Back from the Depths…

First off, I want to apologize for not having posted here in a very long while.

Truth is, I’ve been busy — this writing thing is starting to take off now, and I’m really excited about the direction in which it’s headed.  Over the summer, I submitted two stories for inclusion in anthologies and am honored to say that both of them were accepted for publication!

The first one — Letters for My Little Sister — is a marvelous book about menopause.  It’s filled with stories from women of all ages and walks of life from all over the world.  I’m one of those gals who never learned from my mother about these things because, quite frankly, she passed away when she was only 35.  My grandmother never shared anything, either, because I wasn’t experiencing (or even thinking about) symptoms when she was still here with us.  So when I opened this book and started reading, it felt as if I had settled in among a circle of kindreds — I poured myself a cup of favorite tea, pulled up the blanket, and started reading.  Couldn’t put it down. Several times I felt myself chuckling in acknowledgement at some of the experiences – of course, my husband wondered what I could possibly be laughing at, but he DARED not ask, for fear of what might happen (I’m pre-menopausal, you know?).

The second book — Women Awakening: Discovering Our Personal Truths — is an anthology of I Am Subject Stories that focus on women sharing how the influences of family history, body and mind, internal/external roles, and life-altering moments have helped shape their lives… and their stories.  The stories are raw, honest, risky.  I would like to meet several of these women in person some day.  Diane DeBella, the book’s editor and the creator of the I Am Subject project, has become a friend via the wonders of technology (she lives in Colorado and I’m in North Carolina), and I hope to get together with her very soon to explore some opportunities to expand on this project.

I encourage you to consider these books and their creators.  Here are links to their webpages and book information:

Cecelia Gunther — Letters for My Little Sister Book Order Page
http://thekitchensgarden.com/book-orders/

Diane DeBella — The I Am Subject Project Page
http://iamsubject.com
For Women Awakening Book Orders
http://www.iamsubject.com/diane-debella-books/women-awakening/

Here’s me… as proud as punch!

 

 

 

 

 

Tending the Roots (of the Family Tree)

I have this jasmine plant that has entwined itself around the posts of the pergola on the back deck.  For over five years, I spent time carefully guiding and gently securing the vines up and around the 9-foot post until they began to crawl on their own across the top beams.  The deep green leaves were beautiful, and the tiny white flowers provided me with calming, intoxicating scents when the right breeze passed through the yard in the summer months.

But this past winter was particularly harsh – on many levels.  As we experienced the most snow and coldest temperatures since I planted it, my life seemed equally as cold and bleak, as I was dealing with some physical and emotional issues that continued to nip at my body, mind, and spirit.  So, as my beautiful jasmine plant began to wither away… it seemed that I was doing the same thing.

Over the past few years, I’ve gradually lost connection with a family member who was, from the time I was eleven, the closest thing to a mother-figure that I had.  The details aren’t necessary to relate here – but they are such that our ability to spend time with each other the way we used to is forever changed.  This has affected me deeply – as I grew older and began to recall things about my life that had been kept “hidden” as a way of protecting myself and others, I began to realize that acknowledging and sharing those memories – especially with her – was an essential step in the healing process.  Unfortunately, sometimes one’s healing may cause discomfort and hurt in others. It was a tough, but necessary, decision.

The phone calls and weekend visits spent talking about meaningless things (and sometimes serious things), the updates on house projects driving us crazy, and the exercise walks on the boardwalk, interrupted by a “rest break” (cocktail stop)  – they were now a thing of the past.  I felt uncomfortable with the thought of calling her on a Saturday morning, for fear I wouldn’t know quite what to say to my own aunt — the sister who had shared her childhood bedroom with my mother and who had promised my mom near the end of her life that she would help take care of me.

Last week, I received a text message that asked if we were “still family.”  I must’ve looked at it at least ten times, wondering how our relationship had come to this – the occasional cryptic “Hello, I’m fine” that was supposed to make up for not talking for a month.  We were both guilty of it.

So I sent a note back to her (still hesitant to pick up the phone).

We started talking about the plants on our deck.  That was safe conversation after such a long time.  I mentioned the jasmine that had finally met its match this winter and said I was going to get a new one and start over.  Then she told me to look at it closely – saying that “when you think it’s dead, new growth will appear at the base, near the roots.”  I went over to the plant, brushed away the dead leaves and vines…

and found this.

Beautiful little green leaves sprouting up from the roots.

In that moment, I discovered more than the fact that my gardening skills (and vision) were obviously lacking.  I realized that the moment when you’re withered to the point of giving up is the moment when you must push aside the old, dead stuff and take a real close look at things.  Chances are you’ll find that you weren’t really in as bad shape as you thought.  With a little tending, your branches will begin to grow again, and before long, you’ll be winding your way toward the top of the pergola and the sunshine.

