It's a #MemoryLane Monday- Where did 20 Years Go? #classreunion #classmates #Life

When I dropped out my freshman year of high school after my grandfather's unexpected and untimely passing, which I once talked about here on the blog, I didn't give much thought to the idea of ever participating in anything related to my old classmates unless I happened to meet up with them as co-workers at any number of the various places I worked in my young adulthood.

I think I went to one Homecoming football game, a chorus concert and my Class's graduation and the "after-party"- a lock-in known as Project Grad. I never attended dances or school functions in the capacity that a student would have. I stayed friends with a few of my closest pals, but being a high school drop-out at 15 left me feeling as though I vanished from the world. Or at least, my world, as I knew it. Had things been different, I have no doubt I would have graduated with my fellow classmates, but I followed the alternate path upon which my feet, or my Fate, had led me.

A lot of things happen in 20 years and the last thing I thought I'd be doing was attending the Class of '93 Reunion a couple of weekends ago in my hometown. I didn't graduate with them, but when other former classmates and friends on FB included me in the suggested people to add to a Group on there and made demands like "You better be there!"~ I was surprised but also a tiny bit tickled to be included. (I took my GED test in 1996 and passed with flying colors, placing me in the graduating "class of '97.")

Nevertheless, nerves wreaked havoc as the reunion drew closer. Would anyone else remember me besides the few I knew on Facebook? That 15 year old inside me who dropped out shuddered with anxiety before we headed out to go to the meeting place where the reunion was being held. My 38 year old self was fine, excited even, to get to visit with old familiar faces.

As one of my fellow classmates said during the toast- there's probably been points where we've thought, "Wow, has it really been 20 years?" and then other moments where we're like "Wow...20 years seems like forever ago."

My nerves were also on edge, watching the door, wondering who all would actually show up and who wouldn't. Cause, yeah, in 20 years we accumulate and let go of so many things, so many people come and go and we've already lost a few of our classmates and sometimes I see something that reminds me of a certain person and I wonder about them, only to realize that they are no longer in the land of the living. It was a bittersweet moment when we were gathered, about to raise our glasses in honor of our class, our friendships, those who weren't able to come and those who are gone. It made me misty.

We weren't close to filling out the entire graduating class that night, but those of us who showed up seemed to find enjoyment in getting to sit and chat and laugh and cut up. For me it was all the more surreal as most of my memories of my friends and fellow classmates were from elementary school and middle school rather than high school, but I had fun just the same and I recognized most everyone too, other than a couple of people and spouses of my classmates.

I know my husband brought me because it was important to me, but I'm fairly sure he was just along for the ride and moral support. His 20 year reunion was held the weekend after mine and he had no interest whatsoever in going. We left early from mine, mostly because we had a long drive home the following morning, but I would have loved to have stayed and talked more with old friends, maybe got up and danced, but all in all I'm glad I got to see them and spend time catching up. I felt quite like Cinderella at the ball, pumpkined away from the party long before I my feet were too sore to dance another step. LOL I don't think I left a glass slipper behind though.

There were those who did recognize me and enthusiastically greeted me and chatted for a long while, even without my name tag and there were those I had hoped to see who weren't able to make it.

I will say this- this was my moment of doing "big scary things" this year. That young shy girl inside me needed it- needed to see that I was still "part" of this, still connected to my roots, still connected to my friends and my youth. I'd do it again and I hope in another 10 years, when there's a 30 year reunion, I'm able to make it then as well and I hope that just as many of us show up, if not more. Age makes me sentimental and wistful but hell, by then, we'll all be heading toward 50- I bet we'll really cut loose then!

(Proud of my Anderson County Bearcats, even if I never officially was one.)

Taryn Raye takes a walk down Memory Lane ~Do Scents Matter?

Saturday I spazzed out. I forgot to schedule my post beforehand in the busyness of hubby's birthday. On Friday, he arrived home early, just as I took his pineapple upside-down cake from the oven and after all, who can resist a warm pineapple upside-down cake? Not my hubby. I caught him sneaking a slice before the kids even got home from school.

Of course, the big surprise to me, was that he'd taken the money my parents sent him and bought me a vase of fresh cut wildflowers, just because. He said it was what he wanted to spend his birthday money on. I kept telling him he hadn't had to do that, but each time I looked at the flowers, I couldn't help but smile. I'm blessed.

Once the kids got home from school and my stepson's mother picked him up for the weekend, hubby, daughter and I headed out to have his birthday supper at his favorite local Mexican restaurant, Los Mariachis.

After filling our tummies, we returned home to relax and watch television. Hubby dozed off in no time flat. Saturday morning was filled with grocery shopping and errands, then a walk at the mall, window-shopping Christmas ornaments at Hallmark and then meeting hubby's mom and stepdad for a birthday lunch at Ryan's (Steak & Buffet). I'd never eaten there before, but thought it was pretty darn good. Too many yummy foods to choose from! LOL

It wasn't until mid-afternoon, on our way home that I realized I must have forgotten my "SCENTsational Saturdays" post. I guess part of the reason for that was because my "Through the Years" perfume of choice was Lady Stetson. I remember wearing it, but I'm not remembering it as fondly as I originally thought. I received it for Christmas in my teens and I wore it because it was a much more mature fragrance than I typically wore. It made me feel more grown-up, but I've seen it described as a soft floral scent. My recollection of it was not so— it was a very loud scent on me, which gave me (and others) a headache.

