I sat alone in the balcony of an ancient, Gothic theater. It was dark but for the sliver of light that peeked out from under the heavy velvet curtains. An ominous hush hung in the air as the curtains parted. A woman entered from the left wing and strode rapidly across the stage. Her eyes expressed a terror that no actor could have conjured. The emotion she exuded was the deep, trembling panic of one tormented by maddening fear. The scene moved in slow motion, as if she were slogging through molasses and making little headway. Her long, dark hair flowed out behind her. The sinister presence in pursuit of her, though not visible to the audience, seemed to be closing in, as she frequently turned her doleful countenance in backward glances as she ran.
All at once she turned toward the audience and bolted right off the stage. She did not go down into the orchestra level, but took long strides upward, walking on air... up, up toward the balcony. As she drew closer to me, I saw that the terror in her eyes had turned to ghoulish malice, and I became paralyzed with fright. So completely and literally paralyzed was I, that as I attempted to turn and climb over the seat to make an escape, I discovered that I was unable to move. Time stood still. Then from out of the shadows a large bat came screeching down from high in the rafters and landed in the woman's long hair, driving her into a frenzy.
At that moment of heart-pounding panic, I awoke from the nightmare in a chilling sweat.
This is an actual dream I had at the age of thirteen. I have always remembered it because it was so insanely terrifying. The scene, horrific as It was, was not the most memorable part. The emotion that accompanied the dream, the unbridled feeling of terror, was what stayed with me. It was a terror so compelling that the bottoms of my feet tingled for several minutes after I awoke.
Now I will take you into the realm of reality. This is the real world in 1984. I am wide awake in the middle of a sunlit day.
I enter the arched Gothic style doorway of Flowers Hall on the Huntingdon College campus in Montgomery, Alabama. Len is with me, and we are attending a piano recital where our son will be performing. We are ushered upstairs into the balcony. We find our seats, and I begin to look around. Below us is the stage covered with a heavy velvet curtain. The orchestra section sits empty. Other people are filtering in and getting seated. Suddenly the scene seems eerily familiar. I stare up into the shadowy beams of the arched ceiling and experience a tingling sensation that the whole setting is, indeed, unnervingly familiar! All the old feelings of dread are returning to me. This is the same balcony that was in my dream some 27 years ago! The stage is the same, the curtains are the same, the seats are the same, the arch in the ceiling is the same. Then I hear a muffled swooshing sound and I look up. What is that...Up there on one of the rafters? A bat? Yes, a bat just like before! It swoops down, down, down into the unsuspecting audience and lands in the hair of a woman seated several rows in front of us. She screams and flails at the bat. An usher appears, but the bat has escaped. Somewhere in the dark reaches of Flowers Hall, it lurks.
And what was once a dream...a sinister dream from the twilight of long ago...has become a vivid reality.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
JUDGE NOT...
For Q's birthday celebration, we took him, April and Celeste, her three year old daughter, to dinner at Outback. We ordered our drinks and a Bloomin' Onion, and things were underway for a festive dining experience.
Our waiter seemed somewhat distracted, however, and had to be reminded every time someone needed a drink refill. He also neglected to clear away dishes we were finished with, and the table soon became cluttered. We complained among ourselves about the service not being up to speed. After we had finished dessert, we waited a long time for the bill to come. We finally had to signal him that we were ready for it. He was just standing around in the doorway at the back engaged in conversation with another waiter. The bill arrived and we noticed that he had not charged us for any of the drinks. We pointed it out to him and he told us in a soft voice that he hadn't really forgotten. We assumed he meant that he had left the charges off on purpose. A few minutes later he returned and very apologetically informed us that he had brought us the wrong bill, and that he was so sorry but he was having a very bad day. There were no charges for the drinks on the correct bill either. We assured him that we understood, and that everyone has a bad day from time to time, and not to worry about it.
At that point his eyes began to fill with tears, and he told us that he had just received some very bad news. He indicated that he wanted to tell us, a group of complete strangers, about his devastating news. We braced ourselves. He then related how he had received a phone call this afternoon confirming that he has cancer. He has been having frequent nosebleeds and bouts of vomiting. He has Leukemia. We guessed his age at about 25 years old.
