She stood staring at his doorknocker, debating what would happen if she left. She remembered her neighbor, who left from work early to buy flowers for his wife just because; he ended up being crushed in his vehicle by an eighteen-wheeler whose driver had fallen asleep. She was pretty sure his wife would have preferred him staying late.
Figuring fate had a reason for placing her at 452 North Brook Apartments on that fall night when the air was still crisp, she raised her hand to knock: the first hit to the door was barely audible even to her ears, so she steadied her trembling hand, lifted the heavy knocker to it's full height, and let it drop. She should have been terrified, the unknown lying behind the thick door, but she wasn't. She knew who would answer.
She heard a low growl behind the door, but she didn't bat an eye; she'd grown up with dogs, been bitten by dogs, slept curled up around dogs. Tonight wouldn't be any different, she supposed. She could feel her heart beating madly in her throat, giving her the sensation she would throw up all over the "Welcome" mat which sat bristly against her bare feet. She could not remember where her shoes were. When no head appeared at the window and the door did not open, she sat down on the cement block outside of the apartment, her back against the chill steel door. Sobs racked her lungs, begging to be spilled, and yet she maintained composure. Feeling pain in her mouth and metallic taste on her tongue, she put a hand to her lip. Only then did she realize she had punctured her lip through and through with her cuspid. Even though it was late fall, she did not shiver in her sundress. She couldn't remember why she had worn it, but she knew there was a reason.
The door pulled away from her back, even it not wanting to touch her as she sat curled over herself.
"Eva?" His voice washed over her, and she could feel her groin muscles tense. Feeling her mouth filling with blood, she spit onto the ground and wiped away the trail of spittle resting on her chin.
"I don't know why I'm here," she said, her back still facing away from the door as she rocked herself into a false calm: it was the best hello she could muster.
"Come on," he said, and she heard his sigh softly hit her ear drums, mingled with the jingle of his keys: his apartment key, his car key, his gym membership id, the fleur-de-lis he had purchased, her car key... Her car key glinted in the moonlight. She saw the backward glance he cast into the dark room, the longing look up the stairs, and she knew, she knew in that moment how the twilight sparkled in his eyes without even seeing, and she saw the deadness in them when his eyes met hers. The twilight was his everything. She was his nothing.

Busy Bee!

Hey everyone!

So it's been awhile since I've been on here... between school ending for the year and transitioning into my summer job, it's been crazy. Right now I'm battling with the allergy gods, which has not been a winning battle on my part. Today is the first day I've felt pretty good, besides waking up with allergic conjunctivitis, but I'm completely better now that I have drops for my eyes! So cross your fingers it stays that way!

I'm working at Elizabethtown this summer and am having a blast so far. Shh, don't tell, but I feel like I'm getting paid to have fun. It's not a stressful job, at least not for me. I know it will get busier, but that means more hours! And on top of that, I'll be walking a Boston Terrier this summer. She's such a sweetie, and that pays pretty well. I'm pretty happy about how the money situation looks this summer.

For next school year, I'm going to have a lot to do, but I know it will be worth it. I'll be a full time student, working on finishing up my business minor and putting in some creds for my English degree. God, I can't say it enough: I LOVE the English Department. I feel like I've really found what I'm meant to do and I LOVE it. I feel like I'm gushing about a lover! But really, it's been great so far. I'll be writing consulting still, but I'll also be interning with the Learning Services Department to actually implement and design a Writing Center, and I am SO excited! On top of that, I'll be a Peer Mentor again, and this year, I'll be officially the Lead Reporter for our school newspaper, which I'm pretty stoked about. In my spare time (ha), I'll be a Resident Assistant for our Growing to Empower a Multicultural Society floor, which I'm really excited about. I get a single room, so you know what that means (no, not sex, drugs, or alchy): writing <3.

Sh, don't tell (I'm trying not to tell a lot of people, so I figured my blog would be a good place to just say this) but I'm working on my book...I won't tell you how many words I have done, but let's just say so far it's going well :). And with my job this summer, I'll have plenty of time to write. I even got to crack out my paints and easel the other day. Set it up, drank some coffee, and started a work. We'll see how it turns out.

