MOTHER is not a 4 Leter Word

Though you might think it a term of profanity 
from our modern movies.

Sadly, the full term is used more and more lately.

In fact, it is the duct tape that binds Samuel L. Jackson's dialogue together!


Yet, MOTHER is a name that is so complex depending upon the situation in which you hear it 

that it is a many-faceted gem of many colors and nuances. 


The young woman hearing that she is soon to be a mother 

may hear the term with hope, despair, or fear of being like her own hated mother.


The teenager yelling "Mother!" may feel unloved, controlled, or ignored.


The man sitting by the death-bed of his mother 

may whisper the name out of a wellspring of loving memories 

or from a dark pit of having never been understood.


Mothers are only human:

 some saintly, some devilish, most somewhere in between.


We train our children in schools on how to do everything senseless but not how to live well.

Shouldn't we have classes on how to parent?  

How to deal with stress?  

How to manage a budget?


Mothers make it up as they go along.


Sandra, my best friend, had a son, Drew, 

who was forever fiddling with the electric wall sockets close to the floor boards.

She finally put covers on all of them.

Sometime later as she did her business' books on her computer, she heard a Fittzz and saw the lights go dim.

She turned to the sound of faltering steps.

There stumbled poor little Drew, his hair looking like Einstein's, holding his trembling right hand high.

"Mama right.  Mama right!"


From that time forward, Sandra would counsel Drew when he felt compelled to do an unwise thing. "Mama right."

Usually, Drew would later sadly confide to her with a wry, hurt smile.  

"Mama right.  Mama right."


May we all have had mothers wise enough for us to follow their counsel.

Happy Mother's Day 
to All My Friends 
For Whom This Day Applies!

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!

It's Mother's Day. My own mother's spirit has long since traveled to that Land which knows no shadow.

I know she waits for me there with Sooner, the wolf-dog that once roamed the hills with Mother when she was a young girl.

I've written of their love, Sooner's long, loving devotion, and the tragic reunion between Mother and Sooner.

I choose to conjure, not the ending, but seeing them both young and happy, racing along the hills of their childhood.

I'm heading into my 7th day working straight, now on first call. I am weary and battered. I can hear my mother in my mind :

"Oh, Little One, the battleground of the heart is the storm. The storm does not try to knock you down --

though it will if you let it.

No, the storm is trying to teach you how to stand tall."

"How does it do that?," I remember asking.

"It does that by making you strong."

Her fingers ran through my hair. "The weakest step forward, Little One, is stronger than any storm."

"How is that, Mama?"

"Because when you face life

instead of running from fear, from pain, from the dark,

when you walk into the wall of the cold winds, you build the muscles of your heart, your spirit."

She smiled sadly, "And you become strong ... strong enough to be kind to others who chose the dark path of selfishness and fear and running from pain ... and from themselves."

"How can anyone run from themselves? That's as silly as trying to run from your own shadow!"

Mother nodded, "You would be surprised how many never come to that simple child's wisdom."

"Then, why be kind to them, Mama?"

She mussed my hair again,

"Because by choosing the dark path of running from pain, from life, from the testing by fire ...

they have chosen to be weak and to always be less than what they could have been."

She tweaked my nose. "They have hurt themselves enough. Do not add to it by being angry with them. Be strong enough to feel compassion for those who have none for you. Understand?"

I nodded "yes" though I hadn't a clue. Mother just laughed and hugged me.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO EVERYONE, Roland
***

AN OUNCE OF MOTHER

Sandra, my best friend, told me one lonely night when we were both missing our absent mothers,

"An ounce of mother is worth a ton of priest."

To me, mothers share a lot in common with farmers.

Like farmers, they toil every day. They sow seeds without a promise of a sure harvest.

Under the most harsh conditions, they till the soil, pull weeds, and prune where they believe it is needed.

With no promise of a certain return or a good harvest for all their labor, they work on.

