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

Hidden Things

 I've been hiding some things. 

I plan to keep hiding them, too. 

If you would like to see the things that I've been hiding, go [ here ] 

For a long time, my inner-child was sitting at the table in a stand-off with the cold spinach of unfinished projects.

Whether the projects turned out terribly or something changed in my motivation, I had a lot of elements I felt I had to "put to good use" before I was "allowed" to start something new. (Metaphor, much?) 

Perfectly good half-painted canvases in the top of my closet, abandoned when I was, waited for new direction.

Stacks of magazines and clipped collage words were in need of sorting and stringing together.

Dreggs of leftover paint in every hue waited to be shaken with enough vigor to reconstitute a rainbow.

:: Little by little, while she was looking away, I scooped forkfuls from her plate and sent her out to play::

I spent more than two weeks deciphering the archeology and anthropology of earlier forms of me, myself and my mediocre art. 

And then - I embraced the VC  *vomit copy, for the uninitiated* 

Stuck between an inability to put new ideas on old canvases and throwing perfectly good art supplies away,  I chose deus ex machina and turned the whole thing into a game. 

Using my mini thermal printer, I tagged the bad old art and slapped finishing touches on the incomplete stuff. Then I hid them all around town and called it scavenged art 

I made a few new pieces from the stock pile of spent supplies and took them with me out of town to hide. I sent other pieces in the mail to be hidden around the towns of my friends and family. I hid them in places that were meaningful to me. I hid some with Riley in a caper Downtown. 

She said she felt like a criminal... 

It didn't matter whether the pieces were found since they had been as good as trash. 

But - on the day that the first person found art and connected with me? That was a fantastic day. 

Fantastic. 

And so, as it often goes, a string of new beginnings was affixed all along to the old kite I let fly.

I've been making new things to hide, to brighten other people's day and make my own more interactive.

I know I did not invent this wheel. Rather- in the same spirit of recent [permission slips granted to me by me to harmonize] I'm allowing myself to join the fun. 

Over the years, we've participated in various rock hiding and hunting groups. The kids and I took it a step further with all the traveling we used to do, hiding different objects and "kindness cards" tagged with our instagram account made just for hide & seek *since deactivated*

I was also influenced by local artist, [Jason Craig], whose art I found @Riverwalk when I first moved back to town. ( and which, I still have and still plan to help travel onward...)

 Not to mention our whole creative community, we who find a blank wall insufferable. [Mural Tour] 

Another inspiration I have long carried with me is the [ Treasure Hunt on Jekyll Island. ] 

Every year, Jekyll Island artists hide blown glass baubles around the island for residents and visitors to find. When Rye and I visited again recently for a [ field trip ] we hid one of my favorite pieces of scavenged art at a place where good memories linger long, and we talked about the good things that have been, and most importantly, of the good things to come.  

Writers on Wednesday: Thornton Wilder

This week, I finished an audio book from one of my favorite authors, [Edna Ferber].  I wondered which of my other writing friends may fancy her work, and having recently purposed to walk more on the writing treadmill, I decided to make up one of those little alliterative things we like to do- you know,  Taco Tuesdays, Thirsty Thursdays, Freaky Fridays and Moonlight Madness sales. 

I would write about my favorite authors on Wednesdays - until I had a hall of fame, or at least a top ten. 

I thought I would start with the most recent ending -author of the book I just finished-  but then I remembered what today is and switched to someone I find more fitting: 

Thornton Wilder

He gave us [The Bridge of St. Luis Rey] - a story where one monk dedicates what remains of his life investigating whether a sudden disaster was caused or allowed by God, whether the people who lost their lives had been punished or granted deliverance from their circumstances. He conducts interviews and tackles all the angles of "why" and "what if" in the face of tragedy.  

[read it here] or [listen via LibriVox]

But he also gave us [Our Town] (coming back soon to Broadway!) and The Matchmaker (Hello!Dolly) which ties in with [my full circle Monday] and the Island Player's production that firstly disappointed Riley because it wasn't about making matches and went on to disappoint her a second time because there were also no dolls at all. 

Wilder gave us the Indian burian grounds in The Long Christmas Dinner - an all time favorite - you can watch it as a short film [here]

It took me longer to catch the rhythm in [The Skin of Our Teeth] - but once I did, I love it as much as the Fractured Fairy Tales of Bullwinkle Moose or Monty Python's circus. 

