Recently, I have been blessed to share some of my writing in a variety of settings, including in my writers’ group, at an open mic event, and within an assisted living facility. I am amazed at what happens inside you as a writer through your writing (and sharing) process.
For one thing, sharing your writing feels like inviting someone into your home, and hearing someone share is being invited. Some writing feels like sitting in PJs, it can be so intimate. The emotions evoked span the emotional spectrum: happy, sad, glad, or mad.
This week, belly laughs galore from Debra Fewell sharing the revenge of the crawdads. Dan England’s words about a betrayed love still fill the air. Chris Michaels’ touched us all deeply by reading her memoir of her beloved husband’s death from pneumonia, following his decline from Alzheimer’s Disease.
It truly is an honor and a privilege to witness the insides of another human being.
Nostalgia by Debra Basham
My mother-in-law learned to drive a car later in life than anyone else I know, but following my father-in-law’s stroke, it was an absolute necessity; so learn to drive she did. It was either that or wait a couple of years for their youngest to turn sixteen.Going from having someone take care of you to having to take care of someone is not all fun and games. It would be years later that we all went into family therapy to deal with the stress. No one expected things to go on as long as they did, and my husband and I certainly would not have predicted that in our early twenties we would have the opportunity to be raising a troubled teen. Agreeing to open our home to one child essentially closed off the door to another. Years went by, and by the time my brother-in-law moved out, we were not interested in starting over with the baby phase.I tell our daughter she is an only because we could not improve on perfection. She knows the rest of the story, but it feels so good to have someone recognize you are perfect just the way you are.My mom had the ability to do that for every one of her grandchildren. She would make each one’s favorite food: lasagna, fried chicken, barbeque—and all for the same meal. She would also make three pans of cinnamon rolls so everyone who preferred it could have the one from the center.Mom worked hard. It was not until after my dad died and she moved into an apartment at the senior living complex that she had a proper bedroom closet. We sometimes forget how quickly things have changed so much. Growing up, we had a party line. Kids today would think that is something entirely different than what it was. We only answered the phone when it rang one long and one short, and if we picked up and the neighbor was still talking, we hung up just loudly enough she might get the hint, finish her call, and hang up, but not so loudly she could know we were trying to ask her to do so.Privacy was just not the same. When I grew up, we shared bedrooms, and we shared beds. Sometimes our whole family was in one, lying in the dark listening to the radio…It is true, we did not have much in the way of worldly wealth, but we certainly knew the importance of being generous with what we had. There was always enough to set an extra place at the table. My folks raised pigs once, but my two sisters and I named them after the people we bought the piglets from and after my dad had those pigs butchered, we refused to eat Tom and Fran!We did not think of our lives as hard, life was just what it was. And I am not saying you know it for sure, but I have often though, looking back, I could just about understand what drove my dad to drink….I’m so very thankful he had gone into sobriety about the time I got married at the tender young age of 16. We could probably say we had all been blessed because my dad’s grandchildren only knew him sober.
