Total Pageviews

Monday, February 21, 2011

Love, love is a verb, love is a doing word.

Money is not the only thing equivalent to time. When you see a happy couple together that appear to be in their fifties or sixties, what do you notice? I know I see the woman's smile, the way her sun reflects in her hair as she strolls the park arm-in-arm with her lover, the way the husband gazes at her, completely engrossed in her, oblivious to the hundreds of people around them: two people content to feed the ducks and spend away the day together.

Love is time. Time is love. These two simple phrases probably could save numerous people aggravation and grief if they only knew that they equaled each other.

Think of a time you were in the grocery store. Just recently, I saw a mother chatting away on her Blackberry hands-free device while she pushed her cart. Dangling from the edges of the rails were two children, about five and seven in age, a boy and girl.
"No, I already told you, Stephen, we have to make the deal tomorrow. We wait one more day and they'll pull the offer off the table," I heard her say, her voice piquing slightly. Her kids pounced in cat-like fashion from the sides of the cart, their hands clinging frantically to Fruit Loops, Milky Ways, and PopTarts; anything that they could get their paws on, they would bring to the cart, screaming, "Mom, I want this!" When she didn't respond, it became, "I WANT THISSSS!!!!!!"
Unable to speak over the high pitched wails from her offspring, the women said frantically, "Fine!" and returned to her conversation as her children poured copious amounts of junk into her cart.

I watched, somewhat in shock, a bit of me in disgust. And although it was but a glimpse of their life and it was only for a few seconds, it was the opportune example to use. (Let me preface this with, I can't imagine being a parent attempting to juggle everything, and I know sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. ). This mother, so preoccupied with her job, apparently her top priority based off of the scene in the grocery store, attempted to fill the void of spending time with her children by buying them anything they wanted - by the time she and the munchkins reached the cash register, on child pulled a sled and the other had a teddy bear in one hand while eating a King Kit-Kat bar. Perhaps she spent plenty of time with her kids at home, I would not know. But I know parents who don't...

All I could picture was these two children growing up, the little girl becoming upset when her husband, who supposedly loves her, only gets her a half-carat sapphire ring when she really wanted the two carat diamond ring. And the boy, he would buy his wife everything she ever wanted, take her on his business trips, and yet not spend an ounce of time with her...

Time is love. Love is time. Please, if you love someone, whether it is your children, your spouse, your boyfriend, your parents, or even your dog, spend time with them. "I love you" only goes so far. Love is not only a noun, but a verb. And the best way to make someone feel love is to show it, even through small acts of time. Those moments you spend lying on the couch, laughing away rainy Sundays, or the time you spend walking the duck pond hand-in-hand, those are the moments that mean the most. Yes, those flowers you buy her or that new television you get him is nice and probably greatly appreciated, but time... time cannot be bought, and that is what makes it the most precious, valuable gift one could ever receive.

Ralph Waldo Emerson put it beautifully..."The only true gift is a portion of yourself."

Get out there and love someone.

check up.

First, let me say it is great to be back. I have missed writing so much. With my schedule this semester, between trying to do all of my school work and getting some rest in for me, writing has taken a backseat to classes like Accounting and Exporting and Importing.

Luckily for me, accounting is actually interesting, despite the fact I have to use a calucaltor for the simplest computations. Exporting and Importing...well, let's just say, I'm not planning on doing anything with that, so I've just decided that since it is a two credit class, I'm blowing it off. As long as I pass, I'm okay with it. Writing is my thing, and I need to make time for it. Damn exporting and importing to Hell.

This semester, along with my two business courses also has two writing courses. SO EXCITED. Professional writing is amazing, but creative writing...ah. It is my baby. If only I could write for hours each day...

Right now, I'm struggling with finding material to write about. I've abandoned my one project so I could start another one. The idea of the last one was too much of a copy-cat from another book, although I did like bits and pieces of my ideas. I'll set it aside and see if anything comes from it.

