The Enchanted Voice's True Tales

At Last: The Story Too Good Not to Share - Part 3!

2006-07-20T22:19:00.000+01:00

The Story Too Good Not to Share – Part III
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And so, at the end of November 2004, I arrived back home in the UK (for wherever Jamie is, there – and only there, am I home), and as the sheer relief of being in each others physical embrace again washed over us, it became increasingly apparent in the days that came that there was practical living stuff to be done: getting a National Insurance Number for me (more paperwork and hassle), finding a job (terrifying), and putting up with the annoying fact that we didn’t have our own place and space (we didn’t live alone and it didn’t look like we would for sometime; which ended up being the case).
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I really didn’t start seriously looking for a job until the first of the year. I needed time just to be with Jamie and to get my bearings. And, I wanted to be able to enjoy my second Christmas with Jamie (and first Christmas in the UK and our first Christmas married) without having to focus on the stress of getting and handling and keeping a job.
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With the pretty big exception of Jamie losing his Dad to cancer in December – and the expected sadness that went with that, Christmas and New Year came and went and they were good. But then it was time to get serious. I started putting my CV out all over the place, and back came the torrent of rejection letters pouring through the mail slot. It wasn’t until February that I finally landed something: a part time retail position in a health food shop in Loughborough. Since we were sharing that house in Barrow, it meant getting the bus in and back, which distressed me no end until I got used to it. Public transportation is big over here, but it wasn’t something I was used to as an American gal from a place where public transportation is seen as somewhat of an oddity and – on top of that – it just isn’t available (after all, it wasn’t like I came from New York).
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Then it was settling into job hours, and a routine. Ugh, I hate that word: routine. It’s nearly as bad as mundane, but not quite (I believe in being as extraordinary as one can be…but, I digress, and we’ll get to that point later). Jamie’s love made even routine bearable, along with helping me through my body’s revolt at the new pressure being put upon it: I hadn’t done hard, physical, stand-on-your-feet-all-day-long labour in a long time. Oh, I of course had looked for an office position, but couldn’t even get an interview – not at that time, anyway. So, it was the hell of retail. I found I could endure it, however…well, for a time, anyway - but I’m getting ahead of myself again; Jamie’s love and belief have amazing sustaining powers.
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That’s what we do for each other; it’s part of that interdependence I talk about so frequently: there are wondrous things that neither one of us would have ever been able to experience without the other, along with – and in addition – to this, we make it possible for each other to better handle and bear the frustrations and life-struggles that were beyond our individual power to endure. It makes a life out of a mere existence. Interdependence is a powerful thing. As assertiveness is the positive balance to the negative passive/aggressive, interdependence is the correct balance to dependency and independence. Not to be confused with or mistaken for co-dependency. Co-dependency is the counterfeit; it is destructive and harmful – it enables weakness. Interdependence brings wholeness, encourages strength. Some, who haven’t seen this type of relationship in action, think it is all a bunch of semantics, but there is definitely a difference between the two. The main difference? One is extremely wrong (dysfunctional), and the other is very right (it works)! But, whether you, personally, can see or understand it, I am just extremely grateful that it is what Jamie and I have.
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It was also in February that the six-month lease on the house was up. The person who we had been renting with decided to leave us in the lurch, informing us, quite abruptly, that she was moving out, giving us no time to look for someone else. Since Jamie and I couldn’t afford the rent on a three bedroomed house on our own, we couldn’t renew the lease and we had to find somewhere else to stay quick.
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That was the beginning of a tough time. We endured some pretty dire living arrangements until we finally found a place that was, first and foremost, a place of our own, on top of being decent and affordable. The first shared house we tried moving into, after two weeks we discovered the landlord (who lived on-site) was some kind of whacked-out maniac druggie, who seemed to be into a sort of vampirism (well, at least, so the distinct puncture marks on his neck would suggest)…scary. We got out of there as soon as we could. So, we went into yet another shared house. This one was minus the creepy landlord, but it had considerably worse housemates. We endured having to share a kitchen and a bathroom with some of the grossest people (I use the term “people” lightly) imaginable. Not having the finances to afford a place of our own - and, believe me, that was the only reason we found ourselves in such a horrible situation, we lived in this house with three of the worst housemates from hell ever! One of them repeatedly urinated on the carpeted floors (I kid you not; Jamie took pictures to show the council (of the result, obviously, not of the bloke in the act) – we have photographic, government documented evidence), one of them chained smoked throughout the public areas of the house (he was only supposed to smoke in his room or outside), and the other one would come down to the kitchen (which was right by our room) to talk – extra loudly – on his mobile phone at all hours of the day and night! Not only was it disgusting, the smoke and the piss made it unsanitary and unhealthy. As a result of all this, as one would expect, we didn’t feel safe or comfortable in the slightest. It really brought us down, and anyone who dares to doubt that we have the real thing needs to carefully consider the fact that anything less than the real thing wouldn’t have survived those conditions. Those months, from the end of February to the end of June…well, the only times longer than those months were the times Jamie and I had to endure being an ocean apart from each other! They were so bad that, as I said, we got the council involved because we could take living there no more. However, just a day before the council moved on our situation (they contacted us pretty quickly once they saw the photos of the urine and other filth), I spotted a one bedroomed, self-contained, ground floor flat in the newspaper and pleaded with Jamie to call about it. He didn’t take much convincing, but we both doubted how decent the place would be just because of the price: it was actually something we could just afford! But, we were desperate. So, we went to take a look at the place.
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That’s how we found the place we now – proudly – call home!
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A terraced house, which had belonged to the landlord’s mother, had been converted into two pretty little flats. It had all recently been done up since the last tenants had been there; everything was clean, and fresh and new. When Jamie and I walked into the place and looked around we knew, this was it: after over a year of never really ever having a place to ourselves, we were finally to have a place all our own. We couldn’t believe that they were asking as little for it as they were. I looked at him; he looked at me; we looked at them, and exclaimed, “We’ll take it!”
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To say we were relieved would be quite a major understatement. We were elated. With glee we moved out of the hole, and celebrated with every box we packed up. Now I even had a place to put the piano that Jamie’s Aunt Sheila had given me.
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Our whole story is one of “progressive arriving” (my term; just made it up, actually), and here we had arrived, again.
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We breathed deep of privacy. We touched and held with renewed delight; celebrating our love in every room of our house (a very, very, very fine house), and gleefully walked – nearly dancing - naked from bedroom to kitchen to bathroom and back again. Oh, what glorious luxury!
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Routine came again, but now it was even more bearable - a comfortable, easy, settled feeling. The peripherals that weren’t perfect (like neither of us having a great job or doing what we wanted to do career-wise - which for me means singing and performing music and for Jamie means photography or writing) weren’t important – or paramount - because Jamie and I – the paramount thing – were not only together, but we were together in our own place.
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And July 2005 came with her cruel heat to remind me of another year of my life gone by, to whisper with hot breath, “You’re not so much a spring chicken anymore, Chick-a-Dee.” And I felt a bit more tired than usual; I was achy and nauseas, and I guess I knew from the beginning…
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And, I was scared…afraid because we had just gotten settled into our place that had room for two but no more. Afraid because of what it meant financially. Afraid because I was more than a year from getting my ILR…and what if I didn’t get it?
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And, I was overjoyed. His smile reflected in little eyes, his touch echoed in little fingers. To give him what she had promised and broken. To give him what she had denied him. My heart danced.
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And, I told him.
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And, he already knew.
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And, he was scared, afraid because we had just “arrived”; we hadn’t been here long enough even to catch our breath yet. Afraid because of what it meant financially. Afraid because…what would we do if – just if – I didn’t get ILR?
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And, his heart leapt – I saw it in his eyes: my smile reflected in newborn wonder, my caress echoed in a baby’s breath. To be Daddy…so long denied, so long a dream, at last nearly reality…nearly.
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I’ve been pregnant and carried three healthy babies to term before. Two are mine, and one I carried for my sister. I had never felt like I felt this time; I chalked it up to being older and to being with another partner for this one. I tried not to think what I already knew.
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When I stood up to go to the bathroom on the Sunday night of August 21st, I didn’t even feel a twinge to signal the flood to come. I didn’t know until I stood up from the toilet and saw it full of blood. Shock came first. Denial tried to surface but then the cramps came to wrack me with reality. Then, I heard her laughter. I heard her mocking, and there was no more denying.
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I walked out of the bathroom. I must have been white by then. He was waiting to press the “PLAY” button; the DVD player was set up for us to watch Conspiracy Theory. I softly said, “Jamie, I’m bleeding.” He responded with one word before we both dissolved into tears together: ‘no’. It was a plea. It was a prayer.
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I would be granted one grace before the tears and grief had to be put on hold so as to get me to the hospital because I was haemorrhaging: a vision of my grandfather holding his arms out to a baby, and calling the little one “Buddy” like he had called me. August 21st had been my grandfather’s birthday.
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It was Sunday, so we had to go to the walk-in clinic. Jamie’s mum came to take us there because we had no car at the time. The doctor on-call there could not stop the bleeding and was very concerned by the amount of blood I was rapidly losing. The cramps were very bad by this point and I was feeling increasingly weak. Jamie looked small and frightened. The doctor said I must go to the hospital immediately. The ambulance was called and I was taken straightaway.
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I was given gas and air and, at the time, would have loved to live on it, because in that no-where state there was no pain of any kind.
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I was admitted to the hospital and seen by a young doctor – brand new, just out of med school – who attempted to stop the bleeding.
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Jamie stayed with me all night; he never left my side.
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After I bled all night and well into the morning the young doctor knew this was a job beyond her experience and skill. Another doctor was called in and I caught the look on her face when she examined me. I was quickly prepped and rushed to surgery.
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After surgery I was sent to recovery. Hah, recovery. I may never. I fought waking up…I didn’t want to wake up. I think, were it not for Jamie’s willing me to wake up, I wouldn’t have.
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Don’t you dare tell me to get over it! You haven’t been there and you don’t know. Come back and speak to me when you’ve lost not only flesh of your flesh but also the most precious gift you could ever give to your partner. You will have a right to speak to me then, but not until. Until then, go to hell…there you may find the pain I write of!
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Nothing was easy about the weeks that followed. I was told not to work for two weeks and ordered bed rest. I was told it would take months for my hormones to right themselves and to generally expect to feel shitty for quite some time. As for my heart…well, no one had any remedies for that.
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The tears – for Jamie and me both – came in waves. And, because he was being strong for me, I will never know how many tears he shed away from my eyes but I feel their weight in the ocean of my heart, nonetheless.
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When it was time for me to go back to work at the shop, I had nothing in me – physically, mentally, or emotionally - that would allow me to handle the workload.
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To make matters worse, the manageress that I liked and got along so well with was leaving – can’t blame her – for a better-paid job, leaving loads of unknowns and general upheaval. I was at the edge of breakdown.
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Jamie held me together. He was determined not to lose me, too. Again – as he had done in the past – he willed me to live – to live with him.
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A lot of the job stuff – and how that was eventually resolved – I tell about in A Voice’s Journey to be Heard, where I recount the tale of how I became the lead singer of The Chairs; so I won’t go into that here. It is sufficient to say that it all worked out well in the end to the glory of God and to the testament of interdependent love!
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We are still living in our fine little flat. Not a day goes by that I don’t remember where we came from and breathe an earnest thank-you. This place must be like The Doctor’s TARDIS…it looks far too small on the outside to be able to contain all the love and joy we daily fill it with.
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Autumn and Jamie. Jamie and Autumn. Entwined. One. This is a story of “progressive arriving”. We go from strength to strength. Could I truly convey it in words, I would. Could I show you – so you would really see – I would. Could I pull the scales from your eyes… all I have is the truth. And, that I will continue to write.
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To be continued…

