For Fran

I have sold 29 books so far! It's exciting to get the pictures of the book arriving. I am so grateful to all of you who had enough faith in me to buy my book! Please put a review on Amazon about the book, let's see if we can get this project up to an even 30! If you like the book, please put out the word: search June Cartino on Amazon and White Trash Rising is the first thing that pops up.

Want to share the blog? Google White Trash Rising and it leads to my blog.

I met Fran when I moved to Ely, NV. She was happily married with adult children and grandchildren. Most importantly, Fran was the type of woman who was independent, and you could always count on to tell you the truth. You might not like the answer, but Fran would tell you where the rubber hit the road. At a troubled time in my life, she was refreshing. I envied her marriage to a man who clearly adored her, and she, in turn, loved him as well. Fran had questions after she read my book, with a p.s: Book 2? BTW, Fran, please write down everything you said in an Amazon review.

Fran's comments made me think. I am working on two other completely different book projects, but there are so many more stories to tell and characters to describe that influenced my life. So, no promises, but I am working on book 2. In White Trash Rising, I explained generational trauma and behavioral patterns. In book 2 I would like to look closer at the influences that gave me the strength and courage to move on. Suggestions and comments are welcome!

Fran, this one is for you!

How Did I End Up Here?

 Dad was famous in our family for his vivid descriptions of people.  One of his favorites was “That guy is a sleeping Jesus.” 

There were different meanings to the accusation, ranging from “that man is so boring he even puts Jesus to sleep” to “someone completely unaware of what is happening around them.”

            At least I wasn’t a sleeping Jesus when Bowling Ball ran off to meet up with his online girlfriend. I was well aware that something was going on in the marriage.  I do wonder what words Dad would have used to describe me at that point. I had spent almost nine years handing over my money and accepting humiliation and lies in return.   Maybe that did make me a sleeping Jesus.

            Another one of Dad’s favorites was “That boy is so lazy he’s gonna have to marry a pregnant woman.”

            That one was a thinker in my childhood. Why would he have to marry somebody who is already going to have a baby? How did that equate to laziness?  With a vocabulary that could make a merchant marine blush, I somehow retained a small bit of innocence. 

            Growing up on a farm meant I put two and two together relatively easily when it came to animal reproduction.  In fact, I apparently considered myself quite the little expert.  Mom would laugh when she told the story of my educating Donna on reproduction. 

            Preparing for a trail ride or a horse show the next day, Donna put her stallion, Billy, in the barn overnight.  This would cut down on the time spent in the morning searching miles of woodland and pasture to find her horse. Billy was put in the heifer stall, a small fenced-off area of the barn that Dad used to keep young cows safe when calving.

            “You knew that was where we put the heifers before they calved, so we didn’t have to go through the brush to find it. You watched Donna put Billy in the pen, give him hay and water, and close the gate. Your little face was so serious. You had a challenging job on your hands, but Donna needed to be educated. You broke it to her so gently. Very carefully and seriously, you stood in front of Donna and said, ‘It’s not gonna work. You can put him in that pen, but Billy isn’t gonna have a colt. He’s a boy, he can’t have a baby.’ Donna took the news in, and she told you, ‘Well, I’m gonna try it just in case.’ You walked away so disappointed, knowing Donna’s heart was gonna break in the morning when she came to the barn, and Billy didn’t have a baby.

            I wasn’t a stupid person.  How did I end up at the age of forty-three, divorced with a three-year-old child, penniless, and miles away from my family and friends?  Maybe it was true that I had an invisible sign on my forehead saying, “Losers apply here.”  A sign visible only to the losers in question.

            Growing up in the sixties and seventies, I was part of a society with concrete gender roles.   Boys became husbands and girls became wives.  It was a known and accepted fact of life. There was that one older cousin who wasn’t a wife.  Mom explained that to me.

            “She was an Army nurse. When she came back, she was just so set in her ways that she couldn’t stand living with anyone or having kids.  She has to have things her way all the time.”

            Cousin Helen had a roommate, and as a child, I easily deduced the roommate issue.  Two women set in their ways so unyielding that a man could not live with them, who else could they live with to have company and share expenses?  I imagined the house divided, each with their own area, their things, and their routine.  At least she had a friend if she couldn’t get a husband or have children. 

            I knew Cousin Helen would never have children.  How sad, I thought.  When I had asked Mom how wives get babies, she had explained the facts of life to me. 

            “You have to have a husband to get a baby,” Mom said succinctly.

            Poor Cousin Helen, so stuck in her ways, the Army made her so ornery that no man would want to marry her.  And with no husband, no babies.   

            One day, when I was about ten, I heard Mom and my aunts gossiping.

            “Helen has a new roommate.” One of the aunts announced, while the other women tittered and giggled.

            “Is she cute?” One asked, causing the others to break into guffaws.

            I was now in double digits and a woman of the world. Obviously, something was going on with Cousin Helen, something grown-up.  I had to know.

            “Why did Helen get a new roommate?” I asked Mom.

            “Oh, Pooch, haven’t you noticed how pretty Helen’s roommates are?  They are her girlfriends.”

            Oh, my Lord, this was earth-shattering. No wonder Helen didn’t get married.  She liked girls.  I had never met one of “those,” and here I was related to one.  This was a conflict. Helen had broken the rules.  I thought about it for a moment and realized that I really didn’t care.  She was the same person she had always been.

            Despite Cousin Helen’s stepping outside of our societal norms, I knew that I, myself, would be a wife.  After all, I had heard endlessly, “When you get married and have your own house, you can get a pet monkey.”  No matter the pet I wanted, or the junk food I wanted to eat daily, or some chore I despised, I was told, “When you get married and have your own house, you can do what you want.”

            Becoming a wife was a known destiny.  It seemed to seep into my life daily. Instead of being told, “You’re so smart, you could be a doctor.” 

            I was told, “You should marry a doctor.”

            The most heartbreaking realization of my role in our small society came from a casual comment from Tubby.

            “I’m gonna be a cowboy when I grow up,” I announced as I twirled my faux pearl-handled cap pistols.

            “You can’t be a cowboy,” Tubby announced. “You’re a girl, you have to be a cowgirl.”

            I was crushed.  The only cowgirl I knew was Dale Evans, the wife of Roy Rogers, the ultimate cowboy star.   Mrs. Roy Rogers didn’t have a cool horse named Trigger; she rode behind her husband on an unnamed plain horse.  Mrs. Roy Rogers didn’t have pearl-handled pistols in a holster around her waist.  Mrs. Roy Rogers was a cowgirl and wore a skirt! 

            This was my destiny. This was my life.  I would have been four or five years old when Tubby told me the rules of my life.  The best I could hope for was to be some man’s sidekick.  That was my fate and my punishment for being born a girl.