I get it. I only had one, but sometimes he seemed to be an army of disaster all by himself.
When they are little you can hide in the bathroom. When they get older, the only place to hide is in your car. Frankly, even today, if I want to escape the drama of family, I still sneak away to run errands.
That was an interesting assignment and you performed well. My only complaint would be that you left the poem untitled. Every poem deserves a good title.
I like someone who can communicate an idea with few words. I personally have trouble with that.
Apple Jack's, huh? I might have tasted them once. As I was pondering cereals, I realized that I was quite boring in that regard. I enjoyed Cheerios, the original ones. I also loved Grape Nuts because of the malty flavoring. Store brands lack that, so they taste like cardboard. I was just never a fan of any of the bright colored cereals. Maybe I might have enjoyed some chocolate cereal occasionally.
Thanks for writing about my favorite color - red. You allowed me to see it, hear it (words flung) and taste it (cherries and strawberries). You also managed to mention my favorite holiday. - Christmas. The only thing I would change would be to change bowes to bows.
You described autumn quite well. Fall is my second least favorite time of year. Sure, there are some pretty leaves. But they are dead, and as you said, "the world smells of musty mold and dirt". It does!
(My least favorite time of year is winter.)
Thanks, Mike. You told the story of what most of our homes used to look like when we all lived our country and our flag. I can remember having a house full of people stop and stand still - and probably sing loudly- whenever the National Anthem played. Yes, we stood in our homes even though the flag was on TV.
Such a great reminder. "Did we remember to thank you
For all you have done for us?" Probably not.
I enjoyed reading this aloud. It reads well and the message is clear.
In my old age, a few experiences about the study of prayer come to mind.
In one, the pastor explained that the Bible tells us to be thankful IN all things, not because of them.
At a women's conference, we learned about breath prayers.
And when I was blessed with teaching 5 year olds at Vacation Bible School, they had something to teach me as well. One boy, when it was his turn to lead us in prayer, he didn't say a thing. The girl next to him inquired if he was going to start. He replied, "I already did. I'm letting God hear my heart." In another instance, a little girl started saying the ABCs when it was her turn. She said that when you don't know what to pray, the Holy Spirit will help you. She was just giving the Holy Spirit the letters to rearrange.
Thanks for sharing this and for helping me remember...
This certainly brought back memories of our Christmases in FL and TX. But we did have some Christmases when we needed heat on. Just no snow.
As always, I suggest that you read your poem aloud to see if there are any lines that need tweaking. I used to offer suggestions on this, but fixed another's poetry is quite different than making suggestions about spelling and grammar in stories and articles.
I hit the "read and review" button and up popped your piece. Oddly enough, I had already seen it referenced on the public review page. There, the reviewer first offered the advice that every sentence should not begin with "I". I would agree.
Thanks for serving the country and thanks for the introduction.
Welcome to Writing.com. I hope that you find it as welcoming and educational as I have in my 23 years of being here.
I enjoyed your word picture of the writer, Alex. Your descriptions were both sensible and entertaining.
I wondered about him waking unwilling to exert himself very much. But I thoroughly understood him being full of anticipation and apprehension. Oh, the life of a writer.
Indeed, where is the blame? You presented this to us in 2009, but little has changed. It certainly has not gotten better.
Your poem is good, as is your piece about how you chose the topic.
My heart has always aches for the children who are bullied. When baby boomers were young, we were taught to ignore people because "sticks and stones can break your bones, but names will never hurt you." But words can hurt.
I used to love Saturday Night Live...in the early days, when comedians could and did make fun of everything and everybody and were funny. People didn't get their feelings hurt, mainly because if they were making fun of one group now, we knew that they would be laughing at another group in the next skit or the next show.
My son and I did watch the week before when Shane Ellis was back. For a short time, we were reminded of the old shows.
I'm sorry that you have experienced these things. I wish that I could say that I've never seen such things, but I have.
I remember being 7 years old when a beautiful black family came to our church on Christmas Eve. The 2 girls and I waved at each other, and I planned on talking with them when church was over and we had cookies and hot cocoa. But then they were gone. I was told that one of the ushers had told them they might be more comfortable in another church. Believe me, even at that young age, I was thrilled to learn that the pastor had told the long time usher that he might be more welcome elsewhere.