What did my own mother often tell me? "Mothers hold their children's hands for only a short time -- but their hearts forever."

And for all their efforts, their loving kindnesses, their reluctant punishments --

they tend to slowly fade into the shadows, hidden from the spotlight of their children's ever-growing focus upon themselves, their wants, their lives.

Mothers often grow ghost-like even in the eyes of their husbands, chained to the demands of job, bills, and a vitality that is frighteningly leaving them.

For all you mothers out there who feel they are slowly becoming invisible, unappreciated, and alone. Here is a video I borrowed from Kimberly Job's lovely blog, SCRIBBLED SCRAPS : http://scribbledscraps.blogspot.com/

:

MYSTERY AND WONDER

Mystery and wonder.

They were the elements that drew me into reading for myself.

I've talked earlier about how Edith Hamilton's MYTHOLOGY with its stunning illustrations by Steele Savage was the first book I chose for myself to read.

As a child I caught sight of mythic Proteus rising from the wine dark sea,

And heard shadowed Triton blow death from his wreathed horn.

Mythology and fantasy were the mid-wives of my imagination. And my tales show it. But I want to speak of what fiction I first chose for myself ... and what lessons I learned from those novels.

LESSON ONE :

{Mystery is the siren call for all lovers of fiction. Better to leave out commas than mystery in your tales.}

BEAU GESTE --
Its first sentence : "The place was silent and aware."

Mystery.

A desert fortress manned by the dead. Every French Foreign Legionnaire was standing at his post along the wall. Every man held a rife aimed out at the endless sands. Every man was dead.

Who stood the last dead man up?

That question drove me to check out a book as thick as the Bible. I remember sitting down that April 1st with my four junior high chums in study hall. They couldn't get over the size of the book. They looked at me like I was crazy. Then, I told them the mystery.

Tommy and Gary snapped up the remaining two copies in the school library. Raymond and B.J. (we called him Beej) had to go to the two different branches of the city library for their copies.

And then, my four friends, sluggish students at best, were racing with me through the pages to discover the solution to the mystery. But then came stolen jewels and desert danger. We were hooked.

Mid-way through the book, I discovered the classic movie marathon that Saturday was going to show BEAU GESTE, starring Gary Cooper and Ray Milland.

The five of us roughed it that night in front of the TV. After the movie, we planned on sleeping on the floor of my front room. It would be like we were French Foreign Legionnaires on a mission.

We were enthralled. We booed the bad guys. We cheered on Gary Cooper. And we sniffed back embarassing tears when he died.

But with the mystery solved, my four friends didn't want to go on. The solution fizzled the fun of the reading. We all moped. A throat was cleared. We turned around.

Mother sat with a leather-bound volume in her hands, and with her voice blessed with the magic of the Lakota Storyteller and the lyrical beauty of the Celtic bard, she smiled, "Let me read you five something --

LESSON TWO :

A GREAT VILLAIN WILL NEVER LET YOU DOWN.

{And he will keep your readers' interest up high -- so no lukewarm antagonists. Think epic. Think primal.}

Mother, in her rich, deep voice, read low like distant thunder :

"Imagine a person, tall, lean and feline,

high-shouldered, with a brow like Shakespeare and a face like Satan,

a close-shaven skull, and long, magnetic eyes of true cat-green.

Invest him with all the cruel cunning of an entire Eastern race, accumulated in one giant intellect, with all the resources of science past and present, with all the resources, if you will, of a wealthy government--

which, however, already has denied all knowledge of his existence.

Imagine that awful being, and you have a mental picture of Dr. Fu-Manchu, the yellow peril incarnate in one man."

She put down the book on her lap and intoned, "That, young ones, is the insidious Dr. Fu Manchu. Do you want to hear more?"

Man, did we! And so the League of Five was born.

For every Saturday night for the rest of that year and all through my last year of junior high, we sat cross-legged on the front room floor and listened to all thirteen of the Fu Manchu novels ...

along with the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, starting with "The Adventure of the Speckled Band." I never went to sleep after that without looking at my headboard!

