::: dumbstruck :::

Doot, doot, doo, lookin' out my back door

One month ago today, Helene blew through town and took my words away. 

I wanted to use "awestruck" as my title. It's a prettier word and certainly applies in many ways, but "dumbstruck" is even more true.

dumb*struck- adjective: made silent by astonishment  

Astonishment. 

Yes. 

I've been using the term "shell shock" a lot, too. Because, around here, it looks - and feels - like a hundred thousand pipe bombs have gone off. 

From the linked definition 

…a reaction to the intensity of the bombardment and fighting that produced helplessness, which could manifest as panic, fear, flight, or an inability to reason, sleep, walk, or talk.

Bombardment. 

Yes, exactly. 

My daughter sometimes calls me a "yapper" - in fact, one time, she crowned me Mayor of Yapper Island. I'm sure she means it affectionately.  (I show my appreciation by adding whatever new lingo she introduces me to into my own vocabulary. )

But, lately, I've just needed to be quiet for awhile, to go slow with me.

I haven't had the words, or energy, and especially not the clarity to do much more than take one day at a time.

And that has been exactly what's been happening.

They just keep arriving, like waves at high tide.

The sun continues to rise, day after day, again and again, one at a time.

Birthdays came amidst fallen trees.

Life resumed with or without power or internet connection.

It has been a slow walk back to life as we know it, not to mention adjusting to ways of life that are new to us.

Our very terrain has changed.

There have been complaints, sure - but oh, there has been so much community.

I've been trying to take it all in.

I've lived long enough to understand the forgetfulness of man.

Sadly, eventually, after the dust clears and the debris is hauled away, our best behavior may be tucked away until the next disaster, like so many post nine-eleven American flags.

I wish the cuts needn't be so deep for our kindnesses to surface.

So I build a little altar of remembrance, using words as altar stones. 

When I meander through my history, as I am want to do, these little altars remind me of God's goodness in my life, and the glowing potential of man. 

Today, a month after the storm, I'm starting to find where they've been scattered. 

I'm picking them up to lay them back down. 

One of the first things I found to say was : There's a tree on our shed, but not on our heads. 

We have a lot to be grateful for.  (yes, there was rhyming, much to my own chagrin) 

Maybe I'll have more to say soon - maybe I'll write about writers again this Wednesday. I don't know, we'll see what tomorrow holds. 

"After all, tomorrow is another day" ~Scarlet  (with only DVDs to watch for a while, Riley has been to Tara and back again... and met with the wizard of Oz) 

Until then, here's a song: 

Twenty-Five

Twenty-five years ago, I started a new school from which I am never expected to graduate: Chandler Brice Brewer was born. 

My professor was younger than me. In fact, he was only minutes old when the lessons began. 

He came bearing the gift of questions and answers, metaphors and similes. 

He was wrapped in the invitation to explore imagination.  

Why was his resistance to sleep so strong, and what special magic did car rides possess to override this wide-eyed disposition? 

When was the last of each milestone and was I paying close enough attention? 

Where did the time go? 

Who knew how much a heart could expand?

Until I was enrolled, I only understood a parent's love as concept. 

Loving my own child was different than teaching, tutoring, and even 'big-sistering' countless children before. 

Not only did I gain new insight into what it means to love a child, I also began to understand what it means to be loved as a child, in the earthly realm of Momma and Daddy, as well as that higher, capital letter realm of Child and Father. 

It is something I hope my own children come to understand deeply  about themselves - and stand on when life feels like quicksand. 

Chandler is an adult now with a family of his own.  I do my best to be "on standby,” not standing in the way. 

And yet- I'm always internally poised to dive in if I am needed. Always will be. 

Happy Birthday, Chandler

Thank you for all you've taught -and are teaching- me. 

I love love love you, much, much, muchly. 

And I always will be. 

Love, 

Momma

Writers on Wednesday: O. Henry [William Sydney Porter]

Last Wednesday, having finished a favorite audiobook by a favorite author, I made writing about writers on Wednesday my goal. 

However,  I opted to save Edna Ferber, my inspiration for writing the series, for a future Wednesday, because the date was September 11 and my mind has linked the events of that day in 2001 forever with The Bridge of San Luis Rey and Thornton Wilder's approach to humanity. 

