Happy Tuesday, friends!
Admittedly, today's bit of inspiration probably comes off as a bit strange. It's kind of like one of those Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon games—sort of. ☺
Here goes: As a child, I loved Nestlé Quik. I couldn't get enough of it. I'd drink it; I'd put it on ice cream. When I got older, I'd sometimes put it in coffee. I thought it was great. But in another way, it was very, very bad. I think—no, I know—that it started my chocolate obsession.
Nowadays, chocolate is something I need, and not in powder form. Oh, no. I want the hard stuff: the Cadbury and the Hershey's and the Lindt. My waistline begs for mercy, and still I crave milk chocolate and dark chocolate. I'll even eat unsweetened baking chocolate. (It's actually quite good!) The only chocolate I don't care for is white chocolate, which technically isn't even chocolate at all and shouldn't be sullying chocolate's good name—but I digress.
So I know what you're thinking: Dana, your A to Z theme is about things that inspire you. How in the world does "Nestlé Nostalgia" fit in? It's a good question. Here's your answer:
If it weren't for Nestlé Quik, I wouldn't be a writer. (How's that for dramatic? ☺) Seriously, chocolate is my writing reward. Chocolate drives me to create—to eat chocolate, I must create—so therefore, I find chocolate to be very inspiring.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why Nestlé Nostalgia is on my list of things that inspire me.
Now please enjoy this nostalgic Nestlé Quik commercial. It's glorious in all of its cheesiness!
My daily haiku is up at the Pulitzer Remix site. You can find it here. Thanks again to everyone who has been reading and commenting. I love writing haiku, and I'm having a great time with the project. Your support means so much!
Wishing you all a wonderful Tuesday. ☺
Showing posts with label childhood memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood memories. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Have I told you the one about the klutz?
Hi to old friends and new! I had so much fun with the Blogging from A to Z Challenge that I decided to participate in a blogfest that begins today: Blog Me MAYbe, the brainchild of writer and blogger Sara McClung. Basically, throughout the month of May, participants can choose (or not!) to blog five days a week following this predetermined schedule:
Mondays: MAY I tell you something about writing?
Tuesdays: MAY I tell you something about myself?
Wednesdays: MAY I ask something about you?
Thursdays: MAY I tell you something about someone else?
Fridays: MAY I share something funny?
You can find out all the details by clicking the banner in this post or the button on the right side of my page (both created by the talented Tracey Neithercott). I hope you join in. This blogfest promises to be a lot of fun!
So, then... May I tell you something about myself?
I am a Klutz with a capital K. If there's a wall, I will walk into it. If there's a toy on the floor--and when isn't there, in a house with two small kids?--I will trip over it. If there's a hole, I will fall into it. If there's a set of stairs, I will fall down (or up!) them. I think you get the picture.
My life of klutziness began the moment I learned to walk. I, of course, don't remember those days, but according to witnesses (mainly Mom, Dad, and Brother), I couldn't walk two feet without slamming into something, bumping into something, or falling on my face. Apparently I was a walking bruise, which, come to think of it, probably helps to explain all those pictures in which I'm wearing hats and long sleeves. Curiously, no one seemed to be bothered by my apparent klutziness. (Well, I was probably bothered.) It wasn't until I was nearly five years old that people (namely the kindergarten registration people) determined that maybe--just maybe--I couldn't see very well.
They were right, and off I went to get my first in a long line of glasses. (I've been wearing them now for almost thirty-five years. Yikes!) Once those glasses were firmly in place on my face, everyone sat back and breathed a sigh of relief: Dana's klutziness was cured!
Um, not so much.
Apparently, my eyes have nothing to do with it. I am--I confess--completely and utterly uncoordinated. I can't control my limbs; I certainly can't dance. I can, however, walk into doorways, trip over coffee tables, bump my head on open cabinets, walk into the corners of the kitchen table, slice off the tips of my fingers while cutting vegetables, walk into open car doors (not to mention slam my fingers in them), and trip over invisible objects.
I have no excuse. I'm just a Klutz.
Unfortunately, my five-year-old son seems to have inherited my klutziness gene. Just last Sunday as we were getting ready for church, I heard a cry from the kitchen and ran downstairs, nearly breaking my leg as I stumbled over a blue Mega Blok and my two-year-old's stuffed Minnie Mouse, only to find my son sitting dazed on the floor, crying and holding his head. This is the conversation that ensued:
Me: (panicked, looking for blood) What happened? What happened? Are you okay?
Son: (gasping for breath between screams of blood murder) I bumped my head.
Me: (looking around and wondering what he possibly could have hit his head on, as he was sitting on the floor in the middle of the room) On what? There's nothing here.
Son: (wailing) On the wall!
(And sadly, this wasn't his first time at the rodeo.)
