Control the Sky

Have you ever felt as though your life has been hijacked?   For the past month, my life has been in constant motion; however, at some point, I was forced to pull over on the side of the road and relinquish all control of my vehicle. The Tomorrow Trunk was seized and locked away. Whatever travel plans I had made for my own purposes were now, either by force, by choice, or by chance, headed in alternate direction beyond my control. Looking back, I am not quite sure when the metaphoric hijacking took place. I just know that my own predictable flight plan had somehow been commandeered by external forces and excessive circumstances.  I might as well have been a back seat observer with tied hands and a duck-taped mouth.

The idea of a hijacked life came to me three weeks ago, as I was recovering from a severe bout of viral pneumonia ~ a contagious flu-like condition that has been responsible for packed hospital emergency rooms, crowded physicians' waiting rooms, and my own empty dining room at Thanksgiving.  On the home front, my two daughters and I had just said YES TO THE DRESS on one of the most wonderful Saturdays of my life ~ November 9th, 2013.  We drove to The Bride and Groom in Columbus, which is literally one of the most beautiful towns in Mississippi in the fall.  The town was celebrating Open House weekend, and the bright yellow leaves in the downtown area added a golden glow to the holiday festivities. We purchased the first dress that Katie tried on, even though she tried on a dozen more for good measure. We found out later that her dress choice was the same exact one she had sent to me as an image on my phone ~ months earlier. Afterwards, we ate at a local restaurant, and the food was fantastic. The day was perfect.

The following Monday was Veterans' Day, and my mom and I made a four-hour excursion to Biloxi to help my son buy a washer and dryer for his apartment.  Once again, we walked immediately to the perfect combo, and within a fifteen minute window, the purchase was made. We enjoyed our visit and headed back home ~ smiles all around.  The next Tuesday morning, I hit the ground reading at an area kindergarten and Preschool Story Time, which is always the repercussion of a Monday holiday.  By Wednesday, I felt feverish and fatigued, but I had to pick up a tepee at another library for a program I had planned for the following week. Also, my branch manager was retiring at the end of November, and a small committee was meeting on Tuesday, November 19th, to begin plans for a reception in her honor to be held on December 12th. The entire library had to be decorated  for Christmas before the Thanksgiving holidays, because the town's Christmas parade was the first Monday of December and Santa's visit to the library was the following Thursday. Not to mention, I had to prepare a potluck dish and a cookie exchange for the youth service Christmas meeting on the Friday after Santa's departure back to the North Pole. Throughout the entire process of all these events, I was dealing with a "skyjack virus" that was making my life miserable.  

I hesitated to research hijacking, even though my use of the term is completely metaphoric. If Big Brother is really monitoring our individual searches, I might have just popped up on someone's radar. However, after reading several articles about hijacking, especially aircraft hijacking or skyjacking, I have learned some valuable life lessons.  First of all, most acts of hijacking occur when demands are great and motives are extreme.  With aircraft hijacking, the pilot is forced to fly according to the orders of the hijackers. In most cases, the hijackers don't even fly the plane! They just tell the pilot where to go, when to be there, and what to do when he gets there. Oh yes! I understand that implied comparison quite well!

Also, while the intent of the hijacker is rehearsed, well-defined, and premeditated, the response from the hostage is usually spur-of-the-moment, improvised, and impromptu. Basically, if the hostages want to survive, they have to wing it! Not to say that winging it doesn't require quick thinking, being present, and strategic problem-solving.  Once again, a figurative description of my life since my last post.

Most importantly, in any hijacking scenario, outcomes vary greatly.  The least favorable is the stand-off, which never ends well.  I am especially aware of the bitter consequences of a stand-off.  Demands are rigid, as both parties feel as though they are losing ground.  Negotiators call this outcome losing control of the sky.  What an incredible phrase.  In any skyjacking situation, the most difficult task for negotiators is controlling the sky.  With their feet on the ground, they not only have to manage the extreme conditions on the airplane, they have to control the entire sky...other air traffic, forced landings, and the finality of a fatal crash.

I remember one Christmas a few years ago when our family lost control of the sky. Everyone was moving over the holidays.  The kids were moving back to their college apartment, after a semester of being home. I was moving to Biloxi the following weekend, and David was working day and night to keep everything and everyone moving.  Money was tight, and no one could agree on how we should spend the holidays. Each member of our family was being held hostage by his or her own set of rigid demands, and no one wanted to give up one inch of personal territory. On the day that the kids left for college, we lost control of the sky. A bitter standoff occurred which resulted in a devastating family crash, just minutes before the kids were about to exit.

We learned a valuable lesson that day ~ as an entire family ~ which brings me to the two most favorable outcomes sought by negotiators: settlement and/or surrender. Isn't that just the truth in life? Settlement and/or Surrender?  Just say I'm sorry and raise the white flag.  Okay, I didn't get everything I wanted, but I will settle for what I got.  When we refuse to negotiate a settlement or surrender, we simply prolong our own captivity.  I have been both hijacker and hostage during times of personal crisis and conflict.  I have forced the showdown and added to the strife. I have held people against their own will, against their own better judgement, against their own desired outcomes, simply to prove my own point. I, too, have also been at the mercy of those who, through aggressive behavior, intimidation, ulterior motives, etc., have threatened and diverted my own desired destinations.

The only other outcome ~ by far, the most uncertain and involves the most risk ~ is when the hostage makes a life-or-death decision to retake control of the situation. We just risk it all to save our own life. We step out of our comfort zone, and we become the hero or the martyr of the situation.  Once again, I have been both. I have been Saint Dianne on many occasions.  Everyone survived because I took control of a hopeless or hostile situation, and everyone praised my efforts. Or, the absolute opposite happened.  I took charge of a critical situation and became my own martyr during the process.

The easiest advice: just don't put yourself in a hostage situation.  But how can any one of us control the sky? My oldest daughter and I had one of the best discussions this past weekend as we were driving home from a holiday outing.  We were talking about a particular time in her life when she had placed herself in a hostage situation. Her personal life had been hijacked, due in part to some poor choices that she had made. She looked at me and said, "Mom, we still have to trust the process. Destination is important, for sure; but so is the process...even if that process is difficult. In the end, trusting the process ~ no matter how captive we may seem at the time ~ is what brings us the ultimate freedom that we all seek."

Because of the busyness of the season, this post might be my last one before Christmas.  Not everyone will be healthy this Christmas.  Not everyone will have money to spend on gifts.  Not everyone will be with someone they love.  We cannot always control the sky; however, we can learn from the wisdom of those wise men of the east. When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.

If you can't control the sky, then simply follow the star.

Dianne ; )

Two Letter Words

Before I begin, I have to announce how excited I am!  My last blog entry was viewed 209 times on the day I posted it ~ a thousand times during the following week!  So excited! For someone who cowers at the thought of self-promotion and who longs to be discovered, it is actually nice to have a few readers.

