This Old House

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This Old House

This old house rests in

obscurity at the elbow,

on the narrow dusty road,

battle-scarred and war-weary,

shutters dangle at the windows,

flesh-colored paint peeling, contorting,

indifferent, detached curiosity,

dismissed, not worth a second glance

glimpses of the occupant, a rarity.

A second glance is warranted,

Oh, look past the pummeled shell

that once housed a celebrated belle.

Old Robert’s road diverged I’m told

my travel does not have the pleasure,

but a path, straight and narrow,

briar-patched, imperfect measure.

The beautiful ones, a club I’m expelled,

I long to be reunited––really, do I?

Battle-scarred, war-weary, dilapidated,

houses one who Stands Above, yet nigh.

My Maker sees what lies beneath,

that’s his name-–Moon Maker.

Will my humanity be pondered?

Look past the pummeled shell,

for what exists within the crust.

I am human.

I am pummeled.

To some, it doesn’t matter.

What I Like About You

I stumbled across this short piece while putting together a portfolio of my writing at Simpson University, as required for my Senior Seminar course.

I penned this after my husband and I parted ways, as a  self-soothing, count-your-blessings, find the positive, excerise.

 

What I Like About You
Good News! I like you again
And here are a few reasons why.

I loved the sound of the slamming door
As you theatrically stormed through;
Oh, what a wonderful sight!

The empty space where shirts hung a’ fore
The remote has my name on it,
And the DVR has quality shows,
The Passat rests neatly in the garage

Reflecting quietly  with my morning joe,
And reading pages uninterrupted,
Singing and dancing to Pandora,
Your silence is more than golden,
It is all jewels wrapped together.

Re-decorating walls and so much more,
Premium air quality control,
Cooking and eating for one,
Going where, when, and how long.
Life, I must say is good as it is,
I like you again
Now that you’re gone.

It’s Saturday Morning–in Honolulu, USA

I didn’t make my Saturday morning blogging goal by Pacific Time, but hey, it’s Saturday morning in Honolulu. I’ll console myself with that.

I’m not really the sort to be happy coming in second place, but I am elated to learn I placed second in our university writing contest. Am I maturing? Maybe, maybe not. I was up against some pretty stiff competition, so I wasn’t sure I would even place.

The first-place winner is one I am positive will continue to be an award winning and prolific writer. I look forward to reading her books in that seemingly never-land of after graduation.

Write on bleeps, as Mike Senczyszak writes, write on

Manic Monday

I missed my Saturday morning blog reminder again.  I’ve been buried in geometry (gulp) communication ethics, and starting my book for my English course.

I’m making headway on that book: title and one paragraph of two sentences.  I console my self that it’s a start.

On a side note, I accidentally omitted the “o” in courses—turns out I wrote curses at Simpson University.  Oopsie daisy.

 

 

 

Font Nerds

One of the things I enjoy about Brick on the television comedy, “The Middle,” is his love and knowledge about fonts. On “The Goldbergs,” Adam had a font showdown recently.   I don’t know why I chuckle at the idea every time, but I do. I’ve concluded that I’m a closet Font Nerd. Surmise this admission as my coming out.

While I am not nearly as knowledgeable as Brick, I do enjoy an occasional migration from the typical Times New Roman required by most professors.  I applaud unabashedly when instructed to use a font of my own choosing.

However, I quickly become overwhelmed with the plethora of font choices listed, and then there is the dilemma of what font transfers between programs and applications best, if at all.  Audience should be considered ––I want to provide the smoothest reading experience as possible for my audience, especially a professor.

 

FYI­–On Microsoft Word 2016 for Mac –– this is Adobe Arabic (10)

 

Saturday Mornings

I’m here.

I’m on pins and needles: reading over syllabuses and textbooks 📚 for the upcoming semester.img_2487<<<<

On the plus side, only three more semester remaining until I will have completed requirements necessary for that coveted Bachelor’s in English and a minor degree in journalism (provided I survive a full four months of Math.)

So here I am on pins and needles while biting my nails at the daunting task ahead. I’m thinking of playing a Scarlett O’Hara and putting off these thought for another day .

It’s time for a Saturday morning walk in the sunshine. And contemplate my future.

 

Saturday Morning Blog––I’m here.

With all the horrors in the world, what difference does it make?

–– Siggy, What About Bob? *

I set my cell phone reminder two or three months ago to blog every Saturday morning.  It wasn’t a lofty goal and it seemed very practical at the time.

By Saturday evening, I would click complete just to get the glare of my nasty failure out of sight.  Apparently, even practical goals require a measure of self-discipline.

