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Who can resist a book with their name in the title?!
In this Korean folktale, Lady Hahn is a seamstress. Each of her sewing tools claims to be the most important. Lady Hahn overhears them and grows angry, claims to be more important than any of the tools, and throws them into a box. The tools feel mistreated and misunderstood, so they hide from Lady Hahn, who has a miserable time trying to sew without them the next day. In the end, they realize that they all need each other to get the job done.
This Lady Hahn is more likely my mom than me, though. The Lady Hahn who raised and clothed me with hand-sewn blue-ribbon-at-the-county-fair creations made on her little black Singer worked miracles with needle and thread and fabric. She made baby dresses with smocking down the front, recital dresses from purple crepe, baton twirling costumes of velvet with sequins hand-sewn on, a dirndl from a German pattern, and even BARBIE DOLL CLOTHES with buttons so tiny I'm not sure how she didn't go blind sewing them on!
2 Comments on LADY HAHN AND HER SEVEN FRIENDS by Yumi Heo, last added: 5/17/2012
Nice review of the book, Mary Lee, but also sweet about your mom! My mother made all my clothes when I was young too. How did they manage it all? Probably because they didn't have computers!
This entire month of blog challenge, dealing with family, led me to yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Obvious, I know. I knew that at some point I was going to have to speak seriously about my mother, and I knew how difficult that would be for me.
The stories I’ve written this month have taken me to places where emotions have near drop-kicked me on many days. This one will lay me out completely and I know it. I was going to write it yesterday. I just couldn’t force myself to do it. I wasn’t ready yet to drown in all of those feelings that had been swirling for a month, just under the surface where they would swallow me at the slightest provocation.
Let sleeping dogs lie is the old adage that covers this situation, and I’m about to begin poking that big brute that lives below the waves. That being the case, I’ll share a part of my mother that has less sorrow for me.
Mom loved kids and animals better than anything else in the world, family excluded, of course. She was a natural mother, who could sooth any child, tame just about any creature, and generally get along with the world regardless of circumstance.
From the time I was about thirteen or so, old bird cages, boxes, baskets, etc. shared Mom’s kitchen with us. Inside those cages, boxes, baskets, etc. were babies. Some were birds, some baby bunnies, or any number of other wild things. She definitely took after her mother in that regard.
There were orphans that stick strongly in my memory. I came home one day to find baby groundhogs nestled inside an old towel in a cardboard box on a chair beside the stove. They were two of the sweetest little creatures I’d ever seen; all brown and cuddly, rolled up into balls keeping warm against each other. Someone had found them abandoned and had brought them to Mom.
I don’t remember how long she had them before the groundhogs were released, and I don’t know that it matters now. I do know that there were few weeks during spring or summer when orphans didn’t come to our house.
Dad brought her the baby bunnies. He was mowing the yard and didn’t realize that one of the local cottontails had made her warren near the edge of the driveway. The rabbits were tiny things and terrified. Dad knew that the mother would never return to the nest warren after it had been disturbed.
On another occasion, a friend brought her a pair of silver fox babies to tend for a few weeks, until they were weaned. He bred silver foxes and needed a surrogate mother for them for a while. Mom did her thing and they soon went back to their rightful home.
One wet, cold spring day, Mom went mushroom hunting. Keeping her out of the woods during mushroom season was unheard of. Having her come home with a baby Great Horned Owl, though, was different. The wee thing had fallen/or been pushed from its next.
She heard it, found it, and scooped it up. It was in shock; its down feathers were soaked, and it couldn’t stop shiverin
6 Comments on Chasing Away Sorrow, last added: 3/1/2012
Lynn Ann Carol-Bemis said, on 2/28/2012 8:30:00 PM
That was beautiful. Oh how I’ve missed talking to you. Mom’s are like that, yes they are. I have to admit I am envious of your mom’s ability to make peace with the beasts of the field. Be Blessed, Lynn~~
claudsy said, on 2/28/2012 9:09:00 PM
Ah, Zeebs! I thought you’d disappeared. I’ve missed you, my friend. Mom had the touch, as did her mother. I was smart choosing this aspect to talk about. I only cried for fifteen minutes instead of an hour.
Thank you for stopping by. I’ve missed talking with you as well. Take care and God bless.
Claudsy
Carrie Anne said, on 3/1/2012 8:47:00 AM
This was quite a series you undertook on family… had me in tears more times than I can count. Bless your heart.
claudsy said, on 3/1/2012 9:25:00 AM
Aw, thanks, Carrie. You weren’t the only one in tears, believe me. Nearly every day I spilled several tissues full while going through editing.
Love ya and so glad to hear from you.
Claudsy
Carrie Anne said, on 3/1/2012 9:30:00 AM
I can believe it! Such an emotional journey. (Your memory astounds me, btw).
Love, Boo.
claudsy said, on 3/1/2012 10:05:00 AM
Don’t be too awed, Carrie. Much of that is from what Mom relayed to me and woven from impressions more than anything else. I’ve listened to so many tales over the years about this happening or that person, that the “memories” are much like family history by now.
I have few clear memories, and those are fragmented. Stitching them together is much like writing an essay from bits of info pulled from several sources.
I was awoke this morning with a burning sensation behind my eyelids, due to a desperate attempt to hold back tears. Tears I'd held for so long...
It was an early morning in December, my one of my favorite seasons- Although, I didn't have to wonder why I woke up teary eyed-
As of late, I did recognize this feeling...I 'd felt it before- this was not my first wagon ride.
I kept my eyes closed and began to think of the cowboy curtains on my grandmothers drapes, the smell of honeysuckle vines in her yard, her dusty back porch, the clothesline, and talkative morning birds.
