My Time Machine

"I jumped into my time machine and suddenly…"

That was one of the sentences Mr. Lee wrote up on the chalkboard one day. Our job was to finish the sentence and accompany it with three paragraphs. Mine ended up being more than six pages long that day. Most of my classmates were struggling to come up with more than a paragraph, but I couldn’t seem to find the right ending to my story. It grew and grew! When the time was up, Mr. Lee asked for all of the work to be turned in.

“What if it’s not done yet,” I asked him, holding up my five pages proudly.

“How much more are you going to write?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not done yet.”

“Let me see,” he said, holding out his hand. I gave him my pages and stood proudly, the nerd that I was, before my class. “This will do for now, and if you want to write more once I give it back to you, that’s fine.”

When I finally gave my story back, Mr. Lee had written on the front in red ink, normally a bad sign. I guess that was the only color he had that day.

“When you are finished, please turn it in again. I would like to read what happens. A+”

I glowed. He had liked my writing! That was the first real encouragement I had ever gotten for my writing. Even now, I post blog after blog, and it’s often several days or weeks before someone comments on my writing. No criticism, no remarks, no praise, no words. I get a few kudos here and there, and I appreciate it, but it’s the original praise that keeps me writing. Mr. Lee liked my writing, so it had to be worth something.

When finally I finished that story and was ready for a new chapter, I turned in the twenty-five pages. He began reading them right away! When he turned those back in, he wanted to know what happened to the Dinosaur and the Neanderthal. I told him as soon as I got done with the next chapter, I would turn that one in too.

I read through my own story, as I often do with my own work, after he gave it back to me. He had little red marks here and there indicating paragraphs, spelling and grammar mistakes I had made, as any true teacher would. He even gave me extra credit. At the end of the story, he wrote a special note just for me on the last page.

“You have a great talent. Keep it up and you will be famous.”

Ever since then I wanted to be a writer.

Mr. Lee may have been the first person to really encourage me to write - but all of you reading these words right now (yes, you too) are the ones who keep the dream alive.

Soaring Hopes

I have a fear of commitment.
That sounds like quite an odd statement for someone who has been married, but keep in mind I've been married twice and divorced twice.

(Photo taken in 2002
on Catalina Island)

I've finally committed to something; several things in fact.
I committed myself to taking care of my cat. That should be obvious by my other posts.
I'm committed to taking care of myself. Odd statement, yes - but it's not something I've always been committed to.
I'm committed to my job and my boss. Where would I be without them? I certainly wouldn't be able to take care of myself!


But I'm also committed to you, my readers. I'm writing EVERY DAY because I know you're there, you're listening and you're reading. I'm committed to sharing with you for as long as I have stories to share.





I stumbled across some blogger by the name of Pioneer Woman earlier this morning. While it seems the rest of the world had already discovered this amazing person, aparently I'm a little late to the game.


It all started when I discovered a comment on my latest blog signed "PW". Try as I might, I couldn't come up with anyone I knew who had the innitials of PW. My friend Vicki asked if there was a possibility that it was this infamous blogger, one of the most successful bloggers of our time. Since I didn't know the person at all, I decided that there was no way it could have been them. Whomever left the comment with the innitials PW was someone I had known well enough to tell a shortened version of my Kidnap story to - and there aren't many of those. Still, I had stumbled onto an amazing blog and spent hours reading various things.


Pioneer Woman blogs about daily life, her kids, and living out in the country. They heard cattle, have many horses, and the King of the Ranch is a bassett hound named Charlie. Pioneer Woman blogs about recipes, home schooling, trips and vacations, photography and Home and Garden. She has give-aways, sponsors and contests. But she also has a wonderful love story that completely swept me away for hours on end. I'm still not done reading it. She has the "Happy Ending" we all search for and deserve.


This remarkable woman has boosted my hopes about as much as seeing how many of you are DAILY readers of my blogs these days. My hopes are soaring high, knowing that each time I tell a story, there's someone, somewhere out there who wants to be an audience. Maybe I don't have as many people reading my stories as the Pioneer Woman does, but with hope and continued commitment, we can get there.


