AUDIO: "I'm not mad anymore", Introduction

Introduction 

Hi! Thanks for reading or listening to my story right now, I really appreciate it.

Everything I share here, is true.

In 1979, on the way to the grocery store on a Saturday morning, a drunk driver paralyzed my baby, Laura Lamb, from the neck down. Laura was just five months old.

I worked with Candy Lightner and Bill Bronrott to help launch MADD, Mothers Against Drunk Drivers, in 1980. Our goal: end the maiming and killing of innocent people by drunk drivers.

For a while, Candy was the president of MADD, and I was the vice-president. And my daughter, Laura Lamb, was part of the fuel that helped to launch MADD into the national spotlight. That’s because Laura was a visual; a living, sweet-looking, and smart little girl, who did not move. 

Laura was a glaring reminder of the 800 people injured by drunk drivers every day.

However these stories are about more than MADD or perseverance, or a hatred that eats you, every day.

These stories are also about earthquakes and romance, passion and my three husbands, fishing and hunting and hootin’ it up with my family and friends. 

There are some cool as hell spiritual stories here, too, the kind that feel like goosebumps on the brain, and make your arm hair stand on end. The kind of story that’s hard to believe, but I know it’s true!

These stories are sometimes incongruous; surreal yet logical, spiritual and profane, embracing both the good parts and the bad parts. 

And the wonderfully exuberant, titillating, and funny parts, too!

Thank you so much for being here.

Love,

Cindi

My Birthday Preface

Today I turn 71. Yippee!

Today I turn over to my family and friends, a series of short stories in print, audio, and video called “I’m not mad anymore”, published on the first and 15thof every month.

You can hear the audio, view the videos, and read the transcript on Youtube, Spotify, Apple, Substack and on my website, cindilamb.com

Just google my name “Cindi Lamb” and it will come up! Man, I’m feeling important. 

The stories are presented in three time frames:
Before the hickey, 1955 through 1966 (age 1 through 11)

After the hickey, 1967 through 1979 (age 12 through 24) 

After the crash, 1979, to 2026 (age 24 through age 71, and hopefully, beyond!)

A good preface answers two important questions:

Why do it?

And

Whozit for?

Why do it now? Here’s my shortlist:

#1: I’m running out of time! Holy moly, I’m 71 today! It’s freakin me out!

#2: I finally feel confident enough in my storytelling skills to bring these stories to light. I was never much of a reader because I couldn’t sit still long enough, and because if a story doesn’t hook me within five minutes, I’m outta here. These are damn good true stories that are uplifting, tragic, hilarious, and incongruous. But they were all written to hook you, posthaste. 

And #3:

I’m doing this now because I’ve run out of excuses to cover my fear of publishing, like, “I’ll publish my stories as soon as I: 

o finish teaching this semester.”

o go back to Celoron for more research.”

o Go fishing in Canada one more year

o Rewrite it and re-record it one more time

o stop swearing so much.”

o stop drinking so much.”

o lose weight.”

Oh man, I got a million of them!

Lots of folks have asked me to write these stories, and I said I would, when the time was right, when I was skilled enough to tell it; when I felt brave enough to relive it. When I grew a pair, again. 

I did.

Who are these stories for:

When I write, I see the faces of people I know in my head, like all my Bush family in Wattsburg and Clymer, I see my old boyfriends (packed in an auditorium, HA!), and people dancing at the Lakewood Rod and Gun and Mallare’s Picnic, and I see the scowling faces of all the little girls who didn’t win Little Miss Chautauqua County Princess in 1963, because I WON! and my Dad pouring gas on the Hut behind Jamesway. I originally thought my stories were just for the faces of the people I know.

But they’re not. These stories are for anyone who has a face (sorry worms).

Here’s a little about me:

I grew up as Cindi Bush in Celoron, New York, about an hour south of Buffalo. We lived at the end of Livingston Avenue, right on Chautauqua Lake! What a total blast. 

My Mom and Dad shared a passionate love affair for 47 years, no kidding.

My Dad, Harold “Popcorn” Bush, was a plastering contractor, a ceramic tile artisan, a talented wine maker, a fastidious gardener, and a respected moose and deer hunter and fisherman in western New York and parts of Ontario, Canada. 