So there you have it. I'm a klutz, and unfortunately, it appears that I'm raising another one. I guess what they say is true: the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
Poor kid.
Wednesdays: MAY I ask something about you?
Thursdays: MAY I tell you something about someone else?
Fridays: MAY I share something funny?
You can find out all the details by clicking the banner in this post or the button on the right side of my page (both created by the talented Tracey Neithercott). I hope you join in. This blogfest promises to be a lot of fun!
So, then... May I tell you something about myself?
I am a Klutz with a capital K. If there's a wall, I will walk into it. If there's a toy on the floor--and when isn't there, in a house with two small kids?--I will trip over it. If there's a hole, I will fall into it. If there's a set of stairs, I will fall down (or up!) them. I think you get the picture.
My life of klutziness began the moment I learned to walk. I, of course, don't remember those days, but according to witnesses (mainly Mom, Dad, and Brother), I couldn't walk two feet without slamming into something, bumping into something, or falling on my face. Apparently I was a walking bruise, which, come to think of it, probably helps to explain all those pictures in which I'm wearing hats and long sleeves. Curiously, no one seemed to be bothered by my apparent klutziness. (Well, I was probably bothered.) It wasn't until I was nearly five years old that people (namely the kindergarten registration people) determined that maybe--just maybe--I couldn't see very well.
They were right, and off I went to get my first in a long line of glasses. (I've been wearing them now for almost thirty-five years. Yikes!) Once those glasses were firmly in place on my face, everyone sat back and breathed a sigh of relief: Dana's klutziness was cured!
Um, not so much.
 |
| Not my thumb--but how easily it could be. Image courtesy of Jana Kollarova, rgbstock.com |
Apparently, my eyes have nothing to do with it. I am--I confess--completely and utterly uncoordinated. I can't control my limbs; I certainly can't dance. I can, however, walk into doorways, trip over coffee tables, bump my head on open cabinets, walk into the corners of the kitchen table, slice off the tips of my fingers while cutting vegetables, walk into open car doors (not to mention slam my fingers in them), and trip over invisible objects.
I have no excuse. I'm just a Klutz.
Unfortunately, my five-year-old son seems to have inherited my klutziness gene. Just last Sunday as we were getting ready for church, I heard a cry from the kitchen and ran downstairs, nearly breaking my leg as I stumbled over a blue Mega Blok and my two-year-old's stuffed Minnie Mouse, only to find my son sitting dazed on the floor, crying and holding his head. This is the conversation that ensued:
Me: (panicked, looking for blood) What happened? What happened? Are you okay?
Son: (gasping for breath between screams of blood murder) I bumped my head.
Me: (looking around and wondering what he possibly could have hit his head on, as he was sitting on the floor in the middle of the room) On what? There's nothing here.
Son: (wailing) On the wall!
(And sadly, this wasn't his first time at the rodeo.)
So there you have it. I'm a klutz, and unfortunately, it appears that I'm raising another one. I guess what they say is true: the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
Poor kid.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Y is for Yawp
Throughout this challenge, I've been posting about my favorite things--things that are important to me, things that inspire me, things that make me smile. I'm excited to have reached the letter Y because the word I've chosen for today, yawp, holds a very special meaning.
A yawp is a raucous noise, a yell. Children are, of course, masters of the yawp. Like all kids, mine love to be loud and boisterous and often exercise this love from the moment they wake up until the moment they lay their heads down at night. Yawp can also be used in reference to clamoring and complaining, which I'm sure describes us all from time to time. I heard the word used in this sense more than once when I was growing up: "Dana, quit your yawping and clean up your room." (I never thought I'd one day be saying the same thing to my own kids!)
However, the yawp I want to write about today is a different kind of yawp--it's the barbaric yawp that American poet Walt Whitman described in his "Song of Myself":
Who can forget that wonderful scene in Dead Poet's Society where English professor John Keating (played by Robin Williams) encourages his timid student (Todd Anderson, played by Ethan Hawke) to find his yawp--that indefinable something that lives inside each of us, waiting to be given its voice. In this clip, Todd hasn't been able to complete his assignment, which was to write a poem, and Mr. Keating uses Whitman's idea of the barbaric yawp to help Todd express himself through poetry in a way Todd had never thought possible:
I cry nearly every time I watch this scene. I used to teach college English, and I hope that I was able to inspire at least one student the way that Mr. Keating inspired Todd, showing him that not only does he have a barbaric yawp but he can express it--and needs to express it. We all do.
I, too, sound my barbaric yawp. This blog is my barbaric yawp, my conduit for expressing myself. It's where I give voice to that something deep inside me that aches to be heard. Every time I post, I sound my barbaric yawp across the blogosphere.
We all do.
And I think Mr. Keating--and Mr. Whitman--would be proud.
What's your barbaric yawp? What have you chosen to give voice to today?
