I Remember

Memories are funny things. Sometimes they are long-lasting, at other times fleeting. Sometimes they are triggered by pictures, sometimes by nothing more than a familiar smell. They are fragile and delicate and ever-so-precious, and I didn’t really realize until recently, really within the last two years, quite how much I should treasure them.

One of my first memories happened when I was three-years old. It was dramatic enough to stick, I guess. Horse-lover that I was, and have always been, I somehow thought it would be a good idea to take my rocking horse and put it up on my bed, so that I would be up higher. For a few fleeting moments, I was a cowgirl, riding off into the sunset of my bedroom, but then I slipped, fell off the bed, and the rocking horse came tumbling after. Right onto my left arm…breaking it.

I don’t remember the pain. I don’t remember crying, like I’m sure I did. But I do remember the yellow plastic of that rocking horse. I remember its red yarn hair, and its blue nose. I remember the sound of the sand that weighted its bottom as it slipped from the bed and onto my bony arm.

It’s almost a miracle that I can remember those simple details, and of course, there are other miracle memories that are a lot more precious, like the twelve years of memories I have of my grandfathers.

I remember PawPaw telling stories of the Navy and his pet kangaroo in Australia, and I remember Dorsey singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” and tickling me into a fit of giggles. I remember PawPaw rocking on the front porch with a gray and white cat in his lap, and Dorsey walking across the yard with an entourage of rescue dogs trailing behind him.

I didn’t know that I would only have twelve years with them. If I had, I think I would have written things down, things that have all but slipped away now. Things I can’t ever get back. Sometimes, our memories betray us that way.

My grandmother’s memories betrayed her in a bigger way. When her confusion first began, we worried. We took her to doctors and specialists, fearing the worst, hoping for only the best. Alzheimer’s is an awful disease…and that’s a gross understatement. It steals those things that are most precious to us, those memories we love and treasure, those pieces of loved ones gone by.

It can be fickle. Some days, it grants its victim clarity; they are back in the present, sharp and clever as ever. But most days, it thrusts them into the past, a past where worries from yesterday haunt their troubled eyes, where those long-dead trip in and out of their lives. It causes confusion and pain, for both the victim and their family.

For two long years, we watched my grandmother struggle with this disease. We held onto good days like gold and cried on the bad days. There’s a reason they call Alzheimer’s “The Long Goodbye.”

She passed away two weeks ago. Stubborn spit-fire that she was, she never stopped fighting in those two years, fighting for herself and for her family, and now her fighting has ended. Finally, that long, hard struggle to hold onto those priceless memories is done.

Her memories have been fully restored, and she’s with my grandfather and my Gram and Papa now. Our hearts ache, but we’re comforted by that, by the fact that she’s her old self again with all her memories…a gift for eternity.

“I remember.” Two simple words that now hold a world of meaning. Fleeting and delicate as can be. The good ones are a gift, write them down, and lock them away for yourself and for the future.

My Meme, 16 years old, Southeastern Fair

 

The Friendship Oak

Probably a maple tree but the closest thing I had in my picture album.

From beneath the shade of the ancient oak tree, the child separated herself from the world around her. In some ways, it was a self-exile, a way of escaping a world that was often cruel and hard to understand, but in truth, the truth that lay in the darkest corners of the child’s heart, the separation was a painful one.

For some, friendship came easy. Girls with perfect pink dresses and overflowing wells of self-confidence skipped along the playground, chatting and giggling and owning recess with their entire beings.

For her, friendship was a constant battle. She latched on to those popular girls with their perfect pink dresses, worshiping them as princesses and fueling their already secure self-esteem. Some days, the days when they needed her around, they would welcome her into their inner-circle, make her feel a part of their secret world. Other days, as if she were a pesky fly, they would swat her away, uninterested in her shy, bookish ways, unconcerned about her feelings and her paper-thin heart.

And so, she made friends with the squirrels and the occasional stray cat…and of course, the ancient oak with its loving branches and its reassuring shade.

The gnarled roots of the tree reached up from the ground and provided not only a cradle for the child but also an imaginary world where she could cook acorn stews and dance with magical fairies. From its comforting embrace, she would watch the other children and wish for someone to come by and steal away her loneliness.

And sometimes, someone would. A fellow loner, or a girl in a perfect pink dress looking for a side-kick. They would flit in and out of her life and her solitary playground world, but none of them lasted as long as the oak.

The oak saw her through happiness, sadness, good days and bad. The oak was her friend, her confidant, her source of joy and comfort.

The oak still stands in that quiet spot beside the playground, still sheltering shy and lonely children, still bringing a sense of friendship to those who may not otherwise feel it.

The child who loved the oak eventually grew up, leaving behind the playground and the ghosts who haunted it.

But she still lives within my heart. She still struggles with her shy nature. She still befriends the confident, popular girls in need of a sidekick. She still climbs trees and loves animals. In many ways, she’s still that same child who played beneath the oak, longing for friendship and struggling with insecurity.

Sometimes, I still feel trapped on that playground, playing amongst the roots of that ancient oak. Maybe, to some extent, I’ll always feel that way. Maybe we all feel that pang of loneliness from time to time, as we fumble our way through life seeking connection, friendship, and the comforting arms of an old oak tree.

