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Until age thirteen, I was convinced that Pocahontas was my great-great-great aunt. You could not have argued me away from the idea. My grandpa told me so, that’s why. I’ll never forget the day he shared this with me; and Mrs. Bratz’ first grade show-and-tell was never the same again. Who could top that?
Grandaddy told us lots of stories like Pocahontas. When my mother was a little girl, he persuaded her that worms fell from the sky whenever it rained:
“That’s why you see all the worms on the sidewalk when it’s raining, little Jen.”
This idea seemed perfectly logical to her; it followed my mother well into her adult life until my father finally set the record straight.
* * * * *
So on this rainy morning, I giggled as I stepped onto the sidewalk, cautiously skipping over the worms with my worn, maroon moccasins.
And just to be certain, I protected my head with my coat so that no worms fell from the sky to land on my head.
Sometimes I feel like any thing worth reading must include witty, entertaining bits or some out-of-the-ordinary truths experienced only because I am that lucky (or unlucky). Although I know everyone encounters these moments on occasion, it feels more like a rollercoaster and less like reality. My life really isn’t that interesting.
So many average days, I have put my pen to paper (so to speak) and thought, “Who would read this? What makes this any different from their own life?”
I wonder…
Do I write to relate? Do I write to solve my own questions? Do they answer yours?
Or
Do you read this for amusement?
Or rather, by reading this, do you gain the assurance that you are not alone? That you have found someone else who is walking the same (or similar) path in hopes of making right choices?
Why do you read? Why do you write?
I’m just curious.
There’s something so nostalgic about Winter.
Rarely since moving to Texas have I experienced winter’s charming qualities. This is the first year in 13 that I felt snow climb my pant legs as my toes burned with numbness, the first time that I smelled snow, and saw sparkling smooth white ground untouched for miles and miles.
As a child, I recall year after year of snowsuits and shovels, salty sidewalks and makeshift skating rinks courtesy of my icy back porch. My brother and I used to build the raddest forts in Nebraska. We were skilled with shaping snow into balls capable of knocking the wind out of any unfortunate lad.
Perhaps my favorite memories of winter involve Mahoney State Park near Omaha. In the eyes of a child, those hills might as well have been the Rocky Mountains. The hills were ideal for sledding, tobogganing; and the Park’s hot cocoa was certain to burn your tongue every time.
Memories flood my mind as I wrap my frigid fingers around this mug of hearty homemade stew. The nip of the air makes me pull my scarf a little closer, and I remember…
I remember Winter.
It’s comforting to discover growth, yes? Today, my mother gave me a handwritten poem that I wrote at 14 years old. After doubling over in laughter, I crossed my fingers hoping my writings today do not sound this ridiculous in another ten years!
Roses are red
Violets are dead
I’m laying in bed
With lead in my head
If I were as tiny as a cow,
I’d pick up my hoof and give you a POW
If I were as large as an ant,
I’d chase like a dog ’til you start to pant
If I were as sweet as a donkey,
I’d jump on your car ’til the horn goes honky
If I were as poetic as William Blake,
I’d give you a nice poem I knew you would take
The End.
Nothing says a good time like face paint and a fancy soy latte.
Apparently there’s some swanky NBA All Star Party going on tonight at Southside on Lamar. All I wanted was to visit the little girl’s room. Somehow we got caught up with makeup artists for the NBA dancers, and they decided to make us their guinea pigs.
We didn’t argue it. It supposedly brings out the inner lioness…
Whatever that means.
Oh, by the way, I finally witnessed the wonder that is Summer Ames. Her bright, fresh vocals and charming lyrics made me want to float around the room in a twirling skirt and slippers… or just have my picture taken with a more-than-usually painted face.
In my annoyance of American societal pressures to have “love” on Valentine’s Day, I decided to delve into the history books and figure out where all of this began:
The Legend
Roman Emperor Claudius II believed that bachelors made better soldiers and outlawed marriage around 270 AD. “Saint” Valentine was a priest during that time of who secretly performed marriages and became a martyr upon his detection.
