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Category Archives: Just for Fun

Dream on

Note: If my children read this, I will be in some serious trouble. But as they say, forgiveness is easier to get than permission.

Last night I treated my sons to a delicious meal at the Hong Kong Buffet. When the waitress brought us the ticket and our fortune cookies, Josh grabbed one and looked at me in horror.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t open it. I’ll put it back.” And he pulled his hands away. It was too late. He had already touched it.

See, we have this “thing” in my family. I ALWAYS get to pick the first cookie. I choose my fortune. Michael ALWAYS gets the last cookie. His fortune chooses him. Whoever’s left gets what’s in the middle.

But since Josh had already touched it, I told him to take it. I chose another one, and Michael’s cookie chose him.

Michael’s cookie said he needed some relaxation time. My cookie told me to pursue my long-term goal, and Josh’s cookie predicted mystery and romance.

“Hey, these cookies went to the wrong people. I think Michael needs the mystery romance cookie.”

Michael balked at Josh’s words. He’s is in that “in-between world” of not knowing whether he should run to or from girls.

I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. We don’t put much stock into these “fortunes,” but we have a lot of fun with them—Michael, usually more than others. He likes to add the words “in the bathroom” to everyone’s fortune.

Try it. It’s fun—even though it’s obnoxiously juvenile. I always scold him when he says it at the restaurant, but on the inside I’m laughing.

I told Josh I believed his cookie was meant for him because the word romance didn’t necessarily mean “huggy, huggy, kissy, kissy.” And both of us proceeded to explain to Michael that romance also referred to adventure in a King Arthur kind of way.

I like to think both of my children are adventurous and romantic. When they were little, they became so caught up in their imaginations I had a hard time pulling them back to reality.

For eight years Josh was an only child, so he invented imaginary brothers and a sister—Kinder, Mark, and Folla. They road atop our van along with his imaginary uncle from England.

Josh went through a Batman phase. Even when it wasn’t Halloween, he used to dress like the superhero. I remember taking him into a Shoney’s in Knoxville. He signed autographs for the waiters and waitresses—as THE Batman.

He also created his own detective agency and made me print business cards for him.

Michael, on the other hand, has always been creative but in a different way. He’s always had Josh, so he didn’t need imaginary siblings. I could buy him expensive gifts at holidays, but there has always been one gift that enthralls him—pencil erasers, as long as they come in two colors so that he can create intricate battles between opposing teams or armies.

Isn’t that weird?

Michael also wants a golf cart more than anything else in the world. Who knows what he plans to do with it. For years he has pleaded with me. When Old Stone Fort shut down its golf course, Michael begged to go there so he could ask a park ranger for one of the golf carts.

Not going to happen.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to the days of my childhood. As only child, I spend nearly all of my waking moments in another world. It was okay back then. When you’re a kid, you can imagine all you want, and nobody thinks you’re weird.

I loved horses, so my mother’s brooms became my mighty steeds. My golden banana seat bike transformed into a palomino. I spent weekends at my grandparents’ hiding in the bathroom with my cousin Robin, my partner in crime, and we spent hours mixing Jergan’s lotion, Comet cleanser and other cleaning supplies into magical potions. Were we scientists or actresses in commercials? I don’t remember. We just had fun.

Sometimes I find myself drifting off into my imaginary world again, even as adult. When Josh read his fortune at the Hong Kong Buffet, I found myself drifting off again. I had a plan.

Josh is a journalism major and sometimes falls into media opportunities. There is a possibility he might work a major awards show in the near future. A possibility.

Sometimes these workers drive the celebrities to their appointments. If I recall correctly, one Steven Tyler showed up at last year’s event. Who’s to say he won’t come back this year?

So here’s the plan, man:

Josh finds a way to grab golf cart duty. He looks for Steven Tyler. He drives Steven Tyler in the golf cart, but he doesn’t stop at the awards show. He brings him to our house. (I don’t know what we’ll do with him once we get him—I don’t want to keep him. I just want to borrow him for autograph or a picture. Maybe a song.)

Mission accomplished.

If the plan works out, not only will I get to meet Steven Tyler, but Michael will get his golf cart. Josh will probably go to jail, but hey…he’s the one who grabbed the first cookie.

And it’s MY imagination.

Oh well. I guess I can just “dream on.”

 
16 Comments

Posted by on October 22, 2011 in Just for Fun

 

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Memphis metaphor

“Blues is easy to play but hard to feel.” ~ Jimi Hendrix

What do I know about Jimi Hendrix? What do I know about playing the blues?

