Meet Geneen & Her 1920s Spanish California House

Would the original owner of my home ever have guessed that this place would still be so loved eighty-seven years later?

Life in my 1929 Spanish Style Cottage is bittersweet.

I was born in Los Angeles and spent my childhood in a Spanish home a lot like this one, but built in 1928.  I feel as if I've come full circle. There's not a day that I don't drive up to the house and get a little choked up. This home is my anchor. I wish my family could see it. The home has my heart.

 I walk through the rooms and I imagine the other lives that have lived here. I think about the meals cooked in the kitchen (my first meal cooked here was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, although you cannot call it cooking. Ahem).

I think about the rockers on the porch and the people in them perhaps drinking lemonade and sharing a plate of sugar cookies as they visited. I think about the fire in the fireplace and the decorations that must have hung from it.

The original ironing board is still in the cabinet in the kitchen. I think about the families that have come through the doors. Those of us with old homes are merely caretakers until it's the next persons turn to add to the story.

Sounds romantic, eh? It is. However, there are never ending challenges that come with living in a vintage home. The plumbing, the wiring, the pipes; they are all vintage too and there is a pretty good chance at some point they will give you a nasty surprise. Last year my surprise occurred when my pipes disintegrated into the ground. My newest surprise is a gas leak. A gas leak the gas company couldn’t find which meant poking holes in the walls. So my place is in the process of having a face life for the gas leak and the electrical.

If you love perfect don't buy an old home. It's never going to be perfect. And that's OK with me. My kitchen cabinets are the original from 1929. If I had $100 for every single time someone told me that I need to redo the kitchen, I'd be on a vacation to England—maybe Paris too.  I don't have a dishwasher. I wash the dishes by hand and look out of the kitchen window and think about the children that may have played in that backyard. Was there once a swing set?

If I could live in any era it would be the 1920's and 30's. I've always been fascinated with the homes, the cars, the jewelry, and the movies. Every last bit of it. One of my brothers friends in Los Angeles and had a 1929 Roadster. I would ride in the rumble seat and eat cracker jacks. I remember our neighbor Hazel had a vanity from 1930. She would let me sit there and spray perfume on. While she told me stories of her dates and boyfriends and I use to love how they gave her boxes of chocolates. I was born in the wrong era.

I don't carry the theme with what I wear. I'm usually found in converse sneakers, jeans and a gingham blouse. But I do love vintage purses.

My favorite flower are sunflowers. I love an overgrown look. I go to roses, hydrangeas, ivy, sweat peas, lavender, Rosemary, lilacs, geranium, scented geraniums, mint, daisies, ferns, and iris. All kinds of ground cover and herbs. Lemon and orange and peach trees. I have no rhyme or reason. I plant it, cross my fingers and hope for the best.

I spend a lot of time working in my garden. It calms me and feeds my soul. I love digging in the earth and reading through garden books. Some days I drive through the country and dig up a roadside plant, or two, to bring home (Sssh. Our secret).

In my vast collections, one of my favorite objects is an autograph photo and guitar pick of Timothy B. Schmit of the Eagles. My brother Garey and I were 20 years apart. When he came home from Vietnam he bought my very first album for me. When Garey died in 2005 I sent Timothy an email and just told him what the music meant to my brother and me. About a week later a package came and there was an autograph with a message and a guitar pick taped to it. It's meant the world to me. If you walked into the antique store where my booth was located, you would know where my booth is because it looks a lot like my home...but cleaner. And more organized. And no dust bunny condos. The stuff you see here is what you would find there.

The piece that speaks to me most is the old plumbing sign in the dining room. I found it at an antique store. I bought it after begging for a really good deal because my Dad was a plumber. I trace my hands over the letters and think about the stories they could tell.

In 1997 I entered a design contest on a shopping channel and won. I designed a bracelet. I was on for several segments by phone. They showed pictures. My sketches. The making process of the piece. I don't think I told many people. Now you know.

