Just a Day in the Life

This is just something for fun I wrote as a sample narrative to use as a model for my students.  It was fun to write on demand something so detailed.  Hope you enjoy.

“Welcome back, folks, now if y’all could just take a seat and we’ll get started.”

Elmer Henderson, trainer for the famous Dollywood University begins with his ritual morning announcements. Dollywood University is the home of happiness, where all employees of Dollywood Amusement Park are trained to be knowledgeable, friendly, and efficient—all qualities our founder, Dolly Parton, has instilled in the park since it’s opening in 1982. As we gather into the meeting room, I see familiar, smiling faces from last season’s opening. I started working here at the park last year after my husband and I retired from our jobs back in Indiana. Last year, I was assigned to what we call “potty patrol”, that is, cleaning out the restroom areas and restocking supplies around the park. This year, I’ve been promoted to hospitality because of my “undying energy, my creative spark, and my outgoing appeal.” That’s what Elmer wrote in his evaluation and recommendation of me at the end of last year’s season. My job is to make visitors feel welcome and help with any questions or concerns that might come up during the day. So, I basically get the honor of walking around the whole park all day long, seeking out weary visitors and make them feel right at home in the Smoky Mountains.

“All right, now. Everybody pay attention here,” Elmer continues. He hands out the agenda, however, brief because Elmer is not much of a writer, but he sure can talk up a storm. “Now listen up. As you all know the opening day of Dollywood is always one full of surprises. But today,” he paused, smiled, and put his rough hand to his chin and continued, “today may just be the best opening of all years.” Murmurs from the crowd began to buzz about what Elmer might be talking about.

“Is there a new ride opening?” one voice from the back blurted out.

“Are we getting new uniforms this year?” another cried through the commotion.

“I bet Dolly’s coming this year,” a meek voice squeaked out.

A hush fell on the room and all eyes turned to see where the guess came from. No one would admit to uttering that sacred name. No one would dare to confess they had made such a statement. We all wanted Dolly to come for our grand opening. We all craved to stand next to the spitfire of a woman who had stamped her namesake and approval on our little operation. But no one believed she would appear today. She had come to visit when we opened a new ride, but there had been no word on a ride this year. She had been known to come to the opening ceremony in previous years, but because of her music schedule, had not been able to join us in several openings.

Elmer calmed the clamor with a raised hand. “Now listen, I know there’s a big surprise this year, but I ain’t goin’ that far.” He grinned through his aged wrinkles. “I just knowed I was told to tell y’all to be on your best behavior and at the top of your game.” And then behind his bushy brows, he added, “But then again, y’all are ALWAYS at the top of your game. Now ain’t ya?” With true team spirit, the crowd erupted in praise of our work and our mission. Even though we had been dismissed, the enthusiasm and excitement carried us to our assigned destinations.

My mind began swirling around the possibility of seeing Dolly; no, that couldn’t be it. Well, I couldn’t worry about all the excitement now—it was time for me to go into “Friendly Face” mode.

I walked out of the two story, pale pink facility and began my journey through the park, stopping to greet several visitors and fellow workers along the way. I directed one couple, the man holding his darling, innocent, young toddler around the corner to where they would be able to taste the homemade good of not only cookies as big as the boy’s head, but also the delights of slices of apple pie and key lime pie that just makes your mouth water thinking about it.

As I strolled up the hill and turned the bend into Jukebox Junction, I heard one of my gal pals call me over.

“Hey there! You better find Elmer and find ‘im fast! We just got a radio call that all the turkey legs—they ain’t cookin’ right!”

My heart stopped, my hands began to clam up, my throat tightened. You see, our claim to fame, outside of our sole proprietor, is our giant roasted turkey legs. The juices that explode in your mouth as you devour the meat are so unique to these Smoky Mountains, that only those who are privileged enough to roast them have the secret recipe. The legs are the size of a grown man’s forearm and it’s rare that one person can finish one leg alone.

“Ok, Betty. I’ll get on the radio and find out what the problem is.” I reached at my side for my radio, just when I heard another call come in. “Elmer, we got problems on the Smoky Mountain River Rampage.”

“Yeah? What’s goin’ on?” Elmer sounded winded on the crackling airwaves.

“The water’s not draining like it should and we’re getting some excess water flooding into the que lines. We’re gonna have to close it til we get it fixed.”

Beep! Beep! Not another call!

“Yeah, Jesse and James just called in sick. Something about a flu bug going around.”

Elmer asked, “Well, can we get alternates in to replace ‘em?”

“Nope, ‘member? Alternates don’t come in for another two weeks.”

“Danged! Well, we’ll have to make an announcement that we won’t be having “Country Music Good Ol’ Days.” It was the most attended show in the park and it wouldn’t be viewed on opening day! What happened to being at the top of our game? What happened to making it a wonderful and great day today? Everything was falling apart!