My Mom, Millee Bush, was the best-dressed woman in Jamestown. No kidding, just ask anyone! She grew up in New York City and worked for James Cash Penny himself! My Mom was endeared to thousands of children as Mrs. Santa Claus for over 30 years, made a lush, comforting home, and was the funniest, kindest, most loving, beautiful, and supportive person I’ve ever known. 

My brother Steve Bush was a Rough Rider with a tender heart, which he brutally guarded for most of his life. He was extremely loyal to his friends. I adored and idolized him when I was growing up, and so did my daughter Jennifer, my son Alan, and especially my daughter Laura. Steve was my OG diversion.

Currently, I live in the middle of eight heavenly acres in a big red barn in Conowingo, Maryland, I’ve been married for sixteen fantastic years to Gordon Wiley, who is an unbelievably loving and caring gift of a human being, and my third husband (or as he says, “I’m her current husband!). AND, right now, I’m living the second-best time of my life! 

(FYI, my first best time: swimming in the lake at the end of our dock and playing kickball at the Celoron Playground, what a boondoggle blast!) 

We have five children, four grandchildren, chickens, dogs, fish, a nice camper, and LOTS of fun family parties and bonfires here at the barn.

I have a Master’s degree in Health Science Education, and this is my 42nd year teaching college health science classes, specializing in compassionate sexuality courses. I currently teach at Towson University in Baltimore and at Harford Community College near Bel Air, MD. I LOVE my job! And I still LOVE my students!

My hobbies: sewing, singing, writing, gardening, camping, hanging with my family and driving the tractor. And bonfires. 

Healthwise, I was diagnosed with severe rheumatoid disease ten years ago, which is the bane of my existence. I f-king hate it. I’ve had five surgeries so far. I’ve always been overweight, but I’ve lost 41 pounds as of today using Wegovy. I plan on using Wegovy until I lose enough weight to drop through my butt hole. 

And I’m NOT mad anymore, for the most part, for most of the time. But there are still times when that self-strangling, flaming hatred for that mother f-ker roars up like a fire in a tire factory, especially now, remembering it all, writing about it all, and reliving it again. 

There is saucy sex and spiritual seeking and joyful buffoonery and plenty of passion here, because that’s how I CHOOSE to divert my attention and live my life.

But cold beer, pricey vodka, and joyfully singing to the Holy Spirit are also very helpful.

I am truly grateful for your time,

Cindi

Story One: Put your worm in the water.

It’s Friday, June 7th, 1996, and me and my Dad are fishing on seamless Gull Lake, Ontario, Canada. 

Gull Lake is only eleven miles from our cabin at Manitou Lake Lodge, but it takes at least an hour and a half to drive through the thick bush and brush, rushing streams, giant road boulders, and clouds of black flies just to get there. We were up at 4 AM and made that eleven-mile trek, mostly in the dark, so we could “wake up the fish for breakfast”, just in time for sunrise. And just one last time for my Dad.

My Dad, Harold Bush, is 66.  He has been fishing in River Valley for over 45 years. And sometimes working here as a fishing guide. This is my 10th fishing trip with my Dad, and it's also the last one. He is in his final stages of prostate cancer. I drink early to hide the hard thud that punches my heart.

Today, his skin is pale gray.  He had spent most of our week at Manitou asleep in his bedroom in our cabin.  But he wasn’t going to miss this day, our last day at Manitou, and his last day on Gull Lake as a person.

I’m so glad to be a big, strong woman.  I’m built like my Dad! Thick and muscle-y, especially through my chest, arms, and thighs. I’m so glad to have the strength and stamina to load all the beer and food coolers, the utensils needed for a shoreline fish fry, the minnow buckets, the worm box, extra ice, tackleboxes, change of clothes and raingear, fishing poles and nets, gas tank, motor, five-gallon bucket and toilet seat for me, oars, boat seats and floatation cushions, and God-forbid, whatever you do, don’t forget the bug spray!

Dad was too weak to offer much help. But he did get a lot of the equipment to the cabin door which made it easier for me to load up “The Machine”, a 1992 Ford E-350 cargo van with a V-8 and heavy-duty shocks and skid plates. That thing was a beast, and it ate gas like a beast, too.  

