Assignment #11
Here are three sets of words. Use all the words in each set to write mini-stories in 300 words or less.
Set 1
Paper clips, principle, lunchbox, swing, girl with a pink ribbon
It’s 8:30 in the morning and already it’s been the worst day of my life. See, I have a bad habit of swinging my lunchbox as I walk. Swing, swing, swing, swing back and forth in rhythm with my steps. I’ve never paid much attention to it actually until today. I was hurrying along, running a bit late, so I was swinging it harder and faster than usual. Hard enough that when the handle broke it flew probably twenty feet through the air before it hit the little girl with the pink ribbon in the head.
It knocked her clean out. The ambulance came and she had to go to the hospital. They said something about a concussion. So here I sit. Counting the paper clips spilling from the container on Principle Hale’s desk. He’ll be here soon demanding an explanation. It was an accident, though they’ll never believe it. I don’t even know her and they’re convinced I tried to decapitate her with my lunchbox. Is it MY fault the handle broke? The stupid lunchbox maker should have made it stronger than that. Maybe I can use that as my defense. Yeah. Works in court.
There are 23 paperclips on Principle Hale’s desk. Life stinks.
Set 2 -- Biology, class card, foreign student, leaf, blood sample
She looked at her class card again. Biology 101, Jones Hall, Room 314, 11:00 am, yes, this was the right place. “How odd,” She thought, “No one is here.” She checked her watch again. 11:05 am. She was late actually and somehow she was still the first one there. “Something must be wrong,” she muttered to herself as she turned to leave. As a foreign student sometimes she still had problems with the language and she wanted to be sure she hadn’t misunderstood the schedule.
“Pardon me,” she said to the young woman behind the desk. “Can you tell me what happened to the 11 o’clock Biology 101 class that is supposed to be meeting in Jones Hall?” She brushed at a leaf that had somehow landed in her hair and waited for an answer. None came. “Excuse me.” She said a bit more forcefully. The startled young woman behind the desk removed the ear buds of her iPod from her ears. “I’m so sorry. Did you ask me something?” Sighing, she repeated her question and finally discovered that her biology class had been cancelled and she would have to register for another section.
Frustrated, she strode purposefully away to the registrars office and found a spot in the long line. After giving the registrar what seemed like everything but a blood sample she finally got the class she needed. She laughed a bit at her own frustration. How quickly she’d become accustomed to getting what she wanted. How different a future this was than the one she’d have had if Saddam hadn’t been overthrown. She smiled at the flag flying over the quad. God bless America.
Set 3 -- typewriter, filing cabinet, puncher, clerk, carbon paper, janitor
She looked around the dilapidated office that the janitor had just unlocked for her. It looked as if it were a museum from the 70’s. An olive green army surplus desk dominated the room and a matching filing cabinet stood in the corner. On the desk was a massive IBM Selectric typewriter. She hadn’t seen one of those in twenty years. “What next,” she wondered, “carbon paper?”
She’d slaved for years as a card puncher. She’d been a retail clerk. She’d been a factory worker. She’d worked in a lawyer’s office. She’d punched one time clock after another in a series of dead end jobs until she’d scrimped and saved enough to try to make a go of it own her own as a writer. She’d rented this little office sight unseen. A fact she was now beginning to regret. Oh well.
She thanked the janitor, asked him about the cleaning schedule and closed the door behind him when he left. This was it. She was on her own. Taking a set of stencils and a bottle of gold paint from her briefcase she carefully stenciled on the glass of the door. “Tara Scott, Author.” She opened the door again and admired her handiwork. Looking around the office again she smiled. With a banker’s lamp on the desk it would look exactly the way a stereotypical writers office should look. She’d be happy here. Hopefully she’d be successful too. Time would tell.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Ok. Yesterday's assignment took me forever to come up with an object. I told you I didn't like that assignment. Hopefully the result will be ok though.
My Life as A Switchboard
Until very recently
I've spent my life
As A human Switchboard
The point of contact
Between a diverse group of people
That found it more convenient
To pass messages through me
Than to deal directly with one another
I had been a switchboard for so long
That I didn't realize
There was anything else to be
Or that there could possibly
Be anything wrong
With being a switchboard
I was a very reliable switchboard
Only passing along messages given me
Not adding my own spin on them
Yet it seemed I was constantly
In the middle of someone else's conflicts
And genuinely puzzled as to how I got there.
C had an issue with D but came to me
Because I knew how to handle D
So why then is D mad at me?
It was a puzzlement.
Many fights
Many talks
Many tears
Before finally I understood
A switchboard is an object.
You use objects.
You love people.
And I was being USED.
So I ceased to allow myself
To be an object
And when I was no longer
Living my life as a switchboard
Peace came.
And the people who really loved me
Remain.
Sometimes old users
Still try and plug in
But now they get
"All circuits are busy
Please contact the party you wish to deal with directly
The switchboard is closed."
And I am happy.
My Life as A Switchboard
Until very recently
I've spent my life
As A human Switchboard
The point of contact
Between a diverse group of people
That found it more convenient
To pass messages through me
Than to deal directly with one another
I had been a switchboard for so long
That I didn't realize
There was anything else to be
Or that there could possibly
Be anything wrong
With being a switchboard
I was a very reliable switchboard
Only passing along messages given me
Not adding my own spin on them
Yet it seemed I was constantly
In the middle of someone else's conflicts
And genuinely puzzled as to how I got there.
C had an issue with D but came to me
Because I knew how to handle D
So why then is D mad at me?
It was a puzzlement.
Many fights
Many talks
Many tears
Before finally I understood
A switchboard is an object.
You use objects.
You love people.
And I was being USED.
So I ceased to allow myself
To be an object
And when I was no longer
Living my life as a switchboard
Peace came.
And the people who really loved me
Remain.
Sometimes old users
Still try and plug in
But now they get
"All circuits are busy
Please contact the party you wish to deal with directly
The switchboard is closed."
And I am happy.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Assignment #10
Write a poem about an object that describes you. First choose an object. Next list the reasons that this object describes you. Which is the most powerful? Which conveys the strongest image of you? Once your main image is chosen list supporting ideas. Build your poem from there.
Once again, I'm not wild about this assignment. I shall think on it awhile and be back.
Write a poem about an object that describes you. First choose an object. Next list the reasons that this object describes you. Which is the most powerful? Which conveys the strongest image of you? Once your main image is chosen list supporting ideas. Build your poem from there.
Once again, I'm not wild about this assignment. I shall think on it awhile and be back.
Monday, October 25, 2004
Assignment #9
Write about how you feel right now using your sense of smell. If you feel frustrated, write about what your frustration smells like. Use lots of adjectives.
Can I just say I don't like this assignment.
PMS Smells like Chocolate
I woke up this morning with that feeling,
ladies you know the one.
When nothing is right
and everything hurts
and ain't nothing gonna get done.
The name of the mess is PMS
and when it comes ain't no place to run.
And PMS smells like chocolate
Bittersweet
Dark
Almost biting
It's all I want and nothing I need.
I smell it in my dreams.
The soothing aroma of cocoa beans
Only a man would have written of life
In terms of lemons and lemonaid
Cause women all know
When the going gets tough
That's the reason that chocolate was made.
And PMS smells like chocolate.
Write about how you feel right now using your sense of smell. If you feel frustrated, write about what your frustration smells like. Use lots of adjectives.