A Voice's Journey to be Heard

2006-04-07T16:21:00.000+01:00

As previously pointed out in The Story Too Good Not To Share, whatever else I may be besides, it's the description, title, designation of - and ability as a - singer that is the essense - and starting point - of who and what I am. While it may not be the only thing that defines me, it is definitely one of the most obvious and major things that defines me. That's not pride in myself, that's gratefulness to a God I believe in for entrusting me with a gift. From the time I was aware that I could open my mouth and make beautiful sounds come out, all I ever wanted to do was sing. From the time I discovered what it was like to perform for an audience and touch so many without touching them, there was only one "career" I ever seriously considered; there was only one thing I wanted to do.

No one ever makes it on talent - even great talent - alone. It would be nice if it were so, but it just doesn't work that way. Without the right "connections" - or a whole lot of money starting out - you don't get very far. It's also imperative that you have someone - someone who knows what they are doing - to promote you. So, while I have sang my entire life, starting at age four (and, I am not referring to singing in the shower, I am speaking publically and professionally), because I neither had the right connections nor the abundance of surplus cash, I wasn't what you - or I - would call a success.

Up until moving to England, I sang here and there, now and then, when the oportunities arose (and they were all too few and far between for my liking), mostly in churches, occasionally for personal functions (weddings, anniversaries, various parties etc.) and rarely for country clubs and concert halls. It was frustrating at best. It was torture at worst. I was always well received by the audience - and that was (as it always is) rewarding - but with nothing ever really coming from it in the long-run, I was extremely disatisfied. Even after moving to the UK, I encountered an attitude from many people that just couldn't sympathise and were unable to understand where I was coming from in regards to the importance of singing in my life and the drive - the intense passion - to "do what I do". A lot of people just looked at it as 'my hobby' or just as a side interest and not as something serious. That's always the way it is before someone hears me, anyway. Afterwards, it's like, 'My God, I didn't know you could really SING! You're really quite talented. Ever think of doing this for a living?' Well...HELLO! I really want to hit these people with a large stick, but I think even that would not work to beat the ingrained stupidity out of them. And, poor ignorant souls, I suppose they mean well. Some of them do, anyway.

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My singing debut in the UK came about because there happened to be a nearly in tune piano at the pub where Jamie and I had our wedding reception on the 18th of September, 2004. Someone asked the landlord if it would be alright for me to play it, and they said yes. So, I sat down and played and sang a couple of songs I had written. It had been a long time since I had played, so it really wasn't the best of performances to say the least (the voice is never rusty, but if I don't keep up with playing it can accumulate that "rust" quite quickly), but it was enough to get the attention of Jamie's aunt who asked if I would be willing to come and sing at her Church for an event they were having. I said I would be happy to. So it was that, in June of the following year, the event took place with me as the finale. It went splendidly well. I was quite pleased, and so were the ladies of the Sileby First Methodist Church who put on the event; it was well received by everyone who attended and I even got a small write up in the local paper about it.

Yay for getting one's name in print, even if they made a typographical error and didn't capitalize the first letter of it; it's all good publicity of some sort.

The surprise - for me - of the whole thing, was getting an upright piano as payment. The Church was selling off their extra uprights and Aunt Sheila purchased one for me. I was, of course, extremely grateful and thanked her profusely. However, other than the promise to have me back, nothing else, no other gigs, came from it. And, at the time, Jamie and I had no where to put the piano, and so I didn't even have that.

At this time I was working at a health food shop in the centre of town (Loughborough). Retail. It sucks (and, not in a good way), unless you are one of the few people who actually enjoy it and have a real gift for it. It definitely wasn't my first choice for a job; it was pretty much a case of 'beggers can't be choosers'. Circumstances dictated the need for me to work, and I took what I could get; it seemed like other places didn't want to take a chance on 'The American Woman' and since the only training I had was musical, and the only real work experience I had up to that point had been in retail, I had little choice in the matter. I settled into working there, and it wasn't like I hated it...at first. I learned things about health and nutrition, vitamins and herbs. That part was all good. While I didn't particularly like the owner, I did like the area manager and became friends with the shop manager (or manageress, as she was called) and one of the other employees. Yeah, I had to work Saturdays when Jamie was off. Yeah, the pay wasn't great. But, it wasn't all bad. However, things didn't stay that way.

In July, shortly after my birthday, Jamie and I got a big surprise; something happened that wasn't at all planned (mostly due to finances and our housing situation): I found out I was pregnant!!! While it was a bit of a worry (on the finance and housing side of things), it was also a whole lot of joy. Jamie has always wanted to have children of his own and it was one of the things that The Cow had denied him (one of many things); she had told him before they got married that she wanted to have a family, but after they had been married for a bit she told him that if he ever got her pregnant that she would abort. Yeah, she should be tortured to a slow death... but, I digress. While Jamie has embraced my girls as his own, there is still that desire to have his own - and my desire to have a child with him - and, with my children living so far away, it's not like he really gets the oportunity to be a dad with them as he would so very much like to. So, we were scared but thrilled. And yet, from the beginning, my fears ran very deep because I knew there was something wrong.

On Sunday evening, the 21st of August, 2005 I had a miscarriage. I was 12 weeks along. It is still very traumatic to think, talk, and write about and I'm sure I'll go into more detail about it specifically in forthcoming installments of The Story Too Good Not To Share. For the purpose of this particular tale, however, I shall only be relating how it effected my work situation: I was, obviously, emotionally distraught and devastated - my hormones were all over the place - and physically very weak and drained. I had lost a lot of blood through the whole horrendous ordeal and had become anaemic; it took me quite a while to get any kind of strength back. Along with my mental and emotional stability (or the lack thereof), I was in absolutely no condition to deal with standing on my feet all day long, shifting a large amount of stock around, making nice with the endless stream customers while my heart was aching, or any of the general stress of retail. Add to this the fact that the manageress whom I had gotten along so well with was leaving to go to a better paid, less stressful job (well, who could blame her), and that was leaving up in the air what was going to happen at the shop; it was all very distressing. But, it was about to get worse.

So, Angie left for bigger and better things and I was left to deal with all the ordering and the paperwork and the money, along with everything else I had previously been doing. I, of course, didn't get paid any more for doing these things; I was expected to do them without complaint until they hired someone else to manage the shop (they said they hadn't considered me because of the miscariage and didn't think I could handle it because of that). And so, enter *Jackie. They had to have been seriously stu-u'm, I mean, desperate to re-hire a bitch they had sacked ten years prior for being on drugs (something I suspect she's still on, if her chronic paranoia and lack of appetite are any indication - which, of course, they are). If I had been in my right mind and had all my strength back I wouldn't have been able to work with her. As it was, it was torturous. I dreaded waking up each day to face her and her attitude. Honestly, if she isn't still taking drugs, her brain and her body have been so ravaged by them that she is still - and seems always will be - "under their influence". She didn't trust me (because she was paranoid and thought I was talking about her behind her back), but she wanted me to do all her managerial duties (because she is dyslexic and couldn't handle dealing with the money and paperwork - I'm dyslexic, too - so, it wasn't an excuse), while she threw her weight (not that there was much of that, seeing as to what the drugs had done to her - the woman is skin and bones) around, loudly declaring, 'I'M THE MANAGER HERE!' Can we say Napoleon? Pathetic, really. I couldn't stand it. I started looking for somewhere else to work.

