"Where did you grow up?"
I’m not sure what prompted facebook to add this question to my profile page. Maybe it was the fact that I turned 40 a couple weeks go. Maybe it was a change in their format. Maybe it was just a random pop-up question that was there for a few days. Either way, the question got me to thinking. "Where did you grow up?" It’s not as easily answered as you might think.
I was born in a hospital in Decatur, Georgia, and, as best as I can remember, my parents lived in an apartment in Stone Mountain (the city not the rock). I know we also lived across the street from my grandparents in Snellville, Georgia, in a house owned by Mr. and Mrs. Meadows. I believe this is where we lived when my younger sister was born.
Then, on my 3rd birthday, we moved to a small town not even on the map at the time, Flat Rock, Alabama. That’s where most of my Daddy’s family lived. I have a few memories of the three houses we lived in during our first stay in Alabama. The last one was where we lived when I started school. This is also where we lived when I had my appendix removed and where I got the chicken pox. Our first time in Alabama lasted exactly 3 years.
Our next move was on my 6th birthday, just after I finished 1st grade, this time to Clarksville, Tennessee. My Daddy worked construction and sometimes you just have to go where the work is. I attended Burns-Darden School. This is where we lived when my sister started kindergarten and my mom was put in the hospital for a hernia (I believe) she got "because she swallowed an aspirin and it didn’t go down good." During the 1½ years we lived in Tennessee, we lived in three different houses. I don’t remember much about them, only that one was a two-story brick house in Bel-Air Estates, one was on Lafayette Street, and the other had a room that smelled bad.
This is where time starts to get a little fuzzy for me. I know we spent a summer in Pensacola, Florida, although I’m not sure what year. We were up early every day, watched the Muppets and Richard Simmons, packed lunch in a cooler and spent most mornings at the beach with friends. I remember going shopping with my friend, Francine, and her getting her first pair of culottes (I think back then we called them gauchos). I remember so many fire ant beds! During our time in Tennessee and Florida, I remember several trips to Alabama and Georgia for funerals. I remember day trips and road trips. I remember family coming to visit.
Then it was back to good ol’ Flat Rock. The house we rented, to me, was absolutely lovely. Huge living room, hardwood floors, a toy room in the back, a bathroom with a separate tub and shower, and a detached garage. There were beautiful, huge trees in the front yard (which got rolled with toilet paper...a lot). I remember raking up pine straw and leaves to make "houses" and "roads." The house was right next door to the First Baptist Church, which was right across the road from the school. This is where we lived when I accepted Jesus as my Savior. This is where we lived when my Daddy rededicated his life to the Lord and was baptized.
Then one night my Daddy came home and told us he had bought a trailer (now the correct term would be "mobile home"). We moved into that trailer on a lot rented from Mr. J.W. Mason at the top of the hill, just down the road from my Aunt Mae, and her family. We became close to them as that’s where we spent all our time while we were out of school and Mama and Daddy were at work. At her house we shucked corn, shelled peas, snapped green beans. We played with legos and Hot Wheels and made our pretend houses under her grapevines. It was while we lived here that I planted my first flower bed, morning glories. It was here where I remember having our first dog, B.J. It was here where Daddy got the bright idea to burn out the fire ant hill in the yard by pouring gas on it and lighting it on fire. Unbeknownst to him the ants had a tunnel that ran clear across the property and into the neighbor’s driveway. Whoosh!
A couple years later, my sister spent the night with a friend in Fabius (actually still part of Flat Rock). When we went to pick her up, my Daddy got into a conversation with her dad and we ended up looking at, and eventually buying, the land next to them. We got off the school bus one day, and our trailer had been moved to its new location. We were expecting it, but it was still a little unnerving. I think I was in the 8th grade at this point, around 13 or 14 years old.
Over the next couple years, we helped Daddy build on to that trailer and turn it into a house. We laid block for the foundation, we nailed down plywood for the floors, we hung and mudded sheetrock for walls. I graduated as valedictorian of my 8th grade class (a class of about 30) and moved up to the high school at Pisgah, which was roughly a 20 minute bus ride to and from the Flat Rock school. My first room of my own was finished in time for my grandparents to visit around my 15th birthday.
