The Cask of Amontillado Revisited (or The Tale of an Abusive Relationship)

 

His eyes called me to him—

And his smile—

And, of course, his comforting presence and sweet words.

My friend, the one who knows me and wants only the best for me.

My friend offered me the sweetness of life 

if only I would love him and follow him to the secret places of his heart—

Secret places saved only for me.

The Amontillado—a precious, rare treasure saved only for the most special—

The most Fortunate. 

Me.

He told me I was lucky to have him and to share in what he called “My Treasure.”

I left others behind, my friends and family, to join him, to follow him step by step.

That one decision led to many others,

Winding,

Confusing,

Desolate.

I lost my way . . .

My sense of direction gone, the light dim,

All I knew to do was to follow him—

he who was confident, reassuring, and promising.

I followed the light and hope of his words . . . 

Even as a small part of me longed to go back,

To find my own way, to trust my own sense of direction.

His sweet words “love-bombed” me, exploding my fears and worries.

He spoke of his concern for my well-being, my health, my happiness.

Even as I felt something was wrong, 

I not only believed in him, but I believed him.  

His directions of up and down, right and left, right and wrong became mine as well 

as he guided me through the chaotic corridors.

He promised the treasure was just ahead . . . 

And I stepped hopefully, with purpose . . . 

Only to find a dead end.

It was too late.

Chains bound me in a special “cage” created just for me by him,

A Goldilocks-perfect trap created by one who knew me so well,

Who knew now how to weaken me,

To make me beg and plead,

To play with my insecurities,

To force me to cajole, make promises, accept unnecessary blame,

Become someone I barely recognized because I barely recognized him..

My pleas only led to gaslighting, to mimicking, to mocking jeers.

“I will destroy you,” he cackled, as my knees buckled beneath me.

“You changed.”

“You made a fool of me.”

“You made me do this.”

“I wouldn’t have done this if you hadn’t forced me to.”

“Nemo me impune lacessit.”

He played with my hopes,

As he bricked me in,

Block by block,

The outside world slowly dimming,

The refreshing, rejuvenating sustenance thinning,

To be replaced by his toxic cheer and lies.

He sat outside the wall of his making, enjoying my pain,

Content to go about his life, making up stories to others,

Altering reality.

As I struggled against the chains, I asked myself, 

“How could you have been so blind?”

I saw now the true irony.

He had said if I followed him I would find the treasure, and in an odd way, it's true.

Only now did I see, as I sit cramped in this tiny spot,

I did find the only real treasure --- ME.

There was no treasure he could offer me.

Instead, I had been the real treasure the whole time,

Valuable beyond measure,

And now he had ME, trapped for his pleasure.

Dumpster-Diving Granny (and some road pickles)

 

From the windows of my grandfather’s beautifully buffed behemoth of a car, a 1975 Lincoln Continental, my sister and I gradually sank lower and lower in our seats, hoping no one saw us—

Embarrassed,
Horrified,
Exasperated.

Just outside the windows we could see them—Mom, Dad, Grandma, and Grandpa—standing beside a dumpster at the Asheville Farmers’ Market.

We saw my mom helping to lift my 75-year-old grandmother to the upper edge of the dumpster, her butt in the air, hovering over the edge to grab left-behind cantaloupes, all perfectly ripe, the last of a farmer’s load to sell, abandoned at the end of a long selling day.

My grandmother, all 5’ 1” of her, and her daughter, my mother, raised to be just as determined, just as frugal, grabbed one and hoisted it to my grandpa who acted like this was an everyday occurrence.  Grabbing another and waving in the air, Grandma yelled to us and pointed, “Look, girls, they’re perfect.  We’re having cantaloupe tonight!”

Both Kelly and I sighed and knew that anyone driving by who noticed an old lady dumpster diving in her polyester culottes and shirt would find this a curious sight.