My heart sings when I remember waking up at my grandmothers house long ago...When my brothers and I spent the night with my grandmother, we awoke to the smell of bacon popping in a pan, homemade grape jam on toast, and the loudest birds I will ever hear again chirping outside the window; I remember being curious about the birds conversation as they picked their way through the morning dew...
I imagined what they were gossiping about...but, they chirped so fast, that even if I could understand their language, their conversation would be impossible to follow.
I laughed to myself, thinking about how children think, and was careful not to open my eyes as my mind wandered back into yesterday. I remembered my grandmother laughing at my son's Golden Retriever, Wendy, as she raced squirrels from tree limb to tree limb, encircled the tree's trunk, and jumped toward the sky hoping a squirrel would lose their balance and fall. I started to laugh again, but suppressed it...and I'm not sure why-
I wished I was nine again, and squeezed my eyes together tight, willing the past to remain in my mind. Then, the sounds of the world waking up interrupted my trance, and I knew I would have to open my eyes sometime.
As a matter of fact, I knew that "sometime" was around the corner, because I had to wipe the tears that were sliding down my cheeks like rainwater. Why was I crying?- It was a surprise I decided to brush off and rationalize as tired, confused, lost, or "just one of those days."
I lay in bed feeling as though I were awaiting an unwelcome visitor- Nevertheless, I told myself I was strong and thought of good things until I felt better.
After all, it was an early morning in December, my favorite season- So I shrugged off the feeling and decided to focus on secure moments and new beginnings before I met the day.
I always project myself into the future during the fall season and on Sundays-
For example, on Sunday I think of Monday, and during the spring months, I remember long hot summers.
Only, on this day of winter, I didn't think of the summer, I thought of cowboy curtains...
I thought again about the cowboy curtains that hung in my uncle’s boyhood room at my grandmother’s house. They smelled good, probably because they dried clinging to a clothesline on breezy spring afternoons.
It felt good to think about the smells and sounds rich in my Southern environment- In addition to the lasting impression my grandmothers five hundred year old Oak tree left upon my soul.
The agricultural climate in the south blends into your senses and becomes a part of who you are, and what you will remember for a lifetime.
Sometimes, I draw upon my heritage for comfort when I’m having trouble with life's harsh realities. I’m happy I can still smell the honeysuckle vines I pulled from my grandmother’s Azalea bushes, as well as hear the crickets' sing at night.
2 Comments on Cowboy Curtains, last added: 11/27/2011
by Lane Smith
Roaring Brook Press 2011
A boy fondly remembers his great-grandfather through the topiary garden he has built over the years.
There's something missing here, something I can't quite put my finger on. Or maybe something off.
We have a boy, ostensibly the main character, going through the garden and explaining the meaning behind all the various animals and objects his
1 Comments on Grandpa Green, last added: 11/18/2011
My children's great-grandparents (my grandparents) are in their 90s. After years of enjoying pretty decent health they are struggling to adjust to a life that has left them unable to care for themselves as they have in the past. <br /><br />I want my young children to realize that their great-grandparents are truly special people, people with a lot to share and so much knowledge and wisdom
Head over to Every Day Fiction to read "The Long Walk to Never" today. As always, comments and ratings are appreciated.
Here's another blast from the past, Coffin Hoppers: Ghost Floats, a fun drink with a spooky pedigree. I offer it word for word as it was in the original text, The Little Witch's Black Magic Cookbook by Linda Glovach.
20 minutes / 2 servings
You'll need a blender, measuring spoon, measuring cup, and glasses.
Ingredients:
1 cup prepared powdered milk (fresh milk won't work) 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 cup diet soda
Ask your mother to get the blender out of the cupboard.
Put the milk and the vanilla in the blender. Slowly add the soda.
Blend at medium speed for two minutes. Pour into two glasses and put them in the freezer for ten minutes.
When you take the drink out of the freezer you will see the ghosts floating on top. This is a great drink fro mother witches on diets because it has only 57 calories*. And the little witches who are not on a diet can use regular soda.
*Yeah, I know. WTF? But the book was published in 1972. A whole helluva lot of witches were on diets back then. Or something like that.
Do you remember any recipes or special Halloween treats from your childhood?
8 Comments on Coffin Hop Day Two: Ghost Floats (and a new story), last added: 10/26/2011
Powdered milk makes the ghosts in this drink? Cool! I'll have to give that one a try. I wonder if diet Mountain Dew would give it an eerie witches brew look!
Hey, I just noticed that you're part of this blog hop--awesome! I love getting in touch with other writers. I did a review of "We Are the Monsters" on my blog in case you were interested (http://joannapary.wordpress.com/2011/07/15/pandoras-pick-of-the-week-we-are-the-monsters/)
Anyway, my mom would always make creepy dishes for Halloween when I was a kid. I loved when she made meringue tongues with some red food dye and red sprinkles for taste buds. Super simple, but it was a fun treat.
One of my upcoming books, Finish Her Off (pub date Fall 2012) is about a girl who wakes up and doesn’t know who she is - and then has to figure it out before the men who are trying to kill her succeed.
So you know how when you buy a new car and you realize suddenly that everyone drives that type of car? It’s the same thing with book ideas. Must be something in the water. So far I’ve read four books with a plot revolving around memory loss.
Before I Go to Sleep: A Novel. A huge international hit. Christine’s memories disappear every time she falls asleep. Every day she wakes up thinking she’s a 20-something, and is shocked to wake up beside a 40-something stranger - and to discover that she’s married to him and she herself is 40-something. She starts keeping a journal to help her keep track of what’s real - and what’s not.
I was totally looking forward to this book, but a) it’s not a real condition, b) you have to get past the idea that she writes a lengthy journal by hand full of sensory descriptions and detailed recaps of events, and most importantly, c) I didn’t believe the solution. Plus the ending is really rushed.