For twenty years, I have written for myself and my children. Whenever I wrote something, I read it to my three kids. Then, I began reading a few stories to classes or co-workers.  After a boat-load of encouragement, I started sending my manuscripts to editors and agents.  That's when the entire process got murky. I had to ask myself ~ pretty much every time I sat down to write ~ Now, who is this for?  At that point, I made the decision to just do what I do for myself and my kids. If anyone notices, fine; if not, that's fine, too. I am writing a children's story right now, which is totally different from writing a post.  I have worked on it for months, and I will rewrite it a dozen times before it's finished. The story is the result of a true Tomorrow Trunk moment that happened over the summer.  While the moment has passed, the story is alive and well. Hopefully, I will post it before the end of the year.

But that story is not today's big story.  Something so strange happened this past Wednesday at the Chinese buffet that has found its way into the Tomorrow Trunk.  My mom and I always eat lunch before her doctor's appointment, and we usually prefer the Chinese buffet near the hospital.  One of our favorite parts of the lunch is reading and comparing our fortune cookies.  I have taped and dated every single fortune in my discovery journal.  I can't wait to see if any of those horoscopes come to pass.  At the end of this lunch, dated November 6, 2013, my fortune cookie read, You will reach a level of intelligence that you cannot imagine.

Hmm...I'll take that fortune for sure.  Then we opened Mom's cookie and read her fortune: It is not in your character to give.

Huh? Boy, did the fortune tellers get that one wrong! I asked Mom to hand me that tiny piece of paper, and I re-read it. It is not in your character to give...up.  It is not in your character to give up. What a difference a two-letter word makes! That little word up was sitting pretty on the second line of the sentence, and Mom just missed it.

After the doctor's appointment, we drove to the local Wal-mart for paving stones, prescriptions, and dog food.  I noticed the new Five for Fighting album entitled BOOKMARKS.  I was so excited about my long-anticipated purchase, I could hardly wait for the drive home!  I am absolutely obsessed over the first two tracks! LOVE, LOVE FEST!

However...track 9 is the one that grabbed my attention.  The title of the track is YOU'LL NEVER CHANGE.  I listened to the song once, and then I quickly replayed it a second time. The lyrics to the chorus are as follows: You'll never change, you'll never change, you'll never change...me.

Wow. Once again, what a difference a two-letter word makes.  The first time I listened to the song, all I got was the powerful emphasis on You'll never change!  Then, when I tuned in more closely, I heard a soft, convincing me...right there at the end, quite possibly on the second line of the sentence.

Five for Fighting is the stage name for John Ondrasik, who sits at the very top of my all-time favorite list of American singer-songwriters.  I love everything about his style of music and his depth of lyrics.  This song is an entire post unto itself...how we have our measuring sticks ready and our plans for transformation in place ~ usually for someone else, not ourselves. I love how that little two-letter word me changes everything about the song!

Open the Tomorrow Trunk and tuck away something important from this day!  I have always known the power of one notable two-letter word: no.  Leave it out ~ I have no life becomes I have life. Put it in ~ I have hope changes to I have no hope.  I can't tell you how many times Katie has called me and asked, "Was no meant to be in that sentence or did you leave no out of that sentence by mistake?"

Sometimes we omit a two-letter word, and the sentence just doesn't make sense...to, by, of, on; however, sometimes the omission or inclusion changes everything! YOU'LL NEVER CHANGE...me. IT IS NOT IN YOUR CHARACTER TO GIVE...up.  So amazing!   I wish I had a thousand more examples, but two was all I needed for today's big story.

My mom's face said it all when she read that fortune cookie the first time. My mom is such a giving person ~ a true example of charity, kindness, hospitality, and unselfishness. She was completely rocked by the words on a little white piece of paper.  She said, almost immediately, "I'm throwing that one in the garbage; makes me wish we hadn't eaten here today."

Always ready to come to her defense, I grabbed the paper in disbelief.  Up, Mom...you missed up. It is not in your character to give up. She took the fortune cookie out of my hands and tucked it into her jacket pocket.  "Now, that's just like me. I'm keeping that one!"

Haha! If only our life sentences could be altered so easily by two-letter words...if we could go from not giving to not giving up just that fast.  Or finally recognizing that when we are screaming to the top of our lungs You'll never change!, what we are really saying is You'll never change me.

My is another one of those words that changes everything.  In this big, wide universe, you are one person. In this big, wide universe, you are My one person.  It's amazing how our entire existence can be completely transformed by the significance of a two-letter word.

Dianne ; )

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

It was a dark and stormy night...and I should have canceled.

It is 3:46 a.m. on November 1st, and I am sitting in my husband's recliner unable to sleep. I finally realize I should have canceled.  Everyone else canceled, but I had practiced TAILY PO! a hundred times! The weather was just too bad, but I had worked too hard on the decorations. No one will come, but who wants to hear scary stories on the Saturday after Halloween. Besides, I had eyeballs, and a scary beaver, and ME-TIE-DOUGH-TY-WALKER!  

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents ~ and nobody came. I turned on the scary music at 5:45 p.m.  My branch manager and I lit forty tealight candles in baby food jars at 5:50, and the witching hour began at 6:00 p.m. To say that the rain fell in torrents is a mild understatement. I waited until 6:30 before I blew out the forty candles. At 6:45, I began climbing up and down the ladder for the hundredth time to take down decorations, and the storm that had hammered central Mississippi was moving east. By closing time at 8:00 p.m., the remnants of the dark and stormy night were history, as were any signs of a Halloween library program. I should have canceled; that simple.

But for some reason ~ it is now 4:00 a.m. ~ and I have been up most of the night questioning every decision I have ever made in my life. Where did I take a wrong turn? Why do I do what I do? Have I missed a sister life that should have been mine? Why do I save cats, go postal when I see dogs tied to trees, endeavor to get kids to come to the library, and write stories about a life that, in the wee hours of this early morning, seems scant and meager.

Yes...I did save a black kitten on Halloween.  Well, actually, I didn't save him (or her, God forbid); a man passing by in a truck saw me lying down in a witch's costume on the wet ground underneath the vehicle with the library shelver holding an umbrella over my head, and he stopped to see if we needed help.  When I explained to him that a small kitten was trapped underneath the vehicle, he proceeded to lie down on the wet ground while I held the umbrella over his head. After several attempts, he retrieved the kitten.

Did I mention that this entire situation occurred just one hour before the storytelling program was supposed to begin? A local farmer had brought me a bushel of peanuts that needed to be loaded into the trunk of my car; so while I was standing in the rain ~ somewhere between waiting for the peanuts to be loaded and the farmer fumbling through his overall pockets to make change for a twenty ~ I heard the kitten meow.

When I saw the four white paws of the little black kitten, I knew exactly what had happened.  One of the feral momma cats at our house has a litter of kittens, and this kitten is the one we call Paws. Somehow the kitten climbed into the body of my car and survived the ride with me to work.  Also, did I mention that I live thirty miles from my job?  How on earth was he still alive? Big Sigh...I knew I had to try and get him back home to his mother.  Ohhhh...my life!

So, the passerby (I didn't even get his name), the shelver, and I were all dripping wet; but, the kitten was safe, and I was trying to find a cardboard box in which to place the kitten, until it was time for both of us to go home.  By this time, the shelver was fully committed to the process.  We found a box and a tablecloth.  We placed the kitten in the box, folded the box top so he had air to breathe, and placed a book on top so he didn't escape during the program.  Within minutes, the traumatized kitten was sound asleep.

