Tag: family

Legacy Writing 365:33

I could swear I posted this story on my blog before, but a search has turned up nothing. One time my parents spent a vacation at Callaway Gardens. In order not to have to endure the bored and surly teenager forced to go with them, they let me invite Lynne to join us. This was GENIUS, as it meant they got to see all the flowers and crap they wanted to while Lynne and I swam, hung out, found boys to flirt with, etc.

We made only one mistake.

We remembered to take a cassette player along with us so we’d have music. But we failed to pack any tapes. Therefore, all we had was the tape that was already in the player. I was reminded of this by an episode of 30 Rock that Tim and I watched last night.


Here’s a really crappy picture my mother took of Lynne and me that week. Photoshopping has actually enabled me to see things I can’t see on the original photo, like the embroidery Lynne did on her work shirt (our term for chambray shirts–those suckers are expensive as hell now; who works in them?), the way I’m holding my sunglasses in my hand instead of wearing them (I still do this), and the flowered shirt I’m wearing over my knit shirt. That flowered shirt belonged to Lynne’s Cousin George. She stole it from him. In an act of karmic retribution, I stole it from her. I don’t think anyone stole it from me. I think it fell apart from over-wearing and over-washing. I loved that shirt.

If you want to see a better picture from that vacation, I put one on my blog in 2007 in Lynne’s birthday post.


(Dear Jim: I’m pretty sure my mother must have said something like, “Why don’t you ever smile?” before she took this photo.)

Oh, yeah. The tape was Aqualung. I never wanted to hear it again after that vacation, although I did force myself to go to a Jethro Tull concert a few years later.

Legacy Writing 365:32


I am seven.
I’m about to have a really traumatic school year.
But it’s summer and I have no idea.
I remember that swimming suit.
I’m wearing some kind of shirt over the swimming suit.
That’s not my family’s car.
But I think I remember whose car it is.
We were a neighborhood of women and children whose husbands and fathers were deployed overseas.


Debby is twelve.
I think she looks like a baby Mick Jagger.
She’s probably saying, “Hey, you, get off of my bench.”
But that’s okay.
I’ll pay her back later.
If it wasn’t this picnic by a lake, it was another picnic when:
I woke up in the middle of the night…
Sat up…
And threw up watermelon all over her.

I don’t remember it.
But she swears it’s true.

Legacy Writing 365:30

In this photo, my brother is four, and my sister is fifteen months. I think it was probably taken at the old Northington Campus at the University of Alabama. This area was originally a U.S. Army Hospital just after World War II. When the Army left, the university annexed it. Druid City Hospital was there for a while. There was such a rise in the student population that freshmen in the late 1940s had classes there. Buildings were also converted for housing for those on the G.I. Bill and married students (both of these last applied to my parents).

In my parents’ apartment, four couples shared a kitchen. My mother always talked about how everyone struggled financially and had to stretch their food dollars. All except one of the wives, whose affluent parents would bring boxes of groceries when they visited or send money to help out. My mother talked about what torment it was to wake up to the smell of frying bacon and know she couldn’t have any or serve it to her husband and children.

One reason I plucked this photo out of the bunch was because my brother’s shorts intrigued me. At first my eye traveled over them and sort of registered camouflage. Then I caught myself and looked back, because this would have predated camouflage material used on kids’ clothes. The more Tom and I studied it, the more we figured out those are probably football players. This led me to a lot of time on the Internet studying vintage fabrics. I suspect his shorts were a lot like this and were probably sewn by my mother.

Now if I could just figure out what has my sister so engrossed (I think it’s a flower).

Legacy Writing 365:28


Here Lynne and I are posing with my sweet Aunt Lola at the punch bowl at my sister’s wedding reception. I believe I own more photos of Lynne’s eyes closed than opened.

For about a hundred years of my childhood, the only thing I would eat for breakfast was Cocoa Puffs. But when we went to visit Uncle Gerald and Aunt Lola, their grocery store didn’t sell Cocoa Puffs. So she always bought a box of Cocoa Krispies just for me. I loved her for that and all the other ways she was good to me.

