Pick Up Sticks (SOLSC 14/31)

I am seeing more and more evidence of the beginnings of spring.  The itty bitty buds on the tree -- leaves just barely peeking out at the morning sun.  It's new life on a tree that was otherwise completely bare.  It still LOOKS bare until you get up close.  

Below, there is a smattering of sticks scattered around the base of the same tree.  It's old life shed from encounters with all of the wind and rain we have experienced in the past few weeks.  

I can't help but smile and remember a time when I myself was just beginning and the sticks I used to see everywhere in my pawpaw's yard.  The tiny buds remind me of my own tiny hands, clasped around the cool metal handle of a bright red wagon.  

In the summer, my pawpaw would set us out to pick up objects in his backyard -- I assume now that it might have been to help him have an easier time mowing.  I was accompanied by my sister as we dragged that wagon among the many trees of my pawpaw's backyard.  Every few feet we would stop and begin the process of picking up the trees' discarded items: sticks, pine cones, and green apples.  

Each would be tossed into the wagon and we would move on.  When we were done, my pawpaw always awarded us with some of his pocket change for our efforts.

Now, as I navigate the sidewalk with my dog, I have to resist the urge to stop and pick up some of the sticks.

Today's writing was inspired by one of the March Daily Writing Prompt from Teach Write.

#SOL21 | 21 | A Slice for my Sister

My dad likes to make a joke "We should have stopped at one."  Usually this is reserved for when my much younger siblings -- Julia, age 21, and Jared, age 18 -- slip up.  But if he had "stopped at one" I would not have DeAnna in my life.  At one point I used to laugh and hold up my finger in solidarity.  But as I have grown closer to DeAnna, I have started to correct him.  "No...though maybe two."

Because I cannot imagine a life without DeAnna in it.

#SOL21| 16 | A Day in the Life

I couldn't think of what to write today and wouldn't you know it, Leigh Anne had my back with her party invite ready to go.  So here's my id for the party and if you want an invite you can see Leigh Anne here.  Below you will find the mentor text, followed by my version.

“Depending On When You Met Me” by Devon Gundry, Soul Pancake
Depending on when you met me, I might have been: a checker’s champion, the kid who squirted Super Glue in his eye, a competitive Ping-Pong player, Tweedle Dum, a high school valedictorian, a fake blond, 1/12 of an all-male a capella group, a graduate of the Vanderbilt School of Engineering, a nomad, a street musician, or a pigeon assassin.

Depending on when you met me, I might have been: a 'Most Beautiful Baby' trophy winner, holding a pair of scissors and a chunk of my sister's hair, a gifted student, a penpal, a daddy's girl, wearing a shamrock green soccer jersey, an alto, a bus rider, a drama student with frizzy hair pulled back in a scrunchie, a voracious reader, a keynote speaker at Graduation, a Wal-mart cashier, a waitress, a secretary, a roleplayer, a fanfic author, an anime convention attendee, a cosplayer, a giant nerd, a graduate with a Masters' degree, a tea pot collector, a sniper of Silent Auctions, a Bingo queen, constantly questioning my sexuality until settling on the ace, an aunt, a teacher, and a would-be novelist.

This post is part of the 14th Annual Slice of Life Story Challenge.  

#SOL21 and information around Slicing can be found on Two Writing Teachers.

#SOL21 | 09 | Blue Choir Robes

Growing up I attended church and, when I was old enough (early teens), I was allowed to join the adult choir with my dad. I don't share many hobbies or interests with my dad, but we did share this.  

Every Sunday morning the blue robes came on over whatever dress I happened to be wearing that day.  I always felt special donning the heavy blue robes, turning to see other members of my church -- all much older than me -- wearing them as well.  I liked how the sleeves draped and swished.  I liked that it made me feel grown-up.  I liked that I was part of something bigger.

