Repost - in my hands

in my hands

his

gentle and small

wonder and delight

an ebbing of laughter and stress

in my hands

hers

the future rests

tasks to be learned

suprises of nature and mind

in my hands

a bundle of memories

my daughter's squirming

my son's gentle dreams of sleep

in my hands

mine

empty now

full of possiblities

grasping for the next embrace

offered

to my hands

5 Lessons My Father Taught Me From the Dead - Number 5

My father died in 1964. I was 6 years old. Even though most of my life has been lived in his absence, his life has taught valuable lessons. This 5 part blog series is about those lessons.

5. We all have a life to live - Live It!

Shortly after my mother and father met he told her that he would not live past 36. Strange thing was there was no physical illness or history of family disease to indicate that he would be right. Yet, he was insistent that he knew he would not live past 36. He told my mother this and she believed him. They decided to live life together anyway - until death do we part.

In the 13 years that they had together - they laughed, learned, and enjoyed life. They parented three children and set the stage for their future. They would often forget the ticking of time but for my father's occasional reminders.  He was gentle with his belief, but serious.

In June of 1964 at the age of 36, my father had a massive heart attack and died. He left behind more than his widow and three children. He left behind a life powerfully and well lived that has inspired us to live with death in sight. Life should be lovingly and joyfully lived each day.

5 Lessons My Father Taught Me From the Dead - Number 4

My father died in 1964. I was 6 years old. Even though most of my life has been lived in his absence, his life has taught valuable lessons. This 5 part blog series is about those lessons.

4. Be Playfully Mischievous

I'm not sure I can illustrate this lesson clearly, but here goes. It is more the way my mother tells the story than the facts of the story that tell the tale.  My mother is not and never has been a morning person. She does well to drag herself out of bed and make a pot of coffee. Somewhere between the first and second pot, she will become somewhat awake and mildly social. She would sit, head in hand at the kitchen table - internally fighting her way into the day. My dad would always offer a cheerful "Morning Lib!" and lean over and give her a kiss. She would fain a greeting and turn back to her coffee. There was however a wickedly playful side to my father for at some random and totally unpredictable occasions he would lean over to kiss my mother and instead, playfully tap her under her breast. This always startled her and - as she would tell it even today - cause her to be aggravated to the point of amusement.

I believe it was the impish intent of his actions that always charmed her. Void of any ill, he was often playfully mischievous. He kept all of us one our toes and smiling. 

5 Lessons My Father Taught Me From the Dead - Number 3

My father died in 1964. I was 6 years old. Even though most of my life has been lived in his absence, his life has taught valuable lessons. This 5 part blog series is about those lessons.

3. You need some regular time alone.

My father dug a hole under the house, poured some concrete and laid a few concrete blocks to create a workshop for himself. It was his place and we were not often allowed. I'm sure this was partly because of the many pieces and parts (see #1 below) too valuable and/or dangerous for children's hands. As time has passed, I came to know that this was also his place of solitude. When dad went down to his shop we didn't bother him. He would return soon enough and he always seemed happier than when he left.

This was his place of working it out. It was his time alone creating, repairing, and fixing things that refueled him. I think we all need that time away. I know I do.

5 Lessons My Father Taught Me From the Dead - Number 2

My father died in 1964. I was 6 years old. Even though most of my life has been lived in his absence, his life has taught valuable lessons. This 5 part blog series is about those lessons.

2. Profanity is a sign of a limited vocabulary

My father, reportedly, never swore. My mother claims she can count on 2 fingers (i think that means twice) the number of times he used profanity.

In a moment of frustration, my mother uttered the "S*#!" word to which he calmly replied, "Lib, you've got something in your mouth I wouldn't want on the bottom of my shoe." My mother and my father encouraged me to learn new and exciting words to express myself. To this day I marvel the power and expanse of words.

Dictionary.com has an iPhone app that delivers a "word of the day" to my phone.  Why, just this week I had the good fortune of having the word "spatchcock" taught to me. Finding ways to properly spatchcock new and unusual words into my daily speech sure beats the "H#&^" out of profanity. :)

5 Lessons My Father Taught Me From the Dead - Number 1.

My father died in 1964. I was 6 years old. Even though most of my life has been lived in his absence, his life has taught valuable lessons. This 5 part blog series is about those lessons.

