The best is yet to come...

The words are still here. They are in me. They have stopped dancing and swirling, but still live. Sometimes they are shrouded by cloudiness. Some sort of murky darkness blankets my words and they struggle to breathe. But they will never die. I have missed writing terribly. I have been busy—this is true—falling deeply in love, trying to find “work”, just living I guess, but I’d be lying if I said that was all. Many of you know-and those who don’t should—I suffer from the disease of alcoholism and addiction. Remember my blog about “screaming whispers?”—that was about a sad day in my life. Lately the whispers have gotten louder and it takes much of my energy and focus to quiet them. Jerry helps. Oh God, Jerry quiets them simply by touching me. I haven’t written in so long because I knew THIS had to be written. The words that were being blanketed weren’t happy words, or funny words, or even moving words. They were sad, aching, terrible words that I didn’t want to come out. I think today I realize that this sadness—this disease—is part of me. Just as much as the funny stories about sisters and mothers and the moving stories about daughters and nephews. There is sadness in me that just steals my words. Today, by writing this, I have stolen those words back. Bear with me loyal readers—the best is yet to come…

This One's For The Girls!

I got a lot of responses on last week’s blog. I got the second most hits ever (thanks, guys!). I also received a comment from a friend—Patty Backus Gardepe—who suggested that in all fairness I write one for the girls. Well, this one was a little more difficult. I mean, I can only write from my perspective—so I would be suggesting what I THINK would help. The other difficulty in writing this was, in all honesty, that I kept coming up with ideas to turn him on—which—if you remember correctly, was NOT what the other blog was about. It was about showing her you LOVED her. But, the more I contemplated it, the more I came to the realization that—for most men—the ability to turn them on somehow translates into showing them you love them. Right? Wrong? Who am I to say? Remember, this blog is only my OPINION. It and fifty-cents will get you a copy of coffee. So, here it is. 10 ways to turn your man on. Rules are the same. You can read it, but you have to promise to try one—at least one—and report back. Now, fellas, I KNOW MY GIRLS. They are gonna try this…so this is about to get real good!

1. Flash him. Wait till he least expects it. Stop worrying about your hips or your sags or that belly that started to look like you popped open a container of Pillsbury biscuit dough. Wait till he’s outside and flash him out the window. Wait till he’s getting out of the shower and flash him before stepping out. Do NOT stand around waiting for a reaction. Just flash and dash. If he asks what that was all about—just shrug. Just once. Just this week, give him a booby peek-a-boo.

2. The next time you get up in the middle of the night to pee, come back to bed naked. Take off the flannels, ladies—get rid of the sweats one night—stop worrying about a possible fire or a child walking in (I promise they won’t need therapy even if they do see you naked). Don’t DO anything. Just crawl into bed naked and let HIM discover YOU. Believe you me; if this is something you don’t normally do, he will be suitably impressed. Just once. Just this week, leave your Snoopy P.J.s outside the covers.

3. Take a picture. Be Brave! Be Bold! Throw caution to the wind just this once and take a quick snapshot with your phone. No, not of your face. No, not of the cat, or dog, or the kids Halloween costume. Take a picture of your Ta Ta’s. That’s right. This one takes some courage, I know, believe me I know. But, let’s be fair, if we want them to stop the car and dance with us on a back road—we might need to compromise a little. Just this once. Just this week—say “cheese.”

4. Feel him up. OK! OK! I know it sounds bad. But, remember, this isn’t about romance. This is about turning him on. And, at least in my experience, nothing turns him on more than an unexpected stroke or two. Not in bed! In the grocery store! While sitting on the couch watching Robin Meade on CNN Headline News. Just once. Just this week, during the last 15 minutes of CSI reach out, reach down, and give it a good squeeze or two.

5. Talk dirty. Trust me on this one. And, let’s face it, most of you already know. Leaning in close and whispering those "naughty" words he never hears YOU utter in his ear will change his expression instantly. Since this is a family blog, I won’t list the words here. If, however, you need specific words, e-mail me at hulsehodges@yahoo.com. This works best in a public place it not only turns a man on it creates a sense of excitement and danger of getting caught. The other night I got into bed, snuggled up to my Jerry and whispered, “Daddy, I’ve been naughty.” Holy Crap! You should have seen the look on his face! Ooooh yeah. Just once. Just this week, call it something other than “down there.”

6. Get off your back. Yes, I know it’s comfortable there. Yes I know it’s nice to lay there after a long day AND feel good at the same time. But believe you me, if you’ve seen the ceiling the last 3 out of 4 times you’ve had sex, you need to switch it up. Just once. Just this week, let him look at the ceiling.

7. Suck an ice cube and then lick his nipples. Slowly, in circles starting from the outside of the nipple. Once you get to the inside, quick but gently bite it. No shit. I read this in Cosmo! Just once. Just this week, see if his nipples are as sensitive as yours are!

8. Perineum. Look it up. Work it. Done and Done. Just once. Just this week, the Perineum.

9. Softly, slowly, trace his body with your fingertips. ALL OF IT. Start on his head and neck and work your way down. When you get to the Southern Hemisphere skip it and move onto his legs and feet. Wait until he is convinced you’re done tracing and THEN put it in overdrive and reach for the stick shift.

10. If all else fails, bake a goddamn apple pie! What do I know?

This One's For The Boys...

OK fellas. It’s time. It’s time to step up to the plate and take care of some business with the woman you love. And I can tell you from experience that IF YOU DON’T, SOMEONE ELSE WILL. So, I am here to help. Here it is. My list of 10 things. 10 very simple, inexpensive, EASY things you can do to show her—really show her that you still love her. I’ve thought about these for a while now. Just thinking about what it would take to sweep me off my feet. And, because I’m a writer, words swirled and danced in my head that made me feel as though these 10 things would work. Words like surprise, whispers, unexpected, and quiet love. Come on now, fellas. Don’t wuss out on me now. Try one. Just one. Try one of the 10 this week—and then—get back to me on her reaction. I GUARANTEE IT WILL BE WONDERFUL. OK, here they are in no particular order.

1. The next time you are in a public place--(YES IT HAS TO BE A PUBLIC PLACE)—stop her. Put your hands on her shoulders, stop her grocery cart, take whatever she is holding in her hands and set it down turn her to face you, tuck her hair behind her ear and give her one, little, bare-whisper of a kiss. AND DO NOT LOSE EYE CONTACT. Don’t say anything, don’t do anything else. Give her back her things (better yet hold them for her!) and move on.

2. The next time you are driving together (no kids on this one), stop on the side of the road unexpectedly. Wait for a beautiful slow song. Turn it up. Way up. Get out of the car, go to her side, open the door, pull her out and slow dance with her. Don’t say anything for chrissakes, you’ll screw it up. Just dance and hold her.

3. The next time she is in the shower, stick her bath towels in the dryer and meet her when she opens the shower door with warm bath towels and a warm kiss. If she asks any questions, just shrug. THIS IS NOT ABOUT SEX, SO FORGET IT. It’s about romance. So don’t go in there expecting a visit to the Southern Hemisphere. Just a warm kiss. And, again? Do not lose eye contact.

