tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-272502022024-03-14T11:51:57.697-05:00Prodigal AspersionsDid you ever want to be happy and grow up to be it?Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.comBlogger115125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-82618853243547991202017-01-20T08:46:00.000-06:002017-01-20T08:46:37.181-06:00We Want ThingsPeople are worried about me. It's what friends do when they see you suffering. They would like to see me be OK, not be triggered by visions of rape.<br />
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They want me not to hear about children afraid of being deported and remember that I was often awakened from sleep to some scene my alcoholic father created. I was often afraid in my childhood too. Different reason; same terror.<br />
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They want me to once again be able to watch the news like the news junkie I was. They want to see me be able to put the bad news away and go about my business without toting fears of nuclear war with China or wholesale destruction of the planet my granddaughter will call home for 90 years.<br />
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My friends want me to find my joy again and rediscover my wicked sense of humor. They want me not to have to schedule extra sessions with my psychologist just to get through the month.<br />
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I want some things too. I want to not be an enneagram personality type 1 wing 9 (http://bit.ly/1wing9) who is driven to change things that hurt others. Not really, I just want everyone else to be one too so we'd simplify things and have the same goal.<br />
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I want my president to be smarter than me and humbled by the office.<br />
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I want legislators who have some semblance of decency, compassion, and shame.<br />
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I want everyone to treat others as they would like to be treated. No, better.<br />
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I want to hear that someone is a Christian and not have the wonder if they follow the example of the Christ who loves.<br />
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I would like just one person who voted for a man who bragged about sexually assaulting women and mocked a disabled man to apologize to me, a disabled rape survivor, and mean it.<br />
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I want to stop hearing "me, me, me" and overhear people say, "Can I help you with that?" and "You seem sad. Let's talk about what can make it better." <br />
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I want to wake up and find out everyone on the planet got woke. Woke AF. The kind of woke that makes you cry a little and then wipe tears on the sleeve of your work shirt and get after doing what needs doing to keep this world turning for us all.<br />
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Instead, I'm watching it all come undone. I can see it as clearly as I saw all the hours of the clock this 19 January 2017 night and 20 January 2017 morning.<br />
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If you are my friend, that will probably add to your worry about me because you know I need my sleep to keep the RA from making me sick.<br />
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I did some things during the night, though. I did some guided meditation and an 'examen' - a religious exercise where I look at what is in my life and think of what to do in response. I also prayed.<br />
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I don't have any brilliant answers or even smart ones, anyway none that I didn't have yesterday.<br />
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I'm going to get my hair cut later today. It's kind of a thing I do. When I make a major change, I cut my hair.<br />
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I'm going to make some things, do some sewing, and write in my liturgical journal.<br />
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I'm going to keep promises and become very acquainted with my legislators' staff members and learn their phone numbers by heart.<br />
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I'm going to take care of my animals and fiercely love my family. I'm going to love my neighbor, even those who are making my life a misery right now.<br />
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I'm going to follow my basic personality, but I'm more mentally healthy, and won't go off the deep end unless I am sure I have a life preserver. I'm going to fight back and wipe tears and give mini sermons to kids. And I'm going to finish the damn novel this year.<br />
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Don't worry, I'm gonna be OK, but I am going to suffer some while I do it because I will be seeing the suffering around me, the way my friends see mine.</div>
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<br />Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-82543653939528408102016-11-23T01:19:00.001-06:002016-11-23T01:22:09.391-06:00This safety pin doesn't matterI make jewelry sometimes.<br />
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"I made it," I might say, when someone asks about a necklace or bracelet.<br />