I rode through time and space on [Pullman Car Hiawatha] (and learned what a Pullman Car was) and journeyed happily to Trenton and Camden with a family, tender as my own in times of tribulation. 

There are still a handful of his titles I am working toward or through, the delay due to my tendency to read through my favorite titles again and again. 

I always close books by Wilder thinking "He knew." 

He saw people well - clear through to their soul. He was able to put into words the ephemeral experience of being alive, the new-Creation-nakedness of being human. 

And I love his insistence on simplicity - perfect contrast to the complexity of life itself. 

Twenty three years ago, I was 21 and living in a hotel room in Jacksonville, Florida. 

When the news broke of America's unexpected tragedy on 9/11, my two children - both under the age of two - were on a pallet bed, asleep on the floor.  

The next few hours held shock, fear, grief and a sudden solidarity like I'd never experienced before. 

I don't know where all the American flags came from that next day and stretching into the months to come- they simply multiplied. 

We pledged then to never, ever forget

What was it we wanted to remember? 

The frailty of life? 

The unpredictability of a day? 

The unity of our nation? 

That [life goes on and on and on... ] ?

All that and then some, I know. 

Today, I am 44. My children have doubled and (hopefully) none are forced to sleep on the floor. One son is the same age now as I was then, one daughter, even younger. 

They came after the cleared debris, and once those flags, one by one, got quietly tucked away. 

We do not know what they may face, anymore than we know for ourselves, but they will draw from the wells of wisdom we dig- let us ensure that they run deep. 

As Thornton Wilder said, first in "Our Town" and then again, in "The Skin of Our Teeth" : 

“We all know that something is eternal. And it ain’t houses and it ain’t names, and it ain’t earth, and it ain’t even the stars . . . everybody knows in their bones that something is eternal, and that something has to do with human beings. All the greatest people ever lived have been telling us that for five thousand years and yet you’d be surprised how people are always losing hold of it. There’s something way down deep that’s eternal about every human being.”
― Thornton Wilder, Our Town

“Each new child that’s born…seems to them to be sufficient reason for the whole universe’s being set in motion; and each new child that dies seems to them to have been spared a whole world of sorrow, and what the end of it will be is still very much an open question.”
― Thornton Wilder, The Skin of Our Teeth: A Play

May they never find themselves as bankrupt as George Antrobus, devoid the desire to build again.  

MRS. ANTROBUS: What, George? What have you lost? 

MR. ANTROBUS: The most important thing of all: The desire to begin again, to start building.” 

― Thornton Wilder, The Skin of Our Teeth: A Play

Full Circle Road Trip

I put the XL iced tea from Love's Truckstop in my forward-most cupholder, moving the morning's  M and mostly-empty coffee cup from GasPro to the neighboring "passenger" cup holder, checkmating my spent energy can of Passion Fruit flavored vitamin enrichment to the makeshift trash bag hanging from the shifter. 

Riley attended her morning classes from the backseat via hotspot

Her breakfast of hot boiled peanuts lasted well into lunch, along with Reese Cups and bottled water. 

According to our global positioning system, we had a little more than an hour before we reached our field trip destination: Georgia's Sea Turtle Center on Jekyll Island. 

The last time we were at the Sea Turtle Center  was when BeanBean & DuhDuh visited in 2016. [album]

The museum was smaller than we remembered, but the more we move forward in life, the more it seems to be that way with things we’ve left behind. 

After a full 20 minute tour, we left through the same doors we'd entered, doing our part to save turtles via purchase of gift shop tchotchkes on our way out (stickers and a leather bracelet-"like Rory wears".)

There was a scavenger hunt planned for students when everyone finished their self-guided tours, but facing the 3+ hour return and a sky full of dark clouds, we decided to get on to highstepping. 

Before we could leave, we had to attend to some monkey business on the neighboring island. 

Rye -having started her All-Things-Autumn-and-Pumpkin-Flavored Season  the minute the clock struck September, was keenly interested in the bread that Barbara Jean bestows upon her guests. There was no option to just buy the bread, so we allowed ourselves to be seated. Having done so, we then felt compelled to place a courtesy order. 

We agreed to go tapas in order to save room for Larry's but the plan was destined to fail - we had a very generous waitress who sent Riley home with extra pumpkin bread. 