I quickly ran to the bathroom and tried to hand dry my soaked hair with less than hour to spare before the program started.  Now, the rain was coming down in sheets, I had a sleeping kitten in my office, and my clothes looked like they belonged on a clothesline.

And, nobody came. I should have canceled.

It was a dark and stormy night...Where exactly did that line originate?  The introductory clause is part of the opening sentence of the 1830 novel Paul Clifford written by Edward Bulwer-Lytton. According to my online research (mostly Wikipedia), the phrase is considered to be purple prose ~ a type of florid, melodramatic style of fiction writing.  The phrase has been described as the literary poster child for bad story starters, and yet it ranks #22 on the best first lines from novels.

So I looked up purple prose. After reading an article entitled Purple Prose: What It Is and How To Avoid It located on the website, The Advanced Edit, I learned that this type of writing is self-indulgent, clouds the meaning behind your writing, doesn't flatter the writer, turns off the reader, and in all its flowery craziness, is an example of vivid imagery gone awry.

Wow. This morning I am most definitely purple prose. My melodramatic style, in all its flowery craziness, is self-indulgent, to say the least. I know at times, my purple prose turns off the people around me. My purple prose doesn't always flatter me and often clouds the meaning of what should really matter in my life. I am a perfect example of vivid imagery gone awry. Oddly enough, I have never learned how to avoid it.

It was a dark and stormy night, and I should have canceled. Period. End of story.

...WELL, NOT QUITE:  Like grandmother, like mother, like son...the little black kitten is a child to Linus, who turned out to be a Lucy, Jr., the daughter of Lucy, who had a similar experience a year ago ~ Blog Archive, August 2012.

Ode to the life of purple prose...

Dianne ; )

Riding the Pig Trails

This past weekend, my son, Matt, took my husband and I to eat out for his dad's birthday. We planned to go to an upscale seafood restaurant in a pretty ritzy outdoor shopping village; but along the way, we decided to go to a crab shack that had been suggested by Matt's best friend. As we were driving to the unfamiliar eatery, Matt entered the location into his IPhone GPS and began following directions for the quickest route...which usually means interstate.

However, this time, the "guiding voice" of the GPS led us on wild good chase or so it seemed. We exited the interstate, turned onto a newly-constructed overpass, and took a right side street. We took another left and drove through congested construction. We passed the most adorable inner-city trailer park with a whimsical row of mailboxes in front, a farmer's market outlined by rows of orange pumpkins, a street sign which read McLaurin Drive, and the town of Flowood's public library. Occasionally, I recognized a familiar landmark that gave me a sense of where we were. We passed Little Willie's Barbecue, a local eatery that has the absolute best hamburgers! I ate one every Thursday when I worked with Ms. Ann Marsh at the public library located near the Reservoir. Then, we drove across the Ross Barnett Reservoir Spillway at sunset. Be still my heart ~ the reflection of the setting sun against that huge mass of water was breathtaking...thank you "guiding voice" of the GPS.  Finally, we took a left at a red light, another quick left, and Eureka!  The "guiding voice" of the GPS had led us right to the front door of Crab's Seafood Place ~ thirty-two minutes exactly.

That off-the-beaten-path route reminded me of riding the pig trails when my children were young. At the time, we were living in Mrs. Beulah Thomas' hundred-year-old cabin, which had no air-conditioning. On hot Sunday afternoons, our family of five would pile up in the car, turn on the A/C, and ride the pig trails. We lived about twelve miles from the nearest town ~ a straight shot on a state highway. But...not if you are pig trailing! There are about thirty different ways to town if you follow the pig trails. We always ended up at Dairy Queen, where we ordered ice-cold treats before we returned home. By the time we got home, we were all so cold that we looked forward to the thawing-out process in our nice warm house! Haha! Tomorrow Trunk-worthy stuff, for sure!

My eighty-year-old Aunt Hilda is the person who gave us the name "riding the pig trails" for our Sunday afternoon excursions, which always continued into the fall. She said that farmers and their families used to walk their pigs to market, just like the nursery rhyme states. She told us that her father, my Grandpa Allen, would hitch up the wagon and tie up the livestock he planned to sell, then he and certain members of his family would carefully maneuver the herd of animals along a worn path to the livestock sale. Once they arrived, Grandpa would sell, barter, or trade the livestock for whatever the family needed for the upcoming year. After a full day, the family began the long ride ~ or walk ~ home, depending on whether he acquired young animals to raise for another season.  Aunt Hilda said that "this little piggy cried wee, wee, wee all the way home" was actually an accurate description of the return trip. Everyone was exhausted after the day's events, and usually the weary travelers were accompanied on their long journey back by piglets or calves who had just been separated from their mothers.  "All those dirt roads and back roads that you love to drive on Sunday afternoons are pig trails. At least, that's what we call 'em," she explained.

Most people might equate the idea of riding the pig trails to a wild goose chase ~ a futile search, a fruitless errand, a worthless hunt, a useless and often lengthy pursuit. All those phrases could describe a Sunday afternoon of riding the pig trails; however, I have never considered those precious hours with the most important people in my world as futile, fruitless, or useless ~ lengthy, maybe, but never worthless.

Even though most of our pig trail excursions took place over the summer, the fall of the year ~ especially October ~ is the perfect season to ride the pig trails. Fill up the car with gas, which is not always easy on a budget. Pack the bare necessities ~ some snacks, binoculars, a camera, a pair of scissors, an empty vase (roadside bouquets are the best!) and one cell phone for emergency. Roll down the windows and ride the pig trails!

One of my co-workers, Ms. Ella Mary, said that she and her dad used to play a travel game called Cow Poker which seems absolutely ideal for riding pig trails. She said that her dad counted the cows on the driver's side of the road, and she counted the cows on the passenger's side of the road; however, if a cemetery was located on one side of the road or the other, that person's cows died. Haha! Fruitless ~ probably; useless ~ maybe; priceless ~ most definitely!

One might call it sightseeing on a shoestring, or bird watching from the back seat, or leaf peeping your way through life. I call it riding the pig trails ~ not in pursuit of anything, but always expecting an unforgettable surprise at every bend in the road. That kind of journey never disappoints.

Dianne ; )

The Essential Work

My little blog is growing. Like a seed that has been dormant for months, I see tiny green shoots peeking out of the soil.  One hundred and eighty-eight people read my last post ~ in one day!  No...it's not one hundred and eighty-eight million, to be sure, but fifty-seven people read it the following day, and ninety-one, the next. Who are you? Do I know you? As Meg Ryan's character Kathleen Kelly types on You've Got Mail, "I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void."

Unfortunately, I don't know how to water or fertilize my little posting plants; all I know how to do is write. I am a native writer; I am a digital immigrant. My kids are technophiles, and I am a technophobe. I know so little about the self-possessed social networking world.  I have never taken one "selfie" in my life, and I would never take a selfie (holding a phone camera at arm's length and clicking pictures of myself) with platypus, puckered, or pouty lips. I have, at long last, created a Facebook page in order to participate in the library system's social media campaigns. Still, I have yet to post an event, add a picture, or even update my status. I can't  imagine reading an e-book; however, I have maxed out my check-out limit at the library like a compulsive shopper with a zero-balance credit card. Going back to work at the library after a three-year hiatus is like walking into an all-you-can-eat buffet after a forty-day fast. With hundreds of shelves and thousands of books, who needs millions of apps? I am most definitely a book native.

