"My Reel Christmas"

This time of the year, most of us can’t help feel a little melancholy. The Christmas season can be filled with parties and activities to celebrate with family and friends. For others it can be a time of sadness, loneliness, and anxiety about an uncertain future. During our lifetime, we have all experienced melancholy feelings during the holidays with the loss of family members, divorce, arguments and the stress of over extending your budget and the disappointment of unrealistic expectations that were envisioned for gift giving.

For many people my age and older, the mind's vision of a perfect holiday is portrayed in the paintings by Norman Rockwell, by showing the celebration of the American family with strong small town values. Streetlights illuminated the freshly fallen snow, every home beautifully decorated, dinner being prepared for a large family gathering, and warm embers glowing in the fireplace, while everyone gathered around the tree, singing, laughing and enjoying each other’s company.

We didn’t have a Norman Rockwell Christmas, but it was close as it could be in my mind. Everyone on our street knew one another. Our elders were referred to as Mr. or Mrs., and it was rare when someone moved away. We didn’t have extravagant gifts that robbed our parent’s savings, but we had plenty of love, respect, and togetherness. My friends didn’t brag about what they got and no one seemed jealous that one of us got a toy the other one didn’t get. Those fond memories of my youth are magical, and when I close my eyes, I feel like a child again with the nervous anticipation every child feels on Christmas morning. I’d like to share one of those holiday memories that have been accepted for publication, entitled, “My Reel Christmas.”

Merry Christmas!

My Reel Christmas
By
Monica L. Sharpe
(Condensed Version)

The holidays spark wonderful memories of my childhood, especially the year my dad suffered his first heart attack. Christmas came five months after my father’s month stay in the hospital, and because his recovery was extensive, money was very tight that Christmas of nineteen fifty-eight. My two oldest brothers were in the service and three of us were still at home, me being the youngest of five children and the only girl. My parents made it their priority not to let any of us kids know how difficult their financial status was, so life went on as usual not noticing a little less food on the table or fewer outings.

The basement of the home I was raised in was converted into a comfortable family room. We all spent a great deal of time downstairs as a family watching television or playing games. The basement also had a combination laundry room and kitchen where my mother did her seasonal canning and baking. Mom took in ironing when I was young and generally had several large rolling laundry baskets piled high with clothing. When one of the baskets became empty, she would let me lay in it like a hammock and for a special treat as I laid there, she turned on the wire recorder so I could listen to the numerous old radio stories and songs she recorded when my older brothers were young. It fascinated me to watch the reels of wire turn and listen to the recordings of my grandfather playing his fiddle and sing, while mom and I chimed in and sang along as she ironed. My mother had a beautiful soprano voice. Anyone could single out the pure clarity of her voice in the church choir and know it was she.

When she needed a break from the ironing, she fixed our lunch and we would have our little “tea party” on the old oak table in the corner of the room. Only after we were finished with our little “party” did she provide the entertainment she so gladly promised, and I was delighted when she reached for her guitar to play for me.

The old Spanish guitar was my grandfather’s. The dark as ebony finish made you believe you were looking into an endless black gazing pool and if you touched it, your hand would truly become immersed in the wood.
Before she began to play, mom always closed her eyes as she lightly strummed the steel strings. She hummed the notes while she adjusted the tuning keys to make sure it was perfectly tuned to her ear and mind before she continued to play. In spite of the fact, my mother never learned to read music, she had a gift for creating her own melodies and lyrics. Some of these songs were silly juvenile ditties that made me laugh and dance; while others were so compellingly beautiful your senses were free to drift away. I was certain when I looked at her calm face, her thoughts did move her to another place as she became one with her instrument.

On this one particular snowy day, she encouraged me to sing-a-long more than usual to the songs that were so familiar to me, it didn’t seem to matter to her that loads of clothing were still needing to be ironed, she was thoroughly wrapped up in the special moment we were sharing. Like all good things, the concert had to come to an end. I climbed back into my basket hammock and listened to more stories on the wire recorder until they eventually lulled me to sleep and mother worked on her tasks.

I counted the days to Christmas and the only thing I asked Santa for that year was the red and white stuffed squirrel I saw at the big toy store downtown, and for my two oldest brothers to come home. In preparation for the holidays, mother let me help decorate cookies and mix the “secret” ingredients for all the traditional sweets she made only once a year. Two days before Christmas, a heavy snowstorm blew in and blanketed the city, nobody could get out.

Christmas Eve arrived, we still did not have our tree and my parents were encouraging me to go to bed early, when we heard some racket out on the front porch and someone started to pound loudly on the door. My mother opened the front door and started to cry with happiness, my brother Jerry was at the door in his Navy uniform, snow dusted his broad shoulders holding a Christmas tree, we had not seen him for two years. There really was a Santa, and one of my wishes really did come true.

We all gathered in the living room to decorate the beautiful pine tree with decorations that were handed down, reminiscent of Christmas’s past, and sipped steaming apple cider with cinnamon sticks. My brother Joe lifted me up to place the angel on the top of the tree, while my brother, Tom laughed when the pine needles pricked my arm. I sat on Joe’s shoulder staring in awe at the lit vision of love and promises. It was difficult to go to sleep that night, with every turn in bed I listened for any indication that Santa was coming, but eventually I succumbed to the nervous fatigue.

I awoke the next morning before dawn, and when I sat up, I squealed loud with delight. It was clear to everyone who heard me, Christmas Day and Santa was here. There sitting on the foot of my bed was the red and white stuffed squirrel, adorned with a big beautiful bow, the one I had admired and longed for, from the first time I laid my eyes upon it.

Under the tree were a couple of presents for all of us, and since the best was left on my bed, there was only one more for me to open. My mother handed me a small item wrapped in a white lace trimmed handkerchief tied with a scarlet satin ribbon. The message on the tag was written in gold ink, “To Mary, May this bring you the happiness you have given us.” signed “With Love, Mom & Dad.” I untied the ribbon and a reel of wire exposed itself to me. The look on my face must have showed my disappointment; because at that moment she went over to the wire recorder she brought up from the basement and I gladly handed the reel over hoping there was something else for me.

My dad picked me up sensing my disillusionment, sat me on his lap and told me to listen. The wire started to wind itself on the empty spool. First there was a little static, then silence and all of a sudden a strong voice boomed from the speakers, “Merry Christmas, Mary!” I leaped off my dad’s lap and jumped and clapped for joy. My brother, Jack who could not be home for the holidays called home from Korea and my mother recorded his voice over the phone sending his Christmas and New Years wishes for all. The rest of the recordings on the spool became my very own reel of memories of my parents and each one of my brothers expressing something personal to me. It’s the recordings of the day that took place only a couple weeks ago in my mind, when my mother and I sang and told stories to each other. The day I will hold forever in my heart when we were each other’s undivided audience of one.

Peace & Love...

Letters from Grandma...

“A drop of ink may make a million think.” Lord Byron


I am the historian, so to speak, for my husband’s side of the family, and I share the responsibility of collecting facts with another family member for my ancestry tree. My husband inherited a handcrafted suitcase, for lack of a better word, which was filled with postcards from family members who my husband never knew. My father-in-law kept those memories tucked securely inside, since they were the only memories he had left from his brother who was killed in WWI to his parents, his grandmother, his brothers, and his cousins. He was he was a sentimental person and guarded these mementos with great respect, which I have the privilege of doing so now. The postcards depicted the holidays for which they were sent, Valentines Day, Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Beautiful vintage cards that I pored over for hours at many different times through the years, imagining what life was like for the Sharpe family over a hundred years ago.

Several years ago, I had my husband’s family tree printed as a Christmas gift for his sister. A few weeks after we flew home from the West Coast, she called me and thanked me for the effort of doing such extensive research. It made her very aware, that if she didn’t not write down stories about her grandparents, that time and those memories would be lost forever with her passing. Her children and grandchildren would never know how she loved to comb her grandfather’s beautiful white hair, or know about his love of flowers as she and her sister helped him in his garden. Her words made me think. It made her think. We both had the realization that we both needed to write down the stories our parents told us about their parents. We talked for a long time and proceeded to tell each other some stories about some very funny incidents. So, now when I look at the aging sepia and black and white photos, I can put a pleasant incident with many of the faces and feel a part of someone who is no longer a stranger to me.

