My 7-almost-8-year-old announced she wrote several stories and laid them on my writing desk to have published. She noted (kindly) on a post-it to remind me. Thrilled that she’s taken an interest in writing, I am publishing two of her pieces here and corrected the spelling and a bit of the grammar for easier reading, however, am posting pictures of the original.
I hope you enjoy the firsts of Madi’s published works. Give them a read, and and let her know your feedback. I will read your comments to her.
Her first piece is non-fiction:
We are all special. And we are all special in different ways. Some are funny. Some are goofy, and some are smart. But whether boy or girl, we are all human. – Madi Anglin
Hi! My name is Madi. Do you have classmates? I hope so, because I want you to meet my class! I have 21 classmates.
One is named Ayben and the other 21 are Peyton, Talon, Xander, Summer, Adey, Melony, Astin, Talor, Rilly, Hunter, Jackup, Emmalun, Ralin, Xavyer, Sayer, Carlos, Braytun, Slind, Kben, Will and Dallten.
We are all special. And we are all special in different ways. Some are funny. Some are goofy, and some are smart. But whether boy or girl, we are all human.
Our class number is 116. We have had two substitutes. I love room 116. We go to lunch at11:35. We go to recess at 12:00. We have gym, music, art, library, and Lexia lab. We call Monday “Monday Meeting.” Monday Meeting means morning meeting.
I have a Valentine. It is Xander. He is so so so so so cute. We go to Foster Heights Elementary School!
It was so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so fun introducing you to Foster Heights Elementary.
Her second piece is a work of fiction. I might see a picture book in the future for this one after some work.
Once upon a time there was a pink bat. She loved to sing. Her name was pinky.
One morning she woke up in her bakery. She wanted to have a bake sale. She went outside to get started.
A girl came by and said, “Are you doing a bake sale? I love bake sales! Do you want help?”
“Sure!” she said.
She smiled at her.
She said she could get a long line of pink bats, blue bats, and even fruit bats.
She said, “After this you can help me with baking.”
“Okay!” said the girl.
She started baking while the girl went to the caves. Pink made 61,000 fruit muffins, 16 chocolate cakes, 9,000 cookies, and 100,160 chocolate and vanilla ice cream cones.
The girl came back, and said, “They’ll be here soon.”
“Just in time too!” said Pinky.
“Why is that?” said the girl looking confused. “Are you done?”
“Yep!” said Pinky.
“Wow! You really made so many treats that we might have some left! I’m so happy for us!” said the girl.
When the bats arrived, there were so many. When the bake sale was over, Pinky split the cash with the girl.
Pinky and the girl had so much cash, they gave some to seniors and the town in the valley, but never saw each other again.
About the author:
Madison “Madi” Elizabeth Anglin is 7 years old and is looking forward to turning 8 in one month so that she no longer has to ride in a booster seat. She loves to make art and watch Minecraft.
I heard once that love is friendship on fire. That’s how I feel about you. – Ben Feldman as Adam Forrest in The Perfect Man, 2005
When it’s time for a wedding, everyone starts throwing around the word “perfect.”
“It’ll be perfect,” they say.
“No one will notice if it’s not perfect,” they say.
As an experienced wedding planner and coordinator, I say those imperfect moments are what make a wedding perfect. I get to see people in one of their most heightened states of emotions they’ll experience in life and know them better as a result. I see how they react under pressure. I see them at their absolute worst and dirtiest and then see them transform dressed up in beautiful beaded and lace whites, hair placed “just so,” and emotion laid bare that reaches from their smiles all the way up to their eyes.
I coordinated my first destination wedding recently at a three-story cabin in the middle
of Red River Gorge, Kentucky as a gift for my friends Angie and Megan. The cabin was all lacquered wood and stone. It included a game room, three decks, movie theater, ten bedrooms, a full kitchen with four dining tables, a living room with a fireplace the size of a queen bed, and expensive furnishings all decked with country décor.
It was also the longest time I’d spent in planning and coordination mode for a wedding – an entire weekend.