One of the books I am currently reading is entitled Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar by Cheryl Strayed.  Her bestselling memoir Wild, which I have also read, was chosen as an Oprah Book Club selection.  Even though the content of Tiny Beautiful Things is crude, challenging, and cliche at times, the range of questions fielded to Dear Sugar represents lives of missed opportunities, shattered dreams, tragic consequences, and palpable pain ~ as does the advice.

In the introduction of the book, Steve Almond explains how Cheryl Strayed ended up as Dear Sugar ~ an online advice columnist for The Rumpus, which is defined on the home page as a "place where people come to be themselves through their writing...."  Don't you just love that?  According to Almond's account, "the column that launched Sugar as a phenomenon was written in response to what would have been, for anyone else, a throwaway letter....People come to her in real pain and she ministers to them, by telling stories about her own life, the particular ways in which she has felt thwarted and lost, and how she got found again. She is able to transmute the raw material of the self-help aisle into genuine literature."

In the last paragraph of the introduction, Almond writes, "Tiny Beautiful Things will endure as a piece of literary art, as will Cheryl's other books, because they do the essential work of literary art: they make us more human than we were before.  We need books, and Cheryl's books in particular, because we are all, in the private kingdom of our hearts, desperate for the company of a wise, true friend.  Someone who isn't embarrassed by our emotions, or her own, who recognizes that life is short and that all we have to offer, in the end, is love."

The power of that paragraph...Wow. I understand the disconnect I often associate with social media...why I simply can't process it.  While the world is desperate for a thousand likes or a million views, I am desperate for the company of a wise, true friend.  I need books. I need books with a transmutable energy that abides in genuine literature and flows from the fingertips of my two hands into my soul.  I need the stamina and strength of an enduring piece of literary art, not the fleeting noise of a news feed.

I know for sure that The Tomorrow Trunk is my essential work ~ the place where I have come to be my true self.  For me, the metamorphosis occurred when a small wicker trunk seamlessly transitioned into this grand piece of luggage filled with the very best stories of substance that each day has to offer. Even if the best of today belongs in the trivial top-tray or if it is best hidden in the private kingdom of our hearts, the trunk is always ours to fill: that IS our essential work.

People often ask me, "How did The Tomorrow Trunk come about? When did it start?" The Tomorrow Trunk was born out of the most painful period of my life, which is so weird to think about now.  The year was 1993, and we had moved from our first family home that we built during prosperity and sold during loss.  My family of five moved into a hundred-year-old shack that we rented for $55 per month. As a former newspaper editor, I instinctively began looking for something to write about everyday during the painstaking period of recovery ~ Today's Big Story. I had a brown wicker trunk with a compartmentalized top tray and a hidden area beneath the tray.  I owned an IBM Selectric typewriter at the time, so I started storing the daily typed manuscripts in the trunk. When I purchased my first computer, I began saving the stories to the hard drive ~ always sure to print out copies for the 'real' trunk. I know for sure that this twenty year process has made me more human than I was before.

My saving mantra began during that transitional time of my life ~ take the best of today, tuck it way, and keep it for tomorrow.  Most importantly, my essential work has taught me to recognize that life is short, and that all we have to offer, in the end, is love.

Dianne ; )

A Welty Sense Of Place

This is a strange post. I published it once by mistake. Thirty-four people read it before I could remove it from my blog. I updated it and published it again. I removed it from the blog completely and reverted the post to draft.  Then, I re-published it a third time. Last night, I removed it again, and this morning I am updating it for the fourth time; however, this morning, I know why. This post is not about a wedding venue; this post is about a Welty sense of place.  I was reading from The New Encyclopedia of Southern Culture edited by Charles Reagan Wilson, and I came across an entry entitled, Place, Sense of.  The first line of the encyclopedia entry was a quote by Eudora Welty.  "One place comprehended can make us understand other places better." 

The second paragraph of the entry reads as follows: Attachment to a place gives an abiding identity because places associated with family, community, and history have depth.  Philosopher Yi-Fu Tuan points out that a sense of place in any human society comes from the intersection of space and time. Southerners developed an acute sense of place as a result of their dramatic and traumatic history and their rural isolation on the land for generations.  As Welty noted, "feelings are bound up with place," and the film title Places in the Heart captured the emotional quality that places evoke.  "Home" is a potent word for many Southerners, and the "homeplace" evokes reverence.

So I absolutely had to read Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience (which I read this morning) by Yi-Fu Tuan (which for some reason is the most difficult name to type).  One word ~ AMAZING!  This book should be required reading for every person who resides on the planet earth! I haven't digested the book completely, as I will need to read it twice or maybe three times; however, there is one excerpt that begs to be included in this post:

What is a place?  What gives a place its identity, its aura? These questions occurred to physicists Niels Bohr and Werner Heisenberg when they visited Kronberg Castle in Denmark. Bohr said to Heisenberg: "Isn't it strange how this castle changes as soon as one imagines that Hamlet lived here? As scientists we believe that a castle consists only of stones, and admire the way the architect put them together. The stones, the green roof with its patina, the wood carvings in the church, constitute the whole castle.  None of this should be changed by the fact that Hamlet lived here, and yet it is changed completely.  Suddenly the walls and the ramparts speak quite a different language. The courtyard becomes an entire world....

Mississippi author Eudora Welty was born on April 13, 1909, in Jackson, Mississippi, at 741 N. Congress Street. On April 26, 2014 ~ one hundred and five years later ~ at the very same location, my daughter is getting married.  We now know the date is completely official as it is listed on the 2014 Calendar at the Welty Commons website ~ all of which is very exciting, to be sure!

The Commons Hall is described on the website as "a grand Southern house with the spirit and style of the South and all the comforts and amenities of modern sophistication."  Katie and her fiance considered a variety of venues; however, the description of this location provided clear direction for the special day ~ the spirit and style of the South with modern sophistication. The first time I saw the house was dusk, and the golden sun of a western Mississippi sky seemed to gild its facade.  As my daughter guided me through each building, outside area, and inside room of what is known as The Commons at Eudora Welty's Birthplace, I felt a congenial invitation ~ not from a person, but from a place.  I have felt a similar propinquity with place at other times in my life, almost as if I were given the setting of a story in order to magically conjure up the unknown narrative to follow ~ a proximity, a vicinity, a nearness that provides an instant connection.  For my daughter, the grand Southern house was the perfect choice for a wedding; for me, the grand Southern house was "THE place" of Eudora Welty's One Writer's Beginnings.
 

The Welty Commons is surrounded by courthouses and Capitol buildings, magnolias and crepe myrtles, a few nationally-acclaimed restaurants and the locals' favorite tavern. On the property itself is the Tattered Pages Bookstore and Congress Street Coffee, both of which will be open on the day of the wedding!

Inside the Commons Hall, beautifully ornate chandeliers hang in every room...even the bathrooms! The time of day could not have accommodated this photographer's love of illumination with any more brilliance and intensity...each image more breathtaking than the next.

Natural lighting also finds its way into every great room, hallway and alcove and is just as radiant as the lambent light. I knew in my heart that my daughter's wedding narrative had found its perfect setting...a perfect sense of place.  