Check back soon. I'm hoping to have a creative post up, or a reflection, in a day. My brainwaves just are not working at the moment (I haven't had my coffee).

P.S- what is with this weather!? Weather God, you are such a filthy tease....

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

memoirs of a muddy sunday.

“Grandpa, watch!” I called, twirling around in my hand-me-down galoshes, barely able to keep my balance in the puddle of murky rainwater that had dribbled off the spouting this Sunday. I watched as Grandpa peeked his head around the wisteria vine, assuring me of my beautiful although uneducated dancing abilities while he sipped on the leftover morning coffee that smelled stale. He settled back down in his chair, propping his worn New Balance sneakers on the small stand in front of him. I glanced down at my polka-dotted boots that were submerged in the mud made from the morning shower as I used them as plungers in attempt to dig my way to China; my older brother had graced me with his wisdom that this feat was possible. My eye caught the rosebush, silently budding with pleasure because it was finally spring; outstretching my fingers, I lightly touched the dewy pink blossoms that were creamy on my fingertips and carefully avoided the small thorns that gnashed out with bared teeth.

Although my grandparent’s yard was small because it was in town, everything seemed so large the summer before my fifth birthday. Twelve child strides took me to the base of the Bradford Pear tree where the crocus poked up through the moist ground, rejoicing in colors of ochre, azure, and maize. I bent my lithe frame in half in order to inspect the tiny flowers more closely. Sighing impatiently as I stood up, I galloped up the sidewalk to the porch where Grandpa sat. No matter the weather, Grandpa always wore the same attire when outside: an old, paint-covered t-shirt complete with small holes from snagging on things like the chain link fence and his khakis worn thin around the knees and left back pocket where his wallet had carved its place. Sometimes in the summer, if it were to get hot, Grandpa would remove his shirt, allowing his sweat to evaporate as the sun beat its rays onto his broad, tan shoulders.

Just as I approached him, Grandpa lowered his head, gazing out over his rimmed glasses to address me: “I do believe someone seems a bit anxious this morning. Are you that excited to get to work already?”

I grinned, feeling my dimples pop as I nodded enthusiastically, feeling my brain rattle in my skull. Grandpa worked his way out of his worn, woven chair. With my childlike energy overflowing, I bolted down the steps to the dilapidated shed in the backyard to assemble our tools. In Grandpa’s shed, everything had a place; the thin-handled paintbrush that he would give me hung from a nail placed to the left of the chipped aluminum door, and the small jar of red beet seeds came from the shelf above the doorway. If one were to stand on a step stool, I could guarantee that there would be a perfect circle of non-dusty shelf from where the jar came; despite the heaps of equipment and seeds packed into this small storage shed, everything had such a distinct place. Mom wished Dad could be more like Grandpa, at least that was what I heard her say when she could not find the right wrenches or screws in our messy garage.

I waited restlessly for Grandpa to open the locked door. Although most girls would have been terrified of the spiders and ants that lurked in the dim corners of the old shed, my mind was too preoccupied on gardening to even acknowledge their existence. Grandpa gathered the shovel and the rake while I slipped the string from the paintbrush over my skinny wrist and wrapped my tiny hands around the jar to carry it across the cement sidewalk to the bare plot of ground.

Noticing how clumsy I was in my galoshes, Grandpa had me sit down so he could tug the boots from my feet. I wiggled my toes that were finally free from their cage. Pulling me to my feet, Grandpa grabbed his rake and briskly removed the clumps of hard ground from the surface. After he finished, I picked up my paintbrush and moved onto the packed dirt path that he had made in the garden.

“All right kiddo, you know what to do,” he said, turning the corner of his mouth up as my feet squelched in the satin-like dirt. I took the handle of the paintbrush, gently poked it into the ground about two inches and then placed another hole about three inches from the last. After a few minutes, I had two rows of open-mouthed holes waiting to be filled. Grandpa picked up the tiny jar filled with what looked like grape nuts. Opening the lid, he shook a few clumps of red beet seeds into my palm. The ground, which was still moist from the morning shower, congealed to my feet and hands, leaving my skin smelling fresh. As I continued planting, Grandpa unhooked the garden shears from his belt loop as he walked over to the rosebush. Curious, I made my way over to him, past the wisteria vine that was brimming with purple clusters. I watched as Grandpa snipped away the dead branches from the previous year.