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"You made the beads?" they sometimes say.<br />
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No. I bought the beads and the findings. I guess I just designed it and put the pieces together.<br />
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These are some prayer beads I made, <i>designed and put together.</i><br />
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I made so many. I didn't have anything to do with them all, more than in the picture. I don't sell jewelry. I do give some away, so I did that, gave a few prayer beads away.<br />
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Usually, I just make things for myself. No one has to like them except me. If I don't like them any more, I can take them apart and remake them, <i>redesign them</i>, into something else.<br />
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Today, I designed this.<br />
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There aren't four. I just liked the way it looked on different background colors.<br />
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I didn't make the elements of the necklace. The heart and brass ring were made by the brother of one of my best friends. He is a metal artist. I didn't make the safety pins either. I'm not sure who makes safety pins.<br />
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I simply slid the pins onto the leather thong that Jerry sent with the heart.<br />
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It didn't take much effort, although I did plan the way they would look. And I did have to hunt up a few extras of the same size, so that was effort, I guess.<br />
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I'm wearing it right now, the necklace. I'm not sure how often I will wear it. It's really for me, to remind me, to give me something tangible to hold onto.<br />
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So, I am not wearing a safety pin to show that I will stand in the way of anyone who would hurt someone because of their color, or race, or religion, or sexual orientation, or any other thing that folk use to separate out one from the herd to beat down. I will, but that's not the importance of the pins.<br />
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I could wear them inside my clothes where no one would see.<br />
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I am wearing a row of them, a chain of them, 24 of them. The number isn't significant. I could wear one or a hundred.<br />
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It doesn't even matter too much if I wear them at all. It only matters that they remind me of what and who and where my attention should be focused. When I see them, or feel them, when I put them on, or when I take them off, I remember what they stand for, who they stand for, and what is important.<br />
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Maybe you want to make a chain of them or pin a square of them onto your shirt. Use one to put your house key onto a keyring. String several together to hang on your coffee cup handle or to dangle down from your rearview mirror. Or perhaps put one inside the waistband of your skirt or inside your pants pocket, where only you will know it's there.<br />
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The pin doesn't matter. The people matter. Don't let us forget that.<br />
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<br />Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-62230031730486824832016-11-18T19:28:00.000-06:002016-11-18T19:28:35.619-06:00Do you have people?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When times get tough, it's a good thing to have people. I have people. Some of my people sent me things this past week.<br />
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Diane made an envelope out of a magazine page and filled it with two of her collage pieces. They were created just for me. The wishes and sentiments fit me to a <i>tea. </i><br />
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That is what Keith sent me -- tea. Harney and Sons Capri. Even Harney (or the Sons) sent me a little something, two extra teabags.<br />
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A Wisewoman sent me a postcard that encouraged me to be myself and, strangely, full of tea.<br />
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Mindy sent a postcard too. "Good friends are like stars. You don't always see them but you know they are always there."<br />
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She says I am there for her too, even when I am in a mess. It's what you do. You are present for people who need you. When you can't immediately be present, you send your voice, your words, your wishes, or a little tea. Tea and sympathy.<br />
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My government and the people represented threw me for a loop. I suffered sexual battery as a child and was raped as a young woman. I've spent a lot of years trying to put that into a place inside me that is cushioned by therapy and soul work. That work enabled me to pull outside of myself and my own pain to help others who have suffered. I have encouraged others to get help. My recovery seemed something I could count on.<br />