We split Jay's half-order of Gritters (deep fried ham and white cheddar cheese grit fritters) and ordered a vegetable side apiece (Rye got more white cheddar grits while I enjoyed the squash casserole) 

After a hearty walk around the village, we were still full. But since we don't have a very convenient Larry's (Athens) we decided we would still stop and place an order to go,  for tomorrow... or at least a little further down the road. 

As we pulled into  the sub station, Riley suddenly remembered her fondness for Smallcakes, right next door,  and forgot about being full long enough to sprint for the door. With a luxurious 7 minutes to spare before closing, we cleared the counter with just enough time to have four cupcakes boxed for the road: Butterbeer, Birthday Cake, Strawberry & Hot Fudge Sundae. (No, you can't see them- they're already in various stages of demolition) 

We grabbed the usual from the giant gorilla. Riley used to be scared of him when she was little - now, slightly less so. 

As we got back in the car, she explained: "Disney was to my detriment" (her own words) "I used to think that monkey, and all the things like it,  were just going to suddenly come to life and hurt me." 

Having walked the beach and befriended the sea birds, it was time to get back home. 

On the highway home, I passed a Maserati - and he let me, instantly alerting me that Georgia State Patrol had not yet tired of shooting fish in the barrel. I cleared the lane change and saw we were both losing to a truck carrying marble slabs, slowed down to appreciate several road side light shows. 

I settled in, then, for LibriVox and a leisurely pace homeward - fully aware that my early morning ticket (sorry Momma!) would grant no immunity from a late night encore. 

One nice thing about being (somewhat) familiar with an area is knowing there's a better gas station up ahead within 'wait it out' range. I bypassed some iffy places for the clean, well-lit Parker's in Statesboro and added a full measure of petrol to the fumes in my tank. 

Back in the car, I combined my iced tea from Larry's into the Love's cup from earlier, peg-jumping it like a golf tee at Cracker-Barrel into the secondary, overflow cup holder, where the ancient GasPro cup had been kinged to abandoned his throne. I placed the latest cup in the premier spot, where reaching for it with my eyes on the road would be easier. 

As my hand brushed the morning's cup, now jammed between the shifter and dash, I realized I was back to coffee, full circle. 

Full circle. 

I take my tea unsweet (except when they 'mis-hear' me) and my coffee darker than a starless night. 

But sometimes, only certain times, I will add cream. 

Even more rarely, I'll make it sweet. 

For reasons. 

Last night's hazelnut reason was driving full circle. 

But also, my own quiet nod to life and her concentric circles. 

You see, many years ago, I lived on Jekyll Island. 

I started drinking coffee in the first place as the Golden Isles rode out Hurricanes Ivan and Jean. 

For a wary moment, we watched Katrina, before she made her turn for the worst.  

Coffee was the only thing available in the little seaside villa's lobby, where we watched weather developments into the wee hours and waited, intermittently, for power to come back on.   

I wasn't a coffee drinker back then, so the 2/3 cup of cream (or approximately 9 little creamers) helped smooth the bitter,

I was carried home on that last L cup of brood -  a little smoother than I generally take it, a little sweeter, too. 

The day held so many interesting things: a homeless man and a Peregrine falcon sharing the same intersection, lizards playing tag, historic places, sea turtles(of course) and a shy Fiddler crab; a family of island deer, beer bottle seaglass, a man playing harmonica, friendly passers-by. 

We collided with a butterfly.

The clouds were soft and gray and the breeze an oscillating fan; at once strong then gentle again. 

There were other "weather patterns" throughout my day that would take too long to unpack here - each declaring  both "You've been here before" and, simultaneously, "You don't live there anymore" 

With my eyes fixed on the road ahead of me, I reflected on myriad things; the jagged edges of shattered glass, worn smooth by tumbling seas. 

I reached my driveway as the last crumbs of Edna Ferber's buttery stories played. I locked up, set the alarm and climbed swiftly into bed. 

I slept soundly, 

profoundly grateful~ 

Home is where I am. 

Georgia Sea Turtle Center & Golden Isles Trip 2024 

People You May Know: Of Dupes & Duplicates

  People You May Know: Of Dupes and Duplicates

From my series of essays inspired by my suggested friends list on social media. 

From people pretending to be other people to those who start a new profile every time they forget their password, dupes and duplicates abound. 