I sat down on the old porch of Aunt Grannie’s Backyard BBQ and lowered my head in my hands. I tried to restrain the tears from coming, but they were stronger than my will.

A creak and crack from the rocking chair next to me began to sway back and forth in the soft breeze. I felt the arm of a stranger wrap around me.

“Hey, there, darlin’! What’s gotcha all flustered and down?”

“Everything! I’m supposed to make everything perfect for everyone and it’s just all falling apart today. I don’t know what to do!”

“Well, pick yourself up and dust yourself off. Daylight’s burning and you don’t want to go wasted what God gave ya. Look around and see what is right. You’ve got happy people here and you’ve got a beautiful life here in Tennessee.”

I looked up and into the face of a goddess. A dream.

“Besides, everything is beautiful every day in Tennessee, darlin’.” She patted me one last time on the back and sacheted off into the glow of the daylight, her platinum blonde hair flowing behind her. The woman then turned one last time, looked straight at me and through her ruby red lipstick, called out, “What a way to make a living, huh?”

Lost or Found Chapter Two

Chapter Two

“Mom! Mom!” I hear the voice, yet I am unable to fully awake to the familiar tone. My eyes feel glued closed and even though I know it’s time to face the day, my body refuses to understand the reality of what lies ahead. Shifting under the covers deeper, my toes feel numb from the coolness of the falling temperatures. Should’ve closed the windows last night. Getting colder.

Again, I hear the yell from outside my bedroom door.

“Mom! It’s time to get up! I gotta get to school earlier today, remember?” I hear the panicked anticipation in his voice.

Yeah, I remember. But I don’t remember why my alarm didn’t go off. I know I set it for an hour earlier. What happened? My only explanation is that I was so out of it that I kept hitting the snooze—perhaps I just shut the whole thing off with one swift thud.

Rolling over to the other side of the bed is an option, but not a very responsible one. Jeff has already left for work and I see that today, this is my role. I must get up. But it’s so cold out there, I argue with my thoughts. And what is there to look forward to? What is my day going to be today?

Getting showered, dressed, taking the boys to school, coming home, possibly cleaning—again—maybe a cup of coffee with a distant friend, lunch, and then back to the school to pick the boys up. It was the same list of chores each day. Oh, once in a while, I threw in a surprise twist—going to lunch with one of the kids, or I met Jeff for lunch—one time I even volunteered to chair the spring festival—what was I thinking on that one? I needed something more, but what, well, that was a different story. I wasn’t sure what I wanted. I had it all—the perfect life. What more could a girl want?

A burst of energy slammed my door against the wall as a little man stomped in the room.

“Seriously, Mom! We gotta go! I’m gonna be late for my project work with Mr. Jackson.” Two hands grabbed the comforter and yanked back hard until I was exposed to the cool air. I slowly peeked through my eyelashes to see one of the most beautiful sights I’d ever witnessed: Tyler. He was up and ready to hit the road, that’s for sure. He was dressed in his football jersey and a pair of jeans and had his hair spiked in the front—I think there’s a special girl he’s trying to impress—and his breath smelled fresh, so I knew he didn’t need that reminder.

“Ok, ok, I’m up,” I groaned. What was wrong with this picture? Wasn’t it my job to wake my kids up and for them to moan and groan how they didn’t want to wake up? Well, Tyler and Cameron both adored Mr. Jackson and although they both had struggled earlier in the school year with science, suddenly Tyler had grown with such fascinating interest. I wasn’t about to squelch that excitement and enthusiasm.

I sat up slowly, gaining my balance and asked Tyler, “Is your brother ready to go?” He waved at me as he left the room, mumbling that indeed, he was.

6:00 seemed too early for anyone to be awake, let alone be at work, and even less likely that anyone could be excited about science this early. Needless to say, I had two boys who were dressed and ready to go to school. My boys were my life. Tyler and Cameron, identical twins in physical appearances, but completely opposite in their interests. Tyler was my little academic prodigy and while Cameron didn’t have many struggles in school, his forte was in athletics. Tyler, the video gamer; Cameron, the musician. They each had their “titles” that we all get somewhere from someone in life. And our boys each got the best qualities of Jeff and me.

Jeff. The love of my life. I know that sounds like a cliché, but I can’t help the way I feel about him. When I met Jeff, I had just gotten out of a two year engagement with my high school sweetheart. But he just couldn’t go through with the commitment. Jeff? Jeff was different. He was all about commitment. He was honest and sincere and always had my best interest at heart. From the moment I met him, I knew he would be the father of my children. I knew I would love him forever. His family was the kind of family I knew I had to be a part of. Secure, friendly, hard-working, too-good-to-be-true kind of people. And when Jeff took me home that first time to meet them, we all fell in love immediately. I loved everything about him and how his parents had raised him. I knew he had to be my husband.