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Patchwork of Love

Today, when driving in to work, I heard a phrase on the radio that I completely fell in love with. Two women were talking about their parents and how the relationship between their parents had shaped their lives. One of the women described seeing her mother and father exchange loving, tender glances. She stated that such moments helped build and shape a patchwork of love that would endure into her adult life.

Patchwork of love. Such a beautiful thought. When I heard the words, I immediately imagined a huge, intricate quilt with vivid and unique patches, woven together with a myriad of different threads. I imagined that my own quilt could stretch far across the sky, wrapping the Earth itself in a warm, comforting embrace.

There would be patches of the strangers who darted in and out of my life and yet left an indelible mark of kindness.

Patches of animals and pets, their fuzzy souls making everything more fulfilled and complete, their friendship filling a gaping hole of loneliness through so many heartbreaks.

Patches of friends, those I can touch and those I can only speak to through words on a screen, but all of those who reached out and whom I reached out to for a lasting connection of laughs and tears, shared happiness and fears.

Patches of memories. Of Pawpaw. Of vacations to Florida. Of Easter egg hunts and Christmas mornings. 

Patches of the family I so adore, the blessing of a lifetime, the genesis of my own patchwork of love, the memories shared, the bond of blood, the certainty that if I ever need them they’re always just right there.

Patches of the man I love, the partner and friend. Patches of his hugs and kisses and the comfort of his smell and the sweetness of his heart. Patches woven together across great distances with a strong thread that cannot be broken or cut or torn apart.

I am blessed with patches of many shapes, sizes, and colors, but as beautiful as my own quilt is, I find myself even more marveled and mesmerized by the patchwork of love of others, by the differences I see in each. Because truly, the most incredible thing about a patchwork of love is that not everyone's will be built the same or look the same. 

Some will be sewn together later in life, past the dark days of an undeserved childhood, past the void left empty by those who should love you the most. Some love has to be built from the ground up with a family that may not be from blood but is instead from the heart. The threads of this patchwork are like steel.

Some, the lucky ones, are born with a patchwork already started for them. From the moment they are conceived, so is the soft quilt that will envelope them through childhood and on.

Some will endure rips, tears, burns. Some may even begin to unravel at certain times, but they will be sewn back together. They will from this darkness be stronger than ever.

Some patchworks...most I would say...will revolve around family. Families of all shapes and sizes and colors. Families brought together by the only thing that really matters: Love. These are the patchworks that will be so alike and so different. These are the patchworks that we all must embrace because of that common thread, that universal thread that bonds us all, regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, or gender. 

Patchwork of love. Such a beautiful thought, and the even more beautiful thought is that each person carries with them a patchwork of love and that each one is stunningly unique and yet always tying us together with that common thread of love. 


What does your patchwork of love look like? 

Source: inaweofapplique.blogspot.com via Kristin on Pinterest

The Clique

When we arrive, the hallway is already crowded, wheelchairs and walkers making a curious-looking processional, as the residents wait for their various activities. 

On one side, the smokers are obviously getting antsy. On the other, the coffee-drinkers are also beginning to lose their patience. 

As Daddy and I duck through, one of the ladies in a wheelchair meets my eyes. "Excuse me." She says, her gravely, smoker's voice announcing which activity she's waiting on. "What time is it?"

Daddy looks at his watch. "9:20. You've got ten more minutes." 

Collectively, they all begin to sigh and grumble. Ten minutes might as well be an eternity when you're waiting to smoke, drink coffee, and socialize. Especially here.

Having properly riled up the crowd, we make our way through them and back to Meme's room.  

She's already in her wheelchair, blue eyes sharp and bright. Today's another good day. 

We begin our visit by making small talk. The weather, politics, family, and Meme's favorite subject: the past. She speaks of events that happened twenty or thirty years ago as if they happened yesterday. She brings the dead back to life, referring to them as if they're waiting in the next room. She thrives on this talk of history and days gone by. And I'm happy that she spends the majority of her days in that happy past.

As our conversation begins to wane, Daddy suggests that we go down to the cafeteria. Meme immediately perks up at the idea. 

The trip back down the hallway is no less entertaining than the one upon our arrival. Except this time, Meme's with us. It's a bit clearer than before; the smokers have all moved outside for their morning smoke break, and the coffee-drinkers have gathered in the cafeteria, our destination. 

On our way, Meme pokes fun at nurses, admonishes "slow pokes" in front of us, and seems to have something to say to just about everyone. She keeps the hallway laughing, and it turns out this is just a preview of coming attractions.

The second we push through the swinging doors of the cafeteria Meme comes even more alive. 

Still unaware of her transformation, Daddy and I choose a table away from the crowd and settle down for a nice chat and a cup of coffee. 

From across the room, a woman with light red hair and a full face of makeup gestures, "Mary! Mary!" She waves madly. "How are you this morning?"

I watch, astounded, as Meme yells back across the room. "Doin' good! How about you?"

A few other residents near the red-headed woman notice Meme and join in. They carry on a conversation...although I suspect each person may be on a different subject...from across the room. 

Realizing his mistake, Daddy stands and says, "Guess we should move over there."

And so we do. We crowd around a few tables that are already crowded by what I've come to think of as The Clique, and appropriately, the final pieces of the morning seem to click into place, no pun intended.

