All too soon, she grew from a child to a woman in charge of her own destiny. The image you see posted is not the image of my head and heart. My eyes see a little girl with bright red hair, arms folded across her chest. Defiant. Determined. Holding out to win a battle of wits as I worked hard to cajole her into doing what she was told to do. She was only three at the time, which puts the date about fifteen years ago, but that day remains carved into my memory as if it were yesterday.
I write often of my sister and have briefly mentioned her two daughters. Back when we were younger, if you didn’t know us and happened upon us in the mall with our children gathered around us, you couldn’t be blamed for assuming that Alicia’s two girls belonged to me and that my daughter belonged to Alicia. Alicia has dark hair and eyes with a complexion that leans toward warmer in tone. My daughter, being half Hispanic, has the same dark coloring. However, the genes traveled odd paths and Alicia ended up with a redheaded daughter and a blonde daughter. Both of her girls also have personality traits that resemble mine. This would not have been a good thing if they had actually been my daughters. God knew what he was doing. He gave me Alicia’s true daughter knowing that, if I had a child just like myself, I would have ended up in a loony bin crazy with frustration.
We were scheduled to go to lunch one cold, stormy day. Patricia was dressed in a denim outfit and was wearing delightful little matching denim boots. While the outfit was okay, the boots would have been soaked in minutes, so she was told to go change her footwear. Her eyes locked with her mother’s and she said, “No.” That started the round of yes you will, no I won’t, please, no, please, no, I said now before I count to three…….we’ve all been there. Patricia turned and headed for her room. Aunt Cheryl, with all her ‘I know how to get around this redhead wisdom’ followed the tike to the bedroom. I tried to reason with her. I gave great explanations to her. I offered to help find shoes that would protect her feet from the cold. She was matching and not budging. She stoically crossed her arms, turned her three-year-old back to me and clearly enunciating each word said, “Leave My Room.” I said, “Fine. I will leave your room, and I will leave you here while we go to lunch.” I walked out. (Actually, I was more graphic than that and told her I would leave her donkey’s rear end at home, but I didn’t tell her mother that part.)
I told my sister to get in the car. I made it appear that we were really going to leave without Patricia. Older sister, Rebecca, was fretting in the back seat, but tears would not sway me. I was bent on proving which one of the two of us could be more obstinate. Not only was I not going to yield to another redhead, I wasn’t going to let a three year old get the better of me.
The car was started and put in motion. We didn’t go four feet before that little red head was in the garage with brown leather boots on her feet. I will give her credit. She didn’t say a word. She gave the appearance that the change in footgear was not due to anyone else’s desires or wishes. She did not acknowledge any remarks from anyone regarding the shoes, nor did she make eye contact with any of us who had offended her fashion sensibility.
That tenacity served her well a decade and a half later when she made the decision to join the National Guard, giving up weekends most seniors in high school spend sleeping or hanging out with friends. Instead of shopping or primping for dates, she was running miles in the heat. Patricia graduated high school early and went straight to boot camp for the U. S. Army. The beret she donned at the end of those grueling eight weeks of boot camp was earned via hard work, determination and perseverance. I have no doubt she will succeed in her quest to work with the Apache helicopter, or anything else she sets her mind to.
I write often of my sister and have briefly mentioned her two daughters. Back when we were younger, if you didn’t know us and happened upon us in the mall with our children gathered around us, you couldn’t be blamed for assuming that Alicia’s two girls belonged to me and that my daughter belonged to Alicia. Alicia has dark hair and eyes with a complexion that leans toward warmer in tone. My daughter, being half Hispanic, has the same dark coloring. However, the genes traveled odd paths and Alicia ended up with a redheaded daughter and a blonde daughter. Both of her girls also have personality traits that resemble mine. This would not have been a good thing if they had actually been my daughters. God knew what he was doing. He gave me Alicia’s true daughter knowing that, if I had a child just like myself, I would have ended up in a loony bin crazy with frustration.
We were scheduled to go to lunch one cold, stormy day. Patricia was dressed in a denim outfit and was wearing delightful little matching denim boots. While the outfit was okay, the boots would have been soaked in minutes, so she was told to go change her footwear. Her eyes locked with her mother’s and she said, “No.” That started the round of yes you will, no I won’t, please, no, please, no, I said now before I count to three…….we’ve all been there. Patricia turned and headed for her room. Aunt Cheryl, with all her ‘I know how to get around this redhead wisdom’ followed the tike to the bedroom. I tried to reason with her. I gave great explanations to her. I offered to help find shoes that would protect her feet from the cold. She was matching and not budging. She stoically crossed her arms, turned her three-year-old back to me and clearly enunciating each word said, “Leave My Room.” I said, “Fine. I will leave your room, and I will leave you here while we go to lunch.” I walked out. (Actually, I was more graphic than that and told her I would leave her donkey’s rear end at home, but I didn’t tell her mother that part.)
I told my sister to get in the car. I made it appear that we were really going to leave without Patricia. Older sister, Rebecca, was fretting in the back seat, but tears would not sway me. I was bent on proving which one of the two of us could be more obstinate. Not only was I not going to yield to another redhead, I wasn’t going to let a three year old get the better of me.
The car was started and put in motion. We didn’t go four feet before that little red head was in the garage with brown leather boots on her feet. I will give her credit. She didn’t say a word. She gave the appearance that the change in footgear was not due to anyone else’s desires or wishes. She did not acknowledge any remarks from anyone regarding the shoes, nor did she make eye contact with any of us who had offended her fashion sensibility.
That tenacity served her well a decade and a half later when she made the decision to join the National Guard, giving up weekends most seniors in high school spend sleeping or hanging out with friends. Instead of shopping or primping for dates, she was running miles in the heat. Patricia graduated high school early and went straight to boot camp for the U. S. Army. The beret she donned at the end of those grueling eight weeks of boot camp was earned via hard work, determination and perseverance. I have no doubt she will succeed in her quest to work with the Apache helicopter, or anything else she sets her mind to.
Just prior to her departure for boot camp, Patricia penned the poem posted below. With wisdom beyond her years, she crafted a work that brushed the hearts and souls of everyone in her life. While her words were meant to reach out and reassure others, they revealed a poise, dignity, inner beauty and innate sense of loyalty that we had only had a glimpse of before.
If you board a helicopter someday in the future, don’t be surprised if you see a copper-headed pilot at the helm. You can rest assured she will get you where you need to go. Just don’t bother trying to change her mind. That's a dead end trip.
If you board a helicopter someday in the future, don’t be surprised if you see a copper-headed pilot at the helm. You can rest assured she will get you where you need to go. Just don’t bother trying to change her mind. That's a dead end trip.
