RARE EDITION: HOW MANY UNUSUAL EVENTS IN ONE LIFE?

By Evelyn Kasal

About the Book:

One woman's amazing journey with many unusual events and surprises.

About the Author:

Educator and sales Director 20 and 32 years. Divorced after 36 years, 3 children, 6 grandkids 3 great-grandkids. Sixty years of life on the farm, jobs, 6 long relationships intrigui

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evelyn Kasal
• Release date: Jan 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088087589

Book preview

Rare Edition

How Many Unusual Events in One Life?

By

Evelyn Kasal

Copyright © 2022

Evelyn Kasal

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopy, recording, scanning, and methods not invented or in everyday common use at the time of this publication, without the prior written consent of the publisher.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing 2022

ISBN: 979-8-218-14153-0

Dedication

Dedicated to my three grown children, Paul, Karl, and Tina, whom I will love forever. My six grandchildren and three great-grandchildren have my heart. There are parts of this book you may not like or agree with, but I have to be totally honest; otherwise, why write what I know? I hope your judgment is kind, but if not, I can handle it. I’m not asking for your approval. My only regret is in meeting all those men, I didn’t have enough time with you. I was on my own path of exploration.

To my dad, with whom I had complicated positive and negative experiences. You would be the proudest of me because I wrote my book. I remember your unlimited joking and loyalty more in your latter less-stressful days when your six children were out on their own.

To my mom, with whom I had a love/hate relationship. Because of your disapproval of me most of my life, I have succeeded beyond what you thought I could do. To say you underestimated my talents is an absolute in itself. I forgive the insults and put-downs, as they gave me the strength to fight back in life.

In your depressed state, I believe you loved me, as you finally said a few years before you died. Years ago, in counseling, I concluded you did the best you could at the time you lived. I needed more from you, but I did learn to believe in God, cook, clean, can and freeze foods, make a mean bed, and above all, never be a submissive wimp to a man no matter what. That was your greatest contribution to my life a midst all the emotional pain you inflicted.

My sister, Shirley and I, only two years apart, were fierce rivals during my first sixteen years of life. Only after you had extensive counseling about why you were so mean, did we get to be close. We laughed and planned our life goals. Your last visit with me was our best as we chatted about our childhood, relationships, and parents’ share of our hurts. Who knew when you hugged me goodbye and wished me well on my new, high goals, it would be our very last meeting? Three weeks later, my sister, Pat, came to my door to say you were dead. I lost a dear confidant—someone who really understood my pain.

To my sister, Pat, my ten years younger look-alike. You were the bubbly, sweet one who was taken way too soon. God wanted you out of the pain of cancer to add to His angels.

When Pat was ten, my first husband, Pete, said she was just like me.

In her last ten years, we lived five miles apart but were so close at heart. We laughed and cried, went camping and out to eat, and she was a major player in my relationship with my present husband. She, like Shirley, understood the good times and trauma of growing up in our family. She had a major issue with our brother, who took her innocence at a very young age.

We wept over her long stresses as I bandaged her cancer wounds twice a day after breast surgery. What I could not bandage was her deep pain and sorrow. Two days before she died, our brother, Ed, visited her when I was there. He asked for forgiveness, but she said God would judge him and sent him away.

To the men who broke my spirit the most, Pete, Mike, and Jerry, I learned so much from each of you. I’m a strong survivor who gets up again after being crushed, but some pain is always left behind.

To Joyce, a long-time, dear friend for over thirty years who knows most of what went on in my mid-life of ups and downs with men. We always laugh at the sound of each other’s voices, and even after months of absence, we laugh again as soon as we see each other.

We are in the same profession and have roomed together for conventions every January, March, and July, as well as fall retreats for almost thirty years.

She sends me outrageously funny birthday cards in October. I scour the stores to find one to make her laugh in December.

I love our unique relationship. We had immense fun when we took Paul and Tom to the Embassy Suites for happy hour. I can’t count the unbelievable laughing sessions we’ve had about real-life situations. Regarding the time we stayed in an odd-shaped room, when I went to the bathroom at 3 A.M.., not turning on the lights to disturb her. I found the toilet but searched frantically in the dark for the door or light to no avail. Finally, in desperation, I cried out, Joyce, Joyce. I’m lost in the bathroom! We still laugh about that!

