Coming Someday (Maybe) to a Bookstore Near You

     Anyone who knows my creative side knows that this part of me is--as I recently shared with a friend-- either dormant or volcanic.   It is always present.  I just don't ever know when it is going to erupt.
     So what I try to do is write down the ideas for literary projects:  outlines, titles, prologues, even epilogues (because my mind sometimes considers the ending of a story first).  I even dabble with dedications and eulogies. 

     Without further ado, here is a glimpse of some of the projects in the works.

      "Just Bury Me"

      genre:  short story

      summary:    This tale, set in West Texas during a spring drought,  poses my  theoretical demise (snake bite), describes the funeral planning with characteristic twisted Sullivan family humor  (my sister Sara has me dressed like Barbie's little sister Skipper as a way of revenge for my playing sandlot baseball with my older brother--instead of playing dolls with her), and takes readers from the processional of outwardly mourning students (inwardly thrilled that they won't have to turn in homework) to the closing graveside remarks by fellow Coyote Country Store patrons who knew me best. 

         Teach Your Own Damn Kids to Drive

         genre:  memoir

        summary:   Fifteen years of behind-the-wheel near death experiences (failing to yield to an 18-wheeler) and embarrassing moments (reversing the wrong way in a Sonic drive through) provide ample bathroom reading material.  Described in detail, these harrowing moments will make you mess in your pants.  I know I did.

        Dysfunctional Family Reunions:  How to Turn the Most Dreaded Summer Event Into Memories for All

        genre:  how-to book

        summary:  Using the McCleskey Family model for Sportsfest I, II, III, IV, V, VI,  and VII, I share with readers how this annual gathering can actually be healthy, fun, and even anticipated.  Chapters 1-5 give specifics on choosing a site, settling on a schedule of events, and giving tips on how to make everyone--even in-laws--feel special.  Chapters 6-10 offer practical troubleshooting advice for the unexpected fiascoes (hurt feelings over invitations sent to an undeliverable address, inadequate supply of liquor, erroneously signed Putt-Putt cards during competition, and heated discussions about past presidential elections).  A real bargain buy for the serious family reunion planner.

        "Another Dime in the Jukebox"
        genre:  CD cover/CD with 15 songs

        summary:  Music, unlike people, has been a faithful and loyal companion.  I will choose several songs that span my childhood to my middle age.  The inside CD jacket will chronicle the story behind the song's meaning in my life.  Really narcissistic stuff, but hey, it's my project.  If you have Johnny Cash's last album, "American IV:  The Man Comes Around", this CD's format is akin to that one.  The Man in Black and I don't have much in common, but we both have soulful tastes in music.

         Raise Up Our Children:  Parenting Tips from the Classroom

         genre:  book with study guide

         summary:   Because it saddens me when children and parents get frustrated with school, I want to write a simple and practical book to serve as a guide for making the school-age years less confrontational (either between parent/child, parent/teacher/, teacher/student).  After 33 years, one does accumulate some wisdom from watching (and from having been a parent) how schoolwork affects a family's dynamics.  Preview of common sense lessons in the book :  establish routines, know when to be flexible, and for Pete's sake get the kids to bed on time.

           So there you are.  I better close--lots of writing still to do.

        

Roses in December

           A garden symbolizes labor of hand and heart.  The original one was created with God's loving touch in only six days; and, while something did die after Adam and Eve sinned, it was not The Garden.  Our Creator was and is a perpetual gardener and saw "that it was good" (Genesis) in spite of human folly.

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       Tend the ground,  plant the seed, nurture with water, weed, and de-bug.   These gardening basics worked almost to perfection last summer for my neighbor Kristen and me.  The rains were timely and abundant; the produce was exceptional.  As our garden grew, so did our friendship.  And fittingly enough, Kristen and husband Colt were fruitful and multiplied as son Caleb was born in early July.  We had plenty of squash, okra, tomatoes, and dirty diapers.  What a difference a year makes (although Caleb does still have dirty diapers).



