TOS Review: IEW

The problem with being a writer and teaching writing is, well ... you're a little too close to your subject matter. I've heard this same thing form countless other homeschooling parents in regards to their own personal proclivities: "I can't for the life of me find a decent science curriculum. None of them cover what I what to teach." "I'm an artist who rarely draws with my own kids. I just can't seem to get them to see things the way I do." "As a math person, I know what I want in a math program, but no one has it!"


It makes sense, really. When you have the level of intimacy that comes with practicing a discipline daily, you have certain priorities and expectations when it comes to passing on your hard-won knowledge. A casual introduction--what might be "good enough" for the vast majority of folks--just doesn't cut it. You need meat, you need depth, and you need quality. And yes, you know the real deal when you see it.


All of this hints at why I was less thrilled than anxious when given a beautiful, expansive collection of materials from the Institute for Excellence in Writing (IEW) to review. I had given their products a quick once over at my state convention, and thought about sitting in on a session the author presented a few years back. IEW had, it seemed, become one of those homeschool "it" curriculums. The one everyone who's anyone uses. The one people mention in passing and the whole circle of moms nods knowingly, "Ah, yes. IEW. Unit three. Been there." I knew plenty of people who sang the praises of IEW, and more than a few who enthusiastically assured me that even as a writer, I would love their stuff.


But what if I didn't?  What if IEW was like The Bridges of Madison County? You remember The Bridges of Madison County, right? Runaway success. Highly acclaimed. Made Oprah--and the whole nation--swoon. Well ... the whole nation minus me. I finally gave in and read the thing and, truth be told, was bored out of my mind. I nearly gave up a third of the way in, but I persevered. Surely, I thought, surely, there's a reason why this thing is such a hit.


There wasn't, far as I could tell.


IEW is, I'm happy to report, a different story altogether. 


After months and months of using and abusing this curriculum, I can say with my whole heart that IEW is the real deal. And get this: you definitely don't need to be a writer to teach using this curriculum ... but if you are, you won't be disappointed, either.


I was given an almost intimidating set-up to review: the Teaching Writing/Student Writing Intensive Combo Pack Level B, along with a portable wall.  When I pulled the materials from the box, as a matter of fact, "intimidated" was my very first reaction. There were so many dvds, a couple of big notebooks, a manilla envelope full of what looked like worksheets, and what on earth was that file folder thingy?


The first week of trying to make sense of the program was, frankly, just as overwhelming. There was just too much to wade through. Finally, I gave up on shuffling papers and attempting to make heads or tales of them. I popped in one of the Teaching Writing dvds and sighed deeply, hoping that this was what pulled the whole thing together. It did. 


These dvds are the backbone of the entire IEW approach. If you felt fairly confident in learning something on your own and creating your own program from scratch based off of that teaching, then you could honestly watch this series, take copious notes, refer back as a refresher from time to time and yes, be a great writing coach. Andrew Pudewa, director of IEW and homeschooling dad of seven, has a talent for passing on information in a tangible, easily digestible manner. By the way, he's pretty funny, too. His approach to writing is simple: learn some tools. Vary your sentences. Build a library of winning words to pull from. And write, write, write.


The simplicity of those concepts belie the creativity and playfulness of the IEW program, however. This is not a dry, learn-and-regurgitate curriculum. Nor is it a writing-for-the-sake-of-writing program. The skills learned in the context of these lessons are applicable across the board, grow with your student, and will be as valuable for the future auto mechanic as they will be for an aspiring novelist.


After figuring out where Mr. Pudewa was headed via the Teaching Writing dvds, the rest of this program fell into place for easy use in our homeschool. I was able to teach Jo, Atticus, and Logan (8th, 5th, and 3rd grades) using the same program. From the very first lessons, I began to notice a change in the writing coming out of my kids. The texture of their sentences changed. The edges smoothed out. They just sounded more polished somehow, as if all those things I had tried to let them figure out on their own had suddenly found their way onto the table. Which, of course, they had: through IEW we had begun to actively pursue what had previously been a hit-or-miss subject in our home. There's a big difference between telling a child, "All of your sentences sound the same. How can we fix that?" and showing a child bit by bit how to make this kind of sentence, then this one, and another, then one more.


As a writer, I appreciate that this program circles through fiction and non-fiction units. The skills are so often transferable, but very few curricula seem to acknowledge this. Also, flipping between the genres keeps things lively for the children. Please note that we did a good bit more skipping than your average user in an attempt to cover enough material to get a good feel for the program. These are weighty units, and easily lend themselves to deep, deep delving. The fact that we were able to try out so many units is not indicative of how the average user would navigate this program. When they say you can cycle through it again and again, with the same children even ... it's dead on. This one program is literally all you need to teach writing from elementary through high school. If you do, you'll hit essays, fiction, writing from pictures, critique, and so much more.


The portable wall (that odd file folder) is a nifty bonus, too. Crammed with rules, hints, verbs, and anything else you might need, this folder is a boon to homschoolers who generally don't go around posting big colorful "Friendly Adjectives!" posters in their dining rooms. Do yourself a favor and pick one or two up. You'll use them.


IEW's programs are designed so that you, as the teacher, can control the writing prompts. That allows you to tie the program in to the rest of your curriculum if you wish. You can also use the many, many examples given within the program itself to streamline the program if you wish. I think that newbies might be less likely to branch out, but trust me, it's surprisingly easy to do with Mr. Pudewa holding your hand. 


I found this curriculum to require a fair amount of preparation on my behalf. It is not open and go, nor is it something you can pop in on once a month or so and expect to see any results. I also don't think this level (B) is suited to self-directed learning. Having an involved writing coach always makes a huge difference in the quality of a student's writing, and no matter how engaging the IEW videos are, they're no substitute for that kind of interaction.


One final note on this program: cost. The main thing that held me back from really looking beyond the surface of IEW prior to my review was the hefty price tag. Truly, it is not for the faint of heart to hit "submit" on a $200+ order for a single subject. Depending on what bits and pieces you decide would work best for your family, this could be your biggest curriculum purchase for a given year. That's a difficult call to make--and a hard thing to convince your budget of. However, I urge you to consider this a one-time investment that will serve all of your children for all of their homeschooling years. For example, if I purchased the $239 set that I reviewed just for Jo, and used it for the remaining 4 years of her homeschooling (plus the year we just completed for review), then I would have spent $47.80 per year on writing instruction. Looking at the long-term plan puts IEW in perspective--the proper perspective. Folks, this is a long-term curriculum. It's an investment. And I'm surprised to say that I'm impressed.


No matter how wrong the herd was about The Bridges of Madison County, they got this one right.


Disclaimer: I was given a free copy of this product for review purposes. Refer to my general disclaimer for more information on my policies regarding reviews.

TOS Review: My Access

I'm a writer. My husband is also a writer. It's what we do. So it's really no surprise at all that my kids have all shown an inclination towards writing as one of their creative outlets.

I've never taken a very hard and fast approach to teaching my kids how to write. We've written stories together, played with words, composed ditties, penned poetry. Really, it's been a "whatever, whenever" kind of approach. And the kids have excelled. I can say this without too much bias because I've done my fair share of teaching in writing camps, hosting writing groups, doing roundtables and the like for kids from teens to kindergarten. When you hold my not-so-structured approach to learning to write alongside the ore traditional, methodical approach, you come out pretty close. O.k., maybe there's a little more creativity that comes out in the kids who've never been told they can't write something. But I'm biased. There. I've admitted it.