“It’s locked and loaded, let’s go, Dad!” I yelled from the porch.  “I got it all in, no problem.” 

“The nets?” Dad asks. “Yup.” “Minnow buckets?” he says. “Yup.” “Extra ice?” “Check.” “And who put the motor in? Did Bill come over and do it?” he asks. “Nope.  I did it,” I say proudly. “YOU did it? How did you do that?” he laughs out loud. 

“I lifted that bitch up and shoved it in last; kinda made a little dent in the floor but- “ “WhoaHAHAHA! You’re such the girl, the fisherwoman!” he yells and bellows that big Santa laugh. I LOVE hearing that!

Dad grabbed his parka, walked to the van, and started to open the driver’s side door.   “Oh no, you don’t, I packed everything, so I get to choose who drives, and I want to drive,” I told him.  He didn’t seem to mind and backed away.  

Over the years, I had driven a few times to Gull Lake, of course always with my Dad guiding me, directing me how to avoid the low part of the road pond so as not to flood the engine, or how to miss the sharp edge of a road boulder so I wouldn’t slice a tire, or how to go around a beaver hut so as not to disrupt nature’s water flow, things like that.  I’d do anything, just about anything to make him proud of me.  To get him to brag on me. Especially to my brother Steve.

We made it to the landing at Gull by 5:40, just in time to feed the fish their breakfast of fat, juicy worms and shiny, thick minnows. I backed the van down to the water line on the packed beach. Our flat-bottom steel boat, brandished with “Manitou” on the hull, was tied up on the side of the landing in tall grass. 

I put on my waders, untied our dark green and dented metal boat, and dragged it to the landing, as close to the back of the van as I could.  

As soon as I opened the back doors of the van, I became a little intimidated by the sight of that heavy, green 25 hp Johnson motor, even though I had already loaded it. Determined not to let my Dad do this, and to make him proud of me, I grabbed that green machine by the flange on the powerhead with my right hand and clutched the midsection of the tail with my left. I gave a big “heave-ho!” and hoisted it hard off the back of the van and down into the sandy beach.  

After a breath or two, I lifted the motor into the boat with a bang and moved it towards the stern, a foot or two at a time, clanking and resting it on each metal bench seat in the boat.  I finally managed to lift it and line up the motor screws on top of the transom. I cranked it down hard.  I think my Dad was amazed. Hell, I was amazed!

Dad began handing me all our gear, and as I placed everything properly in the boat, I could see the dusty gray color draining from his face. I was glad I remembered to bring his nitro. Once all the gear was loaded in the boat, I moved the van to the side of the landing, locked it, and got into the boat before my Dad did.  I wanted to drive.  And I didn’t want him to crank the motor.  

“Give us a push and get in, Dad,” I smiled at him.  So he did.  

The Johnson started after two cranks, and we were off.  We headed north towards Popcorn’s Bay, named after this big guy from western New York who laughed like Santa, fished in Gull Lake for over 40 years and always landed the biggest walleye (pickerel) in this small bay.  Yup, Popcorn’s Bay is named after my Dad, Harold “Popcorn” Bush. I veered our vessel into the tiny bay and cut the engine. Listening to the quiet was something I loved only second to hearing the wind lace through the pines and the sound of the loons beying at night. 

“I want to drive,” my Dad said.  “OK,” I said, and we switched places.  Dad started up the motor, adjusted to a slow troll, and without a word, we began to get our lines ready. The smooth, glassy surface of Gull this morning mirrored the skinny birch trees that dot the coastline of Gull Lake.  As usual, Dad slowed the troll, then stopped the boat. He points at two adjacent skinny birch trees in the middle of the coastline in Popcorn’s Bay.  I knew what was coming.  

He tells me again for the 10th time about my tan-seeking Mom lying naked in the boat “right here, right between these two little birch trees”, he smiles so big.  I can see him looking at her right now. Oh God, TMI.    

“You know, your Mom used to come with me and your Uncle Homer and Aunt Franny on these trips back in the 60’s, and she’d lie across the benches, neked as a jaybird,” he chuckled.  “You hardly ever see anyone on the whole lake, until one time, a hydroplane full of men seemed to pop out of nowhere and flew right above the tree line, just above our heads. HAAAH HAHAHA!” And he let out his famous Santa laugh again, his eyes flew wide open and his whole face glistened like the shine on the lake.  