The truth? Nothing. Not really. But I do know how to feel the blues. I’m not talking about sorrow. Both of my parents passed away in the last three months, my father on June 27. I’m immersed in sorrow.

But the blues is more than sorrow. The blues evokes a yearning, a wanting. The blues evokes every feeling imaginable, even that twinge of hope that resolution is just a note away. Everybody wants resolution. Everybody feels the blues, but I think writers, artists, and musicians truly get it. It’s like another dimension of communication.

So many people see life in black and white. If you know anything about graphic design, you know photographs, if not in color, are best viewed in grayscale, not black line. Such is the blues, such is life. The blues finds itself somewhere between heaven and hell, and while the singers may stand undeniably on one side or the other, the fact is people are neither black nor white.

Read Psalm 51:5 and Ephesians 2:1-3. Then read James 1:17 and Romans 8:28. A war rages. Notes bend. There’s a need for resolution. Fulfillment. Redemption.

I just got back from Memphis. The first thing I did was visit Memphis Music, my favorite Beale Street shop. An elderly gentleman in his 80s, Mr. Clyde Hopkins, “the Godfather of the Blues,”  greeted me with his CD, Don’t Mistreat a Friend. He told me he’d autograph it if I bought it and said it would be special because I got to meet him in person. How could I resist? I bought it. My only regret is I didn’t get a picture of him. But I took plenty of others.

As soon as I stepped out of Memphis Music, I headed  to Handy Park, where I found the Juke Joint Allstars on stage. They’re so cool they autographed a CD for me right in the middle of a song and extended an invitation for me to join them on stage. Another trip to Handy Park, one of many, gave me the opportunity to snap pictures of a young girl in the audience who wanted to sing the blues. One of the band members handed her his guitar, and another set up a mic. The girl could sing.

Deciding what to eat on Beale Street is never a problem–catfish or ribs, occasionally oysters. Deciding where to eat is a challenge. The Blues City Cafe is a must for all first timers, but Miss Polly’s is just as good and has the best catfish around. The cornbread is good too. Ever tried it with a little jalepeno?

I asked the cook if I could take a few pictures inside the place. All the tables pay homage to the blues greats. The cook was quite gracious. He even offered me a chance to take a picture of him then and again when I saw him standing outside the restuarant. Memphis folk are twice as nice.

I mentioned oysters. My grandmother used to make fried oysters, and maybe that’s how I learned to like them so much. But you can’t get fried oysters around here. Memphis truly has it all, even an Irish Pub called Silky O’ Sullivan’s, and it serves delicious fried oysters. I didn’t make it there on this trip, but I was standing out front when the owner pulled up in his sportscar. Wow. I’ll probably never stand that close to a car like that again.

For the first time in years, I took a walk along the riverside, and I think the walk was the best part of my trip. It gave me a chance to think about life, about people in my life.

When I’m in Memphis, I do a lot of people watching and analyzing. Maybe that’s why I’m so interested in folklore–stories handed down from one generation to the next. Memphis is rich in tradition and lore. Some of the supernatural lore is commercialized; some of it is the real deal. But it’s nothing to play around with.

No matter where we live, everybody has a story. Everybody sings the blues. We may want to see life in black and white, but truthfully it’s all shades of grey. And if we want to see it in living color, colors we’ve never seen on this earth, well, we’ll have to wait for heaven for that.

 
 
 
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Posted by on July 17, 2011 in Just for Fun

 

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Bibliotheca

This picture has very little to do with this post, but I couldn't resist. It's my favorite scene from one of my all-time favorite movies.

Everybody possesses a library, some extensive, some selective, but each one a treasure trove of history, comedy, and wisdom. I am discriminating with my collection. You see, a library is like your life, and the books within are the friends you make.

Take a look at what lines your shelves.

Laughter is one of the greatest gifts God has given us, and we need to laugh. Henry Ward Beecher once said, “Mirth is God’s medicine. Everyone ought to bathe in it.” But I think Alan Alda pretty much said it best when he offered this advice: “When people are laughing, they’re generally not killing each other.”

We need volumes of laughter.

When we’re in need of good company, we don’t just walk into our library and pull just anything from the shelf. Only the right title will do. Some choices offer wise counsel. Some offer comfort. Some take on us wild adventures. Some help us find our inner child, cajole our hopeless romantic, or nurture precious memories.

The most special volumes cut through our exteriors and find their way to our core. They help us open up, give us courage, and inspire us to make our dreams come true.

So many books, so little time. But it’s quite the injustice to choose a book only to leave it sitting on the shelf. Books and friendships must be interactive. I like what James Bryce has to say about books–“The worth of a book is to be measured by what you can carry away from it.”