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I forgot that recovery is a process. It's like remission, not a cure. And just like that, my future president says he can grab any woman's private parts because he is a star.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5m4SqYp3VM2DtSqly9HRJe2Dp9EuZF7D43OR9I5gm-THCRdBwq80iekQz0gTjEeF6Ne6KCkBhuI9KYs9Gut6m-MqYrUE0BMEtyBFOHLnE47pq4WeONGo5sxZCpgBGYSeOJSa7Q/s1600/IMG_7814.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5m4SqYp3VM2DtSqly9HRJe2Dp9EuZF7D43OR9I5gm-THCRdBwq80iekQz0gTjEeF6Ne6KCkBhuI9KYs9Gut6m-MqYrUE0BMEtyBFOHLnE47pq4WeONGo5sxZCpgBGYSeOJSa7Q/s320/IMG_7814.JPG" width="320" /></a>I found out that sexual predators are like stars too. You don't always see them but you know they are always there.<br />
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So I fell off the edge of my safe place on this planet. But I have people. My people make a tether to hold me close and pull me back.<br />
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Do you have people? #raiseyourhand Ask for help.<br />
Do you have people? #lookforthehurting Be the help.<br />
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I will be here, drinking tea and writing words. You can sit with me.Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-81381022184202700892016-11-13T16:56:00.000-06:002016-11-13T17:22:37.847-06:00Like That Woman in the PictureI watched Sunday on CBS with Jane Paulie. A reporter (?) interviewed some hurting people who are "low class," as one woman described herself with not a bit of shame or artifice. She talked of her troubles. She's a young woman, 20s, who said the closing of the coal mines because of EPA and environmental concerns split families. Men go off to work as they can find it and women and children stay put in the "home where [her] family lived for generations."<br />
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Two things, neither promising:<br />
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1) No one in government is going to get those coal jobs (or manufacturing jobs) back. I don't think anyone who promised to meant a word. And the Democrats in congress can block a lot of votes to prevent environmental apocalypse. (The Rs don't have 60%.)<br />
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B. Any major shift in work life (early mankind adopting agriculture, the industrial revolution, the rise of .com and e-commerce) brings upheaval. Some changes are good. Some are bad. Some changes are split between good for one and bad for another. All changes have required some people to adapt to relocation, loss of livelihood, and great stress. Former hunter/gatherers didn't hire guides when they could now grow their own. Large numbers of farm workers moved from rural areas to get manufacturing jobs in cities, many women, many exploited. And now, like me, Adam, and Ariane, some work from home by computer rather than going into a job in town. And steelworkers and coal miners have no jobs near home.<br />
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The "low class" woman reminds me of myself. I needed to create a whole new way to be in the world, more because of bad family issues than national issues. I had few resources. The military got me the hell out of town. And the things that were untenable back home were improved. I had to leave my home and some dear people. But my daughter is in much better position than she'd have been in had I stayed.<br />
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The woman who faces a split family and hard times gets my sympathy and empathy. I want her to find a way to have a good family life and plenty. I'm willing to pay taxes to get her and/or her husband some retraining. I'd support tax breaks if they have to move.<br />
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But I won't give her what she wants. I won't support reopening those coal mines. It's wrong for more people than it is right for. I'm sorry. She's in for hard times to come this next four years.<br />
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Later this morning, I learned Elton John has the photo "Migrant Mother" by Dorothea Lange.<br />
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It seemed fitting to put her here.</div>
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<br />Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-28628318087036920732016-11-12T12:12:00.000-06:002016-11-12T12:12:35.440-06:00Little Girls Bounce<div>
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The words of the title come from a chapter of the book I am writing. It has several little girls as characters on the pages. One thing that is true in this book is that little girls are resilient. </div>
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Like a rubber ball, a girl can land in the mud with a splat. Either can be lost in the back corner of a closet or under the bed. All manner of bad things can happen to a ball or a little girl. The resilience doesn't take away the danger of it or the chance that something or someone can do mischief to the very essence of the ball or girl.</div>
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You might think that a rubber ball, because it is so spongy and resilient can't be hurt. It can. Little bounces on the concrete don't show too much. But over time, the red surface can start to show a little wear. Sun beats down on the ball left out too long in the weather. Oxidation breaks the chemical bonds. Over time, a shiny rubber ball shows the insults on its now-pitted surface. </div>
