Lula Lee

No matter what takes place in the real world, personalities begin to form from what happens at home.

The following is while I was still under the identity of "Billy" before the truth came out about my history;
When I read What's Eating Gilbert Grape? in high school, I cried. The mom in that book made me  think of my a-mom. While no one ever said anything to me about my a-mom, somewhere deep down I knew people probably had commented on her weight. This liberty was extended by the fact that she was practically a "shut-in" by the time she died. The city of Teague saw less and less of her.
My life as "Lil' Billy" was deeply controlled by everything and everyone around me. Mom controlled what I said and where I said it, where I was, who I was. Outside of home, people's opinions of me and my fears controlled me.
But this isn't really about me, but more about my adopted mother, Lula Lee (also known as "Aunt Ray"). She was married to my adopted father for my entire life. I believe that she had tried to have a child, but was unable to concieve. Probably explains why she would be so willing to take in two children who were marked as targets for a murderer.
She was old-school, small-town...I was not allowed to be outside alone almost up until she died. I have no doubt that she wanted me safe. I imagine she made a promise to my bio-mom and aimed to keep it. I have no memories of her breaking promises.
She could be hysterically funny, with a loud and infectuous laugh. She could also be a tyrant and at times cruel. One of the things I hated about her funeral was everyone talking about her like she was Mother Theresa. She was a wonderful woman, but her foul language and bossy demeanor were part of who she was (and often made for some funny stories). When I die, I want to be remembered for the good and the bad.
Anyway, one of my earliest memories of her was after I had come back from the store. My brother Willie (or maybe it was my adopted dad, Billy Sr.) had bought me a rubber snake. I thought it would be funny to leave it on the floor by my parents' bedroom.  Fake snakes + a drama queen mother = fun for all...Right?...Right? Mom saw that thing sitting there and let out a ear-splitting cry. She yelled and yelled, while I laughed and laughed.  My hope was that after the screaming, she would join me in a chuckle. That moment never came.
Instead, she cussed a lot and took a knife to the rubber snake. Poor little thing.
She LOVED Christmas. She went all out. We easily had the brightest and most complex light decor in the neighborhood. Every year I think we just added more lights. It always involved a-dad getting on the roof and affixing this HUGE cross to the top of our house.  And the tree was always surrounded by more gifts than I ever deserved...It's like she was getting enough for two children. I can only guess that in her heart, she was. My mom showed love in many different ways, but none more than spending money and hugs. :)
Our family was comfortable, financially speaking...when I was a child. As I got older, everyone seemed to have less and less. As I hear it, my family was big on lending money to others...but those others were not as keen on giving it back.
I think that bothered mom. When we started heading towards a more meager means of living, we had to go on welfare. I recall one occassion of going to the welfare office with her and she was decked out as nice as she could be. She wore her nice costume  jewelry, hair perfect, clothes nice...I always thought she dressed more like she OWNED the welfare office more than coming to ask for help.
It seemed like she was always screaming at me, like a siren warning of the storm that was her almost non-existent patience. Even at a younger age I knew there was something wrong with her method. She was always yelling and screaming about something, to the point where I got so nervous. But I was not allowed to really say anything back or deal with those nerves in an outward way. The few times I tried to tell her how I felt, she disregarded me. So how did I cope? I developed a nasty habit of biting the skin off of my knuckles...often until they bled. It was my way of screaming or punching. As an adult, I don't understand how we as adults don't like to be screamed at...we get frustrated and have our limits that we let people hit and yell at us, but we expect our children to be able to take it.
Anyway, the yelling was far more troublesome than the "whippings". The whippings were usually with small tree limbs we called "switches". They hurt like hell and left welts wherever they made contact. I also got hit with fly swatters, a couple of times with her wooden walking stick, her hand, etc. It got to where I couldn't tell the difference between a mistake and me actually misbehaving because they all warranted a whipping.
Looking back, it wasn't so much that I got whippings, it was just that the event itself was so traumatic. What doesn't work well with a frustrated passive kid with nervous issues from all the screaming?  More screaming combined with "whippings" that made random contact on my body. After a minute or so, she would start shouting "Stop crying!" while she was hitting me. I assumed it was a way of life...and for some cultures here, it is. I don't think I learned anything from those...they just made me more nervous, made me lie to her about things I had done wrong out of fear of those spankings, made me unable to think clearly. It really wasn't until I became an adult and started working with kids that I found out how all of this affected me.
Again, this blog isn't really about me. My mother was old-school. She was strict. She cared what others thought of her. She often acted out of love, but as I got older she acted out of frustration, pain, and exhaustion.
But I stress again, she was a wonderful woman. Why? Well, here is a direct lift from a diary that she started (I have fixed spelling errors so it will read easier);

"Feb 1, 1992

Already I have mis Jan. ; and you know, that month of Jan. is a important month. My young son Birthday month Jan:12 - was 15 yr old. Now Feb 19 is important too. You see that is the month of my first born. My older son this Feb 19 - he will be 30 yr old.
I thank God for my 2 boys. You see, diary, they have given me so much joy. Now sometime they make me sad, but that is to be expected, you know.
Well, as of now I am doing fairly well. Some time ago I had a run in with the young one; but the house is quiet right now. You see I have it all on my shoulders. I have to be Dad and mom when it comes to my children and everything else. Some time ago it was much easier because my health was better and there was more love in my home;"

I guess my reason for putting that here is to remind myself and share with you that my mother may not have done everything right, but she did the most important things right; she  loved us. Sometimes we don't realize how difficult our parents' jobs really are.
I may post more from her diary. It speaks more than I ever could.
She was my mom. I loved her very much.