As you build your library, build carefully, build wisely. Every book comes with a price. You get what you pay for, and exteriors can be deceiving.

The greatest let down of all is to be enticed by the blurb on the back cover and then later discover the book itself is nothing like what it promises. The old axiom is true. You can’t always judge a book by its cover.

I’ll leave you with a metaphorical challenge. Read the quotes I’ve listed below, and every time you see the word book, think about your friends and friendships. You may walk away with a new lesson about life.

“If there’s a book you really want to read but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” ~  Toni Morrison

“Books let us into their souls and lay open to us the secrets of our own.”  ~  William Hazlitt

“I would be most content if my children grew up to be the kind of people who think decorating consists mostly of building enough bookshelves. “ ~  Anna Quindlen

A book must be an ice-axe to break the seas frozen inside our soul.  ~  Franz Kafka

“Books can be dangerous.  The best ones should be labeled “This could change your life.”  ~Helen Exley

“Books are not made for furniture, but there is nothing else that so beautifully furnishes a house.”  ~ Henry Ward Beecher

[Books are] “medicine for the soul.”  ~  Inscription over the door of the Library at Thebes

“Good as it is to inherit a library, it is better to collect one.”  ~  Augustine Birrell

“A house without books is like a room without windows.”  ~ Heinrich Mann

“Reading is to the mind what exercise is to the body.”  ~  Richard Steele

And what true friendship is to the heart.

What do you think? Lend a part of yourself to my library. Please leave a comment. I always enjoy hearing from you.

 
14 Comments

Posted by on July 3, 2011 in Just for Fun

 

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Better late than never

A few additions to my iTunes library

Back off, whippersnappers. You can’t call me an old fuddy duddy anymore. I have officially joined the ranks of iPod users everywhere. Yeah, I know. The iPod Touch came out about four years ago, but I would rather interface with people than machines.

I don’t keep up with the latest gadgets. I still have my hot pink iPod Shuffle, but I haven’t used it much because, frankly, it’s been hard for me to let go of CDs. There’s just something special about holding the music in my hands. It’s almost as if I can touch it the way it touches me.

Plus, I love reading liner notes.

When I was working on my master’s in journalism, I took a creative nonfiction class. We had to pick a place and convey a message about life by SHOWING the details about the place. I wrote about the Troubadour on Santa Monica Blvd. in California. Inspired by the lyrics of Joe Walsh’s “Sad Café” and the accompanying liner notes, I did my own research and found myself metaphorically there. I wouldn’t trade that homework assignment for anything. And I got an A on my paper!

It’s not that I don’t like anything new. It’s that I deplore reading instruction manuals. It’s slow torture. Blame it on my attention deficit syndrome—my trig teacher actually called me a spaz—to my face. I’d rather somebody tell me, better yet, show me, than have to wade through written details. So I chucked the instructions to the iTouch and asked my techno wizard son to help me.

That’s when I fell in love with iTunes.

I’m not a dummy. I’ve been handing out iTunes cards to my students as prizes and gifts for years, but I have never indulged myself. My laptop and I went for a little visit for coffee and free Wi-Fi, and while I was supposed to be revising my manuscript, I clicked on the iTunes Store.

Like a kid in a candy shop I wandered through the delectable selections. I didn’t realize how easy it was just to click and buy. Click and buy. Whole albums if you want to. Yeah, I hear you. You’re saying, “She’s just now figuring this out?” You’re rolling your eyes too. Stop it. You’re embarrassing me.

My credit card statement hasn’t come in yet. I’m still clicking and buying, but I’m also transferring my old CDs to my iTunes library.As Tom Petty says, “The waiting is the hardest part.” The cool thing is I’ve re-discovered some old tunes that have been stacked up and covered with dust because I’ve been too lazy to trade out the disks in my dinosaur disc changer.

The little listening device is blues heavy right now, and I haven’t even gotten to my Stevie Ray Vaughan collection. I have so much more to load. Back in the late 90s when I wrote for several music magazines, my mailbox overflowed with free CDs sent to me via publicists. (The best perk of writing about music!) I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to transfer all my CCM. My classic rock collection is already there waiting on me, as are Dierks Bentley and Taylor Swift.

The Internet is a wonderful thing for obsessed music fans. It’s like a nice genie that grants unlimited wishes. All I have to do is Google, and I have the lyrics and chords to any song I want. Now I can own my own copy with just a click.