Of course, rather than post about it, I spazzed and well, seemed to conveniently forget about it. ;) But....It did bring to mind instead, an incident from my youth that made me wonder how "personal" colognes and perfumes are to women, and to men. My husband usually wears Preferred Stock. It's his sole cologne choice, whereas, I LOVE a variety of fragrances because I enjoy picking to suit my mood. To each their own, but that got me to thinking- Fragrances are very memory-heavy personal items, so, are there fragrances in our lives we avoid like the plague?

I know myself well enough to know that I wouldn't necessarily want to wear the fragrance my husband's ex wore, unless it's happens to be one of my absolute favorite scents. At this point, I'm better off NOT knowing, but then I still have my favorite men's colognes, even though my husband doesn't wear them and some of them revive memories because they are the signature scent of an ex. Much as I might like to tell myself it's not personal, it is. The very hint of a familiar old cologne can resurrect a time from your past that you may or may not wish to recall.

And this is where the memory comes in- In my early twenties, my best friend called me one morning to see if I'd want to tag along to the amusement park for the day, with her and several of our other friends because they were shy one person to make riding in pairs a no-brainer. There were two other couples, her kid brother and my most recent ex, who still hung out with our mutual grouping of friends. My friend didn't want to be the odd-person out on rides.

I was in a fresh new relationship, but my new boyfriend had no problem with me going. The ex, on the other hand, was in a particular "mood" because I was along for the outing, the first time our group of friends all hung out since he and I ended a few months before. It was like one of those awkward sitcom moments. Its never easy to stay part of the crowd when there's a break-up. Not because we ended on bad terms or anything- it was just that I wanted a serious relationship and he didn't. I had been madly in love with him and thought we WERE in a real relationship and he basically told me "we're not together like that." So I ended it with him and started seeing this other guy. According to the ex at the time, we had "nothing" so there was "nothing" to end. {raised eyebrow} (of course, this was the same guy who told me I had his "permission" to go out with the other guy, to which I replied, "You're not my father or my husband, you have no say in what I do or who I go out with. You don't "own" me, so it doesn't matter if you give me "permission" to go out with him.")

I thought we ended on mutual terms, but as we hung out that day, it was clear he was jealous. He didn't want me, but he didn't want me to be with someone else. He was nice to me all day, but rude as hell to my best friend, just for pure meanness sakes. It was so bad that my best friend and I wandered off on our own the majority of the day and rode the Big Wheel just to get away from him.

Thing thing I remember most though was the ride home in the minivan. Someone had given my ex a gift set of men's cologne—you know the kind, those tiny bottles that usually come in a four or five pack box at the holidays—He carried them in his pocket all day, pulling them out and uncapping them to smell them. I can't remember what all scents he had- I remember a green bottle with a gold cap- perhaps Aspen, or maybe Polo. It was something from Ralph Lauren or Tommy Hilfiger or some other name brand.

Of course, being the big clumsy oaf that I knew, and loved, it wasn't long before IT happened in the back seat. IT being that when said cologne bottle was SPILLED in a van on a hot summer's day and the van was filled to capacity (8 of us) and we still had to ride for about an hour and half, it STUNK it all up to be damned, even with the windows cranked wide open.

By the time we arrived at my apartment building and I rolled out of there, sunburnt, gasping for air, and suffering a monstrous headache, what I remember was his blurted, angry parting words to me that went something like-

"Don't you dare go buy your "new" boyfriend this cologne, cause it's MY scent."

Bwhahaha! I don't remember my response, but I'm pretty sure it was rounds of laughter and something along the lines of "I wouldn't dream of it. My boyfriend's cologne doesn't STINK like that."

Are there colognes or perfumes you avoid because they have memories attached to them? Has anyone ever asked you not to wear a certain fragrance because it was something their ex wore?

How personal are fragrances for you? Do scents matter? Feel free to share, I'd love to hear about it.

#MemoryLane Mondays- Where lil' ol' T is From...

I've been wracking my brain for something to post today. I have Karen Stivali visiting tomorrow for Tuesdays with Taryn and I have an idea for what I'm going to maybe do for Writerly Wednesday, but today had me stumped on what I might be able to share memory-wise. As I told my sister, I can only tell the cat in the Christmas tree story only so many times!