So it is with jasmine… and with family — if you’re willing to spend the time tending them.

I think I will give her a call this weekend. It’ll be nice to chat over a long-distance cup of coffee.

Life (and Rocking Chairs), Remembered

It’s no secret.  I love porches.

When I was young, my front porch was “home base” during heated games of tag.  It was the safe place where neighborhood parents knew we would be until late at night in the summer.  It was the place where my friends and I would camp out and watch Monty Python episodes on a battery-powered mini TV.  The place where I sat and talked with my dad the day I decided to leave an alcoholic, narcissistic husband.

I also loved my Grandmother’s front porch.  The way the gigantic Boston ferns swayed in the hot summer breeze was almost hypnotic.  Comforting.  When the house was filled with family members (and too much cigarette smoke), I would slip outside to sit on the white wicker loveseat.  It had puffy cushions and was the best place to catch a quick nap… at least until my cousins came outside to pick on me or to try and steal my spot.

The first Christmas after Momma died, I spent a good deal of time sitting out there on my own, just attempting to understand all the feelings that were overwhelming my twelve-year-old heart and mind.  Someone came out and captured this picture of me, sitting in one of Grandmother’s rocking chairs. For many years, I learned how to smile, even though inside, I was far from happy.

One of the things I love the most about my current home is the “farmhouse” porch that spans across its front.  It reminds me so much of Grandmother’s — a comforting retreat to clear my head, to consider the day’s tasks, or to do some reading and writing.  Of course, a nice cup of coffee or hot tea is mandatory.

My seat was a tan Adirondack chair.  One of those plastic ones that had a comfort duration of only about 30 minutes because it didn’t have that fancy lower back support thing that the more expensive versions did.  Yeah, I was a cheapo when I bought it.  Its twin didn’t fare as well, breaking one night after a summer wine-drinking session.  The back just broke off… instant recliner.  Thank goodness for wine, or that might’ve really hurt.

Finally, after about six years of serving me through 100-degree days, being brutalized by windstorms, and enduring several butts — mine, my husband’s, my stepkids, and my dog’s — the Adirondack finally called it quits.  I felt lost — the other chairs we had just didn’t fill the vacant space.  So began my search.  When my dad heard that I was looking for a good porch-sitting chair, he offered one that couldn’t have been more perfect…

…or any uglier. It was a wicker rocker that my Momma had purchased when I was little.  Over the years, it was neglected.  Abandoned in the dark corner of my dad’s living room.  It had been painted cream and accessorized with a nondescript cushion. A perfect candidate in need of some well-deserved TLC.  This thing is probably over 40 years old, and boy, did it look it.

As I painted it, the project took on an even bigger meaning to me, as I recalled brief memories of sitting in it as a young girl.  While I don’t really remember when it was purchased (my dad told me about it), restoring it to a new life also helped restore some happy memories as well.  Couldn’t help but think that my Momma would approve of the quirky choice of colors and patterns.

It’s amazing what a fresh coat of paint, a comfy new cushion, and a whimsical pillow can do to brighten up a forgotten treasure. I cleaned up a cool daisy table that was hiding in the corner of the porch.  Now, all I needed was the perfect pillow to coordinate the colors…

…and, thanks to a friend’s help, I was able to locate it!

Now, my favorite spot is almost complete.  A place to relax, read, write… and remember.  Once again, as an adult, I’ve found my “safe place.”  Just need that huge Boston fern.

There’s something about a front porch…

Happy (and not so Happy) Birthday Memories

 It started out with this little card.  I was born on the afternoon of December 10, 1966  – apparently, pretty tiny thing — and my left hip was dislocated.  Doctor said that the ball and socket joint hadn’t formed properly, so for the first year or so, I was told that a special “parachute-like” contraption had to be worn to help that set properly.  Seems to me, I remember dad telling me that I even learned to crawl and walk with it.  Explains that funny “duck walk” thing I have going on.
Of course, it’s not surprising that I don’t remember my first birthday.  I do vaguely remember the house we lived in — it was just a few miles from my grandparents.  We lived there until I was about three.  One winter, there was a tremendous snowfall that made the pine trees bend over to touch the ground.  I remember seeing pictures of me and my parents playing in the front yard and building a snowman.

(By the way, don’t you just love my Pops’ shoes? I’ve always had a thing for Hush Puppies loafers…)

As a kid, having a birthday two weeks before Christmas kinda sucked.  You always got the “since we’re coming down for Christmas, we’ll just bring your birthday presents then.”  But for my sixth birthday, Momma and Granny let me pick whatever decorations I wanted — I chose pink cups and plates with panda bears on them… and a cake with Santa and Mrs. Claus.  The coolest thing I remember about that day was picking out my very first wristwatch at the Denton Drug Store.  I picked out a Minnie Mouse watch with a yellow band.  I wore it EVERYWHERE  — even when I took a bath…which explains why it no longer works.  But I still have it.

