New Friends:

Ahoy, my new found consideration for spiders continues and grows. I have begun capturing them and releasing them outside instead of the smooshing i discussed last week. I do believe that word may have spread among them because i seem to being seeing more of them than usual. They are also getting bigger and bigger. The other day i captured a spider who was as large as the palm of my hand. He was chilling out behind my stove, which is a gas stove because nothing sucks more than an electric stove. I hate cooking on electric, not too mention, with a gas stove, I can still cook when the electricity goes out. As it gets closer and closer to autumn, I am becoming more and more crafty. I have bought candle making supplies, done yard work, gone grazing, and began taking out all of my autumn decorations. I hope to have fixed my fireplace by the time october rolls around. *sighs* this is getting ever so boring.

Good Karma/Bad Karma

We are all raised with some kind of idea of Karma. A majority of us have heard the "Do unto others" rule since we were but babes. On the other hand, many of us have heard tell of the "Three Fold Rule" but they all have the same basic idea right? Call it God, balance, Karma, call it whatever you will. The universe is simply saying that should you behave negatively towards someone else, then somehow, someway, you will receive your "come-upings". Likewise, supposedly one good turn deserves another. Even though this idea of Karma has been with me since I could remember, I have only just recently attempted to build "good" Karma. It all started with a tiny Spider that I came across in my kitchen about two weeks ago. Now, I am the sort of person whose first impulse upon seeing any kind of bug, especially spiders, is to smoosh. Grab whatever is nearest, throw peas at it, what ever, just squash it. Kill it. And yet, two weeks ago, I came across my Spider friend, and rather than smooshing, I simply left Him. (or her, i have no idea) Two weeks later, my Spider friend is still in the same corner of my kitchen. I leave him alone, and I haven't been bitten once. Maybe Sub conscientiously I am trying to defeat some kind of fear of small crawling insects that bite. Or possibly, I have just decided that it is rather childish to go around smooshing a bug that does after all eat flies.

To whom it may or may not concern:
I seem to be going through some sort of dry spell. I'm tired most of the time, and it seems as though I can't find any inspiration to write or draw or sing or dance or even sigh. I am not meloncholy or depressed, simply dried up like a petal that has fallen from the flower. I have nothing to offer, nothing to say. I fear I may offend dear friends because I do not make any effort to speak with them. But again, i have nothing to say. So what does one say, when one has nothing to say? I once knew a catholic priest who forever pushed the importance of "silent retreats." He would sometimes go for three or four days at a time without speaking to anyone or anything at all. He did not communicate through letters or emails, or post it notes. He cut himself off. How strange to have to rely soley on one's actions and expression to communicate with people. And how noisy the world must seem to him on those retreats. Perhaps they were important. Perhaps being the person in the room listening allows you to notice things about people in the room speaking. Perhaps one pays more attention to the tone and inflection of the words being spoken, to the person's eyes or hand motions, the body language. Perhaps shutting up for awhile would allow us all to understand more fully what the other person is really trying to say. ~theresa

Insert Meaningful Title Here:

I remember when every New Year's Eve, my family made a point to meet up at my grandmother's in New Orleans. Grandma loved lots of people, and my aunts, uncles, and cousins add up to quite a crowd. I remember lots of food, and eating all the olives when no one was looking. I remember sitting on the floor in the half-way room drawing with grandma's colored chalk's while discussing among my cousins who was the oldest and smartest. I remember the fire works, and watching my cousin stephen melt pennies on the side walk; watching my older cousins aim bottle rockets at the overpass; watching the boats full of party goers drift down the bayou, and chasing my cousin chris around so i could pull the hair on his legs. But mostly, I remember grandma, her big smile, her silly flip flops, she had a kind of "ramona quimby" look to her that i always adored. I remember her slow mississippi drawl and i remember thinking how silly it was that she called everyone "Dahling." Some who have read this diary, might wonder why i seem so concerned with my memories. Those who knew my grandma, wouldn't wonder. Once so full of life and joy, she could remember everything. Now she scarcely recognizes my face. She does not recognize my name, sometimes, she even fails to recognize that i'm there at all. As her health is slowly failing, her sight follows it along. Once a lover of art and master of water colors, she can now barely hold a brush, and i don't think she would remember what to do with one if she could. Memories are important. They make us who we are, without them, we are but empty shells. This new year's i sat behind my grandma on the dock over looking the bayou. No party, no fireworks, and no one else, just she and I. And as i combed her hair I comforted myself with the though that somewhere deep inside her, she knew me, and loved me as before.
~theresa