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Girls show insults and neglect too. Quiet -- frighteningly, unnaturally quiet, or loud -- rebelliously, outrageously loud. Cuts. Bruises. Scars. Scarification toughens the skin and the heart. You can see it, if you look, the damage.</div>
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But if someone will pick up either, girl or ball, and try to engage their natural inclinations, their creator-given essence, the someone will find that either, ball or girl, will bounce. Things have changed in the chemical bonds and the soul of the girl, for sure. Never will either be the same as before the insults and damage. But bounce we do. And I am living proof.</div>
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My childhood and early adult years were damaging. For a long time, it looked as though I would never overcome the pain I felt or be what I was intended to be. I had to start to believe that I could overcome the damage of child sex abuse, a violent alcoholic father, and the rape I endured just as I was becoming a woman on my own. I had to see that I am valuable and worthy, no matter what scars I carry. It took my child's future looming before me to see that I had to parent myself as I was parenting her. I had to ask for help and take it. I had to work on the things I wanted to change. It was and still is hard work.</div>
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Now, I try to point out the truths I have learned to those who still hurt and haven't healed. I will tell you how it was with me. I will hear what you want to say. I will wish and pray for you to bounce back. You can.</div>
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Little girls bounce, and, I don't forget, little boys too.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-32636445611821409402016-11-09T11:39:00.000-06:002016-11-09T11:39:04.095-06:00Writing Through the Pain: one way to cope when your president triggers you<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">To start this post, I
opened up Word and chose a blank sheet of virtual paper. Anything can happen on
this page. Hold that thought.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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I am reopening this blog, Prodigal Aspersions. Here, I wrote
my way through several years of therapy when I didn’t have enough close friends
to talk to. I talked to myself. Not surprising. I was always a loner as a kid –
up a tree, in my grandparents’ attic, out in the fields, in the empty weekday
church building. There weren’t any kids of my age in Keeling, Tennessee, just older
or younger. But truth be told, I didn’t want any kids brought in. I never knew
what to do with them and by the time I learned, I had come to enjoy my
solitude.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t always enjoy my childhood. It was populated by some
really good people – Bobby Coulston, Mr. Mac, my own granddaddy highlight the
list. However, there were people who made my life one long dark night with new
shadows and strange, ominous sounds, the kind of night where you hold your
breath and stare at the shadow, willing it to be a newly broken branch or some
clothes left on the line outside. Like when you see and hear frightening things
in the night, I tried to make sense of my experiences. But there’s not a whole
lot of insight available to a child of a violent alcoholic and who has an uncle
who constantly tries to sexually assault her. Add the Asperger’s syndrome,
shake, stir, and pour up a cup of dread.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grew up. I got that therapy and still do. I talked and
read. I came to understand that the chaos and terror around me had nothing to
do with what and who I am. I was a little kid who should have been enjoyed and
nurtured. It was not my fault. There were people, lots of people, who agreed
with me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wrote things along the way – as therapy, in addition to
therapy, for my own sense of worth and expression. I put them here and over in
my other blog Dead Daddy. (Link at right.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People found me. Looking for kinship, help, answers, they
stumbled onto me. Not a whole lot of people, just the ones who needed what I
had discovered, what I could say out loud.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went back to college and to grad school and started
writing academic papers, then my own work, and some side hustle gigs. I didn’t
add much here. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think I need to again. For those who are so tired of being
triggered and poked and stabbed by sexual carelessness. For those who never
said a word and now might want to figure out how. Because I need to do
something positive for my own sake and work through returning demons that I
thought were driven from the space outside the window of my soul’s night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am going to write here and at Dead Daddy. I know that
writing can make it better and reading can too. I am going to do what I can to
make it better. Anything can happen here. We are not clean, blank pages on a
screen. Admittedly, we are people who have been through some hard times. If we
were paper we would look rumpled, wrinked, maybe even crumpled up. But we are
not paper. We are people. Our scars are our battle markings. The dented places
in our skins are proof that we escaped from what held us. We can keep looking
