Story Coach #3A It Started With Greyhound

It Started With Greyhound

The tall boy in the crowd stares at me, recognition dawning; I turn my head, pretending I don’t see him.  It is Mother’s Day afternoon and I am at the Greyhound Bus Station in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Half a dozen outsized gray and blue buses are parked - their signature greyhound racing down the sides. I am waiting for the one that will take me home to Atlanta where I am in nursing school. The small crowd of people raise their voices to compete with the noisy idle of the buses lined up beneath the blue overhang. Ignoring people and buses alike, pigeons strut about pecking at bits of invisible crumbs on the dirty sidewalk.

Suddenly Daddy waves his arm, saying, “There’s Reese Dorsey! I bet he’s going back to GA Techl Hey, Reese!”
Me, tugging on his arm, “Daddy, shh! Don’t call him over here!”
The tall boy turns and walks toward us.

Daddy: “Hey Reese, what are you doing here? Are you taking the bus back to Atlanta?”

Me: “Oh, good grief!”

Reese Dorsey is a senior at Georgia Tech. We both come from a small town where everyone knows everyone else. Reese and I went to school together but he is two years older than I am. It isn’t that I don’t like him, I just prefer traveling alone. Reese is one of the smart ones, and too busy to have ever noticed me. He talks easily with my parents; I ignore him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

I can’t help but see that Daddy and Reese are the same height. Not many people are as tall as my Daddy.  Reese is what people call clean-cut, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He looks relaxed wearing a light blue button-down oxford shirt and tan corduroys. He looks like he is comfortable in his own skin. In high school he played basketball, was President of the Senior Class and in the Honor Society.. Like I said, smart. They are talking about school. He is majoring in textiles, a lucrative industry.

A bus pulls in, “Chattanooga” displayed in the destination window.  My bus. It will change to “Atlanta Express” when we pull out. I grab my overnight bag and turn to hug Mama and Daddy. Reese shakes hands with Daddy; I turn and climb the steps. 

I choose my favorite seat by the window.  Reese slips into the seat beside me. As we pull out of the station, I wave to Mama and Daddy. The bus doesn’t lurch or make awkward movements, just smoothly glides over the highway to Tunnel Hill, twin tunnels burrowed through Lookout Mountain.  It is a 2 ½ hour trip – I usually read or nap. Tonight I am listening to the tall lanky boy beside me. I am not pleased.

I pull out my book. “I usually read on the bus going back,” I inform him tersely, hoping he will take the hint. He doesn’t.
“What are you reading? I don’t get much chance to read unless it is a textbook,” he smiles at me somewhat apologetically. He does have a nice smile.
I show him the book. “I don’t really know much about it yet; I just started it.”
“Have you ever read ….” and he is off talking a mile a minute. I have never known a boy who talked as much as he does. Usually I have trouble getting them to talk at all!

We are back in Georgia now and the hilly, northwest terrain. We will travel through small towns - Brainard,  Dalton, Calhoun and Cartersville without stopping. This is the route of the Great Locomotive Chase of 1862. They say the roads here follow old Indian trails through the valleys and around ridges. Our road, Highway 41, is a two-lane blacktop. We rock along smoothly.

This is a pretty area, largely untouched by urbanization. I gaze out the window paying little attention to the noise around me. We travel through gently undulating green hills. It is spring and red bud and wild dogwood trees are in bloom, sprinkled haphazardly over the landscape. Patches of jonquils are dotted in yards of long forgotten farmhouses.  Farms cover large areas of the countryside; cows graze in fields behind wooden fences. We pass long stretches of forest, the occasional lake. Do I really prefer the city to this tranquil panorama?

             

I love Atlanta but whenever I have a weekend off I head home for a few days of Mama’s home cooking and sleeping in my own bed. I have made the trip often enough to know the driver and how not to get left behind. Cal is the driver, a short, slim man, very neat in his blue-grey uniform. He routinely drives the Detroit Express north and the Miami Express south.  His driving is incredibly smooth, an easy rocking that could lull you to sleep. I plan my trips to get on his bus. This weekend was special. It was Mother’s Day and I was fortunate to have the weekend off.  Of course I went home.

Beside me, Reese is talking about his job in a body shop. I remember him and an old boyfriend working on cars when we were in high school. He has worked with NASCAR building cars. “That was a lot of long nights, long hours, a lot of traveling,” he explains. It is obvious he likes working on cars.

He talks about school and the textile business; he is concerned that he doesn’t have a job lined up when he graduates in December. He has co-oped through college, working at the textile mill in our home town. Still he has gotten through school in record time. I had never thought about textiles before and how much is involved in making the cloth that becomes our clothes, curtains, dish towels. Clearly he enjoys his chosen career. He is actually pretty interesting.

