| %%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%%
%%ONOFF%%
|
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
 |  A Time for Telling
.......a collection of remembrance |
   For some time, I've thought of the stories I carry. Some are based on memories almost faded away, and others are filled with a type of wonder and magic. In the telling, I've come to realize that not all of them are commonplace. Some are far more than a heart can hold (and likely more than a telling can tell)... But there's a sadness in knowing that the story will be gone when I am gone, or when those I've told are no longer able or around to remember. And so, I begin - Love, Bobbie spare these hands the writer's cramp - retracing broken promise spare these eyes the hurt that they have seen spare this heart an emptiness (for reasons I can't say) that I might tell of autumn skies and stars that got away |
| Guilty (and perhaps a little off topic) |
“My mornings typically start with a period of devotion. Since I had already ‘jumped ahead’ and read today’s devotion (on Monday), I flipped to the center of book…confident in finding the right place! Anyway, the article was written by Mary Lou Ritten and related to four leaf clovers – the analogy that you have to train your eyes to see the four leaf variety among all the rest – just as you have to train your heart to see the good in others instinctively (over the bad). Far too often, we never see beyond ourselves. We’re so involved in getting to the next place that we forget to live in this one (in a place and time we will never be again). Yeah, I know - perhaps a little weebie-weebie! Anyway! I thought of those drawings that were popular years ago….the ones where you had to ‘train’ your eyes to see the hidden picture. But once you “saw” it, you couldn’t look at the picture again without seeing what you had missed initially. I like to think that I always look for the good, but sometimes it’s more difficult than others. Do you remember the gratitude journals that were popular several years ago? Each evening, you would list five things you were grateful for. I have a miracle journal (some days – the miracle is that I didn’t kill anyone). The ideas are much the same – to help us to ‘refocus’ our attention.” ~~*~~ I wrote that almost two years ago, as part of a challenge to those within my circle to retrain our eyesight to see the best. I’ve been accused of many things – a dreamer, a hopeless romantic, one who just won’t let go. I suppose I’m guilty but until yesterday, I didn’t quite understand how the two fit together. During the course of a job fair, it was noticed that there were substantially more people in my line even though the other lines might have resulted in a shorter wait. Some joke was made about it, and I commented that it was probably because I could type faster. But at the end of the day, a guy who worked alongside me brought up again. He wouldn’t let me ‘laugh it off’ this time, commenting that people were attracted to me because in my eyes, they saw hope. They didn’t see pity or judgment – they saw themselves – the best of themselves. At that moment, I realized a lot of things about the path I’ve taken to 'here' and the ‘home’ I’ve found in the now. It is my reward to work with the broken, to see something more – to help them see something more than circumstance and consequence. Maybe if they see that I haven’t given up, they’ll choose not to. Am I guilty? I certainly am. I’ll spend half a day looking for a four-leaf clover in a patch of weeds or a week involved in work that someone else might see as a total waste of time. I’ve held on to milk, eggs, and relationships (at times) way past their expiration dates, believing in a ‘good’ that no one else could see. When the tough get going, I get comfortable. I’m not giving up, especially when it comes to people. If that makes me a fool, then I’m a fool. A hopeless romantic? Could be. I’ve decided to make no more excuses for holding on, even if it means being accused of being blind. It’s what I do, and I believe it’s what I’m meant to do. I’ve known darkness. I’ve lived it and I’ve looked into eyes where there was nothing more, convincing myself of a flame. I will always believe that good trumps evil (every single time), and that tinfoil, in the right light, is surely a diamond. |
| Pressed for Luck |
