2.28.98
T.M.D.
I
"I" is for interracial, but that can be a cold and technical word, so rather let's think Ebony & Ivory . . .
And I'm not talking about
Instead, I am thinking of some friends that have chosen to be an interracial family. I think what is important for you to know about them is that they have truly chosen it.
Having been planted on the fields of adoption by their Almighty, they could have picked eyes the same color as theirs, noses the same shape. They could have chosen a child whose skin proclaimed "I belong to this family, I always have" But, they chose second glances and hushed whispers, questions about adoption from well meaning (and sometimes not) strangers; they chose to be an open book.
Let me take you to my first memory of "Dee". After an evening of Let's Get Acquainted games in the Upper Room, we were going to be roomies. I was the preacher's kid with a pull out trundle and she was the youth pastor's fiancèe, fleeing the appearance of evil.
I don't remember what we talked about, or if we giggled at all. The one thing that always stuck with me from that night were her freckles.
Until then, with us changed into jammies and her shoulders newly visible, I didn't realize it was possible for her to be more beautiful than we (the youth) already thought she was--her curly, curly hair had already set her at both "enviable" as well as "oh to be like thee" She, being a modest person with a love for sweaters, had kept these pretty polka dots covered like a secret from the general public-and they pretty much still are, so don't go asking to see them :)
Maybe I was a little more in awe because I had never seen freckles anywhere besides the bridge of a nose, but hindsight being what it is, I like to think those freckles were foreshadowing of the coming decade.
Fast forward through "Dee" becoming "Miss Dee" to me (she became one of my teachers, but I won't tell you which, because it isn't really HER fault that my grammar is atrocious . . . )and thru her becoming "MRS. Dee" to all of us in the Upper Room (the youthgroup road trip to their wedding is a story for another day) and thru a church falling apart and the aftermath that follows...then fast forward a couple years more to the moment our lives converge again.
I wanted Chik Fil A that day, but the kids were due for a nap, so I hit the drive thru. I saw a shock of curly, curly hair that could only belong to one person standing there at the register. To this day, I still marvel that you can recognize a person from the drive thru looking in, it seems so unlikely. In that moment, I dismissed the idea and drove on, but not far, because they were walking out as I pulled past and I realized that it was hair-- er, I mean HER! We caught up quickly and awkwardly and I met little Bella then,all snug in her baby carrier, only a few months old. We weren't in our old hometown. They were on vacation and I had moved to the "tourist town" we were in only months before thanks to a golf course that needed my husband's expertise. It was truly a chance meeting, as they go.
As time passed and we began to re-connect through the marvelous world of email, I learned that Bella had a special story.I learned that she had been grafted in. When I look at her today, with that curly, curly hair only found on one person, I smile up at God and his sense of humor.
I was fortunate to get to watch Milly's grafting in unfold a few years later, and when I look at her I think of Dee's freckles. I think about how, even then, it seems God was saying something about color and beauty and treasure too.
I feel like there are some folks out there who wear interracial adoption like a badge. They take it out and show everyone who they are and what they've done. It isn't for me to judge and regardless of how they come across, it is a beautiful thing to adopt. But in my friends, I see a beautiful life, made more beautiful by "freckles". To them, their children are not just a color or a merit badge for bravery, but little blessings who just happen to be beautifully shaded by the Artist who created them.
With them, it is like the song says :
And I'm not talking about
or
though I could and probably should be.Instead, I am thinking of some friends that have chosen to be an interracial family. I think what is important for you to know about them is that they have truly chosen it.
Having been planted on the fields of adoption by their Almighty, they could have picked eyes the same color as theirs, noses the same shape. They could have chosen a child whose skin proclaimed "I belong to this family, I always have" But, they chose second glances and hushed whispers, questions about adoption from well meaning (and sometimes not) strangers; they chose to be an open book.
Let me take you to my first memory of "Dee". After an evening of Let's Get Acquainted games in the Upper Room, we were going to be roomies. I was the preacher's kid with a pull out trundle and she was the youth pastor's fiancèe, fleeing the appearance of evil.
I don't remember what we talked about, or if we giggled at all. The one thing that always stuck with me from that night were her freckles.
Until then, with us changed into jammies and her shoulders newly visible, I didn't realize it was possible for her to be more beautiful than we (the youth) already thought she was--her curly, curly hair had already set her at both "enviable" as well as "oh to be like thee" She, being a modest person with a love for sweaters, had kept these pretty polka dots covered like a secret from the general public-and they pretty much still are, so don't go asking to see them :)
Maybe I was a little more in awe because I had never seen freckles anywhere besides the bridge of a nose, but hindsight being what it is, I like to think those freckles were foreshadowing of the coming decade.
