((this def. needs work! i wrote it at 6am this morning, bare with me!))
We are like leather and lace. No two things could be more different. One is here, one lives there. Two different colors of hair. Two different outlooks on life; like two different windows, with two different views. Yes, we are like leather and lace.
Like leather we are tough. No one would dare mess with us. We are out spoken and brutally honest. We walk tall, our heads always held high. Like lace we are girly. We like to get dressed up. We enjoy and embrace our feminine side. Whether or not we are leather or lace, I hope you respect our differences, and cherish our likenesses. I have come to realize that there is no one that knows me quite like you do.
I hope you always remember last Christmas when we all went to eat at Frisch’s. We thought we had stood just a second too long, and our mouths began to run, as usual. Mom looked at us with those furious eyes,
“This is the last time we’re ever going out!” and we had to laugh at her, and apologize too. We cracked jokes at her expense all night.
I hope you always remember dancing in those spot lights, or shall I say headlights, to Ashanti’s “Oh Baby.” And walking out of the mall with tuxedos in hand, screaming, I mean singing, “…if you like pina coladas and dancing in the rain..” Any time you hear a Cher song I hope you think of me, tossing my hair over one shoulder, and doing my best impression.
I hope you always remember how much I used to, or do embarrass you. Like when I was little and I threw a fit about the lady paying with food stamps,
“She’s using Monopoly money!” your eyes were huge with surprise, or disbelief,
“No! No! She’s not! Be quiet!”
“Why are they letting her pay with Monopoly money! That’s not…” And you threw your hand over my mouth to muffle the rest of my words. I remember you even said sorry to her, and you’re not one to do anything like that.
I hope you remember all the fun we had when we would go camping. I remember when you pushed my head under the water to drown me, or as you kept saying, to teach me to swim under water. I remember every time we went tubing together! I’ve never been more scared, or more secure than when we got lost in the woods for hours.
I hope you remember how much I wanted to be you. Once I packed all of your clothes in your suit case, and I was going to run away. I was going to run away somewhere just to be you! That day you arrived home before I had expected you to, and I stashed your suitcase under your bed. You kept asking where your clothes where, I knew, I just wasn’t going to say. Do you remember what you said when you finally found your suitcase under your bed? “Where were you going, Mary?” I never answered. I’ll tell you now though, I was going away, away to be you.
I hope you remember every smile, every fight, every laugh, every joke, every tear, and every memory that you possibly can. Most of all I hope you remember the day you were pulled from your 5th grade lunch table, and were told that you were soon going to be my big sister. I will always remember the day I realized you were my best friend, because no one knows me quite like you do. Whether we are tough like leather, soft like lace, hardworking denim, or graceful silk, you taught me to be all that I am.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
There Is A Man
There is a man I know,
And he knows me.
He gave me his knowledge,
And I gave him my love.
There is a man I respect,
And he respects me.
He may not always be right,
But neither am I.
There is a man I love,
And he loves me.
He used to take me on long walks,
An d I used to hold his hand.
There is a man I created,
And he created me.
He calls me his little girl,
And I call him my dad.
And he knows me.
He gave me his knowledge,
And I gave him my love.
There is a man I respect,
And he respects me.
He may not always be right,
But neither am I.
There is a man I love,
And he loves me.
He used to take me on long walks,
An d I used to hold his hand.
There is a man I created,
And he created me.
He calls me his little girl,
And I call him my dad.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Who Am I?
Who am I?
I am the granddaughter of Ralph and Joan Waits.
Who got a peace of mind sitting next to him on the swing in silence or conversation.
Who loves to hear her sing, whether off key or not.
I am the granddaughter of Charles and Mary Daugherty.
Who has a great appreciation of the wars because of his stories.
Who has inheritied her love of pearls.
I am the daughter of James and Teresa Daugherty.
Who once carried a small black comb in her pocket, because he did,
Who's proudest moments are from the compliments "you look just like her."
I am the sister of Jamie Daugherty and Melisha White.
Who picked up skate boarding just to spend time with him,
Who loved to hold her hand and walk barefoot in puddles.
Who Am I?
I am Mary Elizabeth Daugherty.
Who's essence is rooted in the family,
Who taughter her to be her own person.
I am the granddaughter of Ralph and Joan Waits.
Who got a peace of mind sitting next to him on the swing in silence or conversation.
Who loves to hear her sing, whether off key or not.
I am the granddaughter of Charles and Mary Daugherty.
Who has a great appreciation of the wars because of his stories.
Who has inheritied her love of pearls.
I am the daughter of James and Teresa Daugherty.
Who once carried a small black comb in her pocket, because he did,
Who's proudest moments are from the compliments "you look just like her."
I am the sister of Jamie Daugherty and Melisha White.
Who picked up skate boarding just to spend time with him,
Who loved to hold her hand and walk barefoot in puddles.
Who Am I?
I am Mary Elizabeth Daugherty.
Who's essence is rooted in the family,
Who taughter her to be her own person.
Acting In A Crisis**
How you act in a crisis shows who you really are. A simple statement we hear often. I am unsure of how I act in a crisis, I've never taken the time to find out. I can only hope I can like my mother during those times. She stays true to herself, no matter what the circumstance may be.
August 13th, 2006 my papaw passed away. At this time my mom was away visiting my sister in the Sunshine State. I'm unaware of how my mom found this heart wrenching news out. Soon after she did, she was on the phone calling me,
"Hey honey. Are you alright?"
"No."
"It will be ok. I'm coming home as soon as possible. Take care of yourself, keep your blood sugars up. I'll be home soon."
"Ok, I'll try." The whole conversation her voice was strong. She never missed a beat. I, however, could not control the tears that flooded my face, or find the strength to call upon my voice.
When my mom, sister, and her family finally made their way to little, old Mt. Orab, Ohio, I found it a little easier to deal with reality. This was when I found out my omnipotent mother broke down upon hearing the news. I learned this information from my brother-in-law, Billy.
We were sitting on an old, wooden bench outside the funeral home. I couldn't bring myself to go inside. I knew what I would face when I got past those doors. So, Billy decided to keep me company. We sat side by side in silence. In my head I was making lots of conversation, pondering when I could, or would accept my fate, walk through those doors and tell my papaw I love him and goodbye. While sitting, slumped on the bench, staring at the grey concrete, it seemed to be the same color that masked my mood and my life, I noticed my mom walk out the doors. She was cradling her younger sister, Patty, in her arms. I looked at my mom attentively consoling her sister and began to speak aloud, without any conscious knowledge,
"She's so strong." Billy looked relieved to have spoken words break the lonely silence.
"Yeah. But, she's crazy. She only cried for like five minutes when she heard. Then she just stopped, collected herself, and called you." I was stunned. My mom- always worried about me.
"She cried!"
"Yeah, for five minutes, then she was done."
"Hm." I sat and wondered why this seemed so strange to me. In that moment, I realized I was ready. I brought myself to my feet. Billy looked at me, his eyes wide as quarters, like he was still not ready to accept the reality,
"You ready to go in?"
"As ready as I'll ever be. I only have a few more hours with him, better make use of them."
"Well, I don't think I am, but I'll go in with you."
"If you want to, but I can do it alone."
Honestly, I do not recall if we went in together or not. I was on an independent mission. I walked the miles across the porch to the door. A woman opened it for me, I stepped through,
"Thank you m'am." I looked at her, but I didn't see her face. I just thought she needed praise for the courtesy, as well as helping me with that first big hurdle.
I walked genteelly through the chilled room. I went to the book to sign my name. My signature to confirm that I accepted my papaw had died, and I was here to pay my respects. I walked away, and stood in the next doorway. I had to remind myself to breathe. Taking the breathe, I lunged my foot into the next room. There she was, standing at his casket. Her inspiration helped me glide effortlessly to see him. We stood side by side, arms linked in awe of a great man. Eventually, I forced myself to leave; but, all throughout the night my mom stood keenly by her father. Thanking, comforting, and reminiscing with people. I stood in awe of a majestic woman- my mother.
Of course, she wept from time to time, but never losing her composure. I excused myself countless times to retrieve fresh air, and gain control of the flowing tears. She did not. She stood righteously by her father's side. She was not there to mourn his passing, but to celebrate his life. She was able to leave a smile on her face, even through the tears. She made everyone forget that he was gone, but showed us he lives through each one of us.
My mom acted in this particular crisis as she would on any given day- strong and grounded. I would hope that someone was around the room, admiring the way I was handling myself, the way I did with my mom. I would want to be tough and inspirational to another, and do it with elegance. It may not always be how you act in a crisis, but how you desire to act. Aspirations keep us growing. I yearn for nothing more than to grow up to be my mother.
August 13th, 2006 my papaw passed away. At this time my mom was away visiting my sister in the Sunshine State. I'm unaware of how my mom found this heart wrenching news out. Soon after she did, she was on the phone calling me,
"Hey honey. Are you alright?"
"No."
"It will be ok. I'm coming home as soon as possible. Take care of yourself, keep your blood sugars up. I'll be home soon."
"Ok, I'll try." The whole conversation her voice was strong. She never missed a beat. I, however, could not control the tears that flooded my face, or find the strength to call upon my voice.
When my mom, sister, and her family finally made their way to little, old Mt. Orab, Ohio, I found it a little easier to deal with reality. This was when I found out my omnipotent mother broke down upon hearing the news. I learned this information from my brother-in-law, Billy.
We were sitting on an old, wooden bench outside the funeral home. I couldn't bring myself to go inside. I knew what I would face when I got past those doors. So, Billy decided to keep me company. We sat side by side in silence. In my head I was making lots of conversation, pondering when I could, or would accept my fate, walk through those doors and tell my papaw I love him and goodbye. While sitting, slumped on the bench, staring at the grey concrete, it seemed to be the same color that masked my mood and my life, I noticed my mom walk out the doors. She was cradling her younger sister, Patty, in her arms. I looked at my mom attentively consoling her sister and began to speak aloud, without any conscious knowledge,
"She's so strong." Billy looked relieved to have spoken words break the lonely silence.
"Yeah. But, she's crazy. She only cried for like five minutes when she heard. Then she just stopped, collected herself, and called you." I was stunned. My mom- always worried about me.
"She cried!"
"Yeah, for five minutes, then she was done."
"Hm." I sat and wondered why this seemed so strange to me. In that moment, I realized I was ready. I brought myself to my feet. Billy looked at me, his eyes wide as quarters, like he was still not ready to accept the reality,
"You ready to go in?"
"As ready as I'll ever be. I only have a few more hours with him, better make use of them."
"Well, I don't think I am, but I'll go in with you."
"If you want to, but I can do it alone."
Honestly, I do not recall if we went in together or not. I was on an independent mission. I walked the miles across the porch to the door. A woman opened it for me, I stepped through,
"Thank you m'am." I looked at her, but I didn't see her face. I just thought she needed praise for the courtesy, as well as helping me with that first big hurdle.
I walked genteelly through the chilled room. I went to the book to sign my name. My signature to confirm that I accepted my papaw had died, and I was here to pay my respects. I walked away, and stood in the next doorway. I had to remind myself to breathe. Taking the breathe, I lunged my foot into the next room. There she was, standing at his casket. Her inspiration helped me glide effortlessly to see him. We stood side by side, arms linked in awe of a great man. Eventually, I forced myself to leave; but, all throughout the night my mom stood keenly by her father. Thanking, comforting, and reminiscing with people. I stood in awe of a majestic woman- my mother.
Of course, she wept from time to time, but never losing her composure. I excused myself countless times to retrieve fresh air, and gain control of the flowing tears. She did not. She stood righteously by her father's side. She was not there to mourn his passing, but to celebrate his life. She was able to leave a smile on her face, even through the tears. She made everyone forget that he was gone, but showed us he lives through each one of us.
My mom acted in this particular crisis as she would on any given day- strong and grounded. I would hope that someone was around the room, admiring the way I was handling myself, the way I did with my mom. I would want to be tough and inspirational to another, and do it with elegance. It may not always be how you act in a crisis, but how you desire to act. Aspirations keep us growing. I yearn for nothing more than to grow up to be my mother.