Where my instruction falls short, though, is in the formal process of writing essays. It's true: there's a way to do it. You have to learn it. You have to have a game plan, put the bits into place, and then slog them out. There's no short-cut. And really, there's not that much in the way of creativity in the whole thing. Big bummer when most of your writing is fun.

One other drawback? Well, imagine that you're Jo. You're 12 years old, and you're working on your 4-H essay on the assigned topic of vent disease in rabbits (do not google that--is it too gross and I won't be held responsible for what you see!). You write and you write and you write and you write. Then you ask your dad--a former prize-winning investigative journalist-- to read it over. He spends three hours dissecting the thing with you, and uses terms like "ad hominem fallacy" and "literary device" and "live sources" before handing it back and telling you what a great job you've done.

It's daunting, in other words. Really, really daunting.

Which leads me to My Access ....

It's just what we needed.

Seriously! We are a family or writers. And we've got the fiction thing down. But the rest of it? We could use a little release of pressure, guys!

My Access is perfectly customizable, perfectly adaptable, and perfectly priced--just under $100 for three children for an entire year. I'm not exaggerating here, either--writing is assigned and assessed for ages 8-18. And you get 12 months of writing instruction. In the world of homeschool curriculum, $33 for one child's writing tools for a year is quite a steal.

I've used My Access for free with all of my kids. Logan is slightly under the age (he's still 7) but has nonetheless enjoyed the comprehension and pre-writing instruction activities included in his age group. Atticus loves the fact that it's web-based and has step-by-step instructions. And Jo admires the freedom that her level allows; she can pick topics (that I've pre-approved) from her list and work at her own pace. All three kids have liked the fact that their work is scored by an unbiased, nonjudgmental third-party that never, ever sounds personal in the editing process.

Which is, frankly, my favorite part as well. The outside support and grading has been a huge help in our family. Having My Access tell Jo that she didn't quite connect the dots in her persuasive essay on banning exotic animals as pets is a whole lot easier than me doing the same and then having to offer a hug of condolence. With this program, I get to dish out the hugs, without the kids feeling like they're being held to the standards of a professional writer.

They're just being held to standards. Period. And, from what I've seen, fairly stiff standards as well.

This program clearly isn't for everyone. Struggling writers who aren't motivated in the first place may have a difficult time connecting with a computer screen when it comes time to hash out the details of a project. Children easily distracted by busy screens may find the writing screen, in particular, difficult to focus on as they wade through a montage of buttons designed to offer as much help as possible. And I don't see a discount anywhere for people only enrolling 1 child; I could be wrong, but it looks like that $99.95 holds true for up to three kids. Clearly, that's not as big of a deal as it is when maxing out the enrollment per subscription.

For clear, concise instruction, hassle-free, non subjective grading, and comprehensive support, you can't beat My Access. It's a high quality product.

False Advertising

It's been nearly a year and a half since I've posted an installment in the story of my Mamaw's and Papaw's lives. If you're new to the blog, or just need a refresher, this post links back to the series from the beginning.

She met him in church, which was cause enough for her to remain bitter well into her 60s.

"I knew that boys came to church just to spark with the girls," Mamaw admitted, "but I always said I'd not fall for that. I wanted me a man who would fly straight as an arrow from the get-go. A good man who was in the church and who didn't lay out drunk."

This was a tall order, of course. Even if her direct link to the town's most fallen woman hadn't scared off the likely suitors, there was still the issue of wide-spread bootlegging to contend with. Very few young men made it to courting age without also acquiring a taste for homemade likker. By the time Naomi was twelve--old enough that it was considered proper to think of marriage and babies--love of drink had all but decimated the population of young men that had once attended church, worked hard and avoided scrapes with the law. Most boys, even the ones who still sat in the schoolhouse when they weren't needed at home, drank, danced, raced torn up old Packards and played the devil's cards with loose women. Naomi's prospects for a clean-living young man in 1946 rural Kentucky were dim at best.

But on a Sunday afternoon when the Easter flowers were soaring yellow above still-sleepy soil, Naomi spotted three new boys crowding around her Co-Cola cake in the church's crowded fellowship hall. Each one of them had the same coal-black hair, wiry build and squared jaw. They were set apart only by their height; like stair steps, she noticed, first one, then another, then yet another. She had never laid eyes on them before, but this wasn't cause for alarm. She'd only been back from Indiana for two weeks and so much had changed while she'd been away with her mother; for one thing, she hadn't been looking at boys when she'd left. Too, weather and work often kept menfolk from attending Sunday services, but the promise of a big meal often lured them in for an afternoon supper. There were any number of reasons for why she didn't recognize the three boys admiring her cake, Naomi told herself.

"I went up and asked them would they like a piece," she remembers. The oldest--and tallest--said they would. While she was slicing thick slabs of the cloyingly sweet cake, they introduced themselves: Duke, the oldest at 19, Roy, who was 16, and Mick, a gangly 15 year-old. All three were wearing dirty overalls and boots with knotted laces holding them together in the soft spots. Their accents were funny and slightly off, she remembers. Being raised in one of the most secluded hollers by parents whose Irish brogues were still thick had left an imprint on their speech patterns that marked the boys as outsiders even in their home community.

"I guess that's why they didn't say anything else other than their names. I gave them some cake and they stood around eating on it for a while. I went to my Mamaw and asked her did she know those boys and she said she might. They looked like some boys my Papaw had hired from way back up in a holler to cut hay a few seasons back."

Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but not a condemnation, either. Naomi figured she could talk to them a little bit more, get to know them. Her shyness around men had evaporated in the time she'd spent with her mother in Indiana. But by the time she had worked her way back around through the church crowd, the boys--and her cake--were gone.

"I had a picture in my mind that they'd run off with it and boy, that made me madder than fire. That was the very first Co-Cola cake I'd ever made and I was so proud of it," she sniffs. "'Course, there was the entire congregation right there in that hall eating. I guess it could have just been eat up before I got back around to it. But you know, I didn't think on that. I just knew it was those boys, and that they were no good."

Naomi chastised herself as she gathered up her Mamaw's bare cake plate. If anyone should be able to spot bad seeds, she reckoned, it was her. How was it that she had lived amongst the trash and rabble with her own fallen mother and not been able to recognize a bunch of rough boys when she saw one?

My Mamaw always smiles as she recounts the next part, the part I never tire of hearing.

"There was maybe a hundred people in that hall but the minute he walked back in, I couldn't hear nothing else," she says. Mick, the youngest of the dark-haired bad boys, had come in through the open double doors and sauntered over to the dessert table. He stopped right in front of Naomi and gave her a grin. "He said he sure did like that cake, and wondered would I like to come riding with him a little later that evening, after church let out."

If she'd been thinking about anything--the possible stolen cake, her mother's very public shame, her Mamaw's strict rules--she would have said no, and the story would end there.

"But all I could see was his eyes and, Lordy, they were the bluest blue I had ever seen. See, I hadn't looked at his eyes before. I reckon I assumed they were that greeny color that his brother's were. But no sir, his were the brightest blue I'd ever seen. I couldn't think about nothing but those eyes."

In that very instant, she says, her mind wandered too far to ever come back. She laughs about it now.

"I was thinking on what those blue eyes would look like on a baby. When you start thinking on that, why, you know you're gone."