I had hoped that having some experience working in the UK behind me now that I would have a better chance getting something else. Alas, I was hitting a brick wall. But, the toll it was taking on me, having to go to work THERE, was wearing on me and Jamie could no longer bear to see me cry all the time. He told me I could quit.

It was taking a big chance. Since neither of us are entitled to benefits because of me being American and not yet having Indefinite Leave to Remain, we really don't have the luxury of me not working and bringing in an income. But, I was nearing a very dangerous point, and Jamie would have rather lived on beans on toast and forgone the luxuries of having a television or internet than to have seen me slip right over the edge (which is exactly where I was headed). And so, with much relief, I handed in my resignation.

However, I didn't hole up at home and rest like I would have really preferred to. Instead, I hit the pavement looking and interviewing for jobs. It was encouraging to be getting interviews; it was, at least, a start. I was applying for desk jobs: admin assistant, clerical, receptionist type stuff. The pay is better than retail in such jobs and...you get to sit down! I daily scoured the paper and the internet, and applied for positions left and right and centre. I liked it when I found places that accepted an application and CV (resume') via e-mail. One such receptionist job I applied for, when I tried to send my CV and cover letter, it kept bouncing back with an undeliverable message. So, I worked up my courage and rang the place. The lady, Liz, who answered said that they had received loads of e-mails about the job, this was the first she heard of any not coming through. She also told me they had already shortlisted the group of interviewees from that bunch of CVs that had come through and that they were holding the interviews the following day so there was no way I could get my CV there by post in time. This was very much resembling a dead end...so, I thought. However, she asked me if I had another e-mail account I could try sending my CV from. I said, yes, I would try sending it from my husband's e-mail account and see if there was any difference. There was. In about 15 minutes she rang me back to invite me to an interview.

By now I can hear you screaming, 'What the hell does this have to do with singing?!' What, indeed. Keep your shirt on and hold your horses, we're getting there. I promise!

I dressed smartly and, after finally locating the building the office was located in (it wasn't exactly the world's easiest place to find), I arrived at the interview to find an international software development company in need of a relatively computer/internet/e-mail savvy person who is well presented with a good telephone manner to be one of two front desk receptionists (they already had the other one) to handle some basic office admin along with greeting customers and logging the support calls that come in. It actually seemed like something that not only I might be capable of doing, but interesting and worthwhile, as well. And so, I didn't have much hope of getting it. I felt that the interview could have gone a lot better. I left thinking, "What a shame; that would be a really decent job to have," and I told Jamie I was disappointed because I didn't think I had a chance of getting it. Sure enough, the next day Liz notified me via e-mail that I hadn't gotten the job. I was getting discouraged, but I kept looking.

In my attempt to find something, I had signed up with an agency. I was very clear about what I did and did not want to do. So, when they called me up with a temporary retail-on-my-feet-all-day-running-up-and-down-the-stairs job, I was not exactly amused. They said they were desperate and could really use my help, that it was only for three days, and they knew I needed the money. I reluctantly said I would do it. Minutes, literally minutes, after receiving that call, the phone rang again. "Hello..." I croaked out; I had a bad cold at the time. The voice - that I recognised right away as belonging to Liz - on the other end of the line said, 'Oh, Autumn, do have a cold?' I was surprised to hear the voice, but knew there could only be one reason why Liz would be calling me, so I remained calm when I replied, "Yes, it seems I have a bit of one." She then went on to tell me that they had narrowed down the candidates between me and this other lady to whom they had offered the job first. She turned it down (if I knew who this woman was and could find her I would go thank her) and they wanted to know if I was still interested. Well, d'uh! No, I didn't say that, of course. I told her that, yes, I was still very interested and would like to take the job.

Moving right along (after all, this is about my singing, not about my day job...I don't want to digress overmuch, but just give you some background) I had been working at my new job for about three weeks when an e-mail came through to everyone from Ivor Pearce (one of the software developers). When I opened the e-mail, I was surprised to discover that it had nothing to do with computers but was all about the upcoming gigs of two different bands! I continued reading until I gathered that Ivor was somehow involved with these bands. At the end of the e-mail was an announcement about the lead singer of one of the bands, The Comfy Chairs, leaving at the end of the year, and if anyone was interested in taking part in an open audition, to please let him know. You, Dear Reader, may be shocked to find out that I did not e-mail him back right away; I sat there and contemplated it. While I was considering replying to Ivor's e-mail, Liz sent one to me, regarding the one Ivor sent, simply saying, 'Over to you, Autumn.' She had, of course, read my singing history in my CV. Thus, I composed an e-mail to Ivor asking him what kind of music the band did and informing him of my "interest". Well, it was a forgone conclusion, wasn't it?

Ivor, preferring to speak in person rather than e-mail back and forth, came from his office out to reception to speak with me. I hadn't been working there very long, so I was still putting names together with faces (due to it being quite a large office), so now I knew that Ivor was the short - yet good looking, welshman. And, now I knew he played bass, as well. He did a really poor job of describing the band - which he admits - and then told me that the best way to see what the band was all about was to come to one of the gigs. And so, Jamie and I did just that.

I was not in the least prepared to be as impressed as I was by the superb level of musicianship in this band. These were musicians who, while they still had day jobs, were proffessional, well-skilled musicians. Their sound was tight: an eclectic mixture of blues, soul, swing and funk, executed with expertise and style. I had been expecting "local band" and what I got was a polished performance from experienced music-makers. I immediately went from mild interest to deep desire. I wanted this. I would have this.

I rehearsed. I prepared. I bought fishnets (never underestimate the power of fishnets); it was my voice that I wanted them to be wowed by, but I still wanted to dress to impress.

The auditions took place in a hall the band had rented from the Methodist Church in East Leake, Nottinghamshire. Since Ivor was giving us a lift home, I was the last to audition just as I wanted to be; save the best for last. There was a lobby area where one could wait while the others were auditioning. The band was behind closed doors which prohibited me from seeing how the others performed, but not from hearing them. Jamie watched my smile get bigger as the night progressed. Stiff competition I was not going to get - not that I would have minded. But, there was absolutely no contest.

By the time I came to the mic, the band was exhausted; they'd had - and heard - enough; as the night had progressed, and my smile had gotten bigger, their smiles had been getting less and less and they were losing hope...until I opened my mouth to sing.

Where the other female auditionees struggled with the keys the songs were in (due to the old lead singer being male), my strong contralto stood out in contrast, and after I had sung the five required auditon numbers Pete (band leader, keyboardist and backdround vocalist) wanted to keep going. 'OK, Autumn. What's next?' "Pete", I said, "we've done five numbers." 'Have we?' So, we did one more and...I knew.

Afterwards the band, consisting of the drummer: Simon Perkins, the guitarist: Jamie Colville, the bass player: Ivor Pearce, the saxophonist: Gemma Collinson (Pete's Daughter), and the leader and keyboardist: Pete Collinson, went to a local pub to deliberate. Jamie (my Jamie) and I were invited along. There was some chat and some questions asked of me; my opinion of the others auditionees was asked for, and I was honest. I said, "In all fairness, I couldn't see any of the rest of them. So, I can't give you an opinion on how they performed; I can only tell you how I thought they sounded." And, so I told them, as politely as I could, but I didn't sugarcoat anything. I was told that, really, I was the only one that actually did perform as opposed to just standing up at the microphone like a lump with vocal chords. I told them that they could work with the woman who had auditioned before me, but that she would take a lot of work and training - all true, and they agreed.

After we had discussed my musical background and expereince, along with the finer points of the audition (mine and the others) they asked me and Jamie to leave the table while they made some decisions. I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little nervous. I just held on to Jamie...and prayed.

In just a few minutes Pete came up to me with a big grin and said he was pleased to offer me the position, to which I said I was pleased - and honoured and extremely grateful - to take it. Apparently I had blown them away.

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And so, that's how a dissatisfied American singer came to find satisfaction in finally being appreciated for her voice, her talent, in England. It may not be huge worldwide fame or the recording career I've dreamed of, but it is getting ongoing acknowledgment, recognition, audience/fan appreciation, and pay for "doing what I do". I get to work with a great bunch of dedicated pros who understand and share my passion. I'm lovin' it! For one, it's validation (about time). Two, it's always good getting to do what you love to do and are good at doing. And so, I'm living a dream (singing) within a dream (Jamie), again proving that they really can come true.

Since the creation of the band, The Comfy Chairs have always been a popular and well-loved band in the Midlands, and now we continue to grow in popularity, gaining new fans as we go. We've recently dropped the "comfy" and opted for going with The Chairs as our name. For more information, or for booking (in the UK), do not hesitate to contact me.