Controlling Fear
I’m sure we’ve all heard the saying, "There’s nothing to fear, but fear itself." That is a very witty take on something that every human being has in common. We all fear something. This fear can be as simple as fearing small spiders, or as complex as fearing all men. Some experience in our lives has taught us to fear and what to fear. The question is not, why or what we fear? The question we should be seeking is how our fears affect our lives? I was introduced to my deepest fear years ago. It’s not hard to acknowledge our fears. We can feel in deep within ourselves every time the dreaded thing comes around, we cringe, our skin crawls, hair stands on end, we want to run, yet we are scared stiff. Though I’ve known my deepest fear, I’ve never realized how it truly impacts my life, until now. My deepest fear tremendously complicates my life because it tangles itself in, or creates other anxieties and fears. When I started to unravel them, I recognized that fear runs my entire life.
It was smoldering hot, and the air too thick to breathe. I awoke trembling. My body silently screaming something was wrong. My skin and clothes were drenched in sweat. It had taken everything I had to peel myself off the leather seat. My mind was racing, and none of it was making any sense. My eyes darted about, searching for my mom or dad, but they were no where to be found. My vision grew blurry, my muscles too weak to hold my body up-right any longer. I tried to grasp the door handle, but there was no use. I slid down in the seat. I knew what was going to happen next, I was going to lose consciousness. I had no idea when my mom or dad would come back, but it couldn’t be that long, or so I kept telling myself. However, it felt as if I lied there until my bones decayed. I tried to keep myself awake the only way I knew how, I had to talk myself through it. I reminded myself of the things I needed to stay alive for. My parents hadn’t seen me graduate high school yet. My nieces still needed me to read to them, and love them unconditionally. My volleyball team needed me to play some awesome D this season. Of course my 16th birthday was coming up, and I was going to be ripping up the streets in my new car! I still had so many great times to enjoy. It couldn’t end in a parking lot, stuck to the back seat of my mom’s Jeep! I heard the doors unlock, my mom opened the driver’s door,
"Mary! Mary! Are you ok!" Her voice was frantic. I didn’t have much left, but I managed to mumble,
"Help me." I was scared she didn’t hear me, or worse that she wasn’t really there, that my mind was just playing tricks on me. The next thing I remember is the tangy taste of lemonade in mouth. She had been there!
That was the day I realized my deepest fear. I’m sure everyone has heard people having the fear of dying alone. Well, that is mine. Not in the sense of alone without my true love, but literally, dying alone, with no one around me. I can in vision my fear coming true in one of two ways.
In a scene from the movie Steel Magnolias: the mother sits by her daughter, which lays in a diabetic coma. She will not leave her side for a moment, in fear of her waking for two minutes, and not being there for it. My fear is that while I may lay in a hospital bed tapping a dance between life and death, my loved ones will step away. They may decide they need a breath of fresh air, or a cup of coffee. Of course, that will be the moment I will take the step toward death, and I will be alone.
Another way my fear can potentially come true is that I will be home asleep and never wake up. Countless times in my deep sleep, my blood sugar has dipped too low for me to help myself. But, fortunately someone has always been there to save me. I am not always surrounded by people, yet miraculously every time I’ve ever experienced a debilitating low blood sugar, someone has been there. But, next time, I may not be so lucky.
My fear of never waking up, keeps me stirring for hours, even if someone is laying next to me. I fear it may be my last night I’ll ever decide to close my eyes. As I think about it, as a young girl, it would always take me hours to fall asleep. I don’t think any other ten-year-old girl knew what it felt like to be awake at one o’clock in the morning, but I did. Today, at the age of nineteen, if I happen to be alone during the night, I can be found sobbing and watching the shades of grey become darker until I can no longer see anything but pitch black. I scream and tremble, reluctantly into sleep.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not afraid to die. I am afraid that my life will be cut short due to something preventable. This makes me fear things that will happen after I die, questions that may be raised, whether I be alone or not. I torment my naive mind with bubbles of thought that burst with those annoying "what if?" or "if she had only…" questions and statements. Then, my deepest fear becomes, what if I could have cheated death one more time, if I had only not been alone? Or my loved ones placing blame on themselves, "what if I had been there? I should have been there!" Or throwing guilt on me, "if only she had taken better care of herself!" Maybe, I could save so many of the people I love from grief and distress.
All of these fears and anxieties I have, come from some experience I have encountered in my life- diabetes. It seems all my potent fears stem from this disorder which I was diagnosed with as a child. I’ve had twelve years to think about what this villain named Diabetes, is going to do to my body, and to my life. I have simple fears about getting back test results taunting me with the decision of going securely back home, or forced to a sinister hospital room. I fear going to my annual eye examination, because I might be told I’m going blind due to glaucoma. As you can tell, fear truly does run my life. The most difficult part about this situation is not that fear calls the shots, but that I didn’t even realize I was answering to it until just days ago.
Most of the time, we can all laugh in the face of fear. We deceive it, just as it deceives us. If we are afraid of the dark, we sleep with a light on. If we are afraid of spiders, we defeat it with the bottom of our shoe. If we are frightened of fish, well then, we never go near a body of water, or the aquarium lined wall at the pet shop. But, maybe the next time you jump in fear, you should think about where that fear came from, and how it affects your life. Living in fear can be worse than not living at all. Maybe there is nothing to fear, but fear itself because when you fear something you’re more apt to notice it, before it’s too late.
It was smoldering hot, and the air too thick to breathe. I awoke trembling. My body silently screaming something was wrong. My skin and clothes were drenched in sweat. It had taken everything I had to peel myself off the leather seat. My mind was racing, and none of it was making any sense. My eyes darted about, searching for my mom or dad, but they were no where to be found. My vision grew blurry, my muscles too weak to hold my body up-right any longer. I tried to grasp the door handle, but there was no use. I slid down in the seat. I knew what was going to happen next, I was going to lose consciousness. I had no idea when my mom or dad would come back, but it couldn’t be that long, or so I kept telling myself. However, it felt as if I lied there until my bones decayed. I tried to keep myself awake the only way I knew how, I had to talk myself through it. I reminded myself of the things I needed to stay alive for. My parents hadn’t seen me graduate high school yet. My nieces still needed me to read to them, and love them unconditionally. My volleyball team needed me to play some awesome D this season. Of course my 16th birthday was coming up, and I was going to be ripping up the streets in my new car! I still had so many great times to enjoy. It couldn’t end in a parking lot, stuck to the back seat of my mom’s Jeep! I heard the doors unlock, my mom opened the driver’s door,
"Mary! Mary! Are you ok!" Her voice was frantic. I didn’t have much left, but I managed to mumble,
"Help me." I was scared she didn’t hear me, or worse that she wasn’t really there, that my mind was just playing tricks on me. The next thing I remember is the tangy taste of lemonade in mouth. She had been there!
That was the day I realized my deepest fear. I’m sure everyone has heard people having the fear of dying alone. Well, that is mine. Not in the sense of alone without my true love, but literally, dying alone, with no one around me. I can in vision my fear coming true in one of two ways.
In a scene from the movie Steel Magnolias: the mother sits by her daughter, which lays in a diabetic coma. She will not leave her side for a moment, in fear of her waking for two minutes, and not being there for it. My fear is that while I may lay in a hospital bed tapping a dance between life and death, my loved ones will step away. They may decide they need a breath of fresh air, or a cup of coffee. Of course, that will be the moment I will take the step toward death, and I will be alone.
Another way my fear can potentially come true is that I will be home asleep and never wake up. Countless times in my deep sleep, my blood sugar has dipped too low for me to help myself. But, fortunately someone has always been there to save me. I am not always surrounded by people, yet miraculously every time I’ve ever experienced a debilitating low blood sugar, someone has been there. But, next time, I may not be so lucky.
My fear of never waking up, keeps me stirring for hours, even if someone is laying next to me. I fear it may be my last night I’ll ever decide to close my eyes. As I think about it, as a young girl, it would always take me hours to fall asleep. I don’t think any other ten-year-old girl knew what it felt like to be awake at one o’clock in the morning, but I did. Today, at the age of nineteen, if I happen to be alone during the night, I can be found sobbing and watching the shades of grey become darker until I can no longer see anything but pitch black. I scream and tremble, reluctantly into sleep.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not afraid to die. I am afraid that my life will be cut short due to something preventable. This makes me fear things that will happen after I die, questions that may be raised, whether I be alone or not. I torment my naive mind with bubbles of thought that burst with those annoying "what if?" or "if she had only…" questions and statements. Then, my deepest fear becomes, what if I could have cheated death one more time, if I had only not been alone? Or my loved ones placing blame on themselves, "what if I had been there? I should have been there!" Or throwing guilt on me, "if only she had taken better care of herself!" Maybe, I could save so many of the people I love from grief and distress.
All of these fears and anxieties I have, come from some experience I have encountered in my life- diabetes. It seems all my potent fears stem from this disorder which I was diagnosed with as a child. I’ve had twelve years to think about what this villain named Diabetes, is going to do to my body, and to my life. I have simple fears about getting back test results taunting me with the decision of going securely back home, or forced to a sinister hospital room. I fear going to my annual eye examination, because I might be told I’m going blind due to glaucoma. As you can tell, fear truly does run my life. The most difficult part about this situation is not that fear calls the shots, but that I didn’t even realize I was answering to it until just days ago.
Most of the time, we can all laugh in the face of fear. We deceive it, just as it deceives us. If we are afraid of the dark, we sleep with a light on. If we are afraid of spiders, we defeat it with the bottom of our shoe. If we are frightened of fish, well then, we never go near a body of water, or the aquarium lined wall at the pet shop. But, maybe the next time you jump in fear, you should think about where that fear came from, and how it affects your life. Living in fear can be worse than not living at all. Maybe there is nothing to fear, but fear itself because when you fear something you’re more apt to notice it, before it’s too late.
The Meaning Of Sugar Waffles**
It wasn’t your average fall weather. The temperature spilled over 77 degrees. What made the day so unbearable was the elevated humidity of nearly one hundred percent. I’m sure walking outdoors felt as if you were suddenly trapped inside a sauna. The air would be so dense it would make you choke on each breath taken. The sun blazing with all its might, laughing at the sight of sunglasses, because that would certainly be no challenge.
It was miserable day that celebrated to the fullest. Monday, September 26th, 1988 was the opening day of the 137th annual "Little State Fair." The Brown County Fair is only out staged by The Ohio State Fair. All other county fairs parish in it’s glory. No one really knows what attracts the flocks of comers and goers. Some say the food, the rides, others say the heated events like the derby and truck and tractor pulls. It could be that it has just become a tradition-you go because your dad went, and his dad went, and your great granddad went. It must be encoded in a person’s DNA to love the fair.
This was the year my mom not only got a season ticket, but a lifetime membership to motherhood of three. Yep, I’m a fair baby! That maybe the reason I get so giddy when September rolls around every year. I was born during fair mania, and it seems to have stuck with me.
She went to her normal doctor’s appointment around 10:30 in the morning. The doctor checked her out and claimed she had to make an important decision. My mom was relieved to hear she only had to choose whether she wanted to go home or straight to the hospital to await her new arrival. Of course, my mom goes home, saying she needs to clean her house. That is probably how I got my desire for nothing more than superb cleanliness. The doctor explained to her that she was one centimeter dilated, and that if she goes home he would surely see her soon after. My mom simply smiled and explained again that she just had things to do. She went home disregarding the doctors wishes, which is most likely where I inherit my stubborn ways from. She did all her chores that couldn’t wait another second to be tended to. And the she would tell you that around one o’clock in the afternoon she started having severe contractions. It was finally time to go!