That fall is when I met my future husband. We dated for a year and a half before we married on April 14, 1990, a little over a month before my 17th birthday. We moved into a home two houses down from my parents in Flat Rock. We lived there until that November, when our daughter was 6 weeks old, and we moved into the home of his parents in Dutton, while he went to work out of town with my Daddy. It was while we lived here that I graduated high school and started college. We lived there for almost a year, when we bought our first trailer/mobile home and moved a few miles down the road to Section. It was here that I learned what it really meant to "keep house." It was here that my daughter had her 1st, 2nd and 3rd birthdays. It was while we lived here that I graduated college and got my first "real" job.
After 2½ years in Section, we bought a new (now called) "manufactured home" and moved to the 6½ acres of land my husband had bought alongside his brother in Crossville, some 60 miles from our first marital residence. It was here that our first son was born, I became a stay-at-home mom, and where my children first caught the bus to school. Then, about five years later, in January, 2000, we built a house on the back side of that property. It was at this same time that I started my career as a legal secretary. It was this house that I brought my youngest son home to, and the only place he has ever called home. It was while we lived here that I rededicated my life to my Lord, and all three of my babies accepted Christ. We’ve now been in this house for 13½ years.
So, where did I grow up? There’s no specific town I call my starting point. I was raised in the South. I grew up under the discipline and freedom of my parents. I grew up beside my sister who, though she annoyed me greatly, was the person closest to me. We share the same memories. She will understand my answer to this question. I grew up at the knees of saintly women, playing under the quilts as they "discussed" life’s issues and offered sisterly "advice." I grew up under "hell fire and brimstone" preachers and the wisdom of truly caring teachers. I grew up at family reunions and weekend volleyball games. I grew up rolling yards and having rubber band battles (skills learned from my lovely Mama). I grew up on the backroads of small communities where everybody knows everybody. I grew up on the interstates between the Tennessee-Kentucky state line, North Alabama, Atlanta and the Florida panhandle. I grew up in the cab of a red 1979 Chevrolet Silverado and the back seat of a 1973 VW Bug, and any other vehicle my Daddy might bring home. I grew up in the yard playing with first, second, third (and maybe even some fourth) cousins. I grew up at my children’s bedside, soothing little ones through sickness, surgeries and broken hearts. I grew up beside hospital beds and in funeral homes. I grew up at home with my parents, I grew up at home with my husband, and I grew up in the home of strangers (before I came to love them as family).
I grew up in love. Loved by so many, in so many different places. I grew up in several earthly houses; I grew up in the House of God; I grew up believing I have an eternal home built just for me in Heaven.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Thursday, May 2, 2013
George Jones and Daddy
The past week could be considered a sad time for many of us. We as a country lost a great entertainer in the passing of George Jones. On the local scene, however, it was the absence of the McDonald’s restaurant that was the subject of so many conversations. How in the world are these two topics related? To the average individual, probably not at all. But for me, they are closely knitted together in a very emotional memory.
You see, my Daddy worked for a company that, for many years, built only McDonald’s. They later branched out and began building other restaurants, but it was the McDonald’s that I grew up hearing so much about. Lots of times Daddy would bring home some very interesting pieces from restaurants he would remodel. For years our kitchen table was from one of those restaurants. Not one of the plain, stuck in the floor kind, but the ones with the swivel seats! I believe at one time we even had a couple pieces of the old playground equipment - you know the "rocking horse" type on the big springs. Yeah, those were fun! Even my older two children had a fantastic wooden playset, the one with the swinging bridge and the "tower." It stood concreted in the ground until just a few years ago.