What Alice Forgot. As the publisher says, “Alice Love is twenty-nine years old, madly in love with her husband, and pregnant with their first child. So imagine her surprise when, after a fall, she comes to on the floor of a gym (a gym! she HATES the gym!) and discovers that she's actually thirty-nine, has three children, and is in the midst of an acrimonious divorce.” This is a chick-lit book with a lighter tone.
I enjoyed this, although you have to suspend disbelief that in 10 years someone would have completely changed their habits and personality. And while someone who has experienced a head injury might forget a day or two before the event, I don’t think anyone has ever forgotten 10 years.
The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes. A man wakes up on a beach, naked. Nearby he finds a car with clothes that fit him - and a gun. He realizes that he must be the man who owns these things - a man named Daniel Hayes. And he begins to realize he may have killed his wife.
Like a lot of books that begin with a good twist, the explanation for the twist is a tad strained. But fugue states (when the victim can’t remember anything ab
When I was young, our local bookstore was a Waldenbooks that took up one corner of our Fred Meyer shopping complex. There a bookseller suggested I try LJ Smith’s Night World series while I wiled away the hours browsing the shelves as my mother shopped for groceries. It was at this store that I met the woman who would one day lead me from the reading world into the bookselling one, giving me my first job.
Waldenbooks became part of the Borders empire in the mid 90s when Borders left K-mart. The stores were re-branded as Borders Express, but even rehabbed they were the first closed when Borders began to experience financial problems several years ago. My store, my final store in my bookselling history, was one of the first closed. Now the rest of Borders will be shutting down as well. On Monday the company announced that they will seek approval for liquidation. Soon 399 stores will close and 10,700 people will lose their jobs.
When our Borders Express closed back in 2007, it was clear that the company was having trouble.
“Why are you closing?” customers would ask as we filled their bags with 50% off books. “You always look so busy.”
We were profitable. We were out performing our plan, but it wasn’t enough to save us. “Over-expansion overseas,” we’d reply. “We don’t have the online presence.”
Funny how those were clear even then.
Despite what some claim e-books were not the cause of Borders' downfall. E-books weren’t even on the horizon. The first Kindle would not be released until November of that year.
Closing a store is heartbreaking. Not only do you have the lead up, where the feeling of something bad shadows ever move, but then you have the after. You have the weight of the questions asked - “Why? Where will you go? What will happen next? Will you discount even more?” - along with the boxes you will have to fill and the books you will have to strip.
Those Borders stores will be stripping a lot of books - romance, mystery, any genre where paperbacks are the size of choice to drop in your purse or tuck in your computer bag. As the New York Times points out “Borders was known as a retailer that took special care in selling paperbacks, and its promotion of certain titles could propel them to best-seller status.”
With Borders gone the print runs will be smaller and the market for new paperback titles will be reduced. The loss will be far-reaching.
But right now, it’s about the employees who have held on for months hoping for a continuance even while they knew the end was coming. It’s about the relief that they can finally cry openly about they changes they will need to make in their lives. It’s about the realization that some of these customers they have grown to care about will no longer be part of their daily routine.
When you close your store you want to believe you’ll stay in touch, that the heartache and sweat that went into those last few days will find you together. Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t.
But you’ll always have books.
I would like to believe that everyone remembers their first bookstore, and for the generation that has enjoyed Borders it will live on forever. For me a Borders always meant an escape from life’s pressures thanks to well stocked shelves and friendly people. A Borders in whatever city I was visiting meant a familiar place to go.
Thank you, Borders, for seeing me through the hard times, for giving me a job, and for being a place I could always find something to r
2 Comments on A World Without Borders, last added: 7/21/2011
I felt sad honestly after reading this one. But there's always tomorrow and there's always no bound borders we can never outlive. Thank you borders and god bless to all of the employees.
When I was young I was a Daddy's Girl. I loved my dad- and all that he taught me. He instilled in me a love for reading and not only that, he helped learn to critique and think about what I was reading. When I was in fourth grade, he read The Hobbit to me. Every night before I went to bed, he would read to me. Now, I don't know that I understood every word of that book, but I loved it- I loved the language and the way he read it to me as if I DID understand it.
The next year, we read The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe together. I so wanted to be Lucy and stand in that snow covered wonderland. I could taste the Turkish Delight and I cried big, sobbing tears with Aslan died. I remember that my dad had to stop reading just to console me. My dad was crazy about science fiction. I remember him reading A Hitchhiker's Guide to The Galaxy and Dune. He took me to see The Empire Strikes Back at the drive in theater. I would sit in his den while he talked on his HAM radio... KA0DYI. He collected and restored antique radios and he taught himself how to play the guitar. We would sing "Little Brown Jug" and "Drunkin' Sailor" and loads of other songs that I can't remember right now. When I was in 8th grade, life as I knew it changed. My father had a tumor on his optic nerve and he lost vision in both eyes. He developed several complications and lost his kidney function and got meningitis. We almost lost him. He pulled through and adjusted to life without vision. He taught himself braille- to my amazement- and got books and newspapers in the mail. He received books on tape as well, but I knew it wasn't the same as him reading the words on that page. Of all the things he lost when he got sick, I think he may have missed reading the most.
The years passed and I grew up, life got complicated and I drifted away from my family. The last time I talked with my dad was on my wedding day 14 years ago this fall. He passed away 6 years ago, and I never got to thank him for making me the reader I am today. I didn't get to say a lot of things.
Don't take life for granted, dear blog readers. In the words of The Beatles, "Life is very short and there's no time for fussing and fighting my friends." Hug your dad, hug your kids. Tell people how you feel every day, before it's too late. Read with your kids, make your kids feel important, be patient and answer all of their questions, no matter how silly they may seem... they will remember and they will be thankful.
