Something in the Air- Taryn's Tiny Tales

Something in the air this morning caught my attention as we stood on the porch, waiting for the bus to pick up my kids for school. It's a blustery day out there, gloomy and gray and though it was around 50º at the time, the wind was slap-happy and really smacking us around so it felt cooler.

And there it was, this odor that hit my sense of smell and hurled me back in time. It actually caused me to tear up a little. The sudden ache of missing my grandpa, struck my center and hurt more than it has in quite some time. I was transported back to running around the junkyard and scavenging through old car bodies for trinkets- be it a cute key-chain or bauble, climbing to the top of the wood pile or the coal pile and tromping through thick muck in the mule lot.

The muffled sound of an old radio with a wire clothes hanger of an antenna played in the background, country music twanging out the sad notes of George Jones and Johnny Cash, Barbara Mandrell and Crystal Gail. It was the 80s and I was a kid.

The smell of old rancid motor oil and gasoline, automotive lubricants and cleaners enveloped me in a warm embrace as memories of huddling near the stove in the back of that old cold garage on blistery winter days bound vividly to the forefront of my mind. I'd shiver near the stove, gloved hands hovering as close as possible to it without burning myself. I'd be nearly frozen while bundled up, in sweaters and jeans and thick socks, piling on scarves and sock caps and burrowing deep into my mom's old green Army jacket she got from some surplus store. All the while, my grandpa and uncle would work on a car, their breath appearing in front of them like the cigarette smoke that usually encircled their heads.

The crisp aroma of burnt wood and tobacco, lighter fluid and the stinging odor of coal, was enough to make your eyes water while the heat from the stove felt as though it were drying out ever pore in your body. It felt so good though I couldn't help myself. Rotating like the Earth on its axis, I would pivot in a slow circle, the stove my Sun, warming the hills and valleys of my tiny world. I didn't care how cold it was, I only wanted to spend time with my grandpa and my uncle, listening to them talk shop and sitting on a stack of old rubber tires or scooting around on my uncle's creeper, wishing it was a skateboard.

Ah...but the memories fade back and I'm here in the present again and remember that our neighbor has a huge garage across the road, one in which he sometimes works on cars himself and sometimes, on really crisp mornings, the odors are carried on the wind, whisking me back to my childhood, back to my hometown and making me as homesick as ever.

Thursdays with Taryn~ Dusting off the Past To Find Inspiration

I've been thinking about the fact that I'm really kind of burnt out on blogging— at least, I am so far this year. Last year was a real doozy, as I attempted to put myself out there more because I had just been published and well, a girl's gotta promo and I want to keep up this year, but feel like I've lost my gusto and had the wind knocked out of me.

Today though, I'm taking advice from fellow KIW, author Katherine Lowry Logan, who suggested resharing old posts that have been popular here on the blog. As I was scrolling through my prior posts, all the way back to mid-2007, I realized that a lot of the first ones I wrote, the ones that really inspired me probably haven't seen the light of day. I had no followers back then and simply took pleasure in putting my thoughts down and talking to myself. I mean, I still do that...talk to myself, that is, but what if something I wrote back then, that few have seen, might give inspiration or resonate with another author or aspiring author now? If I leave them back there, they'll just get lost in the slush pile of my blog writing archives, but if I find a way to repurpose those thoughts and ramblings, it could be a good thing.

I mean, I have to admit...back then I was writing blogs for the pure fun of it, because I was inspired and wanted to share my thoughts about myself as a writer. I really didn't think anyone was listening anyway, but I still put it out there, knowing someone might stumble upon it. I wasn't caught up in pushing promo, for myself or anyone else at the time. I just felt I had something to say, even if I was just sharing diary entries and a glimpse into who I was as I first started my writing journey. And the thing was, I was spending a great deal of time actually WRITING, not just on this blog, but on my stories, and that's not something I can say I do on a really regular basis anymore. I want and NEED to change that.