And yet, with all the Southern charm inside the Commons Hall, the grounds and outbuildings offer a more current, contemporary vibe to the venue...well-appointed places to sit, to reflect, to relate, to connect, to celebrate, to dance, to interact, to engage and to wed.  I am immediately transported back to the present...to a venue, to an event, to a wedding, to a reception, to a list of decisions.  My daughter is no different from any other bride-to-be.  It's all about the wedding, Mom; but, for me ~ the writer ~ for a brief intersection of space and time, it's all about place.

"Place is vitally important to a story.  Place answers the questions, "What happened? Who's here? Who's coming?" Place is a prompt to memory; thus the human mind is what makes place significant. This is the job of the storyteller." ~ Eudora Welty

Eudora Welty is said to have crafted the modern Southern fairy tale.  She served as queen of this Southern place, and she understood its people.  Like the phoenix that rises up from the ashes, a new story will emerge from 741 N. Congress Street. On April 26, 2014, an intersection of space and time will take place at the Welty Commons.  We will not be enamored by the lighting, or charmed by the location, or even fascinated by the birthplace of Eudora Welty.  An abiding identity will be created from experience and memory, and we will forever know it as "THE place" where Katie and Brandon were married.

Dianne ; )

My Cardboard Box of Books

An elderly man came into the library this week with a special request.  His wife died recently, and he wanted to donate two boxes of her books to the library. He stated that his wife had filled a dedicated home library with hundreds of books ~ most of which were divided among their four daughters.  Only two large cardboard boxes of books remained. We accepted his donation to add to our ongoing book sale.

Even with the best intentions, most death-related donations are shoddy-looking paperbacks or moldy-smelling Reader's Digest Condensed Books...especially when the donor makes the statement that "most of the books have been divided and these are the ones that are left."  So my branch manager and I rummaged through the books to check their condition, which was surprisingly pristine ~ almost brand new.  As I separated the books by subject and genre, I  began to see a life unfolding.  The deceased wife and mother had enjoyed books about gardening, cooking, crafting, and decorating ~ as one-half of the two boxes clearly noted.  The remaining books were grouped into a singular subject area: weight loss. Years of bestselling diet and fitness books (many of which our library did not own a cataloged copy) made up the other half.

With so many weight loss books, I couldn't help but wonder...was she overweight when she died?  She certainly did not aspire to live (or die) in an overweight condition. Judging by the sheer volume of books that she purchased, her desired body weight was the primary focus of her life.  Had she simply read about weight loss, or did she finally achieve the outcome she was seeking?  Was her weight a contributing factor to her death?  Or had she accomplished her weight loss goals and lived a healthy life? Also, why was this popular collection of weight loss books weeded in its entirety by her four daughters?  Her cardboard box of books clearly had a story to tell.

That's when I had a Tomorrow Trunk moment to take from the day and tuck away. What story would my cardboard box of books tell?  Would a total stranger looking through my box of books have any idea of the life I've lived? Which books would my children keep and which books would they give away? As much as I love my books for what they have spoken to me, what would my box of books say about me?

After taking an quick inventory last night, my cardboard box of books is divided into seven groups: 1) Children's Literature, 2) Writing/Storytelling, 3) Spiritual Enlightenment and Devotionals, 4) Dogs, 5) Domestic Life (decorating, cooking, gardening), 6) Travel, and 7) Rare Books.  I lay in bed this morning, perused my shelves, and tried to imagine which books of mine would end up at the local library ~ culled by my own kids.

I decided that my travel books would probably be the first to go, mainly because I have not traveled to my desired destinations. Those books might remind my children of something that I had hoped to do, but never fulfilled (as of this writing); however, that notion isn't completely true. My most favorite travel books have transported me to Tuscany, Vermont, and Prince Edward Island.  I have taken literary trips through Sonoma Wine Country, along the Big Sur Coastal Highway 1, and to the top of the Empire State Building.  I have even flipped through the Mississippi Delta on a food lover's road trip ~ recipes included. I own beautifully illustrated books about America's hidden corners, the country inns of the South, the best bike rides in New England, and the world's great gardens...all of which I have viewed from my reading chair.

Which brings me back to the box of weight loss books...there is something so implicitly sad about a collection of a hundred books on any unfulfilled desire, whether it be travel plans, weight loss, money management, sobriety, or marital bliss. I am assuming that the first weight loss book led to the second, and then there were five on up to ten, followed by five more ~ new and improved.  After accumulating an entire box, did one book ever make a difference?

I can't let go of that thought.  I am bothered that my children might set aside a stack of books that make them feel sorry for me, especially if I am not there to defend that particular segment of my life. I want my box of books to represent a life that was diverse, scopic, evolving, resilient, liberal, and surprisingly sufficient for a wannabe writer and a children's librarian.  I surely do not desire to carry a lifelong deficiency with me to the grave, nor do I intend for my children to donate a box of unwanted books that reveal a signature fault, flaw, or failure.

I have always heard that we are what we eat, but are we what we read? Do I see my real self on my bookshelf?  I do not wish for my box of books to reveal illusory hopes, impossible dreams, or failed plans. Eventually I hope to swallow one literary seed that grows into something of value and gives true meaning and closure ~ without regret ~ to my cardboard box of books.

Dianne ; )

Two Rose Bushes

I have said many times that I have no idea who actually reads these posts.  I don't know how to monitor who subscribes to the blog, and few people ever send me comments (except for my daughter Katie and Ms. Karen ~ so nice to hear from you!). However, curiosity always comes in the form of a text or a phone call from friends and family.
  
Tell me about the two rose bushes!  When are you going to write about the lesson you learned from the two rose bushes?  I want to read about the man who planted the two rose bushes in front of the dilapidated house.

TODAY'S BIG STORY: The twin sisters find a happy ending!

Somehow I missed the two rose bushes when they were first planted. I only noticed them during their first season of bloom, which was two years ago ~ and do they ever bloom.  Throughout their blooming season, the two rose bushes look as though they could be featured as an advertised variety in the Jackson and Perkins rose catalog. The rich, red, velvety blooms are the size of dinner-plate dahlias ~ four to six inches each, at least.  The stems are long, and the foliage is a lush, dark green. I call the two rose bushes the twin sisters, and I have been drawn to their enchanting allurement for two years. Because there has been a NO TRESPASSING sign on the front door of the home, I have never stopped on the side of the road and taken a picture.  I can only come close to describing the symmetrical beauty of the superb performers as two stunning, oversize bouquets perfectly arranged for a grand foyer in a stately mansion.

However, these two rose bushes are not the floral embellishments of a palatial estate. The twin sisters reside at the remnants of a run-down poultry farm. The roofs of the two hen houses are falling in, and most of the wall materials have been removed. To the side of the tattered, tumble-down chicken farm is a neglected worker's shanty.  With the exception of the two rose bushes, the place looks deserted and dilapidated.  Even the old man whom I would occasionally see at the farm looks bent-over and worn-out.

Why? is the question I asked myself.  Why in the world would anyone plant such beautiful roses in front of a total eyesore? The answer to that question is where the lesson began for me. The life lecture started with the front porch...

