tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43452175146259263252024-02-07T23:13:32.771-05:00Women Who Eat Chocolate"The muses are ghosts and sometimes they come uninvited." Stephen KingMissyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.comBlogger374125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-21229811471398767042021-01-13T13:25:00.001-05:002021-01-13T13:25:34.375-05:00The 8 essays I'm proud to have written in 2020<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">You can now find me on <a href="https://melissaherrera.substack.com/" target="_blank">Substack</a> and <a href="https://missysundheimerherrera.medium.com/" target="_blank">Medium</a>. I'll be keeping this blog up to look back and see my old work. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">It's been one hell of a year. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I want to end it by starting this space. Something new. Something uncensored.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I am a columnist for a rural paper in Ohio, an author who published her book in a pandemic summer, and a frustrated poet. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I'm glad you're here. But don't come back if you can't handle some spicy words.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">See you 2020, let's do something new.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2vrBbX9QJTwS7iKJ1pjWaDg-h4f58vPY9HsxkAy-ANWYXiC0Nk0Mh61wuIx_afhLuIq2c6twY2LZaRaxdbKoHhoufk1KHE8aUeQqq3hhmsN6Ysn1tjlsGEFgIDfwAXG_uTWOf0nueMbI/s2048/161ACAF6-A2B5-4261-9E41-07F9788CA68D.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2vrBbX9QJTwS7iKJ1pjWaDg-h4f58vPY9HsxkAy-ANWYXiC0Nk0Mh61wuIx_afhLuIq2c6twY2LZaRaxdbKoHhoufk1KHE8aUeQqq3hhmsN6Ysn1tjlsGEFgIDfwAXG_uTWOf0nueMbI/s320/161ACAF6-A2B5-4261-9E41-07F9788CA68D.heic" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Here are eight pieces I'm particularly proud to have written in 2020:</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://thebargainhunter.com/news/col-melissa-herrera/its-only-a-virus-they-said">It's only a virus, they said</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://thebargainhunter.com/news/col-melissa-herrera/taking-a-knee-for-an-injured-world">Taking a knee for an injured world</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://thebargainhunter.com/news/col-melissa-herrera/inconvenience-in-the-time-of-pandemic">Inconvenience in the time of pandemic</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://thebargainhunter.com/news/columnists/the-10-commandments-of-tackling-racism-in-a-small-town">10 Commandments for tackling racism</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://thebargainhunter.com/news/columnists/a-new-definition-for-the-word-freedom">Redifining the word 'freedom'</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://thebargainhunter.com/news/col-melissa-herrera/spiraling-down-the-conspiratorial-rabbit-hole">Spiraling down the conspiratorial rabbit hole</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://thebargainhunter.com/news/col-melissa-herrera/a-distraction-to-what-ails-us-is-never-the-cure">A distraction to what ails us is never the cure</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://thebargainhunter.com/news/columnists/faith-over-fear-means-nothing-if-were-not-wise">Faith over fear is nothing if we're not wise</a></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-54157409872655537272019-04-20T10:48:00.004-04:002019-04-23T11:31:28.010-04:00La Llorona: an excerpt<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">At home, I learned later, it was a maelstrom of quiet chaos.
When I disappeared, they didn’t know where to look. The white adobe house by the
river became a prison for my mom and brother. They wept and grieved and
tried to look for me wherever they could. But the means weren’t there for a
large-scale search, and they suffered silently because of my
stepdad, who wouldn’t allow them to search further. Every time my mom would
want to search for me, he would say, “He’s not here. You won’t find him. It’s
time to let him go.” His dreams of me not being around had come true. He didn’t
care that I was gone. That my mom and brother cried every day meant nothing to
him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">My brother ached inside and suffered because he thought it was his fault
that I was gone. “I told him to hurry – he didn’t listen. I just don’t know
where he went,” he would say to my mom as they cried together silently. I try
to imagine, now, what I would do if one of my kids was missing. I would go to
the ends of the earth to find them. I would turn every rock upside down until I
couldn’t go any further. But in 1973 there were no means for someone from rural
Mexico, with an angry, abusive husband, to turn to. What could she do? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">When fear is present, I believe evil will manifest itself in
ways that we don’t always want to see. Sometimes, it can give you hope that
everything will be alright – if you believe. My brother tells a tale of a night
at the white house, several weeks or months after I disappeared. All was quiet
save for the sheep bleating softly outside the window, and my brother lay
quietly sleeping as the minutes ticked into the dark night. My mom and stepdad
were asleep as well, and snored in to the heaviness of the night. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid4QO_z8_tlSUzPb1GIkq_8LwFqi_Bq3M7vHCF1E0c3VXu-TsXvRVw06oBL_mcvY5dOFX01IxKgqZ8z8Ia_v4ddgqVyN9J9IY-erPqaSXzLDG6osL_NvC_SX6Z8AVsXf5ZplMvkqBFD_k/s1600/IMG-3614.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1116" data-original-width="1600" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid4QO_z8_tlSUzPb1GIkq_8LwFqi_Bq3M7vHCF1E0c3VXu-TsXvRVw06oBL_mcvY5dOFX01IxKgqZ8z8Ia_v4ddgqVyN9J9IY-erPqaSXzLDG6osL_NvC_SX6Z8AVsXf5ZplMvkqBFD_k/s320/IMG-3614.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Out of his
dreams Chucho was awakened by a voice, crying urgently to come and help him.
Shivers went up his spine as he lay in a deathly quiet pose, listening with
ears even more intent. Am I dreaming, he thought, but no – there it is again!
He got up quietly and crept to the wooden door that was poorly constructed –
which let in moonlight and wisps of cold air that permeated the room. He put
one eye to the cracks in the puerta and waited. “Help me! Help me, Chucho!” a
voice carried from down the embankment near the river. He froze as he
recognized the voice – it was Tono! He had come back and couldn’t find his way
to the house! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">He ran over to his mom and shook her awake as she said, “Que
paso, hijo? What’s going on?” Chucho couldn’t hold still as he whispered, “Tono
is here! He’s outside crying for help and can’t find his way to the house!
Let’s go get him!” The look that passed over his mom’s face was one of hesitant
hope, and she got up to look out the door. At this time his dad awoke and
grumbled for everyone to get back in bed. “No, pa, Tono is here! He’s outside
crying for us!” my brother said, trying to make his dad understand. My stepdad
got up as well and padded over to the door. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">He opened it and stepped outside
into the blackest night he had seen – the moon was slowly being covered by
clouds as he walked several paces out and listened. Soon, a piercing yet low
groan drifted up from the river along with the same cry for help Chucho had
heard. My stepdad looked back at my mom and brother standing in the doorway and
turned to walk to the edge of the embankment. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">His eyes, adjusting to the sparse
light the moon was giving off, peered over the edge to see where the noise was
coming from. “Tono, estas aqui? Are you here?” he said gruffly, yet soft enough
not to carry through the night air. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">He could see a figure down by the water,
walking slowly, almost floating. Are my eyes playing tricks on me, he thought,
as he squinted to see who the figure might be. The moon, suddenly bright as the
clouds parted, shone beams on the edge of the water and he froze, stock still,
and took in the sight that was before him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Shrouded in white, he could plainly
see that it was a woman walking listlessly by the water. Her dress drug on the
ground behind her as the words emanated from her lips in a voice that was not
her own – in a voice that belonged to a six-year old boy that was lost, “Help
me! Help me I can’t find my way home!” My stepdad could see her starting to
turn her head around and he turned quickly and ran back to the house where they
were waiting. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">“Get inside right now!” he cried, as their faces turned to
confusion. “Who is it? Where’s Tono?” my mom and brother cried in unison.
“Shhh, don’t make a noise,” he whispered as they sat inside, terror etched on their faces. They could hear a shuffling come from outside as she made her way closer
and closer to the small adobe home, and when she reached as close as she could
come, a small voice cried in Tono’s voice yet again, “Why won’t you help me? I
want to come in! I’ve been gone so long.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">My brother recalls being paralyzed by
fear and confusion, not knowing why they couldn’t open the door. My dad held
his finger to his lips and told us, “Don’t look out the cracks of the door. You can't see her face. If you do, she will take you.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">That’s when they knew, my
mom and brother, what my dad had seen – and what was hovering around our
casita. La Llorona, the most feared specter in Mexico, was using the voice of
my brother, who was lost, to trick us into coming outside. It’s said she is
beautiful, ethereal even from behind but that if you see her face you will
perish, because her face is a haggard mess of ugliness. She will take you with
her and end her prison sentence, which is to walk the earth eternally as
punishment for drowning her children in a river. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">My mom wept internally, and
Chucho covered his ears and head as she began wailing outside the heavy cement
walls. It wouldn’t be the last time she visited while I was lost. Evil exists and uses our fears to torment us. My dad saw her,
had taken in her form with his own eyes, but it didn’t change him. If only it
had. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-56210746574689001832019-03-03T21:38:00.002-05:002019-03-03T21:38:54.434-05:00Taco Bueno<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew you to be there, even at three and a half years old.
Those opaque, numbered days as a small child in a house of many. Sunbeams
filtered through the upstairs hallway as I tip-toed down to your room, the
floorboards giving me away under their hundred-year-old weight. Your room was
at the end of the hall and I wanted to peak in, perhaps, and catch a glimpse of
you. The ceiling light that hung just inside your door reminded me of a
skeleton, plastic and groovy-looking, and I would stare at it sometimes when
you weren’t there. But today you came out of your bedroom door before I could
get there, and you smiled at me, bonking me on the head with a rolled-up piece
of paper. This is my first memory of you. Brother.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You were sarcastic and funny and sometimes I felt that you
weren’t allowed to be mine, that my time with you didn’t count. You left when I
was three, graduated and gone. My memories with you were limited to the times
you’d come home, arms full of gifts at Christmas-time and trips to the airport
to fetch you. We’d sit on the viewing deck of the airport and watch the planes
land, our breath blowing cold in the frost, and every plume of jet fuel a
fascination to me. Then there you were, laughing and looking just like the rest
of us with dark hair and brown eyes. You slipped back into the fold and our small
town for a few days then skipped away just as fast. But everyone knew where we
– and you - belonged. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re a Sundheimer, aren’t you?” they’d say, fitting us
neatly into a package, a puzzle piece in a 2000-part mosaic. And that’s how
small towns are wont to do, make sure they know where to file you and pluck you
out of so the world doesn’t rotate off its axis. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You moved to Florida and we’d receive pictures every so
often, of roommates and palm trees and cosmetology school you were attending.
Every picture had different faces to examine as the years would pass, and I
would pore over each detail wondering who they were and why we never met them.
I felt their faces were a clue into your life that I could never solve. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One day we did visit your tiny apartment on the gulf coast,
and I remember how it was tucked off the street with tropical foliage obscuring
it from full view. We had dinner with you and your roommate in your home, and I
watched him as he shook hands with us and made us dinner with hands that were
trained as a chef. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The eighties were a decade of excess that embraced me as I
grew into a teenager. You moved to Dallas and up, up, and up into a high-level
position at a big-name hair care company. And we would see you, sometimes, at
Christmas or in summer. I never wondered why you didn’t marry because I knew.
It was never talked about in front of me, in open spaces where the words would
echo so loudly. If there were spoken moments held behind closed doors I wasn’t
privy to them, but there were none that needed said because I knew. Words
change nothing anyway. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you don’t speak it out loud the large elephant in the
corner will go away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A tribe is set in hot blood that courses through your veins,
and no matter if you strip those pulsing lines of iron where they rest, it
doesn’t change your tribe. You moved to Nashville and ever upward, with a new
roommate and house. And my boyfriend, now husband, came to stay for Christmas
and you came too. There was much laughter and merriment, but strangeness as you
wouldn’t sleep in the bed offered you. The couch was fine, you laughed, I’ll be
fine on the couch. And my now husband asked me later, as we lay by the
Christmas tree with the twinkles of greens and reds splaying off our faces, “Is
your brother gay?” I looked at him and for the first time in my life I said out
loud the thing that had never been said, at least in front of me. “Yes, he is.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To speak a thing brings it to life, but I felt bereft for
all the years it had never been spoken. When I traveled to visit my boyfriend
in Texas the following Easter, I called home from a phone booth at the corner
store. As I talked to them they told me that my brother was sick, in the hospital,
that he had something unknown. When I hung up I turned to my boyfriend and told
him what she had said. We were deep in the AIDS epidemic at that moment,
forever frozen in time, and I knew that my brother had it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I came home the whole family drove to Nashville to see
him. We piled into his room and stood around his bed as we talked. I remember
feeling furious that this disease had been what it took to talk about what no
one wanted to talk about. Religion be damned, because your tribe is your tribe
and beliefs will only separate you if you let them. I reached out and took his
hand, and he could barely speak, and garbled several words together as I tried
to understand what he was saying. When I got the meaning, a rush of tears came
to my eyes because he never lost his sarcasm, not ever.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He’d said, “Taco bueno.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My now husband is from Mexico, and it is never easy gaining
acceptance in small town Ohio. Here was my brother deathly ill, forcefully
holding my hands telling me “taco bueno.” He knew a thing or two about
acceptance. He was telling me that George was good, a “good taco.” I talked to
him on the phone that summer before I left for Mexico, on
our way to shuffle paperwork to get married, in the vast bureaucracy of a
million dusty government offices. I’ll never forget what he told me then. He
said, “Don’t let them tell you that he’s not right for you. Listen to yourself.