Allergic:
Last night my allergies were bothering me so badly i couldn't sleep at all. It was all the fault of little old ladies too, mind you. Every sunday morning, Tim and I attend mass with my mother because it makes her happy, and every sunday a possy of old ladies sit in the pew behind us. I'm not sure if anyone else has noticed, but little old ladies tend to have this universal smell when attending certain places: like church, resturaunts, theatre, movies, ect. It's like their nostrils have ceased working in their old age, so they slather on a little bit more of that horrible little old lady perfume that smells terrible anyway. *yuck* awful stuff. And then to make matters worse, they always travel in hordes and want to give you hugs and ask you how you're feeling. Needless to say, due to my horrendous allergies, it is only a matter of hugs before my eyes tear and swell, my nose turns red, and the fits of sneezing begin. By last night my head was so fuzzy from being allergic that i could barely get up and walk around, but too uncomfortable to get any sleep. So i just sort of lay there, and snuffled. *sighs* there should be a law against little old ladies. I myself never intend to be one. *laughs* ~theresa

I'm bored. And not just any bored mind you. The kind of bored that you can sit and stare at one spot for so long that you don't really even see anymore and the you have no idea that you've been drooling until someone nudges you and hands you a kleenex bored. Possibly I could just go to sleep, but that would be boring. Or I could read MONSTROUS REGIMENT, but i'm too bored to concentrate on the story. There's nothing for it I'm afraid. Once you hit that sort of bored, there is nothing left to do except be bored. *sighs*

Another Memory of Mother:
The day is niether hot nor cold. Just one of those lazy, alabama days where the sun is out but not so overbearing that you sweat just to think of going out. I am young and as I often did as a child, i'm playing on the front porch of our home. I'm hunched down, studying the tiny ants crawling around my bare feet. My toes are pink like children's are, and a little dirty from running around without my shoes on. I am so calm at that moment that i can feel the blue painted floorboards of the front porch growing old beneath me. Mom strikes a chord or two on the guitar and brings me back into the world. Wandering over to her, i sit down on the large, country style swing my father built and wait. Most of the memories i have of my mom are of her hands and below, you know, like nanny from the muppet babies. I recognize the book on the porch in front of us. Its the large black one with the colored polka dots that we sing out of all the time. Mom plays "jeremiah was a bullfrog" because it's mine and noelle's favorite and we sing along, not really understanding what the words mean. We just like it because its a song about a frog. and its fun to sing "bullfrog" really loud. I don't look at the book, or at my mom, i just stare out to the horizon and sing as loudly as i can.

Today:
"It's hot." Even though not fully awake I was still aware of the thought, and of the sensation. Even with the fan I sleep with every night humming away I could still feel the sheets clinging to my back as I slowly began the transition of asleep to awake. Soon, I became aware of my own breathing, and thought i'd try opening my eyes. Unsuccesful, I pushed myself closer to the wall my bed is up against, and pressed my face to its cool surface. At this point mom jerked the door opened and started demanding why I had not gotten up for school. Sitting up blearily, I ignored her and tried to puzzle out for myself the same thing. Focusing on the clock I read 8:06 am. *sighs* "Must have gotten up and turned off the alarm without realizing it," I thought. I dressed hurridly, not caring about the wrinkles in my shirt as I buttoned it, or creases in my jeans as i pulled them on. The air felt strange, but i put it off to my grogginess. Speculating my self in the mirror i attempted to comb my hair. After two or three run throughs it still looked messy and wild, as my curls often do. I made a face at myself, as usual, slipped on some shoes and headed to school. Five minutes later, I went back inside to find some keys to my car. On the drive to school I became aware of that tingly sensation in the air. It was still hot, and thunder clouds were beginning to form on the horizon. As I pulled into the parking lot, I thought, rather dissappointed, that because of school, i'd probably miss the oppurtunity to watch the storm from the comfort of my own home. This brought up the usual thoughts of why I had even decided to take classes this semester. I HATE college. I used to rather enjoy art and oddly enough, accounting, but lately they have become burdensome. Art, because the guy at the drawing table next to mine talks ceaselessly and thereby interupts my inner thoughts, and accounting because we've stopped doing the work by hand and are now forced to enter it all in the computer like trained monkeys. Just punch and stare and punch and stare. I got frustrated in art with our assignment to "draw something surreal" and began working on my faery guide instead. (i refer here to the faeries' oracle) I am quite pleased with him really, and thank the faeries for the aid in seeing and drawing him. In accounting i merely fought to keep my head up while everyone else made comment on the election. I hate america and think our entire country is horrid. One day I will move far away to any other country but here. Preferably one with a lot of country side so that I can live out in the middle of nowhere and romp about in heavily wooded areas ignoring the world at large while relishing in the earth. I did miss the storm i regret to say. It was a very GOOD storm i think. *sighs* All in all my day has been rather strange and dull all at the same time. Almost as if I am still partially awake with my head pressed against the wall in my room, dreaming my life as I know it. ~theresa

