Week 16 Theme Choice 4
Choice #4 Week 16. Write about yourself as a writer--hopes and dreams, strengths and weaknesses, ambitions and failures; reactions to the semester, what changed for better or worse in your writing; course experiences, problems, positives.
Some people like to draw, paint, sing, jog daily, build things…..me, I like to write. Paper is my own little, personal (and inexpensive) counselor. I love finding small details unique and exciting and utilizing those discoveries in various poems, stories, and such (if only you knew the true speck of dust some of these stories stemmed from); it’s like a sick challenged of sorts that I’m obsessed with. I completely enjoy writing about my family, when one of them says to me, “I’m so bored, my life is so dull.” - I write a story about them; just to prove them wrong…all in good fun. It’s grand to capture memories on paper the way a photographer does with a picture; precious things and people fade and become lost if we don’t preserve those memories. Not too mention it is very exciting to write a piece and have it move someone…to tears – to laughter – or to be completely pissed off – whatever the emotion – it’s fun just to know you brought that on with your thoughts and crazy out looks. That’s how I feel anyway.
My weaknesses are retched; I procrastinate something wicked. There are times I am well aware that I do it…I tend to work best under pressure but then there are times that are just beyond my control. It’s a weaknesses that can prove to be beneficial or can really wear me down after countless sleepless nights working late hours to catch up on things.
Another horrid weakness is this dang cement block that hinders my vision and weighs down my writing hand – it can go on for days, weeks, even months and sometimes it is a great challenge to lift it off and work past it. I feel as though my imagination just up and leaves for Hawaii a few times a year.
It’s fortunate in ways that I am still - basically….learning to fly (so to speak) because I do not have many failures on my plate pulling me down. I was hoping to be proud of some great writing accomplishment before my father passed away but that did not happen…but I continue because what child does not want their parents proud of them and mum still enjoys when I read foolishness to her.
This class has been…what a good word for it….like a fine vinaigrette. If you always have your salad plain and never venture out for a little spicy variety then you will never improve the taste of the salad.
Some weeks I really got into doing, I liked the memories the prompts brought up – other weeks felt like trips to the dentist….but with every pulled tooth comes the fairy – right and all your comments and tips and such were like valuable gold coins….not saying you are like a fairy or anything.
Honestly, any time I write and someone critiques it, I feel I’ve gained something….whether it is a new out look to a different approach, a bit more strength for handing judgments or whatever…but always something gained. I mean sometimes, especially with a nonfiction class, we really put ourselves out there – kinda like baring all.
Occasionally I wanted to comment on other people’s pieces in the class; there are some amazing writers in this group and it’s been quite enjoyable reading the variety of stuff. Other times, I would have liked to hear a few other opinions – specially on the pieces that you didn’t get…it would have been interesting to know if I was so far off – no one could get them or if it was just generation issues.
One of the biggest challenges I felt was the pressure of what to write and what not to, some weeks the lectures frightened me and I was like....ok – he doesn’t want this – this – this or this…so that leaves…this and there are already several good examples of “this” that I don’t want to copy so now I need to do….what again? Confusing. Exactly. Frustrating. Precisely. But fortunately you were not a stickler for requesting the assignments to be done by a certain date/time leaving opportunities for us to sleep on the lectures and really think about them for a while and work through all that.
Positive experiences…many! I honored a friend by writing a story about her life and her struggles, she had her family read it and that evening they all pitched in together to help her clean up the house and they all decorated the place for Christmas; that was a wonderful feeling. I read a few pieces to the sister who I worked with caring for our father during his last days and as I read we shared tears and memories and it was like our own form of therapy. Another sister who lives far away, I call frequently to read my stories to and we laugh and share together and it is very bonding and enjoyable. I could go on an on with the positives…I liked learning some of the different techniques to try. For example, after those torturous vignettes – a friend asked me to go watch the Nutcracker with her…but it was not the whole version it was only a vignette of it – so, finally – duh – got it!
So, to sum things up – I have no regrets. I enjoyed this class a great deal. Though, I know there are other options that are probably financially more appealing, I want to do more writing classes, fine tune, polish, and simply just keep doing what feels natural. I feel you’ve done a great job as an internet teacher – it must be quite a challenge to keep things interesting and to keep up with all of us posting a dozen weeks at a time! It’ll be interesting if we ever meet in person someday because over the course of this class I’ve developed my own impression on what sort of person I think you are – lol but I’ll save that for a creative fiction class.
Thank you for everything.
P.S.
Choice 3 - I would love to tackle but, your right….just to scared, don’t know where to begin, how to begin and now…times up.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Week 16 Theme (Option 2 - I think it is...fixing a prior piece.) Part 2
Here is it revised:
If I was to give it a title, I would call it "Amber"
Fifty-three gowns in two days, she knows he would prefer her in jeans – heck she would prefer jeans (and a get-a-way car). Six of her nine aunts “oooo” and “aaaah” while her mother dabs at tears, her grammy takes pictures, and her nanner zips, tucks and buttons one dress after another; her sister slouches on a red velvet divan and texts; one auntie hangs back questioning the queer look in her niece’s eyes.
Dress after dress, white upon white, all the white could not fix her thoughts…she loved who she loved – she had been wrapped in fifty-three different straight jackets and within a few days she will be bound in one of those contraptions for life…where’s the gaiety in that. In need of a break, she heads out for a bit of time with her best girl. Watching the sun set from their windy seats atop of Blue Hill Mountain, shades of red highlight the sky - the sky masking their blushing cheeks, the cold rock under them prevents them from putting on airs – so they sit in silence – holding hands. Her best girl is like a little radiator, so warm –so soft, they snuggle closer and enjoy the moment; the past is not thought of, the future is not considered only the moment…so warm, so soft, and so red.
Just one day till the shackles are welded closed around her limbs; her sister, mother and grammy arrive at her home to help with final preparations. Her soon-to-be greets them with a grumble from his recliner, feet elevated higher then his head; sporting his lucky Yankees cap, releasing a little gas, he loses himself in the game. Just one day to go…she hides; her sister knows right where to find her – in her closet.
Needing to escape the chaos of finalizations, she sneaks off to visit her Aunt, the aunt who does not usually miss a beat, the auntie who noticed the look in her eyes. Bringing along her best girl, the two sit for a spell, “Auntie, this is my good friend. My auntie loves the Simpson’s, check out this Rubik’s cube of Homer’s head – she can be pretty good at figuring out these head games.” The three girls sit and watch episode 345 of the Simpson’s together, nervous laughter and side glances until her auntie starts a game of Truth or Dare…she was never good at keeping things from her auntie…even as a small child:
“Your knees are ticklish; who are you going to marry? Barney? Big Bird? A Ninja Turtle?” Teases her Auntie
“Turdies, silly Auntie, I wuv Barbie.”
A child no more, the years and days have passed briskly by, the day of reckoning has arrived too quickly, she tries to write her fiancé a long over due Dear John; her hands tremble and she shuffles the pen from right to left – her hands as ambidextrous as her soul. The Fates hold her life but who holds her heart…
A few sprinkles of rain spatter against the windshield, “oh I hope their wedding does not get rained out” her mother frets.
“No matter what happens, it will be a good day” her grammy declares, “red skies at night – sailor’s delight”
The fifty-fourth gown, a restraint concocted of lace and tulle; the final fitting moments before the facade is to begin. Family, friends, co-workers; they are all there – all but her best girl. She thinks back a couple of nights ago to their time on the mountain and tries hard to feel the rock beneath her and to feel the warm, soft hand in hers.
Most everyone is gathering in the pews while, in the back room, she stands for the final alterations. Six of her nine aunts “oooo” and “aaaah” while her mother dabs at tears, her grammy takes pictures and her sister, unenthused, slouches in a chair and texts; one auntie hangs back, noticing, but no longer questioning, the queer look in the bride-to-be’s eyes. She stands on the stool while her nanner alters and hems. Stitching away, nanner leisurely pokes the needle in and gradually pulls it out.
“Oh dear, I’m sorry sweetie, I did not mean to pierce you with the needle.”
She offers a small smile of forgiveness for her nanner, then gazes down at the dress and at the red liquid seeping from a little hole in her leg… or is it from her heart…where is her courage, her strength, her heart; where is her best girl. The clock is ticking - the approaching ceremony is weighing on her like a drove of ominous black clouds, tears escape her eyes...blood trickles from the open wound…yet she feels… nothing.
If I was to give it a title, I would call it "Amber"
Fifty-three gowns in two days, she knows he would prefer her in jeans – heck she would prefer jeans (and a get-a-way car). Six of her nine aunts “oooo” and “aaaah” while her mother dabs at tears, her grammy takes pictures, and her nanner zips, tucks and buttons one dress after another; her sister slouches on a red velvet divan and texts; one auntie hangs back questioning the queer look in her niece’s eyes.
Dress after dress, white upon white, all the white could not fix her thoughts…she loved who she loved – she had been wrapped in fifty-three different straight jackets and within a few days she will be bound in one of those contraptions for life…where’s the gaiety in that. In need of a break, she heads out for a bit of time with her best girl. Watching the sun set from their windy seats atop of Blue Hill Mountain, shades of red highlight the sky - the sky masking their blushing cheeks, the cold rock under them prevents them from putting on airs – so they sit in silence – holding hands. Her best girl is like a little radiator, so warm –so soft, they snuggle closer and enjoy the moment; the past is not thought of, the future is not considered only the moment…so warm, so soft, and so red.
Just one day till the shackles are welded closed around her limbs; her sister, mother and grammy arrive at her home to help with final preparations. Her soon-to-be greets them with a grumble from his recliner, feet elevated higher then his head; sporting his lucky Yankees cap, releasing a little gas, he loses himself in the game. Just one day to go…she hides; her sister knows right where to find her – in her closet.
Needing to escape the chaos of finalizations, she sneaks off to visit her Aunt, the aunt who does not usually miss a beat, the auntie who noticed the look in her eyes. Bringing along her best girl, the two sit for a spell, “Auntie, this is my good friend. My auntie loves the Simpson’s, check out this Rubik’s cube of Homer’s head – she can be pretty good at figuring out these head games.” The three girls sit and watch episode 345 of the Simpson’s together, nervous laughter and side glances until her auntie starts a game of Truth or Dare…she was never good at keeping things from her auntie…even as a small child:
“Your knees are ticklish; who are you going to marry? Barney? Big Bird? A Ninja Turtle?” Teases her Auntie
“Turdies, silly Auntie, I wuv Barbie.”
A child no more, the years and days have passed briskly by, the day of reckoning has arrived too quickly, she tries to write her fiancé a long over due Dear John; her hands tremble and she shuffles the pen from right to left – her hands as ambidextrous as her soul. The Fates hold her life but who holds her heart…
A few sprinkles of rain spatter against the windshield, “oh I hope their wedding does not get rained out” her mother frets.
“No matter what happens, it will be a good day” her grammy declares, “red skies at night – sailor’s delight”
The fifty-fourth gown, a restraint concocted of lace and tulle; the final fitting moments before the facade is to begin. Family, friends, co-workers; they are all there – all but her best girl. She thinks back a couple of nights ago to their time on the mountain and tries hard to feel the rock beneath her and to feel the warm, soft hand in hers.
Most everyone is gathering in the pews while, in the back room, she stands for the final alterations. Six of her nine aunts “oooo” and “aaaah” while her mother dabs at tears, her grammy takes pictures and her sister, unenthused, slouches in a chair and texts; one auntie hangs back, noticing, but no longer questioning, the queer look in the bride-to-be’s eyes. She stands on the stool while her nanner alters and hems. Stitching away, nanner leisurely pokes the needle in and gradually pulls it out.
“Oh dear, I’m sorry sweetie, I did not mean to pierce you with the needle.”
She offers a small smile of forgiveness for her nanner, then gazes down at the dress and at the red liquid seeping from a little hole in her leg… or is it from her heart…where is her courage, her strength, her heart; where is her best girl. The clock is ticking - the approaching ceremony is weighing on her like a drove of ominous black clouds, tears escape her eyes...blood trickles from the open wound…yet she feels… nothing.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Week 16 Theme (Option 2 - I think it is...fixing a prior piece.) Part 1
Here is the original from Week 10 Prompt 43 - And your original comments follow:
Blogger Stephanie said...
Prompt 43
Fifty-three gowns in two days, he would prefer her in jeans. Six of her nine aunts “oooo” and “aaaah” while her mother dabs at tears and her granny zips, tucks and buttons one dress after another; her sister slouches on a red velvet divan and texts.
***
Watching the sun set from their windy seats atop of Cadillac Mountain, shades of red highlight the sky; the cold rock under them prevents them from putting on airs – so they sit in silence – holding hands. She’s like a little radiator, so warm –so soft, they snuggle closer and enjoy the moment; the past is not thought of, the future is not considered only the moment…so warm, so soft, so red.
***
He reclines back, feet elevated higher then his head; pulling of his socks, she rubs his feet. The kitchen timer signals supper is ready and she moves to set the table; two plates, two cups, two forks, all but the two red candles that do not leave the cupboard. He brings his plate to the recliner and flips on the Patriots game.
***
“Auntie, this is my friend Dixie. My auntie loves the Simpsons, check out this rubics cube of Homer’s head.” The three girls sit and watch episode 345 together, nervous laughter and side glances until her auntie brings out the brownies.
***
A few sprinkles of rain spatter against the windshield, “oh I hope their wedding does not get rained out” her mother frets.
“No matter what happens, it will be a good day” her granny declares, “red skies at night – sailor’s delight”
***
Fifty-fourth gown and the final fitting moments before the ceremony is to begin. She stands on the stool while her granny alters and hems; she tries hard to feel the rock beneath her and her warm, soft hand in hers.
***
“Your knees are ticklish; who are you going to marry? Barney? Big Bird? Michelangelo (the ninja turtle)?”
“Auntie, I wuv Barbie.”
***
Light headed, dizzy, and a desire to flee, she stands motionless. “Oh dear, I’m sorry sweetie, I did not mean to prick you with the pin.”
She looked down at her dress, granny pulling the pin from her skin - a trickle of red; she felt nothing.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009 3:37:00 PM
Delete
Blogger johngoldfine said...
I get a little lost in this one, stephanie--the little girl confuses me; she's the niece of the bride to be? And the Patriots game...before marriage???? Am I to understand that this fellow is such a lout that he doesn't realize he should at least try to fool his fiancee into believing that she will always take precedence over the kickoff (wait until the knot is tied before letting the truth come out, buddy!)
Or not? As I say, I got confused.
Friday, November 27, 2009 9:18:00 AM
Blogger Stephanie said...
Prompt 43
Fifty-three gowns in two days, he would prefer her in jeans. Six of her nine aunts “oooo” and “aaaah” while her mother dabs at tears and her granny zips, tucks and buttons one dress after another; her sister slouches on a red velvet divan and texts.
***
Watching the sun set from their windy seats atop of Cadillac Mountain, shades of red highlight the sky; the cold rock under them prevents them from putting on airs – so they sit in silence – holding hands. She’s like a little radiator, so warm –so soft, they snuggle closer and enjoy the moment; the past is not thought of, the future is not considered only the moment…so warm, so soft, so red.
***
He reclines back, feet elevated higher then his head; pulling of his socks, she rubs his feet. The kitchen timer signals supper is ready and she moves to set the table; two plates, two cups, two forks, all but the two red candles that do not leave the cupboard. He brings his plate to the recliner and flips on the Patriots game.
***
“Auntie, this is my friend Dixie. My auntie loves the Simpsons, check out this rubics cube of Homer’s head.” The three girls sit and watch episode 345 together, nervous laughter and side glances until her auntie brings out the brownies.
***
A few sprinkles of rain spatter against the windshield, “oh I hope their wedding does not get rained out” her mother frets.