You won’t go wrong.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I held those words close to my, clutched as a fine
diamond.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was sitting on the orange plaid couch in our living room,
staring out the window, and pondering the new adventure that was upon me, as I
held that phone to my ear. He was the only one that had told me to follow my
heart. Aside from him there were warnings, admonitions, and fearful glances as I stubbornly embarked on a journey that has now netted us a
marriage of twenty-eight years. Taco bueno.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had been gone for six months, living in Mexico with George's family, when there was a knock at the door. A cousin was there, who
sometimes received mail for the family as they didn’t have a box at the post
office. He was holding a Fedex package that was addressed to me. I took it and
ripped it open, reading the contents inside, and fell back on the bed as the
tears came hot and hard. My brother was dead, had died three days ago, and the
funeral was in the morning. The last thing he had told me in that phone call
back in the summer was this, “On your way home from Mexico, I want you and
George to stop here in Nashville and have supper with us. I’ll make you a good
roast.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I picture that roast sometimes. It always makes me cry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I walked outside into the chill night air and contemplated
the sky. The stars were vast and highly-visible at the altitude we lived in
there. And just as the tears slid down my face again, I felt something brush my
back, like a hand, and linger for a moment. I turned around and there was no
one there, nothing but the still, velvety black of the evening. And then I
smiled and knew my brother had given me a gift, a small consolation, for my
sorrow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My brother’s name was Scott Allen Sundheimer. He died in
1990 when he was thirty-six years old of AIDS. My moments with him were short,
abrupt, and full of life. I found out I was pregnant several short
weeks after he died, and felt the circle of life more intensely than I ever
had. And I vowed to never be silent about things that made me – us -
uncomfortable, to hold them silent in a rigid space between my ribs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Words withheld cause a thing to die in the dark.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To speak a thing gives it life, and life is meant to be
lived. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To love someone gives that love life, and we’re meant to be
loved. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-89452865661142211942018-03-29T11:44:00.000-04:002018-03-29T11:44:01.417-04:00Rightful slaughter<span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 19px;">Where do we find ourselves at, defending how many school shootings there have been in 2018? What is there to defend? Isn't one shot fired, just one incident, enough? Isn't the compilation of the many murdered and injured enough to matter? Are we defending our guns or the zealous right to carry them wherever and whenever and into every space we can? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 19px;">No one wants to take your gun away, not even Obama did, who it was sworn up and down would come like a thief into your homes at night to do. I see the words "agenda" and "they" and "our right" thrown around as the blood dries from the murdered children. </span><br />
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Children that parents sent to school, children that had a right to get through the day. People that had a right to go to a festival without being gunned down by a shooter shooting out a hotel window. Small babies in Sandy Hook, slain on their classroom floors as we shook in horror at the scene. Columbine, where I'll always think of video games being blamed for the shooting, instead of someone picking up a gun and planning a slaughter. </div>
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Because it is a slaughter. </div>
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I am not against gun ownership nor do I want guns taken away. We had one shotgun in the closet growing up. It was no big deal, there was no talk of it nor attention brought to it. It was something that was just there, and every once in awhile dad would get it out and go hunting. He didn't hunt much, so the gun sat in storage. I didn't grow up loving nor hating guns. It wasn't an issue.</div>
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But now, it is an issue. </div>
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I know the argument: If someone is going to kill someone they'll find a way to do it. Yes, that's true. I could take my coffee cup and bash someone in the skull with it. Or I could run over a crowd with my car. But not everyone can just get in a car and drive it. </div>
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You need a license. </div>
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And lots of training.</div>
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I'm not a gun expert, but if I'm correct in Ohio you must be 21 to buy a handgun, but can obtain a firearm if 18. You don't need a permit. You can't even rent a car until you're nearly 25 and need I.D. to buy a can of spray paint. At 49 years old I'm sometimes asked for my I.D. to buy alcohol (whoa) because it's so heavily regulated.</div>
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Any online marketplace in Ohio:</div>
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FOR SALE: Shotgun, handgun, semi-automatic / Meet you in the parking lot of Wal-Mart for the transaction. Bring cash. See you at 5. </div>
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Does this seem like an issue? I'm aghast at the levied words: agenda, leftist ideals, 2nd amendment right. You can call me whatever you want, just know that I'm for whatever regulation makes it less easy to obtain guns. You can have a mental condition or be completely sane, but if you snap I want to make sure it's fucking hard to grab a gun. If your girlfriend breaks up with you, or you're so upset with those that have differing beliefs than you, I want to make it hard - HARD - to load up some automatic weapons and shoot me. </div>
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Since when does your right to own a gun infringe on my child's right to make it through a day at school? </div>
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Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-7812058435615865822017-05-22T11:32:00.004-04:002017-05-22T11:32:51.280-04:00Grace in the madness of mothering <div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.holmesbargainhunter.com/">The Bargain Hunter</a>, where my column appears, is undergoing website changes. For now, my columns will be posted here: </div>
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There’s grace somewhere in the octaves between high-pitched
and emergency, where I could hear the timbre of my voice and know that I was
one step away from madness. This chaos lies in the line of crooked bangs cut
with a dull hair scissors, no longer able to brush them away from the brown eyes
of a child you love with such fierceness and agony. She would look at me,
taunting, hugging me before she ran from me to do the things that would make my
throat quiver. She would get up from her bed twenty-nine times in an evening,
her Aladdin nightgown swinging as she descended from the stairs, and nothing I
did would make her stay. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There’s grace allowed somewhere in that madness.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I remember rocking my baby in a rocker that several of our
family had bought us for our wedding. The curves of it embraced us, and the
nursery was warm with forced air from the furnace. I sat with my eyes closed
and she was crying, just crying, newborn and wrinkled and unsure of why she was
thrust into a world where people existed that couldn’t comfort her immediately.
Yet I was there and she was cradled in my arms and all I wanted to do was
sleep, yet knew that my sleeping days were over. The lilting tune that flowed
from my lips to soothe her was called, “Ghost in this House” and when I hear it
in my now it never fails to make me cry. It hearkens another time when feet
were tiny and I couldn’t see past the wriggling baby in my arms and know what I
could do to comfort her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I remember this and that my mom came to my house
right at this moment, to check in and see if she could help. She walked into
the nursery as I struggled for composure, and she took the baby from my arms and
I just cried, overwhelmed with hormones and cesarean section scars and no
sleep. Moms are the absorbers of tears and snot, the re-assurers that the
circle continues whether we believe we can continue it or not. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Two more times I would pour forth life, dark-haired babies
that looked to me for their sustenance – tiny lips pursed with need. And when
they grew and the house descended into a chaotic mix of Barbies and Legos and
empty sippy cups that held chocolate milk, I would sit on the porch and find a
silent moment to read and remember who I was. Enjoy this time, the older ladies
would tell me, because it’s gone too soon. I would smile and nod my head and
know that I would never not be wading through anarchy, and that I would be
overthrown soon and sent to the gallows because the minions will have won.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And those moments when all is calm, and a sea of soft
blankets is thrown on the floor with a movie playing and they are held in
silent wonder. I would sit with them and they would lay their heads on me, and
I would brush their jet-black hair from their eyes and feel like the queen that
I should all along have known that I was to them. The cycle of motherhood and
its wonder laid out on a blanket and reminding you who you are. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I find myself older now, my kingdom reduced to only the king
and I, and I embrace this phase as a fresh breeze on my face in summertime. I
see my own mom walking through the twilight phase of her cycle, resisting and
fighting a big battle. I see this and am humbled as sometimes I arrive at her
house, hasty and breathless in whatever my day has held, in a moment like my
own, when I couldn’t handle the baby crying one more minute, and am able to
help her do something she no longer can. </div>
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The perpetual cycle of mothering
tumbles over and over into infinity whether we believe we can handle it or not.
I raged in defiance for the so-wanted responsibility I shouldered, a choice
made and tucked under my belt to fulfill. In wonderment I brushed the hair of
my children and watched as it fell in soft waves, the sweet scent of it filling
my nostrils. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-43388662896566909042017-05-11T10:05:00.000-04:002017-05-11T10:07:10.441-04:00Shaun Cassidy, Kenny Rogers, and my worn-out speakers <div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.holmesbargainhunter.com/section/hbhcolumnist26?sectioncat=hbh">Shaun Cassidy, Kenny Rogers, and my worn-out speakers</a></span></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This question was posed by my daughter on Twitter yesterday
and I decided to take the challenge: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">What song must you listen to every day without fail? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I have long and varied playlists that run the gamut of many
different genres: techno, house, old country, pop from the 70’s and 80’s, and
metal. There’s a tab on Spotify, my platform of choice, that lets you see how
often and who you play the most. I was sure what the top ones would be, but was
semi-surprised as it went along. Call me eclectic, or just weird, because I
won’t be offended:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> 1)</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Shaun Cassidy: I make no apologies because he
has been my favorite ever since he belted out “Da Doo Ron Ron” and “Hey
Deanie.” He was also Joe Hardy on The Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew Mysteries in the
late 70’s and that sealed the deal. I was an obsessed reader of the Hardy Boys
books, and he came to life for me on that show. I had every one of his albums
and now realize I listen to him every day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> 2) Barry Manilow: Oh, Barry. “Sweet Melissa, angel
of my lifetime” did me in when I heard it for the first time. There was
something about his smooth vocals and that small dip into disco he did in the
seventies that still holds me in its thrall. I have a long list of his songs
that I put on when I need to chill. George says he gets depressed when he hears
them, and I reply that I wasn’t really asking him to like Barry anyway. BARRY
FOR LIFE.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;">3)</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Olivia Newton-John: Long before she donned her
aerobic-wear and got physical, she was the Olivia who sang, “Have you never
been mellow?” We had the 8-Track and I played that until it was nearly worn
out. My sisters and I will still do an acapella version of “Let me be there” at
random times, belting out those half-country half-pop notes like no other. In
the 80’s I was a big Xanadu fan, and the songs “Make a move on me” and “Magic”
are some of my all-time favorites.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> 4)</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Metallica: I’m a product of the time I grew up
in, and the first time I heard this band growl out their lyrics with those
angry guitars, I felt like I was hearing something clandestine. I could find
them on an alternative radio station that I could only tune in at night, and
I’d lay awake in wonder. The wild beats and drums drew me in and I’ve been a
fan since the early 80’s. You couldn’t be a high school kid during that time
without loving some form of metal. Metallica forever as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> 5)</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Steve Wariner or Kenny Rogers or early George
Strait: I’m a sucker for this style of country, not the country of today. No
haters please. I have long lists of this style of music that I evidently play
every single day. My brother got me a Kenny Rogers album in 1979 for Christmas
and I never looked back. Marina Del Rey? Kansas City Lights? You Decorated my
Life? Nothing more to say here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So, this is the music I surround myself with nearly every
single day. Music is a feeling, an emotion. It can wildly swing you from memory
to memory in the span of seconds. I don’t believe I need to stick to a certain
genre to be the person I am or profess to be. I challenge all of you to look at
the music you listen to, and instead of beating yourself up for it – or being
embarrassed - embrace what you love. Life is too short to listen to music that
bores you. The next time you hear the words “Hey Deanie, won’t you come out
tonight! The stars are dancing like diamonds in the moonlight” whisper across
your neck, you won’t be dreaming. That’ll be me blasting Shaun Cassidy at top
volume with the windows down, as I cruise through Berlin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-73745261066409608472017-03-09T11:40:00.000-05:002017-03-10T10:56:28.261-05:00GET OUT: The review where Missy says white way too many times **SPOILERS**<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Get Out</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Released: February 2017</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Written & Directed by Jordan Peele</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Reviewed by: Melissa Herrera</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">**WARNING: MANY SPOILERS PLUS MISSY'S UNRELENTING RELATING TO DISCRIMINATORY SPEECH AND PROFILING. THIS MOVIE USES IT SO IT'S RELEVANT. IF YOU ARE OFFENDED WHEN PEOPLE SAY "WHITE" THEN YOU CAN STOP READING NOW.**</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The last real movie review I wrote was for Interstellar, back in 2014. It may have been more commentary, which might happen to this review as well. Fair warning. I've watched hundreds of movies since then and nothing has stirred me quite as much. Space, and the thought of time traveling through it, moves me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Horror movies stroke my inner demons as well, the intimate bond of the movie-goer and a mounting terror you can't put your finger on. If done right, it drips gathering dread through your body until you're squirming in those newly-installed luxury loungers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I can't say that I paid much attention to the previews for Get Out, or that it was made by Jordan Peele, of Key & Peele fame. They never fail to make me laugh, so why would I begin to believe that one half of them could terrify me? I should always know to check myself and my assumptions.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I want to give my true thoughts and not let anyone else's take on the movie affect what I took away from it. I haven't read anyone's review since I saw it. Let's unpack the movie:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There is a brief beginning that will come into play later in the movie. But we begin with an interracial couple, a black man and a white woman, Chris and Rose. Nothing to see here as he packs his suitcase and readies to go with her to meet her parents. She is typically white, reassuring him that her folks are "woke" and will not be upset at all that he is black. He isn't that reassured, and I recognize the blind tone in her voice that says "all will be okay" and the unsure look in his eye as he doubts her. I have used that tone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There is a funny friend for comic relief (who is a very good friend and semi-hero in the end), a dog, and a car trip that is interrupted with a deer running across the road, and the car hitting it. It's designed to unsettle you, and when he goes into the woods to see if it's still alive, you really want to scream at him not to. Nothing good happens from following semi-dead animals into the woods. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">They call the police *FOR HITTING A DEER* and profiling takes place, which may shock many of you, but not me. It's that every day preparation of always knowing where documents are, and the "let's get this over with" on his end. It's a conditioning of circumstances that happen regularly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">They finally arrive, meet the parents, and all seems to be well as they are overly cool about him and their daughter dating him. Let's be honest, we are all squirmy about who our kids date until we get to know them. The parents, and especially the brother who shows up, are to me an acknowledgment of the bougie rich enclaves that dot our landscape. They are sweatered up and layered with cotton fabrics that flow and fall just right, begging us to like them even though we know they could dine out and pay for a dinner that is a mortgage payment to us. There is nothing wrong with being rich. Dinner is weird with strange testosterone challenges from the brother. The brother is a bit off, and written as such.