It's been a while:
Last night, since there was no one here to talk to, i read through my entire diary so far. I notice it has been quite a while since anything of importance has been written in it. Most of the recent entries have been somewhat silly and full of useless information. Unless of course you like kittens as much as I do. Unfortunately, i have sat down and reflected on my life recently. I have become so busy that I do not even have time for my own memories. I spend most of the time during the day at school. Usually when i am done with school i have to go straight to work. When i get off of work, i'm usually tired and cranky so i just come home and try to finish up menial tasks before going to sleep. Any free time is spent with his royal brat face. Now that i sit to think about it, it makes me very sad that my time is spent this way. I'm growing very tired of school and feel it is wasting my time. My teachers are mostly idiots and i barely have to pay attention in class to pass with flying colors. I dread going to work everyday. Since school has started, the children i wrote of earlier are in "pre-school" and have no need of me, so i'm now the customer service clerk at foodworld. A job, which many people may know is not rewarding in any since. My job consists of standing behind a counter for seven hours, smiling at people who are yelling and fussing about their sale items, fixing everybody else's mistakes, and having to do the manager's job all for a miserable $5.55/hr. Needless to say, it is all in all, a very depressing job. Most times, by the end of the night i begin gauging the distance between myself and the door, and wondering how long it would take anyone to notice that i'd signed all of the closing papers, left my name tag, and walked out the door, free at last from beeps of the cash registers. Most likely it would only be a very few moments. The minute a cashier needed a void or an override, the very moment a customer complained or needed a refund, western union, or money order, the very instant someone came to me to ask to go on a smoke break, i would be missed, and there would be no one else there who knew how to do that job. One day, i will escape. But unfortunately, there are many things in life that we have to do, even though we don't want to. For now at least, i have to keep this pathetic excuse for a job, so that tim and i will be able to afford a house and bills. I need the job so that i can have gas to drive back and forth to school. Blah, how lovely life would be if i didn't need money. ~theresa

The Fairy Rebel:
When i was very small my mother used to read a book to me called "The Fairy Rebel." By the time i was four, I could read it to myself, and did so quite often. In the book a "young" fairy comes across a lady crying in her garden. She is newly wed and has discovered that she is unable to have children. Moved by her desire for a baby, Tiki (the fairy of course) goes against all the rules of her fairy queen and makes a baby for Jan as a gift. When the child is born, she is the perfect reflection of her parents except for a tiny tuft of silky blue curls at the nape of her neck. I was completely intrigued by the story and would read it over and over and over. It created in me, a firm and undying belief in the existance of fairies, and i remember spending long afternoons on the front porch with my head tipped over between my knees just searching for any colored hair i possesed. I just knew deep down that I too had been a gift from the fairies and when i came up with nothing I would have my older sister search my hair for me. "No, Theresa, I've already told you. You only have brown hair, just brown." *sighs* if only the fairies had given me a strand of vivid, shiny, purple hair.......