A yawp is a raucous noise, a yell. Children are, of course, masters of the yawp. Like all kids, mine love to be loud and boisterous and often exercise this love from the moment they wake up until the moment they lay their heads down at night. Yawp can also be used in reference to clamoring and complaining, which I'm sure describes us all from time to time. I heard the word used in this sense more than once when I was growing up: "Dana, quit your yawping and clean up your room." (I never thought I'd one day be saying the same thing to my own kids!)
However, the yawp I want to write about today is a different kind of yawp--it's the barbaric yawp that American poet Walt Whitman described in his "Song of Myself":
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
Who can forget that wonderful scene in Dead Poet's Society where English professor John Keating (played by Robin Williams) encourages his timid student (Todd Anderson, played by Ethan Hawke) to find his yawp--that indefinable something that lives inside each of us, waiting to be given its voice. In this clip, Todd hasn't been able to complete his assignment, which was to write a poem, and Mr. Keating uses Whitman's idea of the barbaric yawp to help Todd express himself through poetry in a way Todd had never thought possible:
I cry nearly every time I watch this scene. I used to teach college English, and I hope that I was able to inspire at least one student the way that Mr. Keating inspired Todd, showing him that not only does he have a barbaric yawp but he can express it--and needs to express it. We all do.
I, too, sound my barbaric yawp. This blog is my barbaric yawp, my conduit for expressing myself. It's where I give voice to that something deep inside me that aches to be heard. Every time I post, I sound my barbaric yawp across the blogosphere.
We all do.
And I think Mr. Keating--and Mr. Whitman--would be proud.
What's your barbaric yawp? What have you chosen to give voice to today?
Friday, April 20, 2012
R is for Retro!
I should have been born in the fifties.
For as long as I can remember, I've loved everything about it, from the fashions to the decor to the television shows and toys. And even though I grew up in the seventies and eighties--decades of bell-bottoms and acid-washed jeans--I think I would have been right at home in the decade of pedal pushers and jewel-neck pullovers!
My mom and dad were teenagers in the '50s, and as I was growing up, I'd ask them to tell me stories about what life was like then. I loved when my mom described the kinds of clothes she wore, like poodle skirts (love!) and saddle shoes. I've always found it funny that saddle shoes were back in style when I was in high school in the eighties!
Speaking of the eighties, each year my high school would hold a Fifties Day, and I was the envy of all my female classmates when I wore my mom's red poodle skirt with white ankle socks and my 1980's version of saddle shoes. Mom still owns a lot of the clothes she wore back then, and I had so much fun trying them on when I was growing up: Capri pants; form-fitting, short-sleeved shirts; blouses with Peter Pan collars; cat-eye glasses; and cardigan sweaters, which my mom said were sometimes worn backward. The outfit wasn't complete until I had pulled my hair up into a scarf-tied ponytail or tied a silk scarf around my neck. She told me once that another fad she and her friends took part in was to wear small animals collars as ankle bracelets.
It's official: I love the fifties!
What about you? Do you have a favorite decade? What are your thoughts about retro style?
For as long as I can remember, I've loved everything about it, from the fashions to the decor to the television shows and toys. And even though I grew up in the seventies and eighties--decades of bell-bottoms and acid-washed jeans--I think I would have been right at home in the decade of pedal pushers and jewel-neck pullovers!
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| Poodle skirt parade Photo by Peter Griffin Courtesy of Public Domain Pictures |
Speaking of the eighties, each year my high school would hold a Fifties Day, and I was the envy of all my female classmates when I wore my mom's red poodle skirt with white ankle socks and my 1980's version of saddle shoes. Mom still owns a lot of the clothes she wore back then, and I had so much fun trying them on when I was growing up: Capri pants; form-fitting, short-sleeved shirts; blouses with Peter Pan collars; cat-eye glasses; and cardigan sweaters, which my mom said were sometimes worn backward. The outfit wasn't complete until I had pulled my hair up into a scarf-tied ponytail or tied a silk scarf around my neck. She told me once that another fad she and her friends took part in was to wear small animals collars as ankle bracelets.
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| 1950's diner booth Photo by Lee Wag Public Domain Pictures |
For entertainment, Mom and Dad would go out to the diner for cheeseburgers or to the drug store for Green Rivers--or maybe they'd attend a sock hop at the school or cruise around town in my dad's old Ford.
The fifties also brought some of my favorite television shows, like I Love Lucy and The Twilight Zone, and toys that my own children play with today, like Barbie and Etch A Sketch. And although my music tastes tend to run a little more modern, I still enjoy some of the idols of the fifties, like Elvis Presley and Ricky Nelson. Also, in my opinion, few modern actors possess the brooding good looks of James Dean.
What about you? Do you have a favorite decade? What are your thoughts about retro style?