Like this home, I am imperfect. I too have a vulnerability. Its people who are ignorant and have preconceived notions about mental disorders. What makes me vulnerable is ignorance. People and their preconceived notions.

Several times a week, I receive messages asking if I ever had a problem in my life—probably because my pictures are so light, and I act like a goof ball. 

Don’t be fooled. A lot is hidden behind a smile.

I'm an incest survivor from a very young age. We all have our issues. We all have our problems.  I'm not a victim. I'm a survivor. Each day offers a new wall to climb over, and there are times I land on my butt, but eventually I climb back up. It's the best I can do. It's all I can do.

As I work on this house, I am also working on me.

One never knows what or who is tucked behind that wall, or in that lovely garden.

In this case, it’s me, Geneen. 

Cleaning Out Drawers & Finding Gold

Now that I have an awesome desk (I have needed one for a decade), I spent the better part of yesterday cleaning out drawers of paperwork for the sake of sanity and needed organization. I found strange things like an envelope marked TAXES filled with advertising (that could explain a lot). Dump pile! Ten year old receipts were also dumped along with old calendars and recipes I have collected over the years and never once tried.

Bound neatly together were my teaching certificates for Wisconsin-Illinois-Texas, my transcripts, my college diploma from UW Whitewater, along with other educational paperwork.

What pleased me the most was unearthing certificates that my son had earned before mental illness changed him. First, his high school diploma. Basic, yes, but how many teens leave school without this?  Just ask me. Too many, I say. Its the jumping off point for the rest of your life.

Then there was his diploma from vocational school and also his state certificate from passing the state  exam to be a certified nurses aide. His Freshman English grade from NCTC. He earned a B.

A few awards he won from caring for elderly in residential settings.

Excitedly I shared these treasures with my son and told him that if he ever feels down about himself to pull all these out and look at his achievements.

There will be more achievements for him.

I am sure of it.

God will not be finished with me when I retire in a few more years.

 And he sure isn't finished with my son.

We have work to do.

Important work.

Life ebbs and flows. The only certainty is change. We think we are on one journey and suddenly we are on another path, heading in  a new direction.


Last year, Matthew was asked to speak to a group of mental health professionals at MHMR, including doctors and nurses, about his journey. I think there will be more of that.

Matthew has such a big heart for helping others. Somewhere along the road of life, there will be a time for that.

When we look into a person's eyes, no matter what their ability, God can and will and does use them.
One of the greatest gifts God offers is hope.

The Secret World of the Indigent

I grew up enjoying an affluent lifestyle. My dad was the owner of a popular Chicago nightclub. The house where I lived, along with two siblings and both my parents, boasted 10 large rooms with a finished basement. Summers, we vacationed at our lake house in Delavan, Wisconsin. During the school year, my parents sent us to an elite private school.

When I broke my collar bone (twice) I was rushed to ER in a cab where the situation was immediately tended to. When my sister came down with measles, the doctor came to our home to treat the condition.

Food, shelter, clothing, and medical needs were more than amply met. My world was safe. Needs and wants and greeds were at my fingertips.

Many years later, I was employed with a school district and I had insurance. When my  children came along, they were included on my medical care. Though we weren't wealthy (on a teacher's salary) we didn't lack for much.

And here I am, many years later, on the brink of retirement, caring for my adult son who is mentally ill and has been unable to work for 3 years. Thankfully, he is not on the street as so many are. Matthew lives in my home.

For three years we have applied for social security for him. I say 'we' because Matthew is unable to do this by himself. Finally we secured a lawyer to fight that ongoing situation.

Meanwhile, Matthew is with a wonderful Denton, Texas organization MHMR. I will forever be grateful and indebted to them for literally saving my son's life. Matthew is on a cocktail of ever changing meds, has a team of case workers, a full-time psychiatrist, and a nurse who comes to the house to treat him and check on him each week.