They rushed to the car. Along the way they made two quick pit stops. The first was to pick up my Aunt Jackie. My mom would start laughing at this point in the story, claiming that she had to have Jackie go to keep my dad together, "you know because he was just so nervous!" The second was to Western Brown school. My mom refused to go on to the hospital until her other two children knew it was time! My dad ran into the school, straight to the office. My sister, Melisha, was yanked from her lunch table and sent directly to the office. She thought her mom had already had the baby, and someone was going to tell her whether she had a sister or a brother. She never dreamed that her mother would causually stop by in the midst of her labor, just to say it was time! This would be the point where my sister would let out a giggle or two. She would say that Dad was a nervous wreck! It was a quick visit just to say it’s time and Melisha was soon on her way back to the lunch room. On her arrival I became the talk of the 5th grade lunch tables.
My mom reached the Brown County General Hospital around 1:30, give or take a few minutes. The hospital is one of the biggest employers in the whole county. On this particular day, I’m sure everyone involved was thankful for all the help. After checking my mom, a nurse frantically screams while running out the door,
"Call the doctor now! This one’s coming fast!"
There were already five other ladies in the labor room. A round-faced Nurse Pat wobbles in to the delivery room and declares a proposal,
"Whoever has their baby first! Well…I’m going to go get them a sugar waffle from the fair tomorrow! C’mon ladies who will be?"
My mom being as confident as she is, replied that it would probably be her and that she would not forget about that sugar waffle. Nurse Pat chuckled and reminded my mom that she had just arrived, she probably has hours to go.
There was barely enough time to prep, let alone get an epidural. Out of pain my mom was constantly scolding my dad with these words "this is all your fault!" As she squeezed his hand which was no comparison to the pain she was currently feeling. His eyes teared up, maybe from the discomfort of his hand, or maybe out of sympathy. It took all he had to mutter a few apologies. Dr. Partridge hardly had time to get to the delivery room. As soon as a nurse saw her, she was grabbed and whisked away to my mom’s bedside.
The next thing my mom says she remembers is Dr. Partridge saying that I was here! I let out a scream loud enough to show the world who’s really boss. The doctor looked at my dad and asked if he wanted to cut the cord. My dad was still shaken up, he glanced at mom and whispered a soft I love you. He turned to face the doctor and said "I guess." My mom would tell you that that was the most important part. In fifteen minutes my mom sealed the deal, she had her baby girl and got that sugar waffle.
To this day she gets a sugar waffle during fair week. When I was old enough to not only understand the story of my birth, but to go alone, I started getting the sugar waffles for her. I do not just get one though, I get a whole bag full. I guess it’s my way of showing appreciation for the gift of life. If you ever see me waiting in the lengthy line at the sugar waffle shack, I’ll be just as rushed as I was on September 26th, 1988. I have limited patience, and sometimes I even have to raise my voice to remind the world of who’s boss.
It was miserable day that celebrated to the fullest. Monday, September 26th, 1988 was the opening day of the 137th annual "Little State Fair." The Brown County Fair is only out staged by The Ohio State Fair. All other county fairs parish in it’s glory. No one really knows what attracts the flocks of comers and goers. Some say the food, the rides, others say the heated events like the derby and truck and tractor pulls. It could be that it has just become a tradition-you go because your dad went, and his dad went, and your great granddad went. It must be encoded in a person’s DNA to love the fair.
This was the year my mom not only got a season ticket, but a lifetime membership to motherhood of three. Yep, I’m a fair baby! That maybe the reason I get so giddy when September rolls around every year. I was born during fair mania, and it seems to have stuck with me.
She went to her normal doctor’s appointment around 10:30 in the morning. The doctor checked her out and claimed she had to make an important decision. My mom was relieved to hear she only had to choose whether she wanted to go home or straight to the hospital to await her new arrival. Of course, my mom goes home, saying she needs to clean her house. That is probably how I got my desire for nothing more than superb cleanliness. The doctor explained to her that she was one centimeter dilated, and that if she goes home he would surely see her soon after. My mom simply smiled and explained again that she just had things to do. She went home disregarding the doctors wishes, which is most likely where I inherit my stubborn ways from. She did all her chores that couldn’t wait another second to be tended to. And the she would tell you that around one o’clock in the afternoon she started having severe contractions. It was finally time to go!
They rushed to the car. Along the way they made two quick pit stops. The first was to pick up my Aunt Jackie. My mom would start laughing at this point in the story, claiming that she had to have Jackie go to keep my dad together, "you know because he was just so nervous!" The second was to Western Brown school. My mom refused to go on to the hospital until her other two children knew it was time! My dad ran into the school, straight to the office. My sister, Melisha, was yanked from her lunch table and sent directly to the office. She thought her mom had already had the baby, and someone was going to tell her whether she had a sister or a brother. She never dreamed that her mother would causually stop by in the midst of her labor, just to say it was time! This would be the point where my sister would let out a giggle or two. She would say that Dad was a nervous wreck! It was a quick visit just to say it’s time and Melisha was soon on her way back to the lunch room. On her arrival I became the talk of the 5th grade lunch tables.
My mom reached the Brown County General Hospital around 1:30, give or take a few minutes. The hospital is one of the biggest employers in the whole county. On this particular day, I’m sure everyone involved was thankful for all the help. After checking my mom, a nurse frantically screams while running out the door,
"Call the doctor now! This one’s coming fast!"
There were already five other ladies in the labor room. A round-faced Nurse Pat wobbles in to the delivery room and declares a proposal,
"Whoever has their baby first! Well…I’m going to go get them a sugar waffle from the fair tomorrow! C’mon ladies who will be?"
My mom being as confident as she is, replied that it would probably be her and that she would not forget about that sugar waffle. Nurse Pat chuckled and reminded my mom that she had just arrived, she probably has hours to go.
There was barely enough time to prep, let alone get an epidural. Out of pain my mom was constantly scolding my dad with these words "this is all your fault!" As she squeezed his hand which was no comparison to the pain she was currently feeling. His eyes teared up, maybe from the discomfort of his hand, or maybe out of sympathy. It took all he had to mutter a few apologies. Dr. Partridge hardly had time to get to the delivery room. As soon as a nurse saw her, she was grabbed and whisked away to my mom’s bedside.
The next thing my mom says she remembers is Dr. Partridge saying that I was here! I let out a scream loud enough to show the world who’s really boss. The doctor looked at my dad and asked if he wanted to cut the cord. My dad was still shaken up, he glanced at mom and whispered a soft I love you. He turned to face the doctor and said "I guess." My mom would tell you that that was the most important part. In fifteen minutes my mom sealed the deal, she had her baby girl and got that sugar waffle.
To this day she gets a sugar waffle during fair week. When I was old enough to not only understand the story of my birth, but to go alone, I started getting the sugar waffles for her. I do not just get one though, I get a whole bag full. I guess it’s my way of showing appreciation for the gift of life. If you ever see me waiting in the lengthy line at the sugar waffle shack, I’ll be just as rushed as I was on September 26th, 1988. I have limited patience, and sometimes I even have to raise my voice to remind the world of who’s boss.
A Cherished Fear
In the cool, dampness of the morning, I stood in absolute fear, waiting. My heart was racing, my hands shaking and clammy, my mind screaming in terror. I wore a smile on my face, but it was for my mother's sake. I can remember it bounding to a complete stop. My eyes widened, there was no turning back. My mom let go of my hand, and gave me a nudge. The smile melted from my face like ice-cream touched by the sun. I tried to keep it, but it just wouldn't stay. I started to take that first stride forward, but my feet had been set in stone. In the middle of the sea of my emotions, and the solidness of the road, I turned back around once more to face my mom. She smiled and waved; a gesture to reassure my conflicting thoughts. I stepped up on the first step of that huge, yellow bus, and breathed a sigh of relief. Mr. Steve Meyers bellowed loudly with a smile big enough to show every one of his white teeth,
"Hi ya! Take a seat right there, number one!"
This was the epitome of what I remember about my first day of school. I do not remember much of the day, it was all about the bus ride. I was not nervous about school, just riding the bus. I had seen them many times before- long, yellow, a myriad of windows with scrawny children's faces staring out or making questionable gestures. In my mind, a bus was not only filled with school children, but also intimidation. Everything in my body was teeming with anxiety as I waited for the bus, and the longer I waited the more time my heart and mind had to fight each other.
This worry about the bus ride had never transpired before that morning. I was a child extremely happy about the thought of going to school, laying in bed the night before tingling with excitement, unable to close my eyes, restlessly thinking about the day that lay ahead of me. Uno… dose… tres… quatro…cinco… sies…siete…ocho…nueve…dies. Mary, M-A-R-Y. Elizabeth, E-L-I-Z-A-B-E-T-H. Daugherty, D-A-U-G-H-E-R-T-Y. I was going to show my teacher how smart I was. I could count to ten, even in Spanish! No worries about writing or spelling my name, I could do that too. This manner of thinking went on way into the night. The more I thought of to tell my teacher about, the less tired I became. I was so moved with excitement that I had to fight myself to stay in my bed. The clock, on the other hand, was not moving at all. So I lay there and thought of things I could tell my teacher, like why blue was my favorite color. Of course, because it was my brother's favorite color. I eventually grew tired. My eyelids would slide down, then almost immediately pop right back open. There was always something else I couldn't forget to tell her. As the night came to an end, so did my awareness, sleep had taken over at last.
My sister, brother, and I were up before the sun. My siblings however, were no strangers to school. I sat at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal I remember doing all the morning rituals that seem normal to everyone- brushing teeth, combing and fixing hair, getting dressed. The anxiety over riding the bus never hit me until we were outside, waiting for it to arrive. Then, I started to get petrified.
After Mr. Steve Meyers instructed me where to sit, I found myself next to a brown-haired girl. I was still nervous, yet the panic seemed to subside a little. The bus pulled forward. I sat staring out the windshield. The scenery looked exactly the way it did when I was in my mom's car. That may have drowned my fears a little, almost in a comforting way. Finally I turned to the girl, in slight relief,
"Hi! My name is Mary, what's your name?" She smiled, her freckled nose wrinkled up with delight,
"Whitney."
From that day on Whitney became my best friend. In school we were inseparable. She was there for me since the day I needed her most. The day I realized I had bus fright. She eased the worry, and even made bus rides fun. We played, sang, talked, and even ate - although eating was forbidden. Every morning we'd make a pact to save some of our lunch, just to eat on the way home. I think it was the excitement of breaking the rules, and not so much that we were hungry. Sometimes during the winter we'd put our fluffy coats up over our heads and tell each other ghost stories. Other times, we'd play doctor. We seemed to find everything from pencils to erasers in random bones. Some of my fondest memories take place on that bus.
Children are scared to go to school for various reasons. For myself it was the bus ride. All throughout school I never liked to ride the bus. I would try to
think of a million reasons why I should get driven to school, or how to miss the bus. But, now, as I look back on the bus riding years, it wasn't so bad. I have many great memories that take place on a large, green seat next to friends, laughing and giggling. There will always be that bus in life. Things that's fill us with so much fretfulness and unease. It is nice to know that as we grow older, those horrible bus rides can become cherished memories. Although, I must admit, if I had to arrive to my high school graduation by bus, I may have never made it.
"Hi ya! Take a seat right there, number one!"
This was the epitome of what I remember about my first day of school. I do not remember much of the day, it was all about the bus ride. I was not nervous about school, just riding the bus. I had seen them many times before- long, yellow, a myriad of windows with scrawny children's faces staring out or making questionable gestures. In my mind, a bus was not only filled with school children, but also intimidation. Everything in my body was teeming with anxiety as I waited for the bus, and the longer I waited the more time my heart and mind had to fight each other.
This worry about the bus ride had never transpired before that morning. I was a child extremely happy about the thought of going to school, laying in bed the night before tingling with excitement, unable to close my eyes, restlessly thinking about the day that lay ahead of me. Uno… dose… tres… quatro…cinco… sies…siete…ocho…nueve…dies. Mary, M-A-R-Y. Elizabeth, E-L-I-Z-A-B-E-T-H. Daugherty, D-A-U-G-H-E-R-T-Y. I was going to show my teacher how smart I was. I could count to ten, even in Spanish! No worries about writing or spelling my name, I could do that too. This manner of thinking went on way into the night. The more I thought of to tell my teacher about, the less tired I became. I was so moved with excitement that I had to fight myself to stay in my bed. The clock, on the other hand, was not moving at all. So I lay there and thought of things I could tell my teacher, like why blue was my favorite color. Of course, because it was my brother's favorite color. I eventually grew tired. My eyelids would slide down, then almost immediately pop right back open. There was always something else I couldn't forget to tell her. As the night came to an end, so did my awareness, sleep had taken over at last.