I have written many stories about my childhood, about my parents, and about my relationships with each of my siblings. I want my children to know about the times that made me happy and the times that made me cry. I want them to know I am not a perfect human being, but even though I did my best, I still made mistakes. I hope that my grandchildren would read the stories and say, “I’m not the only one who feels this way,” when I too, have had my heart broken and know what it’s like to be young and in love.

I haven’t forgot the silly stories, like the time my cousin, Marcy and I sat fishing at the edge of our dock for an entire afternoon, when we were ten years old. We sang silly songs at the top of our lungs while the fish nibbled at our toes. We laughed, we swam, and eventually we dragged our sunburned bodies and the wash bucket filled with three-inch perch back to the cabin, only to be told by my aunt they were too small to cook. Yes, it may not seem poignant enough to document, but it was a memory that makes me smile when I think about it, and it’s one to share, proving I was a kid too, once upon a time.

The stories go on and on. It only takes a few minutes to write a memory and paint a scene so vivid, your reader will feel your words. And, what a “treasure” it would be if it were handwritten! So, what are you waiting for?

Thank you, Sally!

The picture posted with this blog is my grandmother, Delia and her eldest son, Emery.

On Writing Letters...

"People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that's bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they're afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they're wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It's all in how you carry it. That's what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you're letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain." ~ Jim Morrison

How many times have you ripped open a letter from a far away friend, only to be disappointed when you read the last line? Most letters consist of a few hastily scribbled sentences that tell you absolutely nothing about what’s going on in the writer’s life. When was the last time you wrote a letter from your heart? Maybe, it’s because you didn’t know how to start.

Drop the formal address you learned in grade school. Instead of “Dear Jane,” write “Hi Lady,” or what ever nickname you had for your friend. If you want to get her to laugh at the opening line, write something like, “Hey there wonder woman,” and if you want her to smile, “Hello, my dearest friend.” In other words, be yourself. It’s your personal greeting. Start your letter by asking how their life is going, not the boring, “How are you?” but something that lets them really know you are interested in their life.

By now, you should have two or three paragraphs. Let’s face it, you probably can’t wait to get into the “meat” of the letter. Meaning, people are vain and want to talk about themselves. That’s when you jot down a few things of mutual interest about what you’ve been doing. But, don’t go overboard, no one really wants to hear about your mundane teeth whitening appointment, or the growth behind your ear that’s been getting bigger for the last 10 years, good Lord! Your reader will certainly roll their eyes and shake their head, and maybe even wished you didn’t write in the first place (just kidding)!

The last paragraph should, if possible, remind the recipient of something the two of you have in common. This keeps the bond between you strong. Perhaps, you went to the same high school together. You might mention you ran into a mutual friend at the grocery store, or, have shared a camping experience together. You could tell them how much you have missed the good times you had together at your favorite hangout.

Finally, end your letter with a friendly phrase, making it more personal to the reader. After all, we are talking about personal letters. “I am so looking forward to hearing from you, Janie,” is much better than “Yours Truly.”

Stay with me, all this may sound a little corny, but I am trying to make a point…seriously!

Then, there’s the apology letter. They say 'to err is to human' and we are all humans. Therefore, it's normal for us to make mistakes and hurt someone's feelings knowingly or unknowingly. It might be something that we say, or something that we do, which hurts others. It could have been an incident from the past or one from the present.

Sometimes we do not feel bad, when we know that the person deserved it, but sometimes we feel really bad, when we realize that it's totally our fault that the other person was hurt by our behavior. We want to say sorry to that person, but although we can easily say sorry to some stranger, or to someone who does not mean that much to us, saying sorry to someone whom we really love and who means a lot to us, is the most difficult thing to do.

It made me reflect on all the things I said and wondered why I opened my mouth and inserted my foot so many times. It also made me realize what I lost and why I am guilty of holding grudges. I’ve seemed to do a lot of this recently. Apologize. To quote the wise words of someone I care very much for, “Without the “loss,” there could not be a “found.”

Those words explain why today, I truly have smiled and felt the warmth of the sun on my face. ~M

Tonight's Pondering ... “Déjà Vu.”

“Déjà Vu.” What a sexy expression, don’t you think? My heritage is French, and I love this expression derived from the French meaning, “already seen.” Unfortunately, I do not speak French, but I can understand a little if someone speaks slowly. This pondering is not about sex, although that would be a delicious subject to write about…but, not tonight.

Most of us, I’m sure, have experienced something familiar with the reaction, “I’m certain I’ve been here,” or “Hey, I think I’ve done this before.” I know I have, numerous times. Déjà vu sparks a memory of a place we have already been, maybe a person we have met before, or the feeling we’ve done an action before. I have been in tuned to these feelings most of my life and tried to figure them out. Is it a signal to pay attention to what is taking place or maybe complete what hasn’t been finished? I don’t know.

Some say it may be a past life experience, a memory from a dream, a precognition or even reincarnation. I think it’s something unexplained, something beyond the limits of memory, an offering to expand knowledge about ourselves. I don’t know about you, but when that vivid sensation overcomes me, I don that blank “doe in headlights look,” trying to decipher when or where it took place. Then, when I happen to look off to my side, I see the look of bewilderment washing over the face of whomever I’m with, and he or she wants to know what I was smoking or what planet I was visiting.

But seriously, most of us are raised to consider that anyone who isn’t a member of our family or an immediate group of friends, to be a stranger. Then there are times, you meet a total strange and something clicks, you feel deep inside you’ve known for years. I have been fortunate enough to know a few friends like that. This is what prompted me to write about this subject tonight. You feel comfortable in each other’s presence with no pretense. You can talk to them about anything and they understand exactly what you’re trying to say. You share experiences and you laugh easily with them. The tone of their voice, the way they drink their coffee, all seem commonplace and perfectly natural. It isn’t that they remind you of someone else or their qualities are simply enchanting. You don’t relate to them as strangers, but as an equal with whom you share like mind and in some cases, soul. It’s mystical, it’s magical and sometimes…just plain groovy!

Time to end my pondering…


Peace…

Why...

WHY
By Monica Sharpe

Why do I look for way-out ways,
And people I really don’t understand?
Why do I want to wear rags and go barefoot?
Why do I long for a soft bed of sand?
Why is my heart bleeding with fright
And at the same time free as the sea?
Why do I wish to be everyone else,
And still only want to be me?

Todays Confession...

I have come to another realization on this journey to find myself and my creativity, is that things are getting tougher. It’s getting down to the nitty gritty why I think I am the way I am. I am learning to understand my needs. I have lived much of my life in the dark, in ignorance of what others think, feel, and because of those experiences, I have restrained myself.

I had insights at fifteen years old that I would seize again at another time and lose because I didn’t have the intellectual framework in which they would fit and be retained. I feared offending those who loved me, or those I wished to please. Shame can also get in the way of creativity. We all have the notions of what we should be, and sometimes we are ashamed of what moves us or how much we are moved. At other times, we feel we ought to have been moved and we try to pretend.

These are some of the things I have learned on my journey:

§ I believe the desire to be better can choke off the desire to just BE.
§ Judging my early writing efforts is a form of abuse.
§ When I feel blocked in my life, it's because I feel safer that way.
§ My creativity and writing is a healing process for mind and soul.
§ As I gain strength through my writing, I also start attacking myself with more self-doubt.
§ I can deal with these strange attacks when I see them as only a form of self-discovery.
§ Most of all, I cannot afford to think about who is getting ahead of me.
§ Don't compare your style of writing with anyone else's. That's what makes every writer unique.
§ Finally, I make big mistakes, the one's that carry regrets. It is a great thing to find a like mind and soul. It's a gift that needs to be cherished, a common bond that helps one heal the other…and I let it go.

Another confession…I am needy. I need to talk about things, all sorts of things, trivial and important, and this drives my other half crazy. I need to argue back, but I remain quiet. I need him to share his feelings too. I need to tell him why I need to be alone. I need him to tell me I still look the same in his eyes before my hair turned gray. My mind screams to the point I feel like my head will explode, but remain silent. I need to tell him to touch my face, look into my eyes, and see me for what and who I am and always was. I need to tell him, “don't go, stay” when I need to talk. I wish I could tell him why I want to run away and not look back. I need, like most of us, to be needed.

I read once, "As artists (writers included), we are travelers." Our minds wander (as you can read from the things I write). Our fingers turn raw from writing of far off things. We even struggle with dreams and reality. We want to make a difference. We need (there’s that word again) to learn to stop comparing ourselves to others and quit saying, “what's the use,” when we self doubt our aspirations.

