A Step Towards the Sun

     They always seemed to end up on the hill. Every Saturday, in the early morning just as the sun was spreading its golden tendrils across the slowly lightening sky, they would sit perched side by side on the plush grass overlooking the meadow. To look at them: their skin aglow as if glistening with the morning dew, a slight smile upturning the corners of their mouths; you would never know the pain that lingered behind their eyes.


***************************************************************

     She knew her life was very different than those of the kids at school. She never had a lot of friends and was never especially popular, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. She was used to being a loner and spent most of her time that way. Her life was like a record that had been put on loop, monotonously playing out the same actions until, one day, a walk home from school pinpointed her life in a totally different direction.

     She was aware that new people had moved into the house parallel to her own. The moving trucks had come early one Saturday morning as she sat alone on top of the hill. The men spent the day unloading their stuff, box by box. She recalled that a new 1972 Chevrolet Impala sat in the driveway alongside an older model Cutlass. She had waited to catch a glimpse of the owners, but if they were there, they didn’t come out to lend a hand. She gave up and went about her business. Weeks passed and she never really gave it a second thought.

     It was during that time of year when the air had a crispness about it and the setting sun gleamed behind freshly turned leaves of auburn and topaz, making it seem as if the trees were a blaze of Autumn. She saw him sitting Indian-style beneath the gigantic Oak tree in the front yard of the house next door to hers. There was something about the way he was just sitting there completely unoccupied, as if in his own world. That might have deterred some people, but not her. She knew that look, knew it personally. It was her look. She hadn’t yet come into his line of view, so she took advantage of the opportunity to fully glance him over. His curly locks of hair, dark as a raven, were blowing faintly in the late afternoon breeze. He stared straight ahead with eyes the color of Summer honey, which perfectly complimented his olive skin. His clothes were worn and tattered, in complete contrast to the two-story house behind him, but she got the feeling that he liked the statement he was making. She liked it too…and she liked him. She knew instinctively that somehow, he understood her- that he, too, had seen things in his life that no one should ever have to see.

     As she walked past, he never even blinked an eye. She felt a pang in her heart at his lack of attention towards her. Deep down, she wasn’t surprised though. She knew she was no picture of beauty. Her plain brown hair hung limp and stringy down her back. She hated her eyes. They were the most boring, dull shade of green and she often thought they bore a striking resemblance to split pea soup. Her skin was neither fair, nor golden; just average. She was acutely aware that she lacked the womanly curves of other girls her age, but rarely let it bother her. Ordinarily, she didn’t mind that she failed to stick out in any obvious ways. She never strived to be noticed, but it was different with him. He didn’t strike her as the shallow, superficial type to care about stuff like that. She pressed on and turned to walk up her driveway, when she noticed out of the corner of her eye that he was looking in her direction. So he had noticed. She turned towards him and offered a quick smile and was surprised to see him return the gesture. She faced back in the direction of which she had just come and walked into her house.

     She was, what you would call, a latch-key kid. Her mother had died when she was fourteen and her father was always too busy attending charity events or going on business trips to bother actually being there for her. She suspected why that’s why she was so good at being alone. She was used to it. She came home to an empty house, went to sleep in an empty house, and awoke to a house still as empty as the night before. Even when her father was there, he might as well have not been. Their conversations consisted of three questions: “Are you keeping up your grades?” “Do you have plenty of food?” “Do you need any money?” That was it. It usually lasted about five minutes and that was if he was long winded. He would often go off, leaving nothing but a note behind explaining where he was.

     She actually preferred when he was away, so she was pleased to come home to find the familiar yellow slip of paper on the kitchen counter. She glanced out the window to see that the boy had disappeared from beneath the tree. She dug some leftover Chinese food out of the fridge and ate it in front of the television, before going upstairs to her room. She crossed the floor and raised the window to let in some of the cool night air. As she did, she couldn’t help but notice that she had a clear view into the boy’s window. This made her feel better somehow; less alone.

     As the months passed, they slowly got to know each other; with her making the first move to introduce herself on one of the many days she saw him beneath the tree. She learned that he was originally from Texas and had a soft spot for Tex-Mex food. He told her of his love for the guitar, how he longed to write songs like Simon and Garfunkel, and that he favored the latter work of The Beatles rather than their early stuff. She told him about liking to write poetry and that she dreamed of having a novel published before she died. He listened as she talked about her admiration of Emily Dickenson. He asked her favorite food, she asked his favorite color: Chinese and blue respectively.

     Little by little, they ventured into deeper territory. She took him to her favorite spot and they would spend countless hours lounging on the hillside, talking. He shared that he had an older brother who had died in a terrible car accident. She had wondered if he was an only child, but it seemed like the kind of personal question they had both been reserving for another time. She told him about her father and how she spent a lot of time alone. She told him about not ever really fitting in at school, but never bothering to care. He seemed both saddened and happy about her statement. Saddened because no one ever took the time to get to know her and happy because she was smart enough not to place her self-worth in the hands of other people. She had wondered why she hadn’t seen him at school and found out that he was a year older than she. He graduated the summer before and was trying to figure out what he wanted to do with his life. There was a connection between them that was undeniable and they both felt it. They spent most of their free time together either riding around in his old Cutlass or going for walks, but most often they would make the trek through the woods and up the hill, especially on Saturday mornings. That was their favorite.