Suddenly Q's broken toe which was throbbing under the table didn't seem like such a big deal to him anymore. Len's constant foot pain became a minor issue. The myriad of crises that frequently besiege us were reduced to mere annoyances. Here before us was a young man whose adult life was just getting underway, and in a matter of a few hours all his aspirations, his hopes, his plans, had been yanked out from under him and cruelly replaced with dark, ominous prospects of illness, pain, hospitalization and chemo-therapy with all it's miserable side-effects.
My immediate impulse was to jump up and hold him in my arms. I held back, as I feared that such a gesture would push him over the edge and he would break into uncontrollable sobbing. Instead we asked him if he prayed. He assured us that he did. We asked him if he had family. He lives with his brother, and plans to move back in with his father during the chemo. He said that his father is his best friend. We are thankful that he is a young man of faith, and that he has a strong, supportive family to see him through this ordeal. We assured him that we would be praying for him also.
We left the restaurant in a somber mood, each feeling that we had gained new perspectives. I thought of the saying I once copied into my notebook, "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."
Our waiter seemed somewhat distracted, however, and had to be reminded every time someone needed a drink refill. He also neglected to clear away dishes we were finished with, and the table soon became cluttered. We complained among ourselves about the service not being up to speed. After we had finished dessert, we waited a long time for the bill to come. We finally had to signal him that we were ready for it. He was just standing around in the doorway at the back engaged in conversation with another waiter. The bill arrived and we noticed that he had not charged us for any of the drinks. We pointed it out to him and he told us in a soft voice that he hadn't really forgotten. We assumed he meant that he had left the charges off on purpose. A few minutes later he returned and very apologetically informed us that he had brought us the wrong bill, and that he was so sorry but he was having a very bad day. There were no charges for the drinks on the correct bill either. We assured him that we understood, and that everyone has a bad day from time to time, and not to worry about it.
At that point his eyes began to fill with tears, and he told us that he had just received some very bad news. He indicated that he wanted to tell us, a group of complete strangers, about his devastating news. We braced ourselves. He then related how he had received a phone call this afternoon confirming that he has cancer. He has been having frequent nosebleeds and bouts of vomiting. He has Leukemia. We guessed his age at about 25 years old.
Suddenly Q's broken toe which was throbbing under the table didn't seem like such a big deal to him anymore. Len's constant foot pain became a minor issue. The myriad of crises that frequently besiege us were reduced to mere annoyances. Here before us was a young man whose adult life was just getting underway, and in a matter of a few hours all his aspirations, his hopes, his plans, had been yanked out from under him and cruelly replaced with dark, ominous prospects of illness, pain, hospitalization and chemo-therapy with all it's miserable side-effects.
My immediate impulse was to jump up and hold him in my arms. I held back, as I feared that such a gesture would push him over the edge and he would break into uncontrollable sobbing. Instead we asked him if he prayed. He assured us that he did. We asked him if he had family. He lives with his brother, and plans to move back in with his father during the chemo. He said that his father is his best friend. We are thankful that he is a young man of faith, and that he has a strong, supportive family to see him through this ordeal. We assured him that we would be praying for him also.
We left the restaurant in a somber mood, each feeling that we had gained new perspectives. I thought of the saying I once copied into my notebook, "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."
Thursday, September 4, 2008
THREE OBSERVATIONS FROM A TRIP TO COSTCO
1-Once a bully, always a bully! A large, belligerent looking woman with a Dutch Boy haircut followed me into the warehouse. She snatched a cart and tailed me so closely that if I had stopped, she would have rammed me. She continued her pursuit as I turned into the book aisle. If I stopped, she stopped. If I moved, she moved, keeping her cart mere inches from my backside. She didn’t appear to even be looking at the books. Apparently her purpose was to keep me moving along. Perhaps she was the self-appointed book aisle monitor: “Just grab one as you glide past, folks! No stopping or browsing permitted.” Never mind that you might end up with a cookbook when you wanted an atlas! Well, anyone who knows me will realize that she was “messin’ with the wrong guy!” I stood my ground in front of the paperbacks and leisurely perused several of them while she fumed and fidgeted. I looked around to make sure I was not blocking her way. There were no other people nearby and she could have easily gone around. When I was finished, I moved on and she moved on right behind me, never showing a modicum of interest in the books in that area. She seemed motivated entirely by the desire to intimidate. I pitied her hapless classmates of yesteryear, as I envisioned a flashback of her as a tyrannical fifth grader terrorizing the playground. The low self-esteem that often spawns such bizarre behavior made me realize I should pity her also.