He talks about his room-mate who is a motorcycle mechanic. He is from our hometown too, but I don’t know him. He talks about his family – his Dad is a tool and die maker (I didn’t even know what that was,) and his Mother stays at home and keeps house and sews. He has one brother who is 10.  He speaks of his family with obvious caring.  I suppose something good must be said for a college boy to go see his Mother on Mother’s Day.

Reese talks about his car. It is a rattletrap he says – a way to get around. It breaks down routinely but he is a mechanic; he patches it up and it keeps going. He says he doesn’t drive his car home because it is cheaper to ride the bus. He left his car at the bus station; maybe he will give me a ride back to the dorm. 

As day turns to dusk, lights shine from the occasional house.   In Marietta, home of the Big Chicken, the two lane turns into a 4 lane highway that takes us into Atlanta. It is now dark, the lights here only a hint of the dazzling display we will see in Atlanta. As we enter the city, the skyline is a welcoming display of lights. It is beautiful and I am glad to be home.

The bus turns off on Spring Street and continues to the bus station.  As we pull into the allotted slot, we gather our belongings.  Reese takes my overnight bag from me.
“Can I take you home?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply. I don’t have to think about it.

His car is a black ‘54 four-door Ford. He was telling the truth – it is pretty ragged looking and noisy but it starts without any problem. He is a careful driver. At the dorm he opens the door for me and walks me to the door, carrying my overnight bag. He is such a gentleman. It seems natural that we hold hands.

“I guess you have to go in?” he asks; he knows I have a curfew. I nod.
He shuffles his feet. He clears his throat.
“Would you like to go out with me sometime?”
He is a very interesting young man; gentlemanly, handsome, well-spoken, smart. I enjoyed the trip with him. I tell him, “Yes. Yes, I would.” and I mean it.

Of all the trips I have made home, that is one journey I am very glad I made – and that Reese made the trip at the same time. He called me the next day and asked me to go to a picnic with him the coming Saturday. It sounded like fun and I wanted to see him again. I said yes.

Five months later we were married. Forty-eight years, two sons and two grandchildren later we are still married, he is still talking. I finished school and worked as a nurse for 47 years. After graduation,he accepted a job as plant chemist at a finishing plant in South Carolina; years later when the textile industry waned, he became an electrician. We live in a quiet suburb in a two story Cape Cod style house with our two cats – oh, and Candy and Lucy, our two retired racing greyhounds.

Written by Dianne Housch Conley

31 August 2013

Story Coach #1A “Survivor” to Scrabble

“Survivor” to Scrabble

(or How My Play Has Changed)

Last night I beat the computer at Scrabble 3 out of 4 times!  Before that, I worked the daily jigsaw puzzle on line, watched a video tutorial on scrapbooking and browsed Pinterest boards.   I used to watch tv; now I play on the computer  - playing games,  browsing websites,  learning new things.  This is my new favorite entertainment.

My introduction to computer entertainment was quite by accident.  Several years ago, our younger son wanted one thing for Christmas – The Legend of Zelda for his Nintendo gaming system. We had purchased it, but when Ray, our older son, looked at it, he thought it might be too complicated for JE to navigate.  He suggested we try it out first so we could see what it involved and be able to help him with it.  We played. The first time I planted a bomb and opened a hole in the wall, I was captivated!  After that, Ray and I could hardly wait for JE to go to bed at night so we could play Zelda!

After that, I played a variety of Nintendo games with JE, mastering Mario and Donkey Kong. As he grew and his interests changed, so did mine.  I switched to computer games – first Solitaire in its many forms, then Scrabble and Mahjong.   One Christmas Ray gave me a Nancy Drew game.  The Nancy Drew mysteries were my favorite books as a teen-ager; now in this new, grown-up version, I had a new favorite pastime. I was hooked!

Computer games have slowly taken the place of television for me. I did not suddenly stop watching tv, but over the years, I found that it had less and less appeal.   

I was a child when television first made its appearance in homes across the country.  I grew up on The Honeymooners, I Love Lucy, and Ed Sullivan.  That was back in the day when there were three stations, channels were changed by turning a knob on the set and the Star Spangled Banner played at midnight before the stations went off the air.  Back then too, programs were memorable for their familiar settings and traditional values.  Ozzie and Harriet could have been next door neighbors. Dave Garroway delivered the news as if he were sitting in our living room discussing it. One could go off to school after his trademark, “Peace” sign-off, knowing that all was right in the world. 

Over the years, TV has changed and so have I.  It seems that now programs are promoted more for their shock value than for entertainment.  I don’t like what it has become.

Manners and morals have been replaced with in-your-face shouting matches and anything-goes language, violence and sex.  Reality has been replaced with outrageously improbable “reality shows.” As television has raced to its frenetic height, I have grown mellow and peace-seeking.  I neither need nor want what tv has to offer.  Technology has brought us new forms of entertainment. I have discovered websites with every type of game imaginable and tutorials for just about anything you might want to learn.  There is so much available on the internet these days.