Like a queen holding court, Meme becomes the center of this small group, cracking jokes and flirting madly with a man named Billy. My Meme, the same one with Alzheimer's, the same one who spends many of her days in a fog, laughs and smiles and entertains us all as if there's nothing wrong, as if a disease isn't eating away at her mind. 

Looking across the room, I notice others, those not lucky enough to be part of The Clique, those not lucky enough to know they are even part of this world. 

One lady colors furiously, bearing down her crayons onto a coloring book filled with pictures of puppies and kittens. 

Another gentleman stares off into space, drool trailing from his bottom lip to the top of his hand where it rests on his wheelchair. 

A man I know only as Bubba watches us all from the corner of the room, taking everything in and thinking deep, and what I imagine to be, sad thoughts. 

The mixture of sad and happy in the room is one that I didn't expect, but then again, no trip to the nursing home is ever quite what I expect. Some days, like today, are good. There's laughter, easy conversation, and plenty of smiles. These are the days we all have to hold on to, keep replaying in our minds over and over so that we can smile and feel good again. 

Because too many of the days are bad. They come too often and stay far too long. Days when the biggest response we can get out of Meme is a blink. Days when we can only stand in her room and cry.  

When those days come again, and they will, I'm going to think of The Clique. I'm going to think of how they yelled across the room at each other, how they chatted and giggled, how they almost seemed like teenagers carrying on at lunchtime in high school. 

I'm going to think of those fleeting moments of youth, lighting on their shoulders like butterflies, bringing them back to life in colors as vivid as an old woman's crayons.  

                                                                             Source: tumblr.com via Gabriel on Pinterest

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The Land of Missing Pets

“Katie!”

The dreaded sound of Mama’s voice beckoned me from my perch in the tree house. The sun was setting gold, yellow, and pink over the horizon, and I knew it was time to go back inside. Still, I pretended that I didn’t hear. I would stay in that tree house as long as possible, eyes scanning our yard, the neighbor’s yard, searching desperately, desperately for Mollie.

It was my fifth afternoon in the tree house; the fifth afternoon I’d spent calling her, watching the woods, watching the driveway, watching everything for any sign of her gray and white coat.

Mama and Daddy had all but given up, but the eight-year-old I was stubbornly held on, keeping vigil on Daddy’s plywood and the limbs of an old oak tree for as long as possible. I don’t remember how many more days I stayed in that tree house from after school until nightfall calling Mollie’s name, but I do remember she never came back.

She wasn’t my only pet that went missing, but she’s the one I remember the most…except for Danny of course. Danny was an escape artist. If there was a hole in a fence, he would find it for you and help himself to the always greener grass on the other side.

Not unlike many of the horses I’ve known, Danny was food motivated. Extremely food motivated. He loved cheese puffs, animal crackers, and apple treats. Not to mention sweet feed, alfalfa, and carrots.

If there was nicer, sweeter, more fragrant grass on the other side of the fence, Danny would find a way through and indulge. Thankfully, he escaped only twice (we think), but both times, he managed to get himself in a whole heck of a lot of trouble.

The first escape resulted in a nasty collision with a car.

Thankfully, the driver of the car escaped with only a few scratches, but Danny wasn’t quite so lucky. The accident tore a nasty gash on his beautiful face. Forty-three stitches and three thousand dollars in vet bills later, we decided it was time to move on to greener—and more secure—pastures. Danny’s new home provided better fencing and a little peace of mind.

Several years passed without incident. We checked the fences religiously, patching where needed and always keeping an eye on our big, flashy blonde Appaloosa, lest he should revert back to his old Houdini ways.

And eventually, he did.

When I came home from school one day, Mama broke the news to me.

“Danny’s missing.” She said with a grim tightness around her lips. “Daddy’s already out looking for him.”

Missing? The word didn’t compute. Danny was huge. Hard to miss. How could a 1500-pound horse possibly be missing?

But he was.

We called the Sherriff’s Department daily, drove up and down the streets calling his name. We did all the things you do when a pet a missing, even though our pet happened to be a horse.

About three days out, we got a lead that Danny was spotted in a church parking lot on a Sunday; I guess he was praying that we’d find him. At the time, I imagined him milling about the church goers, nibbling on the floppy hat of the pastor’s wife, saying his “hi, how are you’s” and nodding his gigantic head.

The church lead never did pan out, but all the praying I'd been doing did finally pay off.

Daddy was the one who found him. On one of dozens of drives down country roads. Like me holding vigil for Mollie in my childhood tree house, Daddy just wasn’t willing to give up.

Danny was pinned in the front yard of a mobile home of a family who claimed they’d tried to find his owners, but I suspect they hadn’t. They had a nice setup going on, new (temporary) fencing, fresh hay. We figured they intended to take him to the livestock sale, make a few extra hundred dollars. 

Thankfully, we found him just in time. Thankfully, he wasn't destined to disappear to the land of missing pets, that elusive place where cats and dogs--yes, I suppose even horses--go when their people can't find them, that place where they all sit and wait patiently until we finally come to take them home.

The Blonde Who Still Has My Heart

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But, Now I See

It’s a surreal experience to sit through the same grandfather’s funeral twice in one lifetime. And yet, here I sit, surrounded by family and mouthing the words of “Amazing Grace” as the pastor strums along on his guitar.