2- I came upon one shoe lying alone and abandoned in the middle of the condiment aisle. The sight of this caused me to reflect on what I call the “Lone Shoe Mystery.” I frequently notice a solitary shoe lying in the middle of the road. Doesn’t it seem rather odd for someone to be driving along when all at once one of his or her shoes disappears out the car window? And why does it seem to happen so often? Could it be Gremlins? If you are watchful the next time you are driving, you will likely see at least one stray shoe somewhere on your route. I wonder if these people arrive at their destinations and exclaim, “Great Scott, I could have sworn I left home with both shoes!” Quinton has a box of five or six spouseless shoes on a shelf in the garage and no idea where their mates might be. I suspect that those vagabond shoes are out there at this very moment littering the streets. Perhaps the whole shoe mystery could have been solved if I had rounded the bend into that aisle moments sooner and actually witnessed the person’s shoe fall off as he put a jar of mayonnaise into the cart, and then limped along to the pickles, oblivious to the fact that something was missing!
3-It was one-thirty in the afternoon when I entered Costco. I had eaten a very meager breakfast, no lunch, and I was ravenous. I decided I would take advantage of the tasty samples handed out in the food section. While this was admittedly not the healthiest meal of my life, here is what I had: One bite of white cupcake with gooey frosting, a Tablespoonful of tortellini with cheese sauce, one small slice of spicy sausage, a sip of Naked Juice, and two other things in tiny white cups that I cannot remember. Then I slipped back to the bakery section for another bite of cupcake, hoping the demo lady wouldn’t remember me. Before leaving the store I bought a bottle of water from the vending machine and downed it on the way home. Now this is the honest truth…20 minutes later I felt stuffed!! After drinking the water, I was full and didn’t feel the temptation to eat another thing all the way till dinnertime. My epiphany for the day was that I could eat much less, expand it by drinking lots of water, and not even approach starvation. The part of our brain that tells us we are full doesn’t kick in until about 20 minutes after we stop eating. By then, if we have continued to shovel it in just because it still tastes good, we will be chomping antacids by the handful. I also realized that in that 20 minute interval I could have polished off the entire box of cupcakes, (if the demo lady hadn’t been looking) and the management would have had to wheel me to my car on one of those big flat bed carts!
2- I came upon one shoe lying alone and abandoned in the middle of the condiment aisle. The sight of this caused me to reflect on what I call the “Lone Shoe Mystery.” I frequently notice a solitary shoe lying in the middle of the road. Doesn’t it seem rather odd for someone to be driving along when all at once one of his or her shoes disappears out the car window? And why does it seem to happen so often? Could it be Gremlins? If you are watchful the next time you are driving, you will likely see at least one stray shoe somewhere on your route. I wonder if these people arrive at their destinations and exclaim, “Great Scott, I could have sworn I left home with both shoes!” Quinton has a box of five or six spouseless shoes on a shelf in the garage and no idea where their mates might be. I suspect that those vagabond shoes are out there at this very moment littering the streets. Perhaps the whole shoe mystery could have been solved if I had rounded the bend into that aisle moments sooner and actually witnessed the person’s shoe fall off as he put a jar of mayonnaise into the cart, and then limped along to the pickles, oblivious to the fact that something was missing!
