She Warned Me This Would Happen

The following was written by my friend and former co-worker Chris.  This week the two of us spent three days building a fence at his house. It was good.  I asked him if he would have any interest making a guest appearance on the blog…. maybe write about our time building fence together, etc.   I know he stops by here sometimes, because he will occasionally shoot me a text on something I have written.

Please give a warm welcome to Chris…. 😉 DM

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She warned me this would happen…

With the arrival of our first, the past year and a half have been a blur and a blast. What was a wriggling, cooing mass of cuteness only a blink ago, has since grown in to an adventurous, yet shy, beautiful toddler.

This addition to our family sparked a seemingly endless chain of spiraling adjustments, to almost all reaches of our lives. With the new plateau of mobility and curiosity came a sudden realization that dangers we could once keep at bay were suddenly within reach to Felix.

Rather than test the limits of his name (Felix; fortunate, lucky, blessed), we decided to erect a fence around our backyard. As much for his safety as our enjoyment, this decision cued DM’s arrival on the scene.

We have history, this carpenter and me. At a time in my life when I was landing kitchen jobs and had been constantly on the move, my significant and I made the decision to move back to my hometown. Life for us had been an adventure for quite some time. With a youthful desire to not limit ourselves in any way, we had been burning the candle hot at both ends. Looking back, I know we learned and grew a lot through those experiences, but we both were in need of a drastic change.

He said he was looking for someone with no experience, and that was what he got. Those first few weeks were an eye opener for me- my emaciated frame had never known such pain! Parts of my body I had not known existed suddenly were screaming at me.

At the same time, I found myself suddenly having conversations with a man who had crossed life’s seas and knew all the knots. I remarked to my wife (girlfriend at the time) that going to work was like going to therapy. Quick with encouragement and laughter, in the middle of a trench or on top of a roof, I found myself wanting to rise to his level of Zen.

I learned a lot over those two years; to not shy away from pain, to reflect and introspect daily, the importance of taking a break, how to set healthy boundaries, time management, the list goes on. Unashamed to share personal trials and challenges, his level of honesty with himself and with me was something not yet known in my life. It was just what I needed. Without realizing it I was making the transition out of childhood at a point in my life that I can reflect on now as ‘just in time.’

Snap forward to the present. It had been quite a while since I had seen DM, and I was looking forward to our time together building a fence for Felix in the backyard. My wife jokingly warned me the day before we were set to get started, “You’re going to want to quit your job and start working with him again after this I bet!”

My frame is not so emaciated at this point in my life, but the pain was the same as on that first job site. I made the remark something to the effect that physical work is so much more rewarding than mental anguish. As my muscles were ripped apart yet again (from neglect, admittedly), I was reminded of the journey I had taken under DM’s wing all those years ago.

She was right.

 

Fence building week

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Funeral Day

I should be in bed.

Can’t sleep.

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Went to a funeral visitation today.

Buried one of our pet cats yesterday.    Two tangible reminders in one week  to the  fragility of life.

I will miss her. (The cat)

She was feral.

We called her “Miss Kitty”.

Pretty sure she was abused before  she showed up at our door.  Never, really trusted us.
But she did have a special relationship with Libby. The two of them would snuggle together in the winter.

 

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Funerals, funeral visitations, receiving lines, that whole flurry of activity that comes with a death.   Mom and I were talking about all that stuff again recently.  She agreed with me when I said the less you say the better.  Hugs, warm handshakes, look the family in the eye…but no empty cliches!

That approach has served me well the last several times.

The month my father-in-law died, my favorite grandma also died, then a few weeks later, a third person.  We were emotionally numb.  I can still remember our friends Leslie and Mel, Chris and Kelly,  sitting in the foyer of the funeral home just hanging around.  They knew this was our 3rd trip to the funeral home in a month.  Just their presence there was enough.