So then I stumbled across fellow Triberr tribemate Pauline Baird Jones' blog this morning and it seemed fitting that I should do THIS- to revive the old noggin of things I remember about who I am and where I'm from...so away we go-

~~~~

I am from old cars bodies stacked high in the back lot of the junkyard, from fried chicken and homemade biscuits and Coca~Cola. I'm from pigs in the stalls and mules in the mud. I'm from fresh chicken eggs and stray dogs and cats. I am from riding bareback and tromping through manure in my uncle's galoshes. I am from Queen of the coal pile to junkyard adventurer extraordinaire. I am from a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll. I am from a small town.

I am from the suburban brick house with the white picket fence racing around the backyard, of living the American dream, from burgers over charcoal and hot summer days spent beneath the sprinkler. I am from sweltering days spent on the Banana Slide to hand-cranked banana ice cream. I am from the 80's generation, riding my Huffy until after dark and not worrying about being abducted in my own neighborhood. I'm from rocket pops from the ice cream truck and cotton candy from the county fair. I am from afternoons spent playing badminton and wiffleball in the front yard, to chasing fireflies with a Miracle Whip jar with the neighbor kids.

I am from the lilacs that perfumed the spring air through my bedroom window, from the crisp autumn scent of woodburning stoves. I am from the bitter cold snow and the night my dad tunneled a path down the slope in the back yard so my sister and I could go sledding.

I am from my Momma's wild pink roses that smelled so good, to the peppery deep red ones my grandmother grew that almost arched over the entry to their front porch. I am from a life filled with beauty and flowers in the spring and summer months- of snowball bushes and moonflowers and angel trumpets and the sweet taste of honeysuckle.

I am from a wonderful stay at home mom who loved to paint and do crafts, who sang along to her Alabama and Air Supply into drinking glasses while doing the dishes, who always made popcorn and Kool-Aid for me and my friends when we were in the backyard in our tent made with blankets and chairs. I am from a woman who overdoes the holiday decorating, especially Christmas decorations, making cookies and treats and being drawn to sparkly bobbles and clothing. I also overdo it.

I am from a talented carpenter who was married once before my mother, had no kids from his first marriage, but who met my mother via his ex-sister-in-law because she was dating my uncle (my momma's brother). I am from a man with a stoic attitude and a wicked sense of humor, who could pinch you with his toes. I pick things up with my toes just to wig people out and I get my attention to details, the bills, the checkbook and my chicken-scratch handwriting from my dad.

I am from a two child family and spend much of my time laughing so hard I tear up with my sister Shannon. From the awful jokes we tell one another to the daily text messages just to see how the other is doing, or to gross each other out, we're finally learning what sisters are good for, just like our mom and our aunt did. I am from a childhood that saw its fair share of arguing and bickering, but an adult friendship and kinship that's coming into it's own.

I am from the gossip and serious-minded- from my mother the talker, who believes in the importance of family and my father, who is studious and intelligent. I am from the dreamer and the cynic, who have walked this world together, in balance. I am from 37 years of marriage. I am from LOVE.

I am from the parental guidance of "wish in one hand and shit in another" and when trouble pops up- "what goes over the devil's back comes under his belly." I am from "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" and "you gotta stand for something or you'll fall for anything."
 
I am from a mixture of non-churchgoing and churchgoing alike, but to be quite frank- I don't know a lot about my family's religious background. I am from a grandmother who taught me in childhood to memorize Psalms 23 and she also taught me the "Now I lay me down to sleep" prayer. Otherwise, I am from denominations or beliefs no one will talk about, though the importance of family seems more important. I am from parents who gave me the freedom to figure out my own beliefs without someone else's influence or opinions, so I am from the Spiritual. I am from the earth and the heavens and the seasons in their turn. I am from the school of "do unto others as you'd have done unto you." I am from my own personal belief certain we are supposed to love all others as equals. I am from the church of it's okay to have differing beliefs and still be friends. I am from the idea that we should COEXIST. I am from the notion that I am free to choose for myself because I live in the United States and I have freedom to believe what I want to believe because it's personal to me.
 
I'm from Kentucky, Indiana, Ireland, England, Germany, Holland, Scotland, North America (and probably more that I'm not aware of). I am from a melting pot of backgrounds too deep to fathom, too rich in history to encompass it all in one thought. I am from sugar popcorn and oyster soup. I am from down home country cooking where my grandfather raised his own pigs for slaughter, where chicken eggs were gathered daily, where it wasn't uncommon for my uncle to bring home a turtle he found on the road so he could nail it to a stump so they could eat it for supper...

I am from the fact that I have never eaten turtle in my life after my grandmother had me hold a turtle heart in my hand as a kid. I would never eat it at all after that. I am from cornbread battered fish, bass we caught when we went fishing and cornbread battered fins and tails and fish eggs. I am from a childhood of never having worried about the West Nile Virus, especially when my summers were filled with mosquito bites and soothing them with rubbing alcohol every night.

