Through Hazel Eyes

BOWEN

Copyright © 2014 Stacy Rose Bowen.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-0296-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-0856-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013919513

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 01/16/2014

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Family

Chapter 1 From Shy to Stacy

Chapter 2 Transitions Don’t Have to Affect Traditions

Chapter 3 Relative Strangers

Chapter 4 Memory Lane

Health

Chapter 5 Which Way is Up?

Chapter 6 Dark Clouds

Chapter 7 The Joy of Giving

Chapter 8 Coach Courageous

Travel

Chapter 9 Dare to Do

Chapter 10 Twelve States, Eleven Days, Five Thousand Miles

Chapter 11 Field Trip

Epilogue

Afterword

About the Author

For Grammy

Grandparents are a delightful blend of laughter, caring deeds,

wonderful stories, and love.—Unknown

For Bubba

Stepfathers at times are no less than those of blood; you’ve proved this to be true. You may not have given me the life I live, but you’ve become a person I look up to. It takes more than a seed to help things grow; it takes time, patience, and care. You’ve always given me these things and more; I thank you for always being there.—Unknown

For Carmen and Jan

"You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience

in which you really stop to look fear in the face."—Eleanor Roosevelt

Acknowledgments

I want to recognize my Savior for seeing me through the past few years, and all the difficult times in my life. I am grateful to finally write and publish a book, a desire of mine since childhood. My hope is that the contents of this book are entertaining, helpful, and inspiring to my re aders.

To anyone who was involved in the stories included in these pages, named or unnamed, positive or negative, your influence has aided in my growth and evolution as a person.

Matt: We’ve been through hell and back several times. Half of the stories in this book wouldn’t exist without you or your family. (Is that a good thing or a bad thing?)

Erik: You were with me at the starting line and always in my corner. You are my history and present—here’s to the future. Cheers!

Dad: Thanks for being my sounding board, for our long discussions, and for your faith in my abilities.

To my friends and family: Your support, inspiration, encouragement, and confidence in me have provided the nudges I needed to keep pursuing this project. You knew I had something to say and wouldn’t allow me to give up.

Rodger: Thank you for your proofreading and feedback.

Introduction

I have tried my best to give an accurate description of the people and events included in this memoir. At times, I have shortened or combined details because of story length or changed a name for privacy’s sake (noted by an asterisk). Other than those exceptions, the memories I relay to you are my own and presented from my perspective only.

There is nothing scarier to a writer than a blank page when there are feelings to be unleashed. Whether it’s a poem or a short story, to create order of jumbled thoughts is a challenge. Some of the passages in this book were simply a joy to write; my fingers and brain couldn’t work fast enough. For others, I was choosy with every phrase, taking a torturously long time to convey the facts and feelings I have held close for so long.

Each chapter has its own vibe, voice, or view, with an insight into events I have encountered. Perhaps you may relate to one or several.

Family

CHAPTER 1

From Shy to Stacy

I was a shy child, and I hated it.

The worst part was when other people pointed it out, as if to make some sort of example out of me. It drove me nuts and contributed to the low self-esteem that haunted me for years. Both Mom and Dad were guilty of criticizing me for it. I liked to stay indoors and read, even in the summer when other kids were active and getting tan. In school, I always had a few close friends but was never Miss Popular. My reticence wouldn’t have been a big deal to me if others had not so adamantly and repeatedly pointed it out. I couldn’t hold a normal conversation with people because I felt what I wanted to say had little to no value and I was being secretly critiqued for every word.

For the first three years of elementary school, I had wonderful, warm young teachers and felt comfortable participating in class and in Brownies after school. During the latter half of my elementary school days, I was subjected to the tutelage of older ladies who were grumpy and had obviously lost their passion for teaching. They scared the crap out of me almost daily—intentionally, it seemed. School was pure torture those three years, and I had my first real taste of anxiety. I did not want to be called on or participate in class in any way. I wanted to be a wallflower and absorb the lessons like a sponge.

Middle school was terrifying for me. Not only did I attend school in a highly rated and super-snooty district, but I was also the daughter of a single mother (my parents divorced when I was just four years old), which at that time and place was not as common and accepted as it is today. Although I tried to pass as middle class, based on our income we were poor. I was very ashamed of this and powerless to change it. Imagine a thirteen-year-old with braces, clothes that weren’t brand-name, living in apartments (not houses), rarely able to go to the mall, movies, or anywhere fun, and you’ve got yourself a loner. For years, I had a crush on a boy, but I was too insecure to tell him. Instead, I kept him at arm’s length as a friend. The occasional cruel teacher who loved to embarrass and pick on me had me in knots for the entire semester (a certain English teacher stands out in my mind).