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
P is for Passionate About Paper
I love paper. Take me to a stationery store, and I'll wander the aisles all day checking out the journals and notepads and trying out all the pens. (Did I mention I also love pens?)
My obsession with paper comes from my mom--or at least I like to blame it on her! Whenever she and Dad took me to the orthodontist for my checkups, she'd insist on stopping at the stationery store afterward to find out what was new in office supplies. Mind you, she didn't need office supplies; she just wanted them.
As I wandered around the store with her, I began my own love affair with stenographer's notebooks, handmade paper, moleskin journals, day planners, diaries--anything and everything paper. I was charmed by the rainbow of colors and diversity of textures, and I had a special weakness for stickers and novelty items featuring some of the popular trends of the day (think mid-80s). My many trips to the store also started my brief obsession with erasers and four-color pens. (Okay, I admit I still love those pens!) In my mind, the stationery store was the perfect place, not only for me but for my friends as well. I bought many a birthday gift at that store--although I'm not sure all of my friends found the gifts as amazing as I did!
My passion for all things paper still rages today. Since I started taking my writing more seriously several years ago, I've gone through notebook after notebook. One of my favorite things to do now is to troll the back-to-school sales and buy stacks of college-ruled notebooks for ten or fifteen cents apiece. I find these notebooks are the best to use for my writing, as I'm not afraid I'll deface them with my scrawl. I buy notebooks in smaller sizes, too, so I can tuck them into my purse or hide them away in the stroller for ideas that come to me when I'm out with the kids.
Although I buy far more plain notebooks, I do love the fancier stationery and journals. In fact, I love them so much that when I buy them, I just look at them; I'm reluctant to destroy them by writing in them. A couple of years ago, I bought two beautiful journals filled with acid-free paper. I intended to begin mother's journals for each of my kids, where I'd write down the funny, cute, and interesting things they've done and said. Well, to this day, those journals are blank. I tell myself I haven't used them yet because I can't find a good archival pen, but really, it's the same old story: I'm afraid I'll mess them up. Meanwhile, I have drawers and boxes and purses full of little slips of paper on which I've written all sorts of memories. I just hope I can find them all if--I mean when--I do decide to start filling those journals.
How about you? Do you have a passion for paper?
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| Photo by Elisa Xyz Courtesy of Public Domain Pictures |
As I wandered around the store with her, I began my own love affair with stenographer's notebooks, handmade paper, moleskin journals, day planners, diaries--anything and everything paper. I was charmed by the rainbow of colors and diversity of textures, and I had a special weakness for stickers and novelty items featuring some of the popular trends of the day (think mid-80s). My many trips to the store also started my brief obsession with erasers and four-color pens. (Okay, I admit I still love those pens!) In my mind, the stationery store was the perfect place, not only for me but for my friends as well. I bought many a birthday gift at that store--although I'm not sure all of my friends found the gifts as amazing as I did!
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| Photo by Shari Weinsheimer Courtesy of Public Domain Pictures |
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| Photo by Joy Shrader Courtesy of Public Domain Pictures |
And speaking of my kids, I'm happy to say that they are following in my paper-loving footsteps. Among other things, this year the Easter Bunny brought them some tiny notebooks, and both kids--but especially my five-year-old son--have been scribbling like mad. Will there be another writer or two in the family? I hope so!
How about you? Do you have a passion for paper?
Monday, April 16, 2012
N is for Noodle Nostalgia
Grandma was a great cook. I remember Sunday meals and holidays at her house: turkey, ham, pork and beef roasts, mashed potatoes and gravy, lemon meringue and pumpkin pies--everything delicious and made from scratch.
I think more than anything else, I loved the noodles she would make at the old, blue-topped table in her kitchen. They were the best tasting noodles I've ever eaten, and the memories I have of helping her make them are some of the most precious ones I have.
I would watch, spellbound, as she sifted flour and mounded it on the table, then made a hollow and added eggs, a little oil, a pinch of salt. My awkward child-hands would help beat the eggs, gradually mixing them with the flour, and then I would watch as she started kneading the dough, working it for a while before stepping back and letting me take a turn--pushing and folding, pushing and folding for what seemed like years but was probably no more than ten minutes. My arms would ache--a good ache--and I'd ask Grandma to take over, knowing that soon it would be time for my favorite part of noodle making: cutting the dough with the little pasty wheel.
Grandma would flour the table, then roll out the dough before handing me the wheel. She'd watch as I cut, letting me know if my noodles were too thick or too thin. Sometimes they were just right! When I'd finish cutting, she'd help me pick up the noodles and hang them over the backs of her toweled-covered orange kitchen chairs to dry. Later there would be homemade chicken soup simmering on the stove, and those noodles would always be the best part.