</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We see the black woman who is their live-in housekeeper, as well as their black groundskeeper. Both are eerie and off kilter, and the dad apologizes for the appearance of having "only black help." </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It's with them that we see the movie begin to take shape. Their eyes seem vacuous and he cannot place what seems wrong with them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Chris struggles with smoking, and he's trying to quit. In the middle of the night he slips outside to have a cigarette, but is interrupted and disturbed by two run-ins with the groundskeeper and housekeeper. When he heads inside the mom is still awake, and she invites him to sit with her and let her help him with his smoking habit. She is a psychiatrist/psychotherapist (?), and she claims she has created a technique to help people quit smoking, a sort of hypnosis, and he resists until suddenly it is too late - she has already done what she set out to do.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There's tea cups and spoons, and then we're suddenly in the sunken place and my entire head explodes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I will not give this part away because fear shot right through me during this scene. It was unnerving, unsettling, and the set up for the entire rest of the story. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There is an annual party, one the parents hold yearly with their very upper crust set of friends, that begins the next day and the couple have no way out of attending it. I'll go through this quickly. The friends are overly nice to Chris, touching his arms, examining his features - enough to make me squirmy. I thought I knew what was going to happen at this point, but I was wrong.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So many racial innuendos I shudder. It's intentional. Yet I have found that we're much more comfortable laughing at racist gags than we are at seeing reality, albeit slightly exaggerated, play out on screen. It's a moment to reflect, if you're white.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Chris meets another black man at the party, there with a much older lady. We know him from the movie's opening, and as he begins to speak in a years-past sort of vernacular, I still think I know where it's going and I'm still wrong. Chris becomes uncomfortable with the tone and people of the party, and Rose and him take a walk. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">What happens when they're gone is nothing but bone-chilling. I won't reveal it, but suffice to say no one utters a word as it's happening which makes it more scary. White people doing white people things that they've done throughout history, just thinking they can.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I don't really write this openly about racial discrimination, but this movie is built around it, so I press on. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We start building to a climax here as the party winds down. There have been incidents with phones, the housekeeper, and Chris' innate sense of impending doom that he should have listened to long before it gets to this point. It becomes urgent and he tells Rose they need to leave. I want to believe that this normal-looking white girl will be with him until the end. I hang onto that until the last possible second. I had hope for you, girl. You did me dirty.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When all is lost and Chris realizes he is all alone in a trap he hasn't yet figured out, all hell breaks loose. He's knocked out by tea cups and punching and wakes up in the basement. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This is when we descend into what I can only describe as a 1970's satanic cult movie. I realize this thread has been there all along, not the satanic part, but the "retro" part. I don't want to give away what transpires in the basement, but hypnosis, subliminal messages, secret operating rooms, and the outrageous thought that someone can do whatever they want with someone else's body is played out. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'm rooting for Chris, just like I always rooted for the Native Americans when I read a story set out west. I say out west a bit lightly, because if we critically think more about it, the Native Americans have been erased from East Coast mentality. They persisted longer out west, and that's where we think of them being. They're taken advantage of, simultaneously, for what is perceived to be a lesser humanity and by a white culture that consistently feels in charge of...well...everything. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But Chris is not about to let that happen, and finds a way out in a very bloody sort of way. I'm not going to lie, I wish it hadn't happened the way it did. It portrays how POC are conditioned by us to believe they act more violently than we do, a sort of gas lighting of actions. I read a quote the other day that rings true, "Americans perpetually regard themselves as victims of horrific, savage, tragic violence but never the perpetrators of it." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But on the other hand, I was lifted up in my chair, shouting in my mind HELL YES, GO CHRIS. I wanted to do everything he was doing. I was right behind him. I know that we've become politically sensitive to every single thing we do, write, and say. But hot damn, I believe this move needed to end this way, whether I think it's right or not.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Get Out is a study in and of our culture. It's also a wink at those of us whose skin is a bit lighter than others. It's a "We see you as well as the cultured bullshit you portray" type of scenario, where the monsters exist under a well-meaning and faux-woke mentality.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We want to believe that we are racially sensitive, that we plug into what other cultures and skin colors face daily. I was really rooting for Rose until I wasn't. She disappointed me like so many others who use their whiteness at the last minute when desperately needed, or use it without realizing they are. She knew it and offended me and my white skin in doing so. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I have been Rose. I lament that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I loved this movie, and was able to sink into it. I am not overly shocked at what played out, because things that happen to POC or other cultures have become another part of the day for many, for us. You can take the monstrous middle and end of the movie, and insert happenings from the past or recent daily news. Ethnic cleansing, termination of blood lines, the seeking of a perfect race, or the current step-by-step demeaning of different religions and skin tones, and the denial by many that it's happening. We don't blink and have become accustomed to the atrocities. And that, my movie-going friends, is the biggest horror move ever made. Go see this movie. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I give this movie 4.5 stars out of 5 stars: ⭐⭐⭐⭐.5</span></div>
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Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-57423206929525105432017-02-16T12:55:00.001-05:002017-02-16T12:57:29.352-05:00There is no right way<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Not every immigrant story starts out the same way.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Case in point: "My parents came over on a sponsored visa program, backed fully, and entered the port of NYC with the sun on their backs and a good road ahead. They did it the right way."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There is no right way. There's only the way it happened.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Some of us arrive in the dead of night on a rocking sea, vomit-covered shirt soaked and stained - the boat of tied-together rafts and tires falling apart as it hits the shore. Others stowaway on big steamers that chug their way towards the assumed golden shores of America, weeks and weeks hiding beneath cargo. Then there are others who strip down to their underwear, their belongings in a single plastic bag, plunging their bodies into the cold waters of that snaking river to rise, shaking yet determined, on the other side. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Before these the many who sought their dreams boarded boats and simply arrived, suitcase in hand. Our ancestors out there dreaming and doing. There were no papers, no illegal entry, just people who were seeking the pinnacle of dreams that had been lost, destroyed for whatever reason in the world of their birth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You see, we beam our brightest light out into the world, welling hope into people who have lost theirs. The "huddled masses" as we see them from our lofty high point. Then, as they reach our shores, having been beckoned by the false reveries and blinding promise, we shut the light off and leave them stranded. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I'm sorry, you can't really come here. Yeah, we're pretty proud of our country, but wait in line for twenty years and do it the right way."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We're big on bragging on who we are as a nation, the all-giving U.S.A. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Look at how grand we are! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Look at how benevolent are our people! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And in the next breath we are shunning the ones who seek entry, judging them by their countries who spit them out, or a country that can no longer help them rise. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In one big breath I've seen praise for God tumble out of lips, the whispered words imbuing a sanctity to living for Him - the one above all. In the next sentence are muttered words of fear and restraint saying, "We mustn't allow any more people in. We must take care of ourselves first!" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I no longer care to hear your words on God. I, too, know him well. He has been my solace and keeper. He loves me as he loves you. The wide spectrum we now find ourselves on puzzles me, that to think we are to turn inward instead of outward as He demands. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The condescending slide of words that inject a vicious stream into my blood saying, "You know what's right. Stop thinking differently than the rest of us." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But you see, I know who I am.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I reject that because maybe for the first time in my life, I know that I am thinking for myself; I know that what I believe is true. I see the shaking heads and those of you walling yourselves in for the long haul. The sealing away of what we think are helping hands, now only meant for those who are deemed worthy to be helped.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If it weren't for that snaking river, the one that cuts through some of the harshest terrain in the U.S.A, I would never have met the one for me. My children wouldn't exist. Today I thank God that there are those that do defy our system for entry, that swim or run or drive across the border - any border - and inject LIFE into a place that would stay singularly desolate. No longer open to the diversity that brings culture and openness. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We make it harder than it needs to be. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Hard to enter a country with so much room to breathe.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In the rejection of that otherness, is the rejection of usurped land and the peoples that dwelt on it for thousands of years. We want to paint it with white, forgetting and leaving behind the history of its devastation. The slow creep of "civilization" that overtook, killed, burned, and cast out the brown faces that lived and dreamed there. Faces painted as "natives" and "heathens" and "uncivilized." The sweep that also took over Mexican lands and made them American, forgetting that the border is not now where it once was. With one fell swoop it erased the lines and in doing so erased a people that while still living there, are now invisible. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Let them all in. Let them live. Open up the borders. Stop fearing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There is no right way to enter. There is only how it happened. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And whether we welcomed, or didn't.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-21744816771323666702017-01-23T13:55:00.000-05:002017-01-23T18:14:44.591-05:00Today I found out that I'm classless and vulgar.<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Today I found out that I'm classless.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Vulgar.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That I "don't know what a real woman is like."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That I "have no self respect" or "common-sense."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Today I learned that I am a pig. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">On Saturday I marched in a Women's March that was held in Wooster, Ohio. I knew that after this very divided election that I must march; that there was never any other choice for me. My husband gave me a kiss and told me to knock 'em dead up there.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbg83uTm_hngksX__5GCMrPgrd204oBMe_18n_EmsY3hZZY8n-y6mUTN6X-fd1Z-yM1V6C05g4efv8BimqBH6u720CqrPGOAWWxQ3xrpeVQ7KH23z-EoDzBCHrJdWSr7wRKMvtQ97J3xE/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbg83uTm_hngksX__5GCMrPgrd204oBMe_18n_EmsY3hZZY8n-y6mUTN6X-fd1Z-yM1V6C05g4efv8BimqBH6u720CqrPGOAWWxQ3xrpeVQ7KH23z-EoDzBCHrJdWSr7wRKMvtQ97J3xE/s320/2.jpg" width="298" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Hold your sign up high!" he said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I met up with several other ladies and we arrived at the square. For two hours we felt solidarity, love, and people speaking words of unity. I'm mostly a semi-introvert who writes words from home. We all had our reasons for marching, and I didn't need this march to find somewhere to belong. I needed to do it to stand against hateful words, and for those who have no voice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There's a quote by Albert Einstein that says, "If I were to remain silent, I would be guilty of complicity." I had never marched for any issue before, so it was daunting for me to get out there and do it. But I work hard: hard at my job, at being a wife and mother, and to be someone who doesn't silently stand by and let others voices call me classless and vulgar, while mine is silent. For the voices who say to "get off your ass and quit whining."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I marched for my Mexican husband who loves me unconditionally. I marched for the undocumented and the documented, who are all worthy of receiving dignified treatment because they're human. I marched for all Mexicans who have been demonized in the public eye for the past 18 months, who have struggled and lost work because of the color of their skin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I marched for my kids so that they could see a mother who loves them completely and wholly, and stands up for them. I marched for my kids who are filled with a hunger for justice, and are already stronger than me in their quest to proudly bear their Mexican-American viewpoints given by their father and I. This, after years of offhand remarks telling them to "swim back where they belong" when they were born right here in Ohio. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I marched for the girls, the ones who've been reviled and blamed and for rape culture making it worse. I marched for the girls who've had entire communities turn and blame them for being victimized and supported the offender. I marched for the people who can defend people who say they can "grab 'em in the pussy" and explain it away as "men will be men." Isn't that kind of talk vulgar? I reject it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I marched for myself so I will never, ever forget the words that have been said. That "all Mexicans are rapists and drug dealers" and how everyone fell into line and believed it, affecting an entire swath of our country. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When WAS America greater than it is now? When everyone that didn't look like us fell into line and kept their mouths shut, drinking from their own fountains? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This is why I march. I march to never forget. I march for love and for the respect I have from my husband and children, from family and friends. I march for the office of president, one I respect, and sorrow for the words that now come from it unfiltered. I march for all the people typing posts and comments, the ones who glorify Jesus in one breath and call women like me who marched</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">classless</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">vulgar</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">not a real woman</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">evil</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">a pig</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">with no common sense or respect</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Words matter, and there are always imperfect ones that come out of any event. Ones that don't quite resonate and sound harsh. But just like is said of our president, "He doesn't always say the right thing. He's not perfect, but I'll support him. Let's make America great again."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'm hoping you support other women too, instead of tearing us down with words that seek to cut and slice. Words that deem me crude and not a "real woman." Why harbor hatred of something you don't seek to fully know? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We all lean one way or the other, and Jesus isn't choosing sides. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Asking us why we marched might be a start, instead of condemning the whole march entirely. If you're seeking to do this, to understand the why's, then thank you. We have some answers that might stun you with their complexity. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I would love to hear your side. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And I won't call you names if you do. </span></div>