Thanks, to everyone, for your comments and support.

The Valley of Death

Sometimes the only thing that pulls me through a rough patch is my writing. I have so many stories to tell and so much to say to the world. My life on this planet can't be over with until I've managed to share my stories. It keeps me going and focused. If I ever run out of stories to share, perhaps then I would be ok with no longer being on this Earth. Until then, I have a lot of work to do.

It sounds a little light hearted, and maybe even a bit determined - but it needs to sound that way for my own sake.

I've had a long, hard road over the past 15 years of my life. I've had struggles since the begining, far longer than the past 15 years, but the past 10 years in particular have seemed like I'm loosing the battle on an uphill climb. Each time I think I may come to the crest of the mountain and finally accomplish something worth while, some stone under my foot that I was depending on to keep me up comes tumbling down the mountain and I along with it.

I've thought a few times about just tossing myself off the mountainside when my footing gave way near a rather trecherous cliff. Sometimes I would reach for a tuft of grass and regained my footing stronger than before, making the climb with a new feeling of determination and drive. A few times people have wandered by and pulled me up a few feet before sending me on my own once more. A few cruel souls have offered a hand and when I reached for it, withdrew.

Other times I've stood there on the brink of the cliff, looking down the slopes at what could easily have been my fate. I stand there and wonder why I didn't continue to slide, right over the edge and to the valley of death below.

Tonight I stand on the cliff side, looking down into the great chasm that could claim my life if I allowed it to. I know there is a reason I am still standing here on my feet, but for the life of me at times I don't know what that reason is. Now is one of those times.

Why am I here? What have I accomplished in my life? What is there left for me to do that is so important that I must endure so much pain along the way? They say that which does not kill us only serves to make us stronger. God, I can't be much stronger than I have been in the past, and I'm loosing strength now. I have friends that are offering me a hand to step away from the brink of disaster, but this time is different. I'm numb. I can't feel their hands reaching for me. I hurt. My legs don't want to continue standing on their own. I'm blinded by tears that have been just under the surface for so long.

As I stand here looking down, I wonder to myself how I would ever explain the thoughts going through my head, the pain I'm feeling, the hopelessness I've fought against time and time again only to be faced with it again. I'm standing between a cliff and a brick wall - and for once I can't break through it.


I long to feel loved. No, it's more than that - I NEED to feel loved. I need to feel arms around me that care and love me no matter what it is I've done or what I'm going through. I can't break down this brick wall in front of me on my own anymore, I don't have the strength for it this time. I need help. I need someone to tell me it's all going to be ok while I cry on their shoulder.

In a conversation just yesterday someone told me that they worried about me because I am the kind of person to take care of everyone else first. It's as if I'm always last in my own book because I don't need it as much as everyone else does. Here I have a sick friend who needs me and I am AFRAID of going to them because I'm AFRAID I couldn't handle any more bad news. One more piece of bad news could be the rock under my foot holding me to my ground at the moment. If that gave way, there would be nowhere to go but down - and it's a long way to the bottom.

I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of straining and struggling. I'm tired of taking care of everyone I love and care about, only to be forgotten.

I'm still here! I'm on the other side of this brick wall! I can't get through - it's separating me from the rest of the world. I fear the bottomless pit beside me, but what if that's all there is left for me?

So I cry.
So I scream out in agony and pain.

Where are you? Scotland, I'm so sorry...

Please, just someone, anyone, REMEMBER ME.
Please ... just, don't forget about me ... when I'm gone.

Get It, Whomp!

It's been four days since I've written a single word and I'm feeling a bit guilty. I don't even know what I will be writing about today, just that I know I need to sit down at the computer with the intention of writing something for those of you who continue to check my blogs daily. I'm sorry to have disappointed you lately, I've been a bit busy elsewhere.

I'll make this one worth your while.

