Writerly Wednesday- Meanderings- Of What Remains #ideas #writing #inspiration

Tucked away on one of the country byways of Kentucky is a small abandoned house with a triple window arch centered on the front side, shattered glass panes in those windows and the ones on the ground floor, the tin roof is rusted red and the exterior walls are dingy greenish gray and as weather-beaten as a grizzled old man who once worked in those nearby fields, raising tobacco or corn or cows under the blazing hot sun to supply his family with food, clothing, shelter.

The trees and shrubs and brambles are grown up around it now, huddling close as if protecting what remains. It looks as though no one has lived in it for years- decades even. A new road runs off into the distance to the right there, with power poles and electric lines, but no one notices the house or what remains of it.

All kinds of questions fill my head- Does anyone around these parts know the history of this shell of a home? Was it once embraced and loved as the "old homestead?" And if so, what happened to the family that once loved it and kept the grass cut and tended to the upkeep of the roof and windows and siding?

I see this house from time to time in our outings and I saw it and snapped this photo the other day when hubby and I were heading home after our anniversary movie and dinner date. Every time I see it, I'm filled with a sadness unimaginable- partly because it reminds me of my old homestead in Anderson County, the one that haunts me.

We didn't live there long, in that 2-story that always brought to mind plantations and the old south, but I felt a connection to the place, even as a young child. This other little house reminds me of it because I know my old homestead no longer stands, torn down a few years back, and I have no way of resurrecting it except in memory and perhaps one day I will be able to at least capture the spirit of it with the written word in one of my novels.

The same feeling comes over me in regard to this little house and a few others I've seen in passing, not just here, but often as we travel to visit my family. There's also this old house (pictured below) that calls to me. (Though I believe this one is currently someone's home.) It's at the end of a long lane that dead ends not far from the interstate and sticks out like a sore thumb. There are remnants of old stone walls out front, which again brings to mind life in the ol' South, plantations and tobacco or cotton crops and my mind wanders to that world that existed more than a century and a half ago and leaves me wondering about what remains... and whether there is a reason I am so drawn to these places (especially knowing I also might have stories to be written someday that fall into that time frame.)

These were places that once called family and kinfolk home to the warmth of the hearth and the love that existed within the walls. The large families gathered around the long dining table, horses galloping across green pastures, the kids fishing down by the creek, the animals that needed feeding at the crack of dawn, the cows needing milking.

Now, a lot of them stand destitute and weary on crumbling foundations, no longer loved and oftentimes seemingly forsaken and forgotten. They have stories hidden in their walls, dancing through the dust in the big empty rooms, buried under the rubble and tangled within the thistle and thorn that's woven around the existing structure.

They cannot tell their stories outright, but I am trying to listen when I am drawn in, because I feel them whispering to me via what remains....

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

The Little Cat Angel

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

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

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

 ****

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

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