Shhh, it’s #WordlessWednesday
children
Playing with Backgrounds (Wordless Wednesday)
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A Glimpse at Savannah Dawn’s Unconsecrated Visions (Friday’s Free-For-all)
Every young girl has dreams. Some dream of being a supermodel or a nurse, a doctor or a fireman, a teacher, a writer or a rock star. Savannah Dawn has dreams too. But she mostly dreams of a life without nightmares.
Chapter 1
My name is Savannah Dawn and I was named for the place of my conception, whatever that means. I’ll be eleven years old come next March. I love to swim and I hate school. I guess that’s all I know to say about myself except sometimes I see things… like in a dream. Not the stuff most folks talk about. I’ve never dreamed of falling off a cliff or being naked in public and besides those things aren’t scary. As a matter of fact I think dreams like that are silly. There aren’t any cliffs around here and the only time I take my clothes off is to bathe and then I put them right back on.
The dreams used to bother me but they don’t anymore. When I was younger I would wake up crying in the middle of the night.
Mama would bring me a glass of milk and sit beside me in the dark. I’d tell her what I saw and she’d say, “they’re just nightmares honey; nothing but unconsecrated visions.”
As I got older I felt like Mama didn’t want to hear about the things that troubled my slumber. A few times it seemed to rile her so I learned to stay quiet and get my own milk. When she mentioned it to the doctor I told him I didn’t see things anymore. But I did.
Most times what I dream comes to pass but every so often it doesn’t and that’s a good thing. It gets tiresome seeing all the sorrow in peoples past and the tragedy some are headed for. Too bad I never saw what lay in store for Papa; it would have saved us all a heap of sorrow.
Preacher Zeb calls them revelations and says I shouldn’t tell a soul about what I see except him. Zeb is an ex-Marine and a retired pastor. He was also my papa’s best friend. Last summer he baptized me in the Neches River with only God as our witness. We made a pinky swear to keep it secret. A pinky swear ain’t like a promise to God – it’s a promise not to tell Mama. She would have had a fit knowing I washed my sins in dirty water not to mention I nearly drowned while waiting on the Holy Spirit.
My sister got the spirit once at The First Assembly of God in downtown Trinity. She was sitting on the front pew making goo-goo eyes at Brother Tim when all of a sudden she went limp as a dish rag. The brother hollered ‘hallelujah’ and flew down from the pulpit. He smacked her on the forehead then Jodi jumped up and started shaking all over and everybody went crazy.
It took me a minute to realize what was going on; it took Mama about a minute and a half.
Jodi said she felt like a movie star when the whole congregation wanted to touch her. She done it so folks would think she was special, that’s what she said. I always thought she was special so I didn’t care one way or the other but it sure was funny watching her dance around with her hands in the air shouting, alley baba – naba -naba daba- daba doo. She was doing a different dance after we got home and Mama whipped her for blaspheming the Holy Ghost.
I don’t like referring to the Lord’s essence as a ghost. Mama says they’re the same thing but I know she’s never seen either one or she wouldn’t say that. I also know spirits don’t always live in a body; some of them live in drinks of alcohol….
This twisted little gem is only 99¢ at your favorite retailer.
The audio (amusingly narrated by Kelley Mack) is available at Audible, Amazon & iTunes. HaPpY FriDaY Y’all.
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Don’t Blink (Lyrics are Poetry Too)
That boy is a teenager now and those sweet dogs are no longer with us.
Remember, lyricists are poets and lyrics are poems too.
…
Don’t blink
Just like that you’re six years old and you take a nap and you
Wake up and you’re twenty-five and your high school sweetheart becomes your wife
Don’t blink
You just might miss your babies growing like mine did
Turning into moms and dads next thing you know your “better half”
Of fifty years is there in bed
And you’re praying God takes you instead
Trust me friend a hundred years goes faster than you think
So don’t blink
…
Full lyrics can be seen at: YouTube
Songwriters: Chris Allen Wallin / Casey Michael Beathard
Singer: Kenney Chesney
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Writing For Children (No, really)
Kendra Lords makes her audio debut reading Espionage (A juvenile short story).
Espionage is short story centered on five juveniles. Chris, Matt, Tony, Jesse and Sam entertain themselves as amateur agents in a game of espionage with a delightful twist.
Plus the poetic tale of Hailey & Taylor’s Adventure.
This truly is writing for children unlike my other attempts. Of course it is also the brain child of my late mother.
Available at Audible, Amazon and iTunes
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For Jessica (A Poem & A Picture)
This is my daughter (Jessica’s) favorite poem by Shel Silverstein. I cannot count the number of times we read Where the Sidewalk Ends as she was growing up.
As I was readying to take a shot of the book nestled among jasmine a caterpillar dropped from the sky and pooped! Can you believe it? Hmph! What does he know about poetry?! Gee-sh… and I had just scraped twenty years of boogers off!
SARAH CYNTHIA SYLVIA STOUT WOULD NOT TAKE THE GARBAGE OUT
Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out.
She’d wash the dishes and scrub the pans
Cook the yams and spice the hams,
And though her parents would scream and shout,
She simply would not take the garbage out.