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Few years ago, when we were more  involved hosting concerts, Beth Wood a singer/ songwriter stayed with us one weekend.  She had just released her album  Beachcombers Daughter.   One of my favorite songs on that album was called Funeral Day.

It goes  like this:

We were laughing, it was funeral day
I guess it might seem strange that we’d behave that way
It was just our bodies craving levity,
My grief a heavy blanket weighing down on me
So we laughed until the sun went down
Trading stories, passing the bottle around
Recalling all the good times we had
It didn’t seem so sad

It all started at the parlor doors
Cousin Henry’s kid tripped on an extension chord
We busted out, what else could we do?
Hell, I knew that you were up there crackin’ up, too
So we laughed until the preacher came in
Then we settled down and we listened to him
Staring at your photograph

It didn’t seem so sad

Well we got some dirty looks from the old blue-hair crowd
But with all due respect, I think we did you proud
By laughing out loud

…it’s just a simple story, we’re here and then we’re gone

So I laugh remembering that day
How we carried on and how it washed our tears away
I’m smiling and I’m looking back
It doesn’t seem so sad.

Sending this one out to all of you that are missing someone.

Whether it’s been just a few weeks or 20 years.

DM

 

Reading Out Loud

Woke up this morning still laughing about a couple of Robert Fulghum stories I read out loud to Mrs DM before calling it a day last night.

We do that sometimes.

Read to each other.

My go-to author of short stories is Robert Fulghum.  Many of the stories are only a couple of pages long.  He’s got a wicked sense of humor. I highly recommend  just about anything he’s published.

Last night I picked up his book What On Earth Have I Done?

Mind if I share one of the stories with you?  It’s called Sunday Morning….

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Sunday. Sunday morning.  Some in church. Some in bed.  Some in limbo.  Some in slow motion to nowhere in particular.  And one alone looking for a small slice of the pie of delight:

Around 8:30, cool and foggy- shifting toward warm and sunny.

Walking along a quiet street, I hear a melodious voice sing out:

“Sweetie Pie; oh, Sweetie Pie, where are you, Sweetie Pie?”

I stop and listen.  “Who? Me?”

The voice came from a porch of a house across the street.

Trees and bushes hide the front of the house.

All I can see are the bare legs of a woman who is calling.

Nice legs.

“Sweetie Pie, oh, Sweetie pie.  Where are you, Sweetie Pie?”

So, what the hell,….what harm?

“I’m over here, darling,”  I answer in my best bedroom voice.

She can’t see me either.

I’m hidden by the trees and bushes on my side of the street.

But she’s hip and sings out:

   “I hope you’ve taken your dump, she says, “Come eat your nibbles,”

Aha!  A game is afoot.

 

“The dump is done. Can I have a latte with my nibbles?”

She doesn’t back down.

“And would you like a tummy rub with that?”

She laughs.

I laugh back.

And now her shaggy little black dog has finished his dump and comes woofing across the lawn and charges up the steps.

“Come to momma,” she says, “I didn’t know you liked coffee.”

I wander down the street, and the lovely voice calls after me.

“Have a nice day, Sweetie Pie.”

I see her now.  An old lady in her nightgown waving from her porch.

Nice legs.

Nice, nimble mind, too.  She’s a player.

I walk on with the dog of my imagination running unleashed through the bushes of my brain, looking for a place to unload.

Too bad her dog came back.

I could have used a tummy rub.

Photo by Google

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Do you have a favorite author(s)?  Tell me who (and why).  Any books you’d highly recommend?

Call me old school.  I still love the feel of a good hard cover book in my hand.  Normally buy them for pennies on the dollar through Amazon books (used hardcovers).

Later!  DM

The Man from the lobby

I had an hour to kill.

Decided to sit in the hotel lobby and people watch.  I was in town to give another presentation of a book I had gotten published the year before.

