Thursday, September 23, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
I traveled alone
from Scottsdale, Arizona to Portland, Oregon.
I can still see the smiles of aunts and uncles greeting me at the airport.
All the hugs and “oh look how she’s grown“. All but one are gone now.
I walked up those four cement steps in front of the gray house with white shutters.
The grass was so green, the trees so tall. The neighborhood so quaint.
The counter tops in the kitchen were very short.
Grandpa’s typewriter, worn with years of use, sits in the corner of the tiny living room.
I was only 12.
I took bubble baths in an old style tub with four ornate feet.
For two weeks I stayed.
I slept in a big double bed with lots of soft pillows.
When I thought I could drift off to sleep, I pulled the chain over my bed to turn off the light.
I remember hearing the soft footsteps of my Grandpa’s slippers
walking down the wood floored hall.
Every night he would open the door ever so slightly to make sure I was resting.
I heard the house creak in the night.
I felt the rumble of trains in the distance.
I awoke to birds singing softly in the trees.
I explored the old house and found an old washer in the half basement.
There were carved trails in the dirt in the old basement.
My uncle drove cars on those tiny cliffs long ago.
I found the attic. It was small and warm.
There was something familiar about this place.
Something in my memory, just out of reach.
We drove to see the ocean cliffs
We ate ham and cheese sandwiches on salt rising bread.
We had broken cookies and a pear for dessert..
I can almost feel the delicious crunch of those day old cookies.
I wish I could remember the smell of dinner cooking on the stove at my Grandpa’s house.
I long to feel the damp gray sidewalks on my bare feet again.
I wish I could remember when it felt like home…
Poem by Judy Wood
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
A man is a fool not to put everything he has, at any given moment, into what he is creating. You're there now doing the thing on paper. You're not killing the goose, you're just producing an egg. So I don't worry about inspiration, or anything like that. It's a matter of just sitting down and working. I have never had the problem of a writing block. I've heard about it. I've felt reluctant to write on some days, for whole weeks, or sometimes even longer. I'd much rather go fishing, for example, or go sharpen pencils, or go swimming, or what not. But, later, coming back and reading what I have produced, I am unable to detect the difference between what came easily and when I had to sit down and say, "Well, now it's writing time and now I'll write." There's no difference on paper between the two. Frank Herbert Author of Dune