*name changed

The Story Too Good Not to Share (Part 2)

2006-04-03T16:53:00.000+01:00

It was eleven days of bliss; from the 15th to the 26th of December 2003, Jamie and I had no ocean, no miles, and very little clothing at any given time, between us. The day he had to fly back to England was horrendous for us both. We were both inconsolable, and I felt as if my oxygen machine had been cruelly unplugged. Oh, the abyss was gone, I no longer lived in that place, Jamie had banished it, but once we had been face to face, hand in hand, and one flesh, it was torture to be separated by such time and distance again.
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It was too much for either one of us to bear. So it was that, nearly as soon as Jamie had returned to his Island, he bought tickets to come and see me again in February, for Valentine’s Day. We started counting the days. They…passed…ex-cru-ci-a-ting-ly ssslllooooooooowwly. We kept sane by spending as much time online together as we could, but it was painful going back to typing at each other and only being able to see each other on a tiny little webcam screen after being able to touch, taste, smell and talk to each other in person – together, as we were – and are - meant to be. We made the best of it, however, and made it through until February. Valentine’s 2004 was the dreamiest, most romantic and sexy Valentine’s ever…up until that time, anyway (we have had a couple since then, ya know). But, as the time between the visits went by painfully slowly, so the 10 days we had together sped by agonizingly quickly. In a blink, the time was gone. Alas, such is the way with Time…and we were back to counting days once more.
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Some may wonder what I did to fill the time. While Jamie was at work and couldn’t be online, I slept as much as possible. Healthy? Maybe not completely. Sanity saving? Most definitely. Other than that, there were books to read, poems to write, music to listen to when I couldn’t sleep. And there was exercise when I needed to work out aggression. There was babysitting for my sister. There were movies to watch. And, of course, there was the first hurdle to overcome in me getting myself to England: securing a passport!
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Something that should have been easy-peasy (and is for 99.999% of people), proved characteristically outrageously difficult for me. You wouldn’t believe the hoops I had to jump through to get something that any other red-blooded American would have had in a matter of days. Instead, it took me two months to get mine - and I had to fight, tooth and nail, for it. I was determined that no one and nothing would keep me from The Reason I Breathe. Dana’s ears are still ringing from me screaming in glee when it finally arrived in the post. I'm not going to go into why it was such a complicated matter for me to get a passport - it just was! However, as difficult as that was, it was a walk in the park in comparison to the immigration difficulties to come (we haven’t even gotten to the stuff about the visas yet)! But, before that happened, Jamie had one more visit to the States in April.
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It was just a short visit – well, shorter than the others were anyway – this time only for the weekend (Easter weekend). We didn’t have much time, but we took comfort in the fact that in just a little over a week after Jamie going back, I would be going to him! Dana – that wonderful best friend of mine - had given me half the money from his tax return so I could buy the tickets.
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Jamie and I, neither one, had any clue about the strict rules concerning entry clearance in regards to international engagements and marriage. Or, I should say, what the strict rules are NOW, post 9/11. I had looked on the British Immigration website, and had read where a tourist could come into the country, without need to purchase a visa, for up to six months. So, of course, wanting to spend the maximum time with Jamie, I made my return ticket for six months to the day of my arriving in England. We were hoping, however, that we could, while I was in the country, find out what I needed to do to be able to stay, since we wanted to be married as soon as possible. We were pretty much under the assumption that it was still like it was in the old days (in other words, pre 9/11) when you could do whatever you needed to do within the country and that marriage would extend citizenship to the married partner. Oh, how terribly wrong we were!

On Wednesday, April 28th, 2004, Dana drove me to the airport and I was immediately met with the frustration of the modern day airport. The first thing I faced, as I joined the queue to check in, were notices that my flight had been overbooked and they were asking some people to take a later flight. My response to this was a polite, 'Hell no!' Next came the securing of my boarding pass and the production of checking in my luggage. After that was done, Dana and I had a little bit of time to talk and walk around before I needed to go through to the gate.

Flying anywhere now can be a nerve wracking experience, let alone flying internationally. You are thoroughly searched and scanned, poked and prodded, checked and verified - usually more than once - before you board the plane to depart for your destination. Pre 9/11, before the airline and airport world changed, one could have their friends meet them at the gate when they arrived, and you could wait at the gate with someone who was departing. I remember the kindness afforded me by an employee of the airline that Jamie travelled on when he was going back to England after coming to see me that first time in December '03: when Jamie went to check in, he (the employee - I wish I had taken note of his name), sensed the situation and gave me a pass so that I would be allowed to go with Jamie, and wait with him at the gate, until the plane began boarding. I'm relatively sure that there was an angel wearing the uniform of a Virgin Atlantic employee visiting earth that day. There, you get that story for free (I wasn't even planning to tell that one).

After Dana and I had said, hugged, and kissed our goodbyes, it was time for me to remove my shoes and coat (at least they didn’t make me strip down to my knickers like I’ve seen them do to some people; I’m not kidding here!) and get me, my shadow, and my carry-on luggage scanned, before going on to the gate to wait for boarding, there to face the scare that the flight might be cancelled due to the weather!

Finally, after the threat of lightning had passed, the boarding of the plane commenced. This was it! At last, I was on my way to England and My Beautiful Man! In just eight more hours I would be in his arms...or so I thought.

I passed the time by reading, watching movies, writing poetry, and checking the in-flight map to see how far we had flown and how much farther we had to go before we arrived at the London Gatwick Airport. It would have been good if I could have gotten some sleep - especially considering what I was going to face once I got there - but I'm unable to sleep sitting up. As it was, I ended up going through one of the worst experiences of my life on no sleep!

Our final approach into Gatwick saw me looking out the window onto a colour of green I had ever only imagined, and struck upon me the realisation that the grass really is greener on the other side (it was like in the Wizard of Oz, when everything goes from being in black and white to being in colour and Dorothy says the famous line "We're not in Kansas anymore"; ummm, indeed...Florida, neither)! I had no clue what horrors awaited me, so I, wanting to look as fresh as I could for Jamie, brushed my hair and touched up the makeup that was soon to be cried off.

Anxious to get to my man as quickly as possible, I grabbed up my carry-on luggage and made a mad dash for the door of the plane as soon as they turned off the seatbelt sign. I was so excited! I joined the herd and made my way through the hallway and lobby area which eventually leads to where the Immigration Officers stand at their little podiums. I joined the appropriate queue (for non-British passport holders) and waited my turn to be called up by one of the IOs.

Now, there is a great amount of what happened next that I have blocked out because it was that distressing; there is quite a lot of detail I have mercifully forgotten. I'm explaining this only so you won't wonder why I'm being a tad vague on this part. When I use the term "interrogation" to describe the two and a half hours of the preview to hell I was subjected to, I don't use the term lightly or jokingly. I mean it; that's exactly what it was. To say that it was mere 'questioning' would be to make light of what it was; it would make it seem acceptable and tolerable, and I want to make it absolutely, entirely and utterly clear that what I was put through for two and a half hours was not in the least bit either of those two adjectives! For me, it was, undeniably, torture. In the end it all became sort of a painful blur; I don't remember the order the questions came in, or how many times the same ones were hurled at me in an effort to trip me up. I do remember the cold dark room I was taken to, and I do remember how personal the questions became, and I do remember the sick, horrible feeling in my stomach and the blinding headache from all the tears, and I do remember the sound of the IO's voice, along with the way she looked (ummm hmmm, a female), I remember her painstakingly going through every single item in my luggage, looking through every page of every book I had brought with me, and meticulously reading over the one snail-mail letter Jamie had sent to me along with a drawing of his he had given me, and I do remember being told they were most likely going to send me back. I will simply NEVER FORGET the SHOCK and the TERROR I had to endure for two and a half hours that, on my lack of sleep, felt more like two and a half days! I shall also always remember how great the grace of God and the amazing, overwhelming relief that flooded me when I was told they were going to let me in, "We've decided to let you in for six months. Just don't work, " she said to me. I had no intention of working! "And," she added, "you've been flagged, so when you come back you must have secured an Entry Clearance Visa, or you will not be allowed in." I said that I understood, thanked her profusely, grabbed up my ransacked luggage, and ran for the door where she said Jamie was waiting for me!

People on both sides of the big puddle may be thinking, "What's the big deal? I don't get it. Aren't the US and the UK allies? You were only coming in to see your fiancé, you weren't trying to take over the country!" And, while all these things are true, the rules are very strict on entering (and staying in) either country for that matter; there is a massive amount of redtape - and money - involved. And, to this day, after all the things we've learned, Jamie and I still don't "get it", and still think it's unfair - because, it is! Governments should not hold your life in their hands in regards to being with The Reason You Breathe! But, I don't wish to clutter up this tale with a political argument...so, I'll just move on, I'll keep to the facts of the story, and let you decide where you stand on immigration issues.

My first few days in England were...surreal. It took me a while to recover from my ordeal and gain my bearings but, surprisingly enough - maybe just because of the excitement - and relief - at being with Jamie, I didn't have any major problem with jetlag (even though there is a five hour time difference - England being five hours ahead - between the east coast states of the US and the UK). Seeing the sights could wait for more urgent matters, Jamie's and my passion and libido being so well matched, we had other pressing things (as in, each other) to do!

Jamie and I revel and take great delight in the physical aspect of our relationship as a passionate and intensely pleasurable expression of our love: we both love sex, specifically with each other. In his marriage-that-never-should've-been, we've already determined how selfish The Cow was and, in this regard, she was no different, first of all being one of those typical females that I don't understand who can take sex or leave it (and most of the time leave it) - these women are just weird and wrong - and, the only time she wanted him was when she was drunk. In my marriage-that-never-should've-been it was like pulling teeth to get any - and, when I did, because he didn't want to be with me, it wasn't that great. Jamie and I are the fulfilment of each other's fantasies; we were designed to make love to each other...and, so we do...LOTS (as it should be)! As I am very outspoken about my belief about sex in marriage and the stupidity of women (wives) that shoot themselves in the foot by denying their husbands sex and then wonder why so many of them end up cheating, I am a thorn in the side of many a typical female, and Jamie is the envy of many a married a man. While loads of his male acquaintances told him, "When you get married, it will stop," just because that's the way it worked for them, Jamie just smiled knowingly and said, 'No it won't.' They didn't believe him, of course, but he knew me and, therefore, knew I'd never stop. He now has sweet bragging rights.