Then I saw him.   A man who had attended a previous presentation I had given 6 months before.  Felt a low-grade panic settle in my gut.  All I knew about the man was he too was an author.  Pretty sure he was a college professor.  My biggest concern was a good portion of my presentation would be similar to the one he had heard 6 months before.

Dang.

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I’m one of those people who when faced with a fear, 9 times out of 10 I will got after it head on, rather than stew.   I decided to head to the conference room early and re-introduce myself to the man from the  lobby.

He wasn’t hard to find.  He was sitting close to the front, right behind my table.  I walked up to him, and said I remembered him from before.  He instantly lit up. I put one knee down on the carpet, next to the table, and confessed to him, much of what he would hear  this afternoon was probably going to sound familiar.  I’ll never forget what he told me.

” You need to make sure you tell the story you told before, the one about the feedback you’d received on your rough draft. Bill So and So and I talked about that after your presentation.  That was so powerful.”

I looked him in the eyes, and thanked him profusely…for you see, the last time I had given my presentation, I had vented to the assembled.  I had gotten off my notes and shared some behind the scene angst on the writing of my book.  I questioned the wisdom of doing that at the time.  Come to find out, this seasoned author, this man from the lobby,  had been touched by that story, as much, if not more, than by my book.

We never know, do we.

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If you’re a long time reader, you may remember.  I’d written the introduction and first chapter to a book.  Shared it with someone I used to get together with on a regular basis, who had had several things published and seems to know what he was talking about when giving feedback.  Well, his feedback, while well meaning, was brutal.  I ended up second guessing myself to the point, the book project was shelved from 2008 until 2015…

7 years.

Then after 7 years, I still had this book rumbling around in my head.  The internal pressure began to build.  Those of you that have to write know what I’m talking about.

I had to get it out.

Even if it didn’t  measure up.

So in 2015 I wrote  the rough draft.

Then in 2016 I got it published.

 

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Here is an excerpt from my favorite writing mentor Brenda Ueland from her book If You Want To Write:

“How does the creative impulse die in us?  The English teacher who wrote fiercely on the margin of your theme in blue pencil: “Trite, rewrite, helped to kill it.  Critics kill it, your family.  Families are great murderers of the creative impulse, particularly husbands. Older brothers sneer at younger brothers and kill it.  There is that American pastime known as “Kidding” – with the result that everyone is ashamed and hangdog about showing the slightest enthusiasm or passion or sincere feeling about anything….

You have noticed how teachers, critics, parents, and other know-it-alls, when they see you have written something, become at once long-nosed and finicking and go through it gingerly sniffing out the flaws. AHA! a misspelled word! as though Shakespeare could spell! As though spelling, grammar and what you learn in a book about rhetoric has anything to do with freedom and imagination….

And so no wonder you don’t write and put it off month after month, decade after decade.  For when you write, if it is to be any good at all, you must feel free, free and not anxious.  The only good teachers for you are those friends who love you, who think you are interesting, or very important, or wonderfully funny; whose attitude is: Tell me more.  Tell me all you can.  I want to understand more about everything you feel and know….Let more come out….

Yes, I hate orthodox criticism.  I don’t mean great criticism, like that of Matthew Arnold and others, but the usual small niggling, fussy-mussy criticism, which thinks it can improve people by telling them when they are wrong, and results only in putting them in straitjackets of hesitancy and self-consciousness, and weazening all vision and bravery.

I hate it not so much for my own account, for I have learned at last not to let it balk me.  But I hate it because of the potentially shining, gentle, gifted people of all ages that it snuffs out every year.  It is a murderer of talent.  And because the most modest and sensitive people are the most talented, having the most imagination and sympathy, these are the very first to get killed off.  It is the brutal egotist that survive…

…. and so now you will begin to work on your writing.  Remember these things. …Work with all your intelligence and love.  Work freely and rollickingly as though you were talking to a friend who loves you.   Mentally (at least three or four times a day) thumb your nose at all know-it-alls, jeerers, critics, doubters…”

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Well, time to get to work.  🙂 Later! DM

 

A Peek Into My Writing Journal

Last night the Internet was down.