Grandma died on September 16, 2010. She was 95 years old. My kids didn't really have the chance to get to know her, but I hope that one day I can show them what she taught me and tell them just how special their great-grandma was.
Do you have any beloved memories of time you shared with someone who's no longer living?
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| Photo by Donna Cosmato Courtesy of Public Domain Pictures |
I would watch, spellbound, as she sifted flour and mounded it on the table, then made a hollow and added eggs, a little oil, a pinch of salt. My awkward child-hands would help beat the eggs, gradually mixing them with the flour, and then I would watch as she started kneading the dough, working it for a while before stepping back and letting me take a turn--pushing and folding, pushing and folding for what seemed like years but was probably no more than ten minutes. My arms would ache--a good ache--and I'd ask Grandma to take over, knowing that soon it would be time for my favorite part of noodle making: cutting the dough with the little pasty wheel.
Grandma would flour the table, then roll out the dough before handing me the wheel. She'd watch as I cut, letting me know if my noodles were too thick or too thin. Sometimes they were just right! When I'd finish cutting, she'd help me pick up the noodles and hang them over the backs of her toweled-covered orange kitchen chairs to dry. Later there would be homemade chicken soup simmering on the stove, and those noodles would always be the best part.
Grandma died on September 16, 2010. She was 95 years old. My kids didn't really have the chance to get to know her, but I hope that one day I can show them what she taught me and tell them just how special their great-grandma was.
Do you have any beloved memories of time you shared with someone who's no longer living?
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Intermission and Roy G. Biv
Today is the A to Z Challenge's scheduled day off. I'll be back tomorrow with the letter N.
I'd like to welcome those who are new to my blog. Thanks for following! When I'm not taking part in the challenge, I usually post 100-word entries describing my observations about things like motherhood, writing, and life. So without further ado, I bring you this morning's 100 words:
When I ask my kids to name their favorite colors, my five-year-old son will usually say blue or green. My two-year-old daughter, on the other hand, will start by saying pink but then change her answer to "I love all the colors of the rainbow!" before she dances and twirls out of the room, arms raised high, a wide smile spread across her face. Sometimes she stops, skips back to where I'm standing, and loudly sing-songs the colors: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. Good old Roy G. Biv. I remember him well.
Remember Roy? He's my old friend. I probably wouldn't be able to recall the colors of the rainbow without him. :)
I'd like to welcome those who are new to my blog. Thanks for following! When I'm not taking part in the challenge, I usually post 100-word entries describing my observations about things like motherhood, writing, and life. So without further ado, I bring you this morning's 100 words:
When I ask my kids to name their favorite colors, my five-year-old son will usually say blue or green. My two-year-old daughter, on the other hand, will start by saying pink but then change her answer to "I love all the colors of the rainbow!" before she dances and twirls out of the room, arms raised high, a wide smile spread across her face. Sometimes she stops, skips back to where I'm standing, and loudly sing-songs the colors: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. Good old Roy G. Biv. I remember him well.
Remember Roy? He's my old friend. I probably wouldn't be able to recall the colors of the rainbow without him. :)
Friday, April 13, 2012
L is for Ladybug--and Laughter!
"Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home.
This nursery rhyme, traditionally called "Ladybird, Ladybird," has many different variations, but these are the lines I remember my mother reciting nearly every time we saw a ladybug when I was a child. I've learned recently that some of the verses are actually quite grim, like this one:
"Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home.
Your house is on fire;
your children shall burn!"
That's cheery...
I really don't remember my mother telling me more than the first two lines of the rhyme, but those two lines were enough to foster a love for ladybugs that I've carried with me all my life. Now usually, I'm not the kind of person who wants anything to do with insects, but ladybugs seem different somehow, probably because I've always imagined them to be loving moms just trying to take care of their babies--babies who, it seems, may or may not have been left alone and may or may not have been trapped in a fire.
(Perhaps it would have behooved Mother Ladybug to find a babysitter...)
I still think that ladybugs are among the nicer, prettier insects. First, they're often red, which is my favorite color, and second, I've never met one who tried to bite me. As such, I've always been kinder to them than I am to, say, spiders or the many icky, beady-eyed little bugs that my son likes to capture and then bring over for Mommy to have a look at. I've never tried to squish ladybugs, and I'm proud to say that I played no part in the little-known but horrific battle that took place in my childhood home, The War Between the Ladybugs and Dad, the Mad Vacuum Wielder. The silly creatures were confused one year and mistook our house for their own. Maybe they'd lost their home in a fire, in which case maybe Dad could have been a little more understanding.
But I still think Mama should have hired a babysitter...
So what are your feelings about ladybugs? Beautiful friend or pesky foe?
Your house is on fire, and your children are gone..."
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| Clip art courtesy of http://everything-ladybug.com |
"Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home.
Your house is on fire;
your children shall burn!"