LESSON THREE :
NOTHING LASTS FOREVER ... NOT THE BAD ... CERTAINLY NOT THE GOOD.

{Instill that truth into your tale, and it will intensify the fragility of the human body and the enduring courage of its spirit.

And if it teaches your readers to hold gently and gratefully the love they find, so much the better.}

Unknown to us, Mother was teaching us the value of a mind that thought beneath the surface, that grew stronger with use as with any muscle.

We made special nights of it when the classic movie marathon played any Sherlock Holmes or Dr. Fu Manchu movie. Flash Gordon with Ming the Merciless was great. It was like seeing Fu Manchu in a space opera.

But the seasons pulled us apart to different high schools, to different destinations.

Fatal car accident. War. Disease. Mugger's bullet.

Until now, only I remain of the League of Five.

But every April 1st, in the late evening hours, I sit down and pull BEAU GESTE from the shelf. I read aloud the words, "The place was silent and aware."

And no matter the room I find myself ...

it is silent ...

and it is aware.

I see five wide-eyed boys, their eyes gleaming with wonder and awe, listening once more to my mother reading into the wee hours of the morning,

her voice a beacon in the darkness of our imaginations.

I pull down my worn copy of THE INSIDIOUS DR. FU MANCHU and turn to chapter two with Sir Denis Nayland Smith's description of his adversary.

After a few moments, the words blur. But that is all right. I know the words by heart.

What novel meant so much to you that you just had to share it with a friend or friends? Tell me. I'd like to know.

Compare it to what you are writing now. Did it have any effect on your style or genre of writing? Please write me on that, too.
***********************


For Donna's Lakota friend and for those who wonder what Elu looks like :

CHRISTI'S 106 FOLLOWERS CONTEST/EYES OF DEATH AND LOVE

The ever-funny and intelligent, Christi Goddard, has a 106 FOLLOWERS CONTEST. The link is here :

http://christigoddard.blogspot.com/2010/05/106-followers-contest.html

The Rules:

She hate rules. Therefore, hers are simple.

1. Blog about it. Why? Advertising rocks. Anything extra you'd like to do is appreciated mucho.

2. Be a follower. Why? It's the polite thing to do.

3. Short story, roughly 500 words. Why roughly? Because she won't disqualify for over or under, so long as it's a complete story. She'd enjoy it if it's 1000. She'd be disappointed if it's 100. It can be any genre.She'd prefer funny or incredibly tragic. She's like that.

4. Email it to christigoddard@gmail.com because she wants to consider them privately, not as posts. If you want to post on your blog, that's cool, but still email her.

5. The deadline is July 4th.

The prizes, you ask? Capitalism rears its head. This is also simple. It's up to you.


1st Prize: $40.00
2nd Prize: $30.00
3rd Prize: $20.00
4th Prize: $10.00
Honorable Mention: $6.00.

Why? Because it's the 106 followers contest, so she's giving out $106.00. She's not foolish enough to send cash in the mail, so these will be in the form of gift certificates to anything you choose.

Doesn't that sound cool?

{Now, before we go to my entry, there is a brave, loving woman, Karen, who is struggling with her school in Africa. Now, who says that the good are boring? Visit her blog, why don't you?
http://mylifeinafrica222.blogspot.com/ }

Now, for my entry in Christi's contest entitled, "Eyes of Death and Love." It's from my Native American/Celtic fable for kids at heart everywhere, THE BEAR WITH 2 SHADOWS :

Estanatlehi, The Turquoise Woman, studied Hibbs who had stopped walking beside her. As so often with the bear, his present had been swallowed up by his past. No longer was he in Eire nor even a grown bear. And instead of the wet smell of spring, the crisp chill of Autumn tickled his wrinkling nose. But he was still walking beside a long-striding Estanatlehi.