My sister, brother, and I were up before the sun. My siblings however, were no strangers to school. I sat at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal I remember doing all the morning rituals that seem normal to everyone- brushing teeth, combing and fixing hair, getting dressed. The anxiety over riding the bus never hit me until we were outside, waiting for it to arrive. Then, I started to get petrified.
After Mr. Steve Meyers instructed me where to sit, I found myself next to a brown-haired girl. I was still nervous, yet the panic seemed to subside a little. The bus pulled forward. I sat staring out the windshield. The scenery looked exactly the way it did when I was in my mom's car. That may have drowned my fears a little, almost in a comforting way. Finally I turned to the girl, in slight relief,
"Hi! My name is Mary, what's your name?" She smiled, her freckled nose wrinkled up with delight,
"Whitney."
From that day on Whitney became my best friend. In school we were inseparable. She was there for me since the day I needed her most. The day I realized I had bus fright. She eased the worry, and even made bus rides fun. We played, sang, talked, and even ate - although eating was forbidden. Every morning we'd make a pact to save some of our lunch, just to eat on the way home. I think it was the excitement of breaking the rules, and not so much that we were hungry. Sometimes during the winter we'd put our fluffy coats up over our heads and tell each other ghost stories. Other times, we'd play doctor. We seemed to find everything from pencils to erasers in random bones. Some of my fondest memories take place on that bus.
Children are scared to go to school for various reasons. For myself it was the bus ride. All throughout school I never liked to ride the bus. I would try to
think of a million reasons why I should get driven to school, or how to miss the bus. But, now, as I look back on the bus riding years, it wasn't so bad. I have many great memories that take place on a large, green seat next to friends, laughing and giggling. There will always be that bus in life. Things that's fill us with so much fretfulness and unease. It is nice to know that as we grow older, those horrible bus rides can become cherished memories. Although, I must admit, if I had to arrive to my high school graduation by bus, I may have never made it.
Soul Searching
The lights are dimming and the crowd settling; they're all waiting for the performance. As show time begins to creep closer, the anxiety this girl is feeling intensifies. She thinks of herself as a girl because she doesn't yet know what she wants out of life, or what she has to offer. Others in her life would beg to differ, thinking she is a puzzle beautifully pieced together. She is her own worst critic, and knows this firmly. She is still trying to find her way. She lives for today and only today, so she thinks, even though her future is on her mind constantly.
Her world on the outside seems seamless, but if you look beneath there is uneven stitches and popped buttons. All these problems can be fixed, even though at times she feels like they can't be because there isn't enough time! The big run-way show is about to start! She'll be graduating college in about seven months. Excited is what people think she is, but petrified is what she feels. She has no clue where or what she wants to do next. She has a million ideas, but nothing concrete. She doesn't want to live a boring life, so she thinks more about how she would like to work instead of what she would like to do for work. A free-lance type career is what she is shooting for, just for the unpredictability of it. That could be anything! A writer, photographer, graphic-designer, but is this something she really wants to do for the rest of her life? Just because she doesn't want a hum-drum-nine-to-five life?
Writing and photography are a few of her passions and hobbies. Turning them into a career seems like it would be a slice of bliss, but scares her to death that she'd end up hating the few things she loves to do. It is well known that money is the root of all evil. Maybe that root would turn her blissful career into a nightmare? She often remembers a quote from the great Marilyn Monroe who she truly marvels, "I don't want to make money, I just want to be wonderful." Happiness is truly what she wants, but money is just as desirable, no matter what people say. Mostly, then the contemplation of what she is good at and what she can make a go-ahead at, boils down to is this- is she good enough? As mentioned before, she is very aware that she is her own worst critic, but this is a dog-eat-dog world. She just wants to know if she'll be the one feasting, or the feast. The uncertainty pains her already too critical mind.
She could survive in this bullish world, whether being the bruiser or the beaten. She has a good sense of who she is, even if she doesn't know what she wants. Her morals and values are there as if engraved in stone for all to read. They will remain whether she becomes a writer or a veterinarian. Her parents and husband show her the utmost support in everything she does. Her parents have said the cliché "you can do anything you want to do!" But, the difference is that they actually believe it! Her husband, while being frustrated with her fickle ways, reassures her every step, "I know you'll be wonderful at whatever you do, I'm just still waiting for you to pick something." This is part of the reason she would make it in this cruel world. Her family and friends to keep her back straight and chin up. They'd be there to spit her own words right back at her, "kiss my ass," just so she wouldn't forget to tell those who need to hear just that.
This girl has the world in her white-knuckled- grip, and refuses to let is slip away. Her name is Mary Daugherty-Jordan. Watch out, you'll know her one day, for something. For now she has a lot of small stitches, and buttons to fix in the fabric of her life. Her big fashion show starts in seven months. Even through her own hesitation, the show must go on! She'll end it with a bang, and leave you speechless.
Her world on the outside seems seamless, but if you look beneath there is uneven stitches and popped buttons. All these problems can be fixed, even though at times she feels like they can't be because there isn't enough time! The big run-way show is about to start! She'll be graduating college in about seven months. Excited is what people think she is, but petrified is what she feels. She has no clue where or what she wants to do next. She has a million ideas, but nothing concrete. She doesn't want to live a boring life, so she thinks more about how she would like to work instead of what she would like to do for work. A free-lance type career is what she is shooting for, just for the unpredictability of it. That could be anything! A writer, photographer, graphic-designer, but is this something she really wants to do for the rest of her life? Just because she doesn't want a hum-drum-nine-to-five life?
Writing and photography are a few of her passions and hobbies. Turning them into a career seems like it would be a slice of bliss, but scares her to death that she'd end up hating the few things she loves to do. It is well known that money is the root of all evil. Maybe that root would turn her blissful career into a nightmare? She often remembers a quote from the great Marilyn Monroe who she truly marvels, "I don't want to make money, I just want to be wonderful." Happiness is truly what she wants, but money is just as desirable, no matter what people say. Mostly, then the contemplation of what she is good at and what she can make a go-ahead at, boils down to is this- is she good enough? As mentioned before, she is very aware that she is her own worst critic, but this is a dog-eat-dog world. She just wants to know if she'll be the one feasting, or the feast. The uncertainty pains her already too critical mind.
She could survive in this bullish world, whether being the bruiser or the beaten. She has a good sense of who she is, even if she doesn't know what she wants. Her morals and values are there as if engraved in stone for all to read. They will remain whether she becomes a writer or a veterinarian. Her parents and husband show her the utmost support in everything she does. Her parents have said the cliché "you can do anything you want to do!" But, the difference is that they actually believe it! Her husband, while being frustrated with her fickle ways, reassures her every step, "I know you'll be wonderful at whatever you do, I'm just still waiting for you to pick something." This is part of the reason she would make it in this cruel world. Her family and friends to keep her back straight and chin up. They'd be there to spit her own words right back at her, "kiss my ass," just so she wouldn't forget to tell those who need to hear just that.
This girl has the world in her white-knuckled- grip, and refuses to let is slip away. Her name is Mary Daugherty-Jordan. Watch out, you'll know her one day, for something. For now she has a lot of small stitches, and buttons to fix in the fabric of her life. Her big fashion show starts in seven months. Even through her own hesitation, the show must go on! She'll end it with a bang, and leave you speechless.
I Am From
I am from Teresa and James, Joan and Ralph, Mary and Charles.
from rural Brown County, and the city of Cincinnati,
from one-lane gravel roads, and dirty city streets.
I’m from turmoil, determination, hard work, and laughter,
from losing everything just to find out what you really had.
I’m from “Well back in my day…” and “crookeder than a dog’s hind leg” and “because I said so!”
I’m from all night dancers, heavy drinkers, and those who were just livin’ on love,
from farmers, rednecks, cowboys, and Indians.
I’m from pines and maples, sunflowers and daisies,
from where the stars can be seen for miles, and the city lights for ever.
from strict Democrats, and may the best man win.
I’m from hot wheels, Chevy trucks, and Batman,
from be your own person, never give up, and never give in.
I'm from Johnny Cash, Cyndi Lauper, and Lynyrd Skynyrd,
Letting catchy rhythms lift my spirit while keeping the beat of life.
from rural Brown County, and the city of Cincinnati,
from one-lane gravel roads, and dirty city streets.
I’m from turmoil, determination, hard work, and laughter,
from losing everything just to find out what you really had.
I’m from “Well back in my day…” and “crookeder than a dog’s hind leg” and “because I said so!”
I’m from all night dancers, heavy drinkers, and those who were just livin’ on love,
from farmers, rednecks, cowboys, and Indians.
I’m from pines and maples, sunflowers and daisies,
from where the stars can be seen for miles, and the city lights for ever.
from strict Democrats, and may the best man win.
I’m from hot wheels, Chevy trucks, and Batman,
from be your own person, never give up, and never give in.
I'm from Johnny Cash, Cyndi Lauper, and Lynyrd Skynyrd,
Letting catchy rhythms lift my spirit while keeping the beat of life.
Why I Write(s)
I write to be me. I write to be you. I write to find comfort. I write to find peace in my life of pure chaos. I write to feel free. I write to release my demons. I write to accept my destiny. I write to find the words I cannot speak aloud. I write to contact my soul. I write to relax my body. I write to end the quarrelling of my heart and my mind. I write out of fear. I write out of rage. I write out of delight. I write out of love. I write out of hate. I write to remember to appreciate. I write to be able to bear the storm of the future. I write to open the flood gates of the past. I write to realize my dreams. I write to gain self acceptance. I write to understand my faults. I write to recognize my attributes. I write to understand our world, which I do not understand at all. I write to change what I cannot. I write to know that all will be okay. I write for yesterday, today, and tomorrow. I write for the past, present, and the future. I write to remind myself that my way of thinking is not wrong- just different.
I write to be me. I write to be you. I write to escape my own mind. I write to leave my body. I write to become a different person. I write to understand what I do not. I write to calm my nerves. I write to get a grip. I write out of frustration. I write out of happiness. I write to feel relief. I write to feel something! I write to make it real. I write away fear. I write because it's something magical. I write words because I hate numbers. I write to love myself. I write from my heart. I write to open the past. I write to put it away. I write to let go. I write to get out what I cannot speak. I write to feel accomplishment. I write so I do not feel regret. I write to put smiles on faces. I write so I can realize who I am.
I write to be me. I write to be you. I write to escape my own mind. I write to leave my body. I write to become a different person. I write to understand what I do not. I write to calm my nerves. I write to get a grip. I write out of frustration. I write out of happiness. I write to feel relief. I write to feel something! I write to make it real. I write away fear. I write because it's something magical. I write words because I hate numbers. I write to love myself. I write from my heart. I write to open the past. I write to put it away. I write to let go. I write to get out what I cannot speak. I write to feel accomplishment. I write so I do not feel regret. I write to put smiles on faces. I write so I can realize who I am.
This One Doesn't Have A Title Yet Either.**
Christmas time is the same, and different for everyone. Every family has their own traditions of celebration. My family gets together in the late evening of Christmas Eve. We all arrive at our parents hours after the sun has called it a day. For so many years this has been our way of celebration. It had never felt any different until last Christmas.
On Christmas Eve I woke up knowing exactly what lay ahead of me, but not knowing how it would affect me. I usually wake up on Christmas Eve at my parents house, hearing the hustle and bustle of preparation. This time I did not. I awoke at my new home, alone in the quietness of the solitariness. When I looked out of the window from the ocean of blankets and pillows upon my bead, it looked like a summer day to be spent at the beach. I went on about my normal daily activities and chores, but in the back of my mind I missed seeing my mom frantically running around to check off the next thing on her list. Eventually it was time to get ready to go spend time with my family.