I saw the old man doing something to the front of the house about six months after the two roses' first blooming season. Hmm...every morning and evening I watched him as he built the cutest front porch out of the scrap lumber from the poultry house.  He painted the front porch railing a bright white, which immediately gave the weathered shack a welcomed face lift. About six months later, he began the process of removing the rotten decking around the house and replacing the broken pieces of wood siding ~ once again, using the leftover lumber from the abandoned hen houses.

Of course, the twin sisters were showing off the entire time! Then came the A-ha Moment! The two rose bushes were never intended to be the first chapter; the two rose bushes are the happy ending! He planted the final embellishments first!  In the old man's mind, the two rose bushes served as a daily reminder of the loveliness that he planned to create. I did not understand the purpose behind the two rose bushes, because I could not see the vision of the designer nor could I imagine the artistry of his handiwork.

Day by day, I watched as he matched the surroundings of his habitation to the aesthetic glory of the two rose bushes.  About six months ago, he took the last pieces of the used tin from the chicken houses and placed it on top of his charming little cottage.  After resourcing all the usable materials from the old farm, he completely removed any remaining debris.  In the early spring, he began tilling the "fertilized" area where the hen houses once stood to plant a small garden.

Now, the twin sisters absolutely belonged.  The two rose bushes sit on either side of the most whimsical little cottage painted a morning fog gray with a bright white porch.  The garden is ripe for harvest, and the entire residence is completely transformed.  Of course, since most of the work is complete, the old man doesn't look as tired. To be quite honest, he doesn't look old at all!

Just amazing...the lesson of the two rose bushes.  If only we could see the flowery finished product first.  If only we could be driven by the most desired outcome and be reminded of that ideal on a daily basis.  The two rose bushes were not just horticultural wonders; they were the architect's foresight, his perspective, his breadth of view.  All of which were beyond my limited range of perception and depth of field.

Even though the NO TRESPASSING sign is gone, I think I understand the purpose of why it remained on the front door throughout the process.  Sometimes we have a vision, and we need our own NO TRESPASSING sign. The sign says to the passerby, "This is a work in progress. This is my private space. Do not knock on my door and tell me that my dream is a lost cause. Don't undermine my decisions or second-guess my intentions.  LEAVE MY ROSE BUSHES ALONE!"

One other lesson I learned from the two rose bushes is that sometimes the work is being done behind the scenes, and we just don't see it.  I am sure that somewhere behind that beautifully-restored cottage is a stack of lumber and a pile of tin.  We see the clever restoration, but we don't always see makeshift provisions.  We recognize the refined outcome, but we often overlook the raw, rudimentary elements of the grand design.

The twin sisters are now fully mature; their beauty is unmatched.  The elderly man's residence is restored, and his dream is realized.  Every morning when I drive to work, I see him working in his garden. Every evening when I drive home, I see him sitting on his front porch.

And I think to myself, it all ended with two rose bushes...

Dianne ; )

Route Perspective

When it comes to directions, my husband says that there are two types of people in this world: 1) the people who give specific directions according to interstate exit numbers, street names, and physical addresses or 2) the people (like me) who give general directions according to points of interest or landmarks.  He is actually correct in his observation.  The first basic way to give directions is called the survey perspective and is characterized by cardinal directions (north, south, east and west), street signs, exit numbers and names, traffic lights, and mileage distance. The second basic way is called the route perspective and is characterized by landmarks. For example, I would explain the route to my library from the interstate exit in this manner: Turn by McDonald's, pass the big tower on the left, then turn right at the Church of God.  When you get to this sharp curve, start looking for the bank and the post office. The library is located right next to the bank.  My husband would explain the route in a very different way: Turn right onto Highway 13, go three miles, and take a right on Highway 481. Once you drive an additional two miles, take a right on Fourth Avenue, and the library is located directly on the corner of the intersection.

As I was creating this post in my head, I had such an epiphany ~ an A-ha moment! These two groups are really the two types of people in this world!  Group A ~ the survey perspective ~ get from Point A to Point B. Their world is a giant grid, and their ability to navigate this grid is primary.  Group B ~ the route perspective ~ don't miss anything along the way.  Their world consists of points of interest, and their ability to become familiar with every single landmark is primary.

What I am about to share is absolutely true.  My husband and I were driving to my mom's house ~ a route we travel on a weekly basis, at least.  I mentioned to him that I was writing a post about these two beautiful rose bushes that had been planted in front of a dilapidated house, which happens to be located on the road to mom's.  I was telling him about the lesson I had learned from those two rose bushes over the past year.  Then I pointed out the house (and the rose bushes) to my husband as we passed by.  He said, "I have never even noticed that house."

WHAT!?!  How do you travel the same highway three or four times a week and not take notice of the route or more especially those glorious rose bushes?  I notice EVERYTHING!  I have route perspective to the power of ten!  I notice when someone keeps their large white dog in small cyclone fence all day...in the hot Mississippi sun!  I notice the change of clothes on the scarecrow every season at this small roadside garden spot.  I never miss a single garage sale sign, and I never miss birthday balloons tied to a mailbox.

Survey people, on the other hand, know how to navigate.  They know the shortest distances, and the best roads to travel, and how much time it will take to get from Point A to Point B.  I am sure they have unmatched navigational skills, which provide minimal turns, detailed directions, and a well-defined destination. My husband belongs to this life group. For him, life is all about navigating the grid ~ having a steady income, saving for retirement, paying for college, maintaining a healthy lifestyle, and doing all of the above in the most timely manner possible.

For me, life is all about the route!  I just want to take the long way around in everything I do!  I would rather miss a right (correct) turn than to miss a point of interest!  I can't even understand the concept of a grid! I know that the people around me recognize me as a route person ~ especially the survey people.  The other day I was walking out of the library with a co-worker who is retiring this year after thirty years of employment. She is a master at navigating the grid, and her post-retirement destination is well-defined.  As we talked about my future plans at the library, she asked me how old I was.  I told her my age, and she made a statement that has stuck with me all week. "Well, you have no possibility of a real retirement, so it doesn't matter what you do at this point," she flatly stated.

I had just completely fallen off the grid.  According to her, I had arrived at a navigational term known as a drop dead point. A drop dead point is a specific place (a landmark, an intersection, a dead end) that tells the person that they have gone too far; they have missed their turn.  For example, if you come to the four-way stop, you have gone too far. In her mind, I had gone too far. I had missed my turn. I had not understood how the grid was supposed to work. I had reached the drop dead point. (I am trying to be serious, so don't laugh.)

Therefore, with no clear destination in sight, I guess I'll just enjoy the journey! I think that it is absolutely impossible for people with a true route perspective to ever travel this life any other way.  So...I might not get there before you do. I might never arrive at all, but I can certainly give you some great directions to two glorious rose bushes!

Dianne ; )

New Post - Postponed!

Only one post last month, but this one will make up for lost time!