It was his first week in the Valley of the Shadow -- long before he knew it well enough to be cautious of what lay within its dark corners. And he wasn't exactly walking beside GrandMother.

Rather he was bouncing all around her, filled with the energy and wonder of all young cubs.

The Turquoise Woman was frowning at him as he skipped and leapt in a circle around her. "I hate to see you so sad."

"Oh, GrandMother," giggled Hibbs. "You're so funny."

Estanatlehi smiled faint. "I do believe that you are the first to say that of me."

"Truly? Wheee! I'm the first. The very first. I bet I'm the first bear to explore this wonderful valley, too."

A thin arch of lightning rose skeptically over one turquoise eye. "Wonderful? I do believe that once again you are the first to call this valley that as well."

Hibbs did a hand-stand as he bounced around The Turquoise Woman. "What a day of firsts! It's great to be an explorer, isn't it?"

Estanatlehi sighed, "True, there is something to be said for heading into unexplored territory --- Uffff!"

Hibbs had collided into her side as he miscalculated his next hand-stand. She stopped suddenly and gestured. The young cub froze upside down in mid-air. Twin turquoise eyes narrowed as she bent and placed her face right next to the face of the frightened bear.

"But there is also something to be said for knowing where you are going."

"Wanunhecun, (mistake in Lakota)," muttered Hibbs out of a dust dry throat.

Turquoise eyes narrowed further, and Hibbs managed to get out the one word, "S-Sorry."

Snow suddenly started to swirl around the upside-down cub. "Better."

Hibbs let out a sigh of relief. Of course, he had misunderstood her as he so often did. And The Turquoise Woman reached out and sharply tweaked his nose.

"N-Not better?"

Estanatlehi murmured in words of winter, "No. Not 'sorry.' But 'better.'"

Hibbs' eyes widened. "Oh, you mean -- don't be sorry. Be better."

Long ivory fingers gestrued gracefully, and the cub landed on his head. Hard. But Hibbs merely giggled and rolled to his feet, hugging the startled Turquoise Woman.

"Got it right that time, didn't I, GrandMother?"

And feeling the warmth of the young cub's trusting embrace about her legs, Estanatlehi lost all her former anger. She reached down and gently ruffled the top of Hibbs's furry head. All the tension left her voice as she spoke.

"Yes."

Her eyes sparkled with something that rarely touched them -- amusement. "And no."

Hibbs looked up with such nose-wrinkling puzzlement that Estanatlehi had to laugh. "How can it be both 'yes' and 'no' at the same time, GrandMother?"

This time her fingers were gentle as she tweaked his nose. "Oh, Little One, sometimes it appears that your whole life is both 'Yes' and 'No.'"

"Truly?"

"Truly."

She reached down and gently tugged on his small right ear. "Come, and I will show you."

Though he felt like he would burst from just simply plodding along, Hibbs forced himself to walk beside GrandMother. His steps were so small compared to her long strides though that he happily found it was necessary to skip to keep up. Estanatlehi shook her head in wry amusement.

"This path is much different in summer than it is now in Autumn. These gentle slopes, so pleasant to walk upon in summer, turn slippery and dangerous with winter snows."

Hibbs squinted this way and that as he tried to imagine the trees and grass about him covered with the magic of first snowfall. The brittle leaves of Autumn tickled the bottom of his bare feet, and he fought a giggle. A hawk cawed high overhead, and the young cub strained to make it out. But it flew high into the clouds too quickly for him to pick it out against the utter blue of the sky.

Estanatlehi tugged a bit sharper on his ear to snare his ever-wandering attention. "Yet in winter, we could safely walk over this very spot where in summer rattlesnakes love to hide."

"Yikes!," squealed Hibbs, slamming hard into Estanatlehi's left leg as he leapt in fright from the imagined attack of slumbering rattlesnakes rudely awakened by scampering bear feet.