I was in 6th grade when the first black family moved into our suburban neighborhood. My parents told me to be nice to the 6th grade boy, which I thought was an odd thing to say. I was nice to everyone. I heard some of my friends' parents talking about how property values would decline now. Our little neighborhood gang wondered how that could be true. Most of us had blue collar dads and stay at home moms. The black mom and dad were professionals. He was a doctor and she was a nurse. To us, it sounded like property values should increase with them in the neighborhood.
In high school, we moved from the suburbs into the city. On the street where we lived were just as many black families as white ones. The deadbeats were white trash, people who scammed the system and everyone knew it. The best dads in the neighborhood were the black dads. One chose his work schedule just so he could greet his kids (and all of us who passed their house) after school. He would ask about our day, inquire about our tests. He was awesome.
Children are not born with prejudices. Parents and society train them that way.
My own son didn't even see skin color in kindergarten. His class consisted of only 10 kids. When he came home grinning because he had a girlfriend, I asked if she was the redhead. Nope. Was she the blonde? Nope. So I asked if she was the black girl. He informed me that there was no black girl in his class. Then he described the most beautiful skin color that he had ever seen, a caramel color that he wished we could all be.
We do all perceive things differently. Take my high school. I moved from the suburbs where in high school, there were 2 black families to the city where I perceived the percentage of black kids to be 30%. At our 50th graduation anniversary, we learned that the black kids thought that they were only 10%. And all of us were wrong. The actual percentage was 20%.
I graduated in 1970. Our class president and secretary/treasurer were both black. Our star quarterback was black, as was the head cheerleader.
We fully expected that the world would become what Rev Martin Luther King Jr wanted, one where people were judged for their character, not their skin color.
We're all still waiting for that, aren't we?
You have written this well.
Thanks for sharing both your story and your faith.
Kathleen, those are some wonderful hints about moving. I have used rental trucks and movers, but I have never hired someone to pack for me. My sister's company used to pay for packers every time that they promoted and moved her and her family. I was always envious. My ex never helped pack any of the rooms we shared and he always waited until moving day to pack up his office, the garage, basement, his dresser and closet, etc. Drove me bananas.
You organized this well and grammar and punctuation are fine.
What a wonderful story. Makes me want to live in a world where we all have huge oak trees like that one to wish upon and spouses with which to walk. It does make me curious, though, about how that worked. Guess I'm going to have to look at one of the oak trees nearby.
Everyone should be seemingly foolhardy when it comes to the rest of the world. They are not walking in our shoes!
I was always one who took the words of people quite seriously. If they decided that I could not possibly succeed at something, I had to prove them wrong. 99% of the time, I did. The other 1%, I valiantly tried.
We likely don't share the same box category, but it appears that we have both been bold. Good for you. Only you can define you.
I get wanting to put your thoughts down so that they are not lost. I get wanting to write. I once wrote, "Why write? Why breathe?" I've been writing since I was a kid sitting in my backyard cherry tree. Today, I'm almost 72.
You say that you don't care if you are good at writing, just that you record your thoughts. That's fine, but iui f you want to leave your thoughts behind, you must want people to read them. And not following basic rules could turn the very people who you want to share your thoughts with away.
So let's take a look:
There's no point in not giving the world my strange perspective while I can.
I would probably simplify that: I must share my strange perspective while I can.
When I write I notice that there exists no writer I've read whose work reads similarly to mine, who structures their writing the same way that I do; I am slightly self-conscious of this fact, as I fear that I do not measure up to said writers, but sometimes, like right now, I ask myself a question whose answer I know very well: would I rather be distinctive and odd, or be a run-of-the-mill writer whose work prospective publishers roll their eyes at before throwing into the trash and moving on to the next nondescript item?
WHAT?!?!?
I would definitely separate that into multiple sentences. Try to read it aloud and ponder how and when you should breathe.
In my early days here at Writing.com, I would have eagerly made suggestions about how to perfect your poem. Today, I do things differently. I do think that it needs to a bit of tweaking, but that is your job. Reading your poem will reveals a bit of awkwardness. Perhaps as you do so, you will see what I mean. Focus on the length of the lines, the number of syllables.
Thanks for sharing.
Blessings,
Kenzie
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