Filling Our Brains With Nothing But Marshmallow Fluff

As my husband and I were driving home from camping this afternoon, he asked, “Is it just this group who’s talking deep and philosophical all the time, or is everyone that way these days?”

I thought for a moment, ran my mind down through the names and faces of the people we had just camped with. Every one of them loves writing and loves the written word. Sitting around the bonfire last night, numerous candles hemming in the outer edges of the campground, we had passed around literary quotes like most campers pass around bottles of beer: savory the earthy flavor of the words, the euphoric fizz as the meaning of each seeped into our souls. We discussed various authors: the new books that were coming out; the ancients that were just being discovered, and the olds that had traveled with us through thick and thin, and whose titles had to be passed on so their wonder could be wakened anew.

In response to my husband’s question, I said, “I don’t think everyone’s deep and philosophical these days.”

For I had also thought back to our store. To the books that I have been trying to sell mainly because we are going to be moving soon, and I don’t want to have to pack them up. They have remained on the shelves in our miscellaneous section for months now. The price I put on the books is cheaper than what you'd pay for a pair of socks at Goodwill, and yet no one buys them. I wonder if it is because of their titles. Some of the books were required reading for the attainment of my English degree. Other books were suggestions from girls in my book club. Others still are just books I couldn’t resist when I saw the yellow sticker hawking a book of literary prowess at a clearance price.

But the magazines that came in one of our store’s loads, they (pun intended) are another story. The magazines discussing the latest fashion trends, the Hollywood gossip, the weight lifting tips punctuated with pictures of men and woman sprayed bright orange -- their grotesque muscles rippling beneath a bulging tributary of veins -- they sell out like hot cakes!

I’m not saying that reading about Hollywood is bad, or that weight lifting and fashion trends are something to be avoided -- and not attained -- at any cost. No, I couldn’t say that because I enjoy movies along with the rest of the world. There’s something about lighting candles and putting in a movie that has beautiful scenes, words, concepts that just thrills me to my sentimental finger tips. But you can’t use this type of marshmallow escapism to escape life altogether.

The same is to be said for weight lifting and fashion. Sometimes I just want to shake people who have become so consumed with the preservation of themselves that they cannot see that is at the cost of everyone around them. We can smear creams onto our faces and use the stair stepper ’til we have climbed ourselves to China, and still we will not have gotten any further from our final resting places.

And fashion. Now, I love a great pair of shoes; the more i's in their Italian title the more I will adore them, but I am not about to pay more than 20 dollars for those suckers, either. (Hence my closet filled with shoes ranging from size 5 to 7 1/2 because I found them on sale and hoped the shoes would stretch or that my feet would.) But when we are constantly breaking the bank or our husbands’ backs to keep our bodies clothed like we’re enroot to the Taj Maghal, that price tag for fashion is at too high a cost.

So, yes...I don’t suppose the world’s really getting more philosophical and deep, probably only shallower. But after having spent time with my fellow literary-loving campers this weekend, I am reassured that a group of us are still out there, feeding each others’ zest for words written on something other than Hollywood, fashion, and health.

At least, let's hope so.

Eight Months Pregnant & Ready to Push

Writing my novel over the past eight months has almost run parallel with pregnancy: it's been full of joy, it's been full of pain; at times inspiring, at other times overwhelming. On many days I have woken up exhilarated about its creation, then -- a mere 16 hours later -- stumbled into bed exhausted and overwhelmed.

I cannot say that because of it my feet have swelled up like sausages; my hair taken on a lustrous sheen; my face that certain “glow” everyone claims expectant mothers to have even if, at the moment, they’re painted puke green with nausea. But what I can say is that as this novel has been getting formed, I have lost sleep, awakened my husband in the dead of night with cravings, questions, and requests all under the guise of research such as: “Honey, can I see your arm a second? Can it bend back this way? Oh, it can’t? And why can’t it? Lemme just try. No? Not even for a second?”