4. One day this week. One time this week. Just once in your life for chrissakes, compliment her in front of others. Mention how good her cooking is or how she is such a good Mom. SURPRISE THE SHIT OUT OF HER AND SAY SOMETHING DECENT IN FRONT OF OTHERS. I know. I know. Something new for you—just try it. Trust me; it’ll take you a long way.

5. YOU SLEEP IN THE WET SPOT.

6. Go up behind her. Whether she’s cooking, or doing dishes, or on the phone. Just quietly go up behind her (please resist the hard slap on the ass—it’s not as great as you’ve been thinking) and put your arms around her from behind. Just hold her and sway a little bit. And listen to this….soft kisses on the neck are irresistible. TOTALLY. Don’t bump. Don’t grind. Just sway.

7. Tell the kids you need to talk to them. Tell them it’s a “family meeting” (yeah, like on the Brady Bunch—get over it). Make sure she’s there too. Don’t tell her anything. Once the kids are assembled, tell them you thought it was important that they know how much you love their Mom and how wonderful she is. Don’t ad lib here, boys. Whatever you do, don’t try to be a George Carlin or friggin Andrew Dice Clay. BE NICE. That’s all. Serious and nice.

8. Make her a mixed CD. Oh for the love of God, it is not that difficult. Don’t be so goddamn lazy. You’ll walk a mile in the snow uphill both ways to drink a Coors Light with a buddy, am I right? So? So take 10 friggin minutes and make a mixed CD. Don’t add things like “Baby Got Back” either. Stick to classics. Stick to romance. Stick to lyrics that mean something or songs from when you first met. Lady GaGa and ACDC probably aren’t going to cut it here. Use your head. If your head is broken, call a friend of the one you love and ask for help.

9. Tonight when you go to sit on the couch, INSIST that she lay HER head in YOUR lap. Stroke her hair, tucking it behind her ears occasionally. Softly here. Don’t let your hands stray to her breasts either. FOCUS. This is strictly about her face and neck. Don’t try anything. Just let her enjoy your touch without believing she’s going to have to put her legs over her head anytime soon.

10. Tell her you love her at least 10 times in one day. Write it. Say it. Play it in music. SHOW IT. More than once. More than when you leave for work or go to sleep at night. What’s that country song? “Somewhere other than the night, she needs to hear you love her.”

OK. That’s it. The rest is up to you. (God save us). May the force be with you guys!

A Day In My Life

Disappointment: fixing a hot bowl of tomato soup (with milk) and a grilled cheese sandwich, only to find I am out of crackers.

Happiness: reaching out at night and touching a warm body that loves me—unconditionally.

Disgust: hearing someone suggest Sarah Palin might make a good President—or good anything.

Embarrassment: showing off my new jeans only to have Jerry laugh because I left the size sticker on.

Ambition: Having the dishwasher loaded, the washing machine running, and the bed made before 6 a.m.

Sloth: Convincing yourself that because you loaded the dishwasher, started the laundry and made the bed all before 6 a.m., you can lay on the sofa and watch “Keeping Up With The Kardashians” all day.

Boredom: Checking my Myspace page.

Suspicion: Ummmm. These aren’t MY sunglasses under the car seat.

Gluttony: Every middle-of-the-night-trip to the bathroom includes a handful of Cheddar Cheese and Sour Cream Chips.

Ecstasy: OK, even I’m not going to share that bit of information with YOU.

Fun: Finding some of those little-popper-thingys you throw on the ground and they “pop” & throwing them at the cats just as they fall asleep.

Contentment: Writing. About anything. Anytime. Anywhere.

randomness…isn’t it great?

View Full Album

My New Man

For 25 years of my life, there was really only 1 man in my life. Just one. I loved him (still do, sorry to say) more than I did myself sometimes. I believed everything was better because he was in it. When he was with me, laughs were better. When he was with me, food tasted better. When he was with me, I felt at peace. I felt as if nothing could go wrong. Then, as many of you know, and as happens many times in life these days, that man left my life. Truth be known, we had left each other’s lives long before he physically stepped out the door. There I was. Manless.

Recently, however, as many of you also know, another man entered my life. I gotta tell you—when I write I close my eyes a lot. I close my eyes and try to fill all my senses with who or what it is that I’m trying to explain to you—my faithful reader. And today I’m finding it hard to keep my eyes closed because ALL I CAN DO IS SMILE!
I think of his face, and I smile. I think of his unconditional love for me, and I smile. I think of his arms around me and his voice and his eyes and I smile. All my senses scream one thing—I love this man.

Jaxon Zachery Backus is my 2 year old grandson. Within the next several weeks he will be joined at home by a little brother, never to be an only child again. I suppose when that happens, we often spend time mulling over the realization that it’s going to be difficult for the older child. I’ve been thinking about that Jaxon, and I wanted to speak directly to you about your 2 little years thus far on earth.

Know that you are loved. My God, are you loved. Mom and Dad, Grandmas, Grandpas, G-Pa’s, Ya-Ya, Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, everybody sees you as a precious little angle sent to us—and you are.

I spent some time at your Mom’s home and had the privilege of taking care of you. It wasn’t easy. Lots of spilled soda, and sticky messes, and walks to the post office. Lots of chasing you away from the road, and trying to convince you that books were better than Nerf shotguns. Lots of poopy diapers and missing baby bottles. Lots of trouble. But there was lots of love too, baby boy. I couldn’t get enough of you, and although I cannot speak for you, I think you couldn’t get enough of me either. We watched TV together every day at naptime, when you insisted on holding my earlobe while you drank your “ba ba.” We walked to the post office every day, when you insisted on carrying the box key (and lost it more than once). We laughed, and read books, and colored, and made Ya-Ya’s famous popcorn. And the whole time I spent with you I couldn’t get enough of you. Your hair, that beautiful blonde, soft as a baby chicks. Your quizzical looks, always asking questions. Your laugh, your hug, your eyes—exactly the same color as mine. I inhaled you. Literally inhaled you into me and thanked God for you.

Some days I am so excited to think of what you will become when you grow up. To think of all the possibilities life has in store for you fills me with wonder. Those times are also tempered with sadness. A plea in my heart to keep you small. To keep your hands small enough to fit into mine, and you light enough for me to sweep up in my arms and hold tight. To keep those quizzical looks on your face, instead of the “knowing-all” looks kids get when they get older. Soon you will be an older brother. But you will always be my baby.

I love you Jax.

A Yellow Piece of Paper and a Pen

For Pam, who reminds me that I'm a writer!

Funny. I had been running around since 7 a.m. trying to prepare, organize, decorate & cater a surprise birthday party for my sister-in-law. It was now 1:30 pm and with about an hour to spare before the party, I decided I needed to just sit in the sunshine. I was tired. I hadn’t slept well the night before. I was hungry—opting to skip breakfast and now lunch. I was lonely. My sister Lisa had just left after helping out. I JUST NEEDED TO BE.

Then I spotted a yellow pad of paper and a pen. Suddenly, I wasn’t tired. I wasn’t tired, or hungry, or lonely. I was ecstatic. Blank pages to fill. The soft yellow of the paper—like writing on a buttercup in the sun. Sights, sounds, smells, tastes, all came to me in words—falling on my head like raindrops. I inhaled deeply, lifted my head to heaven and welcomed them

Leaves changing colors. Mountains that look as though they’ve been sprinkled with Fruity Pebbles. The softest whisper of a breeze telling me what to write. The warmth of the sunshine on my pages, pulling thoughts from me like a magnet. Birds cawing encouragement. Autumn leaves so varied in color and size and texture—begging for me to describe them to the world, so that they might live on. Solitude singing in my ear, “You are a writer!” WRITE! Cerulean-blue skies the color of Jerry’s eyes. Soft, white clouds float effortlessly. A single autumnal orange leaf dances to the ground silently, joining a multitude of leaves that are firecracker-crisp.

