Writers Book of Days - Judy Reeves Turn the Soil Think of a garden and the rich, loamy earth that is exposed when you heave with hoe and spade. This is what happens when you practice. When you write about that summer day when the sun was heavy in the sky and you and your father were fishing on the banks of the Platte River, his red-and-white plastic bobber bouncing on the milk chocolate water - you are turning the soil of memory with your spade of a pen. Breathe in and smell it's fecund possibilities, get down on your hands and knees for a close-up of the living things you've unearthed. You keep writing, turning the soil, going deeper, mixing it up. Surprised, maybe at what you've excavated and curious - why this image, this day? One day's session may take you into a memory of rafting down the Colorado River through the vast split of the Grand Canyon. You try to go back to it the next day, but instead find yourself describing the lopsided grin of the waitress who served you hash and eggs at breakfast that morning. Not until two weels later do you write about the canyon again; you describe the sleeping bags, watching the moon volley the tall walls above you. You keep writing and you unearth more - the icy clamp of the water when you tried to rinse shampoo from your hair; fishing at the edge of the river, whistling while fishing. But next day's practice if it's something else - the smell of wild lilac on the hillside that leads you into your grandmother's bedroom. Like Brigadoon, the Grand Canyon is lost to you again. Like sprouts breaking through the earth, you can't demand an image to appear. Instead, you hoe, you shovel, you take off your shirt and bend to your weeding. Then, one day, you're writing about a street you once lived on and, without willing, the memory will of the last trip to the Grand Canyon comes. This time the images come full tilt: the echo inside the wide mouth of rock cave when someone said your name, the auburn glint of hair as you are shading the sun from your face. The words you write are true and you are able, this time, to write into the memory through your pain and your tears. Exercise: Take some quiet time to think of a memory-let yourself be reminded of it. Don't hold back and just pen it down...if it should shift, go with it and shift with the memory. Write everything you recall vividly in your imagination.
10/31/07 I find that I drift aimlessly in and out of consciousness while driving. I see different things on past experiences that I didn't see at the time. As I drove, watching the children running around in their costumes with their parents trying to keep up, a clear memory hit me... I was eight years old. I remember leaving school that cold Halloween, anticipating the night to come. When I got home, my costume was in order, I tried it on three or four times, just to make sure, and I waited anxiously for Dad to tell me to suit up. Time passed so slowly as I tried watching TV, did some homework; anything to get my mind off of the moments to come. It came all too slowly, as I suited up as quickly as possible and faced that cold October air. I was the dead bride. I looked amazing with my spooky make up and "missing teeth." We went up School Street, hitting Auntie Barbara and Uncle Don's, Mrs. Gregoire, and the house that always had their Christmas tree up. My pillow case was filling slowly but surely. As I hit each house, filling my sack with goodies, my dad stood behind us, smiling and also anticipating the sugary goodness to come. He knew his midnight snacks were in order. Getting home and rummaging was the best part. Even though in the back of our minds, we knew we had to wait a whole year until it came around again. As a child, so naive and innocent, you look forward to the smallest things. I now regret not doing more for the holidays in recent years. I feel as though that inner child is starting to fade out of my life as the logical, rational adult moves in.
Its a quiet soon-to-be-shaken night,my fingers are feeling so stiff out of the emotions,my arm I can feel it rushing with excitement.Thats how my body assures me that at this moment I wouldnt want to do anything but throw some chords around.So,I do that,for an hour or two,three,if I get really lucky.Everytime me and the big red spend some time,I feel we´ve known eachother all of our lives.Which isnt true.It was just nearly two years ago.It took me about 7 years to convince my parents to get me a guitar.The thought first crossed my mind when I was 6,I just got a fake plastic pinky version of the big red.I should have called it the phony pink.I didnt give it a name,though.I should have,I guess it just didnt seemed important to me then,I guess I didnt feel the connection.After many years of begging,intense conversations and several "no´s",the day came,it finally did,I was getting a freaking guitar.That day would,without any question,make it to the top 5 of my favorite days of my life if it wasnt for mom´s little revelation:As usually,she picked the time when shes brushing my hair to drop bombs,most of the times concerning my dad,naturally.Shes a big fan of victimization and placing blame too,this time the blame was on me,now,after 13 years,she finally realizes that the one true culprit of her divorce was me.Somehow,I got very angered and hurt,not sure if it was because of the claim itself or because of the words she chose....anyways,it did.Next thing I know,I was kicking the bed post as hard as my fingers could not break.There were tears and shouting and all the things you would expect.Basically,it got better after I left the house with just my head and thoughts,I came back home with the big red and havent let go of it since then.