Peace Everyone...

Vulnerabilities...

I read mostly fiction as a steady diet. I read into the wee hours of the morning, or while I should be writing. While I indulge in this reading spree to research factual characteristics for my fictional characters, an important realization was taking place, even fictional characters are vulnerable, and for me, it’s the essence behind writing my novel.

I mused about this concept while I read, walked, pulled weeds, and cleaned house. I kept thinking about the idea of vulnerability how it applied to my life, my relationships, and my sorrows. I cannot speak for your vulnerabilities, but I’ve been ripped off, lied to, slandered, gossiped about, slapped, falsely accused and had my truths not believed. I’ve had my heart broken, my pride stomped on, witnessed unforgivable acts, and heard words that hurt so much I wish they didn’t keep replaying in my mind—but they did and still do. In all these moments, some tear soaked, some life defining, but all of them character building moments…I have felt vulnerable.

I believe when a person feels scared, and alone, and overwhelmed, and pissed off, when the sting of unfairness sinks its teeth in, bites deep and makes you miserable, it makes for a great story. We don’t—well let me clarify that—I don’t, read fiction to follow the perfect lives of perfect people who float through blissful days filled with sunshine and baby bunnies. Instead, I/we want to wallow in a character’s misery and struggles, to plunge into his or her emotional depths, to experience the doubts, worries, and pains of someone else to lessen my own vulnerabilities.

Doing everyday tasks and when I write, memories of my childhood vulnerabilities would strike with another vivid snapshot. One of the first was down in our basement, which was set up as our family room. It’s where we all watched television, of the black and white variety. It was a dark, stormy Saturday afternoon; my brother had a friend over and we watched The House on Haunted Hill. Out went the lights—naturally, the only way to watch that type of movie—I thought it was big stuff to be watching a scary movie with my older brother. But the boys decided to tease me and as a joke, for the duration of the movie they grabbed me from behind, screeching and imitating the witch. I sat there terrified, unable to move, with my heart beating out of my chest. For years, I envisioned, whenever I walked into a dark room, a bony claw would clamp down on my arm. Because of many more incidents like this, it’s no wonder Halloween was never a favorite holiday.

In our childhood, we also first meet real life bad guys. These cruel lessons come in the form of a classroom bully, a sadistic cousin (yes, I had one of the worst), a teacher who has it in for you, (I had a couple of those too), or just a creepy stranger. At an early age, we learn distrust and unease, and because life holds dangers, we discover that it takes resilience and courage to navigate through our days; sometimes doing things, we’re not very proud of. These are the type of incidents that make up the heart of tantalizing fiction. And, these are the type of memories I touch on when I write. We all can relate to vulnerable characters in precarious situations, because we’re well acquainted with our own fears and feelings of vulnerability.

Peace everyone...

Everything...but nothing at all...

The old man absorbed with alcohol huddles under the overpass trying to keep warm in the frigid night. I know he was absorbed with the drink because as we approached him you could smell the stagnant odor of wine mixed with the exhaust fumes from the cars overhead. His body occupies a space with its own boundaries, separate from others and alone with what’s stirring inside of him.

You could see his breath as we walked towards him. Shallow inhalation with long pauses between each exhalation not wanting any more cold air to invade his body, the outside temperatures were bad enough.
We found out that his name was Jim and he was hoping to make it to Naples, Florida before the first of the year. We asked if he had family there and he said, “No, I heard there is a community near the beach.” Jim had a strong New Jersey accent and mentioned this was just a layover until he got on his feet again.

Jim was withdrawn from the rest of the homeless “community” and appeared to be undergoing a painful inner process, a decaying and destruction of an old way of being. He didn’t volunteer anything about himself and we didn’t ask. We told him of the various shelters nearby and he was resistant in accepting any help, from anyone. We asked if he was hungry and offered him some food and a few personal grooming commodities, then poured him a cup of hot chocolate and gave him a blanket. That was the last time we saw him, in December 2010.

Today was the first day it was cool enough in months to open the windows here in South Carolina. It was good to smell the fresh air. Soon the nights will be colder and staying warm will be harder for those on the streets. Thoughts of Jim filled my mind. I wondered how he was doing when I saw several of the homeless waiting, for maybe their only hot meal in a couple days at one of the many missions in our area.

I may have crossed paths many times and looked into the eyes of some, whom I’m sure walked a better path of life a few years ago. The Homeless population across the country is nearly epidemic and is not only in states with warmer climates. While many think these are just "bums" who drink and use drugs, it is a hard life or misfortune that has led them to this. They have lost everything and have once led normal lives, living in normal homes and many even have children. A bout of bad luck has forced many to live on the street with no one to help. With the times becoming harder for many people due to the housing mortgage crisis and the bad economy there may soon be many more people one paycheck away from being forced to be without a home.

I don’t know what the answer is or how it can be turned around. We cannot turn our backs and pretend we don’t see them…the men, the women, and the children of the streets, many who were our neighbors. But I do know, generosity and kindness is always appreciated...

Peace...

Another Vivid Snapshot...

I was going to start organizing a collection of poems I wrote as a teenager. I was looking for one particular one. It was an assignment for, of all classes, the Glee Club. Our Glee Club wasn’t anything like the modern Glee Club featured on prime time television. No, a stocky young woman who wore dated dresses and very little makeup taught our class. She had very rosy cheeks, a warm welcoming smile, and she cared about her students. Back in 1969, it wasn’t all about showmanship; we wore choir robes (in our school colors of emerald green and white), we stood very still, we were focused, and we sang. Period. Today, I don’t remember if it was her first year teaching at the high school I attended, only because, it happened to be my first year at a new school too.

The reason I was looking for this particular poem is because it was the first poem I read that evoked physical emotion as I read it. I barely could finish the last few lines. In between, the black mascara streaking down my face and trying to get a grip on my runny nose, I looked up to see tears welling up in several of the other girl’s eyes, including my instructor’s. It was a lengthily poem with two voices, one of a son, the other was his mother. It was written in letter form, the gist of the poem goes like this…the son joins the service, Viet Nam was the senseless war going on, the son asked his mother if…I lost a leg/legs…if I lost an arm/arms…her reply was, “I will always love you.” The poem ended with the loss of the son’s life and the mother’s mournful words.

If I hadn’t lost someone I loved, and another I cared for, to the meaningless and pointless Viet Nam War, maybe it wouldn’t have affected me so much and read the poem without a hitch. On the other hand, I was always terrified about being in front of the class…no, I’m sure the reason was the latter. I never did find the poem and I don’t know why I felt like I needed to find it today; I haven’t thought about it in years. But, the vivid snapshot of that memory was with me today, I only wanted to validate it.

Each, and every time I sit down to write, I discover something new about myself, and about others. Some days, I get off track like I did today. The story I am writing features a character that came back from Nam and hurt someone he loves horrifically, it triggered the memory of my choir class being in the school library…the nervous me standing in front of the class behind a podium, my sweaty, shaking hands holding my handwritten poem, all eyes upon me.

My mind works like this all the time. It gets me from sunrise to sunset every day. The unconscious part of me knows more about me than the conscious mind will ever admit. Writing for me, is like dreaming, then, I start thinking. What if I suddenly saw my life from a different perspective? What if I had a real glimpse of the face behind the mask? What if I really saw the one I may have forgotten, the one I have lost, or the one that made me afraid? Would I still like me?

Writing has become an adventure into the unknown, like opening Pandora’s Box. It stirs up old forgotten memories, sometimes making me feel anxious or exposed. Other memories, the pleasant ones, the snapshots of wonderful moments, those are the ones I sometime carry through my written words. Something important lies hidden—something that matters inside that my pen must unleash—something that will be revealed, on another day…

Peace...

A Day on the Road...

Yesterday, we took a “skip day” and went on our weekly bike ride in the mountains of North Carolina. Every time we go up, we try to explore different winding back roads. The kind of back roads you wouldn’t want to break down on. I’m not saying this because of the old scary notion the movie Deliverance put in your mind about southern back roads, “Paddle faster, I hear banjo music,” but because they are desolate, miles from the nearest home and unlikely to get a cell phone signal.

It’s hard to think of banjo music and breaking down when it’s the perfect temperature, the wind is at your back, the sun is in your face and warming your bare shoulders. What I did think about was, moonshine. I envisioned the hills filled with copper stills and bootleggers, and the pesky revenuers sneaking through the underbrush ready to demolish the still with a pickax.