My first trial was getting all of the presents to the car. I strongly believe that is why people buy gift cards these days. My second trial was getting all of them into my parents house. I had seen my brother and sister do this for years. I regretted at that moment, for always laughing at them. When I hurled the door open in pure desperation, my sister greeted me with a laugh, that I had always given her. I threw my packages on the nearest open spot on the floor. My mom light-heartedly giggled,
“Is that it?” My face must have been scarlet red, I looked up in my frustration,
“No! I have to go back out and get my shoe! I lost it in the driveway.”
“What? Your shoe?” I just looked at her and smiled, and stomped off to retrieve my lost shoe.
I was when I returned and opened the door for the second time, without any distractions that the heavenly aroma of Christmas dinner smacked me in the face. That was the smell I had missed all day. During dinner we shared jokes, stories, and laughs. We ate so much our bodies didn’t want to move. All the food was like an anchor restraining us in our place. Present time is always after dinner, so we soon after plates were cleared five little munchkins were running around asking,
“Can we open them yet? What about now!” This time has always been incredibly chaotic. I received my presents and set them aside until later. I watch my four nieces and two nephews rip the paper to shreds, and quickly snatch whatever was in front of them, while screaming simultaneously. I had taken in every second of it as a sponge soaks up water. My cheeks started to ache because of all the upside-down frowning. At last the madness came to an end and I found a moment to open my gifts. I opened a golden box, inside sat a black, velvet bag. It was the bracelet I had been wanting. I screamed and jumped just like the children had just done. My mom’s face was covered in a smile.
“There is snowflakes on the back because every snowflake is different and unique. And you are that special to me.” Tears welled up in my eyes but I stashed them back in their place,
“I love it! Thank you so much!” Words could not have described my happiness. Eventually all the excitement died down. The coffee perked filling the house with a robust fragrance, that married well with all the sweets filling the kitchen counter-tops. We ended the night listening to my brother tune Gage’s new guitar, while the girls put on a fashion show modeling their newest attire. When the night grew sleepy, and Santa was on his way, Ryan and I packed our things up and headed home. Heading home felt so weird, because I had felt like I was just there.
That night was the same as any other Christmas Eve with my family, and yet life changing. I realized that I have matured, or my nieces would say, I’ve grown way up. Not only am I living on my own, but I no longer take the simple things for granted. Many times we treat life as that little piece of hair that a gust of wind blows into our face. We are quick to just brush it away, to keep moving on. That Christmas was the first time I didn’t just brush it away, but had taken the time to take a revitalizing breath of the wind.
On Christmas Eve I woke up knowing exactly what lay ahead of me, but not knowing how it would affect me. I usually wake up on Christmas Eve at my parents house, hearing the hustle and bustle of preparation. This time I did not. I awoke at my new home, alone in the quietness of the solitariness. When I looked out of the window from the ocean of blankets and pillows upon my bead, it looked like a summer day to be spent at the beach. I went on about my normal daily activities and chores, but in the back of my mind I missed seeing my mom frantically running around to check off the next thing on her list. Eventually it was time to get ready to go spend time with my family.
My first trial was getting all of the presents to the car. I strongly believe that is why people buy gift cards these days. My second trial was getting all of them into my parents house. I had seen my brother and sister do this for years. I regretted at that moment, for always laughing at them. When I hurled the door open in pure desperation, my sister greeted me with a laugh, that I had always given her. I threw my packages on the nearest open spot on the floor. My mom light-heartedly giggled,
“Is that it?” My face must have been scarlet red, I looked up in my frustration,
“No! I have to go back out and get my shoe! I lost it in the driveway.”
“What? Your shoe?” I just looked at her and smiled, and stomped off to retrieve my lost shoe.
I was when I returned and opened the door for the second time, without any distractions that the heavenly aroma of Christmas dinner smacked me in the face. That was the smell I had missed all day. During dinner we shared jokes, stories, and laughs. We ate so much our bodies didn’t want to move. All the food was like an anchor restraining us in our place. Present time is always after dinner, so we soon after plates were cleared five little munchkins were running around asking,
“Can we open them yet? What about now!” This time has always been incredibly chaotic. I received my presents and set them aside until later. I watch my four nieces and two nephews rip the paper to shreds, and quickly snatch whatever was in front of them, while screaming simultaneously. I had taken in every second of it as a sponge soaks up water. My cheeks started to ache because of all the upside-down frowning. At last the madness came to an end and I found a moment to open my gifts. I opened a golden box, inside sat a black, velvet bag. It was the bracelet I had been wanting. I screamed and jumped just like the children had just done. My mom’s face was covered in a smile.
“There is snowflakes on the back because every snowflake is different and unique. And you are that special to me.” Tears welled up in my eyes but I stashed them back in their place,
“I love it! Thank you so much!” Words could not have described my happiness. Eventually all the excitement died down. The coffee perked filling the house with a robust fragrance, that married well with all the sweets filling the kitchen counter-tops. We ended the night listening to my brother tune Gage’s new guitar, while the girls put on a fashion show modeling their newest attire. When the night grew sleepy, and Santa was on his way, Ryan and I packed our things up and headed home. Heading home felt so weird, because I had felt like I was just there.
That night was the same as any other Christmas Eve with my family, and yet life changing. I realized that I have matured, or my nieces would say, I’ve grown way up. Not only am I living on my own, but I no longer take the simple things for granted. Many times we treat life as that little piece of hair that a gust of wind blows into our face. We are quick to just brush it away, to keep moving on. That Christmas was the first time I didn’t just brush it away, but had taken the time to take a revitalizing breath of the wind.
Tomato Sandwhiches**
I can’t remember if it was the middle of the week or the end, but it didn’t quite matter because I was with my mom. From the living room I could see her standing at the kitchen sink. She was dressed in cut off blue jean shorts, a washed out tank, and not-so-white tennis shoes. Her back was towards me, her brown wavy locks blowing gracefully about because of the breeze the window was letting in. I scampered into the kitchen with the 50’s chic black and white checkered tiles. She turned right around to the sound of the pitter-patter of my feet. She threw her arms up and around, her mouth hung wide open, and her eyes were about to rupture,
“Are you ready?” I beamed, my sneak attack hadn’t gone as planned even though she tried to fake it,
“Yes! Let’s Go!” I began tugging at her arm trying to get there as fast as possible.
Before I let go she was opening the glass-windowed door, letting the beautiful outdoors inside. The sun was dazzling, and the heat intense. We were thankful for the small gusts of wind that passed by. Holding my hand we pranced along the sidewalk that lead to our quaint garden. We were going to do the daily upkeep, to pick all that the sun had ripened.
This was an ordinary task, but I knew what was going to come after we were finished. I hurried over to the juicy heirloom tomatoes. I picked the most gorgeous sun-kiss one, and held it high above my head for my mom to admire. I rushed through the rest of the rows, not giving them half the attention I showed the great tomatoes, grabbing up everything that happened to be ready. Even through the whirlwind I wasn’t able to resist those tiny tomatoes, and popped a few in my mouth. Not soon enough were we on our way back to the house, and more importantly to the kitchen.
Walking in from the heat to the airy kitchen, we unloaded our home-grown goods. Not allowing myself a second to breathe, I grabbed my precious and tomato an whisked it away to the sink. I could barely reach the spout, standing of my tip of my toes, biting my tongue and grunting the whole time, I washed it with caution. Meanwhile, my mom had fetched her favorite knife, the one with the weathered-wooden handle. When I was finished rinsing it off she sliced it across in thin slivers. I then went to the refrigerator which let out a breath of pleasing cold air. I reached way in to get the bowl of butter. I sat it on the table next to the loaf of bread a midst all the other vegetables.
I watched my mom in great anticipation create my favorite sandwich. She layered the succulent tomato pieces on to a pedestal of fluffy bread. On the other slice she put a coat of silky butter, and placed it atop the tomatoes. We had taken our lunch outside to the picnic table to treasure. We ate our sandwiches, and sipped our sweet tea while laughing and enjoying each others company.
It was one of my perfect summer days, spending time with my mom in our garden, and creating something delicious from all our hard work. Helping in the garden always gave me a feeling of importance. She instilled a sense of significance in me, like no one else could do a better job of helping her. I would kneel, examine, and pick right along side her. If she would have let me, I would have lived in that damp soil to watch our plants, and report their progress to her.
My mom has always made it known that while she was pregnant with me, she would have severe cravings for garden-fresh tomatoes. Most of the time not even making it back to the house without eating at least one. That must be the reason why I always found it effortless to pick the perfect tomato, because I had had a great deal of practice.
My papaw had always planted a substantial garden, extending as far as you could see. He had taught my mom to love the land. It was the only friend that could give her exactly what she needs and plenty of it. While Papaw was alive we all had our share of going and picking through his gardens. While others fussed about it, considering it a chore, I adored every moment of it. Whether I was next to my mom, papaw, or by myself, I always felt like home in the garden.
Through my mom and papaw I have developed a fondness for the outdoors. I often think about the summer days I spent along side my mom in our garden, wishing it were the present. I also like to think she does the same about the memories with her father. One day I hope sit with my own children the middle of a familiar place, creating memories that they will cherish forever.
“Are you ready?” I beamed, my sneak attack hadn’t gone as planned even though she tried to fake it,
“Yes! Let’s Go!” I began tugging at her arm trying to get there as fast as possible.
Before I let go she was opening the glass-windowed door, letting the beautiful outdoors inside. The sun was dazzling, and the heat intense. We were thankful for the small gusts of wind that passed by. Holding my hand we pranced along the sidewalk that lead to our quaint garden. We were going to do the daily upkeep, to pick all that the sun had ripened.
This was an ordinary task, but I knew what was going to come after we were finished. I hurried over to the juicy heirloom tomatoes. I picked the most gorgeous sun-kiss one, and held it high above my head for my mom to admire. I rushed through the rest of the rows, not giving them half the attention I showed the great tomatoes, grabbing up everything that happened to be ready. Even through the whirlwind I wasn’t able to resist those tiny tomatoes, and popped a few in my mouth. Not soon enough were we on our way back to the house, and more importantly to the kitchen.
Walking in from the heat to the airy kitchen, we unloaded our home-grown goods. Not allowing myself a second to breathe, I grabbed my precious and tomato an whisked it away to the sink. I could barely reach the spout, standing of my tip of my toes, biting my tongue and grunting the whole time, I washed it with caution. Meanwhile, my mom had fetched her favorite knife, the one with the weathered-wooden handle. When I was finished rinsing it off she sliced it across in thin slivers. I then went to the refrigerator which let out a breath of pleasing cold air. I reached way in to get the bowl of butter. I sat it on the table next to the loaf of bread a midst all the other vegetables.
I watched my mom in great anticipation create my favorite sandwich. She layered the succulent tomato pieces on to a pedestal of fluffy bread. On the other slice she put a coat of silky butter, and placed it atop the tomatoes. We had taken our lunch outside to the picnic table to treasure. We ate our sandwiches, and sipped our sweet tea while laughing and enjoying each others company.
It was one of my perfect summer days, spending time with my mom in our garden, and creating something delicious from all our hard work. Helping in the garden always gave me a feeling of importance. She instilled a sense of significance in me, like no one else could do a better job of helping her. I would kneel, examine, and pick right along side her. If she would have let me, I would have lived in that damp soil to watch our plants, and report their progress to her.
My mom has always made it known that while she was pregnant with me, she would have severe cravings for garden-fresh tomatoes. Most of the time not even making it back to the house without eating at least one. That must be the reason why I always found it effortless to pick the perfect tomato, because I had had a great deal of practice.
My papaw had always planted a substantial garden, extending as far as you could see. He had taught my mom to love the land. It was the only friend that could give her exactly what she needs and plenty of it. While Papaw was alive we all had our share of going and picking through his gardens. While others fussed about it, considering it a chore, I adored every moment of it. Whether I was next to my mom, papaw, or by myself, I always felt like home in the garden.