* * * * * * * * *  

Years later on Hwy. 37 in the boonies, halfway between Bradenton and Mulberry, Florida, not a car in sight, once again, Kelly and I sank in the back seat, watching Mom and Dad scurry across the two lanes of highway, picking up cucumbers that had fallen from a produce truck, packing them into the trunk of our VW Rabbit.  

“Waste not, want not” rang in our ears.  When Mom exclaimed, "Girls, they are the perfect size!" we instantly knew all evening plans, including the weekly watching of Heehaw and The Lawrence Welk Show,  would be sidetracked to sanitize Mason jars and can some pickles.

Like mother, like daughter.

* * * * * * * * * *

Grandma’s early adult years were spent in the Great Depression, so frugality was treasured, and became a commodity of its own.

50 years later, that commodity led to a dumpster diving granny and road pickles and a cabbage incident.  There I stood in a Florida Publix watching Grandma strip layers of cabbage leaves off the head before weighing it for the price, proclaiming to me as I hid my face behind my collar, “Why should I pay for the cabbage I won’t use?”


* * * * * * * * * * *

Only age provides clarity.  Imagine my wonderment as I now consider these two influential women.

Both were proud money-savers, 
garage sale junkies, 
discount rack-only customers.

Yet despite this frugality,  neither saved, 
scrimped, 
or hoarded their love, 
their time, 
or their praise.

The young, embarrassed sixth grader wouldn’t have recognized this irony,
Wouldn’t have appreciated the generosity,
But I do now.

Perhaps part of being a mom involves—
The pursuit of seeing the traits our kids devalue and toss aside,
The desire to uncover the hidden value,
The willingness to throw dignity aside and dive into the mess,
Come up to the surface,
And hold high,
Pointing and yelling at all who pass by, 
“Hey, look at what I found.”

Who Cares? A Wish for 2026

 

 

 The unbelievable surrounds us . . . . 
The intricate weaving of scraps to make a bird nest,
The maze of tunnels in an ant kingdom,
And the thrumming beat of the hummingbird wings as it drinks from an open flower.

But perhaps the most astounding, the most miraculous, is when a human decides to stop and
Notice the lives of others,
Listen to their stories,
Step into their shoes,
And imagine their hardships.

You know those who do this.  
They are the ones who are often criticized for their bleeding hearts.
The weight they carry for others is heavy.

Horton from Dr. Seuss’ Horton Hears a Who! knows all about this.  As large as this pachyderm is, he hears the tiny sound of a voice on a speck of dust, a voice no one else hears.  Despite the cackles of the sour kangaroo and her babe, and despite the resistance of the Wickersham Brothers and the black-bottomed bird, Vlad Vlad-i-koff, he cares for the speck of dust and the people of Whoville.

In case you didn’t know, Dr. Seuss’ early work contains many racist stereotypes and contributed to American mistrust of Japanese-Americans during World War II.  However, his character Horton reveals that he, too, stopped and listened.  He, too, underwent a change of heart.  He, too, developed a willingness to hear the voices of those in Japan, to deal with the criticism of others, and to care.

It takes integrity to refuse to use our power and position, our large Horton size, to assert our desires—-but instead, use our position to protect those who may not “measure up” in our eyes.  

It takes courage to protect the powerless, the poor, those who are different from us.

It takes grace and mercy to see the humanity of others whose views and lifestyles don’t match ours.

It takes intentionality to look for those others, those citizens of Whoville, who believe their voices don’t matter, and encourage and enable them to speak.

* * * * * * * * * *

In 2026, I am hoping for a miracle—
For supervisors and bosses to listen to employees and care about their experiences,
For those in power to care about those little “specks of dust” and the people who inhabit them,
For us to look for those who need to be seen,
For us to hand a loud megaphone to those who need some help to be heard,
And for the voices of all of us in our own little Whoville to make a loud “YOPP!” 

May we, like Dr. Seuss, the sour kangaroo and babe, and the Wickersham Brothers evolve and look for specks of dust and their inhabitants.   May we listen to their stories and their voices.

May we care for every Who . . . .

