Some Things You Never Forget:: A Memoir of Mama's Morsels

By Pamela Davis Black

Confession is good for the soul. It reveals the truth that we are, as any other sinner, saved by the grace of God. To that end, our greatest battles may be as grueling as those of David when he encountered the lion, the bear, or especially the giant Goliath. As this very personal story developed, snakes and other vicious creatures made themselves known. In essence, it became a revelation. Not every battle is won; sometimes we are overtaken, and the scars of defeat will live with us forever.

In the end, it is most critical that we can boldly declare, We have fought the good fight. We have finished the race. We have kept the faith.

Ask yourself: How can one possibly get from here to therefrom the place of utter despair to one of absolute victory?

In Some Things You Never Forget, your own stories can become your path to victory, for in them you can find the God of the impossible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Apr 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490833354

Pamela Davis Black

Pamela Black is a wife, mother, grandmother, daughter, sister, and friend. Most significantly, she is a victor. When faced with insurmountable loss, she began a journey that started with forgiveness. Over the past three decades, she has achieved academic success, obtaining both a Doctorate in Pharmacy and an MBA. Most importantly, she has learned that she is defined not only by position in the workplace, but also by God’s calling in her personal life.

Book preview

Some Things You

Never Forget:

A Memoir of

Mama’s Morsels

Pamela Davis Black

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Copyright © 2014 Pamela Davis Black.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright 1952 [2nd edition, 1971] by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Cover art: Escaping the A’s by Jared E. Kies, Perrysburg, Ohio. 2013.

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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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4908-3336-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-3337-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-3335-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014906606

WestBow Press rev. date: 04/08/2014

Contents

Preface

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Friday, April 6, 2012

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Saturday, April 14, 2012

Sunday, April 15, 2012

Saturday, April 21, 2012

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Monday, April 23, 2012

April 23, 2012 – afternoon

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Thursday, April 26, 2012

Friday, April 27, 2012

Saturday, April 28, 2012

Sunday, April 29, 2012

Thursday, May 3, 2012 am

Thursday, May 3, 2012 pm

Friday, May 4, 2012

Saturday, May 5, 2012

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Friday, May 11, 2012

Saturday, May 12, 2012

Sunday, May 13, 2012

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Monday, May 21, 2012

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Friday, May 25, 2012

Saturday, May 26, 2012

Monday, May 28, 2012

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Monday, June 4, 2012

Wednesday, June 6, 2012 – 3am

Wednesday, June 6, 2012 – 6pm

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Friday, June 8, 2012

Saturday, June 9, 2012

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Monday, June 11, 2012

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Tuesday, June 19, 2012 3am

Tuesday, June 19, 2012 6pm

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Saturday, June 30, 2012

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Thursday, July 5, 2012

Friday, July 20, 2012

Sunday, July 22, 2012

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Saturday, July 28, 2012

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Sunday, August 19, 2012

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Monday, August 27, 2012

Saturday, September 1, 2012

Monday, September 3, 2012

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Sunday, January 6, 2013

February/March 2013

Post Script

Acknowledgements

I dedicate this to Benjamin Allan Davis:

The dad I never had when I thought I needed him the most.

You are the most generous and faithful friend I have today – apart from the other guy.

You are a testament to the fact that as long as we have breath, we can be changed.

You don’t always have to get it perfect the first time around because people just aren’t perfect.

I love you, dad, with all my heart.

I absolutely cannot imagine my life without you in it.

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The author with her father – Summer 2009

Preface

At the onset, I need to declare that the order of this text is not chronological. I merely started with a few simple goals.

In the beginning, it was my plan to share snippets of my life in the anticipation that they may have some meaning. In a journal format, I hoped to connect the events of any given day with a memory, a word of advice, a special tradition… particularly to my family and maybe some others who may benefit from hard lessons learned… at least when one has the good sense to do the right thing.

There is a difference between living life day-to-day and really making a difference in your life – each day.

Eleanor Roosevelt once said, "The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience." In this volume I hope to share a snippet of my own experience to demonstrate the simple truth in this wisdom.

Experience does not necessarily come after us; we often need to pursue it ourselves. Either way, the fullness of it is not realized without a part of it consuming us, transforming us.

When I started writing, it was my intent to somehow weave the most remarkable events in the life of an ordinary girl into a story that may touch a heart, but always leave the reader with a lesson learned, a clever tradition to carry on with their own family, a sweet memory of a mother’s heart… but mostly to point back to the God who made it all possible – especially the amazing victories. The impossibilities made possible… probable… even real.