Sex is good. It is a gift. Sex should never be used as a weapon or for manipulation. It should be enjoyed - especially in marriage! As I have stated, I feel very strongly on this issue. However, I'm getting on another tangent here...and so, I will leave the soap box for the moment, and get back to the story!

The sight seeing came in time, and there are no doubt beautiful sights in England - some of which, as they enter this tale, I am sure to mention, but as I am writing The Story of Autumn and Jamie here, and not a travel journal, individual places and sights seen will not factor predominantly in this account except where they pertain to certain events having to centre around us.

I arrived in the UK on a Thursday, and Jamie had taken that day and the following Friday off to make sure I got settled in. At that time, he was renting a room in shared house in Loughborough. I had never stayed in a "shared house" before (they are quite common here, but mostly among single people and the students that overrun university towns like Loughborough); it took some getting used to. This was one of the nicer accommodations in the area, however, for this sort of thing, and - for the most part - the other residents were nice. I soon learned my way around the area and - since Jamie worked close by - enjoyed making lunch for him during the week and walking to meet him for his break at work. During the day, while he was at work, I went online, read, exercised, and wrote the odd piece of poetry (not that the poetry was that weird, mind you...but, you know what I mean). At night and on the weekends, Jamie and I made our room a love nest and spent the hours cuddling while watching telly, or taking photographs, or reading together, amongst the afore mentioned activities. Indeed, Jamie and I stayed there quite comfortably until the landlady there - a woman who could make The Wicked Witch of the West look like Mother Theresa - got her knickers in a twist about me staying there with Jamie and not paying any extra rent. Her husband - a lovely little man, but nearly henpecked to death - was forced to give us the news that we would have to look for alternative living arrangements unless we were willing to rent another room for me! Hello? Why would I want another room even if we could have afforded it? The Bitch wouldn't even talk to me, or acknowledge my existence, and when she did talk to Jamie it was always with an uncalled for rude and angry tone of voice.

Nothing is ever easy. We didn't know what to do. We were about to be without a place to live. Jamie, as he usually does when faced with such circumstances, panicked. Honestly, though, we didn't have a whole load of options; Jamie's mum's partner Mick wouldn't let us move back in with them (Jamie had moved in there after he left The Cow) and Jamie couldn't afford to get a place of his/our own. I wasn't allowed to work, remember. So, in June, somehow it transpired that a friend (ex-friend now) of Jamie's - someone with whom he had previously discussed sharing a house with - got in touch and came up with a plot to get us to share rent and bills in a house in Barrow-Upon-Soar. Now, Barrow is the village in which Jamie had lived for 14 years with The Cow. And, this "friend" was still (as she is to this day) friends with Lady Bovine (I've tired of calling her "The Cow").

Yeah, anyone with the proverbial one eye and half sense could tell this was a disaster waiting to happen, but Jamie had yet to lose faith in all of his old acquaintances (the ones who had been "friends" (I use this term loosely, at least in regards to Jamie) of both him and Her Ladyship Moo. The pathetic fact is, he ended up losing the majority of them, because even though she claimed to have told them that she was happy with the split and that it was the best for them both, they chose her "side" anyway. There were only a very few that accepted me and remained friends with Jamie. He came to say, "Marry an American and learn who your true friends are."

Everything inside me was screaming, 'NOOOOOOOOOOO! Please not there, and not with her!', but I didn't want to seem insecure and get into an argument about it...and, it wasn't like I had another option handy. Plus, I had other things on my mind at the time, like finding out where we stood immigration wise and just what our options were on that front.

The house was ugly but, when Jamie was home, we filled it with warmth and love. Now that we were no longer in Loughborough, I couldn't meet him for lunch anymore, but I could be waiting for him - naked on the stairs - when he got home (fortunately The BlondeBimboBitch (we'll just refer to her as BBB from here on in) because of her work schedule, was always out at the time he came home). Other than the fact that Jamie had to constantly remind her for her part of the rent and expenses, most of the time she stayed out of our way. So, it was...bearable. After all, the important thing was, we were together! Living in Barrow brought me down a bit, though. I didn't feel like I could go out and walk around during the day like I could in Loughborough. However, being stuck in the house can have it's advantages: I had plenty of time to do some research and find out some important things to do with our situation (and, looking back, our living situation was going to get much worse before it got better; I have to admit that, comparatively, Barrow wasn't all that bad).

Dana being the superhero he is, once again, came to the rescue. See, Dana has a gift at finding things that need to be found, and what he found for me was a website devoted to people like me, who are American and have British significant others, that had a treasure trove of information - and even an immigration advisor to ask questions to - about what is involved with moving to the UK legally. Basically we found out that it takes going through a whole lot of redtape, paperwork and expense, but I also found out that even though I would have to go back to the States to apply for a spousal visa, we could get married there and then if we wanted to. And, of course, we wanted to. *Since Jamie and I married, they have again changed the rules and you are not allowed to marry on a vistor's visa or equivilent (as I had stamped in my passport); if you plan on marrying in the UK, you must now secure a fiancé visa. The registry office will turn you away without one now. We just made it in on the tail end of a lighter set of rules.

The news that we could get married thrilled us no end, and was just the lift we needed, since it seemed we had so many things stacked against us - so many things trying to bring us down. We set about right away to arrange everything: we registered at the registry office, Jamie's mum booked a local pub for the reception, and I managed to find something half-way decent to wear (the first thing I had chosen not working because I couldn't find a skirt to go with the green velvet medieval top Jamie had purchased for me when we went to Glastonbury in May). That was all there was to it. I don't now why people get so worked up and plan such huge la-dee-da affairs for weddings. The point should be that you are making a binding commitment to the one you love. So it was, on Saturday, the 18th of September, 2004, Jamie and I were wed at the Loughborough Registry office, surrounded by his family.

The next month went by in a whirl. At the end of October my six months were up; it was time to go back to the States and pray that I would be given the required Visa that would allow me to return to The Reason I Breathe.

Some may wonder why we "chose" to have me immigrate to Great Britain instead of having Jamie come to America. The answer is rather simple: as [increasingly] difficult as it is for one to immigrate to the UK, it is quite a deal harder to immigrate to the US and, for us, it would have simply been an impossibility: I would have had to have had all the things I didn't have: a bank account (with money in it), a job, and a place for us both to live, along with the proof that I could support us until Jamie could get a job. The work culture in the UK is much different to what it is in the US. Indeed, it's much better than it is in the US! And, even if I had all those things I didn't have, finding Jamie a decent job in the States would have been nigh unto impossible...but, that didn't matter anyway as I didn't have those other things. So, while it was not an easy thing to leave my kids, it was the only way for us to be together. And, with the exception of being so far from the kids (and the rest of my family), my life is sooooo much better here than it ever was or could have been in the States.

Saying goodbye at Gatwick when I had to leave was one of the most painful things Jamie and I ever had to go through. People that haven't had to go through this kind of thing cannot begin to understand the anquish. I get blank stares when I tell some people this part of the story because they are unable to grasp the kind of sorrow I'm talking about. There aren't words adequate to describe it. I sobbed the entire eight hour plane ride back. I was literally physically ill by the time I arrived in Orlando. Jamie didn't fare much better alone on the train back to Barrow. But, at least, I had Dana to pick me up and hold me while I wept. Jamie had nothing to hold but the pain of not having me to hold and the fear that it might be a long time before he held me again.

We were terrified that I wouldn't get the Visa: as I have said, I had no savings, no job, no bank account. All we had were Jamie's bank account and job and a letter of support from his mum. Thanks to the information I had received from the UKYankee website, I had already applied and paid the fee for the Visa online via the British Home Offices Official website; I had all my paperwork done, and was ready, as soon as I stepped off the plane in Orlando and was handed back my passport, to drop my passport in with all the papers, pictures, supporting documents (marriage certificate, lease agreement, proof of Jamie's work status, both our letters of intent, Jamie's mum's letter of support, Jamie's and his mum's bank statements, Jamie's pay slips), etc, to overnight FedEx them to the NY British Consulate - which, I did.

All we had left to do now was to hurry up and wait. Stress doesn't begin to describe the state of anxiety we were in. I had family to visit and Dana to catch up with, but my heart wasn't in it because my heart wasn't there; I had left it behind in England. I was scared, so scared, I was going to be denied. I wouldn't be OK until I knew that I had been approved. It had been so long since my family had seen me, but I just wasn't "there" until I had word that I had gotten the Visa.

