Archive for youth

Earth Day, 1969-2013

I remember the first Earth Day. I was in Junior High, in the downtown area of my city for the first time, my generations first step away from our neighborhood elementary schools. It was the year schools were integrated in my town. How excited we were, to be part of this first Earth Day, we were the “babies” of the “hippie” culture and were anxious to be considered part of the idea behind Earth Day-cleaning up the environment, getting back to home gardens and self-sustaining ideas. Of course at our age, our ideas were limited, as the concept of waste and growing up in a throw away society was our world.

We had just begun to think like adults, have our own ideas and concepts. This is one of the very first days I remember with my mind in an “adult” format. I will never forget it. In celebration of Earth Day, our art class went out and sat on a grassy bank in front of our school and were told to draw pictures of what downtown looked like. I am sure there were kids who were just glad to be outside, but for me, sitting on that hill drawing a picture my perception of the small city was eye-opening. I had lived there all my life, but for the first time, I REALLY looked at my city. I noticed the huge church next door with the domed roof, I looked out at the dogwood trees blooming on down the hill on our school grounds I looked back at the small chipped-rock playground where “recess” and P.E. were held.

Suddenly” my city” became more than simply “my neighborhood. There were still rows of 20′s era building lining the streets beyond the school. There were woods and grassy areas behind the area where the old brick school building set. A red brick wall divided our school grounds from the street below. s I took this all in, the world seemed like a much larger place for the first time in my 14 years of life. i noticed a possibly homeless man wandering the sidewalk beyond the school. His clothes were old and tattered and he appeared to be rather unaware of where he was or in what direction he was going. Having grown up a protected only child who spent her time shopping uptown with my mother, I had given little though to life outside my safe urban world. There were no real “malls” in my town, a few “shopping centers”. No drunks staggered down the streets where I lived. Being “Homeless” was something that happened “somewhere else”, not in my town.

We had a speaker on that first “Earth Day” that introduced us to the concepts of taking care of the world we lived in. In 1969, the world was beginning to seem much smaller and it was happening very quickly. I could not imagine, at that time, how quickly those changes would take place. There were three black and white channels on TV, huge, unsightly receptor antennas stood on top of our homes to bring them to us. Telephones had dials and curly cords. No one that I knew had a microwave, although, I imagine some of the “rich” kids” did. Most moms didn’t work unless they “had to” or at least until their kids were old enough to get off the bus and stay home alone until she got there. Now, letting even a 14 year-old come home to an empty house gives moms an uneasy feeling. I lived in a very innocent world.

There were many more Earth day celebrations in my future, all in an increasingly frightening, yet more aware world. We planted trees, cleaned up river banks, volunteered in homeless shelters. We became aware of the world around us. Sadly, the opening of the door to the fact that we MUST start taking care of our world, was the beginning of the end of the innocent world I grew up in. The old brick Junior High was torn down the next year. The hill was leveled, along with the woods and playground. An interstate now “by-passes” the tunnel through the mountain, which long separated my side of town just as the high bridge across the river separated us from the other side of town.

Integration was the rule and we were at its inception. The concept of Middle School replaced Junior High. There were several big race” riots in the remaining years old my secondary education. Surprisingly, I don’t remember having problems with people with different colored skin. I do, however, remember that though we went to “same” schools, we rarely did things with children who were of a different color form u, or from a different part of town. Earth Day songs played by John Denver Appeared. The whole concept of saving our world from pollution and saving our poor from deprivation became a project for various civic groups.

Earth Day, in 2013 is very different from the first Earth Day. The focus, has ironically returned to its roots, but it is now organized, with special events, a more modern focus. As I talk to my grandchildren, who are still young, and to my teen, who is the age I was at earth Days inception, their world is already a much bigger place. News spreads fast, violence is everywhere, most moms have to work, cable TV, cell phones, technology in general are a part of their world from the time of their birth.

Still, I feel something very important is missing from their more protected, more violent, more technological world. There is an expectation of “things”, there are less moms fixing dinner for the family as they talk about how their day went. The is a lack of innocence, a lack of closeness and dependence among each other in families that to me is simply sad. Everyone is in their room playing with their ipods, ipads, computer games or watching recorded programs from Cable TV. They are not together, not reading books to the little ones at bedtime, not growing up appreciating the bonds of family or the importance of relationships with real people.

