"Memries, like the corners of my mind..."

When I was a little girl, I read a story in my elementary school library about a woman who wanted to make the world a prettier place. I loved the book, but promptly forgot about it, except this idea about a woman who could simply walk by a field and flowers would blossom.

Growing up, my mother's parents would come to visit, for months at a time! They would park their motorhome outside my bedroom window. I would come home from school and see granny unclipping her dry laundry from the line she put up moments after her arrival. I would drop off my bag and hop over to the motorhome for Danish cookies. Do you know the ones?

I loved these. (I wish I knew where to buy these).

I remember my mom saying that her rose bushes seemed to grow faster or bloom bigger after granny walked by. And that thought has never left me, imprinted in my heart and memories. So whenever I think of her, I would remember that story of a woman who walked by a field and flowers would bloom.

For years, I have been trying to find the title of the story that has been so much a part of my childhood and I didn't even know what it was called.

The husband and I have been living in our new home for almost a year now and we're trying to figure out how to decorate our bedroom. He had this idea to find scientific drawings for his side of the bed whether it was of sea shells, coral, something. On my side a painting of the same subject and in the middle (above our bed) a photograph of said subject. He brought up lupin. Apparently, there were lupin fields where he grew up. The name alone didn't spring to mind a picture so I googled it.

And this book was among the search results. The cover looked familiar so I clicked on it, revealing a story that I remembered but had long forgotten.

This story that had been in the recesses of my inner memories once again sprang to the forefront. I lovingly attacked the husband with thank yous pouring from my mouth. I almost cried.

Lofty Ambitions

So I'm thinking about writing a play about how my grandpa and grandma met back in the 40s. I've never written a play before. Ever. Sure I've performed in a few plays but writing one seems a lot more arduous and daunting than learning just my own lines and few of the other characters'. The research is going to be difficult because they've both passed on and my own mom doesn't know as many specifics I would need to really flesh out their story.

But I have a wonderful opportunity to display my work. The performing arts group that I'm working for is working on opening their very own theater. I'm nervous, I'm thrilled, I'm a jumble of conflicting emotions. What's better than on opening night knowing whether or not you have the chops to be a writer? Already, you have an assorted group of people, different ages, races, religions all coming to view your work. I wouldn't do this good of a job if I hired the test subjects myself.

I've tried to get my writing out to friends for research sake and I've concluded that unless one of my friends is an editor with an unlimited amount of time to devote to reading, I will never really know what my friends think of my writing.


Lady Jane

Cultural

I should probably do some research before I start complaining, but I hate to research, and I'm an English major (a very complex individual)... Anyway, I would really like it if someone did a research paper on which cultures are the more openly exuberant.

I've met my share of a few cultures, okay I'm lying, most of them have been from watching TV. But I did meet a few rowdy Italians in London on a trip with the hubs back in the day and boy howdy were they loud and proud of it.

So what I'd like to know is if my in-laws' reserved nature is cultural because it's all foreign to me.

Maybe it's the feisty Irish, the boisterous Mexican, the passionate French in me that overpowers the reserved English nature. (I've got quite the pedigree) On a side note, not joking my grandmother's mother was Mexican so that makes me...drum roll please an 1/8 Mexican. Although to look at me no one would consider it.

But I digress.

So who wants to take on that project? Or find the research for me?


~Lady Jane

My Son

As Mother's Day approaches I reflect on the little miracle that made me a mom. I love my little boy and I thank Heaven that he came to me! Ever since he was born I felt like I was taking on a huge challenge to raise one amazing little man. Having received my Bachelors degree in teaching before F was born, I thought of all the wonderful things I could teach him as he grew. Little did I know, he has taught me more than I ever thought possible.

Minutes old

Days old

Month old

Six months old

He has taught me to love. I love him beyond description. When I found out that I was pregnant, people asked me "If you could choose the gender, what would you have?" Every time I replied, "Boy!" I don't know why even but as soon as we found out that little F was going to join our family, I felt blessed. I was going to raise a son of God and teach him how to be a good man like his daddy.