“MOM!” I knew that tone and I knew I was in trouble now and had better hurry. I had showered and was drying my hair as fast as I possibly could, but that tone meant trouble. Probably meant that Tyler was going to beat Cameron up for not being as ready as he should be. Another shriek, “MOM! PHONE!”

I got to the phone in my room and lifted it from the base. “Got it, Tyler!” I yelled back. This better be quick; I had to get a move-on. “Hello?”

“Hey, sexy lady,” it was my smooth-talking man. His voice was silky and velvet against my ear.

“Hello, there, baby,” I whispered back, wanting badly to remember if I had heard Tyler hang the other phone up.

“Just calling to wish you a great day,” Jeff said. He called every day, at different times of the day, just to surprise me. It was the one thing I anticipated every day. I couldn’t remember a day when he hadn’t called; I couldn’t remember a day when he hadn’t looked me in the eyes, held me close and told me he loved me. I lived for those moments. He continued, “And . . . to remind you to get the boys to school early today. They have an appointment to work with Mr. Jackson, remember?”

“Yes, I remember. Of course I remember. Why wouldn’t I?” Busted. Well, not totally. I wasn’t really busted. I did remember, I just didn’t remember it was today. “I’d be out the door, except you interrupted our exit, Smarty-Pants.”

“Sure. I’ll let you go. Love you, Catherine.”

Click. I love you too Jeff.

The drive to school was a quick one, followed by a quick peck on the cheek from each boy—so glad that hasn’t stopped yet—and then they were both off, Tyler’s skip turning into a full sprint, and Cameron lagging behind, dragging his backpack, trying to contain the yawn which had just escaped. I loved those boys. They were getting too big, though. Ten years old. Too much time had gone by. And where had it run to? Away from me, that was for sure. What had I done with my life? Soon, the boys would be driving and dating, and then, heaven’s sake, getting married and leaving me behind. What then? What would I do? My whole life had been put into these two lives and what did I have to show for my own life? I didn’t have a job; I didn’t need one. Jeff made a great living and supported us, not only emotionally, but financially as well. I didn’t have many close friends. I didn’t have anything to do. I wanted something—anything—to do. I needed something to make me feel fulfilled, like I’d left my mark on the world.

Lately, I was just Jeff’s wife, Tyler and Cameron’s mom . . . just a title. I wanted to be Catherine. Just me. I wanted Catherine to make a difference because I was Catherine, not because I was someone else’s something. Because I had changed a life. I had made a difference.

It’s Beginning to Feel A Lot Like Christmas

Whoa! It’s freezing outside!  And what’s that I see falling from the sky?  Is it a bird? A plane? Superman?  Nooo, silly.  It’s called SNOW.  Yep, it’s that time of year again.  Time for slick roads and piles of snow drifts and happy shoppers buying last minute gifts for their loved ones and snowmen being built by children home from school.  It’s the time for us, as one of my students posted, “to love those we couldn’t stand all year long.”  (I think that’s pretty close to the update I saw . . . .)

Well, I was reminded the other night about some of the traditions we have in our household and where those traditions came from and why we have them.  See, I love traditions.  My husband does appreciate traditions to some degree, but not with as much enthusiasm as I do.  (Probably because he’s the one who gets to trudge out to the shed and bring in 6-8 containers of all my Christmas decorations for the house and the trees–yes, I said TREES, plural.)

Both boys have their own little tree, decorated with ornaments of those treasures they adore as an individual.  Those trees go in each of the end dormer windows.  In the middle dormer, we have the family tree.  But wait–shouldn’t it just be “our tree?”  Yes, but see, here’s the problem:  I’m a perfectionist and when Paul and I first got married, I had this beautifully decorated burgundy, cream, and ivory Victorian style tree.  He said it didn’t say “him” anywhere on it, so to make his mark, he bought a BLUE Cubs ornament and placed in right in the front of the tree, right in the middle, for all to admire.  Now, I love the Cubs too, but let’s be honest, it didn’t follow my tradition . . . or the color scheme.

So, since we had the boys, we would get school, homemade ornaments that we would add each year and I was slowly losing the “me” in the decorating.  And there are certain ornaments that “belong” to each of us.  The last ornaments that have to go on are the boys’ first Christmas ornaments, our first Christmas ornament together as a married couple, and of course, the ornament with a reminder of the reason Jesus came here to earth in the first place:  to die on the cross for our sins.  The ornament represents a nail, similar to that put in his hands and feet.  It’s very special to our family.

So there is some sort of order I have to have.  But I was finding that the boys would just put whatever ornaments on that they wanted whenever they wanted.  This irritated me.  I wanted to make the moments super special.   Plus, the ornaments found themselves on the bottom of the tree, in one spot, wherever the little guys could reach the tree to place them.  Therefore, downstairs, I have designated the front window tree “the girl tree”, decorated in silver and white and lavender/purple shades.  It’s absolutely stunning, if I do say so myself!

