Sunday Scribblings: The invitation...

The letters came by mail two or three times a year, finding their way to my hands across the miles and miles of concrete slabs reaching the place where the cactus blooms; gently creasing the branch of the birch pines high atop the Sierra mountain range; and the token on the seat of a subway train on Chicago's west side; til finally resting in my open arms amidst the suburban sprawl on the outskirts of Charlotte, North Carolina.

From 1987-2000, “Woodstock” as she was fondly called, would share her life on the page. And as always, it ended with the invitation....

“Will you come back and be my teacher in ____ grade?

I, too, would respond via letter and share snippets of my own life. Though the last time I saw her was during her second grade year, before my eyes she grew up developing her language and her ability to express herself, and in turn, sharing vignettes of the life she created.

In June of 2000, “Woodstock” graduated from High School and this time, the invitation read: “Will you come to my graduation?”

Unfortunately this wasn’t to be the case, however, I did pick up the phone on the day in question and talked to Meghan, (and Kenneth, and Keith) wishing them well in the world and then I thanked Meghan for including their 2nd grade teacher in the celebration. Little do they know that this letter is framed and placed above my writing desk, providing inspiration and validation that a piece of the journey that is “work” is worth it-….read other noteworthy invitations at http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/ - until next time......Teach.

And then he danced....

My daddy,
he loved to dance.
Every Saturday of my life
he’d take my momma’s hand in his,
and then, they’d walk on out that door.

Down…..
Down…….
Down the road
past Delacorte’ Market,
over the railroad tracks,
to the far side of town
where they cut up a rug
at the country jambo.

My four brothers, two sisters and I,
we waited. Waited until we heard the
putt, putt, shutter, hum of the rusty ol’ pickup
come to a stop at the end of the driveway:
it woke us up.

We waited until we heard
the click, clack, shutter, clump
of the rusty ol’ screen door shut:
it woke us up.

And we waited until we heard
the shoo, shoo, shutter, hum
of momma whispering in daddy’s ear
telling him to stop all his nonsense: it woke us up.

So, one by one.
one by one by one by one,
we made it to the top of the stair
for we knew that a celebration
was commencing to begin.

My older brother,
he was already there,
leaning against the wooden banister,
playing the sweet, sweet sound of music with his lips.

My brother,
he played that harmonica
with all his heart and soul
and I loved the rhythm of its beat.
I could tell by the way my daddy
was laughing and carrying on,
with his arms draped over my momma’s shoulder
that he loved it too.

Taking hold of my momma’s hand
he took two steps back
doing the side-swerving,
hip-swinging shuffle
with his shoes, tip-tapping
across that hardwood floor.

We, too, moved our feet
from side to side,
my sister showing us how
to feel the rhythm
of daddy’s love song
to momma.

My momma,
she leaned her head back just so,
and with a move that surprises me still,
she fell with her back into my daddy’s arms.

We gasped.
All of us did.

He caught her though,
always did, and lifting her up in the air,
we sang along to the music clapping real loud
with our knees knocking together
as they continued to swoosh, swoosh, swoosh
across that dance floor.

My daddy,
he loved to dance.
Every Saturday of my life
he’d take my momma’s hand in his,
and then, they’d walk on out that door.

Down…..
Down…….
Down the road
past Delacorte’ Market,
over the railroad tracks,
to the far side of town
where they cut up a rug
at the country jambo.

Sunday Scribblings: I use to think....

I use to think that my morning trip to the nearest coffeehouse was based on laziness of not wanting to make it at home anymore. I use to think that when I steered my vehicle to the parking lot in the back of the coffee house that it would be a one time thing. And then, when the next morning came and I did it again, I realized that possibly doing it once may have been what I thought, but, in reality, I could no longer think myself into believing this to be so. A friend of mine use to tell me that I was spending too much money. She also said that if I was to put that money away, at the end of the year I would have $751.90 to add to my bank account.

Well. This is what I think. If all I do is have one mild Venti each morning, then I'm doing OK. How bout u?

PS- Check out this blogspot for more.... http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/