He has taught me to reflect. Because of him, I have appreciated the sound of a bird chirping and leaves blowing in the wind and the rain. All these things are new to this little person and he is helping me remember these simple pleasures.

He has taught me to be patient. There are those days, that every parent has, where fuses are short but they lengthen over time because my son reminds me what is really important. So what if we're a little late for an appointment somewhere because he wanted to learn how to climb into his car seat? So what if we don't make it to the grocery store today if we get to nurture our relationship by playing cars? 

He has taught me to be consistent. Children, especially mine like structure and consistency, once we created a bedtime routine, within days he was reminding us what came next. I have learned that when I give him a heads up on what's coming next, he transitions to the next activity (or naptime) almost seamlessly. 

One Year!

Eighteen months

Two years!

I am grateful beyond words (but I'll try to find them) that I have been with my little man for two years! Four weeks after his birth I got a blood clot in my leg. I didn't realize how life threatening a blood clot was at the time. I just kept thinking about how much I missed my sweet husband and my precious newborn. I wanted to get out of that hospital bed and go home to be with my family. I couldn't even feel like I was with him by sending home breast milk. I was on a cocktail of different medications and painkillers throughout my stay at the hospital that I couldn't even pump. That alone was disheartening. After my thrombectomy (blood clot removal) procedure I recuperated at my parents' house. I couldn't walk without the assistance of a walker, so midnight feedings were taken over by the hubs or my mother. I have been a mother two years now and plan on being one forever! I have enjoyed it too much.

And most importantly, I owe my life to my mother! Even after having the perfect Brady Bunch family, she didn't feel like her family was complete until I came along (that sounds really egocentric). What I'm trying to say is, "Thanks mom, for wanting me!"

June 2007

I hope you mothers out there enjoy your day!

~ Lady Jane

Complexity is My Middle Name

I decided it was about time to get back to my original purpose for this blog and considering all of the events going on in my life that I cannot change, becoming a better writer is one thing I have control over.

"Where do you come from, who are you, what makes you?" One of the best questions posed by Goldberg to help the budding writer within.

The most obvious answer would be to expound upon my upbringing (which I have done a lot of) mention the skills/talents I have and hobbies I enjoy. BORING! So I will try and make it a little less boring.

I come from seekers and believers:

Not too long ago, I filled out a Mormon.org profile and one of the questions I answered was why I was Mormon. I think it's because my family is. It's in my blood. My 3x great grandfather was the first to become a Mormon, he sought after truth and believed. I owe him immensely for the knowledge I have because he looked for answers to his questions.

I come from music:

My grandmother is an amazing pianist! She lived next to me for nineteen years and when I say next to me I mean next to. I could get to her house through our garage. So I would often drop by and listen to her play the piano. Two of my older sisters also played the piano; music filled our house often and sometimes to the dismay of anyone in the house wanting to watch t.v.

I come from laughter:

My dad has the wackiest sense of humor, which I luckily possess a little bit of. He claims it was his mother's father that passed it down to him. I love to hear the laughter of my family and I get to hear it a lot.

I am Cowardice/Heroism/Peace/Contention/Love/Self-Loathing:

I am a complex woman. I am sometimes too afraid to confront a problem and other times, a raging bull out of the gate. I just wish I knew how to be bull when I'm a lamb. And with that cowardice and heroism, I am a blend of peace and contention. I don't like contention, avoid it at all costs and when I should be a peacemaker, I'm too afraid to mediate. I am freely giving of compliments, but not to myself, afraid of becoming narcissistic or egocentric. I'm also noticing a pattern here. Do you see it? I think my cowardly side trumps my heroic side by a long shot!

So, "where do you come from, who are you, what makes you?"

~ Lady Jane

I Like Books

I like books, especially the ones that speak to my soul, the ones I wish weren't fiction!

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society was one such book. This is what I wrote on Goodreads.com about it: I absolutely loved this book! I kept forgetting that it was a novel, the characters were so real. While reading it, I wanted to go to Guernsey and meet the descendants of these people. It is a must-read! You won't be disappointed.