The term moonshine goes back to a time when folks avoiding liquor authorities made their own booze by the light of the moon. This illicit spirit has also been called mountain dew (yes, you now know the soda reference), and white lightning. The term “moonshine” has a romantic, naughty ring to it that reminds you of two strappin’ good lookin’ boys in a souped up orange car called the General Lee helping out their poor old moonshinin’ Uncle Jesse.

Moonshine’s mystique is drawn in part from the danger people associate with it, but it’s reputation as an illegal and potentially hazardous elixar has little to do with why it is on the verge of earning mainstream respectability. It has less to do with mythology than drinkability.

Most do-it-yourselfers, stick to traditional recipes. The basics: boil the corn and let it ferment a few days. Then cook the "mash" in the still. As the vapors cool inside the contraption, alcohol runs out. A few make it from granulated sugar instead of grain.

The advise anyone will give you who brews it or has drank any amount of it will tell you, "If you take a big sip you'd have about three steps where you'd have to sit down or fall down.” At 190 or 200 proof, the brew has a bad kick. A little more than a big swig, you could instantly become knee walkin’ drunk, and we know depending who you are, that may not be a pretty picture!

It doesn’t matter to some that much of it doesn’t taste good or doesn’t have much taste. It’s like drinking EverClear, with an aftertaste somewhere between hominy, and stale wet cardboard. It’s one of those experiences one can't turn down, once.

We pulled into a one-pump station to gas up. A friendly old timer with a spirited sense of humor was drinking a tall glass of sweet tea in front of the old station and country store. We struck up a conversation as we drank our icy Mountain Dew’s about moonshine and some of the notorious bootleggers of the 20th century. He remembered a story of a young local moonshiner and a revenuer, “The young moonshiner told of how a tax man came up to him asked him where his family was. "At the still," he said. "Then he told he'd give me a dollar if I took him to the still," said the moonshiner, from Roanoke. The revenuer said he'd give him the dollar when he got back. "I had to tell him, 'Mister, you ain't comin' back.”

We laughed. He also informed us, moonshing was a serious business and Franklin County, NC has never been much ashamed of its long association with untaxed liquor. He went on to tell us about NASCAR Hall of Fame driver Junior Johnson was from this area and before becoming a racer he hauled moonshine on these very same mountain roads. I verified that when we got got home on the Internet and sure enough, he did, in an article written by Al Pearce:
“NASCAR Hall of Fame driver and team owner Junior Johnson won 47 poles and 50 races in his 11-year career, but he staunchly refused to go road racing until 1965, the year he quit driving. Johnson said this about his one start at Riverside, Calif.: "That place was right up my alley. I was driving for Ford, and they kept trying to get me out there because I was familiar with roads. (Before becoming a racer, Johnson hauled moonshine on mountain roads in western North Carolina). But I wouldn't go because" its right-hand turns "exposed the driver to the wall.”

I’m sure there are more NASCAR drivers with the same history as Junior, and there’s still a whole lot of moonshin’ goin’ on in these parts of the South. With the biggest issue being, the state/federal misses out on taxes that it would collect through a legal purchase.

It was great conversation with the old gentleman and it was the icing on the cake of a perfect mountain ride. Until next time…Peace.

Today's Thoughts...On Writing

I read a story that was published on a social network recently. It was about an incident that happened when this person was a teenager. I knew the people involved in the historical account and I was disturbed that something so personal was shared without theirs, or their family’s permission. I questioned the motives behind it, and even they thought it was an innocent reflection, it helped me think about my own boundaries, my own ethics of writing. I do not write, even in my own journal, about any of the painful aspects of the lives of my adult children or friends. I may note some publicly known fact such as a serious illness, or some joyful achievement or even a funny episode in family life. Even for that, however, I ask their permission. Their lives are sacred and have no place on my pages. Other people in my life, however, do sometimes find themselves on my pages. They are fictionalized so much that only the person in question might guess. I have changed the gender, age, description, and place of residence; I have altered histories, and distorted the truth on purpose, all for the sake of disguise.

On the other hand, my life is an open book. Someone someday, may read it, whether it’s published or not. There are some things that I do not write anywhere, not even in my journal. Everyone’s boundaries are their own, what would be intolerable self-revelation to one person is of no consequence to another. I know the danger of keeping a journal; someone may know who I really am. Or, more accurately, someone may know who I am in the moments I am writing, and mistakenly think I am like that all the time. Because sadness drives me to write on many occasions more than celebration steers me, someone reading my journal would conclude I am sad much more of the time than is true.

From the time I was nine years old and wrote my first poem, writing has been the way I survive. It has been my “art” form and it was the way I fit in. Franz Kafka said, “Writing means revealing oneself to excess.” I strive to leave judgment to others and try to be as honest as I can. In one way or another, all writing is a confession. Confession or vulnerability masked and revealed in the voice of words.

I know that my writing has drawn people to me, and it has pushed people away. I know that the “me” revealed on my pages is not always the “me” that is seen across a table at a local pub or deli. I know that some of my friends can’t deal with the more complicated “me” they meet on my pages. I can’t help that. They can understand or they choose not to, it’s their choice.

Peace...

Today's Confession...My "Black Dog"

This is in response to the numerous emails and inquiries where I've been...I hope this answers all your questions...Thanks for hanging in there with me.

"Black Dog" was Churchill's name for his depression, and as is true with all metaphors, it speaks volumes. The nickname implies both familiarity and an attempt at mastery, because while that dog may sink his fangs into one's person every now and then, he's still, after all, only a dog, and he can be persuaded sometimes and locked up other times.

People tend to forget that an individual who has depression or any other disorder is actually a person underneath the chaos and despair. On my worst days, it feels as if the depression consumes me and takes over my entire body. I am filled with negative thoughts and pessimistic views. I am irritable, impulsive, anxious, and sometimes I am sarcastic even to those I love. I can even become narcissistic, wonder why people don’t see me as this wonderful person, and become aggravated when they want nothing to do with me.

I can hear myself when I’m angry and depressed, and I can hear the words, tone, and pitch of what I’m saying and on a subconscious level, I cringe at what I’m doing. I know that I’m wrong and I know that I’m being hurtful, but at the same time, I cannot stop. It’s like having an out of body experience where you are floating above and watching every movement and hearing every word, but are powerless to stop. It’s the worst feeling in the world, when you know that you are being unreasonable and could be hurting someone’s feelings. That is why I have learned to keep my mouth shut until I can calm down and have an adult conversation with someone. However, even that can get me into trouble because I am seen as being disrespectful and defiant and as someone who doesn’t seem to have the patience to deal with a situation tactfully.

The list of names reads like an honor roll of the past two centuries, names like Abraham Lincoln and Winston Churchill and Vincent Van Gogh, Peter Ilych Tchaikovsky, Charles Dickens, Ernest Hemingway, Stephen Hawking, and Buzz Aldrin, just to name a few.

All suffered from either depression or bipolar disorder (manic-depression). The list goes on: Virginia Woolf, Judy Garland, Jack London, Marylin Monroe, Sylvia Plath, Mike Wallace, Kurt Cobain ...

Perhaps depression and manic-depression has a way of coaxing out the most noble and creative and visionary in some. If so, God must have a very twisted sense of humor. I think of the brilliant works produced under this muse, and I also think of the promising lives cut tragically short: Virginia Woolf's body fished out of the water, weighted down by stones, Van Gogh cradled in the arms of his brother at age 37, a thousand Starry Nights never to be painted, Sylvia Plath with the gas on and her kids in the next room, Marilyn Monroe found in a state of partial rigor mortis, forever young.

Sure, it's nice to know that depressives and manic depressives can accomplish great things, but then I consider the terrible tolls they all had to pay, and realize we are guilty of glamorizing the horrific, and in the process we diminish the tragedy this disorder has left in its wake.

I have learned to live with this thing inside me, even with the knowledge that it could very well bring me down at a moment's notice and show me no mercy. It has brought me closer to God and myself and my fellow human beings. But it has also reduced me to nothing and taken away everything I had. It has left me for dead, powerless to fight, feeling abandoned by both God and man.

And so, I must accept what I am, the bad, as well as the good, the ridiculous as well as the sublime. Maybe then, in my own way that is unique to me, I can feel as though I fit in. Maybe then, after nearly a lifetime of feeling different, I can say for the first time - and say it like I really mean it - that I am truly normal.

Peace...