I would like to see Earth Day become part of a new trend towards family, community, doing things because they are right or good, rather that to get extra credit in school or bragging rights at the office. I would love to spend a day, heck a lifetime with my children and grandchildren able to savor the simple things in life, like sitting on a hillside drawing pictures with a pencil and table. My daughter, now the mother of two, won a regional prize or a report with the topic, “We must learn to ‘baby’ “Mother Earth”.

Today, I feel a good topic would be, “We must learn that ‘family life’ exists beyond electronics”.

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As the Line Was Crossed, Her Life became her Own.

He stood at the end of the trailer’s living room, yelling, cussing, throwing things, like he always did when he was angry.

She, of course, was in the hall by the washer, crying, her face speckled. red streaks, tears dripping onto her shirt.

I’m so sick of your bitchin, woman!” he shouted from the doorway, ready to run out, after he had yelled his final insult, stomped and delivered his final accusation.

Just step over the line and see what happens.” he yelled as he went for the door. As the line was crossed, he stared in silence.

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Fear of Flying

Flight

She was shaking like a leaf as she ran to the check-in counter, never having been on an airplane before.

“He’s my brother!” she was thinking. “And we have never met.” The giant aircraft taxied down the runway, pulling up to the hallway-like entrance that would lead her to the plane

She closed her eyes and thought of the picture he had sent, he looked so much like their mother, separated when she had died when they were toddlers.

“No longer an only child,” she smiled, and bravely took that last step from the stairway into the

waiting giant monster.

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Beneath the surface

Eight year old Tommy stuck his hand beneath the surface of the muck in the shallow pond. He ran the cool, squishy mud between his chubby fingers, delighted with its consistency, smoothness, even the lovely (for an eight year old) color of dirt.

Suddenly, he felt something hard amidst his hand full of mud. He clenched his fist tightly and brought the mud to the surface. Running his hand through the mud, sifting out the dirt, his eyes opened wide.

“This looks like the molar my brother Joe lost last week.” He thought.

According to an old paper tucked in Uncle dale’s dresser, it wasn’t Joe’s. Or where the rest of the body was.

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You CAN go home again.

http://dailypost.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/couple-embrace.jpg?w=480&h=597

With one last hug, Delila tossed her heavy bag over her shoulder and rushed to board the street car. Soon, she’d be on the train, back on the way the cool, quiet cabin in the Appalachian valley of her home.

Her heart was pounding, as she slung the travel bag down on the floor and slid down into the worn seat, exhausted, yet exhilarated. It had been wonderful to see her brother again. They were adults now, their visits seemed so infrequent, so crowed with activities that there never had been time to just sit and talk, reminisce.

Richard, her older brother had gone off to college in San Francisco, and never returned to the mountains. Delila had always been afraid that would happen. He was a wanderer, never satisfied, always seeking new adventures, places that set his soul on fire with dreams of the future.

She had hoped the big city, rushing streetcars, noisy streets, a tiny apartment, living expenses that were beyond ridiculous would bring him home after a few years working two jobs to pay the bills. As beautiful as the steep, rocky hill and the site of the ocean from craggy cliffs could be, was it really as soothing, as healing as home?

Richard was walking back up the hill to the apartment he shared with a colleague at work, a cat named Shivers and three goldfish. Surprisingly, he was thinking about the things Delia had told him, tears running down her cheeks, as they had sat on the rugged hillside overlooking the bay the previous day.

He opened the window, the breeze fluttering the curtains, and thought of her locks of golden brown hair as she had brushed them from her face, over and over as she told them of Aunt Lou’s last days. Her hair had always been a mess and she wasn’t about to contain it with a chip or clasp-at 11 or 31. It was part of her, as much as her azure blue eyes and long, skinny legs.

