What I was going to write about...

I was going to write about this great book I read while on vacation, but just haven't managed to get to it.

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 think I actually had seen this photo before, but I did not have a copy of my own. This is my Grandpa Sam and his twin brother, Bill. I don't know which is which, but my cousin guesses that Grandpa is the one on the right because he looks most "ornery."

 I was going to write something new about my mother for Mother's Day. Then I thought an awful lot about writing something new about my kids for Mother's Day. Instead, for Mother's Day, I spent the entire day working on a re-write of my most complete novel project to date. The kids bought me chocolate.  The hubby made sure I had absolutely no chores of any form to attend to the entire day. It was a pretty good day, this Mother's Day.

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.

Word Search

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

come unbidden,

providing I remain still and not frighten them away.

 T.R.M.S. / December 2011