And then it happened. His anxiety rose to dangerous levels and his blood pressure went through the roof. He ended up in the ER twice. And then went back to the hospital two more times for sciatica, and experienced a very unsympathetic doctor who only handed him a list of exercises to do.

"Mom, where do I go if I have a medical need?" he asked. "I can't keep going to the ER."

Good question.

Not only am I now in the world of fighting for disability for my ill son, but he also is developing physical problems. Where to go? No insurance. I haven't money to pay out of pocket. I only knew a world of earning a paycheck for working, and paying a deductible for doctor visits.

I woke up. I had to find new ways to help my son meet his needs. Surely, my son was far from the only one with these problems. There had to be an underground network. How could I tap into that? Where should I go? Who to ask?

There is a world of people who are homeless; no shelter, a bag of questionable clothes, churches that provide lunch, but where is there help for medical needs? I had no idea.

Many suggested I ask for credit and then pay it off monthly bit by bit. When one is already financially stressed, its not really a possibility.

Last night Matthew and I went to Walgreen's to find something to help relieve tooth pain. Before we left, a friend suggested I ask the pharmacist about any charities (charities can be hard to find and they must be flooded with requests). The pharmacist suggested First Baptist Church of Denton, where I spoke last fall about one of my books. I felt right at home calling.

The church sponsors First Refuge. It's run by dentists who volunteer their time on certain days. The indigent must qualify. According to their guidelines, Matthew should qualify (fingers crossed, prayers said).

In these past months, I  learned that there is a secret world of the indigent. The people we sometimes do not notice, or care to notice, living on the fringes of society. Hungry, dirty, needing medical and perhaps psychiatric assistance.

I think back to my happy, lazy days of summer. How easy life was for me. How blessed I was.

Not everyone has had it easy. It makes me grateful for what I do have. But I need just a bit more for my son Matthew because he needs it....

just as millions of others need it; children, men, women, teens, vets. Please lets not forget.

Let's stop arguing about who is using the bathroom, what face is on our dollar, and tackle real life problems. Make a difference.. If we all pitch in, what a beautiful difference we can make. We are God's hands on earth. Let's use our hands and open our hearts.

Saturdays with Matthew and My New Normal Life

 I used to be afraid of those with mental illness. I didn't understand it.  It was spooky. Unknown. People with mental illness didn't act within the norm.

I glided through most of my life without giving it much thought until my adult son was diagnosed with Schizoeffective disorder, PTSD, anxiety disorder, and paranoid His life living skills, along with much of his personality, changed.

Neuron's in the brain can cause a lot of damage to one's perspective, and how one chooses to live life from that moment forward. It involves ongoing care with close psychiatric monitoring, an ever changing cocktail of medications, constant monitoring, and being there for someone 100%  24/7. I never knew what that really was like until my son's illness bloomed.

A new normal means setting aside your entire life, forever, to be at the whim of someones brain function. It's not only my new normal, but his new normal as well.

Many have suggested I put Matthew into a mental health community. First of all, there aren't any, unless you have millions to spend.

I want Matthew to relearn what its like to live a life as fully and as normally as possible. Part of that is education. Not just education for my son, but educating others, who like I once was, are afraid.

I will not isolate my son. If someone has cancer, we do not even consider  putting the cancer patients into a community, hiding them away. We envelope them with our love, acceptance, and make life for them as normal as we can.

I want to give you a peek into our typical Saturday.

"Matthew, I have errands to run. Want to come along?" I ask.
"Yes, let me get dressed."
Translation: I need to put on my clothes, take a handfull of pills, and sit on the backporch to gather my thoughts.