Can I just say I don't like this assignment.
PMS Smells like Chocolate
I woke up this morning with that feeling,
ladies you know the one.
When nothing is right
and everything hurts
and ain't nothing gonna get done.
The name of the mess is PMS
and when it comes ain't no place to run.
And PMS smells like chocolate
Bittersweet
Dark
Almost biting
It's all I want and nothing I need.
I smell it in my dreams.
The soothing aroma of cocoa beans
Only a man would have written of life
In terms of lemons and lemonaid
Cause women all know
When the going gets tough
That's the reason that chocolate was made.
And PMS smells like chocolate.
Friday, October 22, 2004
Assignment #8
Make a list of 40 things that have happened to you in the last month. They can be funny, embarassing, happy or infuriating. Pick one and write about it.
Ok I did this a bit differently I didn't write about a single incident because as I was listing a pattern showed up...so I wrote what I hope will be an article for our homeschool newsletter about learning as a homeschool mom. Enjoy.
Never Stop Learning
One thing I find interesting about being a homeschooling mom, particularly one who leans toward “unschooling” as a philosophy is that I am ALWAYS learning new things. I sat down and made a list of forty things that happened to me this month.
In the last thirty days alone, I have learned over a dozen new things. That’s quite an accomplishment for a fairly well educated thirty-something.
Since I took on teaching my child, teaching myself something no longer intimidates me. I started teaching myself to knit recently. I have a book and I’m working on a scarf. I’ve taught myself how to “cast on” and how to knit a “stockenette” stitch. When the time comes I’ll teach myself how to “cast off” and finish my project. Is it perfect? No. But its good enough and once I know if I enjoy it or not I’ll find someone to show me what I don’t know so that I can become truly proficient at it.
That’s something I’ve learned from homeschooling. Half the game is finding the right resources. For example, I wanted to learn to dance. I have videos but I just wasn’t getting it from watching the videos. I needed to find someone to teach me. So Jessica and I are taking a line dancing class at the local YMCA. Our teacher is an 82-year-old dynamo named Juanita Joyner. So far we’ve mastered 6 different dances and are working on several more. We’ve got “the Roller Coaster”, “The Little Black Book”, “The Hank”, “The Honky Tonk Stomp”, “The Line Waltz” and “The Ten Step Polka” fairly well mastered. We’re working on “The Catfish”, “The Cowboy Cha Cha”, “The Boot Scootin’ Boogie” and a few others that I don’t yet recall the name of. A month ago I couldn’t say with confidence that I could dance ANYTHING except “The Macarena” and it went out of style 5 years ago. I love this class. Wanna dance?
Another thing I have learned as a homeschooling mom is the importance of having the right tools. We spent hundreds of dollars on reading programs for Jessica before finding the one that fit her. Once we did, she learned to read in a matter of days. How does this apply to me? I’m learning to play the bass. I have a great bassist living here with me and I’d be a fool not to take advantage of that knowledge. Yet I haven’t had a lesson in 6 months. Why? My bass didn’t fit me. I have a beautiful white Fender P-bass that I bought when I started trying to learn. It wasn’t until I started playing it that I realized that it was too big for me. The neck stock was too wide for my small hands. I struggled along trying to learn and fighting the instrument. Finally I quit. But I still wanted to learn the bass. So I’ve been trying basses everywhere we went. I bought a new bass this month, a bright red, heart-shaped, daisy-rock bass. A bass designed by a female guitarist for female guitarists. It’s 30 inches long and half an inch narrower at the neck than my Fender was. It is the right tool for me and it is a joy to play. I’m on my way to mastering “Green Eyed Lady”.
Opportunities to learn are all around us. We just have to have our eyes open to them. We need to be willing to take risks and try new things, to find the right teachers and resources to help when we get stuck, to make sure we have the right tools for the job. But most of all NEVER stop learning. Life is too interesting to stagnate.
Make a list of 40 things that have happened to you in the last month. They can be funny, embarassing, happy or infuriating. Pick one and write about it.
Ok I did this a bit differently I didn't write about a single incident because as I was listing a pattern showed up...so I wrote what I hope will be an article for our homeschool newsletter about learning as a homeschool mom. Enjoy.
Never Stop Learning
One thing I find interesting about being a homeschooling mom, particularly one who leans toward “unschooling” as a philosophy is that I am ALWAYS learning new things. I sat down and made a list of forty things that happened to me this month.
In the last thirty days alone, I have learned over a dozen new things. That’s quite an accomplishment for a fairly well educated thirty-something.
Since I took on teaching my child, teaching myself something no longer intimidates me. I started teaching myself to knit recently. I have a book and I’m working on a scarf. I’ve taught myself how to “cast on” and how to knit a “stockenette” stitch. When the time comes I’ll teach myself how to “cast off” and finish my project. Is it perfect? No. But its good enough and once I know if I enjoy it or not I’ll find someone to show me what I don’t know so that I can become truly proficient at it.
That’s something I’ve learned from homeschooling. Half the game is finding the right resources. For example, I wanted to learn to dance. I have videos but I just wasn’t getting it from watching the videos. I needed to find someone to teach me. So Jessica and I are taking a line dancing class at the local YMCA. Our teacher is an 82-year-old dynamo named Juanita Joyner. So far we’ve mastered 6 different dances and are working on several more. We’ve got “the Roller Coaster”, “The Little Black Book”, “The Hank”, “The Honky Tonk Stomp”, “The Line Waltz” and “The Ten Step Polka” fairly well mastered. We’re working on “The Catfish”, “The Cowboy Cha Cha”, “The Boot Scootin’ Boogie” and a few others that I don’t yet recall the name of. A month ago I couldn’t say with confidence that I could dance ANYTHING except “The Macarena” and it went out of style 5 years ago. I love this class. Wanna dance?
Another thing I have learned as a homeschooling mom is the importance of having the right tools. We spent hundreds of dollars on reading programs for Jessica before finding the one that fit her. Once we did, she learned to read in a matter of days. How does this apply to me? I’m learning to play the bass. I have a great bassist living here with me and I’d be a fool not to take advantage of that knowledge. Yet I haven’t had a lesson in 6 months. Why? My bass didn’t fit me. I have a beautiful white Fender P-bass that I bought when I started trying to learn. It wasn’t until I started playing it that I realized that it was too big for me. The neck stock was too wide for my small hands. I struggled along trying to learn and fighting the instrument. Finally I quit. But I still wanted to learn the bass. So I’ve been trying basses everywhere we went. I bought a new bass this month, a bright red, heart-shaped, daisy-rock bass. A bass designed by a female guitarist for female guitarists. It’s 30 inches long and half an inch narrower at the neck than my Fender was. It is the right tool for me and it is a joy to play. I’m on my way to mastering “Green Eyed Lady”.
Opportunities to learn are all around us. We just have to have our eyes open to them. We need to be willing to take risks and try new things, to find the right teachers and resources to help when we get stuck, to make sure we have the right tools for the job. But most of all NEVER stop learning. Life is too interesting to stagnate.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Assignment #7
No, I didn't "quit"...the prompt site has been down.
OK...today's prompt. "Electricity is a recent invention. Think of 12 things to do when the power is off." Hmmmm...don't care for this one very much but let's see what I can do with it.
I know! I need practice with outlines. I'll work on outlining.
