What of the Past?

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Childhood Revisited.”  Sure, you turned out pretty good, but is there anything you wish had been different about your childhood?

10455917_10204558174699331_3410357358904183577_n On my 50th birthday my daughter sent me a card that said, “Congratulations, you are now half a century old!”  (Gotta love that girl)  In response, my next thought, “I’ve lived longer than I have left to live,” resonated within my mind.  This thought came as a surprise and a shock!  I pictured an upturned hour glass, its contents dwindling to the bottom.  Try as I may, I could not flip the glass, so each sand particle sifted its way to lay where it may, proclaiming “The past is the past.”

Therefore, in answer to the proposed question,  I have to reply as the fifty year old woman I am today.  I’m sure my response as a twenty something would have been quite different.

Then I would have traded the old house, of peeling paint, for a brand new, brick model.

My Mom and Dad would be diplomats, CEO’s, doctors and lawyers, anything but  factory workers in a textile mill.

There would be plenty of money to secure my happiness and open the doors to glorious opportunities.

Thank God, through the years, I’ve matured and no longer see the world through the same pair of lenses.

After all,  I  have plodded 601 months, including  12 leap years for a grand total of  18,296 days.  The numerous years, months and days have taught me to be thankful for my past, good and bad.

I now realize, the old house was a home that, not only, kept me safe and warm, but also enveloped the unconditional love of wonderful mother.

The textile mills provided a means for food on the table and clothes on the back.  I learned to be thankful for the provisions.  It also taught me  compassion for those less fortunate and that it, truly  is better to give than receive.

As a child I stuttered profusely.  The shame and frustration I felt  taught me to never give up.  I have a voice and that voice should be heard.  Desiring to be heard has also taught me to listen to others because their voice, though different from mine, is just as important and should be celebrated as such.

My childhood is gone.   It is forever written within the annuals of history.

Our past is the past but know this, it is never silent.  It loudly proclaims many a lesson.  They who have ears let them hear.

Our past, good or bad, is not a curse but a blessing that leads to truth, and there is much freedom in truth.

What of the past?  I would not change it.  It has made me the person I am today.  And 50 years later, I kind of love that person…finally.

Broken Rail/Broken Me

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Broken.”

For this challenge, capture something broken: an old window, a vintage sign, a toy never fixed, a contemplative friend. Or go deeper: find beauty in something broken.

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I captured this photo of a broken rail after it captured me!

I’m a runner.  Sometimes I’m pretty good at it but most of the time it kicks my ass, and this was one of those ass-kicking days.

It seemed to be a normal run because I had, once again, forgotten my inhaler, forgotten my sunscreen and forgotten my five minute, warm-up, walk.  Unfortunately all of this forgetfulness gave louder voice to the lies of the first mile, that every runner experiences:  “I can’t breath,  my skin is on fire, my legs are killing me, my feet are made of lead, I am going to die and I have to pee.”

My intentions were to run thirty minutes from my door and then take an about face and run the distance back.  So off I went hitting the pavement one foot at a time and didn’t stop until I came upon and old abandoned railway.

Intrigued, I changed course from pavement to trail in order to explore this new find.   The way was quite ragged so it wasn’t long before I stumbled over a rock and skinned my knee.  I stood up, blood running down my leg, and ga521739_10201260434657891_1619077758_nzed at the broken rail.

It was beautiful.

Cell phone in hand, I captured the brokenness that had broken me.  I was a warrior and I had the scar to prove it.

Enveloped In Love

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Enveloped.”

When I think of the word enveloped, one thing comes to mind, love.  Could you possibly be surrounded by anything better?

I treasure the love of God that envelops me, always.  Corinne, the love of my life, envelopes me with love…and I am blessed.  Unconditional love  is given, without question, from our beloved pets.

And so it is with these thoughts, I took a walk through pictures of memories past.  These are my photos that convey enveloped.

Kisses

Maggie giving kisses to Corinne.

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Morris enveloping me in his arms as well as his snores.

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Luna enveloping me in her trust.

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Danica enveloped within a reflection.

Me my girls and the beach

Me enveloping my girls with a hug full of love.