On Saturday, May 25th, my husband, my son, and I went to a Memorial Day cookout at my daughter's home.  Katie's boyfriend, Brandon, grills the absolute best ribs that I have ever eaten, and coming from a Southerner, that's a mouthful!  I was assigned to bring two dishes to the cookout: spicy coleslaw and homemade ice cream.  My husband had just bought two large boxes of fresh Louisiana strawberries, so I pre-mixed all the ingredients for the ice cream before we left our house. As we wheeled the cooler of spicy coleslaw, strawberry ice cream mixture, and ice along the brick walkway that leads to the front door of Katie's house, the cooler tipped over.  The top popped off the mixture of homemade ice cream, and the sticky, sweet, strawberry liquid spilled onto the bricks. It was not a pretty site.

Not to be denied homemade ice cream, Brandon sent Katie to the grocery store for sweetened condensed milk, vanilla flavoring, and a bag of sugar.  What happened next is part one of this postponed post.  Once Katie drove out of the driveway, Brandon said, "Well, y'all, I think that spill was meant to happen."

He continued, "Mr. David, I need to do something today, because the next time I see you ~ probably on Father's Day ~ Katie is going to have a big surprise.  I want to ask you for Katie's hand in marriage."

Then Brandon turned towards Matt and me. "I guess I am asking for your family's blessing...if y'all will have me."

David responded, "How soon can you take her?" in his usual prankster fashion.  But then he said, "In all seriousness, I think you both are going to make each other very happy."

Brandon advised us that Katie knew nothing.  He said that he had been planning the details for months, and that we would hear all about it soon enough.  But for the meantime...total secrecy!

So...on Thursday, June 6th, at 7:07 p.m., I received a text:  Hey, this is Brandon. Hopefully at some point Katie will say YES!!! this weekend when I ask her the big question in New Orleans!!! Please don't say a word to her about it...Everything is a BIG surprise!!! Hope she loves it!!!  Then he sent me this photo:

OMG!!! I replied. So excited for both of you! Don't worry ~ my lips are sealed! I want every single minute to be a complete surprise! The ring is gorgeous! You are going to make her so happy!

About 7:30 p.m., Katie called me and said that Brandon was taking her somewhere over the weekend and that she had no idea what was happening. I was pretty sure she knew WHAT was happening; she just didn't know how or when or where. Still I said nothing.

She sent me her first text on Friday, June 7th at 8:09 a.m. (I just love documented phone texts!) Getting around this morning...drinking my coffee. I'm excited! Brandon gave me a clue! He said the name of my K-Cup coffee is a hint. It's Emeril's Coffee!

Her next text was received at 11:29 a.m. We have to be going to NEW ORLEANS, we just have to! I'm getting happy, happy, happy!

Then at 2:56 p.m., I received another update. We are staying at the Bourbon Orleans Hotel! OMG! We are right on Bourbon Street! Mom, this is insane!

I have never known third-party excitement like I experienced for the next 48 hours.  I have watched great movies with happy endings, witnessed my fair share of unexpected homecomings and celebrity giveaways, and written hundreds of stories about embracing the best of today.  Nothing prepared me for all the joy that was coming my way, which brings me to part two of my postponed post.

Carriage Ride in the French Quarter ~ Friday, 7:13 p.m.

Beignets at the Cafe Du Monde ~ 9:25 p.m.

Steamboat Ride on the Natchez ~ Saturday, 12:55 p.m.

Me and Padma from Top Chef at the Creole Tomato Festival! ~ 3:57 p.m.

I'm shaking! I mean can this day get any better?

I'm ENGAGED!!!!! He proposed in Jackson Square! ~ 4:33 p.m.

OMG! Some people saw Brandon proposing and took this picture! 

This is where he proposed!

 

 IT'S PERFECT!

This one's mine!

I'm spoken for!

I am so excited I can't go to sleep!

Since that eventful weekend, my days and nights have been filled with texts and telephone conversations about wedding ideas ~ save the date pictures, groomsman and bridesmaid announcements, venue contracts, and secret Pinterest boards! Life as I knew it ~ pre-engagement ~ has been postponed.  Even though I am familiar with the definition of postpone, I wanted to look it up for the sake of this post.  Webster defines postpone as to place later in order of precedence, preference, or importance ~ to defer; to submit humbly to another's wishes; to put on hold in service to another. So, from now until April 26, 2014, any future posts on The Tomorrow Trunk are subject to be postponed!

Dianne ; )

A Narrative Garden

Well...it's official!  I mailed my entry this morning to O, The Oprah Magazine for the Grow Your Life with Oprah and Bob Greene! sweepstakes. My daughters and I have been lifelong learners with Oprah, and I can think of no better vacation on this planet than a trip to Hawaii to hike with Oprah Winfrey and Bob Greene!  Of course, I know that I am one of a gazillion entries...but in the words of Lloyd Christmas, "there is a chance."

I want to grow a garden ~ a narrative garden. Years ago, David and I attended a small country church that is an iconic reminder of times gone by.  The church, which is over a hundred years old, has white clapboard siding with oversize windows and a raised front porch with hand-carved spindle railings. Situated on the front porch are two pairs of large doors on either side and four rocking chairs where people still sit and visit.

While we were there, a member of the church had an amazing dream that David and I have never forgotten.  She saw the small country church surrounded by cars...even lined up and down the highway.  She said that on the left side of the church was a perfectly designed garden.  The plants were placed in rows so that every variety could be seen.  For example, the strawberries were in front of the bell peppers, which were in front of the tomatoes, in front of the corn stalks, in front of the plum trees, in front of the pecan trees.  No plants lacked importance as was evident by the visibility of their placement in the garden.  The strawberries were just as sweet as the peaches, even though their plants differed greatly in size.

As she walked from this great garden to the front of the church, she saw visitors going in one pair of doors on the left side and coming out the other pair of doors on the right side.  A group of people were seated on both sides of the doors and were greeting the visitors as they entered and exited the church.  On one side, the seated group of people handed out seed packets and seedlings to the visitors entering the church, and on the other side, the seated group of people handed out fruit baskets of peaches, plums and strawberries, and bushel baskets of peas, corn, lima beans and squash ~ all fully grown fruits and vegetables gathered from the great garden.  Hanging on the wall space between the two sets of doors was a sign that read, "Everything we grow here is to feed the children of God." Wow! What a dream!

That is the narrative garden of my dreams!  As we enter this great universe, we come fully equipped with our very own seed packet.  Sometimes we stay close to the ground and produce sweet fruits like strawberries, and sometimes we reach the heights of the tall pecan tree, which also produces the fruit of its kind.  It doesn't matter if we grow bountiful bunches of bananas or a few ears of sweet yellow corn on a single stalk, what we have to offer as we exit this great garden is all that matters ~ everyone's story matters.

I just recently read the most "fantastic" children's book entitled The Fantastic Flying Books of Morris Lessmore by William Joyce.  Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my Gosh! I cannot put into words how much I gleaned from this book, which might have also originated from an amazing dream.  The author uses the idea of books and stories as a brilliant metaphor for the greatest literary work of all ~ our own life story.  While I am sure that children appreciate the book for the elaborate illustrations and imaginative story, I especially love these two simple excerpts:  His life was a book of his own writing, one orderly page after another.  He would open it every morning and write of his joys and sorrows, of all that he knew and everything that he hoped for. And my favorite ~ "Everyone's story matters," said Morris.  And all the books agreed.