Through my mom and papaw I have developed a fondness for the outdoors. I often think about the summer days I spent along side my mom in our garden, wishing it were the present. I also like to think she does the same about the memories with her father. One day I hope sit with my own children the middle of a familiar place, creating memories that they will cherish forever.
It Doesn't Take A Man
When I think of my husband, Ryan Jordan, the image of a stereotypical man fills my mind: dirt under the nails, grease from head to toe, work boots, Levi jeans, the five o’clock shadow, an air of toughness, and careless attitude. His parents divorced when he was only four years-old. Without a male role model I have never known where Ryan could turn to, to become such a well-rounded man. I have always been baffled that people can say “it takes a man to raise a man.” Ryan is a person that defies that whole concept.
On the day his father left Ryan said the only thing he remembered is being upset that his father was taking the television. He didn’t understand why he would be taking the television away from him. Ryan also said the only thing his father told him that day was that he was going to live with his aunt. I can’t imagine what a four year-old boy was thinking at this point; or how a twenty year-old man now feels about his father leaving unrepentantly and having given no reason.
I often wonder how Ryan’s demeanor would be different if his father had not left his family. I asked him how he thought his relationship would be different with his father. His reaction to that was: “I might like him. Or know more about him.” He stared straight ahead, looking blankly at the bare wall. He didn’t dare look me in the eye. I’m sure that was to avoid showing any emotion about the matter but, his voice filled with hatred gave it all away.
Immediately, I probed for more information: “So, you don’t know much about your dad?” I asked slyly, in order to not upset him.
He picked up a Hot Roding magazine. Flipping through the pages in a meaningless way; his mind was obviously somewhere other than focused on the magazine. He paused for a long time before answering my question: “All I know is he is a piece of shit--treated my mom bad and cheated on her. I wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire.” By this time he was merely staring aimlessly at one page. He was not attentively looking at the page, more like thinking of the betrayal of his father to his family. I sat and watched him for a while, neither of us said a word. He just looked vacantly at the magazine. I wondered what was going through his mind; it seemed like something that was painful or in some way threatening. I could tell by his cold manner.
After a what seemed like an eternity, he began to say something else: “The only thing I remember about my dad is that he would roll green stuff in small white papers, that came out of orange packages, on a brown tray. It wasn’t until I was older that realized what he was doing.” He was still staring emptily at the same page in the magazine. I was almost speechless.
“He did that in front of you?” I asked dubiously.
“Yep.” He said hardheartedly. I could feel the tension so I asked no more. But, my mind was racing. I couldn’t imagine a parent could do that in front of their child. It must have imposed so much pain and angst when Ryan came to realize the only thing he could remember about his father was something as shameful as that. Then I became conscious of the fact that Ryan has always told me he doesn’t have a father. After the shock of what I had just heard, I must agree with him. No father would roll marijuana in front of their child. I was disgusted with the thought. I am sure Ryan feels the same. Although it must be harder to swallow being that it is his father, even though he will not admit it.
I think this life-long experience has made Ryan a very strong individual. I also recognize the draw backs like his lack of emotion, sympathy, and the resentment he always carries with him for his father. He agreed that the occurrence has made him stronger: “Yeah, you learn to take care of yourself very fast. Because there is no one there to do it for you.” He said this in the same disconnected passion he has about everything. Ryan is the type of person who emotionally detaches himself from everything in his life. He shows no sentiment or compassion for anyone or anything. I have never fully understood why, until delving into his past. I believe detaching himself is how he dealt with his father. Therefore, he continues to use that same mind-set to deal with everything. Everyone has their own way of protecting themselves from hurt; emotional detachment is Ryan’s.
I assume his mother had to worry and work more to make it on her own. Her children had to lean on themselves for support. Ryan has taken that to the extreme. He will never accept money or help from anyone. Although, he is the first to offer aid to anyone else. He takes care of his family and friends by giving whole-heartedly. I know in my case anything I need, he is quick to offer assistance. He is incredibly stubborn, so people usually give into him whether or not they really want to. He conversely, does not give into anyone’s helping hand. He relies solely on himself for everything. I am entirely envious of him for that fact.
I am torn on the matter. I feel sorry that he has had to experience such pain, however it has made him the omnipotent person that he is today. Throughout the past four and a half years I have notice the disgust in Ryan’s voice when speaking of his father. I have never really brought the subject up because I know how much it bothers him. The more I learn of the situation, the more it makes sense to me. I can tell Ryan feels abandoned and betrayed by his father. I think his worst fear is becoming like his father. So far, he is well on the right path of avoiding that worry. I am proud of the person he has become throughout his life. He should be confident in the fact that even without a man to look up to, that he has become just that--a man.
On the day his father left Ryan said the only thing he remembered is being upset that his father was taking the television. He didn’t understand why he would be taking the television away from him. Ryan also said the only thing his father told him that day was that he was going to live with his aunt. I can’t imagine what a four year-old boy was thinking at this point; or how a twenty year-old man now feels about his father leaving unrepentantly and having given no reason.
I often wonder how Ryan’s demeanor would be different if his father had not left his family. I asked him how he thought his relationship would be different with his father. His reaction to that was: “I might like him. Or know more about him.” He stared straight ahead, looking blankly at the bare wall. He didn’t dare look me in the eye. I’m sure that was to avoid showing any emotion about the matter but, his voice filled with hatred gave it all away.
Immediately, I probed for more information: “So, you don’t know much about your dad?” I asked slyly, in order to not upset him.
He picked up a Hot Roding magazine. Flipping through the pages in a meaningless way; his mind was obviously somewhere other than focused on the magazine. He paused for a long time before answering my question: “All I know is he is a piece of shit--treated my mom bad and cheated on her. I wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire.” By this time he was merely staring aimlessly at one page. He was not attentively looking at the page, more like thinking of the betrayal of his father to his family. I sat and watched him for a while, neither of us said a word. He just looked vacantly at the magazine. I wondered what was going through his mind; it seemed like something that was painful or in some way threatening. I could tell by his cold manner.
After a what seemed like an eternity, he began to say something else: “The only thing I remember about my dad is that he would roll green stuff in small white papers, that came out of orange packages, on a brown tray. It wasn’t until I was older that realized what he was doing.” He was still staring emptily at the same page in the magazine. I was almost speechless.
“He did that in front of you?” I asked dubiously.
“Yep.” He said hardheartedly. I could feel the tension so I asked no more. But, my mind was racing. I couldn’t imagine a parent could do that in front of their child. It must have imposed so much pain and angst when Ryan came to realize the only thing he could remember about his father was something as shameful as that. Then I became conscious of the fact that Ryan has always told me he doesn’t have a father. After the shock of what I had just heard, I must agree with him. No father would roll marijuana in front of their child. I was disgusted with the thought. I am sure Ryan feels the same. Although it must be harder to swallow being that it is his father, even though he will not admit it.
I think this life-long experience has made Ryan a very strong individual. I also recognize the draw backs like his lack of emotion, sympathy, and the resentment he always carries with him for his father. He agreed that the occurrence has made him stronger: “Yeah, you learn to take care of yourself very fast. Because there is no one there to do it for you.” He said this in the same disconnected passion he has about everything. Ryan is the type of person who emotionally detaches himself from everything in his life. He shows no sentiment or compassion for anyone or anything. I have never fully understood why, until delving into his past. I believe detaching himself is how he dealt with his father. Therefore, he continues to use that same mind-set to deal with everything. Everyone has their own way of protecting themselves from hurt; emotional detachment is Ryan’s.
I assume his mother had to worry and work more to make it on her own. Her children had to lean on themselves for support. Ryan has taken that to the extreme. He will never accept money or help from anyone. Although, he is the first to offer aid to anyone else. He takes care of his family and friends by giving whole-heartedly. I know in my case anything I need, he is quick to offer assistance. He is incredibly stubborn, so people usually give into him whether or not they really want to. He conversely, does not give into anyone’s helping hand. He relies solely on himself for everything. I am entirely envious of him for that fact.
I am torn on the matter. I feel sorry that he has had to experience such pain, however it has made him the omnipotent person that he is today. Throughout the past four and a half years I have notice the disgust in Ryan’s voice when speaking of his father. I have never really brought the subject up because I know how much it bothers him. The more I learn of the situation, the more it makes sense to me. I can tell Ryan feels abandoned and betrayed by his father. I think his worst fear is becoming like his father. So far, he is well on the right path of avoiding that worry. I am proud of the person he has become throughout his life. He should be confident in the fact that even without a man to look up to, that he has become just that--a man.
Where I Came From**
John Steinbeck once said, “How will our children know who they are if they don’t know where they came from?” I know exactly where I came from. There is a man by the name of Ralph “Duck” Waits that is as much a part of me as the thick, blue blood running through my vital veins. This man is none other than my grandfather. He was a simple, loving man that taught everyone how to enjoy life. He passed away over a year ago, although he is still teaching me something new everyday.
Papaw Duck was a strong man. Not just physically strong, but in every sense of the word. He could handle anything physically, emotionally, and mentally. In my 17 years of living I had never witnessed him struggle with anything. He stood a staggering six feet tall, and weighed in around 200 pounds of solid muscle. He wore skin of leather, that nothing could break. He was born in the late ‘20’s, this may be the reason for his way of life. He did nothing but work. As far as everyone could tell, that is how he liked to be- hard at work. Papaw Duck unsurprisingly worked two jobs. He worked as a laborer in a foundry, and as the sexton of Mt.Orab, taking care of five cemeteries. Needless to say he awoke everyday far before the sun did, and laid his head to rest after the sun had been dozing for hours.
My father also worked in the foundry with Papaw Duck. He said so many times it was Ralph that got him through those blistering, back-breaking eight hours of agonizing work. All he had to do was say a simple phrase to my father, “It’s not the work that will kill you, it’s the thought.” My father said that got him every time. He would quit his irritable ways, stop thinking, and work. I wonder if those were the exact words that got my papaw through those long days?
Every time I find myself in a position where something or another isn’t quite coming as easily as I would like, I just remember how it could be worse. I think of all the difficult work Papaw Duck had done all throughout his life. I remember this, “Just don’t think about it and do it, you’ll be done before you know it.” After repeating that to myself a couple of times, and seeing my Papaw’s benevolent smile, anything seems possible.
He always reminded all of us that the worst thing you could do is complain, because nothing is unbearable.
Work wasn’t the only root of enjoyment in his life. His family was the heart that kept his blood pumping and his spirit dancing. My mother, Teresa describes her father as “A loving, hard working man who gave his all to support his 14 children.” Ralph Waits adored his family, that was a truth no one could dispute. My mother also claimed, “He was a happy person. I never have seen him without a smile on his face.” I must agree, I never observed anything other than a smile on his dark, weather beaten face. He had a kind smile. No matter what chaos was going on in the surrounding world, when he smiled, everything seemed like it was going to be just fine. His presence put everyone at ease, even now his memory does the same.
When I was younger, I was helping my mother fold a sheet set and got “the right way to fold a sheet” lesson. I went to wad up the sheet, it just seemed like what you would do to such a massive sheet, or maybe I just wanted to get done. My mom looked at me, her voice was stern,
“No, no, no. That is not how we fold sheets!”
“Ok.” I smoothed out the bundled sheet, and waited for my instructions.
“Grab both ends. Shake it out. Double it up. Again. Walk toward me. Bring your end up here to mine, and do the same thing again. Now, flip it over your arm like this, and put it away. “
“That’s it?” I asked because it was actually easier than my wad and tuck mess I was trying to do. I was expecting a very complicated process, but this was simple enough.
“That is the only way to fold a sheet. It’s perfect.” Her face was lit up, like some miracle had just taken place. She put so much emphasis on the word, only, it was as if any other sheet folding technique is a sin. I was only about nine-years-old, therefore, it didn’t mean much to me at the time. As my mother and I were folding and she told me that her father was the one that had taught her how to fold laundry. They used to go to the laundry mat every weekend together and wash, dry, and fold all the clothes. It was their special time. Again, being so young at that time, it didn’t mean much other than my mom and her dad used to do the boring task of laundry together. As I look at it now, I, in a roundabout way, learned how to fold laundry from my papaw- the man who sat high upon a tractor the majority of the day. He was capable of anything.