And they called her..... Fuzzy Winker Bean:
a couple of months ago, my friend teresa lynn was giving away white and calico long hair kittens. unable to resist a darling kitty, i brought one home to tim's sister angela. she often complains about how hades will have nothing to do with her. Fuzzy Winker Bean is a female, white kitty with a calico mask, tail, and spot on her bacik. she is fuzzy. and she has an extra toe!! i swear to you, i own a kitten with oposable thumbs on front paws. Angela is never home, she works a lot, so naturally the kitten took to both tim and i and i got a new kitten according to plan. Fuzzy winker bean is the most vicious attack kitty you will ever meet. Unlike most cats, she is really clumsy. she falls off of things.... alot. she's also a big help around the house. several times a day she will take a flying leap from the couch onto the coffee table, slide to the other side, and promptly fall off. she then continues to dust all of the other tables and such in the same manner. Hades, being the spoiled, haughty kitten that she is, refuses to let Fuzzy winker bean use HER litter box, so we had to get a new one. they also fight over who gets to sit in whose lap. Fuzzy winker bean bites to show affection, attacks to show affection, and occasionally purrs and head buts to show affection. When she has been napping, which is very seldom, it takes her several minutes to wake up fully. until then she just kind of blinks and meows in a confused manner. perhaps the thing i love the most about fuzzums is how extremely entertaining she is. Hades, being a bit older, seldom plays as much as she used to. the kitten on the other hand, cannot stop herself. For example, upon leaving the living room and entering the hallway there is a blue tack sticking out of the wall. we have a couch just under it, pushed against that wall. the tack's purpose for those of you who may be wondering, is to tack up bills and letters and such that need to be mailed so we dont forget them upon leaving the house. Fuzzy winker bean, hates that tack. she once spent three hours, i make no exaggeration, three hours running from one couch to the next, jumping and clawing furiously for the tack. every once in a while, she would stop to pant, but she never took her eyes off of it. she does this daily now. almost like her schedule includes: wake up, wake up tim, eat, swat hades, dust tables, poop on tim's socks, attack house plant, attempt to escape from the house, eat, get tack out of wall, try some more to get tack out of wall, take nap, try to get taack out of wall. its so entertaining, that as she is getting bigger, we move the tack up on the wall. *laughs* maybe one day we will let her get it.

The Space Between the Curtains:
Memories of my childhood floated around the back of my head as I lay on my back, staring out at the rain. Sometimes fuzzy and at others, clear, they were all of the same thing, just at different stages of my life. I have always loved the space between the curtains and the windows. I never really hid there so much as escaped there. Hours I would spend standing behind the curtains or lying on my back so that my head and shoulders poked through to the window panes. It was almost as if some other dimension existed there. It was a magic of sorts, the way the light seemed to exist there in that soft, fuzzy way. I always felt like I was glowing. At those times I would let myself imagine all sorts of things, and in that magic place they all seemed so attainable. "Theresa..." I let my concentration dwell upon a single rain drop among the many on the window pane and watched it slowly roll downwards. "Theresa.... what are you doing?" "Shhhh," I said. I slid over a bit on the bed and motioned for Tim to come and join me. He laid his head right next to my own and peered out of the window, trying to see what I saw. "Isn't it a magical place here?" I asked letting the curtains fall around us, locking us into my private sanctuary. He smiled out at the rain. "Yes it is. .... I like it." We lay there for days it seemed, but in actuality it was merely a few minutes before he propped himself up on one elbow. "Why is it you seem so sad today?" he asked, reaching out to push my hair out of my eyes. I shrugged not knowing what to say. I thought that perhaps sometimes people should be allowed to be meloncholy without an excuse, that sometimes it was just nice to be meloncholy. It made me feel human. After all, no one person is happy every minute of everyday. What I actually said was, "I don't know, I suppose you must have hurt my feelings." "When, Today?" "No, maybe it was days ago, and I've just stored them away so that I could be sad today in the rain as I feel is proper." "Ohh, I see," Tim whispered gently. "And where are they, then?" he asked me. "What do you mean?" "Your hurt feelings, where are you keeping them?" "I don't know, I hadn't thought about it." Tim took my face in his hands and turned it about in the light. "Ah ha!, there they are, just there," he said with a triumphant smile. "I shall kiss them and make it better." And with those words he gently lay a kiss upon my right cheek, just under my eye. This happened a couple weeks ago. But as hard as it may be to believe, it did in fact happen. Tim and I truly had this conversation, and have others like it quite often. Perhaps we are simply two creative minds revelling in finding another. Or perhaps we are just crazy, but in either case, the point is that we are real to each other. The rest of our afternoon was spent being quite lazy and eventually ending up on the couch watching three hours worth of "Family Guy." ~Theresa