As far as traditions go, I have a beautiful nativity set that we always place on the sofa table in the living room.  From the time Jacob was a baby, I placed each piece on the table, telling the story of Jesus’ birth.  Little did I know that he would remember the details to this day.  I know, he’s almost eight and he knows the story and could recite it to you.  But, the fact that he was literally pumped up and excited to place the nativity pieces on the table just made me smile and warm all over.  He made sure his brother, who is five, was right by us again this year as I took out each piece and told the story again, like I have every year.

What are your traditions?  What do you pass on to your kids?  When I was young, I remember my Daddy sitting by the lights of the Christmas tree and coloring with me.  I have then passed that on to my boys as well.  Jacob gets so excited when we color by the tree.  He hates coloring any other time of the year, but I think it’s the idea of us doing something together that makes it special to him.

What do you do to make Christmas special to your family and friends?  How is Christmas special to you this year?  I would love to hear your thoughts and traditions.  Please feel free to share with us all.  And Have a Merry Christmas!

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

Ok, so this post might “date” me a bit.  How many of you out there remember the show Quantum Leap?  I LOVED that show!  I mean, my middle brother and I had our regular faves:  Dukes of Hazzard and Facts of Life . . . but Quantum Leap–oh my!  I couldn’t miss an episode of it!  I was heartbroken when it wasn’t on because of a scheduling problem and I couldn’t believe when they actually took it off the air!  Do you remember this show?

Well, for the underpriviledged, let me give you the premise:  the main character, Sam, was a scientist/experimenter of sorts.  During an experiment with time travel, Sam finds himself each week back in a different time period.  The catch:  he’s in the body of another person and no one, except the audience, and his invisible sidekick, Al, knows he is not the actual person.  The only way we, as the audience saw what the real character looked like was when Sam would look at his reflection in the mirror.  Then we knew if he was a 15 year old boy, a champion boxer, a police detective, a bank robber, etc.  Al, carrying his handheld information device, would assist Sam into knowing if the actions he was performing were changing the outcome for the better or for worse.  It was a cool show and I loved how each episode left us with the transformation from one “body” and time period into the next.  It made for a great conversation topic as to what might happen in the next episode. 

What I loved about it was the fact that first of all, Sam was just a really decent, moral guy and he was trying to make people’s lives better.  I also enjoyed the friendship between Sam and Al as they tried to conquer the poor decisions in each episode.  They played off each other so well.  But the coolest part was the fact that in my head, I had an idea of what Sam’s “real character” would look like until he looked in the mirror and then my perception was changed.  The image I had in my head of what the character looked like differed, sometimes, drastically, from the reality.  What a cool show!

I enjoy well-developed characters, whether it’s in a book or a movie, even if they are the antagonist.  A well-developed character can make or break the outcome and success or failure of a storyline.  I wonder how I would feel if I were Sam in Quantum Leap.  I wonder what I would think or expect to see in the mirror staring back at me.  So, since I don’t have that luxury of time travel like Sam did, I spend my time in reflective thought from time to time.  Now, I wonder, what do people see in me?  Do they see the same thing I see when I look back in the mirror?

Let me see if I can give a little anecdote to clarify.  I have a son with Down Syndrome.  I always wonder about his life and what he will do with the abilities God has given him.  I know people see Down Syndrome, but I see my beautiful, talented, and healthy son.  I wonder what he will be like in high school and into his adult years.  I want people to love him, not pity him.  I want him to have lots of friends and have genuine companionship.  I want him to have a great and fulfilling life, making his own mark on society in his unique and special way.  I want people to be kind to him and I can’t help when strangers stare at him, being five-years-old and still not potty trained and talking with obvious speech difficulties (although, I’m becoming more numb to it as time goes on).  I spoke with a teacher friend of mine about this once and she had a great outlook on her view of herself as a teacher.  Her own son had a difficult time in high school, for different reasons and my friend just said, “I’ve always hoped that I’m the kind of teacher to my students that I would want for my own son.  I would hope that I’m kind and caring to my students, like I expected my son’s teachers to have been.”

My point?  I hope that I’m the kind of teacher to my students that I wish for my children.  I hope my reflection truly shows what I think I’m projecting.  Be the person you want to be attracted to.  In other words, if you expect someone to be kind, are you being kind to others?  If you want someone to be supportive of you, are you being supportive of them?  If you want your spouse to be more loving, are you being more loving to your spouse? If you want children who speak to you with respect and kindness, do you treat them with kindness in your words? 

Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror?  I mean REALLY looked.  I don’t spend much time in front of the mirror, for several reasons . . . but I do want to be aware of what people see when they look at me . . . and not in the physical sense either. 

Look in the mirror and what do you see? Is your reflection what you want it to be?   What’s in your mirror?

