Journaling My Mother’s Home

I experienced a serendipitous moment this morning. On Facebook, I found a page for St. Augustine, Florida. I could feel my mother’s presence. However, she is no longer with me. She passed away years ago. Anyway, it just felt so magical to unexpectedly find so many photos of the place she called her childhood home.  I just felt so happy. If I could do it, I would travel there this very week. I have the feeling my next thought would be to move there for the rest of my life. It’s such a beautiful place.

The odd thing is that on a genealogical site I never found St. Augustine, Florida as my mother’s birth home. I always came up with Georgia. I know Georgia is just as beautiful as St. Augustine. I just want to know the truth. Where was my mother born?

Does it matter? I think so. I think Family History is very important. No knowledge of my family background is like feeling lost in a dark place every day. I keep trying different door knobs. Each door knob is locked. I can’t get in. It leaves me to wonder if there is something shameful in my past. If there is something shameful, don’t I have the right to know it? Don’t I have the right to struggle with the truths that have made me who I am? Perhaps, I will pay another visit to a genealogical site. Seeing St. Augustine made me want to do research again.

A Gunshot (a prompt 2)

Her sister screamed. For years, her sister kept her emotions hidden. No one knew whether she enjoyed going up North. No one knew whether she felt happy to graduate from high school. Her face never betrayed the feelings inside. She wore one face for every event in her life until they shot and killed her six months old baby daughter, Summer. Then, she broke loose. She let it all out on the street in front of Maxie’s grocery store. Since that day, I’ve never heard another scream like that one. Since that day, every emotion shows on her face. The laugh might follow a walk up the aisle of the church to look in a casket. A tear might fall while she’s watching a basketball game. Since that one afternoon when she lost Summer, Ellie is all mixed up. I remember reading She’s Come Undone by Wally Lamb. My sister has come undone. She’s fallen like Humpty Dumpty. No one can put her together again. She’s broken inside and out.

That night I saw a face in the back of a black SUV. If I ever see that slime face again, I intend to kill him. I won’t need a weapon. I’m going to unglue him with my bare hands. I want him to feel what my sister felt. Then, I won’t feel as sad looking at Ellie’s sweet face.

 

Afraid

Poem

They wouldn’t like her short plaids

tied with ribbons pink.

She was sure of it.

Once aunts, uncles and friends

touched her skin, they walked

away for always.

Never coming back because

she was like barbecue

without the hot, red sauce.

No taste.

She couldn’t chance stepping

on to their blue and white porch. 

Barbara and Tony and Will would

run in the house.

Close the blinds.

Push the old grey sofa against

the door.

Then, look out the venetian blinds.

To make sure she left without

a backward glance.

 

 

What Kind of Dream Would I Like to Have? (Prompt 1)

If I were an inventor, I would make a tiny machine, as big as a cellphone,  where my dream ideas could be entered.  Thinking up the dreams I would like to have isn’t a new idea. I guess it’s like daydreaming. My Dream machine would work for nighttime dreams. If I could pick a dream, I would pick a dream about traveling. As much as I enjoy travel photos and Armchair travel, I’ve never dreamed about backpack hiking, railroad train riding, biking or flying across the pond. It seems strange not to dream about a passion. I’ve never dreamed about getting locked in a library overnight either.  I can’t think why it’s not possible to pick a dream for the evening. Maybe having such power would hinder my imagination. Since my imagination isn’t great, I need nothing that would hinder its progress.

An Invented Dream / Freudian Flips /The Daily Prompt

The Daily Prompt

Last night I had the weirdest dream. In the dream I was on another planet. This planet didn’t have a recognizable name. I just know the planet spun faster than the earth and the sun. I landed on this planet after running away from Planet Earth. Earth followed me like a big bully. It’s always impossible to survive an attack of a bully. I survived this one. I landed on this pink and white planet. It looked like a candy cane. I almost looked around for Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus because the planet was so much like a Christmas Eve. How wonderful if there was a Christmas planet to run to every time a bully attacked. When the dream ended, my pink and white planet rolled over and smashed my bully. Instead of waking up screaming, I woke up smiling. I tried to go back to sleep. So I could return to this foreign but friendly place. It didn’t happen. I ended up going to the kitchen to eat an orange.http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/freudian-flips/#like-84319

The Daily Post

ereading while away from home.

An Ounce of Home

You’re embarking on a yearlong round-the-world adventure, and can take only one small object with you to remind you of home. What do you bring along for the trip.

