by Melody

In 1986, I left Germany with three kids, $200 and seven suitcases. I fled from an abusive marriage and took the journey to Eugene, Oregon. Seventeen hours and three tantrums later, my Mother and her friends Jan and Bill met us at the airport. I dragged out three sleepy kids, ages 5, 3 and 2. We managed to get into my Mother's small car. The kids immediately sacked out in the back seat, and Mom drove us up Highway 99 to the windy Highway 20, which led to Newport, Oregon.

It was about 3:00 a.m. in the morning when Mom drove into Newport, a small fishing town on the Oregon coast, which reminded me of a miniature San Francisco.

Mom drove down Olive Street to Nye Avenue and 6th Streets to the Nye Beach turnaround. She parked the car.

As we gazed out into the ocean and watched the waves come in, and the moon cast a mysterious glow on the clouds, Mom said, "This is a healing place, and, you and the kids need to heal right now."

I nodded, not able to say much of anything. I just looked out on that Pacific Ocean. It was an unusually clear night -- millions of stars peeping out. I looked in the back seat at my three babies and wondered if I could really do it -- alone.

"Write your stories. It's what you were meant to do," said Mom.

Mom took us back to the small apartment that she and her friends had set up just for us, apologizing about it being "shabby." As far as I was concerned, it was a haven. I never forgot looking at that tiny apartment that could have been shabby, all fixed up with a double bed in the living room -- a beautiful blue comforter that was the colors of the ocean covering it -- a tiny table with three chairs for the children, sea shells lining the window sills. And, in the kitchen there was a cart table with two plastic chairs, a bright yellow and white tablecloth covering the table. Mom knew yellow was my favorite color.

On top of the table sat Mom's old black Royal manual typewriter, the one she had since she was in college. Next to the typewriter, there was a stack of white typing paper and all kinds of pens, pencils and notebooks of different shapes and colors.

Mom's friends, Jan and Bill, who had followed us in their pickup with our seven suitcases, helped carry the kids into the small bedroom with bunk beds for Stevie and Melissa and a crib for Jeremy who was barely two years old. We laid them down, and Mom took us back into the kitchen where she showed me a brown bag with spicy tea leaves in it and one of those special tea strainers you use for it. A tea kettle sat on the old gas stove, and she filled the tea kettle with water and turned on the burner.

We all drank hot, spicy tea, sitting at the table with the typewriter and the paper.

"I know this is behind the times," said Mom. "But, it's a start -- for your writing career! No one can tell a story like you can! I remember when you told your first story -- you were six years old. The kindergarten kids at school couldn't wait to hear you tell another story."

Tears sprung into my eyes as I realized that my Mother had more faith in me than I had in myself.

Slowly, the kids and I did heal. We walked to the beach and the store every day. I pounded "stories" out on the typewriter, never really doing anything with them. But, I wrote every single day. Many of my "stories" were letters to people, long, long letters. I wrote letters to my friends who still resided in Germany, to a Sgt. First Class named Jim who helped me realize I was still okay (and, that is another story!), to relatives back East, even to my Mom who lived right down the street. I didn't make copies. I just sent them off and never saw them again.

It was a good thing Mom got me that typewriter because I found I didn't even know what a floppy disk was. The whole world had gone computer without me -- it was 1986.

In late 1987, I landed a job with the State of Oregon, and the kids and I had to say good-bye to our beautiful coastal town of Newport and head for Salem, Oregon -- because of the job. That's where I learned about computers and discovered that word processing was the best tool ever for writers -- and that's why I became a word processing technician with the State of Oregon. I could type lots of words and edit them and not lose my stuff. No other job made sense to me.

Lots of things happened over the next 11 years. I decided to go back to college at the age of 32 -- a single working Mom with three kids. I fleetingly thought of becoming a counselor and helping people, but quickly abandoned that for what I loved most -- English and Writing. Mostly because I got to write a lot.

In 1992, I had a fourth child, a beautiful red head named Megan, and the older kids and I learned an incredible amount about patience and unconditional love -- from "our" baby.

I continued to have adventures with my kids, attend college and work. And, then in late 1996, my mother became very ill. In November, she told me the news. She had terminal bone cancer. I didn't believe it at first. She passed away suddenly in January 1997, leaving the kids and I heartbroken and lost. What would we do without my Mother? She was the only person on earth who could even talk to my 14-year-old daughter Melissa or 15-year-old Stephen. She was our mainstay. She was the only family member who truly understood what I went through as a single Mom.

Six months later, I managed to finish up college -- without Mom. That summer, I decided to move back to California where my Dad lived -- back to San Francisco where I had grown up and where memories of my Mother resided. I managed to land a job at a law firm as a word processor while visiting my Dad, and I told the kids we had two weeks to pack up and move to California!

We rented a 20-foot truck for the move. The truck ran out of gas on the way down a couple of times. We moved to a duplex in Mountain View, California. And, I almost didn't have the heart to celebrate Christmas 1997 -- without my Mother. It didn't help that we had accidentally thrown her precious box of Christmas ornaments and decorations that she had passed down to me over the cliff at the City Dump while we were moving. (That is another story as well.)

The kids and I were getting adjusted to life in the San Francisco Bay Area, and I was up to my ears in teenage dramas and traumas, wishing my Mother was still around -- I needed her more than ever now. My poor Dad had been a bachelor since I was nine years old. He cared and meant well, but he didn't have a clue as to what to do. We were just getting to know each other again.

Juggling a hard core full-time job at a hot shot law firm and teenage kids who were always in trouble and a Kindergardener seemed overwhelming to me.

Then, in May 1998, I went online to the IRC (Internet Relay Chat) to the Writers channel where I always hung out. I had become quite computer savvy over the years. I discovered BBS's and the Internet in 1992, right after Megan was born, and was already known in many areas as "Melody."

Someone on the Writers Channel, I believe he went by "Wildbeast," said, "Hey, Melody, I just read something about this list -- it's called MomWriters. You'd be the perfect candidate! You're a Mom!"

"Umm...yeah, I'm a Mom," I typed back at him.

Then, all of my other friends on the Writers channel chimed in, "Yeah, Melody should go to MomWriters! She's a Mom and she writes."

Duh, I thought. But okay, I might as well check it out. Wildbeast sent me in the right direction. He had heard about it from somebody else. Word gets around fast on the IRC.

And, that's when I discovered "MomWriters." I read the emails and said, "Hey, I can relate to some of this stuff, even though I work! It's all the same. We're all moms who write."

I sent off an email and all of the Momwriters welcomed me, and I immediately felt as if we were all old friends talking, sharing our lives, sharing our writing dilemmas and triumphs and failures, going through life.

Over the years, I've seen people come and go on MomWriters. But, the spirit has never left -- and some of the original people are still out there.

It didn't take me long to realize that it was meant to be, that I was meant to stumble upon MomWriters. There's no doubt in my mind that somehow, my Mother brought me here. She knew I desperately needed to be here.

You are the ones I've shared my life with these past five years, the ups and the downs, the life adventures. You are the ones who were always there for me, reading my "letters" and giving me encouragement even when I wanted to give up on life and throw in the towel. You are the ones who made me realize, in this crazy life, that no matter where I go or who I'm with, I'll always have my writing and MomWriters. Nobody can take that away from me.

And, I know that you'll always be here for me no matter what. I know that I am not alone in this world -- I have my "MomWriters."

That's my journey...as I see it right now. Tomorrow, it may look different. After all, life has come full circle for me. I'm back where I started from.

Always,

Melody
New email address: melodywrites@comcast.net
http://www.deadjournal.com/users/melodywrites/