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.