A yellow piece of paper and a pen.

"I Do"

“I do,” David said. “I do,” I said.

David and I stood. Respectfully facing the officiate, heads held high and ready to begin anew. This was it. Dressed in our best and on our best behavior for this important day we were both ready to step forward into a new life—one filled with hope and promise and, more importantly, happiness.

“Promise?” the robed man asked. “Swear before God that the words you speak today are true?” David looked at me…”I do” he replied. I looked back, filled with so many emotions, “I do” I replied.

I never thought this day would come. Never. I had seen it played out in movies since I was a little girl. I remember watching those movies now, crying, wishing, and hoping. Now I was the movie. I was the one crying, wishing, and hoping. There were a few tears that day. Shaky, nervous voices spoke—each fully believing they were speaking the truth.

I remember every detail. As I look back on it now, it’s like time stood still. As if things went in slow motion, but at 1,000 miles per hour. I know that doesn’t make sense, but that’s what I see.

"In the dissolution of the matrimony of David Hodges vs. Christina K. Hulse-Hodges do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?" the judge asked. “I do,” David replied. “I do,” I replied.

Dylan Michael

I watched Jaxon as he played the other day and as he turned just right—the sunlight hitting his beautiful, baby-chick-soft blonde hair, I was frozen into place. It was you. I mean, not that he looked like you, or spoke like you—I mean IT WAS YOU. Time stood still.
And, as often happens in these moments since you left, your spirit, or soul, or something, suddenly overwhelmed me. Memories so powerful and real and tender and heart-wrenching exploded not only in my mind, but all my senses.

I saw you. Clear as day, I saw you. You were 3 years old, dressed in denim shorts, a striped shirt and little blue Keds. You were chasing a chicken at some petting zoo we insisted on dragging you to every year. You were precious. Fragile. So young and God, so full of life. I saw you.

I heard you. As if you were standing there next to me, I heard you. You were singing along with an old Elvis CD I had made you listen to over and over. Your voice still young and strong, you smiled and asked me to play “Don’t Be Cruel” one more time. I heard you.

I tasted you. You were crying because a girl had broken your heart and as I bent to hold you in my arms, my mouth brushed your tears. Salty tears. I tasted you.

I smelled you. A combination of the outdoors, that cologne all young men wear, and your Mom’s laundry soap. I felt so weak. I smelled you.

I felt you. Everywhere. In everything. It was as if God exhaled a little bit of you into me to remind me of what once was and what will be again. I felt you.

Slowly, I sat down on the couch and simply breathed for a moment or two. In. Out. In. Out. And just as quickly as you came to me, you left. Suddenly, I was back in Jaxon’s playroom and he was Jaxon again. But just in case, I called him over, held him so close to me he couldn’t have gotten away if he wanted to, and whispered, “I love you.”

Does That Come With A Side of Sarcasm?

My ex-husband once had the audacity to ask what I was going to the library for. Without missing a beat I replied, “Getting an ice-cream cone.” Sarcasm as defined in the American Heritage Dictionary is “A cutting, often ironic remark intended to wound.” Also, as “A form of wit that is marked by the use of . . . language [that is] intended to make its victim the butt of contempt or ridicule.” Defined in this light, one would have us believe that the utilization of sarcasm is akin to wielding razor-sharp weapons! Not so. I believe sarcasm is a truly effective means of communication. A creative, quick-witted style of thinking and speaking that doesn’t necessarily wound as much as it, well . . . stuns its victims.

Sarcasm has been given a bad rap over the years. I use it, my family uses it, and my friends use it—and look how good we turned out. I use it when I’m frustrated: “Wow. Could this day get any better?” I use it when I’m sad: “I can’t believe the last time I was this happy.” I use it when I’m angry: “Who me? Angry? No! Not me!” And, I use it when I do not want to do something: “Surrrre . . . I’d just love to pick up your dry cleaning during that extra five minutes in my schedule today!” See? Effective. But, as the warning goes: don’t try this at home boys and girls. Sarcasm can only be used by trained professionals. Amateurs need not apply. Unless you have perfected this finely-tuned, delicately-precise means of communication, you could be in big trouble. It’s only as effective as its user. One needs the perfect tone, the exact facial expressions, and a deliberate tilt of the head at just the right angle---otherwise, you’ve just bombed. If all the components are not working together like the intricate workings of a Swiss watch, then you’ve just told your 63 year-old mother that you really don’t mind taking her shopping, stopping at the eye doctor, filling her prescription, and depositing her social security check today before noon.

I certainly don’t mean to imply that sarcasm doesn’t serve the role of plain old rudeness either. It has, let’s face it, been used facetiously. And yet, it still holds true, that it can be fun. For me there seems to be some internal satisfaction when I use it—especially when I get a good one in. And we all have our favorites. A classic? “I hate when that happens.” You can use it virtually anywhere, anytime and get that feel-good, smart-alec affect you take such pleasure in. Yes, sarcasm—the breakfast of champions.

Screaming Whispers

Your whispers screamed to me.

Your whispers screamed to me all day…wasn’t that enough??? STOP. Go away.
I’m begging you to leave me alone. I gave you everything once. My family, my husband, my career, I almost gave you my life—and yet your whispers scream to me.

I can’t think. I can barely breathe. Someone speaks, but their voice is far off and muted.

Your whispers scream to me—roaring in my ears and exploding through my head. Please. Please. Please???? Please stop screaming your whispers.
I am over-tired. I am hungry. I need to be held and loved and soothed, but I can NOT because your whispers scream to me and distract me from sleep, food, love--breath.

Your whispers scream to me.

Mrs. Clean

My mother is an addict. She’s suffered from this affliction for years. As family members, we’ve stood by and watched her disease progress. We’ve stood helplessly by while her habit has evolved and morphed into what it is now—a full blown addiction. Today, however, the stage has been set. My two brothers, four sisters, and I will host an intervention. We have resolved ourselves to the fact that Mom needs help—serious help. And not the kind of help we can give. Mom needs professionals. It’s that bad. My mother’s addiction is housecleaning. It is compulsive, it is obsessive, and it is just plain weird.

Her days start out seemingly innocent. She rises each day at 5:00 a.m., has one or two cups of coffee, chats about the day ahead, and so on. Then she begins her daily ritual as many of us women do—cleaning house. Except my mom does it, well . . . let’s just say thoroughly.

Mom has the cleanest house around. No, you don’t understand: it’s spotless—as in without a spot. Her living room is clean, her closets are clean, her brooms are clean—even her lint traps are spic-n-span. She has a routine for cleaning, polishing, spiffing, brightening, whitening, and waxing every last item in her home. Ceilings are repainted each May, throw rugs are washed each Saturday, and ash trays are cleaned out promptly at 6:00 p.m. every day. Nothing is overlooked.