Remembering Dad...

Remembering Dad With Love…
By Monica Sharpe

I could hardly wait until Daddy got home from work. Soon as my mother started to prepare dinner, I patiently waited, looking out the picture window when it was cold or rainy, or I sat on the front porch when it was warm. No matter how tired he was after working, he was never too tired to dance our special little jig that ended in a dramatic twirl.

The tall tales and bedtime stories he told were of heroes, princesses, and knights in shining armor. Ali Baba…fly away birds and string tricks…and falling asleep in his arms. I loved to snap rubberbands at the newspaper he read just to see him flinch. He never got mad until the time came I shot a bigger rubberband a little harder through a single sheet of newsprint…he was a little upset and the incident still makes me smile.

Today my Dad is celebrated for the familiar; he was a man who raised his family with strong Christian beliefs. He loved God and his country. And he is celebrated for the self-evident life-lesson anecdotes; like the less than subtle screening of potential boyfriends, building things, fixing broken toys, and mending my broken heart. These are the things he did. It’s the essence of what made him my Dad. Fundamental to his lifeblood, these idiosyncrasies became intrinsic me.

I have memories I can recall at a whim. Dad’s love of the north country where he was born, his love of baseball, apple pie, a good cup of coffee, and a tall neck bottle of beer with his famous Sunday hamburgers. He was my biggest fan when I learned to cook and because of his patience, I believe it’s why I have a love of the culinary arts.

I’m a carpenter’s daughter. I saw a man whose choice of profession was shaped by his commitment to family. He taught me about wood and nature, and the cycle of life. I am captivated by the smell of freshly cut wood. I remember unsuccessfully trying to make sawdust castles from the piles of sawdust that accumulated beneath his tablesaw. I laid in it and I played in it. For me there is little, if anything, more intrinsically masculine than the sweet scent of wood and varnish.

My Dad was my first glimpse into the strange but true world of men and boys. Perhaps he wasn’t the first one I ran to with a scraped knee, but he was the first man I ever truly admired. He did masculine things with gusto and bravado. Everything seemed somewhat bigger with Dad and more certain was his handshake, his opinion, and his convictions.

My memories live in the raw, pure unadulterated love of a child, uncomplicated with growth and change. The “real men are” list I fell heir to was Dad’s ultimate act of inadvertent philanthropy. And while my list is specific to me, I imagine that the more things change the more they stay the same. Our relationship was intangible, uncomplicated, and critical. I imagine that as daughters we all inherit a list and that as girls we are influenced by it.

My Dad was kind, forgiving, and tougher than any friend would risk being. He was clear and never resorted to aggression or humiliation. His underlying tone was warm even when he set boundaries. My Dad taught me to be a cooperative member of my family, to keep agreements, and treat others with respect, to be thoughtful and to help with household tasks. He was my friend and he treated me with respect and dignity. He liked me for who I was. He didn’t criticize, nor did he make any negative or derogatory remarks. He took time to listen to my side of the story. Security came from knowing the boundaries he set were firm and could not be manipulated.

The lessons I learned from my Dad were the ones he never actively tried to teach me. I realized with all his imperfections, my Dad was still one of the best teachers I’ve ever had. He showed me he was human when he showed emotion. Was he perfect…no he was not. But he had a depth of wisdom and experience that can never be denied. His life was an example of selflessness that has never left me.

I was twenty-three when I lost my Dad. He died of a heart attack in January 1978 during the snowstorm of the century. One month before on Christmas Eve, he gave me one final gift. It was the single most memorable gift I ever asked for.

My Mother asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I told her I only wanted words. She was bewildered when I told her I wanted my Dad to tell me he loved me, nothing more. The words, “I Love You,” were not freely used with my siblings and me as they are in our homes now. And not once, in all my entire life had I ever doubted he didn’t love me. I only needed to hear the words from him…

With the day’s festivities nearly over, everyone went into the living room to exchange gifts. It was out of character for my Dad to stay behind in the kitchen with me. He complimented me on the effort I made to make this a special holiday for them. He told me how proud he was of me and what a good mother he thought I had become. He gave me a hug and whispered, “I love you, Snicklefritz.” I cried tears of joy when I heard the words I longed to hear. It was the third time I saw tears in my Dad’s eyes. They were tears of validation.

My Dad evokes some of my fondest memories. I know that daughters need their dads in ways that dads will never fully comprehend. More than likely, dads need their daughters in a beautiful dance of synchronous reciprocity.

Raymond J. LaRocque
1907-1978

This picture of my Dad and me was taken five months before he passed.

Once a dreamer, always a dreamer...

We listened to what life was telling us to do, a new calling. Dreamers would say, we listened to our hearts and followed a dream, while others called us foolish. Wisdom and stability comes with age, but I’m stuck somewhere between here and yesteryear with my carefree hippie outlook in an aging body. Somewhere along the path, a little voice keeps telling me to be a rational and responsible adult, which I was...for a while. Two grown children, a career and a successful business later, the words continued to churn and whirl in my mind getting a bit garbled and I chose not to understand. Well, that’s not entirely true—I did understand—and I let my heart drive me fifteen hundred miles at eighty-five to ninety miles an hour with my husband hanging on by his fingernails. It was difficult to drive while my fingers were in my ears, blocking the condescending rants from others, but after twenty miles it became an annoying monotone hum that I was able to drown out with the volume control of the radio. While rational people are satisfied with stability, I still seek the unknown. Somebody has to be the dreamer, why can’t it be me?

I never gave up the notion North was where I wanted and needed to be. It was the only place I cried when I left, possibly because of the many unresolved issues that I was too hurt and stubborn to resolve on my own before I ran away again. After I was gone, I kept looking over my shoulder while those memories tried to sneak up and take hold of me. No way in hell, was anyone going to snicker when they mouthed the words, “I told you so…we knew you’d be back,” I wouldn’t allow my emotions to be flexible nor could I fathom compliance.

Years later, we started to go back with long intervals in between as we tried to maintain family connections. Only until recent years did I desired and need a tighter connection with those I selfishly I left behind while I lived my life. On this recent trip, I was forced to see everything through another set of eyes. It didn’t matter that I haven’t lived there for nearly twenty-six years or that I was only following my heart and my dream. It only mattered to me that my father’s and my home state’s blood flowed through my veins, and come hell or high water, and no words of logic from anyone was going to persuade me otherwise. I was meant to be back there.

The driving force to return was more powerful than each waking moment and was only getting stronger as years went by. First, it was seasonal, and then it became an everyday obsession. It didn’t help listening to Kid Rock’s song blast on the radio about the summer’s in Northern Michigan when he sang of moonlight, sandbars and campfires and being caught between youth and adulthood…”While we were trying different things, and we were smoking funny things, making love out by the lake to our favorite song, sipping whiskey out of a bottle, not thinking ‘bout tomorrow…”

For the first time in years, my perception was abruptly altered when I stood knee deep in the frigid waters of the Great Lakes. June temperatures colder than most winter days in the South, I watched the color swiftly leave my frozen feet. I was no longer that girl of seventeen; I only held her young heart. I stood there with an intense need to be one with the Lake and invoked God to please hear my prayer and give me some clarity. Warm tears mixed with the cold rain and the seemingly ambiguous clouds of the noon sky showed no reprieve. I needed that moment of transparency to relinquish every want and need I selfishly concealed…it was no one’s dream other than my own to be there. That was the harsh reality that I have not come to fully understand…

So today, my head is in a cloud, vacant of any productive thoughts and I’m finding it difficult to jumpstart my day. No matter how hard I have tried for the past few days, the cement wall of indecision about my future stalls my mind…

Peace…

Don't Worry Be Happy...

“My name is Monica, and I’m a top-notch worrier.”

I used to worry. A lot. Trivial things bothered me. I was proficient at causing more misery. Anxiety propagates anxiety. I even worried that I worried too much! Ulcers might develop. My health could fail. I could have a heart attack, or a stroke. I was afraid that the burden would become too heavy and my health would give too much of itself to pick up the extra load. My finances could deplete to pay the hospital bills. I could lose my house. I could end up homeless… Good Grief!

A comedian once said, "I tried to drown my worries with gin, but my worries are equipped with flotation devices." While not a drinker, I certainly could identify. My worries could run, jump, and pole vault!

"Monica, you need to learn to wait to worry." I said that over a year ago when I was rudely awakened by a jab to my self-esteem and decided to live by those words.