I remember the day I first heard “Hotel California” by the Eagles on the radio. I begged my dad to  drive me to the store so that I could buy it. Back then singles came out on 45s, so I flipped through the record bin, searching for a song with the word California in it. (BTW, Dear students, 45s are round pieces of vinyl that play songs on a record player. Never mind. Go Google it. You’ll figure it out.) Anyway, it didn’t take me long to fall in love with the Eagles. Now I have pretty much their whole collection, and I’ve seen them live. And did I mention Joe Walsh called me? What? Did you really think I wouldn’t say that–again?

So what’s today’s pick?

When I was transferring music today, I found a little surprise tucked inside the sleeve of a re-discovered Sheryl Crow CD, 100 Miles to Memphis. I’m talking about her Detours album. Wow. Didn’t know I owned that one. I downloaded it to my iTunes and randomly clicked on a track, and like serendipity I discovered a song that resonates. Sheryl Crow’s “Drunk with the Thought of You.”

So guess what I’ve been doing all afternoon? Here’s a hint: I’m armed with a six string, and I’m sitting in front of a laptop, lyrics, and a tab. I’ve been playing with writing my own stuff, but I like to learn how to play the songs of artists that inspire me. Sheryl Crow is one of those. I may not agree with her politics, but I envy her voice.

So what’s the next step in my better late than never iPod journey? Playlists. But I’ll save that for the next blog. What’s new with you?

 
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Posted by on June 27, 2011 in Just for Fun

 

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What do you get when you cross a conspiracy theorist with a psycho vigilante?

I am a visionary.

No, don’t expect me to start my own psychic hotline. On a whim, I took the Myers Briggs personality test and discovered I am an oddity—an INFJ (introverted, iNtuitive, feeling judging). Only one percent of the population possesses these characteristics. I suppose my “type” is called “visionaries” because we INFJ people are supposedly gentle, caring, and highly complex, intuitive individuals.

I feel special.

Here are a few more details pertaining to the INFJ:

  • Artistic, creative
    Dedicated listener
    Derives satisfaction from helping others
    Devoted to personal beliefs
    Lives in a world of hidden meanings
    Possesses uncanny insight into people and situations
    Protective of their inner selves, sharing only what they choose to share when they want to share it
    Perfectionist
    Dislikes conflict or stress
    Best suited for the career of English teacher, photo journalist, musician, novelist, freelance writer

Spooky, isn’t it? That’s me! (Okay, I should have written “That is I.” Silly perfectionist.)

According to MyPersonality.info, other people who fall into the INFJ category include Adam Sandler, Shirley Temple, Oprah Winfrey, Mel Gibson, and Nathaniel Hawthorne. Weird! I really don’t consider myself having
anything in common with any of these, except Hawthorne, maybe. Fictional characters include Luke Skywalker and the Tin Man.

I did a little Googling and found a website by Paula L. Fleming that offers some great information for writers about building characters based on personality types. Check out Writing-World.com’s section called “What ‘Type’ Is Your Character?” You’ll find some nifty hints that will help will character motivation.

Writers, you might ask your characters to take a shortened version of the test to determine if their actions match their motivations. You might also discover a little bit about yourself as you analyze your characters. What personality types intrigue you the most?

Just for fun, I “asked one of my characters” to take the shortened version of the test on the Personality Pathways website and found he is an ISTP (introverted, sensing, thinking, perceiving). His characteristics include the following:

  • Intensely analytical, a trouble-shooter
    Always busy
    Needs personal space
    Often responds to stress with angry outbursts
    Confident
    Would perform well in the computer or engineering fields
    Skillful with physical things
    Athletic
    Good listener
    Observant
    Lives one day at a time
    Easy going, fun to be around
    Stubborn or disobedient

Interesting. Some of my character’s traits overlap with mine. Some do not. If I were to write his story based on what I would do in a situation I would clearly be off track when it comes to character motivation.

Famous ISTPs include Bruce Lee, Clint Eastwood, Keith Richards, Tiger Woods, Mick Jagger, Burt Reynolds, and Amelia Earhart. Famous fictional ISTPs include James Bond and Wolverine.

Do these characters, real or fictional, have anything in common with my character? Maybe. I suppose if I were in doubt about how to write a scene, I could always imagine what Mick Jagger or James Bond might do.

I also checked out the Not Your Typical Personality Types parody site. Oh, this one is fun.! It inspired me to infuse a little humor into my character creation.

This site pegs the INFJ as a conspiracy theorist and the ISTP as a psycho vigilante.

Hmmm. Imagine putting those two into a book. What fun! (Insert evil laugh.) Let’s get to writing.