Twelve Things to Do When the Power Is Off
Family
1. Calm
2. Cuddle
3. Chat
Food
1. Grill
2. Glow
3. Gourmet
Fun
1. Games
2. Giggles
3. Gab
Faith
1. Scripture
2. Songs
3. Silence
Ok...now to write.
Storm Survival Guide
The storm howls and blows outside. Weatherbug alerts again that there is a severe storm warning in the area. Suddenly, zzzot! The power fails and the neighborhood goes black. Now what? With no computer, no TV, none of our modern conveniences available to us, what do we do until the power is restored? How will we cope? Today I offer twelve suggestions of things to do when the power is off. After all, our great-grandparents got along without it quite nicely. Surely we can too.
Family first. At our house there is a little girl and a little dog who are both afraid of storms. So the first thing that happens at our house when the power goes off is that we find the child and make sure that she is calm. Often that means that we spend some time cuddling together in the downstairs hallway while listening to the weather radio to make sure we're safe. We chat about how lightening is made and that God is watering the plants and flowers.
Once that is settled and it becomes obvious that we're in for the long haul with this power thing its time to start thinking about food. We get gourmet when the power is off. If the rain has stopped we get out the grill, which we keep supplied with gas year around after having been one of the only families in our section of the apartment complex to have the ability to cook during the ice storm of 1994. Since we know we can trust the freezer for at least a day or two we eat anything that remains in the fridge first. This has lead to some interesting combinations, but in the glow of the candlelight anything looks wonderful.
With a seven year old in the house, keeping the fun going is important. We play games by candlelight. Candyland is a favorite still around here but we've been known to get into some marathon rounds of Monopoly Jr. and Uno. We also share clean jokes and giggle together about silly things that only we find funny. Power failures can be fun. With nothing else to distract us we find time to gab about life, the universe and everything. Sometimes profound stuff comes up in the quiet. Sometimes not. But always we find something new about the people we love.
For me personally, I find the enforced quiet of a power failure is good for my faith life. I take a Kerosene lamp and find a quiet corner and spend time in my bible and prayer. I sing. Usually starting with the old southern gospel song "Til the Storm Passes By" (I was a little girl afraid of storms once too.) and moving on to contemporary praise and worship choruses that make me aware that God is in control even in the storms of life. Then I am simply silent. Quiet is hard to carve out of a normal day surrounded by the distractions and business of life. In the absence of my electronic hum, I find solitude and time to "be still and know that he is God."
A power failure can be a positive thing. A time for spending with Family, enjoying good Food and Fun and renewing my Faith. Twelve simple ideas make a time that could be a waste a joy and a memory for us all.
No, I didn't "quit"...the prompt site has been down.
OK...today's prompt. "Electricity is a recent invention. Think of 12 things to do when the power is off." Hmmmm...don't care for this one very much but let's see what I can do with it.
I know! I need practice with outlines. I'll work on outlining.
Twelve Things to Do When the Power Is Off
Family
1. Calm
2. Cuddle
3. Chat
Food
1. Grill
2. Glow
3. Gourmet
Fun
1. Games
2. Giggles
3. Gab
Faith
1. Scripture
2. Songs
3. Silence
Ok...now to write.
Storm Survival Guide
The storm howls and blows outside. Weatherbug alerts again that there is a severe storm warning in the area. Suddenly, zzzot! The power fails and the neighborhood goes black. Now what? With no computer, no TV, none of our modern conveniences available to us, what do we do until the power is restored? How will we cope? Today I offer twelve suggestions of things to do when the power is off. After all, our great-grandparents got along without it quite nicely. Surely we can too.
Family first. At our house there is a little girl and a little dog who are both afraid of storms. So the first thing that happens at our house when the power goes off is that we find the child and make sure that she is calm. Often that means that we spend some time cuddling together in the downstairs hallway while listening to the weather radio to make sure we're safe. We chat about how lightening is made and that God is watering the plants and flowers.
Once that is settled and it becomes obvious that we're in for the long haul with this power thing its time to start thinking about food. We get gourmet when the power is off. If the rain has stopped we get out the grill, which we keep supplied with gas year around after having been one of the only families in our section of the apartment complex to have the ability to cook during the ice storm of 1994. Since we know we can trust the freezer for at least a day or two we eat anything that remains in the fridge first. This has lead to some interesting combinations, but in the glow of the candlelight anything looks wonderful.
With a seven year old in the house, keeping the fun going is important. We play games by candlelight. Candyland is a favorite still around here but we've been known to get into some marathon rounds of Monopoly Jr. and Uno. We also share clean jokes and giggle together about silly things that only we find funny. Power failures can be fun. With nothing else to distract us we find time to gab about life, the universe and everything. Sometimes profound stuff comes up in the quiet. Sometimes not. But always we find something new about the people we love.
For me personally, I find the enforced quiet of a power failure is good for my faith life. I take a Kerosene lamp and find a quiet corner and spend time in my bible and prayer. I sing. Usually starting with the old southern gospel song "Til the Storm Passes By" (I was a little girl afraid of storms once too.) and moving on to contemporary praise and worship choruses that make me aware that God is in control even in the storms of life. Then I am simply silent. Quiet is hard to carve out of a normal day surrounded by the distractions and business of life. In the absence of my electronic hum, I find solitude and time to "be still and know that he is God."
A power failure can be a positive thing. A time for spending with Family, enjoying good Food and Fun and renewing my Faith. Twelve simple ideas make a time that could be a waste a joy and a memory for us all.
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Assignment 6
Write down all the cliche's you can think of. Pick the one you are most familiar with, or the one that strikes your fancy, and write a poem with it.
If The Good Lord's Willing, And the Creek Don't Rise...
by Terri Wilson Weaver
If the Good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise
I'll accomplish marvelous things
I'll clean my house
Write a book
Compose new songs to sing
If the Good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise
I'll visit far and wide
I'll see my best friend
My mom and dad
My Grandma in Georgia
That baby you had.
If the Good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise
I'll learn so many new things
How to knit
How to quilt
How to build a barn
How to make music on these here bass strings
There's so many things I'll see and do
So many things I'll try
And you can take that as a promise too
If the Good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise.
Write down all the cliche's you can think of. Pick the one you are most familiar with, or the one that strikes your fancy, and write a poem with it.
If The Good Lord's Willing, And the Creek Don't Rise...
by Terri Wilson Weaver
If the Good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise
I'll accomplish marvelous things
I'll clean my house
Write a book
Compose new songs to sing
If the Good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise
I'll visit far and wide
I'll see my best friend
My mom and dad
My Grandma in Georgia
That baby you had.
If the Good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise
I'll learn so many new things
How to knit
How to quilt
How to build a barn
How to make music on these here bass strings
There's so many things I'll see and do
So many things I'll try
And you can take that as a promise too
If the Good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Assignment # 5
Choose a poem you like. Take the last line and use it as the first line of your own poem.
I chose "Never Give Up" by Vincent Godfrey Burns. The last line reads... "When hope returns with the morning light."
Start Over
When hope returns with the morning light
And a spark of Joy in my soul ignites
All praise to the Lord
Who gives me life
And bids me
Child, start over.
As long as the morning brings the sun
Nothing in life cannot be undone
God works them for good
Every one
And bids me
Child, start over.