“I never saw your Mother move so fast in 45 years of marriage!” he bellowed again.  “I think I remember you telling me once or twice about my naked mother and those birch trees Dad,” I smiled at him as he continued beaming and laughing, his cheeks changed to red, and his countenance seemed to brighten the sky. 

Dad cut the motor and began to prep his hook with a new teal-lucent minnow. He tosses the wriggling minnow and hook in the water, followed by his lure, and then pulls out a few yards of line before he releases the reel. I can see the glint of his silver William’s Wabler for at least two yards down as it disappears off the side of our boat. The famous lure beckons the first walleye of the day, aka, pickerel.   

“You know, Dad, all those colored lures you buy don’t actually help you catch a fish,” I start lecturing, as I dig through the worms in their white styrofoam house, all snuggled deep in the dark compost. Even though I had a Williams on my line too, I just felt a juicy worm would be my ticket to the first fish of the day.  

“Fish can see color, but it depends on the depth of water, the weather, and if you are fishing in clear or muddled water,” I tell him.   His hook and line are in the water, he’s running the troll perfectly, and he’s not listening to me.  But I continue:

“And a fish's sense of smell is a million times better than ours, and its hearing is…”  

“Are you still going to Towson State?” he interrupts. 

“I already got my Bachelors, Dad, but I’m starting my Master's program in the fall.  I just remember learning this stuff in zoology and thought you would like to…”  

He interrupts me again. “You can’t catch a fish if your worm’s not in the water,” he says kinda stern, kinda grinning.  

I get it. 

I stop talking and finish prepping my line with a thick, unwieldy worm.  

“Sayonara,” I say to my squiggling worm, and toss it into the water.  My gold Williams Wabler follows, spinning downwards.  

And we fish for quite a long while, silent, except for the gurgle of the trolling motor and the ice slipping in the beer cooler.

“Let’s refresh our lines,” he says, and cuts the engine. We reel up. It is very, very quiet, and I like it so much. All I hear are small waves that lick the side of the boat. While I was hard at work trying to find the fattiest worm, I looked up and saw my Dad focused on those two birch trees. I can see he’s thinking about something, so I wait, pretending to fiddle, without a word.   

Suddenly, he snaps his head sharp and turns to look at me. He’s got something to say. I look at him. But he says nothing, for a moment. Then it looked like he was going to say something, but changed his mind, still looking at me. Then:

“I’m sorry for what I did,” he says, low and soft.

My heart implodes into a quivering ball of pulp.  I know instantly what he’s talking about. I can hardly breathe. All my oxygen evaporates and my blood sinks to the bottom of Gull. 

“Sorry for what, Dad? Did you fart again?” I fake chuckle, praying he won’t say it again. And praying he will.

He clears the gravel in his throat. His voice is a little louder this time, but he chokes on his words.

“I’m sorry for what I did to you when you were younger.” 

My eyes are welling. I’m afraid to speak, afraid of what I will say, afraid of blubbering, so grateful for my dark sunglasses. 

I grunt as I bend from the waist and open the cooler to grab an icy Molson.

“Never too early for a cold one in Canada, ay?” I declare.  “Want one?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. 

“I want you to know why I did what I did before -“

“Before what Dad, before you die?” I say calmly. “I already know why you did what you did, and I forgave you a long time ago, even though you didn’t ask for it.” I look down at my Molson and shit, the tears escape the shade of my sunglasses.  I whip them off to wipe the wet with my sleeve.

“I know what Grampy did to you, I know how he “disciplined' you and Uncle Ronny behind the barn. But he didn’t cut all your hair off down to the scalp, and you weren’t -"

“But I …” he tries to interrupt, to reason.

“NO! It’s done, Goddam it!! I’m drinking and fishing now!” I yell.  

“I told you I already forgave you. You just have to figure out how to forgive yourself.” I glare at him, wide-eyed.

He glares at me and I can see his temples move back and forth as he clenches his teeth. I can tell this is not the response he expected. Or wanted.

“Give me a Molson,” he growls.  So I did. 

And we keep fishing. Quiet.

Two months later, he died. 

But his apology never has.