I also imagined that confession would be good for the soul, revealing the truth that I am just like any other sinner saved by the grace of God. To that end, I have suggested my greatest battles as the lion and the bear and the giant – from the Biblical stories in the life of David. As this text developed, snakes and other vicious creatures made themselves known. But in the end, this writing has become more than catharsis; it is a revelation.

As the stories have unfolded, the nature of the material has taken a bit of a twist. It is like life, the very essence of the topic is raw, unedited. It has also been an evolutionary process, in that it has turned into a very personal provocation for introspection and confession. I realize that not every battle is won; sometimes I am overtaken and the scars of defeat will live with me forever. Nonetheless, since I started to write, all I think of when I am not writing is what I’ve missed, points I’d like to make and mostly, how all of this is causing me to think and live differently today.

It has not been my intent to hurt anyone through the truths told. If I have, I trust you will press through to either see reconciliation or to re-evaluate your own lives. Sad to say, but for the most part, I have not, changed the names to protect the innocent. We all are who we are.

I will undoubtedly and shockingly disappoint some.

Frankly, I have vacillated as to whether some things are just better left unsaid – particularly as I am haunted by a former boss’s critical comment to an isolated divulgence of a personal, private, and raw confession when he said, Why in the world would you ever want to share such things?

In this account, it was a deliberate choice to lay it all bare, because if we are human, we all have secrets. We all make bad choices. We sin. And, like Adam and Eve of old, after we sin… while we are sinning, we hide. We cover ourselves, hoping those who count won’t notice. Inevitably, they do.

Perhaps we are ashamed. Hopefully, we are repentant, but maybe not. I dare say if you are human, you will somehow relate, even if you cannot tell a soul how or why, even if you are not sorry, even if you profess to have a relationship with your God.

I cannot undo my past and neither can you. I’m not even sure I would, because it has shaped me.

I doubt anyone who picks up this volume and chooses to turn its pages is flawlessly pure. I doubt anyone who picks up this volume and chooses to turn its pages will dispute that I not only tell my story, I may be telling yours as well.

And so it begins…

Thursday, April 5, 2012

About a month ago I had a novel idea, though it is not yet fully developed. You see, practically nothing in my life has happened at the right time – nor is it generally a well thought plan executed. Nonetheless, as I approach another landmark birthday, I’d like to think things have finally turned around.

This week I’ve decided to work from home. As I stopped for a bit to prepare lunch today, starting with a rotisserie chicken leftover from last night’s dinner, I thought again about the book that’s tossing around in my brain. That’s my goal. I want to write a book by the time I turn sixty – in just over a year. With any luck, I will be able to articulately tell my story with unction and meaning – especially to my children and grandchildren, to make my dad proud, and mostly, to glorify my heavenly Father who made it possible to have a life story at all.

I especially hope to reach others who feel that their lives were not well lived, that they are doomed to endure the rest of their days in the same ugly rut… the same sort of prison that has held them captive for years. I promise you, it does not have to be that way. Change is possible – no matter when you decide that now is the time and no matter the lack of resources available.

I got pregnant, got married, and had a baby by the time I was eighteen, mostly because of a rather troubled family life as I was growing up.

It’s unclear why my parents were not happy – with one another, or with their four children. However, it was very apparent to all those who watched our lives. Inside our house, it was blatant. Among our extended family, my dad’s absence from virtually all family functions made a clear statement. Then there were our neighbors. They, too, seemed to know it was not well at the Davis house – at least that’s the vibe I picked up even as a young child.

My dad built our house and we moved in when I was in kindergarten. We lived there for many years, so everyone in the neighborhood knew everyone. I dare say, everyone knew too much about the private lives of the others.

When I was in high school, my dad left home for a couple of months. At the same time, my mother had what I now think was a nervous breakdown. She did not leave her bedroom. I recall checks coming in the mail and having to take them up into her dark room with only a slight stream of light pushing its way around the drawn blinds. I had no idea how long it was since she had taken a shower or even brushed her teeth. Her hair was disheveled and her hands shook as I helped her with the pen. As a young teen, it was daunting to approach the woman who was supposed to be the strong, decisive caregiver – particularly since my dad was absent. I certainly did not feel like I had any authority to tell her what to do. The entire situation was frightening to me, so I would quickly leave. Perhaps I would justify my negligence of mother because her best friend, Aunt Lynne (not really our aunt at all) sat with her for hours every day. Or, maybe it was because I was simply afraid to see her like that.