Realization:
I lead a small life. A good one, but a small one nonetheless. Every morning I get up before the sun and go to work. I'm a nineteen year old babysitter. I make six dollars an hour, and I get extra for gas. I have two car seats in my car for the two smaller children I play nanny to during the day. There is one other, she's eight, so she just sits up front with me and constantly messes with the radio dial. Nine hours out of my day is spent in a small little world with these three small children. We play, we dance, we make "art projects," we watch "Stanley" and "Dora the Explorer," you get the idea. At nine in the am and about two in the pm, I rock Colin to sleep for his naps. In the mean time I help Sydney who is two and a half, and don't forget the half mind you, change dress up clothes or I make lunch or read stories or help her find all the pieces to her Russian doll. She looks up at me with that angelic blonde haired blue eyed face and says, "Treesa you're my best friend" and I laugh at the truth of it all. I tell her, "That's wonderful, you're my best friend too." Both Angel and Skye have moved away and out of reach. But I digress. Around five thirty/six o' clock every evening I get into my car to go home. My clothes are usually covered in smashed cookies, cracker, peas, etc.; I usually have glitter in my hair, glue under my finger nails, scribbled, wobbly drawings hanging out of my bag and pockets, and baby finger smudges on my glasses. I sing in the car to any song I want to hear. When I get home I spend time with my family. I talk to Tim and on some days I go see him. He cooks dinner, I do the washing up. I am the infinitesimal speck on the map of life. But I'm a happy speck. And somehow, I think, that makes me bigger in ways. Maybe not huge, but surely at least an ink blob spot of happiness on the map of life.
~theresa

If you should catch me:
One leg curled up close to me. The other, stretched and thrown over a pillow, the side of the bed. One arm snuggled beneath my pillow. The other, snuggling the covers up close to me. The blankets pulled up close around my shoulders, neck, covering half my face. Makes me feel safe and gives the effect of being held. I'm buried beneath the blankets somewhere. Follow the leg that's hanging out to find the rest of me. The fan produces gentle wind to caress my skin and to keep me from getting hot. When hot, the nightmares come again and I can hardly breathe. But, when just a bit cold, peaceful rest embraces me and I drift away. If you should catch me sleeping, worry not about the waking. I can hear you whisper and I know you as the one who loves me. Gently pull aside the covers and slip between to lie beside me. I can feel your warmth through my t-shirt, and your familiar hand as it rests against the small of my back. Such comfort as our bodies settle in again. Such comfort in the way we fit together like two picture puzzle pieces. I don't have to open my eyes to know it's you. I can smell your scent: your soap mingled slightly with the cologne you put on this morning and the fresh laundry smell from your clothes. You don't have to speak for me to know it is you. I know your tender mouth as it gently kisses my forehead. The shape of your lips, small and plump, a perfect cupid’s bow. I am drifting off again subconsciously aware of your own breathing evening out. And so we settle in, breathing in and out together, comfortably beside each other, and love, unspoken and unseen, embraces us. ~Theresa 

A little Brother's Heart:
My little brother is undoubtedly the love of my life. Even the love I have for Tim, while being close to equal, is still an entirely different sort of love. If it came down to a choice between my younger brother and Tim, I would choose Malcolm. The bond of family is strong between us. He is 12, seven and a half years younger than I am young. While being noisy and obnoxious as most boys, he also possess this shy, quiet nature at times that reminds me of my father. I think he is one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met. When you talk about things that are important with him, he gets really quiet and you can see him working it out in his mind. Some people would consider this slow thought process the same as being stupid. On the contrary it makes a difference to think about what you are going to say. He will listen quietly to all sides and angles and when you are through he'll work it out in his mind and then come out with this answer, or comment or question that reflects a greater wisdom than many twice his age posses. He and I share a common interest in pirates and spend a lot of our free time watching any movie remotely related to such things. When I first moved here for school, I would go home every weekend and take Malcolm to a movie of his choosing. This usually meant a good one. My little brother is a movie maniac and can quote his favorites from beginning to end, line for line. It gets pretty funny sometimes because he can do voices rather well. *laughs* He is going through puberty at the moment though, so his voice is changing. He is also starting to grow hair on his upper lip... well not really hair, more like fuzz but he struts around like he's a man. There is nothing I wouldn't do for him and his big brown cow eyes. He has a darling soft little heart and will be a lucky catch for any girl he ends up with. ~Theresa