It started with a rehearsal Friday night when I arrived several hours after the wedding party. The alcohol force was strong with these people. They were quite jolly as I called their names and wrangled them to stand in line. I assigned each wiggling and loose body a spot and a direction to walk once reaching the end of the aisle, either right or left. Each assured me they’d remember which way to go. Except one, she announced proudly she had drank far too much to remember anything I was saying, and I quickly assured her I’d remind her tomorrow before the wedding. The room (and the forest, I’m sure) echoed with laughter and talk and wreaked of loyalty (and beer) to the brides and from the brides, Angie and Megan, to each other and their guests in attendance.
I raised my voice to be heard above the liquored crowd,“Y’all be quiet so you can hear me!”
As the planner, I often am not a participant in the wedding and am much more the observer. To know Megan and Angie was to be family. Watching them interact with friends with whom they’ve spent a lifetime building relationships was watching a family celebrate. For few times in their lives would a happy opportunity arise to have all the people they love surround them in the same space at the same time. This was one of the moments when the imperfection of it was absolutely perfect, because for these two, this was a dream.
During the rehearsal or the wedding, no one talked about the fact that these were two women getting married. It was just a wedding, as it should be.
Rehearsal was sloppily rehearsed, but rehearsed none and the less, and the party got on with the partying.
The next day, I arose early to set about the process of removing the “country” décor I described as similar to what could be found at my grandma’s house. My wife and I and a few close friends rearranged the cabin to make a wedding venue out of the homelike
atmosphere. The décor I set up and oversaw was not cheap, but it was worth the photo moments. The brides had chosen a moon and stars theme. We used bourbon bottles as vases. I designated a candle-lighter, and then arranged succulents around table displays and the cake. One of the brides purchased a giant “R” symbolizing the first letter in her new last name. It was decorated with lights and needed batteries.
“Crap,” I said as I realized the thing wouldn’t turn on. “I need two double A batters,” I barked aloud, knowing one of the friends helping me would hear and help solve yet another problem we wouldn’t bother the brides about.
“Check the TV remote,” someone suggested. It used triple A batteries, unfortunately.
“I’ve got some. Be right back,” another friend said.
She returned with two double A batteries in hand.
“Awesome! Thank goodness,” I cried, and held my hand out.
My sweet, beautiful, and ever helpful friend paused and a sly grin appeared on her face.
“Now I need these back,” she said, eyes sparkling. “They go to something important I brought with me.”
She didn’t have to say another word. I knew she was talking about her vibrator, a subject we’d discussed before. We collapsed in a fit of hysterics drawing the attention of the room. I thereafter accepted the aptly-used batteries and thanked her for her donation to this worthy cause. This was yet another moment I could count was perfect in its imperfection. Had the bride remembered batteries, we wouldn’t have had a story to add to their trove of wedding tales.
I wanted to spend as much time on the details of this wedding as possible. I wanted Angie and Megan’s wedding to be beautiful, not perfect. I customized every detail, from the programs to the memory table to ensure each piece spoke about who Megan and Angie were as individuals and who they’ve become as a couple. I wanted them to love their wedding photos. I wanted to create moments – not flawless, but memorable.
The wedding guests did a lot of that on their own, I must add.
In the early wedding planning stages, the brides and I decided we liked calling their ceremony the “epic wedding weekend,” and by darn, that’s what it was. It was as epic as any event where Megan and Angie are in attendance. Anyone who knows them has a story.
And they continued to create more tales to tell throughout the weekend right up until wedding time. As Angie was in the hair and makeup chair, she and our friends devised a scene they decided to play out and video which featured Angie pretending to make her escape from the cabin donning a head full of curls still warm and yet relaxed and an apron with no shirt, beer in hand. After later abandoning her apron, Angie somehow ended up in my black camisole for coverage, not realizing nor caring to whom it belonged. I was, of course, happy to share and giggled at the sight of her in my top.
And then the moment to marry arrived. As Angie accepted Megan’s hands after that walk down the aisle wearing possibly the most expensive thing she will ever wear, neither was thinking about the deposit for the cabin, the decorations, or all the stress. All they thought about was how in that moment all was perfectly aligned, like the stars in their wedding theme.