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Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-88913611514749203182016-10-24T12:39:00.000-04:002016-10-24T13:22:53.773-04:00We are Ghosts<b style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"We are ghosts to you. We don't exist until you want our sympathy or help. You don't think your vote will really count, because you want to see what "happens." It's a vote against us and you don't see that. It's a vote against me. We are ghosts until you want us, but we were never there if you didn't see us until it counted." -</b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>quoted by someone I love, 9/24</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am lost. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Awash.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Drifting in a sea of distractions.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Fraught and edgy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Simple and deep.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My thoughts betray me</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">and I cannot sleep.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We the people. No longer are we the people we say we are. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We are washed in the blood of Jesus and drowning in our own hypocrisy. We cry out for the blood to flow from the bodies of our brothers and sisters in lands far away - those who cry for our help - as well as turn a blind eye to the ones dying in our streets at alarming levels, shouting, "He should have listened." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We cry "Save the babies!" while we kill those in prisons for crimes committed, by injection or the slow burn of hatred. Or in war, our soldiers dying and the twisted collateral damage of the beautiful faces from the land they're bombing. Do they not matter? Do the bodies burned and blackened mean less than lives in our clean, non-war-torn tidy nation? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Is one life of more worth than another? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My prayers have stopped flowing and my mind is a mess. This election season has dimmed a light inside of me that once knew tiny fractions of truth and goodness. I walked through an idyllic life, sheltered from most duress and harm, knowing that mostly things would turn out well. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Good.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Pleasant.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Nice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But we are no longer nice. None of us. I lean one way, you lean the other and we play a vicious tug of war with words that have the unpleasant ring of ugliness and spite. Our civility is mired inside precious packets of "I love Jesus and he loves you too!'</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But Jesus loves us all, not just those you deem worthy to be loved. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Jesus loves the babies aborted, and loves the moms who made a wrenching choice as well. He doesn't love them less nor heap judgmental words on them. We kill too, in different ways. We kill every time we say, "Those people are so lazy. Get 'em off welfare! They're leeching off of us!" Where did the love for that unborn baby go? Does it transfer to the mom, struggling to survive, or only to the baby as it's growing in utero? Does God judge the soldier who killed ten men in battle? Isn't each life the same if this is the context we view it in?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am strong and solid.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am filled with good words.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But I have stopped the flow of them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Why?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The atmosphere in my area is thick as butter, dripping and melty. There are signs, countless signs, showing support for one who hates people I love. The immigrant, the different, the one with skin that is brown, the one who has loved me day and night, unconditionally, for twenty-eight years. The one who has shown love, spread love, been selfless to the point of not being able to anymore. The one I love who has been peppered at every place he goes, on every angle. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">He uses his words in a second language learned.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A language he learned on his own.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And uses today and every day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>Things he is not:</i></b> <u>rapist, thug, killer, drug dealer</u></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
</i></b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>Things he is</i></b>: <u>husband, lover, father, business owner, thriver</u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>Things my bi-racial children are:</i></b> <u>entrepreneur, business owner, movie-maker, public speaker of words, girlfriend, boyfriend, women, man, human</u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><u><br /></u></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Productive people, giving the gift of their talents to this country. Not people to be thrown out because of fear. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Countless discussions on this election, some with family and some with friends, have yielded differences of opinion. I've mostly shut off as I struggle to understand the contradictions that are being displayed. Six months ago a Transgender person simply could never use a bathroom with your children, and now someone who demeans women is simply "talking locker room banter." Decide which way you're standing, friends. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"We just want to see what he does. He's surrounded himself with good people." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Why are you voting for the people surrounding him? You are using him to further the agenda of conservative supreme court justices that you think will repeal things you bleed for. Things you believe deserve the utmost merit. But can't you see? There is so much more than a single-issue vote. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There is widespread hatred that has spread uncontrollably, frighteningly. There is hatred from the one you would want, the one who would see mass deportations and people denied their right of religion - whatever religion that is. If it's not yours can you see it's worth? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Would you find our country shut off, sealed, from the world? Would you feel safer then?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We have been affected. Jobs, our life blood, have become scarce because his rhetoric has been believed and found to be true. We've lost jobs and battled mightily for nine months, hesitantly wondering what was happening. Then it hit us. It was him. His words were working. And we were floored, yet determined.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Your vote is yours to cast, heavy and dull in your hands. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But remember there is more than just your issue,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">the one you hold too tightly, too close to your chest.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
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<b style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"We are ghosts to you. We don't exist until you want our sympathy or help. You don't think your vote will really count, because you want to see what "happens." It's a vote against us and you don't see that. It's a vote against me. We are ghosts until you want us, but we were never there if you didn't see us until it counted." </b><b style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">-</b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>quoted by someone I love, 9/24</i></span><br />
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<br />Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-13219275455793521442016-08-30T06:44:00.003-04:002016-08-30T06:44:37.750-04:00I'm mostly a writer of small pages <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>On the home stretch of finishing my novel. 62K words! But right now, this is how I feel. Come read me on <a href="http://www.holmesbargainhunter.com/section/hbhcolumnist26?sectioncat=hbh">The Holmes County Bargain Hunter</a>: </b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;">I don’t want to write anymore. My brain is tired, and my novel is snugly tucked inside Microsoft Word, where it can’t hurt anyone; yet, I can feel its sharp teeth biting at me, pulling me slowly under where I must acquiesce to the venom it exudes. When it’s done, I will offer it to you like a sacrifice on a golden alter because it had to be written.</span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;">I’m mostly a writer of small pages, words made shiny and formed cohesively to hold your attention for 10 minutes at a time. I can take a subject and spin it on its head, the heft of the word document filed neatly in the time it takes to ride the words to their crest. I’m a wordsmith of tidy detailed musings, and what possessed me to think I could write a novel still baffles me as the coffee goes down bitter.</span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;">My husband, lover of all things me, born adrift on a story that propelled him to me long ago, he is why I am compelled to finish. His story, told to me over and over, the words gently orbiting in outer space, presses me to go, go, go. It’s a novel born of blood, love and warm countries where joy are found in the daily lilt of life. </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;">It’s a story of hate and consuming loss that didn’t define him and the pulling up of who he was into the relentless partner he is to me today. His words and life swirl in my brain, savagely mixing until all I can do is sit at my computer and either purge or be stifled. </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;">I am nearing completion, paragraphs methodically arranged, sentences that await their birth, spilling from brain to finger to screen. I’ve said repeatedly that writing a novel is like having your guts spill onto the floor and rolling around in them. Too graphic? Well I’m not sorry because I feel that every day as I sit down to write. I’m awash in a sea of grit. The last words are in me, and they’re coming down the pike hard and fast. Blessed culmination is near. </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;">I’ve told others I have more books to write, which is like choosing a dare instead of a truth. It’s a thrill that never ceases to perplex and amaze me as I hurtle through the cosmos, but until my husband completes the cycle of his younger self in this book, until he finishes these feral and vicious years I’m writing and looks up and sees my younger face for the first time, I will be unable to write anything else. </span><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.304px;">This afternoon I will take his 16-year-old hand from 1984 and sit down to find the concluding content. I will do this every day until I’m done.</span></span>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-60112547240403076942016-06-27T09:15:00.002-04:002016-06-27T09:15:27.802-04:00The evil that grows inside us<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">Read this, and all my columns, weekly at <a href="http://www.holmesbargainhunter.com/section/hbhcolumnist26?sectioncat=hbh">The Holmes County Bargain Hunter</a>: </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">We are not immune to the horrors of this world. It will live in us until we cast it out and then rein in carefully with love. This morning I woke to a world that had the breath of valued human beings taken out yet again. They were ripped, targeted and snuffed out in the terrible minutes and span of a hot June Florida night. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">Stories of grown men are trickling out, stories of them texting their moms, pleading for help ironically from the stalls of a bathroom, the terror building as the communication was cut short and they were gone. Lives taken away by someone who deemed them unworthy to live. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">I mourn with those who mourn. My murmurings felt dry as my mouth is a burning desert sent into the stratosphere with a tongue that has uttered the same laments over the years in alarming fashion. It’s another massacre, another shooting, another day. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">On cue my social media feeds blew up: talk of gun control, the targeting of the LGBTQ community, radicalized Muslims and how our immigration system has failed because this man was of Afghan descent, but he was born in the U.S.A.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">In reading the words typed by others in the immediate hours after this happened, I gleaned that I was to do this: wake up, blame our president, buy a gun, stockpile guns and ready myself for war. I saw words of lament as well, the beauty of empathy, sadness and mourning pouring out like a waterfall. What I didn’t see was the immediate change of temporary profile pictures that happened after the Paris attacks, the support coming in droves as the French flag flew over hundreds of my friends’ faces. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">I puzzled a bit, wondering why this was any different, something that had happened in our very country. We just had 50 beautiful souls murdered, just as the Parisians had been, out and about in their town eating, drinking and living, and as the blood was still drying on the floor of a nightclub, I felt a terrible rumble through my soul.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">Instead of dining on a continuous meal of online words and commentary of which I’m wont to do we slipped away to the cinema to lose ourselves for precious minutes inside a movie. I shut my phone off, my lifeline to the outside world. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">Highly anticipated, we took in a movie called The Conjuring 2. It was a famous case about a family who were menaced by evil spirits, a true story, and the people who helped them claimed freedom from what was happening. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">I relish horror movies, and I admit that readily. I sat in tense moments, riveted by every second of this feature, my skin crawling with goose bumps. If you haven’t seen this particular set of movies, know that they are some of the scariest you will see. You might say, I don’t ever watch scary movies. Why would I subject myself to that? They’re evil, but you see evil exists in this world. We mustn’t hide from it. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">It’s in the mind of a young man who murdered tiny grade school children in Connecticut. It exists inside the brain of a shooter who shot moviegoers in a Colorado theater, and it lived and grew inside a boy who murdered churchgoers that welcomed him in with open arms. It dwells inside the minds of people who believe religion calls them to murder for their faith as well as the people who have shot their friends and classmates in a myriad of schools across this country. It lives within those who target a community, and it also lives within us the moment we decide that fear will reside in our hearts.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">In the end of the movie the evil is banished in highly tense moments after many endless days of terror. I felt electric surges course through my body in response to what good film-making can make you feel, and I walked out of the theater alive and well. My brain was thrumming with thoughts. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">What do we deem evil? Darkness can be defeated, but not always how we think it should. It doesn’t reside in all the brown faces that have immigrated here, nor does it reside in all the faces that look like our own. It does, however, reside in us when we become fearful, intentionally choosing to see only what is in front of us instead of investigating and probing to see what might be involved. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">I won’t hide, nor blame, nor live in fear. I want to live amongst and show love the only way I can. I want to take root and grow branches that cover those who are targeted by hate, try to help instead of run away from those who are lost inside a religious frenzy. I want to believe in redemption and be a shelter from unfiltered words, which in the end are more powerful than taken-up arms on either side.</span>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-15098721265817521022016-05-06T11:40:00.003-04:002016-05-06T11:40:38.990-04:00In which I learn that cooking equals love // Part 2<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm posting the second part of my column on cooking here on my personal blog this week. I need a good reason to get you here anyway! Find all my columns on <a href="http://www.holmesbargainhunter.com/section/hbhcolumnist26?sectioncat=hbh">The Holmes County Bargain Hunter. </a></span><br />
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<u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In which
I learn that cooking equals love: Part 2<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I sat at the table in my first kitchen looking out over the
vast expanse of valley outside my window. I’ll admit to not making coffee
before I got married, as I didn’t learn to love it while living at home. But I
could smell it, so I figured I was doing something right. I was twenty-one, and
had years of Holmes County cooking under my belt, with a husband - who while
loving my cooking - sometimes longed for the tastes he’d grown up with. When we
left Mexico for home months before, got married, and moved into our own home –
I was unwavering in the task set before me. I would learn to cook proper
Mexican food even if it killed me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In between tuna casseroles and chicken and rice meals, I
experimented. I started off with the basics, but even that was hard as ingredients
for authentic meals were difficult to procure back in 1990. Tortillas had grown
in popularity and were readily available, but anything else was a search in
vain. Most of what I made had a Tex-Mex bent to it, as that style was – and
still is – very popular here. Having lived in San Antonio, Texas where I met
George, I was introduced to those excellent and dreamy cooking styles. There
ain’t nothing a big, cheesy enchilada with gravy won’t cure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So I persisted, having set aside the disaster that was my
chicken soup and his family. I sliced potatoes, carrots, and onions and boiled
them in a soup – adding raw pieces of chicken to the pot. Salt, pepper, and
thirty minutes from end cooking time I added a handful of rice. When all was
cooked, I sliced up jalapenos, cilantro, and several limes to which I garnished
the hot steaming bowl of soup. Setting it in front of George, he smiled and dug
in. I knew I was on the right track. When he moved to this area he fell in love
with the cream sticks and pan-fried chicken, so there was no love lost for our
food. But when he took a bite and was transported to his mom’s table, I knew
then that my kitchen would forever be a bilingual one. Thin, pounded round
steaks fried with onions and smothered in a spicy tomato-based sauce became
another meal I perfected. And rice, let me tell you about the rice in Mexico.
