I also thought some of you might appreciate some of the writing I did at CUWP, so I'm going to share it with you. Feel free to comment on it here, through email, or on Facebook. I would love to hear if anything struck a chord with you or brought back some memories. So here goes:
Hometown Celebration
I miss my hometown. Of
all the places I have lived, there are things I found there that I never found
anywhere else. One of the things I miss
the most is the sense of duty to God and country that the people have—a sense
of being connected to those around you and to the land. Mandan,
North Dakota, is a small town in
a sparsely populated state, but the heart of it is huge.
Many of my fondest memories surround the 4th of
July. When we were little, we went to
the parade every year. Thousands of
people gathered along Main Street,
little ones along the curb, parents and grandparents in folding lawn chairs or
in truckbeds along the side streets. Some people watched from the tops of the
old brick buildings, waving and hooting from up high. We eagerly, greedily, awaited the candy that
would be thrown our way, inching a little closer, a little farther into the
street, until watching parents called us back.
The school marching band banged by, old cars and putting
tractors, beauty queens and local bar bands rocking their tunes; karate
schools, dance classes, fire trucks, policemen, politicians; and the
veterans. Everyone stood for these
defenders of our freedom. Cheered for
them, respected them, hands over hearts.
After the parade we would crowd the booths at “Art in the
Park.” Food vendors and artisans selling their fare. Boy scouts from church sold funnel cakes, one
of my parents always helping, always bringing us some of the mouth-watering
treats. Summer is still not complete
until I have one.
In younger years, we had a meager budget, but we never went
without fireworks. Everything goes except
bottle rockets in our little town, so we had fountains and firecrackers, snaps,
smoke bombs, moving cars, flower blooms, roman candles, artillery shells,
Saturn missile rockets, and at the end of the day, the fireworks display from
the rodeo grounds. If we lived close
enough, we could feel the booms reverberate through our chests, loving every
minute of the loudness and light.
Being a Frohlich
Means hard work and duty
Playing cards, and a love of beauty
Seeing the country from the back of a van
Eating your food as fast as you can
Helping a friend or a stranger in need
Growing a garden or flowers from seed
Loving your country and political talk
Throwing a ball or taking a walk
Being a Frohlich is both good and bad
But they are the best family I could have had
Fame
“Public estimation or popular acclaim”
Sometimes I want it too much
and sometimes not at all.
When something’s done right
or beautifully—
painstakingly crafted;
heart and soul and time given;
Praise is welcome,
hoped for,
sought after.
But sometimes
in the dark of night
watching the rise and fall of little breaths,
the world’s acclaim
is nothing.
I yearn only for her smile,
her laughter;
the things I do unimportant
compared to what she is capable of.
I desire her confidence
in her ability to
achieve
in her beauty
and inestimable
worth.
I hope only that she knows
my love,
my faith in her.
And feels safe;
secure enough to
journey out
and find her own definition
of fame.
House Rules
- you help with chores every day except your birthday
- I, as the oldest sister, am right, unless mom or dad say otherwise
- say please and thank you. and bless you every time someone sneezes, even if they are so far away you could barely hear it and have to scream it for them to hear you back
- Never use words that describe bodily functions.
- never wipe your nose with your hand
- You have to ask mom if she needs help with cleaning or cooking because if you don’t she will be mad that no one knew she needed help
- Dad can swear, but nobody else can
- You can eat as many treats as you want as long as you ate a good dinner.
- family always comes before friends
- no playing with friends on Sunday
- If you hear mom whistle, it’s time to come home
- Always refer to elders by their titles. ie. Aunt Kathy, mr. jones
Anytime anyone sneezed, we had to say “bless you.” Especially if “anyone” was mom. Your parents probably said things like, “Can
you say ‘thank you’?” Or, “Say ‘please’!” My mom said, “What’s the magic word?”
(meaning say please) or “what do you say?