Every night after dinner, I have a set of games I play on my laptop: pic-a-pix, a  jigsaw puzzle, the Daily Snoop, and Word Roundup Frenzy. A new game is posted each day for those.  There is a group that has multiple levels: Phinx, Word Bubbles, Jolly Jong, Mahjong and Jewel Quest.  They take a little longer to play; I will play one of those or one of these rather mindless but fun games - Mind the Blox and Blocky 3.  I play Scrabble against the computer. Other favorites are Suduko and crossword puzzles. My favorite games though are the Hidden Objects games and Nancy Drew.  Those I can play for hours on end.  There are countless games available; once in a while, I browse different websites trying out new games.

Technology is a marvelous thing.  There are so many opportunities to keep the mind active!  I can take my games with me on a tablet, my Kindle or iphone - all items that were unheard of 10 years ago!  And, these are more than games – they are exercises to keep my brain functioning.  The human brain is a spectacular computer, able to adapt and rewire itself.  It has been determined that some memory loss is simply due to inactivity. Games or exercises keep the brain productive and full of zip!

Sometimes I contemplate spending my time playing games on the computer.  I am not a child, rather I am a “new-middle-age” (elderly) woman with grandchildren.  Perhaps I should be spending my time knitting or crocheting or putting food by like my Grandmothers did. And then I reason – if those ladies lived today, one would be playing games on the computer and the other would be reading books on her Kindle!  Technology has come a long way in my lifetime, why not take advantage of it and learn something new?  And, there is something comforting about sitting across from my husband, each of us involved in our separate activities, yet together.   

Right now I am puzzling over how to get the treasure chests on their respective spots on deck, and I am stuck!  I know when I figure it out, I will be surprised that I didn’t solve it sooner. This is a challenge I am enjoying.  I will work on it again tomorrow; right now the Braves are on tv – I think they need me.

Story Coach #3: The Road Leads Back to Georgia

Story Coach Lesson 3:  In Transit

The Road Leads Back To Georgia

Snow swirled around me, huge flakes sticking to my inadequate cap and gloves as I pumped gas into the Blazer.  We were taking our son and daughter-in-law home, back to Georgia. He had just graduated University of Michigan and they were moving back to where it was warm.  I stamped my feet to get the blood moving; here in Ypsilanti at 6:30 AM, it was bitterly cold and it was May 3!

“Just think,” I had said to Dan a mere month ago, “a month from now you all will be packing to move back to Georgia!”

“A month from now, I will be back in Georgia,” he replied emphatically.

He wasn’t kidding!  May 1 - he graduated, May 2 - we packed the truck, in the snow, and now May 3 -  we were headed south.  Olivia’s cousin Helen, my husband, older son and I had come a few days earlier to help them pack up, attend the graduation and help with the move.

Olivia, 5 months pregnant with their first baby, and Helen, a college student in South Carolina, had started out earlier to give them plenty of travel time without rushing. The car was packed full with first necessities – clothes, coolers of food, and Julia, the lovable four year old part lab, part wayfaring stranger.

            Dan waited patiently by the large over-the-cab U-Haul that he would drive the 700 miles ahead.  Reese, my husband, and David, our older son, were inside stocking up on coffee and snacks for the trip.  Finally we were ready. Dan and David led the way in the U-Haul; Reese and I followed in our Blazer, also packed to the roof with, among other things two ferrets, and a tiny white mouse that I laid claim to and named Ypsilanti, Ypsi for short.  We were on our way! Head ‘em up, move ‘em out!

Reese and I had made the trip each fall and spring since Dan and Olivia had been there.  Each time I was amazed anew at the vast expanse of sky that formed a blue bowl over farmland that stretched for miles to the horizon. I was used to farmland with a backdrop of mountains that always seemed nearer than they were. Sky in my neck of the woods was ‘up’ – not all around!

Our trip was a straight shot, from Georgia through the mountains of Tennessee, up through Kentucky where horses grazed behind white fences and where we left the mountains behind. Into Ohio with its flat farms that stretched limitless to the far horizon and finally into Michigan. The trips were long, taking around 10 - 11 hours with our stops along the way, but always, thankfully, uneventful. Little did we know this trip would be anything but!

When Dan was three years old, he announced that he was going to Georgia Tech and be an architect. He never wavered from his decision and at 18, he entered the “North Avenue Trade School” as the students fondly call it. Four years later, he had married his high school sweet heart and they were heading north to the University of Michigan to get his Masters degree.

Dan and Olivia had been in Michigan two years. As appealing as the little town was, as pleasant as the spring and fall months, summer was almost non-existent and winters were bitterly cold with feet – not inches – of snow.  Southern born and bred, neither of them came to embrace Michigan as home. I was delighted to learn he had a job with an architect firm in Atlanta; they were coming home!