I'm from sweaty summers spent mostly outside, riding my bike or sitting beneath the tree in the front yard with my boombox and my cassette tapes. I'm from scribbling in notebooks and drawing illustrations of my happily ever after stories that my friends read. 
 
From my grandfather's time in WWII, when the love letter he sent my grandmother made her think he'd found someone else, but it turned out he hadn't. That love letter was from around the same time that my older half aunt was born, who I knew nothing about until was grown and by then both my grandparents had already passed away, so we'll never truly know what happened.

I am from the grandparents who were missionaries in South America when I was a baby, who built homes and taught the children. I am from a musical background on both sides of my family- with piano and guitar and the French harp, though I do not play instruments myself, I do love music. 
 
I am from hazy faded photos on the walls and shelves, in photo albums and tucked away in my trunk, from old letters and birthday cards and crisp old sheets of papers in the bottoms of dresser drawers that haven't been opened in years. Who I am is capture in those things because it's where I'm from...

I am from Anderson County. I am from Lawrenceburg. I am from Kentucky. I am from a place where my roots run deep and my heart belongs, where family means everything, friendships don't fail you and love lasts forever.

Here are the questions if you'd like to do your own Where I'm From...

#MemoryLane Monday- Yard Saling~ The Editing of Life

Recently my mom suggested that we might attempt having a yard sale at her house when I go up to visit during my kids' fall break from school, so this has become a distraction from my writerly business the past couple of days as I've sorted through the spare bedroom junk room for items to pack up. Mostly it's clothes my kids have outgrown and a few toys. I'm starting to think my parents need to make a trip down here to take it to their house, or I might have to borrow someone's truck or a small trailer. How did I accumulate SO much? And didn't I just go through a bunch of stuff not that long ago?

I don't think of myself as a pack rat or hoarder, but as kids grow, boy they run through clothes like nobody's business. Then I find myself with bags and boxes full of stuff no one in the house can wear, and yet it sits here because we never make an exerted effort to either sell it or give it away to some charitable organization.

I know there are other things in the basement I could probably pack up as well, old toys there, too, but the very idea sends me into a panic attack thinking about clawing my way through the mess down there, the possible bugs, spiders, maybe even a snake...ewww...See, I've nixed that thought already. I really need to hone my decluttering skills.

This got me to thinking about my childhood and how yard sales/garage sales were always an exciting shift in our normal routine. There was something almost medicinal and cathartic about packing up things that were no longer needed, removing that which doesn't belong anymore, or perhaps never did- it's quite a lot like editing- weeding through what isn't necessary or required in our lives, in our stories.

I remember the days leading up to a garage sale at our house. We had the luxury of walk-in basement back then (there's still a basement, but my dad has so much wood and tools and stuff in his workspace we can't use it), so we'd spend weeks going through the house, searching for items worth parting with- clothes, toys, appliances that still worked but were never used. There were loads of laundry to wash, labeling items with sale stickers, and as a kid it was pretty awesome when you could pretend you were a store owner and you'd have customers and get to work the cool calculator and maybe make a little "real" money, too. Of course, as soon as someone actually came into the basement, I'd hide because I was morbidly shy and scared to talk to people I didn't know! Ha!

Of course, looking back on it now, there were a lot of items, toys mostly, that I wish I hadn't sold so I could pass them on to my children, but that is life, isn't it? I'm lucky I did hang onto my baby dolls and Barbies for my daughter, but sometimes watching Toy Hunter makes me think-

"Oh, man! I had one of those! It's worth HOW much now? You've got to be kidding me... I sold mine in a yard sale...."

This will be good though- to shake out the cobwebs, declutter what I can at the moment and edit my way through another chapter in my life. Then I'll get back to writing! Yay!

Have a great Monday and don't forget about Tuesdays with Taryn. I have J.K. Miller II visiting tomorrow to answer a few questions and share about his book, Reborn.

#MemoryLane Mondays- Make Those Moments Count

Life and death are on my mind right now and I keep thinking about how to make moments count in my own life as I'm growing older and beginning to lose loved ones close to me. I understand that death comes to us all, but some deaths hit harder and closer to home than others. Growing up I lost a great-grandmother, two grandfathers, a grandmother, my aunt by marriage and an uncle. I've lost distant relatives and close friends and that loss still hurts because I keep those who are gone close in my heart at all times. They might be gone, but they are not forgotten. I know of course that, inevitably, I will lose others as well who are closer to me, but I don't relish the idea and try not to dwell on it. We are all given just so much time and this matter really makes me stop and think about how wisely I'm using mine.

So often, I believe that we forget to make moments count as we live them. We don't intentionally take it for granted, but as we go about life, there are things that fill us with joy or sorrow and we carry it with us and remember it with fondness or regret later. There isn't always a a camera to freeze-frame the Kodak moments, there isn't always video, other than what plays out in our minds.

