"Naming My Daughter," after Patricia Fargnoli
The one almost born on the ferry
The one who was really late, and then came really fast
Born while her dad ran out for a hamburger
Only child of an only child
Karin named for no one
Jeaninne named for mom's best friend
One who knew the names of all her medicines at a young age
She who made monthly trips to the ER
Story lover and early reader
"Pobody's Nerfect" softball team player
Token archaeology kid
Flute player and flag dancer
Merit award recipient
Affordable housing advocate
Passionate standard bearer for inclusivity
Calligrapher and costumer
Loving daughter, wife and mother
House fixer
Problem solver
Much loved by husband and children
Where did she come from, this daughter? What magic
came together to produce such a joy?
Better than a combination of the genes who made her
Pride of her mother's heart
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
The School Bus
From writing class, a photograph of two small children--a girl and a boy. The word I drew was "bus." This is a slightly fictionalized version of an actual experience.
I put them on the school bus--my two babies. Their first day of school. Actually, they're my two grandchildren, and they're not babies any more. But they'll always be my babies, at least to me.
They're going to a good school, and I know they'll do well. But when my daughter asked me to put them on the bus that first day, my heart froze.
"But they're not old enough to ride the bus! What if something happens to them?"
"Now, Mom, we're in a good neighborhood, and they're going to a good school. Their friends ride the same bus. They'll be fine. Don't worry so much."
So I did as she asked. They left the house with their bookbags and their lunchboxes, wearing their new school clothes and their new school shoes. They ran out to the bus stop in front of the house. The school bus pulled up and stopped, and I heard that distinctive sound of the bus door opening. I waved to them, and they waved back. They climbed aboard and found their seats.
As the bus drove away, I wiped away a tear. They're growing up too fast, I thought. When did this happen? They're not babies any more.
I put them on the school bus--my two babies. Their first day of school. Actually, they're my two grandchildren, and they're not babies any more. But they'll always be my babies, at least to me.
They're going to a good school, and I know they'll do well. But when my daughter asked me to put them on the bus that first day, my heart froze.
"But they're not old enough to ride the bus! What if something happens to them?"
"Now, Mom, we're in a good neighborhood, and they're going to a good school. Their friends ride the same bus. They'll be fine. Don't worry so much."
So I did as she asked. They left the house with their bookbags and their lunchboxes, wearing their new school clothes and their new school shoes. They ran out to the bus stop in front of the house. The school bus pulled up and stopped, and I heard that distinctive sound of the bus door opening. I waved to them, and they waved back. They climbed aboard and found their seats.
As the bus drove away, I wiped away a tear. They're growing up too fast, I thought. When did this happen? They're not babies any more.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Back Again
After quite a long absence (2 months), I return to the blog. It's been a long cold winter, and I just couldn't get my writing motivation going. In writing group we missed all of February, because of so many snow days. Now the sun has returned, and spring seems close at hand. (I hope!) So after group today, I promised myself I would get back to the blog, and try to do regular additions to it. And here I am, using the leash that was on the table as a prompt, and drawing the word "change," to use or not, as I saw fit.
TRIBUTE TO TOBY
The leash makes me think of my Toby, of course. He has his leash similar to this one, which we use every time he goes out for his potty break, or any other time. We live in an apartment complex, and the basic rule for pets here is "keep your dog on a leash at all times, and clean up after your pet."
Toby has brought an important change to my life. I've had dogs and cats before, when I had my own house, but when I sold my last house and moved back to Nashville, I decided to move into an apartment. The first apartment I had didn't allow pets of any kind, and I was still working full-time, and had no time for a dog anyway. But when I retired, and moved to another complex, I chose one which allowed pets. Thank goodness for that!
Toby is my pet, my companion, my friend. I can't imagine my life without him. I talk to him, I used to sleep with him, and he provides love and companionship in my mostly solitary lifestyle.
Everyone in the apartment complex knows Toby. He loves attention from people of all ages and sizes. When we go to the rental office, he goes from desk to desk getting talked to and petted. The mail lady gives him treats, and the maintenance men play with him.
The long winter is almost over, and it's about time to spend more time outside visiting with the neighbors. We've had a hard time this winter, and we're both glad it's almost over.
What a delightful companion he's been to me. A wonderful change he brought to my life.