“No matter what happens, it will be a good day” her granny declares, “red skies at night – sailor’s delight”
***
Fifty-fourth gown and the final fitting moments before the ceremony is to begin. She stands on the stool while her granny alters and hems; she tries hard to feel the rock beneath her and her warm, soft hand in hers.
***
“Your knees are ticklish; who are you going to marry? Barney? Big Bird? Michelangelo (the ninja turtle)?”
“Auntie, I wuv Barbie.”
***
Light headed, dizzy, and a desire to flee, she stands motionless. “Oh dear, I’m sorry sweetie, I did not mean to prick you with the pin.”
She looked down at her dress, granny pulling the pin from her skin - a trickle of red; she felt nothing.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009 3:37:00 PM
Delete
Blogger johngoldfine said...
I get a little lost in this one, stephanie--the little girl confuses me; she's the niece of the bride to be? And the Patriots game...before marriage???? Am I to understand that this fellow is such a lout that he doesn't realize he should at least try to fool his fiancee into believing that she will always take precedence over the kickoff (wait until the knot is tied before letting the truth come out, buddy!)
Or not? As I say, I got confused.
Friday, November 27, 2009 9:18:00 AM
Week 15 Theme 2nd One
Reach for a Lucky, instead of a sweet.
Nothing refreshes better under the hot sun or after a hard day of work.
Have it your way.
Do you know me?
The skin you love to touch.
Reach out and touch someone.
Fast, fast, fast relief.
The ultimate driving machine.
For a product demo break glass.
Melts in your mouth, not in your hands.
Takes a licking and keeps on ticking.
We try harder.
Where’s the beef?
Think small.
My bologna has a first name.
How many licks to get to the center.
Prejudice is one of the worst side-effects.
Just do it.
It’s the real thing.
Snap, Crackle, Pop!
Good to the last drop.
Mmm, mm good.
It’s so simple.
A job well done.
I can be the March Playmate.
Be all that you can be.
Life’s too short for the wrong job.
Always a bridesmaid but never a bride.
A buck well spent.
Nothing refreshes better under the hot sun or after a hard day of work.
Have it your way.
Do you know me?
The skin you love to touch.
Reach out and touch someone.
Fast, fast, fast relief.
The ultimate driving machine.
For a product demo break glass.
Melts in your mouth, not in your hands.
Takes a licking and keeps on ticking.
We try harder.
Where’s the beef?
Think small.
My bologna has a first name.
How many licks to get to the center.
Prejudice is one of the worst side-effects.
Just do it.
It’s the real thing.
Snap, Crackle, Pop!
Good to the last drop.
Mmm, mm good.
It’s so simple.
A job well done.
I can be the March Playmate.
Be all that you can be.
Life’s too short for the wrong job.
Always a bridesmaid but never a bride.
A buck well spent.
Week 15 Theme 1st One
Week 15 Theme 1
It's like falling from a plane - you just want to get the landing over with so you will know if you've survived it or not. But you know.....as you fall - you tend to really see a lot, a lot of the world around you - you learn a lot and think about a lot. And when you've realized you've survived the landing - you are a bit wiser, stronger and better because of it.
Rootbeer is on the way.
People never understand death - even when they go through it...sometimes they still don't get it. Why? Because it's different for everyone. The same death could be handled 100's of different ways. I mean really...do we all eat an Oreo the same way - nope.
Bunnies are in the mail.
If they keep at you....ask them, "have you ever burned yourself? Have you ever purposely stuck any part of your body into hot scorching flames?" There answer to the 2nd question will be, “No”. So ask them..."Why do you want me to?"
Hives suck!
Niece: When life hands you a lemon, say F*** the lemon and bail.
Aunt: Embrace the lemon, they are good. You can squeeze them and shoot juice in the eye of whoever handed it to you – laugh and then bail.
The square route of pi is apple.
It's like falling from a plane - you just want to get the landing over with so you will know if you've survived it or not. But you know.....as you fall - you tend to really see a lot, a lot of the world around you - you learn a lot and think about a lot. And when you've realized you've survived the landing - you are a bit wiser, stronger and better because of it.
Rootbeer is on the way.
People never understand death - even when they go through it...sometimes they still don't get it. Why? Because it's different for everyone. The same death could be handled 100's of different ways. I mean really...do we all eat an Oreo the same way - nope.
Bunnies are in the mail.
If they keep at you....ask them, "have you ever burned yourself? Have you ever purposely stuck any part of your body into hot scorching flames?" There answer to the 2nd question will be, “No”. So ask them..."Why do you want me to?"
Hives suck!
Niece: When life hands you a lemon, say F*** the lemon and bail.
Aunt: Embrace the lemon, they are good. You can squeeze them and shoot juice in the eye of whoever handed it to you – laugh and then bail.
The square route of pi is apple.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Week 14 Theme Part 2
Week 14 Theme #2 – Option 1
Effective and Ineffective Ways to Keep Kids Quiet So You Can Write a Paper
Effective*:
1. Duct tape.
2. Burlap sacks, heavy stones and a deep pond.
3. Washer and Dryer.
Ineffective:
1. Ask the oldest child to babysit.
2. Occupy them with food, tv, books or games.
3. Give them all their birthday gifts, Christmas gifts and any other gifts early.
*Please Note: While any of the three choices are highly effective they are illegal and are not recommended, and since they are the only choices offered – suggestions are welcomed.
Week 14 Theme #2 – Option 2
Effective and Ineffective Ways to Keep Kids Quiet So You Can Write a Paper
Effective*:
4. Duct tape.
a. Cover mouths and affix them to walls or furniture.
5. Burlap sacks, heavy stones and a deep pond.
a. Place in sack, add stone, tie tight, drop in pond.
6. Washer and Dryer.
a. One for each child or if you have only one child or more then two feel free to use the rinse cycle…spin well.
Ineffective:
4. Ask the oldest child to babysit.
a. The power will go to their head and both will end up screaming and crying loader then before you shifted the control.
5. Occupy them with food, tv, books or games.
a. Their will be a food fight, they will argue over the show, the books will become objects to hurl and they will want you to play the games with them.
6. Give them all their birthday gifts, Christmas gifts and any other gifts early.
a. Assuming you have any, it will only occupy them for 30 seconds per gift: 15 seconds to open (if you are lucky) and 15 seconds to become bored with it.
*Please Note: While any of the three choices are highly effective they are illegal and are not recommended, and since they are the only choices offered – suggestions are welcomed.
Effective and Ineffective Ways to Keep Kids Quiet So You Can Write a Paper
Effective*:
1. Duct tape.
2. Burlap sacks, heavy stones and a deep pond.
3. Washer and Dryer.
Ineffective:
1. Ask the oldest child to babysit.
2. Occupy them with food, tv, books or games.
3. Give them all their birthday gifts, Christmas gifts and any other gifts early.
*Please Note: While any of the three choices are highly effective they are illegal and are not recommended, and since they are the only choices offered – suggestions are welcomed.
Week 14 Theme #2 – Option 2
Effective and Ineffective Ways to Keep Kids Quiet So You Can Write a Paper
Effective*:
4. Duct tape.
a. Cover mouths and affix them to walls or furniture.
5. Burlap sacks, heavy stones and a deep pond.
a. Place in sack, add stone, tie tight, drop in pond.
6. Washer and Dryer.
a. One for each child or if you have only one child or more then two feel free to use the rinse cycle…spin well.
Ineffective:
4. Ask the oldest child to babysit.
a. The power will go to their head and both will end up screaming and crying loader then before you shifted the control.
5. Occupy them with food, tv, books or games.
a. Their will be a food fight, they will argue over the show, the books will become objects to hurl and they will want you to play the games with them.
6. Give them all their birthday gifts, Christmas gifts and any other gifts early.
a. Assuming you have any, it will only occupy them for 30 seconds per gift: 15 seconds to open (if you are lucky) and 15 seconds to become bored with it.
*Please Note: While any of the three choices are highly effective they are illegal and are not recommended, and since they are the only choices offered – suggestions are welcomed.
Week 13 Theme
Week 13 Theme
“Tree! Tree! Tree! Tree!” Phoebe holds the little twinkling light in her hand, “pretty” she says and smiles. She is not quite two and her vocabulary is quite limited; within the last hour she has added two new words, “pretty” and “tree”.
This is our third year of putting up a real tree, it took Mike ten years to convince me the world would not end if we cut a tree at Christmas; can’t say that I’m convinced. It’s a little over six feet tall, round and full; lights and two ornaments that Zac made hang from it. The house smells homey.
Out on route nine we found it in a tree lot, with hundreds of others; several returned with us. Most Mainers will do anything to survive, a “Jack of All Trades” is what many are called; we are no acceptation. I never once thought I would take part in cutting a tree, let alone ninety five of them, but we did, Mike fired up the saw and I hauled them through the fields back to the truck and onto the trailer; a days labor for a pauper’s pay.
Mike got way ahead of me in the cluster on the hill side, I followed the sound of the saw – trudging in and hauling out but then it stopped. So, I stopped, lifted my eyes from the forest floor and stared out at the world before me. Atop of the hill, I could see for miles and miles – the tops of trees, the birds flying in circles, the roofs of homes and businesses in the distance, the clear blue sky; I took a deep breath in, the air felt so fresh.
“Tree! Tree! Tree! Tree!” Phoebe holds the little twinkling light in her hand, “pretty” she says and smiles. She is not quite two and her vocabulary is quite limited; within the last hour she has added two new words, “pretty” and “tree”.
This is our third year of putting up a real tree, it took Mike ten years to convince me the world would not end if we cut a tree at Christmas; can’t say that I’m convinced. It’s a little over six feet tall, round and full; lights and two ornaments that Zac made hang from it. The house smells homey.
Out on route nine we found it in a tree lot, with hundreds of others; several returned with us. Most Mainers will do anything to survive, a “Jack of All Trades” is what many are called; we are no acceptation. I never once thought I would take part in cutting a tree, let alone ninety five of them, but we did, Mike fired up the saw and I hauled them through the fields back to the truck and onto the trailer; a days labor for a pauper’s pay.
Mike got way ahead of me in the cluster on the hill side, I followed the sound of the saw – trudging in and hauling out but then it stopped. So, I stopped, lifted my eyes from the forest floor and stared out at the world before me. Atop of the hill, I could see for miles and miles – the tops of trees, the birds flying in circles, the roofs of homes and businesses in the distance, the clear blue sky; I took a deep breath in, the air felt so fresh.
Week 14 Theme
The peeler clangs to the sink, she holds a half peeled apple in one hand and her forehead in the other. Bending forward over the kitchen sink, she cringes from the pain, sweat dripping into her eyes – salty and warm – burning and itching; she’s tired but can not sleep. The clock on the wall behind her ticks a very quiet ‘tap’ ‘tap’ ‘tap’, everyone will be hungry soon and this is only the first apple.
She used to love baking homemade meals, oh, how she took that for granted. Her kids complain she does not cook enough anymore, little do they realize the torture of cutting up potatoes, peeling apples….to use the electric mixer is excruciating, she has to keep stopping every minute or so, the pain in her arm makes her cry but she does not tell them this, she won’t, they do not need to know why their mom is not the same.
She is still bent over the sink when he walks in the door, married for almost ten years, they have been so close and yet are still so far apart; he has not been able to understand the pain that climbs up her legs like a thousand needles marching in form – spreading across her back and shooting out the tips of her fingers. He does not understand why she is always over heated, why she does not smile the way she once did, why she sleeps the days away, he does not understand why she does not bake her apple pies for him anymore. He sighs; frozen pizza again tonight.
Pillsbury has become her new best friend, he makes for her all the things she no longer can…the pie crust, cookies, breads – oh how her children loved her banana bread. She expected this pain to come but not for at least another thirty years or more, she is still too young, only in her early forties not ready to throw in the towel. To have a mind so active and a body so weak, she wonders what is happening to her life.
He already has the t.v. channel on the race, when she leaves the sink to crash on the couch again. He knows not to ask what’s wrong, this year – he remembers. Every Christmas has been hard for her since her father died, that’s when all her pain started, it is when she started sleeping more, when her smile faded and when the smell of fresh baked apple pie left the house. He wants her back, to be happy again but he doesn’t know what to do and he is growing tired too.
Fybro Myalgia is what her doctors have told her, she cares not for the name - the name is meaningless; it puts a small title to the horrible thing that is taking her life from her, that is eating at her from the inside out. She can hear him sighing in his chair, doesn’t he know she wants to be better, she wants to be active again but the constant migraines, the endless fatigue, the pain in her leg muscles so sharp and sensitive she feels if she stands they will buckle beneath her….doesn’t he know – this is not what she wants.
The snow is really picking up, the kids will be coming inside soon; they are too old to slide now…probably best, that is something she did with them each winter and now it would be one more way she would disappoint them. Sometimes she can not bare the thought of looking them in the eyes, they never tell her with words how sad they are she is not the same but she fears their eyes will say it all; stares that would be too hard for her to bare.
The half peeled apple sits alone on the counter; her husband dozes in his chair when the kids come in from the cold; the youngest one heads to the kitchen to start supper. Casual chatter starts up and for a brief moment life feels normal and then her shoulders tighten up and her stomach cramps but she grins so they won’t take notice. Together like this, it feels warm and she would like to hold on to that feeling…that small sense of normalcy.
Her friend arrives at the door, knocks twice, waits for the dogs and then enters. The home feels warm to her, she sees the youngest at the stove and smells something yummy coming from the kitchen, she sees the other two children on the couch with their mother, resting, playing on their laptops and chatting about odd things that get them laughing - little personal inside jokes. She sees her friend’s husband in his comfy chair relaxing and smiling from time to time at his wife. They all look at her – each of them, with love and admiration for what a strong individual she has shown herself to be, they see her not as the woman whose illness is taking her over but as the wife and mother who is fighting that illness – they look at her….with eyes that understand; her friend smiles and joins them.
Each day is a battle for her, some days better then others but it is small moments like this that give her hope. She used to love to run, she can remember that each time she would come to a hill her heart would beat a little faster, her breathing would grow a little heavier and quicken, her muscles would burn and scream but she would run on to the top of the hill just the same. She knows right now she is on a hill and there is an ongoing battle she must fight to make it to the top and she knows… she won’t give up – these people who love her, her husband, her children, her dearest friend – they need her and she needs them…so, she will keep climbing then maybe….just maybe when she gets to the top…maybe then – it will be time for pie again.
She used to love baking homemade meals, oh, how she took that for granted. Her kids complain she does not cook enough anymore, little do they realize the torture of cutting up potatoes, peeling apples….to use the electric mixer is excruciating, she has to keep stopping every minute or so, the pain in her arm makes her cry but she does not tell them this, she won’t, they do not need to know why their mom is not the same.
She is still bent over the sink when he walks in the door, married for almost ten years, they have been so close and yet are still so far apart; he has not been able to understand the pain that climbs up her legs like a thousand needles marching in form – spreading across her back and shooting out the tips of her fingers. He does not understand why she is always over heated, why she does not smile the way she once did, why she sleeps the days away, he does not understand why she does not bake her apple pies for him anymore. He sighs; frozen pizza again tonight.
Pillsbury has become her new best friend, he makes for her all the things she no longer can…the pie crust, cookies, breads – oh how her children loved her banana bread. She expected this pain to come but not for at least another thirty years or more, she is still too young, only in her early forties not ready to throw in the towel. To have a mind so active and a body so weak, she wonders what is happening to her life.
He already has the t.v. channel on the race, when she leaves the sink to crash on the couch again. He knows not to ask what’s wrong, this year – he remembers. Every Christmas has been hard for her since her father died, that’s when all her pain started, it is when she started sleeping more, when her smile faded and when the smell of fresh baked apple pie left the house. He wants her back, to be happy again but he doesn’t know what to do and he is growing tired too.