Then, there were the “birthdays gone horribly wrong” — the sleepover guest from my 9th or 10th birthday who peed in my bed, and the 15th birthday party where my friend secretly invited the school bus driver on which I had a tremendous crush (when he asked me how my driver’s license test went, and I told him I had only gotten my LEARNER’s PERMIT, the look on his face told me he was just as mortified as I was).  Trying to figure out who managed to pry the shot glass from my just-turned-23-years-old hands and tucked me in bed (I woke up in a Harvey Gant for US Senate t-shirt) and hoping to GOD it was my sister.  And finally, the 39th birthday party where my (thankfully now) ex-husband decided to get so drunk that he passed out in the downstairs bathroom, and I ran in to find him face down, with his head almost BEHIND the toilet.  With my neighbor’s help, we put him on the sofa, and I spent the remainder of my birthday evening, watching to make sure he was okay.  The next morning, he promised he’d never drink like that again — he did, and I left him.  Best birthday present I’d had in a long time.

But let’s get back to the good times, shall we?

Like the cake my (thankfully now and hopefully forever) husband made for me for my 44th birthday.  Actually, we were still dating at the time.  Word has it this was the “second attempt” at baking this cake.  It also nearly met an untimely end when he was trying to secretly transport it to the Japanese restaurant where we were celebrating.  I thought it was the most exquisite cake in the whole world… and I secretly hoped he’d be celebrating with me for years to come.

Then, there was last year. My 46th birthday.  It had been a rather difficult night.  My “bonus kids” had moved in with us on a permanent basis about two months earlier, and things weren’t going quite well.  I decided it was best if I went and sat on the front porch for a bit.  That night was unusually warm for December – I could go barefooted.  My best four-legged friend, Mick, came walking out and took his space right beside me.  He just sat there, as if to say, “It’s all going to be okay. I’m here if you need me.  Happy birthday.”

Mick left us and headed to the Bridge this July — he was a wonderful companion, and I miss him dearly.

So, how did the celebration of my 47th birthday go? Let me run it down for you:

1. I woke up and was able to enjoy breakfast with my husband.
2. I found a miniature rose plant, balloon and card on the hood of my VW, thanks to the hubs.
3. I got an hour-long massage from the best massage therapist in the world, IMHO.
4. I got my “hurr did” and had a little glass of wine.
5. I stopped in my favorite store and got some new incense and some “Bliss Trip” herbal tea (good stuff, lemme tell ya!).
6. I listened to my bonus son’s holiday middle school band concert.
7. I received MANY well-wishes from friends and family today, and I’m most appreciative of EVERY one.

… and now, I’m spending some time, doing a little writing to clear out the noggin’ before heading to bed.  I ain’t getting any younger, you know.

But not before having a little bit of the key lime pie my Dad gave to me. (Yes, that’s Mister Rogers)

An awesomely Happy Birthday for me.

End of the Line

If I had been born male, my name would have been “Christopher Tysor.”

But I wasn’t…and it isn’t.

I was born female, and my name is Leigh — the only child of my parents, Ray and Nancy.

 

 

 

 

My grandfather, Wade Benton, and his brother, Ray Jordan, were the only two males in my great-grandfather Charlie’s gang of eight children.  “Uncle Ray” (we all called him that) never had any children of his own, and Granddaddy had one son and three daughters.  I’m no scientist, but it seems that female genes run strong on this side of the family.

See this? That’s our family line.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

T641431… that’s me.

I’m the “end of the line.”

Maybe it’s not a big deal, but I started thinking about it while doing some genealogy research the other day.  There are so many families I see on the ancestry websites who are continuing their stories and traditions with the births of children and grandchildren.  At my age, I’m old enough to have children in college but don’t have any.  Truthfully, I never really wanted to have my own children – that’s another story for another time. But the more family trees I viewed and the more stories/traditions I read, the guiltier I felt about it.

Wait a minute.  I can’t help that traditions are such that the males are the ones whose names carry the line.  And I certainly can’t help being born “Girl Tysor.”

Who will continue our family story?

Thankfully, my father and two of his sisters remain, and they have been sharing as many photos and memories as they can gather.  Stories of Monte Zuma Tysor, who I jokingly maintained met an untimely end due to a bowel issue (he was actually trampled by a mule on his farm).  Memories of all the dirty jokes that were shared around the dinner tables during holidays (we still can’t top the ones my Momma and Aunt Gegie used to tell).  Hopefully, my cousins’ children and their children will appreciate them enough to keep it going.

My legacy to the family will be to pass these down the remainder of us — and there are LOTS of us.  We just don’t have Tysor as our last name.  We are Everharts, Lucases, McElhannons, Kisers, and Olsens.

What’s in a name?  I guess it all depends on your perspective… or your place “in the line,” so to speak.