We must count on children to remind us.
my sweet grandson
When we forget the “magic” in our world
Reply
Tag Archives: experiences
If Only…
Eleven-year-old Emma June just wants to Flee away from the bully and go to the flea circus . But she doesn’t listen to her instincts. And that’s when everything went wrong.
“Not over there, Carla. That boy gives me the creeps.” <Emma June>
“It’s only Rachael’s brother, for crying out loud.”
I remember the time I stayed overnight ay Rachael’s. Brandon kept peeking through her bedroom window trying to scare us by pretending to be an axe murderer.
“He’s a sixteen-yea- old bully,” I say.
“He’s not that bad. I’ve seen his good sides.”
“I’d rather go to the flea circus. They’re trained, you know. They can turn a miniature carousel two thousand times their size.”
“And they’re itchy.” Carla grabs my hand and leads me toward the Knock-Down-The-Milk-Bottle tent where Brandon stands motioning us forward with a bona-fide moonshine jug in his hand.
(excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket)
Who Are You?
Truly, hoo, hoo, are you?
Tell me.
I want to know.
Seriously.
Talk to me.
I’m listening.
A find after the find- Priceless!
Yesterday, while looking for something else, I found a poem I had written to celebrate my new-old parlor grand Steinway. Today, serendipitously or not, I received a FB post from a friend who remembered the party and sent me this picture! The party was 16 years ago so I’m a few years older now. 🙂
left to right: two of our friends, me in center, my hubby, and Will, our fabulous pianist for the evening. He is also the one who rented the Rolls Royce for picture taking.
RAW Journal Kernels – KRUMPING
Tommy the Clown
After attending a grown-up birthday party with Tommy the Clown (known for his “Krumping,” and inspiring youth) I wrote this (hope you can read it!):
When Words Kill
Cono Dennis, after realizing his father read his private letters.
Cono Dennis, my father, age 18
I might not have sparred with him but I stopped him cold and I don’t just mean by showing off my defense skills and putting him in a head lock. As sure as a sharp axe can cut through and splinter a log and slice a thin piece of paper, a sharpened pencil can do the same thing. Words are powerful; they can be weapons as sharp as an axe. “Gene, I want to kill my Dad,” words that must have reverberated and Echoed in Dad’s ears just as loud as a sawed off shotgun, or blue lightening bouncing off a cow’s head. And just as loud as his slap across my face. I don’t think I meant for him to find all those letters, but he did.
From No Hill for a Stepper, the novel based upon my father’s life from age two till age eighteen.
Are you complete?
We are all made up of jigsaw pieces – varied shapes of experiences that combine to make us a complete puzzle.
You don’t think you are complete? You think you are missing pieces?
Do you toss a few of your least wonky samples on the viewing table, the ones you’ve buffed and coated in high gloss? The pieces you think are less vulnerable to share?
Perhaps today you are a one-hundred piece puzzle. Or a five-hundred. With additional experiences comes greater awareness. Tomorrow, you might be made of a thousand pieces that all interlock perfectly. Tomorrow, maybe ten-thousand.
At this very second, this moment in time, you are perfect.
Celebrate who you are.
RAW Journal Kernels – Fertile
Don’t we all feel this way sometimes?
My only worry …
Last night, we celebrated a late Thanksgiving with our kids and grandkids. The house was perfectly chaotic and I loved every moment.
Today, I sit back and relax (well, and blog). At this moment, my only worry is wondering if the fresh-pressed beet juice is staining my Invisalign’s!
Happy Sunday, everyone!
Entering the Insane Asylum
The Pungent smell of an insane asylum.
From The Last Bordello (voice of Sadie):
My limbs shook. My knees buckled. The men in white held fast to my elbows and pulled me toward a thick wooden door. When opened, the fragrant air vanished and was replaced with the malodorous smells of urine, vomit, rubbing alcohol, and something else I couldn’t quite place.
I saw only a few women, one being dragged in another direction. “Not surgery, not surgery!” the woman wailed.
The driver unlocked another door and pushed me into a small room that contained a stained mattress on the floor and a bucket for excrement. He told me to sleep well. I heard him laughing down the hall long after they had locked the door.
I thought it was a cruel joke, that my mother had followed behind and would now take me home with an “I told you so.” Before the tears had a chance to come, someone unlocked the door again.
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 