The average worrier is 92% inefficient. Only 8% of what we worry about ever comes true. I decided that I would wait to worry until I actually had a reason to worry something that was happening, not just something that might happen before I worried. Until I know differently, I refuse to worry. And I don't (I’m still working on it). Waiting to worry helps me develop the habit of not worrying and that helps me not be tempted to worry.

I love Bob Marley’s simple lyrics. There is so much wisdom in the lyrics, ‘Don’t Worry Be Happy’. “In every life we have some trouble, when you worry you make it double, don't worry, be happy… cos when you worry, your face will frown, and that will bring everybody down, so don't worry, be happy…”

"Anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, but only empties today of its strength."

As of this writing, I am proud to say my husband admits there must be something to all this non-worrying. With some resistance, he is implementing the practice of waiting to worry and he is finding out, life is happening a little less stressed. Smile and be well!

Elephants in the room...

One day we took off our rose colored glasses and saw its big ass planted in the middle of the room. I lost track of how long ago that was. Years, I think. Before we knew what happened, the squatter became incredibly comfortable with its surroundings and the perfectly controlled environment we provided, rent-free. We went about our daily routines learning to dodge that thick-skinned pachydermatous as he adapted to its new home. Oh yes, it was an excellent player, one of the best I’ve ever seen.

On a good day, the rascal stood in the corner and we actually saw clearly for a moment or two and enjoyed some great conversations, then the mischievous imp extended its leg causing us to trip again. Most of the time, it stood smack dab in front of us. It blocked our perspective and dared us to make it move. We were anxious and fearful to share our concerns about our resident guest. We ignored it as it gained a great deal of weight since its arrival long ago. We didn’t want to hurt the poor thing’s feelings, so we whispered and talked behind its back. He heard us…we saw it look over its shoulder with tears in those big heartbreaking eyes, but all we did was stew in frustration until our spoiled houseguest went to sleep or we went to bed tired of playing the waiting game.

We gently tiptoed around it and didn’t talk about how we were going to get rid of it. It made us anxious and afraid to say anything to each other while it dominated our space. We’ve discussed our plans to get rid of it with others, hoping they would help us find a solution for our problem. Many of those “others” had their own houseguest and didn’t have a clue or their techniques didn’t work for us. It was controlling, it conditioned us not to talk about it while it’s in the room. Surely, it would lose its temper, erupting the perfect impression we’ve tried to nurture since its arrival.

Company came and went. A few mentioned a glimpse of something trying to hide behind the oversized tapestry chair in the corner. We were experts on denial. No one dared to mention our houseguest, I’m sure they didn’t want to embarrass us when they saw us trying to conceal its robust behind in the hall closet.

We’re in early negotiations with our unwanted stranger and we believe it’s sincerely trying to listen to our terms. We’ve had enough of its unsettling behavior and together, I am pleased to announce we found the nerve to face our obnoxious visitor and are gradually coercing it out the door. One day at a time…

Finding my way...

Have you ever listened to a song and as the day went by you couldn’t get that song out of your head? The song just keeps playing over and over on that turntable in your mind until it wears a grove in the vinyl and you begin to sing something foolish out loud like, “Mamma’s little babies like shortnin’ bread…” or “If I only had a brain…”

Have you ever started to think about something that didn’t make you happy, and the more you thought about it, the worse it seemed? In a matter of minutes, you are consumed with so many miserable thoughts and the situation seems to be getting worse. The more you think about what made you unhappy, the more upset you get.

I’m the first to raise my hand. I am guilty of these things. My life is reflections of many dominate thoughts because it was what I experienced. I am learning to quit complaining, because I seem to find more things to complain about. I don’t want to hear other people complain, because I focus on their problems and I don’t want to attract more situations for me to complain about. By the way, if I start complaining, I wish someone would tell me to shut up too!

I didn’t believe it, when an old friend (she’s not that old) told me she didn’t want to be around people who exhibit negativity. She is attracted to, and only wants to be surrounded by positive people with positive energy. “It’s conducive to creativity,” she said. It made sense to me, but it was hard to put into practice for my own life when some days it was more than an effort to get out of bed.

The technique was simple, but the implementation was not.

The first thing I had to learn is to get rid of all my negative emotions like resentment, jealousy, dissatisfaction and if I continued to feel ungrateful for what I have, I would never bring more into my life. I concentrated on what I have, instead of what I don’t have, then the positive thoughts started to out-weigh my unhappy thoughts. I no longer wanted to be dominated by friends or family members who made me feel inferior. The people, who in their personal opinions, knew what was best for me, and I didn’t have the heart (or guts) to tell them, “leave me alone. It’s my life.”

Secondly, I wanted to be free of my past and the positive thoughts helped me find forgiveness. I quit thinking I had to sacrifice myself to be a good person because those thoughts only led me to feeling more resentment. My priority was making myself feel good and leave behind the feelings of unworthiness and undeserving. I am responsible for my own happiness.

The third thing I focused on was, I want to love life. I want to be surrounded by the people and things that bring purpose to my otherwise, “set in someone else’s ways,” kind of life. This is what I’m working on. I’m stopping to see what I have been missing by running too fast…The swans swimming on a back road pond, the hiking trail that led to a waterfall I passed a hundred times and never took the time to stop, the aromatic cedar mixed with jasmine in the woods after a rain, another ocean view, roads to undetermined destinations, laying in a field of flowers looking at cloud formations, seeing long lost friends…

I am only one, but still I am one. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do something that I can do.
~ Helen Keller

Today's Confession...

Secrets…

Look, who’s in control now? The pain is an indiscriminate mess of hurt that has no future. It is the darkest secret that will eat away at your consciousness until there is nothing left. Frenzied thoughts plague every fiber of your being telling you, you’ll never win…you’re destined to always lose…and life as you knew it no longer matters. These are the beliefs of someone who is contemplating suicide…

When I was fifteen, I almost successfully sliced my wrists. I still have the physical and mental scars to remind me. Something told me not to. Something as real as a human whisper told me to keep on living, find out what you want and what you are about. I did. Rape in any extreme is an embarrassing and shameful experience. I was left hurt, alienated and thoroughly exposed…I kept it to myself…I was afraid people wouldn’t like me if they knew. I refused to let people know me well, because I was afraid of what they’ll think about my dark side.

On my side was my strict religious upbringing. It painted an ugly version of what happens to those who commit suicide…my soul rotting forever in purgatory, the closest place to hell. I was already in hell, what was the difference? I was betrayed and it kept me closed up. My family never knowing my pain pegged me as a moody teen and left me alone. If they suspected, they kept it to themselves, whispering...I kept it to myself because I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to relive it…IT…they all had an answer to why I was such a “problem”.

I searched for truth and understanding when love found me. I never saw it coming. He stood by me and gave me the gift of enormous generosity of spirit and unequivocal love. I longed to be known fully and still be loved. It didn’t come overnight, nor day, weeks, months, but many years later.

My admission of my own inherent vulnerability, my weakness, my tenderness of skin, fragility of heart, and my overwhelming desire to be relived of this burden, to be forgiven of my ultimate aloneness and to forgive my aggressors has finally come. Freedom comes with forgiveness and "butterflies don’t carry rocks"…

And life as we know it… goes on…

Picture Perfect...

When I write, I think in images or snapshots of my characters. I am not the only one who does. A fellow writer and good friend recently told me, “People think I’m crazy when I tell them I see my characters as pictures in my mind.” She was shocked when I told her, "I do too." No, we are not seeing dead people! But how else would do you connect with your characters and make them real, unless you did?

I love taking pictures, I love getting pictures, and I especially love the old sepia and black & white photographs…

Nearly a year ago, my sister gave me a scanner that scans slides and negatives. I started scanning some old photo slides my husband and father-in-law took. Many of them I had forgotten or have never seen. They were negatives of the proofs my husband had taken when he had side photography business in the 80’s. Smiling faces of people, I didn’t recognize, all of them having their pictures taken to commemorate a special event. Among them were graduations, weddings, anniversaries, and sideline action sports shots taken for the local paper. Many of these faces are no longer with us. Some of them are still celebrating wedded bliss, while others are long divorced. Babies grew up with families of their own and the local jocks, if they still stayed in that small town are more than likely, over stressed workaholics trying to survive. I have never thrown away a picture, nor will I these, and I can’t even say I’ve cut someone I disliked out of one. Generally, those pictures end up in the bottom of an old shoebox, forgotten…

Today, we took one of our typical motorcycle outings to the mountains in search of a few new antique shops opposed to those we generally frequent. I roamed through the quaint little shops until something buried in a corner or pushed to the back of an old wardrobe cried out to me. I did not hear any voices beaconing to me today, but I was and am always attracted to old pictures and albums. My husband doesn’t ask me why I bother looking at old albums anymore, instead, he asks, “did you find something interesting?” He knows of my fascination with images and lets me amuse myself. “How sad,” I would say as my fingers touch the old photographs and try to find a connection with the pensive faces looking back at me. Did I ever mention how much it drives me crazy not to know the back-stories on many of the images I find? I love knowing the little details of human life and I am saddened why theses photos of families wearing their finest clothes were tossed. In the past, I have even purchased old photos because I felt a particular attachment to it, letting me be their surrogate family member.