Fast forward through "Dee" becoming "Miss Dee" to me (she became one of my teachers, but I won't tell you which, because it isn't really HER fault that my grammar is atrocious . . . )and thru her becoming "MRS. Dee" to all of us in the Upper Room (the youthgroup road trip to their wedding is a story for another day) and thru a church falling apart and the aftermath that follows...then fast forward a couple years more to the moment our lives converge again.
I wanted Chik Fil A that day, but the kids were due for a nap, so I hit the drive thru. I saw a shock of curly, curly hair that could only belong to one person standing there at the register. To this day, I still marvel that you can recognize a person from the drive thru looking in, it seems so unlikely. In that moment, I dismissed the idea and drove on, but not far, because they were walking out as I pulled past and I realized that it was hair-- er, I mean HER! We caught up quickly and awkwardly and I met little Bella then,all snug in her baby carrier, only a few months old. We weren't in our old hometown. They were on vacation and I had moved to the "tourist town" we were in only months before thanks to a golf course that needed my husband's expertise. It was truly a chance meeting, as they go.
As time passed and we began to re-connect through the marvelous world of email, I learned that Bella had a special story.I learned that she had been grafted in. When I look at her today, with that curly, curly hair only found on one person, I smile up at God and his sense of humor.
I was fortunate to get to watch Milly's grafting in unfold a few years later, and when I look at her I think of Dee's freckles. I think about how, even then, it seems God was saying something about color and beauty and treasure too.
I feel like there are some folks out there who wear interracial adoption like a badge. They take it out and show everyone who they are and what they've done. It isn't for me to judge and regardless of how they come across, it is a beautiful thing to adopt. But in my friends, I see a beautiful life, made more beautiful by "freckles". To them, their children are not just a color or a merit badge for bravery, but little blessings who just happen to be beautifully shaded by the Artist who created them.
With them, it is like the song says :
We learn to live,
we learn to give each other
what we need to survive
together, alive.
Ebony and ivory
live together
in perfect
harmony
only they give so much more than just what is needed to survive, they have created a happy home. Stop over for a visit and let Bella and Milly's smiles prove me right:
H
"H" is for Holiday Inn. But not any of the ones you find today. No, I am talking about a hotel of a different era; the ones that used to have this sign out front:
The one that got most of my company was in Waycross, GA (it was probably the only hotel in town if I were to do some research). Staying at this particular Holiday Inn as a child meant two things especially important for me:
The TrikeARound(?)
Three small tricycles, welded together in a " merry go round " of sorts, (akin to this, but smaller), located in a small playground area on the side of the hotel:
and
MAGIC FINGERS
Coin fed "earthquake in a bed" contraption, now sadly absent from motels everywhere.
The only time dad was excused from nightly "burp & lullabye" duties was thanks to one of these little machines. No, he didn't BURP a lullabye, he "burped" ME until I was well into my 30's and was oft times required to sing, usually Away in a Manger, regardless of season,until I had fallen asleep. (But not without extra tuck ins, kisses and a glass of water too) I took "stay by my cradle" pretty literally back then. But don't you worry, I am now reaping what I've sown with a world class staller of my own ( make that 3!) They don't get "burped" they get "pat-patted" which is the exact same thing. They also get stories instead of songs-- 3 and 4 ,sometimes more, stories from "The Readng Hallway"((who only talks when they are quiet)) to buy a moments peace under my roof.
ANYHOW AS I WAS SAYING EARLIER:
I LOVE HOTELS/MOTELS/REPLICA TEE PEES.
( no stays longer than 1 week please)
I know, I know, blacklights have become our "Tree of Knowledge" in recent years- revealing bed bugs and all sorts of unsettling things about random hotel rooms for various television stations. I have not been unaffected by this, yet I love staying in hotels/motels/replica tee pees. Maybe the nomadic gypsy blood is to blame?