The very person whose responsibility is was to suppress my fears was doing quite the opposite by invoking them.

Being the eldest, it fell on me to care for my three younger siblings. Since I did not yet drive, my boyfriend took me to the bank with mom’s endorsed check and then to the grocery store to buy food. I cooked and did laundry and packed lunches. I saw to it that everyone got on their bus at the beginning of the day, and in bed on time at day’s end. The grandparents stepped in some of the time, but they were not there full time. At some point, I think I made an unconscious decision that I had enough of running someone else’s house. I was vulnerable – and no one was even watching. Did anyone even care?

When I was a high school sophomore, I vividly remember reading a book called Too Bad about the Haine’s Girl. It was a story about a teenage girl who got pregnant while in high school and all of the shame it brought to her and her family. Of course it did, as unwed pregnancy was almost unheard of in the 1960’s. I remember that the message was so poignant; I vowed to myself, That will never be me. Nonetheless, it did happen; it was me.

Too bad about the Davis girl.

It was dreadfully shameful to get knocked up outside of marriage, so I dropped out after the first semester of my senior year in high school. It wasn’t until the most unfortunate statistic called divorce scored again when I was in my late twenties – then a mother of two. Negative strikes were mounting. I felt powerless to change the inevitable destiny I feared would become my sad legacy. I was stuck in a mess of a life with no way to get out.

By the time I was thirty-two years old, I had made it through a very long separation and inequitable divorce. Being a stay-at-home mom was just fine, but at that point, my odds of finding a real job for life were pretty slim. My ability to gain meaningful employment to live life was going to have serious limitations, especially for the long haul. For whatever reason, the concept of going to college – impossible as it all seemed – would not escape me. Even so, I did it. I went to college, in spite of my father’s displeasure, and the course of my life changed dramatically.

Anyway, today’s lunch was just another morsel… a tiny tidbit. It was just one more reminder of how an otherwise meaningless activity of day-to-day living can make a difference in someone else’s life. I thought about one of those hundreds of things that cumulatively assembled, in my opinion, may make some meaningful influence to those for whom I care the most – my family… my kids, the parents of those grandbabies I love as only a grandparent can. And… maybe other families, as well.

There are stories and the lessons to be learned – family traditions shared and the seeds of endearment sown. If it can go anywhere, this volume may be the proverbial backside of the tapestry. It will reveal motivations and secrets, hardships endured and the greatest blessings known by this very simple girl who grew up in a small Midwest town, who made many mistakes, and who now hopes to gain some semblance by piecing together the fabric of her life. Redemption.

My kids bought me a video camera hoping I would create a documentary of (literally) generations of stuff we have in this six thousand square foot house of ours. I guess, for now, I’d rather write.

It has been just about a year and a half since that fateful day when the rug was pulled out and I slammed down harder than I ever could have imagined – another reminder that for some things, the timing never will be right. As a corporate vice president of a Fortune 400 company, running a nationwide department that I essentially developed at a sister company several years before, life was good. I had been in the workforce for about seventeen years, having been promoted several times. In my position, I had overcome the managerial unpleasantries of growing pains and consolidations, having arrived at the place of simply expanding the business model, developing the concepts, and creating novel patient-centric clinical services. In other words, I had laboriously laid the foundation of my career, painstakingly gone through each step to climb the proverbial ladder, and was finally on autopilot in the workplace.

On one auspicious August day, I received a call from my boss. It swiftly became clear to me that the conversation was going to be difficult – even bleak. I closed my office door as I often did when he called. I had much responsibility and often needed to deal with sensitive information. However, this time seemed different. I could tell there was an edge in his voice; he was oddly distant. He got straight to the point, telling me that the next day, four people would be losing their jobs, naming three of them. This in itself made me nauseous. These were my people, in my physical location. Tim. Cathie. Sarah. My head starts to throb, as I thought of their reactions, their families, their lost income. Then, I paused, wondering about the three names. Who was the fourth? There was a hesitation, almost as if he couldn’t bear telling me the whole story. So, I was forced to ask who was the fourth, only to find that it was I. I was losing my job, becoming a dreadful statistic once again. I was absolutely taken aback – totally and overwhelmingly shocked. At fifty-seven years old and fully anticipating that I would retire with the company, I was suddenly plunged into that place called surreal. My head was spinning. My body was paralyzed. I heard nothing more after that shocking and wholly unexpected news.

After several minutes, I called my husband. He had to tell me what to do next. Leave. Go get a new phone, transfer my nearly two thousand contacts. He met me at the phone store and figuratively carried me through the rest of the evening.