Now, whenever I see one of those white trucks with the Hudson logo on the side, I can’t help but feel a light tug at my heart. I know what kind of man (or I guess, nowadays, woman) is in that truck. He’s a man who has probably traveled far from home to help bring those Golden Arches to some deserving town. He takes pride in his work. Each time he builds a playground, he makes sure it’s up to the standards he would want if it were his kids or grandkids playing on it. Each time he remodels a bathroom or a kitchen, is it safe enough or clean enough for his wife or daughters to use. He’s frustrated for being behind schedule and over budget. And if you were to take a peek inside his work trailer, there is a picture in his desk drawer under his list of local contractors, lightly covered in sawdust and dirt, of the family he has waiting back home.
OK - to tie all this in with Mr. George Jones. My Daddy was not a "die-hard" fan of any particular performer or even genre of music. We listened to everything from oldies (rock and country) of the 50s and 60s, to the current country hits, and even some classical tunes by Floyd Cramer. It was not uncommon to hear him occasionally (attempt to) sing along with the radio. It was with songs like "White Lightnin," and the "she was hotter than a two-dollar pistol" song that I remember hearing him try to duplicate the deepness of George Jones’ voice. Whether he was on key or not, I couldn’t tell you. But I thought my Daddy sounded pretty good.
Fast forward many, many years. George Jones was scheduled to perform at a local establishment one Friday night. I thought it would be a great idea to take my Daddy and enjoy the show with him. We had been to a Loretta Lynn show a few years prior and had a blast listening to all the old songs and seeing her and others up close and personal. The problem was that I was scheduled to go out of town for a conference the weekend of the George Jones concert. I dealt with conflicting emotions of wanting to spend time with my Daddy and needing to attend this conference for my business. I remember the morning we were to leave for Atlanta. I had a very uneasy feeling in my heart and in my gut. I mentioned it to the ladies I was with, and we decided that it was just excitement over the trip. Still, there was the feeling of unrest. That was on Friday morning. The George Jones concert was that night. I wasn’t going to be back home until Saturday evening. My Daddy died Sunday night.
So, with the passing of George Jones this past week, the memory of that missed concert rises to the top. I still regret not staying home and making a point to spend those last days with my Daddy. But we can’t change the past. I only now have the feelings I get when I hear a George Jones song or a story about him in the news. My first thoughts are usually, "I gotta remember to tell Daddy."
Today the Grand Ole Opry was host to thousands as they pay their last respects to the late Mr. George Jones. As I drove past the construction site where my beloved McDonald’s once stood, the radio played a tribute to him. "Who’s gonna fill their shoes? Who’s gonna stand that tall?" Yes, who indeed.
You see, my Daddy worked for a company that, for many years, built only McDonald’s. They later branched out and began building other restaurants, but it was the McDonald’s that I grew up hearing so much about. Lots of times Daddy would bring home some very interesting pieces from restaurants he would remodel. For years our kitchen table was from one of those restaurants. Not one of the plain, stuck in the floor kind, but the ones with the swivel seats! I believe at one time we even had a couple pieces of the old playground equipment - you know the "rocking horse" type on the big springs. Yeah, those were fun! Even my older two children had a fantastic wooden playset, the one with the swinging bridge and the "tower." It stood concreted in the ground until just a few years ago.
Now, whenever I see one of those white trucks with the Hudson logo on the side, I can’t help but feel a light tug at my heart. I know what kind of man (or I guess, nowadays, woman) is in that truck. He’s a man who has probably traveled far from home to help bring those Golden Arches to some deserving town. He takes pride in his work. Each time he builds a playground, he makes sure it’s up to the standards he would want if it were his kids or grandkids playing on it. Each time he remodels a bathroom or a kitchen, is it safe enough or clean enough for his wife or daughters to use. He’s frustrated for being behind schedule and over budget. And if you were to take a peek inside his work trailer, there is a picture in his desk drawer under his list of local contractors, lightly covered in sawdust and dirt, of the family he has waiting back home.
OK - to tie all this in with Mr. George Jones. My Daddy was not a "die-hard" fan of any particular performer or even genre of music. We listened to everything from oldies (rock and country) of the 50s and 60s, to the current country hits, and even some classical tunes by Floyd Cramer. It was not uncommon to hear him occasionally (attempt to) sing along with the radio. It was with songs like "White Lightnin," and the "she was hotter than a two-dollar pistol" song that I remember hearing him try to duplicate the deepness of George Jones’ voice. Whether he was on key or not, I couldn’t tell you. But I thought my Daddy sounded pretty good.