Its not what you do
That defines who you are
No matter how deep the stain
Or scar
The Lord of love
Reaches where you are
And bids you
Child, start over.
If you find yourself in the pit of despair
Know that God will meet you there
And lift you from the mire with care
And bid you
Child, start over.
When hope returns with the morning light
And you're weary of the struggle and fight
And your heart longs to again be right
God bids you
Child, start over.
Choose a poem you like. Take the last line and use it as the first line of your own poem.
I chose "Never Give Up" by Vincent Godfrey Burns. The last line reads... "When hope returns with the morning light."
Start Over
When hope returns with the morning light
And a spark of Joy in my soul ignites
All praise to the Lord
Who gives me life
And bids me
Child, start over.
As long as the morning brings the sun
Nothing in life cannot be undone
God works them for good
Every one
And bids me
Child, start over.
Its not what you do
That defines who you are
No matter how deep the stain
Or scar
The Lord of love
Reaches where you are
And bids you
Child, start over.
If you find yourself in the pit of despair
Know that God will meet you there
And lift you from the mire with care
And bid you
Child, start over.
When hope returns with the morning light
And you're weary of the struggle and fight
And your heart longs to again be right
God bids you
Child, start over.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Assignment #4
Fairytales have happy endings. All of us know what happened in that mushy fairytale, Cinderella. Yeah, its romantic, the prince actually finding Cinderella. They lived happily ever after. But happy endings can be, well...boring. No zing. So predictable. So...happy. What if the shoe fit one of the sisters? What happens then? Play with your imagination here. Be funny if you like. Or serious if you feel like it. Or be an Alfred Hitchcock. Whatever you are into, write your ending to the Cinderella story -- but this time make it so the shoe fits one of the icky sisters. What does Prince Charming do? How does Cinderella cope with it? And what about the Fairy Godmother? Start your story here.
Ok this assignment is evolved into a nine page skit for a short play "The Trial of The Fairy Godmother". It is way too long to post here. If you want to see it shoot me a comment with your e-mail address and I'll be happy to share it with you.
Writing this way is stretching me. I've never done anything like this before and I'm really enjoying it. If you are interested in using the writing prompts I'm working from the site is www.creativewritingprompts.com
Fairytales have happy endings. All of us know what happened in that mushy fairytale, Cinderella. Yeah, its romantic, the prince actually finding Cinderella. They lived happily ever after. But happy endings can be, well...boring. No zing. So predictable. So...happy. What if the shoe fit one of the sisters? What happens then? Play with your imagination here. Be funny if you like. Or serious if you feel like it. Or be an Alfred Hitchcock. Whatever you are into, write your ending to the Cinderella story -- but this time make it so the shoe fits one of the icky sisters. What does Prince Charming do? How does Cinderella cope with it? And what about the Fairy Godmother? Start your story here.
Ok this assignment is evolved into a nine page skit for a short play "The Trial of The Fairy Godmother". It is way too long to post here. If you want to see it shoot me a comment with your e-mail address and I'll be happy to share it with you.
Writing this way is stretching me. I've never done anything like this before and I'm really enjoying it. If you are interested in using the writing prompts I'm working from the site is www.creativewritingprompts.com
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Ooooo FUN!
I like today's assignment.
Randomly pick 10 words from the dictionary. DON'T look at their meanings. Write them down on a sheet of paper. Now you're going to have fun. Create meanings for those words.
So, without further ado, I give you...
Teribear's Ten Word Dictionary of Hick
Cryptanalysis (crip - t - an - alice - iss) -- What a grave robber does before entering King Tut's tomb. "My cryptanalysis shows the treasure room should be right about here.
Epiblast (Epy - blast) -- A contraction of Epic and Blast meaning one hell of a big explosion. "That bomb we dropped on He-roe-she-ma must have made one more epiblast"
Mahound (ma - hound) -- a singular possesive for a prize hunting dog. "Mahound over there is the best damn coon dog in three counties."
Marduk (mar - duk) -- a unit of measure used by duck hunters "Mahound got marduk than any other hound in the whole dang hunt."
Parasang (paris ang) -- A resident of Paris "She's a Parasang, lives on the champ lease a with a view of the eyeful tar."
Selma (sell me) -- A feminine name. "My great aunt Selma makes the best pickled okra in town."
Subgenus (Sub gene us) -- A lack of smarts. "He ain't too smart, he's one of them Subgenus."
Tottenham (tot ten ham) -- an accomplishment at the smokehouse. "He's so strong he can tottenham by hisself without droppin' any of 'em."
Vittle (Vi tul) -- Food. Usually used in the plural. "Can I carry you to the church pickneck on Sunday Selma? They're gonna have some mighty fine vittles."
Whitleather (whit leather) -- A measure of strength. "She may only be 4'1" but you don't wanna mess with her. She's tough as whitleather."
I like today's assignment.
Randomly pick 10 words from the dictionary. DON'T look at their meanings. Write them down on a sheet of paper. Now you're going to have fun. Create meanings for those words.
So, without further ado, I give you...
Teribear's Ten Word Dictionary of Hick
Cryptanalysis (crip - t - an - alice - iss) -- What a grave robber does before entering King Tut's tomb. "My cryptanalysis shows the treasure room should be right about here.
Epiblast (Epy - blast) -- A contraction of Epic and Blast meaning one hell of a big explosion. "That bomb we dropped on He-roe-she-ma must have made one more epiblast"
Mahound (ma - hound) -- a singular possesive for a prize hunting dog. "Mahound over there is the best damn coon dog in three counties."
Marduk (mar - duk) -- a unit of measure used by duck hunters "Mahound got marduk than any other hound in the whole dang hunt."
Parasang (paris ang) -- A resident of Paris "She's a Parasang, lives on the champ lease a with a view of the eyeful tar."
Selma (sell me) -- A feminine name. "My great aunt Selma makes the best pickled okra in town."
Subgenus (Sub gene us) -- A lack of smarts. "He ain't too smart, he's one of them Subgenus."
Tottenham (tot ten ham) -- an accomplishment at the smokehouse. "He's so strong he can tottenham by hisself without droppin' any of 'em."
Vittle (Vi tul) -- Food. Usually used in the plural. "Can I carry you to the church pickneck on Sunday Selma? They're gonna have some mighty fine vittles."
Whitleather (whit leather) -- A measure of strength. "She may only be 4'1" but you don't wanna mess with her. She's tough as whitleather."
Monday, October 11, 2004
Assignment number two...a picture is worth more than a blank page. Take out those dusty photo albums. Pick out photo #14. Count however you like but make sure you stop at photo number 14. Look at the photo for 2-3 minutes. Then for ten minutes, write down all the feelings that the photo made you feel. Don't censor yourself. Just write.
The rules didn't say I had to start at the beginning. So I started at the beginning of a section and counted from there. Maybe starting at the beginning would have been easier, how many feelings would a picture of a duck have stirred up? But no. I had to pick my 22nd birthday and the 14th picture is Sean at the keyboard. This is hard. Feelings abound.
Sean Platon Curry
When I close my eyes and bring up Sean Curry in my mind he is always sitting at the keyboard. Always playing the piano. Often I hear the music. This night, the day after my 22nd birthday, was one of the last times we were happy.
