Lauren Christine ... doesn't the name ring of all things pink and princessey? Our new baby girl, our new granddaughter was born on the 18th of March. Both mama and baby are doing well and little brother (or should I say big brother) is taking it all in stride. I don't think he's aware of the significance of his new little sister yet, as he's still just a baby himself. But Drew (who is almost 2) had a whole bunch of fun running the hospital's hallways during visits. As soon as I can, I'll post some pictures. They are two beautiful children, I really must say.
Thing is ... Chris, Nicole, Drew and now Lauren, reside in Arizona. Michael has not had the grandfatherly pleasure of holding his granddaughter yet. And God only knows when that will be. We're not able to make it down there, with working and so many things going on here. It's not easy living so far away from your kids. Everyone in this family has felt so torn at one time or another. Life takes its toll on your mental and physical health when family members are spread apart.
Once upon a time, whole families lived in one big house. Privacy was at a minimum, but it was a financial necessity. I think we're returning to that time. Raising a family is not easy. But it's much easier when grandparents live nearby. Nicole and Chris are blessed with her parents to help them at this time. I know other families who depend on grandma and grandpa for support in one way or another.
It seems the more technology we amass in this country, nothing really changes much. We're all still people, with the same wants, needs, wishes, and hopes for the future that our ancestors possessed. We still fight wars, struggle for the American Dream, get sick, give birth, raise children, die. Sure, there are more channels on our TV, our kids face different distractions, but when you boil it all down ... just how different are we from those who pioneered this country?
I'm not talking about how much easier it is now than then. Sure, we have household appliances these days and aren't forced to wash our clothes in the river. I'm talking about in general. We're still people. We've not evolved into a human much different than our great great grandparents.
My point is, we hurt the same, cry the same, and want the same dreams to come true that they did.
We've yet to find a miracle drug for yearning, longing, excessive hoping. We're all going to go the same way we came in ... with family around us.
Family ... the word is trite and overused. But oh, how precious the meaning. We're blessed to have a new little girl who just recently came into our family. Welcome.
Things to think about this morning.
Blessings to you and yours.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
These Dreams
Consider these song lyrics by Heart, made popular by the same group:
Spare a little candle, save some light for me. Figures up ahead moving in the trees. White skin in linen, Perfume on my wrist, and the full moon that hangs over these dreams in the mist.
Darkness on the edge, shadows where I stand, I search for the time on a watch with no hands, I want to see you clearly, come closer to this come closer to this. But all I remember are the dreams in the mist.
Is it cloak and dagger, could it be Spring or Fall? I walk without a cut through a stained-glass wall. Weaker in my eyesight, a candle in my grip, and words that have no form are falling from my lips.
There's something out there I can't resist. I need to hide away from the pain. There's something out there I can't resist.
The sweetest song is silence that I've ever heard. Funny how your feet in dreams never touch the Earth. In a wood full of princes, freedom is a kiss. But the Prince hides his face from dreams in the mist.
CHORUS
These dreams go on when I close my eyes. Every second of the night, I live another life. These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside, every moment I'm awake, the further I'm away.
Pretty song but a bit spooky. Yet to a dreamer like me, it speaks volumes. I’m a dreamer. Not the heady kind who consistently has her head in the clouds daydreaming, fantasizing, scheming, an optimist with no vision of reality. No, not that kind of dreamer.
I dream dark, murky, and often violent dreams. At night. When I’m in a deep sleep. Often, I have night terrors, waking my husband with a scream or in a sweaty fit. I’m infected; it seems, by visions of my past. For some unknown reason, there are two things I dream about consistently. Tornados and the house I grew up in. Last night was one of strangest dreams about the old house on Waterloo Rd.
During my growing up time, nothing scared me there. I felt loved by my parents, safe, cared for. But truly, strange things happened in that house. Mostly to my mother, who has always been sensitive to “things not seen.” But that’s a subject for another blog.
Anyway, in this latest dream, I was standing in my mother’s kitchen. It looked exactly as it did when we lived there. My parent’s house was full of antiques, but tastefully done. I was peering out the windows over the kitchen sink which happened to be the front of the house. Suddenly, a large bolt of lightning exploded in a straight line from a violent sky. It seared across the front yard, like a ban saw, heading straight to the middle of house. As it cut the house in half, a train track appeared and a passenger train crashed through the house. The train stopped, as if the middle of my parent’s house was a train stop. People got out. Nice folks, apologizing for this horrible intrusion. I was screaming, “How can you do this? Why did you ruin this house? Watch out, don’t touch a thing! Stay away! Get out of here! Get out!”