i just learned to ride my bike and i brought it to my grannys house. i was waiting for my uncle dan to come home from his paper route. i seen him coming down the street sweating from the hot summer day. i was wearing no shirt. i rode my bike down the driveway onto the street to meet him. he smiled and we walked back to my grannys house. awhile later i remember going with my granny to pick him up from school. he got out later than everyone else because he was an artist so he stayed later for his extra class. i remember seeing him walk down the path to the car. i never rememberd what school it was but i remember what it looks like. ive never been back there and ive always wondered what school it was. when i was that young he was my rolemodel. he was the coolest person in the world to me so when i got to see him i was ecstatic. those are the only 2 memories i have of him and i should have many more but i dont know were they went but i think they're hiding. i was 6 or so when he passed away so i should have more of these memory, but when i think of those particular ones i feel like im liveing it everytime. i remember the color of the cars parked on the side of the road. i remember exactly what every house looked like. i remember exactly how hot it was. sometimes when i think about things deeply enough i can smell the smells i smelt at that time and hear the things i heard. it would be nice if i had more memorys of the person i loved the most RIP
There was once a time in life called childhood, and in this time we all had advetures and mis-adventures. This is a memory of a mis-adventure, a day that started inocently enough, but wound itself into quite the cluster fuck. There were five of us back then. Now there are more. Four more, actually. Em is the oldest, eleven at that time. Then Bran, at ten. I was nine, Nat was eight and Spence was seven, if you can believe that. (our parents were very busy in those days). You see, we lived on a farm, and on this farm we had a barn. The barn was supposed to be off limits, but you know what it;s like when your a kid. Off limits means "Play at your own risk", and that is just what we did. Someone, though Know one seemed to remember who shortly after, or today, had the idea to play ball tag in the barn. And we did, for a short time.The curse of youth is a short atention span, and soon someone, who knows who, had a better idea. Let's play ball tag in the hay loft ! Now Dad was one step ahead, and had removed the ladder and put it up into the loft so adventurus children would not feel the temptation to play in such a place. But Dad did not reckon on how good of climbers Nat and I were and in seconds we were in the loft, hoisting the ladder down to the others. The game continued, fifteen feet in the air. Sweaty children ran about , slipping in sweet, dry hay, lauphing and taunting who ever was "It". Feild mice angerly scurried from their soft abodes, birds chirped and flew threw the rafters higher up. Em was it and threw the ball. Spence was now it and he threw the ball at me. Yet I had a plan. At the bottom of the loft was a pile of hay about six feet high. As the ball zoomed at me I jumped, and landed, unscathed except for the mess of hay in my dark hair. Nat followed, as did Em. Spence, being the youngest, had a bit of luck and managed to tag Bran, the oldest boy. Bran was not about to let a seven year old show him up and launched a running attack at him. Spence jumped into the hay. Poor Bran, who has always been a bit clumsy, slid in the dried hay in the loft. Slid right off the loft and onto a fence post that had been pounded into the earthen floor. The post entered threw his right thigh, just under the buttocks. He stayed like that for a moment, but his weight got the best of him. He began to slide down the post, the flesh of his right butt check ripping up, towards his back. He had let out a scream, but that was all. His eyes were closed, and his face scrunched. He was fighting unconchusness, moaning, his head flopping around on his shoulders. Em and I ran to him, both grabing one arm and one leg, and after a short but brutal struggle, we lifted him from the post and carried him in to the house, to Mom. Mom did not panic, but sweetly talked to her oldest son, trying to calm him as she cut away his torn pants. There was surprisingly little blood, though I vividly remember great chunks of meaty flesh hanging from the rip. It had to be at least twelve inches, running from mid thigh, to mid butt check. We were gathered around, feeling sorry for our brother when we heard Dad's truck skid into the gravel driveway at a around 35, 40 miles per hour, causing him to smash the old splinered fence at the head of the drive into pieces. Em had called him in from the feilds, riding her bike out there to get him. Mom and Dad took Bran away, but not before Dad gave us all a look that ment "I'll be dealing with you soon." So the rest of us waited at home, silently. Each placing the blame on ourselves, each waiting to hear Dad's truck pull in the drive way, or the ring of the phone. Night fell, and we too fell. Asleep that is. I was the first to be awakend by Dad's belt on my unsuspecting rear. We all took our turns, each getting our lickings, crying out for Momma who was busy nursing poor Bran. Even Em, the only girl at that time, had not evaded the punishment. The next morning Bran was the center of attention. He had 143 stitches in the inside of the massive injury, and 69 on the outside. Shortly after, Dad instructed us in ripping down the hay loft and rebulding the smashed fence. Mom recruted us as Brans personal slaves, sence he could not walk. He remained the center of attention for three full weeks, untill Spence split his knee open on a rusty nail during a game of hide and seek in the chicken coop.
The boat was small and narrow, so much so that I feared my weight may tip it over. I sat tentatively at one end, fixing my eyes on the floor of the vessel and the smooth glass of the lake. Jake was rowing, tan skin gleaming in the perfect sunlight. I was too nervous to raise my face to his—I was afraid I would get lost in his eyes, that easy and innocent brown dominating his features. He was older than me, and athletic. His movements spoke of an unpracticed grace and confidence that I had always been too awkward for, and therefore jealous of. I watched those who possessed it move with the eyes of a jealous animal, longing to control my body in such a way that was beautiful. I had never had that talent naturally. The sun was high in the sky, and slowly rotating down. The scenery, a smooth, undisturbed lake framed by peaceful green shores, called more for a quiet reverence. But I, always unable to pick up on the subtlety of things, chattered on and out, about God knows what. The thing that really stuck with me about Jake (other than his gorgeous body and natural confidence) was the way that he seemed to actually listen. I would speak and he would laugh at all the right moments, give little comments that fit perfectly in the niche that most other people would allow to slip by, glassy-eyed with boredom. Whether he was genuinely interested or just really good at faking, it made me feel better. It made me feel as though the sun was being channeled through his voice and into my spirit, making me feel warm and significant and liked. We spent a good hour that way, rowing lazily across the mirror-smooth surface of the water, laughing with surprise at the unexpected fish, bantering back and forth about trivial things that didn’t really matter but that took up space in our ears and heads. It was a moment of simplicity, captured by the tiny space of a canoe and given life by a pair of intent ears and grateful lips.