Life is such a precious gift. The relationships and people we encounter who have been blessings as well as curses. The ones who shaped who we are or taught us lessons that helped us move forward into becoming the person we're meant to be, or inspire us to be more than we think we are.

When we encounter those who shape us, mold us, inspire us- those who love us, it's hard to be reminded of our mortality and it's something most of us refuse to face- that someday that person might be gone- gone from our lives or perhaps gone from this world. And yet there is the hope that we will encounter them again in some distant future or space in time.

Remember to tell those you love how much you love them. Now. Share with them the things you don't want to go left unsaid. Hug them and kiss them and remind them that they have a friend in you and that you love them in return. We're not alone in this world, so show your kindness- share your heart and try to make those moments count.

This post was slightly inspired by one of the new songs from Ben Taylor's Listening Album, but also because of the failing health of a few people I know and care about who may not be long for this ol' world. Be a blessing to those around you. Love them deeply and never let them forget it!

#MemoryLane Mondays~ Country Roads, Take Me Home...

To the place that I belong...

Saturday afternoon, after I fixed homemade pizza while my husband mowed the lawn, we ate lunch and then headed out to go do a little shopping at the Mennonite Grocery not far from where we live. They have lots of fresh fruits and vegetables but also local honey and sorghum, homemade jams and jellies, cookies and breads and fudge.

I only needed tomatoes (don't even get me started on how awful store-bought ones taste to me- garbage, blech!) but we were having tacos and burritos later this week and well, I just don't trust the tomatoes I buy at the store anymore and saw no reason to waste money on something that tastes bad or is rotten and then have to throw it away.

I'd shop from our Mennonite grocer more often if I could just convince hubby it's worth the extra trip to get the fresh produce every week. In the mean time, I'll make do with what I can get, but I enjoy the chance to shop local and definitely feel confident in buying from the Mennonite community.

As soon as we stepped out the front door, a wave of nostalgia swept over me. Gone was the stifling heat and humidity we've grown accustom to this summer. In it's place was the smell of fresh cut grass, reminding me of watermelon and childhood summers in the country.

The sky even seemed bluer than it's been in, gosh, I don't even remember. I felt like I could breath beneath that pristine blue and the bright white fluffy clouds that drifted by overhead. Grass seemed greener and the air felt clean as it hit my lungs. It wasn't heavy or stuffy anymore. And I didn't feel heavy or stuffy either.

We rode to town to get cash, the windows down. I stuck my arm out the window, enjoying the cool in the air, the blast of it against my skin, swirling my hair around my shoulders and rejuvenating my soul. I haven't felt that good, that free, in months and I can feel the shifting of seasonal things. It's not visible yet- no leaves changing color, but there is an undercurrent of change surrounding us and I love that I know this.

When we arrived at the Triple G, there was a clicking gear-grinding sound and my husband says, "Check out the horse." Between their store and the storage barn they have you could see behind the building that they had a horse on some sort of conveyor, walking and turning the gears for something. We didn't ask, but I'm sure it was for powering something they needed for running the small store, perhaps water to a well or something.

I got my tomatoes and hubby got a seedless watermelon and some homemade chocolate chip cookies and my daughter got a small plate of peanut butter fudge. As we left, hubby asked if we needed to be in a hurry to get back to the house and I told him no. He said we'd take the long scenic route home, so we just drove around in the country and he showed us places he knows in his hometown.

This is a rare treat as we usually don't go out and just ride around. When I was a kid growing up, summer Saturday nights were often spent riding around the countryside with my grandpa and uncle, just to get out of the house. I waved at people sitting on their front porches, who were strangers to me, but who seemed to know my grandpa and uncle well.

This is the imagery that shivered to the surface of my recollection as we drove through the countryside. The sky seemed as blue as I remember from my childhood, bluer even, the clouds so soft and white I wanted to touch them, pull them down and use them for pillows for a lazy summer afternoon nap. As we traveled deeper into the twisty byways of Kentucky hills and dales, passing along on narrow tree-lined shady lanes with cool air winding in through the windows and around us, through golden splotches of sunlight dappling the gray asphalt, the nostalgia morphed into melancholy and tears visited my eyes, though I didn't shed any.

I took a deep breath, the cloying aroma of newly baled hay and cut tobacco filtered through and awoke memories long buried, but not forgotten. An army of tall corn stalks stood as weary sentinels around a sharp curving lane, bidding us safe passage into the back roads, the hidden treasures of old dilapidated houses and barns, of cows resting beneath shade trees and horses grazing nearby fence lines. I saw my first ever black and white spotted mule and wished my grandpa were still around to see it and share in that wonder with me. I'm not sure if it was a painted or a palomino or what, but I've never seen anything like it in my life.

We rambled along, zipping around corners, the wind like cool hair combed through my fingertips as we headed south. We passed our turn off, ending up cruising along, taking in the beautiful homes and fence-lined pastures in Tennessee before we circled back around and crossed the state line and bounced up the hill toward home... It was truly a lovely afternoon outing and one I hope we repeat. Maybe next time I'll take my camera and snap pictures to share (as the ones shared today are just from our drive back from Franklin, KY last month.)

