For the Right Kind of Love (eBook)

A Life Journey

Shari Moss (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2021 | 1. Auflage
240 Seiten
Lioncrest Publishing (Verlag)
978-1-5445-1838-1 (ISBN)

Infos

'The kids at school were not as bad as the teachers when it came to treating me differently.' At the age of eight, Shari Moss lived in a single motel unit in the middle of the desert with her three siblings. Isolated from her peers and too poor for toys, she would spend hours flipping through the pages of the motel's Sears catalog, imagining the home she so desperately wanted. Her journey crosses multiple cities in two countries as she finds love, goes through hell and back, and continuously searches for that perfect house and a life she can be proud of. After writing two books to help millennials through these challenging and competitive times, entrepreneur and author Shari Moss opens up about her own life in this poignant and heartwarming memoir about overcoming the past and finding joy in helping others.

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"e;The kids at school were not as bad as the teachers when it came to treating me differently."e;At the age of eight, Shari Moss lived in a single motel unit in the middle of the desert with her three siblings. Isolated from her peers and too poor for toys, she would spend hours flipping through the pages of the motel's Sears catalog, imagining the home she so desperately wanted. Her journey crosses multiple cities in two countries as she finds love, goes through hell and back, and continuously searches for that perfect house and a life she can be proud of. After writing two books to help millennials through these challenging and competitive times, entrepreneur and author Shari Moss opens up about her own life in this poignant and heartwarming memoir about overcoming the past and finding joy in helping others.

Textauszug

Chapter One

1. Desert Motel

The year I was nine, and becoming increasingly aware of what a poor life meant, my three siblings and I were invited by that “real family from down the road” as I thought of them, to go to the 7-Eleven on Halloween night. There is no trick-or-treating when the houses are that far apart, not to mention on a desert road with no lights. As we walked into the store, the parents of the two kids told us we could have one of anything in the store. “Anything,” they said.

“Anything?” I said as I turned around and looked at them.

“Yes,” the father said, smiling, with his arms spread out wide. “Anything you want. You can each pick one thing!”

My sisters and brother went right away to a front rack overflowing with fruity gum, candy bars, penny candy, and such. Not me. No, I took a little stroll through the store, marveling at what was in the aisles. The store smelled of all its confections and, I was a very imaginative dreamer. I needed to inhale it. I stopped in front of the soda pop fridge. They haven’t changed much since then. I looked up at the array of shiny bottles in all sorts of pretty colors. This was not something we had often in my world, trust me.

Everyone was waiting for me at the cash register, so I grabbed a bottle of soda. Not the personal size mind you, but the large one, the kind you could get four glasses out of. I hugged it all the way to the checkout. I don’t remember exactly what kind it was, but I do know it was green, a somewhat electric color not exactly found in nature, as is the way with sugary liquid treats.

We went back to their house for our little party, one of very few I remember being part of as a child. The parents put my pop in the fridge after I poured a glass. When it was time to leave and we were at the door, I suddenly remembered it and went to go back to get it. The parents were standing at the doorway to the kitchen, blocking me.

“No, we will keep it here in our fridge,” one of them told me.

Arms that were wide open before were now very closed and crossed across their bodies. Both of them were looking at me. I immediately understood.

“Oh, yes, then it’ll be here for a glass when I get back,” I said to them. Or something like that. I know I was trying to be casual about it. I likely missed a beat before I spoke, but I knew. “Or someone else can have a glass,” I added and very quickly left.

What I learned that day was something that would come back to me time and time again later in life, and what would become an essential part of my core beliefs: what is right and what is good. I wondered then how they could choose to embarrass a little girl instead of owning up to what they said they would do.

What was the point of “looking” like a hero and not actually being one?

I was smart enough and just tough enough to know what had happened. And I thought it was wrong. I certainly would have been too embarrassed to tell anyone in my home, if there was anyone to tell, so I kept that story locked inside of me.

I hid my lunch when I ate at school. We each had a soft plastic lunch box that we’d eat from once we turned it on its side, with the top flap laid on the table. I leaned into mine while I was eating because I thought I had a “poor” lunch. The kids at school were not as bad as the teachers when it came to treating me differently. Kids are kids, they just want to play, and this was an age where the opinions of the parents weren’t quite trickling down. There can be bullies at any age and any era, so that stuff was probably just life. Yet, I know I was treated differently by the teachers through little things such as not being given the same advantages, attention, or caring for that matter. What I never understood, though, was how they could do that, based on something that was out of my control. I was nine. How could I go shop for new shoes? I couldn’t drive! I was nine. How could I make my lunch and actually have a drink to go with it when we went on day field trips, if there was none to pack? Why was no one concerned?!