Fast forward many, many years. George Jones was scheduled to perform at a local establishment one Friday night. I thought it would be a great idea to take my Daddy and enjoy the show with him. We had been to a Loretta Lynn show a few years prior and had a blast listening to all the old songs and seeing her and others up close and personal. The problem was that I was scheduled to go out of town for a conference the weekend of the George Jones concert. I dealt with conflicting emotions of wanting to spend time with my Daddy and needing to attend this conference for my business. I remember the morning we were to leave for Atlanta. I had a very uneasy feeling in my heart and in my gut. I mentioned it to the ladies I was with, and we decided that it was just excitement over the trip. Still, there was the feeling of unrest. That was on Friday morning. The George Jones concert was that night. I wasn’t going to be back home until Saturday evening. My Daddy died Sunday night.
So, with the passing of George Jones this past week, the memory of that missed concert rises to the top. I still regret not staying home and making a point to spend those last days with my Daddy. But we can’t change the past. I only now have the feelings I get when I hear a George Jones song or a story about him in the news. My first thoughts are usually, "I gotta remember to tell Daddy."
Today the Grand Ole Opry was host to thousands as they pay their last respects to the late Mr. George Jones. As I drove past the construction site where my beloved McDonald’s once stood, the radio played a tribute to him. "Who’s gonna fill their shoes? Who’s gonna stand that tall?" Yes, who indeed.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
What Would Jesus Do?
Road trips are biblical. I have proof. You need only to read the book of Matthew to find several accountings of Jesus’ travels. My simple understanding of all these stories is that Jesus felt overwhelmed sometimes just like me. So much to be done, so little time. I barely finish one thing (if I even get it finished) before somebody wants or needs something else. It’s constant going and going, and doing and doing. Sometimes tasks pile up, and I can’t do everything at once. Occasionally, while I’m tending to one thing, somewhere another perishes (as in the story of Lazarus). With enough faith, though, that one can be resurrected and all will be right again.
What I see is that Jesus did what was required of Him. He did what He could do, and then some, but then He needed rest. While the multitudes followed and beckoned Him, He would go out on the water or into the mountains. These journeys took him from the place He was to the place He needed to be to prepare Him for what was to come next. Sometimes He took the people closest to Him; sometimes He went alone. Sometimes He prayed; sometimes He shared what God had revealed from His previous tasks or what missions lay ahead. Though He was constantly in touch with His Father, it was at those times that Jesus spoke to God one on one. And after He had rested, He went back to the multitudes.
I love the fact that I am able to do what I can for those who need it. Most days I enjoy the work that I do, at home, at church, at my job. I appreciate the abilities God has given me and the opportunities he provides. But sometimes, it gets to be a little much. Sometimes I just need to get away. Whether it be a girls’ trip to the beach for a few days, a week-long family vacation with the kids, a trip to my Mom’s, or even just a ride alone to do my grocery shopping - mostly it’s just a break from the routine that refreshes my mind. It always amazes me how a simple ride will renew my spirit and remind me of the beauty of God’s creation. It gives me time to think and pray and listen. It calms me.
So the next time you hear I’m planning a trip, don’t think I’m being lavish or thumbing my nose at my responsibilities. I’m just doing what Jesus would do.
What I see is that Jesus did what was required of Him. He did what He could do, and then some, but then He needed rest. While the multitudes followed and beckoned Him, He would go out on the water or into the mountains. These journeys took him from the place He was to the place He needed to be to prepare Him for what was to come next. Sometimes He took the people closest to Him; sometimes He went alone. Sometimes He prayed; sometimes He shared what God had revealed from His previous tasks or what missions lay ahead. Though He was constantly in touch with His Father, it was at those times that Jesus spoke to God one on one. And after He had rested, He went back to the multitudes.