Ahh, summertime... I love it :)

Love's Lingering Fingertips: A Sister's Story.

Love’s Lingering Fingertips: A Sister’s Story

“Due to you I now see myself in a positive view
I see myself conquering mountains and calming winds
I see myself exploring the ocean as if I had fins
I’m beginning to slip so make your grip a little tighter
With your hand in mine I know I can be a fighter
With your hand in mine my future always looks a little brighter"

- Hand in Hand

These words are forever etched in Dana Richmond’s mind. It has been almost three years since her sister’s death, but her younger sister never strays far from her thoughts. “I never thought that she would pass away,” Richmond says, thinking about her sister’s published poem “Hand to Hand”. “She was only fifteen when she died, but she accomplished so much in that time.”

Lauren Richmond was diagnosed with a chordoma brain tumor at the age of ten, a very rare disease which only strikes three hundred people in the United States. Richmond watched her sister go through brain surgeries, chemotherapy, and occupational therapy. “She never complained, and at the hospitals with all the kids, she never saw herself as sick; she always wanted to help the other kids,” Richmond states, citing that if her sister received a new stuffed animal, she would always give it to another child in the hospital. “She had such a big heart.”

“I was thirteen when she was diagnosed…and I had full faith in the doctors,” Richmond says. “I understood that the situation was serious and I understood her diagnosis,” which was not a good prognosis, but Dana continued to believe in the strength of her sister. “I watched her work with her occupational therapist, and therapy really helped her through her recovery and into remission.”

Dana left to attend Elizabethtown College in the fall of 2008, but her sister had a relapse. “She became sick again a week after I left for school... I went home every weekend to spend time with her. I wish I would have realized sooner that the treatment wasn’t going to work.” Lauren Richmond passed away on December 20^th, 2008 after a five year battle with brain cancer.

In seeing her sister undergo numerous treatments for her brain tumor, Richmond knew she wanted to explore a field in healthcare. “At first I thought I wanted to pursue physical therapy, but I found that physical therapy is very straightforward [in its procedures].” Richmond stated that if two people tear their ACLs, the physical therapist will treat both people very similarly.

Occupational therapy is quite different. “Occupational therapy is more about creativity,” Richmond stated. “What might work for one patient might not work for another, so you always have to be thinking on your feet.” According to Dana, her sister played a large part in her decision to research degrees in occupational therapy. “I full-heartedly believe Lauren’s occupational therapist helped her live longer; her therapist was always so friendly, and I knew from that experience that I wanted to explore the field more.”

In pursuit of discovering more information about occupational therapy, Richmond attended an open house at Scranton University which is known for its occupational therapy department. “I just remember the professors’ passion when they talked about the subject, and I knew in listening I wanted to be a part of it.”

Richmond also explored Misericordia University’s occupational therapy program. “All of my applications [for college] were in by October,” Richmond stated, laughing. “My mom really pushed me to get ahead on everything.” Although Richmond is currently enrolled at Elizabethtown, the college wasn’t always at the top of Dana’s list. “E-town came in the running late in the game. I heard about how good the occupational therapy program was through my high school counselor.” When Richmond visited the private liberal-arts college, she was sold. “Everyone was friendly at E-town. At Misericordia, no offense to them, they just an air of arrogance. E-town isn’t like that.”

Although Richmond was convinced occupational therapy was the right track for her before she got to college, once she hit the classroom, doubt crept in a little. “As a first year, you take OT 111, the introductory occupational therapy course along with biology. That first semester is a big jump, and some people sink, others swim. At first I thought, ‘Oh my God, what was I thinking?’, but I soon came to love the class and the arts and crafts we designed as treatments for patients.” Richmond says the course load was a shock to her, but in looking back on it, her first year was easy in comparison to her courses now. “You need to walk before you can run,” Richmond says, smiling.

Occupational therapy at Elizabethtown, Richmond stated, is different than most other universities; at Elizabethtown, the department is a five year Master’s degree. “In order to remain in the program, you have to keep a 3.0 GPA and do field placements your last three years.”