Friends and family stood on grass in the warm late afternoon sun. I stood on the balcony after signaling the each member of the party when to walk and watched the couple below me surrounded by all the things that make them unique celebrating their wedding Angie and Megan-style with a full weekend party in a huge cabin in the middle of the woods, Jacuzzis for friends without bathing suits to enjoy in the dark, pergola decorated with chiffon by a gay uncle who was also the minister. They didn’t miss the point of a marriage ceremony and what it could mean to them. It will be a wedding no one will ever forget. Just as no one will ever forget them.
Angie and Megan may already know, but the secret to a happy marriage is realizing your relationship will never be without problems. Knowing the flaws of the other and loving your life with them despite those flaws is how a marriage lasts. Working through those moments of strong emotions. Being the bigger person. Speaking first when you are not speaking. Reaching over and holding their hand when you’d rather reach for a bat or knife. Surviving those moments together, learning every quality – good and bad that makes your spouse human – and building an incredible life together despite their personal hiccups … that’s marriage. Like the wedding that starts it all, marriage is perfect in its imperfection.
I was 15-years-old, opinionated and fashion-minded. Daddy decided I was his weapon of clothes-buying instruction.
Dad knows mom only wants one thing for Christmas: clothes. My poor father, try as he might, would get the right pair of jeans but the wrong size; the right dress but the wrong color; or sometimes, it’d be a blouse fit for a teen, but not so much a middle-aged mother. The year prior to dad’s idea to bring me along for his shopping trip had been a particularly rough Christmas present-opening. Mom had returned nearly every present.
Dad wanted the next year to be different. Our shopping trip was going smooth. We dropped credit card bombs at department stores across the city. I taught him name brands and mapped out mom’s favorites. We made a whole day of buying clothes mom would love.
Then dad saw the display of Christmas sweaters, some red and green glittered and others depicting cute, fuzzy forest creatures in the snow. He insisted his one success every year with one of mom’s presents was the ugliest, gaudiest Christmas sweater he could find. Against my pleas to leave the hideous sweater on the rack from which it came, dad purchased one with a Christmas Tree that lit up and played music.
“Clothes are for wearing not singing,” I murmured. He ignored me.
On Christmas morning, dad and I exchanged eye contact as mom began to open the ugly sweater. She gasped and I thought, Ah ha! I knew it! I smirked at my father, giving him that teenage I-was-right glare.
“How cute!” mom said, and lifted the sweater from the box, holding it up to her chest for sizing. She swooned when dad showed her the button that lit the tree up and played the “O Christmas Tree” tune.
Dad grinned at me and winked.
Mom loved all her presents that year. The pants fit. The dresses were the right color. The blouses were age appropriate. So every year thereafter, my father and I would hit the malls together and spend the whole day shopping for mom’s Christmas presents. As I got older, married and had a child of my own, our tradition still continued. This was an annual father-daughter date.
Years after that first Christmas shopping trip for mom, dad and I stood, yet again, in the department store arguing over Christmas sweaters. I had spent every one of the last eleven years attempting to persuade my dad from buying the things and my mom from wearing them.
“Your mom doesn’t think they are ugly,” he would always say, and purchase one anyway.
This time, I had found a black button up cardigan, away from the display of sweaters depicting dancing polar bears. The silky cotton was embroidered with small red and green beads forming a beautiful pattern of poinsettias on the right shoulder. It was elegant. It was expensive. It would look beautiful on my mom. Try as I might, my father insisted on the sweater featuring a patchwork of snowman he held before him. It looked like six different multicolored fabrics sewn together with a different dancing snowman on each color block. The only thing Christmas about it was that one of snowmen was wearing a Santa hat and another was wearing a sparkly green and red vest. I’m sure my mom would ask him if she could borrow that vest were it made in her size.
“That sweater looks like a kindergarten teacher’s dream, dad. Please, no,” I pleaded.
“Tell you what. You buy your fancy-smancy sweater, and I’ll buy this one. She will open both and we will see whose sweater she likes best,” he proposed.