I would tuck the thick, brown hymnal under my arm and follow the rest of the choir out into the halls of our church.  We would wait for our cue and then file in to stand before the church congregation to sing, led by our choir director.  Of course, since I was sitting in full view of the church I had to be on my very best behavior, but it was a lot easier to stay awake up there than it was in the pews.

Our choir director would usually introduce the song.  The piano, keyboard, and organ would play their opening notes, and we would rise up and sing.  Everyone at my church sang, following along in their own hymnals, but I still felt special standing up at the front with the rest of the choir.  Most of my family sat out among the congregation, but my dad and me were joined together in a sea of blue choir robes.  It was something special between the two of us.  

Unfortunately, it wasn't to last.  The church membership dropped, the church moved locations (twice), more members left, the choir was disbanded, and though singing at church still occurred it wasn't the same without an official choir.  Eventually even the hymnals disappeared, replaced by projected songs on a screen.

There were a lot of reasons I stopped attending church, but writing this slice made me wonder if one of those reasons was because of the lack of a choir.  I also have to wonder if this was the beginning of my fractured relationship with my dad as well.

#SOL21 | 06 | Dad's Car Wash Song

There are many things I associate with my dad: coconut, unsweet iced tea, blue choir robes, snow coming down in March and car washes.  

I don't necessarily remember this, but apparently when I was very small I used to be afraid of going through the car wash.  Perhaps it was the noise or the impossibly large brushes that descended upon the car like a monster's claws -- whatever the reason I was terrified.  I would cry and squirm in my little car seat.  I've been told that sometimes one of my parents would get out of the car with me while the other one went through the car wash alone.

Eventually, my dad made up a song that helped make it easier for me to handle.  This is what I remember:

Swish swish 

(His hands would move along with the words, a pair of pointer fingers turned windshield wiper blades.)

Swash Swash  

(Now his hands would go the other direction.)

Now we're at the car wash

(Clapping hands.)

Car wash! Car Wash! CAR WASH!  YEAH!

(And now jazz hands, with each cheer bringing his arms higher or wider until the end).

Actually, calling that a song seems a bit generous -- but it still helped and it's stuck with me all these years.  If there's more to the song, I don't remember it now.  But that little ditty and apparently the classic "Great Balls of Fire" were enough to calm me down when I was upset at the thought of the car wash.  I guess music really does soothe the soul...

#SOL21 | 03 | Of Swords and Scars

There is a pale scar on my arm from where a blade sliced me open in high school.

It was not self-harm, though it was arguably self-inflicted or at least a result of a stupid decision.  This is what happens when you give a group of high school drama students access to swords that are not exactly approved for stage combat.

I don't remember the exact assignment other than it was related to choreography.  It started as trying to figure out how to come up with a short dance number, but quickly got sidetracked into "Let's try blocking out a fight scene."  Swords were obtained (from who or how I also cannot remember) and a group of fledgling drama students with no training and too many hours in front of movie and tv screens got to work.

I stood at one end of the stage and my opponent -- a boy named Simon -- stood at the other.  We waited for our cue and then rushed each other.  The swords were metal and dull, so we thought them safe.  Simon brought the sword down slowly and I parried.  We worked through a scene where he got to hold the sword to my throat and I broke away by kicking him and doing a roll across the stage.  We thought we were being careful.

We were not.

I brought my arm up to block an oncoming blow and a moment later I felt something wet on my skin.

"Oh my God!  Are you okay?"

I glanced down and saw blood trailing down my arm.  It didn't hurt that much so I shrugged, lowering my own sword now.  "It's just a scratch."

Of course our teacher did NOT see it that way.  She insisted we go back to class and patch it up.  I left my sword and accepted the brown paper towel someone offered me.  Staunching blood with the cheap paper towels they keep in high school bathrooms does not work as well as you might think.  It does not replace a band-aid, no matter how much your dumb high school brain may insist it does.  I cannot recommend it for first aid purposes.

That's how you end up with scars that last into your 30s