I was going to write about these photos I got from my aunt. My dad's family didn't take many photographs when he was a kid. I can only remember seeing one of my dad as a pre-teen and it was a studio portrait of he and my aunt taken when he was about 3 or 4. I was thrilled on our trip when my aunt shared these with me.
|My dad and his little sister.|
|My dad with both of his younger siblings. He reminds me of my nephew--my brother's son--in this photo.|
I was going to write something about the roles we play in our communities and how, for the first time in my life, I can understand (just a wee bit) the desire a person might have to run for office.
I have managed to keep up, somewhat, with adding to my Kansas Food Stories blog.
I leave you with a poem I recently wrote (one of two written in the last... 10 years or so?) that pretty much covers my writing process these days.
I seek words
at the bottom of the kitchen sink
tucked among my nearly-sorted piles of household stuff
between wrinkled folds of clean laundry,
hidden like so many mates of troublesome socks.
I chase words
across cracks of aged sidewalks
through waves created by my own pin-wheeling arms
as my feet thump-thump on the circling belt of a treadmill,
catching fleeting phrases when lucky.
I search for words
on the friendly pages of the internet
inside the ink-filled marvel of a printed book
beneath my eyelids where I peer as sleep overtakes me,
assured to remember those gems when day breaks again.
I find words
drip from the ends of fingertips placed on keyboard
flow where pen meets page
providing I remain still and not frighten them away.
T.R.M.S. / December 2011