That's cheery...
I really don't remember my mother telling me more than the first two lines of the rhyme, but those two lines were enough to foster a love for ladybugs that I've carried with me all my life. Now usually, I'm not the kind of person who wants anything to do with insects, but ladybugs seem different somehow, probably because I've always imagined them to be loving moms just trying to take care of their babies--babies who, it seems, may or may not have been left alone and may or may not have been trapped in a fire.
(Perhaps it would have behooved Mother Ladybug to find a babysitter...)
I still think that ladybugs are among the nicer, prettier insects. First, they're often red, which is my favorite color, and second, I've never met one who tried to bite me. As such, I've always been kinder to them than I am to, say, spiders or the many icky, beady-eyed little bugs that my son likes to capture and then bring over for Mommy to have a look at. I've never tried to squish ladybugs, and I'm proud to say that I played no part in the little-known but horrific battle that took place in my childhood home, The War Between the Ladybugs and Dad, the Mad Vacuum Wielder. The silly creatures were confused one year and mistook our house for their own. Maybe they'd lost their home in a fire, in which case maybe Dad could have been a little more understanding.
But I still think Mama should have hired a babysitter...
So what are your feelings about ladybugs? Beautiful friend or pesky foe?
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
J is for Jumping Beans
Have you ever seen them? They're seed pods that look like small beans. Larvae of small moths chew their way inside the beans. The larvae don't like heat, so when the beans become too hot, the larvae "jump" as they try to find a cooler spot. The beans are native to Mexico, hence the name Mexican Jumping Beans.
I didn't know that these beans existed until very recently. When I was a kid, I had a toy that was called a Mexican Jumping Bean. It looked like a pill capsule and had something inside of it that would make it twitch. I remember that I enjoyed playing with it, but if I had known there were real jumping beans available for purchase, I'm sure I would have been begging my parents to buy some!
Have you ever owned Mexican Jumping Beans, real or fake?
I didn't know that these beans existed until very recently. When I was a kid, I had a toy that was called a Mexican Jumping Bean. It looked like a pill capsule and had something inside of it that would make it twitch. I remember that I enjoyed playing with it, but if I had known there were real jumping beans available for purchase, I'm sure I would have been begging my parents to buy some!
Have you ever owned Mexican Jumping Beans, real or fake?
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
I is for Indian Paintbrush and Iceblink
I can't resist--I just have to bring you two "I" words today, one that's an old favorite and one that I just discovered.
Indian Paintbrush:
When we were kids, my sister and I spent a lot of time outside. We loved taking walks through the woods and fields surrounding our house, where we'd pick flowers and weeds and grasses to use as ingredients in our famous (to us!) mud puddle soup.
What's mud puddle soup? Well, whenever it rained, a huge mud puddle would form in the driveway, and my sister and I would pretend that the water was soup. We'd get our ingredients, then stir the "broth" with big sticks. I'm sure our parents wondered what we were doing whenever they looked out the window and saw us standing there, staring into a puddle, but hey, we were using our Imaginations--another great "I" word, by the way!
One of the ingredients we chose for our soup was the Indian Paintbrush. I don't know about my sister, but I always gravitated toward it because of its bright reddish color and the way it does indeed resemble an artist's paintbrush. Every time I see this plant my mind goes back to those wonderful spring days.
Iceblink:
I discovered this word last night when I was searching the Internet for "I" words I had overlooked. I found this one at The Phrontistery, a site that celebrates the English language with its definitions of obscure words. There I learned that an iceblink is a "glare in the sky caused by light reflected off ice." Further investigation at Dictionary.com found that an iceblink is "a yellowish luminosity near the horizon or on the underside of a cloud, caused by the reflection of light from sea ice."
Isn't this a great word? Right away I began I imagining how I could use it in a poem...
So what about you? Have you ever seen Indian Paintbrush? How about strange or obscure words: have you encountered any lately--especially those beginning with I?
Indian Paintbrush:
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| © Copyright 2011 [Roy Tennant], FreeLargePhotos.com |
When we were kids, my sister and I spent a lot of time outside. We loved taking walks through the woods and fields surrounding our house, where we'd pick flowers and weeds and grasses to use as ingredients in our famous (to us!) mud puddle soup.
What's mud puddle soup? Well, whenever it rained, a huge mud puddle would form in the driveway, and my sister and I would pretend that the water was soup. We'd get our ingredients, then stir the "broth" with big sticks. I'm sure our parents wondered what we were doing whenever they looked out the window and saw us standing there, staring into a puddle, but hey, we were using our Imaginations--another great "I" word, by the way!
One of the ingredients we chose for our soup was the Indian Paintbrush. I don't know about my sister, but I always gravitated toward it because of its bright reddish color and the way it does indeed resemble an artist's paintbrush. Every time I see this plant my mind goes back to those wonderful spring days.
