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

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.