Fybro Myalgia is what her doctors have told her, she cares not for the name - the name is meaningless; it puts a small title to the horrible thing that is taking her life from her, that is eating at her from the inside out. She can hear him sighing in his chair, doesn’t he know she wants to be better, she wants to be active again but the constant migraines, the endless fatigue, the pain in her leg muscles so sharp and sensitive she feels if she stands they will buckle beneath her….doesn’t he know – this is not what she wants.
The snow is really picking up, the kids will be coming inside soon; they are too old to slide now…probably best, that is something she did with them each winter and now it would be one more way she would disappoint them. Sometimes she can not bare the thought of looking them in the eyes, they never tell her with words how sad they are she is not the same but she fears their eyes will say it all; stares that would be too hard for her to bare.
The half peeled apple sits alone on the counter; her husband dozes in his chair when the kids come in from the cold; the youngest one heads to the kitchen to start supper. Casual chatter starts up and for a brief moment life feels normal and then her shoulders tighten up and her stomach cramps but she grins so they won’t take notice. Together like this, it feels warm and she would like to hold on to that feeling…that small sense of normalcy.
Her friend arrives at the door, knocks twice, waits for the dogs and then enters. The home feels warm to her, she sees the youngest at the stove and smells something yummy coming from the kitchen, she sees the other two children on the couch with their mother, resting, playing on their laptops and chatting about odd things that get them laughing - little personal inside jokes. She sees her friend’s husband in his comfy chair relaxing and smiling from time to time at his wife. They all look at her – each of them, with love and admiration for what a strong individual she has shown herself to be, they see her not as the woman whose illness is taking her over but as the wife and mother who is fighting that illness – they look at her….with eyes that understand; her friend smiles and joins them.
Each day is a battle for her, some days better then others but it is small moments like this that give her hope. She used to love to run, she can remember that each time she would come to a hill her heart would beat a little faster, her breathing would grow a little heavier and quicken, her muscles would burn and scream but she would run on to the top of the hill just the same. She knows right now she is on a hill and there is an ongoing battle she must fight to make it to the top and she knows… she won’t give up – these people who love her, her husband, her children, her dearest friend – they need her and she needs them…so, she will keep climbing then maybe….just maybe when she gets to the top…maybe then – it will be time for pie again.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Week 12 Theme
Week 12 Theme
They were riding their 4wheeler up in his field again, asked not to but they didn’t care. It’s not like they can hurt anything thing but themselves, the field is only used as a place for his cows to graze.
She’s not really enjoying herself, the place stinks, and there appears to be cow crap everywhere but he is truly handsome. He’s two years older, tall, built rugged, fabulous tan and the most gorgeous green eyes she’d ever seen and he asked her to go riding with him. She would ride through fields and fields of cow crap if it meant spending time with him.
It was getting late, only a wee bit of day light left and the Rolands were not back to their farm yet, he was guessing they had about another hour before he would have to call it a day. He was truly hoping to impress her and then maybe lay her out on a few bales of hay before heading home.
She was leaning into his back holding his waist, tightening her grip when they hit; the atv came to a dead stop and the two of them flipped end over end.
He jumped up to help her and once they both realized they were not hurt they burst into laughter at the site of each other – both covered head to toe in mud (likely to be a mixture of cow crap and mud by the smell of things). Caught up in the humor of the moment they completely forgot why they had been flipped off the vehicle, until they heard a soft cry.
Looking back they saw a frail looking cow and an injured new little baby calf, both still alive but for how long they could not be sure; both critters looked quite hurt.
She started to cry right away, “We’ve got to get them into the barn and help until Mr. Roland shows up!”
“No fucking way! If they die by our doing and we are caught we are gonna get skinned alive!”
She pleaded and pleaded with him. With a quick glance he snatched up the calf and headed for the barn. She breathed a sign of relief and chased after him to help. As they neared the building he turned a bit and lifted a wooden panel from the ground.
“What are you doing?”
Without a reply, he dropped the calf down into the well.
She screamed wildly but her screams could not drown out those from the calf; she tried to reach it but she could not even see how far down he was – she could only hear it screeching.
The momma cow was still out in the field struggling to rise to help her baby. He was running back out to it and she left the well side to try to save the mumma before he got to her. He got to her first but did not go near her, instead turned his 4wheeler up right, jumped on and started it. She thought he was leaving her in the field and was glad, Mr. Roland would be along very soon and they could still save them she hoped.
He revved up the engine, kicked it into gear and drove off, she thanked the stars – she had a chance. He spun back and charged right for the momma; she jumped between them to try to stop him but he rushed on – she had no choice but to leap out of the way or be killed too. He rammed the cow, drove over her and continued to do so repeatedly until all movement from the critter stopped.
She jumped back into his path and tried to stop him but he struck her with his hand and knocked her to the ground. She could not pull herself together quick enough to stop him.
Tying a rope to the cow he dragged her with his atv to the well and knocked her down into it, rejoining her with her calf.
Headlights peeked at the top of the driveway, he spun off for home; leaving his date in the field and the baby calf still screaming.
They were riding their 4wheeler up in his field again, asked not to but they didn’t care. It’s not like they can hurt anything thing but themselves, the field is only used as a place for his cows to graze.
She’s not really enjoying herself, the place stinks, and there appears to be cow crap everywhere but he is truly handsome. He’s two years older, tall, built rugged, fabulous tan and the most gorgeous green eyes she’d ever seen and he asked her to go riding with him. She would ride through fields and fields of cow crap if it meant spending time with him.
It was getting late, only a wee bit of day light left and the Rolands were not back to their farm yet, he was guessing they had about another hour before he would have to call it a day. He was truly hoping to impress her and then maybe lay her out on a few bales of hay before heading home.
She was leaning into his back holding his waist, tightening her grip when they hit; the atv came to a dead stop and the two of them flipped end over end.
He jumped up to help her and once they both realized they were not hurt they burst into laughter at the site of each other – both covered head to toe in mud (likely to be a mixture of cow crap and mud by the smell of things). Caught up in the humor of the moment they completely forgot why they had been flipped off the vehicle, until they heard a soft cry.
Looking back they saw a frail looking cow and an injured new little baby calf, both still alive but for how long they could not be sure; both critters looked quite hurt.
She started to cry right away, “We’ve got to get them into the barn and help until Mr. Roland shows up!”
“No fucking way! If they die by our doing and we are caught we are gonna get skinned alive!”
She pleaded and pleaded with him. With a quick glance he snatched up the calf and headed for the barn. She breathed a sign of relief and chased after him to help. As they neared the building he turned a bit and lifted a wooden panel from the ground.
“What are you doing?”
Without a reply, he dropped the calf down into the well.
She screamed wildly but her screams could not drown out those from the calf; she tried to reach it but she could not even see how far down he was – she could only hear it screeching.
The momma cow was still out in the field struggling to rise to help her baby. He was running back out to it and she left the well side to try to save the mumma before he got to her. He got to her first but did not go near her, instead turned his 4wheeler up right, jumped on and started it. She thought he was leaving her in the field and was glad, Mr. Roland would be along very soon and they could still save them she hoped.
He revved up the engine, kicked it into gear and drove off, she thanked the stars – she had a chance. He spun back and charged right for the momma; she jumped between them to try to stop him but he rushed on – she had no choice but to leap out of the way or be killed too. He rammed the cow, drove over her and continued to do so repeatedly until all movement from the critter stopped.
She jumped back into his path and tried to stop him but he struck her with his hand and knocked her to the ground. She could not pull herself together quick enough to stop him.
Tying a rope to the cow he dragged her with his atv to the well and knocked her down into it, rejoining her with her calf.
Headlights peeked at the top of the driveway, he spun off for home; leaving his date in the field and the baby calf still screaming.
Week 11 Theme
Clip – snap!
This little piggy went to karate; leaving all her weight at home.
Clip – snap!
This little piggy ate a woopie pie; feeling ashamed and all alone.
Clip – snap!
And this little piggy played wifey; doing dishes and laundry with a moan and a groan.
Clip – snap!
This little piggy wracked up minutes; texting and conversing on her phone.
Clip – snap!
This little piggy played momma; loving and carry for her own.
So, where is the little piggy who looked after the sheep? Well, she’s not under any haystack fast asleep. Awake and wide-eyed, she works night and day; so much to do and no time for play.
Play is for the critters who live in her shoe; for there are so many of them she often does not know what to do. Feeding them no broth – just a bit of bread; off to sleep hungry, she puts them all to bed.
Early to bed, early to rise; the youngest of them pries open her eyes. Pulls at the little curl resting in the middle of her forehead; gets up and going and proves right away that when she is good she is very, very good but when she is bad she is horrid.
A few extra hands this little piggy needs, but little jack horner is not in his corner, the spider on the tuffet has already frightened Miss Muffett and Papa bear is out for his morning stroll while he waits for the cooling of his morning bowl.
So, this little piggy cries below the twinkling star in the far off black sky…wondering – just wondering – why oh why….Keeping up with it all is a task too demanding she is too weak; picking pecks for Peter barely enough energy left to speak.
And what do you think appears before her eyes? But a tiny fairy godmother, dressed in disguise. With a twinkling of her wand and a catchy little jingle; this little piggy’s back starts to tingle; the fairy godmother dances and sings… and from this piggy’s back sprouts some wings.
“Why, fairy godmother, why?”
“Because my dear, pigs must fly!”
This little piggy went to karate; leaving all her weight at home.
Clip – snap!
This little piggy ate a woopie pie; feeling ashamed and all alone.
Clip – snap!
And this little piggy played wifey; doing dishes and laundry with a moan and a groan.
Clip – snap!
This little piggy wracked up minutes; texting and conversing on her phone.
Clip – snap!
This little piggy played momma; loving and carry for her own.
So, where is the little piggy who looked after the sheep? Well, she’s not under any haystack fast asleep. Awake and wide-eyed, she works night and day; so much to do and no time for play.
Play is for the critters who live in her shoe; for there are so many of them she often does not know what to do. Feeding them no broth – just a bit of bread; off to sleep hungry, she puts them all to bed.
Early to bed, early to rise; the youngest of them pries open her eyes. Pulls at the little curl resting in the middle of her forehead; gets up and going and proves right away that when she is good she is very, very good but when she is bad she is horrid.
A few extra hands this little piggy needs, but little jack horner is not in his corner, the spider on the tuffet has already frightened Miss Muffett and Papa bear is out for his morning stroll while he waits for the cooling of his morning bowl.
So, this little piggy cries below the twinkling star in the far off black sky…wondering – just wondering – why oh why….Keeping up with it all is a task too demanding she is too weak; picking pecks for Peter barely enough energy left to speak.
And what do you think appears before her eyes? But a tiny fairy godmother, dressed in disguise. With a twinkling of her wand and a catchy little jingle; this little piggy’s back starts to tingle; the fairy godmother dances and sings… and from this piggy’s back sprouts some wings.
“Why, fairy godmother, why?”
“Because my dear, pigs must fly!”
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Week 10 Theme
“Sha click, sha click” the sound resonates deep within her, a sound she’s heard before – experienced before – lived before; the wool slides between her fingers, her foot rises and falls on the pedal and the wheel spins.
Their hands joined, they formed a circle around the altar; a fire ablaze in the womb of the cauldron – Her womb, the magickal workings spread before them and they spun – chanting, singing and spinning their web.
Westward bound, Water spun her way clear off the island – into a hospital; a sickness so many now have. She collected her hair and secretly stashed it into a little brown box in the bottom of her closet. She sleeps.
They whirled into the night, the moon hidden behind a storm of clouds, the darkness stood outside their circle cast; Her lit belly lighting their way.
Northern lights guided Earth’s adventure far from their sacred space, as stability abandoned her; her husband faded into the past, her children graduated and moved-on, no place to call home – no place except the land where her herbs grow.
Heat rose and their hands vibrated with the intensity of the energy they created; no longer were they dizzy, their speed increased as they weaved in and out of this world.
Southern flames that once roared fiercely dull themselves to the strength of a barely lit candle as South sits at home, knits, zones and finds glimmers of comfort in the time she has left; her passions fading with her spirit.
An abrupt termination of the spinning, their web was complete, their cone erect and direction required; they released their hands and placed them above the altar – hovering, releasing, energizing. Harm to none, their will was done; their circle was opened.
Eastern breezes carried Air home that night; leaving her to crave the clasping of their hands once more. A delicate tune escapes her now as she travels into the years ahead; she finds herself visiting her dear elemental friends through spirit and feeling the loss of what is to never be again.
“Sha click, Sha scrape” the wool - over spun - pulls apart; she loses her footing on the pedal and the wheel comes to a halt.
Their hands joined, they formed a circle around the altar; a fire ablaze in the womb of the cauldron – Her womb, the magickal workings spread before them and they spun – chanting, singing and spinning their web.
Westward bound, Water spun her way clear off the island – into a hospital; a sickness so many now have. She collected her hair and secretly stashed it into a little brown box in the bottom of her closet. She sleeps.
They whirled into the night, the moon hidden behind a storm of clouds, the darkness stood outside their circle cast; Her lit belly lighting their way.
Northern lights guided Earth’s adventure far from their sacred space, as stability abandoned her; her husband faded into the past, her children graduated and moved-on, no place to call home – no place except the land where her herbs grow.
Heat rose and their hands vibrated with the intensity of the energy they created; no longer were they dizzy, their speed increased as they weaved in and out of this world.
Southern flames that once roared fiercely dull themselves to the strength of a barely lit candle as South sits at home, knits, zones and finds glimmers of comfort in the time she has left; her passions fading with her spirit.
An abrupt termination of the spinning, their web was complete, their cone erect and direction required; they released their hands and placed them above the altar – hovering, releasing, energizing. Harm to none, their will was done; their circle was opened.
Eastern breezes carried Air home that night; leaving her to crave the clasping of their hands once more. A delicate tune escapes her now as she travels into the years ahead; she finds herself visiting her dear elemental friends through spirit and feeling the loss of what is to never be again.
“Sha click, Sha scrape” the wool - over spun - pulls apart; she loses her footing on the pedal and the wheel comes to a halt.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Week 9 Theme
She stays up; her little ones are tucked snugly into their beds and she knits. Squinting her tired, dry eyes she counts her stitches and marks her rows; a simple acrylic wool blend sweater for her young daughter. Forty three, forty four, forty five…..approximately thirteen rounds to go till she marks off the arms.
Her hands are cramped from working the needles for so long and she hears her husbands alarm go off. He trudges into the dim room, sips his coffee and groans while he bends to lace up his work boots with cracked soles.
Christmas will be hard this year, one of their hardest ones yet. Their son asks Santa for a Wii – she feels sad, holds her daughter tighter to her hip and tucks her hair behind her ear, Santa winks at her and tells her little boy that the elves are working on something different – something special for him this year; the boy slides off Santa’s knee, takes her hand and they walk outside into the wet cold.
Her hands are cramped from working the needles for so long and she hears her husbands alarm go off. He trudges into the dim room, sips his coffee and groans while he bends to lace up his work boots with cracked soles.
