I’ve done a lot of random things on this blog over the years. Here’s to another!
My imagination runs wild 99 percent of the time.
Wild like the horses busting free on the plains.
Wild like the flowers scattered on the landscape.
I see everything in color, no matter what decade. It is the only way my mind works.
My great great grandpa Charlie was a horse trader. A few weeks ago, we discovered this original tintype (and another) of him stashed away in a box of family photos. They are in wonderful condition on the plate, not at all indicative of being more than a century old.
I have stared at this particular photo a thousand times since the first. Likely there will be 1,000 more. I have written what seems like an entire book in my head of the events I dreamed up to surround this scene.
I often have been told I romanticize most everything in life, as if it were a bad thing. Truth is, it is the loveliest of things. It’s what keeps blood pumping and the soul hoping.
When I look at this, I see a young horse trader and his side-saddled love, out for a ride across the prairie on a Sunday afternoon. I see them basking in nature, laughing and dreaming up their lives together — not in sepia, but in full color.
I’ve written chapters in my head with every glance. The hardships and the struggles, the triumphs and the joys. I see the love between them that begat generations of hard-working, honest, generous and happy people. I see a legacy.
A simple tintype photo of two people in a field.
A priceless treasure, found in a box of keepsakes long forgotten.
A thousand romanticized thoughts.
An imagination that won’t quit, because then I would cease to feel alive.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I watched as medicine dripped for hours to kill the poisonous cancer.
Last month, I took mama’s only sibling to her ninth chemotherapy treatment. Her prognosis is good, unlike some of the others who were visiting the cancer center.
There were rooms full of people. Hundreds of them. Some were waiting to see a doctor. Some were waiting for scans. Some were receiving treatment. Hundreds of them, and it was just Wednesday. The next day and the day after saw hundreds more. She thinks I was brave while I was sitting alongside her, but I was sad and so scared for all those people and their families. When she’d fall asleep, I’d look around and people watch. My tears would sneak out and drip, drip, drip.
Today, instead of sitting in the cancer center watching medicine enter her body, I was sitting at work, waiting to hear the news that it all was over.
My aunt Dawn rang the bell at 12:30 p.m., signifying that she is done with chemo treatment No. 12 and ready to enjoy life without being sick, without mobile chemo ports or hours in a chair while medicine falls through an IV.
Today, it was tears of joy going drip, drip, drip.
She grabbed ahold of that bell and its noise drowned out the pain and worry in so many hearts.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
🛎 🛎 🛎
When I lost all of my hair six years ago, I was in the middle of jumping my life’s tallest hurdle. I gained so much since that journey began. I gained back confidence, security and love for myself.
And recently, over the last year or more, things happened to make me forget all that progress.
I want them again. I miss that proud girl.
When my hair began growing, I hid it behind a wig because it made me cry to see it coming in much darker than before. The sunshine on my head had decided to reappear a little overcast. When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t recognize the person I saw. It made me sad. It represented a lot of things I had lost in life.
That muddy brown shade stood for struggle.
In my home, I have a framed fabric flag. The edges are worn and unraveling. The color is faded from its days in the sun.
I purchased it on Sept. 13, 2001.
My family always has been my refuge.
I was blessed with good examples. As a child, I was blessed with food on my plate and parents who insisted we eat a home-cooked supper together, at the kitchen table, every night.
I was blessed with a roof over my head.
I was blessed with a grandpa and daddy who built that home with their blood, sweat and tears.
Five years ago this week, however, the tears falling were mine.
Knock, knock. Real talk.
I chatted with a sweet teenager today who came to me for advice.
Whenever this happens, I am:
1.) Shocked anyone would want my advice, and then I start to sweat.
2.) Terrified of steering someone else’s child in the wrong direction.
3.) Always end up learning something about myself.
Maybe that’s part of the grand plan. The Big Guy knows I need to hear what comes out of my mouth as much as a 16-year-old girl does, so He’s really sending her to teach me.
Maybe we’re all 16-year-old girls inside.
The house full of love waiting for SSG Kirk Owen’s return sat on Freedom Street in Sapulpa. Fitting for a man who went across the globe to give his all in the name of freedom.
Owen never returned to kiss his wife or to see his children’s milestones.
If there was one thing I could bank on when I was a kid, it was that Jason would be on my front porch, waiting for me to finish my supper so we could play basketball.
It was like clockwork.
Every day, Daddy came home from work at the same time — nearly to the second.
Mama would have home-cooked goodness ready 30 minutes later. Then we’d all sit down together and eat.
As long as it wasn’t raining or snowing, my neighbor Jason would be sitting right past the screen door, ready for a game of H-O-R-S-E.
I believe in love.
I believe in it because my Mama gives of it so freely to me. Every day I have had breath in my lungs I have felt love because Mama has made sure of it.
As I’ve aged, she’s become one of my best friends.
She’s my comfort. She’s my partner.
She’s still my guidance. But she’s foremost my Mama.