BTW:  One of my favorite blogs, Divine Detours, is featuring Jeannie Campbell, the “Character Therapist” today. How cool! Perfect timing. Please check it out. You could win one of her character therapy guides.

 
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Posted by on June 22, 2011 in Just for Fun

 

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I’m gonna get me a new job

I may not make it as a novelist, but I can’t imagine not being a writer. So if the novelist thing doesn’t work out, I have a plan. I will apply at Walmart as a technical writer and create an official Walmart code of conduct manual.

For now, I’ll skip all the boring stuff like employee expectations and give you a preview of the good parts, the section dealing with customer conduct during the last two weeks of May.

EVERYBODY knows the last two weeks of May are the most stressful times in a teacher’s life—testing, grading, averaging, sorting, filing, failing, passing, cleaning. It’s nerve racking. For these reasons, Walmart should be especially sensitive to the needs of the stressed-out teacher. Here are a few ideas.

One
Every customer who enters Walmart during the last two weeks of May should be dutifully informed that the store is most likely packed with intense teachers doing their last-minute, end-of-the-year school shopping.

Therefore, every male customer over six feet tall must agree to never, ever run down the aisles motioning and waving both hands in the air—especially when he is running head on into a short blond female teacher who has no clue who he is.

Granted the man may be trying to get the attention of his wife, who is ten feet behind the teacher, but the man’s actions could lead to an awkward confrontation. Should she be confronted by a large waving man, the frazzled teacner may snap and execute a martial arts take down maneuver. Better hope she’s not packing. There are those who do.

Two
Keeping in mind the highly agitated state of these teachers, Walmart shelf stockers should make readily available only the most fattening, high calorie, sugar-laden snack foods, especially chocolate. Under no circumstance should they ever place the 100-calorie snack items within reach of a frazzled teacher because once the teacher sees just how few chips or nuts are in the pre-packaged 100-calorie snack bags, she will immediately resort to her math skills—even if she is an English teacher—and calculate how many hundreds of calories she consumed earlier that morning after receiving one more memo about something else to do.

Of course, there is the possibility of a positive outcome here. Once the teacher makes the realization that she has already consumed her allotted calorie intake for the next two weeks, she may then resort to violence and clear the shelves, making the job easier for the next guy to stock the shelves with the most fattening, high calorie, sugar-laden snack foods.

Three
Keeping with the weight theme…the Walmart greeter should confiscate the cell phone of every frazzled female teacher entering the store so that she does not get a call from home that says, “Hey, the dogs are out of chow. Can you pick up one of those mega-pound bags of dog food, you know, the ones that are literally over half your size?”

If the phone is not confiscated and the teacher receives such a call, she may then attempt to load the dog food into her own cart without any help. In frustration, she may look for the actual weight of the said dog food bag and discover that it is only 15.5 pounds, which ironically is quite close to the number of pounds she would like to lose this summer.

As these events unfold, the teacher will then drift off to a dream world and picture herself with a 15-pound bag of dog food strapped around her belly. She will then fall into a deep funk, which could result in danger to the well-being of the individual(s) who called her and asked her to bring home the dog food in the first place.

Four
During the last two weeks of May, Walmart should hire a special alert team for parking lot patrol. They should be on the look out for any customer with a weird ring tone: laughing cats, singing chickens, rapping babies, rambling auctioneers, and halleluiah choirs.

After hearing the ringtone and then realizing the rapture hasn’t come, the teacher may forget where she is and yank that bad boy cell phone out of the other customer’s hands, pull out her yellow referrall form to write him up, and remind him he can pick up his phone in the office at the end of a day.

It could get ugly.

So…what do you think? Do I have a future with Walmart? Or should I keep on plugging away at my writing dream?

 
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Posted by on May 20, 2011 in Just for Fun

 

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For my mom

Mother’s Day will have passed by the time I finish writing this, but I’ve spent all day trying to come up with the right words.

I write a lot about my dad’s side of the family. I know a lot about them, but my mother was an extremely private person who never said much about herself. The week before she died, she hinted that some of her people may have been moonshiners. I don’t know if it’s true, but it makes for a good story. My mom liked a good story.

She was one of nine children, the oldest girl, and spent most of her life taking care of other people. I know she was proud of her siblings. She talked quite a bit about her twin brothers. Being the oldest, she probably had to keep them in line, and from what she said, they were a handful. She said she remembered them riding their tricycles in the house in the middle of the night.

She and her brothers and sisters attended a small one-room school near Shady Grove. The twins tormented the poor teacher by throwing firecrackers in the potbelly stove. Just as the teacher prepared to stoke the fire, the firecrackers exploded and just about scared her to death. They boys escaped punishment by climbing out the window.