I love the fact that I am able to do what I can for those who need it. Most days I enjoy the work that I do, at home, at church, at my job. I appreciate the abilities God has given me and the opportunities he provides. But sometimes, it gets to be a little much. Sometimes I just need to get away. Whether it be a girls’ trip to the beach for a few days, a week-long family vacation with the kids, a trip to my Mom’s, or even just a ride alone to do my grocery shopping - mostly it’s just a break from the routine that refreshes my mind. It always amazes me how a simple ride will renew my spirit and remind me of the beauty of God’s creation. It gives me time to think and pray and listen. It calms me.
So the next time you hear I’m planning a trip, don’t think I’m being lavish or thumbing my nose at my responsibilities. I’m just doing what Jesus would do.
"Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden,
and I will give you rest." Matthew 11:28
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Remember
I know it's almost Friday again, but I'm just now getting around to last week's "Five-Minute Friday." The thought for the week was "remember."
"It hit me as we were driving home. I look over at him. He has always been so brave at doctor visits. I remember the two-hour drives to the Children’s Hospital in our VW Bug when he was not even 2 years old. He was such a good rider. He was fine with his sippy cup and his snacks, and me holding his hand while I drove. Sometimes he would fall asleep. Sometimes we would “talk.” Today though, he talks on his phone, text messages his friends, controls the radio. He doesn’t nap any more. And when we talk, our conversations revolve around his truck and high school happenings. He still paces the waiting room, can’t be still. Has it really been that long? Have things really changed that much? “Hey Mama, why don’t you pull through a drive-thru and get us a milkshake and some fries.” Of course I will...just like old times...just how I remember it."
"It hit me as we were driving home. I look over at him. He has always been so brave at doctor visits. I remember the two-hour drives to the Children’s Hospital in our VW Bug when he was not even 2 years old. He was such a good rider. He was fine with his sippy cup and his snacks, and me holding his hand while I drove. Sometimes he would fall asleep. Sometimes we would “talk.” Today though, he talks on his phone, text messages his friends, controls the radio. He doesn’t nap any more. And when we talk, our conversations revolve around his truck and high school happenings. He still paces the waiting room, can’t be still. Has it really been that long? Have things really changed that much? “Hey Mama, why don’t you pull through a drive-thru and get us a milkshake and some fries.” Of course I will...just like old times...just how I remember it."
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
He's Still Working On Me
Well, hello again. It’s me. Trying my hand at this writing thing...again. I am trying something new. A new routine, and a new process, to get my words flowing...again. I hope you will bear with me as I work through this journey, one day, one word at a time.
It has not been easy getting to this point. This willingness to do what I’ve been told. For those of you who have ever tried to get your child to clean his room, you know how this process has gone...
First, you try logic:
Parent - "Hey, why don’t you clean up your room right quick."
Child - "But I’m watching Power Rangers right now."
Parent - "Well I need you to do it now so my plans for the rest of the day will run smoother."
Child - "But I can’t do it good. You can do it better."
Parent - "Yeah, but I’ve got the rest of the house to clean. And besides, the more you do it, the better you’ll get at it."
God - "Why don’t you do some writing."
Me - "I don’t have time, I’m doing all this other stuff you told me I should be doing. And besides, Sis. Suzie can do a better job than me. Why don’t you ask her to do it?"
God - "Practice makes perfect."
Parent - "If you will do this, it will really help me out and I won’t be so tired later. Who knows, maybe we could go [do something fun the child will enjoy]."
Child - "Yeah that would be fun. Can we do that first?! Then when we get back, if I have time, I will do it."
God - "You know you will feel better when you write something. Spend some quality time with me. And oh the blessings I have waiting for you when you do!"
Me - "Yeah that would be great! Can we do that first?! Then if I feel like it and have time later, I will write something."
Parent - "I told you to go clean your room."
Child - "But..."
Parent - "No buts. You do it because I am your mother and I said so. I don’t care if you don’t do it perfect. I’m not asking you to shampoo the carpet or paint the walls, just do your best. That’s all I ask."
Child - (huffs and pouts and mumbles under his breath as he does what he is told).
God - "Write."