And so it piled up to the ceiling:
Coffee grounds, potato peelings,
Brown bananas and rotten peas,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese,
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It cracked the windows and blocked the door,
With bacon rinds and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peels,
Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans, and tangerines,
Crusts of black burned buttered toast,
Grisly bits of beefy roast…
The garbage rolled on down the hall,
It raised the roof, it broke the wall…
Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,
Globs of gooey bubble gum,
Cellophane from green baloney,
Rubbery, blubbery macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk, and crusts of pie,
Rotting melons, dried-up mustard,
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,
Cold French fries and rancid meat,
Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.
At last the garbage reached so high
That finally it touched the sky,
And all the neighbors moved away,
And none of her friends would come to play,
And finally, Sarah Cynthia Stout said,
“OKAY, I’ll take the garbage out!”
But then, of course it was too late…
The garbage reached across the state,
From New York to the Golden Gate,
And there in the garbage she did hate,
Poor Sarah met an awful fate
That I cannot right now relate
Because the hour is much too late
But children, remember Sarah Stout,
And always take the garbage out!
It comes as no surprise Jessica grew up to be a goofball. I thank God every day for allowing me to be her mom.
Reminder: Getting Me Back (The Voices Within) released this month…
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Turning Boys into Men (Tuesday’s Tell All)
I try to do my part in preparing the next generation; in this case turning boys into men. This year’s Spring Break was an excellent opportunity; it was just me and the grandsons.
I was excited as I made the rounds [about a forty mile round-trip] to pick them up. As I drove east I was imagining what sort of fun and informative games I might play with these boys; after all they aren’t ‘little boys’ any more at 10, 12 and 14 years of age. I decided to ad-lib.
Three and a half hours later we arrived home (aka Nana & Papa’s). Yeah, what should have been a forty-five minute drive [round-trip] took a little longer because I let them direct me. When one of them said turn right/left I did – even if it was [obviously] wrong. It was an adventure and we didn’t end up in Alaska so I count it as a win.
“What are we going to do Nana?” the trio immediately began chirping like a nest of baby birds when we arrived safely.
“Hmm…” They had often talked about camping alone in the woods around our house. Of course they had heard stories of their parent’s escapades while growing up here in the boondocks. I mulled it over, reasoned with myself and concluded: we didn’t end up in Alaska and they are pretty reasonable kids. Surely they are mature enough now to sleep in the woods without supervision. “Y’all are going to pick a spot anywhere within the ten-acre fence and camp out.” It probably sounded more like a command than an option but they were ecstatic!
The middle one had a brief anxiety attack, “I didn’t come prepared. I don’t have my sleeping bag – I didn’t bring my knife.”
The youngest one said, “So – you don’t need any of that! If you have to poop instead of cutting up your underwear you can use a leaf.” (His uncle taught him that.)
The eldest one was pumped, “I’ve got some Gatorade and sunflower seeds. We just have to manage our resources’. How many life-lines do we get?”
My daughter was listening on the phone, “Oh my gosh I thought they were just camping? Tell him three.” She cackled. (I don’t know where she gets her wicked humor.)
Yep, the #1 grandson went straight up survivor mode. I don’t know if he thought this was one of Nana’s games or he watches a lot of “reality” television; either way I went with it, gave them three life-lines and giggled to myself, Bwahaha this is going to be way more fun than I imagined.
“This is what you have.” I explained as I laid out three dusty web-laden sleeping bags, two coolers, a sack of food, a lighter and a gallon of water. “Make it last and good luck.”
They picked out their camping spot and began gathering wood. I went back to the house, closed the doors and pretended to ignore them as the hours ticked slowly by.
I truly thought they would be banging on the door and begging to come in by nightfall but nope; they made a cozy camp by the pond and had a nice fire going. They were so happy it made me sad smile.
After midnight I gave up spying on them, said a prayer and went to bed. The following morning I was sure they would be sound asleep in the living room but the house was empty. So I grabbed my camera and sneaked through the woods.
Then what to my wondering eyes did appear but three little men all drained of their cheer. Tee-hee-hee, oops I mean poor babies.
By dawn the fire had [literally and figuratively] gone out.
I continued to let them believe it was a survival game so they bargained for another gallon of water and a garden spade. By noon they were discussing if they should use their last life-line for a pillow, a thicker blanket for the trailer they were sleeping on or a Pepsi.
They chose the Pepsi.
The #2 grandson had packed bubbles. He and the #3 grandson entertained themselves while the #1 grandson prayed rested.
I hung out with them for a while, chased bubbles and asked, “How is the survival game going?”
#1 grandson tried to smile but he didn’t have the energy. “We still have plenty of food.” he replied. He was not going to quit or admit it was not so fun anymore.
“Well what if I said I am calling the game off – what if I said you boys have to stay in the house tonight. What would you say to that?”
“I’d say thank you!” he jumped to his feet with tears relief on his face. #3 grandson gave a smirk humble yet proud smile and #2 grandson disappeared inside before I could take his picture.
Thank goodness they don’t read blogs. 😉
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Summer Seems So Long Ago
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Hands Say So Much
Lucky Me
laundry
dishes
mail on the table
things piling up
leaks
leaning toilet
dad by nine
things falling down
mom on her i-phone, i-pad, i – i – i
I make dinner for myself
empty fridge, fruits and vegetables are for farm heroes.
save candy crush for dessert.
trip over musty towels, bang my head on rusty washer.
still no clean clothes in the dryer.
saving pets is more humane. baseball practice tomorrow.
a fruit cup with a bowl of lucky charms.
Lucky me.
The Real Janna Hill 