Lost or Found–Chapter One

Chapter One

The end. I bet you’ve never started a book with that kind of beginning, huh? Well, that’s where I am. At the end. The end of my life as a book. The chapter has come to a close and so has my life. I mean, I’m not old and in a nursing home about to lose my mind or anything like that . . . although, now that I think about it, I may as well be. I feel like I’ve lost my mind and if you count Jasper and Betsy’s ages together, my closest friends would be nursing home material. Me? I’m sixteen. I’m . . . sixteen. I think. I’ve kinda lost track of the days and months since I’ve been on my own. I finally left all the crap behind when I turned thirteen. I was just sick of it. Sick of being abused. Sick of being turned away. Sick of being abandoned. Sick of feeling lost. Sick of feeling alone. So, I just left. Weird, though, because while I hated feeling alone, I’ve never felt more alone than I do now. Alone. It’s a scary place to be in, but I figured I could do better on my own. And now, well—now, I’m kinda on my own, even though I do get taken care of by these two whack jobs. I’ve never gone too hungry since I left home; Jasper always makes sure “his women” are taken care of, even if it means he goes without.

Jasper has been on his own, living on the streets since he was my age too—he left home when he was sixteen and now, gosh, he’s gotta be in his sixties. I bet if he shaved and showered and, well, went to the dentist for a few more teeth, that he might look very handsome. Instead, my friend, my caretaker, my mentor, my “fatherly” role model, has long, straggly, grey hair, with specks of black seasoned in his uneven beard. He’s the kind of guy that comes to your mind when you think “poor, homeless bum.” But, he’s nothing like that. He’s kind and caring and he’d never let anything happen to me, that’s for sure. If you’d see him on the street, you could feel free to wave at him; he’s not gonna hurt you, or beg for money. He just wants to “live the dream.” Jasper gets most of his clothes from his favorite dumpster, out behind some luxury hotel. He never could figure out why people would throw good clothes away into a dumpster, but Jasper says it’s prime for the picking and says, “Who needs Macy’s when you got dibs on these here goods?” He’s found everything from new winter coats with the tags still on them to shoes that match, to leather gloves. And through all his shopping, he’s got one prized possession; he never leaves “home” without his Frank Sinatra hat.

“It really was his hat, you know?” he argued one night over the fire he’d worked up. “I was sitting right next to the hotel he was staying and right as he came out, my eyes got all blubbery with tears ‘cuz there he was—old Blue Eyes hisself!” Then he grinned a cavernous smile and beamed, as he stood straighter. “Yep, ol’ Frankie looked at me and said, ‘Boy, you good lookin’, ‘cept you need a good lookin’ hat to make you a man.’ And right then and there,” he pointed down to the ground for effect, “He give me this here hat. And I ain’t never gone a day without it!”

Jasper really did look better with it on. It made him look like he had something going for him. It was his hope, his security. Everyone on the street knew who Jasper was because of that dumb hat.

And then there was Betsy. She was probably in her forties and confessed she didn’t really know her real name. “Had a little sister who had a real hard time talking and such,” she began when I first met her. She told the same story to every newbie. “Just couldn’t say my name, but she sure could ‘member her favorite song, that stupid spider song. You know the one,” she’d say, as she nudged you on the elbow, encouraging you to sing along with her. “The Itsy Bitsy Spider went up the water spout,” she’d belt in her screechiest voice. “Down came the rain and washed the spider out” and then she’d pick up your hands and get you to do the motions with her. You couldn’t resist the urge to join in the childish, familiar festivities.

When the song had finished, she’d laugh so hard, you caught the bug and laughed with her til your sides felt they might split in two.

“Well, that’s the only thing my sissy ‘membered ‘bout me. So, she just up and called me ‘Betsy’ cuz she thought my name was the spider song and that’s all anybody’s ever called me. Guess it just stuck.” Betsy wasn’t the brightest of the bunch, but she had a heart that would melt you into submission. Some days, when I’d get to crying so hard I couldn’t get it together, she’d just wrap her small arms around me and pat me on my rail-thin shoulders and whisper,      “It’s all right, Girlie Max. It’s gonna be all right.” And then she’d break into another verse of “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” just so she could see you smile again.

It was sad how she came to be homeless. All because of one man. She came to the streets because of her husband. Actually, her ex-husband. He kicked her out of the house one day when she caught him in bed with another woman. She had no where to go, no family, no friends—he never would allow it. She tried to make a living on her own, but with no education and no training, she couldn’t make it in “the real world”, so she landed here with Jasper. Since he had been alone for so long, he knew everywhere to go for the best leftovers, the best entertainment, and as I said before, the best clothes. Jasper was my teacher, and Betsy was my conscience. She always told me this was no place for a nice girl like me, but hell, what did she know? She knew nothing about me. In fact, I made up most of what I told her anyway. She didn’t know the real me. I had killed the real me a long time ago.