I lingered a while longer looking at these photogenic faces and became conscious how fast the years flew by since women had no amountable rights. I smiled to myself and wondered how these thoughtful faces would react if they saw a middle aged woman wearing boots, a leather jacket and jeans, was staring back at them…

Butterflies don't carry rocks...

“Butterflies don’t carry rocks.”

The sun is shining, it's almost 85 degrees out. I woke up today…Smiling. I wake up smiling on most days when I have more than six hours sleep. I am blessed to know I can share some of my most inner thoughts with people I will never meet and possibly make a small difference in someone else’s life.

Someone wrote to me recently and asked about a quote I posted a while back, “Butterflies don’t carry rocks,” and where the quote was derived from. Well, it’s a long story and a very personal one that dates back over forty years. The saying is an old philosophy in a new time that I try to live by each day soon as my feet hit the floor in the morning. I am still in the healing process from some vicious physical and emotional wounds that have plagued my entire adult life. There are many people and things to consider and as of these writing, I’m not sure I want to stand here in front of everyone in my full nakedness and thoroughly expose myself.

What I will tell at this writing is, I have a couple very special people who have come back into my life through strange circumstances. If you believe in Divine Design, and every thing has it’s time, then you will understand what I’m talking about. These special friends have become my inspiration, and have opened something within me that has been locked away for many years by sharing their own personal diaries. Their stories helped me open the suppressed memories and experiences that I locked away in the furthermost-cobwebbed corner of my mind. When we communicate openly, my senses flow, from my heart and my mind, hence, healing is taking place.

So, in response to the question, here is the answer—Butterflies are beautiful, fascinating creatures. If they carried rocks, they would never be able to fly free.
If we continue to be burdened by our troubles, we will never know our true potential and thus, never soar!

Peace, everyone!

I Will Send No Flowers...

This Mother’s Day I Will Send No Flowers
By Monica Sharpe


I watch the deep furrows of her forehead soften with each stoke of my fingers, I sense she knows I’m here trying to reassure her like the countless times she comforted me when I was sick. I sit here beside Mama in her hospital bed looking at her jaundiced, cancer ravaged body praying to our good Lord God to please release her from all this suffering. “You know Mary, I don’t know if I can wear yellow, it’s never been my favorite color on me, but I have always prided myself at being different, and now I certainly am!” We laughed when Mama made this comment after my sister’s wedding...

Four four days after Anna's wedding, Mom’s test results revealed what I’m sure she already knew, cancer was imminent. What type of cancer it was, would only be determined by more tests. Dr. Rosa almost immediately delivered the dreaded diagnosis after a series of tests; cancer of the pancreas and liver. Surgery was scheduled and dreaded, we knew what the surgery would reveal. What we didn’t know was to what extent the cancer was devouring her, and how long I have left with the woman who had become my best friend...

How undeserving. This gracious woman who raised six, generally unappreciative children, including myself, was finally able to enjoy life when four days after the youngest leaves home she’s burdened with the knowledge she almost certainly has some form of incurable cancer. Three to six months to live was the most time doctors predicted Mama would have left after the first surgery. Time…the greatest healer. Not this time…all the sand was drained from this hourglass...

Dying, she listened to the hospital nurse read out the dinner invitation. Tubes in her arms and tubes in her nose, her body ravaged with pain she still smiled, “Oh, I think I’ll definitively be there.” Even when pain made her momentarily old, you could still glimpse the woman she had been, a great beauty, strong and proud, a woman ahead of her time. She had the endless spirit to help others, ironically, as a child I remember sitting under her sewing table playing with the scraps of fabric she used to make ‘cancer pads’ for hospital patients. What started out as an individual way for her to ease someone’s discomfort ended up with her organizing dozens of women all sewing a array of assorted items for cancer patients and for the veterans hospital in our church’s activity room...

Mother adopted ailing plants the way some people adopt puppies or abandoned kittens, nursing them back to health. She could of gardened in old teacups and did, “Don’t throw away that cracked bowl,” she would say, “It’s just right for starting that philodendron slip, just turn it around and no one will ever see the crack.” On our frequent visits she always made sure there were some freshly baked cookies with a pot of tea. Mama was never too ill or too tired to fix her nails and set her hair. She had courage, the kind of courage I don’t know that I could have demonstrated, “I had a wonderful life, a good husband and six fine children who have their own families now,” she said at the end, “I’m ready to go. There’s nothing terrible about going.”

My self-seeking reasoning that maybe Mama’s entire life was raising children and that life without Dad, now with my sister married, would only be a lonely excursion. After all, her life was her family, but where was her fine children now? Each of my brothers living in different states, my sister, a newlywed with her own hand of dealt problems, all consumed with their everyday issues. Where were her brothers and sisters? Where was her Mother? For all the people she cared for, where was anyone now? This austere hospital room should be overflowed with more than her “Mary Sunshine”...

My unselfish reasoning is that Mama deserved so much more from life. She should finally be able to go on a date, a cruise, spend time with friends and family at her leisure. She should be able to grow old and have the love and attention of her children and grandchildren. Not lying here unconscious with this disease devouring her body and spirit and her daughter singing her the same lullabies she so long ago sang to her as a child...

This year and every year from now on I will send no flowers. My mother died young. I will always remember her gifts to me. My mother was my first and best teacher. She would be gratified to see how well her lessons took. Just yesterday, I made several mistakes on a project at work, I redid it over and over and still the outcome was the same. I put it aside for a while, and begin again. My mother moves in me still. “Is this your best work?” she would ask. Whether the object was an English composition or sewing a simple doll’s dress, she rarely criticized directly. “If you used a ruler, you could keep the columns straight.” Or, fingering a rumpled garment, “The seam is puckered; maybe you could baste the pieces before you use the sewing machine.” The pressure was subtle, a combination of this is how it’s done and I’m sure, you’re not satisfied with that, and so I discovered by degrees, the singular pleasure of work well done. A beautifully finished garment, a perfect German chocolate cake, a beautifully set table, flowers planted in a garden that the colors off set each other, joy in rightness is my mother’s legacy...

What else did she teach me? Practical things, like how to slip a plant and know whether the cutting would root better in water or soil. How to lay out and create a pattern when there isn’t quite enough fabric. Whenever I cut shortening into flour for pie crust or bathe my children, her hand guides me...

My mother had no conscious philosophy of life or child rearing. But her attitude and beliefs were so consistent, so strongly expressed in her actions that I followed as if reproducing the steps of a dance. I learned from my mother that there is always something to do, the ideal being two things at once. When mother waxed the basement floors, she wrapped old towels around her shoes, a little extra footwork kept them shining. She watered plants and emptied wastebaskets on the way to other tasks. If a friend stopped to talk, she reached for her crocheting. Until the last days, I have no image of mother just sitting. Is it any wonder that I, stretched out on the lawn, always find weeds to pull?

I learned from my mother to improvise, make over, and make do. She would create a table out of an old fruit crate, and make small stool out of juice cans. She bought flour in sacks and used to bleach the sacks to make dishtowels so strong that I still have them. When sheets were worn, she made me soft camisoles with lots of lace out of the good spots and new iron board covers out of the old. What was left, she saved for dust cloths. She could extend by years the life of a special garment, by taking in, hemming or adding special added touches. When the garment was beyond extending, she removed everything salvageable, zipper, buttons, bias binding. My mother saved not just because we were hard up, but because waste was detestable to her...

My mother’s most powerful lesson was a distillation of all the others. Life is doing. I still, most every morning make a list of things that have to be done, people to contact, work to complete. Often, as I do so, I have a vision of my mother in old age, visiting me and staying in bed to avoid interfering with my morning routine. When finally when I would appear with her morning coffee, she would ask, “What my dear have you accomplished?”