     As the weather warmed, they would often go up in the late afternoon to watch as the sun dipped down beneath the trees. She had an affinity for the sunrise and sunset, and he loved to watch her experience it. One afternoon in the early summer, as they sat letting the sun warm their faces, he asked her a question that was more personal than any other he had dared to ask. What was the worst thing she had ever been through? She removed her cherry lollypop from her mouth and stared straight ahead, just as he had been doing the first day they met. She knew what the right answer was, but she wasn’t sure if she could actually say it out loud. He never pressed her, he just let her gather her thoughts until she was ready to speak.

     She pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her hands on top. Maintaining her straightforward stare, she told him everything. She explained that her father was not only cold, but also mean. She told him of the numerous times she would hear her parents fighting in their bedroom. Mostly her father would yell and her mother would whimper responses when he deemed it necessary. If she gave the wrong response, the evidence was always visible the next day in a swollen cheek, busted lip, or bruised eye. There were times when she would hear her father forcing himself on his wife, the whole while her mother would be crying and pleading with him to stop. He never did. He was that kind of man. His needs came before anyone else’s…all of them. She was too young, at the time, to realize what was happening. As she got older, nothing changed and, though he never laid a hand on her, she was disgusted by his treatment of her mother. She told him as much one morning after her mother came downstairs still shaken from the night before. His response was that it was none of her business and that being married is about serving your husband in all aspects of life. That afternoon when she got home from school, she found her mother’s lifeless body in a pool of blood on her side of the bed. He had killed her in every way that a person could be killed, she had just finished the deed. It was recommended that she speak with a counselor, but her father would have none of that. He told her that it was all her fault, that her mother would still be here if she wasn’t such a selfish bratt.

     Warm tears began to freely flow down her cheeks. She had never told anyone those things. He held her close as she rocked back and forth. He began to tell her of his own secrets. He told her that he felt that his parents still blamed him for his brother’s accident. He had been on the way to pick up his little brother after baseball practice when he was struck by a drunk driver. She could see that his parents didn’t need to blame him. He blamed himself enough. Ironically, he said his mother became an alcoholic who spent most days drinking herself numb. He spent a lot of his time alone, too, before he met her. He leaned in and brushed the tears away from her sage green eyes. Their faces were so close. He cupped his hand beneath her chin and brought their lips together, hers still tasting of cherry and salty tears. They knew they loved each other and at that very moment they wanted to express it in every way. They laid together in the golden shroud of the sunset and explored the new sensations of the experience they were about to share. He couldn’t help noticing how her whole body seemed to glow with a beauty that radiated from the inside out. He knew he had never loved anyone more.

*******************************************************************************

     It had been months since they had been together. He hated leaving her the way he did and he knew she was wondering if he still cared. Eventually, it seemed she had moved on. He was invisible to her. He would have given anything to be able to stay with her on top of that hill forever, growing in love and laughter. He still followed her up to there, but she would never even look at him. He might as well not have been there, but still he stayed. He would sit next to her, not saying a word, just letting her exist. Sometimes she would cry and he could tell she was trying to hide her pain from him. She didn’t want him to see her this way. He would try to talk to her when he saw her out and about, but she just couldn’t talk to him. Not now.

     One afternoon, as the wind began to have that chilly bite to it again, he saw her walking through the woods up the path to the hill. He followed her, as he always did, hoping this would be the day she would finally break her silence and they could be together again. She sat with her knees pulled to her chest, just as she had that day so many months ago. He sat next to her, but she acted as if she didn’t notice. He moved closer. He told her that he was sorry for leaving without letting her know or saying goodbye and he promised he would never do it again. He told her that he loved her more than he had ever loved another person in his entire life. She still wouldn’t look at him and it all became too much for him to bear. He placed his hand on her cheek and a look of overwhelming emotion crossed her face. He kissed her forehead as she turned her head and looked in his direction.

     She had never been the same after he died. She couldn’t even comprehend life without him. She had known everything about him, except that he had heart problems and was waiting on a donor. He was so beautiful. He looked so healthy. And now he was gone. There just wasn’t enough time. She loved him more than she had ever loved another person in her entire life. She loved him for seeing the beauty in her when she couldn’t see it herself, but mostly for loving her in return, and he felt it. He could move on, now, knowing she would be okay. He would protect her always. He put his arm around her shoulder and she curled into the warmth she felt there, as they sat together watching the golden orb dip lower and lower behind the horizon.

At Long Last...

So I haven't blogged for a while and I have really missed it. I felt bad for falling behind, but then I realized that my blogging wasn't an assignment. I blog for fun and for creative release. There has just been... a lot of stuff going on in my life and while I would normally turn immediately to my blog or journal, I just kind of----shut DOWN. There have been some very good things that have happened in the last month and then, there have been the not so good and the not so good ones have just seemed to weigh me down.

My dad is having a slight health scare and it has really shaken up our household. His doctor thinks he has an infection, but to rule out cancer he is sending him to a specialist to make sure. Cancer- the dreaded C word that no one wants to hear. I really don't believe he has cancer just from things his doctor has said, but it doesn't make it any less scary. The other bad things involve other people in my family and I'm not divulging any information about that simply because I don't feel it is my place. I will say that it involves two people I care about very much. The whole situation effected me more than I ever thought it would.