And naming a novel! My goodness! Don’t even get me started! I have searched high and low, wide and long. I have perused billboards and books, menus and street signs, people and places for names to attach to this ever-expanding sweet child O' mine. I want a name that isn’t already taken; isn't too popular in mainstream society, but that doesn’t make it difficult for others to spell. I want something unique; that stands out, but not too unique or standy-outy. Something that draws attention but doesn’t scream from 10 bookstores away: “My mommy was either medicated or shoulda been when she dubbed me (insert atrocious title here).”

For the past eight months I have also been beyond excited to usher my creation into the writing world, and yet I am also terrified that I will be a “bad mother” to it; that someone else should have conceived this proverbial child because they would do a far better job of raising it than I.

But then, I love this novel. I really, really do. After eight months of sleepless nights and caffeine filled days, I couldn’t give this child up even if I wanted to. This novel was formed and fed through my own body and brain, and I know I might be a tad biased to say this -- every young mother usually is and is looked down upon if she’s not -- but I really think it’s pretty darn cute. It has a certain way about it that just feels so warm and cuddly. Sometimes I just want to sit here, wrap my arms around my novel (aka laptop) as best as I can and coo and gurgle at it. Sometimes I even want to run my finger down over its still unseen shape and say, “Who’s Mommy’s little sugar booger? Yes! Yes, you’s is!” and throw in a "doobie doobie do" for good measure.

Then I have weeks like this one when I have been so uncomfortable, so stretched to the point of popping, and I become so ready to really see this novel and hold it and not just watch the ripple of its elbow or behind as it sticks up through my Microsoft Works world that I become all, “If you don’t come out here right now, kid, I’m gonna come in, and when I do -- let me just tell ya -- it’s not gonna be pretty!”

But what kind of terrible mother would I be if I didn’t let nature take its course? If I doused my novel in castor oil. Took it on long walks. Went off-roading in our Jeep in hopes that the bumpy ride would shoot it out quicker than a wink.

What if my novel needed an extra month to develop a facet of its personality it would be completely dull without? What if it needed more meat on its bones? Another limb to sprout out that allowed it to walk where no book has walked before? What if that castor oil myth really did do the trick, and my novel came into the world dwarfed because of my own impatience?

So this here's what I'm gonna do. I am going to stop doing all of these authors' tales to speed the birthing process along, and I am just going to sit back, put my feet up, hold this little bundle of joy close to my heart (okay, on my lap) and every few sentences say, “Who’s Mommy’s little sugar booger? Yes! Yes, you’s is! Doobie doobie do.”

And then, to top it all off, I might just waddle into our kitchen and eat myself some pickles and ice-cream.

(The pickles and ice-cream cupcake image can be found here.)

Selling Baby Snappers for 50 Cents a Piece

Although my family’s rancher was built out of the same T1-11 siding my father used to build his storage barns, and the wallpaper, paint, and plumbing fixtures previous donations to Springcreek Christian Camp, it was a luxurious mansion in comparison to our former home: a 500 square foot Civil War-era slave quarters (a setting used in my Southern novel-in-progress).

Once Father completed our rancher and we gratefully moved out of that cramped, Brown Recluse infested dwelling, my best friend Misty and I decided to take advantage of our snazzy bathroom -- which wasn’t converted from a narrow closet like before -- by dumping my brother Joshua’s stash of snapping turtles into the filled, claw-foot tub. Donning our bathing suits, Misty and I then splashed into our homemade aquarium with the prehistoric-looking creatures in their ribbed, quarter-sized shells and acted as if we were oceanic Columbuses exploring an underwater world.

But our marine biologist beginning abruptly ended when my mother went to the Gorham McBane Public Library to research our new recreation and discovered Salmonella Poisoning. Apparently it could be transferred through uncooked chicken, unpasteurized milk, peanut butter, pistachios, and turtle bacteria; but not, oddly enough, through salmon. Misty and I weren’t the only ones whose future careers suffered from this Salmonella finding. My brother Joshua’s entrepreneurial activity, selling baby snappers at South Haven Christian School, also screeched to a halt.

