December in West Texas. Welcome, ya'll

 

Same location, 24 hour difference

 

 

 

Am I a writer?

Am I A Writer?

I once had a friend who is a writer. I never perceived myself as one, although he said I was. I thought of myself as more of a commentator, communicator, recapper. But reading his essays and stories inspire me. 

Sometimes I prefer reading to watching movies. When you watch a movie, you are the puppet of the cinematographer, the music composer, the set director, the actors. They decide what emotions you are going to examine. You experience their action, hear their sentiment, see their vision, listen to their words. They dictate what you will feel.

When you read a good writer, there is no scenery to be seen, no adagio or crescendo to hear to know when emotion should be felt. There are no faces seen for tears or smiles. There are only words. Words that summon all these emotions in your mind. Words that come from the pen of the wordsmith. 

A good writer will take you to a beach and you will taste the salt in the air and feel the sand beneath your feet. A good writer will suggest that there are no ghosts, but you will still see them. A good writer will have you see dripping moss from a tree. A good writer will bring you into his writer's mind and you will revel in it. A good writer will take you to the edge and back. 

My friend is such a writer.

Am I a writer?

Family, Death and a Wish

Family, Death and a Wish

I'm a baby boomer, born in 1955. One of the lucky bunch of boomers who were raised in a loving home, by parents who were married 50 plus years. My Daddy was a farmer, successful for the time. My maternal grandparents were also farmers and custom combiners, as were Aunt T and Uncle K. 

I was raised in the country, one quarter of a mile each way from my Grandparents, Aunt, Uncle and four cousins. I also had a beloved Aunt J, whom I'm named for, who lived in the Big City, 30 miles away, with my favorite Cousin P. Close family ties doesn't begin to describe our family. Holidays were spent together always, loving was big, as were spankings when a wayward child needed one.  We cousins always played with each other because the country road was our neighborhood, there were no others. 

We all learned to drive at young ages, driving grain trucks and pickup trucks up and down the turn rows. Playing hide and seek in cotton seed bins, riding ol Red Eye palomino around the farm. FAMILY, Family, family.

Then My Grandmommie died. She was 65. My Mother, who was the oldest of three sisters, found her. It seemed she had just laid down for a nap and never woke up. My Mother was devastated. Aunt J was devastated. Aunt T was devastated. Our FAMILY  was broken. 

My Mother was convinced she would also die at 65, just like Grandmommie. Why, I never learned. But she didn't. 

My Mother lived another thirteen years past age 65. At Christmastime. She died. She didn't just lay down to take a nap. My Daddy was devastated. Aunt J was devastated. Aunt T was devastated. I was devastated.  Our Family was broken some more. 

My Aunt J, whom I love without condition, was a pioneer. She moved away from the Big City to an even bigger  BIG CITY.  Twelve hundred miles away. She and Cousin P. Away from the Family. I moved there, too,  for part of my life. Maybe I was a pioneer, too. Moving away. Leaving from Family.

My beloved Aunt J lived another fifteen years past age 65.  After Christmastime. She died. She didn't just lay down to take a nap. Cousin P was devastated. Aunt T was devastated. I was devastated. Our family is dying.

My sweet Aunt T. She has lost her mother, her Sisters. She is sick. She is lonely. She is sad. She has a wish. She wishes she could just lay down and take a nap forever. 

I am devastated. 

Fantasy??

I had someone once ask me if I "indulge" in fantasies. Really? From the timbre of the voice asking the question, indulge had a negative meaning.  I always looked at the word "indulge" as a good thing. Not like bingeing, more like enjoying, savoring. Fantasies. Then I started wondering didn't everyone have them? If you do, do you view them as good, bad, indifferent, a natural part of life?

As children, I think most of us have them, whether they are understood as fantasies, pretending, or play like . . .

Did you play like when you climbed up a Pecan tree in your backyard and you thought you were Tarzan? Flying, hanging on the vines, living with animals?

 Or did you go swimming in a ditch and pretend you were a fish? Seeing other fish in the ocean and never wanting to go up for air?