I'll never forget the day my Uncle came to visit and wanted to cook for us. He was a truck driver and hardly ever got time in from the road. He and my mother were extremely close in their youth and very much loved one another even in adulthood. Still, certain things had changed. They no longer believed it was fun to throw chewed gum at one another hoping it would stick in the others hair. Well, Mom didn't anyway. Mom hadn't ridden a horse in many years and my Uncle hadn't had to run from one since then. Uncle Mike couldn't walk on his hands anymore, but he could still ride for a mile and a half on nothing but the back tire of a bicycle. Mom had finally learned how to cook durring her marriage to my father, but still didn't have the patience to teach us too much.

Uncle Mike decided he was going to teach my brother and I how to make Spaghetti. He boiled the water and threw the noodles into the pot after breaking them in half and continued a conversation with my mother about one horse they had as a kid. Uncle Mike wasn't crazy about horses as my Mother was, and in fact, still isn't wild about any animals to this day. I personally believe that's because of his days as part of the road crew who cleaned up road kill in the 70's and 80's - I can only imagine that would numb someone to the emotional experience of loosing a pet, or even loving one to begin with.

The horse they were discussing was Whomp. It's an odd name for a horse, I'll admit, but Whomp, by all accounts, was a brilliant horse. All anyone would have to do is lean over in the saddle, get as close to Whomp's ears as possible and whisper to him "Get it, Whomp!" and the horse would take off like it had been smacked with a dozen switches at once. He tore off through valley and vale, over fences and logs, through brambles and briars, never slowing and never faltering until the reigns were pulled back. Mom had, on many occasions, told us of Uncle Mike begging to go for a ride just down the lane to a friends house. Mom hated having to taxi him around like that because she had wanted to go in another direction. As penance, she would sit my Uncle, her younger brother, on the back of the horse just behind the saddle. She would ride properly for a while, not much more than a walk. Finally, he would say something smart to her about crawling along at the speed of an earth worm, and she would stand up in her stirrups. He always knew then to hang on for dear life. She leaned over towards the horses ears and whispered, and Whomp would take off with a cloud of dust behind him like a thick fog that had gathered dirt. More than once my Uncle was left sitting on the ground behind, hurting from the bottom and bruised a bit in the ego. He would stand up and continue on his way on foot. My mother would begin to feel bad and would circle back around. She would entice him to get back on the horse and he would always turn her down. Once or twice she managed to talk him into it and would give him a proper ride the rest of the way there.

When Whomp was new to the family, he was as gentle as a lamb. The family instantly fell in love with him. My Grandfather was an amazing animal trainer, and had he been known outside of the small town where they lived in rural Arkansas, there likely would have been a book or two written about this small, frail man who embodied so much more than his stature would have you believe. He was what many people today would consider to be a Horse Whisperer. But this Horse Whisperer had threee small children to look out for and wouldn't keep a violent horse or dog on his property. This was widely known.

One day my Grandfather came walking through the field to the house. My mother watched from a distance and when she realized he was limping, she ran to fetch her mother and brothers. All four stood in the window of the living room with the lace curtains swept off to the side, peering out of the window. The smudge marks on the glass from their four matching noses would have made anyone else laugh. My Grandfather limped to the house. My mom's oldest brother ran out to lend him a hand up the creeky wooden steps and my Grandmother held open the door. They walked him to the dining room table and sat him in an old, stained, cracked and abused wooden chair that groaned under his 98 lb body. He began to roll up his pant leg to reveal a horse shoe print on his thigh larger than his own face. Whichever horse it was had to have been huge. Grandma got some ice for the swelling, and the kids gathered around in the other chairs.

"Daddy" asked my mother, all of about 8 years old at the time, "which one done it?" All three kids and my Grandmother sat on pins and needles waiting. They knew whichever horse it was, Grandpa would go shoot it as soon as he could walk without needing a cane.

"It was Whomp" he said. All three kids and even his lovely wife started to cry big, fat tears of sorrow.

"You aren't gonna kill him, are ya Daddy?" My mother asked the question they all wanted an answer to.