Mom moved us to a different school district between middle and high school, to a more working-class type of community. For an introvert like me, a big change like that was not easy. After a few weeks, however, I made some casual friends, and in a few months, some close ones. It took me a while to decide if I liked others and could trust them. My grades were still average, but most of the time I didn’t feel socially threatened like I had at the other district. I worked on the school newspaper one semester, which included conducting interviews. This was a big step for me. My shyness kept me from participating in sports, though—and it wasn’t like my mom had the funds for that anyway. Missing out on such clubs stunted my social skills even more.

My freshman year, the track coach caught sight of me running in physical-education class and told my teacher I had a great stride and he wanted me to join the team. I walked into the locker room one afternoon to join practice, but after hearing the girls inside laugh while they were changing clothes, I suddenly felt nauseated and left the building. No track for Stacy. And boy, do I regret it. The one sports activity I pursued was powder-puff football my junior year. I knew nothing about football, I didn’t understand what downs or scrimmage meant, and practice was rather boring (my position was a right end). But the high I felt on the field on game night is one of my fondest memories, even if the coach only put me in the game for one play. To this day, my jersey is in my childhood memory box. The white breathable material has yellowed, but the burgundy screened print with my name and number haven’t deteriorated one bit.

Becoming a teenager for me included breaking away from my mom. I grew opinionated and mouthy, and I got grounded frequently. Although I never touched drugs or alcohol, I swore like a sailor and got into other trouble with a few buddies. A lot of what my mother did or said I thought was just plain stupid, and I’d get punished for calling her out. I was searching for my own voice and identity, one that didn’t involve her and her narcissistic ways. I read My Mother My Self. I am sure the at-home, overly boisterous Stacy was meant to contradict the mild-acting student at school. To merge the two, to have them coexist, was a concept I would spend years working on.

Even though I had a weak voice and poor projection, I enrolled in basic choir my senior year of high school. (I needed some electives to fill up my class schedule). As a result, my low alto voice grew stronger. I was able to read and stay on the notes (even reaching high C), and I enjoyed the camaraderie with my classmates, who were mostly freshmen. There were several levels of choir classes, and even though as a senior I was a beginner, friends from my graduating class were in other levels. I quickly learned that the choir clan was accepting, warm, and fun. I came to care less about how I sounded (though I always tried my best) and just enjoy the involvement and growth experiences. It also felt good to be in the front row at the two choir concerts we performed that year.

When I was sixteen, I stopped attending the family church and started going to one where a friend belonged. This infuriated my mother and thus gave me great pleasure. The people at my new church were more accepting of others, warm, and welcoming. I became involved with the youth choir, which had about seventy members at its peak. Even if I was having an off day or my voice was worn out from singing so hard, I enjoyed being part of a group of young people who sang with purpose. The choir visited other churches for rallies, sometimes out of state. Man, were those bus trips legendary! I knew that even if I was still a bit shy, God didn’t care how bad I sounded.

I did not go straight from high school to college. No adult ever presented the community college setting as a possibility for my future. My high-school grades and ACT score were less than stellar, and there was no possibility of a scholarship to a four-year institution. No one explained FAFSA to me. (Thanks a lot, guidance counselors!) So I did what silly nineteen-year-old girls do: marry the first man they fall for. I met Matthew through church, and we dated all too briefly. My twenties were spent working full-time, moving three times, and settling into a mundane life in the suburbs—sans children and white picket fence, but complete with a black Labrador and a pocketful of dreams.

I started working immediately out of high school. All of the positions I held required a high level of customer service. At first I was paranoid, shying away from that specific duty. I would volunteer to file, do inventory, or take on any odd task to avoid contact with strangers. Mostly, I worked in the finance and legal sectors. These were probably the worst areas for someone like me to provide assistance. Customers would complain, become irate, call me names, and swear at me—and being the sensitive soul I was, I took it personally. I couldn’t handle their verbal abuse and idiocy. (I had enough of that growing up with my mother.) My cheeks would become flushed and hot,