Naomi said she might could come for a ride, but Mick would have to talk to her Papaw after the service and see what he said. Mick agreed, adding in a little white lie for good measure.

"Oh, I told her that I wouldn't miss that Sunday night preaching for anything," he admits slyly. "But I don't think I ever said I was baptized or any such."

"You did, too!" Mamaw snaps, even to this day. "You told me you were washed in the blood. You were smart enough to know what that meant."

Mamaw harrumphs with the flustered disgust of an old lady who can't stand the mention of such a long-standing injustice. My Papaw, Mick, just grins.

"I may have been a little drunk," he says. "I was wild as a buck back then. What I can't figure, even now, is what I was doing in that church in the first place."

Too much of a good thing

I've been toying with a more structured approach to our days for a little while. Not that I want it, mind you.

I've tried in the past to wrestle our schedule in to some semblance of an order, but can never stay on it for long. The fact of the matter is, I am absolutely loathe to interrupt one good thing for another, and that's exactly what a schedule generally feels like to me. Example: you have set aside forty-five minutes for an art activity. That three-quarters of an hour has passed, but everyone is still happily working away. What to do? The schedule says that now it's time to move on to something else--something just as worthy of your time, mind you. Do you throw caution to the wind and stick with the successful art experience, or abandon ship and move on?

I'm a stay-with-what-works kind of girl. In general, my kids are as well. They also have devised frighteningly inventive and imaginative ways to occupy themselves--ways that keep them solidly from underfoot and meaningfully engaged in one of the pastimes I value most in children: play.

But it's the "keeping them from underfoot" part that I find myself taking a bit of advantage of. Do you have any idea how freeing it is for a writer who has fought tooth and nail for a mere thirty minutes at the keyboard for the past decade of her life to suddenly find herself with entire afternoons stretching before her?

"Is this even possible?" you ask yourself. The answer, in my house, is yes.

I have found as of late that my children have begun--over the course of the past year, I realized belatedly--to go from their required afternoon rest period of an hour and an half into a long stint of sustained, quiet, away-from-mommy play. Writing and performing plays. Building elaborate villages from Lincoln Logs and reenacting key battles in the Civil War. Setting up extensive veterinary clinics and treating a variety of stuffed animals. Reading aloud to one another.

Sounds like heaven, doesn't it?

Well, it is. Kind of. Except ...

That's not what I want.

While I love, love, love my afternoon writing time, I do not want to have it at the expense of my children. An hour and a half, I think, it in no way afflicting my 10, 7 and 5 year olds. They are happily curled up in their respective beds, reading, listening to books on tape, coloring or otherwise entertaining themselves. This, I believe, is a good thing. A respite from the day's busyness. A rest time in the truest sense.

But the extended period ... I don't know if that is something that I want to make a habit. A few times a week, yes, it's lovely. But what about all the books we aren't reading? The games we aren't playing? The cookies we're not baking? The times I could be pouring into their hearts, or them into mine ... they are passing me by as I sit in front of the computer and pound out stories.

I never thought I'd say this, but here it is:

I don't want my children to be quite so comfortable with me being unavailable.

And that's where this whole scheduling thing comes in. I'm making a concerted effort to stick more closely to the priorities that I have set in my heart and mind when it comes to how I spend my time. Being with my children--present physically, emotionally and spiritually--is one of them. It's a sad statement that I have to mark a starting and ending time to a good thing (me writing) to make way for another good thing (time with my family). But apparently, I do need that discipline after all.

Goals

I don't make resolutions just because the calendar says I now have 365 days to get it right. Something about the entire concept of waiting until January 1 has always made me cynical rather than optimistic; I guess I'm a "year is half-empty" rather than a "year is half-full" kind of gal.

In the past few weeks, though, I've been feeling a tug to set aside 2008 as the year that I re-establish my once blossoming writing career. Because I shrink from the notion of New Year's Resolutions, I am calling this a goal. And yes, I am hung up on semantics, thankyouverymuch.

'Twas a time, dear reader, when this homeschooling momma embraced not only the creative portion of being a writer, but the business end as well. I set aside time weekly to query and submit, and I even attended conferences so that I could hobnob with those who might just help me up the food chain of the publishing world. I had a few moderate successes in this area--things long since forgotten in an industry that moves at the speed of email. The most enduring piece from this era of my life is an essay that was published in an anthology entitled Lessons from Our Children approximately 8 years ago. I call this episode "enduring" because Jo treasures our sole remaining copy of the book primarily because it has her name in it.

Since then, I have published perhaps two dozen of nonfiction articles in rather small markets, two short stories and a couple of essays. Nothing that will set the world on fire, I assure you. Nothing, even, that gets me on Amazon.com.

Usually, I am o.k. with this. I wake up in the morning, I look in the mirror and I wonder what I will make for breakfast, what chapter we'll be reading in our current read-aloud and whether or not I need to go to the library to pick up our holds. In other words, I am wearing my homeschooling mother hat, and it fits just fine.

Other mornings, I roll out of bed and wonder how my characters would handle the day I have planned ahead of me. I think their thoughts, listen to their voices and put them through the paces of a real life to see exactly how their skin fits. This is my writer hat. Oddly enough, it seems to fit right on top of that homeschooling mother hat--even though, for years, I was certain that the two were mutually exclusive.

Now that I've figured out that I can be both a mother and a writer, I have been slowly working towards blending the two elements that are ME into a recipe everyone under my roof can live by. I've managed the daily writing time with few exceptions for quite some time. Now, it's time to move forward. What's the use in writing all this stuff if I am only making occasional free-throws in an attempt to get it published? Talking with friend E. (also a writer) has given me new hope; I can do this. I can do this.

I hereby decree 2008 as the year MG makes an effort to re-enter the world of publishing. Hold me to it, guys.

Review: Christian Writers' Market Guide 2008

The subtitle to Sally E. Stuart's infamous tome says it all: "The Essential Reference Tool for the Christian Writer." There's truth in advertising here; Christian Writers' Market Guide 2008 is all that and more.

This year's edition is cram-packed with even more contacts under even more headings in an even more manageable format. Not one to spend your free time leafing through a 628 page reference when you'd rather be writing? Try the included CD Rom, which includes 1,200 + markets.

Stuart's book lets writer's write, rather than focusing their precious time on culling contact info for submissions. It's an indispensable aid for those of us who hope to bring their written words to the world.

Letters to Mom, and back again

When we were fairly new to our homeschooling journey, a friend shared one of the best parenting/homeschooling tips I have ever gotten. As a mother of three girls who were then scattered on the elementary-through-junior-high-spectrum, she said that one way she had kept the lines of communication wide open was to write to each of her daughters in a special journal. She shared that this was not a place for correcting grammar, for pointing out behavior problems or even for laying out plans for the upcoming week. No--this was a special place, a sacred space for mother and child to connect without conventions, expectations or checklists.

Being a daughter who has a somewhat strained relationship with my own mother, I instantly fell in love with the idea. I walk around with a smidgen of fear in my head, you know, that somehow I will accidentally recreate the fissure that exists between my mother and I. I struggle and pray and strive, trying to knot those easily frayed cords of trust and respect as they threaten to come undone with ill-timed words or casual miscommunication. I realize, of course, that my bond with Jo is not so fragile as my own with my mother. For one thing, it is based on a firmer foundation (Christ), and for another, I am simply not my mother. Enough said.