Thirty minutes later, we are in the car.
"Where are we going Mom?"
"I need to stop at Lowes. Will you be able to come inside with me today?"
"I will try."
Translation: I am really afraid of the unknown. I have to wait to see how many people are there before I decide.
We arrive at Lowes. My son swallows hard and looks around. "I will try."
"Good."
He follows me inside and gets a cart. As we walk through the household plant section, he becomes mesmirized and wants to look at each plant. I, on the other hand, am in a hurry. "Why don't I leave you here with the cart? Stay right here. I need to pick up a paint brush. Give me 5 minutes. Stay here, okay? Matthew, do you hear me? Wait here?"

But, it takes me 10 minues, not 5. I return to the succulents, exactly where I left him. Matthew and the cart are gone. My heart beats hard. Where is he?

I walk back into the main part of the store and search. Finally I see him running toward me pushing the cart in front, screaming, "Mom! Mom!"

We leave the cart and return to the car. He works at getting himself together--measuring his breaths, trying to calm his heart rate. He heard voices taunting him from the vents.  He tells me that I am his anchor and I was gone.

We go home.  I finish the errands alone. Later he says he would like to try going out again.
"How about if we go for dinner somewhere?"
He picks a place he went a lot before the illness overtook him. He feels safe there. We sit in a booth. He puts on his headphones to block out voices that arent there; they are there for him. We make it through a meal. He is fine. We return to the car triumphant.

I remember I forgot something at the grocery store. Matthew decides to wait for me in the car. He refuses to go inside. Thats okay. I never push. I get the item and a few more. We go home.

He sits on the backporch.

The sky is dark now.

He feels safe.  

Do NOT feel sorry for me. Do NOT feel sorry for my son. Instead, seek to understand the mentally ill.  Understanding is the perfect gift.

I am far from the only one who goes through this with my son. My son is far from the only one who is cursed with this. You will make us both feel less alone by understanding and acceptance.

PS Today is Sunday. We went to the grocery store again. This time Matthew ventured inside with me. He clung onto the cart as though it was his life preserver. His hoody was draped over his head in a hiding manner. An elderly lady stopped him and sweetly commented, "I love your beard young man! Its a wonderful beard!"

Matthew lit up. He smiled, and pulled off his hood so she could get a better look at his face and the foot long red beard. "Thank you very much!"
He glowed.
I cried.
We both were ecstatically happy.

I Found It! ...And Other Matters of Loss

Have you ever lost misplaced your car keys, or a pair of earrings, or important papers? What do you say when you find them? "I found it!" Or, when you find the perfect dress to wear on a special occasion. "I found it."

Have you ever felt you have lost your mind and couldn't locate it? Hold that thought for a moment.

I was hired at Ottawa Township High School in Ottawa, Illinois, straight out of college. The year was 1975 and I was now the new special education teacher with one additional class of Sophomore English in general education. I called my mom, "Guess what? I found it! A job!"
A few weeks later, I bought a car. Happily I squealed to my best friend, "I found it! A cool green Dodge."

A year later, I renewed my faith and joined the popular Jesus Movement of the time. Taking off on the idea of what was lost, is found, was the motto, "I Found New Life in Jesus", or the shortened version, "I Found It!"

I had that sign hanging on the door to my classroom. One of my sophomore students said, "I'm so glad you found your room this morning."

Fast forward 30 years of lost loves, lost opportunities, lost dreams, lost friends; I find I have gained more than any loss. In fact, most of my losses have turned out a gain for something better.

And yet, there is a great loss that is unrecooperable (I coined that word. Hope it works for you) for my son; his mental illness. It has stolen his personality, his freedom, and his future. These days we are 'recalculating' his entire life. Sometimes, he will go to the places he used to go before his nuerons began to miscommunicate. Once in a while he will feel fearless enough to go to the grocery store with me. At times, he will walk two doors down to the library. His world has shrunk. As a result mine has too.

Its been three years since  Matthew has been unable to work. Trying to live with the constant voices in his head, the creatures he now sees, and the invisible bugs he feels crawling on him, I have helped him apply for social security time and again, and again, and again. Always,  he is turned down for various reasons. The first time it was because he isn't blind. Sweet Matthew, who always thinks of others first, said, "Someone who is blind does need it more than I do." He had no idea it was just a put off response. I will spare you of all the paperwork, the social security office visits, and phone calls I have made trying to get assistance for him. Its been an impossible journey.

