StephanieDawn's Journal

When I grow up; a reflection and an epiphany... 

There was an old tree, a Willow perhaps, that used to blanket my grandfathers backyard every summer.  He roped a tire swing to one of its branches for my sister, cousins and me.  We spent a lot of time back there - my sister and I.  Fond memories of a tire swing and the smell of honey dew growing on the clothesline is all that I have left of him.  He died seven years ago - two days after my 18th birthday.  A brick mason by trade, he worked outside from sun up to sun down, year after year to pay for the beautiful house that he had helped build for my grandmother.  Step-grandmother actually, but we never referred to her in that manner, nor did I ever think of her as less than a grandmother.  For this entry, I'll refer to her in that way to be technical.  After all, my grandparents remarried after having children, so I had several sets of grandparents and that’s all I knew of. 

Strange really because the older I get the more I realize that I'm damn near repeating the cycle of unsuccessful relationships and co-dependency that my mom tried so hard to break. Nevertheless, that house was my home for two weeks every summer once my mom had re-established herself in Texas after her second divorce.  One entire month of our summer was spent in Missouri divided between my Granny and Grandpa.  He worked all day, and when I say that, I mean that he worked from 5 AM to 7 PM or later and so we spent our summer vacations with my Grandma Phyllis (my mom's step-mom) when we were at his house.   Phyllis was an amazing grandmother when I was little.  I used to have horrible separation anxiety from my mother and thoughts that she would die if I wasn't with her.  Grandma Phyllis always knew how to help me through my fears, and every summer, it never failed, she was there for me.  When we weren't spending two weeks at their house each summer they would call and check on us throughout the rest of the year. 

Grandpa was a strong man.  Brick masons had to be I guess.  He was the most influential man in my life to date.  When I was two years old my parents divorced and my father was out partying with my step-mom at that time, so my grandfather was like a surrogate for me.  So many little fragmented bits of time flood back when I reminisce about the time I spent in Branson each summer.  His dark, olive skin was so different than mine.  He spent his days outside and his hands were hard like leather.  He always wore the old cotton shirts that had snaps instead of buttons, and a pocket for him to house his pack of cigarettes. Under that, a white v-neck undershirt which his gray chest hairs always seemed to poke out of.  His eyes were like a mid-day light sky blue.  The older he got the less hair I recall on his head.  His voice was baritone, I would assume from 40+ years of smoking Marlboro Reds.  He was a man’s man.  He had a love for math and geometry.  He taught my older sister her “times tables” when she was 5 years old.  He was like a dad to us. Raymond Hadley Branson, Jr.  The great-great-great nephew of the postmaster who founded Branson, Missouri many, many years ago.  The grandfather of me – Stephanie Dawn Morgan.   The husband of three women in his lifetime.  A brick mason who nearly built his house from the ground up, and laid brick for thousands of homes in Kansas City in his lifetime. 

Raymond Hadley Branson, Jr. He was my pseudo-father, a surrogate for me to rely on.  He was the first man who made an effort to be in my life after my mom left my alcoholic father, and by choice he participated in the lives of my sister and me.  Though Grandpa preferred Seagram's Seven and Coca Cola once he got home from his labor intensive job each and every day - I loved him like a child loves their father.  When Grandpa became ill, he saw a chiropractor, not a doctor.  The realization that his life of daily sun exposure, hard work, and alcoholism were too much for my Grandma Phyllis to cope with.   When I lost him, I lost a father. 

Since his funeral, I've attempted to contact Grandma Phyllis (mom's step-mother), but we played phone tag twice never having an actual conversation, and since then I've misplaced her number.  From what I hear she was very upset after his death.  Grandpa never saved money for retirement, he owned his own business, and he didn't pay for health insurance.  He wasn't prepared to die.  I've come to realize from his lack of preparation - which I, too have not prepared myself.  I look around and see all the beautiful things I've been blessed to possess, but I wonder, "Is this all there is?"  I've come so far so fast, but I'm no where near what I have the potential for.  I feel these great waves of change, like a rising tide, swarming me, surrounding me and in those moments I feel like I can change the world if I'd only push myself harder.  I have within me the power to touch lives and teach children, but I keep it bound in this little locker I call my soul.  I'm so afraid to open up and share my gifts with the world.  Why?  I cannot answer that.  It seems like sometimes in my life there are circumstances that some people would find difficult to handle and I stroll through it like it was nothing.   Other times, I find it challenging to carry out the simplest of tasks. Grandpa wasn't prepared to die. 

Since then, I’ve come to realize that I’m not prepared to live.  I have a gift inside of me that since my last miscarriage I have kept in the back of the locker of my soul.  It's sitting there on that back shelf beside the memories of my Grandfather's house and the joys of swimming at Table Rock Lake...shoved behind some old biblical hymn I sang at church when I was 5 years old...LOCKED away.  I recognize the irony of it all.  Keeping a gift locked away with faded old memories.  Besides, aren't gifts given to us by God?  What right do I have to lock it away with old memories? 

I have a gift with children.  So much so that I became the youngest daycare director in the state of Texas in 2005.  So much so that I am the god mother of two amazing children.  Such a gift that I am willing to sacrifice the position I’m in, the life that I’ve built for myself, the free time that I have, in order to go back to school and become a teacher. An epiphany that arose when I wasn’t afraid to search my soul, the top shelf of the locker, way, way in the back – I reached up there and I grabbed that dream.  Now it’s up to me to take it from its nestled little protected home – and pull it out into the big, scary world where I live my life day to day.  I know I have the strength to do it…it’s up to me.