There are a lot of things I’ve learned directly and indirectly from my Papaw Duck. Things like- the only way to have a conversation is in person, never over the telephone; a little bit of hard work never killed nobody; if you ain’t going to do it right, don’t do it at all; no one ever goes out to do anything until it’s raining; never put off what you can do today until tomorrow; gym shoes will give you arthritis, no matter what they say; doctors don’t know a damn thing; the only way to dig a perfect grave is by hand; a Farmall H is the best tractor; when and how to plant a garden; onions are good on everything; never waste food, it took a lot to get you that plate; family is the key to happiness, they will be
Daugherty 4
there when everything else fails. I have learned a multitude of lessons from this
man, some practical, some not. I am proud to share the knowledge he has passed on to me.
I consider myself lucky to know that this man- a man who wanted nothing more than to work hard so that his family could have what they needed- is where I came from. So many times today, no one cares to know about their roots. We are who we are, no questions asked. There is no need or desire to be tied to another person. That comes from our American-independent mind set. But, I must announce I’m glad I know where I came from. A hard-working, poor, country family who has gotten all their wisdom from one man- Ralph Duck Waits. I know who I am and I owe part of that to my papaw, who always guided me in the right direction. To answer Steinbeck’s question, I believe if we do not know where we came from, then, no, we do not know who we are. Our ancestors and their trials and tribulations, mold us into who we may become. We must find it within ourselves to question where we came from, and then we will truly know who we really are.
Papaw Duck was a strong man. Not just physically strong, but in every sense of the word. He could handle anything physically, emotionally, and mentally. In my 17 years of living I had never witnessed him struggle with anything. He stood a staggering six feet tall, and weighed in around 200 pounds of solid muscle. He wore skin of leather, that nothing could break. He was born in the late ‘20’s, this may be the reason for his way of life. He did nothing but work. As far as everyone could tell, that is how he liked to be- hard at work. Papaw Duck unsurprisingly worked two jobs. He worked as a laborer in a foundry, and as the sexton of Mt.Orab, taking care of five cemeteries. Needless to say he awoke everyday far before the sun did, and laid his head to rest after the sun had been dozing for hours.
My father also worked in the foundry with Papaw Duck. He said so many times it was Ralph that got him through those blistering, back-breaking eight hours of agonizing work. All he had to do was say a simple phrase to my father, “It’s not the work that will kill you, it’s the thought.” My father said that got him every time. He would quit his irritable ways, stop thinking, and work. I wonder if those were the exact words that got my papaw through those long days?
Every time I find myself in a position where something or another isn’t quite coming as easily as I would like, I just remember how it could be worse. I think of all the difficult work Papaw Duck had done all throughout his life. I remember this, “Just don’t think about it and do it, you’ll be done before you know it.” After repeating that to myself a couple of times, and seeing my Papaw’s benevolent smile, anything seems possible.
He always reminded all of us that the worst thing you could do is complain, because nothing is unbearable.
Work wasn’t the only root of enjoyment in his life. His family was the heart that kept his blood pumping and his spirit dancing. My mother, Teresa describes her father as “A loving, hard working man who gave his all to support his 14 children.” Ralph Waits adored his family, that was a truth no one could dispute. My mother also claimed, “He was a happy person. I never have seen him without a smile on his face.” I must agree, I never observed anything other than a smile on his dark, weather beaten face. He had a kind smile. No matter what chaos was going on in the surrounding world, when he smiled, everything seemed like it was going to be just fine. His presence put everyone at ease, even now his memory does the same.
When I was younger, I was helping my mother fold a sheet set and got “the right way to fold a sheet” lesson. I went to wad up the sheet, it just seemed like what you would do to such a massive sheet, or maybe I just wanted to get done. My mom looked at me, her voice was stern,
“No, no, no. That is not how we fold sheets!”
“Ok.” I smoothed out the bundled sheet, and waited for my instructions.
“Grab both ends. Shake it out. Double it up. Again. Walk toward me. Bring your end up here to mine, and do the same thing again. Now, flip it over your arm like this, and put it away. “
“That’s it?” I asked because it was actually easier than my wad and tuck mess I was trying to do. I was expecting a very complicated process, but this was simple enough.
“That is the only way to fold a sheet. It’s perfect.” Her face was lit up, like some miracle had just taken place. She put so much emphasis on the word, only, it was as if any other sheet folding technique is a sin. I was only about nine-years-old, therefore, it didn’t mean much to me at the time. As my mother and I were folding and she told me that her father was the one that had taught her how to fold laundry. They used to go to the laundry mat every weekend together and wash, dry, and fold all the clothes. It was their special time. Again, being so young at that time, it didn’t mean much other than my mom and her dad used to do the boring task of laundry together. As I look at it now, I, in a roundabout way, learned how to fold laundry from my papaw- the man who sat high upon a tractor the majority of the day. He was capable of anything.
There are a lot of things I’ve learned directly and indirectly from my Papaw Duck. Things like- the only way to have a conversation is in person, never over the telephone; a little bit of hard work never killed nobody; if you ain’t going to do it right, don’t do it at all; no one ever goes out to do anything until it’s raining; never put off what you can do today until tomorrow; gym shoes will give you arthritis, no matter what they say; doctors don’t know a damn thing; the only way to dig a perfect grave is by hand; a Farmall H is the best tractor; when and how to plant a garden; onions are good on everything; never waste food, it took a lot to get you that plate; family is the key to happiness, they will be
Daugherty 4
there when everything else fails. I have learned a multitude of lessons from this
man, some practical, some not. I am proud to share the knowledge he has passed on to me.
I consider myself lucky to know that this man- a man who wanted nothing more than to work hard so that his family could have what they needed- is where I came from. So many times today, no one cares to know about their roots. We are who we are, no questions asked. There is no need or desire to be tied to another person. That comes from our American-independent mind set. But, I must announce I’m glad I know where I came from. A hard-working, poor, country family who has gotten all their wisdom from one man- Ralph Duck Waits. I know who I am and I owe part of that to my papaw, who always guided me in the right direction. To answer Steinbeck’s question, I believe if we do not know where we came from, then, no, we do not know who we are. Our ancestors and their trials and tribulations, mold us into who we may become. We must find it within ourselves to question where we came from, and then we will truly know who we really are.
Possibly A True Gemini
On May 31, 1962 a baby girl started her life journey as a Gemini. Pam Joy Spencer was the name written on the birth certificate, but family dubbed her, “Peeker”. Both names were quite fitting, she certainly was the joy of her family. She also had sizable eyes in combination with a lack of hair. It is said that the most beautiful part of a Gemini is their striking eyes. Those peepers would catch your attention before you ever noticed her barely-there-hair. At the age of two she was still slightly thin on top. Even though it had taken a while for it to make its first appearance, Pam‘s hair was kept short all throughout her childhood. The blame should be placed on her mother’s hair stylist who claimed that if you keep a child’s hair short it will grow in thick. It may sound like an unmistakable myth but to a woman such as Pam’s mother, who had struggled with lifeless hair, it seemed like an enchanted fairy tale.
She was the only child in the family. This granted her a great deal of attention from kindred. She was fussed about, and passed around as if she were a heir-loom doll. Being an only child as well as grandchild, she was smothered with love and spoiled unimaginably. This much attention could only mean her appearance was always on point. It seems reasonable that she would flounce about in dresses full with ruffles, lace socks, and Mary-Jane’s, all to embellish her cuteness. Pearls are recommended for Gemini‘s. A pearl would be more than suitable for Pam, to this day her style is simply classic.
Her parents, Jean and John claimed her to be the “perfect child.” During childhood a closer bond was felt with her father, than mother. Jean was a working mother, not leaving much time to be spent at home. She would head out early in the morning, and return in time for bed time rituals. Pam declares that most of her childhood memories involve only her father. He worked third shift, allowing him to spend more time at home. Not many responsibilities were laid before this child. Her father would merely give her special chores-not the kind that would irritate, but the kind that would make a person feel proud and grown. A lot of her special chores were helping her father in the garden.
Pam was very much a girly-girl. It may be unbelievable, but she adored, no one other than, Barbie. She spent many of her waking hours along side her Barbie’s. Her parents made the decision to take them from her at the age of 14. Their disappearance didn’t seem to stop her, she would still sneak a peek on her parents’ occasional night out. Her parents and family member’s may have instilled this passion by indulging her with any and everything. She remembers her mother presenting her with elegant dresses, while gleefully swinging them about saying things like “look what mommy got you!” A dress to impress mentality was always encouraged. Barbie was something she could relate to. We all know Barbie is impeccable, and receives much attention.
Another side of Pam is her elevated intelligence. In the second grade she had already decided she would make a career out of writing. It seems implausible that at such a young age, someone could pin-point their future. Reading and books had taken custody of her mind with no consideration of letting go. Pam loved books so much, she decided she wanted to be the person that wrote them. It was probably her way of paying respect to something that brought her so much joy. A few recognizable qualities of a Gemini are creativity, communicative, intellectual, and eloquence. All of the mentioned, Pam was showing at a very young age. A few ideal careers include teacher, author, poet, journalist, diplomat, and public speaker. Today, Pam has found a way to have a career that in some way involves each. This must be why she is so good at what she does, she was born to do it.
Whether you believe in Astrology or not, Pam is a person that stimulates curiosity. She illustrates many characteristics that Gemini‘s are believed to have. The question then becomes is it fallacy or reality? It’s a question I cannot definitely resolve. I can however say, she is an open-minded person. The kind of person you want to go to for the honest truth, but put politely. Pam Spencer is a sophisticated, well-rounded, ingenious, and inspiring woman. If that’s a Gemini, then I believe it.
She was the only child in the family. This granted her a great deal of attention from kindred. She was fussed about, and passed around as if she were a heir-loom doll. Being an only child as well as grandchild, she was smothered with love and spoiled unimaginably. This much attention could only mean her appearance was always on point. It seems reasonable that she would flounce about in dresses full with ruffles, lace socks, and Mary-Jane’s, all to embellish her cuteness. Pearls are recommended for Gemini‘s. A pearl would be more than suitable for Pam, to this day her style is simply classic.
Her parents, Jean and John claimed her to be the “perfect child.” During childhood a closer bond was felt with her father, than mother. Jean was a working mother, not leaving much time to be spent at home. She would head out early in the morning, and return in time for bed time rituals. Pam declares that most of her childhood memories involve only her father. He worked third shift, allowing him to spend more time at home. Not many responsibilities were laid before this child. Her father would merely give her special chores-not the kind that would irritate, but the kind that would make a person feel proud and grown. A lot of her special chores were helping her father in the garden.
Pam was very much a girly-girl. It may be unbelievable, but she adored, no one other than, Barbie. She spent many of her waking hours along side her Barbie’s. Her parents made the decision to take them from her at the age of 14. Their disappearance didn’t seem to stop her, she would still sneak a peek on her parents’ occasional night out. Her parents and family member’s may have instilled this passion by indulging her with any and everything. She remembers her mother presenting her with elegant dresses, while gleefully swinging them about saying things like “look what mommy got you!” A dress to impress mentality was always encouraged. Barbie was something she could relate to. We all know Barbie is impeccable, and receives much attention.
Another side of Pam is her elevated intelligence. In the second grade she had already decided she would make a career out of writing. It seems implausible that at such a young age, someone could pin-point their future. Reading and books had taken custody of her mind with no consideration of letting go. Pam loved books so much, she decided she wanted to be the person that wrote them. It was probably her way of paying respect to something that brought her so much joy. A few recognizable qualities of a Gemini are creativity, communicative, intellectual, and eloquence. All of the mentioned, Pam was showing at a very young age. A few ideal careers include teacher, author, poet, journalist, diplomat, and public speaker. Today, Pam has found a way to have a career that in some way involves each. This must be why she is so good at what she does, she was born to do it.