“Deal,” I said, confident I wasn’t losing this bet. Surely those tyrannical snowman, barely Christmas, would not win mom over the stylish button-down I had picked out, I thought.
On Christmas morning, my family arrived at my parents’ house to celebrate and eat. The time to open presents came, and we gathered around the Christmas tree. Mom opened my present first.
“It’s nice,” she said and smiled. “I love the material.”
I threw a smirk at my father, who pretended not to catch it.
She opened dad’s. And gasped.
“It’s adorable! Where did you find it?” she exclaimed. She stood up and pulled the dancing snowmen on over her shirt. She looked down at the red, orange, purple, yellow, black and blue color blocks, the snowmen appearing to dance to celebrate their victory.
Dad smiled and winked. Words were not needed. I knew I lost. I didn’t know this woman better than this man. They were married 35 years.
Dad passed away from cancer before the next Christmas. Mom still wears all her ugly Christmas sweaters dad bought her, and somehow they don’t appear as ugly to me as they once did. I smile when I see her donning the sparkly green argyle, the kitten popping out of the present, or the multi-colored snowmen, and simply say, “You look nice, mom.”
“Compassion hurts. When you feel connected to everything, you also feel responsible for everything. And you cannot turn away. Your destiny is bound with the destinies of others. You must either learn to carry the Universe or be crushed by it. You must grow strong enough to love the world, yet empty enough to sit down at the same table with its worst horrors.”
– Andrew Boyd, Daily Afflictions: The Agony of Being Connected to Everything in Universe
Tonight I sat in a circle with a group of women ranging in age, pain, and hope for the future.
The air was heavy as the weight of all minorities sat upon our hearts and our minds.
Every generation was represented, from the Millennial and on. After eating a delicious array of food, sharing wine, darkening the room, and lighting a candle, we took turns passing the flickering light from one hand to the next.
The candle holder shared her gratitudes and then her hopes for the future following the election of the most anti-anyone-who-isn’t-white-rich-and-conservative administration on the ballot. Their forms awash with the warm glow from the small, flickering candle, each shared a thought on social justice.
Many spoke through tears. Some spoke of fear. Most seemed hopeless.
From my position perched near the pot-bellied stove to warm my back, I studied their faces. So many of these women had burned the road before me. While I laid under a tree in my parent’s front yard reading Judy Blume, they marched through city streets with protest signs. While I worried over addition problems, they knocked on doors. When I was molding Play-Doh, they were molding minds. Each had fought her own battles to earn the same respect that I have no doubt taken for granted.
It seemed to me the hardest battles were already fought. As far as civil rights were concerned, these ladies already threw the revolutionary party and I was just now arriving to sweep up and wash the dishes.
I’m good at cleaning up, I thought.
The more who shared, the more it became apparent to me that so many felt hopeless. As if each were thinking, “How are we here again? How have we taken so many steps backward after all the progress?”
While listening to these women speak their truth, an image of my 7-year-old daughter flashed through my mind. A day after the election, she attended her usual evening art class and brought home a picture she drew of the American flag. She was so disappointed after the election and wanting so bad to see the first female be elected as president. My daughter handed me the picture, which carefully depicted the correct number of red and white stripes and stars smudged with white color pencil barely visible on ivory card stock.
I am not afraid. I know that although these ladies have already blazed the path ahead, and it now lay carved out and ready for tread, it would not be without times when we feel a shadow has eclipsed the sun.
“It’s our America, mom,” she said.
She was right. It is still her America. It is still my America. To these women, I wanted to say, “America let you down, but this is still your America,” but instead I spoke of hope.
My voice broke, but I told them I will write loud and speak in metaphor. I will be an example of a loving human being even to those who don’t deserve it or return it. I told them they had already done the work. I will finish it. We will finish together, if they like. I told them my generation was roused, we were ready, and we needed to be given the chance to turn the boat against the tide.
I am not afraid. I know that although these ladies have already blazed the path ahead, and it now lay carved out and ready for tread, it would not be without times when we feel a shadow has eclipsed the sun.
Pass me the light.
Because just as author and activist Andrew Boyd reminds us, the truth will set you free, but first it will hurt like hell.