Nearly two years ago, we secured a lawyer. This Thursday, after waiting 3 years, we finally have a court date. Its in Dallas. My daughter knows my feelings of driving along the high five in major morning rush hour traffice. FRIGHT. This morning, Matthew and I did a dry run before the big day of April 14th. We found the place! I FOUND IT!

I bought the respectiful  navy blue dress for the court. I found it! My son has a wardrobe he will actually wear and I found it! Let's hope we can sleep between now and then.

As Matthew finds his way through this life peppered with invisible threats, and I find my way to Dallas on Thursday morning, may you find your journey in life to be an easy road so you may help others find their way.

God Bless.

The Widows Mite & Raising an Adult Child with Mental Illness When Only One Part of The Village is Involved.

My son has always been a bit quirky. I sloughed it off to him being a team member of special education plus he was a boy.  He'd cry when I dropped him at school mornings until he was in 5th grade, claiming monsters were after him and said terrible words. Actually, a teacher on the way to school myself, I felt the same, but meant it figuratively. I never knew, until much later, it was literal for him.

He never liked being outside. Most kids get grounded and can't play outside. I would ground him to go outside just so he'd to get sunshine. Matthew also hated Field Day. I'd try to tell him how much fun it would be without struggling inside with reading and writing and math. "You don't understand Mom. There's grass and sun and air out there."

Then at 16 years of age, we got the phone call from his high school counselor saying Matthew had plans to end his life. I immediately went into panic mode digging out insurance cards to get him help. My then-husband explained to me, "Matthew is fine. He's just wanting attention."
 "Let's give it to him!" I responded.

That was his first stint in a behavior unit.

After several years of counseling, things seemed to smooth out for Matthew. Its also when my husband and I split.

Matthew and I moved to Denton, Texas, and took an apartment, while my ex remarried and moved to Dallas; 30 minutes away.

Matthew already took a six week course to become a certified nurse's aide and he happily landed a job at a all-care facility where he worked for several years. But then the voices returned. It coincided at the same time we moved into our new house.

Change was always hard for him, but this time they brought on multiple psychotic breaks, followed by  hospitalizations.

 I'd sit all night beside him at the hospital and somehow manage to go to work the next day. When he was admitted to mental health facilities, I visited him every chance I could. I spoke to doctors, filled out endless paperwork, applied and was rejected many times for his SSI; this went on for a few years, to the point of my utter exhaustion.

I struggled with finances, as I cared for him. 

Finally, Matthew was granted food stamps. A true godsend! And now he has a lawyer for SSI. Our court date is soon.

The last time Matthew went to the ER was for high blood pressure due to anxiety attacks. It happened twice in a few days, back to back. I sat with him until he was dismissed at 3 am one time, and 2 am the next. Again I went to work.

Its a blessing to help my sweet son. I am here for him, and will be, until I no longer walk this earth.

As I told Matthew's story to help dispel the mental illness stigma, single Mothers and Fathers of mentally or physically handicapped, and mentally ill adults have contacted me. Like me, they feel it an honor to care for our children; feed, cloth, drive to appointments, take time from work, give financially, total emotional care, and so forth.

 I am certainly not the only one. Sooner or later, everyone has challenges in life.

I must admit that it is hard to go through this alone; totally alone without someone to lean my head on. Without someone to hold my hand and tell me it will be alright.

One night, not so long ago, I was praying for us single Moms and Dads who walk down this chosen path without village help. In tears I prayed for God's grace and strength. And, then God spoke to me about The Parable of the Widow's Mite Mark 12:42. A widow gave all she had to the Lord's work, 2 mites (pennies). It was most pleasing in the eyes of Jesus after he had witnessed others who gave a lot, but never gave their all, nor their best. I knew God was pleased with what I did to help my son. 