The Turquoise Woman sharply gestured with long ivory fingers, whose tips sizzled with sparks of black death. Yelping in fear and surprise, Hibbs was lifted bodily high in the air by the threads of Life until his eyes stared unhappily straight into eyes which had blasted the very flesh from the bones of Lakota warriors foolish enough to anger her.

"Does the air feel like summer to you?"

"I know it is Autumn, but --"

Turquoise eyes narrowed dangerously. "Autumn. Not summer. So by my very words, you know you are safe."

Hibbs swallowed hard and managed to get out, "You wouldn't say that if you were on my side of your eyes."

Estanatlehi stiffened, then laughed long and deep. "Oh, Little One, whatever did I do before you?"

As he was lowered gently to the dry leaves, Hibbs rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. "Probably walked without getting your feet stepped on."

Her head cocked slightly, and long, cold fingers gently ruffled the fur on the top of his head. "But I never laughed. Never. I believe a bruised toe or two is a small price for me to pay."

She tugged sharp on his right ear. "Now, what have you learned from all this?"

Hibbs looked up lovingly into her face and wanted so hard not to see it grow cold again. He thought and thought and thought. The obvious answer would only raise storm clouds again. An eyebrow of living lightning rose slowly.

Snakes in summer. Slippery tumbles in winter. The same path. His furry brow wrinkled as his tiny eyes squinted in hard thought. His eyes suddenly widened, and he smiled big.

"Different seasons make for different paths, even on the same spot."

The eyebrow of lightning kept rising, and Hibbs stuttered, "U-Uh, and -- and --- I guess that means that no one walks the same path twice even though it is the same road."

Hibbs heaved a sigh of relief as Estanatlehi's full lips slowly smiled. "I believe the end of the world must be near."

"Wh-What?"

Full lips struggled to be sober and lost. "It is written : there shall be plagues, floods, and famines. Little Hibbs will actually learn a lesson. Then shall the End come."

"Oh, GrandMother, you scared me."

She gently stroked the top of his head. "It is a natural talent."

Hibbs couldn't think of anything to say to that which wouldn't end up with him becoming even more scared, so he just hugged GrandMother's legs. Icy fingers patted his cheek. Hibbs smiled wide. For once, he had chosen the right path.

And abruptly, Hibbs was back in the present. And yes, he was still smiling but it was a sad smile, nonetheless, with echoes of loss and beckoning darkness. He looked to GrandMother and saw her lips twisting up in the same smile.

"The right path," he whispered.

Estanatlehi's hair of living lightning shivered as she nodded. "So you still remember?"

"I remember each of our walks, GrandMother."

And the air was heavy with the haunting song of memory and the dark call of Destiny.

**************

Well, Christi, that's hardly two pages. Sorry. But I tried. Have a healing week, everyone. Gypsy is demanding her chicken finger. I buy her one all for herself. Her paw just went to my leg. I have a princess to feed.

***********************************

My mother told me my totems were the bear and the wolf. She was wiser than I. Who am I to say different :

A MOTHER'S DAY GIFT TO MY FRIENDS

To me, mothers share a lot in common with farmers. Like farmers, they toil every day. They sow seeds without a promise of a sure harvest. Under the most harsh conditions, they till the soil, pull weeds, and prune where they believe it is needed.

With no promise of a certain return or a good harvest for all their labor, they work on.

What did my own mother often tell me? "Mothers hold their children's hands for only a short time -- but their hearts forever."

And for all their efforts, their loving kindnesses, their reluctant punishments -- they tend to slowly fade into the shadows, hidden from the spotlight of their children's ever-growing focus upon themselves, their wants, their lives. Mothers often grow ghost-like even in the eyes of their husbands, chained to the demands of job, bills, and a vitality that is frighteningly leaving them.

For all you mothers out there who feel they are slowly becoming invisible, unappreciated, and alone. Here is a video I borrowed from Kimberly Job's lovely blog, SCRIBBLED SCRAPS : http://scribbledscraps.blogspot.com/

: