Tuesdays with Taryn~ Sometimes Happily Ever After Happens, AFTER... #TheEx #Life #History

The scariest thing for me in attending my class reunion was the possibility of facing my past. Not high school past, but my early twenties past, or more specifically someone from that time in my life.

I think I finally stopped holding my breath when I realized my ex-fiance wasn't coming. We met up a couple years after our class's graduation, when he started working at the assembly factory where I worked in pad printing. The irony was that he didn't remember me from school~at all~ but he seemed to have it bad for me from the moment we met and even once told me that he went home after that first day at work, lay in his bed and thought to himself, "That's the woman I'm going to marry someday." In fact, I believe he'd told his dad that.

Honestly, I'm not sure if anyone we went to school with even knew we had a relationship but for a fair few who also worked at the same place or those we occasionally ran into when we were out and about. We dated from 1995-1999, off and on, and we were engaged 3 times during those on again off again years.

His encouragement, along with his mom's, was the reason I went for my GED. They were my cheerleaders urging me to accomplish that goal for myself, especially when I had gone for the pre-test the year before but was told I needed to study before I could go for testing. I'd let it go because I had work and other things going on in my life that took precedence, but a return trip to the GED office revealed that my pre-test scores were so high, I could have gone for the test the first time around, so the woman I spoke with set me up for the upcoming tests. He was the one who took me to Frankfort and sat in the car for hours those weekends I had to go for testing.

It was a roller-coaster relationship that had a lot of good times, but also a lot of very sad, hard times that hurt us both on so many levels, I know. I was his "Pretty Eyes" and I felt loved for the majority of that relationship. Even when I didn't know if I loved him anymore and had broken up with him, he was there for me, trumping through 2 foot of snow, across town to get me a birthday present and bring it to me. We had fun together but I know I was also a lot younger and I'm sure I made life a living hell sometimes when I got moody or irritable. He tried to put up with me, even when I was the grumpiest grump grump under the sun. By the end, I sometimes think that he hated me though...after all we put each other through.

Our official, FINAL "ending" was a new beginning for both of us. He married someone else within a year of breaking things off with me, leaving me feeling a bit like Ally McBeal- Do you remember that moment when she realized that the reason her and Billy's relationship ended wasn't because he didn't want to get married, it was just that he didn't want to marry her?

That's how I felt....It shouldn't have hurt so badly after a year, but it came as a bit of a shock to realize that we'd spent years going back and forth over when we'd get married and then he married this other woman after he'd only been with her a year. Seeing him come through my line at the grocery store was hell too- seeing that wedding band on his finger- and still thinking in that deepest part of my heart that he was supposed to be mine for the rest of our lives. He had promised me his love forever and vowed that nothing anyone said would EVER change how he felt about me.

Where was our happily ever after? It was clear then, that any inkling of love he'd once held for me was gone or buried, when he wouldn't or couldn't even take off his sunglasses in the store and look me in the eye when he came through my line, which he did quite often in the afternoons. And every time he left, one of my fellow co-workers would give me a break from the register so I could go to the back storeroom and cry.

I was damaged for a while after that, emotionally, left with questions about who I was as a person if I wasn't with him? What my worth was, if I couldn't be what he wanted and needed? And how had it all ended so badly? I wasn't sure I was worthy of being loved by anyone after that, much as I wanted to be loved, I always felt lacking. My best wasn't good enough. Not for him and probably not for anyone else.

He had been supportive of my dream to become a writer and I was doing a writing workshop as our relationship began to implode upon itself. I had believed I was on the path I was meant to be on in my journey to becoming a published author, but then he pulled the rug out from under me, when other people started questioning him about how we'd survive if we got married when I was such a dreamer, chasing that unicorn I might never catch and filling his head with doubts and fears. There was no way to survive on just his income and he couldn't "love me" if I didn't have a real job...

That revelation shook the very foundation of my idea of "unconditional" true love that was supposed to last forever into that Happily Ever After. Once our relationship ended, I also stopped writing.

What did I know about writing romance? Love stories? How could I write about love, when I didn't know it & didn't have it? I stopped caring about my writing and I put it away for a very long time....

But, it was one of those awkward moments you read about but luckily the pain and embarrassment was averted. Maybe he didn't know about the reunion. Maybe he just had no interesting in coming. Maybe he knew I was going to be there and was hoping to avoid me. Who's to say? I don't think it would bother me to have run into him after all these years have passed, it just might have been weird, more than anything.

But the thing is, I'm older now and I found my joy again in writing and I try very hard not to let anyone else steal it from me anymore. I know who I am and I'm still finding my place- it's down a long and winding road, out past the fear and self-doubt and insecurities that I carried away from that time in my life. And I'm proof that you can chase that dream and catch that unicorn....its a shame he allowed others to make him doubt me...

