Dark Secrets...seduced by older sister playing Doctor! The healing process is painful!



For the first time in years, I suddenly recalled an unpleasant memory from my childhood, which unexpectedly loomed large in my consciousness yesterday afternoon.

Out-of-the-blue one day, about fifty years ago, my older sister lured me in to her bedroom to play "Doctor".

For some inexplicable reason, the almost-surreal fleshy images of "Doreen" naked on the bed - urging me to stroke her vagina - triggered a flood of emotions difficult to wrestle with.

Perhaps, it was the confession of a Senator (who was sexually assaulted when he was a youth) that jolted the sick memories loose from the inner reaches of my mind - to the upper realms of my waking consciousness now.

Just maybe, I've unknowingly been scarred by the seduction for decades, oblivious to their negative impact on my overall psyche or even my day-to-day personal and professional relationships.

And, what of my self-esteem!

Was it adversely affected, too, without my knowledge?

The cloud that looms over me now has caused me to reflect - and seek healing - in a bid to free myself of the shackles that once bound me 'til now.

Meanwhile, in spite of the fact I was separated from my family when I was about ten or eleven years old, my sister contacted me recently to strike up ties once again after stumbling on my blog on the Internet.

When I failed to respond to her urgent messages, she fired off an angry response.

"I am your sister, you know."

Personally, I feel that just because you are born into a family, does not mean you are required to remain in that family circle, or carry on a charade.

Notwithstanding, God took me by the hand, and led me down another path long ago.

In the final analysis, I hope that parents will teach their children to be careful not to overstep their bounds, or betray a sacred family trust.

Amen!

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The innocence of youth!

Memories...of my brother! Savor each moment...

 

As I headed down Montgomery Street bright and early this morning, I caught site of a catering truck parked at the curb, serving up goodies to the folks on their way to the office.

Suddenly, without warning, a whiff of the tasty grub triggered memories of my youth and one of my older brothers, Brian.

When I resided on Old Weston Road in Toronto - at about the age of seven - the Hunt family down the street owned a catering company.

When one of the daughter's got hitched, Mr. Hunt  gave the happy young couple one catering truck to start up their own business.

At that juncture, Linda and her betrothed (Ed Soulier), packed up and headed off to Windsor (Ontario) to start off fresh in life on their own.

Years later, I was invited to visit the couple at their upscale home on trendy Victoria Drive, so that I could visit my brother who was now in the Ed's employ at the catering business.

Brian and I were separated many years prior, when I was made a ward of the State, and placed in a foster home in the suburbs.

Today, a flurry of memories from the past floated to the surface of my consciousness - some touching, some sad.

Fondly, I recalled a game Brian and I used to play late at night after my mother tucked us into bed and the lights were down.

We’d take turns faintly writing an initial of a famous person on each other backs, at which point, there was a concerted playful attempt by each of us to figure out who the individual was.

Over the years, another flashback often troubled me, as much as I try have tried to  block the unpleasant images out.

One evening I was rummaging through the closet in the bedroom just before Christmas, when I stumbled upon a box with my name handwritten on the lid, which contained a few spanking-new toys.

Obviously, they were a handful of presents my mother was intending to wrap for the big day.

Inside, one particular toy I spied, caught my fascination.

Now, I couldn’t wait until the 25th of December to open my gifts.

Unfounately, wher the joyous day arrived, I was in for a shock.

As I was opening my presents, my brother Brian unwrapped one of his packages to reveal that the delightful toy - which once sat in my box in the closet - was gifted to him for some inexplicable reason.

Did Brian locate the boxes in the closet, too, and make a switcheroo?

To this day, I sadly shake my head, and still wonder.

Unfortunately, my last encounter with Brian was not a pleasant one, either.

One summer, I was employed at the CN Tower restaurant part-time, when the Maitre D’ strode up to me out-of-the-blue.

“A gentleman downstairs is here demanding to see you. He claims he is your brother," he hissed in my ear.