Christmas will be hard this year, one of their hardest ones yet. Their son asks Santa for a Wii – she feels sad, holds her daughter tighter to her hip and tucks her hair behind her ear, Santa winks at her and tells her little boy that the elves are working on something different – something special for him this year; the boy slides off Santa’s knee, takes her hand and they walk outside into the wet cold.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Week 8 Theme
Week 8 Theme
Will they believe I have a headache? No, of course they won’t! Well, I don’t care – I have one and that is that and who wants to go to a party with a headache – not me! I do have a headache – don’t I…
I’m sure their Halloween party with be fun – I could pop a few Advil, leave and still make it to see all the costumes; my family is such a hoot at these parties but I don’t know…my head really hurts – I think…
It’s quite likely he will be there; he would sigh loudly and roll his eyes when I walked in and that would be the start of it. He would cock his head to the side, prop his foot up on an end table, rest his elbow on his knee and stare me down before he spewed out, “Look what the cat dragged in.” Plus, I’m sure they will all be smoking inside since the rain is coming down so hard and that will make my head hurt worse, it is a migraine now – well, I’m pretty sure it is…
Everyone will gather in the basement around the pool table and mini bar and they will laugh and act foolish; he will stand along the edge of the group – a bottle of Bud in one hand and a pool stick in the other but he won’t play; he will make small comments about how his night is ruined because I showed up. I will stay upstairs, with the sober folk, massage my temples and make it known my head is really hurting and I should leave early – it is the pain in my head why I wish to leave, I’m pretty sure…
They will understand if I just don’t make it, they know I would go if I could; when they hear how bad my head hurts I’m sure they will urge me to stay home, rest and feel better…No, no they won’t. They might speak sympathetically and pretend to believe me but they know he and I don’t get along – some will think I’m a chicken for avoiding him, some will think I’m rude for not letting bygones be bygones and others will turn the other cheek and pretend they don’t care one way or the other but none of them will be genuinely concerned for my state of well being - for having to endure this excruciating headache…
Will they believe I have a headache? No, of course they won’t! Well, I don’t care – I have one and that is that and who wants to go to a party with a headache – not me! I do have a headache – don’t I…
I’m sure their Halloween party with be fun – I could pop a few Advil, leave and still make it to see all the costumes; my family is such a hoot at these parties but I don’t know…my head really hurts – I think…
It’s quite likely he will be there; he would sigh loudly and roll his eyes when I walked in and that would be the start of it. He would cock his head to the side, prop his foot up on an end table, rest his elbow on his knee and stare me down before he spewed out, “Look what the cat dragged in.” Plus, I’m sure they will all be smoking inside since the rain is coming down so hard and that will make my head hurt worse, it is a migraine now – well, I’m pretty sure it is…
Everyone will gather in the basement around the pool table and mini bar and they will laugh and act foolish; he will stand along the edge of the group – a bottle of Bud in one hand and a pool stick in the other but he won’t play; he will make small comments about how his night is ruined because I showed up. I will stay upstairs, with the sober folk, massage my temples and make it known my head is really hurting and I should leave early – it is the pain in my head why I wish to leave, I’m pretty sure…
They will understand if I just don’t make it, they know I would go if I could; when they hear how bad my head hurts I’m sure they will urge me to stay home, rest and feel better…No, no they won’t. They might speak sympathetically and pretend to believe me but they know he and I don’t get along – some will think I’m a chicken for avoiding him, some will think I’m rude for not letting bygones be bygones and others will turn the other cheek and pretend they don’t care one way or the other but none of them will be genuinely concerned for my state of well being - for having to endure this excruciating headache…
Monday, October 26, 2009
Week 7 Theme
Week 7 Theme
Dearest Treesha,
I’m thinking of you today; my mind is wandering after our short but pleasant visit and I’m feeling a bit like Anne – if only my gables were green – right?
I appreciate your encouragement, criticisms and thoughts on the stuff I showed you; it was sweet of you to take the time to read it all. Your looks resemble mum when you smile while your read – she has the speckled red in her cheeks too and calls it Rosacea but I think you wear the red sweetly, like you call onto the color to naturally rouse your inner Dianna.
I’m not sure that you are a Dianna though, not a Marilla either but it’s ok because I’m really not an Anne but your recollection of Gil’s advice is well received and I think will give it a go.
What do you think it would have been like if we had grown up together closer in age? Perhaps, sister, you would not advise me the way you do if we were closer together and I might not admire you the way in which I do.
Everyone seems to look up to you in a way; maybe it is because you are the only one of us who moved away. I mean you joined the Navy, traveled the seas and have the stories to prove it. That’s pretty cool. I wish I could go to Italy too – just once would be nice, I’m sure Sicily was neat but if I got to go I would go to Venice…just imagine streets of water! I’m sure glad you didn’t stay that far gone, it’s nice having you within driving distance but – 6 hours away – really? You could have considered the gas prices – hee hee. I do completely DIS-agree with everyone who says you are perfect, please don’t misunderstand me – I’m not trying to be rude. (Your are Practically Perfect in every Possible way – Not! Hee hee) Ok, so your yard is more managed than mine, and your dishes are always done on time and I was not able to find any dust (yes, I looked – so there :p ) but your not perfect because….I saw a hole in your sock! Yep, that’s right your big toe was sticking out and you thought when you tucked your foot behind your leg that I didn’t notice.
Oh guess what! You inspired my creative side with yours, after you showed me those craft books you made I got thinking and I was on the chapter of our book where Anne accidentally gets Dianna drunk and I decided to make cordial! I loved all the blue glass in your kitchen so I decided to recycle a blue glass wine bottle to put the mix in – I’m actually making two so I can bring one to you sometime….then maybe I will accidentally get you drunk! How funny would that be – I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk…or even have a drink. That’s kinda cool actually and I’m really glad you don’t smoke or probably the books you loaned me would stink too much for me to bear reading them. Plus, Anne would never smoke.
You know, I think your hair is like hers - not the orange carrot color but the strawberry blonde shade but your hands are like mums and I’ve always imagined mums hands to be like Marilla’s.
Wow, I really do babble on and on don’t I, it’s just a sign that our visit was too short. I miss you immensely my beloved sister – we are true kindred spirits you and I (how corny does that sound!) Well, I’m off now to go write a Rollins Reliable story….or maybe I’ll think of you and your advice and write about the people I know and love. Till next time sis…
Cordially yours,
Teffitee (your Anne)
Dearest Treesha,
I’m thinking of you today; my mind is wandering after our short but pleasant visit and I’m feeling a bit like Anne – if only my gables were green – right?
I appreciate your encouragement, criticisms and thoughts on the stuff I showed you; it was sweet of you to take the time to read it all. Your looks resemble mum when you smile while your read – she has the speckled red in her cheeks too and calls it Rosacea but I think you wear the red sweetly, like you call onto the color to naturally rouse your inner Dianna.
I’m not sure that you are a Dianna though, not a Marilla either but it’s ok because I’m really not an Anne but your recollection of Gil’s advice is well received and I think will give it a go.
What do you think it would have been like if we had grown up together closer in age? Perhaps, sister, you would not advise me the way you do if we were closer together and I might not admire you the way in which I do.
Everyone seems to look up to you in a way; maybe it is because you are the only one of us who moved away. I mean you joined the Navy, traveled the seas and have the stories to prove it. That’s pretty cool. I wish I could go to Italy too – just once would be nice, I’m sure Sicily was neat but if I got to go I would go to Venice…just imagine streets of water! I’m sure glad you didn’t stay that far gone, it’s nice having you within driving distance but – 6 hours away – really? You could have considered the gas prices – hee hee. I do completely DIS-agree with everyone who says you are perfect, please don’t misunderstand me – I’m not trying to be rude. (Your are Practically Perfect in every Possible way – Not! Hee hee) Ok, so your yard is more managed than mine, and your dishes are always done on time and I was not able to find any dust (yes, I looked – so there :p ) but your not perfect because….I saw a hole in your sock! Yep, that’s right your big toe was sticking out and you thought when you tucked your foot behind your leg that I didn’t notice.
Oh guess what! You inspired my creative side with yours, after you showed me those craft books you made I got thinking and I was on the chapter of our book where Anne accidentally gets Dianna drunk and I decided to make cordial! I loved all the blue glass in your kitchen so I decided to recycle a blue glass wine bottle to put the mix in – I’m actually making two so I can bring one to you sometime….then maybe I will accidentally get you drunk! How funny would that be – I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk…or even have a drink. That’s kinda cool actually and I’m really glad you don’t smoke or probably the books you loaned me would stink too much for me to bear reading them. Plus, Anne would never smoke.
You know, I think your hair is like hers - not the orange carrot color but the strawberry blonde shade but your hands are like mums and I’ve always imagined mums hands to be like Marilla’s.
Wow, I really do babble on and on don’t I, it’s just a sign that our visit was too short. I miss you immensely my beloved sister – we are true kindred spirits you and I (how corny does that sound!) Well, I’m off now to go write a Rollins Reliable story….or maybe I’ll think of you and your advice and write about the people I know and love. Till next time sis…
Cordially yours,
Teffitee (your Anne)
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Week 6 Theme
Vertical paneling hangs on all four walls; it is a sage green on the bottom and a vanilla cream on the top, separated by a sage green chair rail. The window treatments are all white; white framing, vintage white lace curtains and a faded white pull shade.
The light treatment; floor lamps and lamps mounted to the walls are all brass with a cream colored lamp shade; they use the new energy efficient light bulbs in each one. You must turn them on by hand; the light switch on the wall seems quite useless.
How long does it take for white to fade? Brass to rust? Who left the grease smudge on the vanilla cream wall?
The TV hangs from a black metal rack attached to the wall about four feet above the floor. Rug covers the floor, commercial grade brown rug. One table, one dresser and one night stand are placed around the room; they have a dark, laminated wood grain finish.
Two double beds take up the most space, resting on simple metal frames; white sheets and hospital corners. Rose covered bedspreads draped over each.
How many bear feet have walked across this brown rug? How many bibles are sold for night stand drawers? Who put the cigarette burn in the bedspread?
A white squared drop ceiling hangs above with a pattern like an ant farm. One small mini fridge rests beside the doorway to the bathroom and a silver coat rack is mounted to the wall behind the only door out.
One mirror hangs from the wall next to the TV and two pictures of mountains hang above the beds. The window shows a view of the parking area and a place outside for people who smoke.
How much weight does it take to break three coat hangers? How many people steal the batteries to the remotes in their motel rooms? Who received seven years of bad luck for breaking the mirror?
The light treatment; floor lamps and lamps mounted to the walls are all brass with a cream colored lamp shade; they use the new energy efficient light bulbs in each one. You must turn them on by hand; the light switch on the wall seems quite useless.
How long does it take for white to fade? Brass to rust? Who left the grease smudge on the vanilla cream wall?
The TV hangs from a black metal rack attached to the wall about four feet above the floor. Rug covers the floor, commercial grade brown rug. One table, one dresser and one night stand are placed around the room; they have a dark, laminated wood grain finish.
Two double beds take up the most space, resting on simple metal frames; white sheets and hospital corners. Rose covered bedspreads draped over each.
How many bear feet have walked across this brown rug? How many bibles are sold for night stand drawers? Who put the cigarette burn in the bedspread?
A white squared drop ceiling hangs above with a pattern like an ant farm. One small mini fridge rests beside the doorway to the bathroom and a silver coat rack is mounted to the wall behind the only door out.
One mirror hangs from the wall next to the TV and two pictures of mountains hang above the beds. The window shows a view of the parking area and a place outside for people who smoke.
How much weight does it take to break three coat hangers? How many people steal the batteries to the remotes in their motel rooms? Who received seven years of bad luck for breaking the mirror?
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Week 5 Theme
I grew up here on this little chunk of land in Hancock and I’ve roamed all 10.75 acres of it for the last thirty-two years; ventured across the boundary lines and familiarized myself with almost every square-inch within a five mile radius, so it came without surprise when my husband and I chose this place to set up residence and settle.
Through the pines, across the brook, around the beaver damn and back again, my siblings, nephews, neighbors, my husband and myself built some of the best recreational trails around…for the adventurous at heart. We take our snowshoes, cross country skis, dirt bikes, 3 & 4 wheelers out on them, not to mention just simply hiking them on foot with the kids and dogs for hunting or for adventure. It’s been an unspoken agreement with our bordering neighbors that property lines are redundant, only meant for the town tax collectors; thus we share the scope of our swampy, muddy, mossy terrain. The land is rich in history, not the history you will find in a text book, but a sort of natural history; for along side of, mingling with and beyond our trails are portions – reminiscent reminders of our kin who played here before us. Just sixteen paces left of the tallest knotted pine are the remains of my father’s and uncles aged smoke shack, along the outskirts of the cedar swamp is granddad’s old tree house, and just beyond the junk yard is the massive mud pit bordered by maples all donning carved hearts and initials of past romances, our tree is at the back side of the pit, at one time it blended with the others but now it stands a bit ragged and wounded – a few limbs are missing and it is split near the top from lightening, it has been hit twice (that I’m aware of) by 3-wheelers but it still stands strong – a few scars but nevertheless strong, ironically enough the tree seems to have mirrored our marriage in a sense.
My mother often says, “what does not kill us makes us stronger”, she doesn’t say it for religious reasons, more so because she sees the practicality in it. She’s had lots of opportunities to test her theories, raising eight kids doesn’t come without tribulations; she may have been lucky with me (I may be the exception here – the black sheep of the family) however, my husband fits right in with the rest of them – catastrophe could easily be his middle name.
It was a cool spring morning, two springs ago, when Little John brought over his Honda 250 for us to borrow for the weekend. He quietly backed his pick-up down the drive and rolled it off the back without a word; Mike was still asleep but I was up and stepped out onto the porch, Little John nodded his head at me, smiled and was gone – I felt like the first kid awake on Christmas morning and I had just seen Santa. I quietly slipped back into the house, kicked off my slippers and threw on my Mucks, I didn’t care that I was wearing my night clothes – sweat pants and a flannel nightshirt would be just fine, I flew back out the door and climbed on the 4 wheeled, big red ATV, turned the key and felt it rumble to life. I didn’t want to linger long, at 6:00 a.m. its’ low rumble echoed like a great Maine grizzly attacking the chickadees and I knew in moments Mike would be out the door to steal it away from me, so I kicked it into gear and was out of there! I went the long way around, to hopefully avoid waking him up, down past our neighbors (I’m sure they loved me for this), pass the beaver pond, down through the pines, deep into the back woods I raged through some of the last remaining snow and darted out into the clearing behind the junk yard…the mud pit!
A light frost remained in the ground and the mud was crunchy below the tires, a few puddles had a light layer of ice that I thoroughly enjoyed smashing through and splattering in and out of. It took a few tight donuts in high gear to really get the ground worked up, the pleasure of molding it into fine workable clay felt almost as exciting as foreplay (ok about as equally exciting), with dark mud starting to spit up onto my legs and icy, murky puddle water spattering onto my face – I was having the time of my life! My teeth started chattering, not because it was cold but from the extreme vibration that traveled from my grip on the cracked rubber handles wrapped in duck tape, up my arms straight into my head; the beast was wildly throbbing, yet I held strong - knowing from past experiences how easily one of these could go up on two wheels and flip right over.
My peripheral vision caught a cluster of Alder trees bending and bowing, I dropped gears and slowed to a stop – just before me, less then ten yards away, was a small dotted fawn, his little ears were perked straight up and he was staring right at me. I sat frozen, motionless, staring right back, enjoying the moment but concerned with what bigger friend of his might be accompanying him on his little outing. Seconds past, then a tree branch snapped behind us, startling him provoking him to dart deep into the woods. I remained frozen, a bit frightened, wondering what caused the tree to snap; my eyes frantically scanned the range of view I had without turning my head. I heard a faint rustle of the bushes but could see nothing, I contemplated revving my toy back to life and speeding out of there but fear (or curiosity) kept me frozen still. My heart skipped a beat when I heard the mud suctioning around the new intruders steps as it apparently advanced towards me from behind, my mind was racing on what to do – what to do, I’m sure my brain was still rattling around from all those donuts I had been spinning in and that is why I was not thinking clearer or faster. I had seen bear tracks down here before, heck I had seen them on most all of our trails, why did I think this was a good idea to come out here alone. I was trying to remember what I had learned to do in a bear attack…play dead – right? Just then I felt it, the weight added to the back of the 4 wheeler – I gasped, hot breath heated the back of my neck – sending shivers down my spine, I took one last breath in and then…there it was - a strong paw slamming down onto my shoulder! This was followed by a loud boisterous laugh and I turned and came face to face with my husband. Seeing the fear on my face and my ghostly white appearance (despite the mud that I was covered in) he doubled over laughing himself into a tizzy and muffled out the words, “Serves you right!”.