Hypochondriac:
I have a headache again. For the past couple days I’ve been getting these massive headaches that start at the base of my skull.... travel up and around my temples and wrap themselves around my forehead. Then they seep down my neck and shoulders and throb for hours. They make me really dizzy and out of it. You know the kind of out of it you get when you take nigh-quill and try to stay awake. After about thirty minutes you’re moving your feet around trying to make sure they are still there. Tim thinks its stress because I have been rather stressed out. But I, the ever hypochondriac, think it's a tumor. "You do not have a tumor," Tim said.
"It could be a tumor. That's how they start you know. You get bad headaches, everyone tells you its stress and then one day you die from a tumor and everyone is surprised."
"It's not a tumor, dearest. You're just under a lot of stress and you're unhappy there. That's all... take a couple Advil and get some rest. You'll be fine. You won't die... I promise."
"I looked it up on the internet. I have the same symptoms as tumor patients."
"I love you. It's not a tumor."
"I love you too. But just admit it COULD be a tumor."
"Fine it COULD be a tumor, but it's NOT a tumor, so just take some Advil and get some rest."
"Ok............. but what if it is a tumor?"
"*laughs* Dearheart,"
"Yes?"
"I love you, go to bed."
"*sighs* I love you too. Call me in the morning."
"Of course. Remember to take some Advil."
"Taking it now."
"Good, goodnight, dearest, I love you."
"I love you too."
It did work. However now my headache is back. Tim called and reassured me that I do not have a tumor.
"Remember that time when you could have sworn you had a heart disease and that you were at risk for a heart attack. You swore you had all the signs of a heart attack, and do you remember what it ended up being?"
"*sheepishly* Heart burn and a pulled muscle in my arm from work."
"Heart burn and a pulled muscle. See?"
"That was different, this time it really is a headache."
"But NOT a tumor. *laughs* It's a tension migraine, silly."
So maybe I don't in fact have a tumor. But I’m not ignoring the possibility. *laughs* sometimes I feel like such a freak. ~Theresa

My Dearest:
Tim came for a visit this past Friday to spend the weekend with me. I can't help but love spending time with him. Friday night after he got here we both fell asleep watching Samurai Jack which is one of my all time favorite cartoons. After a few moments of sleep I was awakened by his heart beating against the palm of my hand and his light snoring. Tim snores like a small infant, in that sort of very soft "I’m a little congested" type of way. It's adorable. Anyway after I woke up I just stared at him, watching him sleep. Marveling over his delicate, long eyelashes and how they just barely brushed his cheeks when his eyes were closed; tracing his tiny little earlobes with my finger tips; and all the while feeling his heart pulse life through him under my hand. I don't know how long I watched him before I slept again. I just remember waking to him pressing his forehead against mine own, softly chanting "wake up, wake up, wake up." We spent the evening watching Friday Night Standup and laughing like school children at a sleepover who are relishing in the granted permission to stay up late. I have never slept more peacefully than I sleep when Tim is beside me. Saturday morning was lovely. I woke before him and watched the sun filtering through the blinds in the window and fall upon our skin. Our legs entangled in each others and the sheets and blankets tossed carelessly about us. Tim rolled over and whispered, "Dearest, can you turn the sun out?" Laughing softly at his darling request, I drew the shades closed and we lay in bed until late in the afternoon. Then after showering we remained lazy and watched cartoons over a late breakfast. Later that afternoon we decided to take a walk over to the store and get some stuff for dinner later. It was a nice little breather, but it was extremely hot out, so it didn't last for very long. We stayed in bed for the rest of the day, watching movies like "Pirates of the Caribbean," and some other TV type movies that are never really all that good. We stayed up late into the night talking and then I combed my fingers through his hair and massaged his neck behind his ears until he fell asleep. In the middle of the night he woke me just long enough to kiss me and tell me he would miss me today when he had to leave. We spent the morning snuggling and talking and trying not to think about our goodbyes. Upon his leaving, he handed me an eight paged letter he had written before his trip and told me to read it after he left. About the contents of that letter I will say only that they were dear and sweet as they were also too personal to share here. I miss him already and cannot wait to go home. He truly possesses all my love. ~Theresa