So not everything is totally crappy in my world. On June 29, 2010 my life changed in a drastic way, for the better. I went to a weight loss specialist and found out that I have something called Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PcOS). It means that my body produces twice as much insulin as it needs. Insulin is the only chemical that tells the brain to store fat. It is fueled by carbs and sugar. When I eat one piece of bread, my body makes twice as much insulin and reacts as if I had eaten half a loaf of bread. So I have made a complete lifestyle change. They set up a program for me in which I will have to cut out all carbs and drink nothing but water and Crystal Lite type drinks. Now, it should be known: I was NOT a water drinker. I loathed water. I have made myself drink it and now find myself craving it. I look at it as by knowing what those things do to my body, eating them isn't worth it. So I do my swimming exercises and drink my H20. I'm working on it. It will be the fight of my life, but SO worth it. I plan to blog more about it and my adventure.

So (<----yes I realize I've started every paragraph with "So..." lol) this blog post isn't my best and it's kind of full of random stuff, but I just wanted to check in and get back into the swing of things.

Best wishes for a great weekend :)

In A Hue of Avocado

It was the summer of the polaroid camera. Okay, actually it was the summer of the gently used polaroid camera. Her father had brought it home from the consignment shop and surprised her with it the night before her fourteenth birthday. She couldn't believe it. Her family had never been especially wealthy. Her mother was a shop owner and her father was a farmer, so naturally there were pennies that needed to be pinched.

She spent the long summer days taking pictures of anything and everything. Every dime she earned from doing chores went towards more film. She could often be found sitting Indian-style in the middle of her room, her masterpieces scattered around her on the floor: the back pasture behind the hog pin, Macy the milk cow-minus her head, crooked shots of her friends smiling and laughing as they rode their horses through the winding roads. It was clear to see that her new hobby was a work in progress, but she loved them all; every imperfect one. She loved to take pictures of people when they least suspected it. The idea of catching them off guard seemed so intriguing to her, like she was actually capturing a pocket of time- a memory that was embedded in a picture.

While she loved her mother greatly, it was a very special relationship she had with her father. Growing up, she had always preferred overalls to dresses and fishing over playing with dolls. That wasn't to say she was a complete tomboy; she loved pink and she adored nail polish. What she loved most of all was the fact that at those moments, she had her father all to herself. Being the middle child of five, it was hard for her to stand out in any particular way. They would walk down to the Tuskahoma, an especially famous pond in their small town and sit on a log at the water's edge for hours at a time; her father regaling her with stories of a giant fish creature that resided at the bottom of the pond and of Indians who used to roam the very woods they sat not five feet away from- a sort of cross between Beowulf and Huckleberry Finn. The stories never changed and they always amused her, even as she grew to know them as mere folklore passed down to her father from generations passed. He could always tell when something was bothering her and as she got older, she valued his intuitive nature. He would always know just what to do to cure a broken heart or to mend a tattered wound.

She would often sneak down and watch him work the fields, hiding behind bushes, trying with might to capture the perfect image of him. She had to be very careful so that he wouldn't see her. He had never liked to have his picture taken, though she couldn't be sure why. He didn't come out and say that it upset him, but he always seemed to find a way to get out of it. She respected his wishes, but longed to capture him on film. He had this look about him-he had seen things. His eyes, the most perfect shade of avocado green, bore deep, etched lines on either side of his temples. Some might say from worry, but she liked to believe from experience. She knew her father had not had the best of childhoods himself and sometimes, when those green orbs settled on her own, it seemed as if she were looking into the eyes of a child. She longed to take his hand and escape back into time, to make the memories he never had the chance to make for himself. She dreamed of capturing those moments on film and putting them in his childhood pocket, so that he might never forget.

One afternoon, she overheard her father saying he was going into town. She had nothing better to do, so she asked if she could go along. At least she would get to get out of the house and feel a breeze on her face, but he didn't appear to want her to tag along today. For a brief moment a nagging soreness pained her heart. He always loved when she would tag along after him. Her mother must have sensed her uneasiness and at that very moment offered a reassuring smile. She grabbed her camera and trekked out to the truck. She carried it with her everywhere, so she wasn't surprised when he didn't give her a second glance as she opened the door and slid in.

It was a tremendously hot day, as most June days were in the South. It hadn't quite reached the dog day temperatures yet, but she could feel them getting closer. Somehow, she couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. They usually talked and laughed about everything under the sun. Today, however, it was noticeably silent. She looked at him from the corners of her eyes; rather pleased with herself for being able to pull it off without him noticing. His avocado eyes didn't appear to be wrinkled with experience today and for once, she thought maybe everyone had been right about them being worry lines after all. The soreness that had tiptoed across her heart earlier was back again, leaving a slightly heavier footprint this time. She tried to push the unpleasant thoughts to the back of her mind as they drove on in silence. She thought about saying something, anything to break the loudness of the abounding quiet. Her father reached over and turned on the radio, as a song about yesterday's problems that once seemed so far away, streamed out from the speakers. She couldn't help but to connect with the soft sung lyrics. Now that she thought of it, her father never did say what he was going to town to do.

The lush green pastures slowly gave way to the concrete and buildings of their rural community's town district. There were a lot of people out and about today. Several women were talking in front of Elmer's Grocery, trying hard to appear as if they were discussing produce or this week's bridge game, when everyone knew full well that they were really trading horrendous stories of whose husband was making eyes at his secretary and who was sporting fake pearls, yet dared to claim they were authentic. There were the usual suspects sitting in front of the Barber Shop; several old men who could be seen there every day, even if it was 100 degrees outside. God only knows what their topics of conversation were. Children raced up and down the street, some on skates, some on bicycles, some eating colorful frozen treats; the sugary substances dripping down their impish chins. She saw that they were turning into the bank, yet had no idea why. Neither of her parents kept a savings account and her father only kept a bank account for the farm. All of their money was kept in a canister on top of the refrigerator. Both of her parents had lived through the Depression and had been taught not to trust the banks with the bulk of their money. She got out of the car and walked around to stand beside her father. He took her hand and asked her to wait for him at the drug store across the street. He gave her a quarter and told her to get some iced-cream and that he would be back as soon as he could. She took the money, hesitantly, as he kissed her forehead and walked into the bank. She watched him walk away before turning to cross the street to the drug store.