Let's play like we're Indians and hunt for our food. Is that a rabbit there? Or just Moose, the cat?

When do pretend and play like change to fantasies? Or do they? What's the definition of being someone you're really not? Is that it? Are you not really you in pretend, or a different you? 

Are fantasies big people's "lets pretend"? 

When you're a big person and the fantasies become "Fantasies!", are they good? Are they fun? Should they be? 

If you're with a lover, is it good to have play like? To pretend? Personally, I think so. That's spiced, saucy, fun. 

If you're with a lover, is it good to have a fantasy? 

To me, fantasy is private,  clandestine, secret, hidden. Longing in the early morning hours. Touching. Making love with an unknown. 

What's the difference? Is there a difference? 

Lets play like . . .

My Best Friend

My maternal Grandmother was my best friend and I knew I was her favorite grandchild. My Grandmommy. 

She had seven grandchildren and we all lived within a quarter of a mile from each other, except one. My most beloved cousin, but that's a different story. 

We lived in the country. We tried to ride skates on our driveways (the skates with keys), but the driveways were made from concrete and were cracked, so that didn't work so well. But we could ride our bikes down the road and make up stories as to who we were and where we were going.  "Let's pretend I'm Zorro and you're the Mexican Governor." Which meant, in my nine year old mind, I was going to win. Our local dry cleaners had clothes covers that were fashioned like Zorro's cape, with the big Z on the front. You'd cut out the neck and the arms, put it on, and you were Him. I was Zorro. My male cousin was always the bad guy. I always won.

One day we decided to get really creative. We took our bikes down the road, laid them down. R laid down next to his. I knelt next to him with my hand on his chest. I watched, watched and waited for a car to drive up. I see one coming.  I'm about to get the Academy Award. The car stops. I begin screamingly "R has been hit! He's dead!" 

Oh holy crap. It's my Grandmommy. 

R and I jump up, hop on our bikes and race to R's house. 

Oh, holy crap, she's following us. 

Someone got a spanking. It wasn't me. 

Sunday morning tête-à-tête

The bed is warm and comfy, the air in the bedroom is cool. The small fan on the dresser is spinning its white noise. I know I should get up, but it's Sunday morning and this just feels too good. I start to drift off again when I feel movement on the other side of the bed. I know who it is. I am all too familiar with his tactics. I turn over on my side hoping, but already knowing I'm wrong, he'll stretch out next to me and just be content to cuddle  He pauses just for a moment to reassess the situation. I feel the pressure on the bed as he moves closer to me. I lay very still and try to play possum, but I know he will not be denied. He moves down to the foot of the bed and I feel the pressure of him begin at my feet, move up to my thigh and higher still.  He reaches up to pull the sheet down from around my neck to expose my chest. It is at this moment that he makes his first sound.

"MEOW!" Bosco is only the point man. The other two cats stare at me from the doorway. Breakfast is late.

I've been told you have to start sometime. Start soft or hard, right now, this is a soft start.

Red Lines

Appliances are necessary in the modern world. Wash dishes in the dishwasher if there is a full load. Bake a turkey when it's the season if that's your thing. But the most important appliance to me is the dryer. I live in west Texas (which is the geographic term bestowed on us by the "news people", even though we really live in the north part of Texas). We can't dry our clothes on the line here because we have blowing dirt. Blowing dirt that is sometimes red. So red and dark that, sometimes at four o'clock, the street lights turn on. So, even though I love the way sheets smell after hanging on a line stretched across the back yard, that's pretty much impossible here. So, back to the dryer. Got a load? Put it in the dryer. Push the button. Dry, dry, dry. Then "wheeeek, wheeek, wheeek, wheeek" pause "wheeek, wheeek, wheeek". I hear a high D flat. Over and over. It's 40 degrees here right now. Where is my line?

~Melinda from Texas

Daddy's Juliet

I've just seen the best commercial. A Daddy carrying his daughter reciting a line from "Romeo and Juliet".
 "I am too bold. 'Tis not to me she speaks.

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,

Having some business, do entreat her eyes

To twinkle in their spheres till they return.

What if her eyes were there, they in her head?