Where dreams go ...

She ran down the steps and out to the front yard. She knew he would come to her eventually. She looked every way to see where he was. Maybe he went round back. Perhaps he wanted to play hide and seek. Hopefully, he had brought a surprise for her, and today would be when she spent time with him. Maybe today, she would sit in his lap, and he would tell her how much he loved her and when he would be home forever. She thought she saw him. He was wearing a trench coat and a hat and brought a friend dressed just the same.

But it wasn't him; these men looked somber. She saw her Mama open the front door and talk to the men. She didn't feel good when she saw her Mama touch her throat and look over at where she was standing. She could tell Mama was sad, so she ran all the way around the side of the house, behind the swing set, and further into the bushes that led to her secret hiding spot and cried. She cried because she knew. She cried because she would have to live in a world where Daddy didn't come home, where men in trench coats came and took dreams away.

www.pinterest.com

The Perfection of an Imperfect Life

I remember a few things from my earliest years when we all lived in a second-floor walk-up apartment on a huge street across from a huge post office with an incredible length of steps up to the front doors that shined a gold patina. I remember being small, sitting in a big rocking chair in my parent’s room at the back of the house, warm from the heat of the air coming through the open window that looked out on what I thought was the biggest and most beautiful tree in the world. Even as a small girl, I just couldn’t reconcile looking out the front windows of the house and seeing a busy street with cars and a constant barrage of students walking from the subway station to the high school where they were students and the view from the back of the house of the biggest and most beautiful tree. I liked the back of the house better.

On that day, as I remember, I watched dust particles float in a stream of sunshine that cascaded through the leaves of my tree. I was convinced that those floaters were angels coming to talk with me about the adventures I’d take and the places I’d go. My sisters and brothers were older than me so I spent a lot of time alone while my mother worked, napped, read, or did anything that would have meant not being involved with me right then and there but that’s how mothers were in those days they say. My imagination became my best friend, and I conjured Susan, my imaginary friend. All the adults would say I had a great imagination, but no one really wanted me to imagine. I found that out later when, for the mere attention of family, I stuffed that imagination right down my throat. I would start all my sentences with ‘imagine if’ until one day, while walking down the street to buy some penny candies at Minnie’s, my sister told me to stop saying that ‘cause what you imagine can’t come true and I couldn’t hang around her and her friends if I was always imagining ‘cause I was embarrassing her. So I stopped. I stopped sharing my imagination and I started living for others, and sometimes I got angry at my sister for handing me the tool that I used to start construction on my own personal mini prison where  I kept my ideas and my dreams and my visions all to myself.

Eventually, I built the walls and stairwells that led to several floors of extra rooms, hidden rooms, and, yeah, shameful rooms of my prison. It no longer just contained my secret imagination, my creativity, my desire to envision the story. It eventually had every imperfection of my life. Thus was my world of many years. There was the settling for a career that suited my family, followed by many unfulfilled jobs, failed relationships, failed marriages, an inability to settle myself, and all of those imperfections finding a special place in the many rooms in my prison.

 I heard it said life is a circle; we just keep running around that quarter mile, and it ends up being that everything you start out being is everything you will eventually be. The imperfections are only pretty little gems that give you a good shine, like the gold patina on the doors to the huge post office across from my childhood home. It’s even okay to build prisons. We all do in one way or another ‘cause truly we all become imperfect once we forget who we were meant to be, but we can remember again, we can put the for sale sign on that prison real estate and just keep the shine.

Then, I imagined being imperfect was perfectly acceptable, so I was.

Photo from www.telavivme.com

Mornings poem

the dark morning sky -

pushing its gems

in a fight to win over

the aura of city light

- shimmers

© Beachwalkermari 2008- 2015

Manifestations

photo from www.teachpreschoolscience.com

She played alone with the scratchy wool blanket she dragged from the bed and into the sitting room, where the sun shone brightly through the large window, making everything in the room glow with just a tinge of gold. She was alone and didn't have anyone to play with. Her mother rested on the bed in the room down the hall, a victim of depression. There was no thought about what a little girl might be awake and alone in an otherwise empty house.

She had her imagination, an imagination beyond her simple years. Invented friends and fanciful thoughts became her reality and ... 