There is only ONE cure for that. If only modern science would concoct a pill.

Self-promises have gone the way of former New Year’s resolutions. Due to failure to live out resolutions, I have since given up on making them. And October promises seem to have followed suit.

One of the frustrations encountered in this failed promise is that I don’t know what I am doing. Sure, there are all kinds of courses available to guide bloggers, but the prices are very hefty. Then there is the fact that I have nothing to say; maybe that is an excuse stemmed from laziness or other pressing deadlines to meet.

I do hope to become more serious about blogging­­––someday. But someday will never come unless I make it happen.

For now, blogging reminders will remain on my phone. They may be checked off without completion. The goal may be brought to fruition, even if it is only to say, “Saturday morning, I’m here.”

And as Siggy succinctly put it: With all the horrors in the world, what difference does it make?  (What about Bob? movie

*paraphrased

Introspections and Cracked Pots

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Back in the day, I made a dinner dish that my mother-n-law had dubbed “More Casserole.” With four children and a husband to feed, it became my go-to dish because it was relatively cheap to concoct, and I love preparing one-pot dishes.

The crowd was divided in their opinion, mostly because it calls for frozen peas, peas that often littered the dining room floor.

Since my mother passed away it has fallen to me to make sure my father has nutritious meals because my sister lives out of state and my brother doesn’t cook.

Thankfully, my father loves More Casserole. I was preparing a massive batch of this casserole for him a few days ago, I noticed something about the baking dishes––one was shiny and new, the other obviously had seen many turns in the oven, and boasted a few tiny cracks and dents in the metal.

I watch enough cooking shows to know presentation is an important component to whetting appetites. That got me thinking. Although the same casserole filled each dish, how would each dish’s presentation be received?

I am a cracked pot––a burn survivor. In 1999, I was burned over 58% of my body, including my face. I required much skin grafting, and multiple reconstructive surgeries to my nose, ear, eyes, and mouth. While I look much better than I did 17 years ago, things are not quite symmetrical.

images-4Living in a culture in which beauty and youth are prized (and fleeting) cracked pots, such as myself, are overlooked, and devalued. (I can now add aging woman to that list). And while, I am thankful to be on the survivor end of the ordeal, I face social devaluation everywhere I carry my dented vessel––pun unintended.

This cracked pot contains the same casserole as it did when the pot was shiny and new, albeit the flavor ––time and experience marry––has only enhanced. Some people think this casserole is pretty dang good¬––peas and all.

Those that judge me by my presentation are shallow, and I don’t want shallow people in my life. Still, it smarts a little to be judged only for my presentation. I am much more that my shell.

Rant of the day √

I Broke With 59-year Tradition

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I broke a 59-year tradition by setting up my tree before Thanksgiving. I’m not sure why. But I’m not putting it away until New Year’s Day (I think).

Some of my favorite evenings are listening to music by candlelight. Playing as I write: Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s rendition of “Christmas/Sarajevo 12/24″ – my all-time favorite Christmas season song.In close second is “Stille Nacht” by Mannheim Steamroller.

On a side note- typing this on a phone is a real pain in the arse.

Spoiler Alert: A Blog Like Seinfeld –– A Blog About Nothin’

Here goes nothin’––I am just here to blog for blogging’s sake. I’m not writing today to rant or complain, I just want to write. As stated in an earlier blog, one reason for this blog site (such an unflattering word) is for posterity. I think my family will appreciate taking a look at my thoughts in the years after my demise; but I may be thinking a smidgen too highly of myself. (Not an unknown occurrence.)

68724860_130342944562This is my great-great grandmother, Eliza Davis Yoakam.
I’m thankful that we women of today don’t have to wear all those stuffy clothes. Although, I have never met her, I admire her strength, her faith, and her tenacity.

She was one of the first white female settlers in the Coos Bay, Oregon area.
As was common in that era, she lost her oldest son while trekking west.
Unfortunately, this was not the only child she lost. While burning a tree too large for her husband, John, to cut down, a freak windstorm felled the tree upon their makeshift cabin. She lost five daughters in one fell. They were overjoyed to find her two young sons, in the trundle bed, blissfully unaware of the tragic events. When asked many years later how she dealt with this unimaginable loss, this was her answer in striving to forget her grief:

“Many joys and satisfactions have come to me in the later years. But looking backward to the time John and I stood terror stricken by the bodies of our children whose lives we had been unable to save; there always comes to me the feeling we must go forward and never falter by the way. It is for the sake of our living ones. Never give up, even though all seems lost.”