Other legends continue on that while St. Valentine was imprisoned, he fell in love with his jailer’s daughter and signed a note to her, “From your Valentine”.
In 496 AD, Pope Gelasius I, while eventually abolishing Lupercalia, chose to observe St. Valentine’s Day on the eve of this pagan festival. Lupercalia, observed on February 15, was a pre-Roman shepherd festival that warded off evil and promoted purification to release health and fertility. After sacrificing goats and running around naked, the young men cut the goat hides into thongs and ran around the city streets whipping people with them. Women actually lined up in the streets to get a thong whipping as it ensured fertility. Seriously? Thong whippings?
Many claim that Pope Gelasius I selected February 14 to appease those who participated in this pagan festival of fertility. Although I’m uncertain of the direct connection, it presents a valid argument when one sees the marriage of so many Christian & Pagan traditions during that time.
Well, whatever the case may be, Valentine’s Day has certainly evolved into some kind of standard by which one feels loved or lonely. Flowers, chocolates, expensive dinners, jewelry, cards galore… I just discovered that 25% of greeting cards sent during the year are done on Valentine’s Day. Hmm. Thankfully the public thong whippings have ceased.
Here’s the earliest recorded “Valentine” (1415 AD) written to his wife by Charles d’Orleans:
Je suis desja d’amour tanné,
Ma tres doulce Valentinée,
Car pour moi fustes trop tart née, Et moy pour vous fus trop tost né. Dieu lui pardoint qui estrené M’a de vous, pour toute l’année.
Je suis desja, etc.
Ma tres doulce, etc.
Bien m’estoye suspeconné, Qu’auroye telle destinée, Ains que passast ceste journée, Combien qu’Amours l’eust ordonné.
Je suis desja, etc.I am already sick of love,
My very gentle Valentine,
Since for me you were born too soon, And I for you was born too late. God forgives he who has estranged Me from you for the whole year.
I am already, etc.
My very gentle, etc.
Well might I have suspected, That such a destiny, Thus would have happened this day, How much that Love would have commanded.
I am already, etc.
Hey, Charles. I’m already sick of love, too, although it’s probably not what you meant in the note to your wife. I’d rather be deeply loved the other 364 days of the year than to succumb to societal pressures and be lavished with chocolate and flowers on just one day. However, that being said, I DO sincerely appreciate that Reese’s makes giant peanut butter hearts every February. Woot.
Happy Valentine’s Day, lovelies.
What was once new is now old, and what was once old is now history.
Neither is as important as Now.
Here’s to living Now and not Then.
Risk. Exposure. Degradation. Silence.
immaturity … mmaturity … Maturity
Seed. Sprout. [Rain! Wind!] Death.
Seed. Sprout. [Rain! Wind!] Death.
Seed. [Rain.] Sprout. [Sun.] Bud. [Rain. Sun.] Bloom.
Risk. Exposure. Sustenance. Growth.
Ever think about the origins of the everyday phrases we hear and repeat?
“I’ll keep my ears peeled.”
“If it were a snake, it woulda bit ya.”
“If his head weren’t attached, he’d lose it.”
“Oh, he’s just a little tub.” (Thanks Grandmommy for that one)
Or if you’re Southern *cough cough*, the degree of ridiculousness immediately increases by 1000%:
“That dog’ll hunt!” (Yes, this one is used in my house)
“Well don’t that just beat the fat off the hog.”
“I’m busier than a one-armed paper hanger.”
Additional variations:
“She’s busier than a one-legged stripper.”
“She’s busier than a bumble bee in a tulip patch.”
What are some of your favorites? Feel free to share!
alas it’s come to this
the greatest of fears revealed
transpired
and the dreamer awakens
only to find that the dream,
it wasn’t real
or was it?
but nevertheless
hopes relinquished
and back to the starting line
there’s no collecting $200 after passing go
there’s no reward for starting over
except for a heightened awareness
that to protect, to preserve
is to persevere
to dream is to be a woman
to hope for something just out of grasp
is
to
be
human
.