Currently, Richmond is working with elderly patients at a hospital in Camp Hill. “I love working with the patients. Most of them are there for orthopedic care for hip replacements or other surgeries… I hope to leave my handprint on someone in my life. To touch people like my sister did in such a short period of time, I would be lucky to touch people like that.” In the future, Richmond aspires to help her patients get back to functioning at the state they were before an accident or an illness. “[In being an occupational therapist], I am “able [to] do what [I] love…and that means the world to people.”

Over the summer, Richmond is taking her occupational therapy experience abroad. “I’m going to Vietnam for three weeks with Dr. McFarland. I’m really looking forward to helping in the orphanages.” Richmond has always dreamed of traveling, but she lives her life enjoying each day as it comes.

“I learned from Lauren to live each day to its fullest. I love quotes,” Richmond says with a smile as she talks about the abundance of quotations hanging in her bedroom. “I live by the quote ‘A person might not remember what you said, but they will always remember how you made them feel’… [Lauren] made me feel loved,” which is a feeling Richmond will never forget. Richmond attributes her goals of striving to be an occupational therapist to her sister’s determination to accomplish so much in the short time she lived. “She always pushed me to do better.”

Hanging from Richmond’s neck is a silver necklace with a small pendent dangling from the thin, elegant chain. “Not a day goes by that I do not think of [Lauren]… I wear [this] necklace every day, and it is her fingerprint [on the pendent].” While Dana and Lauren can no longer walk hand in hand, every day the two sisters walk together, heart to heart.

Enough is enough.

Bullying. When this word is brought into discussions, I have heard the following responses: "Kids will be kids." "We all went through it; suck it up." "I was just picking."

If you believe those above statements, I want you to walk up to the family of Jon Carmichael, the family who weeps because their young 13 year old committed suicide because he was bullied to his breaking point. An article by Vivian Kuo for CNN (http://www.cnn.com/2011/CRIME/03/29/texas.bullying.suit/index.html) states the boy was repeatedly bullied, and "just prior to his death he was stripped nude, tied up and again placed into a trashcan."

Jon Carmichael hung himself in a barn near to his family's home.

Even if you don't read the article from CNN - it includes horrific details of his bullying, enough to bring tears to one's eyes - please click the link to atleast see the face of this boy, a sandy-haired, blue eyed child who could be your son, your child's playmate, your nephew...

Bullying needs to stop, and it needs to stop now. Too many children and adolescents are pushed to the edge through actions done by their peers, peers who do not think of the repercussions of their actions before it is too late.

Recently, many suicides have been occurring due to the bullying of LGBT students. Children of any sexuality, but especially those who reside outside of the "normativity" of heterosexuality are trying to figure out WHO they are as people, which is hard enough to do without having people bashing them all of the time.

The time in a child's life when he or she is being bullied is the time when he or she needs support the most. Please, talk to your children, your cousins, your nieces and nephews. Bullying is not normal, it is not just kids being kids.

Our school systems need to take Bullying Prevention Programs seriously. Where was an adult when all of these horrific events were occurring AT SCHOOL to this child? We send our children to school thinking they are in safe hands and in a healthy environment where they can learn; we never expect to find our child hanging in a barn because the school system turned a blind eye. And parents. Dear, dear parents. Please educate your children. Whatever happened to the Golden Rule? "Do unto others as you'd have done unto you." Your child probably would not want their head shoved into a toilet - another disgusting act of bullying which occurred to Jon Carmichael before his death - so tell them it's not right to do it to others. And if your child says they are being bullied, please, please, please take it seriously. A death of a child is always traumatic, especially one which could have been prevented. One death like Jon Carmichael's is one too many.

Update time!