Reese, David and I took time off from our respective jobs and drove up to help them pack up their two years of accumulated worldly goods. They lived in a two story 19^th century house with large, airy rooms, and they had managed to fill it with treasured belongings.  We were fortunate to have Helen and David!  Both are very organized and together they sorted through, tossed out, categorized, arranged and generally coordinated the packing. The rest of us followed directions; boxes multiplied near the front door. 

Dan graduated with honors. The day dawned bright and sunny, a beautiful spring day!  The University of Michigan, School of Architecture, had its own impressive graduation ceremony; the  rest of the afternoon we wandered about the campus, awed at the buildings at this ages-old institution of higher learning.

                 The next day, we loaded the truck. It snowed.  The morning was another spring-like day, but as the day wore on it cooled off and we were looking for sweaters and jackets. I was giving the kitchen cabinets one last check when I heard David holler. I went to the door and looked out.

“What is it,?” I called to him.

 “It’s snowing! Look! It’s snowing!” he exclaimed.

Barely perceptible, tiny snowflakes were softly falling. It was snowing!  While I watched, the flakes  got bigger and fell faster until it was a regular snowfall.  It was May 2 and it was snowing!

            Olivia had rented a large over-the-cab truck from U-Haul to haul their worldly goods back to the land of warmth and sun.  It was massive, the tires looked good, the gas gauge showed full and it was packed.  We left Ypsilanti behind and headed south.

The snow had stopped but we were still in Michigan when the walkie-talkie sputtered and David’s voiced boomed into the Blazer.

“We seem to be having a problem here,” he announced.

“What’s wrong?” my husband inquired.

“Engine overheated and it’s blowing steam everywhere,” was the undesired response.

“Pull off on a side road and we’ll call U-Haul,” Reese told him.

We were in Milam; we had traveled 12 miles!

As we caught up to them and pulled up alongside, Reese sighed, “Yeah, it’s the water hose.” He called U-Haul, and after much discussion including, “No, we can’t unload it!” he reported that they were sending someone out to replace the errant water hose. They neglected to mention that that “someone” was coming from Detroit.

Two hours and a second phone call later (when they thought to mention Detroit) brought a too cheerful character with the new water hose, which he quickly and efficiently attached. Thirty minutes later, we were on our way – again.

            We made it to Dayton, Ohio before we heard from the U-Haul again. This time, son Dan reported, “We’re out of gas.” He had stopped on the entrance to an overpass.

“What?” my husband exclaimed! “I thought you had a full tank of gas!”

“That’s what the gauge showed,” Dan answered, “It’s still showing almost full, but we are not going anywhere!”

We soon discovered that construction detoured us several miles to the nearest gas station. We could see it – we just couldn’t get to it!  We purchased the gas (and a gas can) and headed back to the bridge where the U-Haul waited.  A little over three hours since we left Ypsilanti and we had traveled less than 130 miles!

                 On to Cincinnati, home of the dancing pig!  At last we were zipping along, again admiring the far-reaching farmlands, the expanse of blue sky.  Entering Cincinnati, traffic slowed, then stopped. Surely traffic could not be this heavy, Reese and I mused. News came from David and Dan, ahead of us…a wreck involving several cars had both lanes blocked. We were surrounded by 18 wheelers; for the next hour we entertained ourselves by reading their logos and advertisements and making up new names and slogans for them.

I could have written that song by Weird Al Yankovic,  “Traffic Jam” -

“Now we're all goin' nowhere fast - Well, I guess that's perfectly clear
I left home five hours ago, And I can still see my house from here.”

Finally the line ahead started moving and we inched along with our fellow travelers, through Cincinnati, over the Ohio River and into Kentucky!  We almost cheered!

      It was always a pleasure traveling through Kentucky. It is such a pretty state with horses grazing in green fields, the mountains, gentle undulations of soft greens and blues.  Closer to hand, alongside the road, bare cliffs rose straight up, large boulders hanging precariously to the side. Sometimes they turn loose, causing an avalanche of rocks. In the mountains past Lexington, that is exactly what we ran into!

The road ahead was closed; we could see emergency workers swarming over the area like so many ants, working to clear the roadway. It was clear that it would not be open for many hours. We followed the long snaking line of cars down a dirt road to our next detour.  Darkness was settling around us on the mountaintop, the moon providing the only light. Another adventure!

     This detour took us several miles from our expected route, and added another hour or so to our already extended trip. All was not lost; headlights picked up deer and raccoons in the brush alongside the road.  A canopy of stars shone brightly in the black night. It was incredibly beautiful!

            And so we wound down and around and into Tennessee. Almost home!  We had been on the road 16 hours. We were fatigued, weary and drained but excited to be so close to home. We did not know that one more unexpected incident lay ahead.

            Just south of Knoxville, we rounded a curve and saw the most unwelcome sight: “Bridge out – Detour.”  Oh no!  Another diversion – another ‘short-cut to go the long way ‘round.’ Wasn’t there a song titled “Detour”? If I had known the words, I would have started singing.