“Remember when we were kids and Aunt Lou took us to her “thinking place” up on the mountain?” She had told him as they sat above the rugged cliff, eating pickles and drinking Sprite. He had spread the blanket on a grassy spot and opened the bag lunch they had brought to share on this last day together.filling it with favorites from their childhood. The grasses waving in the swift breeze had brought back memories of the solitude and beauty of Aunt Lou’s hidden refuge. She had always gone there when she was sad, lonely, or perhaps simply needed sometime alone.

Even now, it made Richard smile to think that so many years had gone by before she had even shared this special place with them, her precious niece and nephew, her only living relatives. He reached his doorstep, panting as he climbed to the second floor and looked out the window to see if the street car was still in sight. It wasn’t.

Delila had given it her best shot, she thought as the crowded streets became irrigated farmland. She had reminding Richard of the days the three of them spent in that special place, how Aunt Lou had taught them the name of every flower, tree, mushroom, and insect that she saw as they trudged up that hill, leaves crunching underfoot. They skipped over tiny rivulets making their way down the mountains, laughed when they caught their coats on a briar, or slipped on a muddy creek bank.

“Had it meant anything to him?” she wondered, the trains rhythmic chugging seeming to surround her as the scenery swept by.

She thought of him as teen, rebellious, long hair back loosely with a rubber band, his defined chin, perfect teeth. He would sit on Aunt Lou’s porch in the evening, playing Lynyrd Skynyrd songs on his guitar, singing along quietly, shaking his head in rhythm, as if the songs were coming right from his soul.

“ How could he leave that place, his little sister, Aunt Lou?” she thought as the train began to climb up the Rocky Mountains, so stark and foreboding, not like the gently soothing, lush green valleys that surrounded them at Aunt Lou’s.

“There was a liberal arts college nearby, their town wasn’t so small that there was nothing to do, and it was so beautiful there in the mountains of North Carolina. Even more, it had hurt her that he had stayed there all these years, coming home only for an occasional visits.

She thought of how Aunt Lou, widowed at a young age had taken them in when their parents had died in a plane crash when they were seven and eleven. Her memories of her parents were vague, almost dream-like. His memories seemed to bring him more pain, it was if the thoughts of them had festered inside him as he grew.

Delila had always believed that Richard had held some sort of anger at their parents for wanting to go on that stupid trip anyway. Leaving them there with Aunt Lou to go on a trip to the Grand Canyon. It seemed rather selfish to him- he had finally admitted it yesterday, while they were sitting there by the ocean, the waves pounding against the shore.

It would have meant so much to Aunt Lou, as she had struggled through the cancer, to have had Richard with them. Delila often wondered if she would have re-married, had kids of her own. Had Aunt Lou given up her life for them?

Up in his apartment, Richard stared out the window. “Was it too late to go home?” he thought. Nothing would be the same. Somehow, he knew that he wanted to raise a family there in that valley, for them to spend time with Aunt Delila. The thought had  stricken him like a bolt of thunder.

“I can’t run from it forever,” he sighed.. He turned on his computer and began looking at “Accounting Jobs-Walton, North Carolina”. He wondered what Delila would think when he showed up at her door, Shivers in his cage beside him

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When I Let You In

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My precious son, I do it nearly every day.  People as me why I put myself through it-looking at your handsome young face only weeks before you were so wrongly taken.
I have thought about it many times, Andrew.  It rips my heart into. It reminds me of the failure of what I felt was a holy vow.  I think of you there in the chair in your room, shouting out, “Mamma, I love ya, Mame!” time after time.

I hear your little brother crying because you got the red ball when it hit the goal and your dad shouted at you and you loudly complain, “It’s always me!”

Yes, it is.” His voice reverberates through me. I hear your father’s remark, (hating it). “No, it isn’t,” my heart screams.

It got so old, that tired comment, The one he yelled  to every one of you when a younger sibling complained.

So why do I have your picture as my home screen on the computer, smiling at me, unknowing, hopeful, happy, healthy. It’s so simple, really. I touch your hair, brush it with my fingers, trace the line of your eye brows, circle the shape of your eyes, just like mine.  I remember the tiny chicken pox scar on the top of your nose, see the way your top lip is shaped in a perfect bow-the bottom lip full and sensuous.