Iceblink:
I discovered this word last night when I was searching the Internet for "I" words I had overlooked. I found this one at The Phrontistery, a site that celebrates the English language with its definitions of obscure words. There I learned that an iceblink is a "glare in the sky caused by light reflected off ice." Further investigation at Dictionary.com found that an iceblink is "a yellowish luminosity near the horizon or on the underside of a cloud, caused by the reflection of light from sea ice."
Isn't this a great word? Right away I began I imagining how I could use it in a poem...
So what about you? Have you ever seen Indian Paintbrush? How about strange or obscure words: have you encountered any lately--especially those beginning with I?
Monday, April 9, 2012
H is for Haiku
I first learned of haiku in early elementary school when our teacher presented a lesson plan on the form and assigned us to write our own. Since then, I've been enthralled with these poems, which require the poet to say so much using so few words. The extra challenge of using the correct number of syllables in each of the poem's three lines (usually 5, 7, 5) is what intrigues me most, I think. As anyone who's written haiku knows, the concept is more difficult than it appears.
Some poets, particularly in North America, write single-line haiku containing much fewer than seventeen syllables; others write haiku of four or more very short lines, which is known as vertical haiku. Circular haiku, in which the poem doesn't have a fixed beginning or ending, is also popular. Others adopt their own forms, some counting words rather than syllables.
I enjoy writing haiku. As poet Santoka Taneda once wrote, "Haiku is not a shriek, a howl, a sigh, or a yawn; rather, it is the deep breath of life"--and I think that's beautiful.
Do you read or write haiku?
Some poets, particularly in North America, write single-line haiku containing much fewer than seventeen syllables; others write haiku of four or more very short lines, which is known as vertical haiku. Circular haiku, in which the poem doesn't have a fixed beginning or ending, is also popular. Others adopt their own forms, some counting words rather than syllables.
I enjoy writing haiku. As poet Santoka Taneda once wrote, "Haiku is not a shriek, a howl, a sigh, or a yawn; rather, it is the deep breath of life"--and I think that's beautiful.
Do you read or write haiku?
Thursday, April 5, 2012
E is for Entertainer
I'm a writer and stay-at-home mom now, but in my adult years I've also held the jobs of journalist, college English professor, and freelance copy editor. These professions were all good fits for me, but they are definitely not what the child-me thought she'd be doing when she grew up. Back then, I told people I wanted to be an archaeologist or maybe an orthodontist, but what I really wanted was to become an entertainer--specifically a singer like Madonna or Cyndi Lauper. I do love to sing, but I have to admit that I'm very happy with my non-famous, ordinary life and can't imagine living any other.
What did you want to be when you grew up? Is it the same job you're doing now?
What did you want to be when you grew up? Is it the same job you're doing now?
Monday, April 2, 2012
B is for Books
I love to read. When my sister and I were kids, we would stay at our grandma's house in town for a few days in the summer, and we'd always walk to the library, then carry home stacks and stacks of books, which we'd devour in no time and then crave more. I still read like that, which is probably why I don't get as much sleep as I should. Every year I set a reading goal. Last year's goal was 104 books, and I read 108. This year I've set the bar at 110. I'm reading number 27 now.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Chatter and song
Today's 100 words:
The birds must be holding some kind of caucus this morning. Their chatter is loud and insistent, and I love to imagine that they're hosting a public forum or city council meeting and discussing important things: no fly zones, the empty nest law, speeding, flying without a license, the dangers of drunken flying... As a teenager, I can remember being so annoyed by the birds: How dare they interrupt my sleep! Now, though, well out of my teens, I can appreciate them for their beauty and their song. And I can imagine that maybe sometimes they sing just for me.
The birds must be holding some kind of caucus this morning. Their chatter is loud and insistent, and I love to imagine that they're hosting a public forum or city council meeting and discussing important things: no fly zones, the empty nest law, speeding, flying without a license, the dangers of drunken flying... As a teenager, I can remember being so annoyed by the birds: How dare they interrupt my sleep! Now, though, well out of my teens, I can appreciate them for their beauty and their song. And I can imagine that maybe sometimes they sing just for me.
Friday, February 24, 2012
"I want a do-over!"
Today's 100 words:
I've always wanted do-overs. As a child, if I didn't do something correctly the first time--play a game, spell a word in the class spelling bee, get a perfect score on a test--I wanted another chance. That perfectionism has followed me into adulthood: there are many things I do wrong each day, and like a child, I wish I could start the day over. Raising children, for example, is hard, and I make a lot of mistakes. Age, though, has taught me that there are no second chances, and all I can do is try my best.