Whether you believe in Astrology or not, Pam is a person that stimulates curiosity. She illustrates many characteristics that Gemini‘s are believed to have. The question then becomes is it fallacy or reality? It’s a question I cannot definitely resolve. I can however say, she is an open-minded person. The kind of person you want to go to for the honest truth, but put politely. Pam Spencer is a sophisticated, well-rounded, ingenious, and inspiring woman. If that’s a Gemini, then I believe it.
All That She Is
Abraham Lincoln once said, “All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.” Melinda Fay Johnson understands that all too well. She was born on March 1, 1990. Her life began as normally as any other, but before she knew it, that would come to an end.
On May 8, 2000 Melinda lost her mother. She was a mere 10-years-old. She believes it was that day that was her most defining. That retched day was followed by nothing but pure hell. She not only had to bear the death of her mother, but also abuse, taunting, and the foster care system. Although, her grandparents eventually adopted her and her brother, she was not unscathed by her experiences. Today, she thanks her grandmother for playing the role of her mother, but still knows there is no replacing her.
Melinda lost her mother at a young age, but also became a mother in the same manner. She gave birth to her vibrant son, Drake on November 15, 2007. She was just 17-years-old.
Motherhood scared her to death. She explains, “I felt like I was walking
into a crowded room ready to give a lifetime speech about something I had never heard of before.” With that said, there were many people in that room waiting to hear to speech, and she hasn’t let them down yet. Her brother, Mathew says the first time she held Drake was the moment that he honestly felt she was going to make a great mom. She reminds him of their own mother already because she effortlessly puts Drake first, and he easily falls to sleep in her arms.
Melinda would tell you that her most missed memory of her mother are those “motherly hugs and kisses.” A person could easily see that in her relationship with her son. She smothers him with love, hugs, and kisses over and over. One day he will surely miss the same thing about her because there is nothing more rewarding than a mother’s love.
Her favorite memory of Drake is the day he started to call her mommy, or more like know her as mommy. That is probably because of the special bond of mother and son, but also that word “mommy” brings her even closer to her own mother.
Melinda says if she had one last question she could ask her mother it would be how she was able to share her love between her brother and her. Her biggest fear in life is that as her family grows she will not be able to do just that- share her love between her children. What Melinda does not realize now is that she will because all that she is, or hopes to be, she owes to her angel mother.
On May 8, 2000 Melinda lost her mother. She was a mere 10-years-old. She believes it was that day that was her most defining. That retched day was followed by nothing but pure hell. She not only had to bear the death of her mother, but also abuse, taunting, and the foster care system. Although, her grandparents eventually adopted her and her brother, she was not unscathed by her experiences. Today, she thanks her grandmother for playing the role of her mother, but still knows there is no replacing her.
Melinda lost her mother at a young age, but also became a mother in the same manner. She gave birth to her vibrant son, Drake on November 15, 2007. She was just 17-years-old.
Motherhood scared her to death. She explains, “I felt like I was walking
into a crowded room ready to give a lifetime speech about something I had never heard of before.” With that said, there were many people in that room waiting to hear to speech, and she hasn’t let them down yet. Her brother, Mathew says the first time she held Drake was the moment that he honestly felt she was going to make a great mom. She reminds him of their own mother already because she effortlessly puts Drake first, and he easily falls to sleep in her arms.
Melinda would tell you that her most missed memory of her mother are those “motherly hugs and kisses.” A person could easily see that in her relationship with her son. She smothers him with love, hugs, and kisses over and over. One day he will surely miss the same thing about her because there is nothing more rewarding than a mother’s love.
Her favorite memory of Drake is the day he started to call her mommy, or more like know her as mommy. That is probably because of the special bond of mother and son, but also that word “mommy” brings her even closer to her own mother.
Melinda says if she had one last question she could ask her mother it would be how she was able to share her love between her brother and her. Her biggest fear in life is that as her family grows she will not be able to do just that- share her love between her children. What Melinda does not realize now is that she will because all that she is, or hopes to be, she owes to her angel mother.
My 1st Play.
((there is no title, because I suck at titles.))((PS these are the names of my friends...hahaha. how original am i!?))
CHARACTERS
Doctor
Mrs. Fitzpatrick: an old stubborn woman
Mrs. Johnson: the frantic daughter of the old woman
SETTING
A bright hospital room. An old woman sits on a chair next to her frantic daughter. The old woman has complete composure. She had refused to lay in the bed, but wanted to sit in the chair. This made her daughter even more high strung. They sat together waiting for the handsome young doctor to come in.
[Knock! Knock!]
DOCTOR: Hello, Mrs. Fitzpatrick [shakes the old woman’s frail hand]! Hello, Mrs. Johnson [shakes the daughter’s hand]
MRS. FITZPATRICK: I’m not going to waste my time with hellos. Just as you shouldn’t waste my time talking about surgery.
MRS. JOHNSON: Mother! [shrieks]
DOCTOR: Pardon me, Mrs. Fitzpatrick?
MRS. FITZPATRICK: I just don’t think it’s necessary for surgery. I just don’t think it is. I’m perfectly fine!
MRS. JOHNSON: [puts her head in her hands desperately] Mother.
DOCTOR: I’m going to explain to you the reason that we need to…
MRS. FITZPATRICK: : [abruptly cuts the doctor off] But, we don’t need to!
DOCTOR: Mrs. Fitzpatrick, if you just let me show you these X-ray, MRI, and test results and let me explain them to you, I’m sure you’ll understand why we find such urgency…
MRS. FITZPATRICK: [cuts the doctor off again] I don’t need to hear about no tests and all that crap. I know as sure as I sit in this chair my heart is workin’ fine! Otherwise I wouldn’t be sittin’ in this chair here.
[the daughter’s face and body are marked with tension. Her legs are shaking.]
MRS. JOHNSON: Mother! Will you just be quiet and listen to Dr. Keller! He knows what he is talking about! You don’t! You need to just listen! It’s important! You don’t understand!
DOCTOR: Now Mrs. Johnson, calm down. Once I get through these test results and explain what exactly is going on, she will understand…
MRS. FITZPATRICK: [cuts doctor off again] No I won’t! Because there ain’t nothing to understand!
DOCTOR: Mrs. Fitzpatrick, please! It is urgent that we get you scheduled for surgery. So, could I please explain to you why…
MRS. FITZPATRICK: [cuts doctor off again] Why do you need to explain anything to me? You have done called her [points to her frantic daughter] and told her that y’all were going to cut me open! That’s it’s so important! So why you need to waste your breath tellin’ me anything!
DOCTOR: Well, you need to understand exactly what is going on. I need you to understand and give consent to treat.
MRS. FITZPATRICK: [chuckles] I’m not contentin’ to anything! I’m fine as sure as I’m sittin’ in this chair. [chuckles]
MRS. JOHNSON: Just let him talk!
MRS. FITZPATRICK: He doesn’t need to talk to me! He’s already talked…to you! You two have already decided what you’re going to do with me! So just do it!
DOCTOR: But, I need you to understand, and give consent.
[old woman keeps laughing]
MRS. JOHNSON: I give consent! She doesn’t understand! I give consent!
[doctor looks at Mrs. Fitzpatrick]
MRS. FITZPATRICK: I’m not sayin’ a word. Do what you want.
DOCTOR: Ok, then. Ladies, if you will excuse me a moment…[steps out of the door]
DOCTOR: [on the outside of the door, in the hospital hallway] What a stubborn old lady!
MRS.FITZPATRICK: Did you just hear what that damn doctor said!
MRS. JOHNSON: No! You wouldn’t let him get a word in edgewise!
MRS. FITZPATRICK: [mumbles] Well, I won’t now that I know he says I’m old and stubborn!
[daughter shoots a look of contemptuous confusion at her mother]
CHARACTERS
Doctor
Mrs. Fitzpatrick: an old stubborn woman
Mrs. Johnson: the frantic daughter of the old woman
SETTING
A bright hospital room. An old woman sits on a chair next to her frantic daughter. The old woman has complete composure. She had refused to lay in the bed, but wanted to sit in the chair. This made her daughter even more high strung. They sat together waiting for the handsome young doctor to come in.
[Knock! Knock!]
DOCTOR: Hello, Mrs. Fitzpatrick [shakes the old woman’s frail hand]! Hello, Mrs. Johnson [shakes the daughter’s hand]
MRS. FITZPATRICK: I’m not going to waste my time with hellos. Just as you shouldn’t waste my time talking about surgery.
MRS. JOHNSON: Mother! [shrieks]
DOCTOR: Pardon me, Mrs. Fitzpatrick?
MRS. FITZPATRICK: I just don’t think it’s necessary for surgery. I just don’t think it is. I’m perfectly fine!
MRS. JOHNSON: [puts her head in her hands desperately] Mother.
DOCTOR: I’m going to explain to you the reason that we need to…
MRS. FITZPATRICK: : [abruptly cuts the doctor off] But, we don’t need to!
DOCTOR: Mrs. Fitzpatrick, if you just let me show you these X-ray, MRI, and test results and let me explain them to you, I’m sure you’ll understand why we find such urgency…
MRS. FITZPATRICK: [cuts the doctor off again] I don’t need to hear about no tests and all that crap. I know as sure as I sit in this chair my heart is workin’ fine! Otherwise I wouldn’t be sittin’ in this chair here.
[the daughter’s face and body are marked with tension. Her legs are shaking.]
MRS. JOHNSON: Mother! Will you just be quiet and listen to Dr. Keller! He knows what he is talking about! You don’t! You need to just listen! It’s important! You don’t understand!
DOCTOR: Now Mrs. Johnson, calm down. Once I get through these test results and explain what exactly is going on, she will understand…
MRS. FITZPATRICK: [cuts doctor off again] No I won’t! Because there ain’t nothing to understand!
DOCTOR: Mrs. Fitzpatrick, please! It is urgent that we get you scheduled for surgery. So, could I please explain to you why…
MRS. FITZPATRICK: [cuts doctor off again] Why do you need to explain anything to me? You have done called her [points to her frantic daughter] and told her that y’all were going to cut me open! That’s it’s so important! So why you need to waste your breath tellin’ me anything!
DOCTOR: Well, you need to understand exactly what is going on. I need you to understand and give consent to treat.
MRS. FITZPATRICK: [chuckles] I’m not contentin’ to anything! I’m fine as sure as I’m sittin’ in this chair. [chuckles]
MRS. JOHNSON: Just let him talk!
MRS. FITZPATRICK: He doesn’t need to talk to me! He’s already talked…to you! You two have already decided what you’re going to do with me! So just do it!
DOCTOR: But, I need you to understand, and give consent.
[old woman keeps laughing]
MRS. JOHNSON: I give consent! She doesn’t understand! I give consent!
[doctor looks at Mrs. Fitzpatrick]
MRS. FITZPATRICK: I’m not sayin’ a word. Do what you want.
DOCTOR: Ok, then. Ladies, if you will excuse me a moment…[steps out of the door]
DOCTOR: [on the outside of the door, in the hospital hallway] What a stubborn old lady!
MRS.FITZPATRICK: Did you just hear what that damn doctor said!
MRS. JOHNSON: No! You wouldn’t let him get a word in edgewise!
MRS. FITZPATRICK: [mumbles] Well, I won’t now that I know he says I’m old and stubborn!
[daughter shoots a look of contemptuous confusion at her mother]
Friday, March 27, 2009
So...
As you're probably aware, I'm a writer! Lately though, I haven't been able to write. And it's really pissing me off. I'm stuck in a rut, or a major case of writer's block. Either way, it's not coming out the way that I want it to. So, I have a solution! I will post my writings, and hope that you will read them and give me some input. Even if you don't understand anything about writing, or think you do not..that doesn't matter to me. Just tell me what you think of it, what you think needs improved, what is or is not relavant, etc. etc. Leave your thoughts as comments, and I will check them daily! Other peoples input always allows for a new set of eyes, you will probably show me something I hadn't even begun to think about! Please! Help! Anyone is allowed to follow. The more the marrier! I'd really appreciate it. Thanks!! Until next time, peace && love.
--The Struggling Writer.
--The Struggling Writer.
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