I have a feeling that I somehow figured out then that I was going to have to do it myself. Whatever “it” was. Neither of the parents were around much, either.

There was one woman that meant something to me in those days. Her name was Vera. We called her Aunt Vera, and she cared. Vera was a cute, round older woman with short white hair. She wore those long house dresses you drape yourselves head to toe in and was always carrying one of her two fluffy, white poodles. Vera had a wonderful house down the road a mile or two from us, Spanish style. I remember there were tangerine, orange, and lemon trees on one side of her yard and a huge pomegranate tree hanging over the fence from her neighbor on the other side. It seemed magical to me, and we picked the fruit when we could.

What I remember most about our time with Vera was the Christmas we spent with her, all dressed up pretty, and taking a picture with her by the white fireplace and big Christmas tree. The food was plentiful and delicious: thick slices of juicy watermelon and the best sandwiches, tuna and egg salad mixed! My paper bag lunches were very full when we stayed there a couple months later while our baby sister was born, the fifth addition to the motel unit.

I was in grade four, and the school play at Christmastime was The Peanuts Gang by Charles Schultz. Lucky me, I was chosen to play Lucy, an important role. I know it’s because I pretty much looked like her, small with nice, shiny dark hair and brown eyes. I learned my few lines very well, and I wanted to make this special for my classroom since we were chosen to do the play. I hadn’t had great opportunities to shine in my class, although I knew I was smart enough.

One day, my teacher put the word salmon on the board and asked us all to whisper into her ear how it was pronounced. As she went around the room, I was so happy and sat confidently because I knew the right way to say it. When she had finished going around the whole class, she sat at her desk and announced that only one of us had gotten it right. Most had pronounced the L, I was sure. I swelled with pride.

“The one who said it correctly, would you please stand up?” she said to us, smiling.

I stood up. So did one other girl. I just sort of smiled at the teacher and at the other girl, thinking that she must think she got it right.

“Shari, please sit down,” the teacher said as she looked at me sadly. “It wasn’t you.”

Confused, and actually standing up for myself for once, I told her I knew how to say it. She again told me to sit. I stood my ground.

“It’s salmon,” I said pointing at the board (without pronouncing the L, of course).

“No. You didn’t say it correctly,” my teacher replied, now glaring at me.

At this point, no one had actually said it out loud yet. The other girl with the “nice” ribbons and the pretty little dress stood tall and smiling and I had to sit. I honestly wondered why the teacher didn’t catch or at least acknowledge that I said it right just then, before anyone said the word out loud. Was she just going to cover for herself making a mistake? One of those moments I never forgot.

So, as I am being honored with the role of Lucy, I am not going to let my teacher down, or the kids in our class. Boy, did I practice! I mean, I probably had what, four or five lines? Still, I was simply going to be the best Lucy.

The play was to be at seven o’clock in the evening at our school, the night before our last day before the Christmas break. My sisters, brother, and I went home from school on the bus, had something we could find to eat, and then we just talked together. I paced in the one room we shared as our bedroom and, really, the only room we had to use most of the time. My mother and stepfather weren’t home.

Just before five o’clock, I started to watch out of the screen door of our room for them to arrive. It was the desert and it was going to be dusk soon (when you don’t want to be around the huge flying things). I stayed on my side of the screen and listened for the car, for the crunch of gravel. The cars were boats then, literally, and could be well heard. I never moved, just stood staring out of the screen door. I was dressed, washed up, and ready.

By five-thirty in the evening, it was getting dark and I was beginning to get nervous. I kept leaning out of the doorway, but…nothing.

By six o’clock, I was trying to calculate in my head if we could still make it in time if they showed up. My sisters and brother were all anxious for me and tried to cheer me up. There was still time to make it, they were sure, although two of them didn’t really know.

At six-thirty, I was losing hope fast. My brother was keeping tabs on the time for me so I could be ready to bolt out the door and into the car.

At six-forty-five, I knew it wasn’t going to happen. I pictured all of the other kids in the play backstage, and, especially my teacher, waiting. Being let down, I was imagining what...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 30.3.2021
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
• ISBN-10: 1-5445-1838-2 / 1544518382
• ISBN-13: 978-1-5445-1838-1 / 9781544518381