OMG!

As it turned out, Brian heard through the grapevine that I was working at the swank restaurant at the top of the CN Tower, and on impulse one day (after downing a few too many ales) trekked down to the harbour-front where he summarily boarded the elevator to the observation deck in search of me.

When security attempted to turf him out, he maneuvered his way up a stairwell, and beyond their grasp.

At the entrance of the restaurant he was finally detained - at which point - he demanded to see me.

I was immediately led to the exit door where Brian - drunk and disorderly - began to plead with me.

“Tell them to let me in to the restaurant,” he begged.

I tried to explain that I was only an employee at the CN Tower and that his impromptu appearance at the restaurant could get me fired.

But, Brian would not listen to reason, and refused to leave of his own accord.

The last time I saw him, he was being led away by security.

It was a particularly upsetting memory, when you consider that a short time later - tragically - my brother died alone in a hotel room at quite a young age.

Apparently, he was out drinking with buddies one night while he was on prescription medicine.

When Brian started to get a bit wobbly, his buddies took him back to his hotel room, and plunked him down on the bed where they expected him to sleep the drunk off.

Unfortunately, when they returned in the morning, he was dead.

Sadly, he left two young children behind fatherless.

My heart nearly broke when the news came.

The memories of our last visit in the stairwell of the CN Tower has continued to haunt me over the years.

A tear comes to my eye as I relay the events even now.

A lesson well-learned?

Always treat each precious moment with a loved one, or a friend, like it may be the last.

Then, later, there won't be any regrets.
 
 
 

 
 

http://www.julianayrs.com

White House...tree trimming triggers childhood memories! Give generously at Christmas...

The day after thanksgiving the President and the 1st Lady arranged for the White House Christmas tree to be delivered to the historic home by horse-drawn carriage from a backwoods farm in Shepperdstown (West Virginia) where it once once graced the country landscape with outstretched limbs.

The Obama's were the proud recipients of a towering 18 1/2 foot fir (a staggering twelve feet wide) which was promptly hoisted into a prominent place of honor in the oval-shaped blue room on the state floor of the White House.

The traditional tree, planted in 1996, was hand-picked by the Chief Usher (Admiral Stephen Rochon).

In a festive setting - amidst a lot of camaraderie (fueled by a jug or two of eggnog and hot-buttered rum?) - White House staff gathered to decorate the majestic offering from mother nature's generous bounty.

The whole heart-warming story triggered memories of my own childhood at the yuletide season.

When I was just about four or five, for instance, I recall flying down the stairs at the crack of dawn ever-hopeful that during the night when I was deep in slumber a tree had magically been erected with the help of one of Santa's thoughtful helpers.

But, each morning, a tinge of sadness flooded over me.

No tree!

On Christmas eve, I half-expected that Santa Clause was going to pass our house by; after all, at that juncture there wasn't  any surefire sign that the joy of the Christmas season (especially a dazzling tree with all the trimmings) would ever descend on our humble home on Old Weston Road (just shy of historic Indian trail).

Had I been a bad boy?

That night, shortly after I was tucked in my bed and the lights were turned out, a few tears filled my wide sad eyes before I dropped off into dreamland.

Curiously, I slept in the next day.

In fact, while I was deep in slumber, I could hear my name being called far away in the distance somewhere.

Suddenly, I came to a start.

I bolted up in bed after I realized that one of my older brothers was shouting out my name and coaxing me to come downstairs to the living-room right away.

So, I slipped out of bed and slowly crept down the stairwell  in my superhero pajamas expecting the worst!

Suddenly, I spied a beautiful Christmas tree - decorated from top to bottom with pretty twinkling lights, candy canes, and eye-catching doo-dads - which sent out a thousand rainbows this way 'n that when they caught the light.

And, beneath the lovely tree, there were a dozen or so inviting gift-wrapped packages beckoning me!