There were times we laughed on the elevator, which was slow, only to find neither of us pushed the buttons. The last time we were together, Joyce pushed the button three times. It opened to the same floor we had been on.

One time I was on antibiotics that gave me diarrhea as a side effect. I walked carefully past her with filled panties. Seeing her questioning face and holding everything in to get to my hotel room was truly a dilemma that we still crack up over.

Another time she rescued me at the pool when I flirted with a guy in Dallas. Hi, big guy, I said. He said, Everything’s bigger in Texas. Want to see? Joyce said, We have to go now. What a loving friend she has been!

My  Brothers ED & JOHN

Joyce and EV lifetime friends at Mary Kay Seminar Bumblebee skit at retreat

Introduction

A Rare Edition, Indeed

Rare -- means seldom occurring, scarce, uncommon, unconventional, an unusual quality, merit, or appeal, distinctive personality, infrequent happening, unique. It could also be quirky, offbeat, and unexpected.

I have been all of these. I am a one-of-a-kind person.

Edition -- the whole number of copies published at one time for a particular purpose.

An extraordinary limited experience for your pleasure and hopefully inspiring your thoughts on life as I lived it.

Table Of Contents

11

22

31

37

56

60

66

86

93

101

114

121

Chapter One

The Younger Years

Starting first grade at age four, as there were no kindergartens, was scary. I looked up the few steps of my one-room brick schoolhouse called Job Place School and saw a friendly face.

Job Place School Pupils

He hugged me as I walked up the stairs and grinned like I was the chosen one. We were instantly drawn together. Gary and I became linked as a forever couple for the next twelve years.

Last time with Gary, 69 years of friendship as he died next year

Behind his protective arm, I saw a Goliath-looking boy who watched as we entered the building where I spent the next eight years loving life and learning to create. Later in life, that large boy, Hank, became my brother-in-law.

Mother told everybody all her kids came home the first day of school talking about their teacher and new friends, but not me. I shouted, Mom, I have a boyfriend!

I’ve always loved men. I can’t imagine my life without them.

Watching my father work the land, milk cows, and tend to a very large garden taught me life skills of hard work and long hours no matter what harsh winds brought. I saw him hitch up a team of horses to pull the machines. Later the tractors took over, but the sound and smells of horses penetrated my senses forever. Even when they were gone, the strong smell of the old rotting reins in the hallway of the barn toward the haymow haunted my head. To this day, my favorite animal is the horse, despite the fact I’ve never ridden one except for pony rides and the merry-go-round as a child.

There was a wild-looking black horse in the field adjacent to our farm property. I climbed on the rock pile on our side and watched him gallop in the wind. The freedom he had was what I always wanted. I envisioned myself high up on his back, hair blowing, him snorting while taking me places I’d never been to. It took years, but he finally came to meet me by the rock pile. I petted his head, felt the luxury of his soft nose, smelled him, and fell in love.  OUR FAMILY FARM PICTURE

Right then, I knew I had a secret friend whom I didn’t have to share, like the bed my sister and I slept in.

Over and over, I watched the proud steed prance wherever he wanted to go. There were no rules, no chains to bind him. No harsh disapproval from Mom or harsher spankings from Dad (nowadays, they would have called them beatings, and social services would have received a scared child). Here in the wilderness, nothing stopped his power! I named him Black Dynamite—my alter ego, my greatest love and life companion, my up when circumstances kept me down. All I had to do was become the mighty black horse whom nobody could control nor destroy. He is with me today!

I don’t regret growing up on a farm. The early morning dew as I called the cows into the barn and saw the marsh filled with wild irises are etched in my heart. The tinkling of distant cow bells also echoes in my brain. The huge neighborhood threshing crew of men to feed and the big machines that scared me are a permanent part of my psyche. Indeed, these were great times.

Dad played baseball with us three older kids, the younger three not so much. He cheered me on as I ran the bases on my ten-year journey with the 4-H baseball team. I was a strong left-handed batter who sprinted around the bases. I learned team spirit and never giving up when you’re behind.

Dad took us to rare swimming holes and picnics at Henes Park in Menominee, Michigan, on the shores of Green Bay, where I was born. So, I can say I’m a proud yupper—born in the upper peninsula of Michigan but raised in Wisconsin.

There were tall trees I climbed to write my stories where nobody could see. I decided at age seven I’d write a book someday, but I needed more material. I’ve lived long enough that sorting through years of material has been