That ending was my new beginning...as I began again a few times, which I think we all do throughout our lives...always moving, always changing, reinventing, and always adjusting to what Life throws our way. Sometimes that Happily Ever After happens, AFTER.

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.

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-

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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.

#SCENTsational Saturdays- Does Your #Hero Smell? #Horizon

Horizon by Guy Laroche is a subtle, yet powerful scent for men. This fragrance is perfect for any time of day. Horizon combines citrus and lavender scents with tones of wood and sweet spices to create a cologne perfect for any occasion. First introduced in 1993, this cologne has been widely used by men for day-to-day activities. Lightly apply this subtle scent to your neck or wrists and feel ready to take on whatever the day throws at you.

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I don't normally post about my past, at least not in regard to relationships because I'm married and I've moved on, but when I pulled up the calendar post for today and remembered I'd endeavored to post about heroes and what they smell like and my favorites, I forgot momentarily that I would kind of have to travel down memory lane to describe the reasons this is probably still a favorite men's cologne, though I haven't smelled it in years.

From 1995 until around this time of year in 1999, I was in an on again, off again relationship, thrice (count 'em- 3 times) engaged to a man who once told me that on his first day on the job where we met- I was 20 at the time, that he went home that night and lay down to go to bed and he KNEW I was the woman he wanted to marry, that I was the woman he could see himself growing old with.

Of course, he told me that only after we officially started dating at the beginning of 1996 (I was seeing someone else when we met). We'd gone to school together but he didn't remember me, so I couldn't imagine someone could feel that deeply about me without even knowing me, but it was clear he was love-struck from the start and after spending more time with him, I really started to like him, too. Horizon was his signature cologne and for those few years of my life, that scent was a comfort, it turned me on because it smelled so good and I associated it with him and his love. He was, after all, the man I loved, the one I intended to marry someday.

In his arms, I felt like the most beautiful woman in the world and his nickname for me was "Pretty Eyes." We went through a LOT together, deaths of family, health scares with our parents, job changes, life changes. Things were not always easy, but for the first time in my life I knew what it was like to care about someone who actually told me and showed me that he cared about me, too. I know I took that for granted, I didn't always appreciate it. I was young and wondered if there were more out there in the world. I worried I didn't love him and at one point, a very low point for me when I gained a lot of weight and was depressed, I ended it. I wasn't happy and he wasn't happy and we weren't making each other happy.

He didn't want it to end though. He still loved me, at least, at that point he did and when I was supposed to start a new job on my birthday in February, we ended up with one of the biggest snowfalls to hit Central Kentucky in a long time- 2 foot of snow lay on the ground outside our front door and since I would have to walk to work, I didn't end up having to go that day. This man, who loved me so much, walked across town from where he lived with his parents, to the flower shop in the shopping center, and then through the park and the long way around my neighborhood in 2 FOOT OF SNOW to bring me a stuffed Ty cat for my birthday—while we were broken up.

Now, after we got back together, it was all down hill from there...the fights, the differences of opinion and ideas for what we each wanted for our life together. It seemed that what we once shared as like-minded individuals, the things we believed in and valued- something shifted and I don't really know what. But those things collided and ricocheted off each other and the vile words we said to each other wounded deeply and couldn't be taken back. 

I was told NOTHING anyone said could change his love for me and then within a few breaths he told me that his love came with conditions that had to be met or he "couldn't" love me. I still don't understand and sometimes, it does still hurt because I've never figured out what happened or how we fell apart.

What I try to remember though, is that people come into our lives for reasons beyond our comprehension. Some are there to love us always, but sometimes love isn't enough to make it work. We might not understand why things don't work out the way we plan, but I do believe there is a bigger picture that we can't see because we're just too close. I believe EVERY relationship teaches us about love, about ourselves, about loss and about strength to see beyond and continue traveling toward the "horizon." (Nice how I worked that in there, isn't it?) There's still life out there, even when one story comes to an end- there is still road to travel and you can't always see what's up ahead. You just have to keep going.

And so, now that I've had a good cry and pulled myself together (and in some ways hope I never catch a whiff of this cologne again) I'll leave you with this- it was just one of "our" many songs-

Don't forget to live in those moments....it's all very precious, even when the memories are hard to bear.

Hope you have a SCENTsational Saturday!
Enjoy it to the fullest!

#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.

#SCENTsational Saturdays- Through the Years- Skin Musk by Bonne Bell

Skin Musk is clean, fresh and sexy! Let the soft aroma of floral, sandalwood and musk embrace you. A touch is all it takes to turn on the romance.