             Once again, we followed the few cars ahead, and found ourselves on a back, two lane country road. At least we were in Tennessee and getting closer to our destination!  The farther we drove, the more familiar the surroundings and finally there ahead was the beautiful ‘Welcome to Georgia’ sign!

                    Georgia was home to all of us; we were all born in and had lived in Georgia all our lives. Georgia is a beautiful state, with mountains and beaches, it is home of Coca-Cola, “Gone With the Wind” and Ray Charles. The winters are mild, the summers hot – even spring and fall have their own season. “Georgia On My Mind” is more than a song to us; it is an anthem. It was no wonder that Dan and Olivia wanted to move back to Georgia!

I feel that, for some, a place becomes a part of you, and no matter where you are, your heart, your home is always there. Like the song says,

“Other arms reach out to me, Other eyes smile tenderly
Still in peaceful dreams I see - The road leads back to you.”

And so, Dan and Olivia wanted to come home. Home to the South, to Georgia - where the pace is slow, the people friendly, the tea sweet.  I understand. It is in their blood; it is in mine.

     For us, no trip has ever had more calamity, more mishaps, more detours. I marveled that despite each new difficulty we encountered, it was met with good grace and a spirit of adventure. Even after fatigue set in, no one complained, no one lost his temper. Was it because, no matter the obstacle, our road was leading us back to Georgia? “Still in peaceful dreams I see - The road leads back to you.”  I do believe so.

           

It was 2:00 AM, 19 ½ hours since we left Ypsilanti, when we pulled into the gated community in Atlanta where Dan and Olivia’s new home was located. We had made it!

Inside we found Olivia sitting on an air mattress that friends had brought over. Despite the late hour, they were wide awake, catching up on happenings of the last two years. We had stories of our own to tell and over Cokes and cold pizza, we entertained them with tales of our long  journey and each state’s adventure.

Sitting there on the floor, surrounded by my family and friends, I unconsciously hummed the tune “Georgia” and thought of the words - “Georgia, Georgia - A song of you

Comes as sweet and clear As moonlight through the pines.”  My heart filled with joy and contentment  to be right here, my children back where they belonged, where we all belonged. The long journey was over; the road really had led us back to Georgia!

Note: This is a true story, told just as it happened in 2005.

"Georgia on My Mind", the official Georgia state song,  was written by Hoagy Carmichael and Stuart Gorrell, 1930.

“Traffic Jam”  was written and recorded by Weird Al Yankovic.

Story Coach #2: California Guy

Story Coach Lesson 2: When the News Came

California Guy

The news of Luke’s death came on Monday afternoon,  August 12.   I had just returned home from a week with the Grandchildren and although I don’t usually check the phone for messages, for some reason that day, I did. Ben, another cousin, had called that morning and left the message. 

Ben‘s mother, Daddy’s sister, is elderly and with his, “Dianne, this is Ben,,” I immediately thought the worst. His next words, however, brought relief, “Nothing’s wrong in our family.”  Then he continued, to give me the shocking news. Luke was only 57, five years younger than Ben, 11 years younger than me.  He died of arteriosclerosis.

To our knowledge, he had experienced no health problems of any kind; he was always camping or hiking in the mountains out west or traveling to far away places on some adventure.  Ben and I chatted briefly and he promised to call when he knew any more details. As I hung up, my thoughts immediately went to his children, a boy and a girl, both in their twenties. As shocked and saddened as I was, I could not imagine what they were experiencing.

Daddy’s youngest sister was one of my favorite aunts. She was out-going, full of laughter and funny stories. She and my uncle were the center of any family gathering when they pulled out their ukuleles and regaled us with song.  Although they were both gone now, they had left the world three fine young adults. Luke was their older son.  I knew him as a smart, sweet  little boy; I knew little of the man he had become.

I knew that Luke was well-educated; he had PhD’s in  Cellular & Molecular Biology and in Pharmacology and was founder and managing partner in a consulting firm in California. On a whim, I typed his name in a search engine and was surprised when page after page detailed his work and accomplishments.

Luke was divorced; his Facebook page portrays him as a fun, nature-loving guy, surrounded by friends whether hiking or at a formal dinner. His daughter lived and worked in Europe; his son, a recent graduate, was just beginning a new job. Photos show him with a black lab; I had to wonder if he still had her and what would happen to her.

My initial reaction to the news was shock. Somehow, it is one thing to acknowledge the passing of older relatives and peers; it is quite another to face the death of a cousin, especially one younger than yourself. It reminds me of my own mortality and the uncertainty. I wonder if he had had problems prior to his death? I wonder how his children are coping. Mostly I wonder if he still had his dog and what she must feel. I feel so sad for his children; I know they are devastated. Photos show them as a loving family and I can imagine many happy times when they were together.

