Tag Archives: addresses

What Next?

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Today, a mere one hundred and forty-five days into this year-long writing commitment, I’m beginning to wonder how I’ll fill the rest of the days.

Sundays are okay.  The 52 Lists Project is designed for one each week. There are thirty Sundays left in this year, and thirty lists yet to write.

That leaves one hundred and ninety-one days.

Timeout for Art – which has been filling the Thursday slot – has become pathetic. I have exhausted all angles of talking about art right down to complaining about my lack of time for art. I think I should put it on the shelf until I actually make some art to talk about.

I have almost come to the end of my list of addresses. If I stretch them out to the absolute maximum, they still won’t fill more than five or six days.

I wrote about one failed business, and have two others I could write about, on two separate days.

I could (dread!) go back to those thirty days of Creative Fire writing prompts that I hated so much I quit after only seven days. Even if I can bring myself to do that, there are just 23 of those left.

You see my problem.

I need direction. Without proper motivation, this blog will devolve into nothing but the rantings of a self-absorbed, over-worked, dog-loving whiner.

I’m open to suggestions!

Before I Move On…

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Back row, left to right: Cheryl, Sheila, Ted, Cindy, Brenda Front row, left to right: Nita, Robin, David, Amy

 

 

I’ve had dozens of addresses in my life so far. That is dozens of writing prompts, at my fingertips…just as soon as I leave Hunt Road. And I will. I have thought I was done with it, but then realized I wasn’t quite ready to go. There’s no sense in moving on until I’m finished here.
The house is wrapped in memories. I remember springtime, when it was warm enough to leave the big door open. Mom would gather us together, point out the hole in the screen, explain how we had to be careful to keep it blocked so bugs couldn’t get in, and then ceremoniously place a cotton ball in the hole. I remember summer baseball games in the backyard when, between our family, Brad, and Aunt Margaret’s family, we had a whole team! Sleepovers, pajama parties, sneaking out at night to meet our boyfriends…and in the blink of an eye we were grown and gone.

Back, though, for Sunday dinners often, and for holidays whenever possible. I have photos of my baby Jennifer and her cousin Alan each in one of the stainless steel sinks in the kitchen. When my youngest, Kate, had her first baby, we stopped at Mom and Dad’s on the way home from the hospital. Dad got tears in his eyes when Kate put Michael in his arms. He said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve held one this fresh!
I can’t leave Hunt Road, though, without bringing it up to the present. A few years ago, the old house was especially busy with visitors. My mother was dying, and we all wanted to spend as much time with her as possible. My sister Sheila, who was staying there to help care for Mom, died unexpectedly. That brought all of us together at once, to the house we’d grown up in, to mourn our sister’s passing, and to be with our mother, to make her as comfortable as we could, at the end of her life, in her own home. It was an awful time, but filled with blessings and joy, too. I cherish the memory of that hard time there; it changed me forever.
My brother, Ted, has moved in to the house on Hunt Road with his small family. He keeps a nice – though manageable – garden. He sometimes has good conversations with Dad, in the early morning hours. I understand that; I hear Dad’s voice, too, though he’s been gone for many years. The last time I stopped, Ted was going over the grounds with a metal detector. I’d bet there are some real treasures to be found there.

If memories are treasures, I’m absolutely sure of it!