I am always looking for ways, though, to share my heart with Jo. I decided early on to let her peek deeper into who I am so that as she approaches the day when we stand shoulder to shoulder, she will know that I am fallible, that I am flawed, but that I am real. What better way for a writer to connect with her daughter than through the written word?

We began our mother/daughter journal in the middle of Jo's first grade year. I opened the first page with a very simple outline of what this very fancy, very pink, very girly-looking journal was for:

Dear Jo,
This journal is going to be a special place for you and I to share our thoughts, hopes and prayers. You can ask me questions, share funny stories or tell me how you feel about things. I hope that this will be a spot where we can have fun, or be serious, or even laugh and cry.
I want you to know how very proud I am of the kind heart you show to others. You share very well, and think of others' feelings. Your gentle ways show everyone that Jesus is alive in you.
You are a beautiful girl inside, and I am honored to be your momma.
Love, Mommy

Jo was delighted to find the journal at the foot of her bed when she woke up that first morning. Since then, we have continued the "sneak attack" tradition of tucking our journal into a spot where only the recipient can stumble across it. This builds on the specialness of the whole idea for us.

Usually, our journal (we're now on version 3.0) exchanges hands about once a week. We have gone through periods where we don't write as often, and times when the letters are flying back and forth faster than a busy mom can seemingly handle. But I always make time to reply to my daughter's letters, even if it means sneaking in a twenty minute bathroom sabbatical to scrawl out a note before she catches me in the act.

Often, our letters to one another have been silly:

Mom, You have got to stop saying, "Anybody want a peanut?" It is not as funny as you think. As a matter of fact, if you say it again I will sprout an extra finger and pursue you with a sword. Love, Jo

Sometimes they are sad:

Jo,
I am very sorry that you are so sad over the loss of our little baby. Thank you so much for sharing how hurt you are with me. I am hurting inside, too. I will pray for the Lord to bring you peace and comfort. Can you pray the same for me?
No, I don't think my mom ever had a miscarriage when I was your age so I can not understand how you feel. I don't think your feelings are unusual, though. Loss is loss, honey, no matter what it looks like or when it happens.
You are absolutely allowed to feel sad. Cry all you want. I'll even share my tissues with you.
Love, Your Momma

I have written pep talks ("You can do it! You've been working so hard!") and given redirection ("I think if you listen closely to what the Lord is saying ...") and more than once, I've congratulated her on her character and selflessness. In return, I have received more heartfelt thank yous, more words of encouragement and more reminders of how blessed I am than I can ever count.

As usual, this thing designed to strengthen my child has instead strengthened me.

Last week, on a whim, I offered Atticus the chance to begin a journal of letters. Of course, I offered a twist: he could write to his dad if he chose to, as he is, after all, a boy. It didn't take Atticus long to show how excited he was at the prospect of joining in on the fun he's been witnessing from the sidelines. He eagerly picked out a plain, lined journal, one that was as beautiful in his eyes as that first pink, flowery one was to Jo all those years ago.

Oh, yes, he picked one other thing. Me. :-)

Indiana

If you'd like a refresher of previous posts, here are parts 1, 2, 3, 4, & 5.

Mamaw’s memories of Indiana are far-off and hazy, the kind of recollections that many people have of their very earliest years. Naomi was not a young child when she crossed the state line riding shotgun in her stepfather’s pickup, so the only reason she has come up with for the lack of concrete memories is the sleep-deprived state she recalls enduring for months on end.

Sarah and Andy had already made a name for themselves in rural counties all over eastern Kentucky and on up into southern Indiana when they had lured Naomi away from the safety of her grandparents home. Their reputations as hard drinkers, reckless drivers, good dancers and fast fighters attracted a very specific element wherever they traveled. It seemed as if a Triple-A Guidebook to honkey tonks had been burned into their very DNA; wherever Sarah and Andy Pope found themselves, a party was sure to be happening.

These were no tame “please pass the tea cakes” parties. Naomi’s vague recollections center around Mason jars being emptied of their clear “likker” and of fist-fights that didn’t come to an end until someone was down--usually for good.

The three of them drove through back-water towns for a few months, shacking up in unpainted cottages with folks who were apt to open their homes to the likes of Sarah and Andy. More often than not, Naomi found herself sleeping in the dirty floorboard of the truck, hiding from drunk men whose eyes looked at her in a way that she couldn’t quite understand.

If she’d had a whit of sense, she would have gone to a pay phone and called for someone in the holler to come and get her. She knew she could call collect, knew she that there were a handful of people in the holler with their very own telephones who would gladly get the message to her grandparents. Her Papaw would ride up to get her--probably with the pastor--and he’d take her home.

It wasn’t pride that stopped her from calling, she remembers. It was shame.

“Seems I never could get my mind out from under the fact that that wild thing was my own momma,” she says now. Seeing her mother dance on top of the hood of a Chevy with her own two eyes was bad enough. But the shame of her grandfather seeing it was too much to bear. She figured the hurt of it would probably kill him.

The months of sleeping in the daylight and drinking boot-legged moonshine at night came to an end when an unsuspecting truant officer knocked on the door of a particularly fallen-down shanty where the threesome had been invited to spend the night. The man was making his rounds to check on a pair of wild-as-a-buck ten year-olds who hadn’t darkened the door of a school in more than a year. When he caught sight of Naomi--playing cards in the middle of the day with two men more than twice her age--he asked to speak to her parents, too.

“He threatened to put the law on ‘em,” she says, “for keeping me out of school for so long. Now, I’d seed my momma cuss out a revenuer over the state line, and she weren’t no more afraid of him than she was of me. But something in that truant officer put the fear of the Lord in her. She told him right off that yes, sir she’d have me signed up to the school the next day. And she did it, by golly.”

Naomi was excited to return to school. She thought that somehow, the normalcy of it all might rub off on her mother and stepfather. Maybe they’d rent a little house of their own, settle down and live like people should. Sarah seemed excited, too; she took Naomi into town and bought her two new dresses with money she’d won shooting pop bottles off of a log behind the beauty salon in town. The only problem with the dresses, Naomi told her mother, was that they fit too close in the chest. Sarah said they looked fine.

The next morning, Naomi walked to school alone. It was the biggest schoolhouse she’d ever seen: a huge stone building with students segregated by grade. She found her way to the office and was walked to a class.

“I thought I’d died and been sent to the hot place,” my Mamaw tells me.

The children in that class were all two or three years younger than Naomi, but all light years ahead in their schooling. The boys were mean, and wore tight, short trousers and slicked back their hair with something that stunk like coal oil. The girls wore dresses that reminded Naomi of the ones she had seen in Sears catalogs. They looked at the gangly new student as if she had just arrived direct from another planet.

“And that was what broke me,” Naomi admits. She cried all the way to the phone booth in front of a Davis Drive-In Motel that afternoon after school let out. Calling collect, she got Lucinda Miller’s mother on the line and managed to choke out her wherabouts. To this day, she has no idea where she was exactly.

“Just some little town in Nowhere, Indiana,” she says.

She can’t remember where she had been, but she recalls the scene of her homecoming well.

“My mamaw came out on the front porch and was waitin’ on us to pull up. I reckon she heard us on the drive. Anyhow, she had a big old afghan quilt in her hands, and she wrapped that around me the minute I got out of that pastor’s car. Didn’t even look at me, just wrapped me up and took me in, like she knowed already that I wouldn’t be wearing nothing decent.”

Two weeks later, my mamaw met my papaw for the first time. She was twelve years old now, but wiser in the ways of the world than most 20 year-olds in the holler. When she first laid eyes on the boy with the jet-black hair and the dirty overalls, she saw trouble. What kind, she had no idea. But trouble was trouble just the same.

More story spinning ...

Another in a continuing series of stories from my family history. If you're just joining me, you may want to read parts 1, 2, 3 & 4 first.



While Papaw could never let Mamaw forget where she had come from, it sure didn’t slow him down when he made up his mind that he was going to marry her. By all accounts, he was as aggressive in courting her as he was in hunting down the odd jobs that kept his pockets lined with extra dollar bills.

Mamaw had spent her earliest years safely under her grandparent’s roof, learning how to cook, to sew and to sit stock still through even the most impassioned preacher’s fiery sermon. Life in that house was warm and good, she remembers. Food was plentiful. Dresses were kept clean and pressed after each washing. The schoolhouse, which was a mile and a half away, was a familiar sight to the girl known then as Naomi; she walked to class each day, surrounded by girls like herself--girls who took no interest in the growing agitation that seemed to be gripping the county.

“Seemed like every feller you talked to wanted to tell you how he was goin’ to Detroit, headed north to make him some real money,” she remembers. “But me and my girlfriends, we just wanted to stay put. Raise us some babies and some shuck beans and stay put.”

Mamaw had never been outside of the holler, and had no reason to believe she ever would until the day she walked to the grocers to get herself a bag of penny candy with the money she’d earned watching her great-Aunt Mabel’s four scrappy little boys.

“I was walkin’ along, thinking how it hadn’t hardly been worth the effort, me keepin’ those hellions just for a bag of sweets, when she pulled up alongside me in that shiny black truck.”

In the eleven years since her birth, Naomi had come close to seeing her mother a handful of times. Though Sarah had drifted in and out of the area for the better part of a decade, she stayed clear of her parents and, most especially, her daughter. Usually, she came through at night, like a thief. Huddled in her bed on the other side of the coal stove, Naomi would listen through the walls at her grandmother’s angry rant as she hissed about sin and fornication. The voice that answered was always calm and unswayed, a slightly musical voice that never seemed to feel the weight of the damnation being heaped on its owner like so many burning coals. Naomi knew that the voice belonged to her mother, but she could never work up the nerve to peek around the doorframe and see the woman who had abandoned her with her own eyes.

But now, on a dirt road eight miles off the highway that connected this part of Kentucky to the rest of the world, Naomi came face to face with her mother for the first time.

As the big black truck had rolled to a stop, Sarah had thrown herself across the lap of the man next to her so that she could hang out the driver’s side window. Her hair, Mamaw remembers, was dyed red and curled so perfectly that she knew this woman had actual rollers on her head at night instead of the bobby pins she herself had dreamed of experimenting with. She wore lipstick that looked out of place against the yellow blue sky. But most striking of all, Mamaw says, was her smile.

“I always thought she would look sad. But here she was, and any fool could see that she was happy as a lark.” Mamaw recognized the woman without any introduction, just as, clearly, Sarah had recognized her.

“You get up in this truck, Naomi,” Sarah told her, and without thinking, Naomi obeyed. It never occurred to her what her grandparents would think when she came lurching up the drive in the company of her scarlet mother and whoever it was that was behind the wheel of the vehicle. This was a total suspension of her nature; while she was not known to be shy, she was always exceptionally careful, and far-sighted for a girl her age. At school, it was generally noted that Naomi Pope was not given to flights of fancy, nor was she easily impressed. But on this day, sitting in the biggest, loudest truck she had ever seen in her life, the past seemed to melt away.

Naomi rode shotgun all the way home with her mother and the man she soon discovered was her step-father/uncle. Then, after sitting numb through a supper punctuated with shouts and accusations on all sides, she quietly packed a sack full of her prettiest dresses and hairbows climbed back onto the bench seat of that lumbering truck. She had no idea where she was headed. No idea what she was doing. And no idea how to do anything but ride until someone told her to get off.

That someone would be my Papaw.

Jo's poem

A poem Jo wrote during her free-writing time today. Read it as the sad outpouring of a ten year-old, animal-obsessed girl before I give you my thoughts.

some people say you are just a rabbit
and you do not know
the things that humans know
like hurting hearts
and sadness and tears
and love

but I can see
that you are mourning
your loss is real to you
as real as your empty nestbox
and the straw underneath you
that does not hold your babies

Makes you want to give Jo a hug, doesn't it?

Being a literary sort myself, I have nudged my children to give vent to their more raw emotions in writing ever since they were old enough to phonetically piece together something as eloquent as "Im aingree" (this particular sentence was from Atticus at age 3.5).

From those humble beginnings, I have watched my children express excitement, fear, love, friendship, joy and outrage in their writing. I am always delighted when they reach that level of openness in their work that allows me to see the inner wrestlings of their hearts, and a glimpse into their passions. It is, to me, one of the most tender parts of homeschooling; I have witnessed and helped to shape in my children a love for a form of expression that not only allows them to vent their emotions, but helps them to process them as well.

So, it was not unusual that Jo chose to use her writing time to fit together the things that were rubbing against her heart in the most bruised places. Honestly, I just feel honored that I was able to sit beside her afterwards and ask if she wanted to share what she had written with me. (This is a general rule in our house: free writing is free writing. It is only made public if you wish it to be so.)

I read it once in my head, and then again aloud. And this is what I told my daughter:

Your imagery is beautiful.
Your word choices are clear and set a wonderful tone.
I see some of that ee cummings coming out in you!
I really like the cadence of this poem.

And what I thought in my heart was, "Thank you, God, for the gift of writing. Thank you for a pressure valve for our souls."

A Fate Worse Than Death

Another installment about my family. This one sheds light on my grandmother's background.

Papaw used to say that he had saved Mamaw from a fate worse than death: life as a Pope or a Smythe. “Every last one of them is a thief, liar or murderer,” he always reminded her.

In other words, he didn’t hold his in-laws in very high esteem.

There was some truth to his assertion: the Popes--a sprawling, brawling clan that Mamaw was raised in--was linked to just about every bad thing that had happened in the holler since memory began. The Smythes weren’t much better. No one knew where either family had originally come from (a sin among people who define themselves as much by where they’ve been as where they’re going), but they had had roots in the hills for generations longer than most other families. Not that this gave them any sense of refinement; they were known to be roustabouts, drinkers, gamblers and dancers. They were also cheats: a boy hired to work for them would most likely never see a nickel of his promised pay, or the sympathy of anyone else, for that matter. Everyone knew that the Popes and the Smythes were trash, and if you got mixed up with them then well, that was your problem.

Mamaw, of course, had no say to whom she was born, and unfortunately for her, she was both a Pope and a Smythe. Her mother, Sarah Pope, had given birth to her shortly after her own fifteenth birthday, an unwed Holiness girl brought to shame through her own wild ways. Mamaw's father was a Smythe. He was an older second cousin, already married and responsible for the three children that union had brought about. When news of the birth spread throughout the holler, more than a few folks shrugged their shoulders. What more could you expect out a Smythe and a Pope?

Horrified at her daughter’s very public and clearly unrepentant sinning, Mamaw’s grandmother took full charge of the newborn, who she named Naomi. Maybe a good, Biblical name would give her some sense, she reasoned. Her husband--a strong Christian himself--reminded her that it sure hadn’t done their own little girl much good, but it couldn’t hurt much either.

And so my grandmother was raised by Mamaw and Papaw Pope, who had somehow escaped the curse of their surname and managed to lead fairly uneventful and steady lives. The same couldn’t be said for little Naomi’s mother, Sarah. Set free by her parent’s willingness to bear the burden of her baby, Sarah fled from the holler in the middle of an September night. Only later did people realize that Andy Smythe, the brother of her former lover, was gone, too.

Andy owned a truck. That’s what most folks figured made Sarah take notice of him in the first place, because they clearly weren’t cut from the same cloth. He was a tall, looming man built like a wall, with shoulders wider than his waist and a smallish head set straight onto those shoulders without much hint of a neck. No one had ever considered him handsome--even by the standards of the day-- because, well, most people had never really considered him. Andy kept pretty well to himself. He hauled coal in his truck, farmed, fished and drove his Momma and Daddy around visiting on Sundays. He drew about as little notice as a bootlegger, but a bootlegger was actually trying to be invisible. To Andy, it just came natural.

Sarah did notice him though--apparently as much as people were noticing her. By all reports, she had shed every last vestige of respectability after the birth of baby Naomi. Everyone had known that she’d had a tendency to wildness in her from the time she was a little girl that begged for lace collars on her dresses, but it had been held in check by her Daddy’s belt and the good preaching at Calvary Holiness Church. Now that she’d walked through the shame of giving birth unwed, though, it was as if the shell of appearances had been burned away, leaving behind what had been hiding all along. Sarah had gotten her wiry figure back almost as soon as the midwife had cleared the door with her sack of blue half runner beans, and took to frequenting the card room that ran nightly in the back of the hardware store. More than once she was seen sneaking through the dark late at night with men stumbling from too much drink. Women in the holler started squinting their eyes when her name was mentioned. Everyone knows what that squint means in rural Kentucky: whore.

“I think she knew she was done for in these parts,” Mamaw says now. “Weren’t no use in acting like a good girl, when everyone knew she wasn’t.”

Sarah never told what it was that drew her to Andy Smythe, or what it was that drove her to leave with him that autumn. Not given to self-reflection or many words, she was happy to let conclusions be drawn and all sorts of rumors circulate around her well into her old age. The closest she ever came to admitting to the truth of what went on that summer came the last time I saw her alive. She was recovering from a broken hip, living with Mamaw and Papaw in an uncomfortably dependent state that nearly drove her mad even at over ninety years old.

“Let me tell you about that truck, Baby,” she said, using my family nickname. “That was ‘25, and trucks back then wasn’t as flashy as they are now. It was sticky with coal dust and smelled like a mine. Now, that truck that me and Andy got us in ‘75 ... that there was a truck I’d stick with a man for.”

Balancing act

MJ asked in a comment to my last post how I juggle writing, being a wife, homeschooling, homemaking and breathing. (O.k., I added the breathing part.) It’s a fairly common question, and one I’ve put a lot of effort into answering in my own life. Like most answers, though, it needs a little backstory to tie up the loose ends that you see in the (never) final product.

First, I have to explain that if I am not writing, I am not a balanced person. I have tried at various points in my life to squash the urge to write, and have found that it brings me a level of misery that only a masochist could revel in. Clearly, God gave me a desire to write, and while He has not as of yet revealed His purpose for doing so, I assume that at some point it will be made clear to me. Until then ... I must write.

This is easier than it sounds. Since anyone with children knows that carving out an entire hour of time to devote to a solitary pursuit is near to impossible, it doesn’t sound that easy at all. Add to that homeschooling, housekeeping, ministry and the children’s extracurriculars, and you can see that full plates are my specialty. Having said all of that, however, I refer you to my earlier comment: If I am not writing, I am not a balanced person. Perhaps that explains why I keep writing on my list of priorities.

On to the nitty-gritty. How do I get that time? First and foremost, I have trained my children that rest time is an absolute law in my home. Everyone needs--and gets--a rest time. This started out as Jo’s nap time all those years ago, and has morphed into a time after lunch when all three children are tucked into their own beds, propped up with a book and surrounded by quiet play options. At this point in our family’s life, the sacred rest time is easy to maintain because everyone looks forward to it. Of course, it wasn’t always this way. When each of my children hit the end of their nap-time years, there was a definite training curve that ate into my writing time. Trust me, all that work has paid off.

Nowadays, I take that hour and a half as uninterrupted writing time. And I write something every day. Some days, I sit down and begin laying out the opening line that has been bouncing in my mind. (Almost all of my stories start with one line that sets up the voice in my head.) Sometimes it is simply a blog entry where I unload my brain. Other times, I edit a previously finished short story. Maybe I have a new idea that I jot ideas down for. Or, of course, I can always keep going on an existing in-progress piece.

My own preferred genre makes it easy to write in fits and starts. I have always loved short stories, and have made them my mainstay. I also love cataloging and expanding on the rich stories passed down to me through my eclectic family. These things “keep” better than other, more intricate styles of writing, which demand an increasing attention to detail as you grow the tale. I have attempted a piece longer than a novella only once, and it was clearly not my forte.

People ask me if it isn’t frustrating to have an uncertain amount of time to set aside for writing. It took me literally having a long, dry spell of not writing at all before I realized that it was better to take the time I could squirrel away than to live in that desert. This particular patch I am speaking of started when Logan was having a hard time napping and I had to accompany him to bed each afternoon to make sure he actually slept. Guess who was out first more often that not? Yep--Momma. Contributing to all of this was the fact that my new friends and neighbors (this was shortly after our move to WA) place no value on writing beyond the grades that their own children bring home from freshman composition. To say, “I didn’t answer the phone because I was writing,” was something akin to announcing that I had just dyed my hair bright pink. (And while I have also been known to dabble in the dye in my lifetime, I certainly wouldn’t admit that little nugget to them, either!)

I still do not have an extended network of support for my work here in this area. A friend has invited me multiple times to a Christian Writer’s Group, but I am not a joiner in general, and the idea intimidates me. I have one very old friend who asks from time to time what I am working on (God bless him!) as well as a brother who wants to know when I will singlehandedly revolutionize the publishing industry and put a halt to the production of the smarm that often passes as Christian literature. I don’t talk about my writing with anyone outside of my husband, children and the aforementioned friend. That’s clearly not a huge system of encouragement, but at this point, I don't let a lack of understanding or interest on behalf of others stop me.

I have to admit that at this point, I only submit a handful of my stories for publication each year. I continue to edit, rewrite and refine, but I do not currently have the time to maintain a database of submissions. I’m sure that that season will come.

I also admit that my writing time is sacrificed at least once a week to a phone call, a book I’m reading, research, ministry, quiet snuggle time with an especially needy child, or whatever else God has put on my plate for that day. The key for me is not letting it happen two days in a row; if it does, it becomes a habit quite quickly for me.

Work to be done part 2

More from my grandfather's memories:

From the time he was old enough, Papaw was looking for a way to make money.

“I knew you had to have money to make something of yourself and have yourself a good family. So that’s what I went after.”