God gave us memories so that we could have roses in December.
 --J.M. Barrie--

    Cracks have replaced vines; rusted tomato cans are exposed. The Drought of 2011 is upon us.      

     And sadly, nature mimics my heart as Kristen and Colt and Caleb prepare to leave for opportunities over 1,500 miles away.   Such long distances  hinder frequent tending and nurturing; relationships, like the soil, often succumb to "droughts," too.

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          Growing a vegetable garden last summer produced more than just food for the table. The care of that small plot of land cultivated a friendship.   

          And unlike the soil that is at the mercy of a much-needed rainfall, we can ward off a drought with postcards from D.C., e-mails, new photos of Caleb, and perhaps a train trip or two to the Mid-Atlantic area. 

           To my friends, the McCooks--safe travels, fruitful studies, and welcoming arms back home when visits are possible. Texas, and I, will miss you.

           Help us to be ever faithful gardeners of the spirit, who know that without darkness nothing comes to birth, and without light nothing flowers. --May Sarton--

3 North Maple Avenue

          A vacant house in Gail America is rare.  For one thing, there aren't too many dwelling places in this hamlet.   Usually when people do leave, their house is occupied within the week as families scramble to get their children into the school system in Borden County.  This door opens to a place which  was vacated just today.   I secured the key to revisit  the only house that was a home for my daughters with their father and mother together.  

         This 2011 perspective  was bittersweet:  the structure had provided the setting for watching Julie play with her Happy Meal toys and her Barbies.  This house was our homecoming  for  a new baby when Emily arrived in 1987.   TV trays converted to desks when Julie  played "office" with her best friend Holly;  bunnies' nests with pillows and blankets and stuffed animals all nestled together with Emily.....images that are impossible for a Mother to forget.  I just know if I had looked closely enough,  fingerprint smudges could still be seen on doorways and windows and paneling where two little girls steadied themselves learning to walk--and, trying to run without getting caught.

          Painful echoes resonated, too.  As precious as children are, they cannot save a marriage.  The ghosts of lack of trust, respect, communication and ultimate failure at such an important task came haunting as I walked back toward the room I had shared with their father.  For years, while Julie and Emily played in the corner of their rooms, sometimes their mother sat  in the corner of her room--anguished and heart-broken, devastated and demoralized, ashamed and depressed--also playing a game of pretend to make the hurt go away.  Had it not been for those little hands and little feet crawling or walking down the hallway calling out to "Mother," I can only imagine where I would be today.  Angels could not have done a better job of rescuing me.
            Walking into 3 North Maple Avenue was a bit more of an emotional experience than I had bargained for.  I actually thought it would just be fun to see the old home place.  Instead, I left there quite moved by the thought that here the four of us should have been one.

             I closed the door, locked it, and walked off the porch to end my sentimental journey.  At that very moment, I turned to to see  the perfect irony of our old house number.   Three.  So many times it had just been me and Julie and Emily.  Three could not hold up four walls, and so they all came tumbling down. 

             Recovery from relationship failure is a lifetime sentence. And at 607 Stadium Drive--only 100 yards northwest of the old house--I do my best everyday to wake up and move forward in order to invest in those two young lives who are  not so little anymore. One plays office for a living while the other would love to let her Third Graders build bunnies' nests instead of worry about TAKS tests.  Both remain my angels.

              A house is one of many collateral losses when divorce takes place. It becomes a symbol of failure.   After I divorced, I tried buying new furniture and new carpet and decorating with new wall art.  Doing so was a band-aid and, granted,  band-aids do serve a purpose.  But sometimes they just cover up the gaping hole that is still present.  The old house is a shell of what it was 27 years ago when we first moved to Gail.  In some ways, so am I.  

              Still, the three of us  rebuilt our "home."   We did it with staying the course, keeping a routine, forgiveness, and a lot of help from a certain Carpenter. 

              His fingerprint smudges could still be seen, too--in every corner of every room.