There is no small secret to it except that it’s perfection. Huge vats are made
at parties and family meals – every single grain cooked to non-mushy
perfection. I could hear his mom’s voice in my ear as I prepared it, and my
family suffered through many pots of soft rice, hard rice, and almost-right
rice. Those long-grain bits of tiny whiteness were a burr under my skin and I
had to get it right. I will tell you that my children, now, complain of the
rice anywhere they eat it. “Mom, there is no good rice anywhere. Will you send
me some?” I am still highly critical of my rice, but I’m the only one. It is
gobbled down when I set a steaming pot next to a plate of bubbling enchiladas. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Like white sauce, I consider my success at Mexican rice the
penultimate achievement. It’s a rite of passage that must be accomplished
before you can move on. I’ve now moved on to tamales, moist and flavorful,
tucked inside corn husks, as well as learning to make homemade sopes (thicker
tortilla-like discs) that hold beans, cheese, and salsa. Special shout out to
Tyler, my eldest daughter’s boyfriend, for buying us a tortilla maker for
Christmas – he loves to sit at my table. My kitchen is now stocked with clear
containers holding dried guajillo, ancho, and chile de arbol peppers – to which
mouth-watering chile salsas (no tomatoes) are created and consumed. I have masa
flour on hand and can whip up homemade tortillas on my comal, and cans of chipotle
peppers to which I blend with ingredients to make Tinga – a singularly
fantastic quick meal of shredded chicken in sauce piled on tostadas. Giant
bowls of Posole, a spicy hominy and pork soup - which shredded lettuce,
radishes, onions, and oregano are piled on top of – has been perfected and is
eaten during the holidays. My tastes tingle when I think of the robust flavors
of Mexico and the years it’s taken me to get it right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If I cooked a meal for them in Mexico – now – how would they
react? I still get a flutter in my stomach at that very thought. Do we ever
reach the end of learning? If his mom, now in her seventies, could visit us I
would make her a well-crafted meal that I believe would make her smile. She
worried that this pale girl from America would keep her son fed, and to this I
chuckle and think of tonight’s supper. Maybe I’ll make a delicious Cochinita
Pibil, a roast shredded pork in a spicy sweet sauce, and raise a glass to
cultures that teach us new ways. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-36441388358944857002016-04-01T12:17:00.002-04:002016-04-01T12:18:11.308-04:00Missy's Life inside the Fence<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I write what I feel and lately I've been feeling a lot. A little bit like life inside our fence is a bit narrow and tight. Read on from my column on <a href="http://www.holmesbargainhunter.com/article/20160321/COLUMN/703219965/-1/hbh">The Holmes County Bargain Hunter</a>: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">We built a fence around our yard when we bought our house back in ‘96. Our kids were tiny, and my husband had grown up knowing many fences that surrounded baked-tile courtyards, with stucco buildings. They were warm, happy places you could sit and have coffee in the morning or find shade in the late afternoon as the hot sun slipped away from the day. It wasn’t a way of keeping people out; it was part of their culture, a way of affording privacy in tightly packed streets full of people. I had never had a fence, growing up in the center of Berlin, and was used to running barefoot through the neighbor’s yards. It didn’t matter where you ran; you were always welcome, allowed to roam at will through the neighborhood. There was a wild freedom to it, knowing your light footsteps through your dad’s straight mowing lines and onto the next lawn’s curvy ones wouldn’t get you yelled at. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">From the road, you might not know that our backyard is a nice size. It used to be hemmed in by a grove of pine trees in the back that are now lost to chain saws and pictures. But when we built the fence, it closed the backyard in on all sides except for the back stretch where the pines began. Our kids would cross into the pines and build forts in there, dragging broken branches and leftover trellis pieces to create mansions. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t our land because they were welcome there, unnoticed really, but not causing anyone harm. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">I loved the feeling that the fence created. I could weed in my flower beds when I wanted to, or lay out in the sun on our concrete patio without concern for prying eyes. The kids frolicked in their plastic swimming pools, making a mess of the backyard that most would cringe at. I relished it though, knowing that it was our space in which to create havoc and memories. Childhood is so fleeting and full of emotions that leaving a mess is sometimes easier than constantly trying to clean it up. It’s a futile effort that’s best left for the days when you find yourself, startlingly, in a home that’s empty yet neat as a pin. It’s those times when you long for a bit of mayhem. Tidy, stark rooms — just like safely ensconced empty backyard spaces — aren’t the same when there’s no one there to inhabit them. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">The fence, bit by bit, started to deteriorate. It wasn’t an expensive one, and aside from painting it occasionally, we didn’t do much upkeep on it. The kids grew, not needing to be fenced in anymore, the pine grove was cut down, the swing set sold, and one day I found myself staring forlornly at warped boards that needed repair and replacement. It was in disarray, and I became embarrassed by it. Every year, as the seasons turned the corner and became spring, then summer, I hesitated to look at it because of how ugly it had become. It became a barrier to what was outside of it. The inevitable happened, and as we were re-siding the house, we tore the worst of the old fence down – opening it up to see our neighbors yard for the first time in nearly 20 years. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">I sat awhile, pensive and thoughtful, thinking how closed off we had been. We erected the fence to protect our kids from running onto driveways, or to stay safely away from the several ponds that were/are still behind the house. We did it to stop people from coming into the yard, tucking ourselves — and only us — into its safe confines. But life isn’t always safe. Maybe we’ll tear the whole thing down and never replace it. I want to see what’s on the other side — as well as welcome people into my backyard. That’s what neighbors should do.</span></span><br />
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Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-40259549522037920752016-03-05T10:39:00.000-05:002016-03-05T10:39:39.520-05:00On elections, twitter, and covering our heads<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I contemplated my third cup of coffee this morning, I was also thinking on other things. There's the usual world peace, homelessness, and mom getting her wig today for her upcoming chemo treatments. Lots of things flitting through my mind, per the usual Saturday morning. I sipped leisurely.</span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There's also things that don't matter as well. Some of those things include whether my toilet has been cleaned, my ignoring the alarmingly large amount of sticks brought down in the front yard over winter, and the size of Donald Trump's privates. For that last thing, I drained my coffee cup and set it down gingerly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Clearly, the angry people of America will feel better knowing he has the size to handle anything the presidency has to offer. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Friends, this election has drained me and it's only the first of March. I blame myself for watching all the debates and getting sucked in like a whirling dervish. I'm the first to admit that I live tweet all the action. Here are some of my favorites:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>@pourmecoffee: "<span style="background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #292f33; line-height: 22px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Is anyone at the Lincoln Memorial right now? Is Abe crying?"</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><span style="background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #292f33; line-height: 22px; white-space: pre-wrap;">@benhowardOPT: "</span><span style="background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #292f33; line-height: 22px; white-space: pre-wrap;">So there's a GOP Debate, the Dunk contest, and Kanye is tweeting about the Apostle Paul. Happy Valentine's Day! Burn it all down!"</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><span style="color: #292f33;"><span style="background-color: #f5f8fa; line-height: 22px; white-space: pre-wrap;">@zhoag: "</span></span><span style="background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #292f33; line-height: 22px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tonight’s debate is on Bravo right?" </span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #292f33; line-height: 22px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>@umairh: "Ted Cruz has Chris Christie hostage face right now, check it."</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #292f33; line-height: 22px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I could go on and on. Twitter is the place to be for all live events, I.E. The Oscars, The Grammy's, GOP debates, and Democratic debates, and Brown's games. #BrownsTwitter is an incredibly sad and funny place to browse. There's a lot of talented people tweeting out there in the ether, a</span><span style="background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #292f33; line-height: 22px; white-space: pre-wrap;">nd I like to add my two cents as well. There's also a bunch of tweeters who don't have good grammar. But that being said, it's where you can plaintively yell your guts out without the repercussions of a Facebook post - because we all know where those lead.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I just have one question, as I sit down after having made another pot of coffee. What are Trump supporters so angry about? Every four years I carefully consider a presidential candidate based on a myriad of things. I've never become angry, (except at ill-crafted Facebook posts) and use my right to vote on all issues. I decide who I like, not based on party lines, and never stoop to telling my small audience of followers that they'll be going to hell shortly based on their voting choice. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Could it be they're angry at the changing face of the American landscape? The diversity that is slowing changing the "we've always done it this way" crowd? Do they feel out of control and need someone blustery and "big" to reprimand and maintain order? I have always said that no matter who is in the White House that my life doesn't really change. I get up, get dressed, and go about my day. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's your vote and your choice. But don't vote for Donald just to make "America Great Again" because she never STOPPED being great. We live in a country with paved roads, full grocery stores, and fields of grain to be harvested. We need to reach out to those who have less and pull them up, not tear them them down. We need to embrace diversity, not run in fear from it. We can't cover our eyes and say, "Change is bad. Let's seal ourselves inside a wall." And if you vote for Trump on primary day, then election day? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The fallout won't just be immense, it'll be "yuge." </span></div>
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Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-55952011869224560242015-12-29T13:22:00.004-05:002017-05-17T12:15:38.946-04:00For the moms: Say your name. Now repeat it.<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica" , "helvetica neue" , "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.304px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sappy and sentimental - that's me. But I've learned to let go and that's the key. Read my column posted several weeks ago on <a href="http://www.holmesbargainhunter.com/article/20151214/BLOGS11/151219997/-1/hbh">The Holmes County Bargain Hunter:</a></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica" , "helvetica neue" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">Reaching a moment that you strive for is like taking a drink of water when you are parched beyond measure. For me, it was that moment when you see your kids leave the house for college, or for a job that will take them somewhere that you don't see their faces but several times a year. The house settles into its bones, moving and sinking into a comfort that doesn't hold racing up and down the stairs, or the shaking that comes with sibling fights and rivalries. Like the house, solid and cozy, I let myself sink in and accept my creaks and groans — the settling of a body that's housed three children and bore each fight, scar and tear. I envelope the silence around me, gather it into my palm, and move ahead to what my now entails: words written and organized, songs played against a blank canvas of time and the silent slurp of my spoon dipped into a bowl of food I prepared for my taste buds only.</span><br />