We are all cataloged in God's great universal library, and everyone's story matters.  Everyday we make our worthy attempts to submit a life manuscript of our own writing...one orderly page after another.  But, as Morris Lessmore learned, everyone's story matters, not because of what we know, but because of what we grow and what we share with others.  The Bible states that "we are living epistles (life stories), read of all men", which brings me back to the church and the dream.

In that perfectly designed narrative garden, maybe I am a cucumber plant ~ a multi-tasking accessory fruit which grows low to the ground with spiraling tendrils and yields a processed pickle that can be both sweet and sour.  I would love to be part of a great orchard where multitudes of people have to climb ladders just to gather my fruit, but that's probably not my life story. That orchard is where you find the Oprah Winfrey and Bob Greene stories.

As a long-time children's librarian and gardener, one thing I know for sure is that books and gardens are multipliers.  If I read a great book, I immediately share it with my two daughters, then they share the book with their friends, and so on.  If Oprah reads a book and shares it, the multiplication factor grows exponentially!  And the same is true with gardens...If I spend $200 at the grocery store, my family can eat comfortably for a week; however, if I spend $200 on a garden, my family can eat comfortably for an entire winter!  We can also apply this concept to our life story...what we grow, experience, create, and share with others multiplies!

Big sigh, oh well...my Grow Your Life entry is mailed.  In that great garden of a gazillion entries, I am most likely a tiny parsley plant growing in a 4-inch clay pot on a windowsill.  Still..."Everyone's story matters," said Morris.  And I agree.

Dianne ; )

Riley Rescues a Princess!

TODAY’S BIG STORY:  We are the proud owners of a new rescue dog ~ a poodle named Princess ~ and her story has great ‘bones’ for a fairy ‘tail’.  Princess began her puppy life as a birthday gift from a husband to his wife.  For three years, she was the object of affection for the young couple; however, as with most fairy tales, her happy life was about to change.  After only a few years of marriage, the wife left the husband, and the husband was left with the dog.  Thankfully, they had no children ~ only one small poodle named Princess, which the husband could not bear to keep. 

So…he loaded up her beautiful bed, her expensive clothes, her pile of doggy toys and her last bag of treats, and he dropped off Princess at a local veterinary clinic. On that day, her life of royalty ended and her life as rescue began. She was stripped of all her belongings and placed in a cage like all the other strays. On the day that her life was to be terminated, a vet tech decided to bring her home.  Her new home now consisted of an eight-foot kennel, a camper top on a dirt surface for shelter, one bowl for water and one bowl for food, and two roommates ~ a Chihuahua and a Pomeranian.  Even though her basic needs were met, Princess was not allowed inside the house...which is where our story starts. 

Princess, Princess ~ poodle peeper; her owner said he could not keep her.  She wound up in a camper shell, and there begins today’s big tale!

RILEY RESCUES A PRINCESS

       My name is Riley, and I am a Shih Tzu prince.  Everyone says that my owners treat me like royalty, which is true.  I sleep on a king-sized bed with a set of hand-crafted doggy steps, so I don’t have to jump so high.  Because of my sensitive skin, I receive weekly spa treatments and soaking baths fit for a queen.  Even the brand of dog food I eat sounds like the name of a Roman emperor.  I am a prince ~ that is for sure.

       The only thing missing in my life is a princess.  I need that special canine to share my castle ~ a sophisticated dog that appreciates the finer (and gluten-free) treats in life.  I am not looking for an unrefined stray with a limited vocabulary.  She must understand basic obedience commands like “Sit!”, “Stay!”, and “That belongs to Riley!”

       So, when my Momma Dee begins noticing this pitiful poodle standing on a camper shell, peeping through a cyclone fence, I bark in my most convincing voice, “No way!”

       “Do you see her, Riley?” Momma Dee asks.

       “Yes! I see her,” I bark again, more aggressively, “and I am not interested!”

       “I know…she’s pitiful,” she says with that comforting voice she uses when she turns over a beetle that is stuck on its back or takes out a centipede that is trapped inside the house.

       So I protest even more!  I sneeze ~ not once, but twice!

       “Okay, if you insist! We will stop and ask about her situation,” she decides ~ not hearing a single woof I said.

       Without my consent, Momma Dee stops at the house.  She leaves me inside the car with the window down and meets the vet tech who is surrounded by a half-dozen dogs.  The lady explains that all the dogs are registered breeds that need good homes.  That’s when Momma Dee asks about the poodle that is always standing on top of the camper shell.  “She has done that ever since we brought her here.  Her name is Princess, and I think she is looking for her Prince Charming."

      The vet tech continues, “For a couple of years, she lived like an actual princess ~ fancy clothes, a beautiful bed, and expensive toys.  She was a gift from a husband to his wife.  When the wife died, the husband could not bear to keep the dog; so she ended up here.”

       I may not understand all the words of the human language, but three words I know for sure.  “We’ll take her!” Momma Dee exclaims.

       Now I have to be firm.  I see my owner walking to the car with the ‘pitiful poodle’, and I start growling.  “Riley…be nice.  Meet Princess,” she says softly as she places her on the back seat.

       “Princess ~ huh. She does not look like a princess. She looks like a muddy, matted mutt,” I growl and turn my head towards the window.

       “I know you are not impressed right now, but you just wait until she has spent a day at the poodle parlor.  She will be the perfect princess,” Momma Dee says as we drive home.

       The first two days with the princess impersonator only convinced me even more that she is not the dog of my dreams.  She used the bathroom (the Number Two kind) on everything!  Momma Dee says that poodles have sensitive stomachs, and they need time to get used to their new homes. Momma Dee placed her in my crate, where she did that messy business all over my fluffy pillow! Then Momma Dee just trashed my favorite pillow like it was a left-over pizza box!  Plus, the only time that Princess (if that's her real name) is not squeaking a squeaky toy is when she is asleep. That constant squeaking gets on my every last doggy nerve!  I completely ignore any attempt that she makes to get my attention.

       Finally, today is grooming day ~ one entire day without her squeaking and squirting!  One entire day spent with my very own Momma Dee ~ just the two of us!  One entire day devoted totally to me ~ the Prince!  Maybe we can just leave her permanently at the poodle parlor!

       No such luck…time passes so quickly when you are finally able to sleep all day. On our way to the groomer, I bark and sneeze and paw Momma Dee.  “Turn around!” I beg. “We do not have to do this!”

       “I know,” she replies, “I can’t wait to see her either!”

       “Ughh! Sometimes I just hate communicating with humans!” I heave a huge sigh of resignation and flop down on the front seat.

       We pull into the driveway, and I stay inside the car.  Then, I see something amazing walk through the doors of the poodle parlor.  Momma Dee is holding the most beautiful white bundle of fur I have ever seen in my life!  Where is Princess? 

       “See, Riley.  I told you that she is a princess.  Isn’t she just the perfect match for you?  From rescue to royalty…you two belong together,” she says softly as she places her on the back seat.

       Now, I know what I have to do.  I have to make her feel like a princess.  So I jump over the console and join her on the backseat.  I give her a quick lick to make her feel special, and then we both get excited to see each other!

       “Cool it, you two!” Momma Dee scolds firmly.

       I protest, of course.  After all, I am Prince Charming, she is my Princess, and we have the back seat of our carriage all to ourselves! What a perfect fairy ‘tail’ ending!

Momma Dee ; )