I am eschewing Edna again this week, because I realized this week that September 11 is also  the birthday of William Sydney Porter - better known to the world as O. Henry.  Had I a [deeper voice and an almanac] I may have known it sooner. 

O. Henry is one of my all-time, top-shelf favorite authors, and I love William Sydney Porter for the larger-than-life lore, too. 

Most of the authors I adore have long been on the other side of eternity. Sufficient biographies exist and it isn't my intent to write new ones. Go - delve into the material that has already been conveniently compiled - or just glance their [Wikipedia page]. 

Then let them tell you stories. 

I have always appreciated short stories, going as far back as the quick vignettes on Sesame Street. 

Blame my attention span. 

As I was raising (and homeschooling) my children, a large part of my reading time was our reading time. I read aloud from children's books and classics in the front seat of the car as we travelled or the hallway in between their bedrooms at bedtime.  I wouldn't change a thing.  

Short story collections fit perfectly into the thimble of time leftover for personal use. 

I discovered countless authors through short story anthologies. 

My own writing style has been influenced by short form in many ways. 

“I'll give you the whole secret to short story writing. Here it is. Rule 1: Write stories that please yourself. There is no Rule 2.”
― O. Henry

I still have the first O. Henry collection I bought many years ago, found in one of my favorite old bookstores down by the river in Beaufort, SC. 

I wanted a library full of books, especially old ones with their papery perfume and ancient wisdom. I found O. Henry's familiar name on the cracking orange spines of a two volume set as good a start as any.

“Each of us, when our day's work is done, must seek our ideal, whether it be love or pinochle or lobster à la Newburg, or the sweet silence of the musty bookshelves.”
― O. Henry

I don't recall if the library seeds came before or after my blog Ordinary Life -longtime onlookers know I've kept more blogs than a fur coat of Dalmatians- and the name wasn't a direct reference to any one factor. But O. Henry's [delight over ordinary things] is sympatico in spirit. 

“There are stories in everything. I've got some of my best yarns from park benches, lampposts, and newspaper stands.”
― O. Henry

One of my favorite things about reading O. Henry is discovering the way the world was before me. Often ways that are no longer commonplace but were as normal as [dandelions in salad] once upon a time. 

I also like the current of writer's life humming through his writing. The fourth wall is often broken or ignored altogether and the reader is trusted to always catch his meaning. 

I remember learning, a long, long time ago, that Mickey's Christmas Carol was based on real stories from books. And so, I was an early fan of [The Gift of the Magi. 

It was much later, and thanks to [Bill Myers]  I discovered [The Last Leaf] was written by the same author. 

And that is likely where my greater discovery of O. Henry's works began. 

The names of authors and books inside other books are highly contagious. 

“It would seem that the story is ended, instead of begun; that the close of a tragedy and the climax of a romance have covered the ground of interest; but, to the more curious reader it shall be some slight instruction to trace the close threads that underlie the ingenuous web of circumstances.”
― O. Henry, O. Henry: The Complete Works

I can't list here all of O. Henry's stories I've read - again, I sometimes neglect the ones I haven't gotten to for another round with the ones I love. Right now, I'm listening through [Waifs and Strays] via LibriVox, mostly while driving. 

And every year, on the Fourth of July, it is my own tradition to listen to [The Fourth in Salvador]

Each time I visit a new-to-me story - by O. Henry or any favorite author - I am always sorry I didn't arrive sooner. 

"And most wonderful of all are words, and how they make friends one with another, being oft associated, until not even obituary notices them do part.”― O. Henry, Whirligigs

One thing I learned about O. Henry as I was readying to write this is that he died at the age of 47 from diabetes. That's less than a stone's throw from my own age.  His complete life and body of work before the benefit of fifty. 

“The true adventurer goes forth aimless and uncalculating to meet and greet unknown fate. A fine example was the Prodigal Son — when he started back home.” ― O. Henry, The Green Door

How very glad I am he didn't dillydally. Time, being as it is, of the essence. 

“The most notable thing about Time is that it is so purely relative. A large amount of reminiscence is, by common consent, conceded to the drowning man; and it is not past belief that one may review an entire courtship while removing one's gloves.”― O. Henry

“If a person has lived through war, poverty and love, he has lived a full life”
― O. Henry

“We can't buy one minute of time with cash; if we could, rich people would live longer.” -O. Henry