Kelly
1 Comments on What My Father Read to Me..., last added: 6/20/2011
Wow! That is very touching...I thank,*you*, mrs. Butcher for instilling my love of reading and I thank god that I have such an amazing librarian as you! I am so lucky to know you! Addy
It's been said by some that a writer should write about what he or she is familiar with. For I suppose there's nothing quite like life experience as a rich resource for the tales we tell. The life experiences each of us has, add depth to a story. And it is the unique interpretation of those experiences that make those stories our own, told like no one else would or even could.
Each of us captures the world around us through our own particular set of sensory stimuli. And even when faced with the same view of the world before us, we may process the information differently and act on it differently still. Will the fact that I am color blind mean I will miss some things or see them in a different way than others? Do I have a high pain threshhold, making me indifferent to those more sensitive? Was I an only child? The oldest, youngest or somewhere in the middle?
Have I broken an arm or leg, had surgery, been lost? And what if I haven't yet or maybe never will? Have I ever been truly hungry or felt fatigue or cold down to the bone? Have I ever wanted to kill---or had to? Have I had a story to share and should have but didn't?
"Who knows?" you ask. "Perhaps there won't be anyone interested." But if the stories aren't told, we'll never know who might have learned from them or simply loved the listening. So, tell your stories. Write them down or simply pass them on as folk tales or oral history to be recounted again and again. For one day, without our knowing when, the time will pass and the untold stories will fade from memory.
It is the charge of writers and tellers of tales to not let that happen.
2 Comments on Got Stories? Tell 'Em., last added: 5/29/2011
A number of years ago, I read this at my mother's funeral mass. I am sharing it today with you to honor my mother and sister. It was the last gift that I could send upward to Heaven dedicated to her.
Our Mother, a Gift of Words
If my mom were alive today, she would thank you for coming here. So her family thanks you today. Besides prayers, the last gift that I can give our mother is a few kind words. She used to say, “If it makes you happy, do it.” And I am happy to share these words with you.
Our mother is gone, but she’s here in our hearts and memories—like Father Jim said. She’s here in her children and their spouses, grandchildren and many others. Yes, she’s here in her grandchildren. She was a “grand” mother to all of them. Whenever we closed a long distance phone call, she would add, “Give everyone a kiss for me and tell them that I love them.”
She even included our dog, Rosco, in her good wishes. Dogs held a special place in my mom’s heart because they asked for so little and gave so much. Dogs like Rudy and Lucy. Mom is here in her nieces and nephews and her friends.
So, who was this woman we call mother, sister, grandma, great-grandma or friend? She was an angel on Earth. That’s who she was. Those who used to watch “Touched By An Angel” know what I mean. This earthly angel wasn’t perfect, but she was as perfect as a person can be. She earned her angel wings by spending most of her teenage years without a father, a father who died in a fire. Her oldest brother, John, became her rock of Gibraltar, her substitute father. This lovely lass fell in love with a hard-working macho Italian man. It was a classic case of “Romeo and Juliet,” except that the relationship survived growing up in two different houses, with two different cultures and lifestyles.
In the first year of marriage, there were challenges and the background of World War Two. Out of love, my mother gave into her groom in many ways. She waited hand-and-foot on a man used to European ways of living. That’s partly how she earned her heavenly wings today. She pleased this tough macho man as much as she could because she knew that he would love her all the days of his life; that he would work hard for her and their family, as long as he could.
She knew a profound secret about him that escaped the minds of his children, even as their lives unfolded into adulthood. She knew that he wa
0 Comments on Honoring My Mother on Mother's Day as of 1/1/1900
I received the "big" pencil as a gift when I was nominated for Kansas Teacher of the Year in '06. The smaller (regular scale) version with my name is an artifact of my childhood. My dear mother ordered a box of personalized pencils. The red specimen might be the last survivor from that box.
I'm not teaching a class on hunting monsters. Yet.
But I do have the pencil.
9 Comments on That's a Big...Pencil, last added: 12/1/2010
I'm rolling on the floor laughing. For anybody who missed it yesterday, I told Aaron via twitter that I dreamed that he was teaching a class on how to find and kill monsters. In the dream he had a really big pencil.
I didn't go into all the freudian implications of that on twitter ..... but I may have to revisit the subject now... oh man... giggling
On the way home from Chicago, I took a few days to sleep, talk, listen, eat, cook, walk, and write, whenever the mood strikes, with good writer friends who've been retreating together for 14 years. Can you tell where we met? Do you know who the others are?
I loved the comment about growing old together. What a precious community of writing friends! (P.S. Really loved meeting you at the Wisconsin retreat.)
Awwww. I remember:) You were so cute and so sad all at the same time!!!!
1questionaday said, on 9/24/2010 10:24:00 AM
My Facebook responses:
Ours was nice enough but he had such BAD breath! Then there was the orthodontist in Hinsdale who had the new, younger doctor join his practice. I remember being there getting my braces tightened when the song “Afternoon Delight” came on the radio and the young doctor was just appalled by the song. Still makes me laugh – he was actually offended by the implied content of the song and NOT because the song was just really cheesy!
Fran, the hygienist. She had the most amazing eyes.
Maureen & John…I think I see a pattern here. Afternoon Delight, huh? Damn you. Now I have that song stuck in my head. Hilarious!!!
My response:
Damn where were all the hot dentists with gorgeous eyes when I was little. All I got was Dr. Kilpecky. And w…hile he had the most AMAZING toy box, sadly he wasn’t a very good dentist. Had to have ALL my cavities re-filled. It was beyond bad…especially at 7.
I haven’t been able to sleep lately, so when that happens I jump on my computer and write. I do not think, I just write…Well, maybe I do think because I could not write if I wasn’t thinking, I suppose. Hence, last night I started 'thinking' about how people say certain words that aren't part of the English language, over and over again, sometimes for years. For example, I spoke to an old friend the other day, who I haven’t spoken to in years, that used to say the word "majorly" all of the time.