My mom was never that mischievous although I remember her telling me stories about the Bell Witch. My maiden name is Bell, and those stores were passed down through the other side of my family. My greatest fear was that Old Kate, another name for the Bell Witch, would visit me at night and yank the covers off my bed as she had done to poor Betsy Bell. Old Kate also had a habit of knocking on the walls. My bedroom was on the other side of my parents’, and sometimes after telling me a story about the Bell Witch, my mom would knock on the wall and then giggle. I usually ended up sleeping between them that night.

When she and my dad were dating, my dad’s younger brother went along with them and sat in the backseat. It was my mom’s idea to put him out of the car at the graveyard and make him walk home by himself.

At least I know where my mischief comes from.

My mother was overly cautious and fearful to the point of making me fearful of just about everything. But that was just her way. She knew all about spider bites and worm bites and bee stings and a myriad other things. All of my aunts and uncles on my dad’s side of the family used to call her up for advice about everything. She knew everything. She really did.

Her strongest advice to me ever was, “Actions speak louder than words.” She was right. People may say one thing, but you can always tell a lot about people’s character and true motivations by what they do. Now that I’m older that advice means so much more to me.

My mom was smart. She never went to college, but she could fix anything. She could make anything work. She understood how anything worked.

And she was super neat. After I was born, she never worked outside the home, but she never let up a bit working at keeping her house in top-notch order. She hung every item in the closet perfectly straight with the hangers a uniform distance from each other. Her refrigerator was spotless, and so were her floors.

When she packed my lunches for field trips, she wrapped my sandwiches in wax paper and then wrapped them again in aluminum foil, folded to perfection. The bag was so heavy with goodies—she didn’t want me to go hungry—that it almost overflowed.

Everything she did was to perfection—and beyond.

I guess that’s why I’m a perfectionist. But I’m working on loosening up. (I still like things organized and neat and clean. I get distressed when they’re not.)

Above all, I’ve always wanted to make my mom proud. I think I did. She kept a scrapbook of all my awards and accomplishments from grade school up, my perfect attendance certificates, newspaper clippings from the math contests I attended, my softball pictures and trophies, and all the things I’ve had published, especially my Chicken Soup for the Soul story. I think she liked that one the best. She always supported my writing.

I hope I made her proud.

Happy Mother’s Day.

 
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Posted by on May 9, 2011 in Encouragement, Just for Fun

 

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Jigsaw

The end is drawing near.

The seniors will graduate soon, and they’re starting to get all weepy. We sent the final issue of the newspaper to the printer today. Yesterday I watched the editor proofread the seniors’ Last Wills. She boohooed from A to Z. All I could do was hand her a box of tissues.

Feeling rather nostalgic, I went home and dug up my senior yearbook. I have to admit I teared up too. It’s hard to believe how quickly time passes, how people change, how fickle life is.

When’s the last time you looked at your old yearbook? I’ll bet you’ll see some of these quotes:

“Please always be my friend.”

“Stay the same, and you’ll go far.”

“I’ll never forget you.”

“R.M.A.”

Lies. All of them.

Oh, at the time the writers really meant it. But those kids in the yearbook don’t exist anymore.

Why is it I feel like I’m the only one who hasn’t changed? I’m not talking physically. I’m talking mentally, emotionally. I guess I just haven’t grown up yet.

I never really left my old high school. I still remember where I sat in homeroom, and I still remember where I used to hang out in the mornings. I still remember driving our beloved band director nuts and counting the steps between the yard lines on the football field for our flag routine with the band. (How in the world did I do that? All those people? Crazy.)

I believe if I could push a button and rewind time I wouldn’t have a problem stepping back into yesterday. I could still find my old seat in Mr. Burton’s room. And I meant every word I wrote in those yearbooks. I’m sure of it.

If by some freak of nature one of you is reading this blog, I challenge you to go back to your yearbook. What’s the funniest thing someone wrote? Has anything written stood the test of time? Did I write in your book? If so, what?

Kids at my school have their yearbook day next week. I’ve learned something over the years. I’ll always be Mrs. L. to them, but they won’t always be the charming little cherubs in the second row. Someday they’ll be doctors, business owners, moms, and dads. Now when I teach, I remind myself I’m not just teaching a child, I’m teaching my future colleague, dentist, mechanic, or nursing home attendant. (I always, always try to be nice—if you know what I mean. Unfortunately, I know several who are already plotting their revenge.)

The cool thing about being a writer and an English teacher is that I love novels. I love talking about novels (and writing them). A novel is ALWAYS present tense even if it’s written in past tense. Why? Because each time a reader opens the cover, it’s happening—now. Again and again and again.