I was in the mood to read something stimulating, so  I opened up my writing  journal that I have stored on my computer hard drive.

My writing journal is a catch-all of anything  that grabs me….

The only criteria for getting into the journal is at that moment, I am thinking, I might want to revisit these words again sometime, and the words grab me.

Quotes I come across, articles on current events that are especially articulate, things I’m wrestling with personally, etc.

Much of it is highly personal, and will never see the light of day (at least on the Internet).

Raw and unfiltered.

It takes just a couple of seconds to copy/paste  something good for later.   I highly recommend starting one if you haven’t already.

Word picture…Did you know cows have (4) stomachs? Yep. Ever hear of a cow chewing it’s cud?  Basically, the cow coughs up something it has already chewed on and swallowed and chews on it some more.  That is what my writing journal is…good stuff I have already digested, but may want to chew on it again. 🙂

In 2013, I was second guessing myself as a writer.  Got some good feedback from several of you that wound up in the writing journal.

Here is one piece of advice on writing that caught my eye last night:

“Write about what interests you, and do the best job you can.  Publish it, and then move on to the next thing (If you don’t move on, you risk one of two things.   If your piece is good, you’ll spend too much time patting yourself on the back.  If it’s bad, you’ll beat yourself you.  Write, and let go.

If people offer comments or criticism, consider them, but don’t be ruled by them.  For heaven’s sake, don’t worry about the numbers.                Linda

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If you are a blogger, (or a writer but not a blogger)  do you have any goals/ thoughts/ rules, etc.  for how you write?  Any tips that work for you as to what makes good writing?  Define good writing as far as you’re concerned.  What suggestions would you give someone who wanted to start blogging, but wasn’t sure of where to start?  Any suggestions for what not to do?  Who are some of your favorite writers and why?  (Feel free to leave a link  in your comment, if you have one.)

Google image

 

Stoke’n the fire

There is a fire that burns most days, way down in the depths of my soul.

Not just figuratively, mind you, but literally.

This morning as I was going over my notes for a series of speaking engagements this weekend on local history, I  could  literally feel the burner kick in…..

On the gas water heater and furnace that heats our house, you can hear both of them when they get ready to fire up. There is a distinct sound as the igniter kicks in….then after the flame lights/ the fan kicks in…..

 

That fire (passion) burns 85 % of the time when I am at work.

It also burns on days like today, when I’m talking somewhere.

Not even sure why I’m telling you this…. 🙂

I’m speaking this morning @ 10:30 and again @ 1:45.  I will let you know how it goes.

Can you see the fire in this guys eyes?

Photo compliments of google

Substance

Read a thoughtful column last night from my favorite author Andree Seu Peterson titled Let’s Do Lunch.

I have to make a confession, Some of last nights column went right over my head.  Same kind of feeling I get when I try to read a poem.

But I did come away with a nugget and the realization I am not the only one who can only tolerate so much shallowness.

I can banter with the best of them, and love a good tease, BUT give me deep meaningful interaction anytime over shallowness with a guarded person.

(That is one of the biggest draws for me in the blogging…meaningful interaction)

An hour later I applied what I’d just read.

I got a random text from someone I don’t know all that well.    She had been watching  something on a TV series  and one of the characters  reminded her of me….

She wrote...”So and so reminds me of you…”

In the past, I probably would have just replied with something like...”cool…or neat…or thanks”… but because I am not watching that series,  I had no idea what she meant…

I wanted to know more.

I wrote her back…

I said, “Cool”..but then asked , “In what way did I remind her of so and so..?”

Her reply  left me  encouraged.

So much so, I made a copy of her words and hung them up on the wall overlooking my desk.  I have this habit of making copies of encouraging words and pinning them on the bulletin board overlooking my desk.

DM