A Fresh Start

     I've been writing a private family blog for a while. My family likes it. But I've decided to come out of the closet and go public. Most of you know me and for those who don’t: I’m a mother, a grandmother, and a great grandmother. I've been a daughter, student, wife, homemaker, teacher, visiting professor, educational therapist, course designer, consultant, coach, and a facilitator, but always I've been a writer.

            You’re my guinea pigs. I hope you like this and will comment and let me know what you are thinking. The writing will not be done in a chronological order as I will be pulling things out of my past. Some of these items go back a long way, as do I. My life spans many generations and the writings will reflect that. It’s a bit like the quilts my grandma Montgomery made.  Her bedroom and dining room were filled with piles of colorful fabrics all cut out in small pieces.  It was like a country garden with no obvious plan of design. Rarely did she buy any fabric, for her family and friends kept her supplied.  There was a piece from Aunt Nita’s last sewing, and Aunt Nelda’s apron scraps were there.  My mother was always looking through the pile of remnants at Samuelson’s Dry Goods Store for a pretty piece for “mama.”  A quarter of a yard was all it took to guarantee a good representation in grandma’s latest artistic endeavor.

My writing is like grandma’s quilt making.  My mind is a veritable garden of ideas, all colorfully stacked all over the place, waiting to be cut into an appropriate shape.  And there are scraps from friends and family, from books read, movies seen, and experiences. Alone the scraps won’t mean much, however, when sewed together, a pattern may be revealed. Just like life.

You may share these. I plan to put up a new post once a week. If you want to be taken from the mailing list, please let me know.

So here’s a sample: My sister had asthma when we were growing up, and as sorry as I felt for her, and as glad as I was that I didn’t have it, I sometimes longed to be ill.  My illness was always rare, not disfiguring, painful, nor fatal.  It was mysterious and I lay bravely on my bed, covered with silk comforters. The doctors stood nearby, consoling my parents. “There, there,” they said, “she’s nearing the crisis point now.”

            My mother wept softly and my father clenched his jaw to contain himself.  My sister regretted all the things she’d done to anger and hurt me. 

My temperature began to rise, the room hushed, and all waited expectantly as I went through the crisis.

            I always recovered and the only evidence of my brave adventure was that I was left with big boobs and long eyelashes.

            Daydreams anyone?