I use my finger as a magical pen and draw your shirt collar, the tendons in your neck, the shape of your chin that made your face so perfect. I gently track the outline of your ear, as I often did when I played with your hair. I rub the soft pink of your cheeks, see the tiny “out of line” placing of your teeth that no one but me would notice.
I hear your father’s remark, (hating it).
And for just a moment, one soft breath, you are here where you belong and I am alive and life is worth living. It is all I have. The pain is worth it.

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The Red Kettle Man

Walking towards the grocery store in the December wind, we heard the familiar bell of a Salvation Army Volunteer.
“What’s that sound?” asked my five-year old grandson.
“He’s called a volunteer.” My teenager replied. “He collects money for people who don’t have anything.”
My grandson looked up at me and asked, “Beebee, can we give them something?”

“Sure,” I said, reaching for some change.
He smiled as he listened to the coins jingling into the red kettle.
“God Bless you!” the older man said as we walked by.

“He already has.” replied my grandson.

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Memories of a Night’s Dim Light

creative writing prompt, fiction writing prompt, memoir writing prompt

The light flickered dimly on the dark, round table. She noticed the curve of the three legs, all sprouting from the tables underside. “What hand had carved these legs, “ she thought.  “What purposed did he have for the table when he carved it.”

She sat in the lone chair pushed up to the table and cupped her cold hands around the warmth of the flame.  It flickered, as if in protest, ands she moved her hands away just a bit, as the flame regained its strength.

Outside, the wind whistled in the night.  The quarter moon shone dimly in the window. There were no curtains to block the view of  the moon, a flash of stars, the outline of the Big Dipper.

For a moment, she sat quietly, contemplating her next move.  She had walked up the hill to the house her grandmother had been born in, searching for a place where her thoughts could flow freely and help her decided what to do.

She remembered the old radio she had brought here months before and walked to the shelf and turned it on. The radio hummed to life, a static in the background reminded her of the battery-powered radio she had listened to in bed at night as a child.

“The Geminid meteors will be visible tonight.” The radio announcer boldly spoke into the semi-darkness of the room.  She left the radio on, but returned to the table, remembering a long ago night when her father had come to her room, awakening her at 2 am.

“Come here, honey, I want to show you something.” he had whispered as he stroked her hair.  She had mumbled about being cold and sleepy as she slipped on her   and house coat and followed him outside.” Shivering, as he held her, she waited and waiting until she say a meteor streak by and then another.  That memory crept back into her mind as she lifted the candle and walked toward the door.

She sat the candle on the porch rail and walked into the field of dead December grass. Suddenly a brilliant streak of light flashed across the sky as a whip of wind made the candle’s flame shudder.

A smile crossed her face as another meteor appeared in the western sky. Her answer seemed so clear now, so obvious.  She shivered again, wrapping her arms around her to hold her sweater shut, reached over, gently picked up the candle and walked back inside.

The radio announcer was still humming out the news, but she wasn’t listening. She turned it off, blew out the candle and walked quietly out the door. As she walked back to the home she had lived in her whole life, she could see herself in that little house, reborn, renewed, refreshed. The light from the candle, the light in the sky , it was a sign. Yes, this would be her home.

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Till Nothing was Left

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This poem is not for my precious son, whose death
took everything from me that I hung on to, believed in.
It is for those who can’t  see that I am still here.
but I have been forced to live in a world where there
is not glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.

I’m so tired of it all, so tired of the lies.
The further I fall, the higher you rise.

It takes all I have, each moment I try,
I give and I give, till I think I will die.

I’m sorry that I was never enough,
My heart is long dead, the road’s been so rough.

All that I have, I have given to you.
And what have I left?  No joy and no you.

Just leave me here in my prison, my home,
Cause when you are here, I still feel alone.

Not a thing I’ve endured, suffered, survived.
Has helped you to notice,  that I’m still alive.

I still feel, I still hope, I still love, I still try.
Somehow through the darkness, I still survive.

Take just one heartbeat, one touch, one breath,
And remember I will love you till nothing is left.

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How do I reblog an article?

I would like to reblog an article I wrote previously about an organization that helps save the lives of young athletes. How do I do this?

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