Fortunately I only had to sweat and panic for THREE DAYS (they were a very looooong three days, but, thankfully, only three days), when I heard the doorbell ring and I knew it was the FedEx Man with my package from the Consulate! The overwhelming relief was, well, overwhelming in the extreme. After calming down enough to be understandable, I tried calling Jamie to give him the news. His mobile was off!!! I had to leave a bloody message! I couldn't believe it. So, since I was sending e-mails out to everyone who had been following what was going on, there were loads of people who had the happy news before Jamie did. When, at last, Jamie heard the message on his phone, he immediately called me and we shouted and laughed and cried tears of relief and joy together. We knew the war wasn't over - since the spousal Visa is only good for two years, after which one must shell out an additional £500 (which is non-refundable - if they don't approve you, they don't give you the money back...of course, if they don't approve you, the loss of nearly $1000 is the least of your worries), fill out more paperwork, supply even more documents and "proof", jump through more hoops in order to satisfy the Home Office to apply for Indefinite Leave to Remain, or ILR for short, which is the thing I am presently panicking over - but, we had won this one battle and we could breathe freely once again!

I still had four weeks to endure (we had already booked my flight so that I would have an itinerary - which is one of the things they ask for - to give to the Consulate, and, since we didn't know how long it would take them, we wanted to give them a good window of time to work in) before I would be back with my Beautiful Man. We had the tremendous relief from the piercing agony of not knowing when we would ever see each other again, but we still had the aching agony of separation to endure; Jamie would call me every week and we would spend the hour crying. We survived the time through those phone calls, the internet and a webcam, and a whole lot of prayer to keep sane!

I find it extremely sad that the majority of the time I tell this story, I find very few that can identify with what I am talking about, and I don't mean the whole immigration frustration. I mean, it's difficult to find many that understand the nature of mine and Jamie's relationship itself. It's hard to get people to comprehend the concept of interdependence, I assume because for so long they (especially women) have been advised to be independent, and because few have been witness to a real interdependent relationship. As I pointed out in Part One, too few have seen such a thing, many less have experienced it, and so have become very cynical - to the point of sheer stupidity about relationship matters. They've seen co-dependence (the counterfeit of interdependence) and have understandably - and rightly - been turned off by that, and so have gone to the other extreme which is just as unhealthy. As I said in an article I wrote on this subject, I am utterly and completely dependent upon my husband. He is strong where I am weak. He supports me. By the same token, my husband is completely dependent upon me. I am strong where he is weak. I support him. We are interdependent, meaning we are:

Interdependent (adjective)

1. depending on each other
unable to exist or survive without each other

2. with mutually dependent elements

relying on mutual assistance, support, cooperation, or interaction among constituent elements or members.

Yes, I am unashamed to declare, I NEED HIM. So too, he needs me. I could not function, and life would be an utter devastation (like it was before him), without him; indeed, I would have no life at all (like it was before him). So too, he requires my light to lead him in his dark places. This is as it should be. It should be perfectly understandable, our desperation - our need - to be together, but I get loads of those blank stares or, worse, the rolling eyes. I find this attitude infuriating but, as I said, it also saddens me because it's so wide spread. To get a clearer picture of what I am talking about, I recommend reading the piece I wrote on interpendence in its entirety, found here: http://uk.blog.360.yahoo.com/blog-sVyexTw0daG_Lvvh73ervK29y8mi0.CI?p=30

So, we ploughed through the days and weeks, minutes and hours; I got to spend Thanksgiving with my family, which was good. Then, at the end of November, the time came for me to go back and be rejoined with The Reason I Breathe. This time, with Visa in hand and only a five minute interrogation, I was let through (remember, I had been "flagged", so they were waiting for my name to come back up; but they knew they had no right to hold me or refuse me, because their Consolate had already given me the "all clear", so to speak. It was annoying to be cornered and questioned again, but this time I was confident, not terrified as I was before; I stayed calm, answered the IO's enquiries matter-of-factly, she then stamped my passport and let me go).

I ran into Jamie's waiting, open arms; at last, I was home. Next would come my education in what living here means, and entails... but, you can read about that in Part Three, along with seeing the power of that all important interdependence in action!

Stay Tuned! The Story Continues...

The Story Too Good Not to Share (Part 1)

2006-03-27T16:45:00.000+01:00

Gather 'round the fire, settle down and listen to a tale. This story is true. I've been meaning to put this down for sometime now, had even managed to get it together once and lost it, have just today decided to try once more, and even now the task seems daunting, but I know it will be worth it in the end. As the title says, this is a story too good not to share.

So, without further ado, let us begin.

Name: Autumn Dawn (yes, really. And, no, I'm neither under twenty nor was I named by hippies; my mother was 40 years old when she gave birth to me and I am now over 30...you do the math).

Age: already answered that one, but as for the date: 10th of July, 1974. It was a Wednesday. You remember Wednesday's child, don't you? U'm, yep, that's the one that's full of woe.

I was born in Chicago, Illinois and not given much chance of survival. I had a plethora of health problems which I see no need of getting into here, but my Mother - an amazing and talented woman - never gave me up to the death sentence the doctors gave me...and so my story continued.

I was six weeks old when she (my afore mentioned female parental unit) moved us (me, her and my much older sisters) to Florida (a nice place to visit, but you really don't wanna live there - OK, well YOU might THINK you want to live there, you might even, indeed, really want to - but I never wanted to live there). My grandparents had moved there the year before and she wanted me to grow in the light of their positive and intellectual influence (the only thing good about the place). As will be seen, being witness to their amazing relationship would be the most definitive factor in my life.

Up until my 29th year I felt that most of my life just wasn't one, it was an existence. Oh, I had a great, supportive family. I had inherited some of my mother's musical and writing talents, as well. But, without funds behind you, without someone to market and sell you, without knowing the right people, on talent alone one won't make it. I had a marriage-that-never-should've-been behind me and a string of rejection and bad relationships to fill all too many badly written taudry romance novels. The marriage-that-never-should-have-been left me with two beautiful daughters. However, that was a sadness in and of itself: knowing that I had brought two innocents into a situation they did not deserve.

I was in such a sad emotional state by the time I turned 29 that I didn't want to live another year. I just couldn't bear the thought of going on. As I always tell when relating this story, it hurt to breathe. There are some people who will understand that, and a great deal of people who won't. Whether you comprehend or not, the fact remains, it hurt to breathe.

In late July, 2003, I turned to the computer in a desperate attempt to escape from the depression that had dragged me into an abyss-like state. Now, I had experienced two miserably failed internet relationships and had done the chatroom scene before, so I'm not quite sure what I thought I was looking for...other than a bit of relief - or distraction, at least, from the pain.

My distraction came in the form of a website devoted to a certain author of fantasy - another one of my distractions - which I enjoyed reading. You see, books - story - especially high fantasy - have always engaged and captured my imagination, so many of the stories - and characters - speaking directly to me, sometimes encouraging me, almost always comforting me and certainly always entertaining me...but, it was more than entertainment.

I orginally went onto this author's website in order to find out when the next book in the series was coming out. While surfing the site, I was surprised and pleased to find a posting board for fans. I immediately joined under the username Songmistress, a title I'd been dubbed by my best friend, and the name that would intrigue The Reason I Breathe and make him want to talk to me. I was pleased further, when I found that the board encouraged member creativity (in the realm of writing, mostly), and so I made a thread to post poetry in - my own, of course, but I opened it up for others to post their original works as well. Somewhere deep inside me I knew that the artistic expression - and the sharing of it - would be cathartic.

An Englishman named Jamie was the first to respond with works of his own. I was struck at once by the powerful, emotional, and truly excellent way he wrote - and what he wrote (I came to say that he "wrote my heart" because the things he posted were things I could have written myself)! He had joined the board a few days before I had; he, too, was using the internet as an escape: refuge from his own marriage-that-never-should've-been. His then wife had no time for him or his interests and talents, had no time to appreciate this beautiful man; all she had time for was going to the pub with her mates and getting drunk. She didn't care about his writing, his photography, his drawings, much less his feelings, and she was much too self absorbed to consider his needs, let alone fill any of them. She's one of those women I talk about all the time who give women - and wives - a bad name (no, I really don't have anything nice to say about the bit, u'm, cow, u'm woman).

So, Jamie poured himself onto the pages, and I drank him up; after all, I was dying of thirst.

Jamie posted his poetry and, eventually, his drawings and photography and, for the first time, he found people - including one suicidal American woman - who were interested in what he had to give.

Did I admit to myself that I was in love with this man? For a long time my heart could not afford to. But, in the end, the truth, as ever, would not be denied.

~~~

Remember how I mentioned my grandparents at the start of this? No? Go back, read it again. Yes? Let's continue, then. I grew up in the light and warmth of their love; I was witness to something far too many never see and far less than that ever experience for themselves. It does no justice - words, adjectives fall short - to try to describe their perfect relationship. Now, don't you dare roll your eyes at me here and stop reading! I know what most people think when they hear that "perfect"; I can just hear you snapping back at me, 'No relationship is perfect!' - that's what the world has jaded you to believe...and, you would be as wrong as the world in that belief. See, you can't convince me otherwise, because I was there, and saw it - day in, day out - for over 20 years, my sisters for 18 years longer than that, my mother 40 years longer. This isn't just something I've made up - or the work of selective memory. Their relationship was the benchmark, the example, the aspiration...and what became for those of us who wanted not only to see it - but, because we KNEW it was real - experience and have it for ourselves, an unattainable desire...or so we thought.

Now, I'm not going to write overmuch about my grandparents, as there are other places I have gone into detail about what made their relationship what/how it was, and since what is important to this story here is not their personal story but, rather, their story's impact on mine. Should anyone want to know more about them, I am contactable, and would be happy to share that story with you, as well.

What witnessing them did was assure me that relationships like theirs' were real, not just a fairy tale unreachable ideal. And, it made all the shit around me look all the more crappy. Light has the tendency to make darkness appear all the more, well, dark! I felt very privileged that I got to see such a relationship - which is, as I've said, more than the majority of people get - but, once exposed to the wonder of it, the beauty of it, I wanted it for myself...and despaired of ever finding it personally; my early relationships were all about rejection, neglect and emotional abuse and the later ones were just about the sex and attention I had been denied in my marriage (the marriage-that-never-should've-been) and feeding my need to be wanted...and none of them were healthy...none of them were right...most definitely none of them were anything like Mom and Pop's (my grandparents).