She bought a chocolate malt and sat out in front of the store. She took several shots of the sticky mouthed children, then one of an old man and old lady walking down the sidewalk holding hands. It was a nice shot, she thought, until it developed and she realized she had decapitated them just as she had ole Macy. Purely coincidental. By the time she realized her mistake, the couple had passed and so had the afternoon. She peered through the window and glanced at the clock above the soda fountain. It was nearly five o'clock. They had arrived in town at a quarter to three. The uneasiness crept up inside her again. She began to feel self conscious, having sat alone in the same spot all afternoon. While in the middle of intently studying the chipped nail polish on her big toe, she caught a glimpse of her father out of the corner of her eye as he exited the bank. He walked slowly, cautiously. He didn't seem to see her sitting at the small wooden table. In fact, he didn't seem to notice much of anything outside of his own feet in front of him. He stopped and sat down on the steps in front of the building. With it being so late, the bank was closing and people began to exit behind him, all going home to their families and casserole dinners. One man passed and gave her father a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. He just sat there. She wasn't sure what to do, but for a reason she couldn't quite put her finger on, she pulled her camera from its case and snapped his picture. She didn't wait for it to turn out. Instead she stuck it in the pocket of her old jean shorts and got up from the table.

She approached her father in the same way he had walked from the bank: slowly, cautiously. When she arrived at his side, he never looked up. It wasn't until she sat down beside him that she realized he was crying. She had never witnessed him crying before, not even when his own mother, whom he was very close to, passed away. But there he was, the warm, salty tears gliding down his unshaven face. A lump began to rise in her own throat. Before she could say anything, he told her that they would lose the farm. If this years crop didn't bring in enough money, they would lose the house, the farm, and all of their livestock. His words just seemed to hang there in the thick, sticky air, making it all to evident to her that they weren't going to disappear anytime soon and she could no longer force the unpleasant thoughts to the back of her mind. The task at hand seemed insurmountable and she knew that her small world would never be the same.

When they got back home, her mother and father talked quietly in the den while she and her siblings set the table and poured the milk. She said nothing to anyone of what she had seen or knew, but she had a feeling it was all about to become abundantly clear. Dinner was eaten and dishes cleared away; everything went on as if the afternoon had been nothing more than a terrible dream. Her older sisters, Margaret and Sarah, each had a date to go to the movies after dinner and left once the kitchen was cleaned. Her younger brother, Ethan, and sister, Bethie, sat down to watch television with their parents. It was Saturday, so that meant an evening with Lawrence Welk. She settled in the chair across from where her parents sat on the couch. She watched as her family laughed in all the right places. Every now and then her mother would reach over and gently touch her father's hand, at which point he would give a small, faint smile; she realized that it had been real. The afternoon had happened and there were only three people who knew about it. The show ended and the children were sent to bed. She decided to go to bed herself as well. She knew her sisters would be home soon and she didn't think she could talk to them without spilling the beans. As she changed into her nightgown, the picture of her father fell out of her pocket fluttering to the floor. She bent to pick it up and placed it in her camera case with the others, then crawled into bed.

Her sisters returned, went to bed, and fell asleep quickly. She was thankful for that, but she wished she could get to sleep herself. She just lie there, wide awake, watching as the soft moonlight threw pale beams across the corner of the ceiling. She thought she heard her parents voices down the hall in their room; quiet and muffled, but there none the less. She got out of bed slowly, as not to wake her sisters and crept to their door. She kneeled and listened as her father shared that he didn't think they would make it out of this one. Times were tough for the farmers in the community and most of them had planted twice as many fields as he had. His voice didn't even sound like his own. It had a shakiness about it that she had never heard before. Tears welled up in her eyes for the second time that day and she quickly brushed them away. She leaned in closer to hear her mother tenderly reassure him that planting more fields did not necessarily yield a good crop. She said to have faith that God had a plan for them and it was not for anyone to question or worry about. There was a silence that followed when the stillness itself seemed much too personal to overhear than any of the words they had spoken. She stood and walked back to her room; climbing into bed, willing herself to fall asleep.

 The morning after she heard her parents talking, they sat down as a family and came clean about what was going on. There was a sudden weight that came over the room. It was a slightly expected, but still naturally uneasy feeling, like when you first get out of a swimming pool, and you become all too aware of the gravity of your body. It was agreed that everyone would work hard and do more than their share to bring in as much profit as possible. Months passed and Autumn lurked around the corner, coming closer and closer to their impending fate. Her father's worry lines sank deeper into his temples and her mother had begun to develop her own, despite God's plans.

Thanksgiving arrived and the weather had begun to really cool down. Shorts and flip flops were traded in for jeans and sweaters. Her mother was busy baking pies and basting ole Tom Turkey every half hour. Her sisters were polishing the silverware, and the younger kids were planted in front of the television watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Her father had slipped out earlier that morning stating he had an important meeting. "On Thanksgiving?" her mother protested. But he went all the same and with her blessing.

She took out her camera and began to take some shots of the beautifully decorated table that she'd spent the morning arranging. Then she snapped pictures of the food, and of course of her family as their mouths continued to water over the delicious smells wafting from the kitchen. She had become quite a good photographer if she didn't say so herself. Like her mother always said, if she wouldn't toot her own horn, who else would do it for her? She no longer decapitated unsuspecting models, and she had learned which light worked best for optimal photo quality. Her father arrived home and they all sat down to eat. It was tradition to go around the table and have each person say what they were thankful for. Her mother was thankful for her family, Margaret was thankful for her new job, Sarah was thankful for the lovely food, she herself was thankful for each one of them around her, and while Ethan and Bethie were equally thankful for the desserts waiting on the nearby buffet. When it came time for her father to share what he was most thankful for, everyone fell quiet. It had been an especially rough year for them all, but he had bared the brunt of it. They waited anxiously to hear what he had to say.

"On this day of thanks, many people in our own small town are hungry. Many people don't have a place to sleep. Some don't know where their next meal will come from. These people are not so different from ourselves. They once had a home, a car, a job, and a piece of land to call their own. For reasons unknown to us, they lost those things. I was very scared that we might be in their same situation soon. I went to meet Mr. Jonesborogh from the bank this morning. He made special arrangements to meet me in town before he and his family left for the holiday. He told me that we had made more than enough profit to keep the farm and pay off the first mortgage for next year."

A wave of laughter and celebratory shouting erupted from the petite dining room. The weight was lifted; they had jumped back into the pool where they could float, delirious to any such word as gravity.

"Hold on, calm down now. I don't want us ever to forget how it felt to be so close to walking in those people's shoes. We are not better than them. God does not love us more. We are all equal and must do our part to help those around us who are in need. Remember that. We all play a part in this life."

They ate and laughed, then ate some more, until they were all gorged with the feast that had only hours ago graced their dining room table. Each one of their faces seemed to glow with a ease and sense of security that none had felt in a long while. That night they all slept peacefully. She thought of the day moths before when she sat with her crying father outside of the bank. For some reason, she thought of the song that had played on the radio in the truck and she realized that all of the problems of yesterday were, in fact, far away. She knew this had been a Thanksgiving she would never forget.

Years passed by, all flowing and seeming to merge together. She graduated high school and moved away to go to college. While there, she met a man who swept her up in love. His eyes had a hue of avocado green and they were married two years later. Margaret and Sarah both married after high school and had children two months apart. Bethie was the second college graduate of the family. She moved back home to become the first female lawyer the town had ever seen. Ethan joined the military and was promptly shipped overseas where he later was classified as "missing in action" during the final years of Vietnam. Her parents were never the same after that. It nearly killed them both.

She was flooded with memories as she drove the long stretch of Hwy. 20 headed home. It was another hot, sticky southern afternoon and she wondered what people had done before air conditioning on trips such as this. It was so long ago and she couldn't seem to remember. As she crossed the county line into the familiar territory, she rolled her window down and felt the warm breeze on her face. She had to go through town to get to her parents house and, unlike most visitors, she enjoyed the time to linger.

It had been at least fifteen years since she had been home. She had meant to visit, but her parents knew how busy she was with her work. She spent a great deal of time traveling to the corners of the earth taking pictures for the Associated Press that when she had time off, she just wanted to stay in one place for longer than a day or so. She had been in Beijing when her mother passed away. She tried everything to get back home in time, but there had been weather issues that forced the planes to remain grounded. She vividly remembered sitting alone in the huge airport, crying, with nothing, but her father's voice on the other end of her cell phone, to comfort her.

She had forgotten how beautiful the countryside was. She watched as the lush green pastures once again gave way to bigger buildings and wider roads. Elmer's Grocery appeared to be a ghost of a gone by era, as a large supermarket chain now stood in its place. There were no women gossiping in front of its windows, just shopping carts and trash canisters. The Barber Shop had seen its own remodeling, as it now bore a sign titled "Super Shear" and specialized in haircare needs for both genders. She recognized the girl styling one patrons hair as a girl she had gone to school with and faintly remembered her as the granddaughter of the old man who used to own it. She thought certain he had most likely passed years before. She recognized the old drugstore right away, though it no longer had the little wooden tables out front. As she passed she realized the tables weren't the only things that had changed. It was clear that a new generation had taken it over and the only thing that remained the same was the sign in front.

The bank was exactly the same as she remembered. Even the flowers lining the walk were the same. She slowed as she passed by remembering the last and only time she had ever frequented the area. It had been a long time ago, but that feeling in her heart stirred again, for a different reason this time.

She turned down the long drive that lead to her house and immediately felt that sense of belonging; that feeling that you get only from being in a place you know you are loved and accepted. She wished her husband could have come with her instead of working a double shift at the hospital, but such is life. The farm had not been a functioning one for over ten years now. It just got to be too much for her parents to handle and became impossible once her mother died. She had never been on this land when there weren't livestock roaming the fields or a tractor tilling the dirt. The fields were now grown over and the barns had been demolished. The only trace that there had ever been a farm there at all was the giant grain bin and the old International, both of which sat abandoned like a shipwreck on the ocean floor. Weeds overcame them until they were almost unrecognizable. She was so angry that she had let so much time pass without coming home. That familiar lump rose in her throat and she once again pushed away the tears.

She parked her car amongst the others and walked around back to join the party. Children ran about the yard in the middle of a fierce game of hide and seek. There were several dogs that were clearly trying to get in on the action. She could see all three of her sisters arranging food on the long table at the corner of the yard. Margaret walked behind the other two, rearranging according to her specifications. The birthday boy himself sat in a lawn chair, in the middle of the chaos. She watched him as his eyes glimmered with the happiness of the occasion. Her sisters noticed her standing there and promptly ran to greet her. The usual words were exchanged: "It's been too long!" "Have you done something to your hair?" "Where's Zach?" She expressed her apologies and agreed that it had been too long, explained that her hair was shorter, and that she had to leave her dear husband at home to work.

She walked into the house to set her things down. When she went to her old bedroom, she noticed something on the small, twin bed. As she moved closer, she couldn't believe her eyes. It was the case that held her old polaroid camera. She opened it up and she could almost swear she smelled the same humid air from that summer all those years ago. There sat her camera, some old pictures, and a small piece of paper. She lifted it from the case to reveal that it was a note from her father:

"I found this while I was cleaning out the attic and thought you might like to have it. I even bought you some new film. That was a task--I had to get your sister to order it off of that net, web thing on her computer. I don't know what they'll think of next. Anyway, I know you have a bunch of fancy cameras now, but I hope you can still enjoy it as much as you did that summer. Love, Your Father"

She took everything out of the case and found the new film behind the camera. She held the old photographs in her hand, laughing as she thumbed through a headless Macy, many catycornered pasture shots, and pictures of her childhood friends that would probably make them cringe if they knew she had them. The last one in the pile caused her breath to catch in her throat. It was the one she had taken of her father sitting on the steps of the bank. His normally vibrant eyes, dull and weary-transfixed on the pavement in front of him. All around him, the world continued to move forward, while he was stuck in that moment as sure as his words had hung in the air. The image still brought a tear to her eyes. She placed the photo in her purse and took the camera down stairs.

Her father saw her walk out of the back door and smiled upon realizing she had found his gift. She walked over to him as he stood to embrace her. His arms, though not as strong as they once were, still had the power to create a sense of comfort that she had yet to feel any place else. She wished him happy birthday and thanked him for his surprise. As he sat back down in his chair he told her she should let someone test it out for her, make sure it worked okay. Bethie stepped forward and took the camera from her hands. Her father motioned for her to sit beside him and when she did, Bethie pressed the shutter and got the shot. She turned to look at her father, expecting to see the grimace that always showed on his face when he knew he had been photographed, but instead she saw his enigmatic avocado green eyes still glimmering even brighter than before. Bethie handed her the picture just in time to see their shapes fill the image. As she sat there holding the image of her father that she spent that entire summer trying to capture, the tears slid down her face and there was no stopping them. Her father squeezed her hand and told her how glad he was to have her there. She sat back in the chair and felt the warm breeze once again on her face. Whoever said you can't go home again? She sighed and the thought blew away as quickly as it came.
                                                   

Sometimes Things Don't Go According to Plan...

So I had planned on writing a slammin blog posting while at work today. It's a Friday: there's lots of down time. I don't usually ost at work because, down time or not, I like to be alone and really able to immerse myself in thought when I write. I'm not saying I have to, but it is my chosen path. It is hard for me to concentrate and really sink my teeth into a piece with phones ringing, file drawers clapping shut, and a copier/scanner/faxer that has decided to be bipolar. However, in a jam, I can mostly go to my quiet mental place and churn it out. Today, however, there are two maintenance men working away not two feet from my desk. With their BAMMING, and their sawing,and their "They painted over the hinges! I told them not to paint over the henges!" it is quite hard to find a quiet place of any kind. so, between answering the phone and having to yell ("NO! HE'S NOT HERE RIGHT NOW CAN I TAKE A MESSAGE? NO A MESSAGE- DO YOU WANT TO LEAVE A MESSAGE? HE WON'T BE IN UNTIL 11:00. ELEVEN. YES I'LL TELL HIM YOU CALLED.") and answering emails...I'm lucky this made it here at all.

I do plan on posting a real one later on tonight, as I have recently been very inspired by thinking back to some stories my mother told me of her childhood growing up on a farm and just the overall way I believe life might have been in my hometown back then. I'm excited to be able to sit down and really delve into it. I just wrapped up my on site class last night and have only my final to complete for my online class. I plan on doing that when I get home this afternoon and then I will be DONE! Oh, how I have longed for summer! It's going to officially begin this weekend and I'm not looking back. It has been a stressful semester and I am very glad that I made it out alive.

Until later, have a splendid Friday everyone :)

My Mother. My Friend. My Inspiration.

All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his. ~Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

My mom is a neverending song in my heart of comfort, happiness, and being. I may sometimes forget the words but I always remember the tune. ~Graycie Harmon

The above quotes perfectly sum up my mother to me. She is everything I could ever want to be, but never will attain. She is the strength in my heart, when I thought I had given everything I had. She is the smile in the corners of my mouth when I thought I would never smile again. She is the friend I can turn to when all others have turned their backs. She is the arms that held me, not because she had to, but because she wanted to. 

The truth is, I could write forever and still not express the way in which I feel for her. When I was a child, she would stop whatever she was doing to tuck me in at night. She would sit on the side of my bed and read my bedtime stories from an old book with pictures of vintage looking children; little girls in their pink, frilly dresses-little boys in their blue coveralls. I remember laying there being so soothes by the sound of her voice. A teacher by nature, she had was a fantastic story teller. She had a way of making each character come to life; a play taking place in a little theatre on the foot of my bed. She sat with me as I said my prayers, asking the Lord to bless my family and not to forget my stuffed animals.

I could take anything to her that had broken and she could fix it. Many a decapitated barbie doll passed through her hands, which mended the plastic body and handed it back-good as new. I used to think that she could have fixed the world, if only the right people had asked. I still do.

She supported me incessantly in whatever my dream of the moment was. I wanted to be a dancer. She paid for me to take dance lessons for eleven years. I wanted to play the clarinet. She bought me a beautiful instrument that carried me into a new phase of my life.

When I discovered at age seven that I wanted to be a writer, she watched me as I wrote a ten page masterpiece titled "The Killer of Love" (based on the familiar Harlequin romance novels I saw her and my grandmother reading of course). Her and my father acted out their given parts with enthusiasm and vigor. She encouraged me to keep writing when she bought me my first type writer and supplied me with plenty of paper on which to craft my next work of art. As I grew and my writing grew, she gave me journal upon journal to document my thoughts. She told me of how she used to write when she was my age and gave me a notebook full of her teenage thoughts. It is something I treasure to this day.

She is always the first person to be proud of me and never fails to show that to other people, never in a boastful or negative way. It used to embarrass me when I was a teenager, as I am a fairly modest person. As time went on, I learned to enjoy it. She was proud of me. What shame was there in that?

The older I get, the more our relationship tends to change. There is a time in every child's life when the veil of perfection that has shrouded our parents is lifted- and we see them for the first time as humans who make mistakes. It is a bittersweet moment that comes with realizing that before your parents were your parents, they were just people-like you; moving through life trying to figure it out. They were people who loved you when it was difficult, even at times when, to someone else, you might have been unlovable. It makes me want to put my arms around her to shield her from anything or anyone who might hurt her. I suppose this is how she feels towards me, as if her love has been superimposed onto my heart.

My mother sacrificed for me, as did my father. She would often go without so that I might have that doll at Christmas or that dance costume for the recital. She never failed to tell me she loved me. She never failed to encourage me to dream the impossible dream. She always held me higher than herself so that I might reach the stars, herself perfectly content to remain in the ground. She let me have my own adventures, consuming me with the thought that I could be whatever I wanted to be; yet she remained in my shadow-always ready to come out and rid my world of the people who told me I could not.

My mother loves me with a love that has yet to be matched by any mortal heart. She loves me wholly, completely, unabashedly for who I am. She never tried to make me into someone I didn't want to be. I can only hope that the love I give her in return is enough. Though she deserves so much more than I could ever give.

If your reading this, Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you.

Remembrances of a Golden Time...That I Never Knew Was Golden

I never had a good relationship with my grandmother. We were never especially close. She was controlling, manipulative, and vain. It always upset me when my friends would talk about spending the weekend with their grandparents and they seemed to have literally had a good time. My grandmother made it clear from a young age that she was displeased with the person I was. I was a chubby kid. This was not acceptable. She told me this with all the monotonous repetition of a broken record that no one takes the initiative to fix. Most children remember their grandmother telling them how perfect they were in every way. They remember affectionate smiles and warm embraces. The most common words I remember being told was to "suck in" my tummy.

I recall childhood instances when we would be out to lunch, my mother and I talking and laughing when suddenly, the laughter would be interrupted by a parting of lips: "Do you see that woman there," she would say, "if you don't get your act together, you will be just like her. Do you want that? Do you want to be like her?"

The words ring out in my brain, echoing from the long term memory file folder with "Mema" etched in salty tears. That was what we grandchildren called her. It always struck me as peculiar that I was called her "grandchild". She didn't seem to think I was very grand. She spent the next seventeen years tearing away little shreds of my self-esteem. She would often ask me if I actually enjoyed living the kind of life I was living. She brought diet pills to Thanksgiving dinner. She would discuss me and my lack of interest in changing my ways to various people, some of whom had never met me.

During my fragile middle school years she pulled me aside and told me that if I didn't do something to change myself, no boy would ever love me and I would be lucky if they were my friend. Again...the echoing of her voice haunts me. She never failed to compare me to my thinner, prettier sisters. Why couldn't I just be normal?

Over the years, I built up a high level of resentment for her and her failed attempts to "fix" me. But more than that, I believed her. I soaked up every negative thing she said to me; the Bounty quicker-picker-upper of emotional burden. She taught me how to hate myself. She gave my self loathing a voice with which to do the damage she had somehow managed to leave undone. It worked. I always realized that I needed to get a handle on my body. I just felt it was so far out of my control. I was too young to understand that the neighbor who molested me at five years old, stole much more than my childhood innocence. His foul touch and her sharp tongue created the perfect environment to breed a downhill spiral.

When I was 17 years old she was no longer able to live alone or care for herself. After years of being bounced around a small handful of nursing homes, assisted living communities, and children's houses; none of which could handle her presence, my aunt and mother decided to move her back home and pay caregivers to stay with her around the clock. It was a job that used to belong to my mother before she required 24 hour care. She was the only one who stayed close to home. We spent our live at her beckoned call.

I was going to college and working a really crappy part time job as a cashier when they brought her home. I was so dissatisfied with my work that I approached them about being a caregiver for her. Soon after, I quit taking sweaty money from the bras of old black ladies, to spend the weekends caring for an old white one. That was what she was to me: an old white lady. I hated everything about it at first. I hated being away from my family, I hated being in that house which seemed to suck the very life from my body, I hated being trapped there with her watching her watch me and hating what she saw. We fought a lot. I said she couldn't do something according to the list of rules I was given. She said God would punish me for my sins. She said I was a disappointment. I said she had disappointed me my entire life. She said I was hopeless. I told her she wouldn't know hope if it danced at the foot of her bed. She fired me two years in at the end of September.

That was it. Or so I thought.

I swore I would never go back. My mother swore I would never go back. My father wouldn't speak her name, much less speak to her face.

January rolled around and the lady who stayed with her at day time during the week quit. I needed a job, so I went back. Excuse me-she allowed me to come back. We still didn't get along every day, but I knew that at five o'clock I could go home. I felt I could fake it for at least nine hours a day.

Before long, I felt like I didn't have to fake it. I genuinely started to care. We watched birds. I tried to convince her there was not a squirrel stuck in her bird feeder. We watched Gunsmoke and bonded over the handsomeness that was Matt Dillon, wondered in suspense as the Cartwright boys escaped one mishap after another, and laughed at Lisa & Oliver as they tended their Green Acres. But I think the memory that stands out the most is the first time she ever watched Steel Magnolias. We laughed and cried, then laughed some more. Every now and then, I would look over at her as she laughed. At that moment, she could have been five years old again. She laughed without inhibition. Her head was arched back and her eyes seemed to glisten; her small body a quiver with the sheer force of her happiness. The sun was coming in the giant picture window on the side of her and it was that perfect time of day where the rays casted a golden glow that shrouded the room, as if God himself was saying, "This is important. Remember this." I did. I think that was the happiest I had seen her in my entire life.

When we got the call one lazy Sunday afternoon in early November that she was not having a good weekend, I didn't think much of it. They said she wasn't eating. No big deal, some days she ate like an anorexic bird. We made sure to at least get Ensure in her system. When I got to work the next day, I knew something was terribly wrong.
I called the local Hospice center, where she had been a patient for over a year. When the nurse came out and checked her, my concerns were realized. At first, I was immediately panicked about where I was going to find another job. I know that sounds horrible, but it really was my first concern. I don't think I allowed myself to believe that she could actually die. I tried to keep it together. I tried to ignore her ragged breathing. I tried to look past her blank expression. I tried to erase her skeletal frame. As I sat alone with her, in that house, with my mother in the other room; I sang her favorite songs. I kissed her forehead. I held her hand and tried not to fall apart as I told her I forgave her. I felt like a lifetime had passed between us, and I didn't want to let go.

November 18, 2009

I wasn't there when she died. My mother, cousin, and I had gone to town to run some errands. My mother was relieved because she didn't think she could handle it. I never told her, but I really wanted to be there. She was surrounded by family and people who loved her all singing her favorite hymns; but I wasn't there. And I wanted to be. 

I never cried at the viewing. I never cried at the funeral. For the first weeks after that, I never cried. Thanksgiving happened, then Christmas and with the hustle and bustle...time just kept going. How does it do that? How does it have the nerve to keep going after someone has been ripped from our lives and we can barely keep going ourselves? I longed for people to stop looking at me with sympathetic smiles. I yearned for the day when we would no longer receive cards in the mail expressing sincere condolences. I was ready to move on. At least I thought I was.

I never thought it would be this hard. I couldn't have perceived missing her this much. I don't miss the drama. I don't miss the stress. I don't miss the fights. But I do miss fawning over Marshal Dillon. The Cartwright boys must feel abandoned and confused or at least they might if they were still alive. I hear a song that we used to sing together and I'm right there with her again. I miss walking out of her bedroom and saying, "I love you," only to hear her say, "I love you more." Those words echo in my mind too. They aren't always as loud as the others, but with time and love...I might not hear the others at all. These are memories I will always have of a time I can never get back. Of this, I am grateful and, can honestly say, I wouldn't change a thing.

There is a Blog for Everyone

I know this might seem a little like-DUH- to most bloggers/blog readers, but it is a legitimate new thought for me. I have found myself thinking a lot recently about how to get more people to be aware of my blog and its existence. I thought that maybe I wasn't writing in a way to reach people...how does a blogger get on the "Notable Blogger" list again? Then I had an epiphany: There are billions of blogs out there, floating about in the abyss of the cyber world. There are just as many, if not more, blog readers (you know the type, like to read, but don't have the time to blog themselves...I used to be one. Creeper.) but I will not appeal to them all. There is no way, nor would I want to do so. You know why? Because that would make me run of the mill. That would make me generic in some way. I will just continue to write about what I love: I will write short stories. I will write about margaritas. I will write (inevitably) about someone I love. I will (most assuredly) write about someone I hate. I will be inspired. I will try to inspire others. I will laugh while I blog and will, no doubt, cry too. I will live my life and document the pieces as I see it, from my puny-yet real-perspective.

When I was growing up (wait...am I done?)

While I grow up, I have been known to say "I'm sorry" quite a lot. Even if it wasn't necessarily my fault. I felt that I needed to bear the brunt of the blame. I'm not really sure why. If someone didn't like the way I did something, I would change it. I look back and become really, majorly frustrated with myself for doing this. I am at a point in my life where I refuse to continue to apologize for being ME. I can not, do not, and will not change, conform, degrade any part of myself for the pleasure of someone who never did that for me. I will not befriend people who put the "narc" in narcissistic. They physically make me sick. I will not allow myself to feel bad for leaving said people behind. I shake off the losers like dust. And I do not look back. Or maybe I do and this is what I'd like to change because, let's face it: it is hard to say goodbye and really mean it. This time I will do it. I will mean it.

So, I'm gonna go give myself a bear hug and really start to embrace this burgeoning Lizz within. I was told recently that I am hardcore. I'm going to try to live up to that now.

:)    (<----Old habits die hard)