The Road To Chimney Rock

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “To Sleep, Perchance to Dream.”

chimney-rock-north-carolinaWhen I perchance to dream I often think of my childhood days spent within the Appalachian mountains.  Many a day was spent in the backseat of my brother’s red 442.  With Larry at the wheel and Vicki beside him, we traveled  a many mountain road.  This poem is about the excitement I felt upon one of those roads:

The Road to Chimney Rock

I remember the road of asphalt and tar,

As girl, I looked from the back seat of a car.

A snaky creature it seemed to be,

Weaving its girth around many  a tree.

Through Appalachia it coiled its way,

Up mountains then down where valleys lay.

The little car would sputter and spit,

But it was determined and would not quit.

Each hairpin curve held promise for me,

A mystery, for sure,

this red head to see.

lec101Maybe a Cherokee with bow and quiver,

Drinking the fruit of a mountain river?

Bear1

Or maybe a bear, with cubs of two,

Searching for nuts and berries of blue?

It could be a goat chewing his cud,

There by the laurel beginning to bud?

Perhaps a tunnel deep and dark,

Grim and cold, desolate and stark?

En06-Lumsdale-Waterfall-and-full-spectrum-rainbowLet’s not forget the waterfall too,

Its prisms mirrored in morning’s dew.

And rocky crags on mountains sit,

That plummet into a bottomless pit!

Then it is there for my eyes to behold,

A massif pillar, ancient rock of old.

Into the heavens so high it arose,

I saw through, binoculars atop my nose.

A smokestack it seemed, American flag on top,

This road had led to Chimney Rock.85d03d549c028f35003a4d619c75817a

Now, as a women, I ponder that day,

With fondness of heart, within me lay.

My future, my roads, my paths, my lot,

Enchanted, to be as the road to Chimney Rock.

The Mad Hatter!

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Green-Eyed Monster.”

the_mad_hatter_by_isabellewallgren-d525r5rI couldn’t really pull a green-eyed-monster out of the hat this morning so I decided to throw caution to wind and free write for 20 minutes.

And away we go!  Twenty minutes here I come.  I will eat you up like a ice cream cone in the summer.  I’m sure I’ll devour you so fast I’ll have the biggest brain freeze this side of the North Pole.

So what to write?  Hell if I know and besides that’s not the point.  It doesn’t matter a hoot and a holler what the damn words scream from the page.  No.  The point with exercise is just to write like a mad woman.  I think I could be a damn good mad women.  Heck I’d probably even win an Academy Award, because in truth I’m already half way there…to madness, I mean.  The mad-hatter has nothing on me!

Oh damn…there goes my phone.  The question is:  should I continue this pointless exercise or answer the phone.  Oh well…problem solved.  By the time it took me to write that last sentence my phone began to sleep as quiet as a baby.  Thank God….this is an exercise of thoughtlessness.  No smarts required to fill a page with ink letters.  Crap if I were so inclined I could just hold down one key for 2o minutes.  For instance…lets say my left pinkie suddenly put on tons and weight and for the life of itself it fell and couldn’t get up.  His/Her fall would look something like this: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Well there you have it.  It doesn’t pay to gain weight too fast, because if you do you’ll get stuck in a rut just like the little “a” above.  I should have seen that one coming.  I’ve been stuck in rut for a while (about 2 years now) Been gaining weight on a steady basis since the death of my mom.  I know….I know…it sounds as if I’m using that as a crutch!  BUT it’s the God honest truth.  Before her death I was on a downward spiral but in a good way.  I was loosing weight and training to run in a 1/2 marathon and then it happened, she died.  I felt as if something inside of me went with her into that casket.  I remember when they started tucking the cloth inside the rim of the casket and I knew what was next.  They would shut my mom in a box of darkness.  I couldn’t help it…I cried and had to turn away because I just couldn’t watch them do it.  I must have looked too long because some of  me is still trapped in that darkness.  Like a blind person it is pressing it’s hands against the walls and trying it’s best to escape.

My 20 minutes are up.

Going to answer the phone.

20 Days of Writing 101: Day 1

20 days of writing inspiration…each day offers a new prompt and a special twist.