to make sense of the shadows of our nights. And we can write and talk about it.
Or just read for now. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On this page, I can tell you how I became a battle-tested
warrior. I can howl and I can laugh. Just wait. Hold on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will write. I will be here. It is what I can do today. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cyn<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-78290547418708331082015-08-14T16:35:00.001-05:002015-08-14T16:35:42.164-05:00August Break: Favourite Smell<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZorIqIZt3hkNziToL8zCbla4ztuMxxfyUApILobO4TW1dkhkiX6OyUlHzI3uTctuuQVAWSmhsAfZLvxAjHTkwoyuxZyg_Ikxwa7L-uLIFm14_SZoZUhS4HbZWnZXZRCLGJE8Hrg/s640/blogger-image--1205409525.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZorIqIZt3hkNziToL8zCbla4ztuMxxfyUApILobO4TW1dkhkiX6OyUlHzI3uTctuuQVAWSmhsAfZLvxAjHTkwoyuxZyg_Ikxwa7L-uLIFm14_SZoZUhS4HbZWnZXZRCLGJE8Hrg/s640/blogger-image--1205409525.jpg"></a></div>Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-902288354522172292015-08-12T07:39:00.001-05:002015-08-12T07:39:39.405-05:00August Break: Yellow<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwobANAL1ph7Af0uTii2Ds7b52uaRt4yWvzP_OaMwVS6utkZ29a0I-3iRynhAqhShoCXJ2_yEXCXORtHdYoQ70zND1yVhXtFiqHJmau-i7uPmCdnb3Tq4Z78TwDOwDqr7bK7HdMA/s640/blogger-image-941852776.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwobANAL1ph7Af0uTii2Ds7b52uaRt4yWvzP_OaMwVS6utkZ29a0I-3iRynhAqhShoCXJ2_yEXCXORtHdYoQ70zND1yVhXtFiqHJmau-i7uPmCdnb3Tq4Z78TwDOwDqr7bK7HdMA/s640/blogger-image-941852776.jpg"></a></div>Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-2072919599008459542015-08-11T11:41:00.001-05:002015-08-11T11:41:19.745-05:00August Break: Edge<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2dBUzaP7gqapDd7c6W6plviKqI6hFG64lK78C3UsyUg62uOOjO_BPw5G-T4DqkNBNMHyD4x07OsjDi9uiEi__KjLL9aQVIOBIwEUHTo-FMGTAq4Z0HYCjMDxlbG-R40_2ex1FQ/s640/blogger-image--368419536.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2dBUzaP7gqapDd7c6W6plviKqI6hFG64lK78C3UsyUg62uOOjO_BPw5G-T4DqkNBNMHyD4x07OsjDi9uiEi__KjLL9aQVIOBIwEUHTo-FMGTAq4Z0HYCjMDxlbG-R40_2ex1FQ/s640/blogger-image--368419536.jpg"></a></div>Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-71757796381328123132015-08-10T14:03:00.001-05:002015-08-10T14:09:41.939-05:00August Break: Talisman<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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Lolly.</div>
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Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-8623153900530927882015-08-09T19:39:00.001-05:002015-08-09T19:44:53.221-05:00August Break: Earth<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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#AugustBreak #Earth</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy_5N-uaYwIfc0gJZ48-PXN2eqNjkHctZYFJKNzz4ykbbtp96H_Kb7Da96srR2vyNS2FZry4gwxEB4w_C-abht5mF85VGa_GiXbQL8hQPmPKzFYBEGnTxQazSxDFLxJodHLXxXww/s640/blogger-image-543300304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy_5N-uaYwIfc0gJZ48-PXN2eqNjkHctZYFJKNzz4ykbbtp96H_Kb7Da96srR2vyNS2FZry4gwxEB4w_C-abht5mF85VGa_GiXbQL8hQPmPKzFYBEGnTxQazSxDFLxJodHLXxXww/s640/blogger-image-543300304.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-25253878900845975342015-08-08T15:46:00.000-05:002015-08-08T15:46:11.952-05:00August Break: Smooth<div style="text-align: center;">
$25 Retro Table • Smooth Junk</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEithnMbweWBvWrykn8GoBxaPFWc7UL725fPJg5qKnXtj_xl71TKkzm8HCQ5qGR2M_VD-K8zizX2YDCFF1KWQK3ZOLZxilZy4CK8koyI1zw1x17D5l80swJeu9aBE4PJSjiAaJGSvw/s640/blogger-image-1800482571.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEithnMbweWBvWrykn8GoBxaPFWc7UL725fPJg5qKnXtj_xl71TKkzm8HCQ5qGR2M_VD-K8zizX2YDCFF1KWQK3ZOLZxilZy4CK8koyI1zw1x17D5l80swJeu9aBE4PJSjiAaJGSvw/s400/blogger-image-1800482571.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-12413340459983313902015-08-07T10:22:00.000-05:002015-08-07T10:22:12.678-05:00August Break: 5 Things About Me<div style="text-align: center;">
My Bookshelf Speaks</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMenjZaXBnW4G7xg9UDAGvCstMY0VeP_zr2l_DnVADWUULFufKkswPv6KkqY2kMGoI9XoVFP4mJrqqM-QuJhTlrZ7u8674OHixtwa_HNbk_Scqda_w7BeY6fK6n0gX0YLSp72WjQ/s640/blogger-image-469001920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMenjZaXBnW4G7xg9UDAGvCstMY0VeP_zr2l_DnVADWUULFufKkswPv6KkqY2kMGoI9XoVFP4mJrqqM-QuJhTlrZ7u8674OHixtwa_HNbk_Scqda_w7BeY6fK6n0gX0YLSp72WjQ/s400/blogger-image-469001920.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-42708083196241975552015-08-06T09:57:00.001-05:002015-08-06T10:03:11.046-05:00August Break: Notebook<div style="text-align: center;">
Tucked in my journal. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicfo4a1IAWcTDwQcZxcnGhlHgz3g-jwSAcyhyphenhyphenvjsyBs4BeSP4FC9LBuSawkRmWAzGDY6m6dnbz2dxxMn29W4F716v3Zc3TN3AAbGgZ4U4o9L3ADcYhVVjPmhJfaDhibpF-gAhChQ/s640/blogger-image--1773039865.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicfo4a1IAWcTDwQcZxcnGhlHgz3g-jwSAcyhyphenhyphenvjsyBs4BeSP4FC9LBuSawkRmWAzGDY6m6dnbz2dxxMn29W4F716v3Zc3TN3AAbGgZ4U4o9L3ADcYhVVjPmhJfaDhibpF-gAhChQ/s400/blogger-image--1773039865.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-37989080955741551742015-08-05T14:21:00.001-05:002015-08-05T14:25:39.557-05:00August Break: Citrus<div style="text-align: center;">
Oranges need zippers.<br />