Perhaps this will be a good thing for me as a writer- to climb over things and sit in the back of my virtual closet and dig through my virtual cardboard boxes and see what gems I might find to rejuvenate my own writing, to remind me who I am at my writer's core and to share with others and hope that they find inspiration from stories that have been rebooted.

So here's where I'm going to begin this year- a post from August of 2007 (though I've updated it a little, mostly in part due to referencing my children now, as opposed to almost 6 years ago because my daughter wasn't old enough to read yet. She's now an avid reader too and loves to write her own little stories, at home and at school. Teacher loves them and thinks she gets that from me or so she said at the Parent/Teacher conference we had a few months back)

Books and the Condescending Librarian

Writing is an extensive endeavor. Even when I'm not writing, I'm either reading something by a writer or reading something to educate myself on writing or doing research. Even when I'm not doing that, writing stays on my mind. I love to talk about writing.

My desire to write comes from somewhere deep inside me. I'm not even sure when it started to be honest. Some little ember ignited my love of reading and my mom even said that as a child I loved books and making up stories.

I know at one point in my life there was an instance that could've damaged my love of reading and writing for the rest of my life. It's any wonder it didn't.

I was in 3rd grade and I was going to borrow a book that was probably more advanced than my reading level. I always borrowed books from the school library, but that one time, the librarian made a point of telling me she thought it was too advanced for me to read and she didn't think I could read it before I brought it back. It could be that I had borrowed it before and hadn't read it and wanted to re-borrow it. I'm not sure, but I told her I would read it by the time I had to return it a week later.

Of course, I didn't read it and maybe it was stubbornness or just rebellion on my part, but when I brought it back, she asked me point blank if I read it and I told her the truth. She told me that if I didn't read the books I borrowed I shouldn't borrow any. Now I can't recall for sure if she didn't allow me to borrow books anymore, but I do recall that I didn't want to borrow any more from her and I don't think I did the rest of that school year.

I still look back and see her as a condescending adult who should've known better. She humiliated me, hurt my feelings and made me feel about this big.

I didn't borrow any books from the school library again until I started 4th grade, at a different school with a different librarian. I look back on that now and wonder how an adult could look at an 8 or 9 year old child and chastise them for something like that.

Now, I do remind my kids not to borrow something if they don't really want or plan to read it, but I wouldn't tell them that they couldn't borrow ANY books from the library. I encourage both my kids to enjoy books for everything they are worth, the adventures and emotions that you get from reading a book that puts you in another world or another life.

It was shortly after that incident in 3rd grade though that I started collecting books of my own to read. I convinced my dad to get me a subscription to the Just for Girls book club through Scholastic and if I read a book I liked well enough, I ended up buying it at some point. I started creating my OWN library.

Like I said, it could've ruined my love of reading and writing, but in some ways, that librarian's snotty attitude may have actually had the opposite affect on me. I wanted books of my own more than ever. In fact, I've got a LOT of books I've never even read in my bookcase & on my Kindle (Perhaps it's the early stages of being a hoarder- of books at least). They are on my TBR list, but I know that I can read them anytime I want without someone looking down their nose at me and telling me that I have to do it their way or the highway...

It may well have been when I started dreaming of being a writer, too, because if I never stepped foot in another library, at least I'd have my own stories I could read and no one telling me that I couldn't.

Isn't it funny how childish beliefs and issues carry over into adulthood, but at the same time might well have been the catalyst for my desire to write? Maybe I should be thankful for the condescending librarian, but more so, I'm glad that it didn't turn me against reading & writing altogether.

Was there ever anyone or anything that could've turned you off of writing? Please feel free to share.

SCENTsational Saturdays- Favorite 10- Body Fantasies Vanilla

A very soft and sweet vanilla, this body spray calls me home and makes me feel warm and safe. I'm not sure why, but vanilla tones in perfumes make me think of fairy tales and knights on white horses. Perhaps it's the simplistic natural aroma of vanilla that harkens back to homemade cookies and childhood.

I lures me with memories of holidays spent with my family. Of warming my hands next to the fire and the sharp aroma of wood smoke spiraling from a chimney on a cold winter day. It's a scented journey through my youth that gives me inspiration and reminds me of my mom and her encouragement.

I wish you a lovely weekend and a reminder that life is nothing if you don't Try... ;)

Have a SCENTsational Saturday!

#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~ 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- #Musically Inclined #childhood #music

I've always been musically inclined. Even as a child, my love of music has defined moments in my life. I can hear a song and be transported back to when I was 5, 10, 15, 20, etc. I think its in my blood—

My grandmothers on both sides of my family were truly musically inclined. My dad's mother played piano, my mom's mom played the organ, guitar and French harp (otherwise known as a harmonica.) My grandma on my mom's side taught me a little about the organ, but I never really took it up more than to pick at the keys and play a little tune by ear.

What I remember though is begging her to sing Tom Dooley and How Far is Heaven and play the guitar. I dragged a small radio with me everywhere, an old metal clothes hanger for an antenna, crying over The Devil Went Down to Georgia. I listened to Sha-Na-Na on 8-track and borrowed 8-tracks and records from my uncle of Juice Newton, Blondie, Barry Manilow and Anne Murray.

Many times my mom could be found washing dishes or cooking a meal and singing along to the radio or records of Alabama, Air Supply, Charlie Rich and John Conlee. My dad, working on some woodcraft project in the basement, usually listened to Garrison Keillor on public radio or Bob Seger & the Silver Bullet Band or James Taylor.

Because of the eclectic variety of music I grew up on and the birth of Mtv and music videos when I was 6, my taste in music runs wild and deep. I remember sitting in front of my mom's record player listening to music that pre-dated me- Herman's Hermits, Paul Revere & the Raiders, The Lovin' Spoonful, Lou Christie, the Beatles.

As soon as I got a cassette recording boombox with a radio, I'd stay up on the weekends recording The Crystals, Bobby Darin, Little Eva, The Supremes, The Jackson 5 on the oldies stations as well as Michael Jackson, Madonna, Expose, New Kids on the Block and Debbie Gibson on the Weekly Top 40.

I wore out my Olivia Newton-John Greatest Hits Vol. 2 on 33 1/3 and the Thriller album. I danced all over my room to She's So Unusual record of Cyndi Lauper and loved Rick Springfield's Hard to Hold soundtrack.

The 1st CD I bought was actually Eddie Money's The Sound of Money, which I still have and love.

Even now, I find my tastes vary and one day I can be totally immersed in A Perfect Circle or chillin' to Ben Taylor's gentle folksy vocals that remind me so much of his father- James Taylor.

My most current musical inclinations-
Payphone- Maroon 5
Call Me Maybe- Carly Rae Jepsen
Beekeeper's Daughter- The All-American Rejects
Brokenhearted- Karmin
Not Over You- Gavin DeGraw
Drive By- Train

Does music tie you to your memories- what are some of your favorites?

Memory Lane Mondays- How Much Is That #Doggie...

As an aside I'd like to mention that I used to love dogs, but I lost a great many of them in my childhood. My first pet was actually a dog I named Macaroni. I was around 3 and I remember my mom asking me what I wanted to name him while we sat on the stone slab near the water pump when we lived out in the country. I named him from the childhood favorite "Yankee Doodle" song-

"He stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni."

My grandparents took in a lot of dogs that were dropped where they lived, but not all the dogs survived. Bandit, Mickey, Spot, Spike, Butterscotch, just to name a few.

My aunt had a male mutt named Lucky and my grandpa had a female named Molly and from them, I picked a pup from the litter when I was around 14 or 15 and named her Tinkerbell. My grandpa called her Bad News Brown. LOL
By that time, we'd lived in town for quite a while and my dad had brought home a dog and we named him Buster, but he was a handful, always finding escapes under the fence, through the chicken wire my dad put all around our backyard fence to keep him in. It just didn't work. I came home from school one day to find him gone. My parents said he "ran away" while we were having a garage sale because people were coming in and out of our backyard to come in the basement where everything was set up and he just slipped out and never came back.
I later found out they took him and dropped him somewhere- so when I picked Tinkerbell to be my dog, I only got to claim her at my grandparents' house. Way out in the country, where most people back then (and even to this day) don't make a point of keeping all dogs chained up. She was 6 months old when she got hit by a car and died. I haven't had a dog since then. The idea just hurts too much, even though I know I'd be more responsible for a dog nowadays.
To this day, I've believed that's why I'm more of a cat person. Losing so many dogs over such a short span of my life hurt, hurt terribly.

What pet do you miss the most?

The Thief of Always by #CliveBarker (#Favorite #Book Spotlight)

From the back blurb on my copy-

A magical book for readers of all ages from the inimitable Clive Barker, illustrated with more than forty of his own drawings.

Mr. Hood's Holiday House has stood for a thousand years, welcoming countless children into its embrace. It is a place of miracles, a blissful round of treats and seasons, where every childhood whim may be satisfied...

There is a price to be paid, of course, but young Harvey Swick, bored with his life and beguiled by Mr. Hood's wonders, does not stop to consider the consequences. It is only when the House shows its darker face—when Harvey discovers the pitiful creatures that dwell in its shadows—that he comes to doubt Mr. Hood's philanthropy.

The House and its mysterious architect are not about to release their captive without a battle, however, Mr. Hood has ambitions for his new guest, for Harvey's soul burns brighter than any soul he has encountered in a thousand years...

"In a tale that manages to be both cute and horrifying, bestselling novelist and screenwriter Barker puts the dark side back into childhood fantasy."- Publishers Weekly

Some 10 odd years or more ago, I knew of Clive Barker as a master of horror novels, most famously because his Hellbound Heart was made into the movie Hellraiser and its sequels, but I hadn't actually read any of his books until a very close friend suggested I start by reading Clive's children's fantasy novel, The Thief of Always. He said it was a great introduction to Barker's work for a first timer like myself.

I fell in love with this book immediately from the first sentence. The vibrant descriptive writing sucked me in and kept me there until I finished the book in short order. This was, as I said, a good decade ago, but the story's message about not wasting your time, your life away, of not taking the important things for granted, spoke volumes to me. I laughed, I shuddered in fear and bawled my eyes out while reading this book.

I can't say I've ever read any other Clive Barker novels, though I might have read Hellbound Heart, but I still enjoy this story immensely. In fact, I recently reread it and remembered why I loved it so, all over again. I loved it so much, that I decided my 9-year-old daughter was old enough to enjoy it and so, for several nights at bedtime, I would read a chapter or two to her.

It was a very emotional ride for both of us, sharing in those moments of fear, her eyes widening in anticipation about what might happen next, the sadness in her tears at the revelation about what the House truly was, the creatures that seemed sad and trapped there, and the triumph of Harvey and his friend Wendall in rectifying the wrongs done by Mr. Hood. We laughed, shuddered in fear and bawled our eyes out together. And there was NOTHING like sharing that story with my daughter, not only because it was a book of my heart that I enjoyed, but because I know it will be a favorite book of HERS the rest of her life as well and I'm thrilled to give her a gift like that, for her to appreciated brilliant writing and vivid imagery in a well told story.

This is definitely one for the bookshelf and one to reread over and over. I would highly recommend it for children and adults, alike.

Memory Lane Mondays-Stormy Weather

It's been years since I've experienced storms quite like the ones we had this past weekend. Where I live, we don't usually have weather this severe, so it caught me off guard. Maybe one other time in the last ten or eleven years since I've lived in southern Kentucky have I seen it even come this close and that was when my stepson was four and my daughter an infant.

My father-in-law and brother-in-law came by to check on us because it was nighttime (rare for storms like that) and my husband was working 2nd shift and the storm had knocked out the power. I had huddled myself and my two small children in the central part of the house, away from the windows. Tucked in this small area between the bathroom door, the bedroom door and the center room with my stepson's toddler bed mattress propped up, I was ready to cover us if things got worse. I rocked my sleeping daughter in my arms, my stepson sleeping on a blanket next to me with his tiger-shaped pillow cuddled close.