1. You can learn from taking things apart. 

My dad was a tinkerer. Because he rebuilt and repaired watches for a living, he was accustomed to dealing with pieces and parts of things.  He was always taking things apart and sometimes reassembling them to repair them. Sometimes, they just remained in pieces in his workshop.

As I grew I was encouraged by the memories and stories of my dad's repairs and fixes to take things apart. Radios, TVs, Hair Dryers (the kind with the plastic cap), door knobs, toys - nothing was safe around me. I learned from those disassemblies and often would bring broken things home just to dissect them and learn. Sometimes I could make a good something out of two broken somethings. Through this process I learned to be quite handy. I enjoy fixing things.

My philosophy is that if it has screws - it was meant to come apart. Go ahead. Take it apart. What's the worst thing that could happen and I promise you, you will learn something.

In Loving Memory

My father died in June of 1964. He was 36. I wrote this poem in memory of him, William Earl Williams

In Memory

It should be the memory of a hammer striking the crude nail
Driving it through the rough hewn pine
Slicing grain from grain

It should be the great effort, heavy grind of stone on stone
Sliding the lid to alignment with vault
Solidly into place

Such sounds and visions would be true reminders of the drama
Moving painfully among breath and dream
Caressing wounds to scars

Yet, what remains is the dull click of metal
Latches with well insulated springs
An almost insignificant sound

As the casket closed.

Brook Green Garden Series - Prelude

This past Saturday I went to Brook Green Gardens, one of my favorite places on the planet. I have much to share with you in picture, word and reflection over the next few posts. So, visit the link to the website and enjoy the photo above - much more to come.

IF, by Rudyard Kipling

I was named after the book Kim, by author Rudyard Kipling. Early in my childhood, my mother introduced me to one of his poems. It has always challenged and inspired me in life.

IF

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,

if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

-Rudyard Kipling

Top Holiday Memories - Episode 14

When my older brother and I were very young, about 8 and 9 respectively, my grandfather gave us guns for Christmas.

They weren't real guns, they were toy shotguns. By pumping an arm on the gun, we could compress air in a chamber that then released a loud ‘puff’ of air from the barrel when fired.

The guns came with targets, stand-up images of wild animals. My favorite was the largest target of a tiger that had a plastic image cut into strips that hung from a small frame. When you ‘shot’ it, the air from the gun would make the tiger disappear until the strips settled back – waiting for the next shot.

My brother and I played for many hours with those guns and targets and anything else we could find to shoot –including neighborhood cats, and dogs. As we grew, both of us turned to hunting different game.

My brother is an avid deer and turkey hunter. I am always hunting for the next story to tell.

Top Holiday Memories - Episode 7

His wallet was tattered, held together by carefully placed tape and a couple of rubber bands. Being a child of the “Great Depression” my grandfather never believed in wasting anything that had the least bit of use in it – including the remnants of his brown leather wallet.

My grandmother, Nana as she is known to all of us, rarely got the chance to surprise my grandfather. He was just too quick mentally and perceptive about his surroundings, but this year she knew she had gotten one by him. She had bought him a new wallet and carefully wrapped it and placed it at the back of the Christmas tree. Wanting to make sure her gift would be the only wallet, she had secretly told the rest of the family about her plan. Every adult knew – except my grandfather.

Christmas eve we all gathered and opened presents. My grandfather opened Nana’s last. As he carefully released the tape, unfolded the paper and lifted the gift from the box, we all saw his old, torn wallet. “Who in the world gave me an old rotten wallet,” he exclaimed. As everyone watched on shock, he continued, “Why, I’ve a perfectly good wallet right here.” As he lifted Nana’s gift from his pants pocket – it was clear to all of us that he had switched the wallets and rewrapped the box sometime earlier in the weeks preceding Christmas.

To this day we all still chuckle about it and Nana – well she still pretends to be mad.

The Other Day...