My heart leaped.

Suddenly, I am not alone.
Mother, Father, you are not alone.
Jesus sits with me.
 Jesus sits with you.
He holds my hand as I lean my head on his shoulder.
He holds your hand as you lean on his shoulder.

 He says, it will be alright.
He tells you that it will be alright.

When I feel I cannot take another step He holds me up.
 He holds you up when you feel you are about to fall.
When finances are tight, unexpected money arrives in the form of a low utility bill, or a restaurant gift card from a silently listening friend.

When I am awake most the night with my son, God gives me the energy to make it through the next  day.
 And he does the same for you.

 Do not despair.

Male or female, you are that widow with the two mites, and with it, you have given all you have. Jesus smiles. He sees us. He hears our prayers. He cries with us.

And best of all, sometimes,  I hear my son really laugh with happiness. 

The Lost Lamb and Hilde

Even as a child, I loved church. The creak of old oak pews, the scent of recently rubbed wax into the woodwork, nice people seated shoulder to shoulder, but what I loved the most were the stained glass windows illustrating Bible stories.


My favorite window has always been Jesus the Good Shepherd holding His lost, and now found, lamb.

 Doesn't Jesus look so calm here? 

How heaven rejoices when the lost gives their heart to God. That is everything. Making it home. However, something happened which caused me to take a deeper  look into the heart of Jesus and the lost.




First off, the joy of my existence is when my grandsons, Kingston and Karter, visit. I don't see them very often because they live on the East coast along with their parents. When they do arrive, we have missed time to make up.

The park is one of their favorite stops. Last summer, they asked to take Hilde, my rat terrier/chihuahua mix rescue dog, along. I hooked her leash onto the harness and once we got to the park, Hilde slipped her harness as she leaped from the car. It was a joyful moment for her as she ran and disappeared into the trees. For me it was a chilling moment, filled with fear and despair. I immediately felt ill with worry that my dog might be picked up by a stranger, or eventually run into the busy street and killed.

Not wanting to scare her, I walked toward the direction Hilde disappeared, sweetly calling her name. There she was. She stopped and looked at me from afar. I sat on the ground and beckoned her to come, but she turned and ran off again.  All kinds of scenarios played in my head, as I got to my feet, none had a happy ending. I was about to take off for Wisconsin in a few days, and one thing was for sure, if my dog was killed, I knew I couldn't leave my mentally ill son alone to grieve-not to mention my own deep grief of losing a beloved pet.

Meanwhile, Kingston and Karter waited patiently by the car. I'd turn to keep my eye on them every few seconds, needing to keep sight of them, as I searched for my lost lamb. My heart pounded, I had shortness of breath.

At long last, Hilde circled around and ran to Kingston. She rolled over and allowed the boys to rub her belly until I was able to nab her. Yes, I took her right home. I was so happy to have her well and alive that she got a few extra treats at dinnertime.

Hours later, I relived the day in my mind, thinking about how scared I was, how my heart thumped in my chest, how I couldn't catch my breath, how worried I was that I was going to lose Hilde, That's when I thought about the Good Shepherd and how He must feel trying to find his lost lamb, fearing the steep cliffs, and the hungry wolf.

In the pictures and the stained glass window, the Good Shepherd looks patient, calm, not panicky. The artist has it all wrong. We don't like attributing human traits to a sovereign God. You may not think God ever panics, but I disagree. Jesus wept when he lost his dear friend Lazarus. He wept and travailed with tears of blood in the Garden of Gethsemane. He panics over losing us. He must feel grief and fear when he imagines the death of our soul.

But, oh, the rejoicing when He safely carries us home in His arms.



"A shepherd would leave the ninety-nine sheep and search for the lost one until he found it. Then he would put it on his shoulders with joy, take it home, and tell his friends and neighbors to rejoice with him, because he had found his lost sheep."