Choose Your Own Adventure---Robert Frost Style

 

Choose Your Own Adventure
Robert Frost Style

A different interpretation of "The Road Not Taken" 

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood . . ."

 

Adventure Choice 1:

I took the road more traveled.
While I wasn’t sure this was the right choice, 
the road was well-worn and familiar, 
As it was the path recommended to me by all I knew.

Each fork in the road was clearly marked,
And signs along the way let me know which way to go.
Smooth.
Rest stops and markers warned me how much longer the path would go.
Well paved.
Lights marking the way in the dark.
Companions along the way who appeared to care about my journey.

Yet, each step I took I felt less and less real
But instead, just marching in step with everyone else.
I was taking a path I knew would lead to a future clearly defined,
But I didn’t know if that was a future I wanted, 
But was it too late to turn back now?

Scared to undo all my walking, I regretfully moved forward with the crowd.  


Adventure Choice 2:

I took the road less traveled.
I wasn’t sure if this was the right choice,
And every indication proved I might be right.
Branches occasionally leaned into the walkway,
Forcing me into the loose pebbles along the way.
Potholes and tree roots populated the path.

The path seemed to dead end, and only with careful inspection,
To the right, I saw a small deer track,
Where these creatures had separated the grasses, matting their stalks into the mud.
I crouched and squat-walked under the tree limbs, uncertain the route.
Leaves stuck in my hair, and spider webs brushed my cheeks.

Darkness came, and only the moon highlighted the route, 
My companions the crickets and cicadas, coyote cries, and owl songs.
Alone, I wondered why I had taken this path.
Regret filled my heart.
I twisted my ankle on an unexpected rock.
Looking desperately around for a stick,
I hobbled forward, one painful step at a time.

It was true that on this path I was gloriously free to go my own way, 
that the lack of human companions allowed me to hear the wind dancing in the leaves,
but did I even know where the path was as it often was hidden?
Did I make the right choice?  It could make all the difference.



Adventure Choice 3:

I didn’t know which path to take.  
I sat with such indecision and fear that I would make the wrong choice
That, instead, I went back home and turned on Netflix.

Adventure Choice 4:

I didn’t know which path to take.
I was filled with indecision and fear.
I re-read Frost’s “The Road Not Taken.”  

I read the words in the last stanza:

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I realized that no matter what road I took,
I might tell this with a sigh, with perhaps wonder about the other road.
Each choice may make all the difference—
Not because one was right and one was wrong, 
But because either path would make a difference in me,
Would alter who I was,
Would change the view of the world I had.

Regardless of the choice, I couldn’t see the future.
I couldn’t predict the difference it would make.
I could only do the best I could in this situation
And being confident in myself and my own ability to learn on any road,
I picked one—without guilt, fear, or concern that I was doing the wrong thing.
No regrets.  No second-guessing.
A decision to enjoy the present.

I skipped down the path, enjoying the yellow wood, 
Winding along,  
Following the moonbeams and stars when my path was unclear.

And that realization has made all the difference.

A Word Eater

Because I was taught to be a sweet little girl,
Obedient and loving, putting others first,
Because I was taught “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all” and the familiar rhyme “sugar and spice and everything nice,”

Because of that, I learned early on to eat my words.

My baby teeth were still in, and I was learning the skill so many little girls are taught—
I learned to eat my words one word at a time. 
Noisily crunching, snapping, and chomping.
I was advised to be polite and “never talk with your mouth full,” but even with my mouth closed, my chewing sounds were so loud others could hear my eating.

Over the years I learned to break the words of pain and disappointment and outrage more slowly,
More carefully, so few noticed.
I deliberately ground those words into tiny pieces easy to swallow and digest,
So slowly and deliberately I felt like I was opening a peppermint wrapper in a quiet church service.

Later, as my molars came in, and as my wisdom teeth started making their way to the surface,
I learned how to eat my words less noticeably, more noiselessly,
Scissoring, grinding, and using my tongue to loosen lost bits of hurt and anger from my molars.
Few knew I was chewing—

I was even capable of smiling while I felt the words present between my cheek and teeth, moved aside for future examination because the words were too much,
Like a too-big acorn pocketed away in a chipmunk’s cheek.