It drove me crazy, but I didn’t want to sound like my mother, and say, “Don’t say that.” Or “Did you know that majorly is not a word?” Because, correcting an adult, particularly a friend, would have sounded self-righteous and mean. Besides, there is nothing wrong with saying a word you like…it is not as if it’s against the law or anything. Well, I guess you could say it causes mental anguish, but that's beside the point.
Anyway, I was surprised that she still used the same word…and she’s not the only one. We are all guilty of this malacy…you see, malacy is also not a word, or I do not think it is, well, it may be a synonym for malady, who knows.
My mother is still constantly correcting my words, but she is just as guilty of improper word usage as I am…although she would never admit it. I don’t know why she is still correcting my language, but I guess she’s trying to make up for lost time, or she’s afraid I may run into one of her friends, and say, “Hello, it’s so nice to see you after all these years. It’s been a majorly long time, hasn’t it? “
When I was a teenager, my siblings and I had certain after school responsibilities she demanded we complete by the time she came home from work, or shopping, or riding horses, etc…whatever she was doing. In any event, my after school duty was to keep our kitchen clean, and I thought it was unfair since I had two older brothers who were constantly in the kitchen dirtying dishes. I mean, come on, what teenage boy doesn’t spend much of his time staring into the refrigerator?
Well, my brothers were typical teenage boys, hence, everyday after school, my brothers had demolished my cleaning job by the time my mother’s 1966 Ford Galaxy zoomed up our driveway-(our driveway was on a hill, well actually, our house was on a hill. That is why the driveway was…oh, you know what I mean-).
Anyway, we had better have our chores finished by the time we heard my mother’s white monster car soar up the driveway. (The car’s name was Charger)
I wish I could tell you more about “Charger,” (The Ford Galaxy) the Pear Apple tree, and our house on the hill, but I’m going to have to write about them in another post…because I’m trying to break the habit of bouncing from one topic to another-
O.K. now, where was I?
Oh yes, back to my unfair chores…According to my sluggish hormonial (not a word) teenage brain, kitchen duty should have landed on my brothers strong shoulders, not mine. Besides, it was obvious that my mother just wanted to torture me, because she could have had me dust the living room or take the garbage out, but no,
Let's see - about words - using "wicked" instead of "very". I thought it had gone out of style but then last week a newscaster used it on air.
Chores: I did them all despite having 2 brothers - oh well.
Grounded? Never happened. My parents were so unaware of what we did and where we went that even if we were told we had to stay home, we just ignored the order and went along our merry way.
"That is when she would get so mad; it changed the features in her face. My mother would morph into someone else. Have you ever noticed when you’re involved in a confrontation you senses heighten, and you notice details about the person you’re arguing with that you’ve never noticed before?"
I can't stand confrontation.
Just tell me this? Were her nostrills flairing?That is a big sign of anger. She must have been "majorly" mad! I am sorry, but I just could not help myself.
Great and funny stuff you have shared with us. I had an older sister that made me do all of the hard house work.
I'm laughing...I know it reminds me of how clothes come back into fashion...
It's funny how you mentioned the newscaster saying "wicked," (that's hilarious) because after I wrote this post, I heard a teenager say "majorly" outside my window.
You would think my forty something (actually, she's leaning more toward fifty) year old friend was outside talking to her...or maybe she read my post? No, not a chance.
Not to change the subject, but it was smart of you to just do all the chores, unless of course you weren't assigned any, in which case you should have charged someone.
I love your last paragraph..."Grounded? Never happened." By the way, I loved the whole paragraph, not just the part I copied. Sometimes, I'm just lazy-
Anyway, we were constantly grounded,(especially me) but my mother and stepfather also lived in Never Never Land, so when they forgot about my incarceration, I was home free-
Well, at least until I did something else, then their memory would return.
Thanks for the "very" funny comment- It sounds like ya'll had a "wicked" good time.
And I know I'm behind on your posts as well, but I'll catch up...
Just tell me this? Were her nostrills flairing?That is a big sign of anger. She must have been "majorly" mad! I am sorry, but I just could not help myself.
You know, they may have been flaring with smoke bellowing out of them for all I know, I was usually too frightened to hang around too long, before making a run for it.
I'm sorry your older sister made you do all of the hard housework. I always wanted a sister, but I wanted to be the oldest. I guess you did too, huh? (Smile)
Thanks for always cheering me up with your sweet comments~
Majorly cool post! I hayed doing the dishes and my sisters won my Dad over, he was a sucker for their big brown sad eyes.
I wonder if he had hypersensitivity to their suffering, because I had to do the dishes on rotation, but somehow mowing the lawn evaded them every week that it was their turn.
In the words of the first man, I ever adored, Henry David Thoreau,
"If thou art a writer, write as if thy time were short, for it is indeed short as the longest."
In January of this year as my friends and I danced, drank, and spoke of the year ahead as if we were guaranteed the time, the words of Henry David Thoreau rang a different truth for me, a truth I would understand in a different way by the end of the year.
Even some of my own words ring with a bizarre realism, for example, I wrote a little saying on this landing page that reads,
-Most of the worlds' great things were born of adversity and hardship; because these roadblocks encourage us to dream, imagine and believe.-
And now, those words ring more true to me than they did this past January, which I guess I should explain,
You see regardless of my train of thought at the end of last year, by February, my life began to cloud over, I had already been in pour health for some time, and it was beginning to get the best of me…for one thing I couldn’t write, which for me, is like snatching a bottle from a baby or alcoholic, take your pick…writing is my addiction, and I had the worst writers block I’ve ever known, hence, I knew I wasn't happy. In fact, I was simply miserable in every way, and I couldn’t put the breaks on my emotions. I was sick of myself.