Oddly, as reality settled in, I was deeply grateful for the chance to even know ahead of time. I could get my own phone, save my files, and empty my office in privacy.

The next morning, I sat in my barren office hearing the whisperings outside the door bouncing around my naked walls, occasionally hitting me, as if to taunt and to shame. Angrily, I erased everything from the hard drive of my computer. If they wanted or needed anything, they would have to dig for it. The corporate big boys had no idea what I had done to move along the development of this department.

That horrific event happened nine days before we were moving our daughter to college for the first time. Although my husband is a professor at a local university, our daughter decided she really wanted to move away from our hometown to a bigger city to not only gain an education, but to have a life-changing experience. Against the unsolicited counsel of all our reactive family members, we continued with the plan.

After all, I reasoned that, I am now a well-educated professional. And, I was glad to be a part of our daughter’s college move-in event without carrying along a laptop and a Blackberry. I received a severance and would surely have another position before too much time passed.

The job hunt will be a story for another time. Suffice it to say, after thirteen long months of unemployment, unimaginable humiliation and impending desperation, I was finally offered a position.

Today I work in the same industry, doing what I know best. I thought once I gained meaningful employment, the anger and bitterness that began to fester because of chronic rejection and disappointment, along with increasing financial stress would dissipate. It hasn’t. Nonetheless, I am making a concerted effort to lay aside the fears and press on in a positive way, developing solid relationships and making meaningful contributions. Admittedly, I feel like I am walking on eggshells. There is unlikely ever going to be a sense of security in the workplace. But, I try to push through my fears and insecurities every day. I doubt the people with whom I brush shoulders have any idea.

For most of my life, with family members, acquaintances in most areas - and at work, it seems that I intimidate most everyone. I don’t see it, but have been told so for many years of my adult life. In keeping with my natural persona, I seem to have done it again – intimidate, that is. Honestly, in my heart I am not that person. I do not feel above others or believe that my opinions are absolute or that I am a force to be obeyed… yet, that is a common reaction.

In my new job, there is a very special woman. Her name is Amy. As I started working at this company, it did not take long to notice her. She always has a smile on her face. She is contagiously energetic and positive, a person to emulate. Clearly, Amy is a beautiful person inside and out. However, she is quite thin, hardly eats, and occasionally mentions something about chronic hiccoughs or nausea and vomiting. A few weeks ago, my suspicions were confirmed when there was some group discussion about her follow up to a long season of being treated for a very invasive and humiliating diagnosis of colorectal cancer. Maybe coming to the sad reality that her life was going to be dramatically shortened caused her to change, but I’m not so sure of that. I think what we all see is really who she is. I guess we are all who we really are at the core.

Recently, the door opened to broach with Amy the subject of her medical plight. At least, I wanted to engage in conversation to express my sincere concern for both her physical and mental health. We had the talk and, over the telephone, Amy openly explained all of the grim details of her diagnosis, treatment, and subsequent life changing impact of having cancer. I guess she could hardly believe the level of compassion I obviously expressed, as she too saw me as that unapproachable, intimidating person others find so difficult to befriend. In the end, Amy – totally in character – stated, I am going to hug you the next time you’re here!

Two days ago, Amy celebrated her fortieth birthday. Because she is a long time employee and beloved by all the staff, there was a grand celebration at work. A few days later, she and I were engaged in another conversation about something work-related, to which Amy replied, I’m all out of birthday wishes…

So, as I was picking the chicken off of the leftover roast for my lunch, encountering the one bone always saved in this house, I carefully cleaned the meat and sinew from the surface and silently smiled.

Mama’s Morsel for the Day:

Save the wishbone.

You never know when you… or a grandchild…

or even a new found friend might need to make a wish.

Friday, April 6, 2012

As I was writing last night, our daughter-in-law, Jill stopped by to get a dress I bought last year but have never been able to wear. Jill is married to my oldest son Joshua; they have three beautiful children.

Actually, when I got the dress on sale, the price was really right and I should have gotten the next size, but I reasoned that my weight loss was still on the right track, so hopefully it would eventually fit. Some things never will.

Jill and I stayed up half the night talking about things she didn’t know, even though she has been a part of the family for nearly seven years. Honestly, it’s funny how we think we might be like an open book but fail to let others in. There are so many distractions. We fail to pause, to be still and consider that which holds true meaning in life. Then, we forget to pass along the lessons learned. Wisdom gained. After all, isn’t that supposed to be the beauty in the aging process?