In addition, I learned that the most dangerous words, the most gristly of all, were words of anger.
Sweet girls didn’t voice these weapons.
These words were quickly swallowed,  despite my pediatrician’s advice to chew 30 times to aid in digestion.
These words could not be liquefied, they could not lose their texture and gristle.
These words of anger had to be swallowed whole, and I felt them slowly move down my throat, down my esophagus, and further inside.

No wonder women gain weight in middle age.
Too many words swallowed.
Too many words gnawed on, chewed on, swallowed.
Whole minutes and months and years, perhaps, spent gumming words into a shapeless, tasteless mass,
A smushed denial of existence.
Swallowed and sitting in the stomach, in the blood flowing through our veins, and in our very being.
Filling us up,
Undigested,
Weighing us down,
Gurgling and bubbling from below,
Breaking down and burning, acidic, erosive,
With a great desire to expel them all . . . 

But knowing all too well that no one (including myself) is prepared to see just how many words we have eaten.

Finding the Burden Stones

 

“We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship 

can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone.”  

Orson Welles

I was in early elementary school when I had one of the worst cases of the flu  I can recall.  I was running a high fever, was nauseous, had burning eyes, and could barely move.  I can remember Mom hovering over me while I lay with my eyes shut on the sofa, saying to me, “I would do anything to take this from you.  I wish it were me who was sick instead of you.” 

Although I was surrounded by loving family members, I alone had to suffer.  No one else could take it away from me, and no one else could feel that pain in that moment.  

Like Mom, over the years, I have offered a similar sentiment to my sick sons or to others going through difficult times, but I know that no words I provide to friends and family can take away the pain or transfer the heaviness to me.  As Orson Welles wrote, “We’re born alone, we live alone, we die alone.”

In 2020, as Mom lay on her hospital bed dying, she was not alone.  My sister, my niece, and I held her hands.  She was surrounded by love, but she alone went through that experience that all of us one day will encounter.  I couldn’t experience it with her or feel what she was feeling.

* * * * * * * * *

Fast forward to 2024.  I was in my car doing my usual—-dealing with semi-trucks on I-35 on the way to work and listening to an audiobook.  The book that day, The Covenant of Water, is a novel with a  setting of 1900 in south India, and within the first five minutes, my breath stopped.  I had to hit pause after hearing the narrator read, “A burden stone [was] a horizontal slab of rock at shoulder height held up by two vertical stone pillars sunk into the ground, a place for a traveler to set down a head load and catch their breath” (Ch. 2).  

It is true that this novel by Verghese has many motifs and symbols that perhaps only an English teacher would appreciate.  However, this sentence was not one that stood out to me because of my job.  I paused the audiobook because the need for a burden stone  seemed so relevant even outside of 1900 south India.  The need is true for all of us repeatedly in life.  The need is even more so in our current national and worldwide turbulence.

Verghese wrote that in this land “where most everything is transported [on their heads] along well-traveled footpaths, a rest station [like the burden stone was] a blessing” (Ch. 4).

* * * * * * * *

At least twelve months have passed since I listened to this audiobook, but the concept of a burden stone has rested in my soul.

So many of us carry heavy loads, burdens, guilt, shame, and unfulfilled longings.  The journey of life along footpaths that are only wide enough for one person at a time can be hard.  These burdens weigh on our souls, our hearts, our bodies, and definitely in our minds.  How fitting it is that Verghese was discussing a source of relief from the head load these travelers were carrying.

We all have a head load that needs to be offloaded for a short while.  We also probably have a heart load, a soul load, and a physical load that needs to be eased on heavy stones while we temporarily rest.

I found it significant as well that in the novel no one else comes along and carries that load after the characters have eased it onto the horizontal slab.  Instead, the traveler, once rested, picks up that load again and continues on.  That load is ours-–and ours alone.