She danced with God, she was sure.    

       

He looked like all the pictures on the walls in the church her father brought her to every week. He wore a long robe, and his feet were bare. His hair was as white as snow. An old man, his smile not unlike her father's, and she brought him to life, and they danced. 

He spun her like a ballerina, graceful and light; he held her, made her safe, and let her rest in his arms. She believed she danced with God and could still feel his touch, yet even at her tender age, she knew not to share this with anyone. This was her delight to keep.

She didn't want it to end, but as a light pain traveled through her head, she felt sleep come. She rested on the blanket, watching God as he watched her until her eyes fluttered shut. When she woke, he was gone, but the memory stayed, and she felt special.

And through the years, she knew he was always there, watching. She could mark when she knew he was shining light on her, and her vivid memories of that morning stayed strong.

Now an old woman, she relives the dance in the quiet of her mind, alone again. She watched the sun fill the space; she always loved the gracefulness of a sunlit room. There is a tinge of gold, and she knows her dance with God is real, she is sure. 

And then they danced.

©Copyright 2014 Whiskey Tales. All Rights Reserved.

Vision ...

And what I saw was not really who he was …

But I knew then I would always love what I saw.

And then I saw what I did not know was undercover…

I knew then it would never be the same

And so it was that my vision was poor 

and no set of spectacles would help 

until

I looked through the glass into reality

And then I saw …

He was not the person.

I thought I saw.

But it was too late ...

I had already fallen in love with the vision.

© Beachwalkermari 2014

Lost in the Zoo: A Children's Short Story

My inner urge to write will always have me creating and re-creating, whether or not I am ever published anywhere else but on this personal blog.

The following is based upon a prompt to write a story that a 5th-grade reader could comprehend. Let me know what you think by leaving a comment.

Children's Book:

Lost in the Zoo

Have you ever been lost? I was!

Being lost can be scary but it can also be lots of fun. I was excited to go to the Zoo with my Dad and older sister. We had gotten up pretty early, dressed as fast as we could, and hurried downstairs to where my Dad had breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast waiting for us. My Dad made the best breakfasts. We ate, and then we were off to the Zoo. All I could think about was seeing the elephants. My mom had just read me a book about elephants, and I thought they were the best.

My Dad parked the car, and we headed inside. It was amazing! We walked along looking for all the animals in their homes; we saw Tigers and a Lion sleeping on a rock. We saw all different kinds of birds and giraffes that looked like they were hugging each other. My sister spotted a sign pointing to where the monkeys were, and we headed there along with many other families who wanted to see the monkeys. That's when I lost my sister and my Dad.

I felt like I was going to be sick because I was so afraid that I wouldn't find them again. I kept walking and walking and still never saw them. Suddenly, the Zoo wasn't much fun, and I started to cry. A policeman saw me crying and asked me where my family was. And I told him I couldn't find my Dad and my sister, and all the while, I just kept crying. The policeman wiped my eyes with a tissue and told me he would help me find them. He held my hand, and we walked together. He was such a nice policeman and he asked me about all the animals I had seen and wanted to know my favorite. I told him about the book my mom read to me and that elephants were my favorite. He laughed and said they were his, too. He stopped and asked me what my favorite flavor of ice cream was, and I said, "Chocolate, of course." Then he sat me on a bench next to a man with a cart and bought me a chocolate ice cream cone. As I ate my ice cream, we kept walking, and then I saw the elephants. So did the policeman because that's where we headed. He pointed out the mommy elephant and her baby. They were so cute, just like in my book. The baby was following the mommy around and was making baby elephant noises.

Just then, I heard my name, and the policeman turned me around. I saw my Dad and my sister hurrying through all the people. When my Dad reached us, I called him, and he cried out that he was so happy to find me and bent down to hug me. The policeman looked at my Dad and said, "We knew you'd show up near the elephants because they're your daughter's favorite animal." My Dad shook the policeman's hand and thanked him a million times, and then we walked off waving to the policeman, who was waving back.

It was the best day of all!

My Summer Silhouette (500 word challenge for ReadWave)

I entered This new post on ReadWave for their 500-word challenge with the prompt "A Summer You'll Never Forget."