<hardreturn style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;"> <br class="hardreturn" /><hardreturn>It's surreal and it's right. Our kids are meant to leave, and not readying them and ourselves will leave us with our hands in our laps, fighting back the tears of a life only lived for someone else. Peering through the vapors of time, I see myself with three kids under the age of 5 — each one vying for my attention in different ways. Nights of crying that bring milk-stained memories, rife with emotion and a new mother's worries – tiptoeing out of rooms and lying down to sleep dreamlessly.<br class="hardreturn" /><hardreturn> <br class="hardreturn" /><hardreturn>First words and steps, racing to grow and smile. Mornings filled with chocolate milk and Barbie dolls, or Power Rangers and Legos scattered across the floor. I can recite every Rugrats episode from memory, hearing the lines and giggles as I moved throughout my day. Days spent with Rollerblades strapped tight around ankles, zooming through the rooms of our tiny house and falling repeatedly, or the whoosh of the bikes as they flew down our neighbors hill and into our driveway. <br class="hardreturn" /><hardreturn> <br class="hardreturn" /><hardreturn>There were seconds of time that I longed for the solitude of one moment, just one bathroom break without the banging of the door and the screaming of, “Mom! Mommy! Mom!” piercing my eardrums. There was no Instagram or Facebook to document it, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen. Etched inside me are the warm dusky smells of tiny necks, sleepy and holding me tightly as they fought the sandman at every turn. The endless drinks of water that were needed before bedtime, and the stacks of books beside their beds that needed read over and over.<br class="hardreturn" /><hardreturn> <br class="hardreturn" /><hardreturn>And when morning arrived once again, I would fry dippy eggs and cut the warm buttered toasted into tiny squares, just right for tiny hands to sop up the runny goodness. I see you, young moms, struggling to get to the grocery store and make it through without a meltdown. I see the endless tiny meals and snacks you prepare, trying to get them to eat something — anything.<br class="hardreturn" /><hardreturn> <br class="hardreturn" /><hardreturn>I see you wishing for a quiet moment that enables you to remember who you are, what you want. I see you, moms of teens, who look at the growing faces of their offspring and wonder what planet they arrived from. Who took over this child who once needed to sit in my lap every day? Where is the child who cried when I left to get groceries, tiny faces pressed up against the window as I backed away, and me — grabbing a moment to settle myself in the rows of a superstore for one blessed moment. First dates, proms, games that involve some sort of ball, graduation, and your heart — beating bloody drops outside your body — as they drive away to their futures. If I can give you a word of unsolicited advice, it would be this: Make more chocolate milk, eat more cookies fresh from the oven, let them smear the chocolate on their faces and kiss them while doing it. Stop striving for perfection — it doesn't exist.<br class="hardreturn" /><hardreturn> <br class="hardreturn" /><hardreturn>Give yourself the gift of a day to go shopping by yourself — you need it to remind yourself who you are. Say your name and don't forget the sound of it. Don't rush home because you feel guilty for leaving them. That guilt is false. Let them cry themselves back to sleep. When they come home late for curfew listen to their reason instead of screaming. Never say my child would never do that, because half the time they did. Be their advocate because no one else will. I've earned the solitude I find in my home. I smile, though, when I scroll through the pictures on Facebook and see the babies, toddlers, and the moms who find it hard to laugh some days. I love the pictures of elementary kids, the tweens and the teens whose parents are grasping on just a bit harder than they should. Ready yourself, because your arms will soon be empty. It's startling and it takes your breath away, but it is exhilarating. Repeat your name often. Write down your dreams. Ready your kids to fly, because they do. Abandon yourself to motherhood, but leave a lifeline — one day you'll need it.</hardreturn></hardreturn></hardreturn></hardreturn></hardreturn></hardreturn></hardreturn></hardreturn></hardreturn></hardreturn></hardreturn></hardreturn>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-83381380561924166492015-12-09T12:18:00.001-05:002015-12-09T12:18:14.927-05:00Inching this holiday season forward<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18.304px;"><b>Newest column freshly posted on <a href="http://www.holmesbargainhunter.com/article/20151207/COLUMN/712079920/-1/hbh">The Holmes County Bargain Hunter</a>:</b></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">I just rolled off the weekend – Thanksgiving weekend – and I do mean roll. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">The table at our family gathering was heavy-laden and food was partaken of at a rapid clip. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">The dressing, glorious in its vintage enamelware pan, is the heaviest of all. In all its fried glory, it is the most anticipated part of the meal – at least for me. I don’t make dressing on a regular basis — who does? If you do, I’m sorry, but there are certain foods I savor on the holiday – unless I’m eating in a local restaurant and get a bug for bready goodness. A dish appears on our table every Thanksgiving called cranberry salad, and lots of noses are turned up. I take a small helping because for one, I like its tart goodness and the way it cleans the palate and enables more food to go down. Bad reason? Nah. Thanksgiving only comes once a cycle. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">With Thanksgiving tucked away, that means one thing – lots of sales! Even though this is true, it also means that my Christmas spirit has arrived. While lots of people get crazy decorating for Christmas on November first, I still find myself in the spooky-fallish-themed-glare of October. It takes me weeks to get on board and realize that Thanksgiving is coming. I will not skip it, jump over it, bypass it, or pretend it’s just a ruse to get to Christmas. I will plant my ceramic turkey on the table and enjoy it until it’s time for him to go. I’m a weird stickler for enjoying each day as it comes, and that means relishing in each holiday – one trick or treat bag or turkey leg at a time. We ventured to a tree farm to pick out a tree the day after Thanksgiving (Go visit Fencerow Productions outside New Bedford), and as we were putting it up — with N’Sync blaring “Merry Christmas Happy Holidays” in the background — I was covertly pitching pumpkins away as the pine was drug out. Bring one in, usher one out. Just as it should be.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">My gift lists are not yet made — and nary a longed-for item has been bought — but the coffee is hot as it slides down my throat this morning. I’m not panicked because I decided years ago that I would not let it touch me – that I would not let the madness of the season take over and turn me into something that I’m not. I would much rather shop online for a few things, as well as venturing out into the fray when I decide to and taking advantage of the insanity of markdowns. And oh, are there markdowns. I’ve also been scratching the itch to think outside the gift-giving box and shop at tiny collectives, boutiques, and mom and pop stores. There is a vibrant community outside the glow of the big box stores, and at times we need to detox from their warm lights. While I do and will haunt the big box stores – because who doesn’t need a good pair of jeans marked heftily down – I am making a commitment to finding other things that will tickle the fancy of the gift receiver. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">I stare at my Christmas tree, warm lights tucked inside its Frasier-furred branches, and I ponder. Only half the ornaments are up and it looks a little bare, but I treasure the light that spills from it around the room. There are bags filled with décor that sit patiently, as well as piles of gold and silver trinkets that await their place on the tree. The manger scene is sitting on the desk with Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus haphazardly lying in a pile with sheep and wise men, tangled and expectant. Soon, I’ll arrange them carefully on a surface in my home, thinking of years past when the little hands of my children had this job. I once entered the living room to find the wise men and camels spread out all over the room. When I asked why they weren’t in the manger scene, my son cocked his head and looked at me like I was crazy. “Mom,” he said, “they’re traveling. They haven’t arrived yet because it’s not time.” It made me catch my breath. That particular year, every single day, he inched them closer and closer until they arrived at their destination. That will be me, this month, inching forward day by day. Preparing, nesting and making ready. I wouldn’t want to jump ahead of myself and ruin it all. Instead, I’ll be sipping my coffee and savoring each minute, because each piece I put out has its place – just like each season.</span>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-41756731046908348642015-12-04T09:49:00.002-05:002015-12-04T09:49:30.891-05:00I'm back. Let's catch up. <span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;"><b>I'm back writing my column! I've missed it, so swing by The <a href="http://www.holmesbargainhunter.com/article/20151130/COLUMN/711309951/0/hbh">Holmes County Bargain Hunter</a> and have a read. Life is weird, but doesn't that make it interesting? </b></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18.304px;"><b><u><a href="http://www.holmesbargainhunter.com/article/20151130/COLUMN/711309951/0/hbh">Herrera is back and ready to catch up</a></u></b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmvgMWdk8P2_vLQhK1kH1x_NiTLXIWlROw9RnyP2rVBASTF_r9UYBBAIjqxGE_QCuz5tQoX3k-kAlHO2YZZeQS-8zh8lbGTBYVhWmH3T92R1X-m71kLi4SZQKfYIhjpGZutpPib-x0ivo/s1600/missy6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmvgMWdk8P2_vLQhK1kH1x_NiTLXIWlROw9RnyP2rVBASTF_r9UYBBAIjqxGE_QCuz5tQoX3k-kAlHO2YZZeQS-8zh8lbGTBYVhWmH3T92R1X-m71kLi4SZQKfYIhjpGZutpPib-x0ivo/s200/missy6.jpg" width="133" /></a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">Friends, I’ve missed you. Life takes a swing and you’re off on another venture, sometimes leaving behind something that was near and dear. This column was near and dear, but I had a few other things to do, so I was gone for a while, stacking up words neatly in piles. I’m bringing them out and dusting them off to let you know what I’ve been up to since we last chatted. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">I’m writing my novel and it’s almost done. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">It was a weight that sat directly on my chest, mostly taunting me through the years to finish. I’m nearly 60,000 words in and can see the finish line — albeit hazy in the distance. The last part of it seems to be moving at a snail’s pace, and that’s not for lack of being a fast typist. I do have typing medals to brag about from Oscar Miller’s class that I wore proudly on my letterman’s jacket but, um, does that date me? Regardless, my classes were in typing, not the newfangled term keyboarding, and I still position my hands over the correct letters before I start. No pecking one finger at a time for me. I value those typing classes every single day when I sit down to write. I’m sure Oscar would be proud of me today, although he might just chuckle and tell me I typed too fast and made too many errors. This is where I like the technology of now — no whiteout to correct mistakes — just backspace and move on. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">In September I traveled solo to Mexico and took part in a writer’s residency I was chosen for. It was a place that sat high in the mountains of Oaxaca, Mexico, and is available for all types of artists to apply their craft. The novel is about my husband’s life, and he is from Oaxaca — can I say match made in heaven? All I needed was a spare room, a desk and a view to sit in front of. I had all that and more as I punched my way through every single day, for three weeks, watching my word count rise and the story evolve. I made several trips to town to do research and visited places that he had been. Emotions and an amazing experience were what I found. The majority of the book was written in that tiny third floor room, and I’m writing as much as I can, now that I’m home, to reach the end. I honestly can’t take in the fact that I’m almost done. It’s been such a far-off thing — an unattainable dream — I short sold myself on. I didn’t believe in ME and my ability to finish. Things happen, friends, when we believe in ourselves. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.08px; line-height: 18.304px;">Life is a blur of days filled with words and love. My husband and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary back in May, we sent the younger two kids off to college in the fall, and my house became empty once again. I’m learning to enjoy the silence. Making a pot of coffee and sitting in my chair, while dust motes float through the slices of sun that break through the windows — isn’t this life? Most days I kiss my husband goodbye as he leaves for work, then sit down and begin my freelance work at the kitchen table. Now I can fold in one more thing to that list – this column. Until next week.</span>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-71650474093840877852015-11-24T12:34:00.003-05:002015-11-24T12:34:56.069-05:00Unlearning<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mostly, we ramble along in life doing things the same way because nothing tells us to change. We've always done things a certain way, so we keep on doing them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What if something comes along that nudges us and says, "Hey, this is wrong. We need to rethink this. Maybe we need to change how we do it?" There will be stubbornness and whining, because we have to learn a new thing. It's like a child, performing tasks and making mistakes until they learn to do it correctly. They find it annoying, but it's part of life. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Isn't it the same with us? Everyone is saying we've become too sensitive and touchy - that we call racism and are intolerant of those who "don't really mean anything by it." Either by the words they say, or their actions that speak one way and do another. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What if we've been doing it wrong all these years? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What if it's time to change and learn a new way?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The cries ring out, "We used to do it this way! Why does it have to change?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'll tell you why. We were wrong. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-90004597756182032522015-11-16T17:24:00.006-05:002015-11-16T17:24:40.128-05:00Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This is what I can muster for today.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Love casts out fear.</span></div>