~~~

Jamie and I started to correspond via e-mail and chat via IM. He always showed concern for me when I was deep in the abyss and even more down than usual (all days were bad, but some days were worse than others, everyone could tell I was depressed - it wasn't like I tried to hide it - it was obvious - I was trying to get someone to assist my suicide - but the only answers I ever got from people was that suicide wasn't the answer, and all the other rubbish things people say to the suicidal, none of which are a help), and even though he did say some of the things other people said when caring and trying to be a help, he didn't just parrot pat answers, he was genuinely concerned; little did I know - at first - that the reason he was so concerned was because he was in love with me, but not admitting it to himself. For a long time he kept it secret about how miserable his marriage was and, because I was so absorbed in my own turmoil, it took me a while to put it together that if his marriage was peachy and wonderful he wouldn't be spending the inordinate time online he was (waking early in the morning, and staying on into the wee hours of the night), away from her!

During this time, we discovered the joy of collaboration. Neither of us had ever written with anyone else before but, because of our similar "voices", we found we could write in perfect harmony with, complimenting, each other. We ended up calling the connection, "Two Pens, One Heart" (a saying which we now both have tattooed upon our persons). We wrote stories, songs, and loads of poems. Everything seemed to be saying the same thing, just in different ways: we wanted - needed - each other and the only way we had to touch, connect, and become one was through words.

___

One day online, Jamie surprised me by activating the voice chat feature on IM (since we both had microphones). Suddenly words left me and I didn't know what to say. About all I could manage to get out was to ask if he could hear me. He typed back that he could but, for some reason, his mic wasn't working, so I couldn't hear him. After we had admitted our feelings for each other, he told me that the sound of my voice then had caused him shivers - good ones. He discovered later that he had simply plugged his perfectly good mic into the wrong port - just going to prove the importance of always putting things into the right hole!

After rectifying the problem with the mic, Jamie was all ready to try again. I was, of course, just as nervous as before, and at a loss for what to say. Oh, but when I heard his voice! I was the one with the shivers then; the lilt of his Leicestershire accent carrying over the miles between us, I wanted to just sit and listen to him talk to me...here was yet another way for him to hold me in thrall. I wanted to hold up my end of the conversation, however, and so I decided, if I couldn't talk well enough to impress, I would do the most impressive thing I could do: sing.

I had recorded me playing and singing a few of my songs, which I converted to wav file and shared with a few people I knew online. These recordings were poor quality, but one could still get the idea of what my contralto pipes sounded like. Jamie, a music lover of eclectic taste, was interested in hearing me but was unable to open the files on his 'puter. So, while trying to think of what to say, I said, 'Well, since you haven't been able to hear those files I sent...I could sing something for you.' Then, of course, put on the spot like that, I had to think of something to sing! I found myself unusually unprepared...or was I?

People often ask me when I started singing. Since I can't remember a time that I didn't sing - and sing well - I always tell them the age I was the first time I sang in concert, with my mother. I was 4. Three years ago, right before the first time Jamie came to visit me in the States, Mother and I did a Christmas concert together. Someone came up to her after the concert and asked her when she knew I could sing "like that". She replied, 'When she was 4.' They responded with, 'No, really.' She said, 'I'm serious; she's always sung like that.'

Always. But at the age of 4 was the first time I felt what it was like to PERFORM, what is like to perform for an audience. The energy, the power to entertain...and something deeper...the power to touch without hands...the power of music...the power...of a voice. Now, I've never taken the talent for granted, and always acknowledged it as what it is: a gift from God - and, it is a gift - I just want to give the reader an idea of the importance of singing in my life (that's why I include this here); it's always been one of the things that defines me as me: I am a singer. And, whatever else I may be besides, it's the description, title, designation of singer that is the essense - and starting point - of what I am. It could be the reason for the dramatics that flows into near every other aspect of my life. Speaking of drama...back to the story, now.

I didn't even consider singing one of my own compositions acappella, prefering to be able to accompany myself on them when singing them. All of a sudden, without giving it much thought, I said, "Well, here's a classic, " and then lit into belting out Elvis's I CAN'T HELP FALLING IN LOVE WITH YOU! Hello!?! I am sure that even the dimmest crayon in the box could see the glaring significance of that. But, honestly, I didn't even think about it at the time; I just got lost in singing a beautiful song that I have always sung well, both with and without accompaniment. Before I sang the song, I wasn't even aware that Elvis was one of Jamie's favourites.

When I finished, Jamie, struck emotional, was silent for a few moments before telling me how gob-smacked he was, how beautiful it - and my voice - was, and that it was a perfect choice because he's always liked Elvis and his songs (even though his favourite favourite is Buddy Holly, and after we finally admitted to each other how we felt, it was True Love Ways that Jamie sang for me the first time we had opportunity for voice chat after we admitted and accepted it...but, I'm getting ahead of myself here). It was the perfect choice for more than that reason! It was the perfect choice...because it was the truth. Truth denied is truth nonetheless.

During this time, which seemed (still seems, in fact) like such a long time but, in reality, was only a couple of months, many things happened...and, this is where things get sticky (not in a good way), and I really don't want to spend overlong on this part and get bogged down with it, but I don't see how not to...so, you, Dear Reader, will just have to bear with me and beware the run-on sentence!

Since Jamie never complained about how unappreciated he was at home, or the extent of his wife's neglect of him (and because I could not fathom how this woman could not appreciate and want him), I didn't know how bad things were for him. Now I know that he just didn't want to talk about her at all when he was online; he wanted a true refuge and escape. I had started to suspect that things weren't as good in his marriage as they could be or should be - why else would he spend so much time online, so much time with ME online - but I wasn't aware of just how miserable he was with her; after all, I thought all his love poems were about her! I didn't know - and couldn't understand - how this woman that was his wife didn't love him - I thought she was the luckiest woman in the world; I was jealous of her! Imagine! Jealous of her! Little did I know that the woman I was jealous of was myself! I was exactly what I wanted to be: the woman Jamie loves.

However, knowledge is power and, alas, I didn't have that power for a while. I didn't think The Englishman and I were even a remote possibility. And so, still searching - and needing - something (even after giving up finding it, still subconciously seeking what my grandparents had), I found myself "involved" with someone else online that I had met on the same board where I had met Jamie. Now, there was absolutely no chance I would have ever had what my grandparents had with this other person, and nothing about the relationship was right, in the least; albiet, in my desperate state, that's where I found myself. As I say, this relationship was wrong, and eventually that fact blared in my face even before and irrespective of me and Jamie, but, at first, I had taken complete leave of my senses. One of the major clues that this "relationship" was all wrong, was that I was still an utterly miserable abyss-dweller: I was just as much, if not more, depressed and intent on not living past 30 than ever before.

The Englishman kept quiet about how it was killing him that I was "with" someone else, while I remained quite vocal about how life was killing me. Now, you are either, at this point, screaming at that contradiction, or you are nodding in understanding (like the breathing thing). You might ask, if I was so suicidal, why I hadn't tried to kill myself before this. The answer is, I had tried...unsuccessfully, obviously. The thing is, I never did what I knew would be painful (i.e. taking a razor to my wrists or a gun to my wherever...with the gun I was afraid I would just make even more of a mess of myself and some how still not manage to die), which left pills chased with alcohol.

See, I wasn't afraid of death. I've been close to it on more than one occasion but, in my anxiety-ridden mind, it was one thing I've never feared. On the other hand, I am afraid of - and despise - pain! What I wanted was for people to stop trying to get me from being suicidal, stop suggesting meds that would kill the best parts of me off anyway so that I might as well be dead, and assist me in killing myself. I got no takers.

To further complicate the F.U.B.A.R. situation, I was somewhat romantically involved with my best friend (the one who, ironically dubbed me "Songmistress" even though he shares none of my musical passion). Our relationship was based on mutual need: I needed to be taken care of, and he needed someone to care for. We didn't have music in common, but we had other interests (like a passion for books and story) in common, and what started out as - and has endured - as deep, abiding friendship, evolved out of a sort of necessity on both our parts. It was comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time. Comfortable because it was easy...no, because it was resigned; I had a place to live, I didn't have to work (which had caused me no end of grief when I had tried to), I had a cat to pet and get tuna for, I had companionship and laughter, I even had decent sex. Uncomfortable because there were some essential things missing, otherwise I never would have gotten caught up in that completely wrong internet relationship thing, would I? And, if I regret anything in all this, it is that hurting a someone I love dearly was unavoidable. Would that I could end that yet enduring pain even now.

By now you may be thinking, 'Good grief, you really were fucked up', and, I'll agree with you; saying that it was "a mess" is a gross understatement. I mean, let's recap and sum-up: 29 year old neurotic divorcee with two kids she wasn't even capable of caring for because she couldn't care for herself, living in a romatic capacity with her best friend (let's clarify the fact that the best friend is MALE), "involved" with another man online (the completely wrong man), in love with yet another man who lived 4000 miles and an ocean away from her (oh, yeah, and was MARRIED!), in the depths of depression, with unfullfilled dreams of a singing career hanging heavy over her and generally miserable about existence as whole. I mean, if one wasn't suicidal to begin with, that's more than enough to drive someone to it!