My Summer Silhouette

There wasn't anything better than watching the sun set behind the trees. I loved those moments when I had already showered and dressed for the night out with friends, and I'd sit on the porch to watch the sun slowly go down and the colors shift until the blue of the night started to creep in on me. Then, I'd listen for the night sounds and the cars coming down the road. Jen would pick me up, and we'd head out for an evening of friends, cold beer, and dancing to music that poured out of cars and trucks all parked along the grassy area down the road. The dark was sometimes moonlit and other times lit by a small bonfire. I'd watch to see if his truck was there or if I recognized his silhouette or deep laugh. When we met, he always smiled happily and had a kind word and a wink for me. What I wouldn't do for a date with him. But he was older by two years, and although we said "Hi" each time we saw each other, I couldn't shake the feeling he thought I was just a kid. Two years is a huge difference when you're a teenager. Still, my excitement grew each time, and just a wink or a smile was good enough for me. Jen would mercilessly tease me, asking if I had gotten my smile. She had her own silhouette she followed on those dark nights, hoping for her own dream boy.

During the day, we swam, tanned, and drank lemonade while dreaming of someday having a date with our dream boys. We only saw the boys a little during the day. They were off fixing their trucks, working part-time, or just playing sports and hanging out with each other. Almost midway through the summer, on a hot, steamy day, I hung on to the side of the pool with my eyes closed, enjoying the cool water and the sun on my face when a shadow blocked the sun. I opened my eyes and squinted to see that familiar silhouette above me. As my eyes adjusted, I saw his big smile and heard him say, "Mind if I join you?" Stunned, I stumbled over my words, saying, "of course," but that didn't make sense, and I apologized, feeling like I made a fool of myself. My face burned, but not because of the sun. He sat at the edge of the pool, slipped in smoothly, and swam to the other side. I just watched him as he swam, and then he came up right beside me, his green eyes glistening from the water, and he smiled. He said, "I'm glad I came by here today. I get to see you." Not knowing what to say, I just smiled, and he said, "it's okay that you're shy, I still want to take you out tonight. Will you come to see a movie with me?" My dream had come true, and I was a nervous nut. I blurted louder than needed, "Yes, I'll go with you." He laughed because he knew he was making me nervous. Then I laughed, too, and we swam off across the pool.

www.mrwallpaper.com

500-word challenge … a summer you'll never forget.

across borders

rolling down dark, gravelly roads

across borders

backing each other

smoking cigarettes, singing out loud

it’ll be a good go

spinning, spinning, spinning

thunder rolls

sad remembrances

of starry nights …

leaning in

no word spoken

saw the hurt

tapped the buttons

friends do that

cause they know

smoking cigarettes, singing out loud

truck stop breakfasts

steaming jo

boots and hats and rising dust

a good go …

rolling down dark, gravelly roads

across borders

© Maria Norcia Santillanes 2014

From http://www.flickr.com/photos/seamilo/3404399703/

Florida, A Lonely Place

It's a lonely place with non-descript people searching for meaning, searching for something that gives them the esteem they begged for in their lives. Even the TV commercials talked of buying bigger, better, and being the envy of 'friends.'

Gated communities try to keep out the rif-raf but the gates need to be stronger, and the walls need to be higher. Anyone, you know, 'those people,' they could get through, and when they did, well, they fit in as easily as anyone else who knew the key code.

Miles of strip mall shopping stretching from town to town, screaming out with gaudy signs along the way, restaurants, and coffee shops proclaiming their connection to the places the owners came from to have a 'better life.' Still, all they did was re-create their life with the same people they knew from where they came because all the same people came too. When together, they talked about how much better their lives were because they had so much shopping and so many restaurants and how their house was bigger and better, and in their private thoughts, they were the envy of 'friends.'

I see homeless seniors, and I'm sad for them, not knowing why or how they became homeless. I see middle-aged men and women burnt brown, aged beyond their years looking like they fell from a box of raisins. I look around for the little ones; I see the parks but not the children. Maybe they are hidden in gated communities where they have a bigger, better life.

I look around, and I feel cold. I feel lonely,

Being a writer

 

From imyourbasicaveragegirl.blogspot.com 

I've been reading what others have done to move closer and closer to that space where they are comfortable calling themselves a writer, where being a writer is their work.  I’m slowly crawling there, though it is more challenging than one might think.  I’ve been comfortable saying I would write more and willing to share my writing with the world, but am I really? 

Must you have a publishing house give you a title, or are you a writer once you pen your first story and present it to the world.

It’s tough to put one’s self out into the world knowing that you will face rejection time and time again.  Even with a simple blog, I find this to be true.  Many of my friends don't know I have a blog.  I guess it is easier to put myself out into the world among people I do not know, but I am getting bolder.  Admitting that is a first step for me.

Was I a writer from the moment I handed my fourth-grade teacher, Miss Caro, a fake book report?  The class was assigned a book report, and we were told to choose a book from the library and write a review, a book report as they were called back then.  I loved the library as a child, and I still do as an adult, but I did not go to the library for that assignment or pick out a book to read.  Instead, I wrote a review of a story I made up.  I created a story, title, and author, and then wrote a review.  After all these years, I barely remember the story except for the main character, a young wheelchair-bound girl who struggled at school.  The review of my fake book is what I handed to Miss Caro as the book report she assigned. 

She never knew, or if she did, she chose not to say anything.  I still wonder if she was curious about the book I was reporting, as she could have easily checked to find the title, and the author did not exist.  Well, she gave me a high mark and that was important at the time, that and the freedom to write, and make my own story.

You see, it is easier when you are a child when you have nothing to lose.   

Excerpts from Untitled

She delighted in watching the light as it cast its shadows through the glass building.  Off in the distance were snow-capped mountains.  She loved the light here, the way it played across the skies, and each moment held a different feeling.  The wind picked up her hair, and she started to dance, spinning around and around, arms high, reaching for the sky. Her dance made her feel and her heart sing; the day became night, the wind ceased, and she was calm.

      Lyn opened her eyes and stared at the white ceiling as she ran her hands over her stomach and breast and lifted her head slightly to tame her hair to one side.  She was dreaming again, the same dream that came often.  When she was awake, she could close her eyes and conjure different scenes; always, the light played its part along with the land's natural beauty and the place's uniqueness.  The only problem for Lyn was she had to open her eyes, and often, what she saw when she opened her eyes didn’t please her much. 

© 2014

*Excerpts from Untitled are snippets of a larger piece I am working on. Please feel free to comment and let me know what you think.

From http://www.excitingcpa.com/

~~~ Sharing is always appreciated and your comments make my day.

Doing for others ... life's most urgent call.

"Life’s most persistent and urgent question is, ‘What are you doing for others?" ~~Martin Luther King

While scrolling through posts on Facebook this morning, I found quote after quote from Martin Luther King, some with inspiring pictures of the man himself in honor of his day and in remembrance of what he stood for during his short lifetime. These are all wonderful and meaningful quotes to remember and share. 

Many understand his cause as only a black/white issue, but is it really? Racism may have been the seed, but his cause became more extensive and diverse. In my simple worldview, it all comes down to one thing, and King expressed it beautifully when he told us that doing for others is life's most urgent call. 

Isn't that what it's all about? Relationships ... 

We have relationships with every other being in this world, simply because of the nature of life and human living. It makes sense to do for others; it makes sense that doing for others is what upholds humanity. If each person helps another without judgment, cynicism, and superiority, we uphold them and build a community, a place to come together. 

The simple act of doing something for someone else tears down walls, makes good neighbors, builds trust, opens communication, and creates a space where sharing is normal, and skin colors don't matter, where nationality is a proud blessing in which others could share in the culture, where differences disappear. 

That's the world of grace and acceptance where I could surrender.

From www.gypsytornado.com

~~~ Sharing is always appreciated and your comments make my day.

Good-byes and Hellos

"Don't be dismayed at good-byes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are friends." ~Richard Bach

From www.emmalouiselayla.com

I'm far from most of my dearest friends and miss them terribly. Oh, just the mundane things like sitting for a cup of freshly brewed coffee and talking about everything under the sun. Martini's at the bar of a loud and hectic bistro, heartily enjoying the atmosphere and people watching, dinner out sharing good wine and lots and lots of laughter, or late night talks about things not commonly shared while watching the inky night through the screened porch. 