I had to keep it brief since there is too much praise for this book. On the other hand, I read a book, that was difficult to get through, not because of language or the scenes but just the plot line seemed to take a lifetime to develop! Reading is all about discovering what you like and don't like, isn't it?

Writing Jane Austen:

I don't know if I want to be an author anymore. This book surely shatters any glamour of being a published author. Aston really gets into the nitty-gritty of the publishing world thanks to the tortured relationship between Georgina and her literary agent. For Georgina, it's not about writing anymore, bearing her soul to the world through her late 19th century historical fiction novels, it's about finishing the job whether she likes it or not.

I wish I had been reading this with someone else. It would have been nice to complain about this book with someone who knew what was going on. Overall, I liked the book, but the story took forever to develop and once it got started, I wish there was more of it. And when I say story I mean the romantic story line that was developing. I think that it could have helped improve the book instead of just being about a writer's frustration with having to write a book that was so out of her own genre.

I had never read any of Aston's other books and I'm usually apprehensive about reading a contemporary book because there might be profanity, but I was pleasantly surprised to find very little and that it wasn't just for the sake of having profanity. It really did fit the characters.

As for a recommendation, I guess I would have to say that this book is mostly for writers who find themselves in similar situations, having to finish a book that no longer has meaning or not having the words to desperately finish a beloved piece. I think it would make a great book club selection mostly because the book comes with questions to ask and discuss amongst a group.

I think I would be willing to read it again if someone read it with me.

What books have you read that you loved? Suffered through?

~ Lady Jane

Walk to School

I decided to reflect a little more on what Goldberg meant by composting and I thought of a place that I know very well, still to this day. Even though it's been almost a decade since I've been to said place, I walked this stretch of road five days a week for a total of eight years! This stretch of road lead from my home to my elementary school. I remember walking down my driveway over the two speed bumps (installed because of my aunt's worrisome nature) and up to the main street of my little county island neighborhood. I would veer left heading towards what seemed another long driveway, towards my school. Once I passed under the steel-fence frame's opening I was greeted by a huge expanse of grass separated by a berm. I even still remember thinking about how funny the word "berm" was the more and more I said it. Berm, berm, berm...it's just funny.

I would get to school about fifteen to twenty minutes before the first bell. I dropped off my backpack at my classroom's spot on the edge of the basketball court and immediately ran off to play or gossip as the morning sun slowly brightened in the east.

I loved walking to school in the winter time, fascinated I could see my breath and absolutely convinced that it had snowed when in fact it was frost.

I had wonderful teachers at my elementary, still remember them all. Even the music, art, and P.E. teachers. They all had a profound effect on me as I grew up.

Kindergarten: Mrs. Alvin Music: Mrs. Cluff

1st Grade: Miss Brinkerhoff Art: Mrs. Taylor

2nd Grade: Mrs. Painter P.E.: Mr. Mullins

3rd Grade: Mrs. Walton Principal: Mr. Salisbury

4th Grade: Mrs. Peterson Office Ladies: Carol, Debbie

5th Grade: Mrs. Johnson Playground duty: Shirley

6th Grade: Mrs. Henkel Groundskeeper: Jay

I participated in talent shows, and assemblies. I embarrassed myself on more than one occasion. I learned that pulling the seat out from under a kid and trying to push it back in quickly warrants a note home and disappointment from your teacher as well as the truth that it always looks better in the movies.

Since I walked to school, I would sometimes go home for lunch. This kind of thing was only permitted if I told the playground duty where I was going before I left and when I came back. By the time I was in sixth grade they said I could just call the front office. I had such freedom and I felt like I was treated like any adult that worked at the school because I was trustworthy.

After I graduated from high school I worked at my elementary school for my childhood principal and with a few teachers that were still there when I was a student. I loved working with the kids and teachers which all helped me to discover that I wanted a career in teaching.

There are some good things that come from never being the "new kid". My family was established and by the time I was moving on from elementary school I had saved my family name that had been tarnished by a couple of older brothers (one mostly).