Me - "But..."
God - "NO. No excuses. Just do it. I’m not asking you to write a New York Times best seller. Just a few paragraphs on a little blog site for a few friends to read. I don’t care if it’s not perfect. I don’t care if you just ramble on about arguing with your kids. Just try! That’s all I ask."
Me - (bowed and crying) "ok."
"See Lord, I told you I wouldn’t be able to get up early enough. Now I’m gonna be late for work."
"Why is this taking so long? It’s taken me two days to write this."
"Lord, do you see this handwriting?"
Finally there’s the moment when the child comes to the mother and excitedly begs her to come see what he’s done. ("but close your eyes cuz it’s a surprise")....TA DA! She opens her eyes to see a room, the covers sideways on the bed, clothes peeking out of dresser drawers, toys thrown haphazardly in the toy box and under the bed...and the child smiling from ear to ear, eyes still red from all his crying. How can she point out his flaws? He sees his room as spic and span, and she lets him have his moment. There’s still time to teach him. It’s a work in progress.
I known when you read this you will probably hear me rambling, see all my run-on sentences, too many adjectives and not enough complete thoughts, and a dozen other writing errors. But that’s ok with me. It's a work in progress. I am a work in progress. And this time with God, this feeling of accomplishment early in the morning before I’ve really begun my day. I’m only wishing I’d done it sooner.
It has not been easy getting to this point. This willingness to do what I’ve been told. For those of you who have ever tried to get your child to clean his room, you know how this process has gone...
First, you try logic:
Child - "But I’m watching Power Rangers right now."
Parent - "Well I need you to do it now so my plans for the rest of the day will run smoother."
Child - "But I can’t do it good. You can do it better."
Parent - "Yeah, but I’ve got the rest of the house to clean. And besides, the more you do it, the better you’ll get at it."
Me - "I don’t have time, I’m doing all this other stuff you told me I should be doing. And besides, Sis. Suzie can do a better job than me. Why don’t you ask her to do it?"
God - "Practice makes perfect."
Child - "Yeah that would be fun. Can we do that first?! Then when we get back, if I have time, I will do it."
Me - "Yeah that would be great! Can we do that first?! Then if I feel like it and have time later, I will write something."
Child - "But..."
Parent - "No buts. You do it because I am your mother and I said so. I don’t care if you don’t do it perfect. I’m not asking you to shampoo the carpet or paint the walls, just do your best. That’s all I ask."
Child - (huffs and pouts and mumbles under his breath as he does what he is told).
Me - "But..."
God - "NO. No excuses. Just do it. I’m not asking you to write a New York Times best seller. Just a few paragraphs on a little blog site for a few friends to read. I don’t care if it’s not perfect. I don’t care if you just ramble on about arguing with your kids. Just try! That’s all I ask."
Me - (bowed and crying) "ok."
"Why is this taking so long? It’s taken me two days to write this."
"Lord, do you see this handwriting?"
Finally there’s the moment when the child comes to the mother and excitedly begs her to come see what he’s done. ("but close your eyes cuz it’s a surprise")....TA DA! She opens her eyes to see a room, the covers sideways on the bed, clothes peeking out of dresser drawers, toys thrown haphazardly in the toy box and under the bed...and the child smiling from ear to ear, eyes still red from all his crying. How can she point out his flaws? He sees his room as spic and span, and she lets him have his moment. There’s still time to teach him. It’s a work in progress.
I known when you read this you will probably hear me rambling, see all my run-on sentences, too many adjectives and not enough complete thoughts, and a dozen other writing errors. But that’s ok with me. It's a work in progress. I am a work in progress. And this time with God, this feeling of accomplishment early in the morning before I’ve really begun my day. I’m only wishing I’d done it sooner.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Again
When I posted my last Five-Minute Friday, I think I left out one of the rules. Yes we all write for five minutes on the same topic, no editing, just writing. But we also are told "you need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments." This leads to a lot of encouragement from different people - because there's no way you can read just one. I hope you all will take a minute and check out Lisa Jo Baker's Five-Minute Fridays.