TRIBUTE TO TOBY
The leash makes me think of my Toby, of course. He has his leash similar to this one, which we use every time he goes out for his potty break, or any other time. We live in an apartment complex, and the basic rule for pets here is "keep your dog on a leash at all times, and clean up after your pet."
Toby has brought an important change to my life. I've had dogs and cats before, when I had my own house, but when I sold my last house and moved back to Nashville, I decided to move into an apartment. The first apartment I had didn't allow pets of any kind, and I was still working full-time, and had no time for a dog anyway. But when I retired, and moved to another complex, I chose one which allowed pets. Thank goodness for that!
Toby is my pet, my companion, my friend. I can't imagine my life without him. I talk to him, I used to sleep with him, and he provides love and companionship in my mostly solitary lifestyle.
Everyone in the apartment complex knows Toby. He loves attention from people of all ages and sizes. When we go to the rental office, he goes from desk to desk getting talked to and petted. The mail lady gives him treats, and the maintenance men play with him.
The long winter is almost over, and it's about time to spend more time outside visiting with the neighbors. We've had a hard time this winter, and we're both glad it's almost over.
What a delightful companion he's been to me. A wonderful change he brought to my life.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
On starting a new year
From writing class:
. . . it will be hard to let go
of what i said to myself
about myself
when i was sixteen and
twentysix and thirtysix . . .
From "i am running into a new year," by Lucille Clifton
It is hard to let go of what I said to myself about myself, pretty much my whole life. I try and I try to overcome those old messages. "I'm not creative. I can't draw. Plain ole Dottie. There's nothing special about me." And on and on and on.
So in the years since retirement, I've tried very hard to make changes in that negative self-image. I took art class and actually enjoyed drawing and painting and working with color. I've started the writing group and love the fellowship and support we give each other. And writing feels good, too. I've always enjoyed creating textiles of all kinds, and that hasn't changed. And SoulCollage has brought out something very special in me.
But it seems that whenever I begin "running into a new year," or into a new place, I trip over something and fall flat, like that sidewalk outside my apartment, or I run smack into a wall, like the insurance cancellation that I found out about yesterday. Just when things are going well, I hit the wall or the ground hard, and then I slowly start to pick myself up. I go into my rooms and shut the door, and try to recover. I get the physical injuries taken care of, and then the mental and emotional wounds must be tended as well. I retreat into my "cave" with my Toby, and try to recover my physical, emotional, and financial health. And I try to recover my self-confidence as best I can.
I know I'll get through this "fall," just as I recovered from the one in November, just as I've recovered from the ones all through my whole life. However, it is frustrating to be "running into a new year," figuratively speaking, and find myself with the wind knocked out of me again, so suddenly and unexpectedly. My hope is that, although the slips and falls will continue to come on occasion, they won't drop me back into the "slough of despond" where I used to live. I may continue to berate myself for mistakes of judgment and carelessness, but I have experienced so much joy from my creative discoveries and self-knowledge, that hopefully the good will far outweigh the bad. What's the line in the song? "Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again." Only I don't have to go all the way back to the beginning and start all over again--just pick myself up where I am and continue on my way--to new life and new discoveries.
. . . it will be hard to let go
of what i said to myself
about myself
when i was sixteen and
twentysix and thirtysix . . .
From "i am running into a new year," by Lucille Clifton
It is hard to let go of what I said to myself about myself, pretty much my whole life. I try and I try to overcome those old messages. "I'm not creative. I can't draw. Plain ole Dottie. There's nothing special about me." And on and on and on.
So in the years since retirement, I've tried very hard to make changes in that negative self-image. I took art class and actually enjoyed drawing and painting and working with color. I've started the writing group and love the fellowship and support we give each other. And writing feels good, too. I've always enjoyed creating textiles of all kinds, and that hasn't changed. And SoulCollage has brought out something very special in me.
But it seems that whenever I begin "running into a new year," or into a new place, I trip over something and fall flat, like that sidewalk outside my apartment, or I run smack into a wall, like the insurance cancellation that I found out about yesterday. Just when things are going well, I hit the wall or the ground hard, and then I slowly start to pick myself up. I go into my rooms and shut the door, and try to recover. I get the physical injuries taken care of, and then the mental and emotional wounds must be tended as well. I retreat into my "cave" with my Toby, and try to recover my physical, emotional, and financial health. And I try to recover my self-confidence as best I can.