"Aw, Hell Naw," he stated in aggrivation. "I kicked em' first!"

At the end of telling this story, my crazy Uncle reached into the boiling pot of Spaghetti noodles and picked one out. He then threw it against the wall and watched it stick.

It stayed there for several minutes before he finally pulled it down and said "I think the S'ketti is done. You know it's done with the noodles stick." Then, he held the noodle up to his mouth and slurped it in. "Yep, it's done."

Relating to my Writing

Every now and then I get a chance to meet someone or speak to someone who tells me that my writing has in some way inspired them or that they could relate to it in some way. I never know where these things are going to come from next, and the one I got today was from a surprising source – a new employee.

It’s no secret that I love to write. A friend told me a story last night of something she had gone through over the past year or so, and as she spoke my mind whirled with visions of pages in a book. I could clearly define each chapter in my mind and told her at the end of the story that we should collaborate. It would be a wonderful romantic comedy with a dramatic twist or two in it. She inspired me – which for some reason hasn’t been easy to do these days. I've been very distracted by something going on in my own life, including writing a new book about two people who fell in love against all odds. It has a very happy ending to it. Still, it seems like everything I write lately in a public forum is about or pertains to love or a mysterious number of days until something big happens.

So imagine my surprise today when, in random conversation with a new employee, I started spouting off a poem I’ve not heard or said in many years.


Why is love like a sandy beach
Not to far but hard to reach?
Hard to reach and hard to hold
Hard to keep your heart a whole.

Bad luck comes to those who stand
Gripping tightly to slipping sand.
Good luck comes to those who wait
And hold out their hands in a childlike state.

They wait there
So patient and kind
Never aware
Of the treasures they find.

A broken shell
Cracked and old
Isn’t to pretty
And rather cold

But turn it over,
That broken thing,
And listen to
The ocean sing!

So why is love
So like the beach?
Not far away,
But so hard to reach?

Don’t hold too tightly
To things so dear,
If it’s mean to be,
There's no need to fear!


At the end, he asked me who wrote it. I could tell from the look on his face that he had expected to hear a name he would recognize; Dickenson, Frost, Stevenson… but I would NEVER compare my own work to any of them. His eyes nearly popped out of his head when I told him that I was only 13 years old when I wrote that poem.

I had found yet another someone who appreciated my writing!! I explained the story of the book I wrote, how it was swept away in the uHaul in the Summer with everything else I owned, and how I had random samples online. Intrigued, he wanted to hear more.

The pieces I chose were dark and worrisome, I will admit. I find that I'm often at my best when in a morose or dark mood. I chose another poem titled Silhouette of Margaret, which I wrote in a fit of boredom one day in 2006, and the “Other Perspective” piece I did from another point of view over the end of a relationship. In both cases, he was drawn in. He identified with the negativity in the Other Perspective, and explained how it was a roller coaster when I was reading Silhouette of Margaret, emotional highs and lows, always wanting to know what happened next. I never thought so much of that one, but I have known a few people to really enjoy it. I think that’s why I chose it.

After the “Other Perspective” piece, he felt the need to talk to me. He confided in me and I took some pride in that. He had identified enough with my writing to feel comfortable telling me about his home life. I knew that, if my words never touched another soul from here on out, my work was done. Someone in the world felt like they weren’t so alone anymore. That’s all it’s ever been about for me.

There have been times that I have felt so alone and so empty that all I really had were my stories and writing. I wanted so much to tell others what I was going through so that if they ever experienced anything similar, they would know that they were never alone.

I’ve been lucky enough to reach a few people. It’s the greatest gift I could be given. I reached yet another today. Perhaps I'll be lucky enough to reach another tomorrow. Perhaps the day after, too. Maybe even the day after that. But I reached one today. That's enough for now.

UPDATE

A sincere thanks from a friend of mine who read this... This honestly brought tears to my eyes. I hope my friend doesn't mind, but I wanted to share...

"You have touched me with your writing, shown me that with courage you can move on with life through difficult times, and face a future brighter than ever expected. Thank you"