* * * * * * * * * *

Life recently seems to be full of turmoil.  The news headlines daily add to my soul load, as my heart hurts for those whose lives are turned upside down.  It is hard to find a space to breathe between the “breaking news” alerts, the threat of war, and the stories of heartbreak.   For those of us with an abundance of empathy, our minds and hearts go to those frightened by changes in policies and by natural disasters.

While it is true that the load is ours alone, the trick in life is to find these rest spots, these burden stones that can ease the heaviness of the journey.  The trick is to ask how each of us can find an activity, a space, or a practice that allows us to temporarily ease the weight to find some peace.  For me at least, it is a temporary rest, and I must pick up the load again.  However, a temporary rest is a blessing, as Verghese wrote.

Perhaps faith is the answer for you.  Perhaps not.  However, regardless of faith, there are many practices that can provide a small moment of respite.  

Here are some of mine that I have discovered in the past few years:

• Creating small spots of joy in my house to serve as a focal point.  It may involve live plants, comfortable furniture and blankets, small lights, burning candles, or small items that help you relive a special moment or person.
• It may be sitting beside the lake, going for a drive with my dogs, walking a trail, or even going to a thrift store for a few minutes.
• It can be sitting in the sun in my baby pool, watching the squirrels hang upside down on my new bird feeder, seeing a female cardinal swoop in for a quick bite, or sitting in awe as I see a rabbit munch on a weed in my yard.
• Talking to friends briefly, or finding the comfort that only Kraft Macaroni and Cheese can sometimes provide.
• Dancing in my kitchen to music that makes my heart soar.
• Reading or writing or enjoying a favorite TV show.

Your burden stones may be very different than mine.  That is how it should be.

Much has happened in my life in the past 8 years, and much of what I have undergone has been experienced alone.  

But, oh, I know I am not alone.  I am so thankful for the small moments of respite—-for an email from a student thanking me, for kind comments from colleagues in an end-of-year evaluation, for the unexpected phone call from a dear friend of mine, or for the moments spent sitting near friends (usually with food or a drink) and laughing.  

These moments of rest do not take away the burden, but these moments ease the load and help me keep walking the well-traveled footpaths of life.

* * * * * * * * *

Many times I write to share my journey, hoping that perhaps a few words will provide a burden stone for someone reading.

However, many times I write to reassure myself that I can keep going.  I write with an assurance that I sometimes don’t have.  I write with the hope that perhaps the positive spin at the end can provide a respite from not-so-positive thoughts that race through my head.  I write to provide a small burden stone for my head load.

I am reminded as I write this that I cannot carry the burden of the world on my shoulders.  I cannot fix problems or make everything in our country and world the way I would like it to run.

I also cannot take anyone’s burden away from them.  However, what I CAN do is walk beside others on their paths, pointing out possible burden stones along the way in case they didn’t see them.  Then, I can stand beside them silently while they catch their breath.  

So, for those traveling along with me, perhaps I can be like a Buc-ee’s billboard that appears mile after mile after mile along the interstate (or for my Florida friends who travel to NC—I can be a King Frog billboard).  Like these signs, I can remind you that a burden stone is a mile ahead, a rest is available, (and the bathrooms are clean)!   You can let down your burden and stretch your weary legs for just a short rest stop.

Keep your eyes out for the burden stones.  They are there.  You don’t have to carry this burden forever without respite.

And, as always, I am here.

The Picture that Changed My Life

 

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but one photograph changed my life.

In early August of 2004, I numbly walked out of the marriage counselor’s office, 

Completely cold, numb, and unseeing.

It was wholly and utterly over—the relationship/marriage of 20 years.

Done.

Broken.

Never to be repaired.

As a mother of two young sons, as a full-time associate pastor of a church that obviously didn’t like pastors in the midst of a divorce, and as a woman who could not afford the house she was in, I knew that it meant more than just a change in marital status.