And now, I was at the end. I couldn’t do this anymore. Betsy was right. This was no place for a girl like me—like anyone, really. I was tired of living like this; I felt dead anyway. I had tried to end my life before, but Jasper always came in to save the day, like a hero from a comic magazine. Well, not this time. This was the day I would end it once and for all. I glanced down at my arms to see the track marks from the last time I tried cutting. Not even sure why I tried it. It wasn’t for a rush, that’s for sure, and I didn’t even want to die that day. But somehow, I got bored, so that’s what I tried, except it wasn’t what I thought it would be. Still not sure what I was thinking. But today, this was the day I would no longer exist.

I laid my head down on the makeshift pillow I had from an old brown coat I found the day before. The bench was cold beneath me, but I didn’t care much. Laying on my back, I spread out on the rickety bench and looked up into the sky. The air was crisp and fall would soon be ending and winter again coming. I couldn’t take another winter if it was going to be as frigid as last year. Then, I’d wished I was dead, but for a different reason. Teeth chattering so badly and you can’t stop shaking—yeah, that’s no way to live.

The breeze blew across my face and I closed my eyes, considering my options. I could always do the drug overdose—they were everywhere and no one would mind throwing a couple my way. I thought about the feeling of freefalling off a bridge. And then, a cold shiver shot down my spine at the thought of dying.

Turning over to my side, I tried to get comfortable against the iron slats of the bench and wiped a tear away from my cheek. How had my life gotten this far? How did I get to this place? Why did this have to happen to me? Why didn’t I feel loved? Why live?

I let my hand dangle off the side of the bench and graze the ground below. The dust and dirt trickled beneath my fingertips and I brushed away the trash, thinking of what to do next. Should I say good-bye to Jasper and Betsy? No, it would just make it worse for them.

My fingers touched a thicker piece of paper, thicker than the typical chocolate bar wrapper, or straw paper. Looking down at the paper near my touch, I saw one line and one set of numbers. It appeared to be a business card of sorts, but it had been torn on one edge. For some reason, it changed my life.

Lost or Found?

555-8462

Friday Freewrite

Today, as I intend each Friday, will be a freewrite day, meaning I’m steering away from “life lessons” and my philosophy or take on life.  When I used to have my students journal EVERY day for ten minutes, I always gave them a purposeful prompt.  However, when Friday rolled around, I would let them write whatever was on their minds (frustration about a class, a boyfriend, their anxiety about their first ball game that weekend, etc.)

Well, each Friday, I too will have a Friday Freewrite.  Sometimes it will be song lyrics I’ve written, or a poem, or short story, or as today, a chapter from a book I might want to write some day.

You will have to click under the categories section on my page to get to the Friday Freewrite posts though.  I hope you enjoy.  As always, I welcome your feedback and appreciate your support.  Make today count, people.

Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones, but Words Will Cut Me Like a Knife

My husband of nine years is a pretty non-confrontational kind of person.  He doesn’t like to get into loud, yelling, fighting matches, but instead debates the issues he feels strongly about (usually politics, religion, and sports) in a calm, rational manner.  So, when he met me, I think he experienced a culture shock.  Not that I like confrontations (believe it or not, I really don’t . . . I don’t like making people mad or upset with me), but I do have opinions and I do share most of what I’m thinking or feeling.  So, I became quite amused at how Paul had chosen to deal with a “discussion” we had a while ago about household chores.  Those of you who have been married for any length of time have probably had the same discussion:  who works harder, who does more around the house, who deserves a nap, etc., etc. 

Well, we had been “debating”, let’s say, this very issue.  Being a full time teacher myself, where I have to get up extremely early to get to my school, I felt I had every right to take a break from the daily chores and let him help out with the children and other tasks around the house.  His job is on the road each day, but often he gets to sleep in, and many times, may actually take a nap in between his visits to his patient’s homes.  He even has the luxury to come home before me when he has a cancellation.  So, I felt I had the right to have a night off from supper, homework, cleaning, etc.  Needless to say, I won the debate that night.  (What can I say–I’m just that good . . .) 

Except, a few days later, I discovered something sitting on the computer desk that indicated the discussion was not over.  It was an index card–a list written in his handwriting.  I don’t remember the exact list, but it was something like this:  “I took out the trash.  I fixed supper AND cleaned up three nights in a row.  I picked up the kids after work.  I put the clean clothes away.”  You get the point.  So, I brought the index card with the list into the room where he was watching a ball game and asked him what it was.  He turned slightly red in the face and sheepishly grinned as he said, “It’s just an outline I made.”  I asked why he needed the outline.  His response?  “So the next time we fight about chores, I have a list prepared.”  The man made NOTES–AN OUTLINE, EVEN–for our next argument!!!  He said, “Well, you’re just too quick with your words and I wanted to be prepared.”  I had to laugh.  What else could I do?  Poor guy.