This past weekend was a reminder of my own childhood growing up in Central Kentucky, where spring/summer/fall was a season all unto itself- "Tornado Season." We moved to town when I was four and living in the suburbs with a basement, I can't remember a time we didn't charge down those stairs during storm warnings. My mom had a couple of scanners, so it wasn't uncommon to hear the National Weather Service emergency announcements often. for the majority of my youth my heart would pound in my ears as I gathered my most important possessions to drag downstairs.

That mostly consisted of stuffing all my favorite books and my writings and my private journals into my sea-foam green trunk trimmed in purple metal. There was no greater fear than a twister coming through, ripping my secret diaries out of our house and depositing them all around the neighborhood, possibly in the yard of some boy I had a crush on.
I remember being at my grandparents' when the winds got up and ripped down the tall John Deere green metal fencing that hid the junkyard out behind the house and the hail damaged numerous vehicles on the property. My grandpa had a Cadillac that "became" a convertible after one significantly bad storm with a lot of hail. Thankfully we didn't get any, at least not here at our house.

I think one of the most vivid memories I have is once standing out in the backyard with my mom, staring at the swift moving pitch black line of clouds overhead and the eerie silence surrounding us as though the world has gone completely mute.

I believe that was the time a tornado was headed away from Anderson County toward Mercer, but then it suddenly turned and headed back in our direction. We took cover in the deepest corner of the basement closest to where it was coming from- in the laundry room- with a large board, old door or a table top over us to protect my mom, sister, our birds and myself. I think my dad was at work at the time.

Weather can be a very scary thing. I guess all those years living in fear of it, I let my guard down when I moved away. The storms here have never seemed so bad, at least not until this past weekend, which only served as a reminder that it can get bad no matter where you live and it never hurts to be prepared for anything.

The Nashville area got hit pretty hard to our south and the northern part of our county seemed to take the brunt of the tornado warning. Somehow we managed to slip through unscathed but it was close enough that we got sandwiched between the high winds and abrupt sporadic rain.. A glance up the road to my left was a wall of gray- to my right- sunshine and raindrops. Our hedges nearly bowed down before me as the wind shoved them toward our house.

The saving grace was the rainbow, the brilliant sunshine that followed, and the pink illumination in the sky that lit up everything with a rosy golden glow.

My thoughts and prayers continue to go out to all who've been affected by the storm damage.

Memory Lane Monday- Barbie & Ken

Barbie & Ken
A Romance for the Ages

Note it says
Make her kiss! See her lips pucker! Hear the sound! See the lipstick mark!

Long before I put pen to paper and let Love bloom with words, I was playing out the workings of relationships and Love with my Barbie and Ken. I mean, after all, THEY were made for each other- I mean SERIOUSLY made for each other. There was never another man in Barbie's life. Her "parents" were conveniently absent, though she did later have to take on the responsibilities of her younger siblings who came out of the woodwork, it was just her and Ken, right?

And what little girl, any time after 1961, didn't want to believe that someday she would grow up and find HER Ken and live happily-ever-after?

This was the way most girls were taught to believe in love besides what they learned from their parents and what was on television- I took a lot of cue from watching Days of Our Lives from the time I was 5 years-old and up. What didn't my mom's soap opera have? Love triangles, marriages, divorce, deception, reunions, amnesia, etc.

And Barbie and Ken were also all those fairy tales I'd heard brought to life a la marionettes sans strings. You had some say in what happened, how long they were together, whether they fought and made up, whether they might ever get married, have a career, have a family.

Note it says
"Shave" him! He's athletic. He's all man.

And you probably made them do all that. I know my younger sister and I sure did. We spent a lot of time setting up detailed story lines about how Barbie and Ken's date would go, or fighting over who got to play Barbie and who got Ken. Sometimes our ideas didn't mesh, so Ken would say or do something annoying and Barbie would kick him to the curb and my sister and I would pout and put the dolls away, vowing we'd NEVER play with them together EVER again. But we did.