That was it - my fun was over, he promptly regained his composure, lifted me off the drenched seat and instructed me to stand back and watch a pro at work. As I backed off, trudging through the rutted up, muddy ground towards an old weight bench he fired the beast to life and lurched it forward, triumphantly spinning circles around me. I made it safely to the rusty weight bench and sat – pouting. He just grinned ear to ear and gunned the ATV forward, diving in and out of the trees, nearly missing them, dodging under low limbs and climbing two tires up onto heaps of rocks…all the things I didn’t do (not because I’m a chicken mind you but because I do have some basic common sense) regardless, he enjoyed his carelessness that he calls a pro at work (I call it showing off). I guess he noticed that I was not that impressed for he switched gears and decided to turn up the ground a bit more – working over my donuts he began to spin several of his own. He was not as cautious as I had been, he climbed up onto the seat, resting on one leg – bent at the knee under him while the other was straight back, holding onto only one handle while waving at me with his free hand…he looked like a bear on a ball in the circus, however I couldn’t help but grin a bit. This small grin only encouraged him and he gave it some more gas, cut the corner even tighter and went up onto two wheels – tilting the rig and almost losing his balance, anxiously he tried to regain composure but it all happened too quickly. He lost control of the ATV, without his grip on the handle it spun recklessly out of control, headed towards a tree – our tree – smashed into it, climbed part way up it and then spilled over backwards. There Mike laid, sprawled out, mangled and twisted with a four wheeler on top of him.
I gushed across the sludge and muck to him, pushed with all my might and got the majority of the weight off of him but I stopped dead when I saw his leg, bent in the wrong direction, curled up around the wheel! (I had no idea legs could bend this way!) Thank god for cell phones, so where the heck was mine? (Back home on the charger.) I darted through the woods to our closest neighbors and pounded on the door, J.D. answered in just his boxers. Breathless, I couldn’t produce words. Instinctively (he knew Mike well and this was not the first – or the last time – we knocked on his door), he grabbed his phone and called an ambulance, threw on his work boots and a sweatshirt and followed me back through the woods.
Mike was breathing but shock was setting in and he started to shiver, J.D. and I did what we could to reduce his pain and keep him calm. We didn’t dare move the ATV in fear we would really mess up his leg but we, wrapped J.D.’s sweatshirt around him to try to warm him, talked and joked with him to keep him awake and alert. The ambulance crew found us with ease (this was not their first trip down there), they arrived carrying their gear through the trails, even prepared for the muddy territory; Ken lead the way. Ken always seemed to be on duty when we called (I really should consider inviting him to dinner sometime), he works quick, is familiar with Mike and really knows how to handle a variety of situations with skill and ease. They had Mike boarded and on his way to the hospital in record time.
When I arrived at the hospital, the Doctor on call informed me he was fine, a few cuts and scrapes and a severely damaged knee but nonetheless fine. They wanted to keep him for a few days and prep him for surgery; he had shattered some bone, torn some ligaments and needed a complete ACL repair. He assured me Mike would be okay, that he was lucky and that he would be out of work for only about six months (only!). I knew this news would not settle well with Mike, he is not a man to be kept down – I was right, he scoffed when the doctor repeated this all to him but little did both Mike and I realize at the time, Mike was lucky and should have listened and took some down time.
Mike did go through with the surgery (there was no way around that) but to be without work for six months – he was going mad! He tried to move around and go to work, he was painting at the time and tried, boy did he try, he even attempted to hop up a ladder, however, the coursing pain shooting through his body humbled him and he painstakingly realized he was homebound for now but he did not rest – he “was not a man to be kept down” as he put it….so, this ATV accident, knee surgery and six months of ‘down’ time was really - just the beginning…
Through the pines, across the brook, around the beaver damn and back again, my siblings, nephews, neighbors, my husband and myself built some of the best recreational trails around…for the adventurous at heart. We take our snowshoes, cross country skis, dirt bikes, 3 & 4 wheelers out on them, not to mention just simply hiking them on foot with the kids and dogs for hunting or for adventure. It’s been an unspoken agreement with our bordering neighbors that property lines are redundant, only meant for the town tax collectors; thus we share the scope of our swampy, muddy, mossy terrain. The land is rich in history, not the history you will find in a text book, but a sort of natural history; for along side of, mingling with and beyond our trails are portions – reminiscent reminders of our kin who played here before us. Just sixteen paces left of the tallest knotted pine are the remains of my father’s and uncles aged smoke shack, along the outskirts of the cedar swamp is granddad’s old tree house, and just beyond the junk yard is the massive mud pit bordered by maples all donning carved hearts and initials of past romances, our tree is at the back side of the pit, at one time it blended with the others but now it stands a bit ragged and wounded – a few limbs are missing and it is split near the top from lightening, it has been hit twice (that I’m aware of) by 3-wheelers but it still stands strong – a few scars but nevertheless strong, ironically enough the tree seems to have mirrored our marriage in a sense.
My mother often says, “what does not kill us makes us stronger”, she doesn’t say it for religious reasons, more so because she sees the practicality in it. She’s had lots of opportunities to test her theories, raising eight kids doesn’t come without tribulations; she may have been lucky with me (I may be the exception here – the black sheep of the family) however, my husband fits right in with the rest of them – catastrophe could easily be his middle name.
It was a cool spring morning, two springs ago, when Little John brought over his Honda 250 for us to borrow for the weekend. He quietly backed his pick-up down the drive and rolled it off the back without a word; Mike was still asleep but I was up and stepped out onto the porch, Little John nodded his head at me, smiled and was gone – I felt like the first kid awake on Christmas morning and I had just seen Santa. I quietly slipped back into the house, kicked off my slippers and threw on my Mucks, I didn’t care that I was wearing my night clothes – sweat pants and a flannel nightshirt would be just fine, I flew back out the door and climbed on the 4 wheeled, big red ATV, turned the key and felt it rumble to life. I didn’t want to linger long, at 6:00 a.m. its’ low rumble echoed like a great Maine grizzly attacking the chickadees and I knew in moments Mike would be out the door to steal it away from me, so I kicked it into gear and was out of there! I went the long way around, to hopefully avoid waking him up, down past our neighbors (I’m sure they loved me for this), pass the beaver pond, down through the pines, deep into the back woods I raged through some of the last remaining snow and darted out into the clearing behind the junk yard…the mud pit!
A light frost remained in the ground and the mud was crunchy below the tires, a few puddles had a light layer of ice that I thoroughly enjoyed smashing through and splattering in and out of. It took a few tight donuts in high gear to really get the ground worked up, the pleasure of molding it into fine workable clay felt almost as exciting as foreplay (ok about as equally exciting), with dark mud starting to spit up onto my legs and icy, murky puddle water spattering onto my face – I was having the time of my life! My teeth started chattering, not because it was cold but from the extreme vibration that traveled from my grip on the cracked rubber handles wrapped in duck tape, up my arms straight into my head; the beast was wildly throbbing, yet I held strong - knowing from past experiences how easily one of these could go up on two wheels and flip right over.
My peripheral vision caught a cluster of Alder trees bending and bowing, I dropped gears and slowed to a stop – just before me, less then ten yards away, was a small dotted fawn, his little ears were perked straight up and he was staring right at me. I sat frozen, motionless, staring right back, enjoying the moment but concerned with what bigger friend of his might be accompanying him on his little outing. Seconds past, then a tree branch snapped behind us, startling him provoking him to dart deep into the woods. I remained frozen, a bit frightened, wondering what caused the tree to snap; my eyes frantically scanned the range of view I had without turning my head. I heard a faint rustle of the bushes but could see nothing, I contemplated revving my toy back to life and speeding out of there but fear (or curiosity) kept me frozen still. My heart skipped a beat when I heard the mud suctioning around the new intruders steps as it apparently advanced towards me from behind, my mind was racing on what to do – what to do, I’m sure my brain was still rattling around from all those donuts I had been spinning in and that is why I was not thinking clearer or faster. I had seen bear tracks down here before, heck I had seen them on most all of our trails, why did I think this was a good idea to come out here alone. I was trying to remember what I had learned to do in a bear attack…play dead – right? Just then I felt it, the weight added to the back of the 4 wheeler – I gasped, hot breath heated the back of my neck – sending shivers down my spine, I took one last breath in and then…there it was - a strong paw slamming down onto my shoulder! This was followed by a loud boisterous laugh and I turned and came face to face with my husband. Seeing the fear on my face and my ghostly white appearance (despite the mud that I was covered in) he doubled over laughing himself into a tizzy and muffled out the words, “Serves you right!”.
That was it - my fun was over, he promptly regained his composure, lifted me off the drenched seat and instructed me to stand back and watch a pro at work. As I backed off, trudging through the rutted up, muddy ground towards an old weight bench he fired the beast to life and lurched it forward, triumphantly spinning circles around me. I made it safely to the rusty weight bench and sat – pouting. He just grinned ear to ear and gunned the ATV forward, diving in and out of the trees, nearly missing them, dodging under low limbs and climbing two tires up onto heaps of rocks…all the things I didn’t do (not because I’m a chicken mind you but because I do have some basic common sense) regardless, he enjoyed his carelessness that he calls a pro at work (I call it showing off). I guess he noticed that I was not that impressed for he switched gears and decided to turn up the ground a bit more – working over my donuts he began to spin several of his own. He was not as cautious as I had been, he climbed up onto the seat, resting on one leg – bent at the knee under him while the other was straight back, holding onto only one handle while waving at me with his free hand…he looked like a bear on a ball in the circus, however I couldn’t help but grin a bit. This small grin only encouraged him and he gave it some more gas, cut the corner even tighter and went up onto two wheels – tilting the rig and almost losing his balance, anxiously he tried to regain composure but it all happened too quickly. He lost control of the ATV, without his grip on the handle it spun recklessly out of control, headed towards a tree – our tree – smashed into it, climbed part way up it and then spilled over backwards. There Mike laid, sprawled out, mangled and twisted with a four wheeler on top of him.
I gushed across the sludge and muck to him, pushed with all my might and got the majority of the weight off of him but I stopped dead when I saw his leg, bent in the wrong direction, curled up around the wheel! (I had no idea legs could bend this way!) Thank god for cell phones, so where the heck was mine? (Back home on the charger.) I darted through the woods to our closest neighbors and pounded on the door, J.D. answered in just his boxers. Breathless, I couldn’t produce words. Instinctively (he knew Mike well and this was not the first – or the last time – we knocked on his door), he grabbed his phone and called an ambulance, threw on his work boots and a sweatshirt and followed me back through the woods.
Mike was breathing but shock was setting in and he started to shiver, J.D. and I did what we could to reduce his pain and keep him calm. We didn’t dare move the ATV in fear we would really mess up his leg but we, wrapped J.D.’s sweatshirt around him to try to warm him, talked and joked with him to keep him awake and alert. The ambulance crew found us with ease (this was not their first trip down there), they arrived carrying their gear through the trails, even prepared for the muddy territory; Ken lead the way. Ken always seemed to be on duty when we called (I really should consider inviting him to dinner sometime), he works quick, is familiar with Mike and really knows how to handle a variety of situations with skill and ease. They had Mike boarded and on his way to the hospital in record time.
When I arrived at the hospital, the Doctor on call informed me he was fine, a few cuts and scrapes and a severely damaged knee but nonetheless fine. They wanted to keep him for a few days and prep him for surgery; he had shattered some bone, torn some ligaments and needed a complete ACL repair. He assured me Mike would be okay, that he was lucky and that he would be out of work for only about six months (only!). I knew this news would not settle well with Mike, he is not a man to be kept down – I was right, he scoffed when the doctor repeated this all to him but little did both Mike and I realize at the time, Mike was lucky and should have listened and took some down time.
Mike did go through with the surgery (there was no way around that) but to be without work for six months – he was going mad! He tried to move around and go to work, he was painting at the time and tried, boy did he try, he even attempted to hop up a ladder, however, the coursing pain shooting through his body humbled him and he painstakingly realized he was homebound for now but he did not rest – he “was not a man to be kept down” as he put it….so, this ATV accident, knee surgery and six months of ‘down’ time was really - just the beginning…
Friday, September 25, 2009
Week 4 Theme
Week 4 Theme
Part 1:
I’m sitting here, at my laptop, trying to do my assignment. I can’t think. I have a cold. Luckily, the house is almost completely quiet; the kids are asleep still and the dogs are keeping my feet warm. I will continue to try.
Part 2:
I’m sitting here, perched in my thinking chair, at my laptop, attempting my Creative Non-Fiction writing assignment. Clouded with an abundance of mucus, overwrought with extreme sinus pressure, I can not think. The season is upon us for colds, an Oak leaf did not land upon me when I stood beneath her limbs, and I have not been missed. I have succumbed to the inevitable; I have been touched by my first cold of the season.
My head is hot, yet no drops of perspiration can be found. Feeling chilled to the bone; icicles for fingers, frozen oranges for knees, feet as cold as a corpse - my dogs sense this discomfort, and move to curl their warm bodies around my ankles; I am warmed.
The slight breeze unhinges leaves outside my window, they tap their ‘good mornings’ to me, this is the only sound I hear.
Enjoying the peaceful morning, with my newly warmed feet, I reach for the box of Puffs and tuck the tissues between myself and my thinking chair, with one tissue torn, rolled and stuffed up into a nostril – I lean forward, resting my forearms on my laptop and continue to try.
Part 3:
A bed of nails would be more comforting then this electric chair that I have been strapped to; a dark lord has brought forth a frightening buzzing, glowing device and has instructed me to please him with words.
My body screams from with-in of the agony it had endured all week long, a week that has felt endless – centuries long. I have been tortured beyond repair.
With the aid of his hired minions, the dark lord demanded I be weakened. Eagerly with deadly hunger, they attacked me from many angles, all at once, and I could not escape.
First my head, loud noises erupted within inches of my face and I felt my skull being sawed in two; lifting my scalp, cracking the bone, a hole was drilled – stuffed with maggots and resealed. The maggots multiplied at an ungodly rate and filled all voids in my skull to the brim. Massive pressure prevented me from seeing all that His minions were doing. Jaded, the maggots attempted to slither out my nose; their attempts were thwarted as 36 grit sandpaper was stuffed into my nostrils to seal up their escape hatch.
Then my body, I was temporarily released from the binding straps of the electric chair, pummeled with gallons of water and thrown into a chest freezer. Almost instantly I began to freeze and thinking I might die, I heard a faint whisper of hope, a small clacking of sorts and only moments before what I thought was to be my untimely demise, the top was lifted. Two great beasts reached for me – a gentle aura glowed brightly around their lush, warm fur…I was lifted and slowly warmed with their affection and generosity but it only lasted a moment. The dark lord sensed this kindness within his region and aspirated swarms of fire ants in their direction with each word he spoke; I could not hear his words but I could see them, black and white before me.
His cronies raced past him, snatched me from my gentle giants and returned me to that cold, hard chair; tightening the straps until blood supply had been cut from various limbs.
So, here I sit, with the glowing device mounted to the blank wall before me, and my dark lord beckoning for me to continue on.
Part 1:
I’m sitting here, at my laptop, trying to do my assignment. I can’t think. I have a cold. Luckily, the house is almost completely quiet; the kids are asleep still and the dogs are keeping my feet warm. I will continue to try.