Bonfires and keeping packet of hot dogs and marshmallows in stock
Trick-or-treating wherever and whenever we can fit it in (school, church parking lots, downtown special occasions – we are there)
This year, we were able to spend an afternoon at Bernheim’s ColorFest event. For a five-buck-per-car entry fee, we all enjoyed a $200 time. We launched pumpkins, folks, with a giant slingshot. We ran through a hay maze, made necklaces out of natural things foraged from the forest, made the prettiest mud pies you eva’ did see, played strange-looking instruments, and listened to fantastic live music (not crappy music, but actual sit-down-and-listen type of music).
At some point while perusing the artists’ booths, we were asked if we wanted to write a poem about our favorite season, trees and the hippies who love them (we kind of fall into that category), or why we love nature. My teens and wife were leery, and hung back.
Our 7-year-old stepped up to take a pencil for a spin with her imagination at the wheel. She chose to write about winter (spelling corrected for easy reading) and is untitled:
Holiday, celebrate, no leaves
Santa goes to deliver presents
She sometimes tells me she will be an artist like me, and other times she says she wants to be a writer like me. I tell her she can do both. I tell her she can do many things. I do.
Then I wrote a poem too. Moved by the moment of time with family I was fortunate enough to enjoy, I quickly penned the following (slightly edited from original):
Never a tree
More precious to me
Than mine, my family tree
Though it also be
Beyond flesh and bone
Its gold leaves
Are my home
I forget how much I enjoy writing poetry. I never forget how much I enjoy our Octobers, and that we don’t have too many left to spend like this.
I always took a walk with my 14-month-old daughter in the afternoons after work. A single mom, I couldn’t afford to do much else.
It was the beginning of October in our small town in Kentucky. The leaves were barely browning, and a few crunched under the wheels of the stroller as I walked the quiet road near our house. Just a few homes dotted the way and all were owned by people long retired.
Upon making our second round, I see a crumbled and dirty paper laying under a rock in the middle of the street. As I neared and my eyes focused, I could see it was a worn and stained envelope; the corners of money bills peeking through the top. I looked around. I had not seen or heard anyone on the street.
I removed the rock and picked up the envelope. Again my eyes swiveled up and down the street. I suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable. I grabbed the stroller and headed to the safety of our home.
Once inside and behind locked doors, I opened the envelope. It contained $2,000 and a note. It read:
Go to the pharmacy and you’ll find more. Bring the envelope with you.
I looked at my shabby house. I glanced at the pile of bills on the table. My eyes moved further into the kitchen. The sink broke over the summer, and I could not afford to fix it, much less hire a plumber. I was tired of washing dishes in the bathroom. I looked down at my gorgeous sleeping baby. She needed new clothes and a toddler bed.
I left the baby with my neighbor who was happy to watch her when I picked up extra hours at the diner and drove to the pharmacy.
I realized I was still wearing my uniform dress and apron, and wondered if I should have changed so as to conceal where I worked.
Once parked, I scanned the lot. No one was around. The streets were dark, and the pharmacy closed in ten minutes. On top of a trash can with a heavy, metal lid sat a large, flat rock. I got out, heaved the rock to the ground and opened the large envelope that was underneath.
I pulled out a black ski mask, gun, more cash, and another note:
Take care of the pharmacist or we will take care of you and your daughter. When the job is done, put the first envelope with the cash under the rock at the corner of N. 2nd and E. Beall.
I sucked in breath and dropped the note. My thoughts raced.
“What am I doing? Oh God, what am I doing?”
The gun felt strange in my hand. I had never held one before.
I pictured my daughter’s tiny hands and thought of how she reaches to touch my face. I wiped my sweaty palms on my apron, slipped the mask on, and headed into the store.
A note from the author: Freaked out? I hope you enjoyed this work of fiction I penned to celebrate Halloween. The photos are, however, actual crime scene photos.
“Mom, camping is not a date; it’s an endurance test. If you can survive camping with someone, you should marry them on the way home.”
― Yvonne Prinz, The Vinyl Princess
I just needed to feel warm again.