What I love about hotels in general are probably the same things you love, but here's a list for the sake of taking up space:
- Those little heat lamps in the bathroom-- I cannot stand to get out of the shower,let alone to get out and be cold. The heat from this little red lamp helps ease withdrawl symptoms for me
- All sorts of miscellaneous towels that you'd never put out for guests in your own home- especially the bath mats (I hate stepping into puddles of water after a shower... the first thing I dry is my face, the second has to be my feet... I am pretty sure you understand why that wouldn't work in reverse, but still FEET make top the top 2 because of this deeply ingrained foible)
- Miniture Soaps, Lotions and a free toothbrush or razor just for begging (I wouldn't advise asking for both, Midas)
- The ability to make the room Pitch Black
- The ability to crank the air conditioner to full speed and make the room Ice Cold
- PITCH BLACK and ICE COLD all at once (ie;hibernating bear's cave)
- Extra Pillows just because you want them
- Occasionally, when staying somewhere REALLY cold, like Nashville, the ability to turn the heater up in the same way as the air conditioner
- Legitimate excuse for dining exclusively out of vending machines
- Swimming pools (especially indoor)
- Continental Breakfasts (I love when they have waffle makers!)
- Those little notepads and pencils with the hotel name on them. (my collection dead ended back when we started favoring one particular chain)
- That little blinking red light on the telephone
- Asking for a wake up call whenever you happen to want one (or, especially fun, asking for a wake up call for your parents next door somewhere around 2 AM)
- Always being able to find the remote because it is connected to the bed stand table
- Under the Bed boxes that prevent stray socks from staying behind
- The Framed Prints of boats or flowers
- Tacky BedSpreads (I like the fact that they exist, not the way they sleep)
- Big plastic diamond shaped keyrings (not available at all locations)
- Brochure Displays (You guessed it, I still take one of every local attraction whether I plan to go to it or not... I am not prone to turning down reading material of any sort, be it brochure or cereal box)
- Checking in under an alias (never have, but I like that I could if I wanted)
- DO NOT DISTURB signs
- Zero guilt about unmade beds
- Listening ear at the Lobby any time of day or night(better than a bartender, really)
- The Gideon in the Drawer
- Free HBO
I could make another list- Favorite Hotels, but I'll spare you. I will say however that, though there are chains with two bedrooms (the parent of 3's dream come true) waffle makers, tee pees, walking distance to major theme parks,luxurious down comforter spreads and more luxuries to choose from, I'd take the one with a Magic Fingers above them all.
Ok, ok, that isn't what I was really going to say, I got to the part where I was going to say what I was planning and then I thought it would be funny to say something about the Magic Fingers, so I did. I do that kind of thing sometimes... it's okay, eventually I get back on track. (usually)
I was actually going to say, though I have a few favored hotels that have been modernized and luxor-ized, there is nothing like camping out at the old Franklin Motel in Franklin, NC. Unlike the Holiday Inn in Waycross, they haven't changed their sign since the first time I went there, or much of anything else.
Maybe someday I'll talk a little bit more about Family Reunions in Franklin, but I've grown tired and I am headed off to my Magic Fingers-LESS bed for a spell, because there's nothing on the telly (we don't get HBO) and I don't feel like finishing the laundry (sheets and towels, ironically)
There is, however,a glimmer in my sky tonight, and the stars are not visible, so I must be talking about THIS (yep- the Real Deal)
I made the discovery during the course of "jotting" this blog and I couldn't be more excited. It doesn't even require quarters!
I leave you tonight, a girl with one less reason to spiral into a life of booze, drugs and rock and roll.
Thank You Magic Fingers!
G
"G" is for Garrison Keillor.
This is my ticket to spend the evening with him.
Yay!
(now if I can just find a babysitter...)
F
(one of my most favorite places of all to be)
Fernandina is one of those places that is a part of me, and I a part of it.
My Granny has a lot to do with this, and so does that Pirate up there
(I've named him Ferdinand-isn't that clever?!)
One of the Pippi Longstocking movies was filmed there, but no one told me that.
(why yes, that is a braggadocious tone I have)
I was watching the movie one day a couple years back (of course, with the kids!) and I thought " That square sure does look familiar." The more I saw it the more I became convinced that it just had to be Fernandina, so after the movie I looked it up (Google is like an audible God) and wouldn't you know I AM always right (just like I try to tell folks...) The best part of all is, Pippi's house is for sale. A real life captain's house, used in an actual movie, complete with roller skating horse--IN FERNANDINA- the place my soul loves to be
(of course I want it!)
I think I may need a small loan--- anybody out there love me that much?
(didn't think so)
E
"E" is for epitaph.
It has been two years since March 1st and they need it for his headstone. I was up til 5 AM, coming up with very little.
Things to consider:
"He ain't heavy, he's our brother"
"Mourn not the cocoon, the butterfly has flown"
"Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot mend"
"Now cracks a noble heart. Good Night, sweet prince ! And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest"
" Our family chain has been broken, nothing seems the same. But as God calls us one by one, the chain will link again"
"Even the man in the moon is crying..."