Part 2:
I’m sitting here, perched in my thinking chair, at my laptop, attempting my Creative Non-Fiction writing assignment. Clouded with an abundance of mucus, overwrought with extreme sinus pressure, I can not think. The season is upon us for colds, an Oak leaf did not land upon me when I stood beneath her limbs, and I have not been missed. I have succumbed to the inevitable; I have been touched by my first cold of the season.
My head is hot, yet no drops of perspiration can be found. Feeling chilled to the bone; icicles for fingers, frozen oranges for knees, feet as cold as a corpse - my dogs sense this discomfort, and move to curl their warm bodies around my ankles; I am warmed.
The slight breeze unhinges leaves outside my window, they tap their ‘good mornings’ to me, this is the only sound I hear.
Enjoying the peaceful morning, with my newly warmed feet, I reach for the box of Puffs and tuck the tissues between myself and my thinking chair, with one tissue torn, rolled and stuffed up into a nostril – I lean forward, resting my forearms on my laptop and continue to try.
Part 3:
A bed of nails would be more comforting then this electric chair that I have been strapped to; a dark lord has brought forth a frightening buzzing, glowing device and has instructed me to please him with words.
My body screams from with-in of the agony it had endured all week long, a week that has felt endless – centuries long. I have been tortured beyond repair.
With the aid of his hired minions, the dark lord demanded I be weakened. Eagerly with deadly hunger, they attacked me from many angles, all at once, and I could not escape.
First my head, loud noises erupted within inches of my face and I felt my skull being sawed in two; lifting my scalp, cracking the bone, a hole was drilled – stuffed with maggots and resealed. The maggots multiplied at an ungodly rate and filled all voids in my skull to the brim. Massive pressure prevented me from seeing all that His minions were doing. Jaded, the maggots attempted to slither out my nose; their attempts were thwarted as 36 grit sandpaper was stuffed into my nostrils to seal up their escape hatch.
Then my body, I was temporarily released from the binding straps of the electric chair, pummeled with gallons of water and thrown into a chest freezer. Almost instantly I began to freeze and thinking I might die, I heard a faint whisper of hope, a small clacking of sorts and only moments before what I thought was to be my untimely demise, the top was lifted. Two great beasts reached for me – a gentle aura glowed brightly around their lush, warm fur…I was lifted and slowly warmed with their affection and generosity but it only lasted a moment. The dark lord sensed this kindness within his region and aspirated swarms of fire ants in their direction with each word he spoke; I could not hear his words but I could see them, black and white before me.
His cronies raced past him, snatched me from my gentle giants and returned me to that cold, hard chair; tightening the straps until blood supply had been cut from various limbs.
So, here I sit, with the glowing device mounted to the blank wall before me, and my dark lord beckoning for me to continue on.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Week 3 Theme
Cellars are often known for being a few degrees cooler then the rest of the building, not this one. Red floor mats stretch out the length of the concrete floor. Two a/c’s rest in the front widows of this daylight basement, but so often unused, it’s possible they are broken. Weights, jump ropes, medicine balls line the far right wall; a punching bag hangs in the front right corner and an multi compact disk player rests to the far left near the main door. Four metal chairs are nestled among a cluster of flip-flops, sandals and sneakers.
“All right everyone; let’s warm up with a light jog around the room. Get those hearts pumping!” shouts the ATA fit instructor.
(She is way to chipper. I really should have stretched first – oh god my legs are killing me already!)
“Kick those legs up! Jog like there’s a fire under your feet!” said the only male participant.
(Who does he think he is? Would someone please turn up the music and drown that jerk out!)
“Grab a medicine ball, down on the floor for 20 sit-ups!” shouts the instructor.
(It’s like a hundred degrees in here and we are only six minutes into the work-out…turn on the a/c!)
The man speaks again, “Full sit-ups! Crunches are for wimps!”
“I’m trying sir!”
“Trying! I don’t want to hear your trying! I want to see you doing!”
(Can’t someone shut that ass up! He’s not the instructor, but it looks like he thinks he is…I know – those a/c’s might be good for something after all! One crammed down his throat and one crammed up his…)
“Now, flip on to your bellies and do as many push-ups as you can in one minute!”
(She must have been a drill sergeant in her past life…one, two – rest a few, three…floor – ahhhh)
“Get up – off your knees! No sissy push-ups on my time!”
A lady speaks out, “This isn’t your time bud.”
(Finally, someone speaks up! Why didn’t I think of that? Oh that’s right – I’m breathing too hard to even try to mutter out anything; well, I think I’m still breathing – wheezing maybe.)
“Enough chit chat ladies, time for jump ropes!”
(Ha, she called him a lady too! God, I hate jump ropes…think she’ll notices if I don’t swing the rope.)
That small black and white clock on the wall is ticking slowly away like a time bomb. A loud Chevy 4x4 pulls up to the front and three more ladies join this ‘Sweatin’ to the Oldies’ work-out; the only thing missing now is Richard Simmons. In the back left corner, a toilet flushes and a fourth participant walks out carrying a floor fan.
“Lunge time ladies!”
“I want to see those legs lifted and those knees hitting the floor!” says the man.
“Woo hoo!” shout the new arrivals.
(Ya…freaking woo hoo, if you were here from the beginning you wouldn’t be woo hoo-ing. )
“Mountain climbers everyone!”
Everyone drops in unison in a push-up position and lunges one knee up under chest – one knee down – switch. Faster and faster they climb; in spite of the waves of spandex, they resemble soldiers in training.
“Up into squats ladies!”
“Did you stop at any of the yardsales on the way here?” one lady asks another.
(How can she talk? Why isn’t she out of breath? And why isn’t that damn floor fan turned on!)
Sixty minutes, eighty sit-ups, a hundred push-ups and god knows how many lunges later…
“Pick up those jump ropes! Almost done!”
“I love jump roping!” says one.
“Oh wow – me too!” another says.
“I think I could jump rope all day!” the instructor exclaims.
(Ya, well, I lost my jump rope and this floor mat is lumpy.)
“Last round – let’s end this with a light fifteen minute sprint around the room!”
(What ever happened to cooling down and stretching? Hey, I don’t hear that jerk anymore.)
A hazy, sweaty atmosphere seems to linger above our heads. The temperature has reached all time highs and the floor mats glisten with smeared beads of sweat. There is something different about the room; weights are still there, ac’s still untouched, music still blaring, shoes still scattered – ah but the chairs are no longer empty; a hunched over, sweaty, breathless man rests in one.
“All right everyone; let’s warm up with a light jog around the room. Get those hearts pumping!” shouts the ATA fit instructor.
(She is way to chipper. I really should have stretched first – oh god my legs are killing me already!)
“Kick those legs up! Jog like there’s a fire under your feet!” said the only male participant.
(Who does he think he is? Would someone please turn up the music and drown that jerk out!)
“Grab a medicine ball, down on the floor for 20 sit-ups!” shouts the instructor.
(It’s like a hundred degrees in here and we are only six minutes into the work-out…turn on the a/c!)
The man speaks again, “Full sit-ups! Crunches are for wimps!”
“I’m trying sir!”
“Trying! I don’t want to hear your trying! I want to see you doing!”
(Can’t someone shut that ass up! He’s not the instructor, but it looks like he thinks he is…I know – those a/c’s might be good for something after all! One crammed down his throat and one crammed up his…)
“Now, flip on to your bellies and do as many push-ups as you can in one minute!”
(She must have been a drill sergeant in her past life…one, two – rest a few, three…floor – ahhhh)
“Get up – off your knees! No sissy push-ups on my time!”
A lady speaks out, “This isn’t your time bud.”
(Finally, someone speaks up! Why didn’t I think of that? Oh that’s right – I’m breathing too hard to even try to mutter out anything; well, I think I’m still breathing – wheezing maybe.)
“Enough chit chat ladies, time for jump ropes!”
(Ha, she called him a lady too! God, I hate jump ropes…think she’ll notices if I don’t swing the rope.)
That small black and white clock on the wall is ticking slowly away like a time bomb. A loud Chevy 4x4 pulls up to the front and three more ladies join this ‘Sweatin’ to the Oldies’ work-out; the only thing missing now is Richard Simmons. In the back left corner, a toilet flushes and a fourth participant walks out carrying a floor fan.
“Lunge time ladies!”
“I want to see those legs lifted and those knees hitting the floor!” says the man.
“Woo hoo!” shout the new arrivals.
(Ya…freaking woo hoo, if you were here from the beginning you wouldn’t be woo hoo-ing. )
“Mountain climbers everyone!”
Everyone drops in unison in a push-up position and lunges one knee up under chest – one knee down – switch. Faster and faster they climb; in spite of the waves of spandex, they resemble soldiers in training.
“Up into squats ladies!”
“Did you stop at any of the yardsales on the way here?” one lady asks another.
(How can she talk? Why isn’t she out of breath? And why isn’t that damn floor fan turned on!)
Sixty minutes, eighty sit-ups, a hundred push-ups and god knows how many lunges later…
“Pick up those jump ropes! Almost done!”
“I love jump roping!” says one.
“Oh wow – me too!” another says.
“I think I could jump rope all day!” the instructor exclaims.
(Ya, well, I lost my jump rope and this floor mat is lumpy.)
“Last round – let’s end this with a light fifteen minute sprint around the room!”
(What ever happened to cooling down and stretching? Hey, I don’t hear that jerk anymore.)
A hazy, sweaty atmosphere seems to linger above our heads. The temperature has reached all time highs and the floor mats glisten with smeared beads of sweat. There is something different about the room; weights are still there, ac’s still untouched, music still blaring, shoes still scattered – ah but the chairs are no longer empty; a hunched over, sweaty, breathless man rests in one.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Week 2 Theme
He had a sweet and innocent face, full of life and full of energy; I’d decided to take him to the YMCA again for their baby gymnastics. He was so small; very light weight, just a young little typhoon, two years, two months, two weeks old…to be exact.
When we arrived the Y gym was already set up, the mats were out, as were the small balance beams and some giant landing blocks; it was a great opportunity for him to run, jump, play, enjoy his youth and be a free spirit without a care in the world.
The lady who manages the event was running late, but we parents and our little balls of liveliness knew the routine well so we began without her; right away the giggles and laughter fired up, the children were enjoying themselves immensely. Their enthusiasm was inspiring and we enjoyed watching them as they vivaciously tumbled, flipped, teetered and played in circles around us. Kids possess this magical gift of awakening the youth in all of us; they are like that warm brownie fresh out of the oven, that first star to appear in the midnight sky, that breath of fresh air in a world full of smog.
I leaned back and relaxed on a mat, jabbered with other parents about nothing at all, simply enjoying the outing, nabbing the moment; no worries, no cares, just pure sweet fun.
My moment of peace was startled by the gym doors thrusting open and a rupture of cries and screams that escaped from the hall into the gymnasium. A cluster of people surged in, the lady who supervises the baby gymnastics was at the head of the pack; frantically they all start talking, no not talking, screaming at once. It was hard to filter what they were saying and understand the gist of it all. What was happening in our small town? I was not even sure of what was going on and the panic had suddenly rushd into my lungs, halting my heart and tightening my chest. My motherly instincts kicked in, or it could have been just fear of the unknown chaos of what was going on, but I turned to grab my son.
Dozens of glowing, bright cheeks and hopeful intense eyes were frozen in their spots, their little chests heaved in and out from their play. They were frightened from the sudden adult stampede. I noticed no one was moving, not an adult or a child, I too stopped, it was as if we had all been frozen in time and to some degree we had been…we had willingly frozen ourselves in time to hold on to the play – the moment before people charged in – that happy, fun moment, that presently felt as if we would never see or experience pure merriment like that again.
It lasted only seconds, like floodgates finally being lifted, all at once we tore off towards our children and I could not rush to my own little babe swift enough. I snatched him up into my arms, held him close and realized we were both trembling all over, frightened, terrified and I became conscious that our adult reactions intensified the fear in our children instead of soothing them like we would have had we been able to comprehend the moment but it was one of those moments that made no sense at all.
With our children safe in our arms we all moved into the hall and gathered in front of a small television and radio; the volume of both turned up high enough for us all to hear but it could had remained on the lowest setting and we all still would have heard…for we all watched and listened in silence.
On the television, I first saw people fleeing down huge busy streets, screaming, crying and debris flailing every which way, and then I saw two large towers with flames and smoke billowing out from them. The voice of Katie Couric was strong and clear and she was announcing the horrific event of two planes crashing into the twin towers. Momentarily, I forgot what the twin towers were, it was all too unbelievable. I thought it must be a hoax, like the 1938 radio show that Orson Welles did about the Martian invasion…this too had to be unreal…like a very bad nightmare.
By some means, we made it home, my trusty, baby blue, Dodge mini-van somehow transported my son and I safely back, my New Balance running shoes worked overtime as they assisted my legs of jelly in delivering us safely to the snug glider rocker facing my old Zenith. Still clutching my son close to my bosom I gingerly reached out, not using the remote, and powered up my television, we rested only a foot or so from the screen. The image off smoke and destruction appeared on practically every channel, I settled on NBC, watched and listened.
As I sat and gazed at the horrors before us, I could not seem to make it valid in my mind. I had lived through remarkable, unimaginable times before but nothing ever such as this.
I was only eight years old when I watched with my other classmates in our school cafeteria the shuttle launching the teacher, Christa McAuliffe, into space and I remained seated seventy-four seconds after liftoff as the shuttle transformed into a blazing ball of fire, did I see it or did I imagine it, our teacher spoke not a word but the tears in her eyes told it all.
On my twelfth Christmas I recalled unwrapping a beautifully packaged box, it could not have been bigger then a toddler shoe box and I wondered what it was….under the holiday wrapping was an ordinary brown cardboard carton, I lifted the flap and pulled from the cushioned package a small red pouch. I felt the pouch, the contents were oddly shaped with what felt like jagged, rough edges…I gently pulled the drawstring, tilted the bag and dumped its’ contents into my hand – the words of Ronald Reagan echoed in my thoughts, “Mr. Garbachev, tear that wall down!”
Hurricane Gloria, the tragic death of Princess Diana, the ice storm of ’98…nothing compared to this instant …seeing the twin towers ablaze, a camera zoomed in on one of the towers and followed the image of what appeared to be a man falling from 100’s of stories up, I thought this just had to be a hoax of some kind…some cruel, malicious, genius had finally masterminded a hoax that will go down in history. Somewhere inside of me I knew it was not a hoax, I was terrified.
My son squiggled in my arms and I reached out to phone my husband, my mother, my family; I wanted to ensure that all were safe. I needed to hear their voices, I needed to be pinched and awakened from this nightmare.
More images flashed across the screen, people all gathering in the streets watching the smoke, the fire, the madness and then gray dust detonated into the city as the towers appeared to have collapsed. People dove for cover, screeches and cries rang out and then, the voice our then President, Mr. George W. Bush, spoke out.
While watching all this commotion, I was still holding my son close to my heart, it wasn’t until now that he really began to fuss and make his presence known. I’m sure Mr. Bush meant for his words too soothe us, to bring us some sort of peace or hope in the midst of all this but in truth it only made me more afraid. At that moment, I did not think anything could ever feel peaceful or hopeful again.
My son though, that sweet little light-hearted man, brought faith to me; he wiggled, squirmed and made his discomfort well-known …I leaned back, calmed the best I could, gazed into his precious brown eyes, and settled in to nurse him.
He is ten years, two months and two weeks old now, this day of September 11, 2009.
He still has a sweet and innocent face and is still full of life and full of energy. This morning I trekked him off to karate. I took the same route I always take, utilizing the same roads I have driven on since I first got my permit when I was fifteen. As we passed the YMCA, I remembered that moment all those years ago and as I drove on a bright, open field caught my attention. It was full of elegant, emerald greens and it was shimmering with morning dew; my son commented on how it looked like the sky had opened up and dropped snow on us last night, his innocence warmed me. With my son at my side and the field passing us by, both of them being a breath of fresh air, both a precious part of life, I realized I could lose it all in the blink of an eye and I just wanted to freeze time.