Whenever I’m in conversation with my brother or one of my sisters, almost always never a moment when remembering something from our childhood that one of us doesn’t ask, ‘where were our parents?’ Now before you get concerned that we were being left alone, let me explain. Or should I perhaps first say that we were never left alone. In fact, I have not a single memory of ever being left with a babysitter. We went where our parents went, and they didn’t go to places where there children couldn’t go. Our parents took their role very seriously, almost to the extreme. I remember distinctly leaving the drive-in theatre during the showing of the Don Knott’s classic Love God, because of a scene which implied that he (Don Knotts) and the lead female star had slept together. Truth! As an adult, I have gone to the same great lengths to screen movies I recommend to them. I find it almost humorous that my mother’s favorite movie is Pretty Woman. But that’s another story. Our parents were strict in some ways, and cursing (or even the thought of cursing) was strictly prohibited. We didn’t talk back (sass) and the words please and thank you were used as a part of any regular conversation, especially those involving adults. But otherwise, in retrospect, I have to believe that my parents lived a part of their childhood through us. We lived nearby a junkyard, and during the summer, we spent endless days crawling into abandoned Studebaker’s and Opal GT’s looking for treasure that had been left behind. We carried rings loaded with the keys we were fortunate enough to have salvaged in the process. At one time, I had 66 keys (yep, easy to remember – 66 books of the bible and 66 keys). We walked the sides of the highway (41 which runs from Detroit to Florida) looking for liquor bottles that had been tossed into the weeds. We’d take them home, rinse them out and fill them with colored water. They sat everywhere in our house, and almost every day, we’d carry in a new batch. We’d try to get the labels off, but if we couldn’t, we’d just turn that side to the wall. Even now, I imagine light dancing off of ten or fifteen bottles - different colors - creating a magic not so easily found anymore. And yet, before you think it, let me say it – I would die if I thought any of my grandchildren, nieces or nephews were spending summers crawling through wrecked vehicles or walking alongside public highways. But, as you know, it was another time – a gentler, safer time. As I mentioned in another story, we lived in a mobile home (trailer is what it was, but I’m sure mobile home sounds more dignified). Around the time I turned 15, my dad and my uncle bought the park where we lived, which contained about 50 trailers. Now, I feel the need to explain something to those of you who are already turning up your noses. You don’t know anything. At that time, and in the area where we lived, the people who lived in the park were other families just like us – families where the father worked; the mother cooked, cleaned, and hung clothes on the line to dry. The kids – well they had lots of friends (more than enough for a game of anything). If there were people anywhere who thought we were poor, or that we were trash, we didn’t know about it. Okay, so back to the story. When my dad and uncle bought the park, it came with a couple of rental trailers. Typically, these would be rented out for long periods of time. There wasn’t a lot of transient business at that time. But every so often, someone would move out and my dad was left with the responsibility for cleaning it up for the next tenant – that is, my dad and his helpers. In retrospect, I’m almost certain we weren’t that much help……..but I was an expert at holding a flashlight! And whether you were patching a floor or unstopping a sewer line, you needed someone to hold the flashlight. Anyway, on more than one occasion, this housekeeping effort would turn up more than what was bargained for, and certainly more than my dad could explain. Most often, he carried a paper sack with him so that anything ‘we shouldn’t see’ could be easily (and quickly) disposed of. On one such occasion, we found a roll of stickers. Remember those bright yellow smiley face stickers? That’s the ones, except these had ‘smooth as silk’ printed around the edges. The stickers were probably two inches in diameter, and there were lots (and lots) of them. I’m sure at the time; they seemed harmless to my dad. We lived in that same ‘trailer’ for a long time. In fact, my parents only moved from there about 15 years ago, and for a while, one of my sisters lived there. As an adult, there have been many visits to that trailer, and every single time I entered the bedroom I shared with my two sisters – every time I saw those paneled walls decorated with hundreds of bright yellow ‘smooth as silk’ smiles, I would wonder aloud, ‘where were our parents?’  Yep! Just like that............ |
| What I didn't know... |