Beyond all lessons, beyond the model she provided, my mother gave me a parent’s ultimate gift. She made me feel loved and good. She paid attention, she listened, and she remembered what I said. She did not think of me as perfect, but she accepted me without qualification. Today’s books concerning parenting emphasize the importance of telling a child he or she is okay. No doubt, that is helpful, but when I think of how my mother made me feel okay, I realized it was not what she said. It was her pleasure in me, visible as “sunshine”. It was the way she brushed my hair around her fingers to make the ringlets that were my six-year-old pride. It was in her radiant look when I ran in from school and in her touch when I snuggled next to her...

A quarter of a century later, in a hospital room, waving away the food a nurse urged her to eat, she said, “I’m not hungry. I look at my daughter and I am full. She is my sunshine and is what keeps me going.”

I am no one’s daughter now, only a mother now. Carrying her gifts, I think about my mother and my children with love, gratitude and resolve...

This is a picture of my mother and my daughter taken a few months before she passed away. This excerpt was taken from a tribute I wrote for her on Mother's Day, four months after she passed away in January, 1981. She's been gone for thirty years now and she still guides my hand. No matter how old I am, I will always miss her...

"What's Love Got To Do With It?"

It has been said that when a friendship is in trouble you need to change the rhythm of how and when you see each other. I suppose this applies to marriage too. I am still in the process of eliminating the ghosts that have filled my space…

I was cleaning closets and drawers and underneath my nightgowns, I pulled out the stack of cards and letters from my husband and reminisced through each occasions with absolute clarity. I sat on our bed and neatly sorted them by years. I never found it comfortable to receive…not gifts, compliments, sex or even attention. It’s astonishing how quickly we fall into a cycle of withholding. Somewhere along the way, I began to believe that the real problem was not my ability to receive, but the inability to give what I needed. The lack of trust intensified the problem and forced me to hold myself from the one I loved. I learned I was the only person capable of taking care of my happiness, and my life…and without each other giving and taking, our love would not have survived.

While I was tripping down memory lane, I heard Tina Turner's scratchy wail on the radio, “What’s Love Got To Do With It?” and thought, what does love have to do with it? What does love have to do with a long-term marriage? I couldn’t come up with an immediate answer, but I do remember some old chemistry that made us gel, and a whole lot of hopeful projections about who we thought each other was to the other. Here we are today, rapidly approaching thirty-nine years together, still separating our differences making something new everyday out of the old stuff.

We were once those golden people but we are not any longer…not better nor worse, only different. Certain experiences leave a mark on you. You look back and think, I’ll never be that way again. Like everyone before us and around us we are, have been, and are being tempered by life. These pictures and mementos I hold dear to my heart feel dreamlike, as if the experiences didn’t happen to me, yet it was my life and I did live it.

“Never, never again,” says the poet Kathleen Raine. “This moment, never, those slow ripples across smooth water, Never again these clouds white and gray…The sun that rose from the sea this morning will never return, for the broadcast light that brightens the leaves and glances on water will travel tonight on its long journey, out of the universe, never this sun, this world, and never again this watcher.”

My Peggy...

This past Easter weekend, I recalled a scene from, The Velveteen Rabbit, I hope the lessons from this book moved my children as it had with me many years ago…The scene I am referring to is which two stuffed animals discuss authenticity… “ ‘You BECOME,’ the horse said to the rabbit. ‘It doesn’t happen all at once. It takes a very long time. Generally by the time you are REAL most of your hair has been loved off and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But those things don’t matter, because once you are real, you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.’”

Recent events and conversations with loved ones this past weekend, filled my thoughts of a remarkable woman who I knew in Arizona, she taught me how to find compassion when I felt no hope and considered myself a complete failure as a mother, in my marriage, and in my life's choices.

I owe much of who I am today to this remarkable woman, and I thank God often, that she was the fork in my road to better understanding life’s situations. I met Peggy on the first day we moved into our new home and knew there was something special about her. Perceptive as she was, she must have sensed something about me and told me she was determined to crack my hardened shell with daily doses of hugs and verbal encouragement. A day didn’t go by for two and a half years that my mornings didn’t start with a knock at the door and her open arms, sometimes more, but nothing less. She taught me to find forgiveness and bring love back into my heart.

Peggy was a retired schoolteacher from Missouri with gusto for life. She was also a piano teacher and a part-time librarian; she had a passion for every living thing and was dedicated to her Alzheimer’s inflicted husband of sixty-seven years. She asked me once if I ever did any playacting as a child, and if it was easy to be someone I was not. When I asked her why, she explained to me something that I have not forgotten; something she observed in her many years of teaching was that “most compassionate people in real life are those who did a lot of playacting as children.” She said, "that you’re required to understand the motivation behind another’s actions, and to have sympathy for their plight, then along the way an enormous compassion for others develops.”

I hope one day I am fortunate enough to make a difference in one unsuspecting person’s life like Peggy did for me; it would be extraordinary to pay her gift forward.
I believe all of us have crossed paths with our Peggy’s, some of us were lucky enough to have acknowledged them while others ignored that knock on the door…

Today's Quote...

Reach for the fullness of human life...If you but touch it, it will fascinate. We live it all, but few live it knowingly. ~Goethe, Faust

A Tipsy Confession...

I never thought once to celebrate myself not even once—not after the birth of my children, not after nursing them through their young lives, not after the hundreds of times my arms extended to console others through loss or hard times. When my father passed away and a short six months later my father-in-law passed, I suppressed my grief to take care of two women, who like myself, never stood on their own two feet. More than thirty years later, I am learning to grieve, now that I am the only woman that I need to take care of.

I rushed forward in a straight line, pushing onward never veering off the path of rules set by other people, against whom I have measured myself. I never took the time to decipher where I was going—I just went. It’s only been recently I know what is missing in my life and what I crave to have back. I want a sense of balance that begins in my core; an integration of life experiences and it’s what’s driving me to my future.

It occurred to me that I was always eager to applaud my children’s accomplishments—walking, climbing, swimming, running, reading and writing—and yet I hardly noticed my own. Every decade I live offers new challenges and as I walk through the portal to the other side, I still strive to be me.

In the words of William Sloane Coffin, “The leap of faith is not so much a leap of thought as action. One must…dare to act wholeheartedly without absolute certainty.”
I’ve taken that leap into uncertainty one too many times, the first monumental leap was when I said, “I do.” I was scared to death. Will this relationship really last till death do us part or will we tire of each other and move on separately in different directions…
Other times I leaped and fell flat on my face…starting one business then losing another. One will never know until they tried. I knew I didn’t want to reach old age and say, “what if.” Risks are attached to everything, even if you were afraid or never took that initial leap, they are they hiding around the corner.

I strive not to feel weak and inferior, and no longer want to keep up with the Jones’s who are keeping up with the Smith’s. I am grateful for the one person in my life that has stood by my side and I thank God he did not veer off the path of loving me and keeping me safe. I am selfish that I want more independence, to make my way and not call for help. Having been taught compliance and dependence, I strive for autonomy and the resurgence of will.

I celebrate my women friends, each successful in their own ways. I no longer feel isolated in my own selfish thoughts, because these very dear women friends of mine have let me know that I am not swimming alone. A song comes to mind for those of you familiar with the Woodstock era, Joe Cocker’s A Little Help From My Friends—from an era of make love not war, to an era where women burned their bras, and finally to the time in our lives when we need to find our true selves. I raise my glass to each and every one of you…Cheers! You know the tune…

What would you think if I sang out of tune,
Would you stand up and walk out on me?
Lend me your ears and I'll sing you a song
And I'll try not to sing out of key.

Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends
Mm, I get high with a little help from my friends
Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends

What do I do when my love is away
(Does it worry you to be alone?)
How do I feel by the end of the day,
(Are you sad because you're on your own?)

No, I get by with a little help from my friends
Mm, I get high with a little help from my friends
Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends

Do you need anybody
I need somebody to love
Could it be anybody
I want somebody to love.

Would you believe in a love at first sight
Yes, I'm certain that it happens all the time
What do you see when you turn out the light
I can't tell you but I know it's mine,

Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends
Mm, I get high with a little help from my friends
Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends

Do you need anybody
I just need someone to love
Could it be anybody
I want somebody to love.

Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends
With a little help from my friends.