Hello blog-readers! I hope all of you are doing well and enjoying the eh...not-so-wonderful introduction to spring (Really, snow tonight?!) Here is a short update on my life: I'm taking over the head writing consulting position next year. The girl running it is graduating, and I am so excited to follow in her footsteps. I truly love my job. Maybe the college will hire me after I graduate to run the Rhetoric Center :) Last week was the first time I have ever had anything published in a newspaper! I wrote a news article concerning the recent Liquor Control Board busts at our college. No criticism so far, so that is wonderful. If you would like to read it, you can visit the Etownian (the Elizabethtown College newspaper) online at http://www.etownian.com/ . There are a plethora of good articles to read, so enjoy! I have not really been writing creatively though, which is really dampening my spirits along with this weather. With all of my class work, it's been hard to blog and find time to design short stories, but I'm hoping this weekend I'll be able to do so. I do have a longer short story due in the next month, so hopefully some ideas will stem from there. If anyone is looking for some good reads, check out the book "Freedom" by Jonathan Franzen. It is a beautiful characterization with some of the best metaphors and intense understanding of human interactions and workings I have ever read. Truly a masterpiece. Also, "The Swan Theives" by Elizabeth Kostova is an amazing read of slight historical background encased in a love story of artistic tragedy. If you enjoy art at all, read away. This novel is definitely on the top of my "Best Reads Ever" list. (I'm planning to write Kostova a letter of appreciation for her work; maybe I'll meet her some day...sigh). I'll be posting this weekend. Hope you all have a wonderful Friday :)

The Pain of Summer Lovin’

The two lovers lay wrapped in the sheets, their bodies heaving with breathlessness. Dissipating pleasure collected on their skin along with the beads of sweat that evaporated into the air. The woman lay on her stomach, her left leg lifted under the satin covers so that her freckled knee stuck out. Streaming brunette curls fell across her pillow; her eyes were closed. The man lay on his back, the light blue sheet strewn haphazardly across his right shoulder as it scooped and fell on his lower abdomen like a cresting wave breaking at the ocean’s edge. Unlike the woman, his eyes were open, plastered to the ceiling as if in deep concentration as he gazed at the swirls of the cream-colored spackling and ornate carvings along the crown molding.

The woman stirred from her calm, rolling onto her back, covering herself with the light-weight sheet before she reached for him and nestled her head into the crook of his shoulder. The two lay in this position for a few moments, the only sound being the lawn care machinery outside, sawing and nipping at branches and blades of grass.

“We do good work,” the woman said, her eyes still closed while she lay on his chest.

Her words hung in the air a few seconds before the man’s tight lips loosened into a grin, and the woman began to laugh, small creases coming to surface around the corners of her eyes.

“Yes, yes we do,” the man responded as he lifted his hand to run his fingers through her silky mane of curls. “You know, I would much rather be out with my team right now working on your hedges and flowerbeds.”

The woman laughed mildly, snuggling her head deeper into his chest as she replied, “Your bed is right here. Anyways, I’ve been begging Martin to take those hedges out for years, and he refuses to do it. Says they allow us to have privacy; for God’s sake, our neighbors are eighty years old. They can’t see more than ten feet in front of themselves with their glasses.”

“Maybe instead of getting rid of the hedges you should get rid of Martin,” the man said.

“Really?” The woman rolled onto her stomach again, her leg still in between his. She lifted her head to finally make eye contact with him, her face only a few inches away from his tanned one. “What’s the good of me leaving Martin if you’re not leaving Deb?”

The man maintained the gaze for a few more moments before relinquishing, letting his head hit the pillow. “Touché,” he said as the two began to laugh again, his cavernous laugh matching her vivacious one only in lower tones. The roar of the lawn mower passing a story below made the room buzz with noise as the two lay silently in each others’ arms after their amusement had subsided. The woman took a deep breath as if in preparation to say something, but she voiced nothing.

“Now you have to say it,” the man said, a halfsmile creeping to his lips causing boyish dimples to pop up that far preceded his age. “What do you want to know, sweetheart?”

“Why do you cheat on Deb?”

“Probably for the same reason you cheat on Martin.”

She snorted, a sound of disbelief and humor mixed together. “Please. Men and women cheat for different reasons.”

He sighed. “I know what you expect me to say. You expect me to say something macho, something like she sucks at sex, can’t cook for hell, or doesn’t try to impress me with makeup or lingerie anymore.” He smiled, something sad flickering behind his hazel eyes. “Really, she just doesn’t love me. She never did. We got married at a young age when we thought we knew what love was. Turns out, neither of us really truly loved each other.” He looked away, turning his head slightly as if he wanted the woman at his side out of even his peripheral vision.

The woman kept her head propped up on her hand while she gazed at him.

