 1973 Issue

I cannot tell you how that short piece of writing, taking up only one page in the magazine, changed my life. No, I didn’t become a “writer”, so to speak, except for a few pieces here and there and finally a family book in 2006 called “Stories of a Kentucky Mountain Family As Told by Two Sisters and a Brother,” in which I also included many of my eldest brother and only sister’s writings.

Back to the day I received two copies of the March 1973 edition of the magazine: I hadn’t heard back about my submission until the day I received the copies. My little story was on page 11 (my birth path number in numerology). I looked at the printed page in wonder (I later received a check for $9.00). What it did for my self-esteem was unimaginable. As if it confirmed to me that I was still alive. And I still marvel at the change it made in my life, which is too much to go into here. But the latest thing that’s happened regarding the outcome of the story of The Log Train may be hard to believe. Although I saved the magazine for a while, during several moves and interruptions it disappeared. I had lost track and forgotten how important it had once been in my life.

Click image to read the story

This July (2019) 4th my daughter Teresa, her husband and two of my grandchildren went to Des Moines to celebrate the 4th with my son-in-law’s family. On the way home they stopped at a place called Brass Armadillo Antique Mall in Altoona, Iowa, and were browsing. They came across some Good Old Days magazines and Teresa called me to find out what year my little story The Log Train was published in the magazine. I can’t believe it took me awhile to remember (I’m getting old so I had to dig deep!) but I finally timed it because I suddenly remembered that when I began studying Astrology I learned I’d had a progressed New Moon that began the very same month the story appeared in the magazine, which was March, 1973.

Teresa learned someone on eBay had the Good Old Days magazines for that year. She bought them for me. I can’t tell you what a thrill it was to hold the copy with my story in my hands. I hadn’t realized fully until now how such a “small” thing (in many ways) had changed my life for the better. It’s also amazing that Teresa, who was only nine years old that year remembered that pivotal time and that she sensed how important it was to me. I am blessed in so many ways.

Bragging Rights

Bragging Rights

Since this is my blog it occurs to me I have bragging rights.  Today I want to brag about my son Justin.  Not only is he a wonderful son, father, brother, etc., he started out life with a great attitude, that he was born with the ability to make his own choices in life.  He realized this at a very early age.

My brilliant son at the tender age of five came home from his third day in kindergarten.  “Well,” he said with satisfaction, “I learned all I want to know.”  I explained that he had only begun his education and there was much more to learn.  He was still insistent that he “had learned all he wanted to know.” He had no intention of returning to school.  I didn’t want him to feel he had no say in the matter, that school was something which was forced on him.  I wanted him to see it was a journey just begun and look forward to learning more.  To be honest I was bewildered.  It was one thing, I thought, to hate school as some children may say they do, but another to think they have learned all they wanted to know after three days in kindergarten.  I wondered if I’d given him the impression that school was like Tot Lot, which he’d attended for a few weeks the summer before. I talked to the Principal and he thought my son may need some special attention.  He would come offer him a ride in his little red sports car.

My son did not act impressed when the Principal came but agreed to go with him.  I don’t know what the Principal did or said but my son did return to kindergarten and became a happy brilliant student. He grew up to become a wonderful adult with a career in the Air Force, retiring as a Lieutenant Colonel.  He recently returned to his hometown and began a new career.  You can see why I breathe a sigh of relief.  For an intended kindergarten dropout, he has done exceptionally well.

A Wise Quote From a Genuis

I ran across the following quote from Einstein yesterday. “The intuitive mind is a sacred gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift.” – Albert Einstein

It’s not too late to open our minds and hearts to recall the sacred gift of intuition granted to us at our birth. It awaits hopefully to be rediscovered and renewed. How many times have you learned something new and then discovered you had already known it before you learned it. You had just forgotten it for awhile. It had been waiting in the back of your mind for you to remember.

Lost Yet Found: My Inner Journey – Part 1

“Now, each event of which you are aware is already a translation of an inner event, a psychic or mental event that is perceived by the soul directly but translated by the physically oriented portions of the self into physical sense terms.”   Seth Speaks, the Eternal Validity of the Soul by Jane Roberts

As a child I had several experiences of “seeing things”.  One vision was lovely and comforting yet the next one was frightening.  So much so that I built up a resistance to seeing things.  I kept an eye out just in case something scary tried to appear, to let the bad things know they weren’t welcome.  Which worked, mostly.  Only a few managed to get through the barrier over long periods of time.

I also carried an image in my mind of a closed door at the end of a tunnel with a light shining from beneath it. Even though I wondered what was behind the door I had no intention of opening it. I was afraid of what I might see.

All of which began to change after I married and had children.  I began to question my former beliefs. Things I had assumed to be true.  I started on a long journey of self-discovery.  What did I know for sure?  Not much.  Eventually I opened the strange door in my mind.  I would later learn it was the first of many more to come.

I tackled the subject of religion.  I’d grown up in the Protestant church but had been impressed by a visit to a Catholic church with a friend.  I loved the grandeur, the ceremony, the priests in their robes, the beauty and elegance.  I made an appointment with a priest. I told him I was considering raising my children in the church.  He said I would have to become a Catholic first and gave me some materials to take home and read.  I read the material and realized I couldn’t believe all of it.  Since he’d said I had to believe what was in the materials, I realized I couldn’t become a Catholic.

The children’s father left such decisions to me.  They were still toddlers, all four under five years of age, the third and fourth being twins.  So I felt we still had plenty of time to decide which church to join. Meantime we said grace at meals.  At Christmas time their father read the story of Christ’s birth to them.  They were, of course, sweet adorable children. I was very proud of them.

One day it came to me that all I really had to pass on to my children was who I was (since I had no wealth).  I not only should be a good example but also improve myself, try to become a person with the qualities I wanted to pass on to them.  Having always been an avid reader I read many of the self-help books popular at the time.  But I also read books which helped me to understand myself.  Which led to the next door in my mind.  I would open it to rediscover my early intuition and spirituality.

In the late Sixties and early Seventies Jane Roberts was contacted by an entity who called himself Seth.  She began writing the Seth books.  As I read them I found answers to many of my questions.

To be continued