Working Through the Book

Now that I feel that I have thoroughly exhaled with my previous posts I can now begin my journey of working through the book, Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within. In the introduction Goldberg explains ultimately what her book is about as well as what it might help the reader to accomplish. Two of my favorite lines are, "This book is about writing. It is also about using writing as your practice, as a way to help you penetrate your life and become sane." Who wouldn't want that? And, "To do writing practice means to deal ultimately with your whole life." Sounds pretty profound right? Doesn't have to be. The exhilarating aspect of writing for me is that I can confront my fears, disillusions, fantasies, regrets, aspirations and many more parts of my life that need a little tweaking or fresh perspective.

I love music and so I'm often reminded while I write, a song that also conveys my thoughts. In reference to perspective a line from "Everybody's Free to Wear Sunscreen". I can't believe how in one song there are so many good mantras to live by. If only all songs could be that inspiring. "Advice is a form of nostalgia; dispensing it is a way of wishing the past from the disposal-wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts, and recycling it for more than it's worth."

How many times have we given or gotten advice? I remember a story about my Papa and advice. He said something to the effect of, "When somebody gives you advice. Just nod your head and do as you please." This sounds completely contradictory to what I just copied from that song, but in reflecting about what my Papa said, sometimes your gut is your best advice.

When I Think of Home...

Due to my incomparable upbringing, I have always had an active imagination. I grew up in the same house for nineteen years, I had freedom to roam our expansive three and a quarter acre lot with trees, grass, our cats and friends. Many nights were spent gazing up at the stars on the trampoline. Running, climbing, and eating filled my days. My paternal grandfather, who I call Papa, planted fruit trees in the backyard. For seven years at least, my cousins and I enjoyed picking the ripe plums, apricots, and pears. Our saliva, sufficient enough to clean them allowed us to move onto our next adventure.

Even when I was a little girl, I dreamed of bringing my children to the home I grew up in to play on the swing set in the backyard, to show them that with enough sweat they could climb the walls with their feet, slide down the stairs on an old mattress or fall asleep on the living room couch as the din of family chatter in the kitchen wafted through the house.

My dream came to an end in 2006. I had no children yet and my parents were being forced out to rebuild a dying company that my father had put his life into. No longer can I bring my children to that home to see their Gigi and Papa and play with cousins uninterrupted in the basement, play a round of 9-hole golf around the house or come over for Sunday dinners.

I hate it when people say, "Let it go" or "It was a long time ago", that doesn't make me feel any better. It doesn't make feel any better to believe that my parents are giving another family the opportunity to make memories in that house too. As childish as this sounds, it was my house first!

The song, "Our House" by Madness, perfectly illustrates the kind of home I had. Needless to say it has become our anthem for my family. We even used it on a video montage for a family reunion.

Father wears his Sunday best

Mother's tired she needs a rest

The kids are playing up downstairs

Sister's sighing in her sleep

Brother's got a date to keep

He can't hang around

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our...

Our house it has a crowd

There's always something happening

And it's usually quite loud

Our mum she's so house-proud

Nothing ever slows her down

And a mess is not allowed

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our...

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our...

Something tells you that you've got to get away from it

Father gets up late for work

Mother has to iron his shirt

Then she sends the kids to school

Sees them off with a small kiss

She's the one they're going to miss

In lots of ways

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our...

I remember way back then when everything was true and when

We would have a very good time such a fine time

Such a happy time

And I remember how we'd play simply wasted the day away

Then we'd say nothing would come between us two dreamers

Father wears his Sunday best

Mother's tired she needs a rest

The kids are playing up downstairs

Sister's sighing in her sleep

Brother's got a date to keep

He can't hang around

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our street

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our...

Our house, was our castle and our keep

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, that was where we used to sleep

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle of our street

I loved my house, still do to this day. I've even thought of knocking on the door just to ask if I could look around. I wonder what stories my house would tell me since my family's been gone? Don't you wish if you just pressed your ear up against the walls hard enough you could hear everything the house has been through?