I know I'll get through this "fall," just as I recovered from the one in November, just as I've recovered from the ones all through my whole life. However, it is frustrating to be "running into a new year," figuratively speaking, and find myself with the wind knocked out of me again, so suddenly and unexpectedly. My hope is that, although the slips and falls will continue to come on occasion, they won't drop me back into the "slough of despond" where I used to live. I may continue to berate myself for mistakes of judgment and carelessness, but I have experienced so much joy from my creative discoveries and self-knowledge, that hopefully the good will far outweigh the bad. What's the line in the song? "Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again." Only I don't have to go all the way back to the beginning and start all over again--just pick myself up where I am and continue on my way--to new life and new discoveries.
The alarm clock
Toby stands by the bed and shakes himself, jingling his tags. I open one eye and look at the clock. As expected, it's 4:00 a.m. If it's earlier than that, I can tell him, "Too early, Tobe. Go back to bed." Sometimes this works, especially when it's before 3:30. But if it's after 4:00, and I'm not moving, he goes into Step 2 of his routine. With frequent bumps of his front feet on the side of the bed, I can hear him breathing, and sometimes he starts his own special quiet whining. Ignoring him doesn't work at all, because he's very determined--and persistent. "Time to get up, Mom. I gotta go out."
With such early morning hours, my times of waking up in the middle of the night have almost disappeared. That's one advantage, anyway, a change from the past years of having to get up, go to the computer, and play computer games to put myself back to sleep. Thanks to Toby, sleep is no longer a problem in my life. Of course, with such a schedule, naps are essential--frequently right after breakfast. Occasionally two a day. I have become "the nap-taker."
He's a very reliable alarm clock, my Toby.
With such early morning hours, my times of waking up in the middle of the night have almost disappeared. That's one advantage, anyway, a change from the past years of having to get up, go to the computer, and play computer games to put myself back to sleep. Thanks to Toby, sleep is no longer a problem in my life. Of course, with such a schedule, naps are essential--frequently right after breakfast. Occasionally two a day. I have become "the nap-taker."
He's a very reliable alarm clock, my Toby.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Kindness and Sorrow
[The writing group assignment was to tell about an act of kindness done for us or by us. Based on "Kindness," by Naomi Shihab Nye, from Words Under the Words: Selected Poems (1994)
The lines I used:
"Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing."]
Before I worked for him, I didn't know anyone like him. I guess my father would come closest. While I was working for him, I learned what integrity looked like, and I wanted to have it too. Working for him wasn't always easy; he was demanding, sometimes too much so. But as the years went on, I gained a huge amount of respect for him--and he did for me. After he retired, in my opinion no one even came close to him in ethics and standards, in running the firm.
When I went into the ministry, I moved away and didn't stay in contact. Years later, I moved back to serve a church in Nashville, and renewed the friendship. He took me to lunch and was so proud of me. "She used to be my secretary, and now she's a minister," he told the waitress. He was like a proud father.
One day not long after that, he came to my church office, with terrible news. "I have cancer, and don't have much longer to live. Will you do my funeral?" Through my shock, came my answer. "I'd be honored."
From then on, the plans were made. He was a very organized person, and he made the plans for his funeral down to the smallest detail. He told me what he wanted. I was to be in charge. A Bishop was to do the eulogy, but I was to be in charge. Another minister was to sing, but he reiterated that I was to be in charge. I think he trusted me to understand how he wanted it done and follow through. As his health continued to fail, I saw him and talked with him, as did his other clergy friends. After his death, the three of us did as he asked. We all loved him, respected him, grieved for him.
Soon after his funeral, his son called me, and told me of his bequest to me. I was humbled by his generosity, and by his remembering me.
He was one of the finest men I ever knew--like a father, a mentor, a friend. It was a rare friendship in our modern business world, based on mutual trust and respect, rather than power games or intimidation. A man from the old school, a gentleman, in the best sense of the word. Rather than lecturing about integrity, he lived it. I hope I can follow that example in my own life.
The lines I used:
"Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing."]
Before I worked for him, I didn't know anyone like him. I guess my father would come closest. While I was working for him, I learned what integrity looked like, and I wanted to have it too. Working for him wasn't always easy; he was demanding, sometimes too much so. But as the years went on, I gained a huge amount of respect for him--and he did for me. After he retired, in my opinion no one even came close to him in ethics and standards, in running the firm.