He hired himself out for whatever work was available after the pitiful crops in Poppy’s sorry fields failed. Bad years were a mixed blessing; if the rope beans and sweet corn failed too early, there might not be enough to feed the family through the winter, but he would have plenty of chances to cut hay and pick for other farmers. Most years, he says, things worked out just right. They didn’t starve, and he had a little money socked away. He kept it, like most little boys, buried under the house in a Mason jar. His brothers and sisters all knew where it was, but also knew better than to touch it. Like most men in the family, he had a mean streak even then that kept smart people from crossing him.

The year that World War II ended, my grandfather plotted how to strike out on his own. Mick was a gutsy 14 year-old, hardened by an empty belly and muscles honed taut with the work of a grown man. He’d seen his four older brothers move out on their own in the past two years, and was feeling the itch. He knew he was young and he had no intention of marrying yet. As he saw it, that was the only legitimate reason for leaving home and letting your parents and siblings fend for themselves. But he had a jar full of money and a plan that kept him awake at night.

He had no sorrow for the old man. Poppy would, as always, come out of it fine. It was the three younger boys Mick worried about.

“I knew they’d be left carrying my part of the load, and I felt real bad about that.”
Mick worried the most about little H.T., the baby, who had been sheltered from the hard work by Nanny.

“I knew when I was cut loose, H.T. was gonna leave school. Mommy had fought so hard to get him in school, and here I was gonna ruin it for him. No way Poppy was gonna let him sit in a classroom when there was work to be done.”

Mick himself had set in on three or four days of school back before he was strong enough to help with the really hard work. There were older boys at home, besides, and he’d have done nothing but cause mischief—that was Nanny’s excuse for packing a greasy breakfast biscuit into a tin can and sending him down the holler to see what Miz Gray could do with him.

The first day he arrived at the schoolhouse—which was really only a shack that had been outfitted with long plank tables and pews that had been salvaged when a church had burned nearly to the ground—he was surprised to see children he’d never known were in the holler. Mick had thought at age 5 that he’d pretty much known every soul on Lick Creek. It wasn’t a big place, really, but he’d been thorough in his wanderings and had come across houses buried deep back off snaking main road and even dwellings that weren’t really houses at all, just shanties thrown up to keep the rain off folk’s heads. Mick wasn’t an overly friendly type—that was what H.T. was known for—but he knew proper protocol when passing by a neighbor, even one that was miles away. As long as there wasn’t a pillar of smoke nearby (that was a sign of bootleggers, and bootleggers had a tendency to shoot on sight) he’d approach the dirt yard and call out, “Hey, yu’ns home?” No matter how poor the house, someone was usually home and they more likely than not had a glass of water to sip and a spot of porch to sit on and visit. Kin or no, he’d learned just about every citizen of Lick Creek.

Except, of course, the half-dozen kids in Miz Gray’s schoolhouse. Mick knew from looking at them why he’d never heard tell of them. They wore clothes that bore the signs of having been washed in fresh water. Their hair was clean and combed. A couple of the strangers wore shoes. These, Mick knew without being told, were children whose chores were milking, mixing corn bread, rinsing dishes and hanging wash. Children well looked after. Children whose fathers didn’t cook up likker or farm barren fields.

Children he had nothing in common with.

He stayed in school long enough to learn what his name looked like. Miz Gray, it is said, took great pride in the proper penmanship of her pupils. She followed the precise methods of the day, spending hours reciting the letter forms: “S. Start top, slide left, curve down right, pass right, curve down, and left, curl up.” My grandfather wasn’t interested in an elegant hand.
“I told her I wanted to write my own name. She said I had to do other things, like summing up and recitin’. I said no, just my own name. So I told it to her, and she wrote it down on the little board. And I just copied it over and over ‘til I recalled it. Then I quit the school.”

H.T., however, had gone through nearly six years of education. He could read and write. If he put his mind to it, he could get a good job someday, maybe with the government. There was no call for anything but farmers and day laborers in the holler, but in the big cities, a learned man could make good money minding shop counters and selling things like radios and soft chairs. H.T. was gonna be that kind of man, if his momma had any say.

Mick didn’t begrudge his baby brother the dreams their momma had poured into him. Big Mommy had borne twelve children and not one had had so much as a fighting chance from the time it’d hit the ground running. But maybe, just maybe, one of them would live to see something more than the inside of a coal mine or the view from behind a plow. The best Nanny could see for any of her children was a job that kept their hands soft. Ralph knew at fourteen that his hands were already calloused thick and deep. H.T.’s, he knew, were still smooth, except for the ridge he’d worn on the side of his index finger from working with his pencil so much to practice penmanship for Miz Gray.

Besides, Mick didn’t want to narrow his options too much. He wasn’t above any kind of work, as far as he could see. There wasn’t any job—any paying job—he wouldn’t stoop to do. Folks who only did work that appealed to them or came up to their station in life either had money in the bank or were on aid, one.

Later on in life, Papaw’s jobs would read like a laundry list of occupations. There was farmer, of course. Fence post-digger. Lay farrier. Carpenter. Picker. Mechanic. Glazer. Miner. Driver.

All before he hit twenty and found the job that would finally give him the warm house, the clean children, and the plentiful food he had always dreamed of.

Work to be done

Another random post of my writing--this one a retelling of a story my beloved Alzheimer's-stricken grandfather tells me every time I get him on the phone.

Somehow, despite his raising, my grandfather got the notion that life had more to offer than a house with crumpled newspaper for insulation and a cookstove for heat. The idea tore at him, ate at him, from the time he was a small boy pushing a plow behind a mule.

The mule, really, was part of the problem, he would explain later to me. Poppy, Papaw’s father, had bought the mule some years back. She was past her prime then, and the man selling her warned Poppy that she had little left to give. Poppy scoffed, more interested in the low selling price than the return on his dollar.

“I’ve got a houseful of boys that can work,” Poppy reminded the owner of the mule, “All I need is somethin’ for ‘em to hitch the plow to.”

The boys knew when they saw Poppy riding the skinny, slightly swaybacked mule into the holler what had happened. He had left that morning with the promise of a new mule to replace the one that had been worked to death in the field. Nanny had tried to make him promise that he’d some back with a young mule—she didn’t care if it was so coltish that the boys had to break it—that would be worth their hard-earned money. The boys knew better, even as they watched their mother beg over a bowl of thin gravy. Even though none of them was over twelve, they knew. Poppy would come back with whatever suited him. And, apparently, the old gray mule with the two dollar price tag was what suited him.

My Papaw--known then as Mick-- and three of his brothers met their father at the barn lot gate. The mule was winded from bearing the load of her new owner all of three miles up the rough holler road.

“Whatcha’ got there, Poppy?” one of the boys asked, straining in to catch the scent of liquor when the older man spoke.

“New mule,” Poppy answered, swinging his lanky legs off the animal’s side and landing beside her. He was two full heads taller than the mule—not, Mick remembers thinking, a good sign in a work animal.
“You gonna’ plow with her?” Mick asked then, opening the gate so the mule could be led into the thin-planked walls of their collapsing barn.
Poppy stuck his finger in his son’s chest and shouted in his thickly accented voice, “I ain’t gonna’ do ought with it, boy. That’s why the good Lord above sent you.”