When he didn’t continue speaking, she began, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I thought you were going to say something macho and tough. I’m sorry. And you hit the nail on the head.” Her hand went to his honey colored hair, pulling his face back toward hers. “I never loved him. I thought I loved him at one point, but work became his lover along with the alcohol almost right after we got married. He’d rather kiss the rim of a bottle than me,” she said with a sad smile. Tears began to rush to the lids of her eyes as she continued. “And then I met you…” her voice trailed off, her dark brown eyes locked with his.

“What do you think your husband would do if he knew you were cheating?”

The woman smiled and said, “Kill me” with a wink before alarm could come over her lover. The two chuckled a little. “No,” the woman continued, “he would probably leave. I mean, he’s never here anyways. He’s always at work.”

“I wish Debbie were always at work. When she’s home, talk about a complete bitch,” the man said as he laughed. “It’s like she doesn’t realize that I bust my ass out in the sun all day long. For Christ’s sake, we live in Orlando; it’s not 50 degrees here when people want yard work done.”

“Aw, poor baby,” she replied, rumpling his hair as she leaned in and kissed his neck. “You work hard in the air conditioned house of one woman whose husband hires you, that’s for sure.”

He smiled as he lifted her chin, kissing her full mouth.

A knock came at the door breaking their kiss.

“Goddamn it, Marcus, I told you not to bug me up here the last time you knocked on the door. Did the sprinkler system go down again?” The man jumped out of bed, putting on his boxers hastily as he started to go for the door.

“I just wanted to see my wife.” The door swung open slowly as a man in business attire walked into the room. “I see you’re busy, hunny,” the man began his bloodshot eyes locked on his wife, his voice cold. “I guess it slipped your mind that today was my birthday and you promised to go out to lunch with me, but I guess if someone were fucking my brains out, I’d forget, too.”

The woman clutched at the sheets, her eyes unable to look away from her husband. Her lover stood at the side of the bed paralyzed.

The suited man continued, now glancing at the other man in the room. “Good to see you, Don. I just heard from my wife you do nice work. Glad to see someone is getting some satisfaction.” His voice sarcastically flitted over satisfaction as his slurred words exited his mouth.

“M-Martin, I know this looks terrible. It is terrible. But you’ve been drinking, sweetie...” The woman’s voice died as if she could not think of something more comforting.

“You’d be drinking too if you had known I was screwing some other woman for the past month.” Sweat beaded at his forehead causing his glasses to slip a bit from the bridge of his nose. He angrily shoved his hand into his pants pocket as color boiled to his cheeks. “I’ve tried. I’ve given you everything, Grace! You hear me? Everything! I gave you this house! I gave you access to my bank accounts! Without me you’d be living in rags and not designer shoes. And you repay me by sleeping with some scum that works in the dirt all day!”

At this, the woman burst into tears as Don interrupted her husband’s rage. “You think you gave her everything, but obviously you haven’t; for Christ’s sake, you missed your anniversary last month!”

“Well, I’m sure she celebrated just fine with you,” Martin spat, his voice shaking along with his limbs.

“Martin, honey,” the woman started, “please, I love you. Can we please talk about this?”

“You’ve already said enough! I’ve heard everything I need to hear.” The man sighed deeply. “You always think you’re right, Grace. You almost ‘hit the nail on the head’ earlier,” Martin said, his words slightly flowing together through his intoxication.

“Martin, I can leave. I swear I’ll never see your wife again,” Don said, bending over to gather his clothes that were bunched together on the Oriental rug.

“No. You’re going to stay here until I finish this!” The man yelled as if he had forgotten his wife’s lover had been standing in the room. “Grace, you always have to have things your way; you always think you’re right. I’m sorry to tell you this, honey, but you’re wrong.”
“What do you mean, Martin?” The woman’s slight sobs had subsided; she sat curled up in a ball under the thin sheets.

“You were right about the fact that I would leave,” Martin said, his voice becoming somewhat calm. “You were just wrong about the fact that I would kill you.”

The woman’s eyes filled with tears again as she locked her gaze on her husband. Something snapped behind his eyes causing them to go dark: a fuse fizzling out. The man fiddled with something in his coat pocket. “You should have known I’d kill you both.”

update.