In a way, I suppose it sounds funny. But in the dream, it was no less than terrifying. In other dreams, I’ve watched my parent’s old house slide off the face of the earth into some red, hot abyss. Tornados tearing it apart, and on and on. But always, my nightmares are about this old house. A house I’ve not seen since the day they moved out over a decade ago. I’ve heard the new owners have all but trashed it. But I dream about this place of my growing-up years, at least once or twice month.
Why?
I’ve not a clue. I heard once that someone died in that house. Way back in the 20s or 30s. It was a pretty house. My dad worked endless hours on it, remodeling every part of it. His handiwork was evident in each room. Mom, however, worked like a dog to clean it, repair it, fix it, and decorate it. She was glad, she said, to leave it and move back to the South. It was nothing but work to her.
To me, it’s nothing but a memory. And often, a nightmare. But again, I have no idea why.
I think it’s time to pray it out of my head. I need to get a good night’s sleep.
Blessings to you and yours.
Spare a little candle, save some light for me. Figures up ahead moving in the trees. White skin in linen, Perfume on my wrist, and the full moon that hangs over these dreams in the mist.
Darkness on the edge, shadows where I stand, I search for the time on a watch with no hands, I want to see you clearly, come closer to this come closer to this. But all I remember are the dreams in the mist.
Is it cloak and dagger, could it be Spring or Fall? I walk without a cut through a stained-glass wall. Weaker in my eyesight, a candle in my grip, and words that have no form are falling from my lips.
There's something out there I can't resist. I need to hide away from the pain. There's something out there I can't resist.
The sweetest song is silence that I've ever heard. Funny how your feet in dreams never touch the Earth. In a wood full of princes, freedom is a kiss. But the Prince hides his face from dreams in the mist.
CHORUS
These dreams go on when I close my eyes. Every second of the night, I live another life. These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside, every moment I'm awake, the further I'm away.
Pretty song but a bit spooky. Yet to a dreamer like me, it speaks volumes. I’m a dreamer. Not the heady kind who consistently has her head in the clouds daydreaming, fantasizing, scheming, an optimist with no vision of reality. No, not that kind of dreamer.
I dream dark, murky, and often violent dreams. At night. When I’m in a deep sleep. Often, I have night terrors, waking my husband with a scream or in a sweaty fit. I’m infected; it seems, by visions of my past. For some unknown reason, there are two things I dream about consistently. Tornados and the house I grew up in. Last night was one of strangest dreams about the old house on Waterloo Rd.
During my growing up time, nothing scared me there. I felt loved by my parents, safe, cared for. But truly, strange things happened in that house. Mostly to my mother, who has always been sensitive to “things not seen.” But that’s a subject for another blog.
Anyway, in this latest dream, I was standing in my mother’s kitchen. It looked exactly as it did when we lived there. My parent’s house was full of antiques, but tastefully done. I was peering out the windows over the kitchen sink which happened to be the front of the house. Suddenly, a large bolt of lightning exploded in a straight line from a violent sky. It seared across the front yard, like a ban saw, heading straight to the middle of house. As it cut the house in half, a train track appeared and a passenger train crashed through the house. The train stopped, as if the middle of my parent’s house was a train stop. People got out. Nice folks, apologizing for this horrible intrusion. I was screaming, “How can you do this? Why did you ruin this house? Watch out, don’t touch a thing! Stay away! Get out of here! Get out!”
In a way, I suppose it sounds funny. But in the dream, it was no less than terrifying. In other dreams, I’ve watched my parent’s old house slide off the face of the earth into some red, hot abyss. Tornados tearing it apart, and on and on. But always, my nightmares are about this old house. A house I’ve not seen since the day they moved out over a decade ago. I’ve heard the new owners have all but trashed it. But I dream about this place of my growing-up years, at least once or twice month.
Why?
I’ve not a clue. I heard once that someone died in that house. Way back in the 20s or 30s. It was a pretty house. My dad worked endless hours on it, remodeling every part of it. His handiwork was evident in each room. Mom, however, worked like a dog to clean it, repair it, fix it, and decorate it. She was glad, she said, to leave it and move back to the South. It was nothing but work to her.
To me, it’s nothing but a memory. And often, a nightmare. But again, I have no idea why.
I think it’s time to pray it out of my head. I need to get a good night’s sleep.
Blessings to you and yours.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
River Song
River held tight to the end of her rope. He'd left her for the last time, he’d said. He'd left her every Valentine’s Day. But this time he’d packed his favorite shirt, his socks, and his dog.
Piney’s words echoed off peeling walls and cardboard ceiling tiles. "Cain’t do it anymore. I cain’t pretend this is where I'm supposed to be."
