By in Writing

memories, when i decided to write

I was cooking an attempt at supper tonite, the heat made it almost impossible for even turning the stove on. had to keep chasing one child out of the refrigerator. the other one didnt even move out of his room in front of the fan till afternoon. and all i could come up with was deviled eggs and salad.

I was thinking of one hot summer when i was a kid, back at my great aunts house on the farm where i spent most of my growing up. it was so miserably hot that for days no one even went out the door after 10 am or before 5.

Often we would do the chores by lantern before dawn just so we didn't have to do them in the full heat. i spent the time either in the basement with all the canned goods and my stash of books, or down by the stream sitting in it in the hollow inlet under a big willow, reading, reading, reading. drinking licorice water and reading.

i read old magazines like hollywood insiders, amazing, and popular science. every book i could find from dorothy sayers to textbooks. and i remember when i decided to write. it was because of a book called archy and mehitabel. every night, this big city journalist don marquis would leave a piece of paper in his ancient typewriter, he would come back to work to find a new poem or story, the spelling atrocious, the style, odd and the stories pretty wonderful for my 7 year old mind. archy was my hero.

i excavated my aunts attic and dragged down that "G** D*** old piece of junk" and repaired it. much to her surprise. i typed recipes and labels and i helped her with the farm records. and i wrote. i wrote about the chicken coop i needed to get up and shake its self clean into the compost bin at my command. and how to make an egg catcher that the chickens wouldn't peck at. all sorts of childhood thoughts. when it was daytime and not hot i would go and do things but at night i would be back hammering on those keys.

when i had to leave i tried to take the machine with me, but i got the "you don't want that crap: heres a barbie" which didnt work. i wrote on paper, and i learned that what i wrote was not always liked. like the time i wrote in my journal about how silly my grandma looked without her wig, ya, bad idea to let the journals get found.

but i kept on, I had a good teacher in middle school, mrs lowe and had me submit a story to a regional competition, and i won. i was ecstatic! i was happy! i was now a published author. she drove me to the ceremony because my grandparents werent feeling well . i got a medal and a ribbon, i had my picture taken. i was in heaven!!

but all good things came to a quick end, my family was not happy with me, and let me know it. but that's the past. now its a miserable hot day, and im writing still.


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Comments

msiduri wrote on July 20, 2015, 8:30 PM

An nice, evocative piece. That's the thing about writing: not everyone enjoys what you have to say. Someone did, though. I, too, wanted to write when I was a kid. I never thought it was a possibility until a French teacher read some little piece that I wrote and told me, "That's very nice. You probably write well in English, too."

AliCanary wrote on July 21, 2015, 12:48 PM

Hey, my sixth-grade teacher was named Mrs. Lowe; what a coincidence! This makes me want to read about Archy and Mehitabel.

cheri wrote on July 21, 2015, 9:49 PM

Memories are good pieces of writing. It is more personal and I love reading personal accounts

DWDavisRSL wrote on July 23, 2015, 11:44 PM

I'm glad you kept writing despite your family's disapproval. When I was in junior high (they weren't middle schools back then) my seventh grade teacher encouraged me to write. My parents tried to quash my ambition by telling me I'd never be able to make a living as a writer. But I kept writing. 38 years later I published my first novel and this summer I will publish my fifth.