When we arrived the Y gym was already set up, the mats were out, as were the small balance beams and some giant landing blocks; it was a great opportunity for him to run, jump, play, enjoy his youth and be a free spirit without a care in the world.
The lady who manages the event was running late, but we parents and our little balls of liveliness knew the routine well so we began without her; right away the giggles and laughter fired up, the children were enjoying themselves immensely. Their enthusiasm was inspiring and we enjoyed watching them as they vivaciously tumbled, flipped, teetered and played in circles around us. Kids possess this magical gift of awakening the youth in all of us; they are like that warm brownie fresh out of the oven, that first star to appear in the midnight sky, that breath of fresh air in a world full of smog.
I leaned back and relaxed on a mat, jabbered with other parents about nothing at all, simply enjoying the outing, nabbing the moment; no worries, no cares, just pure sweet fun.
My moment of peace was startled by the gym doors thrusting open and a rupture of cries and screams that escaped from the hall into the gymnasium. A cluster of people surged in, the lady who supervises the baby gymnastics was at the head of the pack; frantically they all start talking, no not talking, screaming at once. It was hard to filter what they were saying and understand the gist of it all. What was happening in our small town? I was not even sure of what was going on and the panic had suddenly rushd into my lungs, halting my heart and tightening my chest. My motherly instincts kicked in, or it could have been just fear of the unknown chaos of what was going on, but I turned to grab my son.
Dozens of glowing, bright cheeks and hopeful intense eyes were frozen in their spots, their little chests heaved in and out from their play. They were frightened from the sudden adult stampede. I noticed no one was moving, not an adult or a child, I too stopped, it was as if we had all been frozen in time and to some degree we had been…we had willingly frozen ourselves in time to hold on to the play – the moment before people charged in – that happy, fun moment, that presently felt as if we would never see or experience pure merriment like that again.
It lasted only seconds, like floodgates finally being lifted, all at once we tore off towards our children and I could not rush to my own little babe swift enough. I snatched him up into my arms, held him close and realized we were both trembling all over, frightened, terrified and I became conscious that our adult reactions intensified the fear in our children instead of soothing them like we would have had we been able to comprehend the moment but it was one of those moments that made no sense at all.
With our children safe in our arms we all moved into the hall and gathered in front of a small television and radio; the volume of both turned up high enough for us all to hear but it could had remained on the lowest setting and we all still would have heard…for we all watched and listened in silence.
On the television, I first saw people fleeing down huge busy streets, screaming, crying and debris flailing every which way, and then I saw two large towers with flames and smoke billowing out from them. The voice of Katie Couric was strong and clear and she was announcing the horrific event of two planes crashing into the twin towers. Momentarily, I forgot what the twin towers were, it was all too unbelievable. I thought it must be a hoax, like the 1938 radio show that Orson Welles did about the Martian invasion…this too had to be unreal…like a very bad nightmare.
By some means, we made it home, my trusty, baby blue, Dodge mini-van somehow transported my son and I safely back, my New Balance running shoes worked overtime as they assisted my legs of jelly in delivering us safely to the snug glider rocker facing my old Zenith. Still clutching my son close to my bosom I gingerly reached out, not using the remote, and powered up my television, we rested only a foot or so from the screen. The image off smoke and destruction appeared on practically every channel, I settled on NBC, watched and listened.
As I sat and gazed at the horrors before us, I could not seem to make it valid in my mind. I had lived through remarkable, unimaginable times before but nothing ever such as this.
I was only eight years old when I watched with my other classmates in our school cafeteria the shuttle launching the teacher, Christa McAuliffe, into space and I remained seated seventy-four seconds after liftoff as the shuttle transformed into a blazing ball of fire, did I see it or did I imagine it, our teacher spoke not a word but the tears in her eyes told it all.
On my twelfth Christmas I recalled unwrapping a beautifully packaged box, it could not have been bigger then a toddler shoe box and I wondered what it was….under the holiday wrapping was an ordinary brown cardboard carton, I lifted the flap and pulled from the cushioned package a small red pouch. I felt the pouch, the contents were oddly shaped with what felt like jagged, rough edges…I gently pulled the drawstring, tilted the bag and dumped its’ contents into my hand – the words of Ronald Reagan echoed in my thoughts, “Mr. Garbachev, tear that wall down!”
Hurricane Gloria, the tragic death of Princess Diana, the ice storm of ’98…nothing compared to this instant …seeing the twin towers ablaze, a camera zoomed in on one of the towers and followed the image of what appeared to be a man falling from 100’s of stories up, I thought this just had to be a hoax of some kind…some cruel, malicious, genius had finally masterminded a hoax that will go down in history. Somewhere inside of me I knew it was not a hoax, I was terrified.
My son squiggled in my arms and I reached out to phone my husband, my mother, my family; I wanted to ensure that all were safe. I needed to hear their voices, I needed to be pinched and awakened from this nightmare.
More images flashed across the screen, people all gathering in the streets watching the smoke, the fire, the madness and then gray dust detonated into the city as the towers appeared to have collapsed. People dove for cover, screeches and cries rang out and then, the voice our then President, Mr. George W. Bush, spoke out.
While watching all this commotion, I was still holding my son close to my heart, it wasn’t until now that he really began to fuss and make his presence known. I’m sure Mr. Bush meant for his words too soothe us, to bring us some sort of peace or hope in the midst of all this but in truth it only made me more afraid. At that moment, I did not think anything could ever feel peaceful or hopeful again.
My son though, that sweet little light-hearted man, brought faith to me; he wiggled, squirmed and made his discomfort well-known …I leaned back, calmed the best I could, gazed into his precious brown eyes, and settled in to nurse him.
He is ten years, two months and two weeks old now, this day of September 11, 2009.
He still has a sweet and innocent face and is still full of life and full of energy. This morning I trekked him off to karate. I took the same route I always take, utilizing the same roads I have driven on since I first got my permit when I was fifteen. As we passed the YMCA, I remembered that moment all those years ago and as I drove on a bright, open field caught my attention. It was full of elegant, emerald greens and it was shimmering with morning dew; my son commented on how it looked like the sky had opened up and dropped snow on us last night, his innocence warmed me. With my son at my side and the field passing us by, both of them being a breath of fresh air, both a precious part of life, I realized I could lose it all in the blink of an eye and I just wanted to freeze time.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Week 1: Know thyself...Walk in someone else's shoes.
Once I saw something I thought was unusual in a movie, I believe it was “Ya Ya Sisters”, anyhow, in the movie a women was having an uncommon (or maybe it’s common) drink for breakfast. The drink looked like tomato or V8 juice, with a bit of alcohol and a celery stalk oh and I think hot sauce or something like that. I remember wondering why she would want to drink that for breakfast, I’ve always thought of booze as a late night, once in a while, just for fun sort of drink – not a good morning lets get tipsy type of beverage.
Well, time marches on…..
Last night we took the kids to the Blue Hill Fair, spent six or so hours traipsing through crowds in dust and muck, spending an ungodly amount of money on tickets (plus their added gas charge) for my son to ride four rides (almost five rides – but that’s another story), sitting up in the grandstand to watch a blueberry pie eating contest (the fist I’d ever seen), a vehicle stunt show (with some terribly awful jokes) and munching on the fair foods – good fun for all.
I could go on in much greater detail because some of this was so out of the ordinary and worthy of writing in more details but it will have to wait for another time...
Throughout the majority of those six hours I carried my 18 month old daughter, yes – we had a stroller but what kid wants to ride in a stroller when all they get to see are dozens of strangers tushes. No – no – she wanted to be carried and not just by anyone, it needed to be mumma (I felt honored at first). I suppose the adrenalin of the night prevented me from feeling the pain that comes from carrying around an extra 25 pounds for six hours but this morning….I feel it.
I’m not a huge drinker and I did not have any last night, yet I feel as though I’ve awoken with a massive hangover. My right eye does not want to fully open due to the congested pain I feel in my right eyebrow. My forehead crinkles in thanks to the morning sun, I wince and put on my shades. I understand a whole new meaning to "Splitting headache". There is a cement block (or so it seems) in the place that used to be my shoulder blades and my neck is a frightfully strong, unbendable metal rod…the rest of the aches and pains seem miniscule in comparison.
So, I suppose the world works in mysterious ways. Why did I wonder about that lady in the movie enjoying her morning booze.... was this some higher power at work placing me in a situation that was a learning experience…to walk in anothers' shoes...judge not – less ye be judged…well, it worked because right now – all I want….is one of those drinks.
Well, time marches on…..
Last night we took the kids to the Blue Hill Fair, spent six or so hours traipsing through crowds in dust and muck, spending an ungodly amount of money on tickets (plus their added gas charge) for my son to ride four rides (almost five rides – but that’s another story), sitting up in the grandstand to watch a blueberry pie eating contest (the fist I’d ever seen), a vehicle stunt show (with some terribly awful jokes) and munching on the fair foods – good fun for all.
I could go on in much greater detail because some of this was so out of the ordinary and worthy of writing in more details but it will have to wait for another time...
Throughout the majority of those six hours I carried my 18 month old daughter, yes – we had a stroller but what kid wants to ride in a stroller when all they get to see are dozens of strangers tushes. No – no – she wanted to be carried and not just by anyone, it needed to be mumma (I felt honored at first). I suppose the adrenalin of the night prevented me from feeling the pain that comes from carrying around an extra 25 pounds for six hours but this morning….I feel it.
I’m not a huge drinker and I did not have any last night, yet I feel as though I’ve awoken with a massive hangover. My right eye does not want to fully open due to the congested pain I feel in my right eyebrow. My forehead crinkles in thanks to the morning sun, I wince and put on my shades. I understand a whole new meaning to "Splitting headache". There is a cement block (or so it seems) in the place that used to be my shoulder blades and my neck is a frightfully strong, unbendable metal rod…the rest of the aches and pains seem miniscule in comparison.
So, I suppose the world works in mysterious ways. Why did I wonder about that lady in the movie enjoying her morning booze.... was this some higher power at work placing me in a situation that was a learning experience…to walk in anothers' shoes...judge not – less ye be judged…well, it worked because right now – all I want….is one of those drinks.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Week 1: Know thyself...know the place I love to call home regardless of my physical shell.
“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” This is not exactly what a rooster sounds like, at least not ours. A bit more like, “kraaa-ra-ka (rooster cough)-krou” but it’s not his fault, I think ours has a sore throat.
A gorgeous morning, the sun is slowly creeping up the leaves on the trees, the roosters shouting for everyone to get up and the goats are tap dancing on the deck (with a bit of Irish in them, I’m sure they would blend in well with the River Dancers) and our dogs having a barking competition with the neighbors dog (or maybe they are just discussing in dog language the wild parties that went on last night while us humans were asleep).
My husband and I just returned from a nice small walk out on this cool morning and we were so excited to see all the wild Mallards that our pet ducks have invited to our pond. The pond is only about thirty feet in diameter and it is snugly hosting about 53 (we tried to count) Mallards and eight of our own for a tentative grand total of sixty one – now I just hope we have enough cracked corn to go around (Jimmy crack corn and I DO care)!
It would be quite fun to be a duck (until hunting season) and I don’t mean a duck like Daffy Duck or Donald Duck (though being in a cartoon would be pretty cool but I think if I was a Disney Duck I would want to be Uncle Scrooge McDuck or if not him, I would be a duck on the Simpons – what they need a good talking duck!) nevertheless I’m talking about an actual wild duck (notice I didn’t say pet duck – they don’t fly but more then two feet off the ground). I believe I would choose to be a male duck too, yes, it would be cool to lay an egg I’m sure and I realize that male ducks do not pee while standing up (it’s not fair that I can’t write my name in the snow too) but male ducks have the most beautiful feathers, especially in the fall. When all the leaves have changed into elegant shades of reds, oranges and yellows the wild Mallards fly in with their vibrant emerald greens and sapphire blues…simply breath taking. They also, always visit in pairs, the males are very protective of their mates and will fight off any other duck (or chicken) who try to make the move on their love, it’s a bit of old fashion charm really.
As a duck, I know I would be different (a duck of a different color – the black duck of the family) it is just in my reborn soul to be the odd one (duck) out. My first autumn I’m sure I would try to stay North for the winter (to try to prove to the other ducks they are just a flock of wimps) but after a close brush with death and a few frost bit feather tips I’m sure I’d humbly fly (not quite so elegantly) down South with the rest of them. However, I would not stay where all the others did (that’s what the hunters look for – the big groups of quackers) oh no, I would do some research (no – not on google, I would use my duck instincts) and travel the world. Perhaps, I would find my true love mate on the waters of Venice Italy and I would court her right there on those waters with all the gondolas floating past and we would pose for the cameras and snack on the bits of Altamura bread (not fish, yes small fish are fun but contrary to popular belief we ducks are not great fishermen – in fact we need to watch our….um tail feathers if a big Pike gets too close) the passing tourist tossed out to us. We might fly to Africa to adopt a few orphaned ducklings and eventually after a few more stops (I could dream on and on about places I would like to visit) we would fly home….to this little pond in Hancock, Maine.
So, I guess even if I was a duck I would always want to come back home. Despite the frigid snow bound Winters or the muddy mosquito infested Springs, the barely-there Summers or the magnificent blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Autumns – Maine is a beautiful place to anchor down.
Speaking of anchoring down, time to go catch the goats and put them back in their pen.
A gorgeous morning, the sun is slowly creeping up the leaves on the trees, the roosters shouting for everyone to get up and the goats are tap dancing on the deck (with a bit of Irish in them, I’m sure they would blend in well with the River Dancers) and our dogs having a barking competition with the neighbors dog (or maybe they are just discussing in dog language the wild parties that went on last night while us humans were asleep).
My husband and I just returned from a nice small walk out on this cool morning and we were so excited to see all the wild Mallards that our pet ducks have invited to our pond. The pond is only about thirty feet in diameter and it is snugly hosting about 53 (we tried to count) Mallards and eight of our own for a tentative grand total of sixty one – now I just hope we have enough cracked corn to go around (Jimmy crack corn and I DO care)!
It would be quite fun to be a duck (until hunting season) and I don’t mean a duck like Daffy Duck or Donald Duck (though being in a cartoon would be pretty cool but I think if I was a Disney Duck I would want to be Uncle Scrooge McDuck or if not him, I would be a duck on the Simpons – what they need a good talking duck!) nevertheless I’m talking about an actual wild duck (notice I didn’t say pet duck – they don’t fly but more then two feet off the ground). I believe I would choose to be a male duck too, yes, it would be cool to lay an egg I’m sure and I realize that male ducks do not pee while standing up (it’s not fair that I can’t write my name in the snow too) but male ducks have the most beautiful feathers, especially in the fall. When all the leaves have changed into elegant shades of reds, oranges and yellows the wild Mallards fly in with their vibrant emerald greens and sapphire blues…simply breath taking. They also, always visit in pairs, the males are very protective of their mates and will fight off any other duck (or chicken) who try to make the move on their love, it’s a bit of old fashion charm really.
As a duck, I know I would be different (a duck of a different color – the black duck of the family) it is just in my reborn soul to be the odd one (duck) out. My first autumn I’m sure I would try to stay North for the winter (to try to prove to the other ducks they are just a flock of wimps) but after a close brush with death and a few frost bit feather tips I’m sure I’d humbly fly (not quite so elegantly) down South with the rest of them. However, I would not stay where all the others did (that’s what the hunters look for – the big groups of quackers) oh no, I would do some research (no – not on google, I would use my duck instincts) and travel the world. Perhaps, I would find my true love mate on the waters of Venice Italy and I would court her right there on those waters with all the gondolas floating past and we would pose for the cameras and snack on the bits of Altamura bread (not fish, yes small fish are fun but contrary to popular belief we ducks are not great fishermen – in fact we need to watch our….um tail feathers if a big Pike gets too close) the passing tourist tossed out to us. We might fly to Africa to adopt a few orphaned ducklings and eventually after a few more stops (I could dream on and on about places I would like to visit) we would fly home….to this little pond in Hancock, Maine.