There might even still be old audio cassettes somewhere of us playing dolls. We were always recording how the story played out, like some sort of 1980's version of a radio soap opera. I always got stuck talking in a deep manly voice for Ken.

The images I've used today are of two dolls I once had. I don't know what I ever did with them, but I don't have them anymore- I just have really fond memories of them and from what I gather online they are now very collectible if still in mint condition as they are rather rare.

Kissing Barbie came with a tiny tube of "lipstick" that you could put on her lips. I think, from descriptions I've read on ebay- more of a "stamper" that you pressed on her lips. When you depressed the button in her back, her lips would seem to pucker and she would make this "smooching" sound.

The Sport and Shave Ken came with a bunch of athletic, sporty accessories and a marker that you could "draw" his beard on and then a toy "razor" that you could "shave" it off with.

I believe Barbie and Ken taught me something though- how to take what's fictional and give it heart. I still love my old dolls- some of which I've passed down to my daughter- the ones that are still in decent shape and haven't lost their heads or become discolored by pigment separations in the plastic/rubber. A lot of the stuff has deteriorated over time, but the one thing that hasn't are the good memories I have that remind me that stories of the heart have been with me for nearly all my life.

Memory Lane Monday- Early Memories

My mom swears I don't really remember as far back as I tell her I do, because she says if I saw it on old home videos, it doesn't count as a memory so much as something I've burned to my files up in the old noggin.

Still there are things I remember that I can't possibly have seen on home video because there just aren't any reels or footage of it.

For instance, I do remember the night my sister was born, and my mom sitting on their bed explaining to me where they were going and why I had to go stay with my grandparents and uncles and aunt. That was not on home video. (Though I did hear that story a lot growing up.)

Nor was the time when I was probably 2-3 years-old, my mom and two cousins were hanging out in the kitchen at the old Ripy Place, I think it was, and my dad was out in this barn/building doing some woodworking and I wanted to go out there, but it was starting to get dark. I remember them telling me, if I went out there, the Boogeyman would get me and I remember staring out the screen door and inching my way out but getting scared and darting back in the house.

I remember going on wrecker runs with my grandpa and uncle because they owned a junk yard and I spent a lot of time climbing around on old junk cars. I gathered eggs with my aunt from the chickens, who at one time were housed in the old body of a bus or something. I learned about the life cycle of mosquitoes in the cows' water trough.

Some of my favorite memories was going fishing with my grandma at what we called 'the Slab' down near the old distillery way out past where my grandparents lived. She and I would always pack peanut butter and crackers, vienna sausages and when we stopped for worms, she'd get us Hershey candy bars and Coca~Cola in the glass bottles. That must have been our thing, come to think of it, seeing as we got the same snack together at the hospital when we went to bring my mom and sister home.

Of course, my grandfather had a rented soda machine that dispensed glass Coca-Cola bottles for a long time for his junk yard business, but Grandma would wait until we were on the way and stop at a bait shop to get our drinks.

(the one pictured above is almost exactly what I remember)

What I do remember about the vending machine on the front porch is the long door on the left side of the front that you opened to grab a drink after you'd deposited your coins. I remember how hard it was to sometimes yank that bottle out. I remember that the Coca-Cola guy always had to come refill it a couple times a week and take the empties with him. I remember the brown "faux" wood paneling on it and how on really hot summer days, your soda would turn to slush as soon as the bottle cap was popped. Nothing tasted so good on those days either as a good slushie soda. Other times, my aunt would take a nail and poke a hole in the cap and let me drink it that way. I'm not sure why we did that, but it sure was fun back then.

Of course, I rarely buy Hershey's bars and I don't drink soda anymore, but memories like that inspire me to find one of those "retro" glass bottles of Coca~Cola and a Hershey bar, just so I can relive those moments when I was hanging out with my grandma and enjoying the simple things in life. I miss those days more and more as I grow older.