Shortly thereafter, Joshua’s now worthless turtles were released along the camp’s pond edge where, months before, we’d found them crawling from their soft white shells. All seemed fine and dandy until the snappers grew so large their heads were the size of Father’s fists, and they sought their revenge by ripping off the paddling feet of our neighbor’s swans. The neighbor, Gwen, a normally peace-loving pacifist, took one look at all those silky feathers floating on the surface of the water and employed Joshua to shoot his previous pets for $10.00 a head. That summer he made far more money accumulating their corpses then he ever did selling their quarter-sized siblings for 50 cents a piece.


It might just be my childhood nostalgia rising or genuine reptilian interest, but on one of my walks this week I found the tiniest box turtle I’ve ever seen in my life, and within seconds I was just as excited as that little kid swimming in her homemade aquarium. The box turtle fit in the palm of my hand, and the palm of my hand is not very big. He must’ve been hit by a car, for the corner of his shell was slightly cracked; but the box turtle was still moving, and the hinge of his shell pulled over his head whenever I tried to poke my finger inside it. So I safely escorting my new buddy -- aptly named Joel for one of my introverted characters -- off the road and carried him for a mile and a half back to our land. It was dark by the time I arrived at the gate, and I was waiting for my husband who was archery hunting for venison (sorry, y’all, this is not some PETA post) to walk out of the woods.

In our Jeep, I set the box turtle on the dashboard and waited to see if he would poke his head out or move around. He didn’t. I then thought that perhaps the mile and a half journey back to our land, although I’d been very careful not to jostle the turtle’s cracked shell, had killed him. Deciding a bumpy 30 minute car ride would certainly finish Joel off if my walk hadn't "done the trick," I carried the turtle over to the telephone pole and dug a hole in the dirt to protect him from the brisk fall air (right here’s where my Mohican-man husband would roll his eyes).

This afternoon I went for another walk and stopped by that third telephone pole on my way out our lane. Peering down into the dirt, I was as shocked to see the box turtle missing as Mary Magdalene must’ve been when she entered that empty tomb. I dug into the dirt to make sure Joel hadn’t somehow gotten covered by it, and walked around the grasses surrounding the area, but unless some creature had ambled by and decided a palm-sized box turtle would make a perfect midnight snack, Joel must’ve resurrected himself and inched off.

Who knows where that rascal is now, but if you ever come across a box turtle with a corner of its shell slightly cracked, just know that’s my good ol’ introverted buddy, Joel, and kindly remind him that he ought not run off with any fast-moving hares, for his place is out here on Rocky Springs Road, where he pretty much owes a young woman every year in his reptilian life.


Images can be found at the marvelous the Marvelous in nature by Seabrooke Leckie.

Dancing in the Dust Devil

Today I danced in a dust devil. My husband and I were back on our property where our new house is being built, and when we looked out through the framing where French doors will soon be we saw all these leaves, dirt, and dried grasses being whipped into a cyclone by the wind. As the wind picked up speed and even more debris, the cyclone grew in height until it was almost 40 feet tall.

“Would it mess up if I ran into it?” I asked Randy.

He shook his head. “No, go on out there. It’ll probably stop soon.”

So I took off running through our future front door. I sprinted into the middle of our field and stood in the dust devil, but with all that wild tangle of multi-colored leaves, grass, and burrs swirling around me, somehow just standing there wasn’t enough. I began to twirl and to fling out my arms. Burrs and pieces of grass were sticking to my clothes and filling my mouth and hair, but it was worth it; to feel that wild rush of wind, to see the power of it as it picked up and set down things that were only lying inert before.


Last weekend my husband and I celebrated our second anniversary at Cumberland Falls in Kentucky. Since we never watch TV at home, we decided to treat ourselves by being couch potatoes in our hotel room. But there wasn’t much on. When the remote landed on some ’70s music video, and I heard the lyrical strains of “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas I cried, “Wait! This’s one of my favorites!”

Randy, dear heart that he is, obeyed my request, and for three whole minutes we sat there on the hotel’s outrageously tacky bedcover, watching these Geico cavemen-looking guys wearing ruffled suits with bowties playing their violins and singing, “All we are is dust in the wind; all we are is dust in the wind.”