Light through Glass Wings:
Sometime, a long time ago, someone gave my grandmother a glass bird as a Christmas tree ornament, and being a grandmother she of course made a big fuss over how pretty and wonderful it was. After Christmas was over I suppose she just didn't have the heart to put it away because she instead hung it from the ceiling in her plant room. After that it became sort of a common gift to give her. We would get one for her every Christmas. It was one of my favorite things to do; to wander around knick knack shops searching for the perfect bird. Her plant room soon became one of my favorite places to visit when we'd go to New Orleans for family get togethers and such. There are now close to twenty some odd glass birds hanging from the ceiling. Walking into that room is somewhat like walking into a whole different world, like finding the Garden of Eden. On fine days the sun light filters through all of their tiny, delicate bodies, lighting them up and filling the room with slowly dancing lights. It has a sort of spiritual/religious effect to lie there looking up at them and watching your skin turn color as it is embraced by the warm prismatic light. It reminds of the huge stained glass windows in churches that I often find myself marveling at. I think that if peace had any kind of physical attribute, that it would resemble that room, those stained glass windows. I should like very much to live my whole life surrounded by stained glass so that I could watch the light filter through and feel it touch my face. My grandmother is an artist of the greatest talent. She does watercolor and my whole life I have never been any good with it; I admire anyone with the talent for watercolor. She was always able to capture that sort of light feeling in her work, and made great use of it. She used to work in a gallery in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Should you ever visit there, and you happen to meet paths with a watercolor done by one Anita Fournet, know that it is hers. When she began to get ill she was sort of slowly removed from everything I held dear about her. Her illness was a slowly loosening grasp on her memory. She first was unable to go to the gallery because it was dangerous to drive. Then she just sort of slowly isolated herself from places in her house. She didn't work in her art room, she neglected the plants, and then she just would sort of lie there. I remember the first time I had to face that she just didn't know who I was anymore. She slips further and further away from us now. It is sad to think of her as not so much leading a life as an existence. Sometimes she comes round and I think she realizes what has happened to her, that she has been neglecting the things that make her soul happy. Whenever that happens she just gets angry, angry at the whole world. And I think too that she is probably afraid, and rightly so. Pity upon those who lead a mere existence and are not afraid. ~Theresa

Papa the Quiet:
My papa, like momma, was born in the outskirts of New Orleans and grew up with a lot of brothers and sisters. In fact there were six boys and two girls in his family, and they and their parents all lived in a small two bed room trailer that somehow or another my grandmother was able to keep spotless. If you were a boy in that family then you were expected to know how to make a living by the time you were eight, and on your twelfth birthday you were given a bill to keep track of. If you were unable to pay it you were letting the whole family down. Papa got lucky and ended up with the electric bill (sarcasm), but in any case I guess he did learn something from that. Like I’ve mentioned before, my papa has one amazing head for numbers and besides that he is an excellent carpenter. When he was twelve he built his first china cabinet which he sold to his older brother Phillip but which now resides in our house. He also built a boat which he sold to his brother Francis so that he could buy a better one off of his other brother O'Neal. He owned his own house and car by the age of nineteen which is right around the time he met my mom. My papa has always been like this strong silent background type of fellow. I used to be afraid him when I was younger. And not the sort of afraid where I thought he might harm me, just sort of an "in awe" type of afraid. I don't ever remember having any conversations with him growing up. He worked hard and that was kind of his of showing love; he took care of you and that was all he knew how to do. His parents never told him that they loved him much. He played basket ball in high school and was quite good, but neither of his parents ever went to a single game. He's always come to every important event in our lives and that means a lot. After I got to be a bit older I came to realize how much of a sap he is deep down inside. And I say that with the utmost affection. He is still quiet and strong, I'm still in awe of him, but he does talk a bit more than he used to and has even progressed to actually saying "I love you" ~Theresa