Then, came the arrival of one of those typical Louisiana Springs, full of the kind of afternoon thunderstorms that tests your nerves like a colicky baby. I wanted to yell out of one of my windows, "Enough already!" My life was turning into days and days of pouring rain- Mainly because one of best friends in the world was dying of lung cancer. She passed away at the end of June, we met when we were twelve years old, so we were close friends for 35 years-, and now she is gone-
Which brings me back to my words,
Most of the worlds' great things were born of adversity and hardship; because these roadblocks encourage us to dream, imagine and believe.-
It seems to me that when the pain in our lives pull on our heartstrings, it stretches our hearts, thereby creating a greater capacity for love, joy, compassion, forgiveness, etc... In fact, after this year, I think my heart has grown to the size of a bottomless pit- Although, don’t get me wrong, I am not naive, meaning, I do realize, that much of the time pain and tragedy taxes the human heart to the point of pulling it in the other direction. I just believe that life is about paddling through to the other side, in other words, if we make it through the “hardship and adversity,” we win the prize of knowing abundant joy, or I pray this for us all, because, as Thoreau said, “Indeed our time is short, at the longest.”
In closing, I hope that after reading all of these paragraphs, you won't think of me as mellow dramatic, because it's hard to articulate how thrilled I am at this moment. As I write this post, I feel as though I am wrapping my arms around a long lost friend, and indeed, I am. It is a great feeling, because here on this blog, writing to my fellow friends, bloggers, and writers, I can let my soul fly, and my imagination take its course.
I guess one of the reasons blogging is such fun, is because there are no deadlines, judgments, or contracts- just writing and friendship.
In truth, I feel like I did the first time I saw the gulf coast; I was ten years old and so blown away by it's vast beauty that my stomach went in
8 Comments on "If There Will Be An Answer, Let It Be... ", last added: 8/29/2010
Sandee, Your comment means more to me than you know...and thank you for reading such a long post.
Your comments always touch my heart, and I'm happy you saw that I posted. I'm sorry I haven't been by to visit. I do not trust this computer completely and I do not want to put yours at risk. It has taken me about five minutes to just get on here and return your comment.
I have an appt. with Dell to wipe it clean Monday, so I will be back it business by the end of next week.
I hope you have a terrific week-end too. Big hug and lotsa lovies back to you~
The cultural differences between far North frontier country and Southern deep roots would throw anybody into shock.
The precipitator of this condition of shock may lie in the fact that many in the North tend to categorize the South. Some dismiss those of the South as the eccentric cousins who aren’t discussed in polite society all that often. After all, they say, Southerners are the ones who brought about that wicked Civil War and all, don’t you know.
Believe it or not, there are those that still think that way. Aside from that, according to others, Southerners are known to be just a hair short on the mental acuity scale. Otherwise they would be out in the world far more and be recognized for their entrepreneurial acumen and social hipness.
Sarcastic? Me? Never!
Reality Check
I can tell you two things for certain sure. I grew up with half my family from the South where I spent as much time as possible, and I lived in the western portion of the South for more years than I care to count.
‘Course, living there cured me of one thing–smoking. Couldn’t do it anymore. Didn’t need to be doing it in the first place. Found a way to get rid of the habit for good, and I’ve never been more glad about anything in my life.
Childhood Memories
because of my age I remember how the older South used to function. I remember the time before the Civil Rights Movement. I remember watching an older black gentleman step off the sidewalk so that my mother, grandmother, and I could walk past him as he tipped his hat to us. I also remember crying because I thought I’d done something wrong that made him not want to be on the same street as me.
My mother, of course, explained the situation to me right there on the sidewalk. I got indignant (I was very good then at doing indignant) and demanded my grandmother explain why her people would ever do such a thing. All of which upset her no end, as you can imagine. I was very young at the time, challenging a elder about social etiquette. And I did apologize later.
Things settled down a bit during the rest of the visit, but I’ve always been able to close my eyes and see that episode behind the lids anytime I wanted. It was a great social leveler for me.
Farm Living
What else do I remember? I remember catching Grandaddy and my little brother one afternoon, down feeding the hogs (my grandparents were farmers–what were known as sharecroppers, actually.) Indignation swarmed up my backside that afternoon, too.
They were sitting in the back of the big cargo wagon that was heaped with little bitty watermelons about the size of half a soccer ball. Grandaddy would cut a melon in half, hand one half to my brother while keeping one for himself. Each of them would scoop out the heart of the melon, eat it, and then throw the rest to the hogs across the fence before moving on to the next melon.
Now, I knew how those little melons tasted. They were like watermelon flavored honey in a bowl, and I wanted my fair share. Well, wouldn’t you know that the good-old-boys party was just wrapping up when I arrived. I only got the one little melon. –Not that I could have stuffed more than one down my gullet anyway.–
Ever Ride A Cow?
There was a neighbor boy named Hunter who lived down the lane. He used a big Black Angus bull for a horse and rode that animal everywhere. My brother wanted to be just like Hunter, running through the woods barefoot, shooting his .22 and generally running wild.
To that end little bro decided one day, while we were helping my aunt milk the cows, that he wanted to ride one of them. Now, my aunt was raised on a farm and knew how a farm and its animals operated. And she had a really good suspicion what would happen if bro rode milk cow.
She couldn’t talk him out of it, though, so when all the milk was
0 Comments on Navigating The South-Personal History Counts as of 1/1/1900
On Sunday, June 13th my husband and I attended a retirement celebration at Norwalk High School for Jeff Smith, who is retiring after 34 years as a music educator. My husband played saxaphone with the Norwalk Marching Bears throughout high school. He spent countless hours practicing for local football games and for special events, such [...]