3-It was one-thirty in the afternoon when I entered Costco. I had eaten a very meager breakfast, no lunch, and I was ravenous. I decided I would take advantage of the tasty samples handed out in the food section. While this was admittedly not the healthiest meal of my life, here is what I had: One bite of white cupcake with gooey frosting, a Tablespoonful of tortellini with cheese sauce, one small slice of spicy sausage, a sip of Naked Juice, and two other things in tiny white cups that I cannot remember. Then I slipped back to the bakery section for another bite of cupcake, hoping the demo lady wouldn’t remember me. Before leaving the store I bought a bottle of water from the vending machine and downed it on the way home. Now this is the honest truth…20 minutes later I felt stuffed!! After drinking the water, I was full and didn’t feel the temptation to eat another thing all the way till dinnertime. My epiphany for the day was that I could eat much less, expand it by drinking lots of water, and not even approach starvation. The part of our brain that tells us we are full doesn’t kick in until about 20 minutes after we stop eating. By then, if we have continued to shovel it in just because it still tastes good, we will be chomping antacids by the handful. I also realized that in that 20 minute interval I could have polished off the entire box of cupcakes, (if the demo lady hadn’t been looking) and the management would have had to wheel me to my car on one of those big flat bed carts!
Monday, August 18, 2008
A GALLOP TO REMEMBER
I recall riding a beautiful, brown horse through the mountainous slag heaps that were piled up around the coalmines of Lancashire County, England. It’s something of a miracle that I remember anything at all about that grey, drizzly afternoon when I was only twelve years old.
I had been taking riding lessons for several months, and had learned to ride English saddle. How different it felt from the large, secure Western saddle with its comforting saddle horn to cling to. The English saddle was small and streamlined by comparison and seemed more like a leather blanket with stirrups, and it provided absolutely nothing to hang onto. We were instructed to hold the reins in our closed fists, palm side down, and place them on the horse’s shoulders, just in front of the saddle. Good form to be sure, but precarious!
I remember the tack room where we assembled to wait for the riding lessons to begin. The heady scent of leather and sawn wood permeated the small space. Bridles, reins, ropes and other equipment hung from large hooks on the rough-hewn boards that made up the walls. Saddles and brightly colored blankets were draped over the railings. We had been taught how to outfit our horses, and when the stable hands brought them around from the stalls, we knew what to do.
When all was ready, we set out in single file. A tall girl with a blonde ponytail was in the lead, and I was second. There were five or six other riders behind me, and the instructor was bringing up the rear. We began at a slow walk, but quickly transitioned into a trot as we left the riding school grounds and crossed the road. The trot was my least favorite pace, as it required a good deal of effort, and caused considerable jostling.
Soon, the trail opened up into a wide expanse and the horses were allowed to break into a canter. I loved this pace, as it was smooth and easy. My body fell into sync with the liquid movement of the horse, and the wind in my face felt exhilarating. My short wavy hair bounced in the misty breeze.
After awhile the drizzle that had been with us from the beginning intensified into a steady rain. We had traveled a good distance from the riding school and the scenery had changed. We were heading into an area of coalmines, where both sides of the trail were lined with ugly, grey slag heaps. It was raining harder, and the trail had turned into a muddy quagmire.
All at once, something spooked the lead horse, and he took off at a full gallop. My horse, following closely, took off after him. The other riders were lagging behind far enough that they were able to slow their horses to a walk. The instructor, seeing our predicament, came galloping after us.
Great globs of mud churned up by the lead horse peppered my face. My memory of the ensuing moments is a blur of nightmarish images: The thin grey light of the soggy afternoon, the flying hooves of the lead horse, the tall girl’s wind whipped ponytail, a shower of muck that steadily bombarded me, the towering dark heaps of coal residue, and the mud, the mud, the mud.
I lowered my head onto the horse’s shoulder to keep the flying mud out of my eyes, and wondered how he could possibly see where he was going. A few more seconds passed, and I felt him begin to lose his footing as he went into a skid on the slippery layer of oozing mud.
The horse went down hard. With a shriek, he plummeted onto his left side, his hooves flailing. I sailed through the air as the slushy trail rose to meet me, and my head came to rest against a flat rock.
Darkness swallowed me, for how long I do not know. When consciousness began to creep back, I was aware of a blur of faces looking down at me. I was unable to hear what they were saying, and I wasn’t sure where I was, or even who I was. My world seemed to consist of nothing more than a circle of silent, foggy faces in the rain.