However, friendship doesn't mean you must see each other daily. It does, however, mean that you keep your friend's memory tucked into your heart and firmly in mind while you journey elsewhere for a time. Bach puts it into perspective, reminding us that we must travel to enjoy the moment of return when we see our friends again. 

I journey. I've moved more times than most people think necessary, but each experience has been a lovely adventure. Each time I reconnect, it has made my connection stronger. For me, that is the bonus!

~~~

Sharing is always appreciated, and your comments make my day.

This is for you!

moreloveletters.com  #LoveLetters

~~~ Sharing is always appreciated, and your comments make my day.

excerpts from untitled

    "As Lyn sipped her coffee, she remembered days spent as a child with Aunt Claire singing and dancing in her garden while they picked flowers for the table and veggies for a salad.  They would make rag dolls of old cloth and put on mini plays at the table in the sun room and they made sure to have plenty of afternoon tea parties.  Lyn would put on mounds of her Aunt’s jewelry and a big hat and she would serve real tea and sugar cookies, made earlier in the day, while showing off her best manners.  Then they would head to the stable for a ride on their favorite horses before the afternoon would close.  Her Aunt Claire had made Lyn’s childhood magical"

   "Lyn knew of her French heritage, her Aunt and her mother were French, her father was an American but she could hardly believe her Aunt left an apartment in Paris. A vision of Paris somehow reminded Lynn of Aunt Claire saying, “But you know mon trésor, your life was always meant to be beautiful.”         © 2014

*excerpts from untitled are snippets of a larger piece that I am working on, please feel free to comment and let me know what you think.