Poppy was true to his word. The next morning saw all seven children crowded around the breakfast table and the old man sprawled drunk next to it on his mattress. By mid morning, the boys were in the fields and the girls had followed their mother down to the stream wash clothes. It took three boys to guide the plow through the field that first morning. By the next day, they had a rhythm and it only took two of them to keep the old mule in line. They took turns behind the plow. Whoever’s turn it was to sit out could run down to the stream for a drink or sit under one of the tall trees at the side of the field until it was his turn again. By nightfall the second day, the work was done.

“And it’s a dang good thing.” Mick remembers, “Or we would have buried another mule had we had to plow with her a third day.”

Note: Since it feels rather self-indulgent to keep posting these little memoirs, I'll only keep going if people ask.

And now for something completely different

Call it Random Friday. Call it Nothing To Blog About Day. At any rate, for your reading pleasure I offer up a section of a biographical piece that has been floating through my head (and on my hard drive) for the better part of a decade. Feedback welcome!


My parents were raised on opposite sides of a mountain that straddles the Kentucky/Tennessee border. They both moved North in their respective fifteenth years, led up I-75 by fathers hoping to cash in on Detroit’s booming auto industry.

If my family were given to seeing the irony in a given situation, this would have been a heck of an example. But I can’t recall anyone making mention of it. The fact was, they had lived no more than an hour apart for their entire lives before they finally met at a church supper with some really good Southern potato salad on the menu. From the beginning, this was all they had in common: twanging backwoods accents that set them apart in their mostly black high schools and a longing to return to places filled more with winding hollers than claustrophobic alleys.

Except for a brief, tragic stint in Knoxville, my parents never made the return to their roots. We went Back Home (as we called it) at least twice a year all through my childhood, pulling out of our brick, two-car garage before the sun came up and grinding our way up the dirt road that led to my Uncle’s trailer before supper. The trips down were boisterous, if agonizing. Before my baby brother joined us, I rode alone in the wide, windy backseat of my mother’s Charger, dodging still-red ashes from my parent’s cigarettes and handing up bottles of Bud when asked. All of this was before the ban on drinking and driving went into effect; it was the late 1970s, and only idiots thought driving with a few innocent beers under your belt was dangerous. These were presumably the same idiots who wore seatbelts when anyone with any sense at all could see that you’d have to be cut out of your car if you were strapped in and wrecked.

Trips South were sacred, as evidenced by the temporary suspension of several family rules. First, I was allowed to gather a small bag of toys and books to bring along for the ride. I could voice my picks for music, too—all I had to do was suggest the Johnny Horton 8Track and chances were good it would find its way into rotation. But the clearest sign that a trip Back Home was something special was this: It was the only time I was allowed to eat or drink in the car.

Despite the fact that both of my parents smoked, food—or anything else that might stain the interior—was taboo. Forbidden, too, was any horseplay that might damage the exterior of the car. My father orchestrated what he called “D**n Common Sense Rules” (as in, “Don’t you have any d**n common sense?”) pertaining to behavior in or around a vehicle:

1. Never ever put your feet in the car’s seat.
2. Never get in the car with dirty feet. If your shoes are dirty and you can’t clean them adequately, take your shoes off and set them in your lap. Mom can wash your clothes when you get home, but the floor mats, if soiled, may be ruined forever.
3. No eating, drinking, chewing gum, spitting, etc. in the car at any time.
4. Never use the ashtray in the car. Flick butts out the window to keep the ashtray clean.
5. Do not lean or pull on the front seats when you are sitting in the back.
6. Do not lean against the car.
7. Do not sit on the hood of the car.
8. No balls around the car: bouncing, thrown or otherwise.
9. If you must pass the car with your bike, do not ride it. Get off the bike and walk it past the car carefully, with your body between the bike and the car.
10. If the car gets wet, wipe it dry with a clean, soft towel. No air drying ... it causes spots.

The day to day enforcement of these rules was strict. Stopping at a drivethru for dinner meant an agonizing ride home with a hot, greasy bag of White Castles or Arby’s in my lap, the smell perfuming the air. I don’t remember even asking to try a fry in the car. It would have been sacrilege. Except for the times I was allowed to participate in the weekly automobile worship/washing sessions, I had never touched any of my parents’ cars. I had no idea what would happen if a real infraction—a scratch, a ding, or, heaven forbid, a full-fledged dent— took place. I was a quick study, and had been barked at a few times for being too near the vehicle. It was an honor and a priveleg just to be near the car. Anything more was too much to ask for.

But going Back Home was different. We didn’t eat breakfast in my family, so everyone filed to the car with an empty stomach. My mother always brought along a pillow and a blanket for me, and I would stretch out in the backseat. I was allowed to pull my shoeless feet up into the seat, but not to place them against any of the glass or vinyl trim. When I woke up, my mother would be carefully draining the last dregs of black coffee from our tall silver thermos into the lid that doublled as a mug. This was usually the sign that it was time for the music to come on—something raucous, usually. A little CCR, maybe. For years I thought that “Suzy Q” was somehow tied to the Ohio state line. I don’t know why, but it always seemed to be the song that was banging through the speakers when we left Michigan behind.

For lunch, mom had packed the day-glo orange cooler with bologna sandwiches. Mine were always plain: two slices of white bread and one slice of slick bologna. It came wrapped in a flip-top sandwich bag and a warning: “Get all the crumbs in the bag. And don’t go waving it around.” I was never sure why I would have wanted to wave my sandwich around. It was just one of those things that grown-ups said sometimes, I figured. When I finished the sandwich, I knew, mom would tell me I could get a bottle of Coke, the glass so cold that the ice from the cooler might still be beading on it. I would drink the whole thing and sit back, bloated and satisfied.

And then I would pray that I didn’t have to pee.

The trip from our suburban ranch home in Michigan to Uncle Shep and Aunt Lou’s three bedroom trailer in Kentucky took ten hours. There were no planned stops. Toileting was done by necessity only, and even then my father was more likely to pull off on the side of the highway and swing open the door as the car idled than to visit a rest stop with actual toilet paper. His glare in the rearview mirror was usually more than enough to make me sit with crossed legs and suffer while my bladder ached. And ache it did—a whole bottle of Coke, chugged so quick it gave me a sugary buzz and stinging throat, was more than enough to fill a six year-old’s bladder near to popping. How my dad drank all that beer and black coffee and never had to stop, I’ll never know. Part of me think that it was the magnetic properties of the place, drawing him home.

He couldn’t have taken his time going Back Home if he’d wanted.

Submission admission

Truth time: I have not submitted any of my writing in two months.

I would love to blame this on the beautiful weather, but the fact is that it was still raining buckets eight weeks ago. No, this has nothing to do with the amount of time we've been spending outside, or how I've been making a more concerted effort to give each child more one-on-one time. Those would be really nice things to be able to say, but they'd also be lies.

The fact is that I am having a hard time figuring out what to write right now. I think it's simply the limbo-like feeling that hangs over my life right now manifesting itself in my creativity. Try as I might, I can't get my head on straight enough to write anything that makes a whole lot of sense.

Usually these dry spells entice me to drag out the forgotten pieces I've shelved. I rework them, add new perspective, tweak and fine tune. Then I send the final product out and wait for the inevitable rejection letters. By the time they start rolling in (email is so helpful in this regard!) I have moved on to a completely new story and feel much better about my talent on the whole.

This time I don't feel the urge to rework. I don't get excited at the thought of editing. And really, this lack of passion has me puzzled.

I guess I'll just wait and see what comes of it. Maybe there's a great story bubbling under the surface here. Or maybe it's my time in the desert. Who knows?