After awhile my hearing returned and I found myself standing, but the process of getting up off the ground was lost to memory. The instructor had managed to help the lead rider get her horse under control, and all the riders had dismounted and gathered around me exclaiming about the horror of it all, and expressing great concern for my well-being. They told me later that my first words were “Is my horse OK?”
He was. He stood before me dripping with mud and wild-eyed from the trauma, with his reins in the hand of our instructor.
After checking me over for broken bones, and examining my eyes for evidence of concussion, the instructor pronounced me fit enough to ride back to the stables. I hesitated and stumbled backwards. A wave of nausea swept over me and I felt a rush of the same wild panic that I had seen moments before in the eyes of my horse.
The instructor was resolute. He insisted that if I did not get back on the horse right then and there, that I would most likely never ride again. I knew he was right. I mounted up, and rode gravely back with the instructor at my side.
We arrived at the riding school long after the other riders had unsaddled their horses and led them to the stalls. My friends were sitting patiently by the bus that waited to take us home. No one questioned the cause of my delay. No one complained about being late for dinner, or needing to get back to finish up homework. They understood that both horse and rider were numbed by the violent event of that afternoon. They understood my need to keep the horse at a slow and gentle walk for the entire distance back to the barn.
Although a stable hand was waiting to take care of my horse, I asked permission to personally lead him to the stall. I felt that we needed a few moments alone together. Once inside the stable, I placed my arms around his neck and cried softly into his mane. We were survivors. I knew the terrifying accident could have ended differently, even tragically. I also knew that neither of us would ever forget this day.
This event occurred in England
Probably in1956
I had been taking riding lessons for several months, and had learned to ride English saddle. How different it felt from the large, secure Western saddle with its comforting saddle horn to cling to. The English saddle was small and streamlined by comparison and seemed more like a leather blanket with stirrups, and it provided absolutely nothing to hang onto. We were instructed to hold the reins in our closed fists, palm side down, and place them on the horse’s shoulders, just in front of the saddle. Good form to be sure, but precarious!
I remember the tack room where we assembled to wait for the riding lessons to begin. The heady scent of leather and sawn wood permeated the small space. Bridles, reins, ropes and other equipment hung from large hooks on the rough-hewn boards that made up the walls. Saddles and brightly colored blankets were draped over the railings. We had been taught how to outfit our horses, and when the stable hands brought them around from the stalls, we knew what to do.
When all was ready, we set out in single file. A tall girl with a blonde ponytail was in the lead, and I was second. There were five or six other riders behind me, and the instructor was bringing up the rear. We began at a slow walk, but quickly transitioned into a trot as we left the riding school grounds and crossed the road. The trot was my least favorite pace, as it required a good deal of effort, and caused considerable jostling.
Soon, the trail opened up into a wide expanse and the horses were allowed to break into a canter. I loved this pace, as it was smooth and easy. My body fell into sync with the liquid movement of the horse, and the wind in my face felt exhilarating. My short wavy hair bounced in the misty breeze.
After awhile the drizzle that had been with us from the beginning intensified into a steady rain. We had traveled a good distance from the riding school and the scenery had changed. We were heading into an area of coalmines, where both sides of the trail were lined with ugly, grey slag heaps. It was raining harder, and the trail had turned into a muddy quagmire.
All at once, something spooked the lead horse, and he took off at a full gallop. My horse, following closely, took off after him. The other riders were lagging behind far enough that they were able to slow their horses to a walk. The instructor, seeing our predicament, came galloping after us.
Great globs of mud churned up by the lead horse peppered my face. My memory of the ensuing moments is a blur of nightmarish images: The thin grey light of the soggy afternoon, the flying hooves of the lead horse, the tall girl’s wind whipped ponytail, a shower of muck that steadily bombarded me, the towering dark heaps of coal residue, and the mud, the mud, the mud.
I lowered my head onto the horse’s shoulder to keep the flying mud out of my eyes, and wondered how he could possibly see where he was going. A few more seconds passed, and I felt him begin to lose his footing as he went into a skid on the slippery layer of oozing mud.
The horse went down hard. With a shriek, he plummeted onto his left side, his hooves flailing. I sailed through the air as the slushy trail rose to meet me, and my head came to rest against a flat rock.
Darkness swallowed me, for how long I do not know. When consciousness began to creep back, I was aware of a blur of faces looking down at me. I was unable to hear what they were saying, and I wasn’t sure where I was, or even who I was. My world seemed to consist of nothing more than a circle of silent, foggy faces in the rain.
After awhile my hearing returned and I found myself standing, but the process of getting up off the ground was lost to memory. The instructor had managed to help the lead rider get her horse under control, and all the riders had dismounted and gathered around me exclaiming about the horror of it all, and expressing great concern for my well-being. They told me later that my first words were “Is my horse OK?”
He was. He stood before me dripping with mud and wild-eyed from the trauma, with his reins in the hand of our instructor.
After checking me over for broken bones, and examining my eyes for evidence of concussion, the instructor pronounced me fit enough to ride back to the stables. I hesitated and stumbled backwards. A wave of nausea swept over me and I felt a rush of the same wild panic that I had seen moments before in the eyes of my horse.
The instructor was resolute. He insisted that if I did not get back on the horse right then and there, that I would most likely never ride again. I knew he was right. I mounted up, and rode gravely back with the instructor at my side.
We arrived at the riding school long after the other riders had unsaddled their horses and led them to the stalls. My friends were sitting patiently by the bus that waited to take us home. No one questioned the cause of my delay. No one complained about being late for dinner, or needing to get back to finish up homework. They understood that both horse and rider were numbed by the violent event of that afternoon. They understood my need to keep the horse at a slow and gentle walk for the entire distance back to the barn.
Although a stable hand was waiting to take care of my horse, I asked permission to personally lead him to the stall. I felt that we needed a few moments alone together. Once inside the stable, I placed my arms around his neck and cried softly into his mane. We were survivors. I knew the terrifying accident could have ended differently, even tragically. I also knew that neither of us would ever forget this day.
This event occurred in England
Probably in1956
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
BARBIE DOLLS
“The Barbies are ruining my mind!” was my granddaughter’s reply when asked why she no longer played with the glamorous doll whose long legs and glitzy wardrobe defy reality. Instead, she carried around an American Girl doll, which actually resembled a little girl and did not own a brassiere!
I was amazed at the wisdom set forth by this seven year old.
Many of us march absent-mindedly through life neither identifying nor confronting the things that might be “ruining our minds.” They are often minor things, but could be anything that has become an obsession or that takes precedence over things of value. They are things that gradually erode our thoughts and carry us off course.
The scale is wide and includes an infinite assortment of hollow distractions. There is something for everyone. For me, Barbie dolls are not a problem, but there are plenty of other things that could be “ruining my mind.” For others it might be video games, Internet surfing, soap operas, gambling, the Sports Channel, anything done to excess and running in the opposite direction from “Improving our minds.”
I applaud the decision of my young granddaughter to leave behind an activity that she feels does not mesh with her goals. She understands that the flashy lifestyle portrayed by the doll is shallow and artificial, and not where she wants her focus to be.
Her insightfulness has blazed a trail for all to follow.
“And a little child shall lead them.”
Isaiah 11:6
I was amazed at the wisdom set forth by this seven year old.
Many of us march absent-mindedly through life neither identifying nor confronting the things that might be “ruining our minds.” They are often minor things, but could be anything that has become an obsession or that takes precedence over things of value. They are things that gradually erode our thoughts and carry us off course.
The scale is wide and includes an infinite assortment of hollow distractions. There is something for everyone. For me, Barbie dolls are not a problem, but there are plenty of other things that could be “ruining my mind.” For others it might be video games, Internet surfing, soap operas, gambling, the Sports Channel, anything done to excess and running in the opposite direction from “Improving our minds.”
I applaud the decision of my young granddaughter to leave behind an activity that she feels does not mesh with her goals. She understands that the flashy lifestyle portrayed by the doll is shallow and artificial, and not where she wants her focus to be.
Her insightfulness has blazed a trail for all to follow.
“And a little child shall lead them.”
Isaiah 11:6
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM MY JOURNALS
I first started keeping a journal in 1981. I began by writing weekly, typewritten entries, but I soon realized that by the end of the week many of the interesting details of daily doings in a large family had drifted away, or all run together and lost their spontaneity.
In April of 1982, I decided to keep a daily, handwritten journal. I bought several blank page books covered in brightly printed fabric. They were visually stimulating, and I figured they would keep me motivated. They did, indeed, and I kept a daily journal continuously for the next nine years. Then for some reason I lapsed. I didn't write regularly from 1991 through 1999. During those years, however, I kept notes on a calendar and wrote an annual synopsis of important events at the end of each year. Then in 2000 I bought an Ansel Adams day-planner, and started making daily entries again. I have faithfully kept a daily journal since that time.
What have I learned from all this journal writing?
1-Things that seemed routine or ho-hum at the time become vitally interesting 25 years down the road. As I made daily entries, I often thought such things as, "Who cares if Quinton, riding in the grocery cart, turned around while I wasn't looking, grabbed the cottage cheese, removed the lid and dumped it out over all the other groceries?" At the time it was just a very messy situation, now it is a hilarious memory!
2-Most of the crises and catastrophies that seemed so devastating at the time are no longer even relevant to my life. "Time heals all wounds" is a truth. Many of the seemingly overwhelming problems and issues just evaporated, often in a matter of only a few days or weeks.
3-Reading a journal entry from the past is like re-living a section of your life. Its possible to retain a memory of an event without a journal, but writing it down brings it back with its full scope of emotions.
4-I've learned not to leave out the bad stuff. Its a natural tendency to want only to write about the happy, smiley-face moments, but this is not real. The bad stuff happens, and to have an accurate account of your life, it must be included. As I said earlier, it will surprise you how irrelevant these shadowy moments in your life become as time erases, or at least diminishes them.
5-Several of my ancestors kept journals that are valuable to me beyond measure. Durant Litchfield, my great, great grandfather kept a day by day account of his experiences as a soldier in the Civil War. My grandmother, Loana Pickering Griffiths, wrote a detailed account of her childhood in the LDS colony in Alberta, Canada. I love and cherish these writings.
I wonder if my ancestors ever wondered if anyone would really be interested in what they wrote. I'm glad Grandfather Litchfield didn't say, "I don't think I'll bother to write anything today. Who cares about the boring, daily activities in camp. Who cares that President Abraham Lincoln visited our company this week." I'm glad my Grandmother Griffiths thought it worthwhile to write that her father took her and her sisters to school on horseback on days when the sub-zero temperatures of a Canadian winter prevented them from walking, but that on one occasion when they arrived at the school, the doors were frozen shut and they had to turn around and go back home.
Great stories, all! Aaron confiscating Ben's shoes is a great story, as is the cottage cheese incident, the Blue Donkey incident, the dead mice dressed in doll's clothes incident, the "Nephi and the brass plates of Laban" re-enactment that frightened Mia out of her wits, and every other fun, terrifying, delightful, miserable or just plain ho-hum thing that happens in the course of the day.
Write it down. Someone, sometime, is going to just love it!
Thursday, May 15, 2008
A POEM FROM THE DISTANT PAST
This is for Mia, because I read the great poem she wrote on her blog and told her I would post one I had written when I was a child. I wrote this poem when I was 8 years old for a school assignment. The teacher thought it was too good for an 8 year old to have written, and accused me of copying it from a book. My Mom (Grandma Kay) was furious, because she had been sitting with me when I wrote it. She stomped over to the school and told that teacher a thing or two!! Here is the poem:
THE BLACK STALLION
When everyone has gone to bed,
For the stallion comes at night,
He comes and goes without a sound
Just like a flash of light.
He lets the corralled horses free
And runs off to the plains.
The cowboys get up just in time
To see their flying manes.
They've tried to catch him many times.
He's the wildest horse out West.
They chase him over hill and dale,
But he always turns out best.
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