I’m ashamed that I don’t know the second verse of “Amazing Grace,” and when I look across the room and see my grandmother, who has Alzheimer’s, singing along at the top of her voice with every word, it makes me even more ashamed.

Today is a good day. MeMe’s mind is sharp; her eyes are bright. It should be a sad occasion, but instead, it feels joyful and sweet. She seems happy, and that makes us all happy.

My grandfather, MeMe’s husband, has been dead for over sixteen years, but in her damaged mind, he died only recently. His death had been troubling her for a few weeks. She had begun asking Daddy and my aunt Claire daily when the funeral was going to be. One particularly hard day, she was ready to leave for the cemetery when Daddy arrived for his daily visit.

Daddy and Claire finally decided that a funeral was in order, something to put her mind at rest and give her some resolution.

Sitting here now, watching her smile and sing along with hymns that are as familiar to her as her own name, I know that they were right.

Alzheimer’s is a nasty disease. It picks and chooses the memories it destroys, leaving some and taking others without any rhyme or reason.

MeMe has vivid memories of the past. Daddy can ask her about neighbors they had thirty or forty years ago, and she remembers their names and the stories surrounding them. Most of the time, she lives in this vivid past, speaking of her Mama and Papa as if they were in the next room, speaking of her children as if they were still teenagers.

I often wonder where the present fits into this past, because, thankfully, MeMe still remembers the names of those in her present. When I visit, I see the recognition in her eyes, and I feel relieved that we have this, just this one thing that we can all still hold on to. In MeMe’s world grown grand-children and long-dead parents can exist together outside of any physical boundaries of time and space.

It’s a world you could almost envy, if you didn’t know any better.

Today, in this present, her smile is infectious, toothless though it may be. She beams it at all of us and keeps saying, “It’s a shame that something like this had to happen to bring us all together.”

And it is a shame.

We visit the Nursing Home as often as possible. Daddy and Claire are there nearly every day. But it’s hard. Life is moving on in the world outside of those walls that keep MeMe so closed in, life is moving on, and because it is, it’s easy to forget.

Which is pretty ironic when you think about it.

Daddy is constantly reminding us all that the people inside the Nursing Home are still people. They still have hopes and dreams and sadness. They have good days and bad days and days when they might not want to go on at all. They're trapped inside a place that reduces them to nearly nothing if we let it. So we mustn't let it, and thus, he reminds me often that those inside are people just like us.

I have to keep repeating this thought like a mantra when I go down the long corridors of the facility. I make it a point to meet the old eyes of each resident I pass, smiling kindly and offering a softly-spoken "hello" and "how are you."

Yes, it's hard to go there. It's hard to see those people trapped. It's hard to see MeMe in a tiny little room that's shared with another resident, a virtual stranger, whose name constantly escapes MeMe’s damaged mind.

But on days like today, when off-key church hymns fill the stale air and make an otherwise sad place happy, when MeMe smiles like she used to, and you almost forget where you are, it’s easy.



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Ode to Katney: the Odd Couple

For me, friendship has always been an elusive creature. I’m not skilled at making friends, and I’m even less skilled at keeping them. I probably have several social disorders that compound my problem, but to put it most simply, I’m shy, awkward, and self-conscious. Not the best combination when it comes to social situations. 

High school was hell. The phrase “fish out of water” comes to mind, and boy, was I. Flipping and flopping and gulping for breath as I navigated a dry land that was foreign to me and impossible to grasp. Needless to say, I wasn’t popular. 

I had friends, though they could probably be described as acquaintances at best, because I could never quite let them in all the way. Anxieties constantly dictated my every move, and before I knew it, I was pushing someone away for some stupid reason or worry. It was the one thing I could count on. 

I can still count on it. 

But not too long ago, something changed. I made a friend...and have kept her for almost two years. 

As far as longevity goes, I’ve had friendships that have lasted longer, but what sets my relationship with this friend apart is its depth. She knows me, knows the flaws, the quirks. And yet, she still likes me. 

She knows my anxieties, too, can probably list them by name, and instead of judging me for them or cutting ties with me because of them, she accepts them all. Accepts me. 

I can say with certainty that only a few people have accepted me, me and everything about me. I guess it’s hard to love a neurotic, phonophobic, anxiety-filled, obsessive weirdo who loves and feels with her entire heart. But this friend, she loves me. 

We couldn’t be more different. She’s never afraid to share her opinion, never concerned by what someone may think. Our viewpoints and beliefs are as opposite as cats and dogs, and we fight over them like cats and dogs, too. But we’re still friends. 

And she’s taught me what true friendship is. She’s taught me that a missed phone call or a passionate fight are not the ends of a friendship but just the parts that make it real. And when I try to push her away, she pushes right back, unwilling to give up on me or on what makes this friendship the friendship of a lifetime, especially for a social pariah like me.

Author's Note: Whitney's the best buddy a girl could ever ask for. She's honest, insightful, and loyal. We clash on as many things as we agree on, and yet, it works. Much to Whitney's dismay, not too long ago, I even decided that we needed a "friend name" to seal our friendship forever...mwahahahaha! Our "friend name," cleverly, is Katney, and I'm pretty sure Katney will last until the end of time. Love you, friend!


This was written for the Write on Edge RemembeRED prompt: Exploring Friendship. 


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Woven

I have seen four generations of you.