Luke was born when I was eleven years old. I was delighted! Even though they lived hundreds of miles away and it would be months before I would see him, I was excited to have a new cousin. I was an only child and lived next door to my paternal grandparents. It was always a treat when cousins came to visit them for that meant I had playmates! 

In due time, they visited and I was enchanted with him. On the edge of twelve, going on twenty, I imagined myself an adult and this my own little child.  There is nothing quite like imagination! His sister, Kate, followed the next year or so and then little brother, Mark. I loved them all.

When Mark was still a baby, their father became ill and faced a long recuperation. Luke and Kate, both under, 5 spent the summer with my Grandparents. I was in my element!  Baby-sitting was no hardship; I volunteered.  I fed, bathed, dressed and rocked them. I made up stories and games to keep them entertained. They followed me around like little ducks and I adored them and the attention.

Over the next few years, the family visited at least annually, often in the summer.  One year, Daddy took Luke and me fishing. Daddy showed Luke how to bait the hook and cast into the pond. Time after time, he pulled his line in empty. None of us were catching anything!  Suddenly the sun disappeared behind dark clouds, the wind began to blow and it began to sprinkle.  Luke wanted desperately to catch a fish. Daddy was just as determined that he would. And just as it began to rain in earnest, a fish bit!  I don’t know who was more excited – Luke or Daddy or me!  Then I got a bite!  Suddenly fish were biting as soon as the hook hit the water! We pulled in fish after fish, even after giving up baiting the hooks!  It didn’t matter that we were soaking wet, we were having fun. Finally, Daddy declared that we had enough fish for supper, so we packed up and headed home, with a cooler full of fish and one very happy little boy.

The last visit I had with Luke, he came with Mama and Daddy to pick me up at the bus station. I was in nursing school and had the weekend off. I did what every other nursing student did with a free weekend – I headed home!  No one had told me that they had come for a visit, so I was surprised when Luke jumped out of the car and ran to greet me.  In the car, he announced that he was hungry and would really like to have a “hambooger and milkshake.”  He was 8; everything he said was funny and dear.

After I graduated nursing school, I married and moved further away. After that I was rarely home at the same time Luke and his family were there.  The few times we were there together, I was “too old” to be of any  interest to him and he was too busy playing with cousins his own age. Then he grew up. He went away to school, then moved to California, married and started his own family. We lost track of each other.

A few years ago, I was delighted to discover him on Facebook. I sent him a message and we became ‘Friends.’ Since then, we have kept in touch, exchanging emails and commenting on each other’s posts. It was good to re-connect with him and I am glad we were able to know each other as adults. I think he would have been a good friend.

Luke was only 57 years old, the same age as Daddy was when he died. Daddy had battled heart disease for 20 years prior to his death; Luke probably didn’t know he had heart disease.

Even though we were not close, Luke’s passing has left me with an empty spot inside. We were family; we both have/had the same blood running through our veins. And now he is gone. I will visit my grandchildren again; Luke will never know the joy of holding a grandchild.

Luke’s death reminds me that, whether soon or late, we all die. As Buddah said, “The trouble is, you think you have time.”

21 August 2013

Story Coach #1: How the Storyteller Emerged

August 18, 2013

A  new class tempted me! I am now participating in the Story Coach and expect that by December I will be a world-renowned author! Well, OK, maybe that is a little ambitious. I want to learn how to put a story together so that I can tell my stories about my life and that of my parents and grandparents - something to leave my children and grandchildren when they finally reach that age when they want to know. Unfortunately, for too many of us, that age doesn't come along until those who have the answers are gone. That is why I am here. Please feel free to leave your comments (and I hope you will,) just remember, I am new here, so be kind. Previous entries were written in another class I took this summer, Finding Your Voice.  Now...on to this story.

Story Coach Lesson 1: How the Play Changed

How the Storyteller Emerged 

Last week I wrote a story, “Eating Goober Peas” about the time when Bug ate all Granddaddy Dye’s peanuts he had prepared for planting. Then I revamped a scrapbook page I had done to tell the story. The new scrapbook page has a better form, more color and enhances the story I had written.  I have always enjoyed reading, and in the past year I have started to journal. At the beginning of summer I enrolled in the Find Your Voice Workshop to learn more about writing.  This has been an exciting time for me learning how to put a story together and use photos to compliment and help tell the story.

The day after I retired, eighteen months ago, two things happened to start me on this journey.  A friend gave me a journal and I left for a Girls Week Away at the beach. What better way to begin retirement than to be at the beach – and write about it!  I found that I enjoyed capturing the events of the day and decided that I wanted to get in touch with my creative self – if she existed! 

Although I had written  poetry in the past, I had never written stories.  I have never been able to draw and I have been intimidated by painting since first grade when I painted my Thanksgiving turkey red because I couldn't remember how to make brown. It isn't surprising that I have never attempted any type of creative project. 