I've always wanted do-overs. As a child, if I didn't do something correctly the first time--play a game, spell a word in the class spelling bee, get a perfect score on a test--I wanted another chance. That perfectionism has followed me into adulthood: there are many things I do wrong each day, and like a child, I wish I could start the day over. Raising children, for example, is hard, and I make a lot of mistakes. Age, though, has taught me that there are no second chances, and all I can do is try my best.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
LeSabre
Today's 100 words:
That boat of a Buick, blue as a robin's egg, sat like a bird on a nest most days out in the driveway, and I remember thinking how regal it seemed, how stately, its name--LeSabre--sounding fancy and important to my five-year-old ear. I can still picture it there, parked atop a driveway made dusty from dry weather and the heat of a summer sun whose rays, when they hit the windshield right, would cause me to squint my eyes, turn away, step back from the living room window where I daydreamed and scribbled away my afternoons.
That boat of a Buick, blue as a robin's egg, sat like a bird on a nest most days out in the driveway, and I remember thinking how regal it seemed, how stately, its name--LeSabre--sounding fancy and important to my five-year-old ear. I can still picture it there, parked atop a driveway made dusty from dry weather and the heat of a summer sun whose rays, when they hit the windshield right, would cause me to squint my eyes, turn away, step back from the living room window where I daydreamed and scribbled away my afternoons.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
The little things
Today's 100 words:
Every Valentine's Day when I was a child, I would get up and go into the kitchen, where I'd find a heart-shaped box of chocolates and a card on the kitchen table for me. One Valentine's Day sticks out in my mind: I picture my mother standing at the ironing board she had set up in the kitchen, ironing our clothes for school while chatting with me and my sister as we ate. As I've grown older, I've come to realize that it's often the small memories that mean the most. Now I'm creating those with my own family.
Happy Valentine's Day!
Every Valentine's Day when I was a child, I would get up and go into the kitchen, where I'd find a heart-shaped box of chocolates and a card on the kitchen table for me. One Valentine's Day sticks out in my mind: I picture my mother standing at the ironing board she had set up in the kitchen, ironing our clothes for school while chatting with me and my sister as we ate. As I've grown older, I've come to realize that it's often the small memories that mean the most. Now I'm creating those with my own family.
Happy Valentine's Day!
Friday, February 10, 2012
Valentine's Day back in the day
Today's 100 words:
When I was in elementary school, the Valentine's Day parties were among my favorite of all celebrations. The teachers would have us make valentine holders by lacing together two construction paper hearts, and then we'd fill each other's hearts when the party day arrived. I remember how excited I used to feel as I looked at all the valentines I received; no child was left out. Now my preschool-age son is getting ready for his own party, writing names on his valentines after picking out the perfect one for each of his classmates. Watching him brings back good memories.
When I was in elementary school, the Valentine's Day parties were among my favorite of all celebrations. The teachers would have us make valentine holders by lacing together two construction paper hearts, and then we'd fill each other's hearts when the party day arrived. I remember how excited I used to feel as I looked at all the valentines I received; no child was left out. Now my preschool-age son is getting ready for his own party, writing names on his valentines after picking out the perfect one for each of his classmates. Watching him brings back good memories.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Girls and their daddies
Today's 100 words:
I've always been a Daddy's Girl. From the moment I was born, my dad and I seemed to share a special bond. He was the only one who could quiet me when I was colicky, and he would interrupt his work each day and go home for a while to rock me and give my poor mom a rest. I was the first girl, and my mom said that the evening I was born, my dad raced to the store to be the first to buy me a doll. Today is my dad's seventy-seventh birthday. Happy birthday, Dad!
I've always been a Daddy's Girl. From the moment I was born, my dad and I seemed to share a special bond. He was the only one who could quiet me when I was colicky, and he would interrupt his work each day and go home for a while to rock me and give my poor mom a rest. I was the first girl, and my mom said that the evening I was born, my dad raced to the store to be the first to buy me a doll. Today is my dad's seventy-seventh birthday. Happy birthday, Dad!
Monday, January 30, 2012
Wanting what I couldn't have
Today's 100 words:
When I was a kid, I sometimes felt resentful that my family and I lived seven miles out of town. I was never much of a joiner, especially when I was in elementary school, but there were instances when I wished I could be in Brownies or dance or just go to a friend's house after school. My dad was always working to support us all, though, and my mom didn't drive, so those kinds of things weren't possible for me and my sister. Instead we rode home on the school bus each day--noisy and crowded, that acrid smell of exhaust...
When I was a kid, I sometimes felt resentful that my family and I lived seven miles out of town. I was never much of a joiner, especially when I was in elementary school, but there were instances when I wished I could be in Brownies or dance or just go to a friend's house after school. My dad was always working to support us all, though, and my mom didn't drive, so those kinds of things weren't possible for me and my sister. Instead we rode home on the school bus each day--noisy and crowded, that acrid smell of exhaust...
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