What are some of your favorite moments spent with a grandparent?
Were there special things you did together?

Memory Lane Monday

♫You musta been a beautiful baby♫

(I honestly don't know what happened. LOL)

As an exercise in futility, I'm making a blogging schedule and tentatively, Mondays are now going to be "Memory Lane Monday." Each week, I'll post either, pictures from my childhood along with stories of things I remember fondly from my past, or perhaps favorite toys, foods, experiences, places, etc. Some things will probably be fairly obscure, possibly non-existent anymore. Most the toys I grew up with have faded like the old Polaroid photos and book pages, but I want to share things about my life with my readers, fellow writers, family and friends. Sometimes things from childhood disappear for a while, when they get stuffed into the files that represent "non-essential" memories once you're grown. I believe though, that even those memories are part of what shapes us and makes us who we are.


The 70's were good to me I suppose and I used to get compared to Shirley Temple a lot as a child because I had a lot of curls in that red hair. My mom repeated the "There was a little girl, who had a little curl" often. I remember being asked to sing "On the Good Ship Lollipop" a lot, as well. Of course, I remember standing on my grandparents couch and my grandmother smiling at me as I sung my version of "Here Comes Petter Hoppingtail." Somehow cotton and hopping were equivalent back then to me. ;)


At this very young age, we lived not that far from my grandparents, just down the road really, though from my perspective, it felt like we lived miles and miles away. We had to cross a bridge for goodness sake! It was a small bridge over a creek, but hey, that seemed huge at the time. Even when I was a baby/toddler, we went to my grandparents every Saturday. When I was big enough to run around and talk and my grandma would take us home, I'd run out to my swing set and beg my grandma to "Watch me slide, Grandma! Watch me!" as she got in her car and left.


The place we lived was called "The Ripy Place" to us, as it had belonged to the Ripy family. My mom loved her moon flowers and I remember my dad mowing the yard in a circle once. Meanwhile, my cousin Bubba (who was a grown up) and I gathered the grass clippings and built rooms and walls so I could play with Little People or something, pretending it was a house with lots of rooms. Maybe we used our fingers to "walk" through like the legs of the people. I can't remember it that clearly, but I do remember it. I remember my cousin Ray(also a grown up) falling off my swing set (though I have seen the home video my dad recorded from that day, though you don't actually see him fall), while I was splashing around in my pool and my mom was nearly due with my baby sister. I had a bunch of little wind up toys that "swam" through the water- fish, dolphins or something- you wound them up and their flippers paddled them through the water. My mom says we got those that day at the Dish Barn. I also had a fat plastic fish and what I remember most about it was that it was bright yellowish orange and red with big puckered up lips and fancy flashy eyelashes.

I have a lot of memories from The Ripy Place, even though I only lived there until I was 3 or 4 years old, including the night my mom sat on her bed, which was covered by a chenille bedspread and explained that I had to go stay with my grandparents because she was going to have my sister. I wasn't even 3 1/2 yet, but I remember sitting in one of my little red chairs- it was either the red swivel plastic one or the small red wooden rocker, when she told me the baby was coming soon. That night it stormed that night. Because it was the end of July, my grandparents didn't have any of their winter stoves out, so they simply had a tin pie pan covering the chimney hole. One of my uncles got drenched in rainwater and black soot when it flushed through the chimney and spewed out the hole because of the downpour.

I picked wildflowers out by the road near my grandparents mailbox with my aunt, and even all these years later my mom still teases me about the fact my dad took them to her but they were filled with fleas! The brightest memory from that time? Going with my dad and my grandma to the hospital the day my mom and my sister were coming home. I was too young to be allowed in the maternity ward, so my grandma and I went to the snack machine and got a Hershey's candy bar and a Coca~Cola while we waited and then once we were in the car, I held my sister all the way home in the front seat.

It was 1978 after all- children's car seats were available but the laws were not strict at all.

Till next Monday~ Have a great week!