He’s right though.  In a battle of words, I will win every time.  Words are my life.  It’s what I do.  I wouldn’t be a decent English teacher if I didn’t have a strong sense of vocabulary and if I didn’t know how to use words effectively.  I talk to my students about their own writing and how word choice is so crucial to making their work better.  I once heard in a writing conference that word choice is all about “the right word, the right place, the right time.”  Wow.  Think about the words you use on a daily basis.  Think about the words you use to each other, to your family, to your co-workers, to your friends.  Think about how many words you use in a day’s time.  Overwhelming, I’m sure, for some of you to consider. 

Even though I could and would win in a battle of words, I don’t always take advantage of each situation where I could cut somebody right down to nothing.  See, I’m also a pretty sensitive person too.  No, I don’t cry at every event in my life, but I can get hurt easily because I am so incredibly passionate about–well, almost everything in my life.  When someone tears me or my ideas, etc. down, it hurts deeply.  And it takes me a while to recover from that hurt.  So, while I could easily fight back and win with my own hurtful words, I have to remember how I feel when the wrong words are said to me at the wrong time and in the wrong place.  It helps me control my tongue and helps me realize I don’t want anyone to feel that same way about something I’ve said to them.

Yeah, sticks and stones do hurt, but words can tear a person down.  I plan to use my words to build others up.

Songs I Can’t Live Without

(Author’s note:  Sorry, Billie and others . . . I know this wasn’t the post I promised.  Don’t fear–I will be posting that one once I work through the process better . . . stay tuned.)

My earliest memories are those of music around my home as a child. Growing up in my family, someone was always singing, playing an instrument, or listening to music. It’s a part of my very being—it almost breathes in my veins. I even began my college education as a music major and now write my own songs (mostly lyrics though). Any time I’m in the car, I more often than not require music on, even if it’s quiet “noise” for my drive. Most of my professional career, I have driven at least 35 minutes to work and 35 minutes back. Driving home from college on those rare weekends (for five years . . .) was a three hour pursuit from here to there. The melodies and rhythms help me think, help me put my life in perspective, help me consider my day, help me really feel deeply on many levels.

Now some of you, like my husband, have no musical ear at all (it’s still a miracle I married him—what was I thinking? Just kidding, dear.) He enjoys music with a different appreciation—he listens to the music he hears me play or sing, but wouldn’t consider putting music on in his car as he drives during his work day. He would rather listen to talk radio, or a sports station, which is fine too. And then there are some of you who would rather have nothing on at all and drive in silence. However, music runs deep in my soul. I can’t live without music. I thank God for talented writers and musicians who bring such great pieces to the public and to me personally. And there are some songs I really can’t live without. Below is a list of the songs and artists of a few of them. I won’t go into detail why they are so significant in this post, but I intend to use some of them in the future, so be sure to come back for more.

• “I Could Not Ask For More” by Sara Evans
• “Stand” by Rascal Flatts
• “Taking Chances” by Celine Dion
• “Only What You Make of It” by Little Big Town
• “One Day You Will” by Lady Antebellum
• “Need You Now” by Lady Antebellum
• “Halo” by Beyonce
• “The Road and the Radio” by Kenny Chesney
• “Gotta Be Somethin’ More” by Sugarland
• “The Way You Look Tonight”  by Tony Bennett (ok, I lied–I’ll tell you why this song–it’s the song my husband and I danced to at our wedding for our first dance as husband and wife–pretty special song . . .) 

I’d like to hear what songs you can’t live without. What songs do you somewhat “claim” as your “theme song” for your life? What song do you have to hear every day? If music has affected you in a positive way, I’d love to hear about your experience and how you were affected.

And as always, you only get one “today”, so make it count.

An Apple a Day

(This was not the blog I had intended for this evening, but I feel a headache coming on, so I am posting a note I wrote several days ago.  Enjoy.)

Protein, carbohydrates, cholesterol, antioxidants, organic foods, bottled spring water.  Exercise, get eight or more hours of sleep each night, sneeze and cough in your sleeve . . . and on and on.  My goodness!  The list for healthy living could stretch as long as the marathon we should be running.  For some reason, we have become obsessed with healthy living and as a result, have turned into freakish germi-phobes.  Don’t get me wrong, staying healthy and living healthy are very important, but enough already!  Stop the paranoia and stop feeding into the media frenzy.  You’re only creating another health concern from the constant barrage of worry:  your mental health.  You want to make life better?  It’s very simple.

As many of you know, I am a high school English teacher in a small Indiana community.  I’ve been teaching for almost fourteen years.  No, I’m not a doctor, nor have I ever played one on T.V.  But I am an avid reader and I am excellent at observing details–those two keys are crucial to the success of my career choice.  They also melt into my philosophy of the importance of reading and observing.

As a reader, I was given a book by a colleague of mine.  Early in my teaching career, I was single, but was looking–too hard–for Mr. Right.  I didn’t even know the man who is now my husband, so when my friend gave me the book by Gary Chapman called The Five Love Languages, I thought she had lost her mind.  I wasn’t ready to discuss my “language” of love–after all, I didn’t HAVE anyone to share the language with, you know?