Treasure the moments and remember the memories.

 

#MemoryLane Mondays- Gotta Go Back, Back to School Again...

School starts for my kids this week, which means, I'm singing my "mommy" version of Back to School Again by The Four Tops, ala the beginning of Grease 2-

A lot of parents right now are probably also singing their own versions of some sort of giddy ♫kids-are-going-back-to-school-and-out-of-my-hair-and-off-my-last-nerve♫ medley, as well. I know I can't be the only one and I'm sure there are also some who envy my position because school isn't starting back yet for their children. Here in Kentucky it's not uncommon to start school at the beginning of August, some don't start till the middle of the month and other summer-worn parents have to wait until after Labor Day.

I'm thinking that's where the Phineas and Ferb creators get 104 days of summer vacation. We sure didn't have that many days when I was a kid and right now I'm counting only around 75-76 days on my kids' break, but you know what, if I count the additional days of August until after Labor Day weekend- yeah, there would be 104, almost exactly.

Of course, I'll miss them when the step aboard that big yellow bus and I'll probably miss them for a few more minutes after that, but then I'll be so tickled with the peace and quiet and the entire house to myself, that I'll run around doing my happy dance all over the furniture. In the nude.

But seriously- I wouldn't let a little parental freedom go to my head like that, or not for long anyway.

I have an 8th grader who's dreading the beginning of school because he'd rather stay home and play his DS all the time and I have a 4th grader who's starting a new school and is overjoyed to be heading back so she can see her friends, make new friends in her classes now that they've jumbled them up and get to learn about traveling from classroom to classroom....4th grade is, after all, the beginning of training students how to move between multiple classrooms and answer to several teachers.

I had to stop and think back on it, but yeah, 4th grade was that year for me, too. My homeroom teacher was Mrs. Harlow and I had two other teachers, just like my daughter will this year. For her the learning curve is going to be how to open her combination lock without getting flustered between classes. We didn't have that. We had lockers in our classroom that didn't have to have locks.

What do I remember most about elementary school?

Taking my Cabbage Patch dolls on Fridays so my friend and I could play at recess.
Swinging.
The field trip to the State Capitol and the Governor's Mansion.
The trip to Shakertown (aka Shaker Village of Pleasant Hill) in 5th Grade- got to see them shear sheep and ride the Dixie Belle Riverboat.
The Sidewalk Chalk Art contests (I participated in 4th grade on my own, in 6th I was paired with Ted B. for it because we were two of the best artists in class).
The field trip to Fort Boonesborough.
The 6th grade dance on the last day of school.
The last song? Bon Jovi's Never Say Goodbye.

8th grade is also prominent in my recollection.

Brand new 8th grade wing and shiny new lockers. Nothing like the "smell" of a newly added on building.
Feeling a little more like a grown-up every day.
Still dreading P.E. class.
Listening to Mr. Kays play his guitar in Science class.
Art classes were still out in the old building- but we had access via a long hall instead of having to go outside to it.
Mrs. Smith discussing Cats, the Broadway musical in Reading.
Hoping to not be picked on like I'd been in 7th grade.
Being challenged to "math" races by Jason M. I STILL don't understand his fascination. He always got his math done well before me, but *nenner-nenner*ing me about it baffled me. I didn't know it was a sporting event.
Mr. Fallis falling asleep during study hall and sometimes health class.
Oh, and Mr. Hawkins {sigh}, my homeroom and history teacher. 24 didn't sound that much older than 15 at the time. Yeah, that's just some of the things I remember about 8th grade.
 

Do you have kids of your own now? What do you remember about YOUR days in school? Are there things that still remind you of way back when? Music, Movies, Places, People, Things?

Share with me some of your memories.

#MemoryLane Mondays- Family, Home and Writerly Things #writing #inspiration #author

Every summer I visit my parents, sister, family and friends for a week, or two, or three. Part of the reason lies in the fact that I live nearly 3 hours away from my hometown and I miss the people who made me who I am. It’s also because I want my daughter to know her grandparents and aunt and where her momma comes from. Summer vacations and breaks from school are our only opportunities for these kinds of visits.

The other day a fellow author was talking about having shady places, where you can take rest, away from the sun, the world, from life. Cozy alcoves. My mom and I were talking about it and I realized my hometown is one of my “shady” places. It’s where I come to recharge, to decompress and gather my thoughts. Without it, I might lose touch with who I am because this is the place that molded me, that nurtured my writerly roots.

As I’ve pondered over this the past few days, I’ve found myself feeling more inspired and emotional about my childhood home, my memories and the woman I’ve become. I’ve slept in my old bedroom in a small twin size bed. Its not the bed I had—mine had an old faux brass headboard that jingled when the screws wiggled loose and I always kept a screwdriver nearby because the rattling every time I turned over in my sleep annoyed me, but it’s still reminiscent of my youth. The dark plum walls I painted are still there along with the sponged-on white ivy pattern. My mom insisted on painting in my room years ago while I was at work one day because she hated how dark the walls were so she did the two opposite walls with an ivy patterned paint roller.