"Mamma, I'm coming home"
It has been two years since March 1st and they need it for his headstone. I was up til 5 AM, coming up with very little.
Things to consider:
- he was an auto upholsterer
- an addict
- a father
- the baby brother
- my uncle
- he lived a rough life
- had a rough father
- he loved nascar
- he meant well
- was "backwards" and "converted"
- his last trip was to the ocean
- they played "Untitled Hymn (Come to Jesus)" at his funeral
- he would have preferred HANK or CASH
No suggestions - just words as i meandered through his memory:
Peace flew from these earthen hands
Washing up on Heaven's sands
I found it in Eternity
My pain erased, my soul set free
&
One Day, Heaven to Earth did bend
"My child, the Throne we need you mend"
So needle in hand, from Earth he did fly
to stuff God's chair with clouds from the sky
&
Father, Son, Youngest Brother
took our kisses up to mother
Other People's Words:
"He ain't heavy, he's our brother"
"Mourn not the cocoon, the butterfly has flown"
"Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot mend"
"Now cracks a noble heart. Good Night, sweet prince ! And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest"
" Our family chain has been broken, nothing seems the same. But as God calls us one by one, the chain will link again"
"Even the man in the moon is crying..."
"Mamma, I'm coming home"
D
"D" is for documentary.
A&E, Discovery, NGC, Biography, BBC- Reality.
Recently:
- Interview with The Iceman
- Cults and Jim Jones
- Supervolcanoes & Lavaflows
Hello, Jimmie
On one of the "soap operas" that prince charming and I watch on a routine basis
(ie; we schedule sock matching in front of the t.v. according to the show's schedule) it is customary to declare "Hello, Jimmy!" when one spots a pretty gal.
I haven't spotted any chics I dig (and don't hold your breath) but I have found a new love and his name is Jimmie.
Yeah, yeah- I know, he's not really a new act, but like my first car, he's new to me.
It's too complicated to explain the how and why-- I am not even sure if the original attraction is a valid fact, but whether it is or ain't- I've decided to keep him (at least until a new love comes along- then he can hop in the backseat with the rest)
Dismuke looks to be a worthy enabler of this new found tryst, (and possible future matchmaker) Click over if you're so inclined, and be sure to check out the radio while you're there.
(ie; we schedule sock matching in front of the t.v. according to the show's schedule) it is customary to declare "Hello, Jimmy!" when one spots a pretty gal.
I haven't spotted any chics I dig (and don't hold your breath) but I have found a new love and his name is Jimmie.
Yeah, yeah- I know, he's not really a new act, but like my first car, he's new to me.
It's too complicated to explain the how and why-- I am not even sure if the original attraction is a valid fact, but whether it is or ain't- I've decided to keep him (at least until a new love comes along- then he can hop in the backseat with the rest)
Dismuke looks to be a worthy enabler of this new found tryst, (and possible future matchmaker) Click over if you're so inclined, and be sure to check out the radio while you're there.
sheets
...turns out that satin sheets are very much like thong underwear---sexy to look at but not all that comfortable for the long haul...
Momma, if you are reading this, I'm just guessing about the underwear...
B
"B" is for Bubba, not his real name, but the one he goes by. He and his buddy Roger became regular customers of mine, back when I was working nights at a local pharmacy (about a year ago). Then, with recognition, came the random sightings at grocery stores and the post office. When I quit working nights, it was Bubba who offered me a day job at the car lot with him.
Recently, I ran into Bubba while grocery shopping. He was picking up some treats to take over to his ex-wife's place ( the one he complained didn't like boating thru the swamp or getting her hands dirty)-- they had recently decided to be friends ( I didn't ask for clarification) He asked if I was still married, as if that is one of those things that could change overnight. He seemed somewhat disappointed when I told him that I was. He told me that he and Roger were moving down to Florida to sell RV's and that if anything should ever change with my husband, or if I ever just needed an RV, that I should be sure to call him ( not Roger). He then handed me a business card.
I learned three new things about Bubba in this moment. Before now, I never realized that Bubba has an actual, normal name like James. Secondly, that his last name was a derivitive of one of my own family surnames, thus rendering him a possible relative somewhere down the line. And most interesting to me, the card he gave me said he is a carpenter and a missionary of sorts.
I'd have to check out that relative thing ... and there is the issue of age... but, I guess maybe, if I really NEEDED an RV . . . ?