We had arrived at the Green River campsite 18 hours earlier. My clothes were soaked with a salty combination of late September rain and sweat.
I trudged in muddy boots up the hill to the restroom that doubled as a shower house. I slipped behind a moldy curtain, an inch of light on each side where the curtain fell short of hiding my shivering body away from the world. I only brought shampoo with me and a roll of paper towels to dry my hair as we forgot to bring towels. I needed the steam and hot from the shower to quicken my blood and release the numb from my limbs. I’d scrub the dirt away later. I didn’t have anything to use anyway, unless I wanted to snap a pinecone from a tree out back.
I tilted my chin up to let the blessed water slip down my back, and opened my eyes. Three of the four corners in my tiny shower stall harbored well-fed spiders. They crouched in their webs watching my naked form.
“Stay there, guys, and no one loses a leg,” I warned them. I watched each of the spindly arachnids to ensure their obedience.
The spiders were not a big deal, and they were not why I hated camping.
I hate camping because I’ve never had a good camping experience absent of something that makes me declare every single time that I am never going camping again. I’ve now camped four times, and all four times, something horrible happened ranging from a bad sting needing a steroid injection to a campsite take-over by a Mexican Baptist Convention in which the attendees were so excited for Jesus, they sang about it all night long.
You can imagine I wasn’t thrilled by our friends’ suggestions to gather up our children and go camping.
“It’ll be different,” they said. “You’ll be with us, and we always have fun.”
They were right of course. These people, Joe and Robin and their two girls, were our favorite family. We were all best friends – the kids too.
So I relented. My wife wanted to go, and the kids would love it. We set the schedule, divided the expenses, and packed the cars for Green River. Here is a rundown of events that followed:
We arrived at dinner time on Friday. The kids were hungry. We were losing light, and it began to rain a steady pour despite the weather claims for a calm evening. We managed to get our tents up.
45 minutes out of the car, and one of two change of clothes I brought for the weekend were already soaked. I only had one hoodie. I lay shivering in the dark on a weird foam beach bed my mom gave us to use for the trip. My hip ached from laying on the hard surface.I wondered how the kids would do on a diet of chips for supper. We would not be able to light the wet wood in the fire pit to cook for our group of four adults and five children.
Our tent leaked. I felt around in the dark, and could feel large areas of wet and cold on our sleeping bags, pillows and blankets. The glow of cell phone lights revealed the tent was indeed leaking in several spots despite the rain protection tarp thing strapped to the top. The old, but expensive tent belonged to my father, who passed away six years ago. I never got the chance to use his camping stuff.
We realized at some point we forgot most of what we needed to make dinner. Even the heavy duty aluminum foil rested in the cabinet of our dark house. Not that it mattered. A fire won’t start in the rain.
When I informed our friends of our fumble, they realized they also left behind many of the groceries purchased specifically for the trip, including breakfast and cooking utensils.
No one forgot the booze.
Our first night “camping,” we ended up eating chicken strips and ice cream at a nearby Dairy Queen in our wet clothes. We voted on whether to buy another tent and stay the night or go home. I lost the vote.
At Super Walmart, a slippery, half-eaten kiwi slice took down and injured one of us in the produce aisle (identity omitted), but the rest of us got out unscathed. We purchased a new tent, re-purchased all the items both families left at home, then headed back to the soggy campsite.
The first night camping closed with my family sleeping on damp bedding in a dry tent wearing wet clothes. The cold ate at my face and hands, but the alcohol lulled me to sleep off and on throughout the evening.
Saturday opened with pockets of rain that forced us to rush food back and forth from the table to the coolers and chairs back into vehicles throughout the morning.
Our 7-year-old girls found most of a large fish skeleton and decided to share their find with the whole family back at our campsite. They brought a trash can lid also assumed a treasure to place over it for protection.
The family dog lost her mind every time she saw another dog, which was often. She tried to eat the fish bones too.
The rain almost prevented us from cooking hot dogs for lunch, but we managed to get them cooked enough. We dubbed them “acid rain dogs” and ate them plain since we forgot condiments.