Ah...another perfume that, surprise surprise, has sandalwood in it! LOL Even without picking it intentionally, it's another fragrance I veer toward when picking perfumes. This perfume is actually still sold in stores and can commonly be found at Wal-Mart. I don't have any at the moment, but I've been tempted to buy a new bottle of it, just to see if I still like the smell as much as I did in my youth. Life has changed and I wonder if this one would be much like Exclamation, which might throw me into a fit of migraine attacks.

But having said that, I do remember fondly wearing this until I emptied the bottle and had to buy a new one and I seem to recall doing that a lot, so this must have had quite a few qualities I liked, one of which I do remember specifically. It has staying power. You don't have to apply a lot and the fragrance would stay with you from morning till night.

What I remember about it was that it was a "louder" scent than most perfumes that young girls wore, it was more sensual and to me represented being older, perhaps more sophisticated and feminine, which as some point, all young girls want to be.

When I think if this perfume, a few oldies but goodies from my youth come to mind musically, so I'll share a few videos today-

Have a SCENTsational SATURDAY!

Favorite #Books Spotlight- Persuasion by Jane Austen #memories #Love #Romance #Life

I first encountered Jane Austen’s Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth in the 1995 BBC TV-film adaptation starring Amanda Root and Ciaran Hinds and I instantly fell in love with their story. I love Sense & Sensibility, Emma and Pride & Prejudice (Colin Firth is my one and only Mr. Darcy as far as I'm concerned), but Persuasion would have to be my favorite of the ones I know. I've yet to read or watch Northanger Abbey or Mansfield Park. I also have a couple of "short" stories also by Austen on my Kindle that I'm eager to find time to read.

But...there is not a time I’ve watched Persuasion since then that I have not rooted for their happily ever after and zipped through a box of tissues in tears because it's a beautiful story of love finding it's way back home and how strong two people's emotions can be, even when they've been separated by time, distance, place in life, and the persuasion of others against what they know in their hearts is right and true. This is a true-love-is-eternal story- feelings don't just disappear even if you have to go your separate ways. Sometimes, if you're lucky enough, you might just be able to find that love again. And sometimes it's better that you let go when you did...

Years ago, an EX, knowing my penchant for all things writing related, especially favorite literature, had gone out of town for work related training. I can't remember if it was when he went Atlanta or when he went to one of the training facilities in Tennessee, but we hadn't been apart much of our relationship and when he was gone on those long trips, it was usually for a few weeks at a time and we missed each other dreadfully and he'd call me when he could. On one of those trips he came back with all kinds of sweet little gifts for me that were Coca-Cola Polar Bear-related (something else that was a favorite of mine)- a cool ink pen with a matching diary and a deck of playing cards.

Another time, he went shopping at a bookstore, I believe it was a Waldenbooks, and he came home with this beautiful three-volume leather bound set of The Complete Novels of Jane Austen for me, just because. When I finally read the book I had an even deeper love of the story because the adaptation to film presented the story beautifully and brought those already vivid characters and their love to life on the screen.

I found this description of the set online-

The Complete Novels of Jane Austen, 3 Volumes

Tally Hall Press, 1996

This is a very attractive 3 volume leather bound set of “The Complete Novels of Jane Austen” published by Tally Hall Press, Ann Arbor in 1996. The books in the set are:

Volume 1 - Sense and Sensibility & Pride and Prejudice; Maroon Leather

Volume 2 - Mansfield Park & Emma; Dark Blue Leather

Volume 3 - Northanger Abbey & Persuasion; Black Leather

Each book is bound in different color full leather covered boards and features raised ribs on the spine, gold gilt on spine and cover, gilded edges, satin ribbon markers, and marbled endpapers.

A few of my favorite quotes-

"A man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a woman! He ought not; he does not."


"I mean while the woman you love lives, and lives for you. All the privilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one; you need not covet it), is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone."

and best of all- Captain Wentworth's letter to Anne, which always, ALWAYS, makes me cry....

"'I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in

F. W. 

'I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never.'"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Needless to say, it was a gift that brought tears of appreciation and love at the time. Even now, when I look at them and feel the weight of them in my hand, I still appreciate what a thoughtful loving gift it was, even though that relationship ended a long time ago. Those relationships in the past help shape our present selves whether we like to admit it or not. I think a lot of people look back on old relationships and see only the bad parts, but to me, there's still room in this ol' heart to remember that there were also redeemable qualities about the other men in my past that made me love them, and if not for where I was then and the road I traveled since, I would not be where I am or WHO I am today.