 

If I were going on a yearlong round-the-world adventure, and could only take one small object with me to remind me of home, I would take my ereader. If it were a Nook, I would take a Nook. Since it’s a kindle, I would take my Kindle. I would choose my ereader because there would be hundreds of stories and poems at my side all the time. These stories and poems, if thought about, would surely lead me to think about some aspect of my family and home. For example, maybe a story is about a lonely soldier who misses his wife and children. He misses his wife’s Green Bean casserole. He misses playing baseball with his boys.  This story would make me think about a Thanksgiving dinner I’d experienced where the family fell in love with my Rum cake. All the smells and joys would come back to me. This story about the soldier would remind me of the good time we experienced when all of our boys received brand new bikes for the first time. I would see them riding down the street again. I would see B rushing to put the bikes together again. I would see again the sad days when the bike wheels became flat. One story could remind me of so much about home. Plus, I would have the joy of reading with me for the whole year. I am sure there would be poems to help me get through the days and nights of homesickness as well. http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/an-ounce-of-home/

My first idea was to carry a bundle of photographs. I could look at those and not get bored. Then, I thought on my travels there might be terrible weather conditions from time to time: Dust Storms, Tsunamis, Monsoons, wind storms. These unexpected incidents might permanently destroy my treasure of photos which would make me very sad for the rest of the trip.  So, that’s why I chose the ereader  for my ounce of home. This doesn’t mean I wouldn’t take new photos on the trip. I surely would have a camera in both my hands all the time hoping nothing would happen to these new memories.

6.17.2014 Journal Prompt

They weren’t his words. He memorized the words from a Twentieth Century essay about the Civil War in America. At his brother’s funeral, he stood at the podium and spoke. His words, the ones that were not his words, made the church congregation cry more tears. His father always a stern and unemotional man walked out between the arms of two older family cousins. He could have never made it down the church isle alone and without help. Later, Ronald would feel more sorrow about the words stolen from the essay than he would feel about his brother’s death. He wouldn’t feel the hurt of his brother’s death until six months later. He felt badly because his brother had been the one who taught him about honesty. Never say another person’s words without giving credit to the true author. Again, he failed to live up to his brother’s example. He thought about going over to his father’s house to talk to his brother. Ask him why he always failed. Tell him he was sorry. It was then he broke down. Fell to the floor on his knees. His brother was gone. He was no longer sitting at the kitchen table waiting to talk to any person who walked in for a glass of water. He was permanently gone. Ronald wondered where would he go for advice. Who could he trust? Who had ever loved him like Dent?

Patricia Ann McNair

Image from The Wonder Boys

June 17, 2014: They weren’t his words.

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24 Hours with God in History (Prompt 13)

Enthusiastically, Dawn

photo credit: c.fuentes2007 via photopincc

Imagine you could choose one time in history to spend with God for one day (24 hours). It’s kind of like God your Father taking you, His kid, to work for the day. Where would you be in the continuum of time? What would you see and do? Are you with Him for Creation? Walking with Him and Adam in the Garden?  Are you the desert with Him and the Israelites? Or in the Chariot carrying Elijah? Do you hover with Him over the manger, or weep with Him at Gethsemane? What would you ask Him? What do you notice? What do you see?

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Writing Prompt 21

I couldn’t believe what he was saying to me in the privacy of our bedroom. “You must kill all your darlings.” He laughed. Then, buttoned his shirt. “I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about. ‘Darlings?”‘
“Yes, Delphinia. It’s not hard to understand. I want you to sell all your slaves. You can start with the one who puts the bath warmer under your covers. Then, you can get rid of the one who fans you on our veranda. Next, Pappy who rides you in the carriage. You’re too close to him. I hate to think what family secrets you’ve told that old man.”
“Why? Why should I sell the people who make my life more easy and comfortable? Are you doing this because of Vance?”
“What’s Vance got to do with it?”
“You had a hissy because I shared a Mint Julep with him on the balcony. Now you’re trying to make me suffer.”
He came over to me and looked me dead in the eye. “What makes you think I care that much about you? Aren’t you thinking too much of yourself?”
“Maybe. I am better than you. You’re just a male whore who beds every new slave who works this plantation.”
He slapped my face. It was the first time he had resorted to hitting me.
“Just do what I say. Pick the slaves. They’ll go up for sale on Saturday while I’m in New Orleans.”
“And while I’m getting rid of my “darlings,” why don’t you get rid of your darlings starting with that high yaller gal who has already given you two babies.”

One Thousand Five Hundred

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Write on Wednesday #22

Love is a many splendored thing. It’s a pretty song. Whether it’s romantic love or friend love or family love it’s great to feel loved and to give love in return. Love is also “a many splendored thing” because showing love is a way to feel creative: Bake an apple pie with a lattice top. Sew a tote bag for a grandmother with cheerful red and yellow flowers all over it, or just give a dad a uniquely patterned tie for Father’s Day. It could be polka dotted, one with Donald Duck on it or a wild color like neon orange. Whatever way we choose to show love it’s a splendid thing.

iBourgie

Today’s Writing Prompt:  Pick a random lyric from a song and use it as a prompt for a story.

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