The combination of today’s dancing in a dust devil and last week’s “Dust in the Wind” song has got me thinking (a scary concept in itself, I know): Each one of us harbours dreams in our hearts. Whether it be property, publication, money, fame, relationships, we are perpetually striving toward a goal of some kind. If we are not careful, we can become so caught up in this mad swirl of dust and dreams, rather than just enjoying the dance of the journey, we will try -- just like those burrs -- to latch ourselves onto people bigger than us in fame, money, publication, property, ect., so they might carry us upward.

This week -- and for the rest of my life, really -- I want to challenge myself to get to know the people composing this mad, desperately beautiful dust devil of life. I want to encourage them in their dreams even though the odds remain that not all of us will reach them. And I believe the key to this is letting people know that you hear them, that you see them; that their dreams, their desires, the very essence of who they are as individuals, means more to you than just a fellow, passing speck of dust in life's wind.



Picture can be found here.

How My Former College Found Me

It all happened because my family and I had ventured into the depths of the Appalachian Mountains to witness the redneck representation of Renfro Valley: a smaller, slightly cornier Dollywood without the drawing card of voluptuous Dolly.

During the four hour drive, my five-year-old brother Caleb relentlessly whined for strawberry milk until my father heaved a sigh and pulled into a tiny, dark gas station whose roof was bowing under a mound of Kudzu and rotting leaves. Inside, I slid the change across the counter for the strawberry milk, and an elderly man, sitting on an overturned barrel in the corner of the store, flashed a Pepsodent smile and asked how old I was.

“I’ve been 16 for two weeks,” I replied.

At my words he stood and hobbled his way to my side while using the support of a crooked cane. He wore wrinkled overalls, scuffed work boots, and -- despite his age -- had a farmer’s tan that made the skin peeping from beneath his stained undershirt paler than a frog’s belly.

"Well, now, lil’ lady,” he drawled, “if’n you’re that age ya need to hear ’bout Cumberland College (now University of the Cumberlands). My boy went there and loved every second of it. It’s a fine school and tucked right up there in ’em mountains.”

The retired farmer punctuated his statement with callused hands spread wide, creating a picture of a campus that seemed to unfold from the crisp pages of a storybook. Beyond his description of the campus I cannot recall the words we exchanged, but once I’d recanted the details to my parents, they -- always on the lookout for Divine Appointments -- deemed Williamsburg, Kentucky our next destination.

Williamsburg, the town where the college was located, nestled deep into the mountains like a shy toddler getting lost in the folds of his mother’s shirt. One chipped, gray road meandered through it, and on both sides were ramshackle restaurants, dingy motels, and thrift stores hawking the same mantra: College Students Welcome!; College Students 50% off!; CC Family Discount! Even from a glance it was obvious the college was the only reason the town still existed, and later I would come to learn the college only came to exist because of the monetary and educational needs of the town.

Once our black conversion van climbed out of the dusty little town and chugged into Cumberland College’s campus, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The college differed so vastly from the surrounding community it was like having a prince and a pauper within a crown’s throw of one another. Colonial style buildings topped with turrets, surrounded by hardwood trees and carved landscaping covered every square inch of the campus's grounds. One whole brick wall outside of the Rollins Gymnasium was crowded with ornate, circular clocks depicting times zones from around the world. (My sophomore year, this cultural awareness lost its charm when my Communication Arts professor told our class the clocks were donated, and the college didn’t have a better idea on how to use them.)

But it wasn’t until I came upon the freshmen girls’ dorm, Gillespie Hall, that I knew without a shadow of doubt that this place was the college for me. Standing on the sidewalk curving past the beautiful, brick and crown-molded mansion, I watched a resident of the dorm as she reclined in a whicker chair on the green stamp composing the dorm’s front yard. The wind tasseled her long, blond hair as she languidly flipped through the pages of her textbook. It was in that melding of the moments I knew I wanted to come to University of the Cumberlands to embark upon my own voyage into the unknown. I wanted to be that girl sitting in the chair, perusing text in the pursuit of knowledge found both within and without the bounds of the page.

And, so I did.