The first made me. With strong and sure hands, he crafted me from white oak and memory.  A humble artist weaving and twisting, weaving and twisting. Until, there was me.

The second watched from a distance as I was made, too busy to pay me much mind. Fiery in spirit, she had her own sense of self and creativity. She was the force to be reckoned with, the dreamer with too many dreams and too much passion.  I would never know her so well as I knew her child.

I was gifted to him, the child of the second, the beginning of the third. And I took my place in his home, where I watched his family grow. At first, it was just me, him, and his wife. Then there were children, a dog, and a cat. Years passed, and I grew older. I watched this third generation provide for and love his family, and I knew that the love and pride that had been woven into me by the first was present in the third.

Looking back, I have lived a full and long life, though my handle has worn thin, and my splits are stained with time. Recently, I became a gift again and now find myself at home with the fourth. She looks at me often and with pride. I’m placed on a handmade stool in a prominent spot, where I watch her weave much like her great grandfather did so many years before. This fourth generation doesn’t weave wood to make baskets. Instead, she weaves intricate tales with a voice that is her own…and yet, she is a part of them all.

She has the artistry and skill of the first. The passion and dreams of the second. The love and pride of the third. She is you, the fourth.

I have seen four generations of you. I have witnessed the stories of your family, woven together through time and through me, a flawed and sturdy white oak basket, a holder of memories. 

Author's Note: This was written for the Write on Edge RemembeRED prompt: Personification. It went like this:

Do objects have a memory? Does a rocking chair hold the essence of the snuggles it has witnessed? Does a pottery mug remember the comforting warmth it offered a struggling soul?

The dictionary defines personification as “the attribution of a personal nature or human characteristics to something nonhuman, or the representation of an abstract quality in human form.”

This week, tell a piece of your story from the point of view of an object who bore witness.

The white oak basket my Papa made long before I was even born has wanted to tell its tale for awhile. I thank Write on Edge for giving it the chance. 

Far Too Soon

As I sit kicked back in my recliner, cleverly avoiding working on both a freelance assignment AND an unfinished novel, I take in the room around me. It's disheveled to say the least, bits of tinsel hang on the mantel, colorful glitter clings to the carpet, making the living room look almost like a stripper interrupted mid-strip. The Christmas tree is down at least, leaving the rest of the penguins, reindeer, Santas, and bits of Nativity scenes looking forlorn and lonely.

In case you missed the memo, Christmas is over, coming and going as usual in a whirlwind of finger foods, apple cider, wrapping paper, and twinkling lights...leaving behind destruction, new toys to play with, and just a hint of sadness that such a joyful season is gone once again.

This year I had fully intended to enjoy the time after the holiday. I would leave up my decorations until the new year and maybe even past. I would continue to partake in the guilty pleasure of Christmas carols as I tidied the house, cooked more holiday goodies, and stretched out the feeling of joy and magic for just a few more precious days. Before leaving work, my best bud and I had discussed how we would leave our offices decorated so that we could enjoy the whimsy once again upon our return. I even declared it bad luck to take the decorations down before the Day had even arrived.

I'm always full of good intentions.

But then the day after Christmas arrived. I logged onto Facebook to see what happiness had been spread to my friends, and I saw status updates declaring that houses had been disrobed, that trees had been discarded, that any and all traces of the Christmas train had left the station. Depression sank in. Friends and family were already shedding themselves and their houses of the Christmas season. How was I supposed to keep that magical feeling of the holidays alive when I, too, was beginning to get the bug to strip down the decorations and purge the house of Christmas?

And so, the tree came down. It took all of twenty minutes. I worked like a madwoman, carefully wrapping the precious ornaments, stuffing them unceremoniously into storage boxes, where they wouldn't see the light of day until the season arrived again, far too soon as always.

But then I stopped. Far too soon?

If the season arrives far too soon and leaves far too soon, then when do we have time to enjoy the in between? Time speeds past us, ushering in and out seasons and holidays, gobbling up moments and memories and leaving little behind but bits of tinsel and glitter, which clings sadly to a mantle, refusing to be swept away in the whirlwind of us all. We enable time to move faster. We rush the days. We rush the seasons. We wish our lives away. We barely remember to take a deep breath and enjoy each moment.

No more.

My living room sits in a state of in between. Not quite post-holiday blues but not quite full-blown spirit of Christmas. From the hearth, a resin Santa Claus smiles at me, cozied up close to our heater, frozen in time and in merriment. I think I'll leave him out just a little longer. Together with the remaining reindeer and penguins, Christmas cookies and tinsel, we'll ring in the new year and try to let those moments sink in before they pass us by once again, speeding past as the universe spins to some unknown fate and some unknown destination that we will arrive at far too soon.

Are your decorations down? How long do you usually leave them up after the holidays? 

The Eighth Year

This post originally appeared as a guest post at one of my favorite blogs Narragansett No. 7, but I thought it was appropriate to share it here as part of "The Living Nightmare" Halloween prompt at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug. 

The Eighth Year

The sleeping patterns and habits of an eight-year old rarely make any kind of sense, and my sleeping habits were even more of an enigma than that of most eight-year olds. I know I gave my mom fits as a child. Constantly fighting sleep. Constantly crying out her name in the middle of the night. I can remember our mutual frustration in trying to figure out what was keeping me awake. Even so, sleeping didn’t become a major issue for me until my eighth year.