I took a hot shower with shampoo to thaw my body. I dried my hair with cheap paper towels we purchased from Super Walmart and the hand dryer next to the sink since no one thought to bring a hair dryer.
I suggested a walk to the beach to stretch and get away from the camp. The family competed in a rock skipping contest, collected geodes along the shore, and explored. The fun forced my bad attitude back into the corner of my mind for a while. The rain, for once, rested during this brief time, but it began again when we started the walk back.
My nerves snapped. I picked a fight with my wife, and we sat up until late talking before she crawled into a tent to try to sleep. Sleep was beyond me.
I sat by the embers in the fire pit and stirred them for heat. Midnight had long passed, and the camp was quiet, until I heard what sounded like someone dumping water onto the ground behind me. I turned in my chair to look, only to see my dear friend Joe peeing on a tree. I was grateful for the lack of lighting. I decided it might be best to also retire to the tent lest I witness other men emerging for middle-of-the-night peeing sessions.
I awoke to a woman yelling at a boy about his clothes. I heard footsteps running away after his final defiant, “No!” The campsites were so compact, it sounded as if they were arguing right outside our tent.
I needed coffee and couldn’t find any more cups. So I dug through the trash until I found a used one. A hair clung to the coffee-stained side. A rock and possible bug hung out in the bottom. I used the water pump to rinse away the undesirables, then filled it with hot, brown caffeine. I took a seat by the pile of arranged sticks in the fire pit. Joe attempted to build a fire, but the lighter refused to strike. Joe informs me there were more coffee cups in the car.
Not long after, we packed the cars and drove away from what many consider paradise. It definitely was not paradise for me.
Finally headed home, I shot my wife a pitiful look. She turned on the heat, took my hand and squeezed it.
I recognize there are no other people in the world whom I’d rather have shared this experience. Our family’s ability to come together, to overcome, and still laugh in the pouring rain spoke of a decade of deep friendship and connection. Between all these moments of feeling like my face would freeze off, we played card games. We light-heartedly poked fun at each other. We watched the kids make friends with other kids. The children got to run around like sprites in the forest and gather wood (since we didn’t bring nearly enough). We sang weird songs around the campfire, likely disturbed our neighbors, and didn’t give any cares. Robin and I snuggled – a lot. We huddled in our tent and shopped for Halloween-themed leggings during a heavy rain. We held deep discussions uninterrupted by the outside world.
Then there were those beautiful moments on the beach. We were all dirty. Wet. Hungry. Tired. But we were together. We were one large family playing on a sandy shore brought together by love, not blood, and we were making the best out of a horrible series of unfortunate events. We had a sack-full of incredible memories to add to our trove.
That was the take-away, and it was a gem I’ll treasure far more than our 7-year-olds treasured that dead fish. But I still hate camping, and I still declare I am never going camping again.
When I announced six months ago I was quitting my easy, fluffy, well-paying job nestled safe in the sweetly secure bourbon industry to start a freelance writing and graphic design business and to be a novelist, the reactions from family, friends, and co-workers ranged from envy to shock to genuine happiness for me.
“You are following the right path,” some would say, including my supportive wife, knowing my passion for creativity and affinity for writing.
“I think you can do this … but how?” my mom said wanting to both offer her support and caution, her forehead wrinkled with worry as it was every time I told her about one of my big life changes.
“Oh, I could never work from home. I’d sleep all day and never get anything done,” was a strangely common reaction. I always thought but never said aloud, “Not if you wanted to continue to eat; not if you did this impossibly brave or undoubtedly stupid thing and announced it to the world and now they all are watching you to see if you will fly or fall; and not if you have dreamed of something your entire life (writing a book, in my case) and you now finally have the opportunity, nay, the balls, to do it.”
Yeah, balls. I said it. As confident as I may have appeared, my balls were small, shriveled, and dainty as I cowered in my bed for three months of sleepless nights due to this decision of dream-pursuing I made. But they were adequate enough to ride upon into either heaven or Hell.
Most were unbelievably supportive, though I did have one friend irreparably damage our friendship with her biting criticism of my decision to follow my dream.