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Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-16357584987980911062015-08-04T11:35:00.001-05:002015-08-04T11:45:37.103-05:00August Break: Numbers<div style="text-align: center;">
Even</div>
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My</div>
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Numbers</div>
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Words </div>
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Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-32947358509062960132015-08-03T12:17:00.001-05:002015-08-03T15:09:39.303-05:00August Break: SkinI always have a bruise or two. Or three.<br />
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Bruises are loud. They say embarrassing things in public. Bruises are blabber mouths. They gossip. A lot. </div>
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They aren't attractive like eyes, with colors all melding in a perfect palette. They aren't political like tattoos, not usually anyway. Although, they could be gotten from a down and dirty protest march. </div>
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Bruises sometimes lie to our brains, who tell our mouths to repeat the story. Often, this doesn't turn out well for any part of the body. </div>
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My bruises are true. And brave, oh so valiant. Every week and sometimes twice, my bruises proclaim to my feet that they may walk. Every week and sometimes twice, my bruises tell my immune cells to sit down and shut up, and to, for heaven's sake, stop picking on those joints. </div>
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I know they get a bad rap, and mostly, rightly so. But my bruises mean a lot to me. Just one look at them and I know that all the rest of me will be just plain fine. </div>
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Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-10018457032813851862015-08-02T14:29:00.001-05:002015-08-03T15:09:25.070-05:00August Break: AirLike love, air isn't visible except for the effect it has on the world around us. Keep it spinning.<br />
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Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-38205593495112888872015-08-01T08:32:00.001-05:002015-08-03T15:09:04.640-05:00August Break: Breakfast<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-1962906455493467492015-02-18T14:26:00.000-06:002017-04-15T12:35:13.803-05:00Making Ashes from Palms: A Lenten Story in Pictures<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-3127751792682981382014-08-12T13:53:00.001-05:002014-08-12T14:04:57.409-05:00Consider This as Me Swooping InJust before I swallowed the pills, I wanted to melt away. About 20 or 30 minutes after I swallowed the pills, I slipped into sleep, a rare thing. <br />
<br />
Some time later, no one came to save me. No one swooped in to pull me back, giving me hope, listing my talents, telling me I was loved. No medic pumped my stomach or injected me with death-defying drugs. No gathering of friends made me comfort food while joking about dead-serious topics. The most desired love of my life didn't shake me and make me promise never to leave him ever again. None of the movie situations happened.<br />
<br />
I just woke up.<br />
<br />
When I say it now, as I have many times when I talk about suicide, I shiver a little. I have listed the things I swallowed on paper. It was every pill I could get. It was enough. More than enough. But I woke up.<br />
<br />
I don't know why or how. I do have some strange chemical composition. Mosquitoes won't bite me. Never. If one lands, it hurries away. Coffee doesn't keep me awake. Other things. For some reason, the lethal dose of drugs I swallowed and processed through my body gave me a long, deep sleep. And then I woke up, very thirsty, a little queasy but alive.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
I have severe depression, which most often presents itself in me as a cancer of the will to live. Medications put me in remission. Talk therapy keeps me waking up from month to month. My love for the view of deep blue in my daughter's eyes keeps me alive when all else fails.<br />
<br />
But I still occasionally find myself face down on the tiled floor of my front hall wanting to die. It's not such a bad place to be for those times. There aren't any sharp objects, pills, weapons, ropes, or anything dangerous within my reach there. A cat or dog will usually lick my face or climb on my back or both. Time passes. I get up on my grievously bad RA knees and go back to living.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
You can't depend on someone else saving you. Robin Williams' homeless, broken former professor character in The Fisher King saves Jeff Bridges' suicidal shock-jock character. That was just the movies.<br />
<br />
Sometimes no one comes. And you will not wake up from those pills. You just won't. Suicide is not romantic. There is nothing less romantic than a dead body.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
I am known for my angry response to someone's suicide. There is nothing worse than seeing your own mistakes played out in front of you. I worry that others, particularly teens, will follow the leader. I grieve the mothers that ache for a view of blue or brown or green eyes.<br />
<br />
But I am also known for my ability to hear the pain you want to pour out like the blood dripping from a cut wrist. I understand that it just hurts so much. That it won't stop. That the chemicals in your brain are trying to make the chemicals that move your muscles kill you.<br />