(my husband has a point to worry about me ever leaving the house without him at my side... it is miniscule point, barely visible and not a federal case or anything-- but still, he isn't as completely off base as I like to pretend he is...)
The Pirate's House
**Guest Review for "the FredBook guy" **
Many Savannah tourists find themselves at the end of a well trod path, waiting hours in line with other well intentioned folks to enter "Momma and Her Boys" southern eatery.(not the real name, cause here in the South, we don't slander our elders nor our local celebrities)
Like knee socks with Bermuda shorts and a long lensed Canon about the neck, don't fall into this tourist trap. The line leads only to disappointment and mediocre food.
If you came to rub shoulders with Miss Paula, head on over to Wilmington Island, where she is more readily found than in her restaurant. But, if what your hankering for is some good ol' southern cooking, follow me five blocks south to The Pirate's House on East Broad.
From real life shanghais to underground rum running tunnels, there is a wealth of pirate legacy to be discovered at The Pirate's House, but the real treasure is the food.
Famous in it's own right (but without all that FoodNetwork publicity) and conveniently located at the beginning or end of a jaunt down River Street, (depending on the day's parking situation), lunch at The Pirate's House incorporates itself nicely within a day's activities.
Whether you're at the start or finish of your cobblestone journey, you'll find a bounty fit for satisfyin' or energizin' during The Plantation Buffet. (11:30-3 PM) For around $14 you can fill your plate with the equivelant of an entire chicken, deep fried and glazed in a honey pecan sauce so good your momma's face will hurt before she's been slapped, then wash the whole thing down with a pitcher of sweet iced tea and start on a second chicken. But pace yourself cause we've only just begun. Leave room on that plate for the macaroni & cheese, collard greens, squash casserole, green beans, sweet potatoes and barbeque ribs. Oh! and don't forget to save room for the nanna puddin'.
There are other fixins to be had, but I can only speak as to what goes on my own plate, and then, only with my mouth full, cause it's all so good.
If you'd have told me when I was a child that someday I would go back for second (and sometimes third) helpings of any sort of squash , I would have told you to shur your mouth (not really, I was raised to know better!). But, thank goodness for the wisdom that comes with age. We aren't talking about the squishy squash and soggy saltine casserole concotion found at family reunions and church potlucks either. Made with chunks of squash that require you chew before swallowing, the dish is pure, edible gold. Is it any wonder the spirits of pirates past are believed to still hang around the place?
I'm getting ahead of myself though, because before it was a hangout for blood thirsty pirates, it was settled as the Trustees' Garden in 1734. Old as the city itself, the plot of land was used as a proving ground for all sorts of botanical ventures and is indirectly to be thanked by pretty gals all over Georgia for favoring Peach trees over Mulberry.
The garden keeper's home is considered "the oldest house in Georgia", and now functions as a private dining room called The Herb House. You can rent the room for a nominal fee and claim proprietary rights over the nearby dessert table, or you can just stick your head in and look around for free, annoying those who did decide to shell out the 35 clams for (semi) privacy.
The garden keeper's home is considered "the oldest house in Georgia", and now functions as a private dining room called The Herb House. You can rent the room for a nominal fee and claim proprietary rights over the nearby dessert table, or you can just stick your head in and look around for free, annoying those who did decide to shell out the 35 clams for (semi) privacy. Piracy on this plot started some twenty years after the abandonment of the garden settlement. With its eventual transformation into tavern and inn, the location became an ideal spot for sailors dropping anchor just across the street, in the Savannah River, to retreat for a little rum and relaxation and the perfect setting for pirates to recruit new crews (willingly or un-).
The Pirate's House will probably always be most noteable for it's role in Robert Lewis Stevenson's "TREASURE ISLAND", where in an upstairs room Captain Flint cried out his last words "Fetch aft the rum, Darby " (no doubt to accompany his second (or third) helping of the squash-- the stuff really is to die for)Pirate activity continues today in the form of a roaming Jack Sparrow, theatrically tipsy and ever eager to hand the wee ones a handful of gold dubloons. ( If you're grown, they're 2 for $1)
The Pirate's House has also capitalized on the belief that Savannah is a "haunted city" by offering dinner packages and tours of the old rum cellar.
Whether you come seeking history or ghosts, you'll return because of the treasure hidden in plain sight at The Pirate's House. And like a true pirate, you'll only divulge your secret to the truly worthy, letting the rest of the hungry land lubbing tourist line up five blocks north, like sheep to the slaughter, while you go back for seconds.