By this time, however, I had a suspicion that Jamie had feelings for me, too. First, he wrote a poem about me called The Songmistress and posted it in the thread I had created for poetry (The Live Poets' Society, I called it), but he sent me his original via e-mail, and the original was a lot more...personal. It still wasn't blatantly clear how he felt, but it was a lot more...well, just a lot more of what the other poem was. I wrote back telling him how touched I was, then contemplated a moment before adding, 'I might as well say it: I love you'. We didn't discuss this because, I found out later, that when he read my response, at first he nearly fell out of his chair, but then rationalized it by saying that I must have only meant it "as a friend". And, sadly, that's how I rationlized the poem, too. But then, he wrote and posted another love poem that I knew couldn't have been about The Cow! When I questioned him about it he remained vague. But I knew it was about me. I went back and read all the others, and it hit me like a two tons of bricks: Oh...my...God...they're all about ME! But, did he know they were about me? I mean, was he aware that he was in love with me or that they were about me when he wrote them? Was he in denial? What level of acceptance was there on his part? I thought, if there is any awareness, there must not be much acceptance or he would have admitted his feelings already. I wept as I read his words of devotion and desire. I thought, in despair, how tragic.

It all came to a head in September of that year (2003). That's when I hit bottom and was just about to reach the point where I would have risked the pain in order to get to the other side. I stopped going online. I shut down and went to bed, and stayed there. Dana (the best friend - yes, Dana is a man's name, too), became concerned about me; I was sleeping all the time - sleeping to escape - and, therefore, eating very little (one can't eat while sleeping...well, not unless they have the disorder where they eat while they sleep... I didn't have that particular disorder...but, I digress). He was frustrated because he knew how dangerously down I was, and because he wasn't able to do anything about it. Little did I know that Jamie was so concerned about me that he nearly called the Florida police. Dana, however, knew, even if I wasn't sure, that Jamie, indeed, loved me. Dana had been online and had read Jamie's posts and seen how worried he was. Dana recognised the love in Jamie's writing; only Love fears that way for the loss of the One it loves. And so, he came into the room where I was laying and made me wake up. I didn't want to. I awoke to blinding and choking tears. Dana said, "You should go online, Autumn. Jamie loves you." I could not control the flood; I sobbed, 'Oh, God, what am I going to do?!'

I walked, with shaky steps, to the computer. My head was dizzy and heavy, I hadn't eaten for a few days. I felt sick and weary...and utterly overwhelmed. I signed online and started to check e-mail, private messages, and threads, and began to read the notes from many who were anxious about my whereabouts (the guy I was "involved" with among them...his concern made me feel even more ill). I quickly signed on instant messenger to look for the only reason I came online: The Englishman was there. I remained invisible because I didn't want to be inundated with loads of IMs from all the other people "looking for me". Honestly, I didn't care about any of the others. I sent a simple message to Jamie, 'I am here.'

He told me later that he screamed "THANK GOD!" as soon as he saw my name flash on the screen. Although neither one of us discussed or admitted to the other one, at that time, we knew, then, something had to happen. Whether either one was prepared to do what needed to be done, that remained to be seen, but there was no denial anymore...the wall was down and we both knew it. As I say, we didn't talk about it that night, or even the night after that, or the night after that, but whatever barrier that had been there before had been demolished, preparing the way for the time when one of us - me - decided to say what needed to be said. What we did do that night was laugh - Jamie made me smile and laugh again...and, I felt hope spring up from the dark depths where it had been buried...and, hope would not be denied any more than truth.

And the days, as days are wont to do, marched on...

One night I had a dream. In the dream Jamie and I were both at this party - a black tie affair - with all these people we knew from the posting boards. I was on one side of the room, surrounded by people wanting to talk to me and pressing in against me. It felt very claustrophobic. I could look across the room and see that Jamie, on the other side, was in the same situation. We caught each other's eye, and held on with a look that refused to let go, a look that was to say, 'I'm trying to make my way to you...if only I could just get all these people out of the way...if I could just move'. Again, a dream analyst isn't needed to figure this one out! In the dream, I excused myself and, somehow, made my way to the ladies' room. Knowing that I couldn't hide there all night, I finally emerged from my makeshift sanctuary before some noisy so-and-so could come and disturb me. I found Jamie, holding my coat, waiting for me. He said, 'C'mon. Let's get out of here!' There was no argument from me as we slipped out some side door and made our way down to the beach to walk on soft white sands. We didn't speak. We had exhausted all we could say before; words do reach their limits. We held hands and walked and walked until we reached a cave, and we entered. There we were lost in each others eyes. Reality coming back painfully, I choked out, 'The others...they'll be looking for us.' Jamie held a finger to my lips and shushed me. 'They don't matter,' he said. And so it was that those were the last words spoken. After that, it was touch that said everything. It was beautiful, vivid. I awoke expecting him to be beside me. The disappointment when I discovered he wasn't there was heart-rending. The dream left me aching.

The next day I told Jamie the dream. At this point I saw no need to keep it from him. When I got to the part where I said 'the others will come looking for us' and he said 'they don't matter', Jamie responded with, "They don't." He typed it, but I could hear him whisper it to us both. The revelation. I cried...again.

It wasn't long after this I finally said, plainly, "I'm so in love with you that it overwhelms me, Jamie!" He asked me if I meant it. What? He actually thought I might be playing a joke on him! He was scared because he was so in love with me it was overwhelming him. I assured him I was most certainly serious!!! And that's when the issue was cleared up at last. He said, "Autumn, what are we going to do?" I said, with acute anguish and relief all mixed together, "I...don't...know!"

I definitely never imagined what The Englishman was prepared to do. I mean, my goodness, I would have thought it too wonderful to be reality! But it so happened, that just days after making it clear to each other of our mutual feelings, Jamie left the Cow. An event that was inevitable, the Cow knowing that whatever good that might have ever been there between them, it had long eroded away; she just hadn't had the courage - or the kind concern even - to do anything about it. She actually helped him pack. He didn't mention me at the time. His leaving her wasn't because of me. His leaving her was because of her, and the fact that they were never meant to be together. I - among other friends - merely encouraged the self-respect he needed, highlighting his discontent, and giving him the courage to do it.

____

With no delay, he bought tickets to come see me in December! He also, immediately, asked me to marry him, which did surprise me a bit. I mean, it made me ecstatically happy, yes. But, I never thought, after having 12 years of a marriage that was primarily shit and very little else, that he would be so eager to make that commitment so soon (for some people, if they've had one crap marriage - a marriage-that-never-should've-been, that is - marriage as a whole leaves a bad taste in their mouth...they are wrong, but they've been coloured by past experience; I was concerned that it might have been that way for him...but, YAY, it wasn't). The thing is, we both knew that this was the-marriage-that-was-meant-to-be; we were created to be together.

I broke the news to Dana. He was heartbroken, as expected, but took it as well as he could, saying that he just always wanted me to be happy, and that he knew Jamie really did love me, so, while we had his sorrow, we had his "blessing", as well. Jamie and I both broke the news to "the other" guy, and that got ugly for a while, but, in the end, even he admitted that he had been silly about a lot of what he said and did during that time.

So it was, on the 15th of December, 2003, I waited at Orlando International Airport for The Reason I Breathe to arrive. His plane was delayed, and the suspense was building when, finally, two hours after the time scheduled for the plane to get there, the big, silver bird carrying my Englishman landed.

__
Oh, I hate waiting. I’ve never ever been long on patience. Once the plane landed, the passengers had to de-board (or whatever it‘s called), go through immigration and customs, and finally get on the shuttle which would bring them out to the corridor that would, eventually, lead to the lobby where I was waiting. Ooohhhh, I was getting so anxious! I ended up having to go pee, so I rushed to the Ladies' and then back out as quickly as mother nature would allow me for fear of missing him; I didn’t want him to get there and think I had stood him up! Right as I came around the corner to face back towards the passageway he would be coming from, he moved over to the side where I was standing, and I caught my first glimpse of him and screamed, “JAMIE!!!”

Then, a funny thing happened: time stopped. From the time I screamed his name (not for the last time, mmmm), and our eyes met, everyone else in the insanely busy, Christmastime Orlando International Airport, DISAPPEARED! All the clamour and noise ceased. There was silence, we were encapsulated. We ran into each others arms and embraced tightly, drinking each other in, soaking each other up, breathing each other, tasting each other…finally, at last, FEELING each other! It wasn't until Dana, who had driven me to the airport and waited with me, came over to hand Jamie a bag he had dropped, that the sights and sounds of the airport came rushing back upon our senses: for those first few amazing moments we were the only two in the world. I always thought that was something that only happened in the movies, but it was very real - Jamie and I both can testify to it.

The next day, after spending an amazing night in each others' ravenous embrace, as we were getting ready to go out and get breakfast (we'd worked up quite an appetite), I looked over at Jamie and spied him looking at me. That's when I saw it! I recognised that look: it was the same way my grandfather looked at my grandmother.

(End Part One)

COMING SOON:

Part Two

The Story Too Good Not to Share,

where you'll learn about:

Visas and the horrors of Immigration,

The Wedding,

The Beauty and Power of Interdependence...

and much, much more!