What I didn’t know…. I’m a country girl. No, I didn’t grow up on a huge farm or anything like that, but my grandparents lived on a farm and we had a fairly large garden. We didn’t own any livestock, but we lived beyond the city limits – beyond the city lights. We had fireflies (or lightning bugs as I know them). Remind me later to tell you why the fireflies are dying off. As for anything else, we didn’t have much. We lived in a two bedroom mobile home until I was twelve. My baby sister slept in a crib at the edge of my parent’s bed, and I shared an 8X10 bedroom with my sister and brother. There was hardly room to stand up. A single chest-of-drawers and a bunk bed took up the rest. We had one bathroom for six people and we made it work. When we moved into a ‘doublewide’, we thought we were kings. I remember walking up and down the hallway and feeling like a princess. For the first time, I had a bedroom big enough for a regular bed. Never mind the fact that I had to share it with two sisters. That didn’t matter at all. My mother made most all our clothes and my dad rode in a carpool to work so that my mother could have the car in case of an emergency. At any given time, he had 35 cents in his pocket – which was enough to buy a carton of milk to go with his sack lunch. We didn’t have a lot, but we had plenty. As a kid, you don’t see that. I saw other kids who had all the latest toys. They had new bikes instead of bikes that had been bought at the auction house and painted over and over (and over). They had bathrooms they didn’t share, and they never had to save the bathwater for the next in line. But we had love. Of course, at the time, I thought everyone had that. If anything, it was almost an embarrassment the way my parents acted toward each other. Before we moved, there was a big mirror that hung above our 19” black and white TV (that was bought on payments from Sears & Roebuck). It was impossible not to notice my parents kissing in the kitchen. For a time, I didn't want to invite friends over because I was afraid my parents would embarrass me. Yeah, I thought that everyone’s parents were as weird as mine. When I got older, I envied my friends who could stay out late and weren’t subjected to so many questions. They had a freedom that I envied, and some even had cars that were bought 'just for them'. I drove an old station wagon to and from college that my dad used for working on trailers, etc. For a while, there was a broken commode in the back. Really! And still….I didn’t see. But somewhere along the line, I realized that all those friends whom I had envied – well, they were envious of me. They were envious of a daddy that spent six months teaching me to drive a stick-shift and a mother than secretly hemmed my dresses a little shorter than what my dad thought was respectable. They were envious of the love I took for granted, and the parents who were interested enough to worry about me when I wasn’t home by eleven (even today, if I am going to visit my parents and it’s going to be after eleven when I arrive, I call). They envied my wealth. My parents still snuggle and kiss in the backseat (for goodness sake, get a room) though they’ve been together for going on 57 years. As for my brother and sisters, we've long since realized that no matter what the future holds, we need not worry for an inheritance. We’ve had it all along. The world has changed a lot and children seem to have most everything they want, but sometimes I wonder whether they wouldn’t be better off with a little less privacy and a little more having to share. In my life, I may live to have a large house, but it can never compare to the mansion I had in sharing a 12X10 bedroom with two sisters, and being last in line for the bathwater. when I have come at last to home - and wonder why it seems the streets are less than those I walked before - remember me the land of dreams - was heaven here on earth when gifted love - I could not ask for more |
| Quilts & Dreams |
I am a lover of quilts. I have several - some rich with meaning and others rich with color and design. I have a quilt of 50 stars, a small one made for me when my first grandchild was born, and my most treasured - one made by my great aunt Lydie, with the help of my father when he was only six. It came to me with the bed she left to me when she passed, along with a feather bed. Let me say that the feather bed is a real handmade feather bed and not one like those sold at Linens & Things. That's both good and bad. Good because it's another part of the story of me - and bad because the cover isn't as soft or as easy to wrap a sheet around. The colors of the quilt are almost gone with the exception of a faded flower here and there. It bears no real design, but rather is a collection of pieces in various sizes and shades, and in places, it is worn through. It remains folded atop an old trunk as I would never suffer it further damage by putting it on a bed. But at times in my life when I have needed strength, it is the one I pull around me. In that room (my room), I sit in an old rocker facing the window and I wrap myself in love. In that embrace, I am reminded of my heritage, my strength, and of love that served to bring me here. I am reminded that I don't always have to be strong - that there is freedom in my failures and beauty in my brokenness. I am certain that without this story, this quilt would be tossed away should something happen to me. For to the un-educated eye, it's long since lost his