That eighth year was eventful. I remember a lot from my childhood then. I’ve been blessed (sometimes it’s a curse) with an active mind and can hold onto most memories well, and it seems that most of the memories from my childhood come from that turbulent and tumultuous year.

Daddy had just gotten laid off from his job. He is and will always be the hardest working man I’ve ever known, and during the time between his old job and what would become his new and better job, he did everything in his power to provide for our family.  As an eight-year old, I probably couldn’t fully appreciate the sacrifices that he and Mama were making during that time of struggle for our family, but looking back on it as an adult, I do. I realize just how much that period of my life shaped the person I am today, and I couldn’t be more grateful for the lessons learned then. To this day, I try to never take anything for granted.

When Daddy did land his new job, it was two hours away. Until we could all move to our new town, the family was separated, and the rock and protector of the house was missing. Thus began my sleeping woes. Or at least that’s where I think they began. I can still clearly see myself as if looking down from above. There I am, lying in my tiny twin bed, the ruffled and flowered bedspread covering my slight eight-year old form, an army of stuffed animals arranged around me in a protective ring. When it comes to the dark, I’m a chicken through and through. For as long as I can remember, I’ve feared not the dark itself but what may be waiting in the dark, what the dark hides from me. The dozens of stuffed animals that I slept with as a child were a form of comfort to me, a symbolic means of protection from what was hidden in the dark.

Via

In addition to the stuffed animals standing sentry over me, I took the measure of pulling the sheets over my face when I slept. I still practiced this habit until I got married a few years ago. If I couldn't see the dark, then it couldn’t see me. To avoid looking into the darkness is the key. 

To this day, I avoid dark windows. When I look out into that cold expanse of darkness, I can’t help but feel that Something, somewhere is looking back at me. I have stood at windows for long stretches, staring hard into the night, looking for a glimpse of whatever is out there watching me through depthless eyes. Daring whatever it is to jump out and reveal itself. 

Lying in bed at night, the fear is of waking up and seeing Something or someone standing beside my bed, looking down at me. This particular fear is more acute, probably because it actually happened to me during my eventful eighth year. 

After what had already been a long night of going back and forth between her bedroom and mine, trying desperately to get me to go to sleep, Mama finally let me crawl into bed with her. The comfort and relief I felt when I snuggled up to her warm body was indescribable. You see, I had convinced myself as long as someone was in the room with me whatever was lurking in the dark would stay away. 

I was wrong.

I woke in the middle of the night, as I had before and have millions of times since, with the feeling that Something was watching me. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, unwilling to let a drop of the darkness in. I listened.  Mama's soft snores interrupted the silence of the night, but there was another noise, something I've never heard before or since. I don't think I can even describe it, other than it sounded heavy, as heavy and thick as the air in the room felt.

When I finally gathered the courage to open my eyes, a dark figure stood at the side of the bed, bent down over where Mama slept. It was watching her, and it knew that I was watching it. I felt its eyes transfer to me, and pure dread settled into my child's heart. I gasped. I snapped my eyes shut and scrambled to pull the thin sheet back over my face. I lay there for hours, too terrified to move, too paralyzed with fear to even wake my mother who lay sleeping peacefully beside me. I didn't open my eyes until I felt the warmth of morning sunlight on my face. It chased the black void from the room and closed that gateway to Hell.

I still feel eyes watching me sometimes, resting upon me as I move through the darkness of our house, as I settle down to sleep at night. Over the years, I've grown more comfortable with these feelings. I have never seen a ghost, but I have experienced things, especially in my eighth year, that leave me knowing, without a doubt, that something else is out there, watching from the darkness.


  

Telephonophobia

Back in the days before my neuroses.

Brrr-ringg! Brr-ringg!

At the shrilling of my cell phone, my hands begin to shake, palms itching madly. But this is not the typical reaction of a woman in love. My sweating and shaking is more from fear than flirtation.

I’ve been expecting this call, dreading it. I want to answer, but physically, I just can’t. I can do nothing but stare at the phone until it finally beeps, signaling my missed call.

When I log onto my computer hours later, I receive an instant message from him. Safely hidden behind my screen, I’m gutsier than I was earlier. I always am. The computer turns this shy girl into a compelling and confident woman. I wish I could hide behind it in every aspect of my life.

I tried calling earlier. His message carries a hint of his frustration, or maybe I’m just imagining it. I don’t immediately respond.

I should tell him that I’m a neurotic mess. I should tell him that my nerves have gotten the best of me. I should confide that I hate phones, that my social anxieties turn me into a sweaty, blubbering mess. I should reveal that I’ve avoided past relationships because of this anxiety.

And while I’m busy thinking of what I should tell him, my phone rings again.

My pulse quickens. He’s caught me this time, cornered me and removed avoidance from the equation.

Answer.

His instant message pops up on my computer screen as the phone continues to ring, and despite all of my fears, I gather my courage and answer.  

“Hello.”

Our first conversation is awkward. As expected, I sweat a little, but I keep talking anyway...for hours. And when he calls again the next day, I answer without hesitation, knowing that to this guy I’m compelling and confident even offline. 

Author's Note: This memoir post is in response to the Write on Edge Remembered prompt this week:

In “On Writing” Stephen King wrote, “The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better.”