The room looks tiny now, with all the shelving and cabinets my dad built and put in there after I moved out. He stores eBay items he plans to sell, shipping boxes and my mom’s sewing machine and bookcases and lots of other bits and pieces. It’s a “junk room” now, a catch-all, and I lay on that tiny bed, staring at the flowery white plaster pattern on the ceiling, letting my mind wander over the past decade since I left and further back in time.

I've known I wanted to be a writer from around 10 or 11 years old, playing with an old upright Royal typewriter in our basement on hot summer afternoons pretending to work for a newspaper as a reporter, or handwriting my "high school sweethearts happily-ever-after" stories and illustrating them in pencil and crayon or colored pencils.

I wrote a lot of angst-riddled (horribly embarrassing) poetry in my teens and I remember staying up late on weekends, scribbling short stories and the beginnings of YA novels in Lisa Frank notebooks on pastel pink and blue colored pages. My parents got me a Smith Corona typewriter/word processor and 3 1/2 inch floppies for Christmas the year I was 17. That was also the year they gave me "The Romance Writer's Pink Pages" and a package of typing paper and a good long talk from my logical dad about how "hard" it is to be a writer. I remember him sitting on the end of my bed beside me, extolling the facts that I might not ever be able to do it for a living without a backup plan and a regular day job and that not everyone can break into the business, just like artists and singers...it's lofty and inspiring, but not always practical.

That room was my world for years- my safe haven, my Fortress of Solitude- I learned and grew in that room and I cut my teeth on writing in that room. It was my shade for a majority of my life.

And it’s funny though that I talk about shade from the “sun”—

I awoke the other morning with a thought when I saw it was daylight already- how I still remember the bright golden sunlight beaming through my back bedroom window on summer mornings. Even now, I felt the salutation of its warmth soaking into the room, into my being. It made me smile to think the sun still remembers me here and still greets me just the same, even when hidden from it. But then, the shadow and light know me here- know that writing is at the heart of me, that poetic words reside within me and that it’s one of the things that define who I truly am.

#MemoryLane Mondays- #Guest #Interview on @deepintheheartr @ReneeVincent #readers #writers #RT

Come join me today at Deep in the Heart Romance where I've answered some interview questions and I'm doing a FREE EBOOK GIVEAWAY! Come by and see me and leave a message and you could be the lucky winner of an ebook copy of Castaway Hearts! (Winner chosen by Random.org a week after my visit)

#MemoryLane Mondays- #Poetry & #Mother #Daughter Time

 My copy of The Best Loved Poems of the American People-

Yes, after the dust cover wore out, I created my own with plastic canvas crafts.

 

Some of my favorite memories are the times spent with my mom and sister, laying on my parents' bed on rainy spring or summer afternoons. It was quality time that, though it has altered, is not something we get to share very often nowadays. When I do go up to visit, sometimes when we have down time and are just lazing around the house, my mom and I or sometimes my sister and I can sit and chat.

The last time I was up my mom and I had a morning like that. After my darling daughter had shoved me against the wall as much as my poor old back could handle all night long, I retreated the the living room sofa around 6 or 7 am. My mom, who usually sleeps in later than that, got up and lay on the futon and we just talked. Those moments are never enough for me because I know someday I won't have them anymore and that's one of those mid-life scary thoughts that makes you yearn for just a few more of those "mother/daughter" moments- the kind you'll be able to look back on as you get older and life moves onward.

I have a book of poetry called "The Best Loved Poems of the American People" which we used to lay on the bed and read from. Every Christmas, my mom would read us A Visit from St. Nicholas, but there were other times this thick tome was hauled from the shelf and it was on those rainy afternoons that my mom would read us poetry that was not exactly politically correct and oftentimes very gruesome and violent portrayals of life, love and death.

A few examples that sticks with me are- Love's Philosophy, Loyalty, Outwitted, Annie and Willie's Prayer, The Owl and the Fox, Judged by the Company One Keeps, The Walrus and the Carpenter, A Scandal Among The Flowers. Those are just the few that really stuck with me, along with this one, which never fails to bring me to tears-

The Little Cat Angel

by Leontine Stanfield in
"The Best Loved Poems of the American People"

The ghost of a little white kitten
Crying mournfully, early and late,
Distracted Saint Peter, the watchman,
As he guarded the heavenly gate.
"Say, what do you mean," said his Saintship,
"Coming here and behaving like that?"
"I want to see Nellie, my missus,"
Sobbed the wee little ghost of a cat.
"I know she's not happy without me,
Won't you open and let me go in?"
"Begone," gasped the horrified watchman,
"Why the very idea is a sin;
I open the gate to good angels,
Not to stray little beggars like you."
"All right," mewed the little white kitten,
"Though a cat, I'm a good angel, too."
Amazed at so bold an assertion,
But aware that he made no mistake,
In silence, Saint Peter long pondered,
For his name and repute were at stake.
Then placing the cat in his bosom
With a "Whist now, and say all your prayers,"
He opened the heavenly portals
And ascended the bright golden stairs.
A little girl angel came flying,
"That's my kitty, Saint Peter," she cried.
And, seeing the joy of their meeting,
Peter let the cat angel abide.