I definitely do not have room in my life for anyone who is not going to prop me up during one of the scariest decisions I’ve ever made. She was demoted down several tiers off my friendship mountain. I doubted myself enough without having someone else do it for me.
People much older than me loved my gumption – often saying they wished they had spent their lives doing something they loved – or looked on me as if I was a teenager going out to buy her first mustang with no references, no job, and no down payment.
“A freelancer?” they’d say, their voices raised in confusion. Most did not understand the amount of money that can be made from the Internet. Most didn’t think about the sheer amount of content forced through the pipes every hour of every day to feed hungry news channels, attorneys’ blogs, social media, product reviews – someone was writing all of this so that every morning when the world awakes, there’s a fresh batch of newly written words for eyes to feast upon.
I’m your word chef, and I now proudly serve you.
The doubt passing through their eyes as they repeated freelancer didn’t escape me. It’s a doubt I never met back when I would tell people I was a paralegal or a corporate journalist. Those jobs had merit. Those jobs were concrete. Those jobs were easily understood. Freelancer? I guess there isn’t any at-a-girl’s to offer or to understand, even if I’m a business-owner too.
Or is there? Now that I am 6 months in, I am happy, however cautious, to report the decision to quit my job and build a business around my natural creativity seems to have been the right one. Business is great. Part one of my dream is going well. I am far too critical of myself to ever claim any of my ideas are “genius” though I can concede that I have proven myself capable of the task.
“But Mary, what about writing that book?” Oh, you mean part two of my dream? Now that my business is financially stable, I am ready to begin. In fact, I began Saturday.
So, writing a book with little experience … stupid or genius?
“What greater thing is there for two human souls, than to feel that they are joined for life-to strengthen each other in all labor, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting?”
― George Eliot, Adam Bede
I cried at the wedding rehearsal.
I was sweating in the late Spring heat lining up the wedding party behind a curtain to the brides’ instructions.
I made notes on a crinkled paper flapping in the breeze on a clipboard: two female ring bearers, one flower girl, a little boy holding a wooden sign I would soon inscribe with “Here Comes The Brides” in chalk, followed by a bride with her parents on each arm, and a second bride also donning a parent on linked elbows.
I cued the music, “Rejoice” by Il Divo.
“This song is very dear to me,” said one of the brides.
I whispered instructions to the kiddos. “Take your time walking down the aisle. Sit here when you reach the end.”
The young ones were into it. They would do well. Now it was the first bride’s turn to walk the short strip to the altar.
I looked at their faces – these two brides who were my dear friends. The two beautiful ladies had been together for years, but only now had the opportunity to marry in our state thanks to the 2015 Supreme Court decision granting marriage rights for all. They chose to speak their vows on their farm in front of a charming barn surrounded by tall green trees. Goats bayed in the background.
I held the curtain back. One woman turned and made eye contact with the other in line behind her. Her gaze read we’re doing this and I love you and all the burrows and ridges they’ve traversed together over the years passed between them translated in a single glance.
They looked back at me to cue their turn to walk down the aisle, and I lost the slim grip on my emotions.
For other weddings I rehearsed (even my own), the couple had been together for a few years, usually followed by a year long engagement, and then the wedding.
This one was different.
Here I stood running through the processional of a wedding for two women who were forced to wait years for this moment. They were practiced in their relationship. They had already rehearsed weathering the thunder and sometimes flash of lightning we experience when we love another.
It was only now they were practicing ceremony. The rest – the truths of a marriage – they figured out long ago.
“Don’t you dare!” one bride said to me watching my tears give me away. Her tears followed suit.
I thought about how our own country and its fellow citizens robbed them of a special kind of commitment – spiritual, legal, financial, physical, and emotional – too long denying a fully functional life in society without shame or harassment. As if to say they could come this far together, but no further. We were now practicing closing that gap.
The first bride finished walking to the altar, kissed her parents, and turned to watch her love join her.
I held the curtain back for the second bride and watched with tear-soaked eyes as she rehearsed meeting her soul mate at the end of the aisle.
I did not see the beginning of a new chapter in their story. This was their happy ending.