I still remember that yellow dress I’m wearing in this photo. My mother made it. But I really love Aunt Lola’s dress. In fact, I may have unconsciously…


…had Aunt Lola as my muse a couple of years ago.

Legacy Writing 365:26

I accidentally imported a bunch of photos the other day when I was trying to move something from my old PC files to the iMac. A few of the pictures made me think of “process” and reminded me of how much help I get in putting a plan into action. For example, this photo:


reminds me of when I told Lynne, “I have a plan to promote my book that requires a Barbie.” And even though I had bins of dolls in my attic, I happened to be at her house, so she went doll shopping with me. This is how I purchased my first Top Model Barbie (and what a chain of events that set off). Then I showed the doll to Tom and said, “But I need her in a wedding dress.” So he went with me to Toys ‘R Us, and that’s where we got her couture.

Then I set up the shot, and Tom lent a hand to keep my groom steady.

Then I said I needed some background I could clone.

Then I cloned it.

But it felt too dark.

So here’s the final shot.

I’m so not a professional photographer, and a lot of times, I’m just trying to have fun with my cameras. I’m very fortunate to have many like-minded accomplices.

Accomplices…

Here’s a paragraph from The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron:

Remember that art is process. The process is supposed to be fun. For our purposes, “the journey is always the only arrival” may be interpreted to mean that our creative work is actually our creativity at play in the field of time. At the heart of this play is the mystery of joy.

I think “joy” is one of the most beautiful words in the English language. I can remember a time in my life when I thought I’d never feel it again. Then I realized that joy isn’t a condition that’s given to us; it’s a feeling that we give to ourselves. Joy is a choice. Hard work won’t get me to joy. Play, fun, whimsy, enJOYment of other people’s creative gifts (including the planet’s gifts): Those are my journeys to joy. And in turn, joy gives me the energy and stamina to do hard work.

My life has been full of people who contribute to my creative process. There have also been plenty of people who were willing to whittle away at my self-confidence. Who could discourage me with a well-aimed barb. Sometimes that stems from their own misery. Sometimes it’s even well-intentioned, a desire that I not set myself up for disappointment. But why? Disappointment is part of my process, too. I don’t have to experience everything a character goes through to write her/him, but the greater my range of emotions, the better chance I have of writing people who become real for me.

Whether you’ve helped me play, held my hand when I cried, broken my heart, listened to my ideas, given me honest reactions to my work, read my work, bought my work, hugged me when I felt lost, laughed with me when I felt silly, annoyed the crap out of me, fought with me, loved me, commented on this blog, said hi on the Internet, called me, written me, thanks. You’re part of my joy.

Legacy Writing 365:25

Who is this girl? Because the girl I knew:

Could outrun any boy. Could sit on him and make him holler uncle. Could raise a knot on his arm by socking him as she walked by.

Could shimmy up a tree in nothing flat. Was always out in front of the bike pack.

Sneaked across the highway to ride horses.

Came home from school with one sock down, one sock up, shoes scuffed, sash dragging the ground because one side was torn loose.

Could navigate monkey bars better and swing higher than any kid on the playground.

Was one of the boys, with skint knees and elbows and tangled hair pulled back in a ponytail.

Cut the hair off all the dolls. Threw Betsy Wetsy in the creek to see if she’d float. Dolls were stupid anyway.

After being stuck as a fortune teller one year at Halloween, the next year she demanded a cowboy outfit for Christmas.

“You mean cow girl? Like Dale Evans?”

“I mean cowBOY.”

And she got it, six shooters and all.

She was her father’s shadow and her brother’s sparring partner.

Then all of a sudden she was Haley Mills and Doris Day. Wearing pearls from her father and HEELS on her white pumps. She had a white satin dress from her mother and curled hair. She was fourteen and graduating from eighth grade.

