When Skeletons Barrel Out of Closets Pt. I

Have I Got a Story For You

Meet Barb

Barb grew up in the south, Betsy Layne, Kentucky, but she’s lived in Michigan so long that you can barely detect any of that old southern drawl anymore. Maybe when she refers to her grandmother as “Memaw,” you know where she’s from. Or when she orders a tea from a nice waitress, she expects that tea to be sweet-iced-tea, low on the ice . . . and the tea.

Barb loved her mom, June, and always honored her too. June raised five kids pretty much alone, three girls and two boys. Before she became an official single mom, she endured frequent beatings from her husband, Jay. He didn’t hit the kids as often, but he had no problem showing June who was in charge, and the children certainly witnessed their mom suffer as they stored away video files in their minds, saved in a folder called, “Trauma.”

Jay filled up most days with Kentucky bourbon, whatever cheap brand he could find. And nights, he would find some cronies out carousing and maybe crash on one of his buddy’s sofas if he didn’t noisily fiddle with the screen door at home and trip onto his own living room couch.

Back in the ‘60s, women didn’t easily throw a man out, but June finally did. She got herself a shotgun and a restraining order against Jay and then moved her family up north and got a job at a factory in Hazel Park.

She lived her last years in an assisted living complex on the east side, and her grown children visited her often, sitting with her to keep her company or shopping for her favorite little treats. Barb washed her hair and combed a soft conditioner through it on Fridays.

Barb has raised a family of her own with her committed and loving husband, Ben. A complete 180 from her dad. She credits God for allowing that to happen. She says she was lucky to meet a man who knew Jesus, or a boy you might say as they married quite young. He came from a family of faith, and that family, especially Ben’s mom and dad, took Barb into a warm shelter.

Barb and Ben attended a little clapboard church house with a good amount of married couples raising kids under sound teachings, the likes of Dr. James Dobson. You might find a paperback on their table called, Discipline with Love and Logic. They listened to the gospel songs of The Bill Gaither Vocal Band too, and Ben himself could sing folksy songs in front of the Friday night prayer group, picking his guitar in familiar chord progressions to set the atmosphere. Their three children attended Christian school even though Barb and Ben had to scrape together the funds from a one-income household.

Barb was breaking the family cycle by the strength of The Lord, she would say. In fact, she would not even touch alcohol, an extreme prohibition for herself that her friends, like Liz, teased her about in fun. She had gotten to know Elizabeth back when they were raising children together.

“You sure you don’t need a little visit from Mr. Jack Daniels? He might help you get through these teenaged years with your kids, ya know,” Liz might joke.

Barb was not easily offended and laughed along with her friend, no temptation ever putting up a substantial fight.

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Not all of Barb’s siblings grabbed hold of her faith. She is still close to them and tries to be a good sister, and aunt to their kids, but they don’t want any Bible-thumping coming their way, and Barb respects that.

Her three children grew into nice adults, all productive and in secure relationships. “What a blessing,” Barb says, lifting her hand in praise.

Sitting across from each other in their favorite Middle Eastern restaurant, as Barb and Liz have often done in their thirty-plus years of friendship, because they both happen to love a fresh Fattoush salad, Barb blurts out a declaration:

“Have I got a story for you!”

“Just wait till you hear this,” she says as Liz swallows a bite of the tangy sumac covering the pita chips, the best part of the salad.

To Be Continued . . .

[Join me for Part II when that old skeleton jumps out of hiding to say hello.]