Photo from thealternativebride.blogspot.com
#Paris

~~~

Sharing is always appreciated and your comments make my day.

The stars must be aligned!

I looked for this post in my archives because something incredible happened tonight that is really a chance in a million.. I was looking at YouTube videos and I came across a video in which an old friend, who I met in Northern New Mexico many year ago, showed up. My friend who brought a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers from her garden for me to carry down the aisle. Amazing!! Just amazing that I could stumble upon a video in which I recognize an old friend. The stars must be aligned!

<<<<<<>>>>>>

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Bone China

I was married once, well twice actually but that’s beside the point.

On this occasion of marriage, I was in that place I know so well. Like a troupe of actors, we took our parts, unlike most parts played by the more traditional of folk. The priest was summoned to a forlorn church, old beyond time, unused except by the small group of people whose purpose was to insure the churches antiquity, a population of twenty or so all within a small village one road long and miles wide. All soon to be my relation. To write it sounds as if I lived in another time, another place and that would almost be true but for the fact that it was not long ago and it was in this reality.

It was an incredibly beautiful blue sky day punctuated by a cast of friendly characters some I continue to hold dear after all these years. Dressed in our country finest, we prepared for the festivities. The few in my cast of characters were wide eyed and questioning but accepting as they knew the oddities of the ways in this enchanted land.

       A handsome group,   they were ….

As we all prepared, there was one character for whom we waited, the bearer of the bouquet. My dear artist friend for whom all of life was captured on canvas. She would bring life to the brides bouquet from her garden and bring it along. As we were in this land of enchantment where time is suspended and does not follow any reality most know, being comfortable waiting is acceptable, well almost expected and allows for adventure in the waiting moments. Even though one may have a part to play in a days event, there are higher callings … callings so strong one can not reject them. It’s the call of the yard sale. Yes, the call of the yard sale. Unexpected, sure. Necessary, no. Like hearing the pied piper’s call, my bouquet bearer could not pass up the offering.

A set of bone china was shining in the bright high sun … calling from the yard sale. So our wait was not in vain, we were to learn of her adventure soon enough and revel in her prize. We would ooh and ahh as we inspected the bone china giving it the power it needed. We all knew in our hearts, the bone china would be the winner of the day but we didn’t speak about those things, all was already in motion. And the bone china became the best remembered guest of the day and it continues to grace the bouquet bearers shelf … it’s longevity a testament to choices.


Like a minstrel, the trickster laughed and the bride and groom are no more, and the wheel  of life continues to spin.

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Winter of Beauty by Amy Hale Auker ... A Review and an Interview

I finished reading Winter of Beauty by Amy Hale Auker a few nights ago. As I closed the book and held it in my lap, I sat with barely open eyes relishing the characters that Amy created, each of them with a story and each as if they were your own circle of friends.  This is the story of people who live each day working hard and caring big in the shadow of a mountain called the Bride.

Of all the characters so vividly drawn, I found this story to be the story of Shiney, the ranch owner, who I fell in love with almost immediately. Shiney watches quietly but with a keen eye over her ranch and over those working for her and has an understanding heart for each of them. She struggles with the losses of the past, the hardships of the present and she struggles with what the future will bring as she gets older but ultimately she knows she would never leave the ranching life as hard as it may be. She is the ranch, she is the story, and she is very much like the Bride, a steadfast overseer.

Amy has a talent for bringing you to a quiet place where people live their lives simply and naturally and her use of language to create that place is exquisite, making you hungry for each coming paragraph, each coming sentence.

As an ex-ranch wife, I felt the raw authenticity of this story, memories flooding back to me as I could place a similar character and I could smile at the coming together of individuals who create a community and ultimately a family.

Thank you Amy!

For more about Amy and her previous book Rightful Place, pay a visit to her website.

Interview with the Author, Amy Hale Auker:
When did you openly call yourself a writer and feel comfortable doing so?
"I had an amazing experience in 2005 with my friend and editor Andy Wilkinson. He was teaching a creative process workshop in South Dakota and I had gone along for the experience. We were having lunch alone one afternoon and he asked me when I was going to begin to call myself a writer. The conversation stayed with me, and from then on, I did begin to privately taste the words "I am a writer," on the back of my tongue. That evolved over the next year to the point where I began to say so openly to others." When you were younger, did you ever think you would author books?
" I did dream of being an author someday, just as I dreamed of being a nurse a la Cherry Ames, a horse trainer, or a marine biologist. However, words are what come naturally to me, and in the mid 90s I began to seriously consider that I would write a whole book and see it in print."
What do you love most about writing?
"I love painting a whole world with words. I love the solitude of writing. I love it when the sparks start flying and the ideas are popping. And I love having a whole book-length manuscript, the raw figure, the form-able clay.... I love editing and shaping what is already on the page in some form."
Do you use any specific technology application?
"I love ink on paper. I love Word (and I type very fast). I have downloaded Scrivner, but don't think it is going to augment my process much. I think it is important to switch mediums from time to time... write in longhand, brainstorm on yellow legal pad, type on Word with a new font, make a visual collage with scissors and glue to match a character or bring an idea to life, even speak the words into a recorder."
Have you ever received a negative review and, if so, how did you handle it?