Reading has always been my favorite (safe? no competition? No criticism?) form of entertainment. My Mother read to me as a small child, and I was soon turning the pages to my Little Golden Books. They gave way to the Bobbsey Twins, and as I grew, to Anne of Greene Gables and Nancy Drew.  As a teen I often made up stories to tell my babysitting charges but never wrote them down. This love of reading continued right into adulthood. My passion has always been historical novels, biographies and mystery novels. I love reading about other people, other places and times. Journaling has not replaced reading, but has evolved from it.

It has been interesting to me to discover  how much I enjoy putting my own words on paper. From time to time throughout my adulthood, I have started a journal. Sometimes it lasted a couple of months, sometimes a few weeks, more often only a few days. Having a few exciting days to document while I was at the beach, was enough to get me hooked. Always a seeker, I went to the internet to read more about keeping a journal. That is when I discovered art journals! Soon I was buying paints and brushes, colored pencils and pens and trying my hand at art journaling.  I wasn’t very good at it, but –somewhere along the way, I came across a little saying, “To be creative, we must first lose our fear of being wrong.”   Examples seemed to cover the gamut of artistic ability, in fact, there seemed to be no wrong way to do it!  It just looked like fun.  Prompts were plentiful and covered a wide variety of subjects. I was home free!  I could throw caution to the wind and draw, paint, color and write to my heart’s content without fear of criticism!

Another pastime has played a part in my shift in activity - genealogy. The internet has opened all manner of possibilities for discovering information about my ancestors. Being retired has given me the time to devote to research and my hobbies. I want to document stories of my life and that of my parents and grandparents and stories that have been handed down. I want my grandchildren and their children to know that I was here, that I was more than just a name or a face in a frame.

With so much information on the internet, with You Tube and Pinterest, there is no end to inspiration, and I have had no problem finding plenty of subjects to write about. Add to that the current interest in Smash Books and all the wonderfully delightful inserts and tapes and papers that it has been a joy to give myself over to this new pastime.  And, now that I am retired, I have plenty of time to indulge myself!

Over the summer, I enjoyed the Find Your Voice workshop, and was encouraged to write stories and poems, to use photos to tell a story, - to create. I was pushed out of my comfort zone. In the process, I discovered that I enjoyed this new freedom, this new form of play.  I look forward to learning new and exciting things from the Story Coach and Get It Scraped workshops. I will always read - I have just expanded the written word to my written word, and telling my stories with art and  photos. And I have many stories to tell!

Pause for thought… "That man is successful who has lived well, laughed often, and loved much, who has gained the respect of the intelligent men and the love of children; who has filled his niche and accomplished his task; who leaves the world better than he found it, whether by an improved poppy, a perfect poem, or a rescued soul; who never lacked appreciation of earth’s beauty or failed to express it; who looked for the best in others and gave the best he had". — Robert Louis Stevenson

  

 If you encounter a problem leaving a comment, (quite a few people have) please email me:
dyeconley@gmail.com.  Thanks!

FYV: Lesson 8 - Handle With Care 18 August 2013

Handle With Care

   ESTATE SALE – the sign caught my eye.  “A good place to find lots of great stuff,” I thought.  I had never been to an estate sale and imagined it would be like a huge yard sale.  I turned at the corner, following the signs. Cars lined the street at the house with the Estate Sale sign in the yard.

     Inside, the living room was comfortable and inviting, with soft cream walls and traditional  furniture. Shelves of books lined one wall. A handmade afghan was draped across a pretty rocking chair, a book lay open on the side table.  A recliner with worn arms sat nearby, its owner’s pipe waiting in the ash tray. I closed my eyes and imagined an older couple sitting together in companionable silence.

     A woman bustling by jolted me back to the present. A number of people milled around the room, picking up knick-knacks off end tables and shelves, sometimes putting them back, sometimes clutching them close as they moved along.  I followed a burst of laughter into the kitchen.

     There I found a bee-hive of activity. Several women sat at a breakfast table picking through a pile of linens. Other women were going through kitchen cabinets, pulling out canned goods and dishes.  One woman unplugged the coffee maker, tucked it under her arm and moved swiftly to another room. I paused at the refrigerator to read a letter posted there.  “Dear Gram and Pop,” it began. It was from a grandson in the service. Beside it was a poem scratched on the back of an envelope.  "I was here..." it began.  In an alcove a woman was taking clothes from a dryer, periodically holding up an item for inspection before shoving it in a bag or tossing it on a growing pile of clothes on the floor. I moved on.

     In a bedroom,  a large sleigh bed was piled high with clothing, all but hiding a beautiful handmade quilt in soft, faded hues of blue and green. Family photographs covered the wall above the bed.  I watched as one woman plucked a frame from the wall and removed the picture which she tossed on the dressing table.  Other women hauled clothes from closets and riffled through dresser drawers. In one corner sat an easy chair, a basket of half finished quilt pieces on the floor.  I wandered on.