Here is where I lived in 1962, in Camp Springs, Maryland. It's where I picture Franny living in Countdown:
And here is what that house looks like today:
I drove by yesterday, after my signing at Politics & Prose. I'm still processing what I learned from the neighbors I talked with. Here is what happened at my house this past February. Gad, y'all.
I remember when this beautiful house was built. We watched it being finished, and then we moved in. It was on a corner lot -- my father loved corner lots. He planted fruit trees in the side yard, and poplar trees along the white fence that bordered Allentown Road. He bought a swing set from the Sears store on Alabama Avenue, in the District, and a riding lawn mower. He fertilized the yard and fought the crabgrass.
My mother lovingly tended her roses in the front flower bed. I took a rose, wrapped carefully in wet paper toweling and then foil, to my teacher now and then (as Franny does, in Countdown), and sometimes we got roses to wear in our hair:
If you look at the top photo carefully, you'll see my dad's VW bug -- one of the first. My grandmother (Miss Eula, up to visit from Mississippi!) is sitting on the front porch, with our French poodle, Amy. Here is the front porch today.
I pulled my rental car into the driveway -- the same driveway you see me standing in, in the photo above, with my little sister and my best friend Gale (a la Gale in Countdown) -- and... well, I just stood there for a long time, taking it in.
Then I walked into the middle of the fr
2 Comments on why i write fiction, last added: 5/17/2010
Unbelievably, people sometimes ask how I me how I make my drawings. Here's a little insight. Actually, not so little. Yes, this is the biggest blog post in the worldiverse.
So, as you can see, with this one I started by mapping a little bit of the drawing on the page. Not too much, just somewhere to start, because I like the rest to unfold. I like the drawing to reveal itself to me.
Contrary, to popular belief, I actually am rather inpatient and usually want to jump right in. So already I've started drawing the bits and pieces. For this spread I am treating each card as an idividual drawing. I'm mostly using colour ballpoints and colour pencil. Ah, Bangladesh Airlines. Now that was an interesting airline. And, an interesting flight. It was cheap, though. VERY cheap.
Actually, it was the red and yellow of the Bangladeshi baggage label that first appealed to me when it came to turning this collage into a Moleskine drawing. I love the pop art colours. Ooooooh, British Columbia and Alberta. Probably, still, after all this time, my most favourite place I've been lucky enough to visit.
I know, drawing wise, this kind of subject matter isn't much of a departure for me, but this drawing in itself was certainly challenging. Emotionally speaking, that is. I do believe this was one of the most emotional drawings I've ever created.
Obviously it took quite some time to complete, and it was spending all that time with all these memories. All the places and people I've left behind. All the things I've done. Some joyous and others not always easy to be with.
And there are times and places and people I'd never have remembered if I hadn't made this drawi
17 Comments on the world is turning, last added: 4/24/2010
Thats amazing, would never think that you are the type who "wants to jump in and do them all at once" I thought for sure this was again a month long project... Im a jump in head first kind of artist (wish I wasnt, and I know so bad how I have to calm down and do one step at a time. Im so glad you did it this way and show it to all of us, very intersting... And as always I love your work. The picture of your parents is lovely.
Fantastic walk-through! Eventhough you described yourself as an impatient person, it shows in your arts and techniques that you have a great deal of patience. I've seen how people do photorealistic drawings, and those people have unbelievable amount of patience!! But it's really nice to see how it's done, and it's a good learning experience for a lot of your admirers I am sure(me being one of them fans!)
one of my fave things to do is to flick through someone else's sketchbook. Even better is to see their processes and progression, watching the work unfold and evolve. Thank you so much for sharing this, it was very generous of you.
April 8: Today the prompt is “…pick a tool, make that the title of your poem, and write your poem. There are the more obvious tools, of course: hammer, screwdriver, wrench, etc. But there also less obvious tools and/or specialized tools available as well.” It took me a bit of thought to figure out how I wanted to handle this one. There's the obvious tools, how tools can be used for other than their intended tool identity, people as tools and a host of other possibilities. But when it finally came down to it, I realized I was sitting right in front of my favorite tool....
Computers By Bill Kirk
As tools go, computers Aren’t oft thought a tool— Not like, say, a hammer— But indeed they’re quite cool.
For what gives a thingy Its toolness to claim? Does its fame rest entirely On whatever’s its name?
Without a computer We’d be a sad lot, Left to pen and to pencil Each squiggle and jot.
Although those without them, May write with great zest, At some point a computer Makes us good, better, best.
April 9: “…write a self-portrait poem. Other artists study themselves to create compositions (not all of them exactly flattering either), so it is only natural that poets, who are word artists, write self-portrait poems from time to time. In fact, some poets make self-portrait poetry "their main thing." For at least today, make it yours." Talk about a challenge. At first, I thought "piece of cake". But then where do you start and what do you include---or leave out?
A Self-Portrait By Bill Kirk
What you sees is what you gets; A happy life with no regrets. OK, there could be one or two— Or hardly more than just a few.
There was that time I smoked a pack In just ten minutes behind the shack At grandpa’s farm—and I turned green. But since then, I’ve been strictly clean.
And who knew saki and home made beer, Would make my vision so unclear? I thought I’d guzzled fire starter. After that I got much smarter.
Once I bought some swampland, too. What a deal—I had no clue. At last, we sold it ten years later— Never found the alligator.
Worn some blisters; skinned some knees. Got stung by some wasps and bees. Lost my freckles and some hair, And a few bets here and there,
Found true love along the way Thank my lucky stars each day. Life is full of blessings now. Ask me and I’ll tell you how!
0 Comments on Poem A Day for April 8 and 9--Too Much Good Stuff Goin' On as of 1/1/1900
Hope your gatherings are as wonderful as ours have been this weekend. A Mississippi homecoming: there's nothing like it. Down the generations, we are family. More from Atlanta next week -- Happy Spring!!