The buzzed hair suits him. But the scar snaking its way above his left ear is the harbinger of things to come. The scar, a meandering reminder of the surgery that stole him from me, makes me angry. I didn't want him to have the surgery. I was afraid of losing him. I knew the risk. But I couldn't deny him the chance to be "normal" so I didn't even try to talk him out of it. I regret that decision to this day.
Then Sean I knew never came home from the hospital. A shadow came home in his place. He came home with a railroad of staples snaking across his skull and having traded his petit mal seizures, not for the normalcy he was promised but rather for grand mal seizures and the total loss of his short term memory. The focus of my anger shifted to the doctors. I was heartbroken for him.
But on this night we were still happy. We were still celebrating my birthday. Seeing his apartment again makes me smile. The Palm frond wallpaper was truly awful. I can almost smell the scent of cigarettes and stale beer overlaid with incense. He's at the electric keyboard. It's resting on the utility spool directly under the "chandelier". To call it a chandelier was a kind lie. He'd crafted from a bicycle tire frame, two empty Bud quarts, an empty fifth of Stoli, an empty bottle of Ouzo and about a dozen discarded Pepsi cans.
He's playing. He's playing "China Grove". Don't ask me how I remember that, but I do. Though he's the only one in the picture I know that Dave is on bass and I'm playing tenor sax. Other pictures on the page tell the rest of the story. Music filled the apartment, spilling out the open front door and drawing folks from all over the complex. We jammed into the wee hours of the morning. It was one of the five best birthdays of my life.
Can it really have been 14 years ago? How is the loss still so fresh? The pain still so great? About a year after this photo was made his brother came and took him away. I never saw him again. All searches have come up empty. Is he dead? Is he alive? Did he recover ANY of the things his grasp for "normal" cost him? So many unanswered questions. As always these pictures are bittersweet. I miss him so badly.
The rules didn't say I had to start at the beginning. So I started at the beginning of a section and counted from there. Maybe starting at the beginning would have been easier, how many feelings would a picture of a duck have stirred up? But no. I had to pick my 22nd birthday and the 14th picture is Sean at the keyboard. This is hard. Feelings abound.
Sean Platon Curry
When I close my eyes and bring up Sean Curry in my mind he is always sitting at the keyboard. Always playing the piano. Often I hear the music. This night, the day after my 22nd birthday, was one of the last times we were happy.
The buzzed hair suits him. But the scar snaking its way above his left ear is the harbinger of things to come. The scar, a meandering reminder of the surgery that stole him from me, makes me angry. I didn't want him to have the surgery. I was afraid of losing him. I knew the risk. But I couldn't deny him the chance to be "normal" so I didn't even try to talk him out of it. I regret that decision to this day.
Then Sean I knew never came home from the hospital. A shadow came home in his place. He came home with a railroad of staples snaking across his skull and having traded his petit mal seizures, not for the normalcy he was promised but rather for grand mal seizures and the total loss of his short term memory. The focus of my anger shifted to the doctors. I was heartbroken for him.
But on this night we were still happy. We were still celebrating my birthday. Seeing his apartment again makes me smile. The Palm frond wallpaper was truly awful. I can almost smell the scent of cigarettes and stale beer overlaid with incense. He's at the electric keyboard. It's resting on the utility spool directly under the "chandelier". To call it a chandelier was a kind lie. He'd crafted from a bicycle tire frame, two empty Bud quarts, an empty fifth of Stoli, an empty bottle of Ouzo and about a dozen discarded Pepsi cans.
He's playing. He's playing "China Grove". Don't ask me how I remember that, but I do. Though he's the only one in the picture I know that Dave is on bass and I'm playing tenor sax. Other pictures on the page tell the rest of the story. Music filled the apartment, spilling out the open front door and drawing folks from all over the complex. We jammed into the wee hours of the morning. It was one of the five best birthdays of my life.
Can it really have been 14 years ago? How is the loss still so fresh? The pain still so great? About a year after this photo was made his brother came and took him away. I never saw him again. All searches have come up empty. Is he dead? Is he alive? Did he recover ANY of the things his grasp for "normal" cost him? So many unanswered questions. As always these pictures are bittersweet. I miss him so badly.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
So I've decided to start working on my writing again...
And since I seem to be suffering from writers block lately I've signed up with a couple of writing prompt sites.
Today's Assignment: Close your eyes. Think of an object in the room. Focus on that object after about three minutes, without looking at the object, write about the object.
Behind The Glass
She keeps me behind glass, safe, waiting for a special occasion that never seems to come. From her grandfather to her grandmother to her I have been handed down and yet I have spent most of my life trapped behind the glass. A service for 20, made for entertaining, made to be the centerpiece when family and friends gather, instead I gather dust. When does being cherished become being useless? When does being valuable become being wasted? I do not know, but I feel useless and wasted.
Creamy white with a band of silver around my edges, pink and yellow roses scattered along my borders, I was made to be pleasing to the eye. Has my beauty rendered me somehow untouchable? I am lonely. How gladly would I take the risk of being chipped or broken as long as it meant I would be serving the purpose for which I was made. Yet it seems I am destined to be kept "safe". Cloistered in this accursed china hutch wasting away never achieving the purpose for which I was created.
We are both being cheated. I of my purpose. She of the joy that I could bring her if she would let me. If she were brave enough to risk. Perhaps someday, before I am passed on to her daughter, she will understand that her family is enough of a special occasion to bring me to the table. That she is saving me for the wrong people. That the best, her best and my best, belongs to those she loves the most. Maybe then, when she has become what she is intended to be, she will rescue me from this prison of glass and let me be what I am intended to be. How I long for the day.
And since I seem to be suffering from writers block lately I've signed up with a couple of writing prompt sites.
Today's Assignment: Close your eyes. Think of an object in the room. Focus on that object after about three minutes, without looking at the object, write about the object.
Behind The Glass
She keeps me behind glass, safe, waiting for a special occasion that never seems to come. From her grandfather to her grandmother to her I have been handed down and yet I have spent most of my life trapped behind the glass. A service for 20, made for entertaining, made to be the centerpiece when family and friends gather, instead I gather dust. When does being cherished become being useless? When does being valuable become being wasted? I do not know, but I feel useless and wasted.
Creamy white with a band of silver around my edges, pink and yellow roses scattered along my borders, I was made to be pleasing to the eye. Has my beauty rendered me somehow untouchable? I am lonely. How gladly would I take the risk of being chipped or broken as long as it meant I would be serving the purpose for which I was made. Yet it seems I am destined to be kept "safe". Cloistered in this accursed china hutch wasting away never achieving the purpose for which I was created.
We are both being cheated. I of my purpose. She of the joy that I could bring her if she would let me. If she were brave enough to risk. Perhaps someday, before I am passed on to her daughter, she will understand that her family is enough of a special occasion to bring me to the table. That she is saving me for the wrong people. That the best, her best and my best, belongs to those she loves the most. Maybe then, when she has become what she is intended to be, she will rescue me from this prison of glass and let me be what I am intended to be. How I long for the day.
Friday, August 13, 2004
I hurt myself
FBS 110 Meds Taken
I stubbed my toe so severely last night that I took the toenail 2/3 of the way off. OUCH! I'll be keeping a careful watch on the situation since as a diabetic I need to be careful of my feet.