Within 24 hours of that appointment,

I had been asked to leave a marriage,

I had been asked to resign from my job,

I had lost any income,

I had lost my home,

And I had lost my church which was the home of my only friends in a town that was a 24-hour drive away from family.

Most importantly, and all importantly, I knew this would mean the loss of my 24-hour-a-day, 7-days-a-week, 365-days-a-year contact with the two most important people in the world:  my sons.

It took only 24 hours to change every external aspect of my life.

AND only 24 hours to devastate all I knew of the world, all I knew about myself, and all my dreams and hopes for the future.

It wasn’t unexpected.

I knew it would probably come to that, but the reality is very different than the anticipated dread.

LIke most women, my identity came from my family and friends—and like many men, a big part of my identity also came from my job.

Now, the Kim I was . . . . was no longer there.

Who was I at age 35?  Who was this person who was

Restarting her life by moving from a 3200-sq.-ft. home with a pool to a 800-sq.-ft. rental home with skunks living under it,

LIving her life as a single woman half the time when the boys were with their dad,

Applying to 60+ jobs because the school year had already started, and

Going from a size 10 to a size 5.

I walked each day in a fog.

My heart was on a roller coaster, two days on a high when the boys were with me and two days of heavy grief when my 2.5-year-old and 6-year-old were away.

I tried SO hard to be happy when they were with me, trying to keep them safe and loved,

Trying to pretend Mom was the same as always, 

Even when she was a hollow shell,

A ghost,

A tender eggshell, a flicker of a candle—where just the slightest touch or whiff of air might destroy the life within.

* * * * * * *

In the start of October, as the fall season was upon us (even if the weather was still summer), 

I made the extraordinary effort to lift my 75-pound depressed legs and my 750-pound depressed body (even though I was a size 5 at the time) and gather my sons into my used Honda.

We drove to a pumpkin farm out in the country.

The boys loved the apple dunking, the hayride, and the scores of scarecrows and pumpkins.

The female owner doted on the boys, and she offered to take our first post-divorce picture of the three of us.  

I plastered on a smile, knowing that everyone must see my grief, my lost-ness, my hollowness.

I hugged my boys to me as we sat in front of a stack of pumpkins.

We got into the car and drove home.

Weeks later, I stood at Target, waiting to pay for the photos they had developed.

I shuffled through the images, smiling and remembering----

Until my breath caught, time stood still, and I couldn’t move—--with the photo of the three of us in my hand.

The boys were smiling.

I was smiling.

We looked happy.

I didn’t look broken.  I looked like any other mom sharing a single moment with her sons.

I continued to look at the picture over the next few days and weeks.

I stared at it for minutes at a time.

I cried more than I want to share over that picture.

It was a reminder that life would go on, I would go on, and the boys would go on.

Life would never look like I thought it would as a child, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t a life worth of love and joy and hope.

I would go on loving my boys 100%, whether they were with me 24/7 or not.

They would know I loved them 100%, whether they were with me 24/7 or not.

I could smile and enjoy small moments without being false to my grief.

The picture was framed and sat above my kitchen sink for an additional 10 years.

When days were rough, as I washed dishes, I looked longingly at that picture and remembered another rough time in my life that I survived.

When days were happy, I looked at the image and counted up other moments that were caught in a mental photograph.

When I was all alone in the house, I looked at the photograph and knew I was not alone.

* * * * * * * * * *

Obviously, years have passed.

I have framed other pictures, other moments that live on photo paper and in my head.

Moments with both boys when they graduated,

Moments with Anthony at the tailgate tent,

Moments with friends who were a part of a season of my life.

Moments with my parents beside me.

Yes, there is a bittersweetness to the passing of time.

However, these memories and photographs remind me that there is always an opportunity for me to believe that life will get better,

That I will smile again,

That life can still be sweet and meaningful after two marriages, three significant deaths, and 56 years on this earth.

This picture saved my life.

It reminded me (and still reminds me) that no matter what is happening in my life—externally or internally—

Life is worth living, 

love is worth fighting for, 

and joy is just around the corner.