However, I read the book.  You know what I observed?  My love language is touch.  I am a touchy-feely kind of person.  Oh, I love gifts and compliments and chores done with a servant’s heart–but I just love and cherish a good hug.  I treasure holding hands.  Besides my husband’s tender spirit and undying patience for my crazy antics, it was his eyes and his hands that drew me to him.  I love touch.  It’s healthy.  Our bodies need that nurturing from someone who really cares for us and truly loves us. I love holding my two young sons.  Some day–and that day is coming faster than I care to consider–some day, I know they aren’t going to want that same type of affection from their mother.  However, I would rather demonstrate that love for them early so they know it’s completely healthy and good to hug, not onloy me, their mother, but also their wives, should they get married, and their children, should they be blessed like my husband and I are.

I don’t understand how or why touch is so key to my love language. I don’t remember hugging a lot with my parents and I had two younger brothers who were ornery as the dickens.  Don’t get me wrong–I knew they all loved me, but not through hugs or touch.  Still to this day, it feels just awkward or uncomfortable to give them a hug good-bye.  Yet, I still need it.  Don’t we all?  Don’t you feel a little better when someone pats you on the back?

I once heard that everybody needs at least six hugs a day.  Six hugs!  How many have you received today?  How many have you given today?  Did you hug your kids today?  How about your spouse?  A friend in need of encouragement?  Just think:  your skin is the largest organ of your whole body.  It’s covered in sensors and nerve endings and the body is healthier when every part works in perfect accord.  Yes, vitamins and healthy eating are good for our bodies, but we also need each other in this big, scary world.  Think about the babies all over our world who never get that sense of security and unconditional love.  They are never held, never coddled, never touched.  What is their development like throughout the remainder of their lives?  Not healthy.

So, think about how healthier we all could be if we followed the prescription of six hugs per day, just as we take our vitamins and supplements.  Give a hug today.  That person may be lacking touch in their daily diet.

That’s Your Choice

I was never allowed to go to movies when I was growing up.  Something about my conservative, religious upbringing made it nearly impossible to convince my parents to let me enter the sinful, seductive world of Hollywood through the big screen.  However, for some reason, my parents decided to let me make my own decision about the theatre.  It was in high school that I went with a friend to view Dead Poets’ Society.  Now, some English teachers cringe when they hear that I, a member of their literary society, appreciate such a film, yet I have shown it numerous times to my own students.  In fact, every time I watch the film, I learn something new or appreciate another aspect of life, or relish in my own teaching highlights.

There’s so much that I enjoy about the film, from Robin Williams’ John Wayne impersonation, to the cast of characters, to the theme of blind obedience versus independent thinking.  However, the best part of the movie is in the beginning, when Williams, as Mr. Keating, takes his class of young men to glance at the pictures of former students in their private boys school.  He leans in toward the boys, acting as the voice of the ghosts of those long gone, fellow students and whispers, “Carpe.  Carpe Diem.  Seize the Day, boys.  Make your lives extraordinary.”  Some of the young men look toward the back of the collective group at their teacher and his strange teaching strategy.  Yet, some actually lean in towards the glass and towards the faces haunting back at them and their expressions show utter amazement and awe at the thought of making their own mark on society.

I love that.  Making your mark.  What will your life hold?  What do you want to be known for?  What choices will you make today that will affect your life tomorrow (both positively and negatively affect your life, I might add).   Life is full of choices.  I’ve been making the point lately to get up each morning and choose to live a better life today than I did the day before.  It’s not easy, by any stretch of the imagination.  But it does seem to make my day go more smoothly.  There’s a catch to it, though:  I have to choose it for myself and then not stray from that choice.  I only get today to live for today.  I don’t choose to waste it.  I will never be sixteen years old again.  How did I spend that time?  Did I waste it?  I hope not.  Oh, I made poor choices, but those choices have made me the woman, the mother, the wife, the teacher, the friend I am today.  How can I ask to change those choices when they have made me who I am?  Yet, I hope to make better choices NOW, and each day make better choices.  The key:  I have to get up.  I have to move forward.  I can not sit idly by and allow life to pass me.  Life isn’t going to bring me golden opportunities.  I have to choose to get up.  I have to choose to move toward a positive approach to my day.

Outside of movies, I love a good book.  One that I can really get lost in.  You know the kind?  The one where you don’t realize what’s going on around you because you’re so sucked into the plot or the dialogue or you can picture the characters and what they’re doing?  Well, Ted Dekker is an incredible author who I truly enjoy.  I just finished his book called The Kiss.  While it was difficult to read at times, difficult to focus with two young boys playing around the house, I really got pulled into this quote toward the end of the book:  “You choose pain–you choose to fight it, deny it, bury it–then yes, the choice is always hard.  But you choose perspective–embrace your history, give it credit for the better person it can make you, scars and all–the choice gets easier every time.”  It’s all about the choice you make.  How you will Seize Your Day.  What will you choose?