     The next room held a work table with a collection of paints and brushes, papers, pens and colored pencils. Two women browsed through a stack of scrapbooks and journals at one end. “Listen to this,” one woman nudged her companion. “Today is Wednesday and what a beautiful day it is.  The jonquils are just beginning to open up…I do believe I will try to draw them. Got a letter from Harris… Good grief, I hope when I’m old I’ll have something more exciting to write about!”  The women’s laughter faded as I drifted from the room.

     Back in the kitchen, I stood at the back door looking out upon flower beds full of colorful blooms. A bench swing nestled under an old oak tree. Bird houses and wind chimes were scattered about the yard.

     Oblivious to the hubbub of prattle behind me, I thought about the woman who had lived in this house. What had happened that so suddenly she was gone? There was so much of her essence here! She was well educated, evidenced by the diplomas hanging on the wall. She was a photographer and traveler – her photos of far-away places were breath-taking. She was an avid reader on a wide variety of subjects. She obviously loved her garden and nature.  She was an artist, and a writer. I bet she was interesting to talk to. I wish I had known her.

     How very sad that this woman, such a lover of life, had been so suddenly plucked from her home.  Strangers combing through her belonging without any thought of what they may have meant to her. Her treasures going to unfamiliar places with folks who had no knowledge of their sentimental value or regard for the memories they held. What a sad commentary to a lifetime of living!

     Sadly, I turned to leave, but first, I took the letter and the poem from the refrigerator, and put them in my pocket.

                .  .  .  .  .

I was here. I want you to know.

I had some thoughts, I wanted to grow.

I felt joy and pain; I knew laughter and tears.

I had some feelings, I had a few fears.

I was once young and so in love

With the grass ‘neath my feet, the clouds up above.

The roar of the ocean, the whisper of wind,

The people around me, the house round the bend.

Can you understand? I want you to know

That I was a person not long ago.

Not just a name or a face in a frame,

But a body with blood,-  bones and a brain.

I once was alive, like you are today –

Regard my things ‘fore you throw them away.

And know that on earth, they brought me much cheer,

Though nothing to you, to me they were dear.

My things were important to me, if not you,

They each told a story, they each held a clue

To the person I was – to what made me, me.

I want you to know; I want you to see

That each little thing handed down from another

Or brought to my home for one reason or other,

May have no value, they may not be rare,

But they’re part of me; please - handle with care.

Story and poem written by Dianne Housch Conley 18 August 2013

 If you encounter a problem leaving a comment, (quite a few people have) please email me:
dyeconley@gmail.com.  Thanks!

FYV Lesson 7 Taking It To The Next Level 5 Aug 2013

FYV Lesson 7: Taking It To The Next Level                                               

Taking our stories to the next level means moving a little bit outside our comfort zone. For Lesson Seven there are two options. Go with whichever one speaks to you more and make it your own. If there are things that you’d like to go back and improve on from previous lessons, this is a perfect opportunity.

Prompt A: Go back to your lesson six project, where we combined storytelling style and design style.

How can you take this project to the next level? Think of your week six project as a 'first draft' and here you are coming to edit and revise for a 'final draft'.

        …        …        …        …        …        …        …        

I chose Prompt A. Although I am happy with my story, I felt I could do better with telling the story through pictures. So – on to a new and improved scrapbook page!

I went to Debbiehodge.com for some expert scrapbook tips.

    1. Have an intention.

My intention is to design a scrapbook page that will compliment my story about Bug and the peanuts.

    2. Take inventory of your givens.

· Enough photos to tell the story.  I dropped one of the original four and kept the three that were pertinent to the story.

· Title.  I changed the title from “Bug and the Peanuts” to “Eating Goober Peas” to give the story a little more ‘oomph’ and interest.

· Journaling.  I need sufficient journaling to tell the story since the photos alone don’t.

    3.  Allocate space. 

Because this is such a small page, my space is limited. I enlarged the photo of Bug and made the other two smaller and closer in size.  This still gives sufficient white space while the focus is on the photos.

   4.  Shape figure and ground

This is a basic block form with two of the photos bumped out into the margin for interest.  I used a ‘shelf’ of blue denim scrapbook paper and a red vintage dot paper to anchor the photos. Across the top I used a band of red plaid – think farmer flannel shirt. The background is a neutral yellowish tan.

   5.   Add finish work. 

This is the challenging part. I don’t like scrapbook pages with lots of embellishments; I go for simple, so I didn’t want a lot of ‘stuff.’  I used red for the title and a vellum for the journaling instead of stark white. I tucked another patterned paper to fill in spaces between photos. As a final touch, I added three cut-outs of peanuts around the page.

All in all, I feel this is a much better presentation than my previous attempt. It has more color, more interest and shows off the photos to much better advantage. I am pleased with the way it turned out and feel it compliments the story nicely.  I am learning!