Sixteen years ago as a clinical pharmacist with a personal crisis of my own, I wrote a journal article about my paternal grandmother who had always been the epitome of health. It is funny what we remember, but this grandma had boundless energy. She was a real character. At age seventy seven, she proudly did a somersault… in a dress, in the middle of her living room. I’m not yet sixty and not so sure I could do one without serious risk to some body part!

When grandma – Gertrude – was approaching her hundredth year of life, her mental status changed quite dramatically. Since it was no longer safe for her to live alone, my dad and I had decided to place her in a nursing home. Suffice it to say, our experience having grandma in the nursing home was catastrophic. It was literally a day-to-day battle to ensure she got the care she needed, the respect she deserved, simply because she was a person.

Although I tend to download by talking, some things are not so easily expressed. When I am frustrated or angry, particularly with uncontrollable circumstances, I write. During that time, the product of my reveries resulted in an article, The Face Within the Chart which was published in my profession’s primary journal.

In the article, both grandma and I were featured; it was a story of my life which led to my education and profession, and how then, in that profession, it all became personal. Mostly, the story was about grandma. It was about all of the memories that flood the heart and mind, the unspoken gestures that only love drives us to care for one who can no longer perform the very basic activities of daily living. It was about protection and dignity - and fighting the good fight for those who no longer have the energy or strength to do so for themselves. It was about getting in whatever you can while there is still time.

Today, I cannot zip the dress. I look in the mirror and I’m not so happy with what I see. To quote from the article, I now see the same brown spots from grandma’s face, the same wrinkled skin and sagging parts that I wrote about nearly two decades ago. Now it is my face, my body. It is me. So again, I write.

Today is Good Friday; Sunday will be Easter. Although I, ashamedly, get quite consumed with the secularization of this and all of the other holidays, privately I cannot escape the real reason why we acknowledge the day.

Over the years, my faith has had its ups and downs - not so much in my belief system, but the extent to which I truly live it with every breath, every decision, every moment of every day, or to a much less extent when I feel more self-sufficient and independent. Undoubtedly, it is the same for most who profess faith and live life for any length of time. It is not an excuse; it is reality.

Real life is more like a rollercoaster ride with its unexpected surprises around each sudden curve.

It is not a smooth cruise across the Plaines where all is open and obvious and expected.

Last night in my chat with Jill, we talked a lot of my mother’s untimely death at forty-four years old. And, of the fears all the family endured watching me become progressively more depressed as the job search became more and more bleak. I suppose they worried I would become my mother. Seriously, I worried that I would become my mother.

Today, I spent much of the day shopping and preparing a meal for dear friends whose husband was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. His prognosis is bleak, save for a miracle. At forty-nine years old with a wife and three children, it is extremely sad to consider the eventual outcome.

I am a woman in that place called the somewhere in-between. I have exceeded both the years my mother was granted, and even those that our dear friend may experience himself.

I doubt that anyone who really matters, like my mother… or anyone for whom I can make a difference by cooking a favorite meal - or even my own children and grandchildren can see the brown spots or the wrinkles or the sagging parts. They see the love that cooks the meal or assembles the ten Easter baskets that line our main staircase in age order: Grace, Maizie, Brooke…. We all choose to focus inward or outward.

Make memories while there is opportunity. We never know the number of days we will have; cherish the moments, in spite of all the chaos or distractions.

Mama’s Morsel for the Day:

Choose others. Choose love.

Foundation covers the brown spots.

The right clothing helps the rest – even if it isn’t that sale dress that Jill just inherited.

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Josh and Jill with Grace (right), Evan (center), and Sam (left) outside our family home Fall 2012

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Today is the twenty second anniversary of my marriage to that handsome biology professor I met when, against all odds, I started college at age thirty-two, a divorced mother of two boys, ages seven and fifteen.

It is quiet today, but it hasn’t always been so.

Between the two of us, we have four children ranging in ages from twenty to forty. When we married, I had two sons – Joshua and Adam; Craig had one - Shaun. Together, we were blessed with a much unplanned gift: Jessica Lyndall. Sadly, today she is in the big city far away.

It was at the end of my fourth of a five year Bachelor’s in Pharmacy program that we married. However, I fully intended to add on two more years to complete what was then a relatively new clinical pharmacy program called the Doctor of Pharmacy, or PharmD degree. This is how it began…

That spring day in 1986 when I first went to the Catharine Eberly Center for Women at the University of Toledo (UT), I discovered that there was an opportunity to go to college