Blog Archives - MIKE DEPUNG Discovering Self, Passion, Purpose--Discovering Life

MIKE DEPUNG Discovering Self, Passion, Purpose--Discovering Life

The End of the Road: the Beginning of My Writing Life II

10/27/2015

And listen I did. My dear grandfather spoke very little due to a severe stroke that he endured when I was only four years old, but I “listened” to his mannerisms, his body language, and his few labored efforts at speech; I could hear his love clearly and voluminously. My grandmother, though, had no problems communicating vocally. I was always eager to finish chores, because then we could just sit and talk. Many times we were visiting in the summer, and my grandparents' house had no air conditioning in the sweltering, humid, wet-towel atmosphere punctuated with the dust swirling around from the nearby cotton and bean fields and the Frisco and Katy railroad lines that rumbled close by. It didn’t seem to rain there often, and since the paved road ended right at the corner where my grandparents lived—literally, the end of the road—the dust from the gravel roads going in three directions from there added to the tenor of a worn out house in a wearing out town; however, it was full of life to me—just like my grandmother’s wonderful stories. Stories of ghosts and dreams and omens—all those for another work I will do, especially since I told those stories once a year to my classes on Halloween for all the years that I taught. I must get back to the effect this had on me as a writer.

The dusty, oppressive physical atmosphere was tamed by my grandmother’s frozen bottles of Coca Cola taken straight from her diminutive 1940-something Frigidaire refrigerator—all of four feet tall—right next to the white and red Hoosier cabinet, always closed and always spotless so that the ants couldn’t even find a crumb or smudge to climb on. How my grandmother detested ants and flies! By the time we were ready to go out, the front of the house was in the shade, and we would take those Cokes to the small porch—concrete edged in bricks rising about two feet or so above the ground with two brick pillars on either corner topped by concrete squares—big enough for me to sit on—rough, porous concrete that always had that distinct masonry smell. The porch was bordered by my grandmother’s petunias and marigolds—glorious, luscious petunia fragrance. All of this added up to a magical setting. I learned how important it is to have that special context of setting for a story, and I even channel that and my grandmother’s spirit when I tell the the stories that I heard there. She had truly funny stories, tales of mystery that were full of fear, and family anecdotes, some of the funniest about my mom Virginia and my aunt Violet: my mom stuffing beans up her nose and announcing that the baby was smothering, my aunt pulling my diminutive mother around the house in a shoe box, my aunt so angry at a girl that she grabbed the girl by her pigtails and swung her in a circle. These oral stories are just as real, valid, and meaningful to me as the oral accounts of Beowulf, The Iliad, and The Odyssey. They have been the roots not only of some family history but also of my writing, even though I have never truly written about them before.

Have you reflected on the concept of story from your personal experiences? Do you value your family history? Have you learned to frame your experiences as story, whether in oral or in written form? Have you spoken to your heart about the value of your family roots? Being able to stor-ify your life can help make you an interesting and fun person. Under the auspices of your heart’s passion and purpose, it can help make your life significant. I know it has mine as a person and a writer.

More to come!

The End of the Road: the Beginning of My Writing Life

10/26/2015

What impulses of the heart, gently whispered messages, do I remember, do you remember from childhood? How amazing when I think back! I actually am aware of a number of times when my heart spoke to me. When very young, I didn’t question it; I just enjoyed knowing and settling into whatever it was.

For instance, I recall the times when we visited my maternal grandparents. They lived in a small southeastern Missouri town called Parma with a population of 250. They didn’t have hot running water in their small pre-WWII, immaculate house. For all hot water needs, my grandmother boiled water on the stove, which reminds me that all stove and heat were powered by a propane gas tank outside the kitchen window, masked by burgeoning hydrangea bushes. No washing machines and dryers there—clothes were done on Mondays on a very tall, skinny stock pot on top of the stove. Grandmother would add the clothes to boiling water, stir for awhile with a wooden stick, scoop them out and wring them over the sink one piece at a time, and then take each piece directly outside to hang on the line that she would string up and take down every week; she thought it was tacky and ill-cultured to leave a clothes line up all week. They had no public sewers, so they used a septic system, which made my grandmother very conscious of not filling it up, which meant that the toilet was only flushed once a day. I learned a lot about making do with what I have at my disposal and about doing things that seem impossible to deal with for most people—and doing it in a dignified way.

At five forty-five every morning, my grandmother would turn her Zenith, Bakelite-case, tube radio up loudly so that the southern gospel sounds of “The Old Camp Meeting Hour” pierced through the thin walls of the house that had a cardboard nature to it. The theme song was, I believe, Ferlin Husky’s “On the Wings of a Dove.” I still hear it clearly in my head, and now, many decades later my eyes still mist up: “On the wings of a snow white dove, God sends his pure, sweet love. On the wings of a dove, God sends us his love.” While my grandparents would never have called it this, there is something to be said for positive, consistent messages, affirmations, at the beginning of every day, something to be said for routine that allows us to happily move through whatever the day may hold--especially true for me now as a writer.

In fact, when we were there, my sister and I would have to help my grandmother dust every day and beat her feather mattress with a broom and water the plants and sweep the front and back porches. I especially liked to dust the old Silverstone floor stand radio; I found it intriguing with far away cities and countries on the dial—(it’s where I developed a desire to get my amateur radio license). We never had to do chores at home, but the comfort and security of that little, musty smelling house was one that I could just collapse into, and the life energy in that house from my grandparents would simply fold its loving arms around me, and I was safe and comforted. I heard my heart there many times: Enjoy this. Accept the love. Relax here and do not fret. Laugh. Listen.

Do you recall times when your heart spoke to you at a very young age?

More to come on my journey.

Questions to consider:

How many times have you asked yourself or simply thought about the following questions?

Who am I, really?

What is my truth?

How do my actions reveal what I really feel and believe?

What would I do with my life if I could do anything?

What is my passion?

Why am I here?

How can I discover answers to any of these questions?

If you have considered any of these questions, I hope that my experiences and writing will give you some guidance. Please read my blog and comment and share your thoughts. I would love to hear from you!

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