The picture was from 1956: black and white, with deckled edges reminiscent of a time gone by, the kind of old photograph that you tore out of the yellow Kodak booklets.?  Depicted upon its mottled surface was a small child in a snow suit of wool, a white angora hat atop smooth, blonde hair.?  I touched the picture gently.?  ???What a sweet little thing I was,??? I mused. And then, ???I don??™t understand!???

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My heart clenched as I gazed into the face of the me of so long ago.?  I had never been able to come to terms with the fate of the little girl in the photograph.?  So sweet, so loving:?  God??™s most precious gift, treated like so much garbage.

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I look sad in the picture.?  Traces of tears are faintly visible.?  Most of my childhood pictures look like that: forlorn, saddened, emotionally abandoned.?  But there it is.?  These are the facts of my life and they cannot be changed.?  What happened, happened.?  The experiences of my childhood cannot be denied.

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Was I really ever a child??  The eldest of three, I was the ???outlander??? as my younger two siblings were by my mother??™s second marriage.?  Nothing was good enough for them -- somehow, I was simply not good enough.

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I remember Christmases where my brother and sister would receive many toys and gifts of watches, clothing, candy.?  I would receive one pair of underwear, or maybe a robe.?  I was not allowed to complain as it was not in ???the spirit of the day.??? If I did, I was sent to my room.?  If I tried to explain that my feelings were hurt, I was pushed away.

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This continued until my eleventh year where I descended from an emotional desert into hell.?  My stepfather??™s drinking had escalated to the point where he spent as many nights in jail, or on a curb, as home.?  My mother was gone for days at a time with her ???boyfriend,??? and there we were, three children, alone in a vermin-infested house which usually had no heat, electricity, hot water or food.?  I became care-giver to my brother and sister.?  I struggled to keep us together, collecting pop bottles which I would sell for two cents a piece to buy bread, milk, an occasional jar of spaghetti sauce and spaghetti.? 

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When I was twelve, I found a job washing dishes in a nearby restaurant earning six dollars a week.?  My job was to stand on an orange crate and wash dishes from 3:30 p.m. to 10:00 p.m.?  It was grueling work, but the money helped to provide more than bread and milk to my brother and sister.? ?  Since, by hiring me, the owners were breaking the ???Child Labor Law??? which stated a child had to be 15 and have a permit, I would have to hide beneath the sink if the health inspector came in.? ?  I was warned that if I told anyone about my job, I would be fired.

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So when asked by our next door neighbors why I was out so late, I would say that I had been at a friend??™s.?  I lied to them when they asked where my parents were.?  I was too ashamed to tell them the truth, too worried about losing my brother and sister, too afraid to admit that we were basically abandoned, that our parents didn??™t care, that I was afraid, that I was lonely, so desperately lonely, that I hungered for love more than I did for food!? ? 

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Eventually my step grandmother came and took my brother and sister into her home, leaving me alone in that mouse ridden, emotionally and physically barren house.?  It was then I made the decision to never allow anyone to treat me like that again.?  In my adult years, if someone hurt me or betrayed me, I would express my feelings about it.?  I would say ???You can??™t do that to me!?  I am Debra! I am worthy of love!???

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I am 52 now.?  Many years have passed, some good, some bad.?  I have spoken out when I felt that I was wronged, but also when I have felt loved.?  My child tells me everything and he, without a doubt, knows that he is not garbage.?  He will not be abandoned.?  He knows that he is deeply, deeply loved.

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And so, the adult I am, has been able to ???mother??? the child I once was.?  Through loving my son I have been able to heal so many wounds and, the little girl in the woolen snow suit and angora hat knows - she is loved.

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Copyright D. E. Shiveley
6-15-2005D. E. Shiveley
Merribuck @aol.com

About Me:

Hello, my? name is Debra Welch.?  I'm 52 and the very proud mother of a soon-to-be 13? year old son named Christopher.

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Christopher is adopted, so I have some writings on the subject, and he was? born with a moderately severe unilateral clefting of the lip, gums and hard and soft palates.?  He is beautiful!?  Chris also has learning differences:? ADD, Dysgraphia, and Executive Function and? Working Memory Deficit.?  He is the joy of our lives.

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I have been writing since age nine.?  My father came to visit and plopped down a pad of paper and a pencil.?  "Write me a poem," he said "and call it 'Poetry Problems.'"?  This is when I learned that my father and great grandfather both wrote poetry.?  I was being tested.

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I have just finished co-authoring a novel with my cousin titled "Jesus Gandhi Jetta Mae Adams," a murder mystery set in Columbus, Ohio and am starting my second novel.