Just wrote a new creative writing piece- debating on posting it. Most likely I will; it's just a tad intense for what I normally write. It was for my creative writing class. I turn it in tomorrow, so cross your fingers for me. I'll edit it later today, and I'll most likely post it this evening...

Other than writing, I just got over a nasty stomach bug or food poisoning, I'm honestly not really sure which. It's amazing how GOOD I feel now that it is over! Ahhh. So much better. :)

Super excited for my news piece for my one class which will be a feature. I'm writing about the local coffee shop on our square that has been open for a year. It's such a trendy place, and I'm hoping to write about some of the events they have going on there.

I'll get that edited and up so you can all read now! :)

Out of the box.

It is 7:31, and I am sitting at my computer attempting to work on my accounting project, and yet I find typing a blog while drinking coffee and eating Death By Chocolate Cake a bit more exciting (although, surprisingly, accounting has been fun!).

Today was a lazy day in my part of Pennsylvania. Rain, movies, and books pretty much made up my entire day. I'm reading a book entitled "The Swan Thieves" by Elizabeth Kostova; it truly is one of the most beautifully written books I have ever read. She has such a voice. If you are an artist, this book might be a tremendous read for you, and even if you aren't, there is much to be appreciated in her effortless prose that I'm sure while the book was in progress was not so effortless to write. Her description and characterizations are magnificent.
My parents, on a whim or perhaps off their rockers, purchased a 3-D television, so of course, I watched "Alice in Wonderland" today. It took a bit getting used to the glasses (way oversized for my head; kind of makes me wonder if I have a brain), and the motion from the 3-D forms popping out was enough to make me sick until I got used to it. My parents are more high tech than me; I'll keep my regular TV for now, although I basically never watch TV anyways.

School-wise, everything is bloody perfect now that I've dropped Exporting & Importing. And I'd like to say what I withheld from the professor while he basically berated me for dropping his class: go $%&@ yourself. Learn to teach, and maybe I'll take your class.
Accounting is surprisingly fun, if I dare say so... The professor is an amazingly humorous man who makes the hour and ten minutes fly, and I have to admit I am learning a plethora of information which is interesting.
Professional writing is going well; I'm excited to attend Lavonne Mueller's writing workshop once I get back from Spring Break; unfortunately, I have not seen any of her plays, but she is a world-renowned playwright and is very prolific. I'm writing my feature piece for my professional writing class on the writing workshop with her, so I'm hoping the event goes well, which I am sure it will.
Sex and Gender in Society is an intense class due to the information presented, but I love it. The professor is so open minded and completely nontraditional that it makes the class impossible not to love.
And last, but certainly not least: Creative Writing. Ahhh. I have come to the conclusion that I am the biggest nerd ever. I had a meeting with my professor on Friday before I left for Spring Break to discuss ideas for my dialogue piece which was only supposed to last 10 mins, and I spent almost an hour there. Apparently, I am an overachiever, seeing as I brought five pages of characterization and dialogue that I had written. I feel as if I'm pushing the envelope with this one, which makes me uncomfortable and exhilarated all at the same time. But hey, what is life if you don't step outside of the box?

Playing with Fire.

Perhaps, this calling is the channel of invention,
I will not blush if others see it as a crime.
However dangerous the road, however distant,
These things won't compromise the will of the design.
Ten thousand Demons hammer down with every footstep,
...Ten thousand Angels rush the wind against my back.
The church of mine may not be recognized by steeple,
That doesn't mean that I will walk without a God. ♥

May I introduce you to Brandon Flowers, for those of you who have not heard of him. His big hit is "Crossfire" which is a beautiful song and takes me to a place a few hundred miles away from here when I hear it. The lyrics above are from his song "Playing with Fire", which is one of my favorites on his album Flamingo. These lyrics have such weight... it's exactly how I look at my writing; some people might not think I write about appropriate things (seeing as right now, I'm writing about a woman addicted to cocaine while pregnant), but hey, I just write what I see, hear, and experience, and the world is sometimes not a pretty place. Check out his album if you are in need of a little indie-ish kick in your style for the day.

Check back soon for a blog. Spring Break is this week which means I am writing, writing, writinggggg. :)

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....

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.