usefulness. And even as I write this I wonder to the other things we throw away without a thought to the story - without a thought to the treasure. My house isn't filled with antiques although I adore them. The bed I have, the feather bed, the rocker and the quilt are only a few of the things I've held onto, and each thing (every thing) bears a story. The quilt has the tiniest of stitches (unlike any quilt you'll buy from a store today). I asked my granny once why that was so and she said that the tiny stitches were made in accommodation of men who rarely cut their toenails - it was so they wouldn't catch their toenails in the threads. Such a gentle simple gift - one that most now would ever consider. I have the ladle that rested in the bucket on my granny's (Annie Jane) kitchen counter, and a walking stick carved by my grandfather (Raleigh). I have a picture of my grandparents on their wedding day (they look like two strangers who've been forced to sit together). There's a pocketbook (no, it's not a purse) that my was my granny's, and even now when I open it, I catch a whiff of juicy fruit gum. Inside is a hanky that was never pressed. I'm not even sure it was used to blow a nose. I only remember that my granny could create amazing animals from that little square of cloth. I have a flower vase that was bought for me with a quarter at a store with dirt floors. I have a skeleton key - and though I don't know what it originally fit - now it fits perfectly in my hand. These riches are my inheritance - more than substance - stories written on my soul. We choose what we keep - and for me, these pieces (worn through or otherwise) are reminders of the stories and the people who shared the love that became me. When I hold my beautiful quilt up to the light, it is that love which pours through the holes...lighting the place where I live. come for me in the depths of night - when shadows line the hall - and speak to me in voices I have known - warm me with your loving grace quench me in your tears fill my dreams with memories - beyond these few I own |
| Crying Time |
My mother is a cry baby! Truly! She cries over everything.  Now, I readily admit that I cry more than I used to and forget it – I can’t watch American Idol, the Voice, or any other show where someone is going to get their heart broken. I can’t. I’ve tried but the minute the music starts slowing down, I become convinced there’s something burning in the kitchen. But my mom has always been one to cry at the drop of the hat. My first day of school – cried. My last day of school – cried. Every day in between – she cried. The waiter gives her extra breadsticks, and she cries. It’s who she is and she’s not about to change (nor should she). As her daughter, I’ve learned to avoid situations that set the stage for ‘extra’ crying. When I was a teenager, each summer I would visit my aunt and uncle in Georgia. It’s not a long drive, maybe five hours. My granny lived nearby, and on occasion, my Aunt and Uncle would drive up to visit with her for the weekend. I would go back home with them, and they would return me (tanned and rested) in about two weeks. But leaving was MOST DEFINITELY a crying time! It could take 30 minutes just to get off the porch. People driving by most surely thought I had joined an elite group of mercenaries and would never be returning. One particular summer, my uncle made the trip alone, and we had finally managed to leave. We were probably ten miles down the road when I realized that I had forgotten my make-up bag. My uncle immediately offered to turn around and go back. And I immediately replied, ‘no’. As her daughter, I’ve learned to avoid situations that set the stage of ‘extra’ crying! |
| What we keep - |
This story started as one about members of my family – branches long since fallen away. But in thinking it through, I decided that the reason for the story shouldn’t overshadow the reason for the story.  At a point in my past (actually, I was just out of college), I discovered something that I wasn’t meant to find. I suspect no one was meant to, for surely it would no longer have existed. If you believe in the divine wisdom of the universe, then perhaps it was there for me to find all along. It was a piece of information that I knew would prove hurtful to a lot of people – people I loved (and still love) dearly. At the time, I hurt for the person who had kept the item - for it was associated with a person (and times) long since passed. I felt sorrow that they had carried this grief past its due, but even worse that of all the memories they could have chosen, this was the one they saved. Even now, I weep for a choice that took years from a wounded soul, and wonder if there were nights when they lay awake remembering that time, only to stumble through the darkness, digging through old boxes to find it - a reminder of pain - sorting through treasure to find the knife, ignoring the best for the