Day 1:   Today, take twenty minutes to free write. And don’t think about what you’ll write. Just write. Keep typing (or scribbling, if you prefer to hand-write for this exercise) until your twenty minutes are up. 

the_mad_hatter_by_isabellewallgren-d525r5rAnd away we go!  Twenty minutes here I come.  I will eat you up like a ice cream cone in the summer.  I’m sure I’ll devour you so fast I’ll have the biggest brain freeze this side of the North Pole.

So what to write?  Hell if I know and besides that’s not the point.  It doesn’t matter a hoot and a holler what the damn words scream from the page.  No.  The point with exercise is just to write like a mad woman.  I think I could be a damn good mad women.  Heck I’d probably even win an Academy Award, because in truth I’m already half way there…to madness, I mean.  The mad-hatter has nothing on me!

Oh damn…there goes my phone.  The question is:  should I continue this pointless exercise or answer the phone.  Oh well…problem solved.  By the time it took me to write that last sentence my phone began to sleep as quiet as a baby.  Thank God….this is an exercise of thoughtlessness.  No smarts required to fill a page with ink letters.  Crap if I were so inclined I could just hold down one key for 2o minutes.  For instance…lets say my left pinkie suddenly put on tons and weight and for the life of itself it fell and couldn’t get up.  His/Her fall would look something like this: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Well there you have it.  It doesn’t pay to gain weight too fast, because if you do you’ll get stuck in a rut just like the little “a” above.  I should have seen that one coming.  I’ve been stuck in rut for a while (about 2 years now) Been gaining weight on a steady basis since the death of my mom.  I know….I know…it sounds as if I’m using that as a crutch!  BUT it’s the God honest truth.  Before her death I was on a downward spiral but in a good way.  I was loosing weight and training to run in a 1/2 marathon and then it happened, she died.  I felt as if something inside of me went with her into that casket.  I remember when they started tucking the cloth inside the rim of the casket and I knew what was next.  They would shut my mom in a box of darkness.  I couldn’t help it…I cried and had to turn away because I just couldn’t watch them do it.  I must have looked too long because some of  me is still trapped in that darkness.  Like a blind person it is pressing it’s hands against the walls and trying it’s best to escape.

My 20 minutes are up.

Going to answer the phone.

Now That’s What I Call “Styling”

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Clothes (May) Make the (Wo)man.”

Question:  How important are clothes to you? Describe your style, if you have one, and tell us how appearance impacts how you feel about yourself.

country-girl-21307767Without clothes where would I be?   I guess I would be hanging my hat at my residence in a nudest colony.  (Is it against the rules to wear a hat there?) Hey, anything’s possible, and you have to admit it could be downright interesting.  I wouldn’t have to spend money on clothes but  I wonder  how many cases of sunscreen would it take to keep my lilly-white fanny from blistering.  Being Scotch-Irish I would do well, indeed, to slather myself from head to toe and not just me arse!  Therefore, to answer the first question, clothes are important  because I don’t relish the idea of modeling various degrees and shades of skin cancer.  That’s one run-way I’d truly like to avoid.

If you haven’t already guessed just let me make it clear I’m definitely not a clothes whore, far from it.  I grew up relatively poor.  My mom was a single mom who worked very hard to keep us fed and clothed, and she did a damn fine job.  I always had something to put in my belly and I never had to walk barefoot in the snow as claimed by many a old timer.  Neither were my under drawers sown from burlap flour sacks.  They were made from the cotton that grew in the fields close by.  So when I claim to growing up poor I’m definitely not painting a picture of bloated bellies and rundown shacks.

The scenery of my childhood was more to the liking of pinto beans and cornbread,  fires from a wood stove and paper bags of hand-me-downs  from siblings, cousins and friends.  The red haired, pony-tailed girl I use to be enjoyed seeing each one of those grocery bags of used clothes.  country-girl-cayla-samano

Times have changed.  The pony-tailed girl now lives in a 50 year old body.  I purchase jeans and tees from Kohls ,  enjoy steaks from Texas Roadhouse, drive a truck I adore, feed not only myself but also a wife, two dogs, two cats and anyone who happens to walk through the front (or back) door at supper time.   Indeed my social and economic status has improved but I can honestly say I’m still a simple country girl who is tickled pink to wear faded Levis, “Walking Dead” tee-shirts and a good pair of Asics for my feet.  Now that’s what I call styling!