** Can't get enough of a pirate's life? Come to Savannah in October for Pirate's Fest on nearby Tybee Island.
A
In my life, right now, "A" is for Alzheimer's Disease.
My grandfather was diagnosed just after Christmas. We knew it was coming, or I should say we knew something was on the horizion, we just didn't know it's name until after Christmas. Before you can understand the gradual sifting away, you have to understand the man who is slowly leaving us.
If it were you, who does not know him, instead of me, who does, it may have been funny to see that hearing device on his head, with it's large stereo-phones that went the way of the 8Track twenty years ago, and that not-quite-behind-the-ear-small-nor-so-subtle reciever sitting in his lap. To you he'd probably look like a little old man in really big headphones. To me, it was as if I had walked in on his nakedness.
The General is a proud man, you see.
If he were on a television sitcom, he'd be the old man behind the wheel, his reckless driving due to failing eyesight and dexterity; the laugh track would roll when the local deputy mistakenly pulled him over for DUI. But this is real life and there was nothing funny about the officer at the door, or the decree to suspend his mobility.
If you had grown up with his "woman driving" jokes (more like personal philospophy) as I have, then you may understand that having Grandma in his place behind the wheel now is no laughing matter.
Listening to a conversation with him now may make you chuckle; a person hard of hearing makes for a funny skit. But if he had bounced you on his knee and loved you all your life, you would feel the sand running out of the glass as you try to ask the things you want to know only to have him misunderstand, or to forget the subject entirely.
A passerby may see a yard that needs tending and some weeds to be pulled. As one who was grown on that land as much as the cucumber and tomatoes, looking onto that worm drilled crop and the garden gone dry, I see the body of a loved one passed away.
The repetition and forgetfulness may seem like a small annoyance to those who weren't there when, though he was already in his 70's, he enrolled in college classes- "just to keep the mind sharp"
Oh, and to help him build that beloved airplane in the basement, of which he says now
" I don't think I'm gonna get to finish after all"
An airplane? "Cool" you say- "wow, he liked planes, eh?" and you'd be right, sort of. Because he didn't just like them, he knew them and he flew them and he inspired an entire family to not only aim for those clouds, but to cut a trail right through them.
He was there when I flew around Lady Liberty and told me it wasn't a steering wheel, it was a yoke. I didn't realize I was amongst greatness then, even when air traffic control came over the line and lauded his landing the most beautiful, perfect one he'd ever seen.
If you'd watched as that grown man cried, describing the blessing his marriage had been, or seen him cover the newest family baby a dozen and a half times with the blanket, as we wound our way around that cold, granite mountain...
If he took you out for coffee and put his pride on the line, like only someone who loves you will do, if it were YOU whose life he wasn't afraid to embrace and discuss candidly...
Have you ever had anyone like that? Tell me- do you know what its like to be set on the straight and narrow, or at least pointed in it's direction, without feeling the slightest loss of affection?
If you'd been protected by him over the years, you may understand the fear of his disappearance. If your children had ever rubbed those three smooth nobs where his fingers once were, asking "Grandpa, tell me the story again?" you may understand needing to hear it and a dozen more others, at least again once more, before that day comes where you cannot ask and he cannot tell and you are left only with the past and what you are able to remember of it.
And maybe you would understand the fear of forgetting too, if Alheimer's kissed your grandpa and bid him run away from you.
(rhyming unintentional)
Stockholm
Those who have been taken captive are sometimes known to adopt the beliefs of their opressors; often declaring loyalty to them against all logic.
And so, having been held captive in my own home for many years, subjected daily to hours of propoganda, you'll not be surprised to know that no longer is The Code simply repetitive programming to me. I have adopted it as a guide for future entries and see it as a foundation, given to me on which to build. Until I graduate to further plateaus of knowledge and inspiration, I will draw from **TLOT DAY method, as taught by The Big Guy himself.
(this method has been called upon by such great works of literature as The Book of Psalms in the Holy Bible, so let's not mock Kelly, shall we?)
**The Letter Of The Day
And so, having been held captive in my own home for many years, subjected daily to hours of propoganda, you'll not be surprised to know that no longer is The Code simply repetitive programming to me. I have adopted it as a guide for future entries and see it as a foundation, given to me on which to build. Until I graduate to further plateaus of knowledge and inspiration, I will draw from **TLOT DAY method, as taught by The Big Guy himself.
(this method has been called upon by such great works of literature as The Book of Psalms in the Holy Bible, so let's not mock Kelly, shall we?)
**The Letter Of The Day
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)