<br />
If you want to talk or find help, I am your girl. Call or text or FB message or come over.<br />
<br />
But you are going to have to save yourself from the pills or rope or sharp things by asking. Robin Williams can't swoop in like in the movies and pull you back from the fire. <br />
<br />
1-800-273-8255 or <a href="http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/">Suicide Prevention Lifeline</a>
Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-1137972439979702672014-01-12T13:40:00.000-06:002014-01-12T13:40:09.546-06:00The Word is "Love"You don't need to be Superman to have super powers. <br><br>
My friend Mindy wrote on our word this week about a guy who loved without obligation. You should read <a href="http://princessandthebeads.blogspot.com/2014/01/whats-love-got-to-dogot-to-do-with-it.html">that</a> first.<br><br>
***<br><br>
My oldest sister, who knew him before he was a raging drunk, says my dad was stupid in love with my mom. Totally gaga. He had to be. The one thing he ever did to defy his mother was to marry mine.<br><br>
And everything was peachy until something came between him and his true love. Took her time. Divided her loyalties. Broke up his ideal life of a woman in total devotion to him. We happened to him. His children.<br><br>
Some of us fared better than others. <br><br>
I didn't have the worst of it by a long shot. He treated me, when he was paying any attention at all, as a kind of toy. I was a talking yo-yo, or maybe a smart set of jacks. He could use me to amaze the trashy women he flirted with at the bar we frequented while my mother earned money for the family.<br><br>
"She's a little cutie, Jim. I'm gonna buy her some peanuts." From toy to circus monkey.<br><br>
Worst was when Daddy used me like a marionette, pulling the strings to dance me around like a favorite in order to torment another sibling. Too little to understand the manipulation, I was made a partner in his cruelty.<br><br>
Although this business wasn't the reason I only had one child, I have often thought it a blessing I couldn't repeat that little Punch and Judy show with my own kids. <br><br>
***<br><br>
I married Clark Kent.<br><br>
It's true. Glasses on his face, affable smile, and mild-mannered down to his sensible shoes.<br><br>
From the day we met, he loved me so much it was fearsome to behold. Totally gaga. So in love, he wouldn't protect himself from the love and openly told me how he couldn't believe I was with him. He bared his heart in his chest and stuck my hand inside, pressing my fingers around the pulsing muscular lump of it. Every beat said <i>It's yours.</I> <br><br>
Wake in the night to whispers in my ear. "Are you sure you want to marry me?"<br><br>
I was sure. I did.<br><br>
And we had a child. And here is where I became suspicious that he was wearing red and blue tights underneath his clothes.<br><br>
He was smitten. Knocked out crazy over the moon gaga over that girl. <br><br>
"I can't believe how lucky I am."<br><br>
Every minute of his life as a father has been the antithesis of what my own Daddy represented. He gave our daughter so much -- support, guidance, unconditional love. Best of all, he loves her mother. He never made being a family a game of musical chairs where one could find herself on the outside looking in, wishing for love and respect.<br><br>
It's his birthday this week. This is my present for my Clark Kent. Thank you, honey. I'm still sure.
Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-84083898962596346442014-01-03T09:47:00.001-06:002014-01-03T09:47:55.407-06:00The Word is "Waiting"<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Every December, Adrian takes off between Christmas and New Year's Day. This year, he doesn't go back until Monday, 6 January. Since 2007, I have been on break from classes every Christmas, too. We huddle on the couch in our pajamas, binge watch some good TV series or movies, and eat too much. <br /><br />
I graduated in May of 2013. There are no natural breaks in my year since I became a novelist. I grant my own vacations. So, I have taken a break from writing, except for these prompts from my writing group. The word is "Waiting."<br /><br />
I am, by nature, an active waiter. When I am at the pharmacy, I pull out my iPad and read or write. If I am ready for someone to pick me up at home, I clean things while checking the window occasionally. I even tidy up my makeup drawer while stuck timing my hair color. Twenty minutes is just about right. <br /><br />
It would seem I have to be puttering around all the time. Busy, busy.<br /><br />
But I don't.<br /><br />
I can sit and stare out the window or lie about on the deck on a chaise lounge, weather permitting, and just be there, doing nothing more than breathing and noticing the sights and sounds around me.<br /><br />
I am able to close my eyes in just about any situation and meditate my way into a calm state that reduces pain.<br /><br />
Sitting and staring in nature came to me when I spent lots of time as a child up a tree. Because of my age, I was between groups of kids in my rural home. I don't socialize well or gladly. I spent a lot of time alone. <br /><br />