(meaning say thank you). Now that I look
back on it, my mom seemed to be big on keeping things a mystery. Making you guess. Anyway, my mom was big on please and thank
you, but “bless you” ranked right up there on the list of essential Ps and
Qs. I don’t know—maybe it was a
traumatic sneeze in her childhood, maybe her brothers withheld their blessings
when she sneezed because they wanted all the good stuff. Whatever the case, my mom ALWAYS made us say
bless you. I remember as a small child
being reminded of it constantly whenever my mom or one of us kids achoo’d. I also remember as I got older, my mom being
in the bathroom—the one place in the house we were NEVER allowed to interrupt
her, no matter what—when she sneezed. It
didn’t sound like it had hurt her or like she had fallen in—she was prone to sit
on top of the toilet and read, so that may not even have been a concern—and we
weren’t supposed to interrupt her, so I just continued doing whatever I was
doing. When I hear from the bathroom,
“Well?” I wasn’t quite sure who she was
talking to, so again, she was ignored.
Then I hear my name in her “you’re in trouble” voice. “Sabrina!” So I walk back to the bathroom and
say “What?” through the door to find out what I had done. “Why didn’t you say bless you?” The question
seemed so ridiculous I didn’t know where to begin an answer. “I don’t know,” was all I came up with. “Bless you?”
“Thank you,” she said, and that was the end of it. So now, no matter who sneezes, no matter how
far away or how ridiculous the circumstance, especially if it’s family, I
ALWAYS say “Bless you.”
Historic
Set in stone
Old buildings
Monuments to past lives
Past times
Beauty in the details
In the pride taken
In work well done
Columns, pillars, loops, swirls
Checkerboard
walkways
And fish scale
grates
Intricate murals,
stained glass;
Old trees watching over –
And living under –
it all.
Old buildings connect me
To the past
Make me wonder
About the feet that
trod these halls
Simple lives;
complex problems
Now over and done.
I lay a hand to stone
or wood
And ask it to tell me a story
So that they are not lost
And I can find home.
Mom School
From Sandra Cisneros’s “Eleven”
When I became a mother, I expected to feel different, to be
different. Like Sandra Cisneros says,
“…when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you
don’t.” It was something like that.
Until I became a parent myself, I thought my mom and dad did
mom and dad things. Like there was a
school they went to that taught them what parents do. Teachings such as: tell your children to go
to bed before they want to; make them sit quietly while you have a conversation
with friends; and kiss scraped knees or pinched fingers because it relieves
pain. But when I became a mom, I didn’t
feel any different. I felt like me, the
me at three, at 14, at 25. The same me I
had been yesterday. There was no school
except life. I found that I made my
daughter go to bed before she wanted to because I needed time to NOT be a mom,
where I could remember there were things I liked to do before I had kids. I found that I desperately wanted her to sit
quietly while I had a conversation with friends, not because it was the thing
to do, but because it is really hard to keep a train of thought going while
constantly being asked questions like, “Where is my shoe, Mommy?” and “Help me
swing, Mommy!” and “Can I have fruit snacks, please, Mommy? Please, Mommy? PLEASE!” I found I kissed scraped knees
because no amount of talking or holding made her stop crying, but after I
kissed it, it was, magically, all better.
This realization that parents do not become something
different when they have kids was strange to me, something new and different
that kept nagging at me. Like the spot
on a tooth that you keep running over with your tongue. Why had I never realized this before? Why hadn’t anyone explained this to me? Why had I never realized that the woman who was
there my entire life, my mother, had
hopes and dreams and aspirations besides making me into a good member of
society?
So now I’m a mother—a mother who struggles with relating to
a 3 year old and playing with a toddler, a mother who has hopes and dreams and
aspirations that she has to strive to achieve late at night and during naps, a
mother who wants to help her children grow into productive members of
society—people who have confidence, and integrity, and compassion.
Things (this was just a brainstorm activity, but I thought it was fun)
Things that sneak up on you…
The jumpy parts of movies
No longer being able to sleep comfortably anywhere you want
A kitten playing pounce
Your own insecurities
A little extra weight
Bad habits
Divorce
A surprise party
Deadlines
Practical jokes
A head cold
Darkness
Things that turn pink…
Cheeks
The clouds at sunset
A white daisy in pink water
Cried-out eyes
Things you line up…
Dominoes
Your day
Books
Toy soldiers ready for war
Possible suspects
Tick marks
Train tracks
Elementary school kids
Jumbled shoes
Parts of a plot before writing
Dancing partners
Individuals for a family photograph
Data