“You have to be careful when you cut away parts,” Grandpa said, his hands inspecting the branches closely. “You wouldn’t want to cut yourself with the shears or thorns, but your biggest worry would be Grandma tanning your hide for hurting her precious roses.” Grandpa chuckled, continuing his work.

When we finished our work, Grandpa and I made our way up to where Grandma sat in her cream linen capris. Although she had run all of her errands the previous day, her face was still beautifully manicured with light blush of sparkling pink which matched the rose petals that would bloom in the next few weeks. Her hair, platinum in color, reflected the sun’s rays that sneaked under the overhang like water. Seeing my dirty limbs, her eyes subtly rolled as she chuckled to herself, using the chair’s armrests as braces to help her stand. She made her way down the cement steps to fetch the hose from the flowerbed to wash the mud from my hands and feet. As I waited for Grandma to finish screwing on the nozzle, I danced freely, no longer having the heavy boots restricting me. In between my pirouettes and leaps, Grandma was able to sneak up behind me to spray my legs. The water was startlingly cold against my flushed skin, which sent me into fits of giggles and screams that made both Grandma and Grandpa laugh.

Once Grandma was satisfied with my legs being bare of anything but water drops, she handed me an old pack of cards that smelled of tobacco and mint tea. Undoubtedly, they were stored in the breadbox that contained everything but bread, like grandma’s Tic-Tacs and menthol cigarettes. I scurried over to Grandpa’s feet to sit on the cool patio in front of him to play solitaire. Unable to shuffle the cards, I placed them on the cement in preparation to scatter them. Before I had the chance to fling the cards in disarray, Grandpa leaned forward and placed his hands on my shoulders.

“Want me to do that for you?”

I leaned my head backward to look at him and handed him the deck; his fingers, although racked with arthritis, bent nimbly to send the cards into a bridge as each stack nestled in between each other. Grandpa shuffled the deck a few times then handed it back to me. As I returned to my game, I heard Grandpa’s newspaper shift as he returned to his reading, or so I had thought. Had I gazed over my shoulder, I would have seen him watching me closely, a mild smile dancing on his lips.


As I stood on the patio gazing at the spot where I had sat cross-legged in my bare feet and ragged t-shirt at four years old, my eyes welled with memories of all the days I had spent at my grandparents’ house over the last seventeen years. Shadows of recollections moved through my mind as I gazed out over the yard, now bare and lifeless, having not been touched in a few months. My eyes fell on the garden where I had learned to appreciate the life of even small things; the tree that had once seemed so large and impossible to climb, and yet I had done it to prove to my brother I could; the patio where I painted, played cards, and read the days away, longing to be anywhere but this small town.

“You okay, sis?” A heavy arm lay across my shoulders, punching through my thoughts as I smelled my brother’s cologne.

I sniffed in the brisk air and replied, “Yeah, I’m good” with a slight smile that dissipated quickly.

“Okay, well, we’re about ready to head out. Mom has the car packed with everything she’s taking.”

I heard the storm door slam behind me as I pulled the garden shears from my coat pocket. The wooden handles felt worn in my bare palms, and my fingers lightly swept over the carved initials PH. I sighed deeply as I slowly trod down the steps to the rosebush that stood next to the wisteria vine, now brown and brittle. I inspected the close-to-budding bush before taking a large section in between the shearer’s blades and clenching down.

As I walked to the car, I carried the shears and the rose cutting carefully as if they would break under the slightest pressure.

“What do you have?” my brother asked as he opened the car door for me, glancing uncertainly at the objects in my possession.

“Grandma and Grandpa,” I responded softly, settling into the backseat as I turned to gaze at my grandparents’ yard as we drove away.