My parents are on their way down. We're hoping to get a good start on the drywall this weekend. Of course that means that today I have to hang more insulation and finish cleaning Jessi's room. (Change the sheets and wash the mountain of clothes I found buried in her stuffed animal pile). I'm hoping not to hurt my foot farther.
We'll use the 15/15/15/rest cycle that I used yesterday. It'll keep both of us from overdoing it again.
I'll let you know how it goes.
FBS 110 Meds Taken
I stubbed my toe so severely last night that I took the toenail 2/3 of the way off. OUCH! I'll be keeping a careful watch on the situation since as a diabetic I need to be careful of my feet.
My parents are on their way down. We're hoping to get a good start on the drywall this weekend. Of course that means that today I have to hang more insulation and finish cleaning Jessi's room. (Change the sheets and wash the mountain of clothes I found buried in her stuffed animal pile). I'm hoping not to hurt my foot farther.
We'll use the 15/15/15/rest cycle that I used yesterday. It'll keep both of us from overdoing it again.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
She's Reading!
For two years now I have been nervously watching my unschooled child learn concepts in science and history that were far beyond "kindergarten/first grade" level. I have been fascinated by what fascinates her. But I've also been terrified as the months and then years passed and she still could not read.
When we were in Sparta a couple of weeks ago I had the opportunity to be with a homeschool mom friend of mine who has a daughter Jessica's age. Laurie mentioned how Meg was learning to read with the re-prints of the old "Dick and Jane" readers we'd used when we were in school. I'd picked them up a dozen or more times in a nostalgic "Oh here's what I learned to read with, isn't this neat." kind of way but I'd never seriously considered using them with Jessica. We were driving back to Memphis, on our way home where I was planning to have her tested for some type of reading learning disability, when we took a rest stop in Dickson at a Cracker Barrel resturant that happened to have a copy of the "Dick and Jane" anthology that Laurie and I had just been talking about. I handed Jessi the book with the comment, "Look Jessi, this is that book Ms. Laurie said Meg liked so much. What do you think about it?" She took it. Opened it to the first page and read "Look!" "Mom! That says Look!...I can read!" I wasn't about to argue with her. I just paid for the book. She carried it proudly to the rockers on the porch and she began to read to me. "Look! Oh Look!" She read. She read the entire story, stopping once or twice to spell a word to me that she didn't know. She never asked me the same word twice. Then I called my mom on the cell phone and she read to her. And to her daddy. We got back into the car. She wanted to read to me. I turned off the radio and listened to her read. My child. The one who hadn't read 20 words before. She read to me for almost two hours. 95 pages. The entire first reader and 2/3 of the second. Between Dickson and Jackson. Occasionally she'd stop, spell out a new word, and then once she had her answer she'd continue on. I cried as I drove.
We'd tried "Hooked on Phonics". We'd tried "Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons". We'd tried "Starfall". We'd tried "Reading Reflex". We'd tried virtually everything. She was desperate to read and she genuinely seemed to have a problem processing sounds. But somehow, simply from being read to daily since her birth, she had learned to read despite us. She proved it when she met "Dick and Jane". She's into the second anthology now. Three full readers the equivalent of 1 and 1/2 years of reading instruction in less than a week.
I had almost given up on unschooling. I'd almost convinced myself that it wouldn't work for reading. But it did. My daughter can read.
T
For two years now I have been nervously watching my unschooled child learn concepts in science and history that were far beyond "kindergarten/first grade" level. I have been fascinated by what fascinates her. But I've also been terrified as the months and then years passed and she still could not read.
When we were in Sparta a couple of weeks ago I had the opportunity to be with a homeschool mom friend of mine who has a daughter Jessica's age. Laurie mentioned how Meg was learning to read with the re-prints of the old "Dick and Jane" readers we'd used when we were in school. I'd picked them up a dozen or more times in a nostalgic "Oh here's what I learned to read with, isn't this neat." kind of way but I'd never seriously considered using them with Jessica. We were driving back to Memphis, on our way home where I was planning to have her tested for some type of reading learning disability, when we took a rest stop in Dickson at a Cracker Barrel resturant that happened to have a copy of the "Dick and Jane" anthology that Laurie and I had just been talking about. I handed Jessi the book with the comment, "Look Jessi, this is that book Ms. Laurie said Meg liked so much. What do you think about it?" She took it. Opened it to the first page and read "Look!" "Mom! That says Look!...I can read!" I wasn't about to argue with her. I just paid for the book. She carried it proudly to the rockers on the porch and she began to read to me. "Look! Oh Look!" She read. She read the entire story, stopping once or twice to spell a word to me that she didn't know. She never asked me the same word twice. Then I called my mom on the cell phone and she read to her. And to her daddy. We got back into the car. She wanted to read to me. I turned off the radio and listened to her read. My child. The one who hadn't read 20 words before. She read to me for almost two hours. 95 pages. The entire first reader and 2/3 of the second. Between Dickson and Jackson. Occasionally she'd stop, spell out a new word, and then once she had her answer she'd continue on. I cried as I drove.
We'd tried "Hooked on Phonics". We'd tried "Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons". We'd tried "Starfall". We'd tried "Reading Reflex". We'd tried virtually everything. She was desperate to read and she genuinely seemed to have a problem processing sounds. But somehow, simply from being read to daily since her birth, she had learned to read despite us. She proved it when she met "Dick and Jane". She's into the second anthology now. Three full readers the equivalent of 1 and 1/2 years of reading instruction in less than a week.
I had almost given up on unschooling. I'd almost convinced myself that it wouldn't work for reading. But it did. My daughter can read.
T
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Indeed I Am
Salvador Dali Melting clocks are not a problem in
your reality. You are an unschooler. You will
tolerate a textbook, but only as a last resort.
Mud is your friend. You prefer hands-on
everything. If your school had an anthem, it
would be Dont Worry, Be Happy. Visit my blog: http://www.guiltfreehomeschooling.blogspot.com
What Type of Homeschooler Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
UNSCHOOLING IS AWESOME!
T
Salvador Dali Melting clocks are not a problem in
your reality. You are an unschooler. You will
tolerate a textbook, but only as a last resort.
Mud is your friend. You prefer hands-on
everything. If your school had an anthem, it
would be Dont Worry, Be Happy. Visit my blog: http://www.guiltfreehomeschooling.blogspot.com
What Type of Homeschooler Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
UNSCHOOLING IS AWESOME!
T
Saturday, May 22, 2004
Signing
I've been learning ASL (American Sign Language) recently. Tonight we signed in church for the first time. Well it was my first time anyway. The rest of the class signed about a month ago. I went in expecting to sign only the Lord's prayer...We ended up signing to two other songs as well. It was an interesting experience.
I feel very self conscious when I sign in front of people. I am speaking a language I don't fully understand and I'm afraid of messing up and offending someone. I want to sign. I can't dance but signing feels natural. Its a way to communicate with the Lord without being distracted by the sound of my own voice. This is probably why I write my prayers as well. Perhaps that is why I feel so odd signing in front of an audience. Like a prayer language, signing for me is between me and God. I feel exposed when I am signing in front of an audience. Like many people feel exposed by being called upon to deliver a public prayer or a testimony. Interesting. Neither of those things intimidate me but signing does. The silence is more intimate somehow. The wordlessness of the communication makes it so.
I learned several new words in my sign vocabulary tonight. I'm reaching the point where I can sign large parts of many contemporary praise songs. It fascinates Harold when I am signing along with the radio in the van.