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<br />Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-45258491097546641522015-10-28T11:19:00.000-04:002015-10-28T11:43:24.385-04:00The short story // She still waits for me in the words of her book<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What's the haunting season without a few short stories to make that chill run up your spine? I offer you a story I came across, that upon reading this morning, has stayed with me. If you tell me you don't read horror, but still read Ted Dekker or Frank Peretti, then you read horror. It's that thrill you're seeking. I make no apology for my love of horror movies and books, just like I don't apologize for reading romance or science fiction. Read on, if you dare.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><u>She still waits for me in the words of her book</u></span></b></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black;">I sleep soundly, in my cozy, comfortable bed. Most nights I climb in and am asleep within minutes. Other nights I read. I'm not talking of e-readers, those that lull you to the other side with their easy interfaces and slick controls. Real books are what gather me up, the ones you can grab on to and feel the pages as the story leaps to life. I want to feel the spines of books that give you purchase to hold and grip – to become lost in pages made of paper.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">Books mean a lot to me and I have read voraciously since I was a child, really at a very early age. By first and second grades I was reading proficiently at an adult level. In my rush to reading my interests expanded to genres that included spine-tingling novels, and by fifth grade, I was reading full-fledged horror novels.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">Where were my parents?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">They were there, and they were readers as well. Never ones to censor much of what we read, watched, or listened to - I was able to get my hands on deeply disturbing tomes that called out to me when I passed them in the bookstore. My eyes were drawn again and again to that section that held black-spined books with names like The Omen, Ghost Story, and The Amityville Horror.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">I devoured them word by word.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">My novels, piled intricately on a shelf dad had built me, were aligned according to my eleven year old mind. When I went to bed at night my bed was facing the shelf, that way I could always see them. My books, you see, were as important to me as any collection. People collect things. I collected books.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">Books were attached to me, as any avid reader knows, and at any given time you could find me in a corner taking in words and sentences as if they were water. It was just that now, the words I was taking in were tinged with the blackest horror, the thin edges of madness, and scratchy whisperings that floated under my door at night. My mind was awash with ritual slayings and rites of satanic cults that slid down easy, easy into my soul. Mesmerizing, they were so mesmerizing. And I couldn't stop.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">The purchase of a book called Audrey Rose brings goose bumps, raised high, to the surface of my skin. As I write this, my hackles slowly raise and I glance outside my dark window. I pull my sweater a little tighter, just a little closer for comfort, or what I don't know. The night presses in and whispered fragments, or words, travel up the back of my neck and fall gently into my ear. I turn and brush them away. I can't let them in. Had I known what the book would do I would have dropped it and run.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">I delved in, always reading by night, and I consumed each word, letter by letter. I'm not sure when things started....changing. At school, as I sat numbly in my seat, I could sense the slightest blur at the edge of the classroom door. If I looked twice it was just a door, firm and blue, standing guard as it always had. The fringes, though, were alive with murmurings and activity. If we were playing on the playground at recess I could sometimes glance in the distance and see a small, dark figure standing just on the edges of the grass. I squinted hard and nothing was there. When I used the restroom during class, I would sit on the edge of the toilet seat squeezing my eyes shut tightly. The dark corners of the bathroom threw their shadows towards my stall, and inch by inch crept underneath the door.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">The book, you see, had come alive.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">It was as if I was running a race to finish it, to feel and render the book into the very depths of my being. I could feel her in every crevice and crack of my room as I read and read and read. When the last words were absorbed and the book was over, I breathed a silent sigh, a nearly imperceptible washing through my body of relief. I crept to my shelf and placed the book carefully in its place - the place it would reign with all my other books filled with horror. I lay down and turned off the light and an instant dread filled me.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">She wasn't going to let me go.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">My room became black as night and I could feel the tomes on the shelf reaching out to me, their pages yearning for me to slip inside of them and be lost forever. The door to my room....oh the door....swung silently open creating a vortex of mindless swirling in my heart. My body lay rigidly still, and I could smell the sweat from my fear dampening my nightgown - a nightgown that an eleven year old wears to bed believing she will wake up in her room safe and sound.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">My eyes were frozen open in soundless horror as I could feel a presence enter the room with authority and float silently towards me, the hole in its center ever-widening. My chest became tight and I knew without knowing that it was on top of me...pressing the air from my lungs - keeping me from the good that I knew my life should be. Images of every scene of horror I had read slowly played in my head, like a silent movie, as the face of evil, disguised as Audrey Rose, tried to steal the very breath of life from me.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">I shut my eyes and mouthed, "Please God, I'm so scared. Help me."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">I woke up with a start and the morning sun was throwing its light softly through my white, frilly curtains. I sat up and looked around the room in stark horror as the juxtaposition of my safe surroundings screamed in protest to what I knew had happened last night. I never did know how I fell asleep and evil fled. I only hope that a bigger God had rescued me. My eyes fell on my bookshelf, those black-spined books staring at me in restful repose - their edges lined up like soldiers ready for war.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">With my nightgown still damp from sleep and terror, I gathered all the books of horror...those novels filled with evil reckoning and restless spirits...and I stumbled outside in the early morning dew to the fire pit in our backyard. With match burning in hand, I lit those books up until all I could see were the twisted faces of the covers burning in the flames. I could feel Audrey Rose screaming for me, the smoke stifling her shrieks. And then she was gone.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">My flesh, shivering with the writing of this tale, has finally been warmed with a blanket I've thrown around me. Though I am now married and have raised children, reading is still one of my first loves. Deep in the dark, with book in hand, I climb the night. It takes me to places that nothing else can, and I soar with the thrill the words bring me. Yet still, I sometimes feel the tiniest of breaths on my neck and a thin whisper calling me. I glance outside and on the periphery of my line of sight I can see her, a dark shroud that will always stand just outside of what I can comprehend. She waits for me to pick up her words so that she can live, once again, through me. I resist her, for now, and fervently hope that I can stay away from the words that would lead me to her.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2WggbEvSbuF9HNngcZRzmor2uGlmMSziZVqFQVfbwJvcPW2cA9xSIWl0OUIgcVfecRznBbfv6WvUzS9CilZpKm4SoGuWG7mbk9G9UsVao99NtSzmdZBxSSjHnhVyuqViwIQO_KmCbhLw/s1600/audrey_rose_by_charlie45.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2WggbEvSbuF9HNngcZRzmor2uGlmMSziZVqFQVfbwJvcPW2cA9xSIWl0OUIgcVfecRznBbfv6WvUzS9CilZpKm4SoGuWG7mbk9G9UsVao99NtSzmdZBxSSjHnhVyuqViwIQO_KmCbhLw/s400/audrey_rose_by_charlie45.jpg" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This book does exist. It came out in 1977.</td></tr>
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<br />Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-23629453808210827672015-10-16T01:58:00.002-04:002015-10-16T09:49:26.041-04:00Sliding out of obscurityEvery year, a few days after my birthday grants me another notch, I sit down and think about the new number I've been assigned. After I turned forty, I didn't care what the number was, just how I was living. How I was breathing.<br />
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That air was so fresh after forty.</div>
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Forty-seven is even fresher.<br />
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When I look at pictures of myself in my twenties and thirties, I see someone who hadn't yet claimed herself. I feel a sharp pang knowing the confidence I have now compared to then, but I don't mourn her. I took her for what she was and have shaped her into the woman I am now. My step feels lighter and my vision clear. My fingers move nimbly over the keyboard as words and phrases fill me. The clarity that comes from added minutes and hours to your life do not come at a price. They come as a gift that must be opened at once and used until spent. </div>
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Don't wait to use your gifts. </div>
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Spread that goodness to the ends of the earth and never question it.</div>
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Not once.</div>
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Where I hesitated in my younger years to do what I knew I must, now I'm like a freight train barreling down the tracks. Boldness comes with knowing yourself and what you're made of, the cowering fear of stepping out of the box brushed aside. I can still feel those feelings when I'm faced with trying something new, but am now able to walk through it so the fear subsides. </div>
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We can't live our lives in fear of failure.</div>
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Just as we can't live our minutes waiting.</div>
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So many times we say, "I just don't have the money for that, nor the time." Chances and opportunities slide away into the ether never to be seen again, all because we chose to avert our eyes from it. One day, having never taken chances, we'll wake up and find ourselves old in spirit as well as body. Did we use what we were given? Or did we squander it by being safe and tidy in our boxes? </div>
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This year was a big year for me in stepping out of that neatly tied box. Traveling alone to another country only enhanced my vision for the future. I saw what I wanted and I went after it. My life has been enriched by grabbing opportunity and if I hadn't, I can only say I would be mourning the loss of unused experiences. </div>
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I know it's easier for me now to grab those chances now that the kids are gone, off to find their lives in college and work. It's something I may not have done had I been presented with it when they were still here. I consider part of my life's work raising them with my husband, and knowing they will be productive citizens with minds open and alert. I would say, though, not to close your eyes. Fill your eyes with clarity and be ready for what comes to you. Don't brush it off and say, "No, I can't do this." You'll only regret what you didn't stick your neck out for. It will haunt you as you stay safely tucked into the familiarity of the known. </div>
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I've found nothing more thrilling than the breeze of unfamiliar lands, food untasted that explodes on your tongue, and the knowing that the minutes of a day are yours to shape into only what you want them to be. Another year has come and gone, and it will be three years until I reach one half of a century. I claim each and every minute left in this life to live to the fullest. Don't slide into obscurity not having at least tried. </div>
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Happy 47 to me. </div>
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Three-hundred sixty-five days until 48.</div>
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Time to live it up.</div>
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Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-84425292267786529882015-10-06T12:08:00.001-04:002015-10-06T12:13:07.876-04:00Staying cool in a mad, mad world <span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One week. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That's how long it took for me to be inundated with life here, in the small corner of Ohio I call home. A retreat is just that - a retreat. It plucks you out of the norm and deposits you somewhere you can turn your brain around in your hands. A place to look at your thoughts, from odd angles, and reflect on what they mean. I found the words in Oaxaca and they poured out of me. I'm searching for a way to keep that unfiltered flow alive in this house.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The world contained in this rectangular piece of electronics that I hold on my lap, that is what stops me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I get swept away in the glut of information and attitudes that hold my frozen stare, and throttle any spark that may have ignited upon waking. Being away from this sphere, even for three weeks, allowed me to look in from the outside and see the inanity of who we - and I - can be. We sputter and spew on topics ranging from abortion to guns, and gay marriage to politics. I see every day on my feed what is sin and what isn't, as well as who we should welcome and who needs kicked out. Our opinions spiral into the ether and sound petty and small in the scope that is this world - my voice among them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Whether we realize it or not, we are responsible for what we put out there. When you see words or pictures coming across a screen, they can be taken much differently than how you're thinking them in your head. Our posts are voices, and they can sound full of anger and childish speech - even if we don't mean them that way. I shudder at the posts I've seen full of vitriol and name-calling, horrible things that I could never imagine them saying in person. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What fuels the power we feel to say these hateful words?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have opinions, and on occasion, have posted them. But I stay away from name-calling and bullying, as well as the "Unbelievable" and "Wake Up" posts. I don't look down my nose at someone because they like certain things, nor would ask them to join me in mine. I've never changed my opinion from someone who makes me feel stupid for my beliefs. I believe in witty repartee and intelligent conversation that doesn't veer into bashing. We MUST learn to communicate with each other. There are ways to do this without belittling the other person, group, or idea. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know I can shut off this computer. No one has to tell me that. What I've realized is the effect that it can have on a productive life. I love what social media can bring and the connections it creates. It brings out the best in some, and sinks others into an abyss they can't crawl out of. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Won't you join me in creating spaces that aren't filled with hate-mongering feeds that depress? Engaging in bright conversation that doesn't demean? It's a long shot, but for the sake of us as an online community, it's imperative. </span><br />