There’s comfort in knowing some things will never change, like the details in a book. But that’s not the case with the yearbook. Sure we can open it and relive our glory days, but only for a moment.

As I looked back on mine tonight, I was able to see random pieces of the puzzle that make up the writer I am today.

I guess in some ways it’s the story of what made me, me.

 

 
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Posted by on May 6, 2011 in Just for Fun

 

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Where I’m From

I’m a novice in the world of fiction writing, but I’m a determined learner and listener. One tidbit I’ve gleaned from the accomplished is that sometimes writers set sail on their writing journeys with no compass in hand, content to dock wherever the wind should take them. Sometimes they don’t.

How about you? Do you need to know where you’re going when you write? Do you use a storyboard? A map? An index card system? Post-it Notes?

Or do you just wing it?

If you’re in need a point of destination but you still aren’t sure where your story is taking you, perhaps you should take a look at who you are and where you’re from to  know where you’re going and why you want to get there.

In 1996 I had the pleasure of hearing Tennessee’s own Poet Laureate Margaret (Maggi) Britton Vaughn read her poem “Who We Are” at our state’s bicentennial celebration in Nashville. Her words stuck with me, and for years I’ve used her poem (and poems similar in format, i.e. The Where I’m From poem) as writing prompts for me and my students.

Where are you from? Where do you want to go with your story? Why do want to go THERE?

Here’s my attempt at a Where I’m From poem. Why not take a few minutes to jot your own thoughts in your journal. You might just find a new story in you. (I used this website as a launch pad for today’s poem:  <http://www.swva.net/fred1st/wif.htm>. You can tell that I didn’t stick with the format. I created my own.)

Where I’m From

I’m from strawberry patches, an old mimosa tree, and cornfields, begging us to get lost in you.

I’m from stories about my Great Uncle Joe Frank and Great Aunt Carlena.
I wish I had gotten a chance to know you.
Every time I walk through the door of that great white manor on South Ramsey
I feel like part of me has been there all along.

I’m from Denmark, Ireland, and Robertson County,
where Old Kate drops by every 107 or so years.
Am I related to you?

I’m from just around the corner from Hans Christian Anderson’s place
and some fellow Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote about,
all those places,all those people my grandmother used to talk about.
Don’t know how much is true.

I’m from eating Christmas dinner in the middle of a long line of cousins on a heated tiled floor.
Save me a piece of the chocolate meringue pie, Momma Bell.

I’m from watching my cousin’s fingers glide along the neck of his magical guitar.
As a kid, I never made it that far.
I found my destiny in a cheap pawn shop six string with the action so high
that tiny fingers could barely push them down.
But, Steve, I still want to be like you.

I’m from Jimmie Rodgers and Hank Williams. But I couldn’t stay there long.
I’m not much for music with a twang.
Give me Southern rock, just a touch of country attitude, and a whole lot of blues.

I am from a pitcher’s mound and a softball bat, playing all night till the sun comes up.

I am from a diehard love for the Red Sox and an undeniable disgust for the Yankees.
But the Lord tells me He loves them too.

I am from an imagination that dwells in the dark, places visited by Poe, Koontz, Peretti, and King.

I’m from a love for the humble, an appreciation for the confident,
and a contempt for the proud and the arrogant.
Don’t flatter me; just tell me the truth.
I value your honesty more than your praise.
I love all; I trust few.

I am from a long line of teachers and preachers, songwriters and poets, sinners and saints.
But pardon, me all you highfalutin folk, blocking my path
as I reach for the hand of my fellow traveler.
Don’t cast us to the wayside
because we don’t fit your mold of what is beautiful and godly.
Don’t you know someday you might entertain angels unaware?
Do your eyes see what Jesus sees?

I am from Jesus, and to Him is where I’m going.

 
16 Comments

Posted by on March 31, 2011 in Just for Fun

 

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Polyrhythmic ramblings

Polyrhythmic.

I love that word. I can’t do what the definition suggests, at least not musically, but I like the idea.

Polyrhythm refers to multiple beats or two or more independent rhythms sounding at one time.

I’m not a math person (though I went to a few math contests and took a few courses until I surrendered and they carried me out of analytical geometry on a stretcher.) But the more I get into looking at the creative side of math, the more appreciative I am of the discipline. Kudos to our math teachers. I think your love for numbers is much like the English teacher’s love for words.

Anyway, I am a writer, not a mathematician, but I’m also a fledgling guitar player. Sometimes the wires get crossed in my brain, and I think…differently. I have a “mash up” of my passions, and the result is a blog like this.