Our third class begins in two weeks. I can't wait.
I've been learning ASL (American Sign Language) recently. Tonight we signed in church for the first time. Well it was my first time anyway. The rest of the class signed about a month ago. I went in expecting to sign only the Lord's prayer...We ended up signing to two other songs as well. It was an interesting experience.
I feel very self conscious when I sign in front of people. I am speaking a language I don't fully understand and I'm afraid of messing up and offending someone. I want to sign. I can't dance but signing feels natural. Its a way to communicate with the Lord without being distracted by the sound of my own voice. This is probably why I write my prayers as well. Perhaps that is why I feel so odd signing in front of an audience. Like a prayer language, signing for me is between me and God. I feel exposed when I am signing in front of an audience. Like many people feel exposed by being called upon to deliver a public prayer or a testimony. Interesting. Neither of those things intimidate me but signing does. The silence is more intimate somehow. The wordlessness of the communication makes it so.
I learned several new words in my sign vocabulary tonight. I'm reaching the point where I can sign large parts of many contemporary praise songs. It fascinates Harold when I am signing along with the radio in the van.
Our third class begins in two weeks. I can't wait.
Sunday, April 18, 2004
Faith and Fear
A little girl of nine and a little boy of seven made my acquaintance today. I have seen them before as I rush to and fro living my overly busy life. They came to my attention earlier this week when they arrived in my yard wanting to play with my daughter. But today I actually stopped and made their acquaintance. I know what took me so long. I know why I turned the other way and pretended not to hear or rushed into the car or into the house to avoid their greetings. I know and I am ashamed.
I distanced myself because I was afraid. Afraid of two children who have done nothing to cause me to fear. Afraid of two children who have committed no crime. I, who sat inside the walls of a prison at a table with women who had commited unspeakable crimes and loved them, was afraid of two children who had done nothing other than being related to someone who was dating a murderer.
Less than a year ago there was a murder in my neighborhood. Three doors down. A woman I knew well was murdered in her own home. By the boyfriend of the teenaged girl that lived in the house across the street. She wasn't implicated in the crime. But that didn't stop me from deciding that everyone in that house was bad news and should be avoided. Then one day these two children. Little children. Little children that I had never noticed before suddenly appeared at that house. I noticed them when they began to call out to my daughter wanting to play with her. For months I put them off with one excuse or another. Then on a beautiful spring day last week I could think of no more excuses. They played together in our back yard. I hoped they would go away. But they seem to enjoy my daughter's company. And she seems to enjoy theirs. And they are polite and say yes mam and no mam when I ask them to do or not do something. And they go home when they're told to. And they seem to be planning to stay. And I realized then that I was afraid. Of children. Of children who have done NOTHING to make them fearful. Afraid because they were somehow tainted by the guilt of the actions of another. And I am ashamed.
Faith and fear can never co-exist. I know this. So how is it that I forgot so quickly the things that I know?
And now that I have confessed the fear I need to come up with a plan. I need a plan to make Desiree and Jerrell fit into my busy life. I need a plan to fight fear with faith and to teach my child how Christ would have us love others. For now school occupies a large part of their days. Desiree is 9, Jerrell 7. But school will be out for the summer soon and I suspect that Desiree and Jerrell will be a part of our days for many of the long lazy days of summer. I can let this be a reason for concern or for celebration. The choice is mine. I choose faith. I choose to love these "other people's kids" and in doing so to make a difference in my neighborhood.
I made the acquaintance of two children today. Desiree and Jerrell. I'm looking forward to seeing where this will lead.
T
A little girl of nine and a little boy of seven made my acquaintance today. I have seen them before as I rush to and fro living my overly busy life. They came to my attention earlier this week when they arrived in my yard wanting to play with my daughter. But today I actually stopped and made their acquaintance. I know what took me so long. I know why I turned the other way and pretended not to hear or rushed into the car or into the house to avoid their greetings. I know and I am ashamed.
I distanced myself because I was afraid. Afraid of two children who have done nothing to cause me to fear. Afraid of two children who have committed no crime. I, who sat inside the walls of a prison at a table with women who had commited unspeakable crimes and loved them, was afraid of two children who had done nothing other than being related to someone who was dating a murderer.
Less than a year ago there was a murder in my neighborhood. Three doors down. A woman I knew well was murdered in her own home. By the boyfriend of the teenaged girl that lived in the house across the street. She wasn't implicated in the crime. But that didn't stop me from deciding that everyone in that house was bad news and should be avoided. Then one day these two children. Little children. Little children that I had never noticed before suddenly appeared at that house. I noticed them when they began to call out to my daughter wanting to play with her. For months I put them off with one excuse or another. Then on a beautiful spring day last week I could think of no more excuses. They played together in our back yard. I hoped they would go away. But they seem to enjoy my daughter's company. And she seems to enjoy theirs. And they are polite and say yes mam and no mam when I ask them to do or not do something. And they go home when they're told to. And they seem to be planning to stay. And I realized then that I was afraid. Of children. Of children who have done NOTHING to make them fearful. Afraid because they were somehow tainted by the guilt of the actions of another. And I am ashamed.
Faith and fear can never co-exist. I know this. So how is it that I forgot so quickly the things that I know?
And now that I have confessed the fear I need to come up with a plan. I need a plan to make Desiree and Jerrell fit into my busy life. I need a plan to fight fear with faith and to teach my child how Christ would have us love others. For now school occupies a large part of their days. Desiree is 9, Jerrell 7. But school will be out for the summer soon and I suspect that Desiree and Jerrell will be a part of our days for many of the long lazy days of summer. I can let this be a reason for concern or for celebration. The choice is mine. I choose faith. I choose to love these "other people's kids" and in doing so to make a difference in my neighborhood.
I made the acquaintance of two children today. Desiree and Jerrell. I'm looking forward to seeing where this will lead.
T
Thursday, April 08, 2004
Memories of the County Fair
When I was a little girl there was nothing more wonderful than the week the county fair was in town. We lived in a subdivision that sat on a hill overlooking the midway. I remember lying on my stomach at the foot of my bed peering through the curtain at the bright lights of the Ferris wheel.
I remember being allowed to go to the fair alone on “School Day at the Fair” before I was ten years old. I remember having my own money and being responsible for buying my lunch at one of the many booths. My favorite place to eat was the Lions Club booth. They had the best food on the grounds and I knew the people there. Each of the schools had a booth of their own and raised money for special events by the proceeds made each year at the fair.
But School Day had one disadvantage. It was during the day. The midway lost its magic without the colored lights. So we always went as a family at least one night during the fair. Sometimes we went to the Fairest of the Fair pageant but usually we came for the horse show. We walked the midway but didn’t usually ride much. I played a game or two and we got fair food.
Fair food always included two things, cotton candy and a candy apple. I ate the cotton candy. The candy apple was for my mom. No matter what diet she was on there was always room for a candy apple from the fair.
I had an adult cousin that was a “carnie.” She would always let me win at the game booth she ran. I was never very good at the games. Once I blew an entire ten dollars throwing ping-pong balls trying to win a goldfish. The guy finally felt sorry for me and just gave me one. It died two days later. My favorite midway game was “picking up ducks” since there was no way to lose.
