Finding Home
I was six, the first time I remember moving. Daddy lost his job and I wasn’t sure what that meant, only that things were different. We suddenly had lots of boxes in the house that were fun to hide in until they got so full of clothes and dishes there was no more room for me. The moving truck in our driveway was the biggest thing on wheels I’d ever seen; I could walk under it without bumping my head. Two very large men started loading our things—the living room couch, my bed, my dolls’ bunk beds, and the dining table where I sat once a year in a fancy dress eating birthday cake with my friends. I ran up and down the ramp a couple of times, until one of the men said, “Little girl, you’d better get out of my way! I don’t want to...
Writing
I write because seeing the words helps me sort through my memories, feelings and concerns. I understand myself better when I take the time to translate thoughts to paper. The narrator of the book, Gilead, says, “For me writing has always felt like praying, even when I wasn’t writing prayers….” 1. That sums it up for me, perhaps explaining why I keep my Bible close at hand when I’m pouring the contents of my brain on to paper. But do I also lose something through the writing? Isak Dinesen’s collection of short stories entitled, Winter’s Tales, includes the story of a writer who had written a book that received serious acclaim. Following his success, though, he felt superficial, fearing he had written his words only for the people who wanted his books, the...
A Letter From My Parents
In going through boxes we pulled from the attic, I found a letter my parents wrote when I graduated from college. I had forgotten its existence, but was warmed by its words when I read it today. So, I share with you a piece of my history: May 16, 1976 Dearest Karen: Graduation Day is Here. It seems only yesterday that you were just a little girl with curly locks. Now you are an attractive young lady with a whole new life in front of you. Sixteen years in school seems like an eternity and yet this is really just the beginning. You now have a good foundation on which to begin the real education of your lifetime. Your academic excellence and your attitude and actions with the life God gave you has made us very proud and it is our privilege to say, “that’s our...
Diversity
I don’t understand people who leave trash in their yards. One yard I pass numerous times every day has had the same pieces of litter lying in it for over a week. Drives me crazy. It’s the holiday season, so I tried to assume the folks were traveling and not available for maintenance. Yesterday, though, I noticed all of their outside Christmas lights and decorations had been removed. Yet the trash remains. How can people be in their yard, gathering decorations to put away for the year, and ignore four or five large pieces of paper lying in plain view? George, trying to strike a positive note, suggested that diversity in the neighborhood is a good thing, that I should be pleased to have neighbors with different attitudes and beliefs, and not expect everyone to be...
Puzzles
When my son was eight years old, he started a small newspaper called, Saturday News. Each issue carried two or three items about the Curran family and Greensboro, North Carolina, where we lived at the time. Chris sent copies to grandparents, aunts and uncles to keep them informed and solicit interesting stories. He even printed letters from readers such as the kind words from his Florida grandmother encouraging him to keep up the good work. The newsletters improved each week and by the time Chris was nine, with the aid of our new computer, he was producing professional-looking papers. That was twenty years ago. I ran across these newsletters as we were cleaning out our attic and chuckled as I read them. One article in particular caught my attention. SOLITAIRE Mom...
Nabber
For his retirement last year, I gave my husband a Nifty Nabber, one of those long poles you see inmates using to pick up trash along the highway. On our daily walks, we always see trash in the neighborhood and are confounded by people who don’t clean up their yards and surrounding streets. (It takes everyone, folks, to keep a neighborhood looking nice!) The trash has become one of our pet peeves, so I considered the Nabber a good choice. My gift was, of course, a joke; I never expected George to actually use it. But he has, driving around the neighborhood and getting out of the car to nab rubbish and put it in a bucket for later disposal. My husband, the Neighborhood Nabber. I retired recently so now he expects me to accompany him on these excursions. My job:...
Music
Our home, when I was born, was the second floor of Melba and Harold Hyde’s house near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Though the Hydes were my parents’ landlords, they became like family to us, so we often shared meals in their kitchen. After dinner, Harold would move to his old upright piano, set his can of beer on top, and begin to entertain. He didn’t use print music; he just curled his fingers on the keyboard and played the music living in his head. When I grew old enough to stand, I would get as close as I could, gripping the edge of the piano bench to keep my balance, and watch his fingers dance across the keys. I was mesmerized by the beautiful sounds he created. We moved to our own house when I was two, leaving the piano behind, but while...
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