Tag Archives: Iowa Summer Writing Festival

Fast Month

01 Friday Jun 2012

Posted by in Life at Home, Writing

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My young father and me – Albany, I think…

It wasn’t my intention to fast from the blog for a month, though a few weeks ago, I did decide to skinny-down life to better prepare for the Iowa Summer Writing Festival.

It wasn’t difficult.   One early in May morning I woke up and drew a few lines in the sand to make my sandbox a little smaller.  Inside was everyday life and my father’s story.  Outside the box was everything else — including my beloved home and garden restoration projects — no matter how many fabulous mid-summer plant sales that are bound to come up to tempt.

It’s a case of doing first things first.  Focusing on what I would be most sad to leave undone in this world, in the event I die sooner than later.   Because who would write Dad’s story if not me?  Who knows it or cares to know it in its scattered and torn state?  Who would give it their all and then some?  And really now — as much as I adore home restoration projects, none of them have quite made my heart sing like working on my father’s and aunt’s childhood story.

The fast month of May taught me much.  Not only my growing knowledge of my young father and aunt and their life — but much about me and my life — why the more I cozy up to my young father, the more I see how Mother was right, when she’d so often say, by way of explanation to others — was it with a slight disparaging note? — yes, I think so:  ” Well.  What can you expect? … She’s just like her father.”  Today I respond by saying this state of ‘two peas in a pod’ being, between Dad and I, may become my trump card to taking on this most seemingly impossible task of my life.

So between now and mid-July, I’ve advance work to finish and submit — partly because it’s assigned and partly because I wish to get the most I can from this writing experience my husband is giving me.  And though I don’t intend to absent myself from the blog the entire month of June — I’m here today, aren’t I? — I just wanted you to know what’s up in my not so everyday life at the moment — in case you’re interested.

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Ten years ago, I asked God to give me a story.  As prayer goes, it was childlike:  Short in words — tall in dreams.  And as best as I can now recall, it went something like this:  God, if you give me a story to write, I promise to write it.”

I’m not sure Dad’s story is IT but I think it is.  Because it would be just the kind of answer to prayer that would fit a Godly sense of humor — since the story has been as close as my father’s hip pocket all my life.  I only wish I’d realized it sooner.  I wish I’d realized it before Daddy lost his voice to tell it.  But since wishes don’t always rise to the level of prayer in my life, here’s praying I can become Daddy’s voice.  One more time.  Because life goes fast and some stories were lived to last longer than a lifetime.

Watershed Wonders

25 Saturday Dec 2010

Posted by in Life at Home, Prayer, Soul Care

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“Say after me:  It’s no better to be safe than sorry.”  –  a-ha

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Watershed years defy tidy summary.  But as a nod to Dad and his passion for movies, I’ll begin by calling ours, “Two Funerals and a Wedding,” but then focus on these other in-between moments: Two college graduations; a wedding announcement by Bryan and Amy; and soon — anytime now — the birth of a new grandchild, Kara and Joe’s first.  Next year’s sequel waits to answer our family cliffhanger: Is it a girl or boy?

Amid these transitions, Don’s travel schedule was lighter than usual, with just a few short trips to Houston and overseas.  And while his annual backpacking trip fell by the wayside, we headed off into the western sunset together to enjoy the beauty growing wild in Alaska. It was our first taste of life on the retiree’s travel circuit – and while we may not have made the cut, we didn’t leave the ship without booking next year’s trip.

Closer to home, our family enjoyed a different sort of travel as we again took turns hosting a monthly moveable feast.  Most months we kept it simple by gathering at a local restaurant, where we played our assigned roles.  Don’s regular part is the manager who keeps us anchored in reality while moving clockwise, Kyle and Kara are our two creative souls, who talk someday of writing a children’s book together.  Then Kara’s husband Joe is the consummate sports fan, who is always strategically positioned to watch whatever sport happens to be airing on television.  Next are resident lovebirds Amy and Bryan — just glad to be together again, with Amy having just returned from a month-long family visit.  Finally there’s Glen and Kate, who keep us in stitches with their repartee — with Kate rolling her eyes, Glen’s been talking about how he knows how to fix their broken toilet — but that he’s just not worked up to it yet.

And then there’s me — the one who could write the book on not yet working up to doing “this” or “that.”  So how fitting it was for my watershed moments to pry me out of my contemplative comfort zone:  From leading my father’s funeral service in April to spending ten days at the Iowa Writer’s Workshop in July, you may be surprised to learn I’ve continued to set aside my introverted nature to make cold calls on Dad’s family back East.  While the calls began with hope of picking up the missing and puzzling pieces of Dad’s sad childhood story, my restored family connections have evolved into something more – especially my regular visits with Aunt Carol, Dad’s only sister – but exactly what the ‘more’ is I’m not ready to name.  Yet I can report how downright comical it’s been to listen to my own introductory spiel — telling unknown cousins how we really are related — before they hang up the phone, thinking I’m some sort of strange solicitation call.

I don’t know where the changes will lead.  But I know mine began during Lent, listening every morning to this ‘song-bite’ – “Say after me:  It’s no better to be safe than sorry” – performed by a band fittingly named a-ha. In a year punctuated by my father’s and aunt’s deaths – as well as the upcoming marriage of my brother Jon – I can’t help but wonder how lives would differ if we were to live everyday believing this song-bite true.  And on this dangling question I’ll close – for in this Season born of watershed wonders and professions of faith, who could want a tidy ending?  Like some movies, tidiness can be overrated.

Flip-Flop, Rain-Drop

24 Saturday Jul 2010

Posted by in Far Away Places, Life at Home, The Great Outdoors, Writing

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I’m not sure if I’ll venture out before the shuttle comes.  It’s raining and I’ve lost a third of my rain gear, once made up of a  jacket and pair of flip-flops.

Holed up in my hotel room, I’ve been thinking about changes this trip will bring — how last night, my teacher thanked me for coming.  I’m wondering where “this” will lead.  Knowing that “this” depends upon me.

My teacher sensed what I did not confess:  I had risked by coming to Iowa.  Putting myself  ‘out there’ has never been easy.  Instead I flourish within an everyday security blanket of a few people back home.  This is what I like to say.

But this had been good.  It helped to get away.  Alone.  To be myself without props.  To see who I am.  Alone.

Alone and not alone.  Wanting to write but not wanting to write.  Fears of being good but not good enough.  Good enough for what?   Is it the publishing thing again?  Do I want that?

There are so many great writers.  I sat with a few in class this week.  Their words amazed, their speed at writing amazed more.  They shared their work with ease.  I too shared, but only when called upon.  And then not always.

I am not ready to recite a litany of what this week has given me.  I don’t yet know.  But there’s expectation, if not in myself, at least within others, that there will be change.  Imperceptible.  But there — like all those things we can’t quite “put our finger on.”

The words came into my mind just now — the other shoe must drop. It sounds corny, but given that I lost one of my flip-flops around town yesterday, I’m wondering about that lone flip-flop that remains in my purse.  Where will it land?  What use does one lone flip-flop have?

— FOOT NOTE —

After finishing this entry, I had two hours to spend.  I decided to go out.  What the heck, I thought, the worst that can happen is I’ll get wet.  Out the glass door, I rounded the corner and stopped.  Lying on the ground near a trash can was a flip-flop.  I leaned down, shook my head and smiled.  Claiming what was mine, I weighed the rubber sole in my hand before dropping it in my purse.  Then putting on my hood, I stepped into the rain.