Boys and rocks and water. What more do you need? There's something about that combination of ingredients that is unlike any other. The locations where the ingredients are combined may vary. But in the end when it comes to skipping stones, location is totally inconsequential.
This weekend, the location happened to be on Angel Island in San Francisco Bay---not bad as real estate goes. On Saturday morning a small but determined group of Sacramento Scouts ferried across from Tiburon to Ayala Cove on the island. With our backpacks securely strapped on, our party of 11 made the short hike to the Kayak Group campsite on the west side of the island. After setting up camp, the water's edge was calling and all in our group answered that siren's call.
The adults among us mostly enjoyed the momentary respite from the weekly grind as small, wake-driven waves lapped at the narrow rock-strewn beach. But the boys? Well, for anyone who might declare that imagination is dead, this day told a different tale. Each Scout became an instant expert in the fine art of stone skipping.
What makes a good skipping stone, anyway? Is it a particular rounded edge that cradles perfectly in the curve between index finger and thumb? Must it be thin and flat? How large should it be? Too heavy and the toss results in a resounding "SPLOINK!" Too small and whatever happens is just not very satisfying. And almost intuitively, all stone skippers know shape is important for a great skip. Yes, you can almost skip anything once. But to get the repeating hops across the surface in rapidly increasing succession takes a shape within certain generally accepted tolerance limits.
But, ultimately, a good skip doesn't just depend on the stone. It also requires the right speed and the right angle, both of which are totally in the hands of the skipper. There's almost nothing worse than wasting a good skipping stone on an insufficiently serious toss. Rarely will a casual approach to skipping earm the accolades of one's fellow skippers. But a good skip is pure joy.
However, much like the short-lived laurels awarded to ancient Olympians, a record breaking skipping toss is transitory and in the moment. Judging is instantaneous by those present and not subject to review. To witness a great toss is its own reward. In fact, even being lucky or attentive enough to see a great toss, sets one apart from those who might have missed it either because they weren't present or simply because they blinked or looked away at an inopportune moment. Yet even the declaration of a record-breaking toss is sufficient to lay down the gauntlet to all others who might attempt to best it.
And so, as boys have done for as long as there have been rocks and water, our Scouts followed suit on this March day on Angel Island, California. They joined all past, present and future skippers, bound in silent brotherhood, standing at water's edge, searching for just the right stone to fling with just the right speed, at just the right angle, hoping to catch the most air or the most bounces across the surface.
Such is the way of the stone skippers.
3 Comments on Stone Skippers, last added: 3/25/2010
Your post brought back such memories of time spent with my dad and siblings on our camping trips. We held competitions as to who could make their stone skip the most.
So, there I was, working on an idea for yet another story when my laptop decided to go comatose! Now, I have the majority of my work backed up but I hadn't yet backed up this most recent idea and all the brainstorming I had done on it.
Thankfully, I was able to resuscitate my laptop and quickly back everything up. Something I'm doing more frequently now.
My laptop is rather old in computer years but it has served me well and like so many other things in life I've gotten use to it being there when I need it. I even bought a spare battery when I purchased the laptop, always wanting to be able to power it up and keep it going for as long as possible. I work mostly on the train during my commute into the city so the spare battery has come in handy on more occasions than I can count.
Ironically, the laptop issue happened around the same time as my aging dog - he'll be 17 in May - had a serious kidney issue which is never a good sign for an older animal or human. Not only has my dog rebounded but so has my laptop. I did go buy a lottery ticket. Haven't checked it yet, but I bought it!
Now I know that both the dog and laptop are on their way to fading into the sunset and the next phase of their existence but I will always have my memories of Rocky the Wonder dog and as long as I do regular backups, I'll have the ideas that I have entrusted to the memory of my laptop.
So, make sure you backup your data on your computer because unfortunately our own memory is sometimes less reliable than the physical memory of our digital alter egos!
Thanks - this is an important reminder, though as usual, I'll probably forget about doing it. Soon I'll be getting my first Mac laptop (my first Mac AND my first laptop!) so I'll have to think seriously about what I want to save and how and where to save it.
My sympathies are with you concerning your aging dog. I've lived through the aging and deaths of several dogs, though none approached the age of 17, maybe because they were all big breeds (or mixes). Whatever happens, it's always agonizing. My dogs live on in my fiction, though.
I strongly suggest Mozy.com (or something like it). When you turn on your computer, it backs everything up to the web, so you can always retrieve it!
With Mozy you get the first 2GB free, and you can pay a monthly fee if you need to add any later. I ONLY back-up my written documents (you can also do photos, videos, etc), so I'm still under my 2G.
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. A huge international hit. Christine’s memories disappear every time she falls asleep. Every day she wakes up thinking she’s a 20-something, and is shocked to wake up beside a 40-something stranger - and to discover that she’s married to him and she herself is 40-something. She starts keeping a journal to help her keep track of what’s real - and what’s not. 
. As the publisher says, “Alice Love is twenty-nine years old, madly in love with her husband, and pregnant with their first child. So imagine her surprise when, after a fall, she comes to on the floor of a gym (a gym! she HATES the gym!) and discovers that she's actually thirty-nine, has three children, and is in the midst of an acrimonious divorce.” This is a chick-lit book with a lighter tone.
. A man wakes up on a beach, naked. Nearby he finds a car with clothes that fit him - and a gun. He realizes that he must be the man who owns these things - a man named Daniel Hayes. And he begins to realize he may have killed his wife. 
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Nice review of the book, Mary Lee, but also sweet about your mom! My mother made all my clothes when I was young too. How did they manage it all? Probably because they didn't have computers!
This story looks so enchanting. I can't wait to find it! I love how you linked it to a sweet memory of your mom's blinding work as well.