The other day… [STOP]

The post I was preparing to write needs to wait for a brief moment while I explain the phrase above – “The other day.”

I grew up in South Carolina. Along with sand fleas, mosquitoes and inbreeding, the south is known for several colloquial phrases. Where I come from, we know what “the other day” means, and it means something very specific.

“The other day” refers to a period of time that can be from yesterday to several decades past. The meaning, when used by a true Southerner, is to say “When it happened is something I am not prepared to commit to right now, and in fact when isn’t the damn point I’m trying to make and so don’t get hung up on when, or who even, just listen to what I’m getting ready to say next and know that it did in fact happen and it is important that you listen to the story and not get distracted by the facts -now.”

So when I say “the other day” I was listening to Oprah – it isn’t to tell you which episode or year so you can go back and watch it, I’m telling you that what I think about what I saw on Oprah “the other day” is something you need to know.

When I tell you “the other day” I was talking to Aunt Margie – it doesn’t matter that Aunt Margie has been dead for ten years; I’m telling you that she knew something that you need to know right now because it may save you a heap of trouble later.

And, most certainly, when your mother says to you “the other day” I was cleaning your room – be sure that what follows next will not be a discussion about which day ‘exactly’ it was but rather something much more critical to your living future…

I hope that helps. So, the other day…

A Writer's Block of Stone - Public Journey #001-2

I'm a bit late with the second phase my public writing journey. Here is what I've 'carved' from the raw block of words - so far.

I grew up in Myrtle Beach, SC one of the largest beach tourist destinations on the east coast. In many ways I was a beach rat, spending my summers working at my family’s ocean front hotels and making friends with our weekly guests, and their daughters. Mine was a life filled with those summer days of youthful zeal, sun-tanned skin, wind blown hair and new beginnings. Every week was a new start with clean rooms and new guests. The four month vacation season dominated all that we did. It seemed that school, and all things winter, were simply the time we spent remembering or preparing for summer. Summer was our time. Summer was the time when we thrived economically and personally. I always lived in summer. The heat of the sun blazed down from the sky and up from the sand. The sea tossed its mist into our air and we breathed in the damp essence of life. Living so close to the sea, we drew our life from it day in and day out. The sea held us and brought life to us. Its vast reservoir, pulsing with each tide, offered to and collected from everything it touched. It is this giving and collecting, that I have witness many times.

 

The sea gives. My grandfather and father were both sailors. Their comfort with the sea and its gifts of food and fellowship were passed to me. I can remember the day my brother and I spent a day catching hundreds of small ‘spots’ only to face the task of scaling and cleaning them into the night. My grandfather taught us that day about finishing the tasks we started and about the sequence of work to reward. It was fun to catch. It was work to clean. We had to do both to eat. It was the sea, as it lingered in the marsh and inlets that gave us this opportunity.

 

The sea gives. I have witnessed many occasions of children and adults finding the sea for the first time. They had been inlanders all of their life and never seen the sea. That seems strange to me, even now. What a change of perspective that must be – to see the sea, to see and feel for the first time the sea from which we are created…

November 25th, 2008

Happy Birthday Dad.

FW: a father's wisdom - profanity

My mother tells stories about my dad. He died 44 years ago, but I have learned much about his fatherly ways by these stories. It is interesting to me how a father’s wisdom can be forwarded.

“Your father never swore. He just didn’t believe it in. I heard him say more than once, after I said ‘shit,’ that I ‘had something in my mouth that he didn’t want on the bottom of his shoe.’

There was the one night that I remember him cussing. We were driving from Baltimore, Maryland to South Carolina to visit with family. This would have been before your sister was born (before 1952), and it was dark and rainy. It was a messy, slow rain that just wet everything and kept the windshield dirty. We had stopped and William Earl had done his best to wash and clean of the windshield. As we started back onto the road, a truck came by, hit a mud puddle and splashed muddy goo on the windshield. Your father said, ‘damn it.’ I knew better than to say anything because he was m-a-d. That is the only time he ever cussed that I know of.”

My father use to say, “Profanity is a sign of a person with a limited vocabulary.” I suspect he was right.