This week's topic - "again."
"It’s Saturday morning. As I make my way down the hall to the kitchen I can’t help but feel I’ve been here before. I believe it was just last week. I see little boys scattered on the floor and furniture, each asleep where he fell. I begin my routine of picking up wrappers and empty juice bottles. Putting away toy trucks and toy guns before little feet step on them in their sleepy stumbles. I clean up dirty dishes left from after-midnight snacks. I collect the dirty socks and shirts to be washed. I sweep up leaves and dirt tracked in after a game of hide and seek in the dark. I fix their breakfast as they each come alive in their blanket cocoons. Then they are up and dressed and out the door again. And I’m left to repeat the process. As I finish , they come in with their stories of bike riding and hiking through the woods, tracking in more mud and leaves, piling up dirty socks and shoes and coats with signs of their adventures, and asking for lunch. And I think to myself, "Here we go again." I think back to another time like this. I’ve done it all before with the two that came before him. I’ve done 12-year-old girl drama. I’ve done 12-year-old boy stories of skateboard accomplishments. And I think, this time with more excitement and apprehension, confidence and worry, "Here we go again.""
This week's topic - "again."
"It’s Saturday morning. As I make my way down the hall to the kitchen I can’t help but feel I’ve been here before. I believe it was just last week. I see little boys scattered on the floor and furniture, each asleep where he fell. I begin my routine of picking up wrappers and empty juice bottles. Putting away toy trucks and toy guns before little feet step on them in their sleepy stumbles. I clean up dirty dishes left from after-midnight snacks. I collect the dirty socks and shirts to be washed. I sweep up leaves and dirt tracked in after a game of hide and seek in the dark. I fix their breakfast as they each come alive in their blanket cocoons. Then they are up and dressed and out the door again. And I’m left to repeat the process. As I finish , they come in with their stories of bike riding and hiking through the woods, tracking in more mud and leaves, piling up dirty socks and shoes and coats with signs of their adventures, and asking for lunch. And I think to myself, "Here we go again." I think back to another time like this. I’ve done it all before with the two that came before him. I’ve done 12-year-old girl drama. I’ve done 12-year-old boy stories of skateboard accomplishments. And I think, this time with more excitement and apprehension, confidence and worry, "Here we go again.""
Monday, January 14, 2013
"Dive"
As you know, I've joined a community of writers at a place called "Five-Minute Friday." In case I haven't told you, it's a weekly post on a blog by Lisa Jo Baker. The concept is that everybody posts (or links to their own blog post) on the same topic. The rule is that we type for five minutes, no editing, barely proofing, just writing. This week's topic was "Dive." I admit it was a hard one for me, but this is my attempt:
"How can I spend five whole minutes writing about a word I don’t fully understand. Dive. I never learned to swim (at least effectively). I have no idea how to dive, the whole concept of going head-first into water is beyond me. So what do I do? Just sit at the keyboard and write whatever comes to mind. That’s what I’ll try. Maybe just opening my mind to let the words in will start the juices flowing again. Much like jumping into a pool of water would get your blood your adrenalin pumping. So that’s what I’ll try. Just type. Just dive in to the word pool and see what overflows. I can immerse myself in the writing, lose myself in creativity. Who knows, I might even learn to keep myself afloat with the words of my thoughts."
If you want to check out other writers' posts or join in yourself, click here to see what it's all about.
"How can I spend five whole minutes writing about a word I don’t fully understand. Dive. I never learned to swim (at least effectively). I have no idea how to dive, the whole concept of going head-first into water is beyond me. So what do I do? Just sit at the keyboard and write whatever comes to mind. That’s what I’ll try. Maybe just opening my mind to let the words in will start the juices flowing again. Much like jumping into a pool of water would get your blood your adrenalin pumping. So that’s what I’ll try. Just type. Just dive in to the word pool and see what overflows. I can immerse myself in the writing, lose myself in creativity. Who knows, I might even learn to keep myself afloat with the words of my thoughts."
If you want to check out other writers' posts or join in yourself, click here to see what it's all about.
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