So, I guess even if I was a duck I would always want to come back home. Despite the frigid snow bound Winters or the muddy mosquito infested Springs, the barely-there Summers or the magnificent blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Autumns – Maine is a beautiful place to anchor down.
Speaking of anchoring down, time to go catch the goats and put them back in their pen.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Week 1: Part 3...She is you and you are her - so who am I?
Occasionally, I simply allow my mind to wonder. I write when the mood strikes and the moment is available for my hands to frantically record my thoughts, it could be while I’m stuck in road traffic on the back side of an envelope belonging to some random unpaid bill, while I’m at the park with the kids writing on the first available surface – usually my hand or my jeans, or while I have the rare luxury of sitting before my laptop…my point is, I like to write. I enjoy words, expressing feelings and taking pleasure in all our language has to offer. My problems are that I often find my thoughts blocked and it takes some extreme life altering event to unblock them (or some fun prompts from a cool teacher – see the brown on my nose). I also don’t know what to do with the things I write. Yes, I do it for enjoyment but like most of us we want to share it, have them published, do something that helps us feel that all the effort of getting it down is not in vain. Stacks of journals, papers, poems, stories can be found all around my home…I would like to learn how to take it to the next step.
You rest your eyes, breath in, breath out, you remember and you dream. You want to record your past, your history and that of family and ancestors. You dream of freezing time on tangible pages that will inspire future generations. It will arouse enthusiasm deep within their blood, igniting their inner passions, triggering their desire…their need to write, as it was done to you. Your rested eyes are rejuvenated, you leisurely open them and sadly before you great dark walls rise up, you see no ladders, no doors, no windows just darkness. A part of you understands they are not authentic, they are not true physical obstacles yet they do not fade, they do not wilt or wither or diminish in any significant way. You imagine climbing over them but they reach beyond the heavens, you envision plowing them down or creating a hole to dive through but they are strong and seemingly unbreakable. You visualize digging below them – a tunnel under, but your arms ache with each foot you dig down the walls seem to extend two feet more. You remain trapped - in a world with limited light, you succumb and continue your monotonous daily routines finding pleasure in any place it can be found. Straining to keep your sanity. Breathing in, breathing out, remembering and dreaming.
“Tess, take a look at this.” her Dad gently commands. He hands her a stack of papers, scribbled writing, almost unreadable ink smudges reside on the pages she takes from him. “Read it. Tell me what you think.” He asks her with cheerless, aged eyes. She knows the routine well – she has read his creations all her life, her dad’s work has inspired her since she was a child. As she begins to read her mind wonders back in time to the rare days her dad and she spent together during their visitations. She recalls his fun poetry written about her and her first fishing experiences, his folk style songs about her siblings and their family traditions and his stories…the sad, lonely stories he would tell – her only window into what his world was like - the world that was now ending for him. This realization jolts her back to the present and she reads on. His work is good, raw and real. Why was he not fading now known as a great writer and how can she give him hope so that he may move on in peace. She sets down his papers, takes his hands in hers and whispers sweet reassurances of his great works and accomplishments. He smiles. “Read your stuff to me now.” He requests. Hesitating, she sets down his hands, picks up her notebook and reads. He relaxes, she does too. He interrupts briefly to tell her how proud he is of her and how happy he is to know they share their love for writing. They both dreamily allow their minds to wonder into her story. They read into the late hours of the night until they are both overcome and finally sleep. She is awoken to a strange noise, a difference in his breathing, the rattling – gurgling sound. This is not her first loss and she recognizes the moment – it is his last. As he struggles through his transition she climbs up beside him in bed, cradles his head, moistens his face with her tears and sings to him. It is his song, one he had sang to her many times, a song to help her sleep, a song to help her through sad times, a song about love – that he wrote – that they shared….his words, her words. The noise stops, the transition is complete, the moment is final – it’s the words that bring her comfort, she prays the words brought comfort to him too, she owes the words and they owe her. She feels her path, she knows her path and maybe that will bring him peace.
You rest your eyes, breath in, breath out, you remember and you dream. You want to record your past, your history and that of family and ancestors. You dream of freezing time on tangible pages that will inspire future generations. It will arouse enthusiasm deep within their blood, igniting their inner passions, triggering their desire…their need to write, as it was done to you. Your rested eyes are rejuvenated, you leisurely open them and sadly before you great dark walls rise up, you see no ladders, no doors, no windows just darkness. A part of you understands they are not authentic, they are not true physical obstacles yet they do not fade, they do not wilt or wither or diminish in any significant way. You imagine climbing over them but they reach beyond the heavens, you envision plowing them down or creating a hole to dive through but they are strong and seemingly unbreakable. You visualize digging below them – a tunnel under, but your arms ache with each foot you dig down the walls seem to extend two feet more. You remain trapped - in a world with limited light, you succumb and continue your monotonous daily routines finding pleasure in any place it can be found. Straining to keep your sanity. Breathing in, breathing out, remembering and dreaming.
“Tess, take a look at this.” her Dad gently commands. He hands her a stack of papers, scribbled writing, almost unreadable ink smudges reside on the pages she takes from him. “Read it. Tell me what you think.” He asks her with cheerless, aged eyes. She knows the routine well – she has read his creations all her life, her dad’s work has inspired her since she was a child. As she begins to read her mind wonders back in time to the rare days her dad and she spent together during their visitations. She recalls his fun poetry written about her and her first fishing experiences, his folk style songs about her siblings and their family traditions and his stories…the sad, lonely stories he would tell – her only window into what his world was like - the world that was now ending for him. This realization jolts her back to the present and she reads on. His work is good, raw and real. Why was he not fading now known as a great writer and how can she give him hope so that he may move on in peace. She sets down his papers, takes his hands in hers and whispers sweet reassurances of his great works and accomplishments. He smiles. “Read your stuff to me now.” He requests. Hesitating, she sets down his hands, picks up her notebook and reads. He relaxes, she does too. He interrupts briefly to tell her how proud he is of her and how happy he is to know they share their love for writing. They both dreamily allow their minds to wonder into her story. They read into the late hours of the night until they are both overcome and finally sleep. She is awoken to a strange noise, a difference in his breathing, the rattling – gurgling sound. This is not her first loss and she recognizes the moment – it is his last. As he struggles through his transition she climbs up beside him in bed, cradles his head, moistens his face with her tears and sings to him. It is his song, one he had sang to her many times, a song to help her sleep, a song to help her through sad times, a song about love – that he wrote – that they shared….his words, her words. The noise stops, the transition is complete, the moment is final – it’s the words that bring her comfort, she prays the words brought comfort to him too, she owes the words and they owe her. She feels her path, she knows her path and maybe that will bring him peace.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Week 1: Know thyself....Know Pain.
I faced a flying oompa loompa tonight! Result - the toe next to my big toe really hurts. Ok, so he wasn't really a little man who churns chocolate but he did do this funky little routine like a good Mr. Wonka employee might do (without the catchy little jingle).
He was dressed all in white except for his black padded head, black pads(metal - I think) on his miniature hands, and black padded protectors (made of cement - I'm sure) on his elfin feet and that nice tight black belt wrapped twice (maybe three times) around his tiny little waist. There I stood, a bit of disbelief clouding my memory, would I remember my form - high block, low block....front...what? In lieu of this little man, my memory was betraying me. Despite my own protection - a padded red sweat producer that snugly fit on my head, red protection on my flimsy fists and red (Side Show Bob sized) feet protectors adorning my tiny feet, I felt exposed, vulnerable. There I was clothed in white with a white belt wrapped around my waste (only once) and the ineffective red 'armor' that flawlessly matched my red face, I felt like a fly in a spider web (the sticky sweat helped with this mental image).
We faced one another, bowed, shook hands and wished each other luck (like he needed it - pfft!) and then directly into fighting stance - YAA!
Like a flash of lighting this miniature man (ok so he was only about 9 or 10) came flying - full speed - across the mat, lunging about 12 feet (ok maybe only 3 or 4 feet - but that's still pretty high) off the floor at my head (more like my shoulder since I'm 5'1) and missed me by one miraculous block from my new best friend (my awesome left arm). Still, despite the block, in the face of this evil oompa, I cowered like the lion that Dorothy met while on her way to Oz.
A charming supportive (naive)fellow white belt shouted to me, "Embrace the tiger within!" What freaking tiger?!!! Where was he - where was he hiding??? Here kitty kitty kiWHAM! Ouch! I was so busy looking for that darn tiger (and I guess my new friend - my left arm - was busy looking too) cause that time young karate kid (I swear I heard our instructor call him Daniel-Son) - flying ninja boy, the amazing airborne oompa nailed me! Three points - that's match!
"Good game, mam."
(Breathless response)"Good game, sir."
Off I went to find that darn cowardly tiger to beat it with a Sshang Jeol Bong...and, just my luck, I stub my toe!
He was dressed all in white except for his black padded head, black pads(metal - I think) on his miniature hands, and black padded protectors (made of cement - I'm sure) on his elfin feet and that nice tight black belt wrapped twice (maybe three times) around his tiny little waist. There I stood, a bit of disbelief clouding my memory, would I remember my form - high block, low block....front...what? In lieu of this little man, my memory was betraying me. Despite my own protection - a padded red sweat producer that snugly fit on my head, red protection on my flimsy fists and red (Side Show Bob sized) feet protectors adorning my tiny feet, I felt exposed, vulnerable. There I was clothed in white with a white belt wrapped around my waste (only once) and the ineffective red 'armor' that flawlessly matched my red face, I felt like a fly in a spider web (the sticky sweat helped with this mental image).
We faced one another, bowed, shook hands and wished each other luck (like he needed it - pfft!) and then directly into fighting stance - YAA!
Like a flash of lighting this miniature man (ok so he was only about 9 or 10) came flying - full speed - across the mat, lunging about 12 feet (ok maybe only 3 or 4 feet - but that's still pretty high) off the floor at my head (more like my shoulder since I'm 5'1) and missed me by one miraculous block from my new best friend (my awesome left arm). Still, despite the block, in the face of this evil oompa, I cowered like the lion that Dorothy met while on her way to Oz.
A charming supportive (naive)fellow white belt shouted to me, "Embrace the tiger within!" What freaking tiger?!!! Where was he - where was he hiding??? Here kitty kitty kiWHAM! Ouch! I was so busy looking for that darn tiger (and I guess my new friend - my left arm - was busy looking too) cause that time young karate kid (I swear I heard our instructor call him Daniel-Son) - flying ninja boy, the amazing airborne oompa nailed me! Three points - that's match!
"Good game, mam."
(Breathless response)"Good game, sir."
Off I went to find that darn cowardly tiger to beat it with a Sshang Jeol Bong...and, just my luck, I stub my toe!
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Week 1: Know thyself...the journ(ey)al continues
It's in the middle of the day - this is huge! I rarely get a moment to sit and and think so this will come as no surprise that this is not one of those rare moments... Yes, I'm sitting but not thinking. I wanted it this way though. Since I do most of my writing late at night I thought it might be cool to try it during the day.
Pause Pause Pause...............................................................
Ok, I'm holding back -first difference. I guess writing at night when I 'm so tired I don't care is a bit like writing after having a couple of drinks (you know what your doing but you don't care how it comes across...well, until the next morning that is).
Ever feel like the wind? I'm fortunate that my laptop and I are sitting in a way that I get to dreamily stare out the window that faces our back yard and all I see is green leaves with a few tree trunks tangled amongst the green. But I can hear....It's like the sound of soft rustling of crumpled brown paper bags. Maybe it's more like the waves of the ocean - you know when you are lying on the sand (and rocks - like most of Maine beaches) staring up at the bright blue sky shielding your eyes from the sun...you can't see the waves but you can hear them....as the tied comes in - you know the cool ocean water will soon touch your toes and you don't care..... Ya, that's how this wind sounds right now. The wind, this end of summer breeze is just like the waves after a bit they feel like they are inside of my chest - helping me to breath and I feel like they are me - I am them.
It's nice to take this moment and notice that.
Like the wind though - I must blow on...time to move my two little green leaves onto their next task.
Pause Pause Pause...............................................................
Ok, I'm holding back -first difference. I guess writing at night when I 'm so tired I don't care is a bit like writing after having a couple of drinks (you know what your doing but you don't care how it comes across...well, until the next morning that is).
Ever feel like the wind? I'm fortunate that my laptop and I are sitting in a way that I get to dreamily stare out the window that faces our back yard and all I see is green leaves with a few tree trunks tangled amongst the green. But I can hear....It's like the sound of soft rustling of crumpled brown paper bags. Maybe it's more like the waves of the ocean - you know when you are lying on the sand (and rocks - like most of Maine beaches) staring up at the bright blue sky shielding your eyes from the sun...you can't see the waves but you can hear them....as the tied comes in - you know the cool ocean water will soon touch your toes and you don't care..... Ya, that's how this wind sounds right now. The wind, this end of summer breeze is just like the waves after a bit they feel like they are inside of my chest - helping me to breath and I feel like they are me - I am them.
It's nice to take this moment and notice that.
Like the wind though - I must blow on...time to move my two little green leaves onto their next task.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Week 1: Know thyself. Know thyself?
Where did summer go? Why do I hear Brian Adams singing Summer of 69? Oh maybe that's because since I've started this blog some old friends are popping up and sending me the "remember when..." e-mails. Let me just save some time here - No, I don't remember. Ok, well maybe I do but maybe the flashbacks are just too painful (painfully hilarious) and really who wants to remember Penny Days - that poor jogger did not have it coming Cathy. Maybe Becca was right and Life does go on....then again Mr. Leary could have sent out his warning about Life and how it's like a well working vacuum a little sooner and perhaps we all would have embraced the Belushi ending...
Is it the New Year yet? It should be...in fact, I'll pretend that it is and here is my new years resolution (for this week) I promise I will write at least one journal entry before midnight...before I'm so tired that words come out of me in the form of some sort of mental spew.
Maybe I'll jump on while the little one is zoned into Barney - ya...Barney in the background, that should make the journal entry much more interesting (yes, I'm rolling my eyes - but they are dry, sleepy and almost closed - so actually it was a half roll for the right eye and a three quarters roll for the left eye...now they are stuck and the computer screen looks odd....)
Wait - just remembered...this is titled 'know thyself' after all of this rambling what do I know? Hmmm....got it - that I have kids and I have to work after they are asleep if I want to try to concentrate (and if I want to avoid little fingers helping me type and all my words having a few extra i's, some numbers or plus signs in them). I also know that if I don't go to bed soon - I will never be able to wake up with them and function...so for now - good night.
Is it the New Year yet? It should be...in fact, I'll pretend that it is and here is my new years resolution (for this week) I promise I will write at least one journal entry before midnight...before I'm so tired that words come out of me in the form of some sort of mental spew.
Maybe I'll jump on while the little one is zoned into Barney - ya...Barney in the background, that should make the journal entry much more interesting (yes, I'm rolling my eyes - but they are dry, sleepy and almost closed - so actually it was a half roll for the right eye and a three quarters roll for the left eye...now they are stuck and the computer screen looks odd....)
Wait - just remembered...this is titled 'know thyself' after all of this rambling what do I know? Hmmm....got it - that I have kids and I have to work after they are asleep if I want to try to concentrate (and if I want to avoid little fingers helping me type and all my words having a few extra i's, some numbers or plus signs in them). I also know that if I don't go to bed soon - I will never be able to wake up with them and function...so for now - good night.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
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