Write a memoir post – first-person and true – inspired by that statement.

Word limit is 300.

I still have a phobia of talking on the phone, but thankfully, my now husband was able to alleviate those fears then long enough to make me fall completely in love with him. Our online relationship evolved to a telephone/long-distance relationship after that fateful phone call. We're celebrating our four-year anniversary on Thursday of this week.

Happy Anniversary to my Once and Future Geek!! I'm glad I answered the phone. :)

Daijio Bu?

via

Daihen!

Daijio bu?

Kiken Na!

Abunai!

They were yelling at me in Japanese. At least I think it was Japanese. I couldn’t swear to it, because I think I probably had a concussion and that may have skewed my perception of things a bit. They gathered around and peered down at me out of concerned eyes, talking quickly and making my already pounding head pound even more.

I was leaning against a shiny, black pick-up truck with a huge dent in the side of it. The golf cart I’d been “driving” only moments before was parked in front of me, looking no worse for wear. Surrounding it were dozens of beer cans, soft drinks, hot dogs, and bags of potato chips. I suppose they’d been scattered everywhere at the moment of impact.

Upon seeing the mess beyond the quartet of concerned Japanese golfers, my first coherent thought was that I would need to restock the cart. Ugh. Stocking the cart was always such a pain.

When stocking, I had to make a million trips from the kitchen to my vehicle; my skinny arms loaded down with twelve packs of Bud Light, MGD, and Heineken, hot dogs and condiments precariously perched atop my load. Everything was destined for its place in the Snack Hut just beyond the curve from the 10^th hole. The actual trip to the 10^th hole was always a pretty big pain itself, full of steep hills and sharp curves.

The funny thing is that I had barely begun that annoying trip when I had the accident. I had just started down a tiny hill that would take me down the path that led to The Hut. The four Japanese men were loading up their own cart with clubs and equipment.

I nodded and smiled as I passed them by and rolled down the hill. The momentum from my descent made the golf cart pick up speed, so I put my foot to what I thought was the break.

Moments later I found myself crushed between my cart and a brand new pickup truck with a brand new dent.

After taking a couple of minutes to “recover” and reassure my foreign friends, I managed to make it to the club house where I promptly quit out of the embarrassment I was pretty sure I’d die from.

For weeks after, I walked around with a black eye and hurt pride, being reminded by countless friends the difference between a brake pedal and gas pedal. Yeah, yeah. I would say. Lesson learned.

Author's Note: This was written for the Red Dress Club's RemembeRED prompt. "Write a post that either starts or ends with the words "Lesson learned." Word limit: 400 words." 

A Girl on Horseback

A Girl and her Horse

Thubalup, thubalup, thubalup.

I felt slightly out of control as the horse lurched beneath my body. He was a big guy, and I don’t remember him ever moving that fast before. We’d worked with him for months trying to get him to pick up his pace a bit. For Danny, nothing was worth rushing for, unless it was some sweet feed or a Cheeto. But even then a fast walk would do. He never got in a hurry. Except today. For some reason, today was different. Today, he was going, going, gone.

Thubalup, thubalup, thubalup.

Tightening my legs around his huge barrel of a torso, I held on for dear life and said a quick prayer. I loved horses for the sake of horses not for the sake of speed. In the comfort of a round pen, I didn’t mind a canter, but I much preferred a leisurely trot. I guess that’s why Danny and I got along so well. He was lazy, and I was chicken. A match made in heaven. Except today. Today was different. Today, we were going, going, gone.

Thubalup, thubalup, thubalup.

The horses around us matched our pace perfectly. For a brief moment, we were like one huge four-headed, sixteen-legged creature barreling towards the ends of the Earth, eating up that red Georgia clay like it was the turf of Churchill Downs. My fellow riders whooped and hollered. I closed my eyes and tried to enjoy the sensation of the wind on my face, the sense of freedom that can only really be found on the back of a horse. I opened my eyes again and let myself go like I had never done before on any other day. Except today. Today was different. Today, I was going, going, gone.

Thubalup, thubalup, thubalup.

Then the rain started. It poured down in great sheets, stinging our bodies and slickening the horses’ hides. My jeans contracted, my boots filled. Without much urging, Danny picked up his pace, sensing our need to get to shelter and wait out the storm. The thundering of his massive hooves was now a hollow smacking against the quickly forming mud. We pulled ahead from the pack for only a moment, a moment that will be seared into my memory forever because it was just me and him, us and speed and nature. Going, going, gone.

That’s the last ride I can vividly remember with Danny. All of it was so perfect, so unlike me or him. The rushing through a Georgia rain, the speed and loss of control and care, the final moments of a childhood spent with horses that I hardly ever think of now. Except today. Today is different. Today, I am going, going, gone back to a place and time I will never forget. Back to the frenzied music of a girl on horseback, eating up the rain and the wind.




Write about a time that rhythm, or a lack thereof, played a role in your life. And don’t use the word “rhythm.”

Maybe it’s a time that you danced to a special song. Maybe it’s a period of your life during which the days were marked by a distinct pattern. Or maybe it’s a time that you couldn’t catch your breath because life just kept coming at your randomly.

It’s up to you.

Let’s see if you can convey that rhythm using your writing, and not the word itself. Word limit is 600. Come back here Tuesday and link up!