For me, creating a polyrhythm on guitar is difficult. But it sounds great. Beautiful. The two rhythms add texture to the song, make it more interesting, and communicate a deeper message, perhaps even on a subconscious level. (Research has shown that listening to music affects blood pressure, emotions, creativity, etc. Look it up. It’s fascinating to discover the creativity God has woven in math through patterns and equations.)

But anyway…on to my analogy and the new phrase I’ve coined. Polyrhythmic writing.

Actually there’s nothing new about it at all. (But if you ever hear that phrase again, tell them I thunk it up. I Googled it and found no reference to what I’m talking about.) Writers have added layers to their writing since the beginning. We comprehend on deeper levels that we realize.

 Jesus spoke in parables.

Shakespeare was the master of penning puns. (Another little nifty thing Shakespeare does in his writing is to switch from verse to prose. When? Why? Usually when the commoners spoke, Shakespeare wrote their words in prose. He save the more eloquent verse for his heroes.)

Edgar Allan Poe created his tour de force, “The Bells,” by layering alliteration, onomatopoeia, and tempo over metaphor and message.

I love writing. I love the rhythm of life that echoes through the words of a poem, a short story, a novel, and the lyrics of a song. But what I really love is polyrhythm in writing—the beautiful creation that occurs when a writer creates two or more distinct rhythms in one piece of writing.

I don’t think most writers set out to do it. I think it just happens. Kind of serendipitiously. God inspired, God driven, God designed. Perhaps.

I’ve heard writers say that after they’ve gone back later to re-read something they had written, only to discover a hidden message or a metaphor that had slipped in. Cool, isn’t it. I think so.

I do a lot of celebrity interviews. What makes my writing a little different is that I weave their story around the theme. It’s as if there are two stories, two rhythms, happening at once.

When I read a novel or watch my favorite show, I’m hooked by realistic characters with whom I can identify. I’ll keep reading if the plot is intriguing. But my overall reading experience can be compared to the way I might enjoy a meal—eating a Raider Rib in my high school cafeteria as opposed to sitting at the Blues City Café on Beale Street, listening to authentic blues and kissing my fingers after downing a half rack of real ribs.

You know what I’m talking about.

When writers play with their words, create texture, layer it with metaphors, or spice it up with subtext—just the right amount of each, too much overwhelms—then the reader can savor all the flavors, not wash it down with a carton of milk that’s pushing the date that’s stamped on the outside. There’s more going on that one simple beat. The mind picks up on the underlying rhythm.

Ever watch Castle? I love the twinkle in his eye when he delivers his one liners that are layered with double meaning. Two messages. Two rhythms occurring at the same time. Adds flavor. Yum.

I’m not sure how I got here–howI jumped from polyrhythms in music to polyrhythmic writing.

It wall started when I was trying to find the words to a song I wanted to write. When I can’t put my feelings into words, I usually put them into song. But I can’t always find the words. Especially if the feelings run too deep. In the words of Sugarland, they’re like “melodies stuck up in [my] head.” (I kind of dig that reggae-rap thing Jennifer Nettles does—kind of catchy.)

The next thing  I knew I was thinking about math. Then I was thinking about polyrhythms. Then I found myself on the Internet, Googling polyrhythms. And then I found Steve Vai’s article.

You remember Steve Vai, right? He’s the great guitar player who was in the 1986 Crossroads movie with Ralph Macchio. He was the devil’s guitar player.

Thinking about the movie made me think about the great blues player Robert Johnson. As the story goes, he made a deal with the devil at the crossroads.

And when I thought about the devil at the crossroads, I thought about teaching English to my eleventh grade students last year. We were studying “The Devil and Tom Walker” by Washington Irving. I wanted to relate the story to something they could understand. I had a guitar player in my class, so I cpmpared the story to the movie Crossroads. “Scratch” was the name of the devil both in the story and the movie. We also compared the story to Charlie Daniel’s “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”

And thinking about school made me think about what I’m doing right now. Sitting here with a guitar plugged into an amp waiting for me to pick it up and practice again. But the song that I can’t write keeps tugging at my heart. Arggg!

Life can be complicated. Underlying sadness topped with happiness here and there. Dreams mingled with reality. Yearning competing with responsibility. All of it wrapped in joy, though the joy may be tangled and hard to find at times.

Life is complicated. It doesn’t always make sense. But there is a rhythm to it, even if one beat is stacked atop another.

I guess that’s what makes life interesting.

 
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Posted by on March 15, 2011 in Just for Fun

 

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