River could hear his Dodge, as eager to get out of town as her husband. The truck’s muffler rumbled and spit behind foggy windowpanes. She sat in tense silence and stared at the faded green carpet, averting her eyes from the conflict. Slumped down into the old, overstuffed couch, venturing sheepish glances as she clutched her mama’s throw pillows, this time felt different.
Wiping tears from swollen eyes, River whispered to her daughter who straddled the arm of the couch as if sitting atop her horse. "Sit by me, Kip."
But the nine-year-old, transfixed by her daddy’s fit, licked at her own tears while her parents bludgeoned each other with words.
"You know where you can find me," said Piney. His mouth was set in its distinctive smile, but his eyes were hollow.
"Go then!" River shouted. He’d worn her down with authoritative edicts that made no sense. Every time she presented a logical explanation, Piney shot back with something asinine wrapped in his typical theological and patronizing tone. His agitation bubbled under the surface of his reasons for flight, but his face bore no sign of fire. It only grew more rugged and redder by the second.
********************
This is the first part of my new short story, River Song.
Blessings to you and yours.
Piney’s words echoed off peeling walls and cardboard ceiling tiles. "Cain’t do it anymore. I cain’t pretend this is where I'm supposed to be."
River could hear his Dodge, as eager to get out of town as her husband. The truck’s muffler rumbled and spit behind foggy windowpanes. She sat in tense silence and stared at the faded green carpet, averting her eyes from the conflict. Slumped down into the old, overstuffed couch, venturing sheepish glances as she clutched her mama’s throw pillows, this time felt different.
Wiping tears from swollen eyes, River whispered to her daughter who straddled the arm of the couch as if sitting atop her horse. "Sit by me, Kip."
But the nine-year-old, transfixed by her daddy’s fit, licked at her own tears while her parents bludgeoned each other with words.
"You know where you can find me," said Piney. His mouth was set in its distinctive smile, but his eyes were hollow.
"Go then!" River shouted. He’d worn her down with authoritative edicts that made no sense. Every time she presented a logical explanation, Piney shot back with something asinine wrapped in his typical theological and patronizing tone. His agitation bubbled under the surface of his reasons for flight, but his face bore no sign of fire. It only grew more rugged and redder by the second.
********************
This is the first part of my new short story, River Song.
Blessings to you and yours.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Yikes!
Lordy.
It's been forever, it seems, since blogging.
Maybe I've given it up for lent. My lent happened back in February, I suppose. I've been taking a sabbatical from every thing I used to do.
Except writing stories.
I've written a couple stories for contests and have been working steadily on Book Three of the Televenge Trilogy. But since I'm working full-time right now, blogging takes a back seat. Like when you used to sit in the back of your dad's station wagon. Way back.
It's my life right now.
My blog on my dog has mysteriously disappeared, so in case you're wondering about Harley, he's doing just great! I love my dog! Love, love, love him. He's the best dog ever, I swear. He's learning new tricks ... like stay, come, down, speak.
It's been fun, despite the cold North Carolina weather. Our recent snow accumulation is about gone, the daffodils and spring flowers are poking through the ground. Soon the South will draw in it's famous hot weather and we're back to our norm for this time of the year.
Ah, yes ... the plight of this writer is just to get from one day to the next, one story to the next, and not worry about the blog, which, I'm sure I've lost most of my readers anyway. But I'm moving forward once again in getting something published this year and there's only so many hours in a day. So peak in from time to time.
I'll hit this blog every so often.
Yikes!
Blessings to those who continue to watch for me, despite my shortcomings.
It's been forever, it seems, since blogging.
Maybe I've given it up for lent. My lent happened back in February, I suppose. I've been taking a sabbatical from every thing I used to do.
Except writing stories.
I've written a couple stories for contests and have been working steadily on Book Three of the Televenge Trilogy. But since I'm working full-time right now, blogging takes a back seat. Like when you used to sit in the back of your dad's station wagon. Way back.
It's my life right now.
My blog on my dog has mysteriously disappeared, so in case you're wondering about Harley, he's doing just great! I love my dog! Love, love, love him. He's the best dog ever, I swear. He's learning new tricks ... like stay, come, down, speak.
It's been fun, despite the cold North Carolina weather. Our recent snow accumulation is about gone, the daffodils and spring flowers are poking through the ground. Soon the South will draw in it's famous hot weather and we're back to our norm for this time of the year.
Ah, yes ... the plight of this writer is just to get from one day to the next, one story to the next, and not worry about the blog, which, I'm sure I've lost most of my readers anyway. But I'm moving forward once again in getting something published this year and there's only so many hours in a day. So peak in from time to time.
I'll hit this blog every so often.
Yikes!
Blessings to those who continue to watch for me, despite my shortcomings.
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