"I have not received a negative published review yet (fingers firmly crossed). However, when I finished my first (horrible) draft of Winter of Beauty, several of my beta readers hated it, including my husband. How did I handle it? I listened to what they had to say and I went back to work."
Describe your writing style?
"I am a very sensual writer... I want to bring my reader into the world I am creating... and to do that requires all the senses. I also am enamored with the metaphors in the natural world around us, and I can't help but make the land a character in the story."
You've written two books so far, which is your favorite and why?
"I have written two books.... true. But one was creative non-fiction and one was fiction, so apples and oranges. My favorite book is the one I am currently writing... it always is!"
In your current book, "Winter of Beauty", who is you favorite character and why? 
"My favorite character in Winter of Beauty is very easily Jody Neil. Jody captured my heart from the moment he walked onto the page, and I gave him Del as a gift... as a guide into manhood. And then, I continued to give him fathers because he needed them. In return, Jody gave me Shiney. I will always be in Jody Neil's debt because he gave me Sunshine Angel Lewis. After Beauty was born into the book, she quickly became a favorite for me even though she never speaks a word. Beauty is the powerhouse in the book, the one who changes so many lives, simply by arriving on the planet."

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In the dark

You have to get up early. 

When the sky is still dark.

Let the world unfold before your eyes, 

watch the break of day come over the mountain, 

follow the rays of sunshine that spray over the foothills. 

Listen to the wind, to the sounds of the day ahead. 

You have to get up early. 

  © Maria Norcia Santillanes 

ngm.nationalgeographic.com

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Unfinished stories

She woke to the sound of a harsh wind through the cottonwoods. Grayness enveloped her and a tingle of ice crept up her spine. The dream, still present in her minds eye, punching her in her gut. The scream, the deafening sound of hooves beating against dirt, the acrid smell of smoke and the lingering taste of ashes caught in her throat. The familiar name formed on her lips, "Cole." It was always that way. The dreams were always there, time after time since she was small girl. She'd never told anyone about them. As much as the dreams made her weep, they were hers and hers alone. 

Georgia O’Keeffe Cottonwood III (1944) Oil on canvas (49.53 x 74.30 cm.)
Unsigned, The Butler Institute of American Art. 

As she lay in bed, somewhere in that nether region that is dreaming and being awake, her lips formed the name again, "Cole," this time a warmth rose in her stomach and she closed her eyes again to bring the dream back.
...
...

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A Winning Writer!

I'll tell you this ... waking up to be a winner is the best feeling anyone could experience!

A couple of weeks ago, I entered into a 'giveaway' that The Gracious Girl was promoting on her blog. In partnership with Sheaffer Pen, the prize was a Sheaffer® Calligraphy Maxi Kit. I have always loved calligraphy and of course, writing.
Back in the day, I was taught to write script with a Sheaffer Fountain Ink Pen at the lower school I attended. I remember changing cartridges and using a blotter ... Ha! a blotter ... I guess I am showing a bit of age. The only subject where the use of something other than an ink pen was required, was math class. If you brought in homework written with a cheap 'ball point pen', you would be reprimanded and told to re-do it properly. Ink pens had there value to us kids back then. When a cartridge was empty, we would rinse them out, spread the 'well' wider, let them dry and then use them as devices for passing notes in class. It was common to share cartridges if your neighbor ran out of ink in class so teachers did not mind that kind of interaction. So, the idea of using the cartridge for more nefarious acts spread.

Vintage Green Chrome Cap Set 2 Two Sheaffer Fountain Writing Ink Pen 

Sheaffer Skrip Permanent Jet Black Ink Cartridge 5-Pack vintage 

Well, the days of schools teaching children to write with an ink pen are gone. Few schools teach script and most schools do not even have ongoing penmanship practice beyond the basics of teaching a child to write. Children are being taught at younger and younger ages to use a computer to prepare their work for school. Personally, I think that's so sad because there is so much beauty in a well thought-out written piece, whether it is a note or letter, or even a tome.
Some years ago I found 'disposable' fountain ink pens at Staples and stocked up but they weren't as nice as a Sheaffer. I use ink pens for all sorts of things but mostly for personal note writing. I guess I just like ink on paper!!
So I was absolutely delighted to learn that I was one of the winners of the giveaway. That was May 16th, and it was a trifecta of a morning. First I found out about a new collaboration for which I was chosen, then I learned I was given an acknowledgement in my friends book which had recently been published and then I learned I won the calligraphy set in the giveaway ... all within a span of about two hours. How's that for waking up a winner!

I received the package in the mail and of course, I had to savor it. As far as I am concerned the best part of receiving something personal in the mail, is the anticipation experienced during the walk from the mailbox to your comfortable chair where you inspect the mail and savor the surprise.

Isn't it great receiving fun things in the mail?

With a gracious note too!

I had to try it out right away like a kid in a candy store! Have a look at all the goodies inside the box.

There are three pens, each with a different nib grade (fine, medium, broad), and a nice assortment of ink colors. An instruction booklet is included, which I found very helpful!

Inside the box

Instruction Booklet

Instructions well done!

Practice makes perfect! 

That saying has been drilled into my head, by teachers and family and now I constantly say the same to my son.

Thank you Mindy!

How do you think I did??
~Maria

Try your hand at calligraphy with a Sheaffer Calligraphy set and see how you do. Check out Sheaffer Writing Instruments. Not only do they have beautiful Fountain Ink Pens but also smooth Roller Ball Pens, Ball Point and Ball Point / Pencil Sets.
Stop by The Gracious Girl's blog published by Mindy Lockard ... 'Mindy is a nationally recognized etiquette expert and the founder of Mindy Lockard Gracious Living.'

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