When I went into the ministry, I moved away and didn't stay in contact. Years later, I moved back to serve a church in Nashville, and renewed the friendship. He took me to lunch and was so proud of me. "She used to be my secretary, and now she's a minister," he told the waitress. He was like a proud father.
One day not long after that, he came to my church office, with terrible news. "I have cancer, and don't have much longer to live. Will you do my funeral?" Through my shock, came my answer. "I'd be honored."
From then on, the plans were made. He was a very organized person, and he made the plans for his funeral down to the smallest detail. He told me what he wanted. I was to be in charge. A Bishop was to do the eulogy, but I was to be in charge. Another minister was to sing, but he reiterated that I was to be in charge. I think he trusted me to understand how he wanted it done and follow through. As his health continued to fail, I saw him and talked with him, as did his other clergy friends. After his death, the three of us did as he asked. We all loved him, respected him, grieved for him.
Soon after his funeral, his son called me, and told me of his bequest to me. I was humbled by his generosity, and by his remembering me.
He was one of the finest men I ever knew--like a father, a mentor, a friend. It was a rare friendship in our modern business world, based on mutual trust and respect, rather than power games or intimidation. A man from the old school, a gentleman, in the best sense of the word. Rather than lecturing about integrity, he lived it. I hope I can follow that example in my own life.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Reading and writing
[In writing group, we each drew three random words to write from. Mine were joy, despair, create. And then we were off . . . . ]
"He don't have no despair," says Faulkner's character in "The Spotted Horses." It is such a joy to go back to reading Faulkner after years away. How was he able to create such true-to-Southern-life characters? The class is a joy, reading him again is a joy, and it inspires me, just as his work used to do, when I was much younger.
Reading Faulkner requires the willingness to pay close attention, and be willing to read slowly his long, dense sentences, sometimes whole paragraphs, with no punctuation at all. But I'm enjoying it so much again, that it's worth the effort.
During that period in my life, I read Southern writers almost exclusively. I have Faulkner books on my shelf that I haven't touched in years. Now I want to go back to them again. I also have other books by Southern writers, and one book about Southern writers.
Isn't it funny the reading tangents we go on? From teen fantasy (the Eragon trilogy my grandchildren introduced to me), back to quality literature. And missing my friend Jeaninne all the time, for the book lists we used to share.
"He don't have no despair," says Faulkner's character in "The Spotted Horses." It is such a joy to go back to reading Faulkner after years away. How was he able to create such true-to-Southern-life characters? The class is a joy, reading him again is a joy, and it inspires me, just as his work used to do, when I was much younger.
Reading Faulkner requires the willingness to pay close attention, and be willing to read slowly his long, dense sentences, sometimes whole paragraphs, with no punctuation at all. But I'm enjoying it so much again, that it's worth the effort.
During that period in my life, I read Southern writers almost exclusively. I have Faulkner books on my shelf that I haven't touched in years. Now I want to go back to them again. I also have other books by Southern writers, and one book about Southern writers.
Isn't it funny the reading tangents we go on? From teen fantasy (the Eragon trilogy my grandchildren introduced to me), back to quality literature. And missing my friend Jeaninne all the time, for the book lists we used to share.
*******
[The next assignment came from "Numbers," by Mary Cornish. Addressing the question, "What have you recently added to your life? What do you need to subtract from it?]
What have I added to my life lately? Writing group. It's brought fun back into my life, and gotten my brain going again. I've been wanting to record my memories, so that my daughter and my grandchildren will have something to refer to when they are curious about what life was like for me, growing up in Oak Ridge. So now having an outlet for those memories gives me great pleasure.
What I need to subtract from my life is the accumulation of junk that builds up all around me. This is harder than I realized--harder than it sounds. Every time I want to clear out my books, I come upon books I haven't read in a long time--like the Faulkner books. So how am I going to dispose of Faulkner, when I've just rediscovered him? "What a puzzlement!" as the King of Siam told Anna.
I have this dream of organizing all the parts of my life--and adding and subtracting perfectly. And that someday I'll have a lovely comfortable home surrounded by my books, my stitching, and my family (including Toby, of course). Somehow I don't think this is a very realistic goal. Somehow that perfection doesn't seem very attainable.
Adding and subtracting--I always did have trouble with numbers!
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