This tale is the tale of a kitten
Dwelling now with the blessed above,
It vanquished grim Death and High Heaven
For the name of the kitten was Love.

 ****

 Whatever you do on this 1st day of the week...don't forget those you love dearly and let them know.

Don't wait to tell them you love them until all you have left are the memories.

#MemoryLane Monday- Memories Lost Along the Way

Well, there you have it. For this week, while I'm visiting my family I was going to share a picture I took of the tree in the backyard where I grew up- the one that has my initials carved into it and talk about touching base with my roots. Seems I won't be doing that. Well, not sharing that photo, that is, unless I remember to snap a photo after I get up there and load it up and add it to the post, but not sure I'll get around to it before it posts on Monday)

After viewing a disk the other day that had that VERY image on it, I can't get it to open at all, not on my laptop and not on my desktop computer either. It's showing that there is space that's been "used" on it and says I have more space I can use, but the files? Those Kodak folders? It's like they've vanished...

All I can figure is that I accidentally reformatted the disk before I ejected it from my laptop or something. It won't read it, can't find the files and my heart is broken. There were photos from April 2011 through January of this year. I had copied them to disk so I could free up some space on my laptop. Dummy me- I didn't make an additional copy. What was I thinking?

I only remember a few of the pictures that were taken, so hopefully it won't worm through my mind that I flubbed up so badly. I still can't figure out how I did that except that it's a rewritable disk. I just don't remember "rewriting" it, cause normally a person remembers doing those sort of things.

Instead, I'll post some pictures I have from coming into town and the view of the park from the gazebo (which is no longer in the park- they replaced it with a different one or something). Was still a VERY pretty view.

My friends and I spent a lot of time in that park. Usually we walked through or rode our bikes through to go to the West Park Shopping Center to go to Wal-Mart to buy cassette tapes or cassette singles, or clothes, makeup, earrings- you name it. Or we'd go by IGA or Rite-Aid for candy or soda pop from the outdoor vending machines. Hot summer days were always a good excuse to take some change to go out there and we'd foolishly buy our drinks and sit on the bench near the payphone, watching the bag boys pushing customers' groceries out or watch for anyone we might know to go cruisin' through the parking lot. Sometimes we'd walk over to McDonald's and buy lunch and take it back to the park to eat at the covered pavilion and just hang out talking and reading the vandalism on the wooden picnic tables.

I truly miss those days. It was hot and you had to contend with wasps and flies around the tables where people had spilled their soda or thrown food in the big barrel garbage cans. You'd be hot and sticky with sweat, but a quick spin on your bike around the path would help take the edge off. Later we'd all collapse on a blanket in my front yard, with the old Magnavox with the broken antenna plugged up to an orange electric cord that was plugged in on the porch so we could jam out to our cassettes listening to New Kids on the Block and Debbie Gibson or Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam. Yeah, I'm an 80's dork.

But back in that park, as well as in our yards, there was solitude though, when it seemed like being a grown up was a million years away even though we wanted it so bad we could taste it. And the smell of fresh cut grass and the fumes from gas mowers scented the air. The splashing and screaming of kids at the local pool or the teenage boys pounding the pavement at the basketball courts was the only important sounds you heard, save perhaps the ice cream truck's tinkling little ditty.

Of course, as a teenager girl, nothing sounded as good as the thumping bass coming from some car three streets over, and you'd wait with bated breath for them to round the corner onto your street and then you'd get to see if it was some cute guy in his little truck. You know the one with the tinted windows and fluorescent doohickeys on the windshield wipers or the ground lights and custom details- cruisin' slow through the neighborhoods. Sometimes if you were lucky, they'd give you a slight acknowledgement of a wave or the nod of their head, looking cool in their sunglasses with the windows down, an arm hanging out the driver's side with one hand on the steering wheel and some song blaring from the speakers, and you'd fall into a heap of giggling as soon as they were up the road and out of sight.

Those were the days.

Of course, I don't have pictures from all those times, and I guess I don't need them, because images capture a lot of great cheesy poses, but your brain and your heart capture the emotions and sights and sounds in a way photography can't.

Hope everyone had a great Easter and I hope you have a great start to your week!
Happy Monday!

#MemoryLane Monday- #GuestBlogging at @JudyAlter's #Potluck with Judy #Cooking by Heart #Recipes #Biscuits

I'm guest-blogging today at Judy Alter's—

Potluck with Judy

Good food plays an important part in our lives and so it's not uncommon to see it in novels, as well. In Castaway Hearts, Catherine bakes a scrumptious apple pie (and later cherry turnovers), which only strengthens Dawson's attraction to her- "the way to a man's heart is through his stomach" though Catherine doesn't do this unintentionally. Raised by her grandmother, she knows the secret ingredient in making any dish divine.

If you'd like to try making biscuits like the ones pictured above, c'mon over to Potluck with Judy, where I'm sharing a little memory from my childhood—watching my grandma make mouth-watering biscuits, PLUS, I'm sharing my *secret* ingredient and my recipe for homemade country biscuits (3rd generation).