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Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-13235243046702288372015-09-26T12:25:00.001-04:002015-09-26T12:27:13.533-04:00Oaxaca // Following through<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The wild night sky out my window facing the city.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Saturday, September 26th // 2015</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The sliding of days into the past, like taking a sip of water until you find the glass empty, have overtaken my thoughts this morning. Today and tomorrow. That's all I have left here in this space, this small slice of found moments that I have put myself in the past fortnight plus seven.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Urgency, though, hasn't found me here. The tranquility of this breeze hitting my face every morning, allowing me to write freely, has afforded no trace of urgency. Authors will tell you that any time the words find you that they must be written. This is truth. They have found me every day as the sun rises to its zenith and the afternoon sear settles over the land calling for a quiet rest. I move from my window at that time and sit on the bed and finish for the day until it's time for the afternoon comida. I've not found the words in the evening, or even at night. It seems I need to rest my brain and recoup for the next day. A cyclical rhythm, if you will.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54S68myq7hR1oEXVmpekhfKvK1A5MJBVlOrrLSPE_Wgtp_3nk-_10ZsA8a0nT-exIYtE9qbA-tGWVJBkPbokSpWLebd5IxSoZYr8XS9D566M0w-GjLkdMEFCYFnrU18WC3fhb22MK8Ck/s1600/z12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54S68myq7hR1oEXVmpekhfKvK1A5MJBVlOrrLSPE_Wgtp_3nk-_10ZsA8a0nT-exIYtE9qbA-tGWVJBkPbokSpWLebd5IxSoZYr8XS9D566M0w-GjLkdMEFCYFnrU18WC3fhb22MK8Ck/s320/z12.jpg" width="269" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cacao beans and nancha.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As of today, 11:01 A.M. on 9/26/15, forty-three thousand eight-hundred ninety-five words fell from my fingertips, as blood from a wound flows. I will write today and tomorrow, before I roll up my belongings and pack them tightly into a suitcase. I will board a plane Monday morning, the words safely in the cloud (and various other places) and I will fly home to the waiting arms of my beloved. How I've missed him.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbvmmkLzXoc2TXSdkj5-42mPUGH208vuQjkZBZl8GZSDVh6IfE-QzxSWt8sJoOjlu31heIdZ_4EqVkOEKTxwRFUSmc5LZ9PS2wycsCzS9B0j7sSjPlZeGRMP41R8VTKpDuRn6XCDPeELo/s1600/1t.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbvmmkLzXoc2TXSdkj5-42mPUGH208vuQjkZBZl8GZSDVh6IfE-QzxSWt8sJoOjlu31heIdZ_4EqVkOEKTxwRFUSmc5LZ9PS2wycsCzS9B0j7sSjPlZeGRMP41R8VTKpDuRn6XCDPeELo/s320/1t.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My writing space at Arquetopia.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Making this trek alone has been the best choice I've ever been compelled into. It's allowed me to find in myself the 'knowing' that comes from starting and doing and nearly completing. I consider the book three quarters of the way done, though if more words find me I won't stop writing them. I've learned much about myself and what I'm capable of. Stepping away from life, a wonderful and fulfilling life, is imperative to success. It was never my choice to come - it was a propelling, a pushing out, a step-out-to-the-edge-moment for me. It was written before I knew it, and it was God-driven from the start. I only allowed myself to listen.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJTwCryxEn8ZQ0dMMR6CIJL5B6JQmuthL0JCk2YrpM-LnYYulyjBQ1h_uFn_XU8AQ0La3LbHd1aW8NNrUrVWgEyEOu1vh2M2o78Mejf0ymz9VIx1Xrxk8sUiavc_oMnRfPhzAvjBVa3Ns/s1600/z5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJTwCryxEn8ZQ0dMMR6CIJL5B6JQmuthL0JCk2YrpM-LnYYulyjBQ1h_uFn_XU8AQ0La3LbHd1aW8NNrUrVWgEyEOu1vh2M2o78Mejf0ymz9VIx1Xrxk8sUiavc_oMnRfPhzAvjBVa3Ns/s320/z5.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zaachila mercado</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So today I will write. I will allow this breeze in the verdant terrain just north of Oaxaca City to pull more out of me, and tomorrow as well. I will squeeze it for all it's worth, then I will complete what cannot be stopped at home. But where is home? I believe I will leave a part of myself here, the place where I met part of my other half - the little boy he left behind. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Saludos. </span></div>
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Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345217514625926325.post-55689123415551808022015-09-20T13:45:00.003-04:002015-09-20T19:45:14.855-04:00Oaxaca // Finding the emotions<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This place, so heavy and dense. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It has enfolded me in its palm and I lay here, gently, on the hot surface. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sometimes gasping for air. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDZYyKUtDcZQFo0CTwFaj5SJS4Kdc9zC83zYWjoLnf0J_yx9pZtvzXu11NRpU3Ipob_c7VCTbdT_0Pf9gWfjAzOsI7ZPVHVIKtc4VuI9d0U1Qnyyw06h6fOwGWenhoFNWoS6kAW_f-o8A/s1600/2i.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDZYyKUtDcZQFo0CTwFaj5SJS4Kdc9zC83zYWjoLnf0J_yx9pZtvzXu11NRpU3Ipob_c7VCTbdT_0Pf9gWfjAzOsI7ZPVHVIKtc4VuI9d0U1Qnyyw06h6fOwGWenhoFNWoS6kAW_f-o8A/s320/2i.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Graffiti, beautiful and evocative.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This week my word count has piled up and they are stacked neatly in my computer, waiting for the day they see the light. I have found them and I spew them out as water comes out of a geyser - forceful and necessary. I've found while writing that some characters don't have as much of a voice as I thought, and others are stronger. It's a strange process, writing, and the tiny threads you think won't mean much reveal so much more when pulled. I enjoy pulling stray threads and seeing where they take me. I write each day, every morning into early afternoon, and see where the trail takes me. I jot down notes and talk with George frequently so I can be sure to have details correct. Technology lets us see each other's face as we connect every morning and evening, love never losing itself over the thousands of miles. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTPDNbBnxGc1asDwwEIGFTzOfDfQ475ctp525rnYS-sAwFcHnB5DZBCmDHwH6OeZCV9yE0JeQjZIhfT-JzEtXOUbcI7Gl7e8BNqXJzhbj6nH8-OLDNmslfrYnPnR6XKA2YszAASTTGgbY/s1600/2o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTPDNbBnxGc1asDwwEIGFTzOfDfQ475ctp525rnYS-sAwFcHnB5DZBCmDHwH6OeZCV9yE0JeQjZIhfT-JzEtXOUbcI7Gl7e8BNqXJzhbj6nH8-OLDNmslfrYnPnR6XKA2YszAASTTGgbY/s320/2o.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Santo Domingo cathedral</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVHAzR0jTJKZyquGjJL9YNsfsXAAnObj7DtgIwFqzWbLalRmn0yTE2g5xqEly8FQdNDsXTkJ414cZEKv6waZ2mZOaYvMO2-qBvvRPXkYR1bqbvEuai-nNyMGxO4ckJRJ2XSwzBJlpj8Ok/s1600/2n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVHAzR0jTJKZyquGjJL9YNsfsXAAnObj7DtgIwFqzWbLalRmn0yTE2g5xqEly8FQdNDsXTkJ414cZEKv6waZ2mZOaYvMO2-qBvvRPXkYR1bqbvEuai-nNyMGxO4ckJRJ2XSwzBJlpj8Ok/s320/2n.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The church George took his coins in and asked God to help him. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've said before that missing him is the key to me writing the bulk of this story. Many times, as I meandered in the zocalo or on side streets to find a piece of the story, I've felt alone. When we hustled into town for the Dia de la Independencia (Independence Day) the rain pelted us, and as my hood was up and I became drenched, I felt a feeling akin to where will I turn for comfort? None was to be found, just walking and walking until I reached my destination. As independent as I am, I believe these feelings have been afforded me so I can sense some of the desperation yet happiness he found all while being lost. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijFaAIoOig7HtR6TvN9pkBhTX_d15bHEkQ5w2NXnk51Yvq9ihqlL3vvs2ZwiAFndPmf72haJrPMpRXt2DAyKgVpvsdIhjpM98fYw6pfQaUwPo4YYtV10sRUy7S5DQmRB1_WavJ88cv80I/s1600/2q.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijFaAIoOig7HtR6TvN9pkBhTX_d15bHEkQ5w2NXnk51Yvq9ihqlL3vvs2ZwiAFndPmf72haJrPMpRXt2DAyKgVpvsdIhjpM98fYw6pfQaUwPo4YYtV10sRUy7S5DQmRB1_WavJ88cv80I/s320/2q.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drenched on El Dia de la Independencia</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHLAXdt4Pr9knTEteDQa1K5huvyZwMNmAqOGf1ApsFdAXqY0A5Jx9wrBYSJUo-tFbyGtmOhV5j03n7qufi71-jf2f8XnNDwpwi90b3LD27vNR6M9ManiGs3qD-pmyvt9TppBdtdgv2Mg4/s1600/2a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHLAXdt4Pr9knTEteDQa1K5huvyZwMNmAqOGf1ApsFdAXqY0A5Jx9wrBYSJUo-tFbyGtmOhV5j03n7qufi71-jf2f8XnNDwpwi90b3LD27vNR6M9ManiGs3qD-pmyvt9TppBdtdgv2Mg4/s320/2a.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The frutas in Ocotlan market</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We traveled to Ocotlan market, a town some forty minutes south of Oaxaca, and spent the day there browsing the wares. It was the cleanest and most delightful market I've ever been to, with the lushest produce and flowers I've seen. The art and handcrafted wares were incredible, and I succumbed over and over to impulse buying. We also said goodbye to Allie, one of my fellow residents, who inspired me with her quest to find a part of her father here in Mexico - a place he was made to leave behind. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-uochN7qxA3AfMlzQ-1SDRyarS7UHlukdYgkrgBH3OVY8PMea0q4a9kAQptF9WDmxBpZ2nJnrE5pZWJKkmbPr3HOSfMdeRPLDxiEH6-kEbcbZpTtbWvBlZ9HZx0zszn_8dLMgLfjwYsA/s1600/oax13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-uochN7qxA3AfMlzQ-1SDRyarS7UHlukdYgkrgBH3OVY8PMea0q4a9kAQptF9WDmxBpZ2nJnrE5pZWJKkmbPr3HOSfMdeRPLDxiEH6-kEbcbZpTtbWvBlZ9HZx0zszn_8dLMgLfjwYsA/s320/oax13.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful graffiti at the train station </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisdhi5p8l2skD98gLdWrWvwEY5AInaNuyczV4HpqEgJR7JnHrMyQeUsRLBcluM0O6XuQH-1qC3rhlRbGytibqIdNUlhzIHmUgOOFmcqGCsPYFs7quu6YrClGcr54OgbE3JGsu6MhOqx6w/s1600/oax8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisdhi5p8l2skD98gLdWrWvwEY5AInaNuyczV4HpqEgJR7JnHrMyQeUsRLBcluM0O6XuQH-1qC3rhlRbGytibqIdNUlhzIHmUgOOFmcqGCsPYFs7quu6YrClGcr54OgbE3JGsu6MhOqx6w/s320/oax8.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The little boy I captured. Such irony.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYgbRW1UNP_CH6fXI5_IR5hTxniY7oVvfX_4J1GI0fhk1ReRkqbvFNlUemfUr94JAeK8TW692aeCbghgAdRFrYQuK23Qw0ZlLZvxnbjcYqT0PnK2Gp-Mwa9rWexI_kMGwvVakGMTxB9ik/s1600/oax19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYgbRW1UNP_CH6fXI5_IR5hTxniY7oVvfX_4J1GI0fhk1ReRkqbvFNlUemfUr94JAeK8TW692aeCbghgAdRFrYQuK23Qw0ZlLZvxnbjcYqT0PnK2Gp-Mwa9rWexI_kMGwvVakGMTxB9ik/s200/oax19.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I climbed the train. So cool.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Most importantly, though, I found my way to the old train station - the one where George disembarked and found himself in a lush city, teeming with people. The place where as a six year old child, he looked around and felt emotions of loneliness and uncertainty. When I walked in to this place my eyes pricked with tears and a feeling I couldn't explain welled up in my throat. It was the most connected I've felt in my entire two weeks here, and I walked the length and width of the unused tracks and old train cars until I had my fill. I ran my hands along the chippy paint and iron that once robustly ran the tracks until it reached its destination. I was able to climb up on the train itself, rickety and rusty, and peered in and breathed the air around it. The air was different around this place, somehow sacred, and although George will laugh and tell me - Babe, I'm here. I'm not lost anymore - I know he downplays the emotions he feels. A small boy was playing near the caboose, and he appeared to be around six years old. I approached him, with his mother sitting on a bench near the station, and asked him if I could take his picture. Embarrassed, he ducked his head, but soon looked at me and nodded yes. I captured him looking at me in-between the wheel, and the irony of it stung me. This place was a highlight, and I left filled with something I hadn't felt before. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ih4l3UkkgbS8_HZkkFeefensud3TVMf6mO4gtIBc8uBEg31v53bYlrKIDPL328JeqeaVTA7StOMjEejO8HUWYbngsDizU-DrSrhyfYnWJO0b50lyuOaM9fpoemBfE0sARGuIJEaXCwU/s1600/oax.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ih4l3UkkgbS8_HZkkFeefensud3TVMf6mO4gtIBc8uBEg31v53bYlrKIDPL328JeqeaVTA7StOMjEejO8HUWYbngsDizU-DrSrhyfYnWJO0b50lyuOaM9fpoemBfE0sARGuIJEaXCwU/s320/oax.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old train station. So many emotions.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have one week to go, and I'm working hard to write as many words as can find me. I reach out in each space and tuck it inside my brain, to pull out when it seems difficult to write. This story is hard, and I'm telling it harshly - we aren't holding anything back. You will find it shocking, heart-rending, and maybe see some hope in-between the dark places. There's always a hope, isn't there? </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdCxLR-royne-rT-L3yGpRSS_YK7BNedP_6z2kXZpGnx9brtlI81l4JX7IHyHpYWuaLqvbCI161UlTibyRxKpG8XJlp41gujThVjxhe1gPnJ8bISpuskOBIiWNCFW3T6WjOzJD6ippQNY/s1600/2k.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdCxLR-royne-rT-L3yGpRSS_YK7BNedP_6z2kXZpGnx9brtlI81l4JX7IHyHpYWuaLqvbCI161UlTibyRxKpG8XJlp41gujThVjxhe1gPnJ8bISpuskOBIiWNCFW3T6WjOzJD6ippQNY/s320/2k.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magical city streets</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18445686619661189159noreply@blogger.com0