Rides were always a challenge. I got motion sick easily and I was afraid of heights so that eliminated most things right there. My favorite ride of all was the tilt-o-whirl. I loved it. The scrambler was a close second. As I got older I began to enjoy riding the paratroopers but I could never learn to love the Ferris wheel no matter how hard I tried. Something about the swaying of the basket and the fact that we were going backwards made me sick every time. As I got older still it was the Himalaya that was the favorite. Riding with the boy I liked and being squished together by the centrifugal force was the teenaged thing to do.
I loved the fair. Perhaps that is why I always return to Sparta for fair week. Eighteen years in Memphis and I can count on one hand the times I’ve missed the White County Fair. My daughter’s birthday usually falls around fair time and we often come home so that she can celebrate with her grandparents and great-grandparents. When we do, we stay for the fair. I can always count on seeing old friends that I haven’t seen in years, or at least since the fair the year before. We have a huge fair here, but it just isn’t the same. So look for me at the fair. Chances are I’ll be there.
When I was a little girl there was nothing more wonderful than the week the county fair was in town. We lived in a subdivision that sat on a hill overlooking the midway. I remember lying on my stomach at the foot of my bed peering through the curtain at the bright lights of the Ferris wheel.
I remember being allowed to go to the fair alone on “School Day at the Fair” before I was ten years old. I remember having my own money and being responsible for buying my lunch at one of the many booths. My favorite place to eat was the Lions Club booth. They had the best food on the grounds and I knew the people there. Each of the schools had a booth of their own and raised money for special events by the proceeds made each year at the fair.
But School Day had one disadvantage. It was during the day. The midway lost its magic without the colored lights. So we always went as a family at least one night during the fair. Sometimes we went to the Fairest of the Fair pageant but usually we came for the horse show. We walked the midway but didn’t usually ride much. I played a game or two and we got fair food.
Fair food always included two things, cotton candy and a candy apple. I ate the cotton candy. The candy apple was for my mom. No matter what diet she was on there was always room for a candy apple from the fair.
I had an adult cousin that was a “carnie.” She would always let me win at the game booth she ran. I was never very good at the games. Once I blew an entire ten dollars throwing ping-pong balls trying to win a goldfish. The guy finally felt sorry for me and just gave me one. It died two days later. My favorite midway game was “picking up ducks” since there was no way to lose.
Rides were always a challenge. I got motion sick easily and I was afraid of heights so that eliminated most things right there. My favorite ride of all was the tilt-o-whirl. I loved it. The scrambler was a close second. As I got older I began to enjoy riding the paratroopers but I could never learn to love the Ferris wheel no matter how hard I tried. Something about the swaying of the basket and the fact that we were going backwards made me sick every time. As I got older still it was the Himalaya that was the favorite. Riding with the boy I liked and being squished together by the centrifugal force was the teenaged thing to do.
I loved the fair. Perhaps that is why I always return to Sparta for fair week. Eighteen years in Memphis and I can count on one hand the times I’ve missed the White County Fair. My daughter’s birthday usually falls around fair time and we often come home so that she can celebrate with her grandparents and great-grandparents. When we do, we stay for the fair. I can always count on seeing old friends that I haven’t seen in years, or at least since the fair the year before. We have a huge fair here, but it just isn’t the same. So look for me at the fair. Chances are I’ll be there.
Sunday, April 04, 2004
Reaction to “A Streetcar Named Desire”
Friday night I attended a production of Tennessee Williams’ “A Streetcar Named Desire” at Theater Memphis. Jason Sullivan, one of my “churchkids” had a significant role in the production and I was there to support him in that. I had seen “Streetcar” before several years ago at the University of Memphis with Dixie Carter in the lead role of Blanche DuBois. I remember being particularly impressed with Dixie’s talent but otherwise I recalled very little about the play. I knew that in one scene Blanche was raped. In that respect I was “prepared” for what I was about to see.
What I was NOT prepared for was the pervasive domestic violence.
In one of the very early scenes of the play there is an argument between Stanley and Stella during a poker game. Stanley becomes enraged and slaps her. She flees the apartment and takes refuge upstairs with her neighbor and landlady Eunice. Stanley is left in the street below screaming her name. Soon she reappears from the apartment above and comes down to where Stanley kneels in the street. He wraps his arms around her and begins the dance of an abusive relationship. The “I’m so sorry baby, did I hurt you? I didn’t mean it,’’ routine. She ends up returning with Stanley to their apartment and to their bed.
I’m seventeen years removed from the “Stanley” in my life. I’ve been happily married for 11 years to a wonderful man that treats me like gold. But I had a physical reaction to what was playing out there on the stage. Even though I knew it was theater, I reacted as if it were real. Every muscle in my body tensed. I’m certain I flinched. Something caused Harold to look my way and when he did he immediately asked “Sweetheart, are you ok?” I was in control. I wasn’t thrown into a flashback like I might have been in the early years of my recovery but I was FAR from Ok. I’m still not sure that I’m ok. Jason was at church today. He asked how I had liked the play. I responded that he was wonderful but that I had forgotten that the storyline involved so much domestic violence and that it had been very difficult. He gave me a hug and to my surprise, I found myself burying my head in his shoulder. On rare occasions I have drawn strength from one of the kids in this way, usually in times of extreme crisis. I am surprised that a play had the power to provoke that kind of reaction within me.
I will never attend a performance of “A Streetcar Named Desire” again.
Friday night I attended a production of Tennessee Williams’ “A Streetcar Named Desire” at Theater Memphis. Jason Sullivan, one of my “churchkids” had a significant role in the production and I was there to support him in that. I had seen “Streetcar” before several years ago at the University of Memphis with Dixie Carter in the lead role of Blanche DuBois. I remember being particularly impressed with Dixie’s talent but otherwise I recalled very little about the play. I knew that in one scene Blanche was raped. In that respect I was “prepared” for what I was about to see.
What I was NOT prepared for was the pervasive domestic violence.
In one of the very early scenes of the play there is an argument between Stanley and Stella during a poker game. Stanley becomes enraged and slaps her. She flees the apartment and takes refuge upstairs with her neighbor and landlady Eunice. Stanley is left in the street below screaming her name. Soon she reappears from the apartment above and comes down to where Stanley kneels in the street. He wraps his arms around her and begins the dance of an abusive relationship. The “I’m so sorry baby, did I hurt you? I didn’t mean it,’’ routine. She ends up returning with Stanley to their apartment and to their bed.
I’m seventeen years removed from the “Stanley” in my life. I’ve been happily married for 11 years to a wonderful man that treats me like gold. But I had a physical reaction to what was playing out there on the stage. Even though I knew it was theater, I reacted as if it were real. Every muscle in my body tensed. I’m certain I flinched. Something caused Harold to look my way and when he did he immediately asked “Sweetheart, are you ok?” I was in control. I wasn’t thrown into a flashback like I might have been in the early years of my recovery but I was FAR from Ok. I’m still not sure that I’m ok. Jason was at church today. He asked how I had liked the play. I responded that he was wonderful but that I had forgotten that the storyline involved so much domestic violence and that it had been very difficult. He gave me a hug and to my surprise, I found myself burying my head in his shoulder. On rare occasions I have drawn strength from one of the kids in this way, usually in times of extreme crisis. I am surprised that a play had the power to provoke that kind of reaction within me.
I will never attend a performance of “A Streetcar Named Desire” again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)