sake of the worst. I know a lot of people who are like this. They cling to the things that poison, holding grudges for wrongs committed a lifetime ago, often by persons dead and gone. They rise each day and pull their bitterness to them, holding to their grief and their anger as if it would save them - as if it could change. Seldom do they realize that the only thing we can change is the thing we own. “If every problem in my life can be traced back to my mother, then I am in a unfortunate position - for until my mother changes, I'm stuck.” In case you wonder, I have yet to share that secret bit of knowledge (this as close as I will come). But on that day, surrounded by boxes (less the one item I carried with me), I wept for both of them and forgave them both as well. While the purpose of this journal is impress the need for storytellers, there are some stories that need not be remembered again. I guess this post turned out to be about two things – the things we keep and the things we don't. Saw you there and weeping for a pain refused to heal - though seasons passed and still your vigil held. Never thought beyond the hurt - to resurrection - beyond the veil forgiveness to reveal - the truth of life the hope for love - grace beyond compassion. Dry your tears - the day approaches new.  |
| Family |
Almost three years ago, I decided it was warm enough to cook outside on the gas grill. When I opened the grill, however, I found that birds had started a nest beneath the lower grate. No problem. I got my gloves from the garage and carefully removed the top grate and then the nest, relocating it to the lower branches of a nearby Evergreen. Two days later, I went to use the grill again and discovered that the eager couple had been at it again, although they hadn’t gotten very far in two days. I was able to just clean what bit of straw and paper they had out without much trouble. That was Wednesday. The following Sunday, I went to use the grill and surprised the happy couple in the midst of putting the finishing touches on their nest. They froze in mid-activity when I opened the lid. I quickly shut it, and stood for several moments with my hand on top - listening for signs of distress. That was three years ago. I haven’t used the grill since, and instead, each Spring I sit in my kitchen and watch the growing family of wrens making multiple trips to and from the fields, the trees, and the yard. They have quite successfully traded in their simple nest for a two story townhouse with loft. When I am lounging on the patio in the summer, they are continuously in and out, and I occasionally catch them peeking out from one of the side air holes. While lying in the sun, there always a wonderful chatter coming from inside the grill. I convince myself that I am the topic of many a discussion - “she's the one.” I love them and hardly miss the grill at all! who are you with feathers proud come spread your home to mine as brothers sisters all the same - within this place divine  |
| Breathless |
When I was young, I marveled at how my dad could hear anything – me whispering in the bed as he came down the hall, a possum moving in the stack of firewood outside, the first baby Robin fallen from a nest into the weeds. It seemed an amazing trait to have and I dreamed of walking the woods at night, responding to a call no one else could hear. I should know to be careful what you wish for. In the last year, I’ve realized that I’ve inherited my father’s hearing and, while it is a lovely trait in some respects, in others it is a curse. While trying to fall asleep at night, I am disturbed by the sound of my husband’s dry fingers brushing against his flannel pajamas, or the sound of his tongue moving in his mouth. No kidding! I often wake to the unmistakable sound of a cricket in the wall, or a field mouse playing in the attic. The night moves, and I hear. Now before you start thinking I should have my own reality show, let me say that this talent is only present in my right ear. That’s actually a blessing because it means a simple shift in the way I am sleeping can pretty much drown out the cricket. But other sounds can’t even be muffled by three inches of down – the sound of a bobcat crossing the lawn, a leaf stuck in the gutter, a branch bent too close to another. My father knew things about the world, about the night and the shape of leaves. He hears the message of a waning moon and the first spring rain, and can tell the difference between a dove and a hawk just by the whisper of wings against the wind. It may cost me more than a little sleep, but I am definitely listening. of those to know and those to feel - who am I to differ would swear the song plays still in ancient pines was wrestled there some moons ago when light forgot to glisten - the stars to tell the dark I love you so |
 Log In To Leave Feedback |
Static Items
Books
Forums
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