Lady Bugs and Thunderstorms:
All that talk about my mother brought back this memory. This is simply a wonderful example of my mother's wisdom I spoke of. As a kid, I was terrified of thunderstorms. And you have to understand that in Alabama thunder is very loud, lightening is huge, the wind blows, and the sky turns that velvety-purple-gray color. I was terrified, and when it would storm I'd follow my mom around hiding my face from it all, and I refused to be in a room by myself. I guess momma decided it was time for me to quit latching on to her every time it stormed because it did storm quite often from spring through fall, so she wrote a song for me. The next time it stormed she took me and pulled me out onto the front porch. It was a covered porch, but that is entirely beside the point. Here I was terrified to even stand by a window, and my mother who was supposed to love me was dragging me out into the mercy of the lightening. She sat down on the swing that my papa had attached to a large beam on the porch and pulled me into her lap. She made me sit there until it was all over. I cried for about the first ten or fifteen minutes, but my mother can make anything beautiful. By the end of it I was simply intrigued. It was an overwhelming calm to sit there with my mom. I don't know if you've ever noticed, but when the sky turns that purple-gray color it makes all the colors in the trees and things stand out in a wonderfully vibrant way. I could feel the thunder rumbling the slightly worn floor boards beneath my bare feet, and I could feel momma's heartbeat against my back, her voice right beside my ear. The static electricity in the air made all the hairs on my arms, neck, and legs stand on end. I was afraid to breath or blink. I still watch thunderstorms, and oddly enough I love driving through them, especially at night. Momma says that grandma (her mom) used to love driving in the rain to. Sometimes when I'm home, papa gets mad at me for running around and throwing all the windows open when it storms. Then he always looks at momma and shakes his head as if to say, "See what you've done." *smiles* he's not really angry though. ~Theresa
Ladybug:
Ladybug, Ladybug, why'd you come out?
When off in the distance is a big water spout?
Ladybug, Ladybug, I hear you pray
And on that green leaf's where I bid you to stay
On the green leaf when the wind is blowing
On the green leaf while the lightening's glowing
On the green leaf when the water's flowing
Ladybug, Ladybug, why'd you come out?
~By Cindy  (kinda cheesy, but for a kid it's wonderful)

Mother Dearest:
My mom was born and raised on the out skirts of New Orleans, Jefferson Parish to be exact. She was the baby of seven children so you can only imagine the stories she has about growing up. My whole life my mom has been of tender spirit. She gets her feelings hurt when she's not included in my life or misses out on anything important that happens to me. I think it may have something to do with her childhood because she often remembers being left out of a lot as she was after all the baby. My mom is the open giver in our family. She is forever present in our lives and in other's. I remember once right before I started high school momma got a job at the school as a substitute teacher and would also sometimes fill in for the secretary in the principles office. It was as if someone had hung a huge neon sign above the doors flashing the words "Mother figure available here." I don't know what it is, but people always talk to my mom. Most likely it has a lot to do with the fact that she is ever accepting, smiles at everyone, never brushes people off, she just radiates this good feeling and people flock to it like moths to the lamp light. I've always wanted to be like her. She has this way about her, this... wisdom that I find to be completely remarkable. She was always one of those vibrant and fun moms too, the type of mom that made people suck up to you in grade school just so they could come out to your house and hang around your mom. She used to chaperone field trips at the request of the teachers because she'd sing with the kids. My mom has quite a knack for music, and she is quite the song bird. I remember she used to sit with us (my siblings and I) on the front porch of our house and play the guitar out of this fat black book with different colored dots on it. We used to sing with her; for hours on end just out on the porch with momma. Many a summer was spent being lazy on that porch (not to mention fall and spring). When I was about fifteen or so I came across that book while cleaning off shelves in our house so papa could paint them... though I don't remember what's happened to it. She'd play piano to, and my younger sister and I were intrigued by it. We'd dance around the living room until we got dizzy and fell over. And momma was always good at coming up with kid stuff. She wrote a couple of children’s books that we never found a publisher for, she wrote songs and still does, and she has always been good at just talking to children. She is a school bus driver now and every once in awhile she still celebrates "break into song day." She is still taking care of people, pretty much anyone who is in need, and I still admire her for it, my mother dearest. ~Theresa