🎵 Double, Double your refreshment, 

Double, Double your enjoyment 

Oh, no single gum double-freshens your mouth like, 

Double mint, Double mint 

(come on and double it) 

Double mint, DoubleMint... Gum 🎵

Voiceover: “Double your pleasure, double your fun…” 

~~~~

Dupes

I do a double take. 

I thought me and old so-and-so were already friends. 

Did they unfriend me? 

I go to check. 

No- I’ve not reached full potency in their life yet. 

We are still friends (for now, perhaps) 

I send them a message

“Have you created a new account?” 

Sometimes the answer is “Yes” I got locked out of my old one, or I’ve forgotten the password. 

Other times, there is no answer - they may not be sending me a new friend request for they are starting over. 

Still other times, they answer “No” and I promptly report the dupe account trying to hack one of my (already) friends.

~~~

Doubles

I do a double take.

Is that… ?

I look closer.

…an already friend’s profile?

It isn’t.

Apparently, all my friends are relatives

Somewhere down the line

With features resembling one another

And similar smiles

~~~~

Doctors From Dubai

“Hello, beautiful. I hope you will not think this forward of me…” 

Sincerely, 

Dr. Ahmed Sinclair Abu Dhabi of Dubai 

Dear Dr. Dubai, 

You are not in my network of approved providers. Please inform your colleagues: the high ranking sea admiral, Supreme Court judge and single father / billionaire entrepreneur that I will block them also. No, I would not like to join Facebook Dating. 

Elusively, 

Me 

~~~~ 

All My Children

Sweet Child of Mine,

It is ok to have your own space.

You do not have to add me and I won’t ask.

I understand that some accounts are for family 

And others are for finding your way

All that matters is

You know where to find me 

I’m always on standby 

Love, Momma K

~~~~~

Exes

Dear Ex-

Nice try. 

~~~

Me

“If you get a friend request from me, I’ve been hacked” 

So far, and to my knowledge, that has not been me. 

Of course, the fear is that we are duped but remain unaware. 

The closest I came to this was having someone who shared my account speak as if they were me, endorsing a political candidate. Anyone who really knows me, knew it couldn’t be me, but it was a violation of my person, and my trust all the same. 

Which leads me to the last on this list…

~~~

Myself

Dear Me 

It is I, myself, indeed. 

Of the multiple duplicate accounts floating across the interweb, some of them really are me.

I do cross my own path from time to time. 

Each profile has its own personality.

Some have highly specific uses:

• work only
• an art profile
• keeping minor kids in touch with only cousins and church friends added

Others were back-up accounts from volatile days when it was not unusual to be logged out and locked out of accounts that bore my name. 

But that was a *while ago. 

By God’s grace, I don’t have to worry about antics like that anymore.  

May it ever be so. 

*I still check old accounts occasionally

(560 Words)

To Harmonize

“ … but it will never be >insert favorite author’s name here < caliber writing…” 

“ … I’ll never create as good as > insert favorite artist’s name here < “ 

“ … I love music, but it’s not like I’m ever going to be on stage with > insert favorite musician’s name here < “ 

Plug any brand of inadequate feelings into this model and you’ve got what The Artist’s Way refers to as our inner censor and core negative beliefs. . 

Even from the vantage point of acknowledging and sometimes even clearing this hurdle, I find the frame is pervasive in my own life; as with many creatives and our would be creations. 

If I can’t beat Picasso or Pavoratti, why bother? Why even try to write a story when Kate DiCamillo and Jan Karon already exist? Not to mention the Holy Bible, itself. We don’t need a devotional or Our Daily Bread crumbs when there are already Proverbs and Thessalonians. 

Right? 

Right. 

It is absolutely accurate to say “The world doesn’t need your work” and to embrace the reality of only ever being mediocre. 

But lately,  here’s what has been growing in the greenhouse of me: I’m invited to the symphony. 

I get to say “Yes and Amen” alongside my favorite voices, to try my hand at what I find inspiring. I get to walk along with fellow creatives, cracking pistachio shells on tiny bits of ‘life is worth the struggle’ 

I’m not trying to speak above anybody. I’m here to harmonize. 

If my reward is the spotlight or signing autographs - I may reach the end of this life unfulfilled.

Comparison really is a thief of contentment.  

But if I want to be responsible for graffitied joy? There’s plenty of wall for everyone. 

Why is it the most profound of my “Aha!’s”  are rarely anything new so much as tilting my head a bit and looking more intently on something I’ve known all along ? 

Maybe it is merely applying what we know. 

At the end of the day, I may not get the triangle solo, but life is a symphony and I get to play. 

(But we’re probably still near capacity for devotionals, thank you for your submission)

(360 words)