On the floor is the symbol of the infantry’s motto, “Follow me!” Much to my big sister’s dismay, I always did follow her everywhere.

Legacy Writing 365:24

On Twitter the night of the Golden Globes, people were tweeting about the celebrities, the fashions, the awkward moments, the strange occurrence of Americans with British accents, and all I could come up with was “I despise this Calvin Klein commercial.” I don’t know why it rubs me the wrong way. Best I can figure, I loathe the minimalism, the monotones, the idea that we’re meant to aspire to a lifestyle of infinity pools, glass houses, private jets, expensive cars, fast boats, or men with girls who look like they’re fifteen. If you’re in the One Percent and that’s your life, you’re not reading this blog enjoy!

It made me contemplate what places I do like to visit and why. And it always comes back to anywhere there’s creative energy. Galleries. Little shops where people sell their hand crafted arts. Places where the air vibrates with street musicians. Watching street performers. Watching people paint. Looking at people’s paintings. Seeing people on their laptops and imagining they’re writing great stories or poems. Or seeing older people sitting comfortably around wood stoves or on front porches telling stories. You can find these moments and people and places and objects anywhere–large cities, small cities, small towns, barely villages.

One such place is Yellow Springs, Ohio. When I took the time after Christmas to organize my decorations, ornaments, lights, and such, I opened what I thought was an empty box in a bin and found these.


Items handcrafted of clay, painted, and fired. I shot them with a quarter to give an idea of their size. The date on the quarter, coincidentally, is 1994, the first time I ever visited Yellow Springs with Debby, Mother, and Tom. I loved all the stores there–jewelry, art, books–and I remember eating great pizza. This was one of the years we traveled at Christmas. I don’t like leaving home at Christmas, so the only compensation is seeing family. Like here, in this 1994 shot, while Josh tries to nap on the floor after a big Christmas dinner, Sarah upholds the family tradition of sneak-attack Bunny Ears.

I bought the little clay pieces on a subsequent trip to Yellow Springs, with the idea of turning them into ornaments to give as gifts. Somehow they got misplaced. That was also the year I saw a flyer in one of the shops protesting censorship because of controversy over a new book everyone was talking about. I sure hope they kept Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone from being banned. 😉

If you follow the Yellow Springs link above, you’ll see that the town has an interesting history. Or you can learn more about it on their web site. I feel like I’m way overdue for another visit there.

Paying it forward

It’s a wonderful day to be inside in Houston. Gray and full of portent. Tim surprised me earlier with Starbucks, the perfect treat for such a day. I’m paying it forward by presenting you all a bouquet of roses in the vase Tom’s mother gave me for Christmas.

She always finds the most stunning gifts in glass. It’s her artist’s eye and her generous heart. I’m definitely blessed in the in-laws department.

Legacy Writing 365:20

In November of 1990, That Old Woman was living in Salt Lake City, as was my brother. Tom and I, and my sister and her husband Len, decided to visit there for Thanksgiving. It was gorgeous and snowy, and David, who skis, offered to take anyone interested skiing. The day before their planned ski date, he wanted to drive to the desert. My sister, Len, and Tom went along, and they saw all kinds of wildlife including eagles and I don’t remember what else. Mother and I opted not to go because she wanted to see a movie. It was a new release that I’d never heard of: Dances With Wolves. We both loved it–which seems weird to me now, as I’m afraid to see War Horse even though I don’t think the horse dies, yet every freaking animal was dying in Dances With Wolves. But I digress.

That night, while Tom and Len were getting ready for their big ski date the next day, we tried not to tell Debby too much about the movie. This photo was taken then and is one of my favorite pictures of my mother and Tom.

The next morning, my brother picked up the guys. Mother, Debby, and I went shopping and to the movie. My sister did love it. Then we went home to hear about the Great Snow Adventure of 1990. I’m not saying Tom and Len were bad skiers, but at one point after Len came to a–let’s call it less than graceful–stop, they heard someone’s voice call out from the ski lift overhead, “Now that’s entertainment!”