Remembe(RED): I Would Be Excited, if I Weren't About to Pee My Pants

I had to say "cumulative" five times, which might not have been so bad, but I had to say it five times in front of 2,000 people. Give or take a few hundred. I would have been, should have been excited, but I couldn't really drum up the motivation to be...especially since I was pretty sure I was about to pee my pants.

Sitting there on the hard surface of the metal folding chair, feeling my insides turn to mush, I wasn't looking forward to my future. I wasn't even thinking about my future. The only coherent thought that seemed to be present in my normally over-active adolescent mind was that I had to say "cumulative" five times, and dammit, I wasn't sure that I could even say it once.

One of my fellow graduates was taking her turn at the podium. She was polished, eloquent. Everything that I was not. Her cap sat perfectly atop her head, tassle moving beautifully with the breeze. My cap sat slightly askew, flattening out my unflattering layered bob until it poked out in strange places and took on the appearance of a lady-mullet. Not my best haircut ever, I'll admit.

Miss Fellow Graduate made eye contact with the crowd, smiled a dazzlingly white smile. My own mouth full of teeth encased in metal taunted me. The sharp metallic taste was worse than usual, and I knew that the slight lisp the braces had given me would make my struggle with "cumulative" that much more difficult. I sighed, squirmed in my seat. Why couldn't this night just be over?

With each passing minute, my moment in the spotlight grew closer. Sweat beaded on my brow, I tried to steady my breathing. It wouldn't do to go up there and hyperventilate. I needed to get a grip. I was just an honor graduate; I was just reciting some statistics about our class. It wasn't like I needed to get up there and inspire everyone to immediately run off and become doctors and lawyers. And that was a good thing, too.

The girl at the podium was taking her seat. That meant it was my turn to go up there...in front of all those people. Would I pass out? Would I throw up? Would I, in fact, pee my pants? All would soon be revealed as I took my place in front of the crowd...


This memory was written for The Red Dress Club's RemembeRED prompt:


It's that time of year...graduation.

For this week's prompt we are asking you to remember a graduation.  It doesn't have to be yours and it doesn't have to be high school.




What amazing (or interesting) memory do you have of your high school graduation?


 

Remembe(RED): Baby Card Sharks

What follows is a response to the Red Dress Club prompt:

Let's Play

This week, we want you to recall the games you played when you were young.

Did you love Monopoly, Yahtzee, or Uno? Or did you prefer backgammon, Trouble, or Scrabble?

Write a piece that explores one of your memories.

Let's have a 600 word limit.

Baby Card Sharks

The carpet pressed into the backs of my crossed legs, and when I got up I knew I would have tiny stress marks all over my pale skin, but I didn't care. I was in the throes of a serious competition, and I couldn't be bothered to move. He sat on the floor across from me, eyes intense on the stack of cards in his hands. Neither one of us was any good at shuffling, but we liked to pretend.

"We're playing five-card stud." He explained. "You remember how to play, right?"

No, I didn't, but I wasn't going to tell him that. As an adult, I learned that we were actually playing five card draw. As a child, I simply nodded and watched as his hands clumsily moved the cards around in a semblance of a shuffle. We had just finished playing War, which was always intense with the two of us. Losing simply wasn't an option, a little healthy competition between cousins. The stakes of this game were much higher though. They sat in the crystal candy dish on the floor beside us.

Having satisfactorily mixed up the cards, he dealt. "One for me, one for you. Two for me. Two for you." And so on. With each card dealt, I grabbed it up off the floor lightning-fast and held it close to my chest. There would be no peaking with me around. When he finished dealing, he carefully stacked the remaining cards in between us. "Who should go first?"

Of course, I thought I should. I told him so. This led to a complicated and very intense argument of which I will spare you the details. We were seven year-old cousins; we hadn't quite yet found our patience and understanding with one another. Nevertheless, the fight somehow resolved itself, and we were back to the serious matter at hand.

He grabbed the crystal candy dish, carefully opening the lid and revealing its delicious bounty. Dozens of gold wrappers met our hungry gazes, a virtual treasure trove of Werther's Originals candies. "We'll divide these up and use them as our money." 

All I wanted to do was start eating them. I managed to refrain as he carefully counted them out. To take my mind off the thought of the milky caramel melting away in my mouth, I looked down at my cards. I had a pair and three of a kind. If we were playing Rummy, I'd be in the money. 

"How many are you going to bet?" He asked, looking puzzled over his cards.

I diverted my gaze, twirled my hair, and hummed. Several moments passed. He made an annoyed sound. I twirled my hair some more. "I'll go all in." I said finally, pushing my candies in a pile between us. My feet were long past asleep; I wondered briefly if I'd ever be able to use them again. 

Not to be showed up by his younger-by-six-months girl cousin, he pushed his candies into the pile. I remember feeling defeated. He grinned, knowing he'd bested me. "Show me your cards."

Reluctantly, I flipped them over. Later that day, I learned that my hand was what was called a full house, which beat his pair of twos into the ground. I also learned that eating ten Werther's Originals in one afternoon would make you sick as a dog.

We should have been playing Life or Monopoly that afternoon. Pictionary or Scrabble. A normal game for normal kids. But instead, there we were, two baby card sharks, playing poker and losing all our candy to the habit.