When I was nine years old, my mom and stepdad divorced. It was a terrible time, although I tried not to show it. My mom wasn't in great emotional shape, and I felt like I was the only thing holding her together. Everything was changing for us. We thought we would have to move in with my grandparents who lived a few doors down for us, so our little Chihuahua, Putt, had to be given away. The only man I ever remembered living with as a father was now living with someone else. My mom had to go back to work, and there was a lot of confusion and sadness all around.
I overheard a lot of things through adult conversations. Most of the things, I later found out, were true, crushing my view of love, marriage, and stability. But I didn't have time to deal with that right then. I was too worried about my mom.
My grandmother was my rock. She picked me up from school every day, helped me with my homework, and fed me dinner. My grandparents, Carol and Big Whit, lived only a few doors down from us, so they were my second (and sometimes first) home.
Endings are always hard, but they are especially hard for kids...and especially when they encompass the end of people. I only saw my stepfather a few times after that. Perhaps visitations were too hard for him; perhaps they were too hard for his new, pregnant wife. Whatever the case, the sleight left an indelible mark on me that never really went away. Like the tune of a song, the grief of loss haunts the mind, heart, and soul...
In 1981, music was more important to me than ever. Here were some of the songs playing on my radio...