My mom’s floors are clean enough to eat off. My mom’s dog is clean enough to eat off. She is renowned for her disinfecting abilities. Neighbors regale her scouring techniques. If they gave out awards for cleaning, my mom would hold the Congressional Medal of Honor. She should get a commission on Pine-Sol. She makes Mr. Clean look like a dirty bum. For the first five years of my life I thought Clorox was a perfume. You get the picture.

Not only is my Mom’s home clean, she’s got these rituals for cleaning. You would need a two-page flow chart and instruction manual in order to help her take care of groceries. Cold foods first, butter is carefully placed in the recently-scrubbed, meticulously clean refrigerator. Next are the dry goods—placed in freshly lined cupboards. Then, the spices—alphabetized! Allspice, bay leaves, cloves—they’re all there. And, last, but not least, canned goods. Where all labels must be facing forward at precise angles to one another--taller cans in back. Any upset in the routine and Mom will fix it. I’ve tried to help her--I swear I have. But she just ends up going behind me and re-doing everything I’ve done.

My mother has been known to re-paint the living room at 2:00 in the morning. I’ve witnessed her clean people’s shoes when they stop to visit. I’ve even seen her sweep the dirt in the driveway! She can vacuum a rug, dust a shelf, and change the toilet paper roll all at the same time. Drop a French fry in the back seat? Detour to the car wash—immediately. And ironing? Ironing?? Forget about it. I’ll bet my mom could iron clothes blindfolded and wearing nothing but an apron and her sneakers (yes, she insists on wearing shoes when she irons!).

I know what you’re thinking-- “So, she cleans a lot. So she believes the Immaculate Conception is something involving toilet bowl cleansers. If that’s the worst thing she does, let her be!” But last week when we found Mom with a neatly lined row of outlet covers drying on the counter, we knew she had to get help.

Journal Entry. February 20, 1986

One month. One more month. I’m scared to death. And that’s putting it mildly. We have just about everything we need. Maybe some more diapers and a little more experience, but other than that, your father and I think we’re ready. (although I may change my mind after your first few days home!)
I have a confession to make. Whenever I think of you—I think of you as my little girl—my little Katie. I can’t even picture myself with a boy! To be perfectly honest, we don’t even have a boy’s name picked out.
Whatever you turn out to be, though, you’ll be the best Spring baby ever. And, just like Spring, you’ll bring hope and promise to all—especially me. You, my child, are the most precious thing in my life. You always will be. You over everyone and everything.

Just Breathe

Write. Slowly. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe. Clear Your Mind. Let it go. L.E.T. I.T. G.O. Listen. Look. Feel…

10. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1…

What do you hear? The wind attempting to whisper secrets in my ear. Far off voices rising and falling. Cars coming and going. Families. The quiet swoosh of my pen as it crosses the page. The hum-trickle-hum of the fish tank.

What do you see? Blue skies playing peek-a-boo between gray, flat clouds. Browns. Muted-reds. Yellows. The grass is still green. A sluggish bumble-bee. Tiny ripples in the bird bath. A ladybug on my page, alive like my words! Tree tops sway. A bouquet of mums giggles in the wind. The click of consonants and the gentle rolling of vowels. Words—incredible. The blue of the ink striking the page, spiraling up, down, around and across…it is as if life is exhaled across the page.

Barely-grape pages
Vanilla clouds
A Chocolate sweater
Raspberry jam eyeglasses

What do you feel? The whisper of a breeze touching the tendrils of curls at the back of my neck. The warmth of sunshine on my denim jeans.

The soft lilac pages of my journal. The brilliant cobalt-blue ink of my pen. The long shadow of my hand and pen on the page. Every blank line a canvas ready to be painted.

Blue Skies Invited Us To Play

Blue skies invited us to play.
White clouds whispered our name.
The warmth of the sun on our face and hands.
The smell of Spring carried softly on the breeze.
I close my eyes and we are together again.
Your hand in mine--so soft and so young.
Your baby-blonde hair.
A giggle, a hug, a soft "I love you."
I turn for a moment
And you are grown.
Blue skies invitws us to play
White clouds whispered our name.

I Found Us Today

I Found Us Today.

Beneath birthday cards from your Great-Grandma Gifford and high-school photos of long-forgotten classmates. Buried under scrapbooks of Katherine’s 2nd-grade school papers and 2nd-grade handwriting. Hiding under yellowed “Walton Reporter” newspaper clippings and 5 or 10 old high-school journals—I found us.

Silent, still, unmoving.

To be perfectly honest, my heart stopped--just completely stopped beating. No air. No sound. There we were. 20 years of “us” lying in a tiny shoe box wrapped with a ribbon. How could something so innocent jolt my insides to the core?

I wasn’t sure what to do. I hadn’t touched us in years. I hadn’t looked at us, or smelled us, or felt us. I couldn’t. It was all too painful. And now there we were, inches away from my fingertips. I could almost feel the box pull my hand as if it were a magnet.

My hand never moved. I closed my eyes, but never moved my fingers away from the peach ribbon that had caressed my wedding bouquet. I closed my eyes, suddenly remembering to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

As I slowly untied the ribbon, removing the lid, it was as if we were again. Memories engulfed me. All of it. Everything at one time. Dancing at our wedding, Dad’s funeral, the smell of a newborn baby girl…I actually had to sit down I felt so dizzy. Was it possible that the ribbon—that tiny faded and frayed lace, peach ribbon, was strong enough to contain us? How could that be?

I saw first days of school and a little tow-haired Katie dressed in a print blouse and blue jeans. I saw a blue Ford Escort—our first car. I smelled your cologne—so strong and real—it was as if my head still rested on your shoulder. I tasted the salt on your lips and for a second? For one split second? I felt the love.

Perhaps 30 seconds had passed—and yet—a lifetime. Not even realizing I was crying, I held leftover wedding invitations to my chest and wiped away the tears. I clung to your love letters—hundreds of them—and surrounded myself with the love that once was.

I Found Us Today.

My Bad Qualities

10. I think emptying the lint trap is unnecessary.
9. Sudoku scares me
8. I drink out of the carton and put it back in the fridge.
7. I once threw an eraser at my teacher while her back was turned and blamed it on the kid behind me.
6. When life gets tough, I consider a one-way bus ticket.
5. I’ve found lost items in my hair.
4. I like the smell of farms.
3. I find humor is scaring small children.
2. I always say “I have to go, someone is on the other line,” but no one ever is.
1. I believe putting sugar in someone’s gas tank is a VERY VIABLE OPTION!

My Good Qualities

I can make babies smile.
I believe donuts are a food group.
I’m not afraid to make a fool of myself.
I have an infectious laugh.
I believe Sundays should be a day of SILENCE.
I have buoyant hips.
I can name that tune in 3 notes.
Sometimes, I know the answers on Jeopardy.
I once killed a gopher with a stick.
I can lie upside down in the chair & rearrange the furniture on the ceiling.
My socks always match.
I’ve seen “The Poseidon Adventure” 12 times.
I’m going to marry Mikey from Orange County Choppers.
I think the man who invented panty hose should be shot.
I believe that the first words spoken after Jesus was born were, “It’s a girl!”
I hate shopping and cute kittens.