The first years, I would wander on the ground under the trees on my grandparents' farm or in the fields on their out-lying property. I was earth-bound, a natural putterer. My grandmother Tommie encouraged me to branch out. She showed me how to get under the house with a casual, "Watch out for snakes. Make noise." She led me to the attic access and told me how to step on the rafters. My first high spot was a window in that attic. From there, I could see Tommie and Granddaddy taking the afternoon rest under a maple tree as they read the newspaper.<br /><br />
Years later, my grandparents retired from farming to their smaller house up on the hill, the one I had lived in when they farmed. The property had, and still has, the most amazing black oak trees. In a community with no two-story houses, the attic of the farmhouse had seemed high. On the hill, those trees were the top of the world, as I knew it. <br /><br />
Still fearless for me when I couldn't be for myself, Tommie instructed me in the art of climbing a tree. Pick a low limb with a forked branch that will hold your weight. Grab each branch, facing into the fork. Let your weight fall back as you throw your feet up into the space between your arms and the forked branch. Wrap your knees around the branch. Hook your toes around the limbs and use your thigh muscles to assist your arms as they pull you into the tree. Stand up from the sitting position and feel for a limb above you to steady you as you walk the limb up to the trunk of the tree. <br /><br />
</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl0MuHUvUEjmIPMNqbnSr74zNaUll9AYcofVCh6yqfMVPCfVQtWlMCuHQDV2MXavFaW5pP63yK6FkXwvGgKYqstjxUcWFQQlvnMRIfNk9k__mpRnh-KZVytyKy070Ypx7qDyTDEA/s1600/IMG_2367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl0MuHUvUEjmIPMNqbnSr74zNaUll9AYcofVCh6yqfMVPCfVQtWlMCuHQDV2MXavFaW5pP63yK6FkXwvGgKYqstjxUcWFQQlvnMRIfNk9k__mpRnh-KZVytyKy070Ypx7qDyTDEA/s320/IMG_2367.JPG" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Find a perch.<br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Watch and wait.<br /><br />
And the tree will talk to you. The stories a tree will tell can wait for another word prompt.</span>
<br />Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250202.post-83925482397037873302013-12-28T13:27:00.000-06:002013-12-28T13:27:39.787-06:00The Word is "Vulnerable"It is the cold time. <br><br>
When I think on Keeling from here in my life that has run from poverty past sufficient to plenty, I think of summers, with blackberries found on spider-ridden brambles or of trees that harbor all manner of insects but usually something outstanding like locusts that shed their skins when they grow out of their previous selves. <br><br>
Sometimes it is spring that I snatch from my brain's long thing gray lines of axons and dendrites--cobwebby and spidery at the same time. If spring, it is buttercups--single, doubles and scrambled egg ones--that my grandmother Tommie says were spread down Hwy 70 when the state put the road in across the front of her daddy's land, taking their front yard and its many drifts of bulbs and redistributing it for miles. Years later, buttercups lined the road a ways down where I lived in a house trailer on family land.<br><br>
I rarely think of cold times. Funny how I can think of the many fireplaces and wood stoves, another favorite recall, without drawing a line to the chill air that drives us to them. But wood stoves were also for cooking, and I usually prefer to jump that particular synapse, which leads inevitably to strong coffee in a tin pot, biscuits, and the safe, gentle woodsmoke smell of Granddaddy.<br><br>
If I took the other path at the memory junction of cold times, it would lead to electric heaters that must be kept clear of all paper and cloth so they won't send the trailer up in flames. I learned, when our neighbor lost his, that a trailer home is the most efficient incinerator outside of a crematorium. All heat and combustion is directed inside, with only the exploded windows to leak out any flames. And they are too busy respirating the whole conflagration. Hungry fire sucks and sucks oxygen. Everything inside the metal walls is dust by time the volunteer truck arrives. Walls melt. Only the iron undercarriage lasts, and it's a warped mess.<br><br>
Or I think of the electric stove, which my mama would turn on and leave its door ajar to add a little warmth to the kitchen where breath could be seen. <i>The light bill will be high, but I cain't help it. We cain't freeze.</i> We didn't freeze. We shivered. The water line froze, though. Lots of times. Once, on a rare time when my daddy was around, he came to thaw the pipes while mother worked and we were at school. He managed to set light to the bottom of the trailer while using a blow torch to warm the lines that came up under the bathroom. Didn't burn much. Just left a mouse-sized hole after he patched it up. <i>Jack of all trades; master of none</i>. At least I could finally wash my hair, even if it meant goose bumps.<br><br>
Summer means vegetable gardens and neighbors who lets you pick corn. <br><br>
Winter means burning up precious calories staying warm. <br><br>
Summer is up a tree; winter is under the covers all day.<br><br>
***<br><br>
When Adrian and I moved back to Germany the last time, the oil furnace of the base housing row house put out so much heat it stifled me. Adrian was fine. Ariane had never known want. I gasped and woke up with warm hands on my lungs, pressing out the air. We learned to leave a window open near the head of the bed on my side. Drafts of icy air slid down my throat, pinked my nose, prickled my ears. <i>That's more like it</i>.
Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com1