My heart lept out of my chest as I dashed down the last stair or two and dove under the tree in search of one of the little gems with my own name on it.

Of course, in retrospect, the curious scenario which unfolded that week makes sense to me now.

When you grow up and become an adult you are often forced to face the truth.

Mother was trying to survive on a small budget - and, of course - there were many mouths to feed.

When my father (rest his soul) passed to spirit at a relatively young age - and she was forced to fend for herself and her little posse of  kids - it must have been a difficult path for a poor uneducated woman to have to journey down alone.

Like any normal loving parent - my mother wanted her children to experience the joys of christmas, too - in spite of the fact it may be a struggle to achieve.

Looking back, I realize the strain certainly took its toll.

For this reason - the tree was purchased for a song late Christmas eve - from a vendor on the verge of calling it a day before my anxious mother and older brother happened along in the freezing night air.

Ida was a good woman and it must have broken her heart to have been burdened so.

I'll always remember the last time I visited my mother (who I was separated from at the age of 7).

I was all of 18 and on my way to New York City to pursue an acting career on the stage.

Shortly after I spirited her out of the nursing home to treat her to an ale at a pub down the street (on the sly at her request) she teared up and expressed her sorrow at not being able to help me financially with my trip.

It's one of those memories that will always remain fresh in my mind and close to my heart.

Over the years, there have been many joyous Christmases and a handful of blue ones, too.

Those most fondly recalled are the ones I spent with a lover, or a best friend, even a stranger on occasion who sauntered into my life unexpectedly - and  like me - pined for some company on a holiday that is often a very sad one for those who have lost loved ones, have no family, or outlived their friends.

Each year I make it a point to give to a charity with that in mind (hopeful that an anonymous giving hand may bring a little comfort and joy into someone's life during the Yuletide season).

And, I trust that you will be moved by the invisible hand of God to do the same.

Happy Holidays, eh?

http://www.julianayrs.com

Burials...separated at Death! Lest we forget...

When I was just a boy, I recall clutching my mother's hand as we strolled through a wide field dotted with a few humble headstones where they lay inscribed all around us marking the graves.

A slight breeze whispered in my ear as I struggled to keep up.

The Cemetery, in the West End of Toronto, was a relatively new burial ground.

There were no grand old oaks, just a handful of young samplings sprouting about here and there, straining towards the nurturing sunlight.

Years later, when I returned after a long stint in California, I was awestruck by the majestic trees that now touched the sky, rooted firmly in the rich soil below.

It was forty years since my last visit.

Unfortunately, I was facing a dilemma.

During a period after my father's death - while my mother lay ill in a Nursing Home - I happened to come across a certificate in her personal belongings (a beautifully-crafted document in ornate script) which confirmed she was to be laid to rest next to my father.

At the time, I recall being quite astounded by the wording.

IDA MAE HOLYOAK and VICTOR GEORGE HOLYOAK to be interned side-by-side "forever".

Gosh, I vividly recall saying to myself, "Forever" is a long time.

Unfortunately, there was a mix-up at the time of my Mother's passing - and as a result - my parents were separated at "death".

I was in California and out-of-touch with distant relatives when my mother - who had been in a vegetative state for about two years due to a stroke - suddenly succumbed and met her maker.

For some inexplicable reason, the certificate for the plot was overlooked, and my poor mother was buried across town miles from her beloved Victor.

Theirs was a great love story.

My mother was a farm girl from Brampton (Ontario) and my Dad was a fiddler who immigrated from Ireland with his mother and three sisters to York County at the turn of the century.

Unfortunately, due to a tragedy, my father passed away when I was a baby - and the troubles descended upon my dear mother shortly thereafter - without mercy.

Today, when I reflect on the situation, it's quite evident to me now.

In due time, I must take it upon myself to set things right.

Until my mother and father are side by side, their souls will never rest in peace!

I pray that they are patient.

*******
A happy man marries the girl that he loves
A happier man loves the girl he marries

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