Corinna

This is just a little ditty I wrote one day when I was bored. It always makes me laugh. This one is for LaQuan McCoury. I love you Quannie.
My daughter has one little boy, a 2-year old named Jaxon. She also has another one (again, a boy) on the way. But my wish for her, eventually, is a daughter…
She will be overweight, with thick, unruly, curly hair and she will need glasses. We shall name her Corinna. She will have chubby knuckles like her Grandma. Her best friend will be the little black asthmatic boy next door and she will like ketchup with her macaroni and cheese. She will only wear blue jeans and keds purchased from the “husky” section of Montgomery Wards. Her favorite saying will be, “I can’t work under these conditions”—except she won’t be able to pronounce it correctly, because she will have a lisp. She will be known throughout the neighborhood for her deadly scissor hold and decadent easy-bake oven brownies. She will despise Bratz dolls, preferring to collect antique yo-yos instead. She will (affectionately, of course) refer to her grandfather as “that man my Grandma USED to love.” She will share a birthday with me, listen to The doors incessantly and looooove Corn Nuts.

Katherine Elizabeth

There are few things in my life I have difficulty writing about. You are one. Your story has called to me since March 12, 1986. It not only comes to me in words, but in colors, songs, pictures, and memories. It calls to me when I’m driving in the wash of the sunlight on a beautiful back road with the music blaring, and it calls to me in the dark, stillness of sleepless nights. I fear your story. I fear there aren’t words powerful enough. Can I make you understand? Is it even possible to put into words those colors, songs, pictures and memories? Words like love are not enough. You, my Katie, are the reason why.

I see so much when I look into your beautiful blue eyes. My past. My present. My future. I see the love Dad and I shared when you were created and I smile. I see an intelligent, kind, compassionate woman and I’m so overwhelmed with emotion I have to close my eyes and remember to breathe. I see grand babies and great grandbabies who will—God, how miraculously!—be a part of me and you, and I feel weak.

I was selfish to have one child. I only remember looking down into your eyes and believing I didn’t want to share that love with any others. I wanted you to have everything I had to give. Now I spend every waking moment hoping that I did. I see my sense of humor, my determination, and my love for family in you. I take credit for those things. The rest is all you, babygirl.

I said your story comes in colors—it does. It is the softest blush of pink of a daughter. I said your story comes to me in songs—it does. Every song, every word is about you. I said your story comes to me in pictures—it does. A picture of you in nothing but underpants and plastic CVS high-heels. And I said your story comes to me in memories. It does. So many, Katydid. So very many. They are truly my treasures. I guard them fiercely. I protect them with all my might.

This is your story. Please tell me you understand.

Lisa. Shelley. Heather.

There is something inexplicably wonderful about my sisters.

Lisa. Although I am chronologically the oldest, Lisa is the big sister. She is the most motherly of all three of the Hulse girls and has taken care of me in a myriad of ways. From bringing an extra bag-lunch to work for me, to stroking my hair when Dilly died, she is my rock. I have always admired her. She is strong—much more emotionally strong than I. She is tough—always holding her chin high in the face of adversity. She is loyal, hard-working, intelligent and beautiful. She is in every memory I possess. She is only one year younger than I, yet I will forever see her as 7 years old, missing a front tooth, and wearing a tiny Red Cross aluminum pin on her collar. I can’t remember life without Lisa and for that I am grateful.

Shelley. I want to be Shelley. Witty, clever, and sharp are just a few of the qualities she possesses. Much like our father, she is never without a comeback. Her ability to make me laugh and smile and forget that my life is sometimes hard is appreciated more than she will ever know. She, too, is strong. Tragically losing a 17 year-old son several years ago, she has somehow found the strength to move forward, knowing that there are 2 children who still need and love her. She is a truly talented, creative, and artistic person who sees the world differently than me. She is an incredible mother, a devoted wife, and a loving sister. In a word, I am blessed to call her sister and friend.

Heather. Caring, loving, devoted, reliable, funny, and a dreamer, Heather is the baby sister who devotes much of her time to everyone else. Her ability to give without expecting anything in return is endless and I’m not sure what I would do without her. Tender-hearted, kind, and gorgeous, Heather would be the first to come to our defense should we need her. I don’t believe she possesses the ability to see the bad in anyone and is considered a true friend by countless individuals. She is totally devoted to her husband and children and would lay down her life for her step children as well. She sees life as a ride at a carnival and I’m happy to be along for the ride.

I tend, I reap, I sow.

Sometimes I wake in the night. The stillness of my room jarring me from slumber. I feel my mind writhing to the surface of consciousness—the need to write so strong I can no longer live in the world of sleep. There is a story. Words—or maybe only one word—swirling, falling, growing, scream to escape. I reach for my laptop—never far away—and methodically, almost naturally, my 45 year-old hands find the keystrokes to my tale—and begin.
Tonight I do not know the story, but there is a seed. A seed of wonderfulness in what I have to say. Cocooned in a tangled, knotted thought process is a tiny, perfect kernel of a story. I write, slowly untangling. I write, painstakingly unknotting. I write, tearing and clawing my way to this pristine seed. As my fingers type, I feel I can once again breathe. My mind begins to settle, the racing of my heart slows, and I inhale deeply.

After several paragraphs, I slow. The stark whiteness of the page mocks me. “You have nothing to write,” it says. But I do—I just don’t know what it is yet. I close my eyes, my hands never leaving “asdfghjkl.” Patiently, I wait. I let the words rise and fall, bobbing in the water of my mind. Those that were never meant to be disappear beneath the dark surface. Others swell suddenly exploding from my thoughts, begging to be put to paper. Vigilantly, I rescue them. Ever mindful of the fragility of words, I carefully pull them to the safety of paper. Many times they are content to be. Some words, however, are more delicate than others. Judiciously, I coddle them. I warm them in the sentence, swaddle them with adjectives, and meticulously find them the perfect nesting place among the other words. Now they are content as well.

I am a writer. My words are alive. Like all living things, they need to be loved. I am the gardener of the seeds of words. I tend, I reap, I sow.

Unconditional Love

I've never believed in unconditional love—until today.

I have a daughter, a grandson, a mother, and various sisters and brothers, and I love them all—but I never thought it was an unconditional love. I never once believed that NO MATTER WHAT I would love them—until today.

Today, for the first time in my 45 years of life, I can look upon these people, and a my new-found love, Jerry, and say that I understand unconditional love—because for the first time in my life, I realize that it's been given to me.

My Mama. My Dad. My Daughter. So many people in my life have loved me unconditionally. I have put them through hell, worried them, scared them, and caused them great pain, and not once did they stop loving me. They may not have liked my actions, but they always loved me. And I didn't see it. I didn't see it until today, when Jerry held my face and looked into my eyes and made me believe that it exists.

To accept someone as they are—that is the ultimate gift we can give another person, isn't it? To look at all their faults, and demons, and wounds that have yet to be healed—to look at ones past, their present, and their future and not only say but believe that none of it matters—that is a thing of beauty.

This love—this gift that has been given to me and given from me has given me strength and courage. Suddenly I see the world clearly. My faith in myself has grown exponentially. I believe in myself.

I am not perfect. Hell, some days I'm not even good—but there are people who will love me anyway. And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, will carry me through the greatest storms.

Thank you, Jerry, for making me believe.

Robbie

A wise woman once said “There is a little boy inside the man who is my brother. Oh, how I hated that little boy. And how I love him too.” I’m sure truer words have never been spoken—at least not about my brother Rob.
In hindsight, I should have known. I look back now at our lives and I clearly see the writing on the wall. Rob—or Robbie as I still call him—would prove to be the bane of my existence. Let’s face it, at the ripe-old age of 3, his curiosity got the better of him and he literally ripped the pull-string recorder out of my Mrs. Beasley doll. What kind of person does that? Never again would I hear my little old lady doll say “Gracious me, you’re getting to be such a big girl!” Bastard! Inevitably, doll torture became his forte. Ask our sister, Lisa. He once tied her precious Fisher Price Baby Ann to a tree outside during a vicious lightning storm. I still see her in her little print dress swinging wildly from a noose while Lisa wailed at the window. Yes. I should have known. We all should have known.
Robbie’s childhood was chock-FULL of “incidents.” Broken arms, broken legs, attempting to drive Mom’s Cadillac at 11 years old and running it into the front porch--he kept everyone on their toes. Mischief and mayhem were his middle and last name. Any doubts about that can be erased by Burel Gomillion. Once when running home after dark, Robbie tripped over a skunk and got sprayed—big time! My sister Lisa and I did everything we could. We doused him with soaps and perfumes and powders, but it did no good. The next day he went on a field trip and sat on the bus with Burel. Today he still giggles when he retells the story of Burel sniffing the entire way to Binghamton saying, “do you smell a skunk?” Trouble—with a capital “T.”
Nothing, however, NOTHING compares with his high school years. Let’s see, there was the time I ratted on him because he and some friends were ramming Carl Galavitz’s balls into a pole outside the high school. There was the time as a seventh grader that he wore a t-shirt to school under a sweatshirt so Mom wouldn’t see. “What’s wrong with that,” you ask? Let me tell you! The t-shirt said “CERTIFIED MUFF DIVER.” My sister and I were mortified. When we bring it up today, he just laughs and says,” I don’t even know if I knew what it meant, but the seniors thought I was awesome!”
And Robbie’s number one unforgiveable sin from our childhood? That would have to be telling all the kids at school that I had a cow’s eye transplant because I had such a severe lazy eye!!! Seriously? Seriously? AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!
So tell me then, why, when I think of my brother, I feel nothing but warmth and love. Along with my grandson, Jaxon, and my Dad, Bobby, Robbie is the most important man in my life and I’m pretty sure he walks on water. Of all my siblings, we are perhaps the closest. The love I feel FOR Robbie and FROM Robbie is truly the most unconditional. Together, we share all of our childhood dreams and memories as well as all of the hopes and dreams of adulthood. He is my brother, both little and big all rolled up into one. He was there for me when my husband left me after 20 years of marriage, and the first face I needed when we lost our beloved Dylan. Robbie is now 42 years old. He is slightly graying at the temples, has 2 kids and a wonderful wife whom I’m proud to call sister, and has recently started suffering from a bad back. But that’s not how I see him. In my mind’s eye, he will always be 9 years old, running around the yard with no shirt on, begging us girls to play baseball. No matter how much I grow up, Robbie and I are still children. And I’m happy about that.

Trust me, I'm a Novice

Computer users, much like computers themselves, come in every shape, size, and color. Today’s users are young and they are old. Today’s users may own one computer, or they may own many. Some only use them at work, while others use them everywhere—their car, their home, at work, and even at play. And, although computer users are as diverse as Microsoft and Mac, in my opinion they can be categorized into four distinct groups.
The first type of user is the novice. Because of the extensive use of computers today, there are actually not many novices out there. They are—no disrespect intended-- comprised mostly of the elderly. Our grandmothers and grandfathers who own an extensive array of every peripheral device invented (scanners, speakers, cameras, etc.) but only know how to play solitaire. The novice group can also include youth ages five to seven. Those users who constantly implore the assistance of their parents to start up the computer, log on , locate the web site that promises fame or fortune (usually from the back of a box of cereal), only to last for ten minutes—or until the next shiny metal object catches their eye.
Next are the amateurs. Don’t let the title fool you, however. Teens are often considered amateurs. An amateur because they only utilize a few programs, but their knowledge of those few programs is extensive. This category of users couldn’t possibly tell you when their next algebra exam is, but they can recite hundreds of You Tube links backwards and forwards. They can’t remember to put the cap back on the milk or to feed the dog, but they can remember at least 50 pirate movie sites and their “user id” for countless internet accounts.
Moving up the “computer food chain” we meet the experts. Experts include people who get paid to actually use the computer and to help others use theirs. Computer programmers are experts. Those foreigners who answer the help line when you purchase a computer are experts. Experts are extremely knowledgeable about computers. They know how they work and why they work.
The final category of computer users is what I have affectionately termed “freaks and geeks.” Freaks and geeks can take a computer apart and put it back together blindfolded. They are familiar with every chip, every circuit, every minute wire and eagerly await the next QWERTY keyboard convention. Their hands get sweaty and their heart palpitates wildly at words like verichip, nanotechnology, and artificial intelligence. They are normally pale-skinned, with a significant portion of their coloring emanating from a 17-inch monitor that flows incessantly day and night. Freaks and geeks are proud of their title and wear their pocket protectors with pride. They can’t be bothered with experts, let alone amateurs and novices. Their diet consists of anything that takes less time than uploading the latest version of whatever game is newest on the market. Many view them as sad, lonely individuals, but, in all honesty, they are not. They are perfectly content to befriend their Gateway and have found that the most meaningful relationship is formed with processors, not people.
As time marches on and humans become amateurs, amateurs will become experts and experts will become the next freaks and geeks. Where this will leave freaks and geeks is hard to say. Perhaps they’ll just continue to grow old until they reach that big recycle bin in the sky. :)

My Opus

I was born on April 29, 1965. I turned 45 years old this year. On my 45th birthday, I woke up alone, unemployed, recovering from alcoholism, and scared to death. I remember feelings so sorry for myself. “I’m 45,” I kept saying, “I’m 45!” I am 45 years old and have done so little.
My life is half over and I have never seen Vincent Van Gogh’s “Vase With Fifteen Sunflowers." My life is half over and I have never experienced the world class cuisine of Jamie Oliver or his “game ragù with pappardelle .” My life is half over and I have never felt the white, pebbly sand of the Mediterranean beaches or the earth of an exotic, foreign country beneath my feet. My life is half over and I haven’t listened to the great symphonies of the world—Berlin’s Philharmonic, the performance of Tchaikovsky, Pavarotti. My life is half over and I have yet to smell the uniquely exotic scents of Dhofar. My life is half over.
I spent that day as I usually did. I babysat my 2 year-old grandson Jax. I called my Daddy, who shares my birthday, and listened to him sing to me. I did household chores and went for a walk and surrounded myself with memories of brothers and sisters and lovers and life. I spent some time with Katherine, my daughter, my life, and I ended the day on Mama’s front porch in a rocker. Pretty uneventful, right?
But as I sat down to journal about my 45th birthday—my 45 years on this earth, I couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps I hadn’t seen a Van Gogh, I realized, but I had looked into the beautiful eyes of a grandson who was part of me and born out of love. Perhaps I hadn’t experienced world class cuisine, but I had tasted the delicious love of a daughter. No, it’s true, I hadn’t felt the earth of an exotic country beneath my feet, but I had lived in my hometown my whole life, as did my parents, and as will my child. I hadn’t heard Tchaikovsky, or other great symphonies of the world, but I had heard the laughter of children, the unique melody of spring peepers, and my Dad sing to me and for me. I hadn’t smelled the frankincense of Dhofar, but I had breathed in the smell of a man who loved me. These were my opus and my life was just beginning. What a wonderful birthday.

Gratitude is an Attitude

There was a time in my life—and it wasn’t all that long ago—that I had a somewhat strange definition of gratitude. I had appreciation—I even showed appreciation—and yet my idea of gratitude was, well . . . a little off-kilter.
November 1973. Richard Milhouse Nixon is still in office. The world doesn’t even know the meaning of “energy crisis,” and Tony Orlando and Dawn top the charts with their catchy hit Knock Three Times. Bell Bottoms and platform shoes are all the rage, Marshall Matt Dillon is still courting Miss Kitty in Gunsmoke, and I am in the third grade. In an effort to make Thanksgiving turkeys, we trace our hands on dull-brown construction paper while Mrs. MacGibbon explains to us the meaning of gratitude. Then--as is customary in the third grade--we are asked to make our own gratitude list. I take out my new box of Crayola crayons, carefully choose my favorite color, denim blue, and begin writing . . . my Close-n-Play phonograph, my new Family Affair lunchbox with the Mrs. Beasley thermos, my Partridge Family Album with the foldout poster of Keith Partridge inside and my genuine aluminum mood ring. I truly was grateful.
November 1993. George Bush—the original—is still in office, the new buzz word is “el Niño”, it seems like everyone is in love with the new P.T. Cruiser and I am now 28 years old. I am a happily married, young woman with a wonderful career and y gratitude list now revolved around the amenities my lifestyle provided. I thanked my higher power for my automatic car starter, my 800-thread count linen, and my Keurig Pro 2000 Single-Cup Coffee Maker. I had a sincere appreciation for my universal remote, my massaging showerhead with ten pulsating heads, and Chinese take-out. I appreciated anything and everything that made my life easier: Dyson vacuums, my 101 CD collection, and those little plastic yellow picks that hold piping hot corn-on-the-cob. I was grateful for many things, but they were all material things.
Then, on March 12, 1986 at 6:43 p.m., God saw fit to present me with a gift--the gift of life. My daughter, Katherine Elizabeth came screaming into the world headfirst and all of my gratitude for material things dissipated. Suddenly, every ounce of my gratitude revolved around one thing--her. I was grateful for her health, her smile, and the warmth of her little 6-pound 12 ounce body. I appreciated, her chubby knuckles with the dimples on the back, those plump folds in her soft, pink neck, I even grinned at her first poop! I was grateful for her life.
November 2007. As we all know, it was at this point in my life that I had lost all my gratitude. Somehow, I had allowed alcohol to become the only thing for which I cared. I took for granted my beautiful (now 21 yeas old) daughter. I lost all appreciation for her and what she meant to me. I no longer treasured the gift of life that was my daughter and I am ashamed to admit that I no longer treasured anything except that which would help me to escape and forget.
Then, in June of 2009, I got help. Once again, I began to have and show appreciation. I’ve thankfully changed. I’ve been given another chance—another opportunity to reassess my life and take stock in those things that really do matter. My gratitude today is endless—it really is. I appreciate so many things. I value my education, my health, and my dream to be a writer. I treasure a supportive family, my newfound integrity, and my sobriety. I am once again thankful for my daughter and now, I can proudly say that I am grateful for a grandson, too. I’m grateful for my spirituality, my wisdom, and my kindness. I’m eternally thankful for my hopes and my aspirations. And I am grateful, once again, for life--but this time, I’m grateful for my life.

Equal Rights

My Great Grandma Marie (Hawver) probably didn’t give much thought to women’s rights. In all honesty, it probably never even crossed her mind. Let’s face it, working alongside my Great Grandpa Roy on the farm, raising four children under the age of 10, and making home-made biscuits every night for dinner, didn’t leave a whole lot of time to consider whether or not she had the right to vote. Up each day at the crack of dawn, she headed to the milking parlor—not the beauty parlor. It’s difficult to imagine it now, but women like Great Grandma Marie really accepted their lot in life. There was no union on the farm, Rosie the riveter was just a twinkle in some (probably male) public relation firm’s eye, and the contraptions we now call panty hose had yet to be invented.
My Grandma Cora (Hall), on the other hand, was much more privy to the women’s suffrage movement. Born in the 1920’s, she lived through those especially trying times when women still fought long and hard for equality. Even so, Grandma didn’t exercise her right to vote. Instead, she exercised her right to stay home, smoke Salem Lights, and watch the “Edge of Night” each weekday afternoon. By the time Grandma was married to Grandpa Chuck, unions for women were available and many more women did make the choice to work in factories—especially since many of the men were “off to war.” Grandma Cora, much like her mother, chose to work on the family farm, raised five children, and made sure Grandpa had a never ending supply of homemade peanut brittle. I asked Grandma Cora once about equal rights for women and the like. Her reply was, “Hell, I don’t know, the only rights I knew about were the kind you did with pencils.”
My mother, Sandra (Hulse), was born in 1948. She lived through Gloria Steinem’s Ms. Magazine, the bra burnings of the 60’s and 70’s, and was even possessed a driver’s license (I know because she showed it to me—she thought the photo they took at the DMV made her look like Fu Man Chu). As I had done with Grandma Cora, I once asked my mother how she felt about equal rights for women. Unlike Grandma Cora, though, Mom had strong views on the subject. She believed that women were equal. Equal as in it was O.K. to work outside the home, if her husband said it was alright. By the time my mother was of working age, however, women in the workforce were much more commonplace and “the pill” was actually a realistic option. Therefore, my mother raised six children and worked full-time outside the home.
I am 45 years old. I was born in 1965 and raised as a young adult in the 80’s. I shouted equality for women atop every career choice I ever made. I not only believed in equality for women, I lived equality for women. I went back to work when my daughter was five weeks old. I voted in every single election since I was 21 and can count the number of times I’ve worn panty hose on two hands. Dinner with the family usually consisted of take out, I earned more money than my husband, and until I was 35 years old, I didn’t wear a bra.
Times have changed. My daughter is now 24 years old. She has a two year-old son and works full-time for a union-paid job. She’d like more children, but finds it nearly impossible. She’d love to stay home with her son, but that too, seems like a far off dream. When I ask her what she thinks about equality for women, she simply sights and says, “Let me tell you what, Ma. It’s overrated.”

My Sisters and I

Whether stationed in Sullivan or my home base of Delaware County, chances are you have passed a countless number of these every weekend throughout the summer. Perhaps you have even taken the time to stop at one or two. Until you’ve tackled one in the company of my sisters Lisa, Shelley and Heather, however, you will be considered a mere Private in “The Battle of Lawn Sales.”
Preparation of forces begins will in advance--at Mom’s H.Q.—when First Lieutenant Lisa is given charge of intel. Scrutinizing local newspapers, clipping and organizing the notices of sales—or “skirmishes”—as we affectionately call them, near our hometown is her assignment. As per Lisa, clippings may not be loose, but should be meticulously taped to an 8 ½ x 11 sheet of paper with one copy made in case our original is lost—or captured.
While Lisa gathers intelligence, Sergeant Shelley is given command over a litany of street maps. Maps are carefully organized alphabetically and placed in plastic sheet protectors in case of accidental stains.
Our destinations are clearly strategized, with rendezvous points mapped out along the route in case our troops are separated, or a sister, God forbid, becomes m.i.a.
Having the correct change is a key tactical game plan. Sister Heather, a.k.a. Corporal Keesler is given strict orders to ensure all soldiers have a significant amount of one-dollar bills and quarters. Corporal Keesler also hosts snack rations detail. Her years of KP duty in her own home helps provide our squadron with the appropriate fuel needed for anticipated extended hours in the field. The day of the sale, we are dressed and ready early.
Eating a healthy breakfast, wearing comfortable, “standard issue” sneakers and one last latrine visit is the responsibility of each sister soldier. A rendezvous of oh-eight-hundred hours is met, our vehicles given one last inspection, and our company sets out.
As is standard operation procedure, I, “Hawkeye Hulse-Hodges,” a senior member of our squad, am sent on ahead as reconnaissance. “Bad sales” as they are known in combat, can be easily spotted by veterans such as ourselves and must be thoroughly investigated prior to our initial offensive. Often times, we sisters known the signs, but many a lawn sale rookie has fallen prey to sales full of nothing but toys and surplus sales stocked with baby items. Choosing our battles carefully, we recognize those sales that are camouflaged in an effort to lure us in. Undaunted, we pass by, knowing that the real triumphs lie ahead.
Finally, our mini-van-convoy sees the enemy and he is ours. Parking quickly and quietly, we are prepared for a stealth invasion. Pocketbooks at the ready, we encroach. Shelley, who is able to do a quick scan of the perimeter, leads us in a frontal attack, followed by Heather and Lisa. I flank the rear. We have arrived. Our mission is clear—search and seizure. Now is the time when seasoned veterans such stand apart from mere trainees. “Stand fast girls! Hold your positions!” I yell as a rival lawn-saler tries to hone in.
We stand strong—pillaging and plundering. Books, clothes, furniture, they are ours for the taking. Our acquisitions include a Hall China antique bowl, two Barry Manilow CD’s—one his greatest hits—and a Whisper 2000 Treadmill for which back up troops had to be called in. Victory is ours.
Later that day we retreat to Mom’s Headquarters. After a careful inventory of items, a little R and R is in order. Exhausted and weak, our troops head home. Confident that they have served well and that even though this battle has ended victorious, we must be ever vigilant should we be called on again.

10 Seconds

Ten seconds. In the time it takes me to write the few words in these two sentences, ten seconds will have passed. But on New Year’s Eve, 2009, ten seconds was a lifetime.
Ten. I am four years old. My hair, wild and unruly, escapes in a bramble of curls beneath my father’s faded army helmet. My mother is unbelievably young. She holds a Polaroid camera, encouraging me to straighten my glasses and smile. My father sits behind her, on the sofa--his soft, young hands strumming the guitar I will forever see him with. I remember, and feel the warmth of innocence.
Nine. I am ten years old. My sister Lisa and I have carefully constructed our play “office.” TV trays serve as our desks, little scraps of paper with neat, fourth-grade handwriting are our sales receipts, and our toy intercom phones keep the business running smoothly. I see my sister in my mind’s eye and feel the tenderness of sisterhood.
Eight. I am 17 years old. I watch as my mother and three youngest siblings drive away. I watch the taillights and my childhood become smaller and smaller. Although I remain with my father, sister, and brother, I have never felt more alone. I am now the grown-up in the house. By the time they reach the end of the block, I miss them fiercely.
Seven. I am 19 years old. I hold his warm hand in mine. Nervously, our lips meet. It is love. I know I will spend my life with him. I feel my heart bursting with newness and wonder. He tells me he loves me, too, and I believe.
Six. I am 21 years old. The blush pink of the blanket is pushed back, revealing our miracle. Her delicate fingers are tiny, yet grasp my finger with stubborn determination. A sign of what is yet to come. I breathe her in and know I will never be the same.
Five. I am 30 years old. I look around at the many familiar faces that are my family. They are smiling and happy. My brothers are there. My sisters are there. My mother and father are there. My cake is awash in the light of 30 candles. I feel complete.
Four. I am 40 years old. I turn over, reaching for the warmth and familiarity of his body and our 20 years together. I feel the steel-cold of the sheets instead. The emptiness of the bed and my heart fills every pore of my being. I feel hollow, vast, dark, and alone. After twenty years, I discover lost love. It is as if I have been abandoned in the middle of the ocean. I don’t know if I can stay afloat.
Three. I am 43 years old. My mother is desperately pounding at my apartment door. My head is throbbing and my voice does not come. I don't know where I am. I don't know who I am. I see the bottles that have become my life. They are empty--like me. I feel hopeless.
Two. I am 44 years old. I am better. I feel something. It is small. One last dying ember hidden among the ashes that are my life. It waits to be re-ignited. Hesitantly, I let it lead me.
One. I am still 44 years old. It is New Year’s Eve. I am surrounded by love and kindness. I let the tears fall like confetti and with the last tear I let go of the past, surrendering completely. I take one last look behind me and see it all. Then, I turn, and face my future. It is 2010 and I am alive. Happy New Year.

To a writer...

To a writer there is nothing more beautiful as an empty screen and a full mind.  I see the world in words.  I am consumed by taking what I feel or what I see or what I believe to be true, and finding the perfect words that will invite you in.  A comedian has but one desire--to make you laugh.  A writer has but one desire--to make you FEEL.  If I can take the arcs and dots and lines and swirls that comprise letters, and arrange those letters just so, then I have the ability to transport you.  If you are sad, and i write well, I can make you smile.  If you are bored, and I write well, I can give you adventure.  If you are lonely, and I write well, I can make you believe in love.  Stay with me on this blog and let me take you somewhere new each day...I promise it will not be boring.

Surrendering

When I was 18 I gave ALL of myself to someone.  I shared every last ounce of myself.  No--not "shared"--I GAVE myself to someone.  For 20 years I not only loved this person, I cherished him.  I believed my life was incomplete without him.  3 years ago, he left me.  I don't feel the need to go into the pain--there are no words for it anyway.  Suffice to ssay it took me to places I never want to go again.  For a short time, I wasn't even "here."  I'm not sure where I was--I couldn't get far enough away from myself or the pain.



Fast forward to today.  August 14, 2010.  I cannot believe I am considering it again.  BUT I AM.  I want to take that last courageous step to the edge, gently close my eyes, open my arms wide, and, fully trusting in love--REAL LOVE--fall.
I want to share my life.  I want someone to make me smile and to make someone smile in return.  I want someone to wake everyday with me on their mind first.  And I want them to close their eyes every night with me on their mind last.  I want it--and for the first time in a long time, I believe I deserve it.


It isn't about whether or not "HE" is the one, it's about believing there is one.  For me.


I'm surrendering--and it feels good.

Viola